Noone's favorite person.

“Enough teasing, El…” He breathed, repressing a moan. “I need your lips around me, and those long fingers of yours inside.”

“As you wish…”

The bard’s tongue travelled down his navel, leaving a few gentle kisses and bites along the way until it reached his crotch. Astarion's body was a land Ellith had explored many times before, but every touch felt like the first one, a never-ending rediscovery of the beauty of his curves and ridges, of the softness of his skin and the addictive taste of his hardened flesh.

There was no hesitation in Ellith’s careful movements as they took him in their mouth, but their eyes never left his face, not even once. The sight of his shameless ecstasy was a masterpiece in itself, but the bard was also scanning it in search of any trace of discomfort. They had learned to detect Astarion’s pretence, to decipher his mask, and to talk his body language. They knew he could still, out of old, poisonous habits, discard his own comfort and pleasure.

Something Ellith was refusing to let slip again.

Thankfully, the vampire spawn showed no trace of unease, abandoning himself to the sensations as Ellith’s lips moved slowly along his shaft, tongue rolling around the tip. He bucked his hips up, parting his legs a little wider. The half-drow understood the assignment, and before long their tongue was travelling down his scrotum, only to stop against the tight muscles of his entrance.

“Yes, please….” He mumbled, his fingers lost in the bard’s red mane.

One hand cupping and massaging his balls, the other one still busy with his cock, Ellith started to lick, eager but attentive. They could feel his muscles throb against their tongue, slowly relaxing as it carefully pushed in. Astarion’s whines were getting louder, more impatient, reaching that beautiful high note Ellith enjoyed so much. They’ll never be able to make a song as a beautiful as this.

When their thumb left his testicles to stimulate his entrance in tantalising circles, Astarion’s body jerked.

“Colour?” Ellith asked immediately.

“Green… Ve-very green, oh GODS! Please don’t stop.”

I ate the stew because my body required nourishment.

I wasn't hungry but I had begun to understand that meals served purposes beyond merely sustaining the body. Sharing food was an act of companionship, a ritual of closeness people performed almost instinctively. It mattered to them, and increasingly, that meant it mattered to me.

The wizard had spent a surprising amount of time preparing the stew and appeared even more invested in everyone's reaction to it than strictly necessary. He informed us—twice—that it was based upon a family recipe, though circumstances had forced him to substitute several of the original spices. He spoke of this as though it were a tragedy of moderate significance.

I nodded dutifully, thanked him for the meal, and refrained from mentioning that the combination of rosemary and thyme reminded me vaguely of bathwater. Some observations are best kept private.

Besides, he was so pleased with himself that I lacked the heart to diminish it.

After dinner, I gathered the dishes and carried them to the stream.

The water was wonderfully cold. The summer air still lingered warmly around camp, but the stream flowed down from higher ground and carried with it a pleasant chill that numbed my fingers as I worked. I knelt by the bank, cleaning bowls and spoons while the sounds of conversation drifted faintly from the fire behind me.

And, despite my best efforts, my thoughts wandered once more to the lute. The instrument rested in my tent, yet I found my gaze seeking it whenever the opportunity arose. Even now, separated from it by distance and canvas, I was thinking about it again.

The fascination annoyed me. Something about that lute lingered. Not insistently or aggressively, simply present, like a half-forgotten thought refusing to disappear entirely no matter how often I turned my attention elsewhere.

I rinsed the final bowl, set it aside to dry, and stared into the water for a moment.

Perhaps there was magic involved. Perhaps not. Whatever the cause, I found myself increasingly curious in a way I could neither explain nor dismiss.

The reality was simple enough: we might die tomorrow.

At that point in our journey, death felt less like a distant possibility and more like a scheduling conflict we were attempting to postpone. We carried mind flayer parasites behind our eyes. We had no cure, no answers, and only the increasingly fragile hope that one existed somewhere ahead of us. For all I knew, I might transform during the night, and whatever remained of me by morning would have very little interest in lutes.

Under those circumstances, there seemed little reason to ignore a mystery simply because it was small.

I placed the cleaned bowls into the crate we used for storage and rose to my feet.

The lute had occupied my thoughts all evening, it seemed only fair that I finally discover why.

And if the answer proved disappointing—well. There were certainly worse ways to spend what might potentially be one's final night as oneself.

I lowered myself onto a log someone had thoughtfully placed near the fire and began to tune.

The instrument was out of alignment, each string a little too sharp or too flat, as though it had been neglected for some time. I closed my eyes and leaned in, adjusting by feel more than thought. It came as naturally as breathing, familiar in a way I could not yet account for or even understand.

Around me, the camp remained still, no one spoke.

Only the fire did—its steady crackle, the occasional shift of embers—accompanied by the distant sounds of night settling into itself.

I heard movement at the edges of perception. Fabric brushing, careful footsteps, the soft clink of dishes being set aside with exaggerated caution. They were trying not to disturb me.

It was… unnecessary and oddly considerate.

When I was finally satisfied with the tuning, I rolled my shoulders back, stretching my neck until it gave a sharp, unceremonious crack. A few heads turned at the sound.

I did not care.

My fingers found the strings before any conscious thought could intervene and the first melody arrived without invitation. Not chosen or constructed, simply remembered, as though my hands had been waiting for permission my mind had not yet given.

The lute felt familiar beneath my fingers in a way that unsettled me. Not because I remembered it, but because I did not. Every movement came naturally, every adjustment of my hands instinctive, yet I could not recall learning any of it. There was no memory attached to the knowledge.

I plucked a few strings, listening to the notes ring through the evening air. A simple melody followed, my fingers finding it without instruction or conscious thought. The motions felt as natural as breathing.

And then did I open my mouth.

Singing, too, was not a decision.

It simply… happened.

I tested it cautiously at first.

I had not intended to. My mouth simply opened as the melody unfolded beneath my fingers, words rising unbidden from somewhere buried deeper than memory. A soft ballad emerged, gentle and melancholic, carrying the sort of longing that seemed older than I was. I could not recall where I had learned it. I could not remember hearing it before.

Yet I knew every word.

Every note.

Every pause.

The realization stole my breath for a heartbeat.

My voice carried effortlessly, rich and clear in a way that startled me. It was not merely pleasant. It possessed weight, presence. The sort of voice that naturally drew attention without ever demanding it, capable of filling a room not through volume but through simple certainty.

I felt it immediately. Not in my throat or my lungs, but in my soul.

The sensation struck with such force that my hands nearly faltered upon the strings.

I had done this before.

Not once or twice or even hundreds of times, but thousands. I knew it with the same certainty I knew how to walk or breathe. This was not something new. This was not a talent discovered by accident beside a cold stream on a night that might have been my last.

This was a piece of myself. A piece I had lost.

The realization settled over me slowly and all at once, the way certain truths do—arriving gradually until suddenly they are simply there, fully formed and undeniable.

For so the last days, I had stumbled through my own life surrounded by fragments; missing years, missing names, missing pieces of myself that existed just beyond reach, close enough to sense but never to hold. Every discovery had felt foreign, like uncovering evidence of another person's life and being told it belonged to me.

This felt different.

This did not feel like a stranger.

This felt like me.

Before I could stop myself, I smiled. A genuine smile. The sort that arrives before you realize it is there, before you have decided to allow it.

My fingers continued moving effortlessly across the strings. My breathing adjusted instinctively to support the song. My back straightened, my shoulders relaxed and every part of me settled into place with the ease of something returning to where it had always belonged.

For the first time since waking aboard the nautiloid, I was not discovering something I had lost.

I was remembering who I had been.

And for one brief, precious moment, I was not lost. Not a woman carrying a parasite behind her eye and a lifetime of missing memories behind her smile.

I was simply a musician.

And somehow, despite everything, that felt more like myself than anything else.

“Take inventory and count every arrow among us. We will not move until we know what we’re up against.” It was not looking much better for the rest of them: spells depleted; bodies broken, wounded, and exhausted; swords, maces, and armor in dire need of repair. Except, perhaps, for the Druids. Illevios’s gaze settled upon the robes of the druidic spellcaster in his company. Meeting the searching gaze of Thistle, the Circle of The Land Druid from the Wealdath forest, he asked, “Can I still count on your sister?” The Rock Gnome gave a decisive nod, placing a turquoise-studded, gauntleted hand over her chest. “You can, I can feel it. Hetty is the swiftest flyer of our circle.” But even her smile faltered at the corners as she spoke. Her face was streaked with earth, her wild curls interspersed with twigs and red berries. Her braids had begun to unravel at the ends, and her robes had turned more grey than white from the dust of rough travel. The Druid laid a protective hand over the injury on her upper arm, nearly reopened by the hastened climb. Looking down at himself, Illevios found his own condition equally lacking and murmured a quick prayer to Corellon. “Chii chii chii!” Everyone rose to their feet, dropping what they were doing. Looking up, the Ranger-Knight found another member of his company, Oswell, a Half-Orc Cleric, pointing towards the open grey sky and giving the hunters’ sign for bird. Could it be...? Blessed with keen sight, Illevios spotted a gyrfalcon. Its white-speckled wings cut and wove through the clouds as it dived with impossible speed towards the cover of the very tree in which their company had found refuge. With an audible gasp, Thistle rushed past the Forest Warden, her relief and revived spirits plain for all to see, nearly knocking Illevios off his feet in her haste. In a flash of gold, a nearly identical Rock Gnome appeared before them, dressed in garb fashioned much like the one now embracing her in a tight hug. Barely catching her breath and restraining her over-eager twin, the Druid the Ranger knew as Hetty met his gaze, weary but sharp. “The First Druid is on the move.”

— From Chapter 3: The Black Hand

To her mother and father, Seraphina's magic is a disappointment. Years of strict tutoring to try to "train" the wild magic out of her leaves her fearful of using any magic at all. Later in her story, following a wild magic surge that almost gets her brother killed, she is forbidden by her parents from using it at all. She gladly obeys.

Still, she does wish she could find the same ease in magic other spell casters seem to.

She prays to Mystra for much of her life. To make her magic "normal", or to take it away entirely. Anything. She doesn't care. She simply wishes to no longer be burdened with it. Those prayers are never answered.

Twenty years after being forbidden from using magic, she is kidnapped by the Nautiloid and has no choice but to learn the ropes in order to survive. So lucky a handsome wizard - who also happens to be a good teacher - is part of the crew of tadfools!

The way is not straightforward - there are many bumps in the road. But there is hope… that while she will never be free of wild magic, she might one day build the confidence to overcome the consequences without fear.

Gale being kidnapped by Orin is the ultimate test of her character and her magic.

Against all odds, the tadfools survive their adventure… and Seraphina's confidence with magic continues to thrive.

I wanted to end the set with this hopeful look into a future where Seraphina is confident enough to share her joy of magic with the younger generation. And a very handsome silver fox... ahem who said that very proud Gale contemplates how far his wife has come.

Thank you so much to everyone at the Baldur's Eyes Zine for the support - particularly my moderator @obsessedwhyyes who had to listen to my constant worries about not being good enough, and filter through an insane number of shots to help me whittle down the final set. Thank you to my wonderful friends Hanna, Jess, Germaine and Aga for holding my hand, too - in this project and in everything I do ❤️

Additional fun fact: I named the set "Watch Me Unfold" after a beautiful song by the same name by Marie Digby.