The smell of wood glue was thick in the air around Logan, his gloves trying to get stuck in place themselves as he forced the cut parts back together and layered on splinters of fitting sized to fill out where parts of it had been smashed in or sheared off. Thankfully, the smashed door of the Cockatrice had been made of oak too, and the splinters Technus had made were good substitutes for what had been lost in the fight.

Logan dreaded to consider this, even for a moment... but he supposed that Technus' explosive from earlier had a silver-lining. Only a paper-thin one, though.

Once his shield's face was put back together, he pulled his gloves free from his hands and reached for his painting supplies. Dipping his thickest brush into the large pot of navy paint he kept refilling throughout his adventures, he painted a new coat over the entire thing save for the white griffin standing proudly rampant in the centre – so some parts of the blue wouldn't look faded compared to the others. Then, once that had dried, he took a finer brush and began to repaint the griffin itself, filling in any spots where the wood was visible and covering over any parts of the white that were turning grey or beige.

When all this was done, Logan propped the shield up on his knee and examined it closely, his golden eyes narrowing as he searched up and down for flaws anywhere, his brushes still ready to wipe them away.

Thankfully, he didn't see anything, though he couldn't help but double and triple-check for any mistakes or imperfections to the point where his golden eyes became heavy and sore from staring.

Caring for his gear had been a habit worked into Logan until it became an obsession – every evening, he worked to repair any damage that had been done to his effects so he could be ready for the next fight to cross his path.

After all, how could he uphold his duty with rusted armour and a dull blade?

Besides, the Realms were a dangerous place at the best of times, as today had more than proven – one moment, a calm evening in an inn, and the next a bloodbath.

Setting his work aside to dry, Logan's eyes drifted over to where his removed armour rest on a plain wooden chair, pauldrons, greaves and gauntlets rest on the seat while the chainmail shirt was slung over the back. It had been polished and repaired to the best of his ability, and with his shield now fixed, all that remained was his sword.

Rising from his seat and crossing the room, Logan scooped up his scabbard from where it lay upon the desk, just below his room's open window. His family blade rested snugly inside the sleeve of wood and blood-red leather, the edges of the sheath lined with brass. Once he was sat back down on the bed, Logan took a rag, gave the brass a good polish, then drew the sword out to examine the rest of the weapon.

The handle was smooth black leather wrapped over wood, with the gold-and-sapphire wings of the crossguard bordering it on one end, and the pommel depicting a griffin's head, beak open to unleash a mighty screech, protruding from the other. The blade itself was silvered, shimmering in the candlelight, the fuller inlaid with gold filigree and etched with runes that bore its name in the Celestial language.

Sacrifice – a longsword passed down in his family line for over a thousand years. Wrought of spellforged steel, it was light as a feather... yet it felt heavier than the world itself as it sat rested upon Logan's palms. Heavy with the legacy it charged him to carry along with it.

The House of Galehaut had a long history of members swearing themselves to the oathsworn life of a paladin, and some of the greatest heroes that the Realms had ever known came from their lineage. It was said that their family's founding, Sacrifice had been wielded for the cause of justice and righteousness, and this holy duty was borne with the blade as it was passed down their bloodline, the lineage of the Guardians of Frostpeak.

From knight to squire, from forebear to successor, from father to-

Logan's thoughts jarred to a halt in that moment, so hard that a spurt of pain ran through his head almost as harsh as the one which pierced his heart.

'No,' he thought to himself. 'Not for me.'

His mood was downcast from then on as he turned his attention to honing the blade with his whetstone, forcing his worn and exhausted hands to be steady as the steel itself while he returned Sacrifice to its rightful quality. Then, slipping it back into its scabbard, he set the weapon aside with heavy eyes and a heavy heart.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Logan felt his fingers drift up to caress the holy symbol of Bahamut he had around his neck, depicting the Platinum Dragon's head on the end of a long chain forged from the same material. And before he allowed himself to sleep, he said his forlorn words:

"Goodnight, uncle..."

~~~

Stalk wanted to be as far away from the graves that night, and so had claimed the room that was right next to the western wall of the Cockatrice, for he and Sir Logan had buried the dead merchants to the west of the inn – something Stalk was now regretting.

As he tried to sleep, his mind was filled with memories – not of the gore and visceral carnage, but instead of the pale, bloodless faces, their unblinking eyes opening, bulging and bloating in their sockets, gleaming with malice as they seemed to watch his every move.

Weighing him. Condemning him...

"Stupid, stupid..." he muttered to himself in another person's voice as he smacked his head sideways on his pillow, his heartbeat rapid as a hummingbird's wingbeat in his chest.

It was not unusual for his kind to get nervous, but Stalk was feeling as jumpy as the wizard Ren right now, and he knew he wouldn't get to sleep like this. Sitting up, he flicked his head around in search of something he knew could calm him down.

Across the room, slung over the back of a chair, was his studded leather armour with all its assorted pouches and belts. Some contained lockpicks and other thieves' tools, others contained daggers that could be thrown or drawn from hidden places to surprise foes... and one contained one of the most important things to him.

Climbing out of bed, Stalk hopped energetically across the room, riding his adrenaline high with each little jump. Then, up reaching his things and fumbling through them with his taloned fingers, he pulled out what he was looking for – a few small vials of richly-coloured, jelly-like concoctions, each one thick and gloopy inside its container. Each tube was sealed with a simple cork with a single letter carved into it with his talons– the kenku's way of remembering which was which.

After lighting a candle on the bed so he could see properly, Stalk's eyes flicked over the tops of the tubes in search of the one he needed:

'C' – Celerity...
'R' – Rapidity...
'N' – Nighteye...

Ah, there it was! 'P', marking the Percipient vial. Inside this one was a dark violet solution, more viscous than the others but still more like a slime than any kind of potion most would be familiar with.

But these weren't potions. These were mutagens.

As Stalk uncorked the vial, a thick, sharp and acrid stench fumed out, filling the air with an invisible cloud that seemed to stab into the nose of any who were nearby. Others might have shied away or even gagged, but Stalk made no such motion. Instead, he opened his beak, held the glass tube upside down, and as the violet sludge slid from its container and splatted against his tongue, he gulped it down in one go.

He was used to the smell by now, as well as the tangy, electrifying taste that shot down his throat as he swallowed the alchemical brew. But as it fell into his stomach, he felt the rest of its effects just as immediately as the stench filled the air earlier – within seconds, the nerves building inside him when he thought about the dead dulled, as if they had fallen into a slumber, and were then smothered in their sleep.

Being near the dead didn't mean She was watching. She probably had more important things to be thinking about than watching any kenku, let alone him.

After all, She had never truly loved their kind.

Stalk gave a satisfied smirk as these new realizations replaced his fears, feeling assured in the wisdom and certainty the potion gave him. It also increased his perceptions; the candlelight brightening, the cool glass of the empty vial becoming like ice in his palm and the sounds of the night seeming to close in all around him as they got louder... and in that instant, he noticed a small something lightly brushing against his foot, causing one of his scaled toes to itch.

Flicking his head down, Stalk saw his coin pouch lying neglected on the floor, the tip of the twine that knotted it closed the cause of his itching foot. Chuckling, he slipped the vial back into his alchemist's supplies, then stooped down and hooked the pouch with one of his talons.

"Must have knocked you off the chair or whatever..." he said aloud. "Sorry, little guy." Stalk then swung the pouch side to side to feel its weight against his wrist, watching as the leather strained. The container had swelled since this morning, and looked like it might burst if even a few more coppers were added to it.

In a strange sense, the money in the purse gave Stalk a feeling of comfort just as much as the potion had.

'It'll go to a good cause within the flock...' he thought to himself. 'Besides, it's not like they were using it anymore...'

Most folk in Faerun took a dim view to robbing graves, claiming it was disrespectful to the dead and would invite the wrath of the gods. But kenku had already known a god's wrath, so it was unlikely that things could get any worse for them.

"The paladin didn't notice..." Stalk thought. "And since he didn't, as I see it, there's no harm done. Pious fool." He tossed the pouch up in the air, caught it, then knelt to tie it back to his belt.

However, as that last thought sank in, the kenku felt a pang of guilt inside him – one which not only made his heartbeat slow even more, but also grow heavy behind his ribs.

That was unfair of him to say. Sir Logan seemed decent enough, even if he was rash and prone to prancing about on his knightly high horse. And he had helped Stalk during and after the fight with the pack lord.

'I owe him that much at least...' Stalk supposed in his head. Though whether that thought was his own, or something he was merely remembering from someone else, he wasn't sure.

Kenku had always found it hard to have thoughts of their own. Ever since the day they had been cursed. Cursed by Death herself...

Stalk tried not to think of that, though. He'd taken the potion to stop fretting over the plight of his people. The wisdom the elixir granted was better put to use trying to life the curse that hung over all his kind... and his family most of all.

~~~

Stalk's mumbling, Ren's outburst of terror, Logan and Arabella's conversation, Finnan's irritating animal calls... Technus heard it all. And he felt relief as it all finally went quiet, leaving only the faint and most distant-sounding snores as the wooden walls of the inn kept out most of the noise.

As ever, the works of Lady Erathis kept out the mewlings of organics, and Technus' enhanced audio detectors and other sensors were finally given some rest from their ilk as the night deepened and quiet reigned at last.

Of course, he required no such vulnerability as shutting his eyes and going unconscious for hours at a time. Not anymore. Even as he remained on his knees with his biological eye shut, he was aware of all that surrounded him, from the wind sighing through the trees to the gently rushing of the river.

And of course, the stars.

Technus had been watching the stars with an endless diligence ever since he left the Castellum Machina, headquarters of the Order of the Turning Cog - its location known only to his brethren, for no others who attempted to find it would retain such information.

They were not murdered, to be clear - wanton murder would flout the laws of Erathis. But the Order's skills in surgery, necessary for the practise of mechanical augmentation, were unequalled in all of Faerun.

Technus had always found a certain beauty in the stars, for they moved with a certainty that mirrored that of machinery. They spiralled through the heavens on the same path every night, always in their expected place, never straying for even a moment... save one.

The one that had fallen.

The comet had disappeared from the sky several days past, and after tracing its passage, Technus had calculated that it would crash in this place called 'Milisevre', or near enough as made no matter.

He had a contact in Milisevre who would assist him, but otherwise, he had been sent to reach this fallen comet and, above all else, require what lay at its heart.

Above all else... including the lives of his erstwhile comrades.

Technus felt both pity and loathing at travelling in the company of those not yet of his faith, but not so much so that he could not see some kind of benefit from it.

Still, amidst his repeated prayers and words of devotion to Erathis that he intoned again and again in his head, Technus knew in his heart that his allies would not be permanent. Unless he converted them, they would drift away sooner or later.

Such was the nature and weakness of organics, those who did not embrace the constancy and certainty of steel, of machinery, of civilization's order.

There was no constancy in the living form save for decay, no certainty save death, and from the moment Technus understood the weakness of his flesh... it had disgusted him.