Chapter Text
Chapter IX
Three is a Crowd
The waypoint snaps closed behind Amara's party, and the first thing she hears is an argument.
"…filthy myth-weaver!" Lae'zel snarls, and oh, if Amara could only pass out on command.
She looks up to see Volo standing in the middle of the camp, his arms raised, and he opens his mouth to respond when he spots Amara and his visage relaxes considerably.
"Ah, my good fellow! Perfect timing! Quite the cozy set-up you have here. I would love to— to just make myself comfortable, however…"
Amara wipes a hand across her face. "Lae'zel."
"He is a liar and a manipulator!" the githyanki bursts out. "Why you would invite him to stay with us is beyond me!"
"He's a victim and a refugee just as much," Amara refutes dryly. "I'm in no mood to argue, Lae."
The gith blinks, opening and closing her mouth.
"Find a spot you like, Volo. You can stay as long as you like."
His face relaxes. "Thank you so much, Amara. I was just settling in and reviewing my latest findings. Mind flayers, cultists, and of course, your, eh, ah, esteemed company!"
Lae'zel glares at him.
Amara wants to sleep.
"Mind flayers, you say?" she asks anyway. "What do you know about mind flayers?"
"Why, I'm practically an expert," he boasts, and Lae'zel scoffs, storming away. Everyone else slowly disperses through the camp as well. "They've tentacles, you know. Quite shocking.
…Quite.
"The druid Halsin had some kind of mind flayer specimen in a jar in his quarters. A replica, no doubt, but truly fascinating to see up close."
"These days, it's more likely to be a true specimen," Amara remarks. "I fought one myself."
"Here?!" Volo lurches forward. "On the Sword Coast? Impossible."
She walks toward the fire where her bedroll lays, and drops the heaviest pieces of her armor next to it. "Stranger things have happened. Not only have I encountered a mind flayer on the Sword Coast, I've killed one."
At this, Shadowheart and Astarion nod, unbothered, but Gale snaps to look at her, and Wyll looks up from what he's reading, Lae'zel peeking out from inside her tent.
Oops.
"That… that can't be…" Volo trails off.
"Can't it? They followed, giving chase. In fact, the first mind flayer I ever killed was in its lair, aboard a nautiloid."
Volo shakes his head and looks over at Lae'zel, as if to challenge her to call Amara a myth-weaver, but she only makes a gruff sound and disappears back into her tent. "You're either an excellent storyteller… or you've experienced something quite exceptional. Hrm… tell me: have you noticed any residual psionic malaise since the alleged encounter?"
Amara stops preparing to sleep, looking up at the bard.
"Malaise is one word for it," she confesses. "More like… psychic transference?"
"Curious. Illithids - their technical name - form a hivemind. One shouldn't be able to hear their dark whispers… unless…"
Amara smiles at him, a touch of melancholy at the corners of her lips. "…Unless you've been infected with one of their parasites," she finishes.
"That's quite impossible. You'd have undergone ceremorphosis by now."
"If only your disbelief could alter facts," she laments.
Volo doesn't seem convinced yet. "If what you say were true, you'd be a mind flayer by now. You. Infected by a mind flayer. It's ridiculous… isn't it?"
"It's far from the most ridiculous thing about me," Amara remarks. "But if you'd like to sate your curiosity, I wouldn't mind."
"Perhaps that's for the best," he begins shakily. "I'd be irresponsible not to debunk such a strange claim."
Amara lays down, in her remaining armor and all…
"Watch yourself, bard," Astarion hisses from where he stands watching at the edge of his tent.
Gale flicks his wrist and the fire illuminates, bursting to life only inches from Volo's body. "If you lay a hand on her she doesn't allow, I will incinerate you."
"Boys," Amara chides.
Wyll laughs from where he sits, sticking his rapier into the ground. "We're just keeping an eye on you, Lady Amara."
Shadowheart sits on her bedroll right next to Amara's. "Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
Volo gives a nervous laugh. "Relax, fine friends. If I just peer into her eye, I could quickly… oh… my… dear… sweet… GODS!"
"Satisfied?" Amara drawls out.
"I— I mean… I mean yes, I suppose I am," he stutters out. "I just never considered that someone could possibly…"
"Wonderful. Good night."
Amara closes her eyes.
"If you'd allow me, I could research the particulars," Volo says, still hovering near her. "Give me a bit of time, and I'll have this little issue of yours sorted."
Oh, Amara is all too sure. Leave it to the bard.
"Amara, you're still in all your day clothes," Shadowheart says, tugging on her boot.
"Ngh," the wizard says, rolling over and hiding her eyes.
"Amara."
"Sleeping."
She audibly sighs. "Do not blame us when you wake in the morning in all manner of aches and pains, then."
Amara makes an exaggerated snoring sound and Shadowheart laughs, letting silence fall.
Amara waits for rest. She waits, and waits and waits.
But it never comes.
Thrashing, she twists and turns in her bed. Throws the blanket off, pants into the night air, feels her body twist and writhe with discomfort.
*The air is heavy.*
"No, not you," she pants aloud. "The last thing I need right now is commentary."
*Moisture drips down your forehead; pain shoots through your fingers.*
And her hands do ache. They ache. She aches all over.
*The ache builds as you squeeze your hands together. Were your fingers always so thick, your skin always so sticky?*
She tries to breathe through it. Breathe. Breathe.
A sharp blade presses against her throat.
She's really tired of blades against her throat.
"Ch'k'l ghaik Vlaakith m' zath'ak!"
Amara's eyes fly open to see Lae'zel with a short sword pressed up against her, pinning her down against her bedroll. The githyanki hovers over her with a grimace on her face and her tone biting and cruel.
"Can you feel it crawling through you? Tendrils squirming in your chest, gripping your heart, piercing your belly? Your bones popping, your flesh swelling?" Lae'zel's voice floods with fear. "I can. I see it in you. I feel it in me. We are lost. I will be quick with my blade. First you. Then the others. Then myself."
*Your minds intertwine. You sense a touch of uncertainty, a touch of disgust.*
"We're just exhausted," Amara insists with urgency. "Lower the blade before you do something foolish."
After a touch of hesitation, the blade pulls from Amara's throat, and Lae'zel's expression relaxes. She steps away, face slackening. "Bah— I cannot trust my own mind. So it seems I must trust yours. I will wait. But know this: I am watching. If the sickness does not pass come dawn… I will end us all."
Lae'zel disappears into her tent again, leaving Amara sprawled on her bedroll, drenched in sweat and feeling particularly terrified.
She goes to the river again.
She doesn't sleep.
She makes her way back to camp at the end of the night, body chilled and shivering and fingers and toes wrinkled with water. Relighting the fire, she lies down, trying to at least rest before dawn.
The moment Amara's head hits the pillow, it's as if something draws her deep into her own mind, and she's suddenly lost in a vision. Lights dance behind her closed eyes, a warmth pulses around her, flowing into her skin.
It's a struggle to open her eyes, but eventually Amara manages to snap awake. Someone is leaning over her body, a human with flowing golden blonde hair that falls in perfect waves from atop her head. Her eyes glow deep purple and the expression on her face is sympathetic.
"I came just in time," she says gently, and her voice is so familiar, if only Amara could place her. "You are transforming."
Amara's vision clears more and she can see multicolored Weave drifting off of the mysterious stranger's golden armor.
Slowly, the heat begins to ebb out of Amara's skin, and she can feel the cold shakes abating. She tries to think with her now-clearer head. The voice is just so familiar.
Or is it?
Amara heard it aboard the nautiloid.
Didn't she?
Someone had to let her out of that pod.
Isn't… isn't that right?
"I know your voice. I've heard it before," Amara says, struggling to sit up.
"Yes, you have. I saved you before," this dream visitor says.
Amara blinks, and suddenly she's falling, the world getting rapidly larger by the second. A half-scream crawls its way out of her throat, but she abruptly is caught in midair, hovering there.
The stranger, this visitor, appears before her once more, right side up to her upside down. "And I'm here to save you again," she says.
She looks so… familiar…
Amara blinks and she's once more on solid ground. "Don't worry," the dream visitor says. "You will not become a mind flayer. Not while I'm around. I'll protect you."
An extended armored hand reaches out for Amara. She takes it.
Helping her to her feet, the dream visitor stands in a current of swirling magic. "We haven't much time, so listen closely," she advises. "There is great potential within you. It comes from that parasite."
It is the first thing that finally strikes Amara as… wrong.
"Your instinct is to resist the power it gives, but you must accept it, nurture it."
No, no… Amara isn't so sure. Her head swims, mind fog making it difficult to think, but she is sure she dislikes that idea for some reason.
Amara follows the dream visitor across an otherworldly landscape, swirling with magic and purple fog. It's ruined to some extent, alien in some way.
The visitor turns and faces her, green eyes burning, a dark mark tattooed under her right eye trailing down to her chin. "I will keep it from consuming you. But for the sake of both of us, you must learn to wield it."
Again, the visitor's eyes glow purple, and she throws a hand out. An enormous amount of magic moves a series of rocks out of the way, revealing a giant rock in the shape of a skull, where lights and colors dance in an alien and unbelievable way.
"A fight for the fate of Faerûn. A fight we are losing. For now. You can change that, but only if you embrace your potential."
The figures of light battle, burst, and fizzle in the distance.
The dream visitor eyes them warily. "I have to go. The enemy is closing in. I will be back."
Explosions rip through the air and purple light flares through the sky, and in the visitor's eyes, and she raises a hand to keep the damage at bay, her other hand coming to face Amara. A great burst of power sends her flying backward.
All the way out of the dream.
"Wake now," the visitor urges. "You'll feel better— I promise."
Amara wakes.
/ / /
She sits on a rock at the edge of camp and carves at a pear, clean knife sinking into the soft flesh of the fruit and peeling away slice after slice. She rotely places each one on her tongue and tastes nothing of the sweet, sticky juice.
"Ow— what…" Looking down, Amara sees she's cut into her thumb.
"Handy knife skills," Astarion drawls out behind her and she startles, looking up behind him.
The camp has started to rouse, and the vampire is resting on a stump next to Amara. Pouting, she places the cut thumb on her tongue and tosses the remnants of the fruit into the forest. Popping the digit out of her mouth, she asks, "Did you need something, Astarion?"
He puts his hands up. "My, my, coming for my throat, are you? You know, Amara, I'm really starting to question which one of us is the vampire, especially considering how sleep seems to do you so little good, and how you always look starved for… well, something else."
There's a clatter from the campsite behind him, and the two of them direct their attention to Gale, standing by the fire with a tipped over pan, staring.
"Oh." Astarion suddenly jolts. "Shit."
Amara quirks a brow up. "How long have you been keeping this a secret?"
"I will dash you against the stones," Astarion threatens, pointing at her. "Do not tease me, Amara."
"Two hundred years?" she taunts, rising from where she sits. "I would have thought you'd be better at it, fangs."
He bristles, and steps toward her menacingly.
Amara laughs and briskly whirls into the campsite proper while he stalks after her, and Gale quickly moves as if to protect her, which she playfully takes advantage of to duck behind him.
"Ah, erm… Amara?" he asks her while she hangs off his shoulder. "Is there any, ah, danger presently?"
"Only if I keep sticking my neck out," she jokes, and Astarion's expression darkens.
"It is not funny, Amara. I am not laughing." He crosses his arms over his chest. "It is difficult to hide one's nature. You keep secrets of your own, how long have you been at it, then?"
"A hundred years," she informs him with a curl of a smile. "So, half as long. Though I've never mistakenly outed myself by just saying it aloud in company."
"I've never been in such constant proximity to others who don't know!" Astarion argues, and finally some of the anger starts to give way to interest in his expression. "How many people know of your secret, then?"
She hums, rounding Gale slightly, still hanging off of his arm. "That depends on your definition of people."
Astarion's expression morphs into confusion.
"If you mean living mortals, then zero."
"Undead?" Astarion asks, looking deeply into her expression.
"Zero," she chimes.
Gale makes a sound of thought. "Immortals?"
She holds a finger up. "Aha! Now there is an answer I can't be certain of. At least four. Probably more."
"Not a single mortal or undead knows of your nature, but four or more immortal beings do?" Gale asks, eyes boring into Amara's. "What exactly are you?"
She smiles, and chooses a word carefully.
"Dangerous."
Releasing his arm, she steps back toward her tent, looks at each of them for a moment before sticking out her tongue and winking.
Astarion lets out a gust of air, frustrated. "Amara! I thought—"
"Prepare for the day swiftly, you two. We will depart soon."
She turns to leave and just hears Gale, exasperated, ask, "A vampire, Astarion? Really?"
She can't take another bath.
But… she has once again soaked through her day clothes and cuirass thanks to that…dream, nightmare, what have you. She settles for just washing up and quickly making her way back up to the camp.
She catches Shadowheart speaking while finishing up a bowl of whatever Gale made for breakfast. "I'd just better not wake in the night to find fangs at my throat."
Astarion gives a nervous laugh. "Of course, darling, I would never dream of doing something like that."
"Of course not."
He jumps in his seat and whirls around to see Amara, his mouth opening and closing. "A-Amara… darling. We were just discussing…"
"Is anyone of a dissenting opinion?" she asks, looking across her camp. "Did you tell them of our deal?"
Wyll's eyes narrow. "Deal?"
"He bites no one without express permission. He has mine and mine alone so far, and will communicate when he needs something."
Gale gives something of a nervous laugh, and gestures to his own teeth, "You're really going to let him…?"
Amara peels a part of her robes down to reveal the healing skin over her bite wound. "As long as it doesn't violate my consent, I don't see an issue with it. He needs it, I can offer it. The same as your magical items."
"Tsk'va," Lae'zel mutters. "I care not if he remains at camp, in the party, but should I wake with so much as a drop of blood on my neck, I will end him."
A look of muted fear comes over Astarion's face and Amara sighs.
Gale rubs at his neck. "I… I would offer the same as Amara, Astarion, but I fear my secondary affliction will have affected me in some way."
Astarion's brow furrows. "Which way is that?"
"I believe my blood is quite infused with magic," Gale ventures. "I shouldn't say more. You are welcome to try, but I doubt you will want to try more than the once."
Still, Astarion's face shifts. He leans back, considers the wizard for a moment. "I… see. I am fine for now, as it is. Thank you, though…"
Shadowheart looks between them for a moment. "All right. I will agree to the same deal."
At this, he looks positively shocked.
"What? Don't give me that look. I just want to be able to consent to it, that's all. Amara is obviously not in a great state to offer it, and if Gale can't offer you his, then…"
Astarion lays a hand over his chest. "This is far from what I was expecting," he admits. "I'm… not quite sure how to react. I would have been pleased just to avoid people turning up with torches and pitchforks."
"Well, there's still time for that," Amara remarks, patting him on the back. "Everyone ready?"
"After you eat," Gale asserts, pushing a bowl of what looks like a pale stew in her direction. "We'll get your pack ready."
She smiles and takes it. "If you insist, chef."
They head out not ten minutes later, reappearing in the goblin camp and once again entering the sanctum. There's a considerable amount more rabble this time, most likely having to do with the slew of dead goblins and other creatures left in their wake saving Halsin and breaking into the keep itself.
Oh, well. It's not like Amara's here to make friends.
"We tackle the priestess first," she tells her party, and Astarion nods, his blade already glinting.
"Shall I approach from the rear?"
Amara shakes her head. "Too many in this area. We have to find a way to draw her out of the room."
"How exactly do you plan to do that?" Shadowheart asks, peering over her shoulder at the elf.
"Well, I've heard a thing or two about branding."
Gale looks between her and the other two in the party. "She can't be serious. Can she? Are you serious?"
"Come on," she chirps, stepping into the room.
Priestess Gut finishes with the poor soul she's branding and tosses the goblin aside, beady dark eyes focusing on Amara as she approaches. She shifts warily, the candles flames flickering menacingly around her.
"Now, here's somebody special," she remarks, sounding pleased in all the wrong ways. "The Absolute has touched you, hasn't She? Priestess Gut needs to touch you, too— hold out your arm so I can mark your flesh."
Ooh, boy. Mm-nn. No. Bad touch. Amara doesn't like.
She opens her mouth, inhales a slow breath. "I assume this mark has… a purpose?"
"Shows our devotion to the Absolute. These maggots see how strong we are with Her guidance."
So… no. No purpose.
Lovely.
"Whole camp'll be branded soon. An' you should be, too."
Amara begs to differ.
"You ready? Brace yourself— this'll sting."
Haha— yeah. No.
"You know?" Amara steps back. "I'd rather not."
"Maybe you don't need it. After all, you're special, ain't ya? Like me."
*She probes your mind, tangling your thoughts with hers. A familiar sensation— she, too, carries a parasite. Darkness seems to swallow the temple, leaving you with a vision of the goblin priestess, receiving instruction from a handsome young man. One of the Chosen… the vision dissolves away. You stand before the goblin priestess in the temple once again."
The worm seems to urge Amara to keep digging, to go deeper. Her veins heat, flooding with power.
Amara pushes it away.
*Your minds brush against one another but are swiftly parted.*
Gut frowns. "Don't wanna get intimate in front of the novices? Fair enough. Got some weird shadows in your head. Maybe I can help with that. Us True Souls got to look out for one another."
"Can we talk privately? This is a sensitive matter."
"Of course. Don't want this rabble interfering with True Soul business. Let's go to my chapel."
After the goblin priestess turns and leaves, Amara can hear Astarion make a small whistle through his teeth. "Well, would you look at that…"
"Stuff it, fangs."
"Did you hear what she said?" Shadowheart whispers excitedly to the rest of them. "True Souls— they're just people infected with the worm? Why do they think they're talking to a god, then?"
Gale makes a sound of consideration. "Perhaps we would be the same way, had our course of infection not been interrupted by the crash. It's a scary thought, indeed."
"Hush," Amara chides. "Assassinate now, speculate later."
"Ooh, I do like the sound of that," Astarion purrs.
They make it to the chamber Priestess Gut spoke of, and she turns to face Amara, hands on her stocky hips. "Oi— c'mere. I ain't waiting around."
"What's the rush?" Amara asks, trying for a smile.
"We don't have all day," she sneers. "Those shadows are mighty powerful, too. You'll have to clear your head of 'em, and fast."
"What exactly… are the shadows?" Amara asks. "Is it something you saw through our connection?"
"Don't you worry," she snips, growing more aggravated. "I've got everythin' I need to fix you. Might get a bit messy, though."
The air grows heavy. Thick. Chronomancy Weave permeates, choking the oxygen in the room.
"What exactly are you going to do?"
"Whatever the Absolute tells me to. Don't worry— She loves you. I can tell."
Amara really doesn't need her to.
"Fine," Amara snaps back. "I'm ready."
"Don't want a crowd of gawpers. Everybody else needs to leave."
There's always something, isn't there?
Amara sends the rest of them out of the room.
"Ready to clear your head?"
"Yes." It comes out a little more strained than Amara might like. "I'm ready."
"Smart. All you need to do is open yourself to the Absolute, and I'll do the rest."
*Psionic feelers creep across your mind, like a pickpocket's fingers seeking flaws in fabric. Would you like to seal your mind against the intrusion, or allow her to rummage through your memories?*
Hah! And they say there's no such thing as an easy choice…
"It's all slippery in there. What are you hiding?"
The feeling redoubles. It scratches at Amara's head, gouges it. She clouds it as best as she can, knowing there are so many secrets she cannot reveal.
So much that she is and does that is dangerous.
Instead, she tries to relax her mind instead of seal Gut out, and direct her toward the memory of her infection.
*An image of the mind flayer reaches out to her from your memories.*
"Hells!" she yelps. "We need to fish that thing out before it eats any important parts of your brain."
That is implied, thank you. Also, a strange way to phrase it…
"Pretty sure one of those parasites is squirming in your head, too," Amara tells her. They are, after all, one in the same.
"No," Gut argues, and Amara just blinks stupidly at her.
But…
"It's messing with your brain. You're seeing things— probably hearing voices too, yeah?"
…
Amara has no comment.
"Then get it out of me," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
"All right, all right, no need to get testy."
Amara is plenty testy.
"Let's just get it over with."
"You won't regret this."
Amara already does.
"Being a True Soul, you know the Absolute don't like to touch nothin' unclean."
Ooft, no wonder Amara doesn't like her.
"So drink this. It'll purify ya." Gut hands over a blue potion in a rather ornate bottle, and Amara holds it up to the firelight for a moment.
*You recognize the tell-tale flecks of werejackal blood— it's a potion of sleep.*
Well, shit. That certainly won't do a thing to an elf like Amara.
Oh well! Down the hatch!
She waits, tilts her head either which way, and yawns.
"It could have possibly used more blackberries. It was rather sour."
Gut growls, the frown lines on her face deep as dagger wounds. "This could have gone easy for you. Not now, though. I'll tear you to shreds!"
But Amara can't help it! She's a… ugh, fine.
The battle goes poorly here too. Her allies come faster than Gut's reinforcement, but even this distance isn't enough to keep the novices from hearing tell-tale sounds of battle, and coming rushing to help.
Amara snaps back until she's standing behind Shadowheart at the entrance to the temple once again. "How exactly do you plan to do that?" the cleric echos the same question.
She thinks for a long moment, several drawn out seconds with her finger held to her chin. She flicks her gaze over to the only member of their party who would feel the affections of a sleeping potion.
Gale.
"I'm not going to like whatever it is you're about to say, am I?" he asks her, and Amara just smiles.
"You trust me, don't you?"
"I— Amara…"
Astarion scoffs. "We've known each other for a matter of days, Amara darling."
"Perhaps that might mean you wouldn't tell me your life story," she agrees. "You and I are not best of friends, or closest of allies. I am not a tell-all confidante, a lover, or a shoulder to weep on. But I am your party leader. Gale, do you trust me to lead you? Do you trust that I will keep you safe?"
His eyes fix on hers. The depth in them is enormous, showing the incredible lengths the man has gone to hone his craft. His wisdom practically sings from the sheer intellect she can see turning the gears in his mind, from behind those gorgeous brown eyes.
He gives a methodical nod. "I trust that you will keep us alive. What is it you want me to do?"
Amara launches into her plan.
She sends Gale in alone, while Astarion follows the closest behind, cloaked only in the shadows and the powerful abilities he's honed in his own class. She and Shadowheart keep further back, but still within earshot, both invisible and watching.
Gale initiates the conversation with Priestess Gut.
"The Absolute has touched you, hasn't She? Priestess Gut needs to touch you, too— hold out your arm so I can mark your flesh."
*Repulsion floods through your connection. You can feel it pimple your flesh, chill your body. Your teeth grit and grind. It's you, but not. Gale's worm reaches out to yours.*
Amara pushes back, sending warmth and reassurance. She sends sunlight and campfire. She sends the whisper of a breeze, the call of an owl, and the chirp of insects late into the night. She sends all the comfort she can through their connection.
"I won't let her lay a hand on you," she tells Gale, right into his mind. "Ask her if the mark has a purpose."
The conversation goes the same, with Amara advising Gale's responses through the open connection their worms share. She only closes their connection when she knows Priestess Gut is about to open her own, and does not want to be caught.
"I'm right here," she soothes immediately once Gut is out of Gale's head, and she can feel him shake.
"What does she mean, shadows?" he asks in return, the first he's spoken back into her mind.
"I could not say for sure. I would think it bears some reflection on the nature of our unchanging forms, but… from the sound of it, Gut herself has a worm, and she has not changed. There is much we don't know."
"Should I follow her?"
"Yes," she urges, pushing more feelings of reassurance and safety through their bond. "We are right behind you. We'll be in the room. You won't be alone, not for a moment."
Gale follows her.
This time, Amara's party all hide in the chapel, and the door slams shut with finality that would be deafening if all of them weren't safely together on the same side of the door.
This part of the conversation proceeds the same, with Amara pulling the plug on her connection when necessary once more, and still advising Gale on shorter, quicker responses to get where they need to be with the goblin priestess.
"Being a True Soul, you know the Absolute don't like to touch nothin' unclean. So drink this. It'll purify ya." Gut hands over the potion, and just like Amara, Gale holds it up to the firelight.
Like wizard, like wizard, apparently.
"Amara," he whispers, quiet even through their connection. Even his mental voice trembles, fear laced in his tone and pumping through their connection. "This will put me to sleep."
"Yes, I see the flecks," she responds.
*Your heart hammers in your chest; sweat gathers on your palms. Fear of the most palpable kind, vulnerability that threatens to claim your life presents itself to you. Would you like to accuse the goblin of trickery, drink the potion, or refuse outright?*
Amara swallows. She is hearing Gale's narrator, his connection with her is so wide open.
"Trust me," she urges him. She opens her own connection as much as she can. "I will protect you."
*Earnest affection pours through your connection, singing through your veins,* Gale's narrator says. *You can feel her impress upon you the urgency of this request, but also a desperate need for you to recognize she means you no harm. Her words, as far as you can understand them, are filled with her heart's truth: to keep you safe and happy.*
Gale drinks the potion, and the connection severs.
Amara nearly lets out a gasp at the sharp snap that ricochets through her body at the sudden closure. It takes mere seconds before Gale blinks heavily a few times, shakes his head, and then seems unable to hold himself upright.
Amara looks away as he collapses backward.
This had better be worth it.
"Sweet dreams," Gut drones in a sickly manner. "I'll see your ugly mug on the other side."
Ugly? Hardly. Evidently, there's no accounting for taste.
Amara can see Astarion move in the shadows.
"Stop," she sends to him, and he comes up short, eyes mere reflections of the fire in the darkness, but focused on her all the same. "Wait for my signal."
Gut pokes her head out and yells for several of the novices. "Oi! Some help in 'ere!"
"Wasn't the point of getting in this little room to prevent her from calling for help?" Astarion growls through the connection now opened between the three remaining party members. "Are you just going to let them kill the wizard? I thought you liked— him. Well, they certainly got here fast…"
Within seconds, at least eight goblins have flooded into the room after just the one alert. The goblins that come in pick up Gale with considerable effort and Amara just waits until they are out of the room and a tad down the hall before she moves from her spot, following behind them.
Shadowheart is next to her in an instant. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" she asks, still invisible.
Amara renews the spell just in case. "Yes."
She pauses, hesitates. "Well… all right."
They put Gale in a barred cell deep inside the chapel, and once the chains are secured around his arms, he begins to stir. Amara sneaks her way around the dismissed novices and crouches next to the wizard.
He rouses, immediately yanking on the chains that bind him. In a flurry, he forces open his connection with Amara.
*Panic, fast and liquid, shoots through your veins. You are trapped. Held. Hurt. Perhaps you will die here… have you made yet another mistake?*
This time, Amara doesn't just push her will, her emotions, through their bond, she leans in. She surrounds him with her Weave, ever so faint and undetectable with the eye, but oppressively her. She knows it will carry the feeling of being in her presence, of having her eyes on him. If he's particularly sensitive to the Weave, which she is fairly certain he is, he may even be able to catch her familiar scent.
He jerks to look in the exact direction Amara is in and can surely see nothing but a faint haze, but she knows he knows she is there.
"A-Amara?"
She leans in and her breath ghosts across Gale's cheek. She watches a shiver run through his body.
"Right here. I'm right here. I won't let her touch a hair on your head."
He relaxes, both in body and bond.
"Wakey wakey," Gut croons. "Don't bother strugglin'— you ain't goin' nowhere."
She steps in, looming over Gale as if to check on his ability to struggle. There's silence in the room, save for the jangle of chains, and her shuffling steps.
No goblin chatter. No goblin coughs. No goblin footsteps. Astarion and Shadowheart must have succeeded.
Amara opens her bond to all of her party members. "Astarion," she calls out in their minds. "Do it now. And don't be afraid to make it… particularly vicious, if you're so inclined."
"Oh, darling, I would be delighted."
He appears from the shadow as if he'd become one with it, sliced a wound in the darkness and hid inside before bleeding out.
Astarion's blade digs in deep, slicing across Priestess Gut's throat in a quick motion that fully takes her by surprise. There's no sound other than a gurgle as the goblin falls to the ground, nearly decapitated, and quickly goes silent and still.
Amara's hands find Gale's face, and the moment she makes contact, her own body comes into view as the spell is broken. She pulls him closer, looking over every visible bit of him for any damage. It's incredibly dark in the pit they're in, so even with her darkvision she can't quite make out colors correctly, but she does notice a trail of discoloration beneath one of his eyes. Is it an injury, or perhaps a birthmark, or—
"Am— Amara!" he sputters, flustered, and his skin flares warm under where her hands are pressed to his cheeks. She could imagine if she could see color presently, that his cheekbones, and maybe even his ears, would be flushed a pleasant, rosy hue.
"How are you?" she practically demands, though she does release his face. "Any lasting effects from the potion? Gods, that vile creature—"
"I'm fine, absolutely fine," Gale insists. "I knew you were there. Thank you - by the way - it would be illustriously ill-mannered of me not to mention how… attentive you were to keeping me calm."
"As lovely as that sounds, darlings, I am not interested in the slightest," Astarion says. "Can we move on? One leader down and all that?"
Amara narrows her eyes at him. "Not in the slightest?" she challenges, a lilt to her voice. She rises, and focuses on freeing Gale. With a wave of her hands and some clever spellcasting, Gale's chains shatter in the wake of Amara's Weave.
He scoffs. "Well, if you were to suddenly begin putting on a remotely interesting show together, perhaps my opinion would be changed. As it is, I have no need to watch you two swoon for each other and do nothing about it."
"Swoon?!" Gale repeats, affronted. He stands, rubbing at his wrists. "I do not—"
"As much as I would love to make the show more interesting," Amara drones out, and Gale sputters to a stop, "we really do have to keep moving. That was effective, if a tad worrisome. Let's try to keep from landing one of us in a dungeon cell when we speak to this drow— Minthara."
The first time around, it took Amara a while to even find Minthara. She tries to make it seem natural, but only cares to do so a minimal amount this time around. She's tired, she's impatient. She wants to get out of this bloody temple.
The group of them run across another rickety little bridge to get to where the drow is holed up.
Another shoddy piece of construction over a perilous drop— they really can't maintain these any better? What would they do if that thing just caved in, then? Hmm? Any bright ideas?
Amara sighs, and just walks in on a conversation she's heard bits and pieces of before.
"Your scouting party has not returned, and half of the intruders escaped your guards."
Amara has now become double-y, triple-y sure that the "scouting party" Minthara mentions here are the goblins Amara absolutely slaughtered in front of the grove last time.
Oops?
The brawler standing across from her shuffles in place, looking up at the drow. "Sorry, mistress. We mucked up."
"Until their sanctuary is found, I will take something precious from you every hour that passes."
Real charmer, this one.
"A trinket… a tongue… a limb."
Even Astarion raises his brows at that.
"I ain't no use without my limbs! The lad'll make the prisoner squeal soon enough, I swear!"
"Silence now, creature. Or I will silence you forever," she threatens, and when he retreats, she looks up to spot Amara standing with her arms crossed, openly listening.
*As she turns to you, her thoughts mingle with yours, a cold hand caressing your brain. The chamber melts away to reveal a dark, endless nowhere. In it, you see a vision— the drow listens as a pale-eyed young woman whispers in her ear. One of those the voice spoke of. One of the Chosen. The vision fades away…*
"A True Soul?" Minthara asks, the distrust dropping from her expression. "Praise be. Are you here to join my hunt?"
Previously, that was a resounding no.
Now, though… well, Amara has to try something. And the drow did kill her on one of yesterday's attempts.
"A hunt?" Amara asks, trying to sound interested. "Who's the target?"
"Worshipers of a false god," Minthara broaches seriously, completely oblivious to the hypocrisy of this statement. "Their existence is an insult to the Absolute's claim on this region."
…Mhm. Amara is sure she's onto something here. Definitely.
"There is a weapon the Absolute seeks— I'm sure those wretches have it hidden away there. We will find it, amongst the dead and the ashes."
*Her excitement is palpable. She lingers on thoughts of victory, of unbelievers' blood spilled… and of the weapon. She will seize it, in the Absolute's name.*
…Mhmmm. Amara is sure that will definitely happen.
*You feel Shadowheart's anxiety. The weapon the Absolute seeks— it's the artifact that she carries. The same one that protected you as you entered the goblin camp. Her mind focuses - the cultists cannot discover that the weapon they seek is within their grasp.*
"The thief whimpering in our dungeon tried to flee to their sanctuary," the drow proclaims, quite proudly and utterly unawares that he was set free yesterday.
How humorous.
"We will continue to remove parts of him until he tells us exactly where it is."
That is distinctly less humorous.
"He's been resilient but he'll talk…"
*She is seeking the grove you visited. Already, you feel her mind closing around yours.*
Shit. Uh— fuck.
Amara tries to think fast. She drums up something she thinks the drow will like, attempting to think of the most violent ways one could slaughter a bunch of innocent people for the sake of a god.
It makes her furious.
She pretends that fury is elation.
"Speak, True Soul," she offers, a welcoming smile on her face. "The hunt must begin soon."
"We don't need the prisoner," Amara informs her. "I already know the place you're looking for."
*You feel a sudden burst of anxious energy, from the other side of your party this time. Gale sends waves of uncertainly through to you, and even a flash of Arabella, the little tiefling girl, being reunited with her parents.*
"Relax," she soothes into their bond. "I promise I know what I'm doing."
"You are sure?" Minthara asks, and her brows draw close together. "And how did you find it?"
Amara knows how these types work. "The Absolute guided me."
With unflattering predictability, Minthara's face immediately relaxes, going open and understanding once more. "Praise be. And now, through Her will, you can be my eyes."
*Her mind enters yours, a splinter of ice piercing your memories. Tiefling faces flicker into view as she attempts to learn the grove's location.*
Amara grits her teeth, but she allows it.
*She sees the entrance to the grove as the adventurers retreat inside, joining the tieflings… and then smiles serenely as blood and shadow spread like stains across your memory, erasing all that live there.*
"The cowards found refuge among the desperate. Perfect. If the inhabitants do not realize you are the knife at their throats, we can use that against them."
"Amara…"
*Pulses of concern flood in from Shadowheart and Gale, at your either side. There's no threat to them speaking up, they both trust you to make the call, but their anxiety rises nonetheless…*
"Go to their refuge and make your way inside. As a friend," Minthara suggests - or, rather, orders - and she smiles viciously.
"And once I'm inside?"
"I will gather a raiding party and move into position," she eagerly adds. "You will open the gates from the inside when the time is right to strike. We will cleanse the place of infidels and burn it to the ground in the Absolute's name. And then we will be the first among Her favorites."
By the Nine Hells, Amara detests deities.
*The masterful painting she depicts of the massacre unsettles you, deep into your bones. There's a gnawing sense of unease directed toward this deeply unstable creature.*
"It shall be so," Amara offers curtly, desperately wanting the string of conversation to end.
She's never gotten this far before.
"Good," Minthara says, her expression open and hopeful, excited even. "Marshaling the goblins is no simple matter, but my warband will be ready to attack by next light. You must make your way inside. Once I am in position, on your signal, we break them."
Amara can think of nothing else to say, so she just nods.
"And when they are dead," Minthara goes on.
Gods, when will it end?!
"The Absolute will reward your faith. As will I." She throws her fist into the air, and rallies with a cry of, "For the Absolute!"
Her and all the goblins in the area then rush for the bridge.
The… rather rickety, quite delipidated, poorly maintained bridge.
Why, it would just be a shame if something happened to it, especially when such important people are crossing.
Ah, well. Perhaps someone should have told them to cross one at a time?
Amara snaps back just a bit in time, to when Gale opened a connection with her.
"Amara…" he whispers, uncertainty about where this is going baked into the syllables of her name.
"Worry not, my decidedly preeminent friend. Do me a small favor?"
"Of course," he responds instantaneously. "How can I help?"
Amara keeps Minthara talking, and still holds her conversation with Gale. "I will convince her to take action. She must leave this room in order to do so. There is only one exit."
"The… bridge?" Gale's voice echoes into her mind.
*You can feel the moment Gale understands, as a ripple of nervousness becomes solidified into awe. His mind moves across yours, careful and trepidatious, searching for more. Curiosity and a lust for knowledge seep into you, overpowering and so strong you can practically taste them.*
"Gale," she urges. "Pull back for now."
"Ah! I did not realize I was— my apologies, Amara. I will wait for your signal, and destroy the bridge with but a single spell."
Gale fades, and quickly after, Minthara bursts into her mind searching for the grove. It takes all of her willpower not to divulge anything she shouldn't, but eventually the drow does pull back and resumes the conversation the same way it went before.
This time, though, when she rallies the goblins to lead them out, Amara sends a pulse of urgency through her connection with Gale. "Now! Wait for the goblins to cross first and just sink Minthara!"
Sure enough, with a single acid spell, the bridge melts away from the last remaining ropes that were holding on it for dear life, and the planks of rotting wood fall deep into the cavernous pit below, along with the drow.
There's a distinct crunch after a few long, drawn out seconds.
"I must say, although that was less satisfying for me personally," Astarion drawls out, "it was rather thrilling to watch you lie straight to that drow's face only to drop her in a pit heartlessly a moment later. You… have something of a mean streak in you, don't you, Amara, darling?"
She looks over at him, green eyes flickering. "A mean streak… can't say anyone's ever said that about me, before."
"Well, I happen to think it's true," he insists. "You just really don't look it."
"Take care not to anger me, then, fangs," Amara teases. "Wouldn't want to end up on the wrong side of my mean streak."
"Hah-hah," he huffs, pouting. "Can't you come up with anything better to call me if you're going to pick a nickname, anyway? Fangs is so… cliche."
"But they are one of my favorites of your features," she pouts back.
"Oh?" He draws the sound out, preening under the attention.
Shadowheart mutters under her breath, "Here we go…"
"Shht! Amara, darling, go on. Compliment me more."
In that amount of time, Gale has already created a phantom sort of bridge for them to walk on. "You can beg later, Astarion," he jabs.
"Excuse you," the vampire gasps. "I don't beg."
"Sure. And I don't swoon. Let's go; two down, one to go."
Amara is not exactly ecstatic to be facing Dror Ragzlin again. She certainly does not like him, and even less so the ritual taking place as they enter the room.
"He's trying again?" Amara mutters under her breath.
Astarion perks up, ears rotating toward her. "What was that, darling?" he asks, sticking to the shadows in the room.
She just shakes her head and tries to listen. Dror Ragzlin's hands glow a pale green with Necromantic Weave, and he chants, "Shuugaan, a shuulkac. O taash okec dor."
Gale grabs Amara's upper arm, and points. There, beneath Dror Ragzlin, is a mind flayer.
Amara really does not like Dror Ragzlin, or his stupid room.
"I command you, corpse: speak! Reveal the truth to the Absolute!"
The goblins speckled about the room cheer and chant for the illithid to rise, but like the previous day when Amara was in here - thinking for some reason she could just simply take down the three goblin leaders the same day she rescued Halsin, as if that had any chance of working - the mind flayer doesn't stir.
"Nothing," he bites out, frustration rampant in his tone. "Must be reading it wrong!" He clears his throat, tries again. "Shuugaan, a shuulac…"
The other goblins in the room take notice of Amara and her party, scuttling away from her, and Dror Ragzlin halts in his chant.
*The hobgoblin turns to you, and the parasite squirms in your skull. You taste the ale on his tongue and the bile in his soul. The visions cloud your inner eye for a brief moment once again. You see the hobgoblin, bowing before the armored elf you'd glimpsed before. The elf speaks of the hunt for a great weapon, and the rewards that will go to whoever finds it. The hobgoblin's eyes gleam hungrily.*
Amara is shocked. The third Chosen guiding the third goblin leader? Surely, there exists no entity on this or any plane that could have guessed that one.
"If it isn't another True Soul," Dror Ragzlin remarks, looking Amara up and down.
*He doesn't speak his next words, yet they still rattle your skull from within."
"You ever talk to a dead squid? Now's your chance."
Amara doesn't like raising the dead. It leaves a bad taste in her mouth, to pull one back into their body, rouse their deceased consciousness for her own gain.
She swallows that feeling, and steps toward the mind flayer corpse. She distantly wonders if it's the exact illithid who placed the worm behind her eye all those times.
*This mind flayer's build is smaller, its garb plainer.*
Amara did not ask, thanks! She was going to look with her eyes, not her brain worm!
*A fearsome creature even in death, but not the one that tormented you.*
Lovely, thank you, narrator. How could Amara have solved such a puzzling mystery without her?
*Yet it, too, roamed the nautiloid. It would have seen you, known you…*
"Absolute says the dead squiddie had a weapon," Dror Ragzlin grunts out, startling Amara from her study. "I reckon the killer nabbed it and scooted off to that looter camp."
After that charming display of linguistics, Amara realizes they might be in a spot of trouble.
"We find who killed it, and we find who took that weapon. So settle in."
Hmm. Uh-oh!
*You feel Shadowheart's anxiety spike again. There is a chance this could reveal the location of the artifact, the one in her very pocket. She looks to you as if waiting for a signal to strike.*
Amara opens the connection.
"It's too early," she advises. "If we try to start something now, we battle with every adversary in this room. It's best to try and pick Dror Ragzlin alone off, just like we did Gut and Minthara."
She hesitates, eyes flicking between Amara, Dror Ragzlin, and the mind flayer. "You protected Gale when he trusted you," she ventures, haltingly. "So I will place my trust in you as well."
Amara looks back toward the hobgoblin. "Then let the ceremony proceed." She indicates toward the mind flayer, keeping the disgust from her face.
*You choke on black smoke as the hobgoblin bellows his incantation.*
"I command you, corpse: speak and say sooth. Lhuuc an ac akuul'dec shuulkokec!"
This time, there's a flare of green light, of Necromantic Weave permeating the air, and sigils glow on the creature's belly. It's worked.
*This hideous corpse rises, tentacles writhing. Your heart seizes. Under questioning, the creature might recognise you as its killer.*
Well, that's if Dror Ragzlin is the one asking the questions.
Amara sends out a pulse of Weave, and then locks onto the hobgoblin's parasite, momentarily halting him while her magic seeps into his mind. Ice cold, like frigid spears, dig into his thoughts and find footholds as one would bouldering in the glaciers. Wind howls. Snow clouds the vision. The scent of nothingness is abound. Manipulate. Subjugate. Control.
*Ragzlin's mind reels, then calms. He will speak as you command. With Ragzlin's voice, you ask…*
"What were you doing in Faerûn?" the hobgoblin forces out of his mouth, with considerable effort.
*Ragzlin scowls, shocked by his own words, and a jolt shoots through your skull.*
Amara just pours more of her Weave out, dousing him in it.
"Amara, are you doing what I think you're doing?" Astarion asks her through their connection, and she can't risk thinking through it right now, so she just sends pulses of affirmation and reassurance.
Amara knows what she's doing. Kind of.
*The creature speaks in visions - a swarm of githyanki dragon riders, silver blades held high. Control panels melting, flesh-pods spilled open."
"Gith on the hunt," Dror Ragzlin remarks. "They know something…"
*He is suspicious, confused by the question that fell from his lips. You proceed carefully…*
Amara is now thinking she may not know what she's doing. At all.
Well! If she's going to snap back, might as well try to learn something? She's not a time traveler for nothing, after all.
"Why were the gith chasing that ship?" she has Ragzlin ask for her, and this time the words are even more forced out of his body.
*You see dark tunnels lit by noxious pools of brine. The darkness spreads through the earth. The sky splits open, and nautiloids pour out of a void that consumes the stars.*
"What in the…" Ragzlin utters, and Amara couldn't help but agree more.
*Suspicion floods Ragzlin's mind. Your brain howls as you force a final query into his throat.*
"Who is… who—"
The connection snaps, the Weave dissipates, and Dror Ragzlin rounds on Amara with talons bared. "You. You're no True Soul."
Haha… Amara is so dead.
"It's a mistake," she insists. "I'm a True Soul, remember? We connected."
"Yeah, yeah— you're right."
Whoo! Amara is so not dead.
Somehow…
"You're a real True Soul. I felt it."
*The corpse collapses, silent once more.*
"No. No! I'm not done!" Dror Ragzlin howls at its crumpled body. He screams in frustration. "Riddles, all of it. And nothing to show for the trouble but rotting squid meat."
Sorry?
"No answers, no killer, and no damned weapon!" he hollers. "Hmph. That damned drow was right. Can't let her get all the glory. Seems I ain't done with you. Report to the drow. Minthara's the name. She's mounting an attack on that blasted grove. Tell her you'll join her."
That would be a bit difficult, considering she's in a broken heap at the bottom of a chasm.
Amara doesn't say that, though, since she's somehow made it through this minefield of a conversation. Instead, she says, "Consider it done."
"Praise th' Absolute," he gruffs out, dismissing her.
Well.
Dror Ragzlin walks away after that. It seems so anticlimactic, after the horribly dramatic way that he killed Shadowheart the last time she tried this.
As it is, the goblins dissipate slightly. Not enough to clear the chamber of them, but certainly enough to thin the herd. She peers after where Dror Ragzlin has disappeared to, only to find him pacing right off of the stage he was on before.
There, next to him, is another part of the ruined temple.
From this angle, it's a pit that would be quite difficult to wrangle the hobgoblin into, but… were he a little higher up, the angle a little more arched…
Well, that's a different story.
Amara snaps back, and her party is standing with her in front of the stage, looking up at the hobgoblin.
His parting words grate out of his mouth once more. "Praise th' Absolute."
Amara nods to him. "Praise be," she responds. "Oh, and I believe you may be able to cast the spell on that creature once again, if you simply tweak the last line," she lies. "I seem to have interrupted you."
He looks surprised, glancing over at a tome to his left. "Tweak it how?"
"I haven't done it before, myself, but I saw someone do it once," she says, turning to leave. "I believe he said, 'Lhuuc a aduul ran ac ruul'kal shuugaan shuulkokec!' Best of luck."
She turns, walking out of the room, and like she was hoping for, Ragzlin stays on the stage, his hands once again illuminating with pale green Weave.
"What are you doing?" Astarion hisses at her. "We'll be identified if that log-for-brains is the one asking the questions!"
"It won't work a second time," Gale informs him gravely. "Amara just said… well, nonsense."
"Mind telling us why?" Shadowheart asks, looking over her shoulder at the hobgoblin.
Since there's still a show going on, the goblins don't disperse as much, but there's still definitely fewer of them left in the room. Amara smiles at her party members. "Just stay here, okay?"
"Stay—" Shadowheart stops, at a loss, and tries to regain herself. "I'm sure you have a plan, it's just… we can help, if you require it."
"It shouldn't take but a moment," Amara assures them, and then she pulls a vial from her pack and downs it. Her body disappears from view moments later, and she makes her way back through the thinned herd of goblins toward the stage.
Dror Ragzlin growls in frustration when the spell fails, and Amara silently climbs onto the stage, slinking toward him. From this angle, she can see the pit even better.
She shouldn't even need a spell.
Putting her full weight into it, Amara rams into the hobgoblin's side and pushes with all her might. He flails, the attack completely unexpected, but quickly gravity takes over. Falling from the stage, there's little he can do to Amara, who appears in his view just as he sails down from the stage and directly into the pit below, unable to so much as scramble for a handhold.
Now visible on the stage, Amara's first action is an obvious one.
She casts invisibility on herself, and hops down from the stage on its opposite side. Then, she runs as fast as her body can compel her to move, across the room and between goblins yelling about how she's disappeared.
She only reappears in front of her party, grabbing them by their arms and pushing them out of the room.
"Come on!" she urges, "Go, go, go!"
"How do you think of these things?" Shadowheart asks, allowing Amara to push her back toward where they left Halsin. "You just… pushed him."
"And I believe the only ones who met their end were the three goblin leaders," Gale points out. "A rather difficult task, I think."
"It's what the druid ordered," Amara tries to joke. "Now, come on, I don't want to linger here. It unnerves me."
"Amara, darling, I think it's safe to say the goblins no longer want you here, either. I believe you more than… unnerve them."