Chapter Text
Ferris has never been one for prayer, but she does well enough with conversation so that is what she sets her mind to, letting her feet carry her away from camp until there is no sound of her friends, no indication anyone can hear her.
Gale had made the Weave manifest itself in galaxy swirls around them, and while it was pretty, Ferris was more used to using her nose than her eyes when it came to Mystra’s domain. She takes a deep breath, another, calling magic into her palms until the air around her at hinted rose water and sweetness, cloying even in small amounts.
The Weave is here, and so is Mystra.
“I know you can hear me,” she speaks at her normal volume, no need to shout at the Lady of Mysteries. “And I’ve come to tell you that I will not let him die. He does your wonders, and you would see him a martyr rather than an emissary. No one that capable, that masterful, should die for a petty cause.”
There is no response. She doesn’t expect one.
“If he is in need of a champion, I will become one. I will throw down my gauntlet against any god or devil for anyone here, know that. I will fight for them all.”
The air presses in against her, nearly suffocating, but Ferris is well-practiced in being choked of life. She does not change her breathing, does not panic. There is no point anyway; if a goddess wanted her dead, then dead she would be. It’s almost soothing to think that way. She had nearly died at the hands of a man, what was the wrath of something she couldn’t see after those horrors?
Nothing Mystra could do would be worse than what she had already suffered.
She deserves so much more, they all do, and they are striving for it every single day. Every new dawn and each breath drawn was in defiance of their pasts and the laid paths of their futures. Ferris would see them all reborn as they wished, whole and hale and happy. If it was in her power, she would do it.
Even if it wasn’t, she would fight to her last breath.
“You do not frighten me.” Her voice is steady even as it is swallowed by the crushing weight. “I am made of sterner stuff than that, and I am the champion of Gale Dekarios. Speak your challenge or leave me be.”
She’s going to be struck down, she’s going to feel the full wrath of a goddess—
The oxygen returns to the air and her lungs fill with easy, brightness bursting across her vision once more as she stands just a bit taller. Ferris nods once, straightens her swords, and turns back to camp; just another evening of normalcy, all things considered. At least they hadn’t been attacked by inter-dimensional beings again.
“Had a nice walk, did you?” Shadowheart doesn’t glance up from stitching a rip in her trousers. “Gale nearly had a fit when he couldn’t find you, I made up something about needing privacy but you ought to reassure him all the same.”
Ferris rolls her eyes but thanks her anyway, wandering leisurely through the tents until she reaches the wizard’s. “Gale? I’m back, and alive. I know that’s often a concern, but I swear I didn’t do anything life-threatening on my quest to stretch my legs.”
Gale stumbles from the opening, pulled open by a Mage Hand. “You shouldn’t wander off alone, Ferris. It’s dangerous—“
He didn’t know the half of it.
“Wizard, I spent twenty years roaming the plains with only some sheep for company, I can handle a walk in the woods with a group of powerful friends within shouting distance.”
“Well yes, I suppose…why are your eyes bloodshot?”
“What?”
“Your eyes,” he steps closer, peering at her face and Ferris is stupid enough to rise to the challenge rather than look away. “They weren’t like this when you went on your ‘stroll’.”
“I’m not sure what I’m being accused of—did you just sniff me?” She twists away slightly, brows furrowing in confusion as Gale sniffs again, this time more exaggerated. “What in the Hells?”
“It’s not pipe weed, clearly. I’ve only see that level of burst capillaries when someone is deprived of air for a long period of time, or there was trauma to the head. You didn’t fall, did you?”
“Nothing so boring as that, Gale. I’m fine. Look,” she spreads her arms and takes a step back so he can get the full measure of her. “No scrapes, no bruises. Maybe I had a good, long cry.”
He narrows his eyes. “Doubtful, your nose gets all red when you actually do.”
“It’s nice that you notice me at my worst,” she shrugs and goes to step away but Gale grabs her wrist; it’s not hard, just enough to keep her in place for a moment.
“Not just at your worst,” he says, clearing his throat as he lets her go. Ferris rubs her wrist. “And I’m glad you’re…I’m glad you took your swords, at least.”
“Of course,” Ferris smiles. “What’s bard without her silver and steel? A storyteller needs both her sharp tongue and something to make a point.”
He doesn’t need to know; in fact it’s better if he doesn’t. Gale Dekarios, former Chosen of Mystra, does not need to know that she’s already challenged his goddess and that it’s a standing invitation.
Mystra could strike her down at any time.
‘And it would be well worth it,’ she thinks as the wizard smiles at her passable attempt at humor.
‘The world will not make martyrs of us,’ she vows again, solidifying it in her heart until it beats with new purpose. ‘We can and will write our own futures, and I will do whatever I must to make that happen.’
Ferris is their champion.
She’ll rise to any challenge, cross her blades and stand tall.