Flikka

Flikka is a chaotic neutral, three-quarters elven transmuter. She is also a Bhaalspawn. She has pale blonde hair, grey-violet eyes, and a knack for getting into trouble. Her familiar is Buck, short for Buccaneer, a large, shaggy brownish-black dog. Flikka is also afraid of the dark because of something that happened to her on her eighth birthday.

Her friends throughout the story: Ajantis, Shar-Teel, Viconia, Imoen, Keldorn, Cernd, Haer'Dalis, Talon Nirkhas, Jan, Sarevok, and Jolix.

Her enemies: the wraiths, Sarevok (at one time), Irenicus, Bodhi, the rest of the Five, and Amellysan.

The Flikka Episodes can be read in any order, but I wrote them like this:

BG:
1. Find Familiar
2. Thief and Necromancer
3. Darkness

BG II:
1. Apricots
2. O Brother, Where Hast Thou Been?
3. Empty

As Viconia was cooking supper, Ajantis was polishing his armor, and Shar-Teel was guarding the camp, Flikka took out the scroll she had found on the dwarven assassin’s body in Beregost. Imoen was there to help her and provide support.

What is a dwarf doing carrying around magic scrolls? the transmuter thought. It’s not like he can use them.

“What kind of spell is it?” Imoen asked.

“‘Find Familiar,’” Flikka said.

“Wow! Are you going to get a familiar, huh? Can I watch — pleeeeaase?”

Flikka chuckled. “Yes, Im, you can watch. I wonder what kind of animal I’m going to get.”

Viconia, Shar-Teel, and Ajantis overheard them and stopped what they were doing to watch.

Flikka stared at the scroll a moment longer, then started to say the arcane words. When she had finished, the scroll was still in her hands. She opened her mouth to curse whatever god ruled over magical spells, but before she could, the scroll fell into dust.

Flikka looked around for an animal, any animal, that might have responded to the magic’s call. None appeared.

“The pathetic magics of the darthiir cannot compare to the drow,” Viconia muttered, and went back to the stew.

Flikka sighed. “I am not an elf, Viconia. I am not a half-elf, either. I am three-quarters elf, and that is it! End of story!”

“I can sense evil in you, Flikka. I do not know if it is your magic or your ‘three-quarters elven’ heritage, but it is there. It clings to you like lint to wool.”

“Thank you, o great one,” Flikka said sarcastically. Ajantis flushed and went back to rubbing at a nick on his armor. “Any other un-needed comments about my magical ability?”

“Magic in general is un-needed,” Shar-Teel spoke up. “Only a sword can cause true bloodshed.”

“I think it worked,” Imoen said, swallowing very hard and staring behind Flikka. “I . . . I think it worked r-rather w-w-well!” She paled and stumbled backwards as Flikka turned around.

A large, shaggy, dark brownish-black dog trotted towards them. He paused at Viconia’s side, staring at her dolefully until she gave him a tidbit of raw meat. He took it delicately between his jaws and then walked the last few steps to Flikka.

Hello. Flikka heard the dog speak into her mind.

Hello . . . are you my familiar?

The dog seemed to grin. Yes.

What’s your name?

My name is Buccaneer, and no one will call me Buck. It’s undignified, and I will not allow it.

You sound like a cat.

Buccaneer bristled.

“Is that . . . is that your familiar, Flikka?” Imoen asked hesitantly.

“Yes — yes he is. His name is Buccaneer.”

“Really? Do . . . do you think he would let me pet him? He looks awfully soft.”

Yes, by all means, pet me!

Flikka lowered a hesitant hand and stroked Buccaneer’s head and body. With the first touch, she knew she’d been right in calling the dog to her side.

“So, where exactly are we going?” Imoen asked.

“Just wandering,” Flikka said cheerfully. Buccaneer was trotting at her side, and from far away he looked like a large pet bear.

“One on the path of truth and justice always knows the way,” Ajantis offered.

“Typical male. Helm can kiss my —”

“Enough, abbil!” Viconia interrupted Shar-Teel. “Darthiir?”

Flikka sighed. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times — I am not an elf! I’m three-quarters elven!”

Calm, Flikka. Buccaneer licked her hand.

Yes, I know, Buck. But these people are so aggravating sometimes.

Okay. Can I pleeeeeaase have some bread now?

Flikka wasn’t sure she had heard right. Bread?

The dog sounded defensive. I like bread, alright?

You have a bread fetish?

It’s not a fetish! Buccaneer was definitely in denial now. I just like it, that’s all!

Sure . . . Flikka would have said more to her familiar when a shout fell on her three-quarters elven ears. “I KNOW, MONTY! YOU DON’T NEED TO CRITICIZE MY EVERY MOVE!”

Flikka halted, and everyone else stopped as well. Buccaneer turned his amber eyes on Flikka and seemed to smirk. Well?

“Let’s check it out,” Flikka said, and they soon came upon a very odd pair: a human necromancer in acid-green robes and a halfling rogue.

“Look, Monty. Some more incompetent adventurers have wandered into our midst. Should we give them something and send them on their way?”

“Of course, Xzar!” Monty said in mock-enthusiasm, rolling his eyes. “Addled moron,” he hissed under his breath.

“Hail, adventurers,” Xzar said. “I have something to give you — a healing potion that can aid you in your travels.”

Viconia stepped forward to take the blue-tinted bottle. “Well, darthiir, this jaluk seems to be telling the truth.”

Flikka didn’t bother to correct the drow, and spoke instead to the necromancer. “Look, we appreciate your concern, but we don’t need any more people in our little group. Especially not a necromancer and his pet.”

The necromancer looked taken aback. “How did you know we were going to ask to join?” At the same time, Montaron said, "Who're you calling pet?"

Flikka smirked and patted Buccaneer.

"And how did you know I'm a necromancer?" Xzar asked.

Flikka snorted. "Oh, please. What other kind of mage has such horrible fashion sense? Besides the Rashemani witches, of course."

Xzar mouthed soundlessly at her.

Want me to bite him for you?

Nah, just rush at him and growl. That’ll scare him quite adequately.

Suddenly, Buccaneer began a low, ferocious growl. Xzar glanced at the dog apprehensively. Buck leapt forward as though to bite the man in a not-so-nice place, but stopped just short. The necromancer screamed; very high-pitched, girlish, and hard on the ears. He hitched up his robes and ran, waving his arms for effect and ranting as he did so.

Monty looked distinctly annoyed. “Now look what ye’ve done, ye fool. It’ll take me hours to calm him down again.” And the halfling went running after his companion.

“Well,” Flikka said. “That was odd . . .”

“I KNOW DRAGONS WITH FEET LIKE RABBITS; ‘TIS TRUE, I SWEAR!” Xzar yelled. That was the last they heard of the pair for a long, long time.

Now can I have some bread?

Flikka laughed. Alright, Buck. We’ll get you some bread.

“Though my soul will set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light —
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”
~Sarah Williams

“Lady Flikka, though I hate to interrupt our quest, even the forces of goodness cannot go on forever,” Ajantis said wearily. Flikka looked worriedly at the horizon, behind which the sun had disappeared, and nodded reluctantly.

“I had thought the Friendly Arm was closer,” she said. There was a nervous edge to her voice, but the others were so tired that only her familiar noticed it.

What’s wrong, pup?

Nothing! Flikka said quickly. She glanced at Buck as she set down her pack.

Look, pup, I’m an animal, and I’ve got instincts. I’m also your familiar, and I can feel your emotions. Spill it, Flikka.

It’s nothing, really. I’ve lived with it since I was eight years old. I’ll be fine, Buck.

What is it?! Buck was getting impatient, which was very unusual for a canine familiar. Flikka looked at him again.

“Darthiir?” Viconia asked suddenly. “What have you stopped for?”

“Flikka? Sis, are you all right?” Imoen said, concerned.

“I’m fine!” Flikka said loudly, but as she glanced at the swiftly
darkening skyline, her voice wavered.

“If you say so,” Shar-Teel spoke up doubtfully. “You are a strong woman, but now you are showing signs of weakness. I’ve seen it in men before. If you don’t watch out, that damned father of yours will take you, and we’ll all be smears of blood and gore on the ground —”

“Enough, d’ssinss vlos!” Viconia said sharply. “I dislike your graphic fantasies.”

“They are not fantasies, drow!” Shar-Teel yelled. “They are visions of what might happen if Flikka is overwhelmed!”

“. . . and they come right out of your damaged mind,” Viconia finished triumphantly. “See, I knew —”

“Would you two please shut up?” Imoen asked timidly. She looked rather green.

Flikka barely heard any of the argument her party members were engaged in. The transmuter felt her breathing coming faster and
faster until she was gasping for breath. The iron fingers began to close around her chest, one by one, as they had every nightfall since the fateful evening of her eighth birthday.

Pup? Pup, what’s going on? Your mind; it’s fading — Flikka, listen to me! You have to fight this . . . whatever it is! Flik —

darkcomingveryfastveryfastneedlightneedtohideohbuccaneerneedtohideneedtohidefromdarkfast . . .

Buck barked sharply, which he had never done since Flikka had called him. Shar-Teel, Viconia, Imoen, and Ajantis immediately looked up. Buck was whining and looked repeatedly at Flikka.

The mage was curled up on the ground, mewling. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her pale, chin-length hair disheveled, and small tears were creeping out from under her tightly closed eyelids.

“Flikka? What’s wrong?” Imoen and Ajantis asked at the same time.

darkverydarkneedtohidequickthedarkiscoming!

Flikka, pup, fight it! Fight it . . . I’m here, Flik —

An silent, mind-scream skewed with pure terror made Buck yelp with surprise. He tried to re-contact his mistress, licking her hand and lying by her on the ground, but the scream had severed the communication link they shared, though not the special bond between mage and familiar.

The silence was horrible for Buck. He had no idea what was going on in his mistress’s mind, and that made him on edge. The dog reached out for her in his mind again —

— and an assortment of alarming images flooded into his consciousness as the dam burst. They all had Flikka’s underlying babbling voice, so fast and so frightened that Buck could barely keep up with it. Then suddenly, the babbling stopped. A measured, slower voice that was not Flikka’s own replaced it; the new voice was the deep bass of a man’s. And it was so uncannily normal that it was both foreign and chilling to hear.

{The wraiths come, attracted to her fear.} The picture of a frightened, pale figure huddled on a bed surfaced. It was a petite half-elven girl, with thin blonde hair and large grey-violet eyes. She could have scarcely been seven, eight at the most.

{She cannot escape them, you know. Not only do they feed on fear, they also relish murder, chaos, bloodshed, and all that entails. But that is not their true home.} The vision changed to show the girl again. This time, she was a teenager, slowly developing into a young woman. In the image, she had her back to the viewer and was casting a spell on her left shoulder blade. Nothing was happening. She was getting more and more frustrated. But nothing ever happened.

{The wraiths are creatures of night.} The image swirled and shifted to become the scene that was taking place at that exact moment. The young half-elf was a woman, curled up in a tight ball on the ground. A large brown-black dog was lying next to her, in a trance-like state. And four anxious people crowded around the pair, all desperately trying to wake them both.

{The dark is their home, Buccaneer.} Buck felt a wave of shadow wash over him. As an intelligent magical being, he knew darkness and light had no substance or awareness. But this darkness did. And it was hungry.

{Will they feed on those around her? Not as long as those around her embrace the shadows.} With this, several images came up, each of a person. Viconia De’Vir was the first, a drow who had left her native Menzoberranzan for a life of exile on the surface. The next was Imoen, Flikka’s dearest friend. As Buck watched, the thief’s soul was ripped from her by a creature of heart-stopping evil — a vampire. The third was a bard with odd features, who whirled two short blades and sliced a beast to ribbons as the show played on. Shar-Teel appeared, her purple facial tattoos twisted by rage as a pair of drow elves dragged her away, kicking and screaming. The next was another tall muscular man, this one with golden eyes. His head was shaved, and he had a distrustful expression on his face as he drew his two-handed sword. The last was a man with feathers in his dark, flowing hair. He carried a hardwood staff and wore only a cloak, and his green-blue eyes sparkled with life. He was obviously a druid.

{This last one . . . he embraces the night as something natural — something awe-inspiring. The girl would do well to get stay away from the druid. Dark is not something in the great scheme of Toril, it is Toril. Given time, it will consume her. The wraiths are the distilled essence of the dark. And they are patient, Buccaneer. They are waiting . . .} The connection with the strange masculine voice broke suddenly, and Buck jerked from the trance to see a violently trembling Flikka taking a large jar out of her pack. It was filled with shimmering iridescent fire. The flames wove and danced, crackling occasionally and sending showers of sparks in every shade of metallic against the side of the jar.

“It’s — it’s b-b-been ench-chanted,” Flikka stammered fearfully. “This ‘F-f-faerie Fire’ sp-spell is p-p-permanent.” Already, the transmuter could feel the fear draining away in the presence of the comforting luminance. Her breathing gradually returned to normal.

Buck was still dazed, going over the message the queer voice had given him. He suddenly remembered something the voice had said and he tentatively tried to reach Flikka.

Show me your left shoulder blade, Buck commanded.

Buck, why . . .? Flikka questioned.

Just do it, her familiar ordered. Flikka obediently slid her robe down her arm to show the dog her shoulder blade. Buck’s mouth went dry, and he began to pant slightly.

Buck, what’s wrong?

When you were a teenager, you tried to do something to your left shoulder with a spell, didn’t you?

N — yes, I suppose I did. But I never managed that spell — nothing ever came of it. Why?

Because there’s a tattoo on your left shoulder blade.

I. Apricot Trees

There are apricot trees in the grove, but I cannot remember the last time I glanced at them. They keep their silent vigil, watching the comings and goings of everything else, yet saying nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Every living thing has something to say, if only we can listen in the right way. But the apricot trees say nothing.

Yet nevertheless, they remind me of her. Of the flaxen flower that captured my heart only weeks ago. Flikka. Even the endless beauty of nature’s splendor cannot compare to hers.

It is late summer, and the blossoms are beginning to wither and fall softly from their branches. Soon, golden fruit will bow the tree’s limbs, and then, even that will die. It is inevitable, the cycle of life.

I can still remember her face, tense even as she slept. Buccaneer curled by her side. How I hated leaving her. But it’s for the best. It’s for the balance.

Suddenly, I can hear a chorus of sweet, ethereal voices. It is a while before I realize it is the apricot trees, singing Flikka’s name.

II. Apricot Fruit

Apricots. How delicate they really are, the tender golden flesh easily broken.

How long has it been since I left her? A day, I suppose. It doesn’t really matter anymore. I do not deserve her. And it’s for the best.

A single fruit has somehow gone against nature, braving its way through the winter, spring, and summer months. So tiny and frail it is, the sun-kissed skin soft against my palm. Like hers. Soft, warm, and pale.

I long to see her again, hold her against me and comfort her. But I do not want her to go through any more pain, which only I can bring.

And, so selfish am I that I do not want to endure it again.

I wonder which of her many robes she is wearing today. Her normal adventuring colors of pristine, light blue and pastel green? Or white edged with gold? Dare I even think she wears amber, gold, orange?

She does not know why I’ve left. I do not even pretend to hope she loves me. How can she, when she knows who I am? What I’ve done to . . . the one before her?

Apricots have never tasted so bitter.

III. Apricot Brandy

Apricot brandy. Flikka swished the amber fluid around in the glass, staring into the broken surface.

Usually, she did not drink; no mage could afford to have their senses muddled. But on this moonless, stormy night, she was making an exception. The transmuter was hunched over a table, worn with knife marks and various liquids that had long since soaked into the wood. Buccaneer was lying at her feet, glum as she.

It isn’t going to go away, you know. You’re going to have to do something about it.

Buck, just shut up. For once.

No. I’m your familiar, remember? I don’t shut up because you say so. Just go into that grove, and find him. He loves you! The dog growled softly to make his point.

If he loved me, he wouldn’t have run away.

You're missing the point. Buck caught her eyes. That’s why he ran away.

Flikka drained the glass. How does running away solve anything?

It doesn’t.

Flikka laughed hollowly. Blunt as always, Buck. But you’d have to be insane to go out in this weather. And it’s dark, Buck. She shivered.

But with a certain determination, Flikka stood and walked out into the night.

IV. Laiquaninwa elee

I’m soaked, now.

The rain has been pouring for hours, since day turned to twilight, and twilight turned to night. There is no moon tonight, thankfully. Only darkness.

My hair sticks to my face, and finally, I cry. I have not cried since I was a child. Rain mixes with tears, one becomes the other, until it is no longer discernable where tears end and rain begins.

“Cernd! Oh, laiquaninwa elee!” I must be hearing things. I’ve heard that those close to death do such things.

Druid, if you die before my pup gets to you, I will personally tear you to pieces! And I’ll start with something best left untouched!Voices in my head. Definitely close to death.

A pale face looms before me. My eyelids are so heavy, I can barely make out the worry and despair in the grey-violet eyes.

“Flikka?” I ask wearily. “Go away . . .”

“Look, Cernd,” she says. “If you don’t love me, just tell me. Don’t run away and pretend it never happened. I love you, no matter what you’ve done.”

“I love you, Flikka,” I whisper.

And underneath an apricot tree, a transmuter and druid embrace while a faithful dog stands watch.

Knock. Knock knock. "Flikka?"

Silence.

"Flikka, are you in there?" The transmuter as she threw down her quill and went to answer her bedroom door. Keldorn Firecam stood there, an anxious, dark look in his grey eyes.

"There's someone at the door, Flikka," the paladin explained.

She snorted and brushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes. "Yeah, it's you, genius. What do you want?"

Keldorn cringed inside. He knew Flikka never liked being interrupted while she was scribing her spells, but this was one time he would not budge.

"A man wants to get into the sphere. He says he heard he could find you here. Normally, the butler would have thrown him out already, but he seems to know you, Flikka."

Her mouth fell open slightly, and she brushed past Keldorn, hurrying down the halls with Buccaneer in hot pursuit. She reached the bolted steel door that led into the slums of Athkatla and paused. Perhaps it wasn't who she thought it was. She turned around slowly to head back to her spellbook, only to see Cernd, Jan, and Viconia playing cards at the dining room table down the corridor. Keldorn walked in and sat down resignedly as they handed him some cards. They gave her very interested, though furtive looks, silently enquiring what she was to do next.

"He's out there, my raven," Haer'Dalis said from the shadows. Flikka jumped. She could just barely make out the outline of his face and blueish braids. "A vision of loveliness you are today. The gentleman outside shall approve, if he is of any taste." He flashed a rogueish grin as he strolled down the hallway she had come from. "Don't let me keep you from the man of your dreams, my darling Flikka." He chuckled and disappeared around the corner. She rolled her eyes at the bard's antics, readied a 'Magic Missile' just in case, and pulled open the door apprehensively.

The man on the doorstep was only slightly taller than she, and the sweeping, pale purple robes he wore brought out the same shade in his greyish-violet eyes. His flaxen hair was cropped short, shaved around his ears, and spiked up on top. A large tropical bird was perched on his shoulder, preening its indigo feathers and eyeing Flikka suspiciously. It shifted closer to the man's pointed ears. But it was his smile that gave him away . . . That grin . . . I know that grin . . .

"Jolix!?" The parrot gave an indignant squawk and took flight in a flurry of dark blue feathers as Flikka dove into the man's arms to receive a bear hug. The bird came to rest on Buck's back, and together they watched the pair.

"Oh, Flikka, I've missed you," Jolix breathed.

She pulled away and took a good look at him. "Where have you been, Jolix? I haven't seen you since I left Baldur's Gate!" The transmuter looked around. "Oh, sorry about that. Come inside!"

She took his hand and led him past the four playing cards, who gaped openly. The two wove their way through the maze of tunnels, corridors, and hallways until they descended a flight of stairs. It was the room where Tolgerias the Cowled Wizard had met his gruesome end, but now it was occupied by more than a few entertainment setups. Jolix and Flikka sat down in poufy, comfortable chairs and several seconds passed.

"Flikka?"

She grinned, mischief in her eyes. "Shh . . . I'm timing them."

"Timing . . . who?"

Flikka turned to stare at the door. "Three . . . two . . . one . . ." The door burst open with Jan Jansen in the lead, closely followed by Viconia, Cernd, and Keldorn. Haer'Dalis was behind them, with Buck and the parrot at his heels. The bird took to the air and settled himself on Jolix's shoulder, and Buck shoved his way through the forest of legs before him to sit by Flikka's chair.

"What is the meaning of this, darthiir?" Viconia asked, eyeing Jolix. "Do you know this . . ." the drow groped for a mildly (or not so mildly) offensive word to describe the man in front of her, failed, and said, "this man?"

Flikka smiled at her friends and invited them to sit in the empty chairs around her. As they did so (with only one minor skirmish when Haer'Dalis attempted to sit on Viconia's lap), Flikka turned her eyes on Jolix again. Cernd did as well, though his gaze was much colder than Jolix would have liked.

"Where have you been?" she asked again.

"I've been lying low in the Jungles of Chult," he explained. "After I heard what happened to you and your group, I left the Sword Coast. You're quite famous, you know."

"Where did you get the parrot?"

Jolix grinned and stroked the bird's wings. "This is Indi. I acquired a 'Find Familiar' scroll off some duergar who thought these three-quarters elven ears would look good on a necklace. Strange, those dwarves. They don't even use magic; what are they carrying around scrolls for? Anyway, I needed a companion, so in short, I cast the scroll, and Indi came. It's short for Indigo." Jolix laughed. "So what about that dog there? Who's he?"

"This is Buck. I found him before Baldur's Gate, but you've never seen him before. I had to kill a dwarven assassin to get the scroll, but it was worth it. I got to keep my head, and I found Buck, so it was a good bargain. Buck is short for Buccaneer, and believe me, he acts like one sometimes."

Buck growled playfully, and Indi leaned forward, clacking his beak. He flew and got a good grip on Buck's shaggy fur before the dog took off running around the room, barking, with the parrot spreading his wings to attempt to steer.

"These are my companions," Flikka explained, seeing Jolix's look. "That's Viconia, the drow. You met her last time. That's Keldorn, the paladin over there. Jan Jansen is the gnome, Haer'Dalis is over there . . . the one with the harp." Flikka looked over at Cernd. "This is Cernd. He's a druid." The three-quarters elf decided not to comment on their relationship quite yet.

"This is all well and good," Jolix said slowly, carefully examining every member. "But tell me, Flikka, where is the ever-so-cheerful Imoen? She always brightened a room when she walked into it. Is she gone from this world?"

Flikka's face became dark and sad. "No, she is still alive. But she has been kidnapped by Jon Irenicus. There is no better description of evil than he."

"I have heard of him," Jolix said. "He was once the Queen Ellesime's lover. Beyond that, I do not know him."

"He . . . tortured Imoen and me, then when we escaped his prison beneath Waukeen's Promenade, he took her. To a place called Spellhold. The Shadow Thieves are going to help us get her back." Flikka looked at Jolix with the unspoken question in her eyes. He didn't miss it.

"I will help you as well, if you'll have me," Jolix offered. "Imoen was . . . a great person. We can't let this Irenicus keep her captive."

"Thank you, Jolix," Flikka said in relief. "You don't know how good it feels to see you again."

The entire group stood, almost as one, and everyone filed out the door except Jolix, Cernd, the two familiars, and Flikka. "I'll show you to the guest room." Flikka embraced Jolix once again, then led him through the door to where he was to sleep. The abjurer winced as he felt Cernd's eyes glaring daggers into him.

When Flikka shut the door to Jolix's room, she turned around to see Cernd's stormy eyes boring into hers. She had never really realized how much taller he was than her until he was angry.

"Flikka, who is this Jolix? A lover? Or perhaps, a husband?" Cernd said quietly. His voice was quite intense for its soft volume, she noticed. And throwing common sense out the window, she laughed out loud.

"What," Cernd asked icily, "is so amusing?"

Flikka was nearly doubled over in laughter now. "He's . . . he's neither of those, Cernd," she said, trying to smother her snickers. "He's my brother!"

“Oh, Vivica I wish you well
I’ll sit right here I’ll never tell
no tender scar no twist of fate
will save you now

The apple falls far from the tree
she’s rotten and so beautiful
I’d like to keep her here with me
and tell her that she’s beautiful
She takes the pills to fall asleep
and dreams that she’s invisible
Tormented dreams she stays awake
recalls when she was capable . . .

She’s empty and so beautiful
I’ll keep her here with me.”
~Jack Off Jill, “Vivica”

—

The weary group headed across forests and fields, away from the vicious battle they had fought at the De’Arnise Keep. Nalia had stayed behind to make the big arrangements that were now placed on her shoulders.

Their travel back to the planar sphere was eerily silent. Keldorn was chattering mindlessly, making small talk about little things — not keeping to his thoughts and keeping an eye out for danger. Jan wasn’t cracking jokes, or telling ludicrously far-fetched stories about distant relatives being killed or horribly maimed by griffins. Viconia wasn’t yelling at Jan to stop telling his stupid stories. Haer’Dalis was not flirting with the drow, nor was he muttering to himself about the Outer Planes. Cernd wasn’t making quiet, insightful comments about nature’s beauty; for once, he was looking at his feet instead of the rest of the world. Buck padded by Keldorn’s side, ignoring Flikka, his amber eyes fixed on the road ahead.

No one spoke until they were back at the planar sphere. “Jolix,” Flikka said. She never had explained what the password meant to her, though her party had asked countless times. Buck slunk away to the kitchen, where the golem servant would undoubtedly give him bread. The rest of the group headed for their respective rooms.

Cernd, having the least amount of stuff to drop off in his chambers, approached Flikka’s door and knocked. He heard something solid collide with the door, then a muffled explosion. Against his better judgement, he stepped inside. A fire wand was embedded in the door, and the area around it was scorched black.

“Flikka?”

The transmuter was sitting on her bed, glaring at the fire wand as though it was its own fault for detonating on impact. Cernd cautiously sat down next to her. “Starflower?”

“Do not,” she hissed, “use that nickname.”

Cernd’s eyebrows shot up, and he attempted to put an arm around her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. To his surprise, she blinked once, and pearls of saltwater streaked her face.

Cernd was at a loss for words. “What’s wrong?” he managed.

Flikka angrily swiped at her eyes. “I’m a killer, Cernd. It’s what I do. People die because of me!”

“I’ve explained this before, Flik —”

“Don’t you dare give me that about it being a natural event in the scheme of things!” Flikka shouted. “It isn’t natural, it isn’t good, it isn’t meant to happen when I cause it!”

“Flikka, listen to me. You are born of —”

“NO!” Flikka yelled, shaking her head vigorously. “Bhaal may be my sire, but I am not him!”

Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Do you know what killing does to me, Cernd?” she asked. “It’s like . . . I don’t know. I really don’t know. There’s really nothing like it in the world.”

Cernd’s eyebrows knit together, mistaking her desperate statement for something far more sinister. “Flikka, the bear may kill the elk for sustenance, but he does it out of no malicious will. He will have no feelings for the elk, or what he has done, for the only animals capable of emotion are the sentient races.”

Flikka exhaled, defeated. “I don’t even have any feelings left anymore, Cernd.”

“Oh, Flikka . . .”

She shook her head slightly. “Just . . . only love and despair. Love for you, and Buck, and Imoen, and Jolix. Despair’s stronger, though. It’s hungry. And . . . and I’m afraid . . . terrified . . . that it’s going to swallow up love. Then there will be nothing. I’ll just be empty.”

Cernd slipped his arms around her waist, and she twisted around to bury her face in his chest, sobbing. He laid flat on her bed, holding Flikka close. “I love you still, starflower. And you are no killer when you feel guilt so strongly.”