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Merle and Magnus walk into the nearest bar and sit down, sinking onto the stools beneath them with weary acceptance. Merle sighs, "That...could have gone better."
"So could a lot of things," Magnus replies. His eye flits over to the bartender—a chubby tiefling that magics up a drink for a gnome at the far end—and looks back at his companion. "On the rocks?"
"Nah," Merle shakes his head. "I'd rather a good, hard cider. Maybe some of the Redcheek stuff."
"Oh yeah! That's supposed to be fucking rad. That's...that was NO.3113's family, right? The Redcheeks?"
Merle scratches his stump, the sensation of crystal shards itching beneath his skin and a brief feeling of sharp tearing and pain ghosting up his arm. "...yeah." His voice cracks slightly but he gestures the bartender over anyway. "Ya' got any cider?"
"Of course! What kind were you looking for?"
"The, ah, Redcheek stuff. One pint please."
"And your companion?" The bartender turns their attention over to Magnus.
"Hardest shit you have."
"Right away!" The tiefling bustles off to the tapped barrels of cider in the back of the bar. Magus just combs his fingers through his beard. It's an old habit but one he just can't shake. Merle notices the way his hands rest so that his thumb is brushing where his left ring finger ends. The black band that runs around the tip of his severed finger is simple but he knows how much it means to him.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
"I certainly hope things go better this time around. I don't think I can handle another Phandalin." Magnus comments. He shifts in his seat and, when the bartender comes by with their drinks, knocks back his alcohol—some sort of local liquor that tastes of almonds and makes his nose burn—and waits on a refill.
"Agreed." They sit and drink with all the professional distance that coworkers can afford, making idle chatter and wasting breath on things that don't matter. Nothing is truly said, though they continue to talk. There is a distance between them that not many would notice but to them it is a gulf. Mostly, they just drink in silence. The tiefling running the bar heads to the back for a while and, during their wait for refills, an elf comes out and swipes their tankards. Merle grumbles a bit until the elf sets down a full tankard of cider and flashes him a sly grin.
"I gotcha short stuff."
"...Thanks..."
The elf dances—almost literally—to Magnus and places a small, colorful drink with a white flower in it in front of him. "Bon appétit mon chéri!"
Magnus pauses and stares at the drink. "This...is not what I asked for."
"Well not exactly! It does have some of that sweet, sweet booze juice in it, but you may find that adding some vanilla ice cream and Kahlúa makes for a much better mouthfeel." He winks and Magnus is taken aback. This elf is being extremely flippant with them and, if he didn't know that no one in Neverwinter really knew them past a passing mention, Magnus could swear that he knew them for years. He sips the drink—which actually is very good, much to his surprise—and eyes the elf suspiciously.
"Regardless—" he begins but the elf interrupts him.
"Now what are two strapping adventurers such as yourself doing in a dive bar like this, hm?" The elf folds a hand under his chin and stares at them through half-lidded eyes.
"None of your business, to be frank," Merle is terse and his cheeks are reddening from the massive amount of cider he had been consuming, "I don't think it's your job to be asking questions!"
"Hachi-machi man! Who pissed in your fantasy Cheerios?" The elf draws back, ears pinning against his head, and grimaces. "I'm just being pleasant. Do you not like a little chat with your drink?"
"...he's more of a solitary drinker," Magnus tries to diffuse the situation. Cleric or not, Merle has an awful temper and will not hesitate to burn spell slots in order to fuck shit up.
"He's here with you," the elf points out, handily refilling Merle's cider by tapping the handle of his umbrella on the bar.
"We work together and that's it," Merle snaps. He throws back his cider and slams a small pouch of gold on the bar. "I'm fucking heading out." With a grunt, he scoots off of the stool and plods out of the bar, swearing softly under his breath.
Magnus sips at his drink—more drunk than before but also, simultaneously, more sober—and watches as the elf's ears droop slowly.
"You...ah...you two don't get along so you?" He finally asks, voice shaking. His hand wraps around his umbrella and he gnaws silently on the handle. His ears flick as if he's listening to something and his frown deepens.
"We work together and that's about it. He and I have had our...differences, to say the least. I may have given him a good reason to hate me." Magnus isn't too sure why he's telling this rando this but something about him puts him at ease.
"...oh..." The elf gnaws on the umbrella handle some more, eyes flitting back and forth and ears fully erect and panning around.
"What brings you to Neverwinter?" Magnus finishes his drink and tries to make pleasant conversation to diffuse the situation. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets, he still tries to be a nice guy.
No matter how much of him he loses to battles.
"Not much. Pleasure mostly," the elf gives him a halfhearted wink and a grin. "You? Taking a break from saving the world from forces beyond mortal understanding?" He refills Magnus' drink with a gesture.
Magnus' blood runs cold and he looks at the elf—really looks at him—and realizes that whomever it is he's talking to may know something he shouldn't. Since Lucas, confidential information was kept very, as the name would imply, confidential. How would this elf know anything about their work?!
The elf flashes Magnus a dazzling smile and shakes his head. "Relax sweetpea! That's what all you adventurers do, right? Save the world?"
"Oh...," Magnus tries to swallow casually—if such a thing were possible—and smiles back. He nurses his drink for a bit and just observes the elf.
He doesn't seem to care about any of the other patrons at the bar. Since appearing from virtually nowhere, he hasn't attended to anyone's needs but Merle and Magnus. The tiefling bartender seems to either not care or not notice that he's behind the bar in the first place. In fact, the tiefling practically ignores the elf when they come and pick up Merle's payment.
And the elf himself is an anomaly. He seems to draw the eye but no one else notices him. He is flamboyant and loud but isn't disturbing anyone. He is a shameless flirt but has eyes for no one but Magnus—and, at one point, Merle. He uses magic but has no wand. And strangest of all: he seems to be listening to someone that no one else can hear.
"Does the phrase 'Bureau of Balance' mean anything to you?" Magnus asks. He studies the elf's face carefully, trying to catch any sign of falsehood.
If the elf is a liar, he's a really good one. He frowns slightly, lip pouting, and tilts his head. "Hun, you just got all static-y on me there. Mind running that by me again?"
"Never mind...," Magnus takes a sip of his drink and sighs. Just before the elf can ask him more about his life, the door to the bar flies open and Angus tears in like abyssals are on his heels. He doesn't notice the elf stiffen up and look like he's been stabbed.
"Sir! Sir! We need to go now!" Angus is out of breath and looks worried.
"What's wrong?!" Magnus knocks back his drink and slaps some gold on the bar, turning to face the worried detective.
"We—we may have found...," Angus looks around suspiciously and lowers his voice to a whisper, "a Relic."
"Do we know which one?" Magnus asked.
"Madam Director says it might be the Temporal Chalice." Angus still whispers but the elf's ears are alert and twitching.
"Let's go!" Magnus stands up and grabs Railsplitter from where he had set it by his barstool. "Thanks for the drink—!" He turns to face the elf but he's gone. In his place is the tiefling bartender, who gives a cheery wave. Shaking his head and wondering if he imagined it all, he trots out of the bar behind Angus, who is rapidly relaying information and informing him that, yes, Merle is aware of the situation and is waiting just out of town with a bubble ready for them.
In the space between time, Taako watches his friends—no, not his friends, these were different people and he made his choice—walk away. He clutches the umbra staff to his chest and chokes back a sob.
I told you that you wouldn't be able to interact with them. I told you that you'd have to remove yourself from the world. This is reality without you there Taako. This is what you have created.
"They're so unhappy," he whispers. "They don't like each other and they're so broken."
These are the hard decisions we must make as masters of time. Now come; they will be looking for us.
"I just wanted them to be happy...," he begins to cry, big, fat tears that dribbles down his cheeks and drops off his nose.
You and I both know that isn't an option. This is the best possible outcome.
"I know..."
Come along Taako. We have things to change and the fabric of time to write. There's no sense in crying over spilt milk.
"I know..."