The night winds through Moonrise like a living thing — warm, full, pulsing with the heartbeat of a tribe that has survived too much and risen too far to ever kneel again.
The celebration stretches long into the deep hours.
The scent of roasted boar and myconid-spiced stew floats in the air.
A dozen bonfires crackle in the courtyard.
Ogres laugh so loudly the walls vibrate.
But the center of it all… is Jaheira.
Tonight she does not walk like a scout, or a Harper veteran, or a hardened survivor.
Tonight she walks like someone finally recognized for the weight she has carried for decades.
Your chieftain's cape drapes down her shoulders — forest-green, embroidered with the coiling serpent emblem of your tribe, the symbol of a family forged in war.
And when the tribe roars her name, she does not shy away.
She stands in the throne seat — your seat — with a humility so quiet it borders on holy.
She keeps one hand over her heart the entire time.
⟡ A Night of Tribe-Bonding Chaos ⟡
Ogres challenge druids to arm-wrestling contests.
Druids shift their arms into tree-trunks to win — ogres shout "CHEATING!" while laughing too hard to stand.
Myconids release gentle bioluminescent spores that drift over the courtyard like floating stars.
A Harper bard stands on a table, plays a lute solo so intense he topples backward mid-chord and keeps playing upside down.
Minthara drinks like she is trying to intimidate the liquor itself.
Shadowheart drinks like she is trying to prove she can.
Druids shape water into spiraling dragon shapes for the ogre children, who chase them laughing.
You walk among them with no crown, no cape, no barrier.
Tonight, you are simply Mamba — the man who brought them all together.
Warriors slap your back.
Ogres offer you entire barrels "just for you, Boss Snake."
A Harper rogue hugs you out of nowhere, cries a bit, then runs off embarrassed.
And in the center of it all, Jaheira sits on the throne, eyes glistening, surrounded by people she once never imagined calling family.
⟡ After Midnight: The Tired Fall Where They Stand ⟡
Time spills forward.
The bonfires burn lower.
Bard songs drift into drunken humming.
And slowly — one by one — the tribe begins to collapse where they sit:
Ogres sprawled on the floor like felled giants
Harpers draped across tables, hugging half-played instruments
Druids asleep in wolf or bear form, depending on how far into the ale they made it
A myconid scout curled up under a bench like a glowing mushroom lantern
Even Minthara — iron-willed, relentless Minthara — drinks herself unconscious beside the throne, arms crossed, head against the chair leg, sleeping like a dragon guarding treasure.
Shadowheart eventually curls up beside her with a quiet laugh, hand resting on Minthara's shoulder protectively.
The celebration ends the only way a true tribal feast should end:
with every warrior too tired and too full to lift another cup.
⟡ Mamba & Orpheus — The War Room ⟡
Far from the snores and laughter, the war room burns with quiet torchlight.
You and Orpheus lean over the massive strategy table — its surface carved with a map of Faerûn, markers placed across the territories where your influence has begun to spread.
The conversation is not loud, but it is heavy.
"Our strength grows," Orpheus says, tapping a marker representing your alliance with the gold dragons.
"But Vlaakith has ruled for millennia. Her mind is sharpened by aeons."
You rub your jaw, frustration simmering behind your calm.
"What if we appealed to her pride?"
"Directly challenged her to an open duel?"
Orpheus's expression barely changes — but the answer is firm.
"She would turn your challenge into a trap. She respects pride in others… but she worships victory above all."
You slam your fist into the table — not hard, not destructive — but with the weight of a man who feels the pressure of hundreds of lives on his shoulders.
The candles flicker.
The map trembles.
"Enough. I must rest."
"We'll speak again soon."
Orpheus bows his head.
"As you wish, Warchief."
⟡ The Warchief Returns to His Queens ⟡
Moonrise Tower is quiet when you leave the war room.
Only the low, comforting snoring of ogres fills the halls.
A Harper bard mumbles the chorus of a song in his sleep.
A druid in wolf form curls around a fallen shield like it's a pillow.
You step over a passed-out ogre, gently set a blanket over him, and continue toward the high chamber.
When you push open the door, the room is dim, warm, lit by a single enchanted candle.
Shadowheart and Minthara are curled on the bed together — Shadowheart nestled under Minthara's arm, Minthara's face relaxed in a way she never shows awake.
Your place waits between them.
Not as a king…
Not as a leader…
But as their equal, their partner, their protector.
You remove your armor slowly, quietly — the weight of leadership sliding off your shoulders at last.
The mattress dips as you lie down.
Shadowheart shifts, half-asleep, resting her head on your chest.
Minthara drapes an arm across your waist without waking.
For the first time since returning from the gold dragon domain…
You let your eyes close.
And in the heart of Moonrise Towers — surrounded by love, loyalty, and the tribe you built from nothing — the Warchief finally sleeps.