Chapter Text
The mine town of Nashkel changed very little since the iron crisis; just as serene as before, it attracted merchants and artisans with its transparent river, generous wheat fields, or vivid tavern events. Still, its mansion has been repurposed as school, its temple of Helm has been expanded for Murdane worship, and its cemetery has gained dozens of graves.
Such is life, when one is expected to live for two hundred years.
Vĭedźdaž gazed at Nashkel from her secluded house at the edge of the woods. The half-wood-elf dressed as usual, her violet blouse with high neck, blue trousers wide at legs, yellow shoes flat and easy to remove. She was playing with her magically straightened hair, neither dark blond nor ginger, leaning against the wall.
She waited for Verkorir, who was in charge of groceries and cleaning the graves of their companions. The dark elf took her time that day, and Vĭedźdaž supposed a reason behind it.
One day, she had told Verkorir her birthday. The reveal was casual and it served to describe the half-elf's indifference towards social expectations. "People make a feast, blow a candle, entertain guests... The guests are loud, they eat different meals... and then there are dirty plates. It's a chore, not a celebration. Back at Candlekeep, I would invite only Imoen, so it felt like an ordinary hangout." Verkorir nodded and the conversation moved on.
Up until that day, there was no hint that the dark elf even remembered her birthday.
At last, the missing roommate returned with a full backpack. Vĭedźdaž watched her walking, opened the door for her, helped her with the backpack, and gave her a smooch.
"How's the town?"
"There's a shortage of tangerines."
Her ears dropped. "Oh no."
"I got you white grapes instead."
"Thank you. Uh, can I help you unpack?"
Verkorir hummed. "I wonder."
The half-elf squinted.
"What?"
"Are you preparing something?"
"Yes."
She squinted harder.
"Alright, you can unpack the groceries. I'll be right back."
"Verveeer..."
But Verkorir went upstairs without a word, smirking lovingly.
Vĭedźdaž sighed. She started unpacking in the kitchen. A bag the size of an orcish fist smelt of green tea and rose. Two bunches of grapes were wrapped in loose, breathable hemp cloth. She gasped upon spotting a metal can with foreign script; cocoa powder! She also recognised their wooden box for chicken eggs. Relief and excitement washed away her initial restlessness.
Minutes passed by. The expected groceries have been stored and only surprise groceries remained on the counter. Vĭedźdaž took out flour and sugar.
Verkorir returned in a red dress.
The half-elf was stunned - but not because of the neckline. "You're NOT gonna bake in that!?"
She giggled and put on a simple beige garment with three holes, securing the dress from the neck to the knees. "Oh, I shall, Zhaunil," she taunted her. "Would you like to watch me or go do somewhere else?"
Vĭedźdaž grabbed a stool and sat close to the counter.
The duo was eating brown, slightly spongey cake next to the western window. Pink clouds with purple accents decorated the sunset sky above the dark forest. Birds, frogs, and crickets were singing moderately - Vĭedźdaž didn't have to manipulate her ears with magic. In fact, she added more sounds to the ambience, swinging her legs sideways and clicking her shoes.
Verkorir took a sip from her plain brown cup and put it on the table. "How nice."
"Indeed. I think they started adding more petals."
She hummed a giggle. "I meant the window view."
"Aah. That too. It hasn't rained in a while, though. How are farmers managing?"
"Fire watch was watering the fields."
"Mhm."
After they finished their slices, Verkorir collected the dishes, washed up, and returned to the table. Sunlight turned her white hair into gold.
Vĭedźdaž was playing with fingertips of her right hand, pressing her thumb against each finger one by one, repeatedly, without a thought. She followed the Rashemi tradition of wearing the wedding ring on the right hand; surprisingly, she wasn't spinning it that afternoon. She also ignored her Evermemory ring, resting on her index finger, with its enchantment sealed inside round polished red jasper.
Verkorir reached out to her wife, palm up, forearm on the table. Vĭedźdaž sighed and smiled; she poked the palm twice - their code for "thank you".