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It is always the same nightmare—the same memory. You and Percy, running through the snowy forests, blood dripping and trailing behind you as Percy staggers through his wounds. The voices, the shouting—“There! Get them!”—and then, the sound of arrows, the sound of arrows striking flesh, a sudden absence of your brother’s hand in yours.
“Go!” he’s shouting, even as the wind is knocked out of his lungs by the impact, “Cass, just go!”
And then there he is, lying on the reddened snow, breath coming out in heaving gasps. His head lifts towards you, you see the desperation, see him say, “At least you must live.”
The formless voices in the distance are getting closer now; more arrows strike the ground around you. One barely misses your foot.
You have no choice.
You run.
And then you wake in Greyskull Keep, eyes wide and reaching for the dagger you always keep by your bedside. It’s chilly in the night as it always tends to get, but it is not the cold of a surging river in winter. You are in a bed, safe, among friends.
And your entire family is dead.
You let out a breath, a tired, quiet sigh. You let yourself drop back down onto the mattress, throwing a hand over your eyes. So it’s going to be one of those nights, is it? Very well. You’re more than used to running on the barest amounts sleep.
Besides, the Briarwoods are coming, and you need to be prepared.
You heave yourself off the bed, and take her dagger and pull your cloak around yourself. You know this from experience: there’s no more sleep to be had for the night. Might as well skulk around the Cloudtop District in search of information and rumors.
-
You figure that the others have a good enough handle on the situation at the dinner. Tiberius is noble-born and should be familiar enough with proper etiquette at formal events, and though he may be lacking in common sense at times, the others have just enough to reign him (and Grog, should the need arise) in.
You wince at a particular remark, but Vex and Scanlan are quick to cover up the faux-pas with nervous laughter and diverting comments.
It’s fine enough for now. Whatever Seeker Asum requested you for is more important. Without a word to the others, you slink away from the wall and make your way across the hall silently. He had started moving to the hall’s exit a moment ago, and it’s easy enough to follow his footsteps.
But for the briefest instant, you swear that you can feel some eyes on you. You refuse, absolutely refuse, to turn to glance over your shoulders—if it’s the Briarwoods as you suspect, nothing good can come from meeting their gaze.
You sneak past the doors right as the wood shuts silently behind you. Seeker Asum hurries through the corridors, taking hurried but confident steps in winding paths down the hallway back to the foyer, whereupon he ducks into a small side room.
It’s deadly still; you can barely even hear him breathe. And after a moment, he pulls up his hood and whispers, “Cassandra? Are you there?”
“I’m here,” you say just as quietly. You take a few steps closer to him, staying by his side. “What did you want?”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Excellent, you’re here. That makes this much easier. We have two actions open to us now. For the first, I know where the Briarwoods’ room is. Their belongings should be moved in soon; if there was ever a time to sneak in to spy on them while they think they are alone, that would be it. The other option is to go to their carriage driver and ask him some questions regarding them. Which would you rather do? Given your current invisibility, perhaps you’d be better suited for the first option.”
“Then I have no disagreement,” you say. You see him nod, reach into his cloak, and pull out a piece of parchment which he holds out into the air. You take it from his fingers, unfolding it to see a very crude sketch of where the Briarwoods’ room is. It’s easy enough to commit it to memory, so you quickly crumple the paper and tuck it away into the pouch at your hip.
“I’ve marked the location,” he says. “Go now, and hurry. I would not recommend looking through their things—we know that Lady Briarwood is a rather powerful caster, and she may have enchantments or traps set on their belongings. Just… keep an ear out. See what information you can find.”
“Consider it done,” you say.
“Luck be with you, Cassandra,” he says.
“And the same to you.”
He moves towards the door, then pauses. “When all this is done, don’t seek me out. Return to your keep. I’ll send word when I can.”
“Understood.”
He opens the door and you rush out, hurrying to the further end of the palace that was marked on the map. There are servants occasionally going through the corridors, but it’s a trivial enough matter to sneak past them. A girl that you pass does raise the hairs on the back of your neck, but it wasn’t anyone that with the Briarwoods when they arrived.
Perhaps she’s a magical assassin here for another attempt on Sovereign Uriel’s life. You can’t quite find it within yourself to be overly concerned at the moment.
There’s a door open in the hallway that you just round the corner to, and two palace servants are quickly pushing in bags. You recognize them as the ones that the Briarwoods’ attendants were carrying.
Spying a gap in the servants’ activity, you take your chance. You nearly brush past one’s arm on your in way but manage to jerk away in time. The servants continue moving things in quickly, lining up the packed bags by the sides of the dresser and the bed, and soon they leave, letting the door click shut.
For a moment you don’t even dare to breathe. There’s the clanking of metal armor outside the door- guards moving into position, no doubt. And then, it’s silence again.
All right. You’re here. Seeker Asum’s warning fresh in your mind, you steer clear of every single bag as you circle the room for a place to conceal yourself. Beneath the bed, probably not. Nowhere near any of the bags, not in their closet either. Just out flattened against a wall? The lack of cover makes you uneasy.
Near the far end of the room is a bookcase with just enough of a gap between it and the wall that you could squeeze yourself inside. Perfect.
Now all there is to do is to wait.
-
They got away. The Briarwoods got away.
Vex’s aim was fortunate enough that her arrow dislodged a wheel off the dark carriage, but Delilah had grabbed her husband and the pair of them had vanished in a burst of magic, Scanlan not able to stop them this time.
“Cass?” Scanlan’s voice is just on the edge of your consciousness, just barely permeating through the wave of rage and frustration. “You doing okay?”
“No,” you spit, thrusting your sword back into its sheath with such force that it nearly breaks off the belt. “I’m not.”
Tiberius scrambles his way up to you on all fours. Vex is already turned away towards her brother, propping him up as she panics and fusses. It’s almost beyond your perception- your focus is entirely on the carriage driver lying in the toppled carriage.
Before you knows what you’re doing, you march up to him and pick him up by the front of his collar, ignoring his weak flailing and terrified gasps, or the fact that he is taller than you are. “You will tell me everything you told Seeker Asum,” you say, bringing him close to your face so he can see the death threat implied in your eyes. “And you will tell me everything else that you didn’t. Now.”
“Uh, Cass,” says Scanlan, rather insistently. He’s poking you in the back of your calves. “Maaaybe we could hold off the questioning for a bit, until, you know, there aren’t any important people standing right behind us? You know, just as a suggestion.”
You barely pay attention to Sovereign Uriel’s tongue-lashing. It’s all irrelevant to your ears; nothing else matters in the wake of vengeance slipping past your fingers so easily. You don’t even realize it when the guards take the carriage driver from you, that the others lead you back to the keep, you’re just seething with all this rage built up deep inside you.
You shut yourself in your room. Keyleth tries to coax you out, Vex sends Trinket as a comfort bear, Tiberius blusters and both Grog and Scanlan make passing attempts. It doesn’t get through the icy cold anger.
You don’t think anything can.
-
Whitestone is not as you remember it.
It should make you sad. Not that it doesn’t, but you feel like you should have a deeper connection to your homeland. But it’s just so vastly different that you almost can’t recognize it as the town where you’ve grown up for a decade and a half. Rather, most of what you feel is resolve. Resolve to free the town, resolve to kill the Briarwoods.
“It’s… desolate,” you hear Keyleth say. “The land is almost barren, everyone looks miserable, there’s zombie giants in the town… It’s just… horrible.”
“And uh,” says Scanlan, “that tree in the center of town square is not a fun place. Not that anywhere in town is a fun place to be, but, you know. Seems like it was used for a couple of public executions lately.”
You were never the religious one in the family; that was always your father. But the Sun Tree was the symbol of all of Whitestone itself, and your heart contracts just a bit to hear that.
You try, though, to turn it into determination. Sorrow will not serve you now, or in the battles ahead.
-
“You are not the last de Rolo,” Archibald Desnet says, his eyes brimming with tears of triumph and relief. Behind you Keyleth gasps, clutching at your arm in excitement; there’s a commotion again behind you, everyone clamoring in anticipation.
“What? W-who else…?”
“Your brother, Cassandra. Percival yet lives.”
Keyleth actually lets out a tiny shriek. “Cass! Your brother!” she says, shaking your arm.
Your brother is alive.
You are not alone anymore.
-
Your sword is dropped on the floor, still stained with Professor Anders’s blood, but you have more important things to take care of for now.
You help Percy sit up as he coughs, one hand at his throat. He’s pale, from the blood loss, perhaps, though the shade of his skin still seems unhealthily sallow even given that. “Percy? Percival?”
“C-Cassandra…”
His hand shakily reaches up for your face, and though his palm is covered in blood you let him touch you, confirm you’re real—you need this as much as he, probably—and then he catches you in a tight hug, one that you return just as desperately.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” he says quietly, breaking away.
“The same to you,” you say, clutching his hand tightly in yours. “The same to you.”
-
“We will end up in combat. It’s unsafe,” says Vex. “There is fighting on the streets, but we can lead you out to town and you can shelter there.”
“Absolutely not,” says Percy. The fierceness of his words is belied by his shakiness as he steps towards the group. You’re concerned too, but you recognize Percy in one of his stubborn moods—it appears that he hasn’t changed very much. “I’ve been involved in Whitestone’s rebellions since the beginning, and if this is to be the end, you will not take away my chance to be a part of it.”
“Let him come with us,” you say. Everyone shoots you surprised looks, Percy included. “You have a better idea of what we’re going to face down beneath the castle than we do. And you say you can fight? Then there’s no problem.”
You don’t remember Percy particularly excelling at combat. Then again, you didn’t really either. Necessity drives improvement, after all—look where you are now.
Vax winces. “Very well. But you’re responsible for your own safety; we can’t afford to be distracted by worrying over you.” Here, he shoots a look to you. You resist the urge to point out that all of you are very familiar with Vax and Vex’s behavior when the other is in mortal danger, and give him a curt nod.
“Let me get my things,” Percy says. “I’ll be back shortly, and then I can show you the way through the Undercroft.”
He strides out of the room, hands clenched into fists.
And meanwhile Keyleth is trying very hard to avoid looking at Vax, the three who chased after Ripley have returned empty-handed, and you realize that you’re just really, really tired. After picking up your blade and trying your best to wipe it clean on the rug in Anders’s study, Percy returns, staying in the doorway.
“I’m ready,” he says.
Seeing him in armor is an odd sight—in your recollections of your childhood, he was always the one standing at the sides of the practice ring as Vespa and Ludwig would spar. Of course all of you had received combat training but Percy wasn’t the best with a sword even on his better days. The leather armor is less than your chainmail, and he still looks awkward in it, a new, non-bloodstained coat thrown over it.
“That’s a dinky little toothpick,” comments Grog. Percy glances up at his war hammer and then back to the rapier in his hand. You’ve never seen it before. “You sure it’s gonna work?”
“I’ve made a few of my own modifications to it,” Percy says. In the pause in this conversation, you all hear a very quiet click as he thumbs something at the pommel of the sword. “It’s fine.”
He nods once, decisive. “Let’s go.”
-
“How did you survive? What’s your story?” asks Vax, a hand already at his waist. “As far as I know, Cass here said you got shot full of arrows.”
Percy shrugs. “As far as I knew for the first few months, I didn’t survive. Father Reynault recovered me, and I was apparently unconscious for months, healing from my wounds under his care. He sheltered me at the Zenith, the temple of Pelor, and kept me hidden until I woke. From there, we and Keeper Yennin worked on organizing the first rebellion. Given that Whitestone is still under the grasp of the Briarwoods, I think you can imagine how that went.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I was found after the failure, and the Briarwoods took me in, a hostage in my own home. For what reason, I do not know. Perhaps it was symbolic; I was a visual reminder to the people of their hold over the town.”
“What happened then?” Vex asks.
He smiles crookedly. “It’s a shame I was never as interested in poking about as you were, sister dear. You have a much better knowledge of the secret passageways of the castle than I. I couldn’t escape. A few times, I contemplated provoking them enough to kill me. But I eventually decided to be of as much use as I could to the people. I made contact with Keeper Yennin and Archie, passed whatever information I could to aid the next rebellion.”
“What kind of information?”
“Whatever I could find out through eavesdropping. What guards they would send out, places they have been told to inspect. It wasn’t much at first, until the Briarwoods figured that I could be of use to them.”
“In what way?” Vax takes over the questioning again now, a dark tone to his voice.
“You can ask Cassandra; I’ve always been interested in… tinkering. Experimenting. The sciences hold a particular interest. They’ve been working on cultivating some form of acid—for what purpose, they would not tell me—but they asked me to work alongside Doctor Ripley in preparing it. Always in her room, never down wherever they were excavating it all. But I could pass on whatever I learned of their secret plans from Ripley to the rest. Which, unfortunately, was still not so much. Ripley wasn’t much of a conversationalist, even on topics not related to the plans.”
“She seemed pretty chatty when we had her,” Scanlan comments. “Or maybe it was just my magnetic personality.”
“Oh, do excuse my mistake.” Percy’s tongue has also gotten sharper in the long years, it seems. “She wasn’t the problem, it was more on my side. Forgive me if I wasn’t interested in making idle chatter with my torturer.”
“Oh.” That provides good enough cover for a tactful pause from Scanlan. “Yeah, that’s a pretty reasonable reaction.”
Percy shakes his head. “It’s done and over with. What other questions do you have for me to prove my trustworthiness?”
“A lot more,” says Vax, darkly. Clarota’s memory lingers heavily in all your minds. “Let’s continue with those.”
-
“Okay,” is the first thing out of Grog’s mouth as soon as the ghosts are vanquished, “your sword-explodey thing is pretty cool. For a toothpick.”
Percy gives him a wry smile, sheathing his rapier now that the danger is over. “As I said, I enjoy experimentation. I’ve never had a chance to use this in a fight before; it’s good to know that it is at least effective. At any rate, we shouldn’t dally here. There are many de Rolos buried in the mausoleum.”
“That sounds like a very excellent idea,” says Vex. “Let’s get going.”
You make your way further through the tunnels, eventually reaching a place where you all can rest and regain some energy. As you all settle down, Vax begins asking some more probing questions of your brother. You shoot him a look, but he doesn’t react to it in any way, and you admit to yourself that caution is probably warranted here.
“I stayed in the Zenith for a while, yes,” says Percy, in response to a question that you missed. “Hid in the back room and worked on some things as Father Reynault conducted his sermons. Early prototypes of this, you could say,” he adds, gesturing to his rapier. “When it became unsafe, we moved to the other temple, the one to Erathis. We spent perhaps a year and a half there, with Keeper Yennin. And, we planned rebellion.”
“So you’re a man of faith?” asks Pike, interest obviously piqued at the prospect of a possible commonality. Percy gives the cleric a flat look out of the corner of his eye. It’s less derisive than the one you would’ve shot Pike had you been asked that question, but it’s very definitively not the positive reaction that the gnome was shooting for.
“The gods exist, that much I acknowledge. As per the legends, Pelor stands as Whitestone’s guardian,” he says. “But what was he doing as the city was reduced to all that you saw above?” He shakes his head. “No, I believe more in human kindness. And in human cruelty.”
He lifts his chin a bit in Pike’s direction, not so much a confrontational or flippant move as it is one to show off the raised, off-color skin of a deep, long scar, beginning just beneath his collarbone and trailing underneath his shirt. Your mind briefly flashes back to that day five years ago. Was that one of his wounds then? You can’t tell; from the angry color, the way it stands out against the rest of his skin, it looks like it should be relatively recent, but you knows more than enough by now to know that something is… not right. Anything to do with the prospect of injuries or death within Whitestone is, for lack of a better word, unnatural.
“Oh,” says Pike. “W-well, that’s, uh…”
She trails off, and Percy doesn’t seem interested in continuing any conversation. You see the twins looking at each other carefully. Grog looks vaguely impressed by the scar. You can’t see Scanlan or Pike’s expressions, but that’s only because you won’t pause your deep examination of your brother just to take a glimpse of their faces.
This is really the first time that you’ve had the chance to examine all the differences. He’s worryingly pale, but he does still have a pulse; he’s no undead slave reanimated by the Briarwoods. His hair is the same deep brown that you remember, but there are streaks of white starting from his temples. The armor, the weapon—of course that’s different.
The worst change is in his eyes, you think.
He has the same blue eyes as your father, but his gaze is colder and harder than you’ve ever seen. Though the two of you were never the closest of your siblings, he did always have a warm smile when you would (begrudgingly, because eleven year old princesses had their pride, of course) ask for his aid in your arithmetic lessons. Aside from the briefest softening of his gaze when you first reunited, he’s not shown one shred of the loving sibling that you’ve known him to be.
(And are they… grayer… than they should be?)
“That’s enough of a rest, I think,” he declares, standing. “We should hurry on.”
-
“There are no more de Rolos,” says Percy, quiet enough that you have to strain to hear him from behind the glass. Briefly, his eyes wander to the two pipes on the ceiling, the hissing liquid beginning to pour out of them. “Not after today. You are soon to be a corpse, and I, after all, am… a Briarwood.”
And with that he reaches into a hidden pocket in his coat to pull on a mask, metal and leather and tinted glass where his eyes should be so that you can’t even see whether or not there’s any guilt in his gaze. Delilah’s hand is loose on his shoulder, a taunting smirk on her face.
“Percival was a darling,” she drawls. “After Ripley tried to run, he’s been of so much help in refitting the Distillery to turn it into, well.” She uses her other hand to make a flourish towards the chamber that you’re trapped in, to the two acid pipes. “Such a genius mind,” she breathes, leaning in close to his ear.
“But, I’m afraid we can’t stay.” Delilah takes a step back, guiding Percy with the hand on his shoulder. “Farewell, and I hope you melt slowly and painfully.”
Sylas shoots you all an icy smile, gesturing for Vax to follow after the rest of his entourage.
That leaves the rest of you. Trapped, betrayed, and about to drown in acid.
And you have just lost your brother again.
-
“Stop!” The shout bursts out of you before you have a chance to think.
“Why?” asks Grog, giving Percy a shake.
“Yes, Cassandra,” begins Vax, stalking up to yank the mask off of Percy’s face, tossing it down hard enough to shatter the glass lenses. “Why?”
You resist the urge to march up there and stab your short sword right in his damn hypocritical half-elven face. “Because, Vax’ildan,” you begin, grinding the name out through your teeth, “if you recall, he wasn’t the only one to stand with the Briarwoods that battle. And I see nobody here calling for you to be dropped off the Ziggurat.”
Grog, still holding your unresisting brother up by his neck, tilts his head in your direction. “She’s got a point,” he says. “I’ve got a free hand for you, Vax.” The goliath waves the appendage in question.
“Yes, you were turned against us, and yes, you were under the influence of Sylas, and what do you think he’s been living through for the past however many years?” When Vax doesn’t respond, or move his dagger away from Percy’s chin, you turn your attention to Grog.
“Put my brother down, here, Grog. I’ll handle him.”
Grog gives you a look, eventually shrugs, and deposits Percy back down on the floor. “Have at him,” he says.
Percy isn’t responding very much to anything, still recovering from the multiple hammer swings and arrow wounds he sustained in the fight, but he’s alert enough to see you approaching, and alert enough to avert his eyes from yours.
You’re not having any of this. Grabbing his chin, you force him to look you straight in the eye.
“Percival. After this, we’re going to have a long, long talk. But for now, you’re safest here.” Briefly you pause, debating with yourself. “And I’m sorry in advance.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, you strike him in the face, hard. Hard enough that you hear a small crack from the impact, that he immediately falls unconscious, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
You don’t- you don’t want to hurt him. But it is true that he’s safest here, outside whatever chamber Delilah escaped to, and away from a bloodthirsty Grog, and Vax, and Scanlan. Knowing that simply leaving him here isn’t going to appease the others, you pull out a piece of rope and begin binding his hands behind his back.
Vax shoves his way through beside you.
“His ankles too,” he says. There isn’t an apology in his tone, but you don’t really expect one—while he is still a hypocritical ass, Percy is an outsider to him. And that’s fair, but you want him to remember that he’s still your brother too.
You hand Vax the rope and let him tie the bonds himself, an intricate and hardy knot. “Just leave him here,” he says when he’s done. Vax stands and brushes himself off; you do the same. “Now let’s go. Whatever the good Lady Delilah’s up to in there, it can’t be good.”
-
“Okay, fine, we can’t stop the spinning death ball,” says Vex. “What now?”
“Well, she’s useless to us now,” Grog points out immediately, raising his war hammer above Delilah with a significant look to the rest of you.
“Hold on,” you say. The action all stops, and the others turn to look at you. “Percy?”
All eyes on him, Percy freezes where he stands. “Me?”
“Well, if there’s anyone who’d really want revenge, it’d be you,” Scanlan remarks. He makes hand motions towards Delilah held up against the wall, as if shooing Percy towards her. After a second of thought he mimes some additional stabbing motions.
You carefully watch him. If it were up to you, Delilah would be dead right now. You had wanted to kill her back then, but as Keyleth had pointed out to you before you had thrown that last dagger, it was probably not such a good idea to kill her in a room with writhing corpses on the wall, and while she was possibly attempting to summon a god of the undead.
Percy takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “I…” He opens his eyes again and looks at her. “I don’t care what you do with her. Just- just don’t… don’t kill her.”
Grog’s incredulous, “What,” speaks for the rest of the party.
When Percy turns his gaze to you again, you see that his eyes are drained almost entirely of color, a flat gray that would shine blue only in the right kind of light at the right kind of angle; that the bags under his eyes are stark against his skin; that blood still slowly oozes around his face from the shattered glass of his crooked spectacles. “There’s been enough death,” he begins slowly, “and I’m tired of it all.”
Here he turns those eyes to Delilah, now narrowed. “Besides, I’m not being merciful. You’re not meeting your husband for a long, long time. That will be a certainty.”
Behind you, Scanlan whispers to Grog, somewhat impressed, “Ice fucking cold.”
Percy overhears, apparently. And without turning back to face him, he says quietly under his breath, “More and for far longer than you know.”
He takes a moment to gather himself, and musters up a tiny smile towards you through his exhaustion. “But it doesn’t have to be that way anymore, does it.”
-
And now he is here, seated far away from the festivities, watching the celebrations of the people with a content smile. It brings back memories of the various Winter’s Crest festivals throughout your childhood, and the recollection seems to add a layer of tingling nostalgic warmth to your whole body.
The dark marks under his eyes have only just begun to fade, and his skin still seems paler than healthy, but he does look better than before. His winter cloak is pulled around him, and snowflakes are starting to gather in his hair, adding several more spots of white in addition to the strips along his temples.
After Keyleth had checked on the Sun Tree when you all returned, she had pulled you aside.
“Keep an eye on your brother,” Keyleth had said. She’s expressive enough normally, but something about this discussion gets her going more than usual, hand movements flailing widely. “I don’t really know, and the tree is kind of groggy so it’s hard to tell, but the tree and the land are both kind of sort of connected to your brother. Somehow. It’s weird, okay, don’t ask, but just keep an eye on him.”
And he is looking better, really. He looks happy. Happy, and at peace.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed your approach, so you indulge in a little childish impulse—Gods, it’s been so long since you could— and pelt him with a fresh handful of snow.
“Augh, Cassandra!” He spins around on his bench, the tail end of a laugh dissipating into the cold winter air with the rest of his breath.
“So you’re staying in Whitestone, I take it?” you ask him, depositing yourself on the bench right next to him. “Going to be lord of the castle, aren’t you? Lord Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III of Whitestone. Rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it?”
He huffs out a laugh. “I suppose, yes. And that does mean that you’re to be Lady Cassandra Johanna Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo II, don’t forget.”
“It’s been a long time since I heard that name,” you say with a chuckle. “I’ve forgotten what it sounds like when you say it out loud. You know how it is in the stabbing sort of business-” Here you break off and tap your dagger. “Short names first, full introductions if you’re still alive.”
If nothing else, the two of you have always had a more macabre sense of humor than your siblings. The both of you share a quiet moment of amusement.
Something occurs to you then, a missing element from the name and title that Percy spouted. “I don’t get an ‘of something’?”
His smile briefly fades, and he cocks his head towards the twins plus Trinket at the pie-eating contest. Coincidentally just at the moment that both twins (or their stomachs, at least) simultaneously surrender, but you refuse to let it ruin your moment, and Percy appears to be powering through it as well. “I assume you’d be staying with them…?”
You pause. “I- Yes, probably. There’s still… a lot to do at Emon, and we still have unfinished business. There’s a lot out there.”
“I gathered as much.” He nods. “Then you’re Lady Cassandra of Vox Machina. But, there will always be a place for Lady Cassandra of Whitestone here, as long as you’re willing, whenever you want. And you will always have a home and family here.”
You want to hug him, but for now you restrain yourself. “And on that note,” you say, reaching into the pouch for that box sent by Lilith, “I have a Winter’s Crest gift for you. And if Vex finds out that I’m just handing this over, she’s probably going to strangle me, so you better appreciate this.”
His eyes widen as you pull out his hands and wrap his fingers around the blue gem. “Anything happens, you concentrate really hard on this, and you’ll immediately appear wherever I am. You said I have a home and family here in Whitestone, and I extend you the same offer: you will always have a home and family within, if not with, Vox Machina, as long as you’re willing, whenever you want.”
He doesn’t appear to have the same restraint you do and immediately envelops you in a hug, tight and warm and perfect.
“Thank you, Cassandra,” he says. “It is so very good to have you back again.”
“The same to you, brother. The same to you.”