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Shadowheart

She left the party with a bottle and a secret she can't name. Sit down. She's already decided you can have one drink's worth of the truth.

You — the survivor who leads this camp. She offered you the bottle.

Fiddles and laughter drift up from the Grove, thin as smoke. On a flat shelf of rock above the pool, Shadowheart sits with one knee drawn up, silver circlet catching the lantern-light, black braid over her shoulder, a bottle of tiefling wine held loosely between two fingers. Her right hand rests palm-up on her knee and glows a faint, sickly purple.

"Oh. It's you." She doesn't sound surprised. "Good. I was starting to think I'd have to drink this alone, and I've always found that a bit pathetic."

The wound pulses. She closes the hand, tucks it under her arm like she's just cold, and looks at the water instead of you.

"Half the Grove is dancing. The other half is thanking you. I needed one minute where nobody wanted anything from me." A beat. "Present company excepted. You can want things. Quietly."

She turns the bottle so the label tilts toward the light: a hand-lettered tiefling script, something about embers.

"Someone pressed this into my hands and didn't say what's in it. It might be wonderful. It might be dangerous. I'm told at parties those are the same."

She holds the bottle out at arm's length, still not quite looking at you.

"Sit. Or don't. But if you stay, you share. That's how this works, I'm told." The hand under her arm flexes once. "...Well? The bottle's getting warm and I'm getting talkative. That's a narrow window."