Chapter Text
For Auri, the world has always been a matter of song. Other things were important too, of course, but home as Auri knows it has always been a fickle thing. She’s only ever consistently found it in song. People came and went, but the music she heard in everything was the only constant in a life defined by nomadism. Well, and Viv. There was also Viv.
But where once she heard melodies, now there is only the parasite wriggling beneath her skull. If Auri focuses hard enough, she thinks she can hear it squelching, squirming against her brain matter. She’s never been squeamish, but with every step forward, it burrows deeper. She knows it. The tadpole has a song, too, but it’s vile and dark. Auri wouldn’t miss it if she never heard it again. It’s a bastardization of everything Auri has ever cared about, tainting every crevice of her consciousness.
The lyre hitched to her side feels heavy, the sand does a poor job of supporting her cheap boots, and Shadowheart makes for quiet company that is wholly uninterested in conversation. In essence, Auri’s alone with the tadpole and its discordance.
Well, with the exception of the mind flayer that tried to possess her. It had made for dangerous company, no matter how brief the encounter had been. Auri had very nearly succumbed there. For a moment, she’d almost stooped down and pressed her lips to its face.
The pommel of Shadowheart’s mace had proved her savior. She’d jabbed it into Auri’s side frantically, and in that moment, Auri had wrested back control.
“Didn’t expect to be able to repay my life debt that quickly,” Shadowheart had deadpanned, but when Auri had glanced at her, there was a hint of humor in Shadowheart’s eyes.
Auri exhales a laugh through her nose, no matter that the memory is from only minutes before. Life wasn’t normal before the nautiloid, but it certainly is less so now. Auri has no choice but to roll with the punches. Her anxiety about the worm accomplishes nothing, and though she can’t shake it, she can at least try to push it to the background of her thoughts.
“What did you do before you had a parasite in your head?” Auri asks, trying for lighthearted small talk.
Shadowheart fidgets. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t–”
“Look,” Shadowheart says, facing Auri fully, light glinting off her armor, “We’re in this together, whether we like it or not. And I won’t forget that you saved me from the pod when you could have walked right past. But that doesn’t mean I trust you fully. Don’t take it personally.”
It’s reasonable enough, despite the obvious lie about not remembering, and it hadn’t stopped her from saving Auri from the mind flayer’s influence before, but Auri deflates a bit anyway. The distraction from their affliction had been very short-lived.
Would it be better or worse to have the githyanki from the ship with them? The conversation wouldn’t be improved, but at least they would have more hands when happening upon brain things and full-fledged, almost-but-not-quite-dead-but-can-certainly-make-Auri-dead mind flayers.
It is with all of this context that Auri cuts herself a little bit of a break for believing the silver-haired elf that’s pale as the moon when he says that he has a mind flayer cornered. It’s been quite the day. When she plays it back in her head later, his every movement is too calculated; even the quiver in his voice is meticulously acted.
She should have known better, because bards are storytellers, yes, musicians, artists. But before all else, they are observers. Of celestial bodies and magic and the threads that weave the world together.
More than any other thing in the universe, though, they are observers of people. The elf is in fine clothing that’s well-cared for; he’s clearly used to finery, and at a glance, he appears to attend to his appearance carefully. His eyes dart between her and Shadowheart quickly, and Auri can almost see the calculations running in his head, sizing them up. And yet Auri somehow isn’t able to notice until the moment that the elf tackles her to the ground with a knife to her throat, that there is something deeply, deeply wrong with him.
She wouldn’t have even needed to be a bard to come to that conclusion, steel pressed against her flesh. But it’s more than that. For a fleeting instant, when the arm not wielding the knife is pressed up against her breast, Auri sees a cocktail in his eyes that she knows all too well.
Desperation, defiance, and disdain, all in equal measure. It's like looking in a mirror.
"I saw you on that ship," he hisses, made all the more dangerous-sounding by a mouth filled with teeth that almost look like fangs. “You’re in league with them. Those–”
Shadowheart makes a grunting noise that pulls both Auri and the elf’s attention, but it doesn’t last even for a second. The knife clatters to the ground at the same moment that the worm stills in Auri’s head.
And then it pulses.
She clutches her head; the elf does the same. Behind her, there’s a thudding sound that might be Shadowheart falling to her knees. Auri knows this sensation now, but that doesn’t make it any less jarring when –
The streets are dark but still busy. People notice me, but only if I want them to. The sun is coming up soon. There isn't much time. I’m not sure–
The worm pulses again (Auri's sure she felt it that time) and the memory slips away. Confusion flickers across the elf's face, and Shadowheart thankfully has the presence of mind to pick up the knife. Auri sees her reach forward from where she fell to the ground from the corner of her eye.
"What was that?" the elf asks, his violent agenda not the priority in the face of the parasite, though he’s still holding her to the ground.
The strain of the intrusion has knocked Auri off-kilter, but Shadowheart says, “It’s the worm. It… connects us.”
His gaze flits to her when she speaks, but only momentarily, and then he refocuses on Auri. “That makes sense, I suppose,” he says slowly, finally pulling away and brushing off his clothing as he stands. “As much as anything that’s happened lately makes sense.”
He’s clearly a threat, but in the same way that Auri and Shadowheart could be perceived that way. He’s no mind flayer or demon.
He’s just a person, for better or worse. When he chuckles, it’s not quite genuine, but Shadowheart has the knife now, at least. “And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”
Shadowheart snorts, no doubt having come to the same conclusion that Auri has; he isn’t sorry at all. Still, Auri says, “I follow the logic, though I wish it hadn’t resulted in a knife to my throat. I’m Auri.”
The worm connects them, and Auri has no idea what’s coming next. That he’d attacked her isn’t as important as the fact that they almost certainly have a mutual goal – not becoming mind flayers. Still, he tilts his head to the side like he’s surprised that she’s taken the assault in stride.
In fairness, it should be more upsetting, but being attacked with a knife seems mundane after the nautiloid. What’s a little attempted stabbing between acquaintances?
“Astarion,” he says as an introduction. “I was snatched from Baldur’s Gate.”
Auri nods. “I was in Baldur’s Gate, too.”
Astarion raises an eyebrow and looks her over again, more intently this time. It’s not the same as the brief sizing-up he’d done before. When he’s satisfied (or dissatisfied) with his analysis, he says, “Yes. We run in different circles, no doubt.”
That is probably the understatement of the century, particularly considering that Auri was only in Baldur’s Gate for four days. They were due to leave today. Her heart twists; how many of the others made it? In her mind's eye, she sees them all being swallowed up, stolen, the bright colors of their troupe garish against the horror of the nautiloid’s inevitability.
Auri flexes her fingers involuntarily. Astarion’s gaze flits to the action, but he stays silent.
“Not to interrupt,” Shadowheart interrupts, looking at Auri, “But I’d like to keep moving. We’re on borrowed time as it is. So if you could hurry it along, I’d appreciate it.”
“Borrowed time?” Astarion repeats, and Auri nods.
“The worms aren’t just for show,” Auri says (is it behind her eyes? Something is twisting there), “They’re going to turn us into mind flayers.”
The laugh that Astarion barks out startles Auri enough that she jumps. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it turn me into a monster?” He runs a hand through his hair, a sardonic smile firmly in place, his other hand on his hip. “Although, we haven’t been turned yet. And there’s also the possibility of what power they could afford us. Maybe it’s too early to abandon all hope, should we be able to find an expert.”
“We?” Shadowheart’s patience wears thin, and Auri doesn’t miss the thinly veiled desire on his tongue as he says the word power.
Auri turns back to look at her, and Shadowheart shrugs – I don’t care as long as we keep moving. And when she turns back to Astarion, he winks at her.
Oh, yes. Auri knows his type. He’s just like her, though he’d no doubt deny it if pressed.
A performer.
“Joining up might not be a bad idea,” she says, though she doesn’t acknowledge the wink.
A grin that she might call predatory spreads across Astarion’s face. “I had planned to go this alone, but perhaps not,” he says, “And you seem like a useful person to know.”
“Do I give him the knife back?” Shadowheart asks, voice skeptical.
Astarion dismisses her immediately. “No need. I have plenty.”
“Yes, I see no way this can go wrong at all,” Shadowheart mumbles to herself, but she turns her back to them anyway and begins walking, throwing the knife over her shoulder in a poor display of safe practice despite Astarion’s words. Auri dodges it, but Astarion catches the knife effortlessly, stowing it away in one swift and smooth action. He’s a rogue if ever she’s seen one.
Auri would venture that she and Shadowheart (despite her words) have come to the same conclusion without voicing it; if they have a mutual goal, then Astarion’s not dangerous to them, nevermind the fact that his first instinct had been to pin Auri to the ground and threaten her with bodily harm.
The worm writhes, mutilating more of her brain matter by the moment. Or not. The damage it’s doing is entirely up to her imagination, and each step seems to magnify Auri’s paranoia.
“I never caught your name, darling,” Astarion says lightly, walking next to Shadowheart.
Shadowheart looks at him skeptically, not flinching at the pet name, mocking it instead. “I didn’t offer it, darling.”
Astarion outright pouts (“You wound me!). Shadowheart picks up the pace so he isn’t in step with her, and Auri doesn’t feel any better about the situation they’re in, but at least for the moment, she isn’t alone.
“A bard, a rogue, and a cleric,” Auri says. Shadowheart’s body language grows stiffer, and Astarion feeds off it, a smug smirk on his face as he falls into step next to Auri instead. “I wonder what else we can find.”
Astarion breathes out dramatically. “Lots of trouble, no doubt. And hopefully decent wine.”
It’s still stifled by the parasite, but there’s a song in here, a story worth telling. Auri can already see it beginning, though she’d prefer to hear it. Auri brushes her fingers along the strings of her lyre that’s still at her hip, strumming it thoughtlessly, a fruitless attempt at staving off the anxiety mounting in her chest. Its song eludes her. What she’s left with is the tadpole.
All they have to do is not turn into mind flayers. That’s a simple task, surely.