The rented room above the Elfsong Tavern felt like a small, mercifully quiet sanctuary against the humid chaos of the Lower City. The noise from the taproom below was a dull, distant murmur, a far cry from the shouts of vendors and the constant clang of steel from the Watch patrols.

It was a rare moment of domestic peace.

Gale was seated in one of the less-rickety chairs by the window, a heavy tome open on his lap, though you’d caught him re-reading the same paragraph for the last five minutes. He'd sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, clearly more exhausted by their recent ventures than he was letting on. He seemed poised to finally close the book when a soft, familiar thump came from the open balcony window, followed by a proud, vibrating purr.

"Ah, Tara, my clever girl," Gale said, his voice instantly brightening with an uncomplicated affection he reserved for very few. He set his book aside, turning to greet his tressym as she hopped gracefully onto the floorboards. "Come to check on your wayward wizard, have you? I trust the rooftops are—"

His words caught in his throat.

Tara, looking immensely pleased with herself, strutted forward with her wings held high. She stopped directly at Gale's feet and unceremoniously dropped her "gift."

It was a pigeon. A very, very dead pigeon. And judging by the small, empty message tube still attached to its leg, it was one of the Baldur's Gate postal carriers.

Gale's face went through a remarkably fast series of emotions: fondness, confusion, dawning realization, and finally, pure, unadulterated mortification. He was on his feet in an instant, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards.

"Tara..." he breathed, the word sharp and quiet. "That... that looks distressingly like one of the Sword Coast Couriers."

He winced, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead as Tara meowed again, nudging the bird proudly with her nose as if awaiting praise.

"Oh, Gods," he breathed, his voice a strained whisper. He looked from the pigeon, to Tara (who was now purring and rubbing against your shin), and finally to you. His cheeks flushed a rather charming very embarrassed shade of pink.

"My apologies, my love," he said, sounding like a professor whose prize student had just set fire to the library. "It seems our... firm request regarding the avian postal service didn't quite... stick with her hunter's instinct."

Gale gestured helplessly at the small corpse. "Tara. We discussed this."

The tressym merely blinked at him slowly, then looked back at you, clearly awaiting her well-deserved praise for providing for her, in her opinion, less-capable companions.