Chapter Text
It is time-consuming work, manufacturing spell scrolls.
To imbue even a low-level scroll with the requisite magics could take an entire day. Luckily Ramazith himself had perfected a method for creating nearly 2 dozen scrolls simultaneously.
And so Rolan stands, hunched over a large workbench constructed haphazardly in the middle of the largest room of Ramaith’s Tower, pouring the last reserves of his magic into an array of parchment laid out before him, burning up the last of the spells’ material components as he does so.
He’s running the numbers in his head. Thinking of Cal and Lia manning the desks of Sorcerous Sundries downstairs, greeting the wounded and the emergency workers. He tries to determine whether their stock will keep up with the demand, and finds himself facing one giant, unignorable issue.
An apothecary he is not.
He may be capable of crafting scrolls, probably even enough to keep up with the demand, at this rate.
But potions?
He’s never had an interest in learning, and he couldn’t even begin to guess at whether he has enough supplies to make them. But gods help him, the potions are in much higher demand than the scrolls.
It makes sense, to swig a potion is much easier than casting a spell, even if one is not drawing from their own magic. An elixir of hill giant strength lasts until its consumer sleeps, and is taken as simply as swallowing, whereas the spell Bull’s Strength requires concentration from its caster - something few emergency workers are particularly practiced in.
Gods, he is going to fail the people of Baldur’s Gate. The thought buries in his gut and sits there like a weighted chunk of scrap steel.
Just as he had failed his siblings in the shadow-cursed lands, and again in the refugee settlements of Rivington, people are hurting, and he won’t be able to aid them.
And at that exact moment, as she has in every single other moment of crisis in Rolan’s recent memory, she arrives.
The sound of the portal should herald one of his siblings’ arrival. But instead, standing in the mess of spell components and scattered tomes, was her. The Hero of the Gate. She looks as tired as he feels, eyes half-open and crowning deep purple bags. Her armour is dust-covered and scuffed.
“Tav,” He breathes, sounding exhausted even to his own ears. “You’re okay”
“Rolan,” She smiles back at him, dazzling as always. “So are you.”
It doesn't seem to occur to either of them for a long, long moment, that they should say something. Simply standing in each other’s company, they both relax, unidentified tension leaking from their exhausted bones.
And then a plain piece of parchment falls to the ground, blown by a gentle breeze from the shattered window behind her.
“Ah,” Tav says, startling from her reverie. “Right, um, I talked with Lia, and she said you might be running low on healing potions? I wanted to offer my alchemy services and uhhh-”
She pauses, producing a bag of holding.
“About 30 pounds of ingredients”
Rolan could have fallen to the floor. In fact, his knees almost give way, making him sway dangerously on his sore feet.
“You would do that?” He asks her.
“Of course,” She replies easily, like coming to his rescue - the gate’s rescue - is no more intrusive than giving him the time of day. Just as it has been every time she’d done it before.
“I didn’t even know you were an alchemist,” He’s aware of how stunned he must sound.
He finds himself humbled by her generosity and magnanimity just as much as her seemingly ceaseless catalogue of skills and abilities. As far as he had known, she was merely a cleric - well, not merely ; the whole gate’s wellbeing can be accredited directly to her, making her perhaps the most powerful cleric in the realm.
“Ah, we all picked it up while travelling,” She chuckles and leans against his workbench, looking like she might collapse under the weight of her tiredness if she doesn’t. “Everyone very quickly lost patience with me for picking up every single potion ingredient we came across, but as we travelled through libraries between the grove and here, we came across the recipes for just about any elixir you could ask for - hell, poisons too.”
“That’s…” he trails off. “So you can make healing and strength potions?”
“Absolutely,” She smiles warmly. “Usually I would just craft one bottle in a pot over the campfire, but if you have any cauldrons, I could probably manage a few dozen of each in a day?”
His knees waver again, overcome with yet another wave of gratitude for this impossible woman. He braces himself on his workbench too, leaning beside her and seeking her face for any possible hint that might begin to explain her.
“Why?” He asks. “You’ve done so much for me already.”
“The city needs your help.” She tilts her head to look at him, and her words send a flutter of nerves and warmth through his belly. To be needed. “And if you need backup to be able to help them, then I’m happy to do so.”
“I… I can show you to the brewing rooms, but you look… like you need some rest.”
“Hah,” She snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do you plan to rest?”
“Hn. Soon.” It’s not a lie. As much as he would prefer not to, he fears his body will force the issue sooner rather than later.
“Then I will too, once I get everything set up.”
He nods, he can agree to those terms.
The brewing room is large and cold, unused since Ramazith’s time at some point last century. Lorroakan, curse him, had no interest in alchemy (or, Rolan supposed, actual wizardry either) and had imported all of his potions from waterdeep. Hells, Rolan hasn’t even entered this room since arriving in the gate, only vaguely aware of its location.
But taking stock of the large room with its towering ceilings now, Rolan hopes that she will find it sufficient. It hosts a large, central workbench, 6 giant cauldrons suspended over unlit braziers, and a massive enclosed and seemingly self-sustaining glass terrarium - containing any number of plant species that Rolan couldn’t ever hope to identify.
“Oh Rolan,” She breathes from beside him, her reverence warming something unknown inside him, aching in his chest the way that pride might. “This is incredible .”
She sounds just as he had when he’d first stepped foot in the tower library, in the spell component storage - awe at the unique possibilities offered by the world’s best facilities.
And this time, he does feel an absurd surge of pride rush through him, wash over him and cloud his mind like a drug. Rolan is the one providing her with this. Finally, he can pay her back, in whatever small way. Amaze her.
Her hands clasped to her chest, she steps slowly into the room, taking stock of her surroundings. Rolan’s eye is drawn to where her gait wavers tiredly.
“I shall set up the guest bedroom for you.” He states, tone brokering no argument. “So that you can rest, like you promised.” The end of his sentence was said pointedly, knowing she was unlikely to rest if left to her own devices.
“Hm?” She finally tears her eyes away from the giant terrarium. “Oh, thank you so much Rolan, I’ll try not to be an imposition in here.”
“Nonsense.”
“And you’ll be resting too?”
“Yes,” Rolan huffs, indignant. “I had just finished a set of scrolls when you came in, so I suppose now is as good a time as ever.”
“Perfect,” She grins widely at him, showing all of her teeth, like the mere thought of his resting pleases her. “Health potions in particular are quick to start, and then they’ll need to simmer for a few hours, so with maybe half an hour of work, I can take a nap.”
“Mm, say…” Rolan is hesitant to ask, for fear of incriminating himself. “What time is it?”
She laughs at that, joyous and chiming, surprised and fond.
“Almost midday,”
“Ah, right.”
“Hard to tell when you’ve had your nose to the grindstone?”
“Quite.”
“I’ve been out in the streets ever since the battle ended.” Her smile grows tired. “Well, after I recovered as much magical energy as I could. But there’s only so many times I can cast healing spells on my own, clerichood be damned.”
There’s quiet between them for a second.
“I’m glad I can help here.” She says it quietly, meaningfully. Rolan can hear echoes of himself in her, of his fear of failing the Gate when it needs him the most.
“Thank you,” He offers gratitude once again. He finds it flows for her just as easily as breathing. “I truly don’t think our stores would have held up to what the gate needs from us.”
She just nods then, wordless.
And then she upends her bag of holding onto the countertop, spilling bundles upon bundles of dried herbs, crystalline formations, and jars of finely-ground dust.
“I can get some different types of health potions going right away, what else is in high demand?”
“Elixirs of strength, damage resistance, flying.”
She nods thoughtfully as she spreads her ingredients into vague piles, covering the entire countertop.
“Consider it done.” She gathers up 5 glass jars into her arms, each filled with a slightly different pastel-coloured dust. “The health potions will be about 7 hours, and I can have some hill giant strength to you by… midnightish?”
Rolan is speechless.
There are few times in life where Rolan has found himself without the words for a situation. But as has happened in nearly every interaction he has had with her, she has left him stunned. It seems as though every time they meet is simply an opportunity for her to prove just how capable and amazing she is. And she has somehow exceeded his expectations once again.
He nods and leaves to prepare the guest room.
-
True to his word, Rolan rests, and true to Tav’s word, he next sees her as the sun sets.
This time, she’s carrying a small crate of gently-clinking glass bottles and is accompanied by…
“Tav.” Rolan deadpans.
“Mm?”
“What have you got there?”
“The healing potions?”
“No, Tav. Why do you have - what appears to be - four ghouls following you?”
“They’re helping me carry all the potions.” She gestures with her head, and indeed they are each carrying a small crate of their own.
“Right, allow me to rephrase.” He clears his throat. “How, in gods’ names, are you commanding a small army of ghouls?!”
“Ah,” She pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about that right now.”
“Don’t worry about it?!” He screeches.
“It’s not like I killed anyone!” She asserts. “It’s just Danse Macabre!”
“Just D-” His eyes go wide, entirely dumbfounded by the woman before him. “Oh, just a necromancy spell that scholars have long thought was lost to time!”
“Can we talk about it after I bring these down to the shop? These crates are heavy.” She whines, shrugging the weight of her crate between her arms.
“Tavarina, you will not bring those haunting creatures down into a shop packed full of wounded war survivors."
“I was afraid you’d say that…” She sighs, and gestures for her ghouls to put down their precious cargo before she dismisses them all. “But you’re helping me bring these through the portal.”
Rolan scans his eyes over his work station, over the magic infusing idly into the scrolls through the merit of their components for now.
“Alright,” He sighs, fastidiously rolling her sleeves up to the elbow before bending to grab one of the free crates. “But that means we have time for you to explain yourself.”
“Deal,” She grins at him as she steps towards the portal. “What do you know about the Necromancy of Thay?”
“Tavarina.”