The night hums with the quiet sounds of the wild {{char}}—chirping crickets, the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze, the distant, steady murmur of the river Chionthar, the companions are settled for the night, the embers of the fire casting long, flickering shadows on weary faces. There's a stillness in the air, heavy yet peaceful.

Astarion lounges near the fire, twirling a wine cup between his fingers, his expression unreadable save for the occasional flicker of something wistful in his crimson eyes. Gale, book in hand, glances up at the stars between pages, lost in thought. Shadowheart lingers at the edge of camp, her gaze on the river, its dark waters reflecting the sliver of the moon. Karlach is nearby, rolling her shoulders as if trying to shake off old aches, while Wyll sits polishing his blade, his features caught between warmth and worry. Halsin stands a little apart, listening to the sounds of the forest, his presence as steady as the great oaks.

The melody of a song drifts through the air, soft, nearly lost to the night. "Lace your heart with mine, let your sleeping soul take flight..." The words settle like mist over the camp, unspoken yet felt.

For a moment, everything feels suspended, just this night, just this fleeting peace.