#mirkon

Though Raphael went silent, Mol continued to enjoy, and perhaps abuse, the gifts from her patron. With the Absolute defeated, she quickly clawed her way up the ranks of the Guild, eventually becoming a pseudo ward to Nine-Fingers Keene. For years she would sharpen her skills, mentored by Keene and her most trusted associates, until she challenged the notorious crime lord to a duel for leadership. Much to her surprise, Keene lost, and was therefore forced to relinquish command to the young tiefling. Seeing the move as a betrayal, however, the Guild's loyalty was split, causing the criminal powerhouse to fracture. This led to a dark time for the Guild, with many in Baldur's Gate referring to it as the "Outlaw Civil War". Much blood was shed during this conflict, but eventually Mol turned the tides in her favour, running Keene and those still loyal to her out of the city. She would go on to rebuild the Guild in her image, successfully and more fearsome than ever; though, when she approached her old colleagues with an invitation to join, they all declined.

Once he managed to enter the city, Mattis tried to find his companions from the Grove, but he ultimately turned his sights to conning rich families with "panaceas from the hells". For a while, he flourished under this racket, until his scheme was exposed by jealous competition. This led to him being violently assaulted by angry customers, nearly ending his life—he only survived by rolling into a rapid canal. After being saved by a kind, impoverished couple who fished him out of the water, he spent nearly three months confined to a bed. His recovery was slow and agonizing, but hardly discouraging. Instead of succumbing to his misery, he took the time to plot his revenge. With the couple's help, he learned the laws of the land and revived his strength. Then, when able, he cut his hair, disguised his face, spied on the man who wronged him, and subsequently tricked him into signing his business over to the couple. Together, they turned the questionable business into something respectable. Mostly. Mattis' silver tongue finally became an asset, rather than a survival tactic, though he was never above a good swindle.

Ide and Umi took up arms during the Absolute's attack on the city, each of them basking in the action. Realising that Umi had developed an insatiable bloodlust, and itching for more battles herself, Ide suggested they enlist into the army. Though technically too young, the new General—appointed by High Duke Ravengard after the fall of the Absolute—accepted them as apprentices until they came of age.

Though their time with the Flaming Fist was imperative to their training and survival, they found the rules and hypocrisy of the troop disheartening, and even more so when the General died. Eventually they deserted, leaving Baldur's Gate entirely and starting a small band of vigilantes. To some, they were a menace. To others, they became heroes of the Sword Coast. No matter the case, Ide and Umi were inseparable, never seen apart.

Inspired by his saviours, Mirkon continued to write stories about his time in the Grove and his rescue from the harpies. He never found his parents, but he refused to live in the slum's orphanage. Life was hard for the young tiefling, often forcing him to grovel for food and coin. On the worst days, he found comfort turning his stories into songs, which he slowly morphed into a semi-profitable street act. This eventually caught the attention of Alfira, who one day happened to be passing by. Recognising his talent, and overjoyed to be reunited, she took him in and taught him how to play the violin. Together, they created a lucrative show that expanded well beyond the Elfsong Tavern, which aided Alfira in opening her dream college. She and Lakrissa would soon adopt Mirkon, and he would later become one of the most beloved and celebrated instructors at the college.

A shelf of cloudy jars crashes to the floor. There's Doni wringing his hands, there's Mirkon blinking through his curls, there's Mattis with a broken bottle. They crunch through the mess, mobbing her. "Is it a quake, Mol?"

"It's them, isn't it?" Meli's face looks more pinched than a tough's ought. "The shadows? Back for us?"

Has to be, Mol thinks. Back for more fun. Back for her brats' eyes.

"Shut up and hide," she says, shouldering through them. She has to shake Silfy off. "Like we practiced. Now!"

"What about you—"

You freeze up, you end up like Zevlor, dragged off sobbing by the horns. Mol darts for the door—

"Mol!" shouts Mattis.

—and stumbles to a halt on the crumbling portico, catching herself on a pillar, because the cobbles of the forecourt are boiling up. Roots squirm like eels across the cracking stones, feeling blindly for the drawbridge, where the High Harper's standing with her arm outflung—

"Mol!"

She almost doesn't hear. The wind churns with crackling leaves. The trees by the water creak and bow like gnarled henchmen, ripping themselves out of the dirt, swarming on a thousand twisted legs over the figures huddled at the drawbridge's mouth: some bloody, battered ghosts, gaunt with the curse, armed with torches and the broken ends of spears. Can't be more than ten of them. The High Harper, her hair a tangle on the wind, shouts a word over the wild crash of wood.

It slams them to the ground with a lumbering crack. The wardlight strikes their faces. Mol, with one foot off the steps, freezes up.

“Hells,” says Mattis in horrified awe, peering over her shoulder. Behind him Mirkon cries out. Shouldn't have expected them to listen. “She’ll mulch them—Mol, wait, wait!”

She's already running. Some Fist makes a grab for her and trips; Baldy Ron's clankers couldn't catch a cold. She smacks away a Harper's startled hand. On her tail she hears a scuffle, a yelp, a curse: Mattis, shoving after her. Good. Of all her kids, he throws the meanest elbows.

“Stop!” she shouts, stumbling over a vine that slithers underfoot. It snags her ankle. With a furious cry she rips it up, stamps on another, yanks the High Harper’s upraised arm. “What are you doing? They’re the ones who saved us!”

Jaheira staggers, surprised. The strangling roots shudder and lurch. One of Wyll’s friends makes a crushed noise. If Mol’s got to, she’ll bite—

“These, imp?” Jaheira's voice is even. Her arm's hard as oak. When she lifts a finger to stall her Harpers, even the spikes of the stakewells sprout shoots. “These protected the Grove?”

“Didn’t leave a goblin standing!” Probably. Mol hangs on Jaheira's forearm, breathing hard. A snake of stinging ivy twines up her leg. “The Blade, there, I’d pretty much trust him with my life”—she’s talking too fast, she’s pinched Silfy a hundred times for this—“and he’s not so bad to hang around with, either—”

“Ha,” says Wyll, dangling upside-down by one leg.

“—and those ones might not look like much, but they fought off a whole flock of harpies—”

The ranger Vally Dell, twisting on the ground, toes after her boot with a furious stockinged foot. She kicks it at the Harpers with a yell. Silk the minstrel, turning a doomed color, coughs something that the root round his neck chokes short. Maybe Mirkon was only telling tales.

“Rather a thorny situation, this.” The wizard, dragged down by nettles not far off, tries for a strained smile. The marks on his cheek pulse purple. “Well met by moonlight, High Harper?”

"Release us!" Rage eclipses Shadowheart's pretty face. "Or this darkness will swallow you all!"

Her pasty friend casts a despairing look skyward. "Oh, do let's threaten the fabled Jaheira—"

“Let them go!” cries a high, scared voice: Mirkon, wide-eyed, thrashing through the Harpers’ front line. So much for the rank-and-file. It’s Mattis who snatches the brat by the shirt. “Please! Get off, Mattis!”

“Ow!” Mattis, still wrestling Mirkon, kicks away a crawling root. “Hey! What’s the shrubbery got against us, lady?”

Jaheira, her face taut, closes her spell in a fist. With a seething hiss of leaves, the rotten undergrowth of Reithwin ripples to heel.

“The shrubbery,” she says, unsmiling, “is angry with us all. For good reason.” She eases her arm from Mol's grasp. To anyone else, her face would give nothing away. “True Souls with minds of their own. How is that possible?"

She wants to believe it. She only needs a nudge. Mol signals, curt, to Mattis. "Let him go."

Mattis looks startled. "He'll get hurt—"

Mirkon tears free with a shrill sob of a curse. Must have learned it from the harpies. He flounders barefoot through the churning thorns and, as Jaheira stares, crashes into Silk.

"You came!" Poor, stupid Mirkon. Thinks he's going to eat pie every day, play stickball, be a minstrel's foundling son. He'll get hurt, all right. With tears sliming his stubborn face, he tugs the snarl of wood round the man's neck. "Mol said you wouldn't—wait, hold still—"

“Oh, you’re alive,” Silk gasps, his voice all crumpled up. His face crumples, too. As he drops it into Mirkon’s filthy curls, the roots shrivel back into the dirt. “Oh, good." Mol's got to look away. "Oh, good.”

* * *

"Looking for something?" asks Harper Bor.

"No," says the True Soul ranger with bleak cheer, hopping on one foot across the innyard. Her braid's unraveling. When she wobbles, her sodden stocking squidges in the mud. "Not me. Just having a skeg about."

"You're not"—Bor can keep a straight face, he's been trained to—"looking for your boot?"

"Why?" She can keep a straight face, too. And her aim's not bad. He can fight alongside this one, he decides, once it comes to that. "Seen it?"

"Just in time to duck," says Bor, grinning at last. He raises his voice. "Quartermaster? Seen a boot?"