Author's Note: The first two chapters of this story were published previously under a different account. They are being re-published here for continuity with the new chapters as they are released. Thank you for reading, and if you've already read the beginning of this story, stay tuned for the next few chapters, coming soon!
This story is a romance erotica that contains a considerable amount of buildup and before getting to the sex scenes. If you're looking for wham bam, you may want to move along.
*****
Chapter One: Before Barovia, and After
She'd hardly seen Ignatius since _____'s tomb.
Zelia couldn't bear to say the name of the lich they'd killed there, still, not even to herself. Dreams of his phylactery, that unholy emerald whose existence threatened the possibility of his rising once more, haunted her more nights than she'd admitted to her party members. Whenever they were in Faramon, Zelia could feel the presence of the emerald, locked and sealed though it was in the vault of the temple of Bahamut for safe keeping.
The dark horror Zelia had felt ever since she'd first entered that tomb and see the lich's rise was always with her; it was the reason she'd dedicated herself to the service of the Raven Queen; it was the secret bitter taste at the back of her smile now every time she told a joke, or read the cards, or saddled up for battle once again with her companions. And perhaps it was the reason, Zelia thought, as she strode through the high arched entryway of Pelor's temple, for her apparent weakness for dedicates of this sunny god.
An antidote.
Temple acolytes tripped over themselves as Zelia barrelled through the hallowed halls of Pelor, her black cloak billowing dramatically in her wake. Amara, the bard, went with her, but Amara was charming and subtle and was not the one that tended to unsettle the clergy. It was Zelia, the sorcerer-priestess of the goddess of death—she who had read the cards of the lich, who could transform herself into a bird with a snap of her fingers and rain down fire and lightning on an enemy encampment, all with a spring in her step and a mischievous smile on her face—that drew the mixed reviews. Even her own temple didn't quite know what to make of her.
"Hello! You there!"
Zelia shouted the words, pointing a black-gloved finger at a young acolyte who was attempting to carry an overlarge load of folded linens across the hall.
"Could you tell Ignatius we're here, please?"
The acolyte stared at her like a startled rabbit.
"Um..."
"Zelia Brightstar and Amara, Greatest Bard in Faramon. He's here, isn't he?"
"Y—is he expecting you?"
"Well he will be when he sees us, won't he? We haven't got all day, please and thanks!"
Zelia levelled a frighteningly broad smile at the young man, who dropped his linens and took off almost at a run. Hands on her hips, she glanced over at Amara, who was busy making conciliatory hand gestures toward everyone in sight, most of whom were now staring in their direction.
"Honestly, Zelia, if you would just let me do the talking, I'm sure we could've found him with a little less, ah, fanfare."
Zelia shrugged and pointed down the hallway with her chin.
"My way seems to have worked alright, I'd say."
Approaching from the far end of the echoing hall was that bearded glory of a man, Ignatius, paladin of Pelor, grinning from ear to ear.
If people didn't know what to make of Zelia, they certainly knew how to feel about Ignatius. He was the sort of person you naturally thought of when you wanted babies blessed, or kittens rescued, or needed a cover model for your "Clergy of Faramon" fundraising calendar.
His burnished golden locks tumbled from his head in majestic waves, his sun-emblazoned tunic was dazzlingly white, and as he went down the hall with sure, long-legged strides, worshippers and clergy alike couldn't seem to stop themselves from smiling in his presence. It was sickening, really.
"Zelia! Amara!" he boomed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
There it was again. The man's infuriating cheerfulness.
Zelia was cheerful, but hers was a playful, impish cheer born of constant dedication to throwing off the judgements, strictures, and expectations of others all her life. As far as she could tell, Ignatius' sunny disposition was simply due to an overwhelming goodness of nature. She'd rolled her eyes at him when first they'd met, and convinced herself for some time that she didn't like the man.
Yet here she was, using her last free afternoon in town to drag Amara to the temple of Pelor with a vaguely stated intention of checking on their Pelor allies after the disastrous public address at the palace the day before.
Ignatius clasped her hands warmly in greeting, and again she was taken back to the darkness of the tomb, when last they touched: a dozen holy warriors, their faces illuminated by flares of unholy green and crimson light as the lich rose, terrible, before them. She remembered how, for almost the first time in battle, she'd held off blasting her opponent with all the arcane might that coursed through her veins and looked instead to how her allies fared. How, seeing Ignatius hit with a sickly coil of green unholy energy and go down, she'd run to him, and used the only healing spell she'd known to restore him—not much, but just enough.
The look in his eyes, when she'd lain her hand upon his chest, has been a grateful one, but in that moment, bare of all his usual charm and vigour, she thought she'd seen some other thing as well. An honest meeting of the soul.
And so, when he now shook her hand, Zelia felt her skin prickle with electricity, akin to the feeling she got just before she cast a spell, but warmer. She waited an extra beat before letting him release her, and felt the colour rise in her cheeks as she addressed him.
"We ride soon for the north. We don't know yet how long we will be gone. We come to you to make sure Faramon has its protectors still, until we return. I—"
Zelia paused, stealing a sideways glance at Amara.
"I didn't see you at the assembly, yesterday. Did you... hear what happened?"
For a moment, her heart froze in her throat. Surely, the glamour the corrupt regent had cast over the gathered people had not infected his mind, too?
A fleeting shadow darkened Ignatius' brow before he answered, and she exhaled in relief.
"I heard," he said, his face still pleasantly composed but now with the weight of gravity behind his features. Speaking lower, he added, "I'm glad you three are leaving the city; it will be safer for you elsewhere for the present."
"Not safer where we're going, I'm afraid, but I'll take heart knowing that not all of Faramon is helpless under Chrysmer's lies."
At that moment, Amara interjected with an artful laugh, hitting Zelia on the shoulder as she said, beneath her breath,
"Watch what you say in public, Zelia..."
To Ignatius, Amara extended her hand and said,
"Well, friend, now that we've touched base we really must be going. Our northern mission requires much preparation, and I'm afraid we're still somewhat short on the kinds of protections we require for the journey. I trust our friends in the Pews will continue the good work of the gods until we return. Now, Zelia, let us be getting on, shall we?"
Ignatius looked back and forth between the two half-elven women, concern clear in his handsome face.
"You're travelling somewhere dangerous? I know the three of you can handle yourselves, but you let me know if there's any assistance the temple of Pelor can provide and it's yours."
Zelia thought of Thodorlun, waiting steadfastly at the front lines of the greying mists that encloaked the northern lands, eyes grim and watchful.
"Pelor helps already."
" So—um—goodbye, Ignatius. See ya on the flip side."
She was in the process of raising her hand in an irreverent salute when he surprised her by gathering her up in a crushing hug.
It had been a long while since anyone had given Zelia a hug, and from the stiffness of her initial surprise she softened into it, returning the large man's embrace as if they were not mere acquaintances who'd fought together once.
"Come back safe," Ignatius said into her hair.
When he put her down, her eyes were bright with held back tears. She nodded, waved goodbye, and turned to follow Amara back towards the door.
"If we make it back alive, Amara," she said, as they left the golden halls of Pelor for the dreary grey streets of Faramon, "well, let's just make it back, ok?"
A small smile quirked the corner of the bard's mouth.
"Ok."
*****
The din of laughter and conversation echoed off the stone walls, still mostly bare while the tapestries were at the menders.
Zelia herself had overseen the repair and reconstruction of Warsong Keep's hangings and textiles, a fact which she took as a testament to her own growing skill as a weaver and worker of fine fabrics.
It had been a month since their return from the northern kingdom, and they'd needed it to recover. When their steward, Bryce, had announced that arrangements had been settled for the soft reopening of Warsong Keep & Winery, Alessa had flicked her tiefling tail and cautioned against hosting a party at their estate, so soon, and with everything. Amara, however, had been delighted, and declared a ball was just the thing they needed to feel themselves again. She'd spent the entire past week at Carys's, working out the night's entertainments.
Zelia was glad at the prospect of some merriment, finally, at the long-empty keep the three of them had come into possession of as a demon-haunted ruin a year ago. And now, as she looked around the ballroom to see it full of lords and ladies and friends and allies, she felt a warmth in her chest she hadn't felt since returning home.
Beside her, Thodorlun squeezed her hand affectionately and released it.
"I'm going to go and sort us out something to drink," he said gruffly, and made his way through the crowd, a head or two shorter than most people there.
Zelia watched him go, idly fingering the iron holy symbol of a raven that, even now, in her party finery, she wore around her neck. It had been a gift from Alessa, given when she'd first announced her intention to dedicate herself as a cleric of the Raven Queen. Even though she now owned a much more powerful, magical symbol of the goddess, this was the one she kept with her always.
Meandering through the crowd, Zelia spied her tailorcraft mentor, Leda, and wended her way over to say hello. Leda embraced her warmly, kissing her on the cheek in greeting.
Zelia did a little twirl to show off the dress she'd made herself for the occasion: short, black, loose-fitting, and glittering with a thousand tiny gemstone stars. It wasn't the fashion of the day, but she delighted in flouting convention, and the cut went well with the way her wavy black hair, grown out now just past her shoulders, bounced as she moved.
"Whaddya think?"
She'd accessorized sparingly, wearing only the iron pendant and an elven circlet set with a single burning orange gem. Those who had seen her use the circlet sometimes sweated when they looked at it, which honestly suited Zelia just fine.
"I love it," Leda said. "You stand apart in any crowd, my dear."
"Thanks!"
Leda began to compliment the progress on the repairs to Warsong, when Zelia caught sight out of the corner of her eye of a tall man with a close-cropped beard and a mane of dark gold hair, across the room.
Ignatius.
She had tried her best for nonchalance when making sure *all* their allies from Faramon's temple district were on the guest list, and she hadn't been sure he was actually coming until just now.
Zelia put a hand on her mentor's shoulder.
