I Hope I Die First {NSFW, closed rp, but welcome to readers}

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Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

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Hello everyone! This is a alternate universe to canon where Symon is a Harper and Delton is a reliable healer for the Harpers, both working out of Baldur's Gate. We're gonna see what these two disasters get up to! TW: general issues that come up with being a covert agent (being coerced into sex referenced, gore, etc.), likely mentions of mental health issues, unhealthy coping mechanisms, canon-typical violence This is a closed RP but feel free to read alone!

It is complete and utter chaos. Harpers are streaming into the safehouse like a dam that broke under the strain of too much water. The injured carry the even more injured, casualties were piling up, and it is nearly impossible to find an open bed. In the middle of this chaos, a redheaded half-elf seems to be in complete control. He's calling out orders for one patient while stabilizing another. A subtle gray glow surrounds him, his god's power seeping into him and the room. The injured feel more calm around him, the grieving soothed by his presence. Delton is caked in blood up to his elbows and his attire isn't much better, but here, helping people? He feels entirely at peace. Now, if only Harpers - known for reckless stunts and concern for others - would sit down and allow themselves to be tended to. He's not the only healer here, of course, but he is the one least likely to be convinced that a patient is "okay without an examination" or that "there are other people who need it more." Triage is one of the many skills in his repertoire. He doesn't need patients to make that decision for him. So, when the scale of the carnage came into her preview, she called Delton in. Put him in charge of making sure no one leaves without treatment, no one charms their way out into the field, and no one gets too distracted.

It's a fucking shitshow. The mission had gone to the dogs before it even properly started, a risk taken on possibly-dodgy intel not paying off. Gortash and his ilk grow stronger by the day. Symon's in better shape than most, banged up to be sure but still able to get back to safety under his own power, which is more than he can say for most of the people who made it out. Don't think about the ones who didn't. He's about as useful as dirt in a situation like this, his magic barely fit to heal a paper cut, but he does what he can fetching things or moving patients. The pain in his shoulder from a mace whose owner Symon had slit the throat of in revenge didn't matter. It could wait.

Delton notices him immediately. The human who's clearly injured - from his movement, a shoulder injury - and is trying to fetch and move things. People. Which is the last thing one should be doing with an injured shoulder. He'd already sent two healers over yet, somehow, the man was still up and about, clearly unhealed. It's frustrating as all Hells. I guess if you want something done, you have to do it yourself. Even here. He sighs slightly, smoothing a bandage over the stomach of the young woman in front of him. She is already drifting off to sleep, magic and medicine helping the pain dull to a manageable level. Tossing an order and a stern stare at the two healers that had managed to let this man slip away, he went over to the man in question and gently tapped on his other shoulder. "Excuse me," he uses his most authoritative tone - the one Theo's younger sibling calls his 'dad tone,' "I'm going to need you to sit down for treatment."

Excuse me. Ah, shit. "Look, mate, I'm perfectly fine, and this is a situation where you can't afford to waste resources on people who aren't going to bleed out, which I'm not. I can wait." Symon is, in fact, not bleeding. It was blunt force trauma. The muscle feels like it might have been pulverized, but the only place the skin broke is where a buckle scratched his skin. He gestures at the over a dozen comrades, friends, partners, colleagues, spread around on gurneys and cots and random tables, all much more heavily injured. "They can't."

Delton takes a deep breath in through his mouth and out through his nose. He really didn't like it when people try to do his job for him. Especially when they don't know what they're talking about. He has to crane his neck a little to look the other man in the eye, but he says firmly, "In my line of work, we have something called triage. We stabalize the worst cases first, then move on to the less injured. Everyone here who's critical is stabilized." The look that he sends the other man is stern, tinged with frustration. "Usually, with a shoulder injury like yours, you would be about middle of the list but," he hasn't broken eye contact at all during this exchange, "because you keep insisting on moving around and using it to lift people, I'm worried that you might have done even more damage - specifically to your joint and healing magic isn't a cure-all." "So I ask you again to sit. Down."

He pauses, his mouth opening and closing a few times. Then he sits down, but it's with a scowl. "The people needed to be lifted," Symon mutters. "I'd rather I have a bum shoulder than a dead friend." He starts on the buckles of his armor he can reach with his good arm, not keen to have the healer cut through it unless strictly necessary. More unnecessary resources wasted. The healer does look somewhat familiar. Red hair like that stands out, especially with obvious elf blood. He's one of the clerics Jaheira calls in when shit has well and truly hit the fan. But Symon can't remember his name. Might be he did at some point, but the adrenaline wearing off is making his head foggy.

Delton softens slightly, "I will commend you for your concern for others, but I just ask you try to look out for yourself as well. We have many healers who can cast Feather Fall and Levitate on people, and I apologize for them that they weren't doing their jobs so you felt you had to step in." Telegraphing his movements very carefully, he starts helping the other man remove his armor. The swelling is already intense and he doesn't think that the human will be able to raise his hands over his head. The armor can be salvaged. His undershirt, on the other hand, will not be. "I'm sorry about this, but I will have to cut off your undershirt to get to this. I don't want you raising your shoulder - it could cause tearing." He turns briefly to grab a clean, sharp knife to do this. "And you are not a waste of resources. No person is a waste of resources, especially when they just survived something traumatic."

"That's fine," Symon concedes. He has others. Survived something traumatic? He frowns in confusion while letting the cleric work. Sure, the fight went bad, but he's been a Harper for _nine years_, it's hardly his first time washing the blood of friends off his hands. It was a bad one, but there's been a lot of those. The current Banite problem isn't even his first brush with Dead Three cultists. No, at least with this he knew he did his best, even if it wasn't enough. The worst ones are where he knows he fucked up, and that things would have turned out better if he was better. With this one... It was a setup. A bloodbath. A matter of minimizing loss above achieving victory from just a few minutes in. There's less dead comrades than there could have been. The healer's cool hands, hastily scrubbed clean of the blood of his last patient, graze the hot, swollen skin of his shoulder and he flinches instinctively. "Sorry," he mumbles. He's not trying to be a dick.

Delton furrows his eyebrows, "It's completely natural to flinch when someone touches what looks like a nasty brush with a mace." His touches to the other man's shoulder are clinical, but as gentle as possible. He needs to know how much juice to put behind his magic. And, it's nasty. Not the worst he's seen today, but he's impressed the other man could even think, much less carry other people around with such a wound. Adrenaline is a funny thing. "Your shoulder blade is fractured. I will heal the break, but I need you to stay hear for observation. That way, after the healers rest, we can give you another round of treatment. Fortunately, no bone broke the skin." He knows better than to tell someone they're lucky after having witnessed such a bloodbath. He doesn't know what exactly happened, but he's heard murmuring about a 'setup' and Jaheria doesn't tend to call unless things are really bad. And they were, this time. He quietly starts to sing the words to his spell, willing Ilmater to give him the grace to knit the wound back together. For a few moment, the gray aura surrounds the other man's shoulder. "How does that feel?" He asks, then adds quickly, "Move gently, now."

Ah shit, not another broken bone. He lost count after his first couple years under Jaheira's command. At least he has magical healing for it this time. "How'd you know it was a mace?" Symon asks to distract himself himself as the healing magic begins to repair flesh and bone and blood vessels. It feels incredibly strange, but not quite painful. He never quite gets used to it, especially when it's a new person's magic. Aly's is as familiar as his own at this point, she's a better healer than he is. "Just experience, or are you psychic, too?" He slowly rolls the joint when prompted, and it's sore as fuck but it doesn't feel like a million white-hot knives are actively tearing through his flesh, so it's an improvement. "It's better," he assures him. "Much better." But he still has to fight down the urge to insist there's no need for him to take a bed for the night for observation.

Delton smiles at him. "The way the bruise was forming indicated it was a mace. Blunt force centered around one specific area. A typical club's impact wouldn't be broad or circular and a flail would have broken skin. Years of practice, darling," The pet name is thrown out just as easily as ever. It tends to soothe people, for some reason. "I'm glad it feels much better," his voice is utterly sincere. But, he saw the scars littering the other man's body. A hallmark of someone who doesn't let themself heal before jumping in the line of fire again, "Still, try not to put too much strain on it or I will put you in a sling." Back to his 'dad tone' again. He quickly glances at the rest of his body, making sure he didn't miss any other injuries. None, except those for the mind. He looks the other man in the eye. "Jaheria is arranging for clerics specializing in trauma and other mind injuries to come and debrief with the survivors. I recommend you do so. I will be here, regardless of your decision and will likely be the one to care for you come morning." "Do you have any questions?"

Yep, that was definitely a threat. Symon gives a lazy salute with his good hand, not keen to piss the cleric off before he's even got a chance to get his shirt back on. "Message received, sir. No overuse" He winces at the mention of mind healers. Last damn thing he needs right now is someone poking at his head the same this guy just did his shoulder. No, he needs about twelve hours of sleep, a potion, a stiff drink and maybe a decent lay, not to sit in a circle and talk about his feelings. "Just one. Usually I ask before I take my shirt off, just as a general courtesy, but, what's your name? I figure calling you 'the redheaded elf-blooded cleric' is a bit reductive. "I'm Symon, by the way, if you need it for your records or whatnot. Symon Denys Cresswell, to be exact, but I might stab you if you use the middle name in public."

Delton snorts at the honorific and the salute, asking one of the healers without mana left to grab Symon a shirt. And then he raises his eyebrow at the question. "Delton. Naïlo. I apologize for my lack of manners, but I wanted to ensure your health before pleasantries." He hums slightly, cleaning up the area a bit before speaking again, "Don't call me sir. We're the same age, thereabouts. And I'll keep that in mind about the middle name." He scans the room. So many more people to treat still and Delton’s already feeling exhausted. Mind, he's been going at it for hours, but that doesn't change the helplessness he feels at seeing all these people who need him and knowing he won't be able to. He turns back to Symon, "Everyone here is stable Symon. You can rest."

Stable yes, well, no. "Delton. And no sirs. Got it. Thank you. I'm not sure how much longer adrenaline would have kept me going, but it's probably for the best I didn't find out." He does know. Roughly another hour before collapsing. Not ideal. Roughly the same age? It's damn hard to tell on someone with even a few drops of elf blood, and Delton seems to have plenty. Delton looks more dead on his feet than he does, but he's been ordered to rest. "I wish I could do more to help, Delton. The fight was a shitshow, but the aftermath's almost worse. But I'll stop taking up your time. You probably have a bunch of other idiots to save."

Delton smiles at him, a little confused at this human. "Try not to work until you almost pass out from now on, yes?" Pot, meet kettle. He scans the room with another sigh, "And, while I'm sure my opinion doesn't mean much to you, I think you are very brave and very kind. Not everyone would be thinking about others when they'd just witnessed something terrible and had a broken shoulder. Most people wouldn't even with one of those things." The redhead shrugs, doing an internal triage of who needs to be seen next. Broken ribs, concussion, broken leg...broken ribs first to check for internal injuries. Then, set the leg. All while monitoring that the concussion patient stays awake. "Another healer will be here shortly with a shirt. Call me if you need anything...oh, and please don't be so reckless with yourself in the future, Symon."

Symon puzzles over the oddly kind words as he does his best not to grimace from the unavoidable jostling of his shoulder as he puts on a fresh shirt and strips down enough to get some sleep. Delton seemed sincere, too. Not particularly impressed with his recklessness or disregard for his own safety, but sincere. Kind. Brave. Not things he's been called often. At least not by people who meant it. Must be part of his bedside manner, Symon eventually reasons. Stroke his patients' egos so they behave and don't start shit. That's the only reason anyone would ever call him kind or brave. Because there's something they want, in this case his compliance with medical advice. Fair enough. He'll behave.

Delton works well into the night, trying to make sure everyone is as comfortable as possible. Jaheria is the one who eventually sends him to bed as, really, she is the only person he'd listen to in a situation like this. She called him in for a reason, after all. He sleeps fitfully which is quite usual for him, especially since Theo died. He's never slept particularly well, but a warm body next to him helped just a bit. Thus, he rises with the sun, prays, and scarfs down something small under Jaheria's watchful eyes. Then, he gets to work. He wasn't lying when he said to Symon that everyone was stable. But, that didn't mean there isn't bandages to change, splints to check, and a significant amount of potions and magic to dole out. Those who are still unconscious from pain are cared for first. Hopefully, some of his efforts will bring them back to the waking world. Plus, it's only right for people who can be awake to be awake for treatment. That way they understand what's going on and can object, if need be.

Symon wakes up cranky, weary, and sore as shit, some of the swelling in his shoulder having returned overnight. The safe house is still a mess of the injured and those trying to help them. Symon tries to put himself in the latter category, even if his shoulder slows him down. He is trying to put as little strain on it as possible, avoiding lifting things or raising it more than strictly necessary, but the steady throb has returned to a sharp ache within a few hours. “Ah, _fuck,_” he swears, scowling down at the offending joint. The work _needs to be done_, and there’s more of it than there are hands to do it. At least mostly-sound hands, there’s plenty of half-dead ones. He apologizes to his fellow Harpers and sits down, in a foul mood at the weakness of his own body. It does occur to him Delton’s probably going to tell him off again, but at this point he barely cares.

Delton has already called in some reinforcements with the Ilmateri. The most injured are to be moved to the temple by the Harpers who weren't involved in the attack, keeping this safehouse intact. That way, the lesser injured can focus on healing, rather than trying to help. Like one specific human who he told to not overdo it. He wishes that people would take him seriously when he tells them things as a healer but, alas, the problem with taking care of Big Damn Heroes like the Harpers. The other healers are busy taking care of patients as well, focused on trying to get people comfortable. The other Harpers should arrive within the hour to subtly take the most injured away and it is essential that they are not in pain - well not in horrific pain - during the journey. But, as that work is being completed, he sees Symon sit down, clearly in pain. The man is apologizing for his pain, even though he should have been resting in the first place! He calls out for another healer to take care of his current patient - who saw his glance at Symon and laughed at the sour look he gave the human - and once the young woman - almost a girl, really - is in the healer's capable hands, he heads over. "Symon, I told you that it's not your job to treat the injured, especially with how injured you already are." His voice is stern, no-nonsense. He might be half a head smaller than Symon, but that doesn't mean he can't get results.

Delton Naïlo, looks, if possible, even more tired than the day before. Another poor sleeper? Maybe those lines under his eyes are all exhaustion if he was as young as he’d implied the day before. ”Of course it’s not, I’m not a healer. Doesn’t mean I can just sit around while there are things that need doing,” he snaps back, hackles raised as he tries to roll out a shoulder far too swollen for that to be of any help. He remembered my name. He’s good at this. “I did try,” Symon defends himself. “I didn’t lift anything or raise it above my head. But you know as well as I do it’s critical to get the most injured safely to the temple, and there’s a million things that need doing for that, most of which don’t require healing magic.”

Delton raises an eyebrow and goes to the other man's shoulder, waiting for a nod of some sort before he touches the area. He's not going to flinch back at someone snapping at him. He's dealt with far worse than that. Though that doesn't mean the voice of his shitty father doesn't briefly flash through his head. "Yes, there are a million things that need doing and Harpers streaming in from all over the area to *do them for the injured.*" He leans back and looks Symon in the eye, "You are not useless. You are healing. And not resting properly will make your recovery time even longer." When he really looks at the swelling, Delton mutters under his breath, "For Ilmater's sake, I'm going to need to cut another shirt off of you." He turns to another healer and asks for a sling and another shirt.

Well, I matter less than them. "Fine," he mutters instead, even if he does audibly groan in resignation at Delton's declaration another shirt would be lost. "Is that really necessary? I know you need more bandages, mate, but ruining perfectly good shirts can't be the best way to get them." He's irritable, in pain, and about done being told what to do. "Do you really not have anything better to do right now? Because I honestly struggle to believe that."

Delton takes a deep breath through his nose and counts to ten in elvish. It's not the first time he's dealt with uncooperative patients. He levels Symon with a stern stare, almost eye level with him now that he's sitting on a cot. "I would not be ruining another shirt if I didn't have to. With this swelling, the shirt is causing blood flow to be constricted, which can result in significant damage to your entire arm. And I'm not going to agitate the swelling even more by getting you to pull it over your head." Deep breaths. He's in pain and he's stubborn. For some reason, this man seems to get under his skin, despite not being even close to the worst patient he's faced. He rolls his eyes at the second question, "I'm a healer. I heal people. Even stubborn men who insist on trying to lose circulation in their arm."

Symon sincerely doubts it's anywhere near that serious, but if Delton is foolish enough to waste time and healing magic on him, who is he to argue? He fucking hates being injured. It's even worse than being really sick, because at least there his head is normally foggy enough he's not fully aware for most of it. Injuries are just useless pain, time wasted being benched, healers poking and prodding and getting in his business. His mood is only worsened by his involuntary flinch as Delton begins to cut away the sleeve, and okay, that color of bruising generally isn't great. Maybe, maybe the healer has a point. And that just makes him more annoyed. "Maybe a shirt with buttons next time," he mutters. "Makes this less likely."

Delton levels the other man with another stern look. "If I have it my way, there will not be a next time. You do not need a messed up shoulder, Symon." He closes his eyes and starts to sing, calling on Ilmater to knit back together torn muscles and stabilize the joint, his gray aura once again extending to Symon's shoulder. The bruising lessens and, under Delton's fingers, he can feel the swelling decrease. It's not perfect, but it's much better than before. The other healer had come back with the shirt - this one did have buttons, probably because Delton had to cut Symon's shirt off two times in as many days - and the sling. "I'm going to help you shrug this on before I put you in the sling, yes?"

The healing magic does help, leaving him almost pain free for the first time since a Banite got a lucky blow in. Almost. "Yes, fine," he mutters, not resisting as Delton's careful hands move his bad arm into the sleeve. Apparently he won't be allowed to button his own damn shirt, either, because Delton slaps his hands away when he tries. "Would you... Can I get something to do that isn't just sitting still? Something I can do without aggravating my shoulder. Even if it's bloody paperwork. I'll lose my mind if I'm tied to a bed."

Delton slides the sling over Symon's head and gently places the other man's arm in it, watching his expression to see if the new position causes any discomfort. When he exhales, Delton just sounds tired. "Yes, I can find you something to do..." he pauses, then mumbles to himself, "More than paperwork, because you'll be bouncing off the walls with that too..." He scans the room for something Symon can do one-handed that will in no way strain his shoulder. "Would you mind following me about and getting what I and a few others ask you to fetch? That way I can make sure you're not straining yourself and healers will be freed to focus on their patients." There. Something helpful to the situation. That might appease him.

Being a gopher isn’t far off what he was doing before Delton intercepted him anyway, even if he’s guessing he’s more likely to be yelled at for lifting anything requiring both hands now. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just put me to work.” I can’t stand being useless. He tests the sling, finding it tolerable, at least compared to a broken shoulder blade. A lot of things are tolerable compared to broken bones. “What do you need? I’ve been in and around this safe house since it was established, so I should be able to find most everything.”

Delton raises an eyebrow, at the shift. He can tell that it's not sitting right just from looking at it and Symon was just going to let it be uncomfortable. He moves to adjust the sling so it is more comfortable around Symon's neck and shoulder. "You know, needless suffering is neither helpful nor conducive to healing. And if you want to be back at your full strength quickly, I'd suggest stop putting on a brave face and let me do my job." He scans the room again. Most of the more injured patients are already on their way to the temple, Harpers streaming in to move cots and gurneys. The patients that will stay here, however, need attention. "I need you to gather me Rogue's Morsel and Balsam for the alchemists to turn into healing potions. If - and only if - you can help one-handed, you can help them. But Ilmater help me if I see you putting weight on that arm, I will tie you to a cot with only your mind for company." He rubs a hand across his face, "I do not need any more selfless stunts on my plate. You are very kind for trying to do what you were doing, but you are actively making my job harder."

He feels the sudden, strange urge to retort with is that a promise? Then he feels an immediate pang of guilt at the realization he’s making a shitty day even worse for the overworked healer stuck dealing with him. A roughly six foot tall grown ass man really can look remarkably like a puppy caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Understood.” I’m sorry. “It was the opposite of my intention to create more work for you.” He wants to say more, a proper apology perhaps, but instead he shrugs his good shoulder and heads for the supply closet. Rogue’s morsel and balsam should be plentiful, they go through as much of the stuff as they do rum and lute strings.

Delton quietly says a "It's fine," before he turns to the room at large. He sighs and gets to work changing dressings and checking splits. The worst of it might be over, but there's still a lot to be done. The rhythm of it soothes him. He's able to quietly talk with patients about their lives, their families, what happened, whatever they want to talk about. And, generally, he's able to get them to tell him what he wants to know. What happened next? Where exactly did the ambush come from? How many were there? These are all questions Jaheria wanted answers to, but she knows that asking like that doesn't get results. Instead, she turns to people like Delton, who can pry information out of people without them even realizing that's what he's doing. It's a skill he honed on patients for years. Now, he just uses it for multiple things.

Symon spends most of the morning close by, ordered to fetch this, hold that, to offer a distraction or a familiar face as his fellow Harpers suffer various deeply unpleasant treatments. But most of all, he watches. It is his job, just as much as killing is. Listening. Paying attention. Delton is damn good at his job. That's one of the first things he notices. The slender half-elf's bedside manner is calm, polite and _kind_, a gentle word spared for every patient, his voice never rising or turning openly frustrated. The way he handled Symon was entirely typical. Many a seemingly genuine compliment is handed out to soothe those suffering broken bones, severe burns, wounds from every weapon known on Toril... So either an idealist or an excellent liar. Or, given the organization they both work with or for, quite possibly both. Symon keeps watching. Watches the way Delton flinches minutely at raised voices, the way a calm, pleasant mask settles over his features whenever he's with a patient, but it drops to reveal pure, weary exhaustion the moment he thinks no one's looking. Delton is interesting. And besides, it's not like he's going to be allowed to do anything more useful.

When Delton’s magic is fully depleted, he gestures for Symon to follow and sit on an empty cot. He wants to check how that shoulder is holding up, after all. He's exhausted and he stumbles a little, catching himself after a few moments. "Up you get. I want to check to see how your shoulder is holding up." Hopefully, it's entirely fine. Delton had been watching the other man very carefully to make sure he didn't overdo it, after all.

It’s instinct to catch Delton’s arm when he stumbles, steadying him, even his useless arm reaching out from its sling. “Hey, you okay?” The healer looks to be in worse shape than half the infirmary occupants, exhausted and entirely magically drained. “My shoulder’s fine, maybe you’re the one who needs to sit down,” he suggests, concern furrowing his brow. Definitely an idealist. Liar, still to be determined. A bleeding heart willing to drain himself dry for a bunch of Harpers with more guts than sense half the time. His shoulder does feel fine. Or, well, the same as when Delton last saw it. That’s the point of the sling, isn’t it?

Delton shook his head, "I'm fine. Thank you. There's to much to do right now." He gestures for Symon to get on the cot. "Just...tired is all. Let's see that shoulder. I want to see if the swelling has decreased any." Jaheira put him in charge of this operation because she's too busy cleaning up after the carnage. Trying to find out how the Harper intel streams had been compromised. He can't let her down. Their work was too important.

He's just as bad as I am, Symon realizes. [His one (1) allotted braincell usage of the day.] He sits down without further protest, and allows Delton to poke and prod as he pleases. "What's the verdict, then? Will you be able to save some of the arm?" he jokes. The prospect of lingering aches doesn't bother him much, it wouldn't be the first or last battle wound to still bother him once in a while, but he is keen to retain his full range of motion. You do kind of need functioning shoulders to be able to stab someone or climb a wall.

Delton hums softly, gently moving the shoulder just the tiniest bit. "The swelling is now going down on its own, which is a good sign. The bruise also looks much better." He walks behind the two of them to get a soft block that they use as a conduit for ice. Fortunately, cantrips don't need too much juice. He should be fine. He casts a controlled Frostbite on the block and it...well, makes him stumble again. I didn't realize I was this bad... But, he puts on a brave face and turns back to Symon. "Try to ice it for fifteen minutes throughout the day. I fear we don't really have the setup at the moment to give you the heating pad, but any mage here should be able to cool this for you." "Your range of motion seems fine, but I'll keep you in a sling for another day - you can take it off to bathe and sleep of course, but limit use of the arm. I'll check on it again tomorrow and you should be right as rain." He gives Symon what he hopes is a convincing smile.

Symon has enough magic of his own to freeze a cooling pad if necessary, but he listens attentively all the same. He doesn’t buy the reassuring smile the healer gives him for an instant, he saw that stumble. “Delton, I’d like to make a deal. If I follow every single instruction you give me, resting, icing, anything, will you do me a favor and please sit down before you fall over?” His good arm hovers tentatively over Delton’s shoulder, genuine concern filling blue eyes much more suited to laughter than the suspicion or anger they so often show these days. “You need to look after yourself or you can’t look after us, isn’t that how it goes? You’re out of magic anyway, wrung dry judging by your response to a simple cantrip. You need to _rest_.”

Delton sighs, sitting down eith his head in his hands and saying, "Deal." His sleep has gotten worse and worse. And he fears the Banites have only exacerbated it. He's afraid for his patients at the clinic and the community he's come to protect. Concern for himself doesn't even cross his mind, even though the clinic has been vandalized twice in as many months. And he lives there, full time now. "I just wish I could sleep for once. Then I wouldn't have my own patients telling me to shut up and sit down." His voice comes out mumbled and, honestly, it sounds more like a thought accidently spoken aloud than an attempt at conversation.

Symon catches it. His hearing isn’t half bad for a human. A fellow insomniac, then. “Is it nightmares, or can you not fall asleep at all?” The question comes from a place of both curiosity and concern. With this new piece of information, several more things click into place about Delton Naïlo. He’s a dedicated healer, working himself to the bone, the other cause of the lines of exhaustion on an otherwise youthful face. And he can’t sleep, even when he takes the time to. “I’ve learned to cope with four hours or so,” Symon offers in the spirit of honesty. “Much more than that is a luxury.” He’s nightmares. He can fall asleep well enough, but he’s shocked awake with screams echoing in his ears or phantom blood staining his hands more often than not, usually within the first handful of hours. A full night’s sleep is a rarity, usually only accomplished with too much alcohol, a good lay, or complete and utter exhaustion.

Delton turns and looks at him wide-eyed, clearly not having realized he'd spoken aloud. Gods, this is a new level, even for me. "...Both, usually. It takes me a long time to fall asleep and then I'm woken with terrible nightmares..." ||*A river and so much blood. Cruel laughter ringing in my ears. Monsters with the faces of people looming over me. Choking smoke and stinging eyes. The crackle of fire and the sound of an explosion. The feeling of being slammed to the ground, Theo's face so close to mine.*|| He sighs, "I've usually learned to cope with only a handful of hours...but it's just gotten worse recently..." The "And I don't know why," goes unspoken. "I think my body is just adjusting to even less sleep than usual. I should be alright, soon enough." No other options, really.

And if not? "You need to rest, even if you can't sleep," Symon implores, his voice gentle. "If nothing else, you need to keep your strength up, and recuperate enough for your magic to recharge, yeah?" He'd suggest a sleeping potion, but one glance at Delton's pointed ears makes it clear that wouldn't do much. It'd be the rare cleric that believed in his own methods of alcohol and sex to shut his brain off enough to rest, too. "We're all stressed out. Worn thin. But not resting is just going to make it worse. Is there anything I can do?"

Delton wants to argue, to say there's still stuff he can do from sitting down. But he really doesn't even have the energy. Turn back time? To before this happened? Hells, even better, to when Theo was alive... Symon's not a miracle worker, however. Not even a wizard, so a wish spell is out of reach. He sighs. "Is there a music box or some other way to get music? I might be able to meditate if I have that..." He trails off.

His lips lift in what might be his first genuine smile in days. "Music? Delton, I'm a bard. Music, I can handle. I've only got a flute and a lute here, I'm afraid, but my old college tutors would be mortified to hear anyone assume I'd need a music box to produce music." The prospect of playing, even if it's for the practical purpose of helping someone sleep, cheers him up a little. That might also be for the first time in days. It's been too damn long since he used an instrument for something other than a spell or a cover. "Any particular requests?"

Delton smiles at that, glad to see Symon brighten, even if it's just a little. He laughs a little even, shaking his head. "No, I didn't know or I would've just outright asked you to play." He tilts his head a little, happy to see the other man smiling. "I think I can let you use your other hand just to hold the lute, as long as you promise to put the sling back on after - in a way that isn't uncomfortable too." Delton thinks for a second. "Something that makes you happy, I think. Happy dreams and all that. I think it's better when the musician plays something they care about." He shrugs, "When I started to sing my spells, my magic got stronger because I felt more connected to Ilmater."

"It's a deal," he promises about the sling. The bloody thing is a pain in the arse, he's not going to do anything that makes it necessary to wear it even longer. Symon's already heading to fetch his lute when he hears the request to play something that makes him happy. He frowns in mild confusion. He knows how to please an audience, he knows how to play a part, he knows how enchant or illude through the focus of an instrument. But playing just to make himself _happy_? That's been damn rare, for a long time. He's still thinking about it when he returns with his well-loved lute, and idly checks the tuning with a simple chord progression. "I'm not sure," he finally admits. "I love music. I first joined the Harpers straight out of a bard's college. But it's been another tool for a long time, now."

Delton tilts his head, looking a little sad at that fact. "Music...means a lot to me. It helped me learn to survive after a really...bad attack. I wish you could find a way to find joy in it, again." He hums thoughtfully. His brain's not firing at all cylinders, but he doesn't like to think about Symon losing joy in music. "Maybe-Maybe something that reminds you of something that makes you happy?" In my clinic, I sing a lot about Theo. It makes me feel less alone...

Something that makes him happy. "My family," he says after another few moments of hesitation. "I have two sisters, and both my parents, still, and a grandmother." He's said no the past many times they asked him to play something. Eventually, they stopped asking. "My grandfather gave me my first lute. I couldn't have been older than five. I was shit at it, at first, but... I learned. I could play you a song my mother quite likes, perhaps?" It's really designed for a piano, but the lute will do. "_The weather is frightening, The thunder and lightning, Seem to be having their way, But as far as I'm concerned, it's a lovely day..._"

https://open.spotify.com/track/4g6gbI41Qb40hopvq6C2t5?si=707a3ab89611465d

Delton lays down on the cot, counting his breaths, as Symon plays. He's got a lovely voice and his playing is beautiful. He sleepily hums along, his years as a choir boy coming out in his half-conscious state. His in-laws had danced to this song in the kitchen often, Tiberius charming his lute to play as he and Mairwen sang and danced. It reminds him of happier times, of the first people who ever loved him unconditionally. And thinking of Theo didn't hurt so much, He starts to drift off, exhaustion taking over him. He had slept approximately four hours in three days, after all.

1

Alvilda (Tav: Helaena+)

alvilda_

Close

Delton knows the song. More importantly, he's finally relaxing. Symon can see his worries begin to fade with every verse, so he continues, and when that song is over, plays another, and then one more, until the healer is, finally, asleep. "_Under a blanket of blue.._." His voice trails off, his lute finally stilling. It felt good, to use music to help, instead of to harm, or to lie. Judging by the deep bruising under Delton's eyes, he dearly needed the sleep. Keen to avoid Delton's anger, Symon behaves and keeps his shoulder as immobile as possible as he goes about helping where he can. But his eyes keep straying back to where the redheaded Ilmatari is finally, finally resting.

Delton sleeps peacefully for a time, thoughts of holidays with the only family he's ever known filling his head. But a few songs isn't going to beat out literal decades of poor sleep - of nightmares and trauma that possesses his dreams like the haunting demons they are. It started off well. The Naïlos all together around a campfire. One of the few times Delton had managed to convince them to 'rough it,' just a little. Tiber was singing, playing his lute. The kids were running around... But dream Delton couldn't help but stare into the fire, the crackling meditative...until it's not. Until the flames are consuming everything...screams, ||charred skin,|| and smoke everywhere... He wakes up violently, jerking up into a sitting position and, surprisingly, not making a sound. Somehow, he had trained himself to bite down on his palm because that was better than his screams waking the whole neighborhood. Shaking, he tries to take deep breaths to soothe himself, palm still between his teeth.

Symon barely left the room at all, bringing the menial alchemical preparation tasks he'd been set to with him. He's a trained spy, an assassin used to being his own lookout. Of course he notices the choked-off scream, muffled into Delton's hand, of course he notices the way the healer is biting himself to stifle his screams. It's sadly not the first night terror in a friend or comrade he's dealt with. Symon kneels at the side of the cot, doing his best to make himself as small and unthreatening as possible, to telegraph his every move. "Delton? Can you tell me five things you can see right now?"

Delton fights to get his breath back, flinching slightly when someone kneels next to him. His eyes jerk over and, when he sees it's Symon, he starts to relax. It was a dream. Just a dream. Not a memory. He's still biting his palm and, after a shaky breath, he pulls it out from between his teeth. Deep grooves can be seen but, fortunately, no blood. "Sy-Symon?" His eyes flick back to the human's face. He knows what Symon's doing. He's done it for many patients before. Maybe it's worth a try. "Um, the-the sheet of the cot," someone must have pulled it over him when he fell asleep, "rogue's morsel clusters, the cracks in the ceiling..." a pause, "your lute..." an even longer pause. His gazs settles back on Symon. "Your eyes?" He finishes, sounding more like a question than an answer.

He smiles, a small, gentle thing. Even before the Harpers, he learned to do this for his sister. Laena would get lost in her own head, so overwhelmed she could barely breathe, and sometimes, he was the one there. It never got easier to watch someone you love suffer, but at least having the tools to help made him feel like there was something he could do. Even if often it was just holding her hand and talking to her. It's been used for a lot more night terrors and flashbacks than its original purpose at this point. "That's great, Delton. Just focus on breathing, yeah? Four things you can feel, now. Take your time."

Delton just tries to focus on his breathing, but his heart stutters slightly at that smile. This man is full of surprises, huh? He takes a few beats to focus on inhaling and exhaling rather than hyperventilating. That dream was a bad one, after all. What does he feel? "T-the blanket, the cot under me...um, the chill in the air, and my pendant..." His words are stuttered and halting and he reaches up to grab his pendant, the cool metal stinging against his abused palm.

"Perfect. I think you know the next one. Three things you can hear?" Delton's still struggling, still halfway lost in the nightmare, but he's slowly coming back to the present. Of course, Symon has no idea if what haunts him are memories or possible futures. But somehow he gets the sense memories are more likely. "You're doing great, Delton. Just three things you can hear now, yeah? Just breathe and focus on that."

Delton is desperately trying to catch his breath, but he's starting to feel a bit better. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills the images away. It doesn't work, but the attempt makes him feel better. "The healers in the next room, the street outside, and your voice," he says, panting.

He wants to ask if he can touch him. It helps for some, hurts for others. For himself it’s a crapshoot, really. Depends on which dream. But no, best to wait, finish the grounding exercise. “That’s good. My voice isn’t going anywhere, either. I’m right here, yeah? You’re not alone.” His hand rests, palm facing up, on the edge of the cot, within Delton’s reach. An offer, should he need or want it. “Two things you can smell. You’re almost done.”

Delton sees the hand and, honestly, he needs touch right now. He's so used to having to deal with it alone, but, most of the time, it feels like the lack of contact physically hurts. He quickly shoots his hand over to grab hold of Symon's, his breathing starting to slow. "Antiseptic ingredients and...well-worn leather," he says, not the most confidently.

He accepts Delton's hand without comment, his own a steady anchor, gently squeezing back. Symon's never thought of himself as having particularly large hands, but they're significantly larger than Delton's, the hands of a thief and a liar and a murderer compared to those of a healer. "Ah, the scent of leather's probably me, sorry." The scent from his equipment seemed to stick to his skin, no matter what he did. At least it wasn't wholly unpleasant. "Last one. Something you can taste?" If he says blood I'm getting another healer.

Delton swallows harshly, wrinkling his nose. "Sour - the way it tastes after you just woke up." He stays laying down for a few moments before slowly sitting up, using his free hand to rub at his face. He doesn't let go of Symon's hands. Flashing a weak smile, he says, "Sorry about that. I guess I should've expected a terror. You didn't sign up to take of me, after all." Who would? He's pathetic enough without having a freak out.

Shit, he should have gotten him some water. "What are you sorry for? It's not like you're the only one who gets them around here." There are a few Harpers who sleep soundly through the night. Usually the older ones, the most experienced. Symon's not sure if he looks forward to or dreads reaching that point. At least a screaming conscience is still a conscience. "You didn't sign up to deal with my stubborn ass refusing medical advice, either. Least I can do to repay you. Would you like some water?"

Delton nods, "Yes, please." He reluctantly lets go of Symon's hand, already missing the comfort physical contact provided. He hasn't really had much, well, since Theo. Well, there was Ambrose, but it's better if those memories stay hidden. Otherwise, ||he'll feel like he needs to scrub away the residue of that relationship and the unwanted touches he received.|| He laughs a little when he finally processes Symon's words. "I can tell you, you are not even close to the worst patient I've ever had. When I signed on to be a healer, I knew I'd deal with rather...headstrong people."

"That doesn't excuse it," he argues as he reaches for the jug of water left on a small table, perhaps for washing. It's clean and there, and that's good enough. He pours Delton a glass, supporting his arm a bit awkwardly with the hand still in a sling. "Here. But Delton, please, don't apologize." Sincere blue eyes meets still-anxious green, Symon's begging Delton to understand without him saying it explicitly. "You're not the only one."

Delton takes the glass gratefully, his hands still shaking as the hold it. "I, um, appreciate that. Just don't want to be a bother - especially with the real issues people have right now." It doesn't matter that the dreams feel real. They aren't. You've dealt with much worse. "And, Symon, you were trying to be helpful. That just shows you're a good man. Sometimes, we can get a little blinded to our reality when all he feel is compassion for others and the desire to help." He takes another long sip, "I don't blame you at all." He smiles a bit, "You're still wearing the sling," he notes.

'Well, you put the fear of the gods in me if I refused, so," he jokes, laughing it off. It's easier to joke than to admit Delton got through to him, eventually. "And trying, yeah. Being successful, maybe not so much. It is what it is. I'm just sorry to have wasted so much of your time." Delton's kind, but he's like that with everyone. Symon's not a good person. And Delton wouldn't call him one if he knew him better, anyway. Unless he kept lying. That's not a very attractive prospect, to be quite honest. Symon's so sick of lying.

Delton smiles at Symon, lethally sincere. "You have to know that I only do it because I want you to get better. It's because I care - and I know you brave, reckless types. Jump in again before you heal." He sighs then, "And you didn't waste my time, Symon. I am a healer. I heal people. And, frankly, it was refreshing to have someone argue with me - it's honestly sad when you Harpers are too beaten down to not participate in some friendly sniping." Hopping off the bed, he stumbled a bit but got his feet under him. He reaches up to squeeze Symon's shoulder. "And you helped me wake up from a bad one - which I can't help but be extraordinarily grateful for. Sometimes, well, sometimes it takes a while when I'm alone. You didn't have to help but you did. So thank you."

So he appreciates a bit of banter. Fair enough. He flinches minutely at the unexpected touch, but covers it with a smile of his own. Come on, Symon, get your shit together. It wasn't even that bad. Far from the worst. Fucking hells, he needs a drink. Or ten. "Like I said. It's the least I can do. You shouldn't have to be alone, dealing with that." He'd say no one should, but he's met too many terrible people for that. "I'm glad I could help. And I'll do my best not to jump back in the fight before you've cleared me to lift something heavier than a sheet of paper, at least. We don't want to make it too easy for the Banites, right?"

Delton is a cleric and a healer. He might not be a Harper-level spy, but he spends his days cataloguing micro-expressions to see what hurts and what doesn't, what scares a child, what people really mean. He knows how to read between the lines. To most people, that flinch wouldn't be noticeable. He's not most people. "Do you need to sit down yourself, Symon? Is another injury acting up or is there something you need to talk about?" Delton's face is creased with concern, genuine and clear to everyone around. He's scanning Symon for injuries, gently touching the other man's elbows. He sighs, "You don't have to put on a brave front with me. You just saw me trying to flay my own hand in my sleep."

Fuck, it's even worse when people notice. "I'm fine," Symon bites out, irritated. He takes a trio of deep, steady breaths, forcing his heartbeat to slow. "I'm fine," he repeats, more convincingly. "Just... startled. I'm tired," he admits, because that's easier than _my brain is broken and my soul is irredeemably tainted and you should run not walk_. "Been a long few days for all of us. I just want to get in good enough shape I can head home." And drink until I do something stupid, get laid, sleep it off, repeat as necessary.

1

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

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Delton can't help the flinch at Symon's snap, dropping his arms and wrapping them around himself. He wasn't prepared for it. He's not in healer mode. And a big man getting annoyed or angry with him? Brings back bad memories. But he tries to pull on the healer mask that has become more of a second skin. A person who can't be bothered by anything. "Let me check that shoulder then, and let's see what we can do."

Shit. Well, now he officially feels like an absolute fucking asshole. Delton just had a night terror, and he snaps at him for expressing concern, for being a good man. Something I’m not. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, as if that’ll do anything, and sits down without protest as directed. This is what you do, Symon. You hurt people. You screw up, and cause even more damage than you mean to. Rotten to the core.

1

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

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Delton gives him a weak smile and says, "It's alright. We're all on edge right now and we lash out when that happens. And, I don't do well with raised voices, which is a personal problem, not a you problem." He slowly and carefully takes the sling off and tests Symon's range of motion. When he's satisfied with that, he looks at the bruise which has turned into a deep yellow, rather than the garish purple and black of yesterday. One last bit of healing magic won't hurt. "Te curo." The gray glow envelops Symon's shoulder, making the bruise completely disappear. "That should do it, my friend," he shoots Symon a smile, but he can tell the other man is stewing on something. "This may be an overstep...but my kids always say a hug makes them feel better and I think you might need one, darling." He smiles, "I think you'd do well talking about what happened with a friend, or a healer. I'm sure you have plenty of your fellow Harpers who would offer a shoulder..."

It's still his fault. Symon stews in it while letting Delton do whatever he wishes to his arm, which does feel a lot better. Still, Delton shouldn't waste even more magic on him. There are certainly others who need it more. "Thank you," he says still. He's not going to be rude. Well, even more so. My friend? They barely know each other. Delton must just be... like this. Kind. Friendly. Generous with his time and attention. Making friends the way most people make water. He blinks, dumbfounded, at several parts of the last thing Delton said. Kids, plural. Darling. A suggestion of a hug, or talking to a friend or a healer. Who? Aly's not around, and she's the only one who's ever been able to drag the words out of him. Jaheira's out of the question, she'd bench him in a heartbeat, and the last thing he needs is to be even more useless. There's his family, but they can't know. He can't hurt them like that. "I'm not so sure about that," he admits. "About anyone offering. I don't want to waste anyone's time, anyway." Maybe he should go home, his real home, not the flat he keeps in Eastway, but no. His family shouldn't see him like this. "You have kids? How many?" he asks, keen to distract him.

Delton waves off his thanks. It's his job after all. But then, at Symon's words, he purses his lips. "Symon, you are not a waste of time, nor are your feelings." He shoots Symon a hesitant smile, "I'm told I'm a good listener. And it's the least I can do for the hero who fought off my nightmares," his voice is teasing. "Plus," he jokes, "My youngest swears my hugs are a cure all, if you need." His smile softens, "And, yes. I have three kids. Two boys and a girl. I took them in two years ago. They're the greatest thing that has ever happened to me." Especially since Theo's passing. He putters around the room a little, making sure things are in order. His palm still stings, but it's not worth the waste of magic. He's had worse, after all.

Adopted. Three children. Delton does seem the type. A proper bleeding heart. Definitely an idealist. That doesn't rule out an excellent actor as well, of course. Still, *hero*? For spending five minutes acting like a decent person? Is Delton just like this? How could someone go through life with a heart that kind? Especially in their line of business? Adopting children, healing the broken bodies and minds of Harpers, probably rescuing lost kittens or feeding the homeless on his time off. He's almost certain he's heard Jaheira mention Delton's clinic helps even those who cannot pay, vanishingly rare in the city as it stands. He's much too kind. That kind of kindness is dangerous. "How's your hand?" Symon blurts out. "You were biting it. Did it break the skin?"

When Delton first looked at the bite, he was positive that it hadn't broken skin. There wasn't any blood, after all. But it stung very acutely and, well, saliva can stem blood flow after all. He briefly glances down and, yep, there it is. With as much subtly as he can manage, he presses his hand against his pants. That causes the wound to sting even worst. But, it's fine. He's not worth the waste of magic. Especially with so much to still deal with. "It's fine, Symon. I appreciate your concern though. It's very kind." He waves the other man off with his good hand. Gods, how much did I miss in just a few hours? Jaheria put me in charge, after all, and I'm dreading what could have happened while I was asleep...

"You're not a good enough liar to get away with that, you know that?" Being observant kind of comes with the job. And spotting blood has become second nature. "If I'm not a waste of magic, why are you? At least take a potion, I think I've ground up enough Rogue's Morsel to last us a month, at the least." He'd kept busy while Delton slept. He might not be a healer, but it wasn't his first time keeping a safe house afloat in the aftermath of a disaster while all the higher-ups are busy putting out fires. Not his first time doing it while only half-recovered from injury himself, either. "The safe house is fine, by the way. In case that's what you're worried about. No one's so critical they can't sleep," he insists in a way that makes it very clear he's had more or less those exact words parroted at him plenty of times.

Delton sighs, rubbing his good hand against his face. How do you explain to someone that the sting makes him remember he's not back there without sounding absolutely insane? "It's fine, Symon. I'll stem the bleeding and no magic is needed. It's not the first time, darling." He relaxes a bit when he learns that the safe house is fine, glad things didn't fall to pieces in his absence. Disappointing Jaheira is not on his to-do list. "I'm glad to hear that. I'll need to sit down and go over the notes with the other healers...keeping records on injuries is important, after all..." He's more talking to himself at this point, going over to the pitcher to wash off his bleeding hand and wrap it up. It wouldn't do to have an infection, after all. It isn't like he doesn't do this a lot. "You are cleared, by the way. To lift things, that is. But I'd recommend limiting missions for the foreseeable future. A few of my contacts have been sent to Jaheira already with reports on increased Banite influence in the Lower City." He doesn't need to know that I run an intel network throughout all of Eastway. Not yet, at least.

So Delton's a hypocrite. Fair enough. So are lots of people. The kind sort, at least. "One of the other Ilmatari seemed to have things well in hand on that front. I was hoping you'd sleep for a little longer, she promised to have everything under control for another four hours or so. Everyone needs rest, Delton. And we're past the worst of it." Most of the remaining Harpers are fine or soon will be. The critical patients have already been moved, the safe house is secure... There's no real need for Delton to run himself this hard. "Cleared to lift things, but not to work?" He is also a hypocrite. "Delton, I know you're not enough of a fool to not realize the situation out there, what's going on. The Harpers need every single body they can get. If I'm fit to fight, I need to be out there. Sitting on my arse while innocent people are disappearing into Gortash's secret prisons is not an option," he insists, his voice vehement but staying at a normal volume. He's trying not to be an asshole, at least.

Delton sighs at that, knowing that he won't be able to relax unless he checks in with the patients and sees them for himself. Plus, he really should check in with the temple to see how many funerals he has to cover - and how many other churches he has to contact. He's not good at practicing what he preaches. But being useful makes him feel worth something. "That's...not what I meant." He sighs, now taking the time to wash away sleep from his eyes, carefully avoiding looking in the mirror. He doesn't need to turn his stomach on top of everything else. "I meant that you...you Harpers sometimes rush in after an event like this when it's really time to regroup and collect information. Now is not the time for revenge and, right now, if I've got a good read on the psyche of most of the people out there - they're itching for blood. To prove themselves. That won't beat back Gortash. That will just mean I have to deliver more funeral rites, which I'd like to avoid if possible." He sits down where Symon clearly was earlier, preparing the ingredients for healing potions. "My husband died because of that - we were rushed into a mission without prior preparation and intel and, well..."

His shoulders slump as Delton drops the words "dead husband." He's been on missions like that, too. Buried friends after them. Hells, he's even run one or two. He knows. "That's not what I was planning on doing. I'm not going to storm the Wyrm's Rock singlehandedly, no matter how much I might want to. But we do need information. We need ears to the ground, a presence, not just a bunch of spooked half-healed survivors holed up in a safehouse." He just... He needs to do something. Even if it's something as simple as gathering intel on the ground from his usual contacts. It's multitasking, really. One of the best places to gather information is a tavern, especially the rowdier ones in the harbor districts. Not drinking would make him stand out, as would utter disinterest in the company of men and women both, especially if he didn't wear a fake wedding band. Gods, he could use a good fight, though. Get some frustration out of his system, fight something that fought fairly, or at least as close to it as a bar brawl got, not with giant automatons and cruel traps and poison bombs.

Delton sighs and goes over to touch the other man's shoulder. "I know you mean that, but any intel you get right now is going to make you feel like a failure. If you take care of one wayward cleric like he's your responsibility, I know you somehow feel responsible for this whole mess." He looks Symon in the eyes, very serious. "You just went through a serious trauma and the hormones in your system are telling you that it's time to fight. But, maybe it's time to take a deep breath and let people who weren't involved handle it." He sighs again, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of his face. "My contacts are reporting that a lot of people think Gortash will save them. Even tyranny can seem like salvation to the hopeless - because at least he's promising to do something about the conditions of the Gate." "Fight that. Fight helplessness and poverty. Fight fear. That will be the thing to defeat Gortash, I think. Taking away his source of power and influence." But, he shrugs and squeezes Symon's shoulder, "But what do I know. I'm no Jaheira."

"Even Jaheira isn't omniscient. And far from omnipotent, for that matter." Still, he considers the words seriously while trying not to be affected by how tactile Delton seems to be. Does he just... touch people, all the time? "Most of the best operatives in the Gate were on that mission. Too many of them are dead, or missing, or too injured to get back in the game for a while. I know Jaheira's leaning on contacts elsewhere to bring reinforcements, but Gods know how long that might take. I can see your perspective, I really can, but I don't see an alternative." I go where I'm needed. Simple words to live by, but they've taken him all over the Sword Coast, and further afield to places like Chult, even Thay once. He hates when the crisis, the need, is right here at home in the Gate. His work is supposed to keep his family safe, the problems and dangers far from them. Gortash getting even this far seems like a failure, the tyrant inches away from complete control. "What should I do instead, then? I'm a spy and a killer, Delton, not a healer, not a caretaker, not a builder. I've killed more people than I've saved." I'm not like you.

Delton fights the desire to roll his eyes at a man who would risk one of his major limbs to help others being some kind of monster. It wouldn't be conducive to the conversation, but it sure would be satisfying. He grabs Symon's other shoulder, resisting the urge to shake him, and makes even more intense eye contact. "Every person that I've met who became a Harper was far more than just a Harper. They were fighters, yes, but dreamers, idealists, people fighting for a better future. And that means thinking outside of the box when it comes to your talents." He lets go and turns back to the healing potion ingredients, slowly organizing them and cataloging them in his head. "So you're a spy. So your job has made you kill people. But you took this job for a reason, and I don't think it's some form of sick sadism for you." He tilts his head, back still turned, "Maybe I'm wrong here, but I think you took this job to protect people. So, leverage that. Become the Gate's protector, rather than its avenger. Protect the people where the Fists won't. Help break the cycles that caused Gortash to rise in the first place." "I do that by being a healer. By feeding street kids and the poor. By finding apprenticeships and money for university. Find what you can do with those protective instincts of yours - those protective instincts of every Harper there is - and we'll defeat more than Gortash."

Of course he didn't become a Harper to kill people. That's why people join the Zhents, or the Guild, or any number of other criminal organizations. Well, that and money. The pay's supposed to be a lot better than the Harpers. About as dangerous. "I joined the Harpers to make a difference," Symon admits. "I was just a kid, still in college. You know how it is. Bright eyed idealist who's decent with a lyre, thinks that means the world's their oyster." Jaheira dispelled any such illusions within a month of joining. Still, he likes to think he's helped, at least a little. Harmed, too, but... It has to be worth it, right? There has to be a reason, or it's all just... Shit, really. It's shit right now. It isn't always. "I want to help. But I can't see a way where alleviating harm that's already been done is better than preventing it from happening in the first place. Gortash is a tyrant, yes, but he's not a fool. He's not going to take kindly to, for example, thumbing your nose at his precious Steel Watch." The day before had underscored just how crucial it is to find a way to neutralize the monstrous automatons. One thing is the terror they inflict on the population, another is just how deadly they are in a fight with people made of flesh and bone. Flesh is so much easier to destroy than metal. "Gortash needs to go down, it's as simple as that. The rest can wait until after the immediate threat is gone."

Delton turns back toward Symon when the other man started speaking and physically cannot prevent himself rolling his eyes. "Gortash needs to go down, yes. But are you prepared for riots in the streets? For the poor, foreigners, and refugees to be attacked when the news of his death spreads? Because that will happen, if this fight continues the way it's going." He sighs, rubbing his face, "Because you won't be preventing further harm. Killing one man, taking down one cult doesn't change the fact that this city has been infested with Gortash's ideas. If Gortash dies and nothing is done about the reasons he came to power, it'll be a bloodbath on the streets. One we can't stop." "People need someone to blame and someone to idolize. If things keep going this way, you're going to martyr that monster in the eyes of the city. And Ilmater knows, someone worse will come to fill his role. If you convince yourself there's only one solution here, you risk becoming a hammer that only sees nails. And sooner or later that sort of thinking will doom us all."

It won't be that bad, he wants to insist. But he's seen how otherwise kind and sensible people can be whipped into a frenzy, seen the way this city and many others treat tieflings, outsiders, anyone even the slightest bit different. "I can't do nothing." And this is the only thing I know how to do. I'm no good at creating anything but lies. "I don't know how to protect in the way you're suggesting. I'm not a guardsman, or a magistrate, or even a gaoler. I keep the streets safe by removing people who hurt others. I don't know how to sway public opinion, or inoculate against xenophobia and mistrust." I'm not a good person. I'm a tool, and you're telling me I should lie idle.

1

Bee (Tav: Delton)

traver1111

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Delton sits down next to Symon and takes his hand, squeezing it supportively, despite the sting of the bandage rubbing against his wound. "While I doubt that you don't have those skills already, you always can learn. I didn't come out of the womb healing, after all." He gives Symon a bright smile, "I'm not pretending to be a saint. I play politics far more than I would like and what I can do never feels like it's enough. But I've forced myself to learn." Another squeeze to Symon's hand, "Think of what you can do and then learn how to do the rest. Sometimes a smile or a song is enough to save lives. And you're not alone in this - I don't know if I've quite managed to convince Jaheira of the importance of doing more than fighting yet, but I'm always here to help." "You'll even get to see me flounder too, so you know you aren't alone."

You aren’t alone. Delton shouldn’t be offering this. Doesn’t he know you can’t just… give everything, to everyone, without there being consequences? Perhaps he doesn’t. That would explain the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes. In addition to whatever terrors left him biting into his own hand to keep from screaming. “I don’t think it’s because we don’t believe it’s important,” Symon finally says after a few moments of contemplative silence. “I think it’s because we don’t know how to do anything else.” He doesn’t object to Delton’s hand in his. It’s… nice. Even if he wonders, worries, at the lengths Delton will go to for every broken soul that enters his care, even briefly. How can you give so much of yourself and expect for there to be anything left? “I’ll… try, I suppose. But I’m not sure what that looks like. Regrouping at first, I suppose. Lick our wounds, try to recover. Then…” His instinct still is to find a way to take out the Black Hand of Bane with as few casualties as possible. He wants to believe much of the hatred Gortash spews would die with him. He knows it won’t. “Then I’ll talk to Jaheira. I’ll speak your case to her, if you want, or back you up while you make it, but… I can’t promise she’ll listen.” She’s a stubborn old bat. Always has been. It’s part of why he respects her so much.

Delton squeezes Symon's hand gratefully. "Every fighter needs to put up their weapons at some point. I'm not saying to give up on the Harpers' goals. But that we need to do more because we're careening toward disaster, through no fault of our own." "I think regrouping sounds like a good plan. For all of you," he nods his head out toward the door, "They look up to you, you know? Calm down when you're around. Don't have to worry about putting on a brave face." He keeps scanning Symon's face, looking for...something. He doesn't quite know what. Honestly, he didn't think anyone would listen to him. It wouldn't be the first time. Shaking his head, he chuckles a bit, "I can make my own case, I think. Jaheira and I...well, let's just say I've got my own tricks up my sleeve to make an old archdruid listen to a lowly cleric like me. But, you being there to support me? It would mean the world to me." "Plus, if she doesn't listen, I'll at least know I did my best-that we did our best to try and bring peace to the Gate." Another grateful squeeze. "Thank you, Symon."

Every fighter needs to put up their weapons at some point. Only if they live to do so. He's always expected to die young. Many Harpers do, after all. Especially the ones with his particular specialization. "You shouldn't thank me for doing the bare minimum," he protests. Almost beyond anything else, he's so... confused. Delton deeply confuses him. None of what he says makes sense. Or, well, it does, but only if Symon assumes he's just that kind, that complimentary, that sweet with... everyone? How is there any of him left to give? Symon barely gives any of himself and he can still feel himself being scraped thin half the time. "And I sincerely doubt many of the Harpers see me as anything but a pain in the arse or Jaheira's lapdog." The last thing he wants is command. Responsibility. No, he's got plenty of messes to deal with already.

Delton frowns at that, still not dropping the other man's hand. "You're not doing the bare minimum. The bare minimum is letting me say my piece. You're actually helping me. That's above and beyond what I imagined, to be honest." He doesn't like how Symon seems to downplay his efforts. Like he's always just...showing up and doing nothing else. "You carried people to their sickbeds on a broken shoulder, Symon. People...don't do that. I'm not trying to encourage your behavior but - to them, out there? You're a hero. You look out for them. They trust you." Jaheira trusts you, but I think you need to hear that from her. "Now, I'm not saying they don't think your a 'pain in the ass,'" he gives the other man a lopsided smile, "because you are. But a lap dog? Never. They look up to you far too much for that." His smile softens, "I might not be a spy, but I'm trained to read the lines. They physically relax when you enter a room, Symon. That can't be said of most Harpers."

He’s been called a dumbass more times than he can count, often by his sisters, but Symon likes to think he isn’t actively stupid. So he listens, hears Delton’s perspective, and tries to fit it together with the information he’s gathered himself. It fits, but somewhat awkwardly. Delton clearly has an overly favorable view of him, but so do many of the greener Harpers. “Doing what you can is the bare minimum, isn’t it? It’s what you should do. That’s how I try to see it at least.” He shrugs without thinking, for a moment bracing himself for a burst of pain, but no, Delton did excellent work. His shoulder might be better than before it got smashed to bits by a mace. “The operative in charge didn’t make it,” he explains after a moment of quiet. “I have no idea if they’re captured or dead or in hiding somewhere, but they haven’t checked in. “Gathering up the battered survivors of a mission gone wrong isn’t my idea of fun, but someone had to do it, and I was there, and less hurt than most. Some of the kids…” It’s hard to see the greenest recruits as anything but kids. Some even younger than he’d been when he joined up. It’s difficult to believe he was ever that bright eyed and idealistic. Too many of those kids are being shipped back to their families in boxes. “They hadn’t tried a mission gone wrong before. It’s easy to latch on to someone after seeing something like that. Whether that’s respect, hero worship, or just a survival strategy… it’s hard to say.”

Delton smiles and squeezes his hand, "That might be your idea of the bare minimum, but most people wouldn't have stepped. Hells, Symon, you're not the oldest or most senior Harper here, but none of them decided to take charge. But you did, while you were in pain and suffering. That's admirable." He sighs and lets go of Symon's hand to drag his hand across his face, the bandage a weird texture on his face. "I can't make you believe they respect you, but I can tell you that they do." His shoulders sink, "I should...probably check in. The temple likes it when I perform funeral rites in Eastway and the slums. The people know me there. And I have to check on my clinic..." He quickly mutters a few words, a Sending spell to Rion, "Are the kids still with you and Jord? At safehouse. Heading toward clinic soon."

"Do you need help?" he feels urged to ask. "I'm not much use as a healer or a cleric, but I can offer another set of hands, at least." Another set of spells, if none for healing. Another body between the Banites sure to protest Delton's work. They protest almost almost anyone who does the slightest bit of good, especially if it's outside their control. Besides, wasn't that what Delton urged him to do? Protect, instead of harm? A clinic isn't a bad place to start. "I need something to do if I can't go in the field, yeah? Might as well be something that does at least some amount of good."

Delton blinks a bit before a huge smile spreads across his face. "Yeah, I'd like that. I could always use an extra set of hands." He hops up off the cot, "I will check in with the other healers and send a few messages to the Ilmateri. You can wrap up here and then we can walk there. I have a Bag of Holding to store your armor and weapons in, so we don't look to suspicious. Don't want the safehouse discovered, after all."

"And at what point in this plan will you have time to rest?" Symon protests. "It's fine if you want to get home, check on your kids... but you need sleep, Delton. Not another full day's work." When was the last time Delton got a solid eight hours? The last time the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes smoothed out with plentiful good sleep? The small handful of hours he'd managed while Symon kept things running in the safe house is nowhere near enough.

Delton sighs, rubbing his hands against his face again, the bandage stinging against his face and wound. How do you explain that I still smell smoke and taste ash? That sleeping will trap me with my own husband's ||body.|| "I'll be okay Symon. After a terror like that...working is the better option right now." He gives him a sweet smile, "I'll be fine. You don't need to worry."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Wouldn't he say much the same thing under similar circumstances? Hasn't he, in the past? It's a taste of his own medicine, really. Or so his mother or grandmother was likely to argue, at least. "Alright, then. But you should still rest when you can. And take it easy." It's an almost exact echo of what Delton told him the day before. Most people are massive hypocrites, Symon included.

Delton gives a strained smile, "I promise to try." Even though it won't work. I'd love to sleep but I can't afford to lose it right now. There's too much on the line. He manages to send the few messages necessary to the Ilmateri Temple - he will check in soon in person, but nothing can be done now with the extent of the wounded. The other healers essentially waved him out of the safehouse, knowing that the clinic had essentially been closed for two days which wasn't ideal either. In that time, Rion responded to say that the kids are still in the City with her and Jord. So, after Symon collects and stores his supplies, they head out.

The walk to Delton's Easyway clinic is not far and the half-elf seems to know most of the residents, greeting them by name and asking questions about them if there's time. He doesn't stop, but the people seem used to that. The first thing they see when they turn up Delton's street, is a small group of three teenagers gathered outside of the clinic. The second thing was the shattered glass and busted-in door.

His blood runs cold at the sight of the damage. It's not unusual, especially in this day and age, to see businesses and homes vandalized by Gortash's goons. Those accused of being foreign, "corrupted," simply against his rule... Sometimes it seemed there was no real reason at all. "This is your clinic?" he seeks to verbally confirm, his dominant hand itching to reach for the daggers he keeps hidden inside the lining of his jacket. Hells take the Banites. Smashing up healer's clinics? What would be next, schools?

Delton seems less concerned about the mess and more concerned about the teenagers in front of the clinic, running up to them. A young female half-elf - likely the youngest - hugs him. The young half-orc is looking around suspiciously while the young human male seems to be trying to calm them down. "Cali, Samir, Kelti! Are you alright? You didn't try to do anything stupid did you? It's just windows and doors. Those can be replaced but we can't replace you!" He easily starts rubbing Cali's back. "Please tell me you didn't skip school when you saw the mess. I don't want you ruining your futures over vandalism.

The trio assures Delton that they are fine and that they came upon the mess when walking home from school. Samir's father and aunt will be over soon enough, the young man promised, to clean up the mess. When they came upon it, they were worried people were injured. The clinic had never been attacked during the day before.

Delton nods, releasing Cali when she pulls back. "The clinic's been closed due to an Ilmateri emergency loves, don't worry. Just windows and doors. Now, head home! It's almost suppertime and your family will be worried." He turns to Symon after watching them head down the street toward their own houses, "They're good kids, but they often feel protective of me. I worry that they will put themselves in danger over it one day." Sighing at the damage, he checks to see if there is anything of value stolen or broken. Typically, the Banites just did a smash job. Fortunately, it looks like today is no different. "Be careful, Symon. Don't want you to get injured."

Be careful? Delton is being far too calm about this. “How often has this happened?” He steps over a broken glass cabinet, the vials inside likely beyond repair. Hours and hours of work, the cost of the ingredients and containers… ground under the hell of the Banites like so much else in the city. Laena could help with this, he realizes. She’s always cleaning up messes or mending broken things with a snap of her fingers. Whether she’d come if he asked if another matter entirely. His baby sister is an important wizard now. Archmage of… some tower or other. Starting with R, maybe? Besides, she hasn’t liked him much for years now, not that he can blame her. He’d ask, for Delton. Delton doesn’t deserve to have his work set back this much. Not if there’s anything Symon can do to help.

Delton sighs, rubbing his hand across his face. It's a mess, but he'd stored his records cabinets away so as to not risk confidentiality nor knowledge of his patients. He's the only healer many of his patients see, after all. Nonchalantly, his voice resigned, "This is the third time in two months. First time they've messed with it in broad daylight...I'm lucky no one was here or hurt..." He gets started on trying to at least move the glass out of the way. He'd have to cast so many Mending cantrips to just get his cabinets back in order. The potions are a bust, unfortunately. At least the residents will have the doors and windows fixed by tomorrow night...

"I'm sorry, did you say the third time in two months? Do the Harpers know of this?" Delton's clinic is a de facto safe house, a contact for Harpers needing to be healed quietly, off the books, undercover or on the run. Delton himself is clearly known as a Gortash dissident, judging by some of the slurs written on his walls, along with the usual racist drivel you might expect against an obviously elf-blooded man in a majority-human city. People can be awful, and Gortash has let them be. "Delton, that's- what if you got hurt? What if you got killed? What about your patients? Your kids?! Aren't you concerned about this _at all?_"

Delton blows his hair out of his face, hands on his hips. "For one, they have never attacked the clinic in daylight before. It's always been empty." Hefting a cabniet thats bigger than him into an upright position, he continues, voice annoyed, "Two, my kids are not allowed in the clinic without me being here. And I might not be a Harper, Symon, but I can take care of myself." He turns toward Symon and his eyes flash gray. For a moment, one might think there is an aura of divine magic emmenating from him, as if it's always there and he's hiding it. "I would never put my children in danger. Our house may be attached but both an archmage and I constructed wards that would alert a battalion of Harpers, an archmage, and me before they can be infiltrated. Plus, the kids have a clear escape route planned if the wards ever even ping." He's surveying his surroundings. "My children are tieflings and I am a half-elf. I'm used to our very existence being an affront to this city." He's ignoring several parts of that question, because he doesn't deem them important enough to answer.

”But you wouldn’t extend the same concern to your clinic?” Symon argues right back. “I don’t care how much you can take care of yourself, I’ve seen over a dozen of the best Harpers I’ve ever known mown down by Gortash’s machines before they could even blink just this tenday.” He blinks, all the exhaustion and grief and sheer hopelessness he’s been repressing spilling out, for just a moment. The only reason he’s still alive is pure luck. A lot of the Harpers weren’t nearly as lucky. “I don’t want that to happen to you, or anyone else,” he continues, his voice gentling. “And it’s obvious you’re a target already. You have to take this more seriously. Please.”

Delton, a little frustrated, snaps back, "If I ward the Hells out of my clinic, I can't make sure that anyone and everyone can come seek help. I'm the only option most of these people have!" But, at Symon's next words, he feels absolutely terrible for snapping. The other man had just gone through an intense trauma and was trying to help for Ilmater's sake, and how does Delton repay him? With frustration? The desolation on Symon's, even if it appears only for a second, makes his heart clench. So he does the only thing he can think of - he hugs him. "I'm sorry for your loss, Symon, and I'm sorry for snapping too. You just were trying to help, I know."

He frowns in confusion as Delton… hugs him. When was the last time someone hugged him? Aly’s been away on a mission for months, he hasn’t visited his family in longer, and no one else ever really… Delton’s a decent amount shorter than him, short enough it would feel natural to tuck his head against his shoulder, and his arms feel far too thin, but there’s wiry strength in them, and he’s saying something? “I’m sorry too,” he manages. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I…” You’re asking me to protect. How do I protect people who don’t value their own safety? “You have to be careful.” The Harpers can’t lose one of the last safe healers in the city that doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for the privilege. But more than that… he doesn’t want Delton to get hurt. There’s been enough damage. Enough death. He doesn’t know how many more body bags he can carry before it breaks him. “This clinic is important, and you need to keep it and you safe. Please.”

Delton can feel both how tense and hesitant the other man is. "I don't have a death wish, but any of the protections I put on this clinic will keep the people who belong here out." He sighs, rubbing the other man's back. He seems like he needs it. "I have an open door policy for the kids who don't have anywhere else to go - I can afford it, with the church backing me up. It's not like the Ilmateri generally ask for payment." Leaning back but not letting go - he's not going to be the one to let go when another person so clearly needs human contact, "When you start making a big deal out of things, they notice. And I'd rather them attack my clinic than the local schools. I'm an accomplished cleric and can easily clean up the mess." "Schools? Community centers? I can't control the damage there. No one can. I've already fought this city on opening up more schools. These people need to have places to go so they can get out. Too many attacks and those places doors will be shuttered, making all of the work we've done to alleviate poverty here for naught."

They’re getting bolder. This time, it was in daylight. Next time, it might be while you’re here. “You can’t offer yourself up as some… sacrificial lamb. Leaving your clinic an easy target doesn’t make it less likely they’ll hit other places, too, it’s just…” Foolish. Dangerous. Don’t be a martyr, Delton, I don’t care what your god says. “One thing’s vandalism. Even petty theft. What happens when they don’t stop there? What happens when they start to threaten your patients, or your family? What happens when they burn the whole damn place down? “I can’t- You can’t let that happen. Please. There are ways to take precautions that won’t scare away your patients. Plainclothes security, specific kinds of wards… This time it’s mostly smashed glass. What if next time they break something that can’t be replaced?” Like you.

Delton ducks his head for a moment, looking confused. Has that been what I've been doing? Offering myself up like a sacrificial lamb? He's just been doing what he's done since he was little. Become a target. It'll make it so people smaller than him aren't the one's who get a beating. Make sure he's the one that gets hurt. Because he can take it. He's the one who can take a beating, or a curse, or whatever the world has thrown at him. He's survived this far, after all. "I-I..." His entire worldview feels like it just shifted slightly. He feels pale, suddenly. Sacrificial lamb - isn't that what you were always meant to be?

Delton looks like Symon just said something that made his whole world wobble on its axis. His instinctual response is to fix it, however he can. But what can he do, really? "Delton? Are you alright?" Of course he isn't, the man looks like he's seen a ghost. "If it was something I said, I- I'm sorry. I was trying to help." And isn't that the crux of the matter? Trying to help. And failing. Only making everything worse. As per bloody usual.

Delton blinks, still pale and a little faint. He hasn't pulled back from the hug and he's glad for the contact. "No-no Symon. You didn't do anything wrong. You're just...pointed out something very obvious that I-that I didn't realize be for." He decides he's already made enough of a fool of himself that it doesn't matter if he does it even more. Tightening his arms around the other man, he rests his head on Symon's shoulder, shaking like a leaf. Really, he's just trying to remain upright. How much time have you spent trying to deliver yourself to Silvanus? To be your parents' prize sacrifice? Have you ever truly left the banks of that river?

What can he do but hold him? So he does. “I’m sorry,” he says, as useless as everything else he has to offer. His hands stroke soothingly down Delton’s back, a mix of instinct and memory of what helped Laena when she needed touch to ground her. “You’re not alone, Delton. And whatever it is that haunts you, it can’t hurt you anymore.” I won’t let it.

Delton feels absolutely pathetic, shaking in a near-stranger's arms because of something he should have figured out years ago. He didn't though. Because he's an idiot. But he can't bring himself to pull back. He's still faint and he worries that, if he lets go, he'll pass out right onto the shards of glass that decorate his clinic. "I'm sorry-I'm such a mess. Just give me a moment to feel more steady on my feet and I'll stop clinging like a child..." His voice has reverted to that halting accent he so carefully trained himself out of, years before.

”You’re not acting like a child.” The response is instinctive. Delton’s not the first person he’s heard put themselves down for needing support, or even just a hug. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I can assure you there’s nothing childish or foolish about needing an anchor when your whole world feels like it’s spinning in circles.” He never said he wasn’t a hypocrite. But he won’t let Delton talk that way about himself. “There’s no hurry. Just try to breathe. I’ll be here as long as you need someone.” This, at least, isn’t too far from what he’s done for too many fellow fighters, especially after a Bad One. Hells, he’s done it more than once just in the past day, for others than Delton too. Physical touch is a much healthier anchor than most he’s found. But he isn’t exactly looking for healthy at the bottom of a bottle, anyway. “I’m right here, Delton. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not letting you go. Is there anything you need?” His bag of holding might be slightly obsessively stocked, in case of emergencies. He’s got draughts of Calm Emotions if Delton needs them.

Delton wants to protest, to tell Symon that he's currently freaking out over a realization seventeen years too late. That he's being - has been - an idiot for ignoring what's been staring him right in the face. He doesn't though, too exhausted and shaken up for that. "Thank you," is all he can manage, a word said into Symon's shoulder that feels like it echoes throughout the room. Eventually, he pulls back, wiping a hand across his face. He's still shaky and pale, but no longer in danger of falling onto his face. "I think I better start trying to get this cleaned up, before someone gets hurt. The sooner I'm back open, the better." He shoots Symon a smile, not even close to the usual brightness. "You don't know how appreciative I am. Twice in one day too...just thank you." For dealing with the mess that I am.

He’d say it’s the least he could do, but he knows Delton would protest. So instead, what he says is “You’re welcome.” The clinic really is a mess. Broken glass everywhere, the contents of the broken vials sinking into the floorboards. “Let me help?” It’s not truly a question. He’s not going to leave Delton to deal with all of this on his own, especially not sleep deprived and recovering from multiple trauma triggers. He hums a little tune, and an Unseen Servant digs out a broom from a closet and begins to gather the broken glass in a single pile. “Many hands make light work, yeah? Or so my Mum always insisted, but she might have just been trying to keep me out of trouble.” She often didn’t succeed, but that’s beside the point. “Let me help. Please.”

Whether it's because he's too tired or too emotionally drained, Delton has no energy to argue. He's already staring a to-do list that has seemed to double in size over the last day. The damage is much more extensive than it's ever been before and, honestly, he's in over his head. He could call Gale but the native Waterdhavian would drag him and the kids back to Waterdeep in a heartbeat. Maybe Laena could help? He nods tiredly at Symon, getting near the cabinets and casting Mending on them - which he will have to do over and over and over. "Thank you. Really." He still has to pick up the kids - he's not letting three tiefling children walk unsupervised through the city. He has to check in with the temple, see what he needs to do to make sure the fallen Harpers can rest in peace. Check in with Quothe. Make sure Jaheira's kids are alright - Ilmater only knows she hasn't. He's just so tired.

”Of course.” Another hum casts a Prestidigitation that cleans up at least some amount of the spilled potions covering the floor. A wizard’s spells really would be a lot more useful than a half-baked bard’s here. “My sister… my younger sister, that is, Helaena, she’s a wizard. She could probably fix this place up with a mumbled word and a snap of her fingers. Would you like me to ask her?” The worst she can say is no. It’s not like she’s hostile or anything, but the disappointment and sadness in her eyes when she looks at him isn’t hard to notice. Most of his family looks at him that way. “Her tower’s in the Upper City, but you know how it is with wizards, she could be here in just a moment.”

He smiles gratefully at Symon cleaning some of the mess up before blinking a few times in surprise. "Your sister is Laena? From Ramazith's Tower?" He asks a little incredulous at the coincidence, "My son's her apprentice. I-I didn't know you were a local, Symon." He sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. He's not excited for the lecture he's bound to get. "She'll probably listen to you more anyway, I guess. She's always so busy..."

”Born and bred in the Gate I’m afraid. Comes in handy with knowing alleys to escape down, at least.” Ramazith, that’s what it’s called. Laena had been so excited to get a job at what was apparently the only proper wizard’s tower in the Gate, and then, well… The less said about that bastard, the better. Lorroakan. That’s a name burned into his memory, unlike that of the tower. How does he go about explaining that his sister might be less likely to answer the call if it’s him asking? Especially if she thinks it’s related to his job. Laena’s in favor of the Harpers, of course, but she’s been banging on about him needing to take on lower risk missions or taking a break altogether for years now. Hopefully knowing Delton would make her more sympathetic. It’s difficult not to find Delton likable, at the very least. “But the curls didn’t give it away? And here my mother always insisted there’s a strong family resemblance,” he jokes. Where Laena tied or braided hers back, and their father cropped his short, Symon opted for somewhere in the middle. He usually cut it when it started to get in the way. “Laena is… yeah, busy’s the right word.” Bloody hypocrite could use a break of her own in his opinion. “Let me Send her. It’s worth a shot, at least.”

Delton shoots him a lopsided grin, "That's not a bad thing. I personally would...never go back to where I'm from." Isn't that the understatement of the century? "My true home is with my kids now, so where I was born doesn't matter." His smile drops and he turns his back to Symon so he doesn't notice. Even if I miss Waterdeep like a lost limb. Even if I miss Nana and Amarië and Theron. Even if I want to visit Theo so bad. He laughs a little at Symon's joke, "Now that I'm looking for it, yes I can tell you are related. Thank you, really. I appreciate it a lot."

”Oh no, don’t tell her that, she’d never recover from the shame.” The words are light and teasing, but hide a core of real hurt and insecurity. He doesn’t like the thought that his sister maybe doesn’t like to associate with him. He doesn’t have any instruments larger than a small flute on him, so he hums the vocal component for the Sending spell. “Hey sis. I know this is sudden, but Delton Naïlo’s clinic in Eastway got hit by Banites. He needs help cleaning up. Please?” He runs a hand through his hair before tacking on another few words. “Love you.” He feels the spell take hold, off to wherever Laena is. Probably doing something far too important to bother with more than a few curt words for her deadbeat brother. “And of course. Least I can do is ask,” he tells Delton with a slightly strained smile. “I can’t promise anything, though. Like you said, she’s a busy woman, especially in the past few years.”

Delton can hear the sadness Symon hides behind jokes, the strain behind a very short message, the disbelief that his own sister will answer him when she's called. He's been a cleric for fifteen years. He's trained to notice these things. But he's not Symon's best friend and, right now, they're in the weird space between colleagues and acquaintances. He's not going to press. "She speaks fondly of you, you know? You and the whole clan. Of course, she hasn't talked much about you as an adult - because of your career, I assume - but she still talks about her 'ridiculous brother' often." Okay, so he'll press a little bit. "She misses you, you know."

Misses the boy I was, not the man I became, most likely. Who would miss who he is now? “I miss her too. Things have been a bit too busy to visit for a while, unfortunately. And I didn’t want to risk getting them on any dissidents lists, my dad in particular is exposed enough as it is.” Most of the contact he’s had with his family since things got truly ugly have been urgings to lay low, stay safe, and for the sake of all the gods, to not try to be a hero. His family, Laena only somewhat excepted, are civilians. Just people, people who don’t deserve to get hurt, or gods forbid, killed in this fight. He still scours every intelligence report for any mention of a Forster or a Cresswell or a Talbot. “My dad’s a city magistrate. He’s not a Banite, and not particularly susceptible to bribes. You can see how that might be a difficult position to be in right now.”

Delton can hear the wistfulness in Symon's voice. He gets the feeling the job has come between him and his family. He supports the Harpers. He really does. But he wishes Jaheira would stop pulling kids into this mess. Because Symon couldn't have been much more than a kid when he was recruited. Right out of Bards College? It makes his heart hurt. "I understand that would put him a difficult position. Do they have protection? Your parents, I mean. I could probably get discreet Triadian paladins stationed in his workplace. They don't tend to do protection details, but for a upstanding magistrate? I could call in some favors. We need more people like him."

”He’s on the Harpers’ friendlies lists, but if we’re compromised, that might do more harm than good.” He’s not stupid. He does what he can for his family, but unfortunate as it is, right now the way to put them at the least amount of risk is likely to be staying away. As much as it kills him. “My other sister’s a private practice barrister, and my brother-in-law is in charge of the Baldurian branch of a trade consortium spanning the Sword Coast. You think any of them would be safer with a Harper as an associate right now?” New nightmares have joined the usual rotation of horrors, fears instead of memories. His family home put to the torch, his father disappeared into one of Gortash’s secret prisons, his sister running towards Amn with nothing but the clothes on her back. His potential future failures are almost worse than the memories of his past ones. “You don’t- Delton, under Gortash, even the Triadian churches are suspicious. Everyone is suspicious. He’d kill the whole bloody city if he didn’t need bodies to run it.” I can’t keep my family safe, and it’s killing me. “I don’t know if a protection detail would help. The Fists bring Steel Watchers to serve warrants now. Paladins can’t smite steel and circuits.”

Delton tries to remain a neutral face. Symon is scared - Hells they all are. Getting upset at each other isn't going to help. "Symon, sweetheart, I know it's bad. But you're killing yourself here. Yes, we can't plan for every eventuality, but we can try for the ones that we can." "You're right, smiting isn't particularly effective against those monstrous machines. But they can give one of the few good departments in this city a chance to flee if a warrant is issued and then be able to flee themselves." He walks over and places his hands on Symon's shoulders, craning his neck slightly. "Gortash wants to see this city bathed in blood. If we lose hope about the little things we can do right now, we might as well slit our own throats. Hopelessness is a powerful weapon. Do not give that knife to Gortash." His tone is deadly serious and his words feel like they have power. Not in the sense of charming anyone, but power nonetheless.

Hopeless. How is he supposed to feel anything but hopeless after the past few days? The past few months? Things keep getting worse, and he can’t fix it. He can’t. Not that he’d expect to, alone, but even when he gets help, follows orders, does everything right… they lose. People die. “It’s already a bloodbath,” he mutters. But he doesn’t shake off Delton’s hand, and he doesn’t refute anything else he said. “I’ll never understand clerics. Bane is here. His disciple is actively spreading His creed of terror and tyranny, and seemingly every other god either supports it or stands by, doing nothing.” The Bhaalists were only adding to the chaos, as usual. The temples of Mystra, Lathander, Oghma, they all simply tried to weather the storm, instead of fighting it. The Triad were of more use, but not that much. Delton is an exception to the rule. “Ilmater’s creed is to prevent suffering, yes? The Gate is suffering. And yet I don’t see much divine intervention from The Broken God. “If we lose here, where does it stop? How much of the world does Gortash need to crush under his overly-filigreed boot before anyone pays attention?”

Delton sighs. This is nothing he hasn't heard before. People often wish the gods did more. It's never that simple. Direct involvement could mean war between the gods and that mean destruction on a level that neither he nor Symon could imagine. That doesn't make it any less frustrating. "I'm not going to try to convince you of His message Symon. I promised you I wouldn't evangelize you and I'm not going to. But there's a lot of things you don't see. That the Harpers don't see. That even Jaheira doesn't see." He lets go of Symon's shoulder and goes to stare at the sky through the broken door. "We may ask why did they let this happen, but that's a question mortals should ask of themselves." Rubbing his pendant, he picks out the North Star. A guide, for a ranger like him. "Bane and Bhaal aren't gods. Not really. Pseudo-gods, forced to crawl their way up into power. It gives them more power to interfere. "But it makes them more suseptible to destruction. Every god - whether full-blown or not - is powered by belief. A pseudo-god is easy to forget, easy to crush. There's a reason the Dead Three were silent for so long." He leans against the doorframe, a position that is as familiar to him as breathing. "The reason Bane and Gortash have such power is because people believe in them. They believe that tyranny is the solution to suffering without realizing that their suffering stems from tyranny. The Crying God cannot go out and change every heart where that seed has been planted. Not by force." "So, instead, we are left to pick up the pieces. It's not so simple as killing Gortash or Banites. If we want the suffering to end, we cannot rely on the gods to change mortal minds." His heart goes out to a dear friend who's unwillingness to change to be a goddess' ideal kept him from self-destruction. "No, I fear us mortals have to figure that out on our own."

And where does that leave the people trying, but failing? “What if all the efforts of the mortals aren’t enough? What if we fail? What if the gods could prevent that, with just a snap of their fingers?” He sighs, a sound of utter resignation. It’s all academic, after all. The gods won’t intervene until if or when it damn well pleases them, and there’s nothing he can do about it. “I appreciate the offer. I’d be happy to extend it to my father, but I can’t promise he’d accept it. I’m afraid stubbornness runs in the family,” he jokes weakly. He spent his entire childhood and youth reminded how much he looks like his father by everyone who knows them both. Just his mother’s darker hair, and something about the eyes. Practically a clone of a younger Kevan, otherwise. In appearance, and little else. His father is a good man, and he isn’t, but that’s only the beginning of their dissimilarities. “He claims they haven’t given him too much trouble yet, but it can only be a matter of time as Gortash’s grip tightens. Small dissents like refusing to approve summary execution warrants won’t be tolerated for long, and I know he’s more likely to turn himself in at Wyrm’s Rock than follow Gortash’s line.”

Delton only shrugs at that. He doesn't have answers. All he has is the path Ilmater has led him on and the goal they hope to achieve. He turns back to look at Symon, his eyes unreadable. He tilts his head. Stubbornness does seem to run in the family, but he's been running an underground network for a long time. The vast majority of the people under his protection do not know they're being protected. The Chosen of Ilmater is as much a political position as a religious one. And while he loathes playing politician, he's good at it. Ilmater is the most worshipped God in the Faerûnian pantheon. He's got ears in every major organization in the Gate - from Duke Ravengard's cabinet to the Thoeves' Guild. Even if Kevan Cresswell - and the other Cresswells too - refuse his help, he has means of making sure they make it out alive. Stubbornness isn't exclusive to the Cresswell clan, after all. "Very well, Symon. I can only offer what I can and can't make anyone accept help." I just can make it so they don't know I'm helping. "Would you want to go to the house for tea? Standing in this mess while we wait doesn't seem that productive."

An instinctual chill goes through him as, for a moment, Delton looks to be touched by the presence of his god, but without calling on His power for a spell. Him being a powerful cleric is obvious. More powerful than he lets on, even. Symon's trained to notice the signs, and no ordinary cleric could have kept going for so long with little rest or nourishment as Delton did in the aftermath of the failed assault. But exactly how powerful is a question Symon's still puzzling over. This is simply another piece to add to the puzzle of Delton Naïlo. He's still barely got the frame, if that. He might not have been the best at school (sitting still while bored to death was something he had to learn later) but he always enjoyed a good mystery to solve. Delton's more interesting than any he's seen in ages. "Tea sounds nice, but I'm worried I might fall asleep if I sit down for too long," Symon admits, after taking a moment to recover from the whiplash of Delton's switch to speaking of something as ordinary as tea and waiting time seconds after channeling the presence of the Broken God. "Something stronger, perhaps? Do you have coffee?" A strong cup of pitch-black coffee should keep him going for another few hours at least. He'd rather stave off sleeping anything but the dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted for as long as possible. He'd dozed just enough to keep him going at the safehouse. A solid eight hours would just be asking for a night terror.

Delton leads Symon out of the clinic and through a back alley. A towering gate is surprisingly well hidden. With a few gestures, the gate swings open, seemingly on its own. A modest house is revealed, big for Eastway but not for the size of Delton's family. Once Symon walks through, the gate shuts with a click, glowing with gray and red energy. "The best I can offer you is strong black tea. I don't drink coffee and try to avoid letting my kids get addicted to it." The lawn has seen a druid's touch. The plant life is a little overgrown - natural - with a place that seems dedicated to...mushrooms, of all things? Another way of his hand sees the front door open into a little mudroom. "Please take your shoes off. I'll go brew a cuppa, extra strong for you." He flashes a bright smile at Symon.

No coffee is disappointing, but perhaps not altogether surprising for a healer's home. He drinks it himself more as emergency fuel than out of any enjoyment, anyway. "Tea's fine, then, anything you have, really." Beggars can't be choosers, and neither can sleep deprived Harpers running on their third straight day with no more than a handful of scattered hours of sleep. He would have removed his boots without being told to, he's not a heathen, and he'd rather not recount where those have been in just the past tenday. He's not going to drag that into Delton's home, especially knowing he has children. Still, he has to hastily move a few hidden blades to his pockets before following Delton towards the kitchen. Similarly, he shucks his jacket but keeps it with him, because, well, depending on the age of those kids, they really shouldn't get too close to a few of the things he hides in the lining of that jacket. [Poison/weapons, not intoxicants, don't worry] "How old are your kids?" At least one was old enough to drink coffee, apparently. So that could be... anywhere in their teens? He's not a parent himself, and it shows.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Symon remove several blades and vials from his jacket and put them on his person. He raises an eyebrow, about to ask what dangers Symon expects to face in his home. Then, Symon asks about the kids' ages and he deflates, realizing it wasn't paranoia but concern. He starts heading toward the kitchen, lighting the stove with a quick *Fire Bolt*, filling up the kettle with water and setting it to boil. "Cal is twelve, Lia is about to turn fifteen, and Rolan is seventeen." He rummages through the cabinets for his tea blends, picking one that is supposedly for sleep - labelled in Infernal for his kids. It's never worked on him, but he hopes he can con Symon into sleeping on at least his couch for a few hours. He gestures to the living area, each of the two couches having blankets stacked next to them. The low-lying table is covered in schoolwork and minorly enchanted objects. The kids clearly hadn't cleaned up after he had to run out. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable. Any allergies or restrictions I should know about?" He'll at least offer the man a proper sandwich, heading into his *Stasis*-cabinet for the ingredients.

So not young enough to touch anything by accident, but still young enough to do it on purpose out of curiosity. He'll keep anything potentially dangerous close. Twelve, fifteen and seventeen. The same difference in ages as him and his sisters. Even if he was the sole boy in the middle, where Delton's children seem to be the opposite. "And you took them in a few years ago? Are they biologically related?" He sits down without protest, even as the lingering adrenaline keeping him running screams at him to keep moving, that he can't rest yet, there's still danger. "And, uh, no, I'll drink pretty much anything. No allergies." Delton's home is, well, a home. Lived in. Comfortable. Clearly filled with the presence of children, if ones closer to adults than infants. He has to move a math textbook and a stray pencil from the sofa before there's room for him to sit. It's not dissimilar to what his parents' living room looked like when he was roughly the age Delton's kids are now.

Busying himself with making some sandwiches - a tomato sandwich for himself and a ham and cheese for Symon, Delton keeps his eye on Symon through his peripheral vision. The human is tense, clearly still running on adrenaline and fear. Hopefully, the tea will help. At the questions, he throws a smile over his shoulder before turning back to the sandwiches, "Yes, I took them in two years ago. They're siblings and I refused to let them be separated." It doesn't matter that Rolan isn't biologically related to Cal and Lia. They're siblings. Blood doesn't define that. "Sorry it's a bit of a mess in here," he shrugs, "I had to leave in a rush and Rion likely just wanted to rush them out the door." Yes, his children are old enough to look after themselves for a few hours. But he's not letting three tiefling children alone for long. This city scares him too much for that.

"Delton, my own family home was a mess from the time my eldest sister was born until she moved out to go to university, and me and Lae were old enough to mostly pick up after ourselves. I'm not going to judge you for your home looking like there's kids in it." It's nice, after far too long in barren, functional safe houses, his own apartment which is nearly as bad, random roadside inns... It's a real home. He'll take clutter over emptiness, any day. "I'm glad. That they weren't separated. I'm not sure what I would have done if someone tried to split me up from my sisters, especially if we'd lost our parents already." Never mind that he hasn't seen either of them in months, and that they're both safer if they aren't seen around him right now. It's not like he doesn't love them. It's just best the Archmage of Ramazith's Tower and Jeyne Cresswell-Talbot, barrister of law, aren't known to have an insurgent for a brother.

The kettle whistles with the tea and he places their sandwiches and teacups on a tray, alongside honey, sugar, and milk. He brings it to sit on the low-lying table. "Feel free to make it the way you want," a dash of milk and a lot of honey for him, "I made you a ham and cheese. Sorry, no full spread today," he jokes. He sobers at the words, "My kids had gone through enough. They didn't need being separated on their plate as well." He takes a bite of his own sandwich, "They're good kids but most people don't want to take in older children, much less traumatized tieflings. It's nonsense but unfortunately how the world works." There's been growing pains. Starting with nightmares that come with the real risk of being stabbed by horns.

He looks at the sandwich, this simple, very much homemade thing Delton in no way had to make, just bread and fillings and maybe a smear of mustard. “Thank you. You’re far too kind.” He’s used to taking his own coffee or tea black, first because there often weren’t milk or sugar available, perishable or costly as they were. But, well, it’s here. He stirs a scant teaspoon of sugar and a splash of milk into his own tea before taking a sip. He tries not to think about how long it’s been since someone decided to feed him without his consent. The last time he visited his parents? How long ago was that? “I’m glad you were willing. Every kid deserves a good home, no matter how old they are when they need it. But three teenagers is always going to be a handful, so I can see why it can be daunting.”

Delton shrugs, tucking his feet under him and turning to face Symon. He takes a bite of his sandwich. "It's no problem, really, Symon. A small token for all your help." The look of surprise on Symon's face at a sandwich makes his heart clench. This man, who's risked his life for this city and its people, being shocked over a simple meal should be criminal. Unfortunately, Delton's not surprised. "I'm just doing what I wish someone had done for me. Giving them a happy, healthy home, together." His own upbringing was neither happy nor healthy. It gave him a model of what not to do, at least.

”No, it’s good. That someone’s capable of providing that. Every kid deserves that much.” His own childhood had been borderline idyllic. Sheltered. Loving. Downright spoiled, in some ways. No, he’d caused his own problems. “The world needs more good parents. Especially for kids who lost their original ones, or never had any worth having to begin with.” It only takes a few bites of the sandwich for him to wonder when the last time he ate was. Half a day? Maybe more? How long had it been since he had something that wasn’t dry rations or simple mess food made for a crowd? A stupid mistake. A dangerous one, too. What if there’d been an emergency? It’s difficult enough to fight without adding dizziness from fatigue or low blood sugar to the mix. He needs to do better. The situation in the city is too dangerous for him to be unprepared for a fight at any given time.

Watching Symon out of the corner of his eye, Delton slowly eats his own sandwich. The other man is clearly running on empty - maybe even more so than Delton. At least Delton has three teen-sized alarm clocks. "I agree entirely. My own parents were terrible and I just hope to do well by my kids." His hand unconsciously goes to the scar on his abdomen, the last gift his family ever gave him. "I can make you another sandwich, darling. I'm feeding three growing tieflings, so it's no trouble."

He’s about to protest, but then reconsiders. Continuing to run on empty would just be damning himself further in the long run. “Let me make it myself, at least. I loathe sitting around doing nothing while others do the work.” Something that can’t be a surprise to Delton after more or less having to threaten him to make him rest long enough for his shoulder to heal up. “I guess eating anything that isn’t safe house slop fell by the wayside a little in the last few days. It keeps you going, but… it’s not the same.”

Delton rolls his eyes a little at that, but he's tired and wants to stay curled up in his position. "Feel free to have at it. My cabinets are a little bare because of no one being here but eat what you like." He takes a sip of his tea, "Really, we ought to have better food in the safe houses. How are people expected to heal or work on that sludge?" He laughs a little at that.

”I’m guessing cost and shelf life is valued above taste or nutritional value.” Despite Delton’s assurance he can reach for whatever he wants, he is still a guest. He hesitantly reaches towards an apple, from a bowl of them on the kitchen table. “Would you like anything yourself? Another sandwich? Some kind of snack? Fruit, maybe?”

Tilting his head, he watches the other man hesitantly pad around his kitchen. He wants to do it himself, but is too scared to rummage around for anything. It's kind of sweet, actually... He gets up and takes out the ingredients for another sandwich, gently nudging him toward the now prepared cutting board. "I appreciate you trying to show respect to my kitchen, but really you can have free reign. I don't mind." He shakes his head a little bit at Symon's question, "I'm alright Symon. You don't have to fuss over me in my own home, but it's appreciated nonetheless."

”It’s your home,” he counters, as if this makes perfect sense to him. “I’m at best a guest, at worst an intruder.” Symon’s never been much of a cook, but he can manage a sandwich at least. Swift, skilled hands get to work slicing and assembling, still regretting the need of accepting more than he feels he is owed. (which is, largely, nothing) “Look, I know I look and behave like a heathen most of the time but my mother did try to raise me to have decent manners. Even if my Gran’s the one to fear. Never underestimate the wrath of an old woman willing to beat you up with a wooden spoon.”

"Symon," he puts his hand in one of the other man's biceps, "I'm not trying to imply anything. I find you lovely company and gladly invited you into my home as a person who's saved me twice in as many days and, hopefully, as a friend." He reaches up to swipe an errant flyaway hair out if Symon's face, "I do not think you are a heathen. If I come off as condescending, remember my most common guests in this house are teenagers. But I'd love it if you could relax a little. You are safe here and you aren't taking advantage."

I must be sleep deprived, he thinks faintly. And, well, he is. He’s not used to near strangers touching him with any kind of positive intent outside very different circumstances. Even then, it’s hardly gentle touches to arms or faces. That wasn’t necessary to do his job. He just. Did it? Lovely company. A friend. He’d argue the saved part but he doubt Delton would let him. Delton must be sleep deprived too. “Thank you,” he mumbles, uncharacteristically awkward. “I’m not… I’m just trying not to exploit your hospitality too much. Especially when it was offered in exchange for something I haven’t been able to do yet.” He doesn’t really have the capacity to worry about his sister not replying yet. She’s fine. She has to be. Just busy, as always.

Delton gently squeezes his bicep, "You're welcome in my home, regardless of whether Laena can help or not. You might not yet consider me a friend, but I consider you one." He checks on the herbs on his windowsill and grabs a few for Symon's sandwich, placing it next to the other gather ingredients. He grabs his own apple and hops up onto the counter, finally able to look Symon in the eye. He takes a bite out of the fruit - the skin crunching loudly - and watches as the other man prepares his sandwich. "You can relax, Symon. No danger will come to you here."

Delton is... deeply confusing. He's just like this with everyone. Symon is quite frankly too tired to parse out why Delton would waste time, energy and resources on some random Harper too dumb to rest when he has a busted shoulder. He'll make it make sense later. He huffs in amusement as Delton jumps on the counter, gaining a few extra inches. His host is making himself comfortable, at least. It's... cute. I'm definitely sleep deprived. "I figure this house is about as safe as anywhere in the Gate can be right now. That's not an insult to your protective measures, I've simply gotten used to being on my guard." Sleep with one eye open and you're more likely to get to wake up again. "It's difficult to turn off when you've been in the thick of it for tendays on end."

He swings his legs a little as he watches Symon make the food. "No, I understand that Symon. I know how difficult it is to turn work off - and it's, well, not the safest city to be in right now." He's spent years as a healer. Sometimes he doesn't know if there's anything to Delton Naïlo beyond being the Chosen of Ilmater. Not anymore, at least. "But, I hope I can make you feel just a little safer, if possible." He shrugs, eyes no longer looking at Symon but nowhere.

He shrugs, a little sadly. Clearly Delton is no stranger to the cost of their jobs, especially in a situation such as this. "Like I said, I feel about as safe here as I do anywhere in the city. Even then, though... Habits die hard." He flips the small knife in his hand absently, part of him wishing he had one of his perfectly balanced daggers to fidget with. Of course, most of those are usually covered in some poison or another. "Still, I like your home. It's nice. It reminds me a little of what my parents' place looked like when I was about the age your kids are now. Mess and all. My mum always hangs herbs to dry above the sink, too." He nods at the bundles of culinary, botanical and medicinal herbs hanging there. "She's a gardener, not a healer though. And it's usually my dad using the culinary herbs. They've gotten into more than one spat over who used the last bundle of rosemary."

Delton smiles at him, seeing the other man is pretty much finished. He puts the cutting boards in the sink for washing and cozies up on the couch again. "My husband was really the cook between us but, well, I learned. I'm no chef, but I do well for myself in the kitchen, I think." He laughs softly at that, "I can imagine. I'm a gardener and a healer and I use rosemary far too much. If I had to compete for it in my own house, I'd probably be annoyed as well." He hums softly, rubbing the plush material of the couch. "I have a little garden on top of the clinic. Anyone in the community can grow something or take something. It helps, a little. Plus, you've seen my front yard." He flashes a toothy smile.

"My dad and sister are wizards in the kitchen, but I only learned the basics." He dismisses any skills he might have with a wave of his hand, even if his dad's kitchen is where he first learned to wield a knife with any kind of skill. He's more used to the dual-edged variety intended to cut flesh rather than vegetables nowadays, but by the time he left home for college his father had made a decent assistant cook of him. "Laena, that is. Jeyne's worse than I am. She can burn water." He drops these tidbits about his family as if he doesn't desperately miss them. Think about them constantly. Worry, every single day, if their names will be on the lists of the dead, arrested or disappeared. It's easier to shove a sandwich in your mouth than to think about that, though. "I spent a lot of time in the garden with my mum growing up, though. Mostly menial labor, fetching and lifting and weeding and so on, she never let me near anything delicate. And she always yelled at me if I stepped on the nasturtium seedlings." It's a fond memory, now, but it drove him insane in his teens. Why demand his help if she was going to spend the whole time yelling at him?

"I'm glad you had such a good childhood." And he is. People tend to tiptoe around parents and childhoods when he's around and he hates it. If he got upset every time someone talked about their parents, he wouldn't get anything done. He wants and wishes that every child has a loving home. Unfortunately, he just didn't. "I think Cal is getting interested in becoming a druid or healer. He loves to spend time with me in the garden - though he's not always the most gentle with the seedlings." He rubs his ha d against his eye, exhaustion starting to bleed through. But he fights it off valiantly.

"I wasn't, either. Curse of growing boys who haven't grown into their limbs yet, I suppose." He cracks a smile at the thought. He's never met Delton's children, but it's easy to imagine an excitable tiefling, probably already almost as tall as his father, trailing after Delton and trying to garden with more eagerness than gentleness. "You're giving them a good childhood, too. Your kids, I mean. I don't know what they went through before you got them, but it'll make a huge difference for them, to have something, well, normal. Loving. Homey." His second sandwich gone (food has a tendency to vanish if he doesn't pay attention) he sits down on the sofa again. With his stomach full, the wave of exhaustion hits that much harder. Damn it all. He has to stay awake, has to at minimum greet his sister and apologize for, well, everything, and then crawl back to his own place to pass out in a room with only one entrance and his back against a wall. His eyes drift shut for a moment, but he forces them back awake. "Cal's the youngest, right? What are they like, your kids?" Most parents can talk for hours about their children. If he gets Delton talking, he just has to focus on listening and keeping his eyes open.

I wouldn't know. I wasn't allowed to be clumsy. I wasn't allowed to be much of anything at all. He takes a sip from his tea and tries to distract himself from that thought. And the fact that he could barely finish half of his sandwich and apple. It's been a long few days. It doesn't mean you're getting bad again. But you better tell someone... "I'm trying my best to. I love them with my whole heart. They deserve a good childhood, a safe place to land. All children do." He gives a sincere smile and tilts his head at the question. "Rolan is the oldest at seventeen. He's brilliant. Not just at being a wizard but in general. He's got a caustic wit which can be quite funny if you know not to take him too seriously and he's rather protective too. I'm glad he's got the chance to be a kid again." "Lia's about to be fifteen and she's loud and opinionated and strong-willed. She's never met someone she can't find something to like about nor a challenge she doesn't want to face. Frankly, I wish she would pick her battles a little more but it's my job as a parent to help her figure that out." "Cal's a sweetheart and currently all lanky limbs and smiles. He loves animals and to learn. He's always full of bouncing-off-the-walls energy, though he's learning to rein it in a bit to make animals more comfortable." Delton keeps talking about his kids, sipping his tea and willing his eyes to stay open. But his pauses get longer and longer as time goes on.

He listens. Delton’s voice is soothing, love seeping out of every word. It must be nice, to be loved by someone like Delton, he muses, barely awake. The sofa is just a sofa, comfortable and well used but hardly an ideal sleeping surface, especially sitting up. To Symon, it might as well have been the most comfortable featherbed in the world. His blinks turn slower and slower as he leans back into the pillows, I can’t fall asleep, he thinks as Delton regales him with a tale of Lia’s longstanding squabble with a particular math teacher, and how he was considering taking the issue to the school management. I can’t, he insists to himself as a story about Cal’s struggles to sit still in class and how small fidget toys and quite literally running off some of his excess energy during breaks. He falls asleep listening to Delton gush about how well Rolan’s doing in his studies as a wizard. He’s still mostly sitting up, fully clothed, his jacket still draped over his arm. It’s the best sleep he’s had in well over a tenday.

Delton is so tired he doesn't notice that Symon has fallen asleep. So he keeps talking, his eyes slowly opening and closing. It gets harder and harder for him to open his eyes once they close. Eventually, he drifts off to sleep himself, snuggling into the throw pillows.

He wakes all at once, not immediately sure exactly where he is or how long he's been asleep for, but without moving a muscle. Lethal mistakes in his line of work. He slept too deeply. Like a fool. Wait, is that... He frowns as his eyes open and the weight along his chest and shoulder becomes a person. Red hair, freckled skin, the unmistakeable herbal scent of a healer underlaid with hints of vanilla and cinnamon. Delton? He's still asleep, copper eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, hiding bright green eyes dimmed by exhaustion. How...?

He's having the deepest sleep he's had in a long time - potentially as long as he can remember. But the sound of three familiar pairs of footsteps jolts him awake, narrowly avoiding slamming the top of his head into Symon's chin. That's where they are! The couch - he must've fallen asleep telling a story... He's not going to try and figure out how they went from opposite sides of the couch to him being curled up on Symon's shoulder. His cheeks flush red at the though, "Sy-Symon! I'm sorry," he tries to disentangle them with grace, instead almost ending up on the floor. He manages to right himself just in time for a lanky figure, almost as tall as him now - as much as it makes his heart clench to admit it - slamming into him with a shout of "Ada!"

Symon's used to having to wake up and be ready for a fight a moment later. Complex thought is a bit more difficult. "D-don't be sorry," he manages. "It happens." What the fuck happened? Then a kid with bright orange eyes and a perpetually-messy head of black hair is slamming into Delton with a cry of what he knows to be the Elvish word for _dad_, so that's presumably one of Delton's children. Judging by the age, sex and excitement this had to be Cal. Wait, Cal's here? Were the kids supposed to come back?

Lia and Rolan round the corner, followed closely by Rion. At some point, Quothe had flown in and is just staring at Symon on the couch, beady eyes focused. Rolan's eyes are similarly focused on Symon, squinting and suspicious. Lia is chattering excitedly, seemingly unbotheree by thr staredowns occurring in her midst. Rion looks really fucking pleased with herself, for some reason.

Delton wraps his arms around Cal, pressing a kiss to his youngest's forehead. "Hi baby. I must've fallen asleep, I'm sorry." A glance at the clock confirms that he and Symon had slept from early afternoon until after nightfall. It's almost nine bells. He frees one arm and holds it out for Lia to jump into, pressing a kiss to her forehead as well - her leaning down helping him do this. Once she lets go, Rolan usually comes in for his own hug but he seems Hellsbent on staring at their guest. "This is Symon. He helped me get home and time must've slipped by us, considering the stress of the last few days." He scans his children, familiar, and Rion, "You are alright, yes?"

Rion snorts, "We're just fine. But you missed pickup by a good, oh, three bells. So we decided to check if you were okay." Her tone is acerbic but humor flashes in her eyes. She seems very gleeful about this situation, for some reason. "Turns out you were having a little slumber party, weren't you, Del?"

Delton's cheeks go red, but he averts his eyes. She hasn't said anything that wasn't technically true. "Sorry - it was...a rough few days." That's all he can get out. All that he's willing to say in front of his kids.

Symon's eyes keep shifting rapidly between the very large raven staring at him and the tiefling teenager also staring at him. Then Rolan's eyes flicker to Delton, a hint of vulnerability showing in the bright yellow gaze, and something clicks. Ramazith's tower's prior wizard had an apprentice too. A tiefling boy of about fifteen, covered in bruises, flinching and snapping from any attempt to help or heal him. He's almost unrecognizable two years on, well fed, several inches taller, and perhaps most importantly, not scared out of his skin. Well, that explains how Delton got his kids. It's very unlikely Rolan would recognize him. He was just one person in a sea of faces on one of the worst days of his life. Best not to bring it up. "Hi Rion. Been a while. I'm Symon, one of Jaheira's Harpers," he explains to the three kids. (And the raven, the raven seems to understand every word, too.)

Rolan’s eyes narrow even further at the man. He looks...vaguely familiar, but that doesn't mean much. He's met too many Harpers for it to mean much. His eyes turn toward Ada, gaze assessing. Mussed hair, disheveled clothes, marks from sleep covering his faith. Unharmed, it seems. But Rolan has been wrong before. He doubts Ada would bring anyone unsafe into this house, but it's his job to look out for Ada. No one else will. He doesn't want to take his eyes off the intruder, but Ada is already eyeing him. And both Quothe and Rion won't let this Symon out of their sight. He goes over to give the smaller man a hug. "You shouldn't sleep on the couch," he mumbles into Delton’s shoulder, "It's bad for you."

Rolan’s words inspire a fond, yet exasperated laugh, petting his oldest's hair. "Let me be the parent, little love. You don't need to worry about me." Where Rolan and Quothe look suspicious, Cal and Lia look ready to explode with questions for Symon. His youngest two have a little Harper worship - the organization had saved them, after all. He's trying to quash any desire of theirs to join. They've already seen enough violence. Far too much, in fact. "Kids, while I'm sure you ate and did your homework, we don't want to keep Symon too long. Why don't you wash up and I can make hot chocolate?" Gives him some time to figure out how in the Hells he slept that long and for Symon to escape. Rion will stay for hot chocolate, because going back to that house is a lot. Some days Delton wishes he could house all of Jaheira's kids. Jaheira is a good woman. She's not a good mother.

"Right, I should probably get going..." Gods, how had he slept this long without realizing? Exactly how long has it been? It hadn't been much past noon when they left the safe house, right? He blinks, still a little dazed, and runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry to intrude, that was in no way my intention. I accompanied Delton home to ensure he made it safely and intruded on his hospitality long enough for a cup of tea." Maybe best not to mention the smashed-up clinic in front of the kids. They didn't need to know that. His polite smile turns sheepish, in a way many might call charming. It's gotten him out of more than one scrape in the past. "I guess the past couple days caught up to us both, and we fell asleep. I'm sorry if it worried you."

After some shooing from their father, the kids start up the stairs. Lia and Cal are talking a mile a minute while Rolan is grumbling unintelligibly. Rion makes herself at home, sinking on the couch and tossing her legs up on the small table.

Delton immediately knocks Rion's legs off the table. "You were raised, not dragged. Try to show that, darling." He turns to Symon, noticing he's rather...cute all disheveled. It hits him, all at once really. What? He's widowed, not dead. He tries to tame his own hair when he says, "You can stay for hot cocoa, if you would like, Symon." He pauses and adds, "Though if you evangelize the Harpers to me kids, I will have to kill you." There's levity in his tone but his face is serious. He ignores Rion's snort.

"Oh, you don't-" He catches himself, realizing he is being abominably rude, and his Gran would have his head for it. A self-conscious hand runs through his hair, trying to get it back to its usual state of mostly-intentional dishevelment instead of pure chaos. "Only if it's not too trouble, Delton. And I'd never. We don't recruit kids." A pang goes through him at the realization he wouldn't encourage anyone to make the choice he did. At least not that young. Not that foolish. He's done good, right? But... It has a price. And it's not one he'd want to see Delton's kids pay. "I'd forgotten how much kids can be. Yours seem wonderful, of course, but..." Kids are loud. And a very different kind than the loud he's used to in taverns or crowds. At least in a small group like this, it'd probably blur together similarly in a classroom or playground. "Anyway, I'm never turning down hot cocoa, but you really don't have to play host any longer, I've bothered you enough already. I'll get back to you about my sister helping out, or I'll be back, of course, but... Yeah." I've wasted enough of your time.

Delton gives Symon a look that says, 'Sit your ass down so I can make cocoa,' gesturing at the couch. "You don't have to sugarcoat it, darling. Kids are loud and create a lot of chaos. If you need to tap out, I won't be offended. But I'd love to have you stay. It's no trouble at all." He starts the stove with a cantrip and starts to heat the milk. "This is stuff from Neverwinter. It's the only thing I insist on importing. Neverwinter has spiced hot cocoa and it's simply the best." He decides to cut up some fruit to serve with it. He imagines that the kids might appreciate something sweet but he doesn't want to overload their systems this late.

It was mostly the waking the up to the chaos already there that threw him off. Cal and Lia talk enough even he struggles to keep up and he was trained to follow multiple conversations at once. "Okay. I'll stay." He eyes Rion a little cautiously. She looks about as friendly as normal. "Neveren chocolate, you say? Damn, it's been ages since I had that, me and Aly must have drunk our weight in it last time we were on a mission that far north." Oh, Delton doesn't know Alyseris. At least, probably doesn't? It's been a while since she was down south. Busy doing bigger and better things, etc. "Will you let me help with anything at least? Let me feel at least a little useful."

Rion has sprawled out along one of the couches, dragging a throw blanket over her. She looks tired. Far too tired for someone her age.

"Neverwintan hot chocolate was the only thing I refused to budge on when I moved to Waterdeep. When we married, we always keep-kept our larder stocked with it." His heart pangs at his slip-up, the subtle reminder that Theo is no longer around. That he didn't get to meet their three wonderful kids. That he will never be able to watch him cook again from his perch on the counter top. He misses him. So much. "Your partner, I'm assuming? I'm glad to know you can both appreciate good sweets." He purposefully rolls his eyes where Symon can see, but he smiles fondly, "Help me chop up this fruit if you insist on helping. But, really darling, it's not necessary."

Chopping he can do. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, Aly's a Harper, too. She's a lot more important than me, though, gets sent all over. I think she's in... Selgaunt right now? Or maybe it was Melvaunt." The two cities are several hundred miles apart. Either way, east. "We’ve been working together pretty much as long as I’ve been a Harper. So, uh, better part of a decade now? She dealt with my bullshit when I was just a rookie with more guts than sense.” He must still be a little out of it, because it takes him a second to realize the other common meaning of partner. “Wait, partner? No, Aly’s my best friend, but she’s not… just work partners. Nothing else.” Not that they haven’t pretended a few times for a job. It’s incredible how little attention a tipsy couple who can’t keep their hands off of each other attracts.

He can't help the little snort he lets out at that. Symon's a smart man but, well, right now he seems to be a little slow on the uptake. While Delton was referring to them working together, he used vague language on purpose. He's not a snitch, but he knows the dangers of falling for your partner in the field. It's good to keep an eye out for that, especially with someone as reckless as Symon. If someone would've objected to me being on that mission, Theo'd probably still be alive. But Symon would probably know where Aly was if he was in love with her. He seems the type. "Well, you matured into a fine agent, if one too hard on himself," he casually bumps their shoulders together, a friendly little nudge, "We all should have someone we can rely on. I'm glad you do, even if she's far away right now." Ilmater, what would I give to have that again?

"Eh, you're biased," Symon demurs with a lopsided grin as he tosses some sliced apple into a bowl. "You haven't seen my fuckups." Ah, shit, he'd have to watch his language around the kids, wouldn't he? He's out of practice with that. Oh well, no different than behaving around higher ups who weren't as used to his bullshit as Jaheira. "How is it my report cards put it, skilled, but prone to recklessness and fits of excess heroics, often at risk to himself and the mission." He shrugs. Most of the risks pay off, and he's willing to take them if he's the one paying the potential price. "Still, I've mellowed a bit. Haven't set off a single extracurricular smokebomb in months. Positively well behaved at this point." His smile is a little too teasing, but... He likes Delton. He likes talking to him. He likes being able to talk about his job without hiding it in five layers of embellishment or euphemisms to impress or keep people from worrying.

"Oh, honey, you haven't seen the worst of my mistakes. But I try to think I'm defined by the things that I do well..." He doesn't. This is a bold-faced lie. But he's trying to believe it. It's just so hard when his late husband's burnt face haunts him at night. He can't help but laugh at that though, "While I'm not opposed to a good old-fashioned disappearing act once in a while, but don't show Cal, yeah? He's been getting into science and I don't want to get a letter from the school that he's trying to make one." He's humming while he cuts up the chocolate, starting to slowly stir it into the milk. "But, well-behaved? I don't know about that," He tuts a little disbelievingly, "Symon Cresswell, I might not know you well yet, but I think trouble might be your middle-name."

Honey. It's teasing, friendly, but, well... He's just not used to being called pet names like that. At least not in a platonic context, especially some whores tend to- Moving on. "Cal sounds a lot like me at that age, I'm not going to lie," Symon admits as he moves on to seeding grapes. "But I was more interested in the trouble side than the science behind it. Gave my own parents more than a few headaches for sure..." He bursts into laughter at the suggested middle name, a bit too loud for the fact Rion is still snoozing in the living room. "It's Denys, in case you were wondering, but now I'm thinking my parents should have gone for Trouble. It has a ring to it, doesn't it?" He's smiling, laughing, enjoying himself in a way he can't remember when he did last, especially without the haze of alcohol or lust or adrenaline fueling it. It's... nice. "I suppose well-behaved might be a stretch, but more well-behaved than I was a decade ago? Absolutely." He might share some habits with the boy he'd been, but not much else. No, a lot of the person he'd been had been lost along the way, for good or evil.

"There's worse people to be like," he laughs, smile like sunshine, "I think he's just as interested in the trouble as sunshine, to be honest. Just young boy stuff, don't worry." He wouldn't tolerate destruction or harassment or anything like that. "Symon Trouble Cresswell? Yeah, I think I might've had some divine inspiration there," he jokes, "Oh, and I was a completely different person a decade ago so I understand." Some things have remained the same, but he didn't think he'd make it to thirty-five when he was twenty-five. And here he is. He bumps their shoulders again, "I happen to like the man you are, Trouble. Well-behaved can be so boring sometimes." Now, he's taking pot shots at himself, but Symon doesn't need to know that.

Trouble. A nicer nickname than most bestowed on him, for sure. His sisters usually call him dumbass, Aly seems to prefer _idiot_. Trouble is... nice. Teasing, but nice. Delton is nice. Don't ruin this, dumbass. "Boring isn't always a bad thing," Symon counters. "Good parents should be a little boring, probably, for example. There's nothing wrong with boring. It just means... steady. Predictable. That can be a good thing." He'd like to be a bit more boring, in some ways. Boring people probably sleep easier. They live their normal, average, dull little lives with much less to worry about. He'd have loathed the thought ten years ago, but now? Boring doesn't sound half bad. "But I'm just rambling. I think the days of sleep deprivation are well and truly catching up to me," he demurs with a laugh. Still, he thinks he might actually be able to sleep when he does make it back to his hiding hole. And he feels little to no urge to drown his thoughts in alcohol to ensure it. It's... been a while, since he felt that way. It's just sensible. There's too much going on right now to risk being caught senseless with drink.

The kids come down - Cal and Lia in a stampede, Rolan at a much more subdued pace. They keep the conversation going, with Delton only stepping in to make it less of a bombardment for Symon. But soon the fruit and hot chocolate is gone and, while he tries to get Symon to stay so he's not walking back home so late, he refuses. He doesn't want to 'overstay his welcome anymore.' It's disappointing, but understandable. Rion tucks herself into the guest room and he kisses the kids goodnight. He already slept miraculously well once. Maybe again?

Helaena Cresswell, Archmage of Ramazith's Tower, knocks on the door of the Naïlo residence just after nine bells. She's never been a natural morning person, but much like many other aspects of her current position, it's an awful necessity she's had to get used to. Like the heft of the ceremonial robes or the deference she had to train Rolan out of. There are perks, of course. The vaults of Ramazith are unrivaled north of Candlekeep and south of Waterdeep, the libraries alone could keep her occupied for decades, and the wealth and power she inherited through simple luck (good or bad) is almost absurd. But she misses not being important enough for anyone to force her out of bed by seven. She misses the anonymity of being a glorified bookkeeper, keeping her head down and out of the way of the worst of Lorroakan's wrath down in the archives. Well no, she doesn't _really_, especially not once she saw the bruises covering the face of Lorroakan's new apprentice, a boy of just fifteen, and raised the alarm to the Harpers on a few requests she'd chosen to give less-than-complete answers for. She is eternally grateful she did. Not least for the fact it gave her the chance to mentor a brilliant young wizard like Rolan, or for the gift of getting to know his siblings and now his father. Still. She misses having the chance for a lie in once in a while. "Delton?" she calls gently, well aware a spell is in place to transmit her name to the cleric's location. "Are you home?" Symon, of course, hadn't answered her reply to his Sending yesterday afternoon, leaving her in a bit of a limbo as to his request. But for the Naïlos, she'd always show up. For her brother, even more so.

Delton is getting yelled at. Well, lovingly scolded is more accurate, but it all amounts to the same thing in the end. Rolan is such a snitch. He'd be proud of the gumption if he wasn't so annoyed.

Archmage Gale Dekarios' visage shimmers in the reflective surface of the mirror. And, since every room in this house has a mirror - thanks to the paternalistic interventions of both Gale and Mairwen - there's no escaping him. "You know, when Mairwen, Mum, and I sent you to the Gate, we expected you to have the tiniest amount of sense. But hiding vandalism from us, Delton? You could've been killed!" He sounds exasperated and a tinge angry, but not at his wayward best friend. More just at the fact that said friend is being an obstinate brat. "I have half a mind to come to the Gate myself, with the updates I'm sent. And what's with that? Getting updates from my nephew instead of you?"

Delton is rolling his eyes while washing the dishes from last night. He could do this magically, but he finds the repetitive motions soothing. ||*And the slight sting of soap on cuts grounding.*|| "Yes, Mother, I am completely helpless without you. Falling into the depths of depression. How can I ever hope to recover without your scowling face lecturing me?" He's just...tired of being treated like he's fragile. He's fine. He doesn't need babysitters. "The mess is getting cleaned up and no one was hurt so it's fine, Gale," he sighs, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, "The kids are great, by the way. I'm a little offended you didn't ask that as their gods-father, to be honest." Before Gale can protest, the voice of Helaena Cresswell rings out. "Well, look at that. I have company that I need to take care of. Go polish your spellbook or whatever it is that you archmages do. Ta, darling." He walks away to head to meet Helaena in the front garden, ignoring Gale's spluttering behind him.

”Delton!” Helaena greets him with a smile. She knows the cleric to be a hugger, so she goes in for a brief squeeze after only a moment’s hesitation. It’s okay when it’s Delton. She trusts him. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but Symon’s message made it sound, well, urgent. What _happened?_” She’d seen the damage to the exterior on her way in, of course. She’s not blind, it’s difficult to miss shattered windows and hateful graffiti covering the walls. She worries the interior will be worse off. “If it was Banites, I swear to the gods, I’m upping the wards,” she threatens. They’ve had this discussion before, Delton insisting additional security on the clinic is counterproductive, Helaena countering that having to regularly close due to sabotage or threats is counterproductive. “And how on Toril did my brother get involved?”

Delton smiles warmly at the wizard but he's clearly had a rough few days. One good night's (day's?) sleep isn't going to cancel out the strain he put his body under during the attack. He rubs his eye, already feeling a headache coming on. "It wasn't any worse than before, Laena. Symon...overreacted, a little." "It's been a rough few days. A Harper mission turned into a massacre. He walked me back and then he stayed for supper. That's really all there is to it." He leaves out the best sleep he's ever had. That didn't seem relevant.

Her brows raise at the term overreacted. She'd be the judge of that. "Wait, massacre? Is he alright?" Fear curdles in her stomach, completely illogically considering Symon was at least well enough to Send her the day before. "He's hidden injuries before, have you checked to make sure?" Her job might have its risks, but they have nothing on those of a Harper. Especially now, especially one as prone to throwing himself head first into the most danger possible as Symon. "Please tell me he didn't throw himself right back into the fray, because I know he would, bloody hells he tried to hide a broken wrist for a tenday once-"

Delton resists the urge to flinch. It...hurts, sometimes, that Laena doesn't trust him as a healer. Just like it hurts when Jaheira questions his ability to handle things or when Gale and Nana treat him like he's fragile. It makes him feel like everyone views him as useless. Not that he will ever tell them that. Besides, what has he done to disprove it. "Yes, Laena, I checked him for all injuries. He tried to downplay an injured shoulder but it's good as new now. I tended to it myself." Not that that probably means much. In the face of the scolding this morning and the disaster at the safe house, he's not feeling particularly charitable toward himself. "I made him promise to lay low a bit, spend some time protecting the people of this city rather than trying to only fight the Banites. Told him that we need to fight what allowed Gortash power, rather than just his minions." He shrugs, "But I can't make him do anything. Nor would I. It's...not ideal, having your wings clipped."

The fear changes into guilt. Of course she trusts Delton's expertise. Hells, there's a reason she goes to him for anything worse than a cold these days, even if she doesn't want to bother him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply... Of course you checked, I'm sorry. He hurt his shoulder?" Her big blue-green eyes are filled with genuine worry. She's not trying to diminish Delton as a healer, she's simply afraid for her brother. "He's just... he doesn't look after himself. And he often pushes back on anyone trying to make him. I worry about him, always, but especially now. The Sending yesterday was the first I'd heard from him in almost a month. I haven't seen him in even longer. I just... sometimes I'm scared of how long it'd take for us to be told if something happened to him. We're somehow always the last ones to know."

Delton sighs and tries to the force the tension from his body. He knows rationally that she didn't mean it that way. But that doesn't help how he feels. Someone he considers his brother threatened to drag him back to Waterdeep this morning already. He just feels...useless. And he can't keep the little voice in his head from screaming, Worthless! "He took a hit from a mace and then insisted on lifting people with it. I benched him for it, of course, and it's completely healed at this point." He rubs a hand over his face, wishing he could do more for Laena, "He's a stubborn man, that one. I can promise to look out for him as best as I can and make...the Head Harper send me updates, but that's unfortunately the best I can offer. I think...I think he's worried about burdening me, so I can't promise how effective it will be..." Useless healer. Worthless person. Ilmater must have made a mistake, just like Theo. His outward visage is neutral, despite his brain wreaking havoc.

Helaena nods, still subdued. "I'd really appreciate if you'd pass on what you could of those updates. It's not much, but it's more than what we get now. Even if it's just a confirmation he's still alive. He... he doesn't check in often enough for us to be sure." The Harpers can't openly work with the Wizard of Ramazith. That would leave both parties far too exposed. Instead, she's left to rely on second hand information through people like Delton. And she hates it. "For what it's worth, he's like that with everyone. He's so worried about burdening anyone that he ends up burdening us more by worrying about what he won't say." But she might be sharing too much. Again. She'd make a terrible spy, really, her role in the last few months of Lorroakan's reign aside. "I didn't know you knew each other. But then again, I know very little about him, nowadays. He's not allowed to tell us much, and he's willing to tell us even less."

Delton nods, "I will do my best. I can't promise much...but I can promise to let you know that he's alive and whether I know of any injuries." That shouldn't be too hard of an ask. Even if Jaheira is stubborn, he knows one of the other Harpers will spill. At Laena's description, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "He's exactly the type that the Harpers target, even though I protest ardently that it leads to..." a higher body count, "more issues in the long run. He's good at his job, but he doesn't value himself, I don't think." Symon could have permanently wrecked that shoulder. A lesser healer probably wouldn't have been able to entirely fix the damage. "We didn't, until like...three days ago? I yelled at him for being stubborn and I think I might've gotten through to him, just a little." He's leading the archmage toward the clinic, not particularly excited for her reaction. There were some...pointed slurs about him on the walls. At least they didn't seem to be referencing his kids.

Helaena frowns, feeling somewhere between confused and the tiniest bit hurt that Delton might have gotten through to her brother where her whole family have failed for years. "I'm sorry you had to yell at him for that, but I'm afraid it doesn't surprise me all that much. He's always been stubborn as a _mule_-" Her words cut off as she gets another good look at the slurs painted on the clinic walls. The usual nastiness about foreigners and Gortash opponents... and some lovely anti-elven racism. She sighs as she casts an Unseen Servant to get started on the inevitable detritus on the inside. Another mumbled spell erases the worst of the slurs, leaving only freshly scrubbed whitewashed wall behind. "How bad is the damage this time? How much stock did you lose?" Delton has a habit of minimizing problems. Especially problems he feels he should be able to handle on his own. It's not a tendency Helaena's familiar with at all herself, of course. "Let me help? Please?"

He shrugs, not really minding. "Frankly, I prefer it when the Harpers argue with me. It's...sad, when they don't." Usually means there's no fight left in them. Symon has a lot of fight left in him, but he's worried that that light will be stuffed out. Jaheira really needs to stop recruiting people with less of a bleeding heart. He sighs at the graffiti. It's nothing he hasn't heard before - he's heard much worse, coming from people who supposedly loved him. But that doesn't mean it's not just a little saddening. These could be from anyone in his community. At least they don't reference his kids... "It was...a lot..." That's pretty much what Laena is going to get out of him. He takes meticulous inventory, but acknowledging that he needs help is difficult. "If it's not a bother..."

”Of course it’s not a bother, I offered. If nothing else, I can speed up getting you back on your feet.” The Unseen Servant is hard at work righting knocked-over furniture and setting to sweeping up the shattered glass and other debris. Meanwhile, Helaena sets to prestidigitating clean every inch of the clinic, one cubic foot at a time. “I know I’m no cleric, but I am a decent alchemist. Will you let me help you replace what I can? I can do a lot of the earlier stages at least, even for potions where divine magic is needed to complete them.” Delton and Helaena have an arrangement, beneficial to them both. Helaena aids him with all things arcane, and in turn Delton aids her with all things divine. It works well. And then, of course, Helaena teaches his son, but that’s a reward of its own with a student as brilliant as Rolan. But Delton has always protested her attempts to help beyond what he quite simply can’t do himself. He insists he’s fine on his own. Well, the smashed up clinic they’re standing in kind of refutes that as far as she’s concerned. “Look, just see it as me having a vested interest in ensuring the clinic gets operational again as quickly as possibly. It would take you longer with little to no outside assistance and you know it. Let me help. This neighborhood needs you.”

Delton doesn't like to accept help. Some would attribute it to pride, to the desire to be wholly independent. But it's not a desire to be independent. It's a need. Relying on others has never gone well for him. He cannot trust them to not ask something he cannot give in return. No matter who they are. But Laena is right. He'd be closed at least for a week with this damage. He just hopes repayment won't hurt, somehow. "...If you insist...I don't want to leave Eastway without a working clinic..." He's essentially the only one still in operation, after all.

"Delton, it's the least I can do, really. It's selfish, truly, if I don't, Rolan will insist on putting off his studies to help you, and while I love the boy dearly, it's much more efficient for me to do this. He needs to practice his Conjuration, at any rate." Promising to help his father herself was the only way she'd convinced Rolan to return to his books, but not without a certain amount of irritated tail flicking. She's still pleased to see him fight back, to argue his point of view. It's all progress, healing. Even if it's occasionally deeply irritating. Oh well. Even the best of apprentices have to be a handful on occasion. She's still working as they speak, the majority of the front room now spotlessly clean. Magic is truly a wonder. "I'm guessing you took inventory of what's missing already," she continues with barely a pause. Casting magic and keeping up a conversation at the same time is a skill she perfected long ago. "Do you have a list of the reagents needed? If necessary, I do have a young tiefling apprentice very keen to help his father who might need an errand or two to run to work off the nervous energy."

He frowns at that. "He worries too much. I feel like he doesn't understand that I'm his parent and it's not his job to try and look after me." His oldest had to be the parent for so long. All he wants for him is to be a kid. To focus on himself. "I...haven't, yet," I fell asleep on your brother instead, "I had a small...issue that was better served at the house. Symon accompanied me." He does have to do a thorough inventory. His hands itch at the thought that he's left it go for so long. He could have already gotten some orders out for things he lost. Wow, what a healer you are, Delton. What if there's an emergency and you don't even know if you have things?

"Well then, that's something I can help you with." Helaena smiles reassuringly. "The most important part is starting, Delton. We'll get the clinic back on its feet. I'm not the only one who'll want to help, either. I'm guessing that's why Symon stuck around to begin with, isn't it?" Still, they didn't seem to have made much headway. He might not be injured, but Helaena worries for his emotional and psychological wellbeing. Anything Delton might describe as a massacre would leave wounds beyond those visible to the naked eye. She eyes a potion vial with a chipped edge, hopeful it might be salvageable, then sighs as she notices the deep crack running down the length of it. "Was he alright when he left? Not... Not in terms of injury I mean, but... He didn't seem..." She struggles to find the right words. "He didn't seem lost?"

Delton, honestly, is unsure why Symon stuck around at all. He was being absolutely pathetic and the human was nice enough to make sure he didn't trip over his own feet. "I...suppose. He wanted to make sure I was alright, I think." He did have two meltdowns in less than twenty-four hours, after all. "Lost..." His hand reaches up to touch his pendant, "Lost might be the right word. We've all faced a lot of tragedy in the last few years. This city is full of it. But I worry for the Harpers, people who only ever see the bad." Especially stubborn ones whose hearts are too big for the organization. He goes up to his broken cabinets. He can at least cast Mending on these.

"I'm not sure anyone's made for seeing so much of the horror and evil mortalkind have to offer. Especially not now." Of course it's been rough on all of them. Helaena's been luckier than most, isolated in her ivory tower of wizardry, but it's not like she doesn't see the suffering around her. Steel Watchers patrolling, the worst of the Fists emboldened to mistreat the population as they please, the conflict of the Zhents and the Guild spilling into the streets... "Are you alright, Delton?" she asks. "Why was Symon worried about you? Did something happen?" Of course she knows Delton's a widower, it's not something he hides, but she's unaware of any of the other suffering he's been through. "Gods, if you were hurt too, you really shouldn't be using magic and exerting yourself like this!"

Delton deflates, looking ashamed of himself before he turns to hide it. "I wasn't injured. I was..." being pathetic, a real idiot, "it was just a bad day. Symon didn't want to leave me after an...episode of sorts." Gods, no wonder Gale wants to drag him home. He's useless on his own. "It's fine. I'm fine. Symon worried over nothing. Then we ended up falling asleep after lunch and he stayed for dinner."

"If you say so," Helaena concedes with a worried look. Delton shares her unfortunate tendency of working himself to the bone before pausing to rest. She's trying to force herself to take breaks, to recharge, to delegate where she can, but it's far from her natural inclination. "I'm glad you and Symon are getting along." You could both use more friends. "Did he say anything about his plans?" Why would he? Helaena hadn't even been entirely sure he was in the city until his message the afternoon before. He could have gone anywhere after leaving Delton's house. He could be in Neverwinter, now, or Chessenta, and she'd have no way of knowing.

"He's...kind. A good man, if hopelessly stubborn. I'm...glad we met," his voice is utterly sincere. He likes Symon. For all the other man tries to emphasize his sharp edges, all he could see was a man forced to grow up too fast, whose ideals led him to an unappreciative organization in an even more unappreciative city. "No...he didn't. He mostly implied that I gave him something to think about, rather than directly telling me what he's doing." He sighs, rubbing his eye. He's much more well rested than usual, the movement borne more out of worry than fatigue. "I...worry for him. About what he loses, being in the Harpers." The Harpers take good people and chew them up and spit them out. He supposes that's the nature of a spy organization, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

Her smile is sad as she mends a smashed-up scale with a whispered spell. "Welcome to the club. All the people who love him do. But as you said... He's stubborn. And he's spent most of his adult life in the Harpers. I'm not sure he can imagine what else he could do with his life." She does understand that. It'd be akin to what her life might be like if she wasn't a wizard. She's always been a wizard. It's an integral part of her identity, something she can't just turn off. What would she be, who would she be if she didn't have her magic? "I don't think he realizes how many people care about what happens to him. The way he talks sometimes, it's as if he thinks no one would care if he wound up dead somewhere. I hate it. I wish I could reach inside his head and force him to _see_, but unfortunately casting psyche-altering magic on others without their consent outside of emergencies is considered unethical."

Delton pauses at that. Taking Symon away from the Harpers might be like taking him away from the clergy. But he can't help but think that Symon was far too young to make a decision like he did. "I just...wish he could see the Harpers from the outside looking in, just for a moment." He wishes that Symon could see that throwing his life away isn't going to save the Gate. He sighs, another Mending cantrip falling from his lips. "Yes, I got the feeling that he's...unnecessarily reckless with his own wellbeing. I think-I think he undervalues himself quite a bit." He leans back on his haunches, "But I've not know him for all that long, Laena. I really don't know."

"He's always been an idealistic fool." The words are said fondly. "But it's not like I can blame him. Not to otherwise draw a comparison, but... I didn't realize how terrible Lorroakan was, how horrible the things he was doing were, until I saw Rolan's face on a day he was too drained to hide the bruises." She shrugs sadly. It's still something she regrets, something she feels guilty for. How much suffering could she have prevented if she'd gone to the Harpers the first time she heard the word _Nightsong_? "Sometimes you need a slap in the face to realize how rotten something has gotten. How much it's hurting you, or someone you care about. The Harpers aren't Lorroakan, but staying in the organization is hurting him. Just not badly enough for him to realize he has to leave yet, I don't think. At least not unless he's running towards something instead of from something." But that's enough talking even for a wizard. She finishes cleaning the room with one last flurry of Prestidigitations, pleased to at least have an overview of the damage. The rest would mostly be Mending what they could, tossing what they couldn't, and replacing the rest. "I'm sorry to talk your ear off about my brother, though. We can talk about something else. How are Cal and Lia? The most I hear is they're as annoying as ever, so hopefully that means they're well."

Delton is really trying here. Laena is making good points, reminding him of a very valuable and important perspective. But he just doesn't have the energy to keep dealing with her gentle prodding, even if she means well. For a few minutes, he chatters about the kids and their interests before he ducks into the back room. He tells himself Symon needs to see his sister. That he's worrying her horribly. If he's honest with himself, however, he just needs backup. He hums a little hymn, a Sending spell on his tongue. "Hi, Symon. It's Delton. Would appreciate you at the clinic, if you can. Laena's here too. Um, bye. And thanks."

Continued here: https://discord.com/channels/1151902831310274651/1332162885421498389