Thirteenth Entry

We returned to Phandalin as the sun began to dip behind the roofs of familiar buildings, casting long shadows that stretched like yawns across the street. The cart rolled to a gentle stop, and we all disembarked, our limbs stiff with the long ride. Reidoth lingered just a moment before parting ways. She turned to Raph’æl and said she might be by the tavern later, if he had any more questions. He nodded gratefully. I noted the way her gaze lingered on him. Maybe she saw the weight he carried, too.

Super, bless his strange soul, was still curled up in the cart’s pickle barrel, snoring obnoxiously. None of us had the heart to wake him. Let the strange creature have his brined dreams.

As we stepped away from the wagon, we hardly had time to blink before we noticed Ragar was already gone. Vanished like a gust of wind, as she always does. Jack clicked his tongue, frustrated. “Damn, was really hoping I could tail her this time,” he muttered, clearly disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Raph’æl offered, genuine even in such small things. Then, turning slightly toward Jack, he added, “Would you like to join me at the tavern?”

Jack perked up and nodded with a shrug. “Sure. Why not.”

I had just begun to wonder what I’d do with the evening—perhaps a walk alone, or sorting through my notes before finding a room to rent—when Raph’æl turned his head toward me.

“Fanesca, come and join us.”

That single sentence struck like a small, silent thunder in my chest. My composure held, at least outwardly. I merely nodded and murmured something neutral. Inside, I was glowing.

Don’t be so surprised, I recall thinking. He said it. We are friends. Choose to believe him.

At the tavern, Jack claimed a table big enough for the whole team—just in case others joined later. He ordered three meads. They came quickly, and just as I opened my mouth to politely decline, Jack waved me off. “Oh, don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, grinning slyly. “These are just for me.” And with that, he scooted all three tankards directly in front of himself.

Time passed easily. Jack began weaving stories from scraps of past experiences, gesturing wildly, making a show of it. Raph’æl listened quietly, glancing up every now and again from his personal journal. I, in turn, pulled out some old notes, sorting them into piles: relevant, dated, disposable. The ones that no longer served a purpose, I scrubbed with charcoal to repurpose later.

As Jack tipped back the second tankard, Raph’æl subtly slipped a goodberry into the third. I don’t think Jack noticed. I smiled. A caring, quiet gesture.

But eventually, the evening shifted.

Jack’s laughter began to quiet. His smile faltered, losing its edge. He set his elbow on the table and leaned toward Raph’æl, voice lowered—not in secrecy, but in seriousness.

“Hey Raph,” he said, “I gave you some time to process… but I feel I should ask again. What did you see after your tumble that threw you off so much?”

My pen stilled. I hadn’t expected the question. I’d assumed Jack already knew what happened. I’d seen the two of them talking quietly at Reidoth’s. But apparently, something went unspoken. Something deeper.

Raph’æl’s expression changed slowly—like a candle melting down into itself. Resignation. Not defeat, but a willingness to finally speak aloud what had haunted him.

“I had a vision,” he said, voice low.

Jack and I leaned forward. I braced myself—because when the holy men speak of the divine, it is never light. But he didn’t begin with the vision. He started with theology.

He spoke of The Triad—Ilmater, Tyr, and Torm—three gods intertwined in service, justice, and sacrifice. His voice carried reverence, almost tenderness, as he described how each deity represented a crucial piece of a greater balance. It made sense that he’d need to explain them first—especially to Jack, who seemed half-listening, half-focusing on the bottom of his mug.

But I knew who They were. Or I thought I once did.

I kept still, outwardly composed, but every mention of Them made something cold bloom behind my ribs. I knew the names not from hymns or holy books, but from the taut rack, chains and scorching wax of the Messengers’ rituals. They revered Ilmater not for His mercy, but for His endurance. The suffering He embodied… they sought to emulate. To inflict. On me. And all to try and draw out my radiance in His name.

Of course, I said nothing. I let Raph’æl speak. He didn’t need to know. It would only burden him to learn that zealots somewhere had warped the face of his beloved god into something monstrous.

Then he described the vision.

“There was… a void born from fire. A void that expanded and enveloped me,” he said, voice slowed with caution. “Suddenly, The Triad appeared before me, standing together in a circle. Ilmater before me. Torm lamented, saying ‘We are unbalanced.’ Before I could respond in any way… Ilmater lunged toward the two of Them. Then I awoke.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his jaw. “It’s like… it’s like it was given to me as a riddle I have to solve. I don’t know what They want.”

To me, it sounded like one of those dreams you have after eating something too sweet and dense too late at night. The kind where everything feels important but vanishes in the morning like mist. I had no guidance to offer him. Not on this. Not to someone who knows far more about these gods than I do.

Jack said something similar to my thoughts, a casual shrug and a half-hearted joke about a bad batch of carrot nutbread. I muttered a soft apology after it. I think I was trying to make up for it. For not being able to offer more. But Raph’æl just scoffed gently, smiling with what looked like tired appreciation.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m grateful I can trust you both with my nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” I said, too quickly.

The words slipped out before I could temper them. I kept my eyes low, shuffling the edges of my paper scraps, hoping he wouldn’t make a big deal of it. I wasn’t upset. I just—gods, I just didn’t want him to talk about himself like that. He’s been so many things to me lately. A tether, a comfort, a reason to believe that life can be stitched back together after it’s been torn.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught his smile soften further.

That silence after felt… peaceful. Like nothing needed to be said.

Jack nursed his third tankard—ironically seeming to savor it more than the first two. Raph’æl leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the old beams and faded banners of the tavern walls. I imagined him reading their history in his head. I quietly tucked my sketches away, turning each page carefully so they wouldn’t see what I’d drawn. I wasn’t ready to have them out in the open. Finnegan had seen them without permission—of course he had—but that was different. That nosy wizard. I already miss him.

And then, just as the quiet was stretching long enough to become its own kind of thought…

“Fanesca,” Raph’æl said, dreamily, “have you ever seen the ocean?”

I looked up, startled. The question caught me utterly off-guard. It was simple. Strangely personal. And the way he looked at me with this sort of open anticipation made something… unfamiliar twist in my stomach.

Like the telltale warmth of comfort but… sharper.

The tavern’s bustling creaks and clanks felt so far away. I was unsure of what to say. The truth would’ve been easy. The answer was technically yes. I had seen the ocean—at a distance, from the upper bridges of Neverwinter, its expanse folding into the horizon between buildings. I never got close enough to smell its brine or enjoy the gust. But I’d seen it. And still, I… lied.

“I’ve… only heard it described in terms of how vast something can be,” I said, voice thinner than I wanted.

And immediately, I wondered why.

Why did I lie? Was it because of that morning, a few days past? When I’d nearly been seen by him—unmasked, raw, exposed? That panicked breath, that near miss, it’s lingered with me like the sting of a wound that never quite scabbed over. Was there something in me trying to make myself seem smaller, softer, easier to cradle in his thoughts? Something… that would be a bit more difficult to leave behind?

What was wrong with me? This wasn’t the way to secure his safety. Or mine. Anyone’s.

Jack’s head tilted, genuinely surprised. “Really? You’ve never seen it?!”

I swallowed, painfully aware of how young and untouched that made me sound. And what’s worse, I could feel the way they might be picturing me now—fragile, wide-eyed, someone to usher into the world rather than someone who’s crawled through its filth. I hated that. Hated that I’d just handed them that image. And yet…

Raph’æl lit up. Not just in a smile—but in this glow I’ve only ever seen flicker across his face in rare, weightless moments. Heavens forgive me, but… it almost made the lie seem worth it. He turned eagerly towards the dragonborn. “Jack, I think we have a new quest: let’s take Fanesca to see the ocean.”

My heart kicked hard—so hard it startled me. I half-expected it to knock against my ribs loud enough for them to hear. I forced a laugh—or tried to—but all that came was a shaky exhale. “Hah… why would I need to see the ocean?”

He smiled that smile again. The kind that softens everything it touches. Calm. Radiant. Like a hearth built into his chest.

“Because it’s so breathtakingly vast and beautiful,” he said. “You’ll truly understand once you see it for yourself.” And then—

He placed his hand over mine.

I froze.

It wasn’t dramatic, or long, or especially bold. It was simple. His brand of kindness. But the way it landed on me—it was like he’d branded a new memory into my skin.

“I promise, I’ll take you there.”

Yes, that was it. That was the moment.

I had to look forward. Away. My cheeks stung like needles, and suddenly my mask felt far too thin, too transparent. It was a lovely picture, him taking me there, but… it was making my face burn.

No. No, no. Stop that.

I took in a shallow breath as Raph’æl turned back to Jack, who had launched into some theory about sword grips being unnecessarily gendered. I pulled my papers back out, fumbling more than I’d admit. Doodle, scribble—gods above, let me do anything other than think. I’m being stupid. Disrespectful. This is my friend. He said as much. He’s just being nice. And I’m a grown woman.

For a fleeting second, Ragar’s arrival felt like a godsend.

She didn’t say a word—just the scrape of the stool and a half-lazy wave to the barmaid to announce herself. A blunt, familiar rhythm. Jack scowled immediately, disappointed at her souring happy hour. I could feel his desire to give her a piece of his mind fizzling behind his sharp eyes. Raph’æl’s posture shifted too, a bit more upright, a bit more alert.

Jack was the first to prod. “Where do you always slink off to whenever we return to town?”

Her answers were as casual as ever. Some mission at the Miner’s Exchange. A few deliveries. Odd jobs. It didn’t take long for her words to paint the full picture: we’d been helping her complete contracts for people we knew nothing about. Jack pressed harder, voice rising. Raph’æl joined in, his tone cutting in a different way—more worried than furious, but no less piercing. The table began to feel like a courtroom.

But I said nothing. I had my concerns too, but… I’ve seen what Ragar looks like when cornered. She was not the warrior I imagined the day I pulled that arrow from her neck. Back then, I thought she was a protective figure—stern but maternal. But something’s shifted in her since we came to Phandalin. Maybe the stress is eating at her. Maybe she’s always been like this. Whatever the case, I wasn’t brave enough to throw my voice into the fray.

So I kept my head low and focused on my sketch—just a tankard this time. The wood grain. Harmless. Safe. Raph’æl and Jack were handling it. I wouldn’t add anything new. If I spoke, I’d only become a target, pair of eyes pointed directly at my cracked seams.

Then Jack said something with such vitriol, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear.

“—you can’t just connect us to people who might be dangerous just so you can keep your secrets!”

The pen slipped from my hand. It hit the table with a soft clack, but it may as well have been a javelin to the chest.

That wasn’t meant for me.

But it was.

My lungs stopped cooperating. My fingers twitched and pulled at the edges of my mask, like they were trying to anchor it to my face before it slid off entirely. I don’t know why—panic, instinct. A fear that the illusion would simply fade if I didn’t keep believing in it. If I spiraled hard enough, would it just turn back into a brass plate? Would I be seen?

I started gasping. Clutching at the mask like a child clutches a favorite blanket, trying to will my breath back into something steady. I didn’t realize it until later, but I was having a panic attack.

I thought—gods help me, I thought I could fix it by telling them. I thought maybe if I told them what Raph’æl already knew, it would balance the scales. That it would prove I wasn’t hiding from them. So I apologized—messy, stammering, useless apologies that made no sense. And when the table went quiet—when I felt all their eyes settle on me like a weight—I wanted to vanish.

But through the wreck of my voice and the shudder of my ribs, I managed it: I told them my situation might not be all that different. That someone powerful is looking for me. That if they see my face, that person might come for them too.

Ragar, high on adrenaline and defensive pride, asked me flatly, “So if you’re hiding… is Fanesca even your real name at all?”

I shook my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to speak again. Something came out—I don’t remember what. Words, maybe? Or just broken pieces of them. I just knew I was hanging on by a thread. And if that thread snapped, the mask would go with it. And if that happened, I wouldn’t be the only one destroyed!

And then—

A hearth.

A pressure around me like sunlight through thick fog. Gentle and grounding.

Raph’æl had crossed the table and wrapped his arms around me.

My muscles became whip-cord tight.

Why was he doing this?

Why me?

My first instinct was alarm—at the shame. I didn’t know how to move, how to return the gesture. But as his arms held fast and steady, the spiral slowed. There wasn’t enough room in my mind for panic anymore. Just the quiet thrum of his heartbeat and the certainty that—for the moment—I was safe.

I let myself sink into his chest.

And for the first time in I don’t know how long… I could breathe.

I couldn’t believe it. A… hug.

No one… has ever…

He murmured, “Everyone… I think that’s enough for tonight.” His voice had shifted. Calm, authoritative, like a priest wearing his mantle again. “Trust and openness is indeed a needed conversation. But we can delve into all of this tomorrow, after we’ve rested.”

Silence followed.

Jack clicked his tongue in annoyance, but let it drop. Ragar muttered something into her drink and didn’t press further. I could hear her flagon hit the table, then quiet.

And after a few still moments, Raph’æl let go.

The air rushed back in. A gentle pat on the shoulder. A soft, concerned look. Then he returned to his seat.

And me?

I’ve never felt so cold.

———

Once the storm inside me settled, so did the rest of the table.

Jack went back to drinking, somehow louder than before. Ragar, ever the picture of recklessness, had already begun collecting empty glasses as if they were trophies. Smeak wandered in from wherever he’d been hiding, made a beeline for Ragar, and latched onto her arm like a barnacle. I could hear his shrill little questions about the ale, the table, the bard at the stage’s hair—nothing of value, but all delivered with boundless, infuriating enthusiasm. Raph’æl, true to form, had returned to his journal, posture calm, quill already dancing across the page.

My sole concern was the sketch in front of me—the same tankard I’d been scratching at earlier, now hopelessly cross-hatched and shaded within an inch of its life. A salvage job, nothing more. Something to do with my hands. Something to distract from the trembling that had only recently stopped.

It struck me after a little while—this might’ve been the first time I didn’t spend my idle hours observing them. I wasn’t peeking over tankards, writing little notes on their body language, trying to determine what made them tick. I wasn’t asking probing questions or watching from across the room like some benign, haunted portrait. I was just… here.

Eventually, there was no more ink to add. No more flaws to obscure. I finally looked up.

No one was at the table.

Everyone had drifted into their own little scenes: music, drink, voices in motion. And no one—not one of them—was staring at me like I might collapse again.

A strange relief spread through my chest. A calm acceptance. Maybe… maybe this wasn’t as dangerous as I kept imagining. Maybe I wasn’t a burden to them. Maybe I really could stay… and be useful in ways that didn’t mean vanishing the moment things got too close. Maybe they could protect me—and I could protect them right back.

For as long as it took to earn my new home, of course.

Of course.

I tucked away the drawing, now dry and warped from too much ink, and stood to gather my things. I was ready to head to the outskirts, to douse for magical components and stock up while my magic was still warm from the night’s trials. Can’t let a good evening go to waste. Study time.

That’s when Ragar, more than a little tipsy, slammed a crumpled piece of paper and a set of bone dice down on the table right in front of me. I jolted, thoughts already stuttering. She wasn’t angry anymore, that much I could tell. But that didn’t make her predictable.

“Reidoth taught me a divination ritual,” she announced with an ear-to-ear grin. “Y’know, for Reincarnate. To see what you might come back as. It’s fun.” I raised an eyebrow beneath the mask, skepticism probably radiating off me in waves. She must’ve sensed it because she rolled her eyes and added, “It’s just a game, gods. Don’t get weird.”

So, to placate her, I sat back down. She unrolled the paper: a long, scribbled table of races and subraces, complete with notes in her chicken-scratch handwriting. I rolled the larger die—“Elf.”

She sighed. “Boring. Roll the little one.”

I did. “Winter Eladrin.”

Ragar groaned, unimpressed. “What even is that? I can’t picture you as one. Lame.”

Truthfully? Neither could I. I didn’t know what an eladrin even was, save for some form of elf, apparently. But as I looked at the name on the paper, something about it stirred a little longing in me. I imagined snow-covered hair. A cold serenity. Something graceful, maybe. Strong. Someone whose magic came from within and was accepted—not extracted. Someone beautiful.

I would’ve been happy to be anything else.

The table slowly refilled. The others returned to compare results, debating which of them would be the “weirdest-looking corpse.” I wasn’t listening, not really. My eyes were caught on the paper still in Ragar’s hand—races I’d never heard of, peoples from across the plane. There were so many of them. So many.

An uplifting thought. All of this world I hadn’t seen yet… Maybe I could. Maybe I will. Maybe alone. Maybe…

Otherwise.

That’s when Raph’æl grabbed my arm. I flinched so hard I nearly dropped everything again. He didn’t look at me right away—his face was flushed, hair slightly mussed, jaw tight with some unreadable stress.

“Sorry!” he stammered, finally releasing me once we crossed the tavern entrance. “I—I just, Jack and Ragar were being kind of… inappropriate. Figured you’d want to get some air. It’s nothing. Just figured.”

I blinked at him. Then looked back inside. Smeak was still clinging to Ragar like a tick.

“…Wouldn’t Smeak be the better choice to extract, then?”

His face went white. He muttered something unintelligible and bolted back inside.

I stood there for a second, stunned, then slowly exhaled a long, tired laugh.

I left them all to it.

It was time to douse. Best to gather what I could while the night was still young, and before I got too caught up in any more games—real or imagined.