#alfira recognizes you knocked her out

[thekoatemmie]

durge;*knocking Alfira cause he sensed some bloodlust* bhaal: you don't understand,I REALLY want a bard sacrifice tonight

[blackjackkent]

Tiefling party time!

I really do feel like we could have cleaned up the giant blood sigil left from Rakha's reign of terror before inviting guests over, but what do I know?

Rakha is definitely REALLY nervous about this whole situation. She remembers when Alfira came and what happened to her, and this is way more guests now. The beast is stirring irritably in her brain at the flood of relative strangers and she knows, all too well, that she is capable of slipping tonight just as she did then.

So she keeps to herself, at least at first, which is how she ends up on the beach at the edge of camp with Wyll.

She didn't entirely mean to follow him, at least not consciously... but she's aware that she feels the strain in her head relax when she realizes he's there. Somewhere along the line, of all the members of their little band, he became the point where she feels the most at ease - he answers her questions without judgment. He has guided her first fumbling attempts to stand against the beast's hunger.

Even her trust in Lae'zel, firm as it is, does not quite bring the same sense of... comfort.

For a little while, she stands and watches him silently. He seems lost in thought, staring out at the slowly rolling surface of the river. Finally she takes a step forward; her boot knocks against a small pebble, sending it clattering along the rocky beach into the water, and he jumps, spinning around.

"Agh. Hells," he mutters sheepishly. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice I was gone."

She raises an eyebrow. Why? she wonders. Does he think his presence insignificant? Does he think she thinks his presence insignificant?

"Are you all right?" she asks quietly.

He smiles ruefully. "Oh. I'm deeply proud of you. A touch less so of myself."

She stares at him. Proud? Of all the things she expected him to say, that was not one of them. She has come far enough in the time since the nautiloid to know that there is a battle to be fought within herself - that there is more to her than the beast if she is willing to find it. But she has not come nearly far enough to believe that battle is being won, not yet.

But he says he is proud of her. And the fact makes her feel... strange. Warm. As if she has crossed some milestone she was not aware of reaching for.

Thank you, she wants to say - but then she registers the second half of his comment, and gives him a questioning look. Not proud of yourself? Why?

(A/N: Look at his poor sad eyes. :( Wyll needs a big hug stat.)

"In truth, I don't feel in a festive mood," he says with a slight shrug. "And I didn't want to cast a grey cloud over the night."

She nods, thinking he means the recent revelations about his father - which would be understandable enough - but he keeps talking. "I'm a devil. I love the people from the grove, but I unsettle them deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone nowadays."

His face twists with sudden anguish, and he turns away, looking out at the water. "You don't want a devil at your party," he mutters bitterly. "Horns this sharp will pop the balloons, you see. And the guests won't take kindly to scars quite so monstrous."

Ah. She listens in silence, taking in these new details, filing them away. Wyll's transformation makes him like those who drew the teeth-lings into the Hells in the first place. It makes him look like their enemy. Like many people's enemies.

But not like hers. "You don't unsettle me," she says. It's a blunt statement, matter-of-fact. "You know that." There is much worse in me than anything you have ever shown me. And you have looked at me without blinking.

His head lifts and he looks at her intently for a moment. She can't quite read the expression in his eyes, but his voice is low and heavy with some sudden intensity. "If only half the world had half the heart you do," he says softly.

There would be nothing left living, I think, Rakha thinks with her own surge of bitterness. But she doesn't say it aloud, because she recognizes the compliment, even if she doesn't agree with it. What does he see in her, that he keeps saying these things?

And why does he see so little in himself?

For a moment they both stand there, eyes locked; the air feels suddenly charged with electricity. She finds herself wishing, out of nowhere, that she could show him what Gale showed her the other night - the depth of the Weave, the peace of it. The magic he carries is something very different, something darker, tainted by Mizora... but perhaps he could still channel it as she did...

The thought of the magic connecting them, of the intimacy that went with that bond, makes her feel suddenly unstable in a way that she can't define. For a moment she is almost certain one of those wild surges of magic is going to burst through her without warning and set the whole place ablaze.

But she holds his eyes with hers, and though her heart has suddenly started to thump like thunder... her magic calms, and the beast quiets, and she simply breathes, and waits, and hears the water lap gently against the shore by their boots.

He draws back suddenly, a brittle smile flickering onto his lips, and the moment breaks. "But off with you. This is your day! Have a dance. Enjoy the music."

She looks over her shoulder, back towards the party, and she clicks her tongue with a disinterested expression. No. She feels much more comfortable here with him, and perhaps that was why she walked this direction in the first place. "Can't you tell why I really followed you out here?" she says, with a gruff tone unaccountably laced with a sense of indistinct embarrassment.

He blinks, snorts. "Clearly Mol has put you up to stealing my britches so you can turn them into a flag for her gang." A pause, and then he adds, "Not that I'd necessarily object." His lips twitch in a slight, cautious grin.

She laughs softly. It's a sound she's heard so rarely from herself that it startles her - hoarse, low in her throat... but amused. "Nope," she says. "Guess again."

His grin widens. "Let me think. Why are you really here?" He snaps his fingers, coming to a dramatic conclusion. "You must be Volo in disguise, out here to harangue me for some tales of the Frontiers." He leans back on his heels and shakes his head in mock-sorrow. "What a cruel disguise! My nerves started hammering the second I thought *she* was the one looking for me."

It takes her a moment to parse this joke. She, meaning me. Ah... The idea that she would have that effect on him, after everything she's done... it doesn't really make any sense, even as he's articulating it. "Keep trying," she says, and her voice feels suddenly thick, unwieldy.

He hesitates; she sees his cheeks suddenly darken and his eyes flick away from her, the playful air fading abruptly. "It's a long shot," he says softly. "But maybe you've grown fond of me. Gods know I've grown fond of you."

There it is. Spoken out loud - by him, because she had no words for it. Fond. It feels... inadequate, but also correct. At the least, it encompasses something of the sense of safety and guidance he is able to instill in her.

She remembers the hectic, ferocious night with Lae'zel - which was also built on something of the same foundation. But this is not where this is leading, she can already tell. This is something different, something she has no words for.

"Maybe just a little," she mutters.

He smiles. Perhaps he registers something of her uncertainty, because his tone lightens deliberately. "Then we share a similar affliction, for I've grown fond of you too. Though I can't say I've earned the honor. I haven't even managed to kill one measly devil. I'm hardly a prime catch."

(A/N: We have the option for a persuasion check to ask for a kiss here. It's honestly more verbally direct than Rakha feels just yet, I think - an impulsive kiss immediately without the words would feel more likely - and I checked and it's just the one kiss anyway and then he sends you back off to the party regardless. So we're going with the more slow-burn setup here.)

She snorts dismissively. "You don't need to be the 'Blade of Frontiers' for me. Just be yourself." She respects his cause as one of the things on which she can model herself in the battle against the darkness in her head. But she has little interest in judging him for whatever ideals he has stood up for himself. He has done her that credit in return many times over already.

He shakes his head sharply. "The Blade *is* my best self," he insists. "On my best days, I've even lived up to the name."

There is something else he wants to say, she can tell - but he shakes his head again, visibly putting whatever it is aside in favor of a firm, sudden smile. "Now - you've got a party to get back to," he says firmly. "Don't forget - tonight is about you."

He draws closer for a moment, rests a hand carefully against her arm, and his smile softens. "There will be another time for us," he says, his voice low. And then, before she can respond, he turns and walks away down the beach.