#wshingwells 01

｢𓆄｣ "Restless first day, huh?" The voice seemed to come from no where, though, when the other tried to search for the source of the voice. There popped Hawks, hanging upside down from the tree. He was about to hop down, so it was safe to say, his leg was stuck.

"Sure, being thrust into a new place is super weird, but everyone here's pretty chill for the most part!" He had been taking a break from his night shift patrol, but, seeing teens out this late always concerned him: so, he was here to be an ear or a voice of reason. Whatever was needed of him.

It's not a place Ambrose would normally visit, but the draw for him was definitely decorating the trees in the area, no matter if he had to take frequent breaks between to avoid straining himself. But it helps the normalcy of life here, and that's enough to lift his spirits for a little while and forget about being stuck in this city.

Tall as the trees are, too, it doesn't come as much of a surprise to see a young girl who seems to be struggling to reach up to add some bells to the branches, and without thinking he tries to hail her attention to ask her a question:

Raven's the first one to notice the druid- the tressym's ears perking up at a sound and her little claws digging into Malchior's leg as a way to get his attention- because he was often lost in thought, reading that tome left behind. It hurts you, the tome, she says, it makes your emotions dark, it makes your magic dark- but I think there's a little bit of light about to walk into your life. At this, he looks up, taking note of the girl who had found her way to a spot he'd unofficially chosen as his 'thinking spot'.

The tadpole stirred ever so slightly. A survivor.

Raven was right; reading Rorek's grimoire hurt him, it filled him with anger and pain- because he wanted Rorek to survive. In his desperation to keep any part of the wizard with him, he'd consumed a second illithid tadpole- Rorek's tadpole managed to calm that spike of anger, because in the end, he was glad to see someone else who had survived that absolute hell. ❝ It looks like there's more of us than i thought- ❞

❝ I ... didn't see you on the Nautiloid, but ... ❞ Somehow, she had acquired an illithid tadpole, too. It seemed she was also offered some form of protection. Malchior was no fool- he'd learned enough in his studies with Rorek about the nature of ceremorphosis. At most, the process took a week- an agonizing thing ... but she looked as if she'd survived more than that- so what else could he assume? ❝ It's good to see you ... er ... symptom free. ❞

She's a rather chipper girl, isn't she? Surrounded by wildlife, Balduran had chosen simply to observe instead of interfere- for he'd traveled enough to know that it was rather unwise to disturb a druid surrounded by animals! Distantly, he recalled a rather unfortunate incident with a bear when he was yet to understand the ways of the world. Faerun was a beautiful place, but it was certainly not a place for the faint of heart.

Truly, that could be said for the entirety of Toril, for he'd seen it all- and more.

Ah, but ever curious, Balduran couldn't really just stand and watch quietly for too long- at least it seemed long enough that the animals were calm- which also meant they were likely not other druids using wild-shape. Druids who had learned to master their wild-shape would've been able to sense a disoriented explorer ⎛ because he found that he was not nearly as graceful on his feet as he was when he could simply float through the air ⎠ a mile away.

❝ I see that things are much the same here as they were in Faerun- ❞ The words come with a small smile, and wasn't that why a human form was helpful? It made him more inviting, more charming- he could call it a tactical advantage of sorts. Certainly he didn't miss it because of nostalgia- he'd left that life behind.

Or so he told himself. It was easier that way; it hurt less.

Compelled by necessity to live well below their means, Hawke and his siblings rarely enjoyed luxuries like toys growing up. They made do with their imaginations and whatever scraps they could find—sticks became swords; rusty pails became helmets. Once, though, he recalls his father coming home with a pleased look on his face and a paper-wrapped parcel tucked into his coat. Inside of it was a gift for Bethany: a porcelain doll. It was a beautiful, finely crafted thing, and he can’t even imagine how much it cost his father.

The young woman in the red cloak reminds him of nothing so much as that doll from all those years ago, porcelain skin and all. Her air of innocence makes for such a striking contrast against the debauchery unfolding around them that Hawke is compelled to make sure that she didn’t wander in here by mistake, though his better judgment warns him that charging up to perfect strangers may be considered a social faux pas.

He’s never been one to listen to his better judgment, though, so up he charges, cloak fluttering behind him.