However much you've got on your plate, you're as good as you reciprocate

Floating,cold, why was it so damn cold, and I’m falling, why am I falling… Thoughts seemed to run together, and no matter how hard she tried, Bryn couldn’t see a damn thing. She couldn’t focus on anything for too long, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. It was all so confusing, so out of place, so oddly intoxicating. Because she didn’t have to do anything, be anything, feel anything. She could just exist, or not exist, or something in-between those things. She didn’t have to shoot things or run after things or fight things. Except something was nagging at her, something in the back of her head saying that she had things to do, and places to see, and people to (irritate) help. And, as if in tune with her thoughts, something appeared in the distance. A light, a piercing, warm light. Bryn couldn’t help but flinch at first. It was cold, so cold, so dark, and the light was so bright, so warm. It hurt, everything hurt, and suddenly she could feel again, why could she feel again? She opened her mouth to say something, do something, but nothing came out and she screamed silence as the bright white light filled her vision…

Bryn opened her eyes slowly, not daring to look at any particular object. Focusing on something took too much effort right now, and although she wanted to try to sit up or do something, everything ached. Her eyes glowed an eerie bloody red-orange, a color normally reserved for when she was beyond angry. Upon hearing the news of Burningwood’s escape, they shone with even greater vigor. And as Stalar left her alone in the room, she didn’t even bother to reign in her emotions. Not that it mattered. She was still too sore to actually do anything. But in the following days, once she was recovered, her room was left in tatters. The archery targets were torn, and many sparring dummies had dagger wounds riddling them.

Speaking wasn’t essential, that much was something Bryn found out first hand. She let her eyes and her actions do most of the talking, and when she needed words, she wrote. But usually her eyes were enough. Because she still didn’t bother to take control of the light emitting from them. There was a blood red tinge to every other shade now, a sign of her undying anger. At the situation, at Burningwood, at her family for kicking her out all those years ago. At everything. But, more often than not, at a target who was there. At Nergal. Bryn did nothing to make his life easier, always keeping at least one eye on him when he was around. She didn’t trust him. Not in the slightest. And she didn’t need to. Because the others were more than happy to do that for her apparently. Her irritation at the situation grew, and eventually she limited herself to a few areas: the market, the barracks, her room, and the library. Because there was still that damn book to translate. And as much as she wanted to do it on her own, she knew she would need Stalar’s help. Not that she’d ask. Not while she was in this mood. Instead she left him the words she had translated (in common of course. She didn’t know any of that fancy elvish script) with a note attached: translate. Not a question, but a command. Granted, one that she knew would probably be done anyway, but that didn’t change a thing. Not really. Nothing that hadn’t been changed anyway.

Thoughts continued to plague her, continued to bounce around whenever she was idle. It was unnerving. Sure, Bryn was used to thinking at all times, at analyzing or joking or doing something, but this... this was different. This was like something else had wormed its way into her brain. Something that whispered dark thoughts as she watched everyone go about their lives. Something that fed on her hatred of Nergal, that told her she had been replaced by the demon-spawn himself. And it irritated her. It pushed at her and pulled her until it was all she thought about when she wasn't already occupied. So, rather than dwell, she occupied herself with fighting, with puzzle solving, with anything to stop the damned thoughts from going again. At least in the eternal silence of death she had been at peace. And, as she sharpened her dagger for another rounds of sparring with dummies, she cursed Stalar from bringing her back, and cursed the gods for the destiny she hadn't had a chance to make for herself, the one that had been picked for her.

... he starts to notice empty bottles of ale

Killian's earliest memories were of flickering lights and of training with a staff. Of running through the forest, sling in one hand and sword across his back. Of his father sitting him down and telling him that he would never be accepted by the clan, but that he loved him all the same and that his mother would always treat him like her own son. That wasn't a surprise. Killian knew that he wasn't like the other halflings. That knowledge had been there for as long as he could remember, and instead of resenting it he just treated it like any other fact. He faced it with a calm stoicism and continued to learn. And learn he did. He studied up on battle tactics and strategies even though he knew that he would never lead the tribe. He scanned religious texts and found himself questioning the very ideas that the group had used as a basis of belief. He read up on philosophies from all over and imparted some of this knowledge onto his siblings. He hoped that Bryn took something away from it all, but he highly doubted it. And Vivian's gazes held a shadow behind them that he didn't dare try to analyze. So he tended to keep to himself, participating in his sister's schemes and trying his best to keep the youngest out of too much trouble. He became a sort of confidant for Bryn, and did his best to stay out of trouble with the elders of the clan. And most importantly, he continued to study and read, amassing knowledge that he tried to pass on to others.

To say that Killian was sad when Bryn left was a vast understatement. He had watched her leave, knowing that he could do nothing more for her. It was something he had been expecting for a while, a kind of feeling he had. She wasn't meant to stay here with the tribe. He could become a wise man for the group, and his sister was destined to become the leader when their parents stepped down, but there was never a spot for young Bryn. And now she could make her own destiny. He smiled a sad smile and let his emotions grip him for a moment before his normal calm demeanor was regained. There was still much to be done and not nearly enough time to do it.

He continued training with a staff, preferring it to other weapons. A staff could kill, yes, but it was a weapon that was not normally used for killing blows, something that could take someone out without the worry of injuries that would kill outright. Besides, people tended to underestimate those wielding weapons that did not seem lethal, something Killian could use to his advantage. And while he continued to learn about other weapons as well, the quarter staff was always the one he would gravitate back to.

It was Killian who first heard of Bryn's adventures years later, and it was him who spread the word, keeping a close eye on his elder sister while doing so. She seemed less than please with the news being spread, and it made him wonder about things. Things like how she had treated them when they were kids. Or how, even with her status among the tribe as its future leader, she never seemed to bother helping anyone else out. Not unless it helped her of course. It was a trend that he had noticed as the years had passed, as he honed his skills in observation. Because he figured that if no one would bother to include him, he wouldn't hold it against them. It had taken him some time to learn, but Killian soon discovered that the tribe was locked in old habits, shunning things that they didn't understand. And Killian just happened to represent things they didn't understand. The emotional attachments that his parents had made with a child that wasn't theirs. The fact that his birth parents had abandoned him in the first place. The stoicism that he treated almost everything with, and the calm smile he put on where the others would become impatient. None of these things fit in with their world, and he was torn between pitying them for it or just shaking it all off.

When Bryn returned to the clan, Killian was happy. It was nice having his little sister back, and although he knew it wouldn't last long, the time they did have was spent celebrating. He didn't want to damper the mood with news of their parents, the event that happened all those years ago. Besides, she'd have heard by now, right? As the years passed on, it seemed more and more like she hadn't heard, and that Vivian wasn't about to tell her. Her reaction when he pulled her aside just proved it to him. He collected some items that he had been saving up and waited for her. It was hours before she moved from the spot he had left her, and although she didn't speak, Killian knew what was going through Bryn's head. Even after all this time he was able to read her like an open book. It was something he was both proud of and also unsure of. Because he didn't want to be able to read her, not now. Not when she was obviously in far more pain than she was willing to let on. It was like reading Vivian, whose dark thoughts tended to play on her face when she wasn't paying attention. It scared him, sometimes, the fact that he had gotten close enough to his sisters to read them like this. But now, it was helpful. It let him know that, no matter what she said or didn't say, Bryn was thankful for his help and the things he was giving her. That was enough for now. As he watched her leave for the second time, a small smile appeared on his face. It didn't last long, though, and for the first time in his memory, Killian felt rage start to build up in him.

The trip back to camp seemed to take even longer than normal. Vivian met him near the edge of camp, false worry playing over her face. "Where were you?" He shook his head, his face contorting in anger.
"You didn't tell her. How long? How long were you planning on hiding it?" His words weren't the rough, barking shout he had expected. Instead they were the cool, sharp edged words of barely contained emotion. He watched his sister's face, watched as shock was replaced by faked confusion. Before she could talk, he held up a hand. "Don't say you don't understand. You know damn well what I'm alluding to."
"She's gone?" The tone of Vivian's voice wasn't that of worry or concern. It only served to fuel the fire.
"She's gone, no thanks to you. You can't just let us have a good thing, can you, Vee? You can't just leave things alone when they're going right?" Killian's hands balled into fists, and he was ready to strike out at something. Not her, never her. But a tree, a rock, something that he could take his frustration out on.
"I didn't... I don't... You don't know what you're talking about, Killian." When Killian looked at his sister's face again, it had set into a stone cold mask of indifference. It was the last straw. He glared at her and roughly shoved past her, ignoring her shout of ire. "Where are you going, Killian?" He stopped, not turning to look at Vivian as he answered.
"I'm leaving. There is no place for me here, so I'm doing what Bryn had the courage to do. I'm going to find a place for myself."

The sun was just showing itself as Killian left the camp. He didn't have much, but it was all essential to him. A crudely drawn map, an old charm Bryn had created for him strung next to the symbol of leadership that Vivian had made for him. His quarterstaff, one that he had trained with for a long time. It wasn't much, but it was important to him all the same. With that thought in mind, Killian set forth, not daring to turn back as he left his old home to find something else. Something better.

She paints her fingers with a close precision...

Vivian looked down at the baby, her face scrunching up in "mock" disgust. "It looks wrinkled and old." Her parents chuckled, and she wasn't quite sure what was so funny, but they were laughing. That had to be a good thing, right? They seemed happy, and at first, she loved it. After all, others happiness was a good thing. Except, she wasn't the cause of it this time. And they kinda stopped paying attention to her, focusing more on the weird baby (Killian, she had to remind herself. His name was Killian) than they were on her. And although she smiled brightly and nodded when asked if she was glad to have a baby brother, inside she was scowling. Inside, the three year old couldn't understand what was so special about the boy. After all, daddy had just found him in the woods a day ago, and he wasn't even really like them. Not a halfling. And although she'd dispel that notion as the boy grew and she started to figure out why they loved him so much, the jealousy never really went away, instead lurking just below the surface. It reared its head from time to time. Like when the other kids got noticed for things that she had started. Or when her parents had another child, and at age six she had a little sister. Again she couldn't fathom it, but this time it was worse. At least Killian had been adopted in a sense. Vivian couldn't wrap her head around why her parents would want another child. After all, they have me. I'll be the leader when they want to stop. They don't need anyone else. And the thought kept bouncing around her head, seeping into her actions around the young girl. The way the three would hatch plans, and it always happened that young Bryn would be the distraction, the bait of sorts. And she always went along with it. Outside, Vee (as her younger siblings called her) just smiled and nodded, appearing to be a happy, bubbly young girl, loved by the whole clan. Inside, however, was a different story. Inside, she cursed every soul searching look Killian gave her, mocked every eager nod that Bryn would do as she explained a plan, cherished every bit of praise that the others gave her.

She was 22 when Bryn left the camp. Part of her was sad to see her sister go, but a tiny part of her loved it. Loved that the attention seeking bitch was finally getting the boot. It was a part of her that she tried to suppress, tried hard to dispel. But it was just as much part of her personality as the facade of happiness. The facade that seemed to follow her everywhere. Things were getting serious, and both her parents were teaching her the things she needed to know for leading the clan. Over the years she had learned some of the many things that had been required as a daughter of the chieftains. It had been rough, learning all the secrets and tricks, but she did it. And she loved it. Knowing that she knew things others didn't was invigorating. It was a thrill, having knowledge and not only being unable to share it, but not wanting to anyway. She enjoyed it. Maybe even far too much. It reminded her of the childhood plots and plans. And while those had been fun, they had been child's play. Nothing compared to what she would have to later. So, while her parents were teaching her the tricks of her soon to be trade, Vivian was looking up other ways to do things. After all, there were always other options. When the trade parties went out, she'd go with and look for information she could use. Slowly but surely, she started to perfect a style unique to her, a mixture of her family's power and her own knowledge.

She should have known that Bryn wouldn't stay gone for long. And even though she had yet to physically return to the group, stories of her adventures slowly started to leak into the clan. People could hardly believe it at first, and that was how Vivian wished it had stayed. But no good thing can last, and so it seemed that her peace ended sooner than she would have liked. If one could call ten or so years "soon." The one good thing that came from an abundance of news was the fact that it was highly unlikely her sister would come back. After all, she was a "grand hero" now. The thought made Vivian smirk. Bryn would never be a hero.

It was five years later, close to Vee's 30th birthday, that the event happened. She had opted to sit out the trip to Evermeet, instead watching over the clan members who wanted to stay. It was a mistake she'd regret for as long as she lived. News of her parents death filled her with rage, but she managed to calm herself. She was the new clan leader, and she had to act like it. It was her actions that saved the clan, her abilities that let them escape harm. And it was her leadership that held them together and kept them safe for years to come. No one had to know that it was also her ears that had heard rumors of what had been happening to non-humans in these parts. Or that it was her own suspicions that kept her in camp that day. And as far as they did know, it was her guilt that caused the dark shadows that flickered behind her eyes, and the almost feral grin that sometimes appeared was just her powers manifesting even while latent. And Vivian was content to keep it that way, even as Bryn returned and became a celebrated hero. No one knew Bryn quite like her and Killian. So no one would think to bring her down with news of her parents. And no one would know that keeping it from her would make the reveal oh so sweet. Because when Killian told Bryn(and he would, she knew that much), the youngest child would blame herself. And then Vivian would be rid of her for good. Or at least for a very long time.

And that was quite alright with her.

He takes a moment to assess the sins they've paid for {the level fives}

Nevah stared at her empty hands, not quite able to believe what she was seeing. Her blade, the one constant in her life (at least... this life), gone in an instant. She felt a surge of rage flow through her, and although it was suppressed with a couple deep breaths, it didn't stop her from expressing a fraction of that anger willingly. Especially not after hearing Respite scream like a baby at the first sign of anything close to danger. And certainly not after he had pushed them well past their breaking point. After he had urged them on even when they had only just managed to fend off the gnolls. Or after a couple of them were badly injured trying to open a door. Or even after being attacked by ghouls. None of them had complained, not really at least. Sure, they grumbled, because that's what they did. But no one had really bothered to step up and demand rest. Until now, that is. All of them were worn, and as the stupid Tiefling urged them on yet again, Nevah could feel something in her snap.

She rarely spoke, that was something that she had made clear to the group. Sure, Nevah spoke when spoken to, and liked to keep things brief (when she wasn't in a chatty mood). But unless it was necessary to get a point across, she prefered to hum, to moan, to groan, to signal. Anything other than use words, because they felt so damn limiting. One could express a myriad of emotions through look and non-verbal sounds, so why limit oneself to words? But in this moment, it seemed that no other way would get through the damn (no longer really a) demon's thick skull. So as he tried to get them pressing forward again, Nevah glared at him and spoke for the first time since leaving the Oasis. "We are resting." It was not a question. It was a command. And when he tried to start speaking again, she held up a hand (a barren hand, lacking the very thing that made her whole). "We are beaten and bruised, bleeding and broken. We. Are. Resting." And as the others settled down to get their first real rest since leaving the tavern for this damned job, Nevah wrote down all that she had seen and heard, capturing emotions both threw crude drawings and halfhearted words. They weren't going to be the best way to capture the feelings she was trying to evoke, but she was a bard without the tools of her trade. This would have to do until she found a replacement. Then she would compose a grand ballad for the group. But until then, they'd have to live with some words scrawled in a leather-bound journal.