I & II
They’re in the town waiting for the airship, walking together through sunny streets as the wind blows. Every time there’s a particularly strong breeze Orym glances back towards home, a soft, longing look in his eyes that makes her want to gather him in her arms and take him back to Keyleth and demand she pick someone else. Orym has suffered enough, still suffers every night if the way he tosses and turns is any indicator. He deserves rest. But he had agreed, and when she batted her eyes and asked if he was sure, he smiled. The smile that was sad, tugging more on the right side of his mouth than the left. And she had smiled back, standing to her full height, and said that if Orym was going then she was going, too.
Dorian was quick to follow—someone needed to look after the two of them, of course, and who better to do it than him? (She knows that they both know between the three of them Orym is the one to keep them in line, but Keyleth doesn’t need to know how the three of them work. She doesn’t deserve to, after putting that smile of Orym’s face).
As they walk, Orym on her left and Dorian on her right, she takes in the bustle of the city around them. Dorian had offered his arm a few streets back, once they started getting to the market square, and while she’d rather have her hands free in case anything called out to her, she can see the nerves making his shoulders draw tight. Crowds never suited Dorian well, and she’s more than happy to wrap a gentle hand around his arm and let him pretend to lead her the streets. Orym occasionally presses against her leg, particularly when a large group squeezes past in the narrow streets, and whenever she holds her hand down, he’ll reach up to tug on her fingers, telling her he’s still there. It’s nice, and when a particularly sweet scent catches her attention, he grabs her before she can pull Dorian too far.
“Easy, Fearne.” He chides, shaking his head when she bends down to ensure that she hears him over the sudden shouting in the marketplace. Dorian makes a surprised noise when she drags him down with her, glancing nervously about as they stand, half crouched in the street. “What’s got your attention?”
“Something smells good. That way, I think?” She points in the direction of the smell (and what might be the source of all the noise). “Can’t you smell it?”
“I don’t smell anything,” Dorian says after a quick inhale, trying to guide her back to her full height. “Do you?”
A breeze blows from the direction, carefully guided to the three of them and carrying a sweet, spiced smell with it. “Do you smell it now, Dorian?”
“Show off,” Dorian teases with a grin. “Let’s investigate, shall we?”
“Yes, let’s.” Fearne agrees. She reaches out a hand for Orym to take, who hesitates only a moment before taking it. “So sorry,” she calls, earning a raised eyebrow from several of the annoyed townsfolk they had stopped. “I lost an earring.”
“That’s one of the more convincing lies you’ve told,” Dorian teases when they’re further down the path, reaching up to flick playfully at her ear. “I’d be surprised you’d notice one going missing.”
“Fearne’s very perceptive,” Orym comments. Fearne beams, humming a pleased note as they continue to walk towards the source of the smell. The crowd thickens as they grow closer, and Orym’s grip on her hand tightens. “You won’t lose me,” she promises, straightening her shoulders and releasing Dorian’s arm to hold his hand instead. Her companions allow her to lead them through the crowd, which parts to her wide steps and brush of her shoulders against them. “Excuse me,” she apologizes each time, smiling widely at their wide-eyed stares. After a minute or so they come across the source of the smell. An outdoor bakery, cooking all sorts of treats in the middle of the plaza. Dozens of other pop-up stalls are surrounding it, but it’s clear the food is the real attraction.
“What a line.” Orym comments.
Dorian lets out a low whistle in agreement. “We do have some time to kill before the airship. Why don’t we wait in line and grab something to eat for the way back?”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful. Do you mind if I look around the booths? There are so many interesting things.”
“Fearne,” Orym sighs, tugging her hand until she crouches down to his level. “No tricks. No stealing.”
“Why not?” She bats her eyes at him, tilting her head to the side. “We’re not going to be staying long, anyway? What’s one little trinket going to hurt anything?”
“These people are running a business, Fearne. Stealing isn’t good.”
“Even from bad people?”
That makes Orym pause, and after a moment he sighs. “No stealing from anyone here. They’re good, honest people. Here,” he reaches down and pulls a handful of coins from a coin pouch. His personal coin purse, she realizes after a moment, not the one that Keyleth gave to them to cover expenses in Jrusar. “Take these, and buy anything that catches your eye. Dorian and I will be here waiting for you. If you’re not back by the time we get to the front, one of us will come looking for you. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” She takes the coins from Orym, reaching out to cup his cheek. “I won’t be long.”
“Be safe.” He urges, before taking her place at Dorian’s side.
Dorian looks like he wants to add something, and then leans forward, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as he whispers, “For luck.” His magic courses through her, that gentle inspiration she knows will make her hands just a little quicker, her lies a little smoother, if she gets into a bond. She reaches out to copy the gesture, tucking his hair behind his ear and whispering a few words in Sylvan to make a silvery vine grow and flower around his ear. “For luck,” she teases, giggling when his face blossoms into shades of purple. Giving one last wave, she takes off into the crowd, taking care to avoid treading on any feet.
It’s loud, and warm, especially with the sun now high in the sky. The crackling of fire and pops of oil can be heard even over the din of the crowd. It reminds her of festivals in the Feywild; she almost wishes it were a true celebration, with music and drink and other, carnal activities that would occur once the sun settled beneath the horizon. Dorian would do marvelous at a Fey celebration; the satyrs wouldn’t be able to get enough of him, each clambering over one another to get a chance to sit at the feet of the Dorian Storm.
And Orym! It would likely be too wild for him, but eventually the madness and giddiness would settle in his bones, as it does with all things. She might even be able to, with a few drinks and a low whisper and a promise of “just one” get him to dance with her. She wonders what it would look like, to see Orym truly let himself go. To get lost in the music, in the passion and happiness around him. It would be beautiful; everything he does is beautiful. There’s a quiet grace to every movement; he’s sure-footed and confident. Every fight he’s been in has practically been a dance in of itself.
Maybe he would dance like that. Desperate, throwing everything he has into every step. Pulling her closer, forcing her eyes to look at no one but him. Goading her to close the distance, to press their sweaty bodies together and cling to the one surety in the madness. The thought is enough to make her heart pound. But she’s on a mission, and even though she wants nothing more than to turn around and demand Dorian play something, anything, there’s something more important she has to do.
She didn’t give Orym anything for luck, and while he certainly doesn’t need it, it doesn’t hurt to have a little extra. And surely there’s something she can ste—buy—for him that could remind him of home. To keep his gaze focused on the future, and not looking back towards a home he willingly left behind. He wanted to start over. Wanted a new life for himself. But pieces of home were always things that she missed the most when she wandered out of the Feywild and stumbled upon Orym and the others. So, she would find a piece for him to take with him, something he could hold and see when the ache settled too deep to be soothed by thought alone.
The first booth she manages to push her way to the front of is full ceremonial pieces. Religious icons imported from Wildemount of a woman carved into what might be a lighthouse; small, intricate statues of a hooded figure holding a finger to his lips; archways made of flowering vines (including one that has a dick hidden amongst all the floral elements that she almost snatches for herself). Daggers with gold filigree; small hammers using crystals as the head. Most impressive amongst these is a statuette of Bahamut, supposedly made from pure platinum if the seller is to be believed. Her fingers linger on that for a moment, running over the small rubies used for His eyes and following the path of scales from head to tail.
But it doesn’t call to her. Doesn’t remind her of Orym. Won’t bring him luck and safety on their travels together. So, she gives the seller a smile when they turn to her, and after declining their offer for assistance, turns back to the crowd and starts trying to find the next booth. With her height, it’s easier to see over the crowd, and she’s able to avoid several stalls that would likely be busts. Her ears twitch as several vendors call out their wares, and then, as if by magic, she sees it. Well, she feels it, first; the gust of wind coming hard from the west, making her turn her head at the sound of dozens of chimes tinkling and clanging together at the sudden breeze. The light shines through the windchimes with glass and crystal, painting rainbows along the path and on the crowd.
Perfect. She makes a beeline for the stall, ducking underneath someones arm and ignoring their shouts as she practically sprints to the seller. She has to see it for herself—she has to see if there’s one for Orym there. There has to be! Fearne can feel that ache in her fingers, the pounding of her heart in her chest that promises a thrill. Promises that whatever greets her when she arrives at that booth will be worth more than any amount of coin Orym could give her. She slows once she gets closer to the stall, standing on the tips of her hooves to peer over the tallest people in the crowd to get a good look.
Most of it is easy to see, hanging from curling branches that one of the workers is coaxing higher and higher. Glittering and tinkling together are dozens of windchimes. Big ones, small ones. There are some made to look like animals or plants; others are collections of clear gemstones and gold that cast rainbows when the sun hits them just right. Bells clink as the breeze blows. She doesn’t know where to look! They’re all so beautiful. Any one of them would be a wonderful addition to her menagerie of accessories; there’s a particularly beautiful one with golden bells and pale pink and blue gems that she almost, almost reaches for. If not to steal, just to touch, to feel the small chains connecting the piece and hear the soft sound of the bell up close.
“Hiya! Can I help you?”
She has to shake her head to clear it enough to process the words, caught in a trance with the windchimes. Beaming up at her is a Gnomish woman, blonde hair cropped close to her head. She looks particularly serene despite hanging precariously (and almost upside down) from one of the branches nearly four feet off the ground. In her hands are a pair of windchimes, and it’s the one in her left that Fearne knows is the one for Orym. It’s small, only slightly longer than the Gnomish woman’s hand. A silver diamond-shaped prism forms the base of the windchime; attached to the points are green and clear, jagged pieces of crystal or glass. In the center of the prism is a dodecahedron in a green so pale it’s almost translucent.
The woman hangs the two windchimes on one of the higher branches before turning to give Fearne her full attention.
“You have a lovely shop,” Fearne praises, trying to keep her attention on one of the other windchimes. Can’t let the lady think she wants to buy that one, because then it will be harder to steal from underneath her. There might be a chance when the woman dismounts the tree (if she ever does). All she has to do is bide her time. “They’re all so beautiful.”
“Thanks. It’s all Geoffrey’s handiwork—I just hang them up. We’ve got all sorts of windchimes and other crystals, including those that can be used for spell work, if that’s your fancy. Can I show you?”
“Oh, yes,” Fearne quickly agrees, watching as the Gnome scrambles down from the tree. She murmurs under her breath in Sylvan, feeling the wind pick up. Hard enough that several people bump into the table; a woman loses her hat and several scramble to help her. The perfect excuse for why she leaned over the table, grasping the tree to steady herself. Fingers carefully removing the windchime from its perch and tucking it into her pockets amongst her coin purse and other treasures. Feeling bold, she lets her hand search for something on the table, grabbing one last, curly object before straightening. It’s easy to pocket, and Fearne lets the satisfaction wash over her as the Gnomish woman turns back to her.
“Gods, the wind today! You alright?”
“Oh, I’m quite alright. Actually, I’ll be right back—I have a friend who would love the goods you have. Let me go get him.”
“Of course! We’ll be here until sundown.” The Gnomish woman waves, and Fearne meets her sunny grin with one of her own. Gives a wave as she takes off back into the crowd and makes her way back towards Orym and Dorian. She gets a few looks, and one man almost looks like he wants to say something about her sliding back into line with them, but a curl of her fingers (the hand that’s blackened, that crawls further up her arm each day as unstoppable as a forest fire) and a grin that makes her teeth look especially sharp makes him shrink back in line. Orym shakes his head at the display, but doesn’t push; Dorian grins, slinging his arm around her and guiding her to stand between the two of them.
“How was your trip?” Dorian asks, bumping their hips together.
“It was good! I saw a religious statue with a dick in it.”
Dorian’s face goes through several emotions before he laughs, though it’s a little stilted, like he isn’t sure he’s allowed to. “Wonderful. Did you buy it?”
“Almost. But I wanted to look for other things,” she quickly adds when Orym sighs her name.
“I’m surprised you aren’t decked to the nines, Fearne.” Dorian continues to tease. “There was a whole booth full of jewelry that we passed in line. I’m surprised you didn’t make a beeline there.”
“Maybe on the way out. I was hungry.”
“It smells good. I hope there’s a pie.”
“Oh, that does sound good. A meat pie or a fruit pie?” Dorian leans in front of her to peer at Orym, who shrugs.
“Any pie is good with me.”
“I want…potatoes.” Fearne hums, and Dorian makes an agreeing noise beside her.
“We’ll probably have enough time to get food and walk back to the airship. Hope you’re alright with a dine and dash.”
“That’s not how the expression goes.” Orym chides.
“Right, right, my mistake. A walk and talk, then?”
“Better.” Orym laughs.
They continue to laugh and talk as they wait, enjoying the company. Eventually they order food; piping hot fried potatoes and spiced fruits and three little meat pies that fit perfectly in their hands. The talking dies down as they eat, filled instead with contented noises. Her tail wags underneath her dress; there’s a skip in her step as they walk. And then Orym looks up at the sky, fruit juice staining the fingers shielding his eyes from the sun as he hums. “Isn’t it…about the time for the airship to be boarding.”
“Maybe?” Fearne sings, licking salt and spices off of her fingers. “Who knows.”
“Excuse me, excuse—hello. Do you know what time it is?” Dorian catches the attention of a passerby, who copies Orym’s gesture to stare at the sun.
“About…3 o’clock, I reckon.”
“Great, thank you,” Dorian says in a rush, voice tight in panic. “We need to go. Now. Want a lift?”
“I’m fine,” Orym says, wiping his hands on his pants. “Let’s go.”
Dorian takes her hand, and the three of them start racing through the streets, following after Orym. She laughs, wild, and in the distance windchimes create a beautiful symphony as they race against the clock. After a few minutes, panting and laughing, they arrive at the airship dock. Orym leads the way, trying his best to look unrumpled as he passes the necessary coin for their passage to the person manning the airship. There’s a whistle tucked into the pocket of his pants, gold chain glittering in the light. Dorian squeezes her hand in warning, and then slips his arm around her, pulling her close enough that she’s have to drag him with her if she tried to steal anything. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun,” Dorian argues. “But I think that it’d be better to avoid getting kicked off the airship. Tell you what—I’ll spin you a yarn while we’re travelling. Doesn’t that sound exciting.”
“Only if it’s you telling it.” She relents, giggling when the tips of his ears begin to color. “Let’s not keep Orym waiting.”
“Let’s.” Dorian agrees, leading her onto the airship.
Fearne lets the gifts linger in the back of her mind as they board, and promises herself that she’ll give it to him after they land.
Well, that had been the plan. But then there was animated furniture and a funny old man and the loveliest little robot she’s ever laid eyes on. The evening is spent drinking and dining and listening to the old man make promises that are too grandiose to ever come true (but the excitement settles in her bones, makes her giddy as she throws backs shots of whiskey and leans into Laudna to gossip about all manner of things). And eventually they begin to wind down, exhaustion starting to creep in. Dorian starts it with a yawn that’s almost pointed, stretching his arms behind his back in a way that makes her want to pop her own. Orym’s quick to follow with a yawn of his own, tucked behind his hand to avoid seeming rude. She doesn’t have any such qualms, especially when Imogen is tucked into the crook of Laudna’s arm, half-asleep. “I think it’s about time we headed to bed, yes?” She offers.
“Yes. Imogen is getting quite tired, aren’t you dear.”
“Mhm?” Imogen straightens a little, reaching underneath her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Yes, it’s getting late. Zhudanna gets worried when we’re out to late.”
“Of course, ladies. Are you sure you don’t want to stay here? Or I could escort you, if you’re worried.” Bertrand rises to stand, haphazardly putting on his coat.
“Bertrand—Bertrand! It’s fine. We’ll be alright.”
“Of course, of course! You’re both quite capable young women. Have a good night, and we’ll see you in the morning.” Bertrand settles awkwardly in his chair, waving to the two women as they make their way back home. Dorian glances at her, and then tilts his head in the direction of their rooms. She nods, making a show of copying his earlier stretch, grinning when she feels Bertrand’s eyes on her. “I think we’ll go to bed, too.”
“Yes, yes. We’ve got a big day tomorrow! Sleep well. And please, if you need anything, feel free to wake me.”
Ashton’s grin is wicked as they quickly rope Bertrand into providing more drinks. Fresh Cut Grass gives a wave, bidding the three of them to have a smiley day (well, night) as they leave the table and head upstairs. Orym leads the way, Dorian close behind, with Fearne bringing up the rear. They walk to the room they’ve decided to share, and as soon as the door shuts Dorian sags into the nearest available chair. “Tired?” Orym asks, toeing out of his boots.
“What do you think of him? Bertrand, I mean?”
“I think he seems fun! It doesn’t hurt to see what it is he’s offering.” Fearne says, walking over to Dorian and letting her arms rest on the top of his head. “What do you think, Orym?”
“If what he says is true, then this could be a valuable resource.”
“If it’s true.” Dorian sighs, tilting his head up to peer at Fearne.
“We’ll see in the morning. Hopefully we can catch a lucky break.”
“Oh, that reminds me! Orym, I have something for you.”
“Oh?” Orym turns his attention from the ties of his armor to her, one eyebrow raised. “I thought you didn’t buy anything?”
“I didn’t!” She beams at him, and Dorian lets out a surprised laugh.
“Fearnie.” Orym chides, but stops before beginning the rest of his lecture. “What is it?”
“Oh, it’s just so beautiful, Orym, and it reminded me of you. I thought you could put it on your sword.” She rummages through her pockets until she finds the windchime. It’s only slightly tangled, and it only takes a moment to right it again. “See! Isn’t it lovely?”
“Yeah, Fearne. It is.” Orym reaches a hand out to touch one of the crystals. “Windchimes are pretty important to the Ashari, you know. At least the Air Ashari. Keyleth had one with ones that all represented the members of Vox Machina. They bring luck and good fortune, supposedly. Sometimes it’s a way of calling your family back home.”
“Really? I wonder if there was one for Bertrand on there.”
Orym huffs a laugh. “Maybe.”
“Here, I can tie it to your sword, if you’d like?”
“Sure.”
“You know, I’ll always find you if you get lost. And I’ll make sure you get home. Both of you,” she turns to Dorian, who’s watching the exchange closely. “Wherever that may be.”
“Home is where the heart is.” Dorian says softly, and then, even softer, adds, “and my heart is right here.”
“As is mine.” Orym agrees, fingers tangling with the crystals, making them chime together. “Though I think a part of me will always belong in Zephrah.”
“I’m happy to be with the both of you. No matter where we end, I think as long as we’re together, I’ll be happy. Though I think you both would enjoy the Feywild very much.”
“It would be an honor to see your home, Fearne. Maybe we’ll go someday.” Dorian says honestly. “But for now, I think we should focus getting a good night’s rest.”
“Don’t think I forgot you, Dorian Storm.” She says, feeling giddy at the way his eyes widen. “Here. For you.”
She didn’t really have the chance to look it over, but she’s glad at whatever Gods blessed her hands. It’s a hair piece, silver with small bits of sea glass attached. A perfect fit for Dorian. He carefully accepts it from her, holding it in his hand and turning it over to see how it shines in the light. “Thank you, Fearne.” His voice is soft, nearly cracking, and she reaches out to close his fingers around it. “Truly. It’s beautiful.”
“Fitting for you, dear.” She gives his hand a squeeze, and then begins to start taking off her clothes.
“Fearne! Please! Do not! Please, Gods.” Dorian has turned purple, quickly reaching up to shield his eyes. She just laughs and continues to get ready for bed. After she’s changed into her bedclothes, she swears to close her eyes as Dorian and Orym change (and she keeps it, even if she would like to peek). It makes her happy to see that Dorian has already found a place for the hair wrap. It looks nice against his dark hair and the jewelry in his ears. Orym passes her his blade once she’s comfortable, and she carefully attaches the windchime to the hilt. It pleasantly chimes with every movement. At least we’ll be able to keep track of Orym in combat, now. Once she hands it back, she watches Dorian and Orym tend to their weapons while working out the knots in her hair. There’s something soft growing within her, tender and gentle like a sprouting plant. If she nurtures it right, it’s going to evolve into a wildfire. And she can’t wait to stoke those flames.
In the morning, when she sees Orym bleeding on the ground, fingers tangled around the windchime like it will save his life, and Dorian, reaching for Orym, the crystals in his hair wrap stained with blood, she vows to give them both everything they could ever ask for. Everything her hands could grab; it would belong to them. Because she wanted to keep that smile on their faces, to have those gentle moments of the three of them curled around one another. And if her gifts made them feel even the smallest bit safer, the tiniest bit luckier, she would take everything and then some. Because home is where the heart is, and they’ve become her home.