The tavern of the Black Bull of Driftwood was packed that night when Andrea Ironsoul entered the huge establishment. Her detachment had decided to camp in an area near the east of the village, over the cliffs and the crashing waves of the Reaper’s Coast. But Andrea, despite the camaraderie and having found in those companions-and followers, as the case may be-a new family to cure her loneliness, felt that something was pulling her towards Driftwood without being able to help it. Even though two years had passed since then–Rivellon was now a place of peace, where all those sensitive to the Source could be equal and cooperate to create a better world. And Andrea did not regret for a moment her decision to giveaway that precious gift to the world.
No one deserves to have that power all to themselves, not even the Eternals, she often mused, including when she stepped through the tavern door and a few onlookers turned to watch her amidst the revelry.
We need a fairer, more equal world–Don’t we?
As if in cheerful response to her mute question, her attention was drawn at that very moment to the small stage to the right of his position. It was a mere five metres away from the door of the hall. Until a few seconds ago, a dwarf and an elf had been performing on it; playing respectively a woodland flute and a small, delicately carved harp. However, after they had finished their performance, the stocky human acting as master of ceremonies announced the next one. From the reaction of the parishioners, it was the most anticipated of the evening and no wonder. Still, as she continued to move discreetly towards the tavern’s centre, Andrea couldn’t help but let her heart skip a beat at the sight of the red hair making its appearance under the dim oil lamps arranged around the polished stage.
Nothing had changed. Her silhouette, slender as a reed yet athletic under the baggy troubadour’s robes, moved gracefully to the front of the stage. Her hands, those that Andrea had seen her masterfully use to shoot with great precision, now held a delicate lute between her long fingers, yet the instrument seemed made for her as well. Andrea sighed inwardly as a shiver she had thought she had forgotten crept up her spine. Luckily, at that moment, the new innkeeper placed a jug of spiced wine in front of her with his best smile so that Andrea was able to hide any treacherous signs after the first sip as the cheers gradually died down.
Lohse had just sat down on her stool and was tuning her lute patiently, as if unconcerned by the expectation around. No complexes and just the right amount of ego. That was her way.
After several seconds in which the silence in the room was sepulchral, broken only by the slight cracking of the wood of the stringed instrument that the protagonist of the moment handled between her fingers, she seemed to decide that the tuning was optimal. She settled back in her seat, placed the lute in position and plucked the first notes.
Andrea had to make a sovereign effort not to drop her mug when she heard them.
“Come to me, the night is dark.
Come to me, the night is long.
Sing for me, I’ll sing along.
Sing for me, oh sing for me”.
No way, Andrea groaned inwardly. Not this song, not now. Not today.
That song had meant a lot to both of them. It was “her” song, wasn’t it?
Lohse claimed to have composed it for her; for her adventures and for having helped her to free herself from the demon. For a moment, Andrea Ironsoul felt jealous that all those parishioners were listening to that tune that resonated so intimately in her ears.
She never told you it was special, though, an insidious voice in her head reminded her, making her lips tighten.
Deep down, it was true. Lohse had never wanted to know anything beyond a great friendship between the two of them, even if Andrea wanted it badly enough. Her rejection and her nonchalance had been a bittersweet touch to their relationship that the young sourceress thought she had left behind long ago. She was wrong.
Perhaps that’s why, when the last notes of “Sing for Me” faded into the air and the main room of the Black Bull erupted in applause and cheers, Andrea simply turned back to the bar and called the barman to order a new pitcher, this time of mead. She needed to drink and forget, she needed not to think–Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several of her companions approach a table and beckon her to join them, but Andrea rejected the offer with a silent wave of her hand and a forced smile. They seemed to respect this because they did not insist. They also knew her well enough to know that she didn’t explain herself twice if a single, well-understood gesture would do.
When the next drink poured into her jar, the sourceress took several small gulps in silence, reflecting and sinking almost unintentionally into the memories of years gone by. Unwittingly wondering if everything had really changed so much, or if deep down she wasn’t still the frightened little girl who had been put in a restraining collar and tossed into a prisoner ship without a care in the world.
“Chief. It’s been a long time.”
(Story inspired by Lohse, a character from the video game “Divinity: Original Sin II”.)
A WRITING HAND 