Our little heart-to-heart done, Astarion and I walked to rejoin the group, the lingering tension of our earlier conversation still hanging between us like an unfinished melody. As we approached, my attention was immediately drawn to Alfira, who stood a short distance away, engaged in what appeared to be a rather… discussion.

  The cute Bard's brow was furrowed with worry, a stark contrast to the joyous abandon that characterized most of the Fae around us, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, the knuckles bone-white. She was speaking to a figure who, even in this gathering of outlandish beings, managed to stand out with an unsettling aura of wrongness.

  The old woman in question stood across from the nervous tiefling, her slightly hunched form casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the flickering lantern lights. Her face bore deep wrinkles, etched like a weathered map across pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her small, sunken eyes glimmered with a cold, piercing sharpness, dark pools that offered no comfort. Strands of grey, stringy hair had slipped free from a loose bun, clinging damply to her forehead, lending her a disheveled air that only deepened her unsettling presence. Her thin, cracked lips twisted into a smile—half-kind, half-mocking—but the warmth never

  reached her gaze.

  She wore a long, dark dress that draped loosely over her gaunt frame, its faded embroidery catching the light in faint glimmers, a whisper of a time when it might have been grand and fashionable. The fabric shifted as she leaned forward, her stooped posture making her seem both frail and looming all at once. Her hands, gnarled and bony, rested on a tall, mushroom-circled tree stump, long yellowed nails tapping softly against the wood with each slow, deliberate motion, a sound that visibly grated on the tiefling’s nerves.

  As she spoke, her voice flowed in a low, soothing hum; yet, beneath it lurked something darker. Her movements unfolded with a careful precision, each gesture seemingly designed to unsettle. She edged closer, a crooked smile stretching just a touch wider than would have been natural for a human face, her stillness carrying the weight of a predator sizing up its quarry.

  I sighed internally as I recognized our surprise visitor.

  This… was Auntie Ethel.

  The Green Hag and frequent antagonist (or, if you happened to play an evil SOB, a possible ally) from the Baldur’s Gate 3 game. A being of incomparable evil and cruelty, Ethel delighted in deceiving others into entering "deals" with her that tended to end badly for her customers.

  As I watched the interaction from afar, I could hear snippets of the duo's conversation, though the general hubbub of the Revel made it difficult to process every word from the current distance. Ethel's voice, when it reached me, was like the rustling of dry leaves: a low, grating sound that repulsed me on some instinctual level, making me want to slap the bitch into a red mist.

  My empty hand twitched at the thought.

  "...the , my little songbird," she was saying, her voice alight with a saccharine sweetness that did nothing to mask the predatory gleam in her eyes. "We did have an agreement, did we not? A is a promise, after all. Such a pretty voice you have too… it would be a shame for you to... default on our little arrangement."

  Alfira's face tightened further, her discomfort palpable. "I… I will follow through on what we agreed upon, Auntie," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "I just… I need some time. The Revel isn't over yet. I still have a chance to win the patronage."

  Ethel's smile widened, revealing those disturbingly sharp teeth. "Time is a precious commodity, my dear. And promises… promises are not to be broken lightly. Especially not with ."

  The hag reached out, her long, spindly fingers, tipped with nails that resembled sharpened claws, trailing along Alfira's arm with a disturbingly possessive gesture. Alfira flinched, pulling away slightly, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I felt my blood nearly boil in an ocean of red-hot -- how that... abomination... touch what was ? I felt myself getting ready to step in and slap some sense into the Hag, the Archfey's non-violence rules be damned.

  ...

  Sylvie beat me to it.

  The newly-ascended ex-pixie wobbled slightly as she approached, hovering across the ground towards the pair. Her cheeks were flushed, and her silver hair slightly askew. Her usually bright eyes were just a

  glazed over, and there was a dusting of what looked suspiciously like bread crumbs around her mouth.

  "Oh, whatshh tith, then?" she slurred, her voice slightly louder than intended, drawing the attention of a few nearby Fae. “Heyyy, you,” Sylvie half-shouted, pointing a wobbly finger at a dumbfounded Ethel. “Why’re you…" She paused to burp loudly before continuing. "Why’re ya hasslin’ my friend Alfira? She’s a good bard, y’know. Not some… stinky hag’s plaything.”

  Sylvie was, without a doubt, more than a little intoxicated at the moment... on her share of the magical sweetrolls, no doubt.

  Gods, I hoped she didn’t eat of them at once.

  Ethel’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a sneer as she fully turned to face the interruption. “And who might you be, petal?” she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness, though a flicker of irritation danced beneath it.

  ...

  Ethel’s sneer faltered, however, as she took a closer look at Sylvie. The hag’s sunken eyes widened comically, and — even through the glamour of her human form — her face paled three shades, her skin taking on a sickly, ashen hue. Her gnarled hands twitched at her sides, and she took an involuntary step back.

  “I… I see,” Ethel stammered, her voice losing its earlier confidence. “My… apologies, I didn’t mean to… to intrude. Please excuse me, as I have… other matters to attend to!” With a hasty nod, she turned on her heel and scurried away, her long dress trailing behind her like a shadow fleeing the light.

  Sylvie turned to Alfira with a lopsided grin. “See? Told ya I’d protect you.”

  Alfira managed a weak smile, though her eyes still held a trace of fear.

  “Thank you, Sylvie. I… I appreciate it. Though…I have a feeling this isn't the last I've seen of her.”

  I stepped forward, my brow furrowed with concern as I glanced between Alfira and the retreating hag.

  “Alfira, what was that about? What did she want from you?”

  Alfira sighed, running a hand through her hair.

  "It's… a bit of a long story," she said, her voice subdued. "But… she's right. We did have an… agreement."

  She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground.

  "When I was… when my Master, Lihala, died, I was devastated. Lost. I didn't know what to do. I felt like… like my music had died with her too. Like I had no purpose anymore."

  She paused, taking a deep breath.

  "Ethel… she approached me. She knew about my Master, told me a story about how she was supposed to perform here, at the Revel.”

  Alfira took another deep breath to steady herself before continuing.

  “Ethel suggested that I should take her place. That it would be a way to honor her memory. To keep her music alive. She was the one who… invited me here."

  "And... the payment she mentioned?" I prompted gently.

  Alfira grimaced. "She… she said that, in return for the invitation, I’d... owe her something. We never agreed on what, exactly. Just… a favor. I accepted. That’s how I ended up here, at this Revel.”

  I frowned, my protective instincts kicking into high gear. "You've got to be kidding me! An favor? Alfira, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Have you idea what she "

  Alfira shook her head sadly.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Harald. I how this sounds. But, please understand, I was in a bad place then. I wasn't thinking clearly. I just wanted... a chance to sing again. To feel that connection to my music, to my Master… one last time."

  Sylvie, who had been listening with rapt attention, suddenly perked up.

  "Yeah!" she exclaimed, her voice still slightly slurred. "That sounds like a bad deal! You shouldn't make deals with smelly hags! They're sneaky, and stinky, and… and they !" Sylvie nodded sagely.

  I couldn't help but chuckle at Sylvie's drunken vehemence, though I shared her concerns about the situation. I made a mental note to have a serious conversation with the cute fey about the dangers of consuming unspecified amounts of highly magical substances… at a later time.

  My gaze followed Ethel's retreating form. She had stopped a short distance away and was now engaged in a hushed conversation with the obnoxious red-and-gold dressed bard who had so rudely bullied Alfira a day earlier. The bard, with his smug smirk and arrogant posture, seemed to be eating up whatever Ethel was saying, nodding along with an obsequious eagerness.

  As we watched, Ethel glanced in our direction, her yellow eyes meeting Alfira’s across the clearing. A cruel, knowing smile twisted her lips, and she raised a hand, her long, claw-like fingers waggling in a mockingly cheerful wave. Then, she turned back to the bard, her head bent conspiratorially, before finally moving away and disappearing into the swirling crowd.