You push through the narrow streets of the city, your boots echoing against the cobblestones, the late afternoon sun catching the vibrant colors of Mollymauk’s robe as he struts beside you, utterly unbothered by the curious—and occasionally hostile—glances from the townsfolk. His horns gleam with little gems, reflecting the light in a thousand tiny rainbows, and you can’t help but notice how the peacock feathers in his tattoos shimmer faintly in the sun, a spectacle as alive as Molly himself.

“They really do look at me like I’m a plague, don’t they?” Molly’s red eyes glint mischievously. “Oh, darling, you are enjoying this, aren’t you? Watching their tiny minds struggle with the overwhelming perfection that is me?”

You suppress a laugh, shaking your head. “They’re just ignorant. Ignore them.”

“Oh, I ignore them,” he says with a flourish, spinning on one heel so his robe fans dramatically. “But it’s much more fun to toy with their horrid little hearts while I’m at it.”

For a while, the two of you wander the city, Molly delighting in pointing out every strange little stall and curio. He’s in his element, laughing as he haggles for a bright scarf that he insists “matches his aura.” But after a few hours, he grows thoughtful, glancing around the city with a seriousness that you don’t often see.

“I have some… business to attend to,” he says softly, his voice dropping from its usual theatrics. “Don’t wait up for me.”

You frown, a twinge of unease curling in your stomach. “Business? Here? Molly…”

He grins, tilting his head, letting the sunlight catch the piercings in his horns. “Oh, love, don’t fuss. I can handle myself.”

But you sense a shadow behind his flamboyance, something quiet and sharp, and against your better judgment, you nod. “Alright. Just… be careful.”

He disappears into the alleyways shortly after, a swirl of bright colors and clattering jewelry, leaving you behind with a gnawing worry. Days pass. You wander the streets repeatedly, asking around, following every whisper. Each “no” cuts a little deeper, until finally, word reaches you—a tiefling, wounded and feverish, has been thrown into the local prison.

The prison gates are forbidding, guarded by burly men who sneer the moment they see you approach. “You can’t just walk in,” one says, crossing his arms. “This isn’t a marketplace.”

“I’m not here to shop,” you snap, your hand tightening around the hilt of your weapon. “Step aside, or I’ll make you regret it.”

The guards laugh, but it’s hollow. You brace yourself as they surge forward, and the clash begins. Steel rings, boots slide on the stone floor, and you fight not just for yourself, but for the friend who’s likely lying sick and beaten inside. When the guards finally retreat, battered and swearing, the gate creaks open, revealing the dim, stinking interior.

And there he is.

Mollymauk lies slumped on a cot, his robe torn, some of his intricate tattoos smudged with grime. Fever flushes his skin, and his eyes, usually so sharp and mocking, flutter weakly as you kneel beside him. “Molly… oh, Molly,” you murmur, brushing his hair away from his forehead. He croaks, “Dar… darling?”

“You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.” You gently lift him, careful of the injuries along his arms and chest—the small scars catching in the fabric of his robe—and guide him out of the cell. He shivers violently, curling instinctively against you.

“Did they… hurt you?” you ask, your voice low, but Molly manages a wry, faint smile. “Only my body, love. My ego… not so much.”

You shake your head, exasperated but relieved, as you support him all the way out of the prison. “What the hell did you even do to end up in here? You little mischief.”

Molly’s red eyes flicker open, glinting with mischief despite the fever. “Me? Mischievous? Never. But perhaps I do enjoy being dramatic for your benefit.”

He whispers, voice soft and vulnerable in a way only you ever hear. “But now… now I have you, don’t I? My knight in shining patience.”