Agenar’s journal, page 255

As I approached the Queen’s Road gate, I felt a pickpocket brush by. With nothing in my pocket to lose, I let it pass without chase or cry and would have thought no more of it, but the image of Tymora that I stole from Songsteel and wear on a cord around my neck began to glow, as it sometimes does to guide me. It had grown uncomfortably warm when I finally checked my pocket, but cooled immediately when I drew out a slip that said only “Toasty Adventurer.”

It is the name of a bakery in the Grey Market – Nemeia used to sometimes meet the Tieflings who own the Adventurous Gargoyle there for tea, and a bite of breakfast suddenly sounded good. I turned back into the city.

After buying a day-old baguette, I wandered a bit looking for a place to sit and eat before returning to my journey. Yet when I finally found a place in the sun outside, I noticed a hooded figure watching – which retreated as soon as I let my gaze linger, curious. So I followed, down an alley and through several more, until the figure stopped, waited, and lowered its hood.

“Agenar,” she said, “weren’t you even going to say goodbye?” I almost dropped my bread and leapt into her arms, for it was Nemeia. Instead, I could only stammer that I had tried.

“Well, you didn’t look very hard,” Nemeia pouted. “See, here I am. But what happened to you?

I told her of Sriss, and of my new companions. She told me of my parents, who are well and working in the sixth ward, and that Gammon, the cult elder who ordered the Pansophical break-in, and then my exile for failure, has been dismissed for betraying our purpose by working to accumulate personal power rather than to free Tiamat. In our circle, dismissal is permanent. And painful. I reflexively wished his soul luck on its journey through the nine hells.

Then Nemeia suggested meeting tomorrow morning at her cottage, broke off a piece of bread, and said, “I’ll bring fresh rolls.” I watcher her melt into the alley shadows, then hurried back across the river to Vanity’s Prize. It did not take long to reach the Common Boar, where I slipped into a back booth and watched my father tending taps as Mother hurried from table to table. It felt like home.

Yet when she approached my table, I kept my face covered. “Please,” I said, “I have only a few silver. Just a tankard of dark ale, if I may.”

“You’re in luck,” Mother replied. “Our first cask is ready just this morning. The barkeep is new here, and this is his family recipe. I’m sure you will enjoy it.” If she recognized me, she did not let it show.

I did enjoy the ale; it tasted like home. I left a small pile of my remaining silver and returned to the cottage. My parents are well, my comrades safe but in hiding as disciples of Asmodeus attract unwanted attention from the authorities, and Nemeia will join me tomorrow. Might this strange feeling be happiness?