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As the moon ascends a velvet-hued night sky, it finds a travel party most unconventional, gathered around a campfire. Once we get rid of the tadpoles, once things go back to a semblance of normalcy, that is how I will start retelling this story. If I survive, that is. I think I should get to make some coin off of all this - seeing as I am a bard and all. It would be very remiss of me not to, frankly. This is prime theatre material, or maybe even a ballad for a private court. Those pay quite well indeed. But I digress.
The moon is a silvery orb, gently ascending the deep velvets of the night sky and my companions and I, a most mismatched group of individuals, if I may say so myself, are gathered around the campfire. It is a moment of calm that allows all of us to let the weight of the day's travels slip off our shoulders with the gentle crackling of tinders and the sporadic bursts of sparks taking flight from our firepit, lazily drifting away into the night.
My lute is in my lap, a familiar and comfortable weight as the gilded flickers of firelight wash over me. ... No, I can do better than that: The familiar weight of my lute rests in my lap, the golden flickers of firelight caressing the strings, making them appear as if spun from precious metals. (Yes, like that.) My fingertips dance across them, teasing out a gentle melody: a caress of music, a whisper of distraction, a glimmer of normalcy. In this rare moment of comfort and calm, ever so soothing, Gale of Waterdeep, formerly one of the most powerful wizards not just Faerûn, but possibly all of Toril, had ever seen, paces in front of the flames as if each step could take him closer to unravelling the secrets which are driving him to frustration.
"It makes no sense," he tells the gently flickering flames. "No sense at all." And then, with a dramatically anguished flurry, the wizard turns towards me, his robes flaring up against the flames and casting me in deep-hued shadows. A voice softly anguished, like a strip of silk being torn apart, his expression tormented by the compulsion to question, to understand, as all scholars are, his gaze carries the taint of distress; the poison of desperately wanting, no, needing to know. He addresses me with the words "Why are you here?" and my fingers still.
"Look at us!" he demands, his arms spreading out imperiously to indicate the campsite and those within. "The composition of this group defies all logic and explanation. A ducal progeny and folk hero, not one but two skilled and celebrated warriors of their people: a tiefling who rose through the ranks to become a champion of hell, now chased down by the servants of their former captor, as well as a proud Githyanki warrior sworn and dedicated to hunting the monsters that captured us, a priestess of a powerful and dangerous goddess on a mission to transport an artefact of incredible but also hitherto unknown, uncategorized and possibly unmatched power to Baldur's Gate, a magistrate of the very city we are trying to reach who also happens to be embroiled with one of the most powerful entities residing in said city, myself and -- you? Why in Mystra's name are you here?"
Were I to describe Gale of Waterdeep right now, several words would come to mind: desperate and anguished, for starters, as I already said. Tired as well, for he must have pondered this question endlessly, looking for reason in the random, for order or patterns in the chaos, and finding himself coming up empty-handed. There is a hunger, no, an urge for knowledge, too. Like he cannot help it. Like he is a man possessed by a need inherent to him like breathing and eating and sleeping and dedicating himself to the study of the Weave the way he has and it demands an answer (at all cost, perhaps) to a question I have privately asked myself often enough to have lost count several times over, but not nearly as often to have divined an answer approximating to what could be a truth of my presence in this very group. Yet, apparently and all things considered, the question must still be asked.
"You haven't been holding out on us, have you? You're not secretly a Harper? A Zhentarim? A Red Wizard, perhaps? Spawn of a dragon or god?"
And though I may be only a humble bard and not nearly as well learned as a scholar of the arcane with a wealth of knowledge such as Gale of Waterdeep possesses, I know very well what this need of his to know, to understand, is born from. That shaky timbre, equal parts oppressive terror and addictive hope, that light in his eyes that begs me to say 'yes', to make it true; to admit that I have been holding out on them, say 'Yes, I carry a deep, dark secret with me like every one of you has and it is this which will empower us in our struggles thusly'. Because I couldn't be just a bard, could I? Not, if all of them are so outrageously special, so extraordinary in one way or another. No, surely I, too, am more than I appear to be.
Gale of Waterdeep does not fear death or strive. He does not fear ceasing to exist, either. His greatest fear is ignorance: having the answers within his reach and failing to reach for them, failing to comprehend them, failing to prevent himself from making yet another grave mistake. Like the one that cost him so dearly before.
And therefore, I am not surprised that it is he giving voice to the confusion I have carried in me since I awoke on that beach. A confusion that like the morning mists must have spread to all my newly obtained acquaintances, clinging to them and asking: "Why me? Why them?"
Before the tension of our camp can shift into the rigidness of indignation, an inhale of outrage and defence, I pluck a string and stand to my feet, years of diffusing tavern brawls and hostile airs moving me before I even consciously decide to. I play a merry tune with a simple rhythm, easily picked up by Karlach's stomping feet and Wyll's enthusiastic clapping. The words tumble from my mouth of their own accord, and I let them flow, knowing that trying to force them into any other shape than what part of me already decided they should be will only lead to more confusion. And a bad performance.
"You ask my purpose in this song and dance,
But tell me, sir, have you considered this:
That my presence here is mere happenstance,
And none of you would stop to miss
The twang of my lute or the hum of my song
For without them, you could well survive;
The flash of my rapier and my clever tongue,
If gone, would not deprive
Any of you from victories already achieved
For strength and wit, you have in spades
Amongst you, no secret passes unperceived
Whether in caverns dark, or sunlit glades
Truthfully, I too have often asked
What is my part in your company
And hoped that I could unmask
Through clever thought, so ardently
The veiled intentions of fickle fate
And the ploy, whether infernal or divine,
That inexplicably mandate
The need of your appearance - and mine
Alas, elusive is the truth for all her candour
And maybe neither you nor I will ever know
Whether my role is meant to be grander
Than that of a merry-maker in this throe
For what is this but an adventure
A heroic tale of a great wrong
And it is more than mere conjecture
That such a tale must be told in song
We're all misfits here, good sir,
Untethered wildcards.
Should you consider it still unclear:
I'm here, my friend, 'cause I'm the bard!"
Near Astarion's tent, the sound of tin bells polished to a silvery sheen, a laugh that is no more than a courtesy masked as good-natured amusement, rings out.
Were I a bigger person, I would claim that Gale questioning my presence does not bother me. I would pretend that his implication that my being here is of no consequence and unnecessary would not offend me, that my presence is but a curious twist of fate with no impact on the convoluted events unfolding before our eyes, nothing more, nothing less. Although a healing spell of mine saved Gale's life only earlier today; although it was I that solved the magical riddle; although it was my blade that delivered the killing blow to the spider matriarch. And truthfully, a bard should be able to slip on the mask of temperance and indulgence easily, for you never get to choose for whom you perform or what they demand for entertainment.
And yet...
Another note rings from my lute, loud and clear. The cheerful melody transforms into a dirge under my well-trained fingertips. And slowly, with a more measured tempo, I mournfully sing:
"All I do is ask of thee
To think, think, think of me
As one who, though asinine,
Trudges along these serpentine
Roads of fate, same as thyself.
One who never meant to delve
Into the madness we now face
Who - like you - yearns for an act of grace
Bestowed by a gentler destiny
That'll free us readily
From Illithid's rotten spawn
Who hopes that in the early morn'
Even if by their own fearful scream
Is woken from this wretched dream."
As the last notes of my song fade into the night's eerie quiet, I hold Gale's gaze. He seems torn: outrage and shame warring quite obviously in him.
I want to be scathing and offer to leave the group if he thinks I am of no use. I want to be vindictive and demand he justify his place in the group before questioning mine.
"If that'll be all, Master Decarios?" I say instead, offering a mockery of a servile bow. There is a sharp inhale somewhere (Karlach, possibly?) and before Gale can stutter out an apology, I nod as if I were a servant dismissed by their master. "Very good, sir. Good night."
I trudge into the dark and towards my bedroll, determined to get some shut-eye and come morning, pretend the conversation never happened.
As Tav moves out of the space illuminated by their camp's fire, the wizard of Waterdeep feels the hair on his neck rise.
"Well, well... our little bard does have a way with words. And melodies. And rapiers. And spells. I have to hand it to you, Gale. I never thought you had the guts to openly attack someone who could so easily kill you and make it look like an accident, considering how often Tav has saved your hide since... you know. Quite brave of you. And foolish," Astarion muses quietly over Gale's shoulder, so soft only the wizard can hear him.
"Now, if I may offer a suggestion? You might think it to be quite bold, but I believe that if you can find it in your heart of hearts to follow through with it, you will find it quite satisfying and profitable. Maybe even enlightening."
There is a pause (for dramatic effect) followed by a sharp hiss of barely hidden annoyance. "Stop whining and start pulling your weight."