Dana drops a stick in front of Ivan and he frowns. The sun may hang low above the village, but it provides enough light for him to see that the stick before him isn't the same one he threw. Still, he picks it up and aims.

"Ready, girl?"

She barks, wagging her tail. Ivan draws his hand back, steadying himself just before he brings it forward and throws it high and far. Dana chases after it, but in her old age she's grown slow, and tires quickly. She doesn't seem to go the distance, and when she returns to him, he sees that she's found another stick closer to home. He frowns again.

"Wrong stick, girl," he says, sitting on his haunches. The dog pants and wags her tail, still eager, and he pets her, ruffling up the fur around her face. He picks up the stick again, but when he throws it, he doesn't put so much power behind it.

As Dana runs off into the distance to chase it, Ivan catches a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He turns his gaze to the main road where he sees a slender figure walking toward the farmhouse, long, loose hair swaying in the gentle wind, reflecting the wan light of sunset like liquid flame.

Sylfir has returned from the village, then. He saw her leave as he was working the fields with Erik, gone without so much as a word. Erik scolded him for his distraction, but he couldn't help staring as she left, just as he can't help it now upon her return, but instead of Erik scolding him, it's Dana as she barks for his attention.

She looks up at him with expectant eyes, then stares at the stick she's placed before his feet.

"That so mundane a game should hold your attention," he mutters.

Still, he picks the stick up and throws it, half-certain it's still not the one he threw last. Dana runs after it and he turns his gaze back to the main road just as Sylfir turns off into the grass. He strolls to her with a languid pace, and she greets him with a smile.

"Forgot something back in the village?" he says.

She shakes her head. "I went to see Bob."

Ivan furrows his brow. "Bob?"

"You know, my horse."

He scoffs. "Bob? That's what you called your horse?"

Sylfir groans. "Why does everyone have that reaction? It's a perfectly normal name!"

Ivan laughs as she bats him away, but he doesn't budge. "Aye, too normal. A steed like that deserves a better name, don't you think? He's a well-bred warhorse, for gods' sake!"

"Hmph! Well, he likes the name Bob."

"How did you even land on that name?"

Before she can answer, Dana's running up to Ivan with a new stick in her mouth, but she doesn't seem sure of whose feet to place it before. Regardless, she drops it on the floor and stares at it.

Sylfir sits on her haunches, a broad grin on her face as she pets Dana, and the dog nudges the stick with her nose. Sylfir takes it and throws as hard as she can and Ivan looks on, knowing full well the dog won't bring back the same stick. He finds her obliviousness endearing as she turns to him with a satisfied grin.

"I didn't come up with Bob's name—he came with it, and I didn't see fit to change it. He answers to it well enough, after all." she says.

Ivan shrugs. "Well, if he likes it, then I suppose what I think doesn't matter."

Sylfir turns her head as Dana comes bounding back, though Ivan can tell she's growing tired. The old dog always seems to be fighting fatigue, though, as if willing herself to be as spry as she was in her younger days. When she drops the stick before Sylfir's feet, he whistles gently, and she pricks her ears up.

"Inside, girl," he says. She looks up at him with those puppy dog eyes, but he stands firm, pointing to the door. "Inside, now. Go on."

She pants as she jogs to the door, walking inside and disappearing from view, and Ivan turns to Sylfir again. "So, when's this ritual supposed to begin?"

"When the stars are out. Shouldn't be too long now, but it's supposed to last through the night, more or less. You'll be fast asleep."

"Maybe I won't see the end, but I might see the beginning if you want for company."

She hesitates for a moment, looking away as she grows pensive, and Ivan worries she'll reject him, but when she looks at him again, it's with smiling eyes. "All right. Come with me."

She walks past him, skirting the farmhouse and walking the strip of grass between its north wall and the road. He follows behind as she keeps walking west until she reaches the point across the road Artur marked for her earlier in the day, just past the edge of the crop fields where it ends abruptly at the forest border.

Where the gnarled stick once stood, now sits the small, cloth-covered shrine, complete with an offering of crystals and foraged berries and mushrooms, though the last two have been picked at by passing animals. Her lyre is propped against it, just shy of a few sticks of incense that rest near the shrine's edge. One such stick stands at the centre of a circular incense holder, and Sylfir conjures a tiny flame with a flourish of her fingers just as she stops before it. She kneels, lighting the incense before sitting in the grass at the forest's edge, sheltered from the road with sparse brush.

Her elfin eyes look in his direction, beckoning him to her with a single look, and he sits beside her in the grass, taking in the sweet-smoky scent of the incense.

"So, what now?" he says.

A hum emanates from her throat as she smiles, only a subtle curl of her lips. "We wait, and pass the time as we see fit."

Ivan arches an eyebrow. "As we see fit, hmm? And what would you be doing on a fine summer evening like this one?"

"If I were alone, I would simply lie in the grass and listen to the evening birdsong. There is no better time than at dusk or dawn to appreciate Silvanus' gift."

"Hmm, but you're not alone this time."

"No..." Sylfir says, tilting her head and looking at him with curious eyes. "What would you have us do to pass the time, then?"

The innocence of the question could be a veil for something more alluring, and that possibility excites him, but the ambiguity of her expression makes him equally cautious. He lets his mind drift to that island of possibility for a moment, but...

He leans back, resting on the heels of his hands, opening himself up to the cool evening breeze, hoping that it will steal the heat away from his thoughts. Sylfir's eyes remain on him, though, and he lets himself believe for a moment that she's admiring him. Maybe the same thoughts he pushes down now are just crossing her mind.

She smiles, leaning in closer, unwittingly clawing back the distance he's created between them. "Well?"

He grins. "You still owe me that story."

Sylfir feigns shock, her smile turning wry. "Owe you? I don't recall making any such promise."

"Ah, don't be like that, Sylf. Just one," he drawls.

"I imagine you pester everyone who walks into this village to tell their stories."

Those words might sting were it not for her playful demeanour. Ivan plays along, feigning hurt. "You wound me, but I'm not so easily dissuaded. I will have at least one story from you before you leave."

She laughs. "You will? So determined to hear of what goes on beyond your borders. I think you've been struck by a severe case of wanderlust."

"Aye, you could say that, and you could help with that, too." Ivan nudges her shoulder with his knuckles. His eyes fall to the depressed claw mark scars there, pale, jagged lines cutting through otherwise perfect, freckled skin. "You could tell me how you got those, for a start."

Sylfir follows his gaze to the scars, brushing a finger over them. Ivan notices her growing bashful, but it only makes him more intrigued. "You're not getting shy, are you?"

Sylfir huffs, and Ivan has his answer.

"It... wasn't my best moment," she says.

"All the more reason to share."

Her eyes flick his way again. "Hmph! I'd argue the precise opposite, but since it's only you, I suppose I could share it."

Ivan scoffs. "Only me? What, the lowly farm boy isn't worth impressing?"

Sylfir looks at him through knowing eyes as she huffs again, her bashfulness melting away. "I know you think too highly of yourself to believe such a thing."

"Oh? I had no idea you knew me so well, and nary a day's passed in each other's company."

"Indeed. Lorys has had a few choice things to say about you."

A flash of worry hikes up his heart rate for a split second, and the damage is done. He doesn't recover before he realises the face he must be making, and Sylfir breaks into a broad grin before throwing her head back in laughter. She's absolutely giddy.

"Look at you!" she says, though Ivan's sure she can't with the way her eyes crinkle closed with laughter.

He leans forward. "What did she say?"

But Sylfir's too busy laughing. When she calms, she leans back, resting on the heels of her hands, her palms pressed firmly into the grass, letting the remnants of her laughter bleed away from her. "So far away is the desire to hear one of my stories now, I'm sure."

Ivan shakes his head. "Not at all. Whatever Lorys told you, it wasn't bad enough for you to keep your distance from me."

She looks at him sidelong. "...True."

"It's clear you have me at a disadvantage, though. I think it's only fair that you tell me at least one story," Ivan says.

"All right, then. But only because that face you made was so dear." She laughs as Ivan rolls his eyes, but soon settles down, looking out across the road to the flat meadow and, eventually, the winding river beyond. "You remember I told you I went as far as Womford?"

Ivan hums.

"It was a while back now. I was somewhat untested, with a good number of official bounties under my belt, though nowhere near as many as I have now. Most of my experience came from hunting game in the High Forest or the plains to the west, not people.

"I had come to Womford fresh of a successful bounty, and I felt confident in my abilities—overconfident—and I hadn't meant to take up another one, but..."

"But what?"

Sylfir frowns. "There was something wrong with that place. The people were overly wary, the houses suspiciously boarded up and quiet. I didn't know it, but it was under the control of the Zhentarim."

"The Zhentarim?"

"A group of thieves, spies, and assassins—a kind of mercenary group, though their speciality is black market trade. Also known as the Black Network. You'll know them for their symbol: a silhouette of a dragon in flight."

Ivan hums. "Doesn't sound like people you'd want to get involved with."

"Hmph! If only I knew that at the time."

His sense of anticipation grows as the words leave Sylfir's lips. He leans in closer. "What kind of trouble did you get yourself into?"

"Only the worst kind, but we're not there yet." Sylfir shakes her head as she recalls the memory. "I came across a heartbroken woman. Her husband had been found in the nearby woods, his corpse pale from exsanguination. Just like everyone else, she boarded up her home at night for fear of the perpetrator."

Ivan furrows his brow. "Exsanguinated... sounds like it could only be one thing."

Sylfir nods. "I came to the same conclusion. Add to that the propensity of the villagers to call him the 'Womford Bat', and it becomes obvious he was a vampire."

"What did you do?"

"I tried to get more information from the villagers, but their fear made them tight-lipped. There was only one person who was willing to guide me to any kind of answer—a man named Nell Flairgarten. He pointed me toward the town across the Dessarin called Bargewright Inn.

"By then, the day had grown late, and I sought to take rest at the inn of the same name. The place seemed like any other, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. Still, I spent my first night there without incident.

"The next day, I returned to Flairgarten. We began planning on how to deal with the threat of the vampire. He was eager to help, and I thought nothing of it at first."

Ivan's lips part in a silent gasp. "He set you up?"

"He did. He let me find clues he had planted—find false tracks, all while steering me away from the true threat. His work was subtle, and he let the game stretch on for days. Hmph! He was even kind enough to let me take my leisure from time to time."

"Let you sample the oranges from a certain travelling merchant, did he?" Ivan says.

Sylfir chuckles. "Yes. That was about the only good thing I can recall from visiting Womford. Anyway, after each day spent investigating the 'Womford Bat', I returned to the inn to rest, but I soon noticed a pale-faced man watching me from a dark corner."

"Your vampire?"

Sylfir nods. "His gaze seemed to grow more intense with each passing night. I believed he was afraid I was getting close to catching him, but now I realise he was simply eager for his next meal.

"Soon the day—or night, rather—to confront the creature came. Flairgarten and I had agreed on a time and place to spring the trap—I would be the bait, and the sallow-faced man would come to me, distracted and eager to slake his thirst. Little did I know the trap was for me.

"Flairgarten was supposed to come to my aid when the vampire appeared, but he never showed. When I realised what was happening, I fled, but the vampire gave chase. He proved stronger and faster than me, and amid the struggle, he clawed at my bare shoulder." Sylfir runs her fingers over her scars, drawing Ivan's eye.

"How did you escape?"

"I almost didn't. I could feel his hot breath on my neck as he pulled at my hair to drag me back to him. In my panic, I wildshaped and took the form of a raven.

"I thought that would be the end of it, but he was relentless in his pursuit of me. He took the form of a bat and gave chase, attacking me mid-flight. We fought mid-air for a while, breaking apart and coming together again, but I must have struck a stinging blow because he gave up the chase after a few bouts."

"And he never bothered you again?"

"I never returned to let him. Even now, I'm not sure I'd be strong enough to face him. Not alone..." Sylfir looks away, though not quickly enough for Ivan to miss her shame. "It was foolish to think I could do it back then, even with the help of another. So much for that alliance. I only realised he must have been Zhentarim once I left. The entire town was their territory, and they sheltered that creature for whatever reason."

Ivan leans in a little closer, softening. "Hey, don't be hard on yourself. I don't know many—any people who've faced a vampire and lived to tell the tale."

Sylfir's eyes flick in his direction as a timid smile curls her lips. "Another valuable entry to your collection of travellers' stories, then?"

Ivan grins. "It ranks pretty high, I'd say."

She chuckles. "I'm flattered."

"You should be—I've heard a lot of stories worth hearing," he says, taking on a playfully arrogant air.

Syflir rolls her eyes, but she laughs all the same. She shuffles then settles onto her back, uncaring that her hair splays across the grass as she looks up at the twilight sky. She seems utterly captivated by it, just as Ivan is by the sight of her before him.

"The first stars are coming out," she says.

Ivan hums. "Not long before you have to perform the ritual, now."

"Indeed. I want to wait a bit longer, though. Let it get darker."

Ivan dares to shuffle a little closer to her, lying on his back beside her. She looks over to him with a wry smile. "Careful. Wouldn't want you to fall asleep before I begin."

"There's little chance of that in present company."

"Oh? I saw you working pretty hard in the fields today. I'd be surprised if you didn't start getting sleepy within an hour."

Ivan grins. "Enjoying the show, were you?"

Sylfir rolls her eyes again, half-heartedly pushing him away, but he only laughs, even as he relishes her touch.

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?" she says.

"I would," he says, his voice little more than a low hum.

Suddenly, she can't quite seem to meet his eyes, turning away when the words slip past his lips, and though the dying light of day wanes, it's enough for him to revel in seeing the soft blush that takes to her freckled skin. He doesn't dare reach out to her, but he imagines touching her all the same, pressing his lips against the soft skin of her neck and laving over it with his tongue. He wonders what noise she would make as he imagines biting down and bruising it, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as she pulls him closer.

A small sigh pushes through his nostrils, and the sound turns Sylfir's head in his direction. It's only then that Ivan realises he's staring, but he can't bring himself to feel shame for openly admiring her. Besides, from the shy smile on her face, he can tell that she likes it. He smiles back.

Her smile softens, though, as she looks back up at the sky. "It's been a while since I've done this with someone—stargazing, I mean."

"No time between bounties?" Ivan says.

She shakes her head. "The last few have practically been one after the other. I've just been travelling with Bob from village to village and town to town. He's fine company, don't get me wrong, but I'm beginning to think I've spent too much time away from people."

Ivan hums. "Not uncommon for a druid, or so I've heard."

Sylfir grins as she flicks her eyes back to him. "We're too busy hugging trees."

They laugh together as they turn their gazes to the sky once more, the sound fading to give way to the noise of crickets and the quiet hooting of an owl as twilight gives way to night. They linger a while in quietude, achieving a serenity that has been all too rare since the attack on the village. Though he denied it earlier, Ivan now feels his fatigue.

The sound of rustling grass keeps his eyes open, though, and he watches Sylfir push herself off her back, her head turning toward the shrine. The incense still burns, releasing the smoky-sweet scent that Ivan has almost grown used to now.

"I should start the ritual now," she says.

"Are you going to sing or dance?"

"I could dance if you can sing, or play the lyre," she says, a hint of laughter in her tone.

Ivan shakes his head. "Tone deaf, I'm afraid."

"A shame."

In one fluid motion, she gets to her feet, shaking her head to free her hair of loose leaves, a waterfall of liquid fire formed of waves that end in sharp curls just above her hips. With a sweeping foot, she clears any debris surrounding the shrine before bending down to retrieve her lyre. She turns to him with a pensive look.

"You might not sing, but you could still help me..."

Ivan nods. "Just say the word."

"Eilistraee is a gentle goddess who seeks to reunite the drow people with the people of the surface. She'll be glad that we're helping one of her clerics enact her will. I don't think a prayer from you will go amiss."

"Sounds easy enough. Easier than singing, at any rate," Ivan says.

Sylfir hums with laughter. "Yes, well, it also has to be earnest."

Ivan feigns shock. "I can be earnest!"

Sylfir grins. "Go on, then. Pray."

Ivan pushes himself off his back, dusting himself off before he kneels. Sylfir turns her back on him, just as she brings her fingers to bear against the strings of her lyre. He prays just as she starts to play.

https://youtu.be/28_P3W40_ZY

The simplicity of the tune does not detract from its beauty, and it lulls Ivan back into that rare serenity as he closes his eyes. He prays for Eilistraee's grace, for her protection, and for her compassion. Time becomes meaningless in this darkness, but he soon feels the presence of something he recognises as benevolent. Even as it descends on him, it makes him feel light, and it grows stronger with every second he prays, and every second Sylfir plays as her melody becomes more complex.

And then she sings.

Ivan opens his eyes, the thoughts of prayer dissipating as he listens to her song. She reaches the heights of a canary, her voice captivating in its sonic beauty as it reaches his ears. He recognises some few words as a dialect of elvish, learned from his time spent with travellers coming through Summerfall from the High Forest, though his knowledge is not enough to discern the meaning of the song. It doesn't matter. It's her heart that moves him, not the words themselves.

She seems completely enthralled by the act of performing. Swaying to her own rhythm, she almost dances as she sings, and with each impossible note she hits, that benevolent presence grows, seemingly all-encompassing. She never needed him to pray.

He shivers as the air seems to thrum with magic, and Sylfir's song changes, her voice growing quiet, her words more of a spoken chant than the lyrics of a song, though she still plays her lyre. It's a prayer, he realises, and he feels the magic around him ripple, then strengthen like water turning to ice—something fluid turning rigid.

At the end of her prayer, she sings again, and his heart swells to hear it. She climbs mountains with her voice, then descends into valleys, drawing Eilistraee forth with a beautiful song. With it, she urges the goddess to bestow yet more of her power upon her, all so that she might protect a humble village at the edge of the High Forest. The thought is enough to steal Ivan's breath away.

But these beautiful moments never last. Soon, her song ends, and she strums the last note on her lyre, her song giving way to the rustle of leaves and the hooting of a distant owl. The magic, however, remains strong, for even Ivan can sense it. After a drawn-out moment, Sylfir turns toward him.

"Thank you," she says.

A soft but disbelieving laugh slips past Ivan's lips as he pushes himself to his feet. "I should be the one thanking you. I've never heard anyone sing like that before."

She turns bashful again, a hum of nervous laughter escaping her. "Stop it."

"It's true. That was beautiful."

"Hmm. A shame you won't be able to stay with me through the night, then. I can see you're getting tired, Ivan."

"I can hold out for another song," he says, but he can feel his eyelids growing heavy. It seems his toiling out in the fields took more of a toll on him than he thought.

Sylfir wears a sympathetic smile as she looks at him. "All right. Stay if you wish, but I'll be waking you when you fall asleep. Then you can return to your nice, warm bed."

"Deal."

She turns her back again and strums her lyre, playing a different song. Ivan settles down, lying on his back as he takes in the music, looking up at the stars as he sinks back into that quiet serenity she's so adept at creating.