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The Legend of Ansur sits heavy in the counselor's pocketbook, a reminder of why Florrick is here in the very first place — lest she forget, as she trudges up the stairs of the Elfsong Tavern.
She has a habit staying later than she should, especially when she knows she shouldn’t, fueled by some combination of wine and a love for conversation. Sometimes, she forgets why she's even there in the first place.
But her recent stint in prison has made her a bit less forgetful. And considerably more paranoid.
Case in point: Her knock is quieter than it perhaps should be, and she finds herself glancing around as she raps knuckles against the wood a second time. Then a third.
Still, despite all of her preparations, she does not expect Volothamp Geddarm to open the door — leaving her blinking in surprise at the man on the other side of the threshold.
And just where is the Blade of Frontiers?
Despite her attempt at a disguise, the storyteller notices who it is rather quickly, breaking out into one of those trademark grins of his. “Ah, our esteemed Counselor!” he nearly bellows, foolish man. “What brings you by, Florrick?”
“Hush.” She pushes past Volo to let herself in, taking one last look around to make sure she wasn't followed. “A bit of discretion would be appreciated, Geddarm,” she sighs, pulling down her hood, shaking her hair loose, ignoring the way her fellow wizard tracks the movement. “We are all enemies in the eyes of the Absolute, remember?”
She turns to catch the tail end of Volo’s overly large, overly theatrical nod. “Oh, yes, of course,” he drawls. “My apologies, Counselor, I was merely attempting to bestow upon you the utmost respect that—”
Perhaps a bit belatedly, Florrick puts a hand up to stop the man's incessant monologuing. She finds she is somewhat — somewhere in the deepest pits of herself — delighted when his jaw clicks shut.
Instead of continuing, he stares at her with wide, shining eyes. Hazel. Apparently.
“I'm looking for Wyll.” She scans the room, if not to avoid his gaze. “Ravengard,” she clarifies — needlessly, even she knows. “The Blade? Of Frontiers?”
After concluding that the room is mostly empty, she slowly, as if painfully, turns back on Volo, who is still looking at her. Almost as if he is afraid she will lunge at him at any given moment.
It would be an almost hilarious thought if it weren’t so…
“I need to give him something,” she intones, purposeful every step of the way. Now's no time to let her guard down, even if he is, by all accounts, an ally. What a strange thought. “It's important.”
For a moment, he looks unsure if he's even allowed to speak. “I’m afraid the, um, merry group of adventurers who have oh-so-kindly chosen to host me are— um—”
He looks nervous to be dashing her hopes. Perhaps she should tell him he’s at the end of a very long line.
“...out.”
Well. Anti-climactic. Some of the air deflates from Florrick's sails. And with that comes an almost awkward pause where the two grown adults simply look at each other — seemingly both entirely unsure where this interaction will take them.
It isn't as if they had many others beyond this — nothing beyond a glass of wine or two at some charity ball or the like. Maybe she went to one of his booksignings.
Maybe.
The moment passes. Or, rather, Volo forces it behind them. “I know not when they will return. The poor things must be exhausted with all that they get up to these days,” he continues with a flourish as he begins pacing the room — to what end? Who knows. “But, fear not, dearest Florrick, for I would be more than to keep any gift you have for the Blade safe and secure.”
The counselor merely studies him for a moment — the gait of his walk, the sweat on his brow. Despite the performance of it all, he really is utterly earnest. Still, she'd rather not have the man flipping through the Legend — at least, not before Wyll himself gets to.
And who knows what he would do to her carefully-curated speech about Ansur himself?
Besides, she certainly has a lot of time on her hands, nowadays. Her office has been cleaned out. The closest thing she had to a friend is now the puppet of the Absolute. “No, it's quite alright,” she answers slowly, realizing just what, exactly, she's agreeing to as she says it. “I think I'd rather wait for him.”
Florrick resigns herself to her fate by way of making her way over to a plush couch and depositing herself upon it, smoothing out the end of her dress.
“If it's all the same to you.”
For the first time in perhaps Faerûn's history, the oh-so-great Volo doesn't seem sure what to say.
But it only lasts a moment. “Oh— oh, sure, that— that makes sense, of course,” he decidedly rambles, turning to look around himself, as if they aren't both painfully aware of the circumstances. “Besides, I certainly have better things to do myself than play messenger.”
He looks back at her, the corner of his mouth turning up.
“You are aware the end most of them meet, yes?”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes, which she expected. The desire to smile is a new one — or maybe just infrequent. “Mhm,” Florrick intones, though it takes much more force to keep it steady as she watches her fellow wizard plays the part of bard. He is certainly wont to do so. “Then you'll be glad I'm sparing you such a fate.”
He lets out a short, gasping laugh that trails into another momentary lull.
It is the counselor, this time, who feels desperate to break it, shifting slightly on the sofa as she starts, “Do you—?”
“Can I—?”
She should've known. Still, there's something about the way Volo cuts himself off, dusty pink rising to his cheeks — just faintly under his beard.
Florrick resists a smile and gestures for him to continue. She doesn't quite mean to soften, and that's the strangest part. Things don't just happen to her — she takes control, the only way she knows how.
“I was merely asking if I could offer you a refreshment while you wait.” His pace has slowed slightly — his usual frenetic energy perhaps tempered by perceiving his audience as reluctant, even as captive as she is (by her own making, but still). “A glass of water, perhaps? Tea?”
That wasn't exactly what she was going to ask for, but she supposes she shouldn't expect the adventurers to have produced much beyond bare rations over the weeks. “No, that's quite alright.”
Then, another silence. Another—
“I am in possession of a bottle of Berduskan Dark,” he posits, wringing his hands like a nervous schoolboy. She wonders how performed a gesture it might be — what he might be like flush and under the influence of wine. Maybe tolerable. “As of now, not yet opened.”
She is surprised by the way the words tumble out of his mouth, almost ineloquent. Not that Florrick would ever think to call the famous author nervous.
He would certainly resent such an accusation, as true as it may be. “If you would care to share a glass?”
There's a momentary pause where the weight of the words settle on Florrick, and she can feel her lips twitch with barely repressed amusement as a form of realization sinks in. Well, if she has to pass the time while waiting, she supposes. There are certainly worse ways.
She was, after all, just recently released from prison.
“I wouldn't have you go through the trouble.”
Her tone is light enough to have amber eyes crinkle at the corners. “Ah, but it would be my pleasure!”
Yes. Florrick has come to understand that.
It has been a long day Wyll thinks as the group trudges up the Elfsong stairs, and exhaustion tugs at all of them.
That's part of why the boisterous voices on the other side of the apartment door are so confusing to him.
“—so the kitchen staff ended up dropping the leftover ale…”
Confusion settles amid the fatigue. Is that… Florrick?
Wyll pushes open the door and finds that his suspicions are confirmed. It is the Baldurian counselwoman, sitting on the couch, holding a glass dappled with specs of wine long-since drunk.
“...and Duke Portyr came into the reception hall,” she is saying, a bit too loudly to the only other person that it could be, really, other than Withers — though that doesn't make it less strange — Volo.
It is Volothamp Geddarm who is beside her, elbow propped up on his thigh, chin in palm as he watches her with an expression of complete and utter delight. His own glass is considerably more full than the councilwoman's.
“And fell right on his face.”
Florrick finishes her story and the Blade watches as the two of them erupt into raucous laughter, swaying close together — like the oppositely-charged magnets that they are. And she looks…happy — flushed and eased by wine and whatever company their latest houseguest has to offer.
She doesn't even seem to notice that the door has opened — that Wyll is standing across from them with wide, horrified eyes. Uh oh.
He clears his throat. “Counselor,” he greets with cheer stuffed into his voice, watching as her head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Oh! Wyll!” It's her turn to clear her throat, removing some of the untempered surprise, perhaps some thickness brought on by the alcohol. With it, she takes any traces of good humor. “Yes, I was merely…”
She gestures with her wine glass toward Volo, who is still watching the councilwoman with bright eyes, like she hung the moon and the stars. For the longest time that Wyll can remember, he doesn’t say a word.
Uh oh.
But the quiet dissipates the moment he notices Wyll watching. “The Counselor was merely regaling me with stories I had missed from the Gate during my adventures,” he explains, gesturing so broadly that his own drink nearly spills on Florrick. “She's quite the storyteller, you know.”
Wyll’s head turns toward her so fast, he nearly hurts his neck.
There’s a sharp noise as Florrick sets down her glass and stands abruptly. “You know, I appear to have forgotten the nature of my visit.” Her words are brisk, even for her, but there's no doubting the embarrassed flush of her cheeks, even if she hides it by looking down and smoothing out her dress. “Or, rather, I…”
She trails off, as if unknowing just how she could defend herself. She doesn't meet either man's gaze. Whatever speech she had prepared for Wyll — obvious with how long he’s known the woman — she is clearly in no state to deliver it now.
“I'll return at a later date,” Florrick explains, heading toward the door with purposeful steps. “When I've… gathered my wits.”
Though Volo looks a bit dejected now that he's bereft of her attention, he lights up upon the idea of her return. He calls out with a hand cupped around his mouth, “I look forward to it, Desire.”
Desire?
Wyll already has too much of a headache for this.
Thankfully, Florrick doesn't respond, merely closes the Elfsong door behind her.