Chapter 1: A Running Corpse
Chapter Text
Chapter I
A Running Corpse
There is something poetic to the fear of death, and how it fades, like a stone in one's shoe. Painful to the point of anger, fading to an inability to notice it at all.
Perhaps that's why Amara does not panic when she stirs awake in an unfamiliar location. She's become used to the stone in her shoe, and it's no longer even an annoyance. When she has a moment, she'll dump it out, but it's not worth taking the extra time to worry about it now.
Instead, she merely blinks a few times to adjust to the low light of the room, her pointed ears perking up as she recognizes the sound of fabric shifting, and quickly her pupils adjust to see perfectly, revealing a rather unusual room even by Amara's lackluster standards. It appears organic in nature, and yet as she moves and shifts, she finds no give as she would with mere vines or branches. Still, she could easily rotate her hand.
Hubris has eaten away at her, though. She won't tip the stone out of her shoe. Not yet.
A moving figure catches her attention, plastered to the wall in a way Amara figures she must mimic. Quite a picture they make. Her darkvision does not offer the most reliable color detection, but the features and facial markings of a githyanki quickly give the other captive away, and so Amara decides on the hue of skin herself: a pleasant grove's grassy green.
Yes, that makes for a much better picture than this.
Her eyes rove over to the other movement in the room, another figure with their back to her. This one is much larger, more imposing, with curled talons that reflect the light from a strange goblet in the middle of the room, something that stands out to Amara's eyes. She strains them to see what this creature is doing as they approach the githyanki, but they're too shrouded in the color black that even with the enhanced light from her eyes, Amara can't make out what the figure is holding.
The githyanki struggles. She screams.
Amara presses her lips together and thinks about tipping the stone from her shoe.
Then, she sees the figure again, this time facing her, and for a moment it sends her reeling. She's seen it before, she thinks, but only in texts. Tentacle-like appendages drape from its mouth, and beady, glowing eyes stare directly at her as if she is less than.
Amara struggles.
The creature — what is its blasted name?! — approaches, in blood red armor accented with silver and steel. Clawed hands reach for her face, splayed and vicious. And the eyes— the eyes…
Amara looks over at the githyanki, but she's gone still.
There, wriggling from the sharp, ebony talons of this impossible creature is a pale white bug, screaming in a tiny voice, with its ribbed body glistening in the small amount of light in the room. The talons just press the insect closer and closer to Amara's face.
Amara presses all her fingers together.
Tiny white spindles latch onto her face and the insect opens what can only be described as a mouth, filled with teeth, and before Amara can even suck in a breath of air in shock, it lunges for her eyeball.
Amara snaps her fingers, and rids her shoe of the stone.
/ / /
Sound always returns first. Birdsong, crunching grass underfoot, wind whistling through the trees, it all starts quietly and then grows louder and brighter. Light filters in after that, and Amara squints against afternoon sunlight streaming down through the trees, dappling the ground she's walking on. Finally, the scent of rain having freshly fallen permeates through, and the chill of the shade and the breeze make her shiver.
With her sense of feeling back, Amara's stomach turns. Echoes of pain and the sensation of the pale bug crawling its way into her send continuous waves of dizziness and nausea that cause her to drop the basket she's holding and fall to her knees, upheaving the contents of her stomach on the side of the road.
"By the nine…" she pants, holding her head in one hand before rolling over and laying in the grass. "I don't even want to know," she argues to the wind howling around her. "Not interested. This knowledge can stay locked away. Forever. That bug? Don't care. The— the tentacle thing? I will find its name, but its purpose? I do not need to know."
She sits up, running her hands through her hair's thin white strands which glisten a pale champagne color in the sunlight. The basket's contents are strewn in the path, potion and cooking ingredients now soiled in the mud, but Amara can't bring herself to care about them either. She gets up and starts heading in the opposite direction she was going before.
Nervously worrying her fingers together, she bites one of her nails. "Okay, okay… at some point tonight, that— horrid ship flies over my house. All I have to do is not be home, right? I don't know how they got me, but as long as I'm not in the house, ah… I don't even want to be in Baldur's Gate. People take spontaneous vacations, don't they?"
Amara convinces herself that, sure they do.
She doesn't have much on her, but she does have a few gold pieces and can always make more by offering her magical services. As it is, she takes what she has and navigates back toward the market she was on her way home from and spends all the gold pieces on her person getting survival supplies, and a pack for them. She travels northbound from Baldur's Gate, along the Sword Coast until she reaches the mountain range another traveler informs her is the Troll Hills.
Amara asks after the nearest city, and they warily tell her of Warlock's Crypt, though they are not welcome to outsiders. She would have better luck sticking to reselling items at little villages and towns along the way to Waterdeep.
The nearest village is along the foothills, mostly occupied by shepherds, called Fiddler's Pass. Amara makes her way there and trades what she can, and repeats the same thing with an even smaller community of Oghma worshipers, known as Kheldrivver. The monks here tell her she should make her way to the base of Dragonspear Castle and follow the Trade Way.
Having never even been near the High Moor before, Amara takes her time navigating through this area. She is warned against going near the castle, and for obvious reason, as it is truly a stronghold of terrifying proportions.
She delves a bit into the Misty Forest with a guide, developing some interesting potions recipes and meditating with the Weave to strengthen her connection to it. When she finally starts to run out of food, she makes her way back out to the Trade Way, staying one night at a famous inn - the Way Inn - and then beginning to offload some of her gathered and created goods in Bowshot and Liam's Hold. She stays a few days outside Gillian's Hill and creates several more spell scrolls and potions with ingredients gathered along the Delimbiyr River. There's not much of a market in Gillian's Hill, so she continues down the Trade Way to Daggerford and repeats more of the same in the Ardeep Forest before finally arriving in Waterdeep.
After nearly a tenday on the road, sleeping outside under the stars in camps, and living in the forests between Waterdeep and Baldur's Gate, Amara is taken aback at the liveliness of this city. It's so near a forest and a river that it doesn't feel disconnected from nature or any of the resources Amara would need to continue her small business, but instead seems to enhance them. The city itself seems to glow with splendor, a rich and affluent spread of talent and drive that creates what could only be described as a commercial hub.
Amara can't think of a better place to try and start anew.
She starts with purchasing a small piece of land and hiring some local help constructing a house that looks strikingly similar to the one that was destroyed in Baldur's Gate by the horrid creature. It has a little garden, and a fountain in the front, only this one has a small extension that serves as her storefront, with a hanging sign bearing her name.
There's an apothecary in town, but no dedicated business for the arcane, and word quickly spreads about the by-request mage living in northern Waterdeep. Over the next few days, she grows used to odd requests and strangers dumping their life stories on her with hardly any warning. It's a strange sort of comfort to spend a whole day comforting others, but it sates something in Amara.
Needless to say, after a whole string of curious clientele, Amara isn't surprised when she approaches her sweet little cottage early one morning, with a basket full of herbs, to see a stranger slumped against her door, attempting to knock on it.
"Sir?" she asks, setting the basket aside. "Are you all right?"
The man turns with some difficulty, sweat on his brow and his light-toned skin drained of color. He shoves back long strands of graying brown hair with a shaking hand. "Are you—" his voice cracks, pain lacing through him as he grips his indigo robes over where his heart would be and stumbles.
"Inside. Now," Amara orders, striding toward him. "Do not even think of arguing with me, it will not stand. Just a glance at your pallor tells me how very ill you are."
The man grimaces, eye-to-eye with Amara, his troubled brown eyes meeting her frantic green ones. Something he sees in them must convince him to let her herd him into the house. Amara opens the door and shuffles her relenting charge inside, and the man collapses into one of her dining room chairs, while she quickly runs out to get her basket of herbs.
She studies him for a moment longer. He's quite handsome, with a full brown beard and eyes that betray how much intelligence he holds, and there is something in his air that seems to command the remnants of the Weave that float in her house. She quickly makes him a restoration potion mixed in with her tea and sits at the table with him. "You are a mage?" she asks him, setting the tea down.
He looks up, blinking, and opens his mouth to reply but ends up coughing. Amara frets and pushes the tea closer to him. "Forgive me, please," he rasps out, "I realize it comes with a heavy bout of skepticism to ask this of you, as a complete stranger, but I have heard tale of your arcane talents that rival my once virtuosic abilities, and I must plead with you to assist me. I have a— an… affliction, of sorts, that requires me to, for lack of a better term, consume an item imbued with abilities."
Amara taps the tea cup. "Drink." Then, she gets out of her seat and quickly begins to search the room, pulling out an amulet and checking it over before taking it back to the table. The tea is emptied from the man's cup when she gets there, and there is much more vibrancy and life to his sun-kissed skin. "Here, this should do it. The potency of the magic has some bearing on the effectiveness, I presume? This should tide over your… affliction, at least for a while."
"That is… most gratifying to hear," the man says, and his hand trembles on the table to reach for the amulet before it's offered, but he keeps it flat, waiting. "May I?"
"Of course," she responds, dropping the pendant from her hand but holding it by its chain.
The human reaches to grab it, with startling speed, but when he pulls, Amara pulls back. The man's eyes narrow, but there is a pleading desperateness to them. "What do you want in return? I don't expect the item for— for nothing. I just need it as soon as possible before I…"
Amara lets the chain go. "Just your name should suffice."
"My…"
"Well, go on then. I will make you another cup of tea," she says, turning back to the stovetop. She does, however, watch from the corner of her eye.
"Thank you," the man says, and he presses the item to his chest. A bright purple light fills the cottage, swirling and emanating from the connection point, as well as a swirling shape that Amara can just make out peeking above the man's shirt collar. He breathes out a significant sigh of relief the moment the light subsides, slumping onto the table. "I can feel the storm abating," he remarks, each word heavily marked with gratitude. "Yes, this will keep my condition in check."
Amara turns around, still stirring the new restoration potion. "I am all gladness," she sincerely informs him, smiling.
"You are… not what I thought you would be," he remarks, laying his hand over his chest and bowing his head. "I am Gale of Waterdeep. When I returned to my homeland, I heard passing word of Amara, Master of Arcane and knew I must pay you a visit. The good word has spread of your accolades and abilities, but they have done you a foul disservice in not mentioning your pleasant nature, generosity, and forwardness. Are you sure there is nothing I can give you in return for the amulet? It is gone forever, you realize."
Amara pours another cup of tea for Gale and sets the fresh pot on the table, settling into the creaking chair and leaning back slightly. "I will keep my word, Gale of Waterdeep. In the future, should you require my services, perhaps we can establish something."
Gale flicks his eyes at the table. "I fear I do not have that much time, Amara, Master of Arcane. I have misstepped many times by this point, and my affliction with magical items is far from my only concern…" He trails off, and his hand rises to the cavity of his eye.
It's been over a month since Amara was aboard the spelljammer she rewound from to avoid a disastrous fate on, but the mere act of Gale touching his eye shoots her right back and she startles, something that does not go unnoticed by the man.
"Amara?" he asks, with eyes suddenly full of seriousness, all the lines of his face deepening. "Is something the matter?"
She looks away, back at her tea, but visions of the bug and its teeth haunt her. "It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, of course, you are here as my patient. You have another affliction, you say? Is it something that I could assist with?"
Gale's brows furrow, and he reaches for Amara, but his hand is slow and steady. She could move out of his way, or stop his hand, but she doesn't. He touches the side of her face and gently moves her by the jaw until she's looking directly into his eyes. There's something about them that seems to draw her in, as if he holds a power she is unable to recognize with just his gaze, a sort of sway over her that she's never felt when faced with any other living thing, even of a deitous nature. It almost feels like…
Authority.
"I seem to have startled you," Gale says, his voice a steady thrum, his fingers warm on her cheek. "Please, you need not be afraid of me, Amara. I'm reluctant to call attention to it, but given your reaction I must draw the conclusion that you… already know of my second affliction, or am I mistaken?"
As if compelled, Amara reaches her hand up, just as slow and steady as Gale's had been, and touches his brow. His eyes close, but the feeling of compulsion does not fade. Over his eye, Amara brushes a single finger pad. Careful, delicate swipes across his eyelid and the curve his brow makes into the high ridge of his nose.
"Did it hurt you terribly?" Amara whispers, and she feels the muscles of Gale's face twitch.
He reaches from where his hand still rests on her jaw and removes her hand from his face, eyes fluttering open. "It is yet another condition which has imminent dangers. I pose a great threat to all in my vicinity if I cannot find a treatment for both, and as it is, I cannot see a path forward for either."
"I could try to… remove it?"
Gale's brow twitches up slightly. "You really do possess knowledge of it. But no, evidently removing it alone is impossible. We searched for a skilled healer and did find one in a reliable druid, but both he and a corroborating extraneous source of information confirmed that there is an unforeseen magic influencing the parasite, and to remove it without first removing the influence of the arcane would be fatal."
"May I?" Amara asks, building some of the Weave up in her palms, and while Gale looks surprised for a moment, he nods.
Amara closes her eyes and breathes. She breathes in the sea and the storm, feeling the salty air in her nose and the feel of the sea's breeze catch in her hair. It whips around the room and lifts objects into the air on the sourceless current. The Weave ebbs and flows, like the waves of the sea slapping against the ship, and the sun sets below the horizon and the stars appear in the sky, a navigation tool to aid in guiding even the most lost of souls. Guiding. Checking. Searching.
Amara's eyes open and slowly, everything in the room settles back to its relative location, but her eyes are only on Gale and his are only on her.
"Amara… was that just… your arcana searching mine? And it made the Weave that active?" he breathes out, enamored.
Instead of answering, Amara just reaches out for the marking which curls out of Gale's robes. "Your… afflictions, Gale, what is their connection? How does the creature benefit from the items?"
He blinks a few times, looking down at his chest. "Ah, they aren't— my apologies. You must know of the parasites but not all the details. We are few, after all. My afflictions are not connected in any way."
"But… they are both rife with Netherese magic," Amara argues, and Gale's eyes widen.
"What? They are?"
"Did you say, 'we'? Who is we?"
Shaking his head, Gale puts up a hand, and stands, beginning to pace around the cottage. "Amara, give me just a moment. I prepared to beg for your momentary assistance, but the indulgence and kindness you have shown me has left me more than a little shaken after the month I have had. With the increasing difficulty of this situation and the painful consequences I must face for my own actions, I felt as if I had no one to turn to. I do not—"
"Gale," Amara interrupts, staying seated and giving him space to roam— as much space as she can give in her modest home. "If you wish to travel on, I will not hold you here. I can tell you all I gleaned, and give you what I can from my stores. You are welcome back any time should you be able to make it back to your home town. If, however, you take comfort in an ally and wish to confide in me further, I bear no ill will toward you for your afflictions. Please tell me all you can, and I will try to help."
After holding eye contact with her for a moment, Gale has to cover his eyes with his hand and turn his back to Amara, and she busies herself pouring another cup of tea and getting out some biscuits. Eventually, he comes back to the table, though his eyes are a bit more red.
"I will tell you what I can. Please don't judge me too unkindly, I have… done only my best," he says, a bit more rasp to his voice which deepens it considerably. She just pushes the biscuits toward him. "You did hear me correctly," he begins, holding one with a few stripes of icing on it, "when I said we. There is a small group of us who share this affliction. We were all infected by the mind flayers who placed parasites behind our eyes, which carry… unusual abilities, but also a certain death sentence should we prove unable to remove them."
Amara resists cheering that she can finally pinpoint what those blasted things are called, and instead just nods morosely.
"Should they stay in too long, we each will… become a mind flayer ourselves." Gale snaps the biscuit into two pieces. "And that is not to even speak of the detrimental nature of what should happen if I do not tend to my secondary condition. I do not want to even consider what will happen if I become an illithid and still retain my… needs."
"So, it is a timed trial," Amara surmises. "Why are you all not solving the issue together, then? It seems most efficient to tackle as a group."
Gale cringes and is silent for a moment, eating the small section of his biscuit. "We could never unite correctly. There was almost this… contention amongst us, as if someone was always wrong. Eventually we had splintered into three groups, who sometimes communicated new findings, but… some of our leads took us to dangerous places. Perhaps if we were in a larger group, we could have survived, but so fractured like that… we were just picked off, one by one."
"Oh, Gale…"
"I doubt there is much anyone can do at this point," he whispers, eyes squeezed shut. "Those of us who are left have now surpassed a month of suspending the inevitable. I most likely do not have long left, and the others have even less time. It's hard to tell how many like us are out there. You find them occasionally, suffering and trying to understand what's happened to them."
"Can you… explain it to me?" she asks, putting her hand over Gale's. He turns it over so she can place her palm in his.
With his eyes still closed, a small, sorrowful smile comes over his lips. "I fear not. It is not something that can easily be understood through mere words, no matter how verbose. There is a painfulness and impossibility to it, a terrifying gripping power that eats into your bones. Without experiencing it for yourself, there is little I can do to show you perfectly what it feels like to be possessed by such a monster."
"I must try something," Amara insists, squeezing his hand, his biscuit forgotten on the table.
Gale's deep brown eyes are once again open, staring into Amara's grassy green ones, and his water with incredible emotion. "You have set me at peace, Amara, Master of Arcane. I have made many mistakes. I regret many things. I did not know what to expect when I approached your home, but this easy companionship with you has been a balm to wounds I did not know I carried. I have not long for this world, I fear, but I am ever thankful I lived long enough to meet you."
He picks up her hand and kisses the back of it, before rising from his chair.
"Gale—"
"I must go," he says in a thick voice. "I cannot stay, or I will not be able to go, and I cannot allow myself to endanger you out of my own selfish desires. Amara, I have made enough mistakes in my life, please. Let me make the correct choice this time, and remove myself lest you bear a weight of mine you do not deserve. I will take comfort in the knowledge that you may at least think back on me with some amount of fondness for this moment. May I?"
Amara doesn't even know what he's asking, but she nods regardless, and he leans over where she still sits in her chair and presses a kiss to the crown of her head.
"Thank you," he sighs into her hair, full of such weight that it shakes her to her core.
And then, Gale of Waterdeep is gone.
Amara doesn't rise from her chair. The tea goes cold, the biscuits stale. The morning light becomes the afternoon sun, which dips lower until disappearing altogether. She blinks a few times when she can see the moon peeking up on the horizon, jerking her stiff body.
She covers her mouth. Never before has Amara felt regret like this from avoiding a death sentence. So often does she run into them, so often does she run from them, that sometimes she feels as though she never even survived the very first one, and she's merely been a corpse this whole time, on the run from the truth.
"Chronos break my hands," she cusses to herself, eyes roving over to the half-eaten biscuit on the table.
Gale of Waterdeep.
She doesn't know the names of any of the others, but this quest she rewound herself out of cost many others their lives, and soon it will claim another's. She doesn't know if she can solve the issue of their plight, but she does know she comes with a powerful ability that is one-of-a-kind. No one in the Realms can do what she can do.
Not anymore.
She quickly gets up to move some things. First, she nails a bedsheet to serve as a makeshift curtain across the ceiling beam for the shop expansion, and then has to move several of the living room pieces of furniture around, and try to decorate more the way she did in Baldur's Gate.
Jumping back a few minutes or hours in time is easy. A snap of the fingers.
Jumping back a day is a little harder. It needs some concentration, some spellwork.
Jumping back a month? Now, that usually needs some prep work from the month prior. Which, since this is a surprise month reversal, Amara has distinctly not done.
Time gets more shaky, more uncertain the further you get from specific points. To go back a whole month, Amara needs a solid landing point. She needs to be in as familiar of an environment as she wants to land in.
She never once thought about building her new house in the form of her old house as a way to get back to it, back in time, though perhaps now her actions are just shaped by the impossible divine magic at her fingertips. Without even thinking of it, she situated herself perfectly in the place she would have to be in order to visualize a month prior, living in nearly this exact room, only many miles south of here.
And so, she snaps.
She listens for the distinctive birds of Baldur's Gate. Listens for the bugs which stick to her trees. She listens for the wind which always sucks her curtains in through the front windows, and rattles the utensils on the front table. Here, the moonlight is blocked by the mountains until later, so it's black as pitch save for the lanterns outside which cast a warm glow in her dining nook. The scent of the frequent rain and freshly baked bread. The feeling of warm, humid air, nothing at all like Waterdeep, brushes against her skin, and Amara realizes her eyes are open and she's standing in her dining nook.
There, on the dining table, is nothing but a fruit bowl with two apples in it. No half-eaten biscuit.
She isn't in her cottage in Waterdeep; she is in Baldur's Gate, and it is one month prior.
Amara retreats to her bed, above the living space in the cottage, and sits in her familiar sheets, the gems that twinkle delightfully as they let off a pleasing glow almost greeting her as if they know of her long absence. For just a moment, she puts her head down and mourns her loss, mourns the peace she is sure to lose in favor of what will most certainly be a violent, bloody, and terrifying journey.
She can only hope it will be worth it.
The moon comes over the mountains, flooding all the windows of Amara's cottage, and a horrible whooshing sound screeches through the air. She rushes outside, only to see the nautiloid in the sky for just a moment before one of the leading tentacles thrashes down and bashes into her body. She is dashed into endless pieces, which reform aboard the spelljammer.
Amara snaps her fingers and it is early afternoon in the market. Absolutely not. If she's going to be a running corpse, she may as well be a well-informed one.
Chapter 2: Hands of Time
Notes:
I hope you continue to like the concept here! I'm really proud of how it's coming together, I write more of it every day. I'm planning to post every few days until it's finished and then I can speed up my posting schedule.
As for this chapter, my last little twist is that I have Amara aware of her narrator, and I have it connected to the parasite! I do this for a few narrative reasons that come up later- it affects some elements of the endgame slightly, but I really like the concept so I'm keeping it! I hope all of you like it!!
Chapter Text
Chapter II
Hands of Time
This time, Amara will be gathering as much information as she can about this ship before she gets on it again.
It takes her roughly a week to gather the information.
To avoid getting caught, she stays a safe distance away, and watches the onslaught of the nautiloid. She watches it terrorize Baldur's Gate, but it suddenly vanishes in a hurl of smoke. What else other than literal, actual dragons appear after that, and once the riders seem to realize they just missed the nautiloid, they too vanish.
It takes Amara a few days, but she discovers that the ship moved to Yartar, and committed similar acts of destruction and kidnapping before the alarm bells could even be rung. She figures the same pattern will repeat, but can't catch wind of it happening a single other time. She sends inquiries out, pays for information, and does her best to track any indication of any type of spelljammer wrecking cities, but only ever finds information about her town, and Yartar.
Cutting her losses, Amara comes back to her cottage, and waits. Just as the moon crests above the horizon, as it did the previous time, the nautiloid appears and takes Amara away.
She experiences the pale white parasite's onslaught once again.
Violated doesn't begin to describe it. Of course, her eye pulses and aches, a splitting sensation careening up the side of her skull as if someone had taken an ax to it instead of a tiny bug. Only, it's not just that. The ache is all over, as if she fell terribly and lay broken and mangled. She can feel it in every joint, and down to the bone.
She blinks, but the tears don't stop falling.
The mind flayer leaves the room at some point while Amara is trying to clear her vision, and light floods the chamber, bringing color back into it. After a moment, she realizes they might be above Yartar, and this is mere moments before the nautiloid will begin its destruction and indiscriminate abduction of more innocent people.
She takes a slow breath and tries to focus, even as all her senses seem overly sensitive and non functioning to different degrees. All she needs is one distraction. One spell.
She came back for a reason.
Gathering the Weave in her palm, she feels it cool her skin even in the strange pod. It washes over her and soothes her aches and pains, dulls the stinging and the pins and needles. She pictures a hand in hers, the soft skin of her mother's from her childhood, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, the sound of the river, and bare feet on stone.
Assisting. Guiding. Helping.
She pushes outward with her mind, and the hand goes. It goes and goes, out of the holding pod and right up to the goblet at the center of the room, glowing a soft orange. It goes until it's touching the goblet, and then pushing it, and then tipping it.
Metal bends. The nautiloid lets out a creaking whine. Something snaps, a yelp, and then a crash, followed by a tidal wave of liquid.
The mind flayer rushes back into the room. It howls, enraged, glowing eyes filling with fury. The bell tolls from below, a warning that was silenced before now heard. Dragons cry, the sound encompassing and bone-chilling.
Amara presses her fingers together. Just in case.
Sensing the danger, the illithid rushes back out of sight, but not before a hole is ripped in the back of the ship. A dragon sticks its head into the gap, flames gathering in its throat, and Amara tenses. The nautiloid disappears in a flurry of smoke before the fire is set, reappearing far from Yartar, but the chase is not over.
The githyanki woman wakes during the chaos, struggling to get free, and Amara considers doing the same when one of the dragons successfully lights the liquid from the goblet on fire.
Lovely, it's flammable.
So flammable it is, in fact, that it seems to erupt, causing the entire ship to lurch forward and Amara to smash her face into the front of the pod she's confined in.
/ / /
Amara will tell anyone who asks that she heroically sculpted a spell that released her from captivity. She will weave the tale that the Weave worked its magic and set her free; she will spin the yarn that the threads of fate set out to make her path onward achievable with her own merit.
She will not, ever, under any circumstances, divulge that she was merely awakened by her strange organic pod opening itself for no apparent reason.
Still, with no looking any gift horses in the mouth or overlooking any stones in any shoes any longer, Amara jumps out of the pod cautiously, landing with a lithe thump on the ground. Alert green eyes dart about the room for any sign of life, whether that be the mind flayer, the githyanki captive, or a new entity altogether.
After all, someone had to have opened this pod.
When no one appears in the immediate vicinity, Amara straightens. She pushes back some of her dirtied white hair, which now appears more of a displeasing gray, and tries to tie some of it into several braids. They end up pretty tangled, so they look more furry than elegant, but she's trying for efficiency here.
Unable to help herself, she touches the cavity of her eye. The worst option between being able to feel the bug or having it being gone entirely is unknown at this point, so Amara can't say why she felt the urge to do so.
She feels no better after touching it and would very much like to snap her fingers and go back to Balder's Gate now.
"Ugh," she laments, now just pressing her fingers to the ridge of her eye to relieve some of the pressure there. "My head. Feels like I've been cursed… damn tentacle-wretch. Gale swore I would never be able to understand without one, but so far, I feel as though I could just drink a barrel of ale and know the general feeling…"
Amara stumbles over some of the flaming bits of steel-like vines and reaches another pod, though this one is empty.
"Someone else got out," she realizes, touching the peeled-back vines. "Good. Perhaps I can speak with them early enough this time."
The only other thing in the room is the goblet that Amara tipped over earlier, and though it is burned on the outside now, she approaches it with some interest. There could be knowledge gleaned still.
*This is the pool that thing came from,* a smooth, feminine voice says, and Amara startles, grabbing for a weapon she was robbed of hours ago and spinning to find its source. Nothing. *The parasite now writhing behind your eye.*
"What?" Amara asks, backing up, thoroughly startled. "Who are you? Where are you speaking to me from?"
*Would you like to reach toward the pool, investigate the pool, or leave?*
With a shaking hand, Amara touches the cavity of her eye again. She still can feel nothing, but something tingles up and down her spine. A coldness that settles there at the base of her neck, like something wrapping around it and threatening to keep growing tighter with every passing second.
She struggles to answer. How do you answer a disembodied voice that's a signifier you have an invader in your brain? A secondary presence introducing thoughts that are not your own? How long until they become Amara's own?
Still, for now, she knew before she even heard the voice she was approaching to investigate the goblet— does this look like a pool, disembodied voice? Would you swim here? She tries to relax, to get her thoughts to follow her desires, and not focus on the whims of an invader.
*The casing is fragile. The slightest touch could cause it to crumble.*
Amara frowns. "You realize a dragon breathed fire on this, right? After I tipped it over? What, did I aim and get lucky? But you're telling me now if I tap it, it will disintegrate? What kind of backward logic is that?"
The disembodied voice is silent.
"Oh, that's it then? Fine, I won't touch your precious casing." Instead, Amara tears at a section of her leather armor skirt and uses some of the still-on-fire spelljammer debris to seal up the ripped side in order to form an odd pouch of sorts, and she collects some of the remaining liquid from the goblet in it, careful not to touch any of the sides.
Amara begins to traverse the nautiloid with a growing feeling of worry and sickness. The large ship hosts many more than just her and the githyanki from earlier, including even… experimental creatures, which also seem to speak directly into her mind.
Is this the stone in the shoe again? Only, now it's ignorance instead of hubris keeping her from snapping?
Amara just keeps going, hoping that laying to rest all of the dead on the ship is her purpose for not snapping.
She reaches an outer point in the ship, scanning for more figures, and sees none. In fact, she's sure she doesn't see anything, and there's hardly any sound, so there's no reason for her to turn around and spot the githyanki woman from earlier.
But she does.
The invader's handiwork, perhaps? Amara doesn't want to know.
For now, she's happy to see a familiar face, although the other woman does not appear pleased at all to have been spotted. She is outfitted in gleaming armor, including a sword reflecting the flames. She leaps from her high ground and skillfully vaults over Amara, only to point her blade at the elf's throat.
"Abomination," she asserts, and doesn't that just figure. "This is your end."
Amara opens her mouth to respond, knowing she should take longer to think about it instead of letting who knows what tumble out of her big mouth, but it appears her invader is one step ahead of her.
Pain courses through her brain, even brighter and sharper than before, and she reaches up as if to stifle it.
*Your head throbs, and your skin tingles. Visions rush past: a dragon's wind, a silver sword— and a flash of your face seen through the strange woman's eyes.*
"My head," both Amara and the githyanki woman say simultaneously, though Amara gets glared at for some reason, so she stays quiet and listens. "What is this… ngh."
The woman doubles over, and though there is obvious danger to it, Amara reaches for her, gasping in concern. She pulls her hands away from touching, recognizing the gesture would be unwelcome. A surge of pain splits her head, and she winces, pulling one hand fully back to hold it. "Are you— are you all right? Did you hear something as well?"
"Tsk'va," she breathes, the language foreign but the meaning clear. Clear eyes with no hostility look up at Amara. She gently touches the hand still hovering near her shoulder. "You are no thrall— Vlaakith blesses me this day! Together, we might survive."
Just like that, her sword is sheathed, and Amara's hand is shaken enthusiastically.
"Who are you?" she asks, preferring a name to work with.
"Who am I?" the woman balks as if affronted by this question. "Your only chance of survival!"
Amara nods, realizing she will not get a name to work with. She chooses to ask something else. "A… thrall?" She leans in as if afraid someone will overhear them. "What made you think I was a thrall?"
It seems there was some merit to the leaning in, as the woman hunches in as well and whispers back, "We carry mind flayer parasites. Unless we escape - unless we are cleansed - our bodies and minds will be tainted and twisted."
It sounds like what Gale told her, for the most part.
"Within days, we will be ghaik. Mind flayers."
Well, now that does not align with the timeline, Gale, does it?
Amara gestures between herself and the githyanki woman. "Days… before we turn into mind flayers? There must be something we can do!"
"We can do nothing until we escape," she says, which is a fair point. "That must be our priority. First, we exterminate the imps. Then, we find the helm and take control of the ship. We will address the matter of a cure for this infection once we reach the Material Plane."
The githyanki woman then runs off, war cry and all, and Amara rolls up her sleeves. There is, of course, no shortage of enemies for this task. The universe does so dearly wish to kill her, after all, and though it would probably like her to die in a spectacular and painful fashion, since nothing so far has worked, the universe would probably feel sated if an imp just got a lucky shot in.
Still, spellwork helps her through the leg of the battles she cannot find a long-range weapon for, and after that, she manages much better. She finds the githyanki woman a few more times, but it's made clear to her that this is not the time for casual conversation or introductions, so they part each time to continue their search for the helm.
Amara does not find the helm.
She does, however, find another woman.
"Istik— back! Touch nothing without knowing its purpose," the githyanki advises, literally sprinting after the high elf, but Amara is lithe and fast and outpaces her.
"You!" the woman trapped in the pod screams. "Get me out of this damn thing!"
Amara looks to the githyanki, who is quick to offer her opinion. "We have no time for stragglers."
By now, she's growing a bit tired of this. "I have saved you twice now with my bow," she points out, and the githyanki narrows her eyes.
"Yes, and I have thanked you."
"So, what if it were her pod that opened and mine which stayed sealed shut? You two come across me, and now I am the straggler. I have use outside the pod, but you would not give me the chance to prove myself? You, who will not even offer her name?"
The githyanki holds Amara's gaze for a moment, and then snaps it away, stomping. Amara approaches the pod to look for a latch that might open the lid.
*The construction is too alien.*
"Ah!" she yelps, and both other women immediately look at her in concern. "Fine! I'm fine— it's just the, the… I'm not used to the… nevermind."
"Can you just focus on getting me out?!"
*Nothing looks familiar.*
"I'll go look around— there must be some way to get this thing open," Amara promises, climbing over the vines on the floor.
"This ship is crashing," the githyanki points out. "Do you really intend to die for a stranger?"
Amara looks over at her, the red light in the room obscuring the normally pleasant color of her eyes, leaving them dark and flickering like flame. "It is both my greatest strength and most dangerous shortcoming that I often get away with impossible things." She flicks her eyes up to the half-elf trapped in the pod. "Any clue where I should look for something?"
She stops banging on the sides of the pod for a moment to say, "Try that contraption just next to the pod— they did something to it when they sealed me in. Hurry! Please!
As she approaches it, the narrating voice speaks once again. *The console appears dormant.*
Under her breath, Amara asks, "Shall I beat it with a stick, then?"
*Would you like to look for a switch or release, hit it, or leave?*
So, hitting it is an option, then? Curious.
Still, Amara tries not to resort to violence. She at least starts by looking at the mechanics of the thing.
*The mechanisms are completely unrecognizable at first, but then you spy an empty socket.*
"Great, a puzzle," she gripes, standing. Her eyes scan the room, but they have begun to sting. It's harder to see as more and more smoke builds up. She begins frantically searching the room for whatever will fit in that socket, coming across countless more victims.
The ship begins to tip at a severe angle at one point, careening down.
The githyanki woman is nowhere to be seen.
Amara finds a rune that she believes will power the console, and quickly takes it to the room with the trapped woman. In the pod, she's coughing and no longer banging on the walls. It doesn't take long for Amara to begin coughing as well, the air thick with smoke that digs into her throat and eyes.
She inserts the rune into the socket.
It fits.
*The console hums to life. But what is its purpose? Will it free the captive, or transform her like that other unfortunate?*
It is a good question. It requires more investigation. More knowledge. Amara leans in, studying.
*The pulsing glow and organic lines of the device make it seem more like a beating heart than a machine. This device is different from the one that caused the other captive to transform. Perhaps it will only open the nearby pod.*
Amara places her hand on the console.
*Suddenly, you feel a hideous squirming in your head. The parasite. Then, discomfort fades, and another sensation washes over you. Connection. Authority.*
"Authority?" Amara pants out, wheezing from the smoke. "Over what? The console?"
Suddenly, she remembers what it felt like under Gale's gaze, the compulsion. The way each of his words sounded. The way his will seemed to matter the most.
Amara knows she needs the pod to open, so she wills it open, asserting it with every ounce of her authority until she can feel it bend and comply.
*You feel the biomechanical brain of the console process your command… and yield to it. A shiver runs across your mind… you feel sated.*
The pod opens. The woman falls out. She is still and silent, no longer coughing.
Amara snaps her fingers.
/ / /
It's evening in Baldur's Gate, and Amara stands by the fountain just outside her small home. As soon as the moon reaches the top of the mountains in the distance, it will be decimated. She dives back inside and grabs anything she can think will be useful, and trudges back out to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until the moon rises, the spelljammer rips through the sky, her body is once again scattered to pieces and thrown back together again in the pod.
And now she has to do all that shit again.
This time, however, she grabs the rune first, and there's hardly any smoke in the room when she fights the githyanki over the rescue, and the moment she approaches the console, she can open the pod.
Its captive is alive when she makes it out this time.
"At last," she pants, relief in her voice. "Thought I was done for. I thought that damn thing was going to be my coffin."
Amara thinks to herself that she wasn't exactly wrong.
"Thank you."
The half-elf is dressed in decorated armor, full of religious iconography, with severely cut dark bangs that frame her face beautifully. Her speech is elegant with a lilt that's pleasing to listen to, and Amara smiles widely, pleased to have succeeded this time.
*Your mind lurches into her thoughts.*
Oh, hells.
*Her gratitude is mixed with wariness*
…Fair. Go on, narrating voice.
*Because you have a gith with you.*
Oh, hells.
Amara and the rescued captive look at the githyanki woman, who crosses her arms in indignation, having clearly heard it as well, and looks back at Amara as if this is somehow her fault and she knew this would turn out this way.
Preposterous.
Having her cards shown, the half-elf doubles down. "You keep dangerous company."
Amara has close to zero desire to be in the middle of this. "Dangerous company's what you need in a fight," she points out, specifically gesturing to the sword.
"Fair point. Looks like there's plenty of fighting ahead. Let me come with you. We can get off this ship, and watch each other's backs along the way."
Amara brightly gestures between the three of them. "All right then!" The githyanki looks pissed off, but the half-elf looks a tad amused. "I'm Amara."
"Shadowheart," she introduces herself. "One moment…" She turns her head, revealing a scar across the bridge of her nose and down her cheek. She returns to the pod and retrieves something from it, some dodecahedron artifact.
"What's that? A piece of gear?" Amara asks, trying to sound casual.
"It's nothing. Trust me," Shadowheart says, and those two phrases are commonly known never to be foreboding when put together.
"Enough of this chatter," the githyanki woman interrupts. "We need to get to the helm— now."
Actually, they have about an hour, but Amara can't tell them that.
"She's right. Lead on," Shadowheart says, and so Amara leads on for some reason. It's easier with three of them, but still not a walk in the park. The extra potions and scrolls that Amara was able to bring with her prove tremendously more helpful, and this time she has a… brain creature.
She doesn't know what to do with that, really.
They finally seem to be reaching their destination when Amara is nearly out of supplies and slots, and could really do with a nap or a snap.
"We are nearing the helm," the githyanki woman informs them. "Once inside, do as I say."
"Who put you in charge?" Shadowheart challenges, and Amara once again wishes she could not be in the literal physical middle of this. "I'll trust my own judgment."
Amara pointedly does not say out loud that they don't even really know how much judgment they have of their own right now, narrator and all.
"Kainyank," she spits out, like a cuss.
Inside, the three of them are far from the only occupants, the fiends from this plane attacking the mind flayers with wild abandon. Amara feels an odd sense of comradery, feeling for the first time like she is living out "the enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend".
Then, one of the mind flayers makes direct eye contact with her, and she would very much like to snap now, please.
"Thrall," he commands, which unsettles her greatly. "Connect the nerves of the transponder. We must escape. Now."
"Do it," the githyanki woman urges. "We will deal with the ghaik after we escape."
That… is easier said than done.
Nothing about the battle is simple. A little roguish touch or deft cast of Misty Step would come severely in handy to get Amara across the room, but unfortunately she doesn't have either. A tank could probably smash their way through, damage be damned, but unfortunately she isn't one. Even one of the blessed may be able to call upon a patron, but unfortunately she is dashed by the universe and there are none who smile so kindly on her.
So she stumbles slowly from one end of the room to the other, trying to wield what little spellwork she has. She takes cover and uses every last arrow. She takes damage, which sears through her body as if trying to make a home there to haunt her forever. She downs each potion she has. She uses up every spell slot, and there is no one to plead for another.
In the middle of the room, she can feel the universe almost smiling. Bloodied, weaponless, Amara watches the githyanki woman take a knee, and a claw slice through a weak point in her armor. Shadowheart is already lying face down behind her, and she can't say for how long she's been that way.
The imp that got her comrade licks the blood from its claw, and turns a sinister expression to Amara.
"Hey," she gruffs out, tired and aching. "When I get back here, it's you first, you absolute rotter."
Amara snaps her fingers.
This time, the moon is already peeking over the mountain range, so she has little time to prepare, and spends every last second of it grabbing anything she feels will help her, as she can only help herself now. When the illithid come, she is still inside her little home as the spelljammer slams into it and she's brought on board.
They make it to the helm even faster this time. There's no smoke whatsoever, and all of them are in better shape from battles previous.
"Do it," the words repeat. "We will deal with the ghaik after we escape."
Amara still isn't a rogue. She didn't learn Misty Step overnight. She didn't double her hit points or deign to become a paladin or a fighter. She still is loved by no greater being.
But she is prepared this time, even if that's with bloodied, dulled arrows, half-working spell scrolls made in a hurry, and potions not alchemized to their fullest extent. What's a waste of ingredients if the house gets obliterated regardless? She can always plant a new garden.
Oh, and this time, Amara saved spell slots. That was probably most of it.
Still, it still isn't the easiest trek across the battlefield, and it would have been a serious problem if they didn't have Shadowheart, but Amara manages to make it across, a place her feet did not touch before the last snap.
*The helm's alien transponder— you've made it in time.*
Is the narrator mocking Amara now? Does she think she's funny?
Amara has to, with all the grudge in the world, admit it's just a little funny.
She grabs two… dangling things, does not think about what they are and what she's touching and how wet and slimy and— and she connects them together, only for a dragon to make direct eye contact with her through the window design that conveniently allows it to breathe fire right at her.
Lovely.
The ship begins to move, but not well, and it's still crashing. It's warping but falling, and Amara doesn't have good balance, even on flat ground. She slams her back into the furthermost part of the ship and then only barely manages to catch herself on a protruding part of the console. Even as they enter the Material Plane once more, she only manages to get herself smacked with debris and ejected from the side of the ship.
Double lovely.
If only she were conscious enough to snap.
/ / /
As it is, she wakes up on a beach. That's fairly shocking, to be completely honest. She's not known for her survival skills, just her repetition ones. Falling out of the sky never landed very high on things she thought she could survive.
Stumbling to her feet, Amara grabs her skull and tries to center herself. The scent of burning rubble is in the air, so she shuts that sense off. Instead, she focuses on the sight of a cliff in the distance, of the sound of a babbling stream of water of some kind. Butterflies land on several large flowers, brightly colored on sharp green blades of grass.
Amara is calm. Serene. Centere—
*As you wake, the tadpole squirms in your skull.*
"Ugh!!!" she exclaims in disgust, jumping around in the sand and clutching at her head as shivers of disgust course through her body. "Why would you say that to me right now!?"
*Would you like to check yourself for wounds, or orient yourself with where you landed?*
"Fuck you!"
Amara plops back down in the sand and begins to look herself over for any sign she took damage from utterly smashing to the ground from the ship.
*Other than the infection, you're more or less intact.*
"I didn't ask!" she sings to the narrator.
*A miracle, given everything you've been through.*
"That would be your opinion. I have picked up the habit of seemingly talking to thin air, which is a trait of true insanity, so thank you. I'm sure that will pay in dividends."
*But it'll all be for nothing if you don't find help soon.*
Amara punches the sand. "Gee, you think?!"
*The tadpole is a death sentence, and the clock is ticking. You need a cure.*
"Firmly established, thank you. And— why are you calling it a tadpole? That is significantly worse than parasite for some reason."
When the narrator doesn't answer, Amara gets up and combes the beach for useful items and dead bodies. She buries them, leaves a handprint in the sand to mark the grave, and moves on. When she spots a familiar form, however, she stops walking.
Nervously, she starts to rub her fingers together.
Realistically, there is plenty of time to go back, if it's needed. Shadowheart was somewhere in the room when everything started going poorly, and Amara was too caught off guard to find her, what with the dragon and the fire and the falling. If she just— grabs her early enough, they can fall together. Maybe aim for the water.
She can do this again, and again. The parasite going in is painful, but bearable.
It's a stone in a shoe.
She could get used to it, if she could keep people alive.
"Shadowheart?" Amara calls out, still rooted to the spot. The half-elf doesn't so much as twitch, like when she fell out of the pod, like when she lay face down in the helm. She approaches, hands shaking, fingers rubbing together. The artifact is in Shadowheart's hand. Something in Amara's brain tingles, as if asking if she'd like to check it, but the last thing she's worried about is that trinket.
She leans down to check for a pulse.
A strong thrum meets her fingertips.
"Oh— Shadowheart!!" she calls, shaking the other woman to wake her.
It takes a moment, but the half-elf does rouse from unconsciousness, blinking against the morning sun. "You're alive," she breathes in awe, sitting up. "I'm alive." Amara laughs, nodding eagerly and helping her sit up. "How is this possible…?"
Shadowheart pulls away from Amara's touch immediately and stands, pocketing the artifact instantly as if afraid she will see it. Amara's smile fades a bit, but she also stands and brushes herself off. "So you also would not say you commonly survive falls of that magnitude?" Amara asks, looking skyward. "Needless to say, no… I haven't a clue. I was sort of hoping you might know, once I realized you were alive."
Looking troubled and not at all livened by the humor, Shadowheart looks seriously up and then back down to the beach. "I remember the ship. I remember falling… then nothing."
Amara hums. "The same as my recollection, then. Do you have any idea where we are?"
"No… I don't recognize this place. But anything's an improvement on where we just came from. First things first… we need supplies, shelter, and, most of all, a healer. We might have escaped, but we still have these little monsters in our heads."
"We?" Amara asks, a pit opening in her stomach. Helping someone in a moment of dire straits is one thing, she never minds assisting those in need. Forming a more permanent partnership on the other hand… "You want to stay together?"
Bigger groups are harder to keep safe.
The longer she stays with others, the more dangerous it becomes for them.
She'll start to like them, trust them, and won't want to lose them.
Amara doesn't know if she can afford that. Not again.
"We need each other," Shadowheart says, logical and even in her tone. "And we both know what's at stake. I can't think of better company."
Amara closes her eyes and allows herself two seconds. "All right," she agrees, putting the smile back on her face. "Let's get moving, then." She has to remember what Gale said. They lacked a leader last time, and couldn't stay together.
"One thing, just before we go. I wanted to thank you again, for freeing me. It would have been all too easy for you to run right past my pod, but you didn't. I'll remember that."
Amara's smile becomes more natural, lighting up her face, and she reaches out her hand. Shadowheart shakes it twice. "I am all gladness I did, Shadowheart. You are most welcome."
She can do it. She'll protect them— keep them safe.
Shadowheart drops her hand and averts her eyes, squaring up her shoulders. She clears her throat. "Yes, well… lead the way."
Amara can be the leader.
Chapter 3: Follow the Leader
Chapter Text
Chapter III
Follow the Leader
The sun beats down on the beach, and it only grows higher in the sky as the two women trek across its scarred length. The journey is slow, marked by repeated stops, as Amara finds more victims thrown from the ship every dozen feet.
"Why do you put the handprint in the sand?" Shadowheart finally asks when Amara stands, hands and knees covered in gritty grains.
She brushes herself off and looks abashed, turning to continue around the bend they've reached. "It's nothing too special. It's a gravemarker of sorts, one without any specific iconography. I don't want to insult anyone's faith since I can't identify it posthumously, but I don't just want to leave them buried with nothing to signify that they are there, that they suffered. There are many turns of phrase about one's hands I feel could be fitting."
Shadowheart looks surprised, then contemplative. "So, if they experienced a cruelty at the hands of another, you will offer them yours in death to send them off peacefully?"
"Something like that," Amara agrees with a small smile. "Thank you for indulging me, I just— I can't imagine just walking by them and…"
"No, I'm… glad actually," Shadowheart admits. "I would have walked by them, I think. This is better."
Amara opens her mouth to reply, but Shadowheart throws her arm out to stop her, and the elf runs right into it with a soft oof!
"Shh," her half-elf companion urges, looking around the bend. "We have company."
Amara looks where Shadowheart is indicating, and nearly falls over with joy when she sees - indeed - a living person. "We go to him, yes?"
Shadowheart looks concerned, and glances between Amara and the back of the man, who seems to be muttering to himself. She sighs quietly. "Only because you argued for me on the ship. You pointed out that order matters. Perhaps if I had found this man first, it would be you I was wary of."
"We can still be wary," Amara promises, but she is practicing at least being aware of when there are stones in shoes and the mouths of gift horses around, so she doesn't let Shadowheart change her mind and instead rushes right in and walks around the bend.
The man turns. He is a high elf, just like Amara, with already curling locks of white-gray hair that only seem encouraged to curl more from the heat and humidity in the air. His expression has an air of drama to it, as he gasps at their approach. "Hurry," he urges, gesturing for them to hasten. "I've got one of those brain things cornered."
He looks over his shoulder and Amara and Shadowheart finally reach him, trying to see past him. Seeing their looks of skepticism, the elf turns around and points, his fine coat glinting in the sunlight where it is decorated with gold. He seems remarkably unharmed, just like the two of them.
"There, in the grass. You can kill it, can't you? Like you killed the others."
To be fair, Amara didn't kill many "brain things", mostly imps. The elf's display is rather adorable though. She'll play along for now.
"Easily. Stand back," she requests, and she can see Shadowheart look at her in disbelief.
"There," the elf urges again, as if his repetition will make one appear. "Can you see it?"
How do you corner something in the open on the beach, anyway?
Still, Amara leans forward as if to peek around for one of the infamous brain things. There is some rustling from somewhere, so she cranes her neck this way and tries to locate its source when a boar bursts out of some brush and trots up the path.
Ah, boar, yes, the scourge of the illithid.
A knife presses to Amara's throat, Shadowheart too late to reach her, and she feels someone kick her behind the knees, sending the pair of them to the ground. Quickly enough, the elf pulls away to reveal his face, but the blade is still pressed into Amara's flesh.
"Shh," he whispers, holding fast to the knife even as Amara wrestles for it. "Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours." Shadowheart takes another step forward, but the man snaps up to look at her. "And you— keep your distance. No need for this to get messy."
"I need her alive— stow that blade or I'll show you just how messy things can get," Shadowheart snaps, which is quite flattering if Amara is being honest.
The elf just laughs though. "Promises, promises. But I have other business, I'm afraid. Now, I saw you on the ship, didn't I? Nod."
Amara squeezes her fingers together, just in case. She doesn't get "senseless murderer" off of this man's silly drama routine, but there's no sense in being too trusting. She nods, searching his face for answers he's not offering fast enough.
His eyes are red.
At first, Amara just thought they were red-rimmed from all the smoke on the ship, like she's sure hers are, and Shadowheart's are to some extent, but… she tugs the knife, as if struggling, and the man, not wanting to actually slice her throat, leans closer.
They really are red. Blood-red through and through, those irises, like the center of a chocolate cosmo, which grew on all the land of the isles she grew up on. How serendipitous.
"Splendid," the elf says, "Now, you're going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacle freaks did to me…"
Amara's heart sinks. She lets go of the knife, and hears Shadowheart gasp behind her, but the man needs something from her, so he doesn't slay her without getting his answers. The blade presses once more to her throat, and Amara can see the questions in his eyes, the fear.
She reaches for him, and the blade bites into her throat slightly.
"Don't even think about it!" he barks. "I saw you— I saw you on the ship, strutting about whilst I was trapped in that pod. You're in league with them, aren't you?"
Amara is still, and her finger comes to rest gently in the hollow of the elf's eye. "I'm sorry I did not get to you fast enough."
"Sorry?" he echoes, and the blade lifts from where it digs into Amara's skin. "What do you mean you're— argh!"
The pain that shatters through Amara is far greater than anything the elf's measly blade did.
*Your mind twists. You're looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold the memory, but it fades to the worm. The light. The fear.*
"What was that?" the man asks, and Amara hears it. The fear. "What's going on?"
"It's the mind flayer's worm— it connected us," Amara informs him succinctly, albeit a bit grim.
Quickly, the uncertainty and anger fade from the man's expression. His brows unknit, his eyelashes flutter, and he removes the knife and the hand bracing Amara's shoulder, releasing her slowly. Though he keeps his eyes on her, he shifts away and allows Amara all the space she needs to make her way to her feet on her own.
"You're… not one of them," he realizes, startling when he sees the blood on Amara's neck. He clears his throat. "They took you. Just the same as me." His eyes glance at the line of blood on his knife blade. He quickly wipes it. "And to think," he says, his voice regaining some of the dramatic flare it had had when luring Amara over, "I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies."
"Glad to see we're all caught up now," Amara remarks, scanning the nearby area. There's some good moss on that tree, and a beehive hanging from one of its branches.
"Indeed we are. Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name's Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me."
"Amara," she says in turn, climbing up to the tree and scrapping the moss off. "And that's Shadowheart, we've elected to travel together. I was taken from my home, which is Baldur's Gate too, actually."
"Is that so?" Astarion asks, watching Amara climb up the side of the tree and peek into the beehive. "We… clearly move in different circles."
Deeming it safe enough, Amara knocks the hive down and mashes it against the rocks beneath the tree. She hops down after it and yanks one of her gloves off, picking up a piece of the wild honeycomb with her bare hand.
"Could I borrow your dagger for a moment, Astarion?" she asks, holding her hand out and bringing the honeycomb and the moss over to a large flat rock.
"Ah…" he hedges, looking in some amount of disgust at the sticky mess on her fingers. "What exactly are you doing?"
Amara just looks up at him and quirks an eyebrow.
"Oh, all right." He passes her the dagger and she uses the hilt of it to begin macerating the moss and honey into a mixture, until it becomes a green paste. "Amara, I beg your pardon, but I simply must know what you're doing."
She wipes the hilt of the dagger off and hands it back, and then scoops a little more of the paste onto her fingers before rubbing it into the clotting knife wound at her neck. "Are you injured at all, Astarion? Shadowheart?"
Both of them look wide-eyed at her for a moment but shake their heads, and Amara shrugs, and then uses a leaf from a nearby low-hanging branch to wipe the paste away, revealing the cut now sealed over with pink, healing skin.
"But— that was just moss and honey!" Astarion balks, and Amara laughs.
"Of course, it wouldn't save me from a stab wound, unless I was able to distill the moss. But truthfully, alchemy is not so scary an artform. That little scratch is an easy fix, and it seemed to bother you more than it did me, Astarion. Let us keep walking. Perhaps there are more survivors from the ship than I first thought."
Astarion looks to Shadowheart, who just shrugs and begins to follow Amara, asking more about healing potion ingredients, and if the viscosity has any affect on the effectiveness. Eventually, he seems to grow weary of the topic, getting more and more agitated as the pair stop to bury a dead human woman.
"So do you know anything about these worms?" he asks, tapping his fingers on his crossed arm.
Amara glances up at him, finding his tone slightly worrisome. "Yes, unfortunately. They'll turn us into mind flayers."
"Turn us into—" he repeats, falling forward slightly in shock. A laugh bubbles out of his chest after that and he thrusts a hand into his curly locks, but the sound of it quickly sours. "Of course it will turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?"
"We still have some time," Amara says, attempting to comfort him before placing her hand print on the grave and standing.
"Yes… yes, you're quite right. It hasn't happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time."
The wording peaks Amara's interest and she stops walking. "Control it?" she asks, "We need to get rid of it."
"Well yes, of course. But first things first," he backpedals quickly, and Amara backpedals in her own way.
She doesn't want him to catch on and change his wording, so she snaps back some ten minutes before and tries again.
"You should travel with me," she says instead, choosing to ignore and observe if Astarion will not elaborate on his own. She wants to know about his desire to control the monster in his head. Perhaps in due time. "Our odds are better together."
"You know, I was ready to go this alone," he remarks, but Amara has the feeling that he's once again putting up a dramatic front. "But maybe sticking with the herd isn't such a bad idea. And you seem like a useful person to know. All right. I accept. Lead on."
/ / /
The next living thing the group comes across makes Amara's blood run cold and she immediately stops both of her companions by the arms.
"Wait— do you see that?" she asks, and both of them freeze, looking between her keen green eyes and the slightly burned, ruined landscape ahead.
"See what, Amara, darling?" Astarion drawls out, making a show of scanning the surroundings.
"There!" She points, just as she spots the movement once more. "A mind flayer…" Astarion's smile drops. "And it's hurt."
Amara takes off and Shadowheart responds the quickest, racing after her. "That thing's bound to be dangerous, even if injured. Best be careful," she advises, and Astarion is silent behind her.
*You approach the dying monster. This is the thing that abducted you.*
Ignoring the narrator and her obvious statements trying to drum up drama, Amara sinks lower to the ground and meets the creature's eyes. Astarion scrambles to grab the back of her cuirass to keep her closer, but she keeps her feet planted, studying the beast.
*You could end its life here and now, if only you didn't feel…*
The hair on Amara's arms stands on end. She does not like the voice in her head telling her how to feel.
*Compassion*
No. She doesn't. Not for this thing.
*Compassion?*
This isn't right. Amara wants to step away.
*You can't move, can't think; thinking is mercifully done for you. It will be a joy to serve— to die for it an honor!*
Delirious with resistance and willing to go back to the very beginning of this nightmare if it means she gets to keep her mind intact, Amara squeezes her hands together until they ache, but she doesn't snap.
Why doesn't she snap?
*It's possessing your mind, forcing you to… love it,* the narrator informs her, with a clear voice of dissenting disgust of her own right there for Amara to hear. *But then the feeling slips. The creature's mind seems to focus elsewhere.*
Amara feels a rush of anger, rooted in the fear of what's happened to her, and in the continued suffering she must endure for what happened in that little island temple so long ago. She did not ask to survive, so why must she be made to suffer like this just for clawing for her own life, as out of balance as it is?
She wants to know why.
*You try to break through, but its mind is impenetrable. With a last surge of defiance, it slaps your efforts away.*
Amara snaps, going back several minutes, and she steels her mind as she approaches this time, standing tall above the creature and looking down at it as her anger grows and festers. This time, when it weakens, she pushes back.
Impenetrable?
What a laugh.
She sinks her hooks right back where the illithid had retreated to, battling to see into its head if it was so keen to control hers.
*Your minds fuse, lusting for something that is… gone. But then its grip claws back with a vengeance, a vice locking your mind into obedience. It needs sustenance to survive, and with your very body you can provide.*
Amara is more than this. For every breath she struggled for against that power which so dwarfed her own, she is more than this. Since consuming her chronomantic abilities, she can control the flow of time, she possesses the ability to live the same moment infinite times over, and so she is more than this. For every death she has rewound through time and space, she is more than this.
Amara resists.
*The monster lies exhausted, defeated. Its eyes - wet orange pearls - radiate malice.*
She flexes her fingers and the Weave jumps to life between them, flattening into a solid construction. She slams the formation of pure magic into the ground, with the mind flayer between, and only the squishing sound of viscera and fluid can be heard.
The narrator is blissfully quiet.
Amara turns to her companions. "I take it that both of you felt that as well?" she asks, finding them both staring at the corpse of the mind flayer.
"Yes," Shadowheart breathes out. "But Amara, you—"
"Death is too good for it. They have caused so much anguish. Look at all the lives lost, bonds severed," Amara remarks, flexing her fingers again. "But I could not, in good conscience, leave it, lest it find some way - someone to use - to return."
"Yes, quite right," Astarion agrees, though he too sounds a bit breathless. "Say, what, ah, spell was that you used? It's quite unique."
"Not a spell, necessarily," she dismisses. "Just the Weave."
"Forgive me, but don't you have to…"
"Not necessarily."
Still, some information is best left unseen.
Amara snaps, and goes back. This time, she merely stomps the creature's head. It's not nearly as satisfying, but it is far less suspicious.
The ruined landscape they're in goes on, a blight on an otherwise quaint stretch of beach, and only finally opens up when the afternoon sun is dipping low in the sky. Once again, though, their little group must halt, as there is something in the distance.
"Can't we manage ten bloody feet?" Amara mutters to herself, looking at a strange swirling vortex of purple light in the distance. It's the Weave, but it's completely unstable. A miscast spell, perhaps. She could walk right by, however… "Someone probably cast that," she informs the other two, pointing to the bubbling, consuming swirl of magic. "There could be another survivor up there."
"Oh, very well," Astarion says, but he does not look particularly keen at the prospect of approaching the giant gushing font of Weave.
*You approach the sigil on the stone.*
"Oh, great," she mutters to herself as she walks a bit ahead of the rest of her party to reach the unstable magic circle. "Commentary."
*Magic glitters and swirls from it erratically, as if malfunctioning. It looks slightly dangerous."
"No, shit. Really?"
*Would you like to touch the sigil or leave?*
"It's a bad idea to touch it, that's for certain," Amara surmises, staring at the runes. "One of these just must be wrong, that's all. Fix that up, and you've got a stable magic font. No harm, no foul."
Of course, the universe always likes to throw her curveballs.
A hand thrusts itself out of the magical vortex. Quite literally, a regular-ass hand, wearing cotton robes. It wavers just slightly in unseen turbulence.
Amara's eyes widen slightly and she frowns. "Huh. Not exactly what I expected."
"A hand? Anyone?"
Her heart seizes for a moment, and then releases. She recognizes the voice. Chills run across her body, a visceral reaction from head to toe.
Gale.
She takes a deep breath and begins to slowly recite the words of the Weave, whispering softly to it as it roils and hisses within the sigil. She soothes and presses her own influence onto it, easing a softer thread of the Weave through it until it no longer burns.
"Whatever you're doing, it's working wonders!" Gale chimes with urgency from within the vortex. "Now a quick little pull should do the trick."
Amara hesitates for a moment but reaches out and grabs the leather brace of his robes, using none of the magic burning in her and instead just does as requested: a quick little pull. It does turn out to be all that's needed, as sure enough, Gale of Waterdeep comes flying out of the vortex and lands on all fours, while Amara stumbles back toward her other companions.
"Ooft, hello," he greets, and Amara is beyond pleased to see how much healthier he looks a month back. She plans to keep him this way. "I'm Gale of Waterdeep," he introduces himself immediately, reaching out and shaking Amara's hand with an easy smile on his face. "Apologies, I'm usually better at this."
Amara smiles, liking the life in his voice and countenance like this much better. She wants him to talk more, make more expressions. Anything but fade away because of the passage of time and the cruelty of the universe.
"At introductions?" she teases, shaking his hand back.
Gale winces slightly, but a smile tugs at his lips. "At magic."
Amara puts a hand to her chest. "Ah, you'd have me believe that after such a display?" She walks over to the sigil and pointedly completes one of the runes drawn incorrectly with a sharp stone. "Why, Gale of Waterdeep, perhaps you will have to prove it to me."
He laughs, a little disbelieving, and checks the sigil over. "I can't tell if I am being belittled or encouraged, and I do not even know your name."
"Apologies," Amara says, a smile growing wide on her face. "I'm usually better at this."
"At… magic?"
"At introductions. I'm Amara, of Baldur's Gate. These are my companions, Shadowheart and Astarion."
Astarion laughs outright at her antics, and Gale looks uncertain if she is doing it at his expense or not, and quickly changes the subject. "Say, but I know you, don't I? In a manner of speaking." Amara blinks.
She panics for a moment, thinking he has some ability to recollect their moment together in her cottage in Waterdeep.
"You were on the nautiloid as well," Gale continues, and Amara relaxes just slightly.
Still horrible, but not nearly as impossible a task.
"I was, yes."
"Then I can only assume you too were on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region," he surmises, pointing to his eye.
Behind Amara, Astarian makes a noise of disgust and Shadowheart shuffles her feet. She's rather quiet but even she must have a sense of humor to suppress somewhere.
"Couldn't have phrased it more repellently myself," Amara replies, and both her companions seem to enjoy this response as well.
"No use sugarcoating it, is there?" Gale asks, but he now seems to realize Amara is merely teasing, a lilt to his own voice. "The insertee we speak of, this parasite— are you aware that after a period of excruciating gestation it will turn us into mind flayers? It's a process known as ceremorphosis, and let me assure you: it is to be avoided."
Gale even waves his finger when he says this.
Amara is appalled that this is the same man as the melancholy thing that washed up on her doorstep in a month.
He leans in, one brow quirked. "You don't happen to be a cleric, by any chance, do you? A doctor? Surgeon? Uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?" He waves his fingers in the air again, in a particularly telling pattern.
"I could make you a lovely sweater, but I'm afraid my skills with the needle do not extend to ophthalmology."
"A pity," he remarks. "A healer it will have to be then."
Shadowheart surprises Amara by weighing in. "You seem to know enough about our condition to realize it is beyond most clerics' skills."
"Most, no doubt. But I find myself hoping to be in the presence of the few. You don't happen to be one of them?"
Amara hesitates. She wasn't expecting to be asked this. Technically…
"These… tadpoles are beyond even my arcane knowledge. I cannot remove them."
It's true enough. Amara could rewind them out, with some considerable effort and nearly go comatose for a while in the process, but she can't "remove" them per se.
"As we've established, few enough can. It's not exactly a common affliction," Gale assures her. "We're certainly going to need a healer, and soon too. How about we lend each other a helping hand once more and look for a healer together?"
"Sounds like a plan. You're welcome to join me."
"Most excellent. A parasite shared is a parasite halved. Or something to that effect."
The sudden incorrect turn of phrase followed by the lukewarm defense of it surprises Amara, and she laughs, covering her mouth and turning her head away slightly. She recovers and flicks her eyes to Gale to let him know they can continue their trek, to find him looking at her most curiously.
"Oh!" he utters, seeming startled to have been caught. "But before you think you're about to embark on a journey with most ill-mannered a man: thank you for pulling me out of that stone. It was an act of foresighted kindness I assure you, for I have the feeling ample opportunities will present themselves for me to return the favor."
/ / /
Amara actually spots the githyanki's armor glinting in the setting sunlight before she spots anything else, alerting the rest of her party.
"Shadowheart, the gith is up there," she says lowly.
"I see her," the cleric replies. "There are others. Tread carefully, Amara."
The githyanki is high up, trapped in a cage of branches, and at the base of that trap are two tieflings of pale red skin, dressed in leather with hunting bows.
"Zorru was right," says the one of masculine frame. "Yellow as a toad, and twice as ugly."
"Well, hey now," Amara mutters under her breath, peeking through the brush.
Shadowheart elbows her.
The other tiefling, this one of a female disposition, seems to be trying to calm him. "The thing's dangerous. Leave it for the goblins to kill."
"Well, hey now," Amara stresses, and this time all three of her companions try to silence her.
Amara just stands, tired of this, and walks until she can catch their attention.
"And what if it escapes? How will you— Oh!" the male tiefling stops, obviously startled. "A guest."
*Your skull pounds in response to the prisoner's white-hot-stare. Her lips don't move, yet you hear her voice.*
"Get rid of them," she requests, and Amara can hardly blame her.
"Don't worry," Amara thinks back on reflex, unknowing if her message is important enough to reach the githyanki. "I'll get them out of here, one way or another."
She turns to the tieflings and gestures to their captive. "I couldn't help but notice the gith you managed to capture here— this creature is dangerous, don't you know? Get out of here before it summons more of it! Leave it to me to take care of… I'm familiar enough with them."
At the mention of more githyanki, the tieflings almost immediately begin to sweat, exchanging glances. "She— she's right," the male says to his companion. "Let's go— we need to check out that blast."
Amara does not tell them that could be a great deal more dangerous.
"A blast? I could use more specifics."
"You didn't hear it?" he asks, shocked. "Shook our camp good, so we came for a look."
Amara puts on a desperate, surprised expression. "I'm in dire need of healing. Where is this camp, if you don't mind me asking."
The male tiefling seems all too happy to oblige her distressed nature. "North-west. Look for Nettie. Whatever your wound, she can mend it."
His companion chimes in. "And be careful. There are goblin traps everywhere."
"Nymessa. Come."
The tieflings leave peacefully, and almost immediately, the githyanki barks an order.
"Enough gawking— get me down."
"Oh, yes, let me do that while they're still within earshot. A fine idea. Have some patience, woman," Amara remarks, taking out her newly acquired crossbow and giving it a quick clean before loading it. "Here, now they are out of earshot. Was that such a difficult wait?"
"Do it already!"
Rolling her eyes, Amara makes quick work of disabling the bottom of the trap, and the githyanki drops down and lands with surprising grace at the bottom of a drained river which the trap was hovering over.
Amara offers her a hand up, but the githyanki doesn't take it and climbs up herself, brushing her armor off. "The tadpole hasn't yet scrambled all your senses. Auspicious."
"Nice to see you too."
"But the longer we wait, the more it consumes," she insists, completely ignoring Amara. "My people possess the cure for this infection. I must find a crèche; you will join me."
Shadowheart growls from behind her right shoulder. "Careful— she obviously sees your kindness as weakness. Don't let her take advantage."
"It's all right," Amara assures her. "This is for the good of us all. We share the same burden, after all. I am curious, though, what exactly is this crèche?"
"It is many things," she says dismissively, because of course she does. "A hatchery, a training grounds, a shelter. Githyanki protocol is clear: when infected with a ghaik tadpole, we must report to a ghustil for purification."
"It is of great importance then," Amara surmises. "Let us find this crèche."
"You have made an ally from Crèche K'liir— few know such fortune. Call me Lae'zel."
Amara shakes her hand in greeting. "Amara. You remember Shadowheart— and this is Astarion and Gale, who were also on the ship." She turns to check on the half-elf, who has her doubt written all over her face. "Are you all right?"
"I trust your judgment— but I won't trust her. Not until I've gotten the measure of her."
Amara considers this. "Fair. There is some measure of learned behavior within culture— but don't forget that how we are treated shapes us far more. There are always going to be good and evil within every species. You may trust me, but we both know that high elves, even moon elves, have had plenty of evil in their nature with their altruistic brethren."
Shadowheart steels her expression and nods. "I will judge by her actions, then. We shall see if they prove her worthy of your defenses."
"You've a sharp tongue, elf. Would that your mind proved its equal," Lae'zel sneers, and Amara wishes she could wap her on the head.
"Half-elf. I suppose the finer details are lost on a creature like you."
"Come. The horned ones mentioned a camp. One there - this Zorru - has seen githyanki. A crèche must be near. We will ask this Zorru where he has seen my kin. Our very lives depend on it."
Amara puts a hand on her shoulder. "We should be careful about traveling in too large of a group. Let us set up a camp for the night, yes? After that, four of us will scout ahead while one stays behind. For tonight, I see you are injured," she points out, gesturing to Lae'zel's leg. "I will brew a potion that will heal the bone well. After that, we will get you to the crèche. Deal?"
Lae'zel is quiet for a moment. "Deal," she growls out, but does not seem pleased.
Night begins to crest, and so the group chooses as good a spot as any to construct their individual campsites. This first night, they only really have the clothes on their back and whatever they carried with them, but the future promises to hold more.
Amara watches Lae'zel and Shadowheart prepare to rest as far away from each other as possible, while a sliver of her Weave stirs at the potion she promised the githyanki, hanging in a pot over the fire.
"Another of your strange concoctions?" Astarion asks, sildling up next to her.
"Something like that," she answers with a twist of her lips. "I would need to actually purchase ingredients if we wanted a stock of potions. It will have to be high on our list to make it to the trade post tomorrow. We are in desperate need of supplies."
"Ah, yes," Astarian drawls out. "Food and the like, I would imagine."
Amara blinks, looking up at his red eyes. Her gaze flickers down to his mouth for a moment. "Yes. We can hunt, of course, but now there's yet another mouth to feed, you know."
"Don't I just," he trills, "I am enjoying the latest addition to our little group— Lae'zel is delightful," he expresses earnestly, and Amara just barely spots a flash of oversized canine teeth.
So that's how it is. Lovely.
"Do you have such a type, Astarion?" she teases, and he laughs, his fingers tangling in his curls.
"She is most certainly someone's type. You know, the 'look at me twice and I'll dismember you' kind of type."
Amara grins viciously. "Familiar enough with that look, it sounds like."
Astarion points at her. "Feisty. Don't think I missed your type, little miss magic, so don't talk yourself into a corner you can't escape from."
"My type?" Amara echoes, laughter in her voice, and she finishes her potion, taking it off the fire. "And what do we mean by that, hmm?
"Oh, not much; just tall, bearded, reasonably handsome, and a veritable walking encyclopedia." Astarion dramatically shivers, as if in disgust.
"Hmm…" she hums, putting her hand to her chin and making a show of thinking hard. "My, I can't imagine who you could possibly mean."
"You know," the elf insists, voice drawling. "Purple robes? Long hair? Earring?"
A voice that is distinctly not Amara's replies. "Well, now, that description rings a bell." Amara and Astarion turn to see Gale in a more comfortable set of clothing, his hair slightly dampened. "I fear I'm interrupting something."
"Shit." Astarion cusses, and Amara bursts into laughter. Once again, Gale doesn't look too sure if it's at his expense or not.
"Ohhh," Amara draws out with great feeling, putting a hand on Astarion's shoulder. "You meant Gale! Now I can see it— you threw me when you said 'reasonably handsome', see. The rest of your description is quite accurate, but I find your choice of adverb slightly… ah. Lacking."
Gale's eyes widen, and a look of pleased surprise overtakes his features, and Astarion huffs out a laugh and crosses his arms. "You are… more than a little shameless, Amara, darling."
"I could say the same to you." Amara's grin grows a little feral. "After all, I don't think I could admit to near strangers that I have a thing for dismemberment."
"I didn't—"
"Oh, look! Perfect timing— Lae'zel, Shadowheart, come here for a moment. We should all discuss something before we go to sleep."
The two women are approaching from opposite sides of the clearing and they glare at each other, frozen in place.
"Well?" Amara asks, gesturing for them to come closer.
Reluctantly, they join Amara by the fire and she hands Lae'zel the potion in a drinking cup. "And what exactly is this?" the githyanki asks.
"The potion I promised."
"In… this?"
"Do I look like I have glass bottles on me?" Lae'zel grimaces but drinks the potion and Shadowheart couldn't look more aggravated. "Thank you both for coming over. I wanted to discuss tomorrow. I don't think it's smart to travel with too large of a party, but I also don't want everyone trying to solve this separately. I think we've stumbled into something… dangerous here."
Shadowheart nods. "What do you propose then?"
"We travel four at a time, and the rest remain at camp. If we continue to happen upon more survivors from what happened aboard the nautiloid, they'll be sent to wait at camp. When specific lengths of the campaign require different skill sets, the exact four that travel will change."
Gale puts his finger to the side of his face. "I see where you are going with this, Amara. There are currently five of us within this conceived party."
"What, so one of us has to stay behind?" Astarion realizes, glancing between them all. "No! I vote no!"
"Amara and I will form the core of the party for this next leg," Lae'zel decides, ignoring him. "I need to be there to convince the crèche to divulge the cure, and I trust Amara the most amongst all of you. I won't let any of you come without her."
"Then I will go as well," Shadowheart says immediately, and Lae'zel glares at her.
"Absolutely not."
"I don't trust you. Least of all with Amara. Plus, as the party cleric, I am able to buff and heal. Can you heal her if she gets hurt, gith?"
Amara puts her hand on Shadowheart's shoulder. "I agree with your skillset being valuable, Shadowheart, and I trust you to watch the party's back, but if you come on this mission, you have to protect the whole party. Do I make myself clear?"
The half-elf bows her head slightly and nods.
Amara turns to the two men and tilts her head. "Room for one more. I don't mean to say that you should—"
"Amara," Gale begins, putting his hand to his chest, "I am aware we are both magic users, but that only makes us more aware of the advantages one another can bring."
"Gale—"
"I have superior skills in many areas, not just ones of magic, though I am skilled in that aspect as well, naturally. I have the ability to act either as the offense to your defense and vice versa depending on whatever strategy you see fit."
"It's not permanent, Gale, you don't have to—"
Astarion snorts. "Just let him. He'll exhaust himself at this rate."
Amara looks over to him with a quirked brow. "Are you sure? You did not seem so keen a minute ago."
He flops back onto a bedroll and puts his hands behind his head. "The camp seems safe enough. So long as nothing happens through the night, I can't see why I shouldn't kick back while the four of you do all the work. I'm sure I'll get to have fun another time. Just promise to take me with you another time when the adventure is more exciting than looking for a gith nest."
"And what's an exciting adventure to you?"
Sharp teeth flash in the firelight as he grins up at her. "Blood and gore. What else?"
Amara touches her cheeks playfully. "My, Astarion, how you make me blush. You simply must stop bringing up your peculiar tastes like this. I don't favor dismemberment in such a fashion— oof!"
Astarion throws the pillow from his bedroll at her.
Chapter 4: Snake in the Grass
Chapter Text
Chapter IV
Snake in the Grass
Come the morning light, the shrunken party leaves Astarion at camp and treks back north-west of where Lae'zel was rescued from.
Thankfully, the search for the camp the tieflings mentioned is relatively easy. The ruckus directly in front of the gates is more than enough to draw Amara's attention that way.
"Open the bloody gate!" a young human man with curly brown hair yells at the top of his lungs.
High above him, dressed in blue robes, is another tiefling. "Nobody gets in. Zevlor's orders."
"That pack of goblins will be on us any second," the human insists, while his companions look about wildly behind them, conceivably for the aforementioned goblins.
Another tiefling, this one in heavy armor, approaches the gate. "What's going on?"
"Goblins are on our tail. Open the gate, Zevlor. Now."
Amara hums to herself, clicking her tongue at the approach. Not how she would have approached it.
"You led goblins here?" this Zevlor shouts back, doing a mighty fine job not drawing the goblins closer with his volume. "Where is the druid?"
"Please! There's no time!" the human man insists, pulling an arrow from his companion's shield.
A beast's howl echoes on the wind.
"By the Nine Hells…" Zevlor breathes. "Open the gate!"
The tiefling in the blue robes begins to turn the wheel to open the gate, but they appear to be too late. The beast is joined by goblins and a flurry of arrows, which pierce into the man and send him sprawling to the ground stuck with arrows, red bleeding into the blue of his robes.
Zevlor calls out to him, his voice rife with pain. "Kanon. No!"
The gate begins to fall, and those stuck outside of it aren't able to hold it open. The male human draws his weapon and urges his companions to do the same. "Shit," he curses, spitting the word out with fear. "Form a line!"
Before one of the goblins can shoot, a blast smashes into her and sends her careening backward, and Gale grabs at Amara's arm, pointing to the source of the magical energy. Jumping down from a high point on a cliff is another human, this one with braided hair of deep sable and richly toned skin like freshly watered earth.
"Damnable roach," he growls out, one of his hands aglow while the other holds a rapier. "Provoke the blade…" He stabs another goblin and parries forward, "…and suffer its sting."
"Gale, you and I will stay back and maintain long-range cover," Amara says, pulling her crossbow. "Between him and Lae'zel, the close combat field will be too dangerous to contaminate with more melee. Cast when you can, shoot when you cannot. Shadowheart, buff and heal, protect yourself first and foremost when called for."
Lae'zel is off without so much as a word, which Shadowheart doesn't exactly smile about, but she casts her blessing on the group as a whole and maintains a safe distance from all of them as they move about the battlefield. Gale takes one side of long-range combat while Amara takes the other, and they slowly pick away at the hostile forces.
The battle is hard fought, with a number of casualties from inside the camp, including a well-placed arrow right through Zevlor's eye, which seems to send everyone inside the camp into hysterics.
The human man slams his body into the doors, pounding on them. "Open the damn gates!!" he screams. "They already know we're here, do you really want to lure more by having all of us out front?"
From outside, Amara can hear the chaos.
They are without a leader.
Eventually the gate starts to raise, and the human man is the first inside. He does not even pay Zevlor a single glance as he lay dead inside. It twists Amara's gut, as anger festers. Another man in blue robes, similar to the fallen Kanon rushes over, along with a human in heavy armor.
"We— we would welcome you to the grove, if we could," the tiefling in the robes says. "It seems a rather…" he trails off, looking at the corpses being brought in through the gates. "…somber welcoming, however. I am Asharak, and this is Rath. We…"
Amara looks where he's looking, a somewhat helpless expression on his face as he watches Zevlor be taken away.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she says, startling him. "Was he a friend?"
"Oh… oh! Zevlor, he… yes. A friend is a word for it. He took on a great deal to ensure our safety, and often was given precious little recognition for it. We aren't fighters, you see, but I suppose you could say we are at war. It is a difficult spot to be in, both realistically and emotionally. It all feels a bit hopeless, but Zev had a way of making it f-feel…"
Amara snaps.
She doesn't need to see the tiefling cry over the loss of Zevlor. It's one battle. She's sure that this time - if she fights again with more knowledge of the battle - she can win and keep the tiefling alive. Her point of return is right as the goblins approach, and she doesn't quite see a way to avoid Kanon's early demise but her strategy is much more aggressive on the long-range goblins this time, and keeping the entire battle away from the gate.
And it works, for the most part.
Zevlor lives, this time.
Unfortunately, she never gets to speak to the warlock who seemed to have quite wonderfully developed abilities, as he perishes on the battlefield.
When the last goblin falls, it isn't the human man stuck outside who makes the first move this time, it's the tiefling Amara saved this time around.
"That was the last of them," Zevlor calls to them, voice loud and vibrantly alive. "Inside, all of you. More may follow. Open the gate!"
This time, the gate raises unhindered, and there seems to be little argument about Amara's party being allowed inside. Of course, the first thing she sees when she makes it inside is the tiefling once again screaming into the face of the curly-haired human.
"There are children here, you fool!"
"We was running for our lives," he says, as if it isn't a weak defense.
Zevlor does not back down. "You led them straight to us. And you let them take the druid, too. Unbelievable!"
Finally, Amara can take no more, and she steps in.
"One fight just ended, and now you're picking another?" she asks. "Relax."
Zevlor doesn't even look at Amara. "Tell that to the dead at the gate," he says, as if Amara and her party didn't play a role in drastically reducing that count. As if Amara didn't just go back in time to pluck him from that count.
"Shut it, horns. I'd be lying dead next to the goblins if you'd stalled any longer."
Amara wonders what the ramifications would be if she just punched this human.
Probably bad.
She probably shouldn't.
"My duty is to this camp," the tiefling says, keeping his voice even while the human's grows more enraged and bitter.
"God forbid you risk your precious tail. But I shouldn't be surprised. Foulbloods ain't known for courage," he spits out, with such a triumphant, bigoted smile.
Amara wraps the Weave around her knuckles and punches him so hard she can hear his jaw crack.
She turns to Zevlor, shaking out her reddened, bloodied knuckles. "What's the point of being a time traveler if you don't sometimes just punch a bigoted, racist asshole?"
"What?" he gapes, dumbfounded, while the man writhes in pain on the ground.
"What's his name, by the way? The bloody git."
"That would be Aradin, but I don't exactly appreciate you—"
"Great, thanks."
Amara snaps.
This time, when she steps into the conversation, she points her comment toward Aradin instead of trying to appeal to the general morals of both of them. "Where there's one goblin, there's ten," she remarks, "agreeing" with Aradin to make him respond. "It would not be wise to remain here if there is a vulnerable population."
"She's right." Aradin takes the bait, a little too eagerly for Amara's tastes, actually. "We should scram while we can."
"Right," Zevlor drawls out, and Amara feels for him, she really does. "Lead the goblins here, then leave the rest of us to fight them off. You coward."
Times really do change. This really just is a dick-measuring contest of two men calling each other sissies. What is this, daycare?
"What's it gonna take to shut you up, horns?"
Amara just tries to remember how nice it felt to punch him before. Ahh…
"Listen," she says, putting her hands between them to push them apart. "We don't have time for this. If you insist on this petty squabbling, I'll take you both down myself. Otherwise, knock it off."
"Enough," Zevlor snaps. "As the lady says, squabbling is pointless. The goblins have found us."
"At least we agree on that," Aradin says, turning away haughtily, as if he isn't the reason the goblins found the camp.
When he is gone, Zevlor turns to Amara. "Forgive that display," he requests in earnest. "Aradin's a blowhard, but that's no cause for me to join him. Thank you for your help out there. I'm Zevlor."
"I'm Amara," she greets, and then introduces her party.
"Well met. I should warn you— visitors are no longer welcome in this grove." When Amara gives him a questioning look, his own expression grows apologetic. "Whatever your business, I'd see to it quickly— the druids are forcing everyone out."
"What— they are?" Amara asks, shocked.
She didn't hear any of this in the month she spent traveling and in Waterdeep.
"This attack will only strengthen their resolve," Zevlor concludes grimly.
"But… why? What reason have they for forcing you out?"
Sighing, Zevlor attempts to gather his thoughts to answer her. "There have been several attacks by different monsters. The druids blame us 'outsiders' for drawing them here. Nobody's welcome anymore."
"Well, that's stupid."
Amara does not realize she has said this out loud until about five minutes later, at which point, she snaps and returns back to this moment, mortified.
Zevlor, of course, does not notice her emotional turmoil on account of her blunder being erased from time, so he continues. "They've started a ritual to cut the grove off from the world outside," he informs them seriously. "We can't stay, but we'll be slaughtered if we leave— we're no fighters."
Amara hums contemplatively. She doesn't really know much about druids. "This ritual— is there no way to convince the druids to stop it?"
"I've tried!" Zevlor insists. "Kagha - their new First Druid - won't even see me."
Amara doesn't tell him that it sounds like he hasn't tried much.
"You, though…"
Oh, lovely. Lovely. Why didn't she see this coming?
"I know it's not your business."
It's really not.
"But… she owes you for saving this place. Perhaps you could persuade her. For more time to prepare, if nothing else."
…Fine.
"I'll warn you, Zevlor, I'm not all that familiar with the customs of the druids, but… I'll see what I can do."
Gale lightly touches her shoulder blade. "I think you should, yes," he agrees, offering his support. "No harm in trying the diplomatic route."
Zevlor gives them an expression that might be a smile, Amara's actually not sure. "We'd owe you a great debt. If we're forced to leave now, we won't make it to the city."
For the love of Chronos, she gets it!
"You'll find the druids at the heart of the grove. Please— make them see sense, before more lives are lost—"
There's a sudden scream from deeper in the grove, where the dead were being gathered now there was a moment of safety. Or so everyone thought. Amara's instincts kick in and she rushes forward, the Weave gathering in her palms and rushing over her skin, hardening like armor.
She immediately recognizes the warlock from earlier, though it's not hard to spot him, what with the giant ring of flame around his body slowly growing in size.
"Get back!" she yells to the two small tieflings who had been near him, rushing the circle of flame with her Weave gathering a spell to counteract the volatile element. "What happened to him, did anyone see?!"
"N-no!" one of them squeaks, squeezing the front of his shirt. There are tears on his face. "We— we were just saying… goodbye."
Amara grimaces at that, and turns to the man wreathed in flame, before her head suddenly feels like it's splitting open.
*Your mind reels, your skin crackles. You can feel your body scorch, hands reach from somewhere deep below, sinking claws into your soul to pull you down. But your mind, your worm, they resist.*
Amara snaps.
She snaps all the way back to camp that morning, sitting by the bank of a river and washing her hair. This time, instead of just washing it, she dives straight in, trying to soothe the phantom burns all over her body, and when she surfaces again, she's shivering. Whether it's from the cold water or the intensity of the connection she experienced with the dead man, she isn't sure.
What she is sure of, is that she will now have to fight this battle for the third time, and be extremely careful with who lives and dies. She cannot afford to wait until the end and take stock of who made it through, she will have to weave in and out, jump back when needed, and tip-toe her way through the injuries of her party.
There's no such thing as no one "important" should die, so Amara will just keep them all alive.
Easy, right?
Instead of just listening as the goblins approach, Amara uses the tadpoles to communicate with her party and she spreads them all around the battleground immediately. As soon as everything kicks off, she is a choreographer, pointing her party members in the direction they'll be the sharpest, wielding them like weapons in her hands.
The last goblin falls and the gate lifts, and the only casualties of the battlefield are those of the goblins.
This time, when Zevlor wraps up his conversation, there's no screaming or flames, he just leads them to the Hollow, and bids them farewell. Amara is almost holding her breath, just waiting for the next thing. She can feel it, almost like an itch under her skin.
Like the battle went well, but it still wasn't perfect, like she's missing something, and it's looming just waiting to spring on her.
Inside the Hollow, the little tiefling boy from earlier is still with the warlock, only this time instead of crying over his dead body, they're having a friendly spar. Amara much prefers this.
"Go on. Give me your best shot," he goads, and the little boy lifts his sword up in a broad swing with a grunt. "Not bad," the warlock compliments. "Again."
This time, when the boy lunges with his blade, the warlock parries and teasingly taps him with the flat of his blade, though Amara can tell that merely frustrates the child.
"I can't do it," he laments, his head bowed. "I'm not like you."
"Umi," the warlock begins, getting down on one knee. "I don't need you to be like me. You just have to buy enough time to run. Come on, I believe in you. You can do this."
Suddenly self-conscious, Umi seems to realize Amara is there and watching, and she just smiles encouragingly. "It's good advice, child. You'd do well to listen."
The warlock seems pleased and turns back to the boy. "You're on the right path, Umi. Go on, now— practice what you've learned." When Umi runs off, the warlock roves his eyes back over to Amara and her party. "Well met. The Blade of Frontiers at your—"
*The man's smile bends downward, and his thoughts become yours. You are the Blade of Frontiers, racing through the wastes of Avernus. Just ahead, a diabolical figure - red skin, single curled horn - blazes with flame, bloodied greataxe held high.*
The warlock winces and blinks rapidly at you, one of his eyes colorless throughout, as if made of stone. "Hells' great fires— you were on the ship."
"My words exactly— I'm all gladness to see another survivor. We need all the friends we can get."
"Better friends than the ones hitching a ride in our skulls, at least," he remarks, and though Amara isn't exactly sure what he saw through her eyes, it doesn't seem to have made him suspicious or cautious of her. "I'm sure you know the stories. Doomed to shed our skin and become illithid. They say there's no coming back."
Amara wonders who "they" is and why everyone else seemed to know about this going on. Where was she?
"Haven't sprouted any tentacles yet," she points out, and the warlock smirks, putting his hands on his waist.
"Quite right. Not yet, anyway. Could just be good luck, I'm not so…"
*Your minds collide once more. Wyll chases the fiend, ignited with rancor. She is an infernal wardevil, a threat to the living— evil incarnate.*
"Shit— you saw her: advocatus diaboli." He grits his teeth and presses a hand over his eye.
*Advocatus diaboli. A devil's advocate— a champion in the Blood War between diabolical forces and demons.*
Not exactly a compliment, is it?
"Devil's Advocate. Do you think she'll bring the Blood War to Faerûn?" Amara asks, curious about the woman winning all these accolades.
"That ship's sailed the Styx already. All I can hope for's to limit the damage. Her name is Karlach. An archdevil's soldier I swore on my good eye to kill," he remarks, tapping his deep brown eye. "I tracked her through the Hells to the mind flayer ship. But the damned illithids infected me before I could end her. She's out there now, preying on the innocent. I don't kill her, she'll leave behind nothing but a trail of corpses."
"Let's join forces," Amara suggests, offering her hand. "I'll help you cast this devil back into the Hells."
The man - Wyll, if your worm is to be believed - smiles. "An excellent suggestion. Shall I join you now?"
Amara quickly explains the camp to Wyll, and tells him of the remaining party member already there. "Oh! I suppose it's unusual to introduce the only one of us not here first," she admits with a laugh. "I'm Amara."
"Wyll," he says in return, a chuckle on his own lips. "I think your plan is a splendid one. Should you need me before then, call for the Blade and I won't be long to answer. Until then, we'll talk more at your camp."
When Wyll bids the group goodbye, Lae'zel grabs onto Amara's arm. "If you're quite done, we have a mission?"
Amara lets out a half-shocked laugh. "Of course. Let us find this Zorru."
Lae'zel is off after that, and Shadowheart shakes her head, watching her interrogate various grove residents for their names. "Look at her. No manners."
"Remember, she is probably scared," Amara says, putting a hand on Shadowheart's shoulder. "Let me know if it's too much for you. We can manage without you should you wish to return to camp."
"She is scared?" Shadowheart asks, gritting her teeth. "We all are. And the rest of us aren't treating the people around us like— like…"
"Sometimes we treat people as a reflection of how we're treated."
Shadowheart is quiet for a moment and then she walks forward, after Lae'zel, talking to the wake of grove residents with a serious expression and a slight bow to each one of them.
Amara takes a moment to breathe. She realizes how long she's already been working in a single "day" so far. Her feet ache. Her fingers are cramping. She can feel her body tremble slightly from overuse.
"Still working on improving your skill at introductions?" Gale asks her, a light teasing tone to his voice.
It startles her, and she flicks her gaze over to him, finding a gentle expression on his face. She quickly tries to wrangle whatever expression she must be making into a more neutral one. "Still working on improving your magic?" she teases right back. "I see you're making considerable headway with banter. I was worried for a moment I wouldn't be able to tease you."
Gale looks surprised and then laughs, wrinkles appearing by his eyes that Amara would very much like to touch. "And why is that?"
"You always looked as if you were so very concerned I was viciously insulting you," she points out. "It takes some of the fun out of it."
"I— I must say, perhaps I'm just not used to it," he guesses. "I have known many people in my life, but none have taken such an immediately familiar tone with me."
Amara watches him for a long moment. "Do you mind?"
She remembers how he once, in a now-distant timeline, called her companionship "easy".
"If it pleases you," Gale ventures, "I would like to admit that I rather enjoy it, actually."
"It pleases me greatly." Amara gives him an easy, warm smile. "I am all gladness. Come, let us join the others."
"…Lead the way."
/ / /
It doesn't take long to find Zorru, namely because Lae'zel merely marched up to everyone and demanded their names. It may not be the most polite method, but it was efficient. Amara would consider snapping to spare their group the embarrassment, and since she now knows who Zorru is…
But she doesn't. She rather enjoyed her slow moment with Gale.
"B-by Mordai's eyes," the poor tiefling stutters when Lae'zel storms up to him. "Another one."
Lae'zel frowns deeply, crossing her arms over her chest, and Amara can hear Gale mutter, "Oh, boy…" under his breath.
She has to bite her lip to contain her smile.
Surprisingly, Shadowheart takes up a post right by Lae'zel's left shoulder.
"My f-friend's blood not enough? Come to rip me open, too?" he asks, and quickly Amara gets a particularly bad feeling. The fear in this creature's eyes is real. It goes deep. When he looks at Lae'zel, he's not just seeing a race of thinking monsters and being generally distrustful of them.
He's terrified.
Lae'zel's lip curls back in anger and disgust. "In Crèche K'liir, a formal greeting begins with a bow," she emphasizes, and gestures for him to lower his head.
The fear in the tiefling's eyes only grows, and Amara can see how his frame trembles, how he can hardly keep himself upright.
"Is this m-monster with you?" he asks, trying to keep his voice firm but the break in the middle betrays him.
Lae'zel obviously opens her mouth but Amara makes a call.
"Hold it, Lae'zel," she snaps, making eye contact with the githyanki. "I'll see to this one."
"You dare interrupt?" she roars, and Amara sees Zorru flinch, gripping fabric in his hand until his knuckles go white. "Has the tadpole ravaged your senses?"
"Enough." Amara keeps her own voice steady, strong. She may treat everyone in the group as equally as possible, but in matters like this, she knows when to truly act like a leader. "Stand down— I won't tell you again."
Lae'zel holds her gaze for several long seconds. The anger and hurt in hers festers and flickers, but she spits out, "K'chakhi! Fine," and turns away, standing to the side.
Amara raises her eyes, hardened and steely, to the tiefling.
"Take a breath," she advises. "She isn't going to hurt you."
Lae'zel makes a noise of disgust but Zorru does finally seem to take a full breath in for the first time since the party approached.
"Th-thanks." He looks nervously among the group. "What do you want from m-me?"
"Information. Where did you see the githyanki?"
"On the road to Baldur's Gate, near the mountain p-pass," Zorru answers immediately. "Saw us 'fore we s-saw it. Jammed its b-b-blade through Yul's belly, straight to the other side. And I just… I just ran."
Amara opens her mouth, to say some words of comfort to the poor thing when Lae'zel opens hers faster.
"The map. Show me."
Rolling her gaze over to the githyanki, Amara keeps most of her expression neutral but makes sure the look in her eyes is disapproving, and that there's no hint of a smile on her lips. While they have a short stare-off, Zorru marks Lae'zel's map and steps back, gripping his shirt fabric in his hands once more, wringing it out of stress.
His eyes seem to beg Amara to let him go.
"All right, Lae'zel. You got what you needed," she says, hastening to end the conversation.
Lae'zel hisses lowly in anger. "Yes. Your mediocre interrogation technique notwithstanding."
Amara can hear Shadowheart take a breath in and she just holds her hand up. "Zorru gave you no reason to 'interrogate' him, Lae'zel. I'm sure you often wish people thought more of your feelings when they spoke, so why can't you do the same?"
"Feelings?" Lae'zel spits out. "What use are those? I couldn't care less about feelings."
"You seem quite sensitive to the words of others, if that is true."
"They insult the githyanki!" Lae'zel shouts, slamming her hand down onto the table her map is still laid out on.
"Perhaps that is part of it," Amara concedes. "But you would be lying to my face if you told me you never took any of their words personally. You scared the life out of that tiefling. That doesn't mean you have to be nice to him. But laying on the cruelty would have worsened his opinion of all gith, and would have made it more difficult for us to obtain this location. The feelings of others do matter, both their positive and negative ones, when it comes to asking for assistance as well as assisting others."
Lae'zel balls her hands into fists and says no more, but nods once and steps away from the rest of the party.
At a much easier pace, the group walks through the grove. They find a trader, and Amara is able to secure them more items for their camp and more supplies for survival. She'll need to work on getting all of them properly outfitted in good armor and weaponry, but that can wait.
One thing at a time.
As they descend more toward the center of the grove, Amara hears something curious. She puts an arm out to stop Shadowheart who had been matching pace with her. "Did you hear that?" she asks, her ears perking up and rotating slightly toward the sound.
"Hear what?" the half-elf asks, keeping her voice very soft.
"It sounded like someone said, 'please let us through…'"
Quickly, Amara's party takes off for the source of the sound, finding a grouping of tieflings on some stone steps, where a young female tiefling with dark gray skin is pleading angrily, shouting at the top of her voice. "Let my daughter go— right now."
Three druids appear to be blocking them from descending the steps, and the middle one with short locs of hair yells back, "She's a thief, hellspawn," which Amara doesn't exactly appreciate. "And you will wait for Kagha's judgment. Now get back!"
"Argh," the woman howls in agony. "Let me through, mragreshem, or I'll rip your damned throat out!"
One of the other two druids suddenly lets out a mighty roar, transforming in a flourish of druidic Weave into a large bear, standing menacingly at the bottom of the stairs, muscles coiled and body ready to pounce on any of the tieflings if they dare to take another step down.
Shocked and in fear for their lives, the tieflings back up the stairs, as the transformed druid continues to growl and roar at them. Amara can hardly blame them.
She can still hear the mother.
"We need to get Arabella out," she insists, and the pain in her voice hurts Amara deeply.
"You heard the guards— they're waiting on Kagha to give word," the tiefling man next to her says, trying to calm her.
It seems to have the opposite effect.
"I'd sooner trek through the Nine Hells than trust that snake. Argh."
Amara walks down the first few steps. She catches their attention and they fall silent at the strange elf in their camp, but Amara tries to offer them a soothing smile. "I saw what happened," she says, the smile fading. "Why are the druids holding your daughter?"
The man, presumably the father, sighs, and deep sadness and worry fill his eyes. "Arabella tried to steal their idol. Druids lost their damn minds about it— they need it for their precious ritual."
"It's all my fault," the mother insists, a touch hysterical. "I told her I wished the wretched thing would just disappear— or better yet, explode."
"Now Arabella is being judged by a bunch of druids who hate us. That's not right."
"She was caught?" Lae'zel asks, surprising Amara. "Foolish child— let them judge her."
At that, Amara turns fully around.
"What?" Lae'zel asks. "Will you stand there and prattle about how I am wrong about this too?"
Amara ignores her for now, and turns back to the couple. "She's just a child— the druids are overreacting. I'll talk to them."
"Thank you. They won't give us the time of day."
"Hurry," the mother requests, and her husband comes to her side immediately. "I'm at the end of my tether as it is— can't take this waiting!"
The husband thanks her a few more times while taking his wife away, whispering to her.
When they are out of earshot, Amara turns back around to Lae'zel.
"Is it time for my lecture?"
"There is a line, Lae'zel. Do not cross it. She is a child."
Lae'zel spits out a few rapid-fire cusses. "When I was a child, I—"
"Do you see other githyanki here?" Amara asks. "If you raise your children to specific standards, that is your business, but others do not adhere to your customs. There are many obstacles in life, Lae'zel, but knowing you could look two parents who may be able to lose their child in the eye and tell them she deserves what is coming to her— that is heartless entirely. No matter your background, what your person looks like, you display cruelty I do not wish to associate with. If you continue this behavior, I will ask you to travel on alone, and it won't be because I dislike that you're githyanki. It will be because I dislike you."
Again, Lae'zel does not seem to have words for that, keeping her eyes on the stone steps.
Amara turns and begins to descend them, which, unfortunately for her and her love of survival, catches the bear's attention. He begins growling in earnest, squaring up and bearing his sharpest teeth. He even scrapes the ground, as if about to charge.
"Calm, Maggram," the first druid who spoke urges. "Give her a chance. You— get back."
"Why?" Amara asks, blinking wide eyes at the woman. "What's so special down here?"
The doe eyes do nothing to a woman who probably actually sees many does' eyes. "It's forbidden to outsiders— Kagha's orders."
Amara tries a similar, innocent method. "I'm not looking for trouble. Can you just let me by?"
"No," she growls out. "And you'll find trouble all the same, unless you get out of my sight."
Next to her, one of her druid companions interrupts. "A moment, Jeorna."
"What…?"
He whispers something to her, and his voice is floaty and almost out of touch with this plane. Perhaps in communication with another?
"Oh, I understand. You— apparently, Kagha wants to see you. Go ahead."
Well, that was easy.
Amara bypasses the three druid guards, each footfall a trepidatious one.
But it really is that easy.
Her ears perk up, on full alert, and the wind carries the sound of a voice through the grove. She follows it to see not a child, but a man in a blue suit costume speaking to…
A bear.
"Would that we could speak freely, my ursine friend!" he says cheerfully, and Amara just stares for a moment. He doesn't look like a druid. Is this man not an outsider? Who is he, to be allowed in the lower part of the grove?
She is practically dying to ask.
They have a mission, however, so she resolves to go around the opposite edge of the grove to continue her search for Arabella.
"Ah, my friend!" the man suddenly calls out, and Amara's resolve crumbles quickly as she turns to face him. "You were at the gates just now, no? When the goblins came? You saw them up close?"
It certainly isn't what she thought he would ask. "Yes, that's right," she says, slowly approaching him. "Were you there as well?"
"Oh, no! Not me, no. In fact, I have a few questions, if you please. There's no overstating my interest."
No, there certainly is not. With those wild gestures and booming voice, no one would dare interpret he was disinterested.
Amara looks back at her companions for a moment, and then gives a hesitant smile. "A few questions couldn't hurt."
"Glory!" the man sings, and Amara finds herself quite pleased with his enthusiastic demeanor actually. She still is dying to know who in the hells he is in this camp, though. "Now, then: how would you describe that particular batch of goblins? Size? Nature? Distinguishing qualities?"
*You search your mind, successfully recalling various details of goblin behavior.*
Well. Amara has fought them multiple times now. She manages to give probably a much lengthier description of them than is necessarily called for.
"'Goblins… were… of… rare… gem-colored… hue… and… wielded… magic… blowguns…' Right!"
That… is not what Amara said.
Lae'zel snarls next to her, tapping her elbow. "A myth-weaver," she sneers. "This man has no respect for truth."
The man ignores her.
"And the… dragon they had marching in the rear. Was it of the brass or silver variety?"
Amara puts a hand up. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. What do you want, exactly?"
"The truth, my friend! Not a jot more or less! Last question, then you'll be quite free. Did the attackers rally to 'the Absolute' when they fell upon the gates?"
Now, Amara just sighs. "Sure," she says, with a slight shake to her head. "They called out the name like a war cry," she teases, with an obvious mocking tone. She feels Shadowheart nudge at the back of her armor and she nearly cracks a smile.
"They did, didn't they? Oh-ho, curious. Curious indeed. I've interrogated one— a captive in this very camp. She reports they've abandoned their god Maglubiyet in favor of someone called 'the Absolute'. The scandal."
The humor vanishes for Amara. She had thought this was something silly, like the dragon. Now, she is not so sure…
Her head aches.
"Never you mind," the man says, he who must be a bard. "I'm on my way to their camp as we speak. I always knew my studies in Ghukliak would come in some use."
"Wait— the goblin camp?" Amara asks, blinking twice. "Ah. Just, be careful? I would assume it is not the safest place for one to venture alone."
"Never you mind," he repeats. "Who needs safety when you've a quick tongue? (And an invisibility potion stashed in your back pocket.) Until we meet again. My name is Volo, my lady." He bids them goodbye with a flourishing bow.
"Amara," she introduces herself, and then her party members. "Good luck, Volo."
With him making his way out of the grove, it is considerably more quiet, and another voice is able to travel on the wind.
A little girl's voice.
"I'm sorry," she insists, not sounding more than two and ten. "I'm sorry!"
Gesturing for her party to follow her, Amara hones in on the voice, and the group approaches a small room where several people are gathered, including a small red-headed child whom Amara assumes to be Arabella.
There's also something a bit more worrisome in the room; a rather concerningly large snake slithers menacingly close to the girl.
"Please," she gasps out when the snake bares its fangs at her. "I'm sorry."
"This is madness, Kahga," one of the other occupants of the room asserts, and Amara recognizes him as someone who stood as a leader to the camp from when Zevlor had perished during the attack. He must have emerged to represent the druids. "She's just a—"
What was his name again? It started with an R… Rat? Rach?
"A what, Rath?"
Ahh, that's it! Rath.
Kagha leans in toward the human druid, thick ginger hair bringing out undertones of furious red from her tawny skin. Her long pointed ears twitch. She's noticed their approach. "A thief?" she continues, gesturing to the little girl. "A poison?" She looks down at the child, who is less than half Kagha's height, cowering before her. "A threat?"
Amara can hear Shadowheart clutch her spear, as it rattles. Amara holds her hand out, steadying her.
"I will imprison the devil," she decides, and Amara's blood boils. "And I will cast out every stranger." Kagha juts her chin in the direction of Amara's party at this.
She breathes in deeply. Lets it back out. "Thief?" she repeats. "Poison? Are those words really necessary? Are you truly going to imprison a child?"
"Child? You mean parasite," Kagha snaps, full of venom. "She eats our food, drinks our water. Then steals our most holy idol in thanks!"
Kagha stares down her nose at the girl, nearly three feet taller than she, and Arabella holds her gaze for as long as she dares before her trembling eyes rip themselves away, cast to the ground instead.
"Rath— lock her up," Kagha commands, and the human druid jolts, indecision in every line of his body. "She remains here until the rite is complete." She leans down condescendingly while Arabella shakes, eyes still fixed on the ground. "And keep still, devil. Teela is restless."
With a single glance in the snake's direction, it unhinges its jaw and hisses once more, causing the young tiefling to gasp in fear and back several steps away.
Rath seems to give it one last try, his conscience on the line. "Come, Kagha. We took back the idol. Surely…"
"Do it."
Shadowheart touches Amara's back, and when she turns she sees Gale looking imploringly at her as well. "Amara," she whispers. "Do something. Please."
Amara gives them both a subtle nod and clears her throat. The woman before her is proud and arrogant. Reasoning with her will do little, as emotion and logic will not evoke sympathy from someone with such a stance in such a short time.
Arabella does not have the luxury of time.
She gathers the Weave between her fingers, the feel of it soft and slippery like silk, its scent like cinnamon and amber. It winds down her body and spreads across the floor in an invisible web, searching, prodding, looking. It touches Kagha, and in the next moment, her thoughts become spoken words.
"Halsin's gone— I am First Druid now. I will take control and prove my authority."
Proud and arrogant.
Amara can do proud and arrogant as well. She keeps her expression steeled. "Your decisiveness is commendable," she compliments, and she can feel her companions react around her. "Decisions like this are never easy, especially when one is new to their position." Amara lets her eyes soften, and she gestures to the child, and then to the grove. "You've proven how well you wield your authority, Kagha. Now prove your mercy."
Kagha keeps her eyes on Amara for a long moment, before her own expression softens. "Fair words," she admits. "It is indeed difficult to fill a lauded position such as this. So many pitfalls." She leans down over Arabella, making Amara's gut seize in panic while she waits for it to play out. "Child, take to the others word of my grace. Ssifisv— Teela, to me."
The snake leaps into action and slides down, making Arabella have to jump out of its way, but Amara is quickly distracted when she hears Shadowheart make a noise of pain behind her. A flash of purple lights on the back of her palm and she groans, and mutters, "It hurts," to herself, as if surprised.
The light fades and Shadowheart lifts her eyes, making eye contact with Amara. Her face quickly goes ashen, expression one of deep fear, and Amara snaps her gaze away, leaving her a moment to herself.
Luckily, Rath is speaking, so she can focus on that.
"Thank you, Kagha. Master Halsin would…"
"Halsin isn't here. Keep his name off your tongue, lest Teela pierce it."
Kagha storms off in a flurry, and for a moment, Amara just stands there to breathe.
"That was well-handled," Gale compliments, trying to lift her spirits. "I shall see the child brought back to her parents."
"Thank you, Gale," the elf replies, smiling at him. She watches him approach Arabella. He introduces himself, and then does a spell which makes a deer appear in his palm, frockling through a forest of Weave.
It's positively magical.
Lae'zel lightly grabs Amara's elbow, and she turns to look down at the githyanki. "Lae'zel? What is it?"
She's quiet for a moment, looking at Kagha's back. "Answer me something."
"Of course," Amara replies instantly. "Is something on your mind?"
"Would I be asking you something if there wasn't anything on my mind?!" she snaps.
"Point taken." Amara eases her arm out of Lae'zel's tight grip. "Talk to me, then."
The githyanki makes a sound of frustration. "I just need to know— is that what I sound like?"
Amara blinks a few times. "You mean— do you sound like Kagha when you speak?"
"What she was saying about that foolish child, the one who got caught. The names she called her. The belittling. I feel as though that could easily have been a speech I made."
Amara hums. "Perhaps. Why do you ask?"
Lae'zel growls low in her throat. "It was unpleasant to watch. Even more unpleasant to watch you grovel to her, of course, but the druid was unpleasant as well."
"Grovel?"
"Yes!" Lae'zel spits out. "You bowed to someone weaker than you— you are supposed to demonstrate how powerful you are by oppressing others as often as you can. You always take such passive routes, and side with such pitiful creatures."
"Could I give you another piece of advice, Lae'zel?"
The githyanki snaps to look up at her, eyes narrowed, and lips pulled back, threatening. "I'm sure I will detest it, so no. But I am also sure you will tell me anyway."
"The next time you think I am siding with the weak, I want you to watch carefully how I interact with the ones you perceive as 'strong' in comparison. Can you do that for me?"
At this, Lae'zel just scoffs and walks away.
Amara thinks this means yes.
Shadowheart and Amara follow her blazing trail back to where Gale has delivered Arabella to her grateful parents, and she stops at the bottom of the staircase to admire the tieflings all gush over and flock to the girl, checking her over for injuries and thanking a bashful Gale over and over again.
Her eyes flick over to her companion.
Shadowheart is already looking at her. "I have been preparing myself for this," she informs Amara. "I knew you would ask. You're wondering why I was in pain before. Let's just clear the air about that now." Amara would say something, but Shadowheart is just barreling straight ahead as if the words are bleeding from her mouth. "It's just an old wound that hurts me from time to time. Nothing to be concerned about. It's nothing to do with the tadpoles at least, in case your imagination is in danger of getting away from you. It's just… something I have to live with."
Amara blinks and opens her mouth slightly, before closing it and stepping back from the stairs by a few paces, and she gently takes Shadowheart by one of her shoulders. "I was only going to ask if you were all right, Shadowheart."
She reels but recovers quickly. "I'm fine. Like I said, it's nothing you need to concern yourself with."
"How badly does it hurt?" Amara asks, her hand drifting from Shadowheart's shoulder to her hand. "You so rarely make a sound at all when you are in pain. It can't be minor."
Shadowheart sighs, letting the elf lift her hand up. "You are correct. It hurts quite a lot, if I'm being honest. But it always passes quickly, so I can manage."
Amara gives her hand a light squeeze and drops it. "I'm sure you can. If, however, you should need anything… just let me know, all right? Thank you for letting me know. I wish you did not have to suffer from it, though I suppose it is a small mercy it is not connected with the affliction we all share."
Gale begins to descend the steps, and Lae'zel is hovering nearby, so Amara tries to rally them together to keep onto the next part of the mission. She has, however, forgotten to account for something which often escapes her mind when she is frequently jumping back in time.
Food.
Her stomach growls loud enough she's sure the whole party can hear it, and Gale chuckles as he reaches the bottom step, a light-hearted, amused expression on his face. "Starving, are you? That makes a pair of us. This is, after all, tiring business, isn't it? All this traveling and adventuring."
"And fighting," Amara tacks on, having expended thousands of calories in battle already that day.
Gale laughs again. "Yes, that too. Why don't we take a little break? Allow ourselves a few moments of rest, something to eat."
"You had me at 'something to eat'," Amara teases, and Gale's brow furrows in a way that makes her chest tight.
"That, my lady, is the last thing I said."
"You'd best be glad you said it, then, good sir. Well, lead the way."
Gale gawks at her. "I lead the way?"
Amara playfully rocks back on her heels. "You were the one to suggest the break, yes?"
"Fair point," he concedes and begins walking back up into the druid grove toward the trader Amara had met earlier. "Though I must admit, I have an ulterior motive for this break. I thought it would give me a chance to talk to you about something, well, rather important."
"'Rather important', no less?" Amara echoes, sounding pleased. "You have intrigued me. If it is thus, you simply must speak on the matter."
Gale smiles at this, shaking his head slightly, and speaks to the trader, purchasing not just Amara, but everyone in the party something to eat. Amara positively devours the meat and cheese, surprised both that the options were there and that Gale would choose them.
She would have to remember to bring something back for Astarion.
As she wraps up a few of the meats for later, polishing off the cheese, she looks up to find Gale's eyes on her. "Thank you for the meal," she says, and watches a flicker of something flare in his eyes.
"You are most welcome, Amara." Her name rolls off of his tongue in such a focused way that it makes the hair on her arms stand on end. "As for the subject of conversation I wanted to speak on… it's something I wanted to bring up early on our journey, but it isn't the easiest topic for me to rouse myself to talk about."
Amara sets her leftovers in her pack and makes sure Gale has her full attention. She's aware Shadowheart and Lae'zel are both listening as well from where they sat to eat, but it seems to help Gale to solely address her. "Speak on what you can, then. We are in a boat together, Gale, but that's not to say you owe us your life story."
He winces slightly, beginning to fiddle with his robe, crossing his legs the other way to get more comfortable. "Yes, it's just— something like this is important, you see. I believe it is vital for you to know, as it is necessary for my survival, and perhaps your own. It would be… irresponsible of me to not disclose it. As a teammate and a friend," he attempts to explain, gesticulating wildly.
Amara thinks she may know what this is about. She smiles softly.
"Take you time, my friend."
Gale's eyes widen before his whole expression seems to lose some of its tension. "You truly are easy to speak to, Amara. In fact, ever since you were kind enough to free me from that stone, I've seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage. The way you diffused the tension between Zevlor and Aradin. The way you got Kagha to release the girl. In short: I've grown to trust you."
Like a vision, for a moment Gale is sitting across from her in her dining room in Waterdeep again. It fades quickly, but it sets her skin to freezing chills all the same. She manages to smile, knowing it's appropriate for this moment, but can't help but be fraught with the feeling of loss, of what Gale lost in that time, of what she lost coming back in time, and what everyone who suffered without her must have lost.
She steels her resolve to keep as many alive as she can.
"I am all gladness to hear that, Gale," she says, voice a touch thick.
He smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling. "The reason I make a point of saying this is that I've grown confident enough to tell you something I've yet to tell another living soul. Except for my cat."
Amara laughs playfully. "Have a cat, do you? You'll have to tell me more about that another time."
"Another time, then," Gale promises, his hands speaking wildly with his every word. "You see, I have this… condition." His tone finally grows more somber, his brow furrows. He gestures to himself, his chest, and seems to almost hold something in front of him. "Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly."
Heart aching for him, Amara follows how she knows she should reply. "What kind of condition?" she asks, reaching forward and putting a hand lightly on his knee.
He eyes the touch, but after a few beats of silence, more tension bleeds out of him, and he leans forward, his gestures growing more loose and natural. "The specifics are rather personal," he admits, "but suffice it to say that it is a malady I have learned to live with."
Well, isn't that familiar? How many on her team are living with a kind of pain?
"Though not without some effort," he tacks on with a bitter laugh. "What it comes down to is this: every so often, I need to get my hands on a powerful magical item and absorb the Weave inside.
Amara hums softly in thought. "And… what happens if you do not consume these artifacts?"
"I'll spare you the finer details," he begins, gesticulating with some amount of trembling to his hands. "But it begins with a simple biological deterioration. Muscle spasms, disorientation, a slight ringing in the ears. And if left for too long… catastrophe."
Unconsciously, Amara squeezes where her fingers rest on his knee, and Gale looks down at her hand once again, and he brings one of his hands down until his fingertips barely brush against the back of her hand.
"It's been days since I last consumed an artifact," he confesses. "Since before we were abducted. It's only a matter of time before my craving returns. This is why I turn to you. I need you to help me find magic items to consume. It is vital. Dare I say it, critical."
Down to one hand, it's as if Gale is making up for his occupied hand with the intensity of his gestures with the other.
Amara can see that he's holding his breath now.
She keeps it short. "I'd be happy to help, Gale."
He lets the breath out in a relieved gust. "You have my thanks. And fear not— your implicit trust is well placed, and will be rewarded with any and all means at my disposal. I'm sure we won't have to look very far to find what I need. Faerûn overflows with magic-infused treasure. I know the allure magic artifacts hold. I understand their value and their power. All of this to say: I understand the sacrifice I ask of you. But if I may be so bold: it's for a very good cause indeed."
Gale lifts her hand off of his knee and pulls it forward, as if intending to bring it closer to his face, but he quickly seems to realize how many people are around, and settles instead for giving her fingers a squeeze and letting them go.
"I hope I can count on you," he adds, a gentle smile on his face, tentative and a bit bashful.
"It would be my pleasure," Amara says. "You're sure you don't need anything yet?"
"Not just yet," he confirms. "But… soon."
"Let me know the moment you do," she requests, rising to her feet. "For now, we should get back to it. There isn't long left in the day."
Chapter Text
Chapter V
No Rest for the Weary
Before Amara can guide her party anywhere, a familiar face approaches them.
"Ah, Zevlor," she greets. "Well met. Can we do something else for you?"
He nods, his expression grim. "I am afraid I must beg a favor from you, Amara. Rath came delivering a message from Kagha. Since the Idol of Silvanus has been returned, the rite has resumed, and the grove will be sealed. She cannot be swayed."
"Zevlor, let me speak with her, I was consumed with a dire—"
"I am well aware of the situation with Arabella, and I agree with you that it was of higher importance," he quickly clarifies, one hand to his chest. "However… I don't believe it would be wise to venture back into the Emerald Grove any longer. Kagha only has so much patience, and it is a very little amount. She has asked that we hire you to guide us out of the grove… before the final prayer. I fear it is no small task, even for fighters of your abilities, however."
Amara considers this for a moment, and then turns to the rest of her group. "We could do that, don't you think?"
"Of course," Gale answers immediately, and Amara smiles at him.
Lae'zel glares viciously at the both of them. "It would be nothing but a waste of our time. We have no idea how long our good luck will last, and you'd like to waste what precious little of it we may have on strangers?"
"Refugees," Shadowheart corrects softly. "I… am hesitant as well, about the time it will take, but they have no one else to turn to." She makes eye contact with Amara. "Before this, I might have left them behind, but no longer. I don't want to be that kind of person. I say we take them."
"Tsk'va!" Lae'zel snaps. "You all will be the death of us."
Amara turns back to Zevlor. "We would be happy to guide you out of the grove."
The relief in Zevlor's expression makes it all worth it. "Wonderful. I can't express how thankful we are— I am. There is a way you may be able to aid in making the journey a less treacherous one. There is, after all, a whole army of goblins out there."
"Oh? Go on. Any way to make this safer for your people, I would be open to."
"This is something I've been theorizing on for a while," Zevlor begins, leaning closer to the party. "You see, goblins are ill-disciplined— it's unlike them to organize so cleverly. Somebody must be leading them, bringing discipline to their ranks. Take out their leadership, and they'll scatter."
"Making a thinner herd for us to encounter should we chance upon some escorting you to Baldur's Gate," Amara recognizes. "Clever."
"Clever it may be, easy it is not," Zevlor admits. "However, I've seen you fight. You're equal to the task."
"So, target the goblin horde's leaders, is it? I'll see what I can do and get back to you as soon as I can," Amara says.
"Everyone in this camp depends on it. Thank you," Zevlor says, bending forward in a bow. He winces slightly and raises his head. "Rath did also have another request of his own, one he asked me to keep… quieter."
"And what would that be?"
"As you may have heard— many say that the leader of the druids has been replaced with a snake. The one whom they consider the real leader is Master Halsin. He is perhaps goblin-caught, perhaps dead. He would put an end to this nonsense, stop this ritual and put Kagha back in line. Rath - and myself - would kindly request that you… that you look for him. He left west with the adventurers, but that is all we know."
Amara considers this. "It is highly possible we may come across him," she says. "I will do my utmost to locate him if it is within my powers."
Zevlor bows. "Thank you, Lady Amara. I will tell the others to prepare for the journey. We'll be ready to leave as soon as you give word. In the meantime, I see you've met our trader. If you have any injuries from the battle at the gate, feel free to see Nettie, our healer, as well."
"Will do, Zevlor, thank you kindly."
Shadowheart rests her fingers on Amara's shoulder blade gently. "Should we see her about the tadpoles?" she asks when Zevlor is out of earshot.
"You really think she'd be familiar?" Amara questions.
"If she is of any mettle," Gale answers for her, and Amara is reminded that everyone seems to know more about the illithid than she does.
"It couldn't hurt then," she supposes. "We have to wait for the tieflings to be ready, anyway."
They trek once more to another part of camp, and Amara sees a dwarven druid leaning over a blue bird. Her eyes are downcast, entirely focused on her avian patient, and her short dark hair falls in thin locks down, framing her face.
She holds up a hand. "I see you. Just give me a moment."
The bird chirps pleadingly and Amara steps back.
Nettie starts to chant a spell, the Weave floating through her fingers a vibrant green, and the bird hops back to its feet, tilting its head this way and that. "There," Nettie says soothingly. "It's up to her now. Life or death." Then, she turns to Amara, her expression cautious and careful. "Now, what was it you needed?"
"Healing," Amara says, her lips quirking up. "Looks like I came to the right person."
Nettie doesn't seem amused. "I do what I can," is all she says, her accent flitting and light. "For most folks, that's enough. Come here, let's have a look at you."
Amara bends down, allowing Nettie to examine her closer.
"You seem healthy enough. A bit tired 'round the eyes, maybe."
Gee, Amara wonders why.
She gives a nervous laugh. "No good way of putting this. I… uh… have a tadpole in my head."
"A tadpole," she gasps, shocked. "A mind flayer tadpole?"
"You know of them?" Amara half-asks, half-observes. "Can you help us?"
"I—" she stutters, stops, looks to the rest of the party and her eyes widen. "I'll do what I can. Come, follow me. I might be able to help."
She starts off immediately, gesturing for the party to follow her.
"You need to be quick," she advises, a slight tremble in her voice. "This way." In a separate chamber, Amara is shocked to see a corpse on one of the tables. Nettie seems to catch her staring and she sighs. "This one had the same problem as you. Attacked us in the woods together with some goblins. Tadpole crawled out of his head soon after."
"I'm, ah, hoping for a less grave cure?" Amara asks, again trying for a smile.
Netie fusses with some of the things on her desk, and pulls out what looks like a nature focus. A wand of branch, of sorts. "I'll do the best I can," she promises. "I'm no Master Halsin, mind. He'd have your tadpole out like that," she says with a snap. "Still, we have options."
Again, Nettie seems to notice the others in the room.
"You don't have to be here for this," she tells them.
"I'm interested in the procedure, actually," Gale quickly says, and Amara is immediately fighting a smile at how he's trying not to sound eager. Really, Gale. "Please, go ahead."
Nettie doesn't seem entirely convinced, but she shrugs. "All right, let's see what we can do."
Amara flicks her gaze down to the branch again. "What's that plant?" she asks. "Will it help?"
*She shifts uneasily, hesitating,* Amara winces as the voice rings in her ears. *Something's off*
Lovely.
No, it's fine, it's only her life at stake. Not a big deal or anything.
Amara presses her fingers together.
"It might," Nettie hedges. "But first things first. Tell me about your symptoms - have you noticed anything strange happening?"
Amara could laugh in her face, but she restrains herself.
"I can merge my mind with anyone else that's infected," she states, as one of the most obvious "strange" things.
"Victims can identify each other? Not that the others know they're victims, of course." Nettie picks out of the statement, which Amara didn't even realize she'd admitted. Not that she's hiding anything, but still. She feels as if she's under intense scrutiny right now, as if she's done something wrong.
She wants to snap.
"How'd you pick up the parasite?" Nettie asks instead, and Amara is ever-so-grateful she doesn't have to explain the narrating voice in her head. "Halsin was desperate to find where all this was happening."
"On a mind flayer ship— I was kidnapped and infected. We all were."
This is the most shocked Nettie has looked so far. "A mind flayer ship? But Master Halsin was sure— look, you've been straight with me, so I'll be straight with you. You're dangerous. If you transform here, we're all dead. But you seem like a good soul," Nettie puts the branch in her pocket. "You deserve a chance to save yourself."
Instead of the branch, she takes out a bottle.
"This is a vial of wyvern poison. Swear to me you'll swallow it if you feel any symptoms."
Well. If Amara starts feeling symptoms, she'll snap. Snap all the way out of this and solve it from the outside, but from the fact alone that her previous Gale survived over a month, she's pretty sure something is off with the tadpoles.
So, she lies.
"I swear."
"I hope it doesn't come to that, but… thank you. Here," Nettie hands her the vial and Amara takes it. It's heavy in her palm, and her Weave pulses around it.
She can't control the speed of time, or change its flow. She can't see forward in time, or leap forward either. But sometimes, even though she's locked all those spells away, her Weave pulls through a heaviness. A weight.
A feeling.
This object has importance in her future.
Lovely.
"You know, I've spent my life treating folk and never once saw a mind flayer infection. Then suddenly, there's dozens of you— maybe more. Master Halsin and I were tracking them, studying them, trying to figure out what the hells was going on. Because you should all be changing— there should be a small army of mind flayers out there! But you're not. Weird powers aside, you seem perfectly normal."
"You must've learned something from studying them," Amara suggests, attempting to glean something from this conversation.
Nettie frowns, sighing. "For one, that thing in your head is like nothing we've ever seen from mind flayers. It's one of their worms, for sure, but this one gives you powers— telepathic connections. And it doesn't turn you into one of them. Not yet, anyhow."
"You said you were tracking other victims. Did they change?"
Perhaps the length of time is merely growing longer?
"Hard to say," Nettie says, very extremely helpfully, "but there's a lot we don't know."
No, really?
Amara is too tired for this conversation, she thinks.
"Infected - folks like you - have been converging on an old temple of Selûne, and I've no idea why. When Master Halsin heard the adventurers were heading that way, he saw a chance to get answers. Joined on the spot. Whatever he found there, he didn't make it back."
She would like some concrete advice from this woman, please. "What do you want me to do?"
"The thing is, I've sent birds to find him, but the place is rotten with goblins. None of us can even get close. You, though? You're one of them— technically speaking, I mean. They won't kill someone carrying their parasite. If you can find Halsin and get him out of there, we can discover what he learned. And perhaps he can save your life. How's that sound?"
"Sounds like saving Halsin just became a priority."
If he's already at her destination for rescuing the tieflings, there's no reason she shouldn't find him post haste.
"Thank you. It would mean everything to the grove. To me. I wish I could tell you what happened out there, but those adventurers were the only witnesses. And they're long gone," she says with a shake of her head.
Oh, well. Amara could always do all this shit again and snap back to talk with them before they scampered off.
"All I can say for sure is they all went to the old temple of Selûne and Master Halsin didn't make it back. Good luck out there. And if things start to go bad— remember the vial. Remember your oath."
/ / /
Amara drops the large pack she's carrying as soon as they walk up to their camp.
It falls to the ground with a dramatic thud.
"What… is all this?!" she demands, and Astarion flails wildly trying to get up out of a chair situated at a small table used for dining.
"Oh, hello, darlings!" he greets, trying to sound at ease, but his voice comes out far from smooth. "I just decorated a little, what do you think?"
Sure enough, there's a campsite for each of them. Fabric vaulted over small sitting areas of mismatched furniture, firepits and lanterns lighting the separate living areas for each one of them, and bedrolls around the fire for them to all sleep together, watching each other's backs.
There's even a camp for Wyll, who's already arrived. "Hey," he greets, waving a hand. "He was already setting this up when I got here, so please don't be mad at me too."
"Whyever would she be angry with me?" Astarion says, saunting over with a hand splayed on his chest. "Amara, darling, you have got to see the lovely decorations I found for your space. I'm sure that you'll—"
"You left the campsite while we were gone?" she asks, blinking at him. Unlike Gale, Astarion actually is just a bit taller than her, so she does have to look up just slightly.
The pale elf's grin falters. "What, was I supposed to stay holed up in the dirt and my bedroll the whole time? I'm sorry, I didn't realize I should have shackled myself to a tree."
"What?" Amara reaches out for him, but he backs away.
"I tried to do something nice for everyone, and this is the thanks I get? If you'd like to sit in the dirt and the mud, Amara, by all means— next time I won't leave your designated area. Why don't you draw it for me with a stick and beat me with it if I cross the—"
"Astarion!!" Amara yelps, her hand coming to cover her mouth. "This… this campsite is not a prison," she begins, hand dropping. "You are not confined here when you stay behind, I apologize for making it sound that way."
He opens his mouth a few times and then slumps his shoulders a bit. "No, it is I who should apologize. I believe I may have overreacted… slightly."
Amara's lip twitches up. "Slightly. I was merely worried about you being left alone, and if you ventured somewhere without one of us to watch your back for you, you might get hurt. I don't want to see you hurt, Astarion, especially not when I requested one of you to stay behind."
"I'm an elf, Amara, my devastating good looks do not betray my age," he preens. "I have gone out to run errands without a watchdog before."
"Not a watchdog," she gently corrects. "Not a babysitter, not a bodyguard. A friend, a partner, an equal. Someone to rely on. And it doesn't matter how many times you've successfully defended yourself before, it only takes one time someone gets lucky. I just… I don't know what I would have done with myself if we got back and we couldn't find you anywhere."
His eyes widen, and he grips his arm, the fabric straining. "I see your point. I'm s—"
"I don't need you to apologize for going out!" Amara quickly says. "You weren't in the wrong, and you don't need me to forgive you for anything. This isn't a prison, you aren't confined here. I just… wanted you to know my concerns for you, I suppose."
"I… thank you, then, Amara."
She gives him a small smile. "You're welcome. I, uh, brought some things?" She holds up her pack. "Could be some redundancies now, but hey. The more the merrier."
"Can I give everyone a tour?" Astarion asks, and he perks up considerably as he takes the pack from Amara and sees an ornate mirror at the top of it.
"I do believe there's nothing we'd like more."
The camp is still sparse, but Amara has to admit that Astarion did a lovely job giving each of them something more resembling a living space. Everything inside each one should fit in a pack they are able to carry with them, and all the larger furniture pieces will fit into a small cart parked next to a horse feeding off of some hay by the river.
It's peaceful. Amara feels something inside her finally settle.
After everyone gets to see the full extent of Astarion's work, they disperse to their individual spaces, and Gale offers to cook some of the food they'd bought off the trader - Arron - before returning to camp. Of all of them, he seems to have the most experience.
Not all of Amara's potions are very tasty, necessarily.
He sets a steaming meal atop the small dining area and each of them take a seat in a different dining chair, all of different heights, varying materials, with or without arms, and pass the worn dishes around dollying out servings.
Amara feels warm inside.
Wyll picks up the dishes long after the meal has finished and the fire has dimmed. "You know," he begins, "when I was chasing that archdevil, and I was accosted aboard the mind flayer ship, I never thought… I never imagined a moment like this in my future."
Amara smiles up at him. "That, Blade of Frontiers, is the curious thing about time. The future is vast. It is ever changing and unpredictable. It can be harsh and bleak, but also… surprising."
"That it can, Lady Amara," he agrees. "I shall return in a moment. Allow me to help clean up."
Shadowheart stands up as well. "I'll go stoke the fire," she offers. "It fades quickly."
"Thank you both."
"For what?" Lae'zel snaps, and both the half-elf and the human warlock freeze. "Doing their part? You're the leader, isn't it only right that your followers do their share? Run your errands, cook your meals, clean your dishes, tend to your fire?"
Amara narrows her eyes. "And what of you, then?"
"K'chakhi! I am no subordinate of yours. If anything, we are partners. You'll treat me with respect."
"Does that not extend both ways, then?" Amara asks, gesturing between them. "Your disparaging behavior toward me often gives me the impression you don't respect me or my choices very much."
"Kainyank. This tantrum you're throwing only makes me lose further respect for you, even a hatchling would be wiser. The githyanki have more respect for themselves than you will ever have from the moment they are born."
"Because I stand up for others weaker than I?" Amara drolls out, anger rising up and heating her blood.
"Because you do not display your power!" Lae'zel urges. "You should be ruthless! Decisive!"
"That's what you think makes a good leader?"
"Tsk'va, that is what makes a good leader!"
Amara takes a deep breath. "I pity you for such a small worldview, then, Lae'zel."
The githyanki woman immediately bristles. "What did you just—"
Slapping her hand down on the table, Amara startles all of her companions as she pushes herself to her feet, leaning over the table and staring pointedly into the eyes of the githyanki fighter.
"You have no patience. I made a request for you to watch my next interaction with someone, did I not? You are highly intelligent, Lae'zel, so think for a moment about a perspective that differs from your own."
"You dare to think I have not?! I—"
"To you, showing your power over someone else is dominating them. To me, showing my power over another results in getting what I want. Did I get what I wanted, Lae'zel?"
She snarls, curses roll off her tongue.
"Yes or no?!"
"Yes!" she snaps, "You did!"
"That's right— I sided with the child in the grove, yes, and I used compliments to get what I wanted from Kagha, yes. But against an opponent as powerful both in strength of ability and strength of status, I solved the situation in front of me nigh instantaneously, denied the stronger party of what she truly wanted, and yet gained her favor in the process." Amara counts off each item with a finger. "Kagha believes herself to have won, and yet she is too blinded by her own rapacity to see she lost our exchange entirely. And that," Amara slams her hand down on the table again, "is a dominating victory."
Amara leans back, the fire flickering low from next to the table. She turns slightly, and it glints off her armor, her jewelry, her viridescent eyes.
"I know I am strong, Lae'zel. I do not need to prove it to every insignificant. Strength can be silent as well."
She leaves the table, taking her hair from its braids, loosening their curls, and heading for the river.
Nearly out of earshot, she just manages to pick up the sound of Astarion's voice saying, "Ooh, Lae'zel, you must tell me, darling— did that unlock something in you?"
There's a snarl, a crash, and Astarion whines in pain.
"Lae'zel!!" he cries, causing her to growl again.
"Lae'zel! Don't break that, we just bought it!" Shadowheart's voice echoes down from the camp.
Wyll clears his throat and asks, voice faint at the point. "Uh, if she is going to the river, what do I do with the dishes?"
"Leave her to her dramatic finish," Amara can just barely pick out Gale's lilting tone. "Come, I will create water for you."
The warm feeling in her chest slowly starts to return.
She washes her hair and sinks into the clear water, radiating a small amount of Weave from her body. She whispers to it, and imagines a flickering candle flame, curls of smoke. The smell of cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg. Fire. Warmth. Heat.
The water around her heats slightly, soaking into her aching muscles.
A branch snaps behind her.
"Ah— ahem! Hello, there!" she hears, and identifies immediately as Gale. A part of her wants to relax, but she doesn't just yet. She cranes her neck and just there, on the treeline before the river clearing, is the wizard. He's still in purple, but these robes are much more dressed down and unadorned.
He also has his hand plastered across his eyes.
Amara relaxes, beginning to laugh.
"Ahoy, Gale of Waterdeep," she jeers at him. "How may I assist you?"
"Oh, ah, no assistance necessary," he assures her, very carefully moving a few steps closer. "I just thought you might like some fresh clothes from your pack to change into. Shadowheart got them out but Lae'zel has been… well, she got distracted. I can just put them down—"
Amara sends a Mage Hand cantrip over to get them for her.
"Ooft!" he exclaims, stumbling forward slightly. "Or, ahem, that. That also works. I won't bother you any longer, hopefully things will have calmed down at camp by the time you return."
Gale turns to leave and Amara sinks a bit into the water before her mouth runs ahead of her brain. "Gale," she says, and though the wizard had begun to leave, he freezes in place. "I can't imagine they'll be all that swift."
"Ah." He shuffles in place, and Amara can hear him break another branch. He certainly isn't a rogue. "I imagine not."
"Tell me about yourself."
"Now?" he asks, and she can hear the pitch of his voice raise in a way that makes her want to laugh.
She restrains herself, and instead teases, "I passed what looked like a rather comfortable rock on my way storming into the river."
There's more shuffling, a light chuckle. "Well, now that you mention it… ahhh where to begin. You want to know about Gale of Waterdeep, do you? Let's see. As my moniker implies, I hail from Waterdeep, the City of Splendors. I'm a wizard of considerable acclaim, and scholar of exceptional accompaniment."
"You don't say," Amara drawls out, thoroughly pleased.
She can hear the smile in Gale's voice when he speaks next. "I have a cat, a library, and a weakness for a good glass of wine. And if the mood takes me, I'm known to try my hand at poetry. There."
"Paint me a word picture, Gale, how many hand gestures are you using when listing these things?"
"Amara, I shall cease this generous offer of information on my person if you are only to insult my mannerisms," he lilts back.
Amara laughs. "I only request what I mourn I cannot see for myself," she argues. "Still, please don't stop on account of my rudeness then. I want to know more about you than your hobbies. Can't you tell me something about the real you?"
"Certainly." Amara hears a note of bitterness in his tone now. She distinctly does not like that. "That I have a great respect for privacy, for instance— especially my own."
Nope, Amara does not like that.
She snaps and goes back a minute.
Instead, she asks, "You must have many stories to tell about your adventures as an arch mage. It sounds far more interesting than being a potions maker in a small cottage."
"Didn't I paint enough of a picture?" Gale argues, and once again, Amara is surprised at the bitterness of his tone.
She snaps again, before she even told him not to stop. If he wants to stop, he can. She keeps the comment about his hand gestures, though. She really does like those.
She's growing weary of using her chronomancy at this point. She doesn't use it nearly this much, usually. The water is no longer warm. She shivers in the river and stands, hearing Gale make a small sound as she dries herself off and dresses.
"Hello there," she greets once she's in her night clothes, and Gale looks up at her from where he's sitting facing the tree line on the rock.
He clears his throat, looking up at her. "Good evening. Did you have, ah, a relaxing bath?"
She hums, and though it is a lie at this point, as she is nervous about having derailed her conversation with him twice and been forced to erase it, she still says, "It was nice. Almost too nice to have to go back to camp now. I don't want to continue to argue with anyone, but I don't want anyone to be left on their own, either."
"She is probably quite nervous you will extradite her," Gale points out. "You are fair as a leader, but have your moments with her more than anyone else being firm."
"She… strikes me as the type who overcompensates for her fear by leaning heavily into learned norms. Shadowheart isn't wrong with her ideas of the githyanki. They are a tough people, who train their young to be practically militaristic. 'Kindness' is not a word they have in their language."
"Why do you chastise Shadowheart as well for her viewpoints, then?"
Amara tilts her head, considering. "It continues the circle, if that is all we expect. The gith will be hated if all they do is hate, and if they are hated for their hatred, what are we to do? Someone must break the circle."
"And that's… you?" Gale asks, and Amara frowns.
"It is anyone with their head screwed on straight, Gale of Waterdeep."
He lets out a gasp of laughter, swinging forward and catching himself. "The things that come out of your mouth sometimes…"
Amara smiles and helps Gale up off the rock. "I suppose we should venture back to camp. My mirror was instantly commandeered by Astarion, and I was too charmed by how pleased he was to tell him I bought it for myself, so I suppose I will have to deal with messy braids again."
"Ah, just give me one moment," Gale offers, and he swings his hand in the air and his Weave collects into solid fragments, which become reflective of the river and the forest around them, before reforming into a solid mirror wall.
"Gale…" Amara breathes out. "That's amazing!" She starts braiding her wet hair, a far easier task with a reflection.
"Do go on, there's no need to hold back your compliments," he brags, leaning forward against the mirror, his voice echoing slightly. He carefully trims at his beard while Amara fixes her hair.
"Did you learn such a complicated spell… to admire your own facial hair?" she teases, loving watching Gale's reflection smile.
"A gentleman's only as dashing as his least groomed locus," he informs her liltingly.
"The things that come out of your mouth sometimes," Amara echoes, finishing her braids and turning back to the real Gale.
He dismisses their reflections as he bursts into laughter. "I suppose I deserved that one." He offers her his arm. "Shall we?"
She takes it and begins to walk back toward their camp. "Could I ask something, Gale?"
"Of course," he responds, ducking under a tree limb.
"Is something on your mind? You seem a little tense. It's not your condition is it?"
He turns to her, brown eyes deeper than pitch in this lighting and wide with surprise. "And here I thought I was behaving quite animatedly. No, it's not my… personal condition that's bothering me. It is our shared one. Ceremorphosis. What does it make you think of?"
"First and foremost: our damn tadpoles," Amara replies.
Gale raises one of his fingers triumphantly, and it makes Amara smile widely, which he undoubtedly notices. "Spot on," he compliments, seeming quite pleased both with her answer and with her reaction to his gestures. "Day one: fever and memory loss," he continues. "Day two: hallucinations and graying skin. Day three: hair loss and blood leaking from all orifices."
"Argh, Gale, don't say orifices," Amara pleads, shivering from disgust.
"Need I go on?"
"There's more?"
"Day four: excruciating pain as the skeleton and organs reform and reposition," he continues, making exaggerated gestures.
"Gods…"
"Day five: the host's personality has disappeared. Fingers, toes, and limbs elongate." His eyes flick over to hers. "I take it you get the picture?"
"Quite a gloomy picture, I must admit. A touch disgusting. More than a little unsettling— is it… the full picture, that?"
"Day six!"
"Nooo," Amara groans out. "I'm sorry I asked!"
"The flesh around the mouth splits to make way for tentacles. Day seven: a mind flayer is born. This is the annotated version of course."
Amara sticks her tongue out at him. "You did that on purpose— besides, I think you meant to say 'abbreviated,' oh great erudite."
"My point is this," Gale continues, ignoring Amara's theatrics and her expression of disgust. "Our orifices—" Amara elbows him in the side. "—ugh, Amara!" He laughs. "I'm being serious here!"
"So am I!! Don't say that!"
"Fine. Any openings in our bodies remain blissfully unbloodied."
"Ugh…"
"Our heads remain clear, and our blood temperature normal."
"I don't think I like 'blissfully unbloodied' either…"
Gale ignores her. "Any expert will agree: this is… abnormal."
Finally, Amara hums contemplatively. "Any ideas as to why we're the exception to the rule?"
"That, alas, is where my knowledge fails me," he confesses, waving a finger in the air. "A rogue might call it luck; a priest might call it fate. As for myself: I'm a pragmatic. I see the silence before the storm. Something to sleep on."
They reach the edge of camp. It's quiet.
Amara drops Gale's arm and turns to him, meeting his eyes perfectly as they stand at the same height. "Just don't forget to be a pragmatic about your rest, as well. We'll need it for tomorrow. This isn't a puzzle we can solve overnight, and you won't be solving it on your own. We'll solve it together."
Gale's lips quirk up. "Together, then. Good night, Amara."
"Pleasant dreams, Gale."
She watches him walk back to his camp space, and begins to make her way toward her own, noticing Astarion lying on his bedroll with his hands behind his head. She approaches him with brows raised.
"It's quite a sight," the pale elf states as she approaches, and Amara puts her hands on her hips. "The stars, I mean," he "corrects", but Amara is sure he thinks he's being smooth. "I could take or leave your chin."
She laughs, brows lowering. "Fine, that was clever," she admits. "And I like your sense of humor. You seem more relaxed than earlier, too, which I am glad for."
"I am," he confirms, and she can see how red his eyes are in the firelight. It filters through his irises and almost makes the glowing hue emerge as if they themselves are burning. "I've been thinking," he drawls out, a leading statement. "The others told me more about tomorrow's mission. It sounds dangerous. I'm… reflecting on what the results of such a mission might bring, when you find the druid. Will he know how to bring the worm under control?"
There it is. That word again. Control.
"Will this little adventure of ours be over?" Astarion tacks on, and Amara is actually surprised by that one.
"It doesn't have to be" she offers, looking down at him. "We can still travel together. I have to set up a new practice, anyhow."
"Good!" he cheers, rousing himself from his lounging position until he's standing. "I don't want you to run off just yet," he asserts, and Amara gets a strange impression he's choosing those words on purpose. "You're quite the ally, after all."
It sounds a bit like an excuse.
"You've been to the Hells and back. Survived the crash. Survived everything that's followed. I'm not easily impressed by people, but you're stronger than I gave you credit for."
Amara tilts her head, considering. Something is strange.
*The smile on his pretty lips is a touch too composed, a bit too perfect,* the narrator tells her, and Amara just manages to conceal her wince. *He may not mean a word he says.*
It stings a little, actually, to hear it.
She swallows the hurt and keeps her response neutral, "I'm just trying to survive. Like you."
"Yes," he drawls out, eyes growing distant, perfect smile melting away. "We're more similar than I thought…"
Amara blinks, concern flooding her. "Astarion… are you feeling all right?"
"Hmm?" He blinks a few times, and it's like his consciousness surges back to right itself. "Oh, I was leagues away. I just need to… get some air. Clear my head," he rushes to say. "I'll see you later, I'm sure. Sleep tight."
She stares after him for a moment. "Good night, Astarion. I hope all is well…"
Walking away from the elf's camp, she sees that Lae'zel has already holed herself into her camp, having dragged her bedroll into her living space instead of around the campfire. Amara supposes it is her decision, but she hopes that she'll be open to joining them the next night. Of course, on the opposite side of their camp is Shadowheart, who is still up though dressed down in more comfortable night clothing as well.
Shadowheart spots her while she's still well-off.
"The leader of the pack comes to chat," she notices, eyes roving to the other camps where several of the others are still loitering. "What's on your mind? You must be pleased to have a clear path forward."
"I must, or you must?" Amara asks, a small smile on her lips.
Shadowheart's gaze narrows, her lips pressing into a frown. "The sooner we find the druid Halsin, the better. I can't wait to get rid of this thing in my head."
Amara's gut twists slightly, guilt roiling. While she doesn't technically readily have the power to remove the tadpoles…
She technically "technically" could.
However, she has learned from Gale in the future that there is some time, and that there is benefit to having the worm. So… she'll wait, for now, and act when necessary.
She won't let any of them come to any harm from the tadpoles.
Instead of voicing any of that, she asks, "How are you feeling?"
"The same," Shadowheart admits. "These parasites are proving suspiciously benign."
As Amara expected.
"But suppose I turn… what would you do?"
Oof. Run Amara through, what a question. She wouldn't let it happen, first of all, but that isn't what Shadowheart is wondering. She's not questioning Amara's abilities— she's questioning her character, her capabilities as a leader.
"No hesitations. I'd just end your misery, then and there," Amara says in a low voice, to soften the blow.
Shadowheart nods, her eyes betraying nothing. "Wise," she maybe compliments. "Though I hope you'd miss me after I'm gone," she adds, and looks up at Amara's pleasantly surprised expression with her own wry one. "I think I would, if the positions were reversed," she confesses.
"That's… oddly touching, Shadowheart."
She gives a short huff of laughter before her face returns to one of seriousness. "But you're right— if we're to make it through all this, there can be no room for hesitation. You're doing well," she compliments again, and Amara knows she means as the leader of the group.
Amara thinks she has one more snap in her tonight. She presses her fingers together.
"Shadowheart," she begins tentatively. "Could you answer me a hypothetical this time?"
"I don't see why not."
"Let's say, we find the cure. We locate the druid, or Lae'zel's people have the answer. It lies right in front of us, the answer to ridding ourselves of this parasite. What would you say to… delaying the use of the cure, for a short while?"
Shadowheart's brows furrow. "Why would I do that? I want the worm out of my head yesterday."
"Yes, I know," Amara says quickly, "but think of what Nettie said. There used to seldom be any whisper of a mind flayer parasite. Now, there are dozens. Maybe hundreds. Say we find a cure, and we use it on our little group, and wash our hands of this nightmare. We go our separate ways, go home. This… plague we've stumbled upon, it still rages. Still festers. We have bandaged a weeping wound, and expected it to heal perfectly, all while it grows more infected by the day."
Light flickers through the half-elf's eyes. "So… you are saying we keep the cure on hand, and keep investigating the cause? Drive the plague out by its roots?"
"Would you, if you could? We seem to be a group of capable— or rather, exceptional individuals. I doubt it would be possible to find another collection of such well-placed skill sets to find these answers."
"Are you thinking about this hypothetical along the lines of finding Halsin tomorrow?" Shadowheart asks, "Or are you keeping something from us?"
Amara chews at her lip. Her fingers ache from pushing together. "I won't let you turn, Shadowheart, I promise," she whispers. "None of you."
Shock plasters across the cleric's features, rippling through to anger and then to betrayal. She draws her spear and points it at Amara's chest. "You have the cure?!" she demands "Give it to me!"
"It wouldn't be worth it," Amara insists, stepping back. "It would just cover a lethal bleed, Shadowheart… I need everyone here to—"
"So, you'll hold us hostage with knowledge you already possess?!" she roars, and Amara's gut seizes.
"No!" she insists. "Of course not! There's no danger posed in waiting—"
"We will turn to monsters if we are not cured!"
"And I'm saying I won't let that happen!" Amara yells back, pushing the spear away from her chest. "The moment any of us start to feel the slightest bit of difference, I will reverse the effects of the ceremorphosis and remove the tadpoles."
"Reverse the… how?!" she demands, and tries to yank the spear back from Amara.
"That's not important. What's important is that I'm confident it will work, it will just… take a lot out of me to do. But after I sleep for a time, I will recover. In the meantime, while we are still healthy, we should put our minds and bodies to task finding a solution that benefits more than the group of people I am readily connected with. I am not a cure for the tadpoles. I am just… a stopgap. We need to solve the problem if we want to really save lives."
Shadowheart grits her teeth together, but huffs out a breath and lowers the spear, which Amara releases. "If you are sure that we will remain unaffected by the worms… then I could consent to investigating them. Is there a reason it is beneficial to keep them in our heads while investigating? Can we not just continue our search once we are free of them?"
Amara shakes her head. "The telepathic connection is vital. It allows us to identify other victims, and gives us insight into the actions of others and the world around us. I'm sure we will run into obstacles we cannot overcome if we do not have the worm, and once I take your tadpole from you, I cannot give it back."
After a long pause, Shadowheart lets out her breath, and turns from her, the look in her eyes much more cold and distant than it was before. "I see. If there is nothing else you need to tell me, may I be dismissed?"
"Shadowheart…"
"I will be taking that as a yes."
Amara snaps.
"You're doing well," Shadowheart compliments a few minutes prior, the look in her eyes warm and friendly. "It's a beautiful night," she adds when unhindered by Amara's selfish interruption. "I think I'll stay up to enjoy it while I still can. Rest well."
Amara won't.
"I will, thank you… enjoy the moonlight, Shadowheart."
She makes her way back to the camp, hazy-eyed and feeling as if she's betraying everyone in the camp as she stands there, but doesn't know what to do about it. She detests how she feels, but her opinion remains unchanged.
It's a horrid feeling.
"You look distinctly as if there is something that's crawled somewhere it shouldn't be," Wyll interrupts her thoughts, and she blinks in his direction, startled. "Sorry," he quickly says. "Was that distasteful?"
*A tingle runs through your head and down to your feet.*
Lovely. Thanks for the reminder, worm.
"Ah, there it is— that shiver," Wyll utters with a disgusted flinch. "Our little brain-worms have made fast friends, it would seem. How do you feel?"
"Nervous," Amara admits, hating that a voice can dictate her emotional opinion on things. "I don't like the idea of that thing in my brain."
"It's natural, to suffer a touch of worry. But an illithid worm should be causing more than mild anxiety. Before the illithids' unscheduled surgery, I'd felled hundreds of beasts and a fair few fiends. The tadpole's weakened me, suppressed greater talents. But beyond that— I've shown no sign of turning. No nausea, no pain, not even a hot flash."
"It makes no sense, I know. Why haven't we turned?"
Wyll gives a wry smile and a charismatic shrug. "Perhaps the worms' vat was poisoned. Perhaps we're uncommonly fit," he suggests, smiling when Amara laughs. "Or perhaps the tadpoles are merely on holiday. We could conjecture all night."
"I might prefer to conjecture where the tadpoles might holiday to…"
Wyll laughs, and his expression settles on one of comfort. "All I mean to say, Amara, is that we should suppose the 'why' doesn't matter so much as the 'what next'. And that answer is plain as the horns on a wardevil's head: we get these things out."
Amara swallows. Right.
"Let's get some rest. Dawn comes sooner than we think."
She nods, stepping back from him. "May you find solace in it all the same."
"You as well, Lady Amara."
Finally, with one last glance to Lae'zel's closed tent, Amara lies down in her bedroll. There's the sound of some shuffling, feet scuffling, a cough here, an "excuse me" there, and the fire dims, the crickets chirp, owls hoot, and the moon glimmers as it descends down the arch of the sky.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter Text
Chapter VI
Something's Wrong
When the rest of the party awakes, Amara is sitting on her bedroll, admiring a set of footprints near her. Her finger traces the outline of one of them absent-mindedly.
"Everything all right, Lady Amara?" Wyll asks, and the elf doesn't even startle.
"I believe so," she answers, pulling her hand back into her lap. "It seems one of us couldn't sleep. Should any of you need anything from me today… feel free to ask," is all she offers, looking at the footprints leading away from their fire-side bedrolls with one last side-glance.
She doesn't even have to snap and stay awake to know who's made these tracks.
Still, she'd like to keep an eye on him.
Lae'zel emerges from her tent in full armor, and immediately avoids eye contact with Amara, heading for whatever food that Gale is putting out on the table.
"Lae'zel."
She stops, narrows her eyes, but still doesn't face Amara. "Do you have something to say to me?"
"Wait here for us to return for today."
The githyanki whirls around and everyone else in the camp freezes with what they were doing.
"Is this about last night?!" she demands. "If it's an apology you want, I would rather cut off my tongue and cook a stew with it!"
"Bon appetit, then," Amara comments drolly. "But no, it's not. I'm not so petty. This is because infiltrating a temple to retrieve the druid will require some amount of stealth, and so I will take our rogue over our fighter."
"And you will take the wizard over me?!" Lae'zel demands, throwing her hand toward Gale, who is laying out cheese. It's not his best look for promoting himself as a combatant. "Two wizards in a party?"
"I know his skillset better than I know yours," Amara remarks. "And I trust him more."
It's a jab Lae'zel does not have a retort for.
"I have made my decision, Lae'zel."
"Chk. If you truly believe you can survive without me, then I suppose you have."
"I'm not arguing. Remain here."
"As you say. Do not keep me waiting for long. Find the druid if you must, but locating the crèche is of dire importance as well."
"Duly noted," Amara drawls out, and she turns to face Astarion, who practically startles at the attention. "Are you ready to journey with us?"
"If you'll have me," Astarion replies, though his gaze flits between her and Lae'zel, who storms back into her tent. "Are you sure—"
"Let her cool down."
"As you wish…" he trails off. "I should probably get dressed then."
"Perhaps," Amara suggests with a quirk of her lips. "Though it is a lovely shirt. Not all that protective, however."
"My purpose as a rogue would be to remain unseen," the pale elf points out, and Amara rolls her eyes.
"Yes, and I wish you the best of luck with that. I would grant you a boon should you pull off a mission in your night clothes, unharmed, Astarion. Get dressed."
The sun is still relatively low in its climb up the sky when they leave camp, Wyll giving them a little wave of send-off and Lae'zel nowhere to be seen. It takes some time orienting herself with a map before Amara is able to tell in which direction the temple of Selûne is in, at which point the sun is at its zenith and it's far too late in the day.
She tries again and orients the map correct the first go around.
Since the path they take the first time is the correct one, they happen upon a group of people their party didn't stumble upon the last time, since before Amara's latest snap it was at least another three hours before they reached this point.
"People up ahead," she realizes, putting the map away. All her senses are warning her of danger, and there's a heaviness to the air. Chronomancy Weave. "Something's wrong."
The group they're approaching is made up of three, two men and a woman. The woman, a redhead, pleads with one of the two men who lays bleeding on the ground, her hand extended toward him. "You're a True Soul," she says, and the words are so heavy. "You can't die. Please stay with us."
The other man, a human with a sword on his back, looks up at his companion and whispers with dread in his voice. "I don't think he's conscious." He raises his voice and calls out to the fallen third party member. "Can you hear us, Ed?"
The redhead notices Amara and points at her, stepping in front of this Ed to shield him. "You!" she accosts. "Not a step closer."
Something presses down on Amara's whole body to the point where it hurts.
*A strange symbol glows, marked on their flesh, and something within you stirs in response.*
The marking is red, over the woman's eye, like a handprint pressed searing over her eye cavity. A brand where Amara's own tadpole resides.
"What happened to your friend?" she asks, carefully maneuvering more into view but not closer to them.
"An owlbear," the other man informs her. "Please, do you have any—"
"Shut up, Andrick!" the redheaded woman hisses. She turns back to Amara and asks in a smooth, practiced voice, "Do you serve the Absolute?"
The heaviness snaps.
Ed, writhing around on the ground, groans. "Wait…"
*The injured man locks eyes with you. A familiar squirming churns in your head.*
Amara leans down onto one knee, next to him. She holds his stare.
*Your minds intertwine. You see his siblings— Andrick and Brynna. New recruits. Yours to shepherd.*
"Protect them," Ed manages to relay to you through his mind. He writhes on the ground, and opens his mouth to say, "She is a True Soul. Mind her. She will— she— she…" he manages to get out, panting with effort.
His hand rises and falls. He speaks no more.
"Edowin. Ed! Please!" Andrick calls, falling to his knees next to his brother.
Brynna's expression remains unchanged. "He's with the Absolute now. You're… you're a True Soul. Edowin, our brother— he was chosen. Like you. Do you have orders for us? We were reporting to Edowin."
"Orders?" Amara echoes, standing. She shakes her head. How quickly this woman moved on. Could she spare not a moment for her flesh and blood? It shakes Amara to her bones, or even deeper. Disgusts her. "Why are the three of you even out here? This stretch of wilderness is especially dangerous right now."
"We know that all too well, ma'am," Brynna informs her quickly. "But… the Absolute sent us here."
"We're looking for fugitives. Survivors of that ship that crashed farther west of here."
"Ship…?" Amara questions, thoughts running through her mind too quickly to process. "You mean the nautiloid? I was on that ship. What does the Absolute have to do with a mind flayer ship?"
"You…?" Andrick asks, pointing. "Brynna— kill her!"
Shit.
Right, "fugitive."
Amara snaps.
Instead of tipping her hand so obviously, Amara tries for a more coy attempt this time. "These fugitives— tell me more."
Andrick answers, this time without a rousing call for murder. "We don't know what they look like, but anyone who survived that crash is bound to be injured."
Hmm. Oops?
"That's enough to get us started. The Absolute wants them found. At any cost."
Amara, very smartly, might she point out, does not say to him that it sounds like the Absolute did not order the survivors to be killed on sight.
Instead, she says, "Explain this Absolute to me."
"What…?" Andrick asks, and Amara keeps her face neutral so she doesn't cringe. "Are you… are you testing us?"
Sure, let's go with that.
"The Absolute is our goddess. She's going to rip down the old world order, start a new one. Then we'll be the ones with the power— well, you will firstly, True Soul. You don't need me to explain that."
Oh, no. No explanation necessary on that one.
Brynna takes over, sounding like a true cultist of epic proportions, adds, "A True Soul - like you - has been chosen by the Absolute. You speak with Her voice. And when the time comes, the True Souls - you - will rule."
The way Brynna looks at her makes Amara want to upheave her breakfast.
"Please," Shadowheart says with a scoff. "Any supposed new god would have an uphill battle," she says with the air of confidence only a cleric could have.
Brynna is still looking at Amara… awaiting orders.
"Forget the owlbear," she says sternly. "You both are still alive— so go on."
"What— and… and just, leave Ed? I suppose… I suppose he'd want us to go on— find a way to honor his sacrifice," Andrick concludes, and Amara is ever so thankful he just lets it go.
"May the Absolute guide us," Brynna says with a smile that Amara is sure will haunt her dreams that night.
They walk away, and Amara stares straight ahead, trying to settle her stomach, watching them out of the corner of her eye. When they're far enough away, she shifts forward and violently kicks a stone with her full strength.
It bounces rather pathetically off the cliff face in front of her.
"Erm… Amara?" Gale asks from behind her. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," she lies through her gritted teeth.
Shadowheart scoffs. "Unlikely." She crosses her arms over her chest. "I cannot exactly ask you to divulge more as I am prone to protecting my own privacy, but if you have something you would like to tell us, we will listen."
Amara sighs, fussing with her braids. "I realize this is likely not the kindest thing to say in front of our party's cleric, but I have a… distaste for most matters concerning deities. The way they spoke, the way she looked at me, I just…" Amara shivers visibly, shaking her head again. "I disliked it."
"They're gone now, darling," Astarion assures her. "And besides, what's wrong with abusing a little misplaced power now and again? If someone wants to name you the voice of a goddess when you happen across them, you might as well take advantage, yes?"
The heaviness in the air tells Amara the answer to that question is a distinct no.
*A strange power resonates within the corpse.*
Oh, no it does not!! No, it doesn't!!
*It calls to you.*
Amara isn't home!!
*Your limbs move of their own accord— there's something of value here. Something your mind craves. Why let its host's memories go to waste? The tadpole has absorbed it all. Its experience could nourish you, strengthen you.*
Amara forces her mind shut. She utterly refuses to be told how to move, how to feel, how to think about this, by something such as the illithid parasite.
*Your muscles loosen. The tadpole breaks free of its deceased host. Your mind is your own again. For now.*
Amara looks at her hands, and shakes them out, and at once, her party members rush to her side. Gale is in front of her, hands fluttering inches from her face and asking permission to touch, low and looking into her eyes, Shadowheart is steadying her from behind to keep her from collapsing backward, and Astarion is pulling the body away and out of her sight.
"Okay," she breathes out, more than terrified. "No more touching the bodies. Got it."
"What happened when you got near it?" Gale asks, and she hesitantly leans forward so he knows it's okay to touch her jaw. He tilts her head left and right and looks into her pupils.
"The— the tadpole took over. I couldn't control my limbs. It wanted me to take over the… the memories of Edowin. As if I could consume his strength, his abilities, by interacting with his parasite in some way."
"As beneficial as that sounds, the lack of agency certainly is… a concern," Astarion remarks. "Are you… all right?"
Amara blinks once at him, her ears flatten against her head. "No. Not really."
"We could take a short rest," Shadowheart suggests, stepping away from her.
"I would prefer to find Halsin. And fast."
Gale searches her eyes one more time before rising to his full height and stepping back himself. "I agree. Finding the druid is paramount, as we can regain our agency once these oppressors have vacated our ocular cavities."
Amara is more than tempted to rid herself of her hitchhiker right this moment.
She looks around at her party members, who could have approached that corpse instead of her. Who could have been controlled, and she would have no idea what it felt like, what to do when it was happening.
If they could communicate with living victims and the corpses of victims, what else could the tadpoles be capable of?
Amara swallows her hatred of the creature, and leaves it where it lies.
/ / /
An underground desert temple, a trapped chest of Selûne, an owlbear and its cub, and a dead man and his dog later, Amara's party is back aboveground and walking perfectly into an ambush.
Lovely.
"Git over there," a goblin's voice calls over Amara's party. "Surround 'em, like."
She looks up, squinting against the midday sun at the bone armor the creature wears. "I know you're there," she calls in response. "Show yourselves."
"You spotted us. Good," the goblin says back, which sends Amara for something of a loop. "'Slike they say… no fun in skewerin' a pig what doesn't know he's cooked."
"You can bite him either way," Amara replies, and the goblin makes a sound of confusion. "Regardless, there'll be no skewering happening here. We just need to pass though."
"We got you surrounded," the goblins says with a swirl of her finger. "Here's how this goes: you take one step further an' we'll fill your front with arrows. Or you turn around an' your backside gets the same treatment."
Amara opens her mouth, doubt coursing through her about the level of hospitality in this little village, when she notices a red symbol start to appear over the goblin sentry's eye. Just like she saw earlier.
*As the symbol glows, power courses through you. Authority.*
Amara shivers rather violently as the feeling slams into her, it feels like it's rattling against her skeleton as if trapped inside of it and trying to escape, her muscles set aflame, her ears ring, her heart pounds, her lungs burn, her blood boils.
It feels like power.
Amara doesn't like power.
Trying desperately not to let it show, she says, "Just let me by and we'll pretend this never happened."
"Erh… s'pose it's best to save our strength for a real threat," the sentry grunts out, and Amara crosses her arms to hide how badly her hands tremble. "Go on, then. Just keep your nose clean."
They pass the veritable army of goblins guarding the gates and enter the village proper, and Amara is fairly sure they have their work cut out for them. They peer into the rather ruined shops and houses until Gale points out an abandoned apothecary that still plays host to some ingredients.
"Could prove useful," Amara agrees, stepping onto the creaking floorboards of the rickety building. "Gather what you can, be careful where you step."
Each of them picks and plucks different bottles and ingredients and adds them to their packs, and Astarion flips through the account logs, before holding one up. "Ooh, could be a secret room below here," he points out. "This ledger mentions a cellar."
Amara can feel a sliver of heavy Weave coming from the book.
She sighs, out loud, in front of the whole party.
"Yes, all right. We can loot the cellar."
She would bet nearly anything on her person that there is something much worse than loot waiting for them in the cellar.
There are undead warriors waiting for them in the cellar.
What does Amara win? Someone give her something, she is fairly pissed off and losing this fight quite badly. Does anyone have a Scroll of True Resurrection? Gale just got stabbed.
Amara snaps and tries again. This time, she situates one of each of them by a casket before disturbing them, and keeps them from freeing each other, so they only have to deal with one at a time. She's also exhausted, and earned nothing of interest, thank you very much.
"Amara, darling, look," Astarion chirps, holding up a journal. It practically oozes with evil energy.
Okay, she takes it back, she should have been more specific with what she wanted to win.
With two fingers, she takes the book.
"Amara! Come take a look at this!" Gale calls, and she looks up to find him staring at the wall at the end of the corridor. She quickly jogs to join him, realizing that he's not just staring at the rocky wall, but an ornate mirror plastered against it.
As soon as Amara stands in front of it, a ghostly blue face appears, and a warbling voice requests, "Spea-k your name…"
*A magic mirror! You've read all about them, but never seen one up close before.*
Overcome with the sudden urge to know more, the unbelievable artifact in front of her too alluring to deny, Amara is lost for a moment in calculations, observations. She traces the sides of the mirror, how each ornate curl could hold and contain magic. She desires to know how it functions, how it lives.
*The magic is old and wavering, but you recognize it. The mirror is a thinking lock, hiding some secret. The face is crafted to be pleasing, but the personality is just a reflection of the wizard that created it.*
How utterly fascinating.
"Speak your n-ame," it requests again, and Amara startles.
"Amara," she replies with a softness.
"I do not know this name."
Her instincts tell her that she could supply it with another name, one she has… inherited. But she resists.
"If you are known to my mas-ter, step forward and de-clare yourself an ally."
Well, no time like the present to make allies with wizards long past!
"Yes, an ally!" Amara agrees excitedly. "I'm an ally of your master's!"
Astarion smacks her on the upper arm and she waps him on the leg right back.
"Only a t-rue ally of Ilyn Toth may pass. What th-ink you of the zulkir known as Szass Tam?"
*You recognize the name, of course— anyone that knows of the Red Wizards would. Szass Tam is a powerful lich that rules the land of Thay. He drove many Red Wizards out of their ancestral home.*
Amara wishes there was a source for her to glare at for the narrator. The origins of Szass Tam are well known, she doesn't need a history lesson in basic knowledge. It's the stance this Ilyn Toth has that she could use some insight into - she could easily call the lich a powerful leader, if Toth is of a necromantic inclination, and that would name her an ally of the wizard. However, if Toth stands for everything lawful, and wishes to root out the evil of the world, saying that Szass Tam is a foul creature who deserves to die a thousand more deaths would be more appropriate.
She takes a page out of Gale's book and chooses the pragmatic route.
"Actually, Szass Tam isn't a zulkir— he rules as High Regent now."
The mirror turns red.
"A poor ch-oice. You will be purged."
Nope!
Amara snaps.
"Only a t-rue ally of Ilyn Toth may pass. What th-ink you of the zulkir known as Szass Tam?"
Okay. So, mirror not a fan of Szass Tam being in a position of higher power. Fine.
"That foul, wretched creature?" Amara asks, "May he be chopped to pieces and scattered apart for eternity."
She raises her brows, hoping. The mirror stays blue. She lets out her held breath.
"You are no zulkir. B-ut are you wise?"
No, what?! More questions??
"T-tell me, why might one use balsam ointment?"
Oh. Well. That's just an apothecary question.
"To clean a wound," Amara answers immediately, having made it many a time.
"Acceptable. F-finally… if you could see an-ything in me, what w-ould it be?"
Oh, hells.
"A… solution to the plague we face," Amara answers, that being what she would ask a magic mirror, if anyone had posed the hypothetical question that morning.
"You seek to sur-vive. You seek power."
Amara does not seek power, but she is not about to correct this thing.
"Be wel-come."
The mirror's glass disappears, and Amara steps through. "My…" she breathes. "What a well-guarded laboratory. What were they hiding down here?"
Bones line the shelves; whether they were always bones or became bones remains to be seen. Amara pages through some of the books left open on pedestals, and she pockets some of the rare potions she can easily identify.
"Evidently, something quite good," Astarion drawls. "There are even traps inside this place."
"Can you disable them?" Amara asks, and he scoffs.
"Can I disable them…" A loud click echoes in the room. "How does that sound, darling?"
There's actually a lock and another trap, but eventually they manage to find a rather… disturbing looking book.
"Not the most attractive tome, I have to say. I could always carry it if you—" Astarion remarks with a grimace. "Argh!"
*The book is locked tight, with no visible keyhole— only an oval recess in the cover's mouth. You try to examine the book, but the longer you stare, the more those piercing, amethyst eyes draw you in. You can sense something dark about this tome— something profane. You've seen similar books in wizard's libraries— a tome on Thayan magic. A rare and expensive find, but people have gone mad reading less dangerous texts.*
"Curious," Shadowheart remarks, and you hear her boots echo in the room, growing fainter. "Why don't you take a closer look… I'll observe from back here."
"We surely shouldn't just leave such a tome out, where anyone could stumble across it," Gale remarks, and Amara notices he looks just as wary of it.
"Perhaps we should just destroy it," Amara says. "It's evil, right?"
"I have Guiding Bolt," Shadowheart realizes. "Set it on the ground here."
"This should help." Amara hands her an arcane cultivation potion she found upstairs. She sets the tome in the middle of the main chamber and stands back.
Shadowheart drinks the potion and readies the spell, releasing it on the book. For a moment, the book merely disintegrates and Amara relaxes.
Then, there's a horrible groaning and a heaviness in the air.
Shadows gather, twist, and wrinkle, forming living beings that reach and grab, with slicing claws and gnashing teeth.
"Shadows!" Amara calls. "Everyone jump back!"
She has to snap three times to avoid the multitudes of lethal wounds her and her companions take, before she finally is able to strategize correctly and keep everyone alive.
"Amara," Gale's voice cuts through her exhaustion after the fight. "Are you all right?"
"Dying," she pants out, cursing herself for not just snapping out of the apothecary as a whole the moment she realized there were shadow creatures.
Gale is suddenly in front of her, hands on her shoulders. "Where are you hurt?!" he demands, pushing her upright until they're making perfect eye contact.
He's pale.
"Oh," Amara breathes out, "no, Gale, my apologies, I'm… fine. And by that I mean, I am not injured. Not bleeding, anyway. That fight… took a lot out of me, is all. I apologize my exaggeration startled you."
Gale narrows his eyes at her. "We should rest at camp for the remainder of today."
"Gale—"
"I will make a waypoint."
Amara opens her mouth to argue, but realizes that her vision is actually swimming a bit, and her head is pounding viciously. So, instead, she just gives a wry smile. "But who will pull you out this time?"
"Very funny," Gale mutters dryly. "Come. Let's get you situated. Shadowheart, help me."
None of them get stuck in the waypoint.
Amara does wave her hand about for a second, but she quickly pokes her head out right after.
"It really wasn't so funny," Gale pouts, walking to his camp. "I was really stuck!"
"Do you know, it crossed my mind to give you a high five?"
"It most certainly did not, Amara."
She laughs, the sound dwindling as a wave of pain crests over her and she rubs at her eye, pressing up into her temple. "You are right, it really didn't. In hindsight, it is a most humorous thought, though."
He hedges for a moment at his campsite, and then gently touches her upper arm. "Get some rest tonight, Amara."
"You as well, Gale," she offers, surprised. "Enjoy the night."
She steps away and makes her way toward the river, noticing that she hasn't seen Lae'zel so far, but she makes sure to stop by Wyll first before turning in for her bath.
"Early night," he notices. "You all look exhausted."
She gives him a rather pitiful smile. "A life on the road is never an easy one, especially when there is so much strife one encounters."
"True," he agrees. "The goblins still infest the roads. As long as their leaders live, Zevlor's people are trapped."
"Ah, that's right, you knew them for a mote longer than us," Amara recalls. "Had you encountered anything like this before?"
He looks surprised. "No, though I'm no stranger to seeing groups of people displaced from the actions of fiends."
"How does the Blade of Frontiers end up chasing a devil in the Hells?" Amara realizes, "It sounds like an incredibly difficult life."
"Well, it wasn't easy. Isn't easy," Wyll admits. "Karlach's fires raged in Baldur's Gate before she escaped to Avernus, as my source told it— and she was planning to return. One of the archdevil Zariel's own— chaos incarnate, a devil with pure fire for a heart. I made my way to Avernus to stop her. She fled from my reach— even climbed aboard the mind flayer ship as it screeched through the Hells. I followed in close pursuit."
"And she doomed you both," Amara realizes, touching her own eye.
Wyll mirrors her, then drops his hand to his lap. "I can't bear to imagine the lives Karlach might be taking, the damage she might be doing."
"As soon as we make some headway with the druid, we can resume the search for Karlach, if you'd appreciate help."
"You would?" Wyll asks, surprised. "I mean… yes, that would be beyond appreciated."
"Is anyone else helping you, outside of your source?"
Wyll's expression darkens somewhat. "Not in so many words."
Curiosity bites at Amara. "Who is this source of yours?"
"A powerful friend with a keen interest in… privacy. I'm sworn to say no more."
Amara gives a stilted laugh. "It seems we all like each other quite enough, and yet at one time or another, we all have told the others of our penchants for private matters. Since when has it grown so difficult?"
"Do you feel like divulging your private matters?" Wyll asks, tilting his head.
Considering this, Amara knows she can always take it back, whereas they can't say the same. She presses her fingers together. "If I do, will you?"
"I make no promises," Wyll says, but his easygoing smile says that he doesn't believe Amara will tell him.
"I swallowed a magical core that allows me to manipulate time," Amara states bluntly, and Wyll partially tips backward in his seat. "My journey has already been twice as long as it's been for the rest of you."
"You—" Wyll opens and closes his mouth. "You can't possibly be serious."
"You died once already, and a circle of fire consumed your body. Hands reached up to pull you down, sinking into you, trying to draw your soul away, but it was as if the parasite was resisting. Your body turned into a fireball. I turned back time to keep you alive."
Wyll's throat works around a swallow. "By the Nine Hells…"
"Will you tell me your secret, Wyll?"
"Amara, I— I can't. I'm sworn to secrecy."
"Hmm. A pity."
Amara snaps.
"Do you feel like divulging your private matters?" Wyll asks, and this time, Amara just smiles knowingly at him.
"Even if I do, you wouldn't reciprocate."
"You don't know that," he responds coyly.
Ah, but Amara does. If only Wyll knew her secret still… a shame, really.
"Let's move on to other matters," she dismisses, not wishing to dwell on her disappointment any longer.
"What else is on your mind?"
"Tell me, Wyll: How did you come to be the Blade of Frontiers?" she asks, sensing this topic is less taboo.
"My father once said, 'One does not pursue a champion's life. One merely answers its call.'" How deliciously dramatic. "So it was for me. I was hunting near the Cloakwood when I heard it— a child crying out from a lone farmstead. I found him in the field, flanked by goblins. His mother's corpse bled into the soil next to him. I don't remember much of the battle. But I remember drying the boy's tears after."
Amara hums, shifting her weight. "What act could be finer than saving a life? You must have felt proud."
"Proud? No. Angry. Angry at the monsters preying on innocents. Angry at the so-called good gods, for tolerating the cruelty of the evil. Angry at myself that it took so long for me to see the Coast's suffering. The frontiers demanded a blade. And so I heeded."
Amara gives him a thankful smile. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name."
"And it's nice to meet someone of your talents. Having a worm wriggling in my skull didn't instill much confidence in the days ahead. With you as my ally, the future looks a little less daunting."
"Have a pleasant night, Wyll," Amara says. "And… thank you for speaking with me."
"You as well, Lady Amara. I would love to travel with you when we next get the opportunity."
"I shall keep that in mind."
Amara steps away from him and bathes, dressing in her night clothes, and she makes her way to her bedroll. She's laying out her blanket and situating her pillow when there's a scraping and a curse from above her.
"Chk. Amara."
"Lae'zel," she drawls out, turning from where she's crouched to look up at the githyanki. "And here I was thinking you were hiding away from me somewhere."
"Githyanki do not hide!" she snaps. "I merely came to warn you."
Amara leans out on her bedroll. "Oh?"
"Be wary of false promises. The missing druid— Halsin, was it? He may be talented, but only a githyanki zaith'isk can cleanse an embedded tadpole."
"Halsin is being held captive in the same place as the leaders of the goblin horde. If we wish to liberate the tieflings, we must eradicate the goblins' leaders. I also wish to unseat Kagha from her place of power, and to do so I need Halsin. He is more than just a potential lead on the tadpoles, Lae'zel, and you know that. Tomorrow, we shall have Halsin, and the tieflings will be free to travel with us. Then, we will locate a…"
"Zaith'isk," Lae'zel supplies.
"Yes, one of those. I am sure your people have done a great deal of research and I'm fully keen on seeing the fruits of their labor."
"Are you not concerned about the gestation period?" Lae'zel demands. "Even a day or two could make a difference!"
"Do you know what happens if we don't find the cure fast enough?"
"Yes. In great detail," she insists emphatically. "It starts with a fever and memory loss. Then you start to hallucinate. Your hair falls out and you bleed from every orifice."
Amara's nose crinkles up.
"Your bones will change form. Your jaw will split and allow room for four great tentacles. All your skin will turn to gore, and be shed to reveal new flesh underneath." Lae'zel animates each item from her detailed list with mimicking gestures. It's a bit of a gorey thing to mime out, but Amara is charmed by the enthusiasm nonetheless. "Then you have ceased to exist, and a new mind flayer is born."
"Will you cease to exist, Lae'zel?"
She blinks, her markings looking stark in the firelight. Then, her expression hardens and she looks down her nose at the elf. "No. I will persist."
"Then what have we to worry about? Get some rest. I want you in top shape to head for your… zaith'isk…"
Lae'zel looks at Amara for a moment longer. "You had better rest first, then. You look positively awful."
"Thanks for worrying, I just burned through a little too much magic," Amara says, laying back. "I'll be fine in the morning."
"I was not worried!" she yells, definitely loud enough for everyone in the camp to hear. "I— I just…"
Amara closes her eyes and doesn't hear Lae'zel say any more, just hears her hurried footsteps toward her campsite.
She smiles to herself, and hopes rest will come to her weary body.
But then again, she shouldn't expect much.
She is just a corpse on the run.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter Text
Chapter VII
Hunger
*You don't sleep well, flitting between dreams and nightmares. Maybe you wake up because you know something is wrong. Or maybe you just get lucky.*
Fangs.
Green eyes lock on red ones, a furrowed brow, lips pulled back from sharp canine teeth, poised over a neck set aglow in firelight. There's nary a second before the taut muscles of the strike position are released, and Astarion's face relaxes, eyes still fixed on Amara's very open, very awake ones.
He sits back, far enough away that even the bloody hue of his eyes becomes muddled with distance.
"…Shit."
Ah, eloquent.
Amara jolts upright, mind and magic reeling as they were trying to collect in her meditative state, and now they've been unjustly scattered. She expected this, sure, but she didn't expect, well, uh…
This.
She has to be standing up for this.
She has to do something. Her body is abuzz. Her magic is zinging through her veins. She can feel it crawling through her, itching, itching, itching.
"No no—" Astarion insists when he sees her getting up, true panic in his voice. "It's not what it looks like, I swear!"
Amara just raises her eyebrows as high as they can go.
"I— I…" He staggers back a step, looking at her. His body language is all over the place. He's a mess. Nothing like the composed, perfect smile version of him that seemed somewhat threatening the previous night. "I wasn't going to hurt you! I just needed— well… blood."
*There, in the dim firelight, you see him for what he really is: a vampire. A slave to sanguine hunger.*
There's no amount of rolling back that Amara can do to make this elf a better person, if he really was going to kill her by this campfire, tonight. She could snap him out of the party, but that's about it. "How long since you killed someone?" she asks, making that the determining factor. "Days? Hours?"
"I've never killed anyone!" Astarion defends instantly, and then backtracks slightly. "Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds— whatever I can get."
Amara tilts her head. "The bloodless boar we found. That was yours?"
He winces. "Yes."
"And when I first met you, that boar was your prey?"
"Amara—"
"So what changed? We're in the wilds, aren't we? You snuck away last night, I saw your footprints. Why am I on the menu for tonight?"
He makes a grunt of frustration and runs a hand through his white-gray curls. "It's not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so weak."
Amara steps closer.
Astarion steps back.
She takes two small steps this time and he hesitates but remains where he is, and Amara looks carefully at him, touching delicately. His face does seem more sunken, especially around his eyes.
"You truly have little fear of touching my face," Astarion remarks. "Don't you feel any survival instincts?"
"I lost them a long time ago. Children, even elven children, can grow up fast these days. What do you need, then?"
Astarion swallows. This close, Amara can see it, and hear it. "If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please."
"Define 'little'," she requests, pushing into his space again.
"Not much, really, just a taste. Anything."
*A strange sensation courses through you, and your companion's mind unfolds, secrets half-revealed.*
"Is there a reason you didn't tell me before you tried it while I was sleeping?" Amara asks, gesturing behind her to the bedroll.
Astarion gives a pitiful laugh. "At best, I was sure you'd say no. More likely, you'd ram a stake through my ribs."
"If I was going to stab you, Astarion, I would have done it within moments of meeting you. You're an elf with red eyes and fangs. You're nearly as pale as your night clothes. If I were to write a book about vampires, I would paint the image of you on the cover."
"Well— that's not… did you really…"
"You should have told me, Astarion. Now you've gone and tried to bite me without my permission— how can I ever trust you to watch my back? Protect me? Keep my companions safe?"
"That was because we don't have a choice!" he insists, growing distressed. "Not if we're going to save ourselves from these worms." Astarion hesitates for a moment when he says that, only solidifying the fact he truly does not want to save himself from his.
She so desperately wants to ask. Now isn't the time, though.
"I can watch your back, protect you better like this," Astarion says, "You need me strong if I'm to be a fighter in your party. Please. Only be a taste, I swear. I'll be well, you'll be fine, and everything can go back to normal."
Amara taps a finger to his chest. "All right," she agrees. "On a few conditions."
"Anything!" he agrees immediately, eyes fixed on where her finger rests over his still heart.
"One. You tell me when you need something from now on. As the leader of your party, all of your well beings are the most important thing to me. I don't want you to suffer, Astarion."
"You— I…"
"Two. Just me, all right? We can determine if anyone else is willing at a later date, but for now, you only preposition me."
"I can… agree to that," he breathes out, his words heavy.
"And three, just… be careful. My magic drains a lot of my energy from me. I need my rest to recover, so I can't imagine being drained more than you'll need will do me much good."
"Really? I— of course. Not a drop more," Astarion promises. "And I shall be gentle as a babe. Just those three?"
Amara hedges for a moment but nods. She can always return to this moment if she has more to add. "Just those three."
"Splendid. Let's make ourselves comfortable, shall we?"
Amara lays back down, feeling distinctly like she has dug herself into a hole that should rename itself a pitfall. Or a pit trap. The vampire hovers over her, but only briefly before leaning over and sinking his teeth into the side of her neck.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Grabs the fabric of the bedroll until her hands hurt.
*It's like a shard of ice into your neck— a quick, sharp pain that fades to a throbbing numbness. Your breath catches, your pulse quickens.*
It hurts. Amara presses her fingers together like she wants to snap. Instead, she gently touches Astarion. "That's enough," she breathes out, panic lacing her voice.
"Mhn?" he murmurs around the flesh of her throat, before finally the pressure releases, the numbness fades, and Amara feels a horrible shiver pass through her. "Oh, of course," he responds, getting up and backing away.
Amara quickly follows, rising to her feet, though she sways slightly, her vision dotted and swirling.
Astarion pants twice, wiping the blood - her blood - from his lip. "That— that was amazing. My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel… happy!"
Amara touches his face again. "You already look better."
He hums. "Do I?"
"Around your eyes."
"I'll fight better, too," he adds, sounding exhilarated. "Together, we can take on the world."
"Then I'm looking forward to seeing it," Amara says, though she's happier just to see his condition improve.
"Shouldn't take long, so many people need killing," he says with a flourish. Amara rolls her eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, you're invigorating, but I need someone more filling."
He turns and for a moment Amara thinks that he will just walk away, but he only makes it a few paces before he turns over his shoulder and looks at her.
"This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it."
*You watch as he stalks toward the forest. Stronger. More confident. Ready to hunt.*
/ / /
Shadowheart wakes first. She rises with the early morning sun, rolling over and stretching out her back. Folding her legs together, she meditates for a short, quiet while, and then breathes in the still, soft morning air and looks around camp.
For the first time, she sees Amara asleep.
It takes her a moment to search through her memories, but indeed, that is accurate. On the ship, the beach, and in camp, Amara is always awake. She is the first to rise. Occasionally, one might glimpse her sleeping late into the night, but never once the sun has touched the sky.
The worry doesn't last long, though, as Amara twitches, nuzzling her face into the pillow of the bedroll. Shadowheart smiles a bit, watching her loose white braids strewn across her bedding glint a champagne hue in the morning light, and how her fair skin gleams like a beam of light piercing through a canopy of trees, the stark white, painted markings dappling across her cheekbones and up the ridge of her nose like constellations.
Even rough from battle, exhausted from long days and fast nights, Shadowheart must admit she is a beautiful creature.
She rises from around the fire to begin getting ready to start anew that day. It would be another difficult one, with the goal of rescuing Halsin by the end of it. Enough indulging herself with this fruitless endeavor.
Astarion awakens next, breaking out of his meditation to the sound of Shadowheart's footsteps. He rouses himself slowly, flexing each part of his body one at a time. He feels good. For the first time in a long time. There's a lightness to his body, a clarity in his mind that he is realizing will be dangerous to become accustomed to.
He rises, exhaling with pleasure as his body responds with ease, quick and fluid. With a renewed limberness, he stretches and turns, freezing in place when he sees Amara is still on her bed. He can't recall ever seeing her sleep later than the rest of them. The only times in his recollection he's seen her asleep were in the dead of night.
But it can't be that strange. Can it?
People sleep in. Don't they?
And she was up late, right?
Astarion stalks toward her. She's not dead. She can't be. She wasn't dead when he went to sleep, he checked. He made sure to check, and she was breathing. He leans down over her, puts two fingers under her nose, and for a nausea-inducing, stomach-wrenching moment, he feels nothing.
Then, Amara breathes out, and her nose wrinkles, so she shifts and flips over on her bedroll.
Astarion feels like he could just pass out right there again, from sheer relief.
Instead, he leans back and closes his eyes, combatting the still-raging adrenaline, and when he feels like he won't pitch right over when he stands up, he rises and moves toward his tent to dress for the mission today.
Gale only wakes up when he feels something wrong.
There's heaviness to the air, as if something is pressing down on him, and he is awake in an instant, hands flying to his chest. He quickly goes through all his normal checks, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. He's starting to feel more of the withdrawal symptoms and knows the time is fast approaching to feed this damnable curse.
Probably today, even.
But it's not as if it's pressing him into the ground right this moment, and yet he can still feel it. Something tugs on his body as if attempting to sink him into the soil, drown him in earth. His every move feels lethargic and sloppy, and there's a faint smell of sulfur and rain in the air.
A wisp of the Weave drifts across the back of his hand.
Utterly baffled, Gale tries to grasp at it, only for it to dissipate immediately. He searches for its source, finding another wisp, and another. They drift through the air as if scattered like thrown petals, and finally, his gaze lands on Amara, still sleeping in her bedroll.
He's never seen her sleep later than him before. In fact, he doesn't know if he's ever even seen her asleep. The one time he thought he was sneaking by her sleeping figure, she was awake and watching him shuffle off to bed with his lackluster roguish talents.
Her hands grip the fabric of the bedroll tightly. Her expression is pinched, one of pain. She twitches, and a roll of cyan Weave floats off of her unconscious body as if forcibly cast aside.
"Impossible," he utters to himself. Namely, because it is. To channel the Weave requires multiple spell components, especially for a wizard. He and Amara must channel it in the same, or at least desperately similar, fashions, and yet she is summoning the structure, the very fabric of magic itself in her sleep, no less.
Something must be wrong.
"Amara, wake up," he urges at normal volume, the first words spoken as day breaks. Hesitant to touch her directly, he sends a Mage Hand to jostle her by the shoulder.
Amara throws a hand in the direction of the spell, and a whip of Weave lashes out, whizzing through the air, scarring the trees at the edge of the clearing, and leaving a sizable gash in its wake deep into the ground. The birds scatter in a flurry of affronted noise.
Lae'zel bursts out of her personal tent, in full armor despite most likely not going with them that day. "Istik! What in the hells was that?!"
"It's Amara—" Gale points at her sleeping form. "I was just trying to wake her up, something must be very wrong. She appears to be having…"
Scoffing, the githyanki looks down at the elf.
How pathetic, to be writhing around on one's bed cloths from a mere illusion in one's dreams. Still, the human wizard has a point that something is wrong. It isn't that their illustrious leader is having trouble sleeping, however, it's the impressive light show she's putting on for their camp.
"How do we put her back to sleep?" Lae'zel asks, and at some point, the last member of their camp aside from the elf awakens, and Wyll's first choice of action is to step between the githyanki and Amara.
"She's just having a nightmare, Lae'zel," he asserts, turning to look at Gale. "Can we influence her magic in any way without harming her?"
Gale hedges for a moment. "Ordinarily, I would say that I would take in her Weave myself. By channeling it through my body, I could release it harmlessly into the environment and we could merely wait for her to awaken on her own. However…"
By now, Astarion and Shadowheart have returned.
"By the heavens!" she exclaims. "What happened here?"
Astarion, however, is already focused on the elven wizard. "Amara…?"
"Her Weave is quite unstable," Gale informs them with a low, serious voice. "It's nearly unfathomable to channel it at all in one's sleep, and thus I would say she is not fully in control of it. Her instincts are guiding much of it, and what she is dreaming of could have some influence we aren't privy to. I would encourage everyone to stay far back from her and I will—"
A large burst of Weave suddenly gathers from Amara, flaring up and nearly going pearly white from the prior icy cyan. It swells and shivers, unstable by any name most definitely, and shaking almost as if… in fear.
By now, Amara is making small noises of discomfort. She thrashes on the bedroll and every time she moves, the Weave around her throbs and pulses with power, sending wisps of it into the grass, deadening the strands.
"Back!" Gale commands them. "Don't let it touch you!"
The burst of Weave turns pure white, and then begins to disperse as if the bubble was popped, and Amara flies up from her position, rolling off the bedroll and scrambling to her feet as if running from where she lay with as much speed as she can muster.
Of course, she doesn't make it far before her legs utterly give out on her and she starts to collapse down. Astarion quickly jumps in, grabbing her by her upper body and heaving her to her unsteady feet. "By the Nine Hells, Amara," he breathes out. "What happened?" He leans a bit closer. "You smell positively like terror itself."
Bright green eyes alight with fear lock onto Astarion's, and Amara shakes him off a moment later.
/ / /
"Sorry," Amara breathes out, her mind racing a million thoughts a moment. She can't believe she just dreamed of the isle, the temple. It's been so long since her brain put her back there, she'd actually thought that the memories of it had passed.
No such luck.
"Sorry, I'm sorry," she repeats, shaking her head. Holding a hand out, she instantly attracts all the loose Weave in the air, which comes swirling around her like a swarm of locusts before sinking into her skin as if the power belongs there. "It won't happen again. I will take greater precautions."
Her companions look at each other, seemingly at a loss.
Wyll seems to find his words first. "Lady Amara, it was of no inconvenience to us, save for the fact that we… don't really know what happened to you."
She inhales sharply, flexes her fingers. "I was in an imaginary battle. Peril that has long passed. You may understand how one's mind casts them back to a place like that, Blade of Frontiers."
"Yes," he agrees. "Though I can't say I'm firing off spells or swinging my blade in my sleep." He tries for a light tone. "Are you sure all is well?"
"Positive," Amara assures him with a quick, hopefully satisfactory grin.
It definitely doesn't convince any of them of anything.
Wyll's look is one of pity. She is sure he knows what it is like to dream of fighting to survive. She doesn't want or need his pity, but has not the energy to tell him to cast it aside.
Lae'zel is holding her tongue, but the glare levied at her is more than enough to tell Amara all she needs to know about this display of weakness in the githyanki's eyes.
Gale must have an endless amount of questions, no doubt about the nature of her Weave. She does not want to get into that right now.
Astarion, admittedly, is acting the most normal. He pouts, seemingly upset by her lack of forthcoming information, and the interest and relief on his face appears genuine.
Shadowheart keeps her expression impressively neutral. Amara has to give it to her, she's not getting anything. Perhaps that's why, when she grabs what she needs and heads for the river, she lets Shadowheart follow her.
The half-elf is obviously already ready for the day, but she takes off her boots and drops her feet into the rushing current as Amara dives into the water. She's covered in a thin layer of sweat and the heaviness of her Weave crawls at her skin, making her want to scrub it off as best as she can.
It reminds her too much of the temple.
Surfacing, Amara washes her hair and wades closer to her party's cleric, who is moving her feet through the water almost rhythmically. "Just here to enjoy the view?" Amara asks after it's finally bothered her that Shadowheart hasn't said anything yet.
She smiles, tilting her head toward the moon elf. "If you'd rather not speak, then yes. I thought you'd perhaps prefer some company, and our companions are not known for holding their tongues."
"They certainly aren't," Amara agrees, diving below the surface to wash out her hair. She surfaces again and leans against the shore, rubbing an oil through her thin hair to keep it from collecting so much dirt while they're roughing it. "Do you hold that against them?" she asks, picking up the thread of conversation.
Shadowheart seems to consider this seriously. "I wasn't expecting it, but I'm glad to have some company on this journey," she confesses. "They are lively, and for the most part, we all have a rather easy camaraderie. I believe we work well together."
"I do think we complement each other, for the most part," Amara agrees. "I sometimes wish we all trusted each other a bit more, but then I remember that would mean I would have to do the same. It is difficult to share things we dislike about ourselves and what has happened that makes us this way."
She peers down at Amara as the elf works the oil from her hair. "We are still strangers, for the most part. I don't believe there is any reason we need to share information from the deepest parts of ourselves."
Flipping her hair back, Amara rises from the water, flicking spells into action to dry her. "Tell me then, Shadowheart, what will you do, if we actually manage to remove the tadpoles?"
The cleric hands her a lesser restoration potion and urges her to drink it. "I suppose we'd go our separate ways— not a slight on your company, of course."
Amara downs the potion, and instantly feels its effects lift some of the wretched exhaustion from her body. "Really?" she asks, surprised. "That could explain some amount of reluctance to trust, I suppose. In my opinion, there's no reason for us to not stay together if we get on well."
This seems to unnerve Shadowheart slightly. "Perhaps, perhaps not. If we do survive, we'll have separate lives to return to. I need to get to Baldur's Gate. There's someone waiting for me there. Someone I have to reach, as soon as possible."
It's a piece of information, even if it's relatively small.
Amara smiles. She's truly grateful for this moment with Shadowheart. "Seems personal. I won't pry, if it's not something you want to talk about."
She looks surprised at first, mouth opening, eyes tracing the motions Amara makes to get dressed and in her armor for the mission. Then, her expression begins to mimic Amara's of warm gratitude. "Thank you. And you're right, it's… a delicate matter. Not something for light conversation."
Not putting her boots on just yet, Amara sits beside Shadowheart and puts her feet in the river. "A different subject then. Will you allow me to pry into your sketch of my character?"
The half-elf lets out a surprised breath that might be a laugh. "My sketch?"
"Since you've met me, you've had this… appraising eye for all my actions. I simply wish to know how I am holding up in your estimation."
Fondness once again takes over the cleric's face and she shakes her head and admits, "I don't think I've ever had a confidante quite like you— and if I have, I can't remember them."
Amara pauses for a moment, files that away. It's an interesting way to phrase it.
"I'm pleased to be your confidante," she says earnestly. "To be blatant, I have not had many friends in my lifetime, and no female friends at all, unless you count all the wonderful elders of the little market street I sold potions on."
"You?" Shadowheart asks, blinking. "I would have thought you left behind many who are eagerly awaiting your return."
Amara lets out a self-flagellating burst of laughter. "What gives you that impression?"
"You have a… way with people."
Yes, it's called "already knowing what they're going to say", and Amara only had to absorb a magical core at the risk of her own life to gain that ability.
Still, she doesn't say that.
"Do I now? Well… let's hope it benefits us in some way today," Amara says, standing and drying her legs, offering her hand to Shadowheart and doing the same to her. "We should not waste any more daylight."
When the two of them return to camp, everyone is ready to head out, and with a nod to Gale, he opens the waypoint and they are suddenly back in the blighted village. There isn't much to see in any of the other dilapidated houses or ruined shops, save for a single one at the end of the path, where voices echo through the village as a whole.
"Gnome taste good. Like bear," Amara hears. Ogres. She ducks low and gestures for Astarion to follow her, his movements noticeably more coordinated than a day prior. They sneak across the opening for the building, which has mostly been reclaimed by nature at this point, and Amara presses her back up against a mossy stone wall and listens. "Dwarf better," a different ogre voice argues. "Dwarf sweet like honey."
She watches Astarion stalk a little further over, where a paper hangs on the wall. He reads it for a moment before snatching it down and rejoining Amara. She takes the paper from him when it is offered.
It's heavy in her hand. Far more than any paper should be.
*Missing children: Maggie Terrens, Marchus Terrens, Mathen Deetch, Rochelle Kirk.*
Frowning, Amara puts that in her pouch and freezes when she hears a third ogre voice. "Must you? This inane chatter pains me."
That's… unusual.
Peeking up over the wall, Amara spots the three ogres she hears speak. One of them is very pleasantly… snacking… which of course she had to look at just in time.
Absolutely lovely.
"Tastes like chicken!" he exclaims, and Amara really didn't need to know that.
The ogre opposite him, only adds to the list of things Amara didn't need to know. "No chicken. Taste like fish!"
He rams his club into the face of the first ogre.
Well.
That's one way to settle a disagreement.
"Gentlemen— contain yourselves," the third ogre says, this one in the most armor out of all of them.
Amara can see Astarion tense up next to her. He flicks an expression of wary confusion her way, and she shrugs and moves to get closer.
"This quarrel sours our fease. Besides— taste like pork!" Before either of the others can say anything, he spots Amara approaching, baring his tusks. "And what surprise is this?"
Behind her, Amara can hear Astarion throw his hands up and let them slap back down at his sides. He comes to join her a moment later. "Great stealth, darling."
"You could have helped me from back there," she whispers back. "Wonderful assist, darling."
"Brothers, look here," the ogre proclaims, spreading his arms widely. "I have eyed yet another prize. Fortune favors our bellies!"
Amara runs a finger along the length of her bow at her back.
"Strangers: be you friend or food? The mark is Her measure: show us the brand of the Absolute."
The… brand?
Astarion makes a sound at the back of his throat, and Amara can't help but agree. More of this Absolute nonsense.
"You speak with an eloquence unusual to your kind," Amara points out instead, as she bears no such… brand.
"Am I not astonishing?" he asks, and oh does Amara not like that. "A robust diet makes for a shrewd mind, you see. I am a gourmand… and you, a delicacy— unless you bear the mark, of course."
Astarion nudges her in the side. "Well?" he asks. "Don't you recall what I said? What's wrong with abusing a little misplaced power now and again, hmm, True Soul?"
Amara glares at him but steadies herself and turns back to the ogre. "I'll do you one better than a brand— I'm one of the Absolute's chosen disciples."
She holds her breath. She isn't sure of how truthful the statement is, or how she could prove it even if it was the truth.
"Indeed?" he remarks, "How regrettable, that your meat must go unsavored."
Amara and Astarion both relax, the air gusting out of Amara's lungs.
"Food?" one of the others asks, pointing at the pair of them.
The other, looking hopeful, seconds that. "Food?"
Their more eloquent friend looks disgusted. "Not food. Friend!"
Amara looks him over carefully, presses her fingers together, and poses a dangerous observation to him. "I notice you don't bear a brand of your own."
He scoffs. "I've no use for the Absolute— or any god. I follow two masters only: gluttony and greed. The goblins understand my appetites. They sate my hunger for gold… and the rest sate my hunger for meat."
"Boss goblin give gold. We check brand. Good deal!"
"No talk!"
That poor ogre gets smacked on the head again.
"I've seen few other ogres in these parts," Amara notes.
"We follow the scents of blood and gold to all lands fertile, friend. And this land proves particularly…fruitful."
Amara gives him a somewhat nervous smile. "I… see. Glory to your conquest of the region, then. Since we follow the Absolute, we are free to continue past the village, yes?"
"The goblins are only concerned about those who do not follow Her teachings," he growls out. "So they have not told us to halt anyone who carries Her Voice. Proceed."
"Splendid. May you continue to reap all the gore and gold you desire, then. I am Amara."
The ogre gives her a tusk-filled, rather sinister looking smile. "I am called Lump. May you continue upon your path and it bring you… whatever it is you are looking for, Absolute's Chosen One."
"Lump," Amara repeats, but really it only figures. "A pleasure."
She grabs Astarion by the arm and pulls him forward, realizing the others had been behind the rogue the whole time. Their group passes by the ogres with no issue, and Amara feels the exhaustion rattle through her body.
"Need anything?" Shadowheart asks, keeping her tone light and neutral.
"I'm fine," she replies. "Let's just get on the road."
The road is blocked.
It's blocked by a particularly nasty set of goblins spinning a gnome around a windmill. A living, breathing gnome, strapped to the windmill, spinning. Amara quickly gets sidetracked again, wanting to get the poor thing down, chasing the goblins away and then stopping the rotation of the mill itself.
She lets Gale take the conversation with the gnome once he's safely down, and the man leaves with a word of thanks and promise to perhaps see them once again.
The air is heavy.
From her position taking a short rest, Amara sees that Shadowheart's gaze is fixed on a damaged old statue near the windmill. She rises from where she was sitting to approach the half-elf, observing the snapped torso of the figure and the fine golden accents worn away by water and time.
When she turns to ask Shadowheart something, the flare of purple on the back of her hand returns and her face twists in agony.
"We… we should keep moving," she utters, and there's an imbalance to her usual neutrality that makes Amara deeply unsettled.
"Another episode?" she asks, tapping the back of her own hand. "Why does this keep happening to you?"
Shadowheart's brows furrow. "You already know as much as I do. Best ignore it, as long as it doesn't hamper us too much."
Amara looks behind her for a moment, hand ghosting across the cheek of the fallen statue's face. "Does this bother you? I could try to fix it."
She startled, looking surprised. "Fix… no, that's all right. There's no need."
Amara hums. "I'll drop it if you'd like me to, Shadowheart, but you obviously have some feelings about the desecration of this place. I'm here if you would like to talk to me."
"It's better left destroyed," Shadowheart clarifies. "And— and I don't need you to concern yourself about the details."
Delicately, Amara puts her hand on the cleric's shoulder. "Then I won't."
Shadowheart holds Amara's gaze for a few long seconds before it wavers and she crumbles, looking down. Air flies from her lungs, forcibly ejected.
"By all means of logic, I should just accept your dismissal of the subject. You are doing as I ask you to. I should be happy, but I am… I am not. In fact, infuriatingly, it is the opposite. You are so accommodating of my desire to withhold information that could be important that I am beginning to feel like I can share this with you."
She pauses, her expression twists. There's a wetness to her eyes, a warp to her brow, and her frown lines are sunken and exaggerated.
"I've never felt this way before."
Amara doesn't like the pain in her expression, so she desires to lighten it. She needs to lighten it.
"Voluntarily sharing information, Shadowheart? Are you feeling quite unwell? It isn't your tadpole, is it?"
A smile breaks out on her face and she shakes her head. "You make light of it, but it is unusual for me. I'm not quite sure what to do with myself."
"Well, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do."
Her expression morphs into one of surprise that she quickly masks.
"Shadowheart, I would gladly listen to anything you have to tell me, but the moment it starts to feel unpleasant to share, I compel you to stop." She holds the hands of the cleric. "I just want to make this journey as best as it can be, it's already going to be difficult enough."
She takes a slow breath in and squeezes Amara's hands. "…Thank you, Amara. This is a statue of Selûne. You probably also noticed I had a reaction to the Selûne shrine we found on the way here. That is because I am a worshiper of Shar, the Mistress of the Night. It is my holy mission to oppose Selûne, her teachings and her followers. Now that you have the truth, please don't make a big fuss about it."
Amara has to resist asking if that is really it.
Instead, she chooses a much more diplomatic way to respond. "Shadowheart, do you truly believe I would care who it is you worship, as if I would dash you for it? Cast you out for it? If it is something important to you, it is important to me, my own opinion on Shar, Selûne, and deities as a whole aside."
She gives a small smile and shakes her head again. "You are right. I should have known… that you would not hold it against me. Honestly, I was fearful. I didn't think you'd react so pragmatically. Perhaps I should have told you sooner."
"I will do everything in my power to prove you can trust me, Shadowheart. In the future, please don't hold back on my account."
"I will keep that in mind," she promises, letting go of Amara's hands. "Are you rested enough? We can stay for longer."
"We are losing too much daylight as it is. We must keep going," Amara declares, and goes to fetch the other two. "Come, we must journey on. Do either of you need anything?" She looks specifically at Gale, who looks no better than he did when they first sat down to rest. "…Gale?"
"You'll have to speak slowly," he pants out, and his brow is twisted up in a scowl. "I'm finding it quite difficult to concentrate with my condition gnawing at my insides like a teething displacer kitten." Shadowheart pushes Amara toward him seemingly without thinking, and Amara sends a glance her way but approaches the wizard with concern written all over her face.
She touches his forehead, slick with sweat, and the man's eyes flutter closed. "You're feverish," she comments, pulling her hand back. For just a mere moment, if Amara blinked she would have missed it, the wizard leans forward as if to chase her hand before righting himself.
"It is not ceremorphosis," he claims decisively, and his gaze is unfocused and floats on her hand. "I can… can guarantee that."
"Gale, I'm not worried about that," Amara chastises. "Please tell me it's time to help you. I have plenty of artifacts if you need one."
Gale breathes out, unsteady and slightly wheezing. "It is indeed time; I cannot tell you how appreciated this is, Amara. You are far more accepting of such a sacrifice than I could ever have expected. I can't thank you enough. May I?"
He holds his hand out and Amara places a pendant in it, enchanted for protection when one is gravely wounded. The amount of Weave in it is truly impressive compared to some of her other items, and Amara doesn't mind giving it up as she can more than make up for its absence.
Just like in the cottage in Waterdeep, Gale takes the pendant and presses it to his chest. A glowing warp of purple Weave flows in and around him, sucking itself into the marking just visible above his robes, which itself begins to emit a great light even under the day's sun.
"Ahhh…" he exhales, stumbling forward a step or two. "Thank you."
"Filling meal?" Amara teases, noting the unease in Gale's expression having done this in front of the party for the first time.
He gives a breathy chuckle. "Certainly. It hit the spot."
Again, she touches the wizard's brow. "You seem more enlivened, but I wish there was more that I could do."
"You do more than enough," he assures her quickly. "I assure you that I can feel it work. The magic is like a lullaby that sings to sleep the demon inside. A metaphorical demon I haste to point out. But no less dangerous— no less bound to wake up again to continue its ravages. Such is the nature of all monsters."
He pushes his lips closed, though Amara will never tire of his voice, even if he feels as though he's rambling. She gives him a small smile.
"I'm just glad you're feeling better, then. Your condition sounds unpleasant, to say the least."
His eyes search her face, and he noticeably tries to brighten his smile. "Oh, it's not so bad once you get used to it. And on the plus side, my tower in Waterdeep has never been so free of clutter," he jokes, and his expression warms considerably when Amara laughs. "Sincerely though: I understand I ask a lot from you with few answers in return, but in time all will be told."
"If I could also be sincere for a moment, Gale— if I have anything to say about it, once we are no longer in danger of donning new, unappreciated visages, I see no reason we could not seek a more permanent solution to your malady."
His eyes widen. "Amara…"
"We'll keep an eye and ear out for a studied mage," Shadowheart adds. "Perhaps there is something we can learn while on this journey."
Gale swallows, ducking his head. "I…words cannot express…"
Astarion puts his hand on the wizard's shoulder as he moves past him. "Darling, you'll have to hold yourself together a bit more in front of the lady if you want to impress," he drawls out. "She strikes me as the type who is easily charmed but much more difficult to leave an impression on."
"Astarion," she chides. "Leave him be. If we are all quite done, we really are losing daylight. There is a druid waiting."
"Amara, darling, are you blushing?"
"I will knee you in the spleen, Astarion."
"So violent!"
"You're right; my bad. I will stab you in spleen with your own dagger, Astarion."
He bubbles into laugher and he trails after the elf as she takes off down the path, cheeks heated.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter Text
Chapter VIII
Rotting from Inside
"Well, this is perfectly ominous," Amara remarks to herself as their party approaches a perilous rope bridge made entirely of rotting wood and fraying twine, where flaming sticks that could pass as lanterns have been stuck in the middle on each side.
"Seems perfectly safe," Astarion drawls out. "Amara, darling, why don't you and the wizard go first, yes?"
Gale turns to him with an affronted expression.
"Wha-at?" he asks, putting on a dramatic, flamboyantly innocent front. "If any of us have a chance at surviving if this bridge collapses, it would be our two most skillful and studied in the mystic arts. Now, let's go! Time's wasting; the druid is waiting!"
Amara has a terrible feeling about this.
Still, they forge ahead. Amara treks carefully across the crude and slipshod construction. It sways in the wind in a way that makes her stomach roil and ache, but the wood doesn't bend or give under her weight.
She keeps running and hears the others follow her, and then she hears something else. A whining, disparaging snap, followed by her stomach dropping to her feet as her entire sense of gravity is thrown.
Amara snaps her fingers, and is suddenly on solid ground, and Astarion is still talking.
"…the druid is waiting!"
She sways, trying not to focus on the sensation of the rope bridge snapping, falling, and looks to the other wizard in her party. Gale's eyes are immediately on hers, focused and attentive. "I'll take myself and the annoying rogue. Can you get Shadowheart?"
Her Weave bubbles up in her hand and she turns to Astarion, who has his arms crossed.
"Did you just call me annoying?" he accuses, pointing a finger in her direction.
"Oh, darling, I wouldn't dare," she drawls innocently, casting her Weave out and dousing the other elf. He sputters as it coats his skin, giving it a faint blue sheen, and he holds his arms up to see how they glint in the sunlight.
"What… what is this that you've done to me?" he asks, watching Amara do the same to herself.
She just smiles. "Come, Astarion, let's go! Time's wasting; the druid is waiting!" She mimics, and steps weightlessly onto the bridge.
Like this, she doesn't even feel its sway in the wind.
"Well, now this is just showing off," Astarion pouts behind her.
"I thought I was the most skillful and studied in the mystic arts, dear Astarion, isn't this what you meant?"
He grumbles and follows behind her, bouncing slightly to test the floating sensation.
"I must admit," Gale boasts from the back, having successfully cast the same spell, "I would never have thought to cast Levitation in this way! It's quite a creative use of spellwork, Amara. I appear to have much to learn from you."
"Arrogant arseholes," the rogue mutters. "These petty tricks— just wait until I can be in my element."
Shadowheart just covers her mouth, holding in laughter, perhaps?
The four of them make it across the bridge this time, and Amara feels the tension spiral out of her as the spell fades. "Now for the hard part," she remarks mostly to herself.
"How do you want to approach it?" Shadowheart asks. "Sneak around? Fight through? Try to talk your way in?"
"Well, it will most likely go poorly once. Or twice. Or even three times. I suppose I'll just approach the gate to start with."
Shadowheart blinks, tilting her head.
"Don't worry about it," Amara says, and she charges ahead.
There's almost immediately a guffaw of attention. "Lookit, Klaw!" a goblin crows. "Supper's here!"
Amara stands in front of him, crossing her arms.
"Unless you got another reason to be here, feck-shite."
Charming.
Gale leans in, hand at Amara's back. "Let's try to be diplomatic, shall we? Goblins don't come by the handfuls, but by the dozens," he whispers into her ear.
A red symbol appears over the goblin sentinel's eye.
*As the symbol glows, power courses through you. Authority.*
Diplomatic, Gale suggested, did he? Well… Amara can do that. Kind of.
"Your leader summoned me," she lies through her teeth, fast and straight.
"You?" the sentinel asks, and, fair. "Well. Guess we're in with all sorts these days."
Dear gods of Elysium; that can't have worked.
"If you're 'ere to see Dror Ragzlin, you'll wanna let 'im and the lads know you're one of us," the goblin suggests, and Amara narrows her eyes at him. "There's a party on. Celebratin' a raid, we are. You'll need to wear our war colors. Nice dab o' this across the mug oughta do it."
He points to a pile of dung, still steaming.
Amara is no longer sure her ruse worked.
"You can't be serious," she argues.
"Go on. Don't skimp, neither!"
Amara hates this very much.
She's at a loss. She doesn't even want to touch it. She can touch guts and gore if she must, but there's something humiliating about being asked to touch dung.
She contemplates throwing it at the goblin's face.
It's a bad idea.
Well? Is it?
No, it is; it's a bad idea.
But, hold on. She's stuck now, so she's going to snap.
Say throwing the man's bad prank back in his face goes poorly; she'll snap and go back anyway.
Either way, she's snapping, this one is just more fun.
Leaning down, she scoops up the warm dung, trying not to think about the temperature or texture, and— and stands upright with it sitting heavily in her palm.
Okay, maybe this was a bad plan.
But! Too late now!
Rearing back, she flings the dung right into the sentinel's face.
There's a howl, a desperately shrill shriek, and, "MY EYES! YOU SHITEY FECK-SHITE!"
Everyone draws their weapon, and Amara snaps.
She tries again, and again. Each time it's difficult to evade the man's trickery without starting combat with the lot of them, and Amara desperately doesn't want to do battle this early in the trek. She needs as much of the day as possible to rescue the druid.
Finally, she approaches one last time and feels the familiar sensation she's felt every time she's faced this goblin. Sentinel Olak.
*As the symbol glows, power courses through you. Authority.*
Power and anger surging through her, Amara forces her will through the mark. It burns through her body, fierce and sharp, and the voice that comes from her lips does not feel like her own. "Stand aside."
"I… erm…" he stammers, before his entire demeanor changes. Lashing out, he kicks at the beast by his side. "Klaw! Bad girl!"
*Something stirs deep within you, hungry and alert… it's taking something you'll never get back.*
Amara feels truly dreadful.
She'd rather smear the dung on her face.
"Easy, lads!" Olak warns, throwing his hands out to either side. "We got a True Soul comin' through!"
She feels sick.
Positively sick.
"Tell me," she chokes out. "What can I expect inside?"
"Lads're celebrating the raid on Waukeen's Rest. Captured a duke, we did! All the way from the city. I'm sure the higher-ups'll make sure you get the best of the spoils, your excelness. The boss is in the temple inside. Minthara, too. A-and Priestess Gut can show you how many new recruits we got!"
Amara's stomach feels so tight and her chest positively aches. If she waits much longer, she's going to vomit.
One more question.
"I'm looking for a druid named Halsin. Where is he?"
He better not be dead. Amara would blow the camp up before resetting.
"Don't know any Halsin, your excelness," he yammers out quickly, before bowing low.
Her vision swims with disgust.
"I heard he was captured breaking into the very camp," she clarifies, hoping it's just his name that is unknown.
"Oh, one of them thieves? If he ain't dead, he's in the pits with the rest of 'em," Olak grunts out, gesturing widely behind him.
Gale makes a sound of dissatisfaction behind her. "'Down in the pits', no less. Sounds ominous among creatures that love bloodsports. Better step to it."
Amara nods and simply steps past Sentinel Olak, who cowers as she passes, and the moment she's past the gates, Astarion startles her by grabbing her arm.
"Did you see that?!" he asks, expression bright with cheerful abandon.
"See what?" she snaps back, and some of the happiness drains from the vampire's smile.
"See what?" he repeats, affronted. "See the effect you had on him! I didn't think you had it in you, Amara, darling— I see you're taking my words to heart! Very impressive, I must say. And fascinating, too— the tadpole gives us the ability to influence others. How very interesting."
Amara does not like how he says that one bit.
Apparently, neither does Gale, as the wizard frowns deeply and argues, "It's an unexpected development, to be sure, but one I believe we would do well to treat with caution. There is no telling whether this power is a sign for the better… or for the worse."
Astarion scoffs and waves his hand. "Nonsense. Any power freely given is a power well-received. And this is a valuable power indeed."
"It's only valuable if we understand it," Shadowheart cuts in, while Gale nods in agreement. "And we do not. Not yet, at least."
The three of them turn to look at Amara.
She sighs.
"I do not know the answer. All I can say is that these are strange times, and even stranger powers. We should seek to understand them before we make any rash decisions."
Shadowheart gives a curt nod. "Sensible."
"However…"
Astarion makes an exaggerated tsk sound. "You hated it, didn't you."
It's not a question.
Her expression openly twists, and Astarion is expressive enough that Amara can see how genuinely surprised he is.
"I abhorred it, yes."
"But why?" he asks in earnest. "You effortlessly got us safely inside the camp! It was expert! You didn't even need to shed a drop of blood, which I know you prefer to avoid for some other stuffy reason. What do you have against power?"
Amara grips her hand tightly enough together that her nails dig crescents into her flesh. "When he… did not know where Halsin was, did you see how he looked at me?"
Astarion's brow twitches. He looks down at her hand, probably smelling the blood there. His voice is taut, hesitant. "I did not."
"Petrification. He was sure he was to be dashed into the stones for his failure to provide me with the answer I requested. His bow was so low that he could probably have kissed the tops of my feet if he tried," Amara snarls. "I never… never… want that kind of sway over another living thing. The kind of corruption that would cause… I shudder to think what would become of me, and how quickly I would… cease to recognize myself."
Quickly, Astarion flicks his gaze toward the ground. "I… see. I did not think of it that way, Amara. I've always been the one who…"
His eyes snap up to meet hers in panic.
"It's okay, Astarion," she soothes gently. "We don't have to dwell on this any longer."
Shadowheart cuts in for him, "What do you want to do, then? We're already inside."
Amara sighs. "I suppose we can't talk our way in. I'll have to try again. Sneak in or fight it is."
"What?" she asks, and Amara just gives her a small smile.
"Here's to hoping we have a normal night's rest tonight. I'm going to need it. I'm exhausted already, and we aren't even inside the camp yet."
Amara snaps.
/ / /
This time, they stick to the outer edge of the cliff face.
"Are you sure this is necessary?" Astarion growls out when they're shimmying over a particularly narrow part of it. "We could just slaughter them all!"
"I prefer to keep things alive," Amara drolly replies. "Besides, look. There's a cracked part of the wall ahead."
Astarion scoffs. "Bleeding heart," he jabs. "And how are you going to break into that without getting noticed?"
Amara flutters her eyelashes back at the rest of her party. "Gale, my talented and affluent friend. Could you cast a large range Silence spell for me?"
He gives a hearty chuckle. "I certainly can, however I will say that wall looks like it will need a mighty powerful blast to move it anywhere."
"I can take care of that," she assures. "Astarion, just focus on getting over the wall with Shadowheart. Gale and I will climb over invisibly."
"Yes, yes," he drawls out. "I don't see why we can't just go through the front door…"
They approach the cracked part of the wall, and Gale expertly maneuvers his Weave until it is spread on both sides of the wall, and channels a shockingly powerful casting of Silence. Amara takes a deep breath, feeling the power seep through her body and out into her Weave.
She feels the wind whip around her, dangerous and fast, with sharp ice daggers of raindrops. A storm, a calamity, a disaster that floods the land and stirs the sky. Powerful. Explosive. Damaging.
She casts a Chromatic Orb with thunder damage at the wall, and creates a small hole at the weakest part of the crack, causing the entire top of the wall to crumble in utter silence.
"Ah," Gale's voice says, invisible next to her. "Well, that certainly did the trick."
Amara wraps herself in Weave, letting it sink into her skin until she disappears from view. "Why, thank you, Gale of Waterdeep. That's quite a compliment coming from someone of your competency."
"Sometimes, I fear you display more competency than I do," the wizard remarks with a chuckle.
"Nonsense, unless I am casting several high grade illusion spells."
They climb the wall and duck to one side, quickly finding where Shadowheart and Astarion are waving them over toward.
Amara makes her way over there, and once she's within just steps of them, a horrible ringing begins in her ears, followed by a splitting pain in her head. It claws at her brain, numbs her limbs, and she collapses forward. Dully, she can make out that all her companions are in much the same state.
Damn.
Damn, damn, damn.
Amara tries to force her fingers together to snap, but she's numb all over and feels like she's vibrating out of her skin.
A voice rings through her brain.
It's not the narrator.
"Hear my voice. Obey my command."
*The voice is irresistible.* There she is. Great, now Amara has two voices in her head. Oh, joy. *You recognise the overwhelming authority that you've used on others, only infinitely stronger, and turned against you…*
Oh, joy.
*Your vision clouds, leaving you in a dark, featureless shadowscape. Nothingness in every direction. Then, there are three figures before you. An armored male elf, exuding power and command. A handsome younger man with a quick, easy smile. And a pale young woman with even paler eyes…*
"These are my Chosen. They speak for me. Aid their search for the Prism, and you will be worthy to stand beside them. In my presence."
Out of the corner of her eye, Amara sees Shadowheart pull out the dodecahedron relic she only vaguely remembers from the nautiloid. It glows, whipping out of the half-elf's hand and floating in midair on its own.
*You feel energy pulsing from the artifact. Lifting the pain from you. Pushing the voice away.*
"My power grows. My forces gather. The reckoning draws near…"
Slowly, the four of you are able to sit up from the overwhelming pressure and eventually stand up again. The artifact dims from its magnificent glow and then returns to Shadowheart's hands, and the light fades altogether.
"Don't give me that look," she immediately says to Amara, who has to resist giving her a dumb expression.
What look? Amara wasn't giving a look! Surely, she would be the one to know!
"I don't know what just happened any more than you do. We should keep going," she says dismissively and looks hesitantly at Gale and Astarion.
Amara swallows. "The vision… that voice— is that who I think it was?"
Shadowheart squeezes the artifact and nods. "I think that was the Absolute speaking to us… but we managed to shield ourselves. We should keep moving."
Gale holds up a finger, and Astarion steps toward their cleric, but Amara holds up her hands. "Hold on— that artifact seemed to stop the voice. I know you once asked me to disregard it, and I was happy to, but I must ask once again in light of this. What is it?"
Looking crestfallen, Shadowheart gently rubs at the metallic shell. "I don't know… not exactly. All I know is it's important I get it back to Baldur's Gate. At any cost."
"What's in Baldur's Gate?" Amara asks, trying to imagine what could require an artifact that could fend off a fledgling god.
"My home— a cloister of Shar followers, hidden in the city."
Well, shit.
"A group of us were sent to retrieve the artifact. Now, I'm the only one left. I can't afford to fail."
Well, shit.
Amara sighs. "I see. Just keep it on hand, then, in case something like that happens again. We'll press on for now."
Pocketing the dodecahedron, Shadowheart nods and pointedly does not meet the eyes of any of the other three. Letting her walk away first, Amara makes pointed eye contact with both the others and shakes her head. Gale opens her mouth and Amara points at him and whips her finger across her throat.
Gale closes his mouth.
They mingle with the goblins, finding a trader with some… questionable goods, partaking in some… questionable ale, and galavanting about the square with goblins of… questionable character. Amara only really stops when she hears a familiar voice.
"With fragulous crown, and with scepter abrade, Dror Ragzlin short work of the innkeeper made!"
Volo. Amara spots him in the center of a square, surrounded by clapping, pleased goblins cheering him on.
"The inn burned to ash! The captives were many! Goblinkind had reduced them to cowering filfenny!"
He shivers on the stage, his voice hesitant and trembling. Amara frowns, walking to the front of the stage, arms crossed.
"So raiseth your goblets, and drain them with pride! Dror Ragzlin, the True Soul, hath led you galide!"
She tilts her head. He meets her eyes. She claps her hands together and says, "Bravo!"
One of the goblins in front of the makeshift stage glares at her accusingly and points, looking up at Volo. "Whozzat?" she asks in a rough voice. "Friend o' yours? You up to somethin'?"
Amara balks at her. All she said was bravo, right?
She looks at Astarion, who just shrugs.
"Certainly not!" Volo assures the goblin, before leaning down toward Amara and hissing out in a whisper, "(What are you doing? I'm busy here!)"
Amara balks at him. All she said was bravo, right?
The goblin growls. "You lyin'?"
"To you?" Volo laughs nervously. "Never! Come— let's continue our ballad! 'Dror Ragzlin, Dror Ragzlin, we, erm…' I, erm… 'Dror Ragzlin, untumtous, Dror Ragzlin, erm…'"
Oh, hells.
"Bahh. You broke 'im!"
"Wait! Wait!" Amara watches Volo panic, and considers snapping. 'Dror Ragzlin, we… pray… we…'"
"C'mon, pigeon. Back to your cage."
Hmm, well…
"(Now look what you've done!)"
She'll just pick him up from where he's being held. Fewer eyes there.
"C'mon!"
"Of course, ma'am!"
"M'name's Gribbo. Idiot!"
"Right. Yes. More the fool me."
She watches him get carted away and turns to Astarion again. "All I said was bravo, right?" she hisses with emphasis.
Astarion bursts into laughter.
"It's not funny! What in the hells was that…"
"We'll just grab him later," Shadowheart insists, tugging on Amara. "Let's keep moving."
"Yes, yes," she drones out. "But let the record show, I was only trying to be supportive…"
They enter the camp again, and Amara picks up on various whispers of novice Absolute supporters, envious of True Souls and fearful for their brands. Some have had them already and brag about their strong stomachs.
Amara isn't so sure about this whole branding thing.
Eventually, they reach a deeper part of the camp, a sanctum of sorts, though it's obviously been desecrated. A long time past its prime, now home to countless goblins and mismatching camp supplies that bring shame to what probably was once quite impressive a building.
Shadowheart, who had been rapidly leading their charge though the camp, abruptly stops in this shattered sanctum.
"Selûne," she breathes out with a heaviness to her voice. A hatred, thick and feeling. "As if mingling with a horde of goblins wasn't bad enough. Let's do what we have to do, then get out of here."
Amara puts her hand on the cleric's arm. She gives her a sloped smile. "Not your usual haunt, I take it."
Shadowheart frowns at first, but eventually the corner of it twitches. "Quite the understatement, but yes." Amara smiles wider, and so too does Shadowheart. "Let's not linger in this place any longer than necessary."
"Aye, aye," Amara responds, saluting her, and she breezes forward toward a collection of goblins wielding much larger weapons than any of the ones in the outdoor section of the camp.
A spear finds its way pointed right at Amara's throat. "Oi! We ain't said you pass— you don't pass!"
Lovely.
"And how exactly do I get a pass?" Amara asks, tilting her head. "I'm needed on the other side."
"Yer massive ears just there fer show?" he growls, pointing the spear tip into the hollow of the elf's throat. "We ain't said you pass. So— you don't pass!"
Behind her, Astarion lets out an exaggerated huff. "Enough sitting around— let's go hurt someone!"
Amara breathes in. Breathes out. Sighs. "Fine."
A well-placed Fireball deals with the spear at her neck, and the flurry of battle that erupts after that is tedious, exhausting. There are far more than the four goblins Amara could readily see, and they come from above and in the next room as well. She doesn't have to snap, but she's left panting and drained after, and in need of more spell slots than she has left, for sure.
Next time, she could probably just use the one spell slot, and put the four guards to sleep. Damn it.
"Need any healing?" Shadowheart asks as they walk into the next room, and Amara shakes her head.
"I'll need to rest soon, but I'm not injured."
Astarion scoffs. "You're bleeding," he points out.
Amara knows he can smell it. He looks pointedly at her, his eyes glowing red in the low light of the room. She snaps her gaze away from his.
"It's a minor scratch."
"Shadowheart, would you mind terribly…?" Gale asks, gesturing in the direction of their party leader.
"Of course not. It's what I'm here for, after all," the cleric responds, and Amara feels a wave of healing magic lap over her weeping wounds.
"All of you are overreacting. We may have needed that more in the coming battles."
"Then we shall deal with it then," Gale comments. "You don't like us to suffer. We feel the same. Let us keep going."
Amara sighs, unable to argue, and the room opens into a much larger one with a vaulted ceiling, and the smell of burning flesh causes the wizard to grab her nose. "Argh," she exclaims. "What…?"
There, in the center of the room, Amara can see one of the goblins take a red-hot fire poker out of a hearth and jab the flaming end into the palm of another goblin, who suppresses a scream of pain before scampering away when released, clutching his hand to his chest.
"Don't look," Shadowheart whispers to her. "Come, this way."
She grabs Amara's hand and Astarion pushes delicately at her back, herding her around the edge of the room. They move slowly, stealthily, and reach a row of rooms away from where the branding is taking place.
"Look, these could serve as prison cells," Gale points out, having traveled silently and invisibly alongside them until they were out of earshot from the goblin with the fire poker. "Halsin could be here."
Amara nods, her stomach feeling queasy. "We'll start at the end."
This end does not contain Halsin. It does, however, contain Volo.
The goblin, who introduced herself as Gribbo, spots Amara instantly, pointing at her accusatorily. "Don't go botherin' my pigeon! He's mine," she growls out.
Surprised, Amara realizes that Gribbo must have been waiting. Suspicious from having been "lied to", about whatever she has concocted in that small head of hers is really going on here.
Amara crosses her arms over her chest. "So I see. Do you have plans for this 'pigeon'?"
Gribbo scoffs. "Keep him safe. Listen to him coo. 'Til I gets hungry or some such. What's it to ya?"
"I was admiring him," Amara lies, and watches Volo's eyes light with fear from inside the cage he's trapped in. "I'd like one of my own."
"Then catch one on your own," Gribbo growls.
Amara considers her for a second, and begins to gather her Weave. It slips, dripping from her fingers like silken fabric pooling onto the floor, slithering like a snake. The heady scent of cinnamon and amber flare up into the room, and sink into the deepest recesses of all recent thoughts, wrapping around them and drawing them to the forefront of the goblin's mind. Searching. Prodding. Looking.
"This ranga better not go yappin' 'bout my pigeon," she's thinking to herself. "I shoulda turned him over to Minthara by now, but he's such nice little pigeon."
Oh, now this… this Amara can use.
"Caught him yourself did you? Isn't he technically… a prisoner? You wouldn't happen to be… withholding him from your boss, would you? She isn't the forgiving type. What would she say if she discovered your… darling little bird?"
"What?! I… I ain't. Minthara don't give a cake what you think." She hesitates, glances back toward Volo, wrings her hands. The thought of Minthara seems to get through to her. "Bah. Just take him, if you care so much. See if he'll sing for the likes of you though. Bloody fink. Here's the key. Pigeon's all yours."
She tosses the key at Amara and bustles out of the room, leaving the elf to unlock the cage and swing it open, helping the bard out of. He laughs, a nervous and hesitant thing, and looks over the party with trepidation.
"Ha-HA! Look at this— I'm quite saved!" he cheers. "A joy to see a familiar face in such a… precarious setting. I guarantee the story of your daring rescue of my person will live on for aeons!"
Amara just smiles at him. "The story can wait, Volo. Get yourself to safety and quick."
"I intend to do just that," he assures her with a wave of a finger. "A trusty invisibility potion goes a long way in a place like this. We mustn't tarry, but I'd hate for our friendship to end here. Please— won't you meet me, once we've both slipped the goblin yoke?"
Surprised, Amara nods. "I wasn't expecting you to offer, but if it so pleases you, I can direct you to my camp. We can talk there, once we're both safe."
"Smashing!" Volo agrees, and takes down the location to meet Amara's party at. "Soon, my friend— soon we can share a flagon of something liquid and a tale of derring do!" he promises, righting his bard costume. "I'll slip away when the coast is clear. See you soon, my friend! I simply can't wait to pick your brain!"
He runs out of the room after downing the potion and disappearing from view, and Amara's group heads out a moment later, giving him a slight start to separate him from their group. They travel to the next room, where a single man sits crouched in front of a wall.
Amara freezes, and grabs Astarion's arm.
Blood runs in rivulets down the man's back. It's splattered on the floor, on the wall, on a flayed whip. The air is heavy with it, dense with it, and she can feel the muscles under Astarion's skin as he clenches his hand.
Before any of them can speak, the man stands, turning to face them, and directly addresses Amara with a smile that promises things she is sure she is not interested in.
"Greetings, child," he soothes out. "I've met few aside from goblins, here."
*You recognise the scourge— this man is a follower of Loviatar, goddess of pain.*
Well. That certainly… explains a few things.
"Ah, are you also here to assist with the prisoner?" he asks, gesturing in the direction they've yet to go yet.
Amara clears her throat and asks, "What prisoner?"
"The gentleman being held next door," the priest answers, which is exactly no more information than Amara could have gleaned herself.
She detests answers like that.
"My acquaintance is working on him, I believe. While I was thrilled to be invited here, I must confess I find the goblins and their methods… crude and primitive," he says with a dramatic sigh."
Oh, Amara does not like this man.
"Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn't you agree?"
With no expression, Amara merely states, "I thought a follower of Loviatar would approve of pain."
"You know the Maiden of Pain? How refreshing," the man compliments, but Amara only feels a flare of anger at the interest and desire in his eyes. "But there is more to us than that. Yes, we worship her through pain— often our own. But it is an intimate and loving thing and one we offer up. If you would permit it, I can show you firsthand."
Nope!
No, thank you!
Amara is not interested!
Snapping, Amara goes back a few minutes and walks right past that doorway.
"Ah, Amara," Shadowheart says, trying to catch her attention as they go by.
"We're not going in there," Amara says dismissively.
The cleric looks over at the other two party members, who both shrug. "Well, all right then…"
Instead, they enter the next room, where the prisoner that the Loviatar worshiper had mentioned resides. Indeed, there is currently someone… occupied with him.
A goblin prods at him with a spear. Can't these idiots get any more creative? "Poor lad. I could give you peace, you know. But noooo! Ya gotta keep silent, don'cha? Where'd they flee to, ya stubborn RAT?"
The man is chained up, a large padlock keeping his limbs in place, and he strains against them as much as he can to avoid the blade. "P-please, stop…"
Another goblin winds up to hit him with a club, but notices Amara at the last second.
He gives her a grin with a face full of rotted teeth. "'Ere to see yer friend, have ya? Come an' join 'im, if ya like."
Shadowheart leans into Amara's space, her lips right behind the elf's ear. "Say we'll take over. His work is sloppy; he'll kill the prisoner too quickly."
*As the symbol glows, power courses through you. Authority.*
Amara casts the same spell as before, and Detect Thoughts spreads through the room.
"No. NO! Why won't 'e speak?! The drow's gonna kill me if I can't make 'im talk!"
She resists smirking, feeling victorious over yet another piece of blackmail to use. "I'll take over— unless you want the drow to learn of your failures," she threatens, holding her hand out for the club.
The goblin snarls, "We do all the work an' you get to finish 'im?!" One look at Amara's unflinching expression, and he hands over the club. "Bah. Take 'im. Won't do ya any good. 'E just… screams. Should've sent 'im to Moonrise with the rest, for all the good he's been."
The goblins both leave, discussing going next door to visit the priest.
"P-please… please l-let me out! Th-there's no reason for this!" the man begs, and Amara holds a finger up to her lips while the goblins scurry out of the room.
When they're gone, she turns to her rogue. "Astarion, can you pick the lock?"
"Darling, all it needs is but a tap," he drawls with confidence.
A moment later, *The lock clicks and opens.*
The man drops from the contraption holding him, rubbing his sore and raw skin, and hunches slightly in front of Amara as if scared of her. "Thank you, I… I'd better go, before they catch us. I sh-should be able to make it to the grove on my own. They need to know they're in danger."
She holds up a hand. "Of course, just a few things before you go. Tell me: have you seen a druid called Halsin?"
He blinks rapidly, but shakes his head while gathering the words. "Halsin? I… I don't know. He changed into a bear, but… I lost sight of him. I don't know if he's s-still alive."
A bear… Amara files that away.
She looks behind her for a moment. "My apologies, but I must ask: what did all of you come looking for? They keep calling you thieves."
"A-an artifact, of some kind," he says with a twist to his brow. "The boss— er, Aradin ha-had the contract. I never saw it. Alls I know is it's called the N-Nightsong, and we— we were promised riches for it. It should be here somewhere. They said there was a hidden passage underneath this temple. The place was supposed to be abandoned, b-but when we arrived…"
Amara perks up. "What else do you know about the temple? How do we activate this hidden passage?"
He shakes his head again. "I'm not sure— all I know is there's a p-passageway to the Nightsong. B-Brian had instruction, but… the g-goblins got him. Th-they said they'd e-eat him… I… I have to go. I have to get out of here."
"Very well. One final question: what does the Nightsong do exactly?"
"I don't know," he insists desperately. "The boss didn't say. He j-just said some wizard called Lorroakan would reward us if we found it. That's all!"
"Of course," Amara assures him. "Off with you."
He runs, and Amara looks after him for a moment before sighing, and now beginning to search for not a man, but… a bear.
Oddly, and she would have never guessed this if anyone had asked her a day ago, but it's a lot easier to find a bear than a man.
There is, in fact, a bear in the next room, behind a large gate secured to a wall. Two small, almost child-like goblins and a goblin brawler in a facemask stand in front of the gate, and their party approaches slowly, while Amara tries to identify if this bear is… a bear, or a druid.
How does one identify if a bear is a bear?
"See?! It squealed!" one of the little goblins trills.
The other one jumps from foot to foot and twitters, "Hit it again!"
"Keep yer hand steady, Three," the brawler advises in a hard voice.
Three, one of the little goblins, picks up a stone and hurls it back, whipping past the bars. It collides directly with the face of the bear, who lets out a mighty roar in pain.
The other goblin claps her hands together. "Again! Again! Make it squeal again!" she chirps delightedly.
Amara towers over the three of them. "He's helpless," she observes, plucking the next rock out of Three's hand with ease. "Let him go."
The brawler moves to stand between Amara and Three. "It's stayin' right 'ere," she growls. "The beast came in here with those robbers. Killed Dink— and Mince, too. Boss's thinkin' of servin' it to the worgs. But first, Three, more stones. Make it nice 'an bloody."
"Yeah! Hit its head! I wanna hear more noises!" the other goblin warbles, but for some reason isn't allowed to pick up stones herself.
Amara looks back down at the brawler.
*As the symbol glows, power courses through you. Authority.*
"I'm putting an end to this," Amara asserts, stepping forward and leaning into the goblin's face. "Now."
The bear roars, almost as if in agreement, and bashes its face against the bars of the cage. They rattle, freeing themselves from the walls, and fall directly on top of the goblin brawler, trapping her beneath.
It's… not exactly quiet, however.
And… there are a lot of enemies in the room.
"Fine," Amara gruffs. "Astarion, stay in the shadows, there are enemies all over this room. Get as many in the back as you can."
"Delicious," he drawls, and practically vanishes from Amara's sight a moment later.
"Gale, stay at my back. We're going to form the core of the offense. Protect the bear, and protect Shadowheart, and—"
"I will keep the buffs coming," the cleric says, blasting a spider to her left. "And defend myself as well."
Amara twists her lips. "Very well. Let us take care of this swiftly."
The battle is anything but swift. It's incredibly difficult and more than a little gorey. There are enemies above, behind, around cover in the room, and even in adjoining rooms in the back. It seems never ending.
Astarion falls from the upper balcony once, gasping as a spider's fang finds itself embedded in his jugular and down through into his chest cavity.
Amara snaps that away and takes a shivering breath in, sending him a message through their shared parasites.
"Astarion, keep an eye out for spiders. I have seen two, and believe there are more."
After a moment, his lilting voice drifts back through their connection. "I see it. Thank you, Amara, darling."
Finally, the enemies dwindle, and the injuries are manageable. Shadowheart heals them as best as she can, and a transformed Halsin slays the last goblin.
He turns around, shaking the blood from his hands, and takes in the party who has come to his rescue. "Pardon the viscera. One should cherish all of nature's bounty… but goblin guts are quite far down the list."
Astarion sends Amara an absolutely enamored smile and she rolls her eyes.
"We are glad for the help, all the same," she tells him, ignoring the vampire.
"You aided a bear without knowing if it would savage you? A true friend of nature— or perhaps a lunatic. Either way, I owe thanks. I am the druid Halsin."
"Although that is a flattering title I would love to claim, I must admit I had my suspicions it was you. I am Amara, a wizard who's been to the Emerald Grove. One of the adventurers you came alongside mentioned you may still be a bear, if not dead."
"You've been to the Emerald Grove?" he asks, stepping closer to her.
"I have," she confirms. "It's in danger."
He sighs, his entire frame drooping. "I am aware. I foolishly left it vulnerable to this rabble. There's work to be done." He considers Amara for a second, turning his head one way and then the other. "…Hrrm. That look in your eyes— I've seen it before. Are you feeling all right?"
Amara doesn't even begin to know how to answer that.
Halsin seems to understand, and instead of requiring a verbal answer, he raises his hand and a font of golden Weave, druidic Weave, pours from his palm. It falls over Amara's skin like sunlight in the afternoon, warm and free, and bakes into her in a familiar, soft way.
It fades, and Halsin sucks in a breath of air. "Oak Father preserve you, child…" he whispers, hand over his heart. "You're infected, aren't you? The mind flayers' spawn. But… something's different. You're aware of the monster inside you. You don't bow to the Absolute, like the True Souls do… how is this possible…?"
Amara would love to tell him that it probably has something to do with how much the universe has it out for her. Always has to be something, with him.
He's had it out for her since she disobeyed the prophecy at the temple.
Instead, she gives it a best guess that isn't anywhere near as personal. "I escaped from an illithid ship after being infected. Maybe the process was interrupted," she guesses. It is, after all, a fair point to make.
There were dragons. And fire. And falling.
"Perhaps…" Halsin concedes. "But I wouldn't want to place all my faith in blind luck. It's no coincidence that you found me here, I'll wager? You're after a cure for this parasite."
Amara nods. "Nettie told us you've been studying these parasites for a while now," she recalls.
He looks surprised for a moment, but his expression grows grim. "That is correct. Ever since I discovered these so-called True Souls are infected with them. Someone is using very powerful magic to modify these tadpoles. They are using them to exert control over the infected. I'm sorry to say, I can't undo that magic, which means I can't cure you."
Oh, Amara wishes she had never gone back in time. She was so much better off in Waterdeep.
"But that doesn't mean I can't help. I didn't find what I came here for - a way to remove the tadpoles - but I found the next best thing. I found out where they come from. That must be where these enchantments are placed on them, and it's where you'll find your cure."
"They come from somewhere other than the ships?" Amara asks. "I suppose they had to be cultivated elsewhere than the goblet in the main room… you believe you've learned this origin location?"
Halsin nods. "I overheard that the cultists are sending all of their captives to Moonrise Towers. Innocents go in, True Souls come out. Given that all of these True Souls are infected, it has to be the source of this magic. If you want to find a cure, you must head there and discover how the tadpoles are being manipulated."
Amara hums, putting her hand to her chin. "I see. At least I know what to do now. Thank you."
That seems to take the druid by surprise. "Wait— I could help you find a cure… but I need to settle matters here first. I've no right to ask more of you… but if you could help me, I'd be free to join your journey to Moonrise. I cannot allow these butchers to threaten my grove. The natural order must be protected."
"You don't share our affliction, Master Halsin. There is no reason you'd have to journey with us," Amara points out.
"I have sympathy for it, however," he argues. "I wish to put a stop to the plague, and I feel as though you will make good allies and have a unique perspective."
Amara considers this. "All right," she ventures. "How do I help?"
Halsin visibly relaxes. "My thanks. If you prevail, I'll owe you the debt of a lifetime. Rare is the beast that survives decapitation. Help me eliminate the drow Minthara, the hobgoblin Dror Ragzlin, and the perversion of a priestess, Gut. They are the ones holding these parasites together. Remove them and nature will cure itself."
Great. Lovely. Sounds so easy.
Regardless, Amara doesn't need another life to worry about for this mess. "I'll deal with this. You get to safety," she advises, wanting Halsin to go back to his grove to protect it.
"There is no safety," the druid utters dramatically.
Oh, come on!
"Not while this rot festers. Once it is cut out - once the grove is secure - then I shall leave."
Fine, be that way.
Amara swallows her anger. "Follow me, then. Your bear form may prove useful."
Again, Halsin looks hesitant. "Be warned— my presence could make things more difficult… I can only restrain my bear form so much. I won't be able to help but attack goblins. If I join you, we'll likely have to slaughter this entire place. You may want to use discretion when approaching the goblin leaders."
Oh, come on!
Pick a side, Halsin!
Sighing, Amara rubs her thumb into her temple. "Very well. I want to limit the life lost. Stay here— and take this. I've been holding onto it since I escaped from the nautiloid. It's from the goblet which held our tadpoles. Perhaps it has some answer to the nature of our mutation."
Halsin accepts the makeshift waterskin Amara made out of her armor aboard the spelljammer, his face an open display of his surprise. "This could prove most useful, Amara, thank you. May Silvanus guide your hand. Focus on the leaders— that's all it will take to restore the balance here."
So Amara leaves the room, and she really does try to focus on the leaders.
She tries to let the balance restore itself.
They just keep dying.
It's Gale here, and Shadowheart there, and one time it's her that ends up with a slash across her gut.
Snap, snap, snap.
The priestess - Gut - has so much backup. They manage to defeat her once, but it's incredibly draining. Amara realizes she'll have to draw her out of that room to get her more secluded if she wants any hope of defeating her more quietly.
Minthara the drow is an incredible fighter. It's her that kills Amara herself, recognizing the elf as the strategist of the group. To be fair to the drow, it's the same plan as the party's. Sever the head of the team and the rest will scatter. Amara's only hope of defeating her quickly will be a surprise attack.
And Dror Ragzlin is a hobgoblin with no sense of survival, performing a ritual on a mind flayer. Not only is there a monster there, but a whole audience to his antics. She will need a through and through sneak attack, unseen, undetected, in and out, to get to him.
But for now, she is exhausted. She can hardly move.
She returns to outside the room after departing from Halsin, and once more Gale turns to her to strategize, and she holds up her hand.
"I'm burned through," she informs him, and her team. "We shall return to camp for the night, now that we've rescued Halsin. We will take this camp tomorrow, and bring the druid back to the grove."
Gale closes his mouth, and looks over to Shadowheart. She shrugs. "I see no problem with resting. We are all running low."
"I hope we all don't look as disastrous as Amara," Astarion drawls out, thoroughly pleased with himself. "I think she'll just tip over the moment we warp there."
Amara opens her mouth to argue, but Gale gently places his open palm on her shoulder blade. "I agree it is a wise decision. Let's get you back outside the sanctum and we'll warp to camp. Let Shadowheart and I take care of everything else today."
Finally, she feels a curl of tension in her chest start to uncoil.
"Oh, if you insist. I think I can do that," she drones out, smiling tiredly at the other wizard.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 9: Three is a Crowd
Notes:
Happy Thanksgiving!! 🥰 I finished writing Act 2 so now onto Act 3! There is some time shenanigans left for me to make sure I'm not setting myself up plotholes for so I won't be speeding up until I'm a little further, but there's tons to post! I have about 36 chapters right now.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
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."
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 10: Okay, So Six is a Crowd
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter X
Okay, So Six is a Crowd
While he isn't right where Amara left him, finding Halsin is an easy task. She follows the flurry of Druidic Weave further back into the temple until she finds the elf leaning over a repurposed vial of the liquid from the tadpole goblet Amara had given him.
He looks up when he spots them enter, on high alert. "Was there something you needed?" he asks, looking over their shoulders. "Time is of the essence, you understand. The ringleaders have to die. The very natural order of things is in danger, thanks to them."
"All the leaders are dead— the grove's safe," Amara informs him quickly, and he sets his sample aside, eyes growing wide.
"You did it. You actually did it! The leaders dead— praise Silvanus," he breathes in wonder, hand pressed to his chest. "No, that's not right," he quickly corrects. "Praise you, my friend. The grove owes you a debt beyond measure."
"If I did anything to help in keeping your people safe, I am all gladness," Amara offers with a smile. "Thank you for the advice, as well. The death was kept to the three leaders."
Halsin's eyes appear to water slightly at this. "Killing's never my first choice, but those three were too dangerous to leave alive. Still, though a fan of goblinkind I am not, I am pleased to hear life was preserved this day— and with such efficiency!"
"The efficiency may have been great, but so too was the effort," Amara quips. "Let us get out of this pit, I think it's time we get you home."
Halsin nods. "Agreed. We can discuss what comes next amidst more… bucolic surroundings than here. Do you require anything else?"
Amara considers this for just a moment. "The group you came here with— I know you journeyed for answers for the parasites, but they were on a mission for something called the Nightsong. Do you know if they found a trace of it?"
Halsin gives a grim nod. "All I know of that is the room they were able to locate, according to a list of instructions written like a poem. Of course, I don't have the poem for you to reference, but I could show you to the room, if it interests you."
Every reference to the Nightsong fills the air with a choking amount of Chronomancy Weave, so Amara nods. She has to see this through.
Halsin guides their group to a part of the temple Amara hasn't been to before, a hidden chamber of sorts. In the sunken center of this secretive area are a series of marked discs, which stand out amongst the rest of the stone floor.
"Far as I understand it, they knew these stones moved - rotated, as it is - but could figure out their message. This is where the plan went awry. If the temple was abandoned as it should have been, they would have had ample time to try many combinations, but with it occupied so densely…"
"They were caught in a matter of minutes," Amara guesses, and Halsin nods grimly. "Have you no idea as to their solution?"
Halsin shakes his head. "Without that poem, I couldn't even venture a guess."
Now, Amara could go look for the body of the dwarf that the adventurer mentioned, his belongings should be somewhere, and with it, the so-called "instructions" but…
Whereas the adventurers did not have ample time to move the stone discs, Amara quite literally has all the time in the world.
She just moves all the stones around, until there's a loud click, a thud, and a section of the wall at the far side of the room moves away to reveal a secret door.
While the rest of them rise from whatever they'd occupied themselves with while Amara fiddled for who knows how long, Amara just stares at the discs.
And stares, and stares. Burning them into her memory.
When she's satisfied, she snaps.
"Without that poem, I couldn't even venture a guess," Halsin says, looking forlorn.
"That's not a problem," Amara assures him. "Just let me…"
She moves two of the stones all the way around, and then slots the last one into place. The fourth and final stone is already where it needs to be, so once the other three move, the section of the wall slides away, and the door is revealed within a minute.
Halsin's mouth works around words that allude him.
"Well, now I have to see," Amara drawls out. "Anyone need a short rest?"
That seems to snap Halsin out of it. "What— how did you do that?"
Amara just gives him a tired smile. "It is both my greatest strength and most dangerous shortcoming that I often get away with impossible things."
With no one protesting, Amara leads the way with a lit torch, squeezing into the passageway and finding that it seems to lead them deep, deep underground.
Eventually, after walking some amount of distance, she hears Astarion huff and whine, "Do we have to spend so long poking around down here?" It sinks in how truly deep they've gone. "I'd much rather be outside, with the sun on my skin."
"Look," Gale points out, on the far side of the room, where sigils are burned into the rock. "We can get straight back to camp from here. I say we investigate, and pop back out as soon as we're satisfied. Amara?"
"Two thumbs up from me," she drawls back, looking around the room.
It's a thoroughly creepy room. There's plenty to look at. A few ruined pieces of paper that could have once held vast knowledge, now lost to time.
There's a statue, holding a gleaming light which illuminates the room.
But there's nothing about the Nightsong.
Nothing in the room is dense, or heavy. Her Weave pulls her toward nothing. Whatever the Nightsong is, as important as it is, it's not in this room.
Amara sighs, setting an artifact down. "There's nothing here. Let's go. Camp first, then walk to the grove."
"Thank the gods," Astarion rasps out, dropping whatever he's holding and going right for the portal.
"Is that a candelabra?" Amara asks blandly. "What were you doing with that?"
"Let's go already!!" he barks. "We've got these— these worm in our heads already, and it's all a nightmare enough. Must we stay in this damp and disgusting place?"
Gale activates the waypoint and crosses his arms, looking at them all. "I do believe we're in the Underdark currently," he remarks, decidedly chipper. "Fascinatingly—"
"Thank you, Encyclopaedia Deifica," Astarion snaps, and disappears into the portal.
Shadowheart laughs under her breath. "So, the vampire dislikes the Underdark. I suppose we should take note."
"I'll leave him upstairs next time," Amara drawls, smiling at the other two. "Come on, let's go."
Including Halsin, all of them walk into the campsite and Amara stretches out.
"I see you brought an extra," Wyll's voice chimes in, and she smiles.
"I have indeed! Wyll, this is Halsin. Halsin, this is our warlock Wyll, and over there is our fighter Lae'zel."
Wyll comes over and shakes the druid's hand. "It's good to see you in one piece and quite alive, my friend. How are the rest of you?"
"Words can't describe how glad I am to be out of that place—"
A chill goes down Amara's spine and she whips around, watching a whirl of sparks that forms into a man, his ruddy skin baked an unnaturally red clay hue, with voluminous brown hair combed back from an otherworldly handsome face.
Chronomantic Weave clings to him like static. He commands all that hangs in the air the moment he steps into the space Amara occupies, and though he looks human, Amara knows he is not.
*You peer closer, and just manage to see it. There, under his skin, is a burning fire. His soul has sunk through all the layers of the Hells and atop his head would twist horns, out his back would protrude wings. This creature who steals your Weave and commands your magic is a devil.*
A devil. A very dangerous one. And he's just walked right into their camp.
Amara puts herself in front of everyone else, and faces him head on.
"My, my, what manner of place is this? A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to stay, for your journey is just beginning. What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?"
"I believe, by all rights… that would depend on the lullaby," Amara remarks, and the devil smiles.
Amara doesn't like devils much more than she likes gods.
"The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat!" He parades around the camp slightly, and Amara walks with him, always between him and the others. "Then down came the claw," he snarls, his good-natured expression vanishing in an instant, "and that, love, was that."
He stops, peers into Astarion's ornate mirror for a moment, and then turns back around to look at Amara.
"They do know how to write them in Cormyr, don't they?"
Amara is sure they do, if that's a real place.
"Well met," he says, approaching Amara close enough for her to reach out and touch. For her to reach out and hurt, if necessary. "I am Raphael. Very much at your service."
"Would you be the mouse," Amara asks, choosing her words, tone, and expression ever so carefully, "or the cat?"
"Neither," he responds with cheerfulness in his tone.
So he's the kind of devil to enjoy a game. Amara files that away.
"The fox, rather, hiding in a word: a silent observer— about to break the silence. Of course, what I have to say merits some privacy— as well as some more… let's call it refinement."
Of course it does!! Oh yes, please! Please, Amara would love to be alone with this devil Raphael.
"This quaint little scene is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes," Raphael says, and Amara opens her mouth to protest. "Come," he urges.
In the blink of an eye, Amara is somewhere else.
And, oh!! She just hates these motherfuckers!! They really do think they're just all that and a wheel of cheese.
Amara looks around rapidly, but her racing heart calms when she realizes the rest of her party - her friends - are here with her. Wherever "here" is.
It's an ornate dining room, of some kind, with high-back, hand-carved chairs, a custom dining table of fine wood, and all solid-gold tableware and serving dishes.
"There," Raphael says, breathing deeply. "Middle-of-somewhere."
There's a large fire behind him with a towering painting that Amara can only assume is literally of him.
Narcissistic much?
Giant golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling, connected with fine red draperies, which hang from the ceiling in front of all the windows and doorways, and all the rest of the finishes are dark and rich, and could also be high-end and luxurious by the sheen to them.
"Can you be more specific than 'somewhere'?" Amara asks, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
"The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed— lavishly. Go on. Partake. Enjoy your supper. After all… it might just be your last."
Oh, Amara could just slap him and his quirked eyebrow.
She is not amused.
"Are these theatrics leading somewhere?"
Raphael laughs, seemingly taken aback by her attitude. "Are you not entertained? Well— far be it from me to disappoint."
A whirl of flame swallows the devil and he reveals his true form, ruddy clay skin becoming a cloying red, two sets of bark-like, twisting horns claw out from his forehead, and a massive pair of leathery wings spring from his back. He cracks his neck, his shoulders, and Amara can see the flames dance around him, almost gleefully.
"What's better than a devil you don't know?" he asks, and Amara can think of practically countless answers to that question. He chuckles at his own incoming joke. "A devil you do."
Amara quite disagrees, but thanks.
He reaches out a hand tipped with ebony talons. "Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a savior? That's for certain."
Crossing her arms over her chest, Amara meets his eyes, with sclera of pitch and irises that burn. "What makes you think I need saving?"
"Come now," he chimes. "Why play hard to get when you're in deep over your tadpoled head? One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all… like that."
Raphael snaps, and flames erupt between his fingers.
The irony of her own ability's trigger isn't lost on Amara.
Amara looks up, at the terrifying painting hanging above the terrifying man's terrifying horns. "You're mad if you think I'll make a deal with a devil."
"And what is madness but a denial of reality?" he asks, which Amara just tosses in her mental garbage, along with any ideas she has of working with him. "Still, I've a feeling you'll change your mind. Before it's changed for you… try to cure yourself. Shop around— beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair— that's when you'll come knocking on my door."
…
Sure, guy.
"Hope," he says to himself, and then bursts into laughter, shaking his head. "Such a tease."
"Let's say I do want to take your deal," Amara ventures. "How would I even find you?"
"I'll be around," he offers evasively.
That's all these bastards know how to do anyway.
"Watching you squirm like a tadpole through a nice juicy brain."
Amara distantly wonders if devils can remember even when she rewinds, like some gods can.
She considers punching this devil.
Ultimately, she decides it's not a smart idea.
"All those pretty little symptoms," he goes on to say. Is he still talking? Really? "Sundering skin, dissolving guts— they haven't manifested yet, have they? One might say you're a paragon of luck. I'll be there when it runs out."
In a literal flash, Amara is back in her camp with the rest of her friends.
/ / /
"From now on," Amara declares, whirling to face the others, "if anyone marches up to us, and offers a miracle cure, we're giving a blanket: no."
Astarion bursts into a laugh which he quickly stifles, and Shadowheart puts her hands on her hips but can't press down her own smile. "This particular offer aside, are you sure that's a wise idea?"
"Unless we've vetted the process ourselves in its entirety, then yes. I am dead tired of randoms discovering our predicament and, with a dramaticised gasp! they explain their father's father's father's father has just the cure. We only need follow into their dungeon— I mean, basement, where no one can see us, and they will fix us right up! Right! Up!"
Shadowheart laughs, shaking her head. "Bloody hells— literally. Just when I think I've got a grasp on our dilemma, a devil shows up…"
"He may not have a basement dungeon, but!" Amara holds her finger up. "He definitely has something worse."
All her companions are snickering by this point, and Amara feels her anger abating somewhat.
"Basement dungeon, ornate dining room, House of Hope aside, it is no matter. We've dealt with every other oddity thrown at us lately— we can handle this one too. I understand your concern, over this 'Raphael'… he knows our secret, he claims he can help… what do you make of him?"
"He's a devil. We shouldn't trust him— simple as that," Amara says with a shrug.
Shadowheart raises her brows. "No doubts at all? He seemed powerful and very knowledgeable about our problem…"
"Knowledge and power can be exceedingly helpful, but also… when you cannot trust the entity wielding those things, it will inevitably come flying back at you."
She shifts, looking at Amara. "If you were able to look past what he is… would you think the same?"
"I am gathering you disagree with me," Amara says, and Shadowheart opens her mouth to argue. "Just tell me, Shadowheart, what do you think is best?"
"I'll tell you in due course. I just wanted to see how close we are in thinking, first of all," she clarifies.
"Bah," Lae'zel snaps, butting in. "This devil Raphael flaunts his paltry wings, as if he wants to impress us. You saw the red dragons slaying his infernal kin above Hell's fires, did you not?"
Amara opens her mouth, eyes roving over to the left. "I might have been a little distracted by the, erm… fire. And dragon teeth."
Lae'zel frowns, rolls her eyes. "Next to a dragon, the devil's a gnat. When I am kith'rak, I will take my Queen Vlaakith his head as a trophy."
"While I love your confidence, Lae, that plan lacks something quite important: the dragon."
She makes an exaggerated tsk sound. "I will sit astride one. It is only a matter of time. I will ride a red dragon. I will wield the silver sword. And I will conquer every layer of Hell, should my Queen command it."
"The other githyanki - the ones who we saw attacking the nautiloid while we were on it - do you know why those knights were chasing that ship?"
"The ghaik are my kind's mortal enemy. It is not unusual for the kith'rak to give chase." Lae'zel leans in and lowers her voice. "To penetrate the Hells? This is unusual. But I am not one to question the wisdom of my Queen. I can see but to the horizon. Vlaakith's sight pierces the many planes."
The sound of that somewhat unsettles Amara.
She makes her way to her tent, switching her armor and restocking her arrows, potions, and scrolls.
"What is it, Astarion?" Amara asks, though she can neither see nor hear him.
"Well, that hardly bodes well for my effectiveness," he remarks. "How did you know I followed you?"
She turns to look at him, hooking one last potion to her armor's belt. "I'm a little sensitive right now. I could feel your Weave. It's quite distinctive, probably the undead bit."
"Are you— always able to do that?"
Amara shrugs. "If I try. I don't usually, but devils tend to put me on edge."
He makes an odd sound, and then shakes his head. "That's what I came to speak with you about— the devil. You seem…"
"Furious?"
"I was going to say…"
"Terrified?"
He sighs. "I suppose anything goes. After all, there's a bloody devil trailing after us. This whole mess just gets better and better. 'Shop around', he said. He seems sure we won't find anything." Astarion grits his teeth. "Now I see why you said furious first…"
"What about terrified?" Amara asks, and she watches Astarion's face shutter through a few expressions.
"It is a rather scary thought… that he may be right. We've had no luck so far."
Amara kind of wants to hug him.
"We'll prove him wrong," she promises the vampire. "We still have options."
They still have her option. He just doesn't know that.
"Maybe," Astarion hedges, "but all that 'take your time, I'll wait' nonsense? He's playing with us. He reminds me of— well, someone I used to know. Someone that liked to play with people."
Amara flicks her eyes to meet his, and there's a darkness in them that she's never seen before. Her hands twitch at her sides.
"Creatures like them don't play games unless they know they can win," Astarion all but promises.
Unable to keep herself still, Amara puts her hand on Astarion's cheek, holds it there for a moment. "We're not his playthings," she whispers into his personal space. "We'll show him that. Come, let's get back to the group. Do you need anything from your tent?"
"Amara," Astarion calls out to her as she walks back toward where the others are conversing. "Just… don't forget. He's not the only one spinning a web for us. This is no ordinary mind flayer parasite. Who tampered with it and why? What do they have planned for us? And why are we important enough that a devil comes knocking on our door? If we find those answers, we might have a chance."
"Knowledge is a powerful weapon," Amara agrees. "Don't worry, darling. We'll find them."
She walks up to the others, gives her best attempt at a smile.
"Okay, let's get to the grove. Everyone good?"
Halsin catches her attention. "Are you sure you want to head out?" he asks. "If you'd like to rest, I can make my way to the grove on my own and you can join when you are able. I understand all of you just… went through something."
"And we will continue going through things," Amara remarks, rubbing into her temple. "It is the nature of our… situation. I want to make good on my promise to the tieflings. We should move."
He hedges again, but nods, and their little party is away again.
For a while, Amara walks on her own, going through her pack and organizing it before she realizes the other wizard in her party has fallen into line with her.
"Gale of Waterdeep," she greets languidly.
He gives a light laugh. "The way you say that sometimes makes me regret choosing the moniker."
"Nonsense," she chides. "I find it charming, or I wouldn't use it. Are you here to offer your two cents on Raphael?"
"Guilty," he confesses, hands raised, palms out. "I can tell from your… well, everything. Your expressions, actions, body language… that you don't feel nearly as flattered as I do."
Amara looks over at him, lips parting. "Flattered?"
"Invited to dine with a devil," he remarks, wide-eyed and fascinated.
"Ah," Amara replies when it clicks. "Devils… rarely approach mortals without some nefarious intent. We'd be wise to avoid him, flattery or no."
"Don't let his bluster fool you," Gale rushes to say, eager and insistent. "All that talk of desperation? It merely illustrates his own."
Amara opens her mouth, but closes it again. He has a point.
"I think he wants something from us. Badly. And in that knowledge lies our opportunity."
"It's a fair point," Amara admits. "However… I still can't help but be concerned… what is it that this devil wants so very badly? How could we have something that good to offer? I just feel… when dealing with a devil, you always draw the short straw."
Again, Gale seems eager to speak, gesticulating wildly. "There's no such thing as an absolute certainty. Let me play the devil's advocate: the man is too eager. Do not dismiss his offer out of hand. If there's one quality all the denizens of the Hells embody, it's ambition. A quality they share with many humans, come to think of it…"
And, in Amara's opinion, many gods.
She doesn't say that, though.
"And how do you propose we beat a devil at his own game?"
Seemingly pleased with her, Gale points victoriously. "By figuring out his true intentions. Fact one," he begins, counting on his fingers. "There's something very strange and very powerful about our tadpoles. Fact two: a devil offers to take it away. Devils aren't known to aid mortals out of simple kindness. Whatever Raphael wants, we must be the key to getting it. Along with our tadpoles… so I say for now— we wait. If I'm right, Raphael will seek us out again. And when he does, there's a mighty bargain to be made."
Amara does not want to be the one to make that bargain.
"Remember his Cormyrian rhyme?" Gale asks, leaning in toward Amara. "'Down came the claw'." He even does the gesture. "Perhaps we should start growing our nails."
"We'll ask the tieflings," Amara taunts. "They have great nails."
They're almost to the grove when Amara sees something just there on the edge of her vision. Something flaming, bursting with heat enough to warp the light and color of the area around it.
She stops, looks, and freezes when she realizes that there's a figure causing the heat and flames, and that they lick off of her and radiate from her, as if her very body is full of flames.
"Hey!" she shouts, breaking into a run. "Are you okay?!"
The figure, a woman, stands with considerable effort.
She turns.
Red skin. One horn. Flames.
Amara has seen her before.
In a vision, through Wyll's worm. This is the archdevil he is chasing, he's been after all this time. He chased her through the Hells, onto the ship.
She shouldn't do this without him.
She snaps back to the camp.
/ / /
Approaching the group after leaving Astarion, she clears her throat. "All right. We're switching the party," she declares.
Gale spins around, obviously not expecting that.
To be fair, neither was Amara.
"Lae'zel, Wyll, are you two suited up?"
Wyll startles, but when he stands Amara does see he's fully suited up for the trip. "I just need my rapier," he responds, and quickly departs from the fire.
"I'm prepared to travel imminently," Lae'zel confirms, chin raised proudly. "Who is our fourth?"
"Shadowheart will remain the fourth."
Gale and Astarion both start talking immediately.
"Is this about the devil? About what I just said?" Astarion quickly says, rushing to her side.
"Wasn't I of use?" Gale asks, and holy hells, just run Amara through, why don't you, Gale? "We took on the camp well together, didn't we? I thought we had good synergy."
Ignoring the charming use of the word synergy in a rather panicked moment, Amara holds her hand up to either man. "This is not personal, and has nothing to do with either of you or how the mission at the goblin camp went. The point of waiting at camp is that the party rotates. We are merely rotating."
Gale flounders slightly, his hand raising and then lowering again. "But… why?"
"I want to take Lae'zel in preparation for heading to the crèche, and to balance her out in the party, I feel like Wyll is the best match. I'm not anticipating a large amount of combat, and there won't be any need for stealth going to the grove, or to the crèche. And if either of you feel like you're qualified to replace Shadowheart, I wish you luck. Prove to me you can learn some substantial healing abilities or how to create buffing and healing potions in the middle of a mission, and perhaps we shall see."
Both of them seem dissatisfied with this, but unable to protest, they stand down.
"We will return quickly, I should think," she says, patting both of their arms. "Take a rest. You've earned it."
Wyll and Lae'zel are waiting up by Halsin and Shadowheart, so once she sees the rogue and wizard off, she quickly jogs forward away from their camp with the four of them.
Halsin checks on her once more, but she dismisses it. They depart without further delay.
Wyll is up at the front with Halsin, having an animated discussion, and Lae'zel is behind them, content to keep to herself.
Shadowheart walks next to her, keeping her eyes on the three ahead of them.
"Do you believe in fate?" the half-elf asks, quiet enough just for Amara to hear.
Ooft. That's a tough one.
Amara stretches her arm out until it gives a satisfying pop. She hums, rolling the sound around in her mouth. "I don't."
Shadowheart looks at her without turning her head, eyes scanning her face. "Several deities would consider that rather blasphemous of you."
Amara scoffs. "Yes, I'm… familiar with them. I'll amend my statement. I believe they believe that fate and inevitable are interchangeable sentiments. I disagree."
"You don't think it was fate that we met?"
The elf looks over at Shadowheart, and shakes her head decisively. "Perhaps you could say that fate played a hand in putting us aboard the same ship, giving us the same mutated parasite type, but fate does not make our bond strong. Fate does not make me desire to protect you, to care for you. Fate did not make me choose you. I did that."
"I…"
"Our fate could even be to succumb to these worms after all. If you leave it up to fate, I'm sure that future will come to pass. It's up to you if you'd like to change that fate. Fate doesn't have to mean inevitable."
"What about… what about facts unconcerned with your actions?" Shadowheart asks, hesitating. "Such as the item I carry on my person that just happens to possess the ability to protect us. What do you make of that?"
"There are some things that are designed behind the scenes, that we are not privy to, and only those who are too afraid to speculate on their own actions merely point their fingers toward fate. There's no excuse to stop struggling, if you want to survive."
Shadowheart is silent, and Amara hums under her breath.
"If you're worried about it, we could attempt to discover the design. How did you come by the artifact again? You said you were part of a group sent by the cloister in Baldur's Gate?"
She slowly nods. "We were to take the artifact from the githyanki and bring it back, no matter the cost. However, it turned out that the cost was very steep. I was the only one of the group to survive— I took the artifact and fled… only to be ensnared by the mind flayers before I could finish the mission."
Amara reaches out and takes the cleric's hand. Shadowheart flexes her fingers reflexively, looking down at their joined hands, but slowly she relaxes into the hold.
"Do you know if the intent was to be swept up in all this?"
"That's all I know," she whispers. "That's all I need to know."
"That's a truly admirable conviction," Amara whispers back. "I would not have the stomach, I don't think."
She gives a self-flagellating laugh. "To know what one is getting themselves into is not a luxury open to many people, us included. I have my faith to turn to instead. You should find something of your own."
Amara does have something. She just detests it.
"How do you do it?" Amara asks softly, and the cleric looks over at her, expression neutral and scanning Amara's face to see how genuine she's being.
"Have something to turn to?"
"Sure. Something you can so deeply trust in, that you can risk your life and endure such grief for, without even understanding… why?"
Shadowheart looks away, down the path. Her grip on Amara's hand grows… uncomfortably tight. "Trust… I— I don't know…"
Amara immediately lets the subject drop.
"Tell me something else, then. Something lighter."
She gives another laugh, "What, as if my life's calling and the greatest problem I've ever faced is too deep of a discussion topic for us?"
"I fear we are about to see how deep of a discussion we've really buried ourselves in, should we continue," Amara teases back. "And I don't need to do that to you."
Shadowheart is quiet for a moment. "Well… I like night orchids and can't swim. Is that the sort of thing you meant?"
Amara beams at her. "You'll have to point out night orchids to me if we ever pass some, then."
"It's a deal," she eagerly responds, bumping her shoulder against Amara's. "What about you? Anything to share?"
For a moment, Amara's long, tedious life flashes across her memory. She gives a soft, sad smile, and raises her other hand to count out the list. "I adore naps and long baths. I feel uncomfortable in extremely clean places. My favorite time of day is the break of dawn. And, let's see, I dislike extremely windy days."
"Windy days?"
"It makes it difficult to breathe," she explains, shrugging.
They walk in relative silence for a few feet.
"I wish I had more to share," Shadowheart says, the softest she's spoken on the walk.
"I would listen if you wanted to."
"No." She shakes her head, and grips Amara's hand. There's more sweat on her palm than there was before. "I can't. I mean… I literally can't. There's certain things I can't remember right now. Shar's secrets must be preserved above all else. All who worship her know this."
Amara's heart stutters.
No. That's…
Amara hates that.
"I have had certain memories suppressed - voluntarily - so that I can serve Shar without compromising her."
Oh, no. No, no.
Amara hates that.
"Will you ever get them back?" she asks back, matching the soft tone Shadowheart is using.
"If I manage to return to Baldur's Gate and fulfill Shar's mission… then my memories will be restored."
Amara nods a few times, trying to gather herself together.
She can't find the words.
"It is an act of faith," Shadowheart rushes to say, as if sensing Amara's discomfort. "Not to be undertaken lightly. Shar will reward me, when I succeed."
Amara isn't sure which one of them Shadowheart is assuring.
"You are uncomfortable," the cleric points out.
"I…" Amara opens her mouth, trying to form the words.
"Is it Lady Shar who concerns you? I realize she isn't most people's favorite—"
"I dislike all gods," Amara quickly says. "It is nothing against you, or who you worship. I— I don't want to say anything. A part of me will just never understand how a mortal can have a bond with a deity like that. All clerics, monks, paladins, even warlocks… any class which forms a bond with… with an immortal, higher creature."
"The gods can be incredibly caring," Shadowheart says, and Amara's chest pulls tight.
It hurts.
She must telegraph this somehow in her face, as Shadowheart stops walking.
"We are taking a short rest," she calls to the rest of the group, and immediately pulls Amara away from the path.
"What?" she can hear Wyll say. "Where are you two— okay! Five minutes!"
"Shadowheart!" Amara yelps as they delve through the tree line until a larger clearing appears, offering them some privacy. "You— you don't have to defend yourself, or your beliefs, believe me," she insists. "My own views are—"
"There's something I want to talk to you about. Something important," Shadowheart interrupts, and her eyes are dark and intense. Focused.
Amara opens and closes her mouth and flounders. "Well… I… if you insist, you know I am always open to listening. Do continue."
The half-elf nods, and straightens. She takes a breath and centers herself.
"I could have died in that pod, back on the nautiloid. You could have died, spending precious moments trying to free me, but you did it anyway. I owe you my life. I'm trying to say that you've earned my trust in a way very few ever have… I want that to mean something. I want you to know more about me— at least, from what I can remember."
"Don't— don't push yourself."
Shadowheart just smiles forlornly. "As long as I've prayed to Lady Shar, I've wished to serve her as a Dark Justiciar. There is scarcely a greater way to fully dedicate yourself to Lady Shar— save perhaps if you become the head of her church."
"And… what exactly does that entail?"
"To become a Dark Justiciar is to become the Nightsinger's sword arm— her implement with which she will cast down the unbelievers and win the final battle to restore her perfect, endless darkness…"
Amara nods even though that does not make a lick of sense to her.
"It's all I ever wanted. I prayed it was my calling— my fate, if you'd pardon the word from our prior discussion. But 'Mother' forbid me from seeking to prove myself worthy of the rank. She said I was not ready."
Amara perks at the emphasis on the word, and Shadowheart takes notice.
"Yes, you're correct. Not my mother-mother. The Mother Superior. Head of Lady Shar's enclave in Baldur's Gate. Sometimes I wonder if she would ever deem me ready. I owe her everything, and I only wish to serve, yet she can prove… inscrutable."
"And… do you think she'll ever relent, and make you a Dark Justiciar?"
"I don't know. Perhaps if I succeed in my mission, and reach Baldur's Gate. Hope has little place amongst Lady Shar's children— it is an illusion, a distraction. But for this… I hope my time will yet come."
Amara hedges. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and shifts her weight.
Shadowheart gives a little laugh. "It is strange, you know, to see you so unnerved. You seemed bothered by so little on our adventures, and to think what's put you at such odds with yourself is just my honesty… you must really dislike the gods."
"That is… it's not the subject matter, Shadowheart, it's that I don't really know how to converse on it, and I don't wish to hurt you. This— business with the Dark Justiciar, the Mother Superior, and your Lady Shar, it's… all so beyond what I am comfortable with, but I know how preciously held it is for you. I don't want to show you that your words are unwelcome."
"Perhaps I just need to speak more on it," Shadowheart suggests. "Have you known anyone who holds their god in reverence besides me?"
Amara just shakes her head.
"Then let me try to show you how I am bettered by my love of Lady Shar. Will you let me?"
Amara swallows. She hedges. She flexes her fingers, and presses them together. The air is heavy. Her body aches. Her eyes are tired.
She is tired.
She's been tired since the temple sank.
"I can only promise I will try," Amara says hesitantly. "But I will always listen, even if I don't understand."
"Would you accept me, even if I was made a Dark Justiciar upon returning to Baldur's Gate?"
"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"
Shadowheart hums. "Dark Justiciars are hated by many— judged to be ruthless fanatics. Even the few who would accept a follower of Lady Shar would likely balk at a Justiciar in their midst."
In the distance, Amara's keen hearing is able to pick up Wyll calling for them, and her ears perk in that direction.
"Don't let me keep you any longer," Shadowheart says. "I just felt compelled to share it. See, there is much I don't remember, but… when we first awoke after crashing on the nautiloid, I had definitely forgotten about this desire of mine, until… until I saw some things that reminded me. Now I can't get it out of my mind. And— and I want you to know I trust you enough to share it."
Amara takes the cleric's hands again, and squeezes them. "Thank you for sharing. And thank you for your trust. I will always cherish it, Shadowheart, and you are always welcome in my party. I may not always understand what guides and motivates you, but I will always support you in bolstering those beliefs and motivations. Let me know should you ever require anything."
"Well, as it is, others have laid claim to your blood and your magic items. I will have to act quickly lest there be nothing left," Shadowheart quips, and Amara dissolves into laughter as the two make their way back to the path.
Rejoining the others, they continue toward the grove.
They quickly approach the same part of the path Amara recognizes from before, and just like the last time, the sight of heat warping the color of the plains and hills comes into view. The circle of fire around the figure is even more out of control than it was before, and Amara can hear her groans of pain even from here.
"Ngh…"
Wyll marches toward her, overtaking Amara in an instant. "One horn," he growls out. "The stink of Avernus. Advocatus diaboli."
The archdevil - Karlach - throws a glance over her shoulder, eyes of flame boring into the warlock. "Well I'll be godsdamed— the Blade of Frontiers." The fire begins to dissipate, and the woman struggles to her feet, claws flexing. "Thought I'd shaken you for good. That'll teach me to underestimate you."
Even without the soaring flames, there's still something within Karlach that… burns. Embers glowing in her chest. Her flesh almost seems scarred from the flames.
"You're the devil we've been hunting," Amara surmises, coming to stand side-by-side with Wyll. "Karlach, right?"
"Bloody right," Karlach asserts. "An honor to be chased by the Blade of Frontiers. But— agh!"
*A great heat roars through you; her heat, fiery as the Hells. Then you're lost in visions of demonic armies as you tear through a landscape of fire and blood. The Blood War. You saw it from above as the nautiloid passed through Avernus— this woman was on the frontline.*
"What was that?!" Karlach demands, her brows furrowed.
"Evidence," Wyll snarls at her. "Proof that you're a devil, a gladiator in the archdevil Zariel's army."
Karlach raises her hands, backing away from the raised rapier now pointed at her. "I can explain," she insists. "But it's a whole situation. If you'd just hear me out—"
*Another vision. Karlach's blade raised, slicing through devils - Zariel's servants - as her eyes dart around, seeking escape. Her rage and desperation seep into you. She is a victim of the Blood War, not an agent of it."
"She's trying to trick us," Wyll insists, voice nearly slurring as he reels from the visions. "Don't believe her lies."
Karlach looks desperately between the two of them. "You saw the truth. I never wanted to serve Zariel. I was enlisted in her army against my will. Forced to fight, and fight I did." She eagerly forms fists, flames licking off of her body. "When I saw an opportunity to get away, I took it. I'm finally home— or near it, anyway."
"You served her," Wyll insists, bearing his rapier. "That's enough to damn you."
Amara puts her hand on the back of the rapier blade, and Wyll snaps his gaze over to her.
"Stand down, Wyll," she urges gently, pushing the rapier down. When it taps the ground, she's able to put her hand on Wyll's bracer. "You saw what I saw."
*Wyll catches his breath, and his lips straighten. Sheer dread twists his face.*
"You don't know what you're saying. You're asking me to trust a devil," he breathes out, and Amara squeezes where she's holding his arm.
"It's worse than that," she says in the same soft tone. "I'm not asking you to trust a devil. Look at her, Wyll. Lift the veil from your eyes, and really look. Karlach's not a devil, and you know it."
Karlach herself steps closer, her hands still raised, palms out. "Listen to sense, now. I don't want this to end badly for either of us. You know monsters, right?" she asks, and her teeth bare themselves at the word. "Better than anyone. Look into my eyes. Can't you see I'm not what you think?"
Amara can feel Wyll still beneath her hand, and the incredible amount of anger and tension drains from him. "Shit," he exhales. He pulls his arm back from the elf's grip and sheathes his rapier. "You really are no devil, are you? I've… I've been deceived."
Amara's heart breaks for him.
Karlach breathes out an audible sigh of relief. "Thank the gods. Thought I was going to have to take your head."
He laughs, lines appearing by his eyes as his smile widens. "You would've died in the attempt," he assures her. "But— there have been enough threats today."
"Truce then, hey?" Karlach offers, holding her hand up hesitantly.
"Aye," Wyll says with an open expression. "Truce."
She smiles, relief obvious in her tall, built frame. "I'm Karlach— but you already knew that. And you are…?" she asks Amara, eyes alight with interest.
"Amara," she introduces herself, and then Lae'zel and Shadowheart.
"Well met, soldier. Nice to meet a friendly around here— it's been tough going so far. I may not be a devil, but I can put the Blade's reputation to work." She smirks, looking quite excited. "How would you feel about helping me kill some evil bastards?"
Wyll crosses his arms and perks up an eyebrow.
"A little background, if your moral compass needs something to point at… you already know I fought in the Blood War, I was good. Really good. Turns out I've got a knack for killing demons. That made me a valuable asset. Zariel - the archdevil herself - made me as her personal attack dog. I played along until I could get the fuck out of there, but devils don't like to lose their assets. Zariel liked it so little, she sent a bunch of goons, so-called 'Paladins of Tyr', to take me back. Problem is, I'm not going."
"So, these goons— you want me to help you handle the people Zariel sent to hunt you?" Amara clarifies.
"Don't worry," Karlach assures her. "I'll lead the charge. But I could use your help. There's a lot of them and only one of me. After that, we can team up. Take Faerûn by the short hairs. Sound good?"
"Let's do it," Amara agrees.
"Fuck yes," Karlach celebrates excitedly. "They cornered me outside the tollhouse, just up the hill. Doubt they've gone far after the scorching I gave 'em."
Amara can see the tollhouse from there, which isn't far from their camp either. "There's something we need to take care of first— if I give you coordinates, could you find your way to our camp? A few more allies of ours are posted up there. We'll smash some heads in on our way to the next mission."
Karlach nods, looking pleased. "I'll catch up with you at your camp, then. But don't get to any of the fun stuff without me— got it?"
"Got it," Amara agrees, and they start to make their way back to the main path. She falls behind again until she's next to Shadowheart, and the two of them just manage to overhear a conversation Karlach and Wyll have.
Amara swears it's out of concern, initially.
"So, Wyll with a 'y', why?"
"'Y', that's right."
"But why?"
"Why 'y'? A great-uncle's name, my father said. But I just figured he couldn't spell."
Amara bursts into laughter.
They reach the path a matter of moments later, and Karlach departs the way they came, leaving the rest of them to travel on, toward the grove. Wyll taps Shadowheart on the shoulder and sidles up next to Amara, adjusting his armor nervously.
"You've been witness to a pantomime, I'm sorry to say. And I've played my part all too poorly," he eventually says, and Amara looks at him, surprised.
"Aha— hardly. How could you have helped any of that? Don't you dare put undue blame on yourself, Wyll."
He shakes his head. "You are too understanding for your own good, Amara…"
"It's not you that did the leading astray, Wyll. I would venture to say it was this mysterious 'source' of yours, not that you can tell me anything about that."
He gives a gruff laugh. "I can say only this: Karlach's not the only one who's had a villain's knife held to their throats."
From ahead of them, Lae'zel is obviously eavesdropping. "Chk."
"Have a comment to make, Lae?"
She tosses a glance over her shoulder. "It is appalling. What manner of 'hero' is so shrouded in secrets?"
Wyll's expression quickly closes itself off. "I have never called myself 'hero', but I am bound to an oath." He sighs, which rattles through him with great effort. "One night soon when we make camp, the veil will be lifted and I'll pay my penance."
"Penance?" Amara asks, alarmed. "Should I be worried?"
"You're not in any danger, I promise."
Amara isn't worried about herself…
"I can't say the same about me," Wyll admits, and Amara's expression twists with concern.
Evidently, Shadowheart is also eavesdropping.
"You're the one she's worried about, Wyll," she says, not even bothering to say it over her shoulder. "I doubt she would care if your penance was directed solely at her, if she could wrangle that into being. It's us she's concerned about."
"Tsk'va, not a survival instinct in that empty brain of hers."
From the front of the pack, Halsin chuckles. "You all get along in such a precious and special way. Please, cherish it."
"I do," Amara says, perhaps a touch too honest.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 11: The Room Above the Sea
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XI
The Room Above the Sea
The grove is alight with life as they approach it again.
"Zevlor!" Amara greets, seeing him the moment they approach the wall of the grove. He's in armor that glints in the sun, and his expression brightens just like that reflecting sunlight when he lays eyes on them.
"Amara, so good to see you!" He waves a hand and the gates open, and by the time they're inside, the tiefling is down there to meet them. He shakes Amara's hand eagerly, a tension eased out of his frame that was haunting him before. "A scout just reported— the goblins' leadership has been decimated." A relieved laugh bubbles out of his chest. "We might escape this place yet."
"If you'd still have me, I would be glad to welcome you into my camp for as long as you need to make the journey," Amara offers, bowing her head to him slightly.
"We would be immensely grateful," he breathes. "I took a collection - from all of us. It isn't much, but you've earned it."
He offers her a pouch of coin, and Amara just smiles, pushing it back toward him. "I didn't do it for coin, Zevlor. Please, give it back to everyone who donated."
Wrapping his taloned fingers around the bag again, the tiefling nods. "Very good of you. Thank you."
Halsin aggressively pats Amara on her back. "Admirable! I will make sure you are duly rewarded, though, Amara," he promises, his eyes moving to Zevlor. "Zevlor, I believe I owe you an apology. It's been difficult for you while I was away. Let us see to settling this matter."
"I'm only glad to see you alive and well, Master Halsin," Zevlor says earnestly. "As for the rest of the druids…"
Halsin's expression grows more grim. "Yes?"
"I believe… you have some catching up to do with Kagha. As for us… regardless how your talks with her go, with no armies at our heels, we shall be taking our leave. It is an immense feeling of freedom."
"Before that, Zevlor, let us speak not of farewells until the morrow. Tonight, we shall gather at Amara's campsite to celebrate." He looks back at her, a tad sheepishly. "If she'll have us."
"Certainly," Amara replies. "It would be my pleasure."
Zevlor bids them farewell, and Halsin growls low in his throat, looking straight ahead. "Is there… a particular reason I need to catch up with Kagha?"
Amara licks her lips, presses her fingers together. "Now, I don't know everything about druidic customs… but Kagha is currently the First Druid of this grove. Is that… is that a problem?"
"She what?!"
"Uh oh," Wyll mutters from beside Amara, and they watch Halsin make for the inner grove with haste. "Should we… follow him?"
"I am not missing this for anything," Lae'zel remarks, a feral grin on her face. "This will finally be interesting."
Shadowheart sighs. "We should go, if nothing else just to ensure that order is restored."
Halsin is remarkably fast.
By the time Amara catches up to him, he's already found Kagha.
"You took it upon yourself to undertake the Rite of Thorns?" he demands, anger coursing through him with a rather terrifying vengeance. Amara has no idea what the Rite of Thorns is, but oh, gods, she knows Kagha should not have done it. "I ought to exile you from this place. Forever."
Amara opens her mouth, and Halsin thrusts his hand in front of her, halting her.
"Instead," he offers, effectively silencing the other elf. "I shall listen to the explanation that you owe me."
Kagha, gods preserve her, makes the decision to double down.
Well, to each their own.
"I owe you nothing. Goblins swarmed us like roaches while you stumbled after the past."
Not how Amara would approach it, but she also did not perform the Rite of Thorns, whatever that is.
"You chose to abandon us," Kagha accuses. "I chose to protect us!"
Halsin makes a face that is much like how Amara feels inside. "Silence," he demands. "The rite has been ended."
Oh!!! Amara's got it, she's on the right page now. It doesn't have anything to do with First Druid titles, the thorn rite he's discussing must be the one to close the grove.
Or, well, something like that.
Amara needs to read some books on druids.
"I will allow you to stay," Halsin growls out. "But consider yourself a novice anew. You have forgotten the ways of the druids— our place in the natural order. You shall learn it all once again, right here. Backslide, and nature's fury will crush you."
Kagha makes a face of absolute abhorrence. "As you wish, Master Halsin."
She gives a half-hearted bow.
Halsin turns to Amara, shaking his head slightly as he watches the other druid leave the sunken grove. "My apologies for making you watch such a thing, Amara."
"No need, Halsin. You'll have your hands full with her. She shows great, ah, spirit, to put it mildly."
"She shows great insolence," Halsin corrects. "But time will humble her— and the grove still needs her. You will soon see why. But enough of that for now— I owe you my thanks."
He walks forward, gesturing widely around the grove. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out. Amara does the same, closing her eyes and listening to the wildlife and nature's sound for a few moments.
"You have an appreciation for stillness," Halsin notes, and Amara opens her eyes to find him watching her.
"Is that strange, for a wizard?" she asks him. "Many nights I have spent in calm quiet."
He gives a brief chuckle. "Perhaps that is true. You are a studious kind, though I don't often picture you in nature."
"A book is much better enjoyed in a garden than it ever is at a desk."
"Quite right," he agrees. "You can understand better than many, then, what you have done for us. The grove stands. Nature prevails. And again, I am in your debt. Speak to Rath— he will reward you for your efforts. Please, do not reject this one. We can more than part with it."
"Then I shall most gratefully accept," Amara says, again giving a polite bow, to the druid this time. "Will you be coming to the celebration at my camp?"
"I would be honored," he replies. "First, I must have a long discussion with the rest of the druids. Tomorrow morning, we shall discuss what is to come."
After Halsin is out of earshot, Lae'zel makes a sound in the back of her throat.
"Have something to add, Lae?"
She narrows her eyes at Amara. "You have incredible abilities. Why do you bow to others? You prostrate yourself to those you could easily defeat."
"It's not… prostration, Lae'zel," she says gently. "It's politeness. I like these people. They make me happy. I want to show them that I respect them, their time, their words. Not everything has to be a power struggle."
She pauses, looks down, and actually nods.
Wyll and Amara make panicked eye contact, but the warlock shrugs.
Before Amara can say anything else, the human druid she recognizes from before, with Arabella, is by her side. "You've done it," he says by way of greeting, watching the true First Druid speak with several of the other druids in the grove. "You've brought Halsin back. Thank you." He closes his eyes, shakes his head. "No, thanks is not enough. May Silvanus bless you for all your days."
"Oh, Rath—"
"I cannot imagine taking on a camp full of goblins was a simple task," Rath continues, taking both of Amara's hands.
"Think nothing of it, Rath. I'm just glad Halsin is safe," she says with a genuine smile.
"As am I," he gushes genuinely. "The grove will be whole again. And we promised you a reward, didn't we? Let me show you on your map where you can find the cache. Take this rune— you'll need it. Place it among the pedestals inside our library. When the wolf glows brightest, everything in the vault below will be yours."
"That seems like so much—"
"If anything, it is not enough," Rath says, bowing his head to Amara. "Thank you again. I shall see you again tonight at our celebration."
Rath leaves, joining Halsin and giving him a joyous hug.
Lae'zel makes another sound in the back of her throat.
"Yes, Lae?"
She snaps her head away, crossing her arms over her chest. "Let us get to the library. Quickly!"
Amara laughs, shaking her head. "Very well," she says, and they start to walk through the grove. The githyanki watches with apt attention every time one of the tieflings or druids speaks to Amara, the weight of her eyes pressing, noticeable. "Are you sure you don't need anything?" Amara asks, putting the runes into the pedestals in the library.
Lae'zel watches the glow spread through the room, the light reflecting in her eyes.
"The githyanki do not do anything to make themselves or others… happy."
Amara raises her brows. She looks over at Wyll and Shadowheart, and then looks back at Lae'zel. "I have heard several things about your people, so I understand much of your motivations are about… survival. I could see my actions seeming wasteful."
Lae'zel makes the sound again, deep in her throat. "It is wasteful!" she snaps. "A waste of time, a waste of energy, a waste of your talents. But— but… I have to admit, there is more value in it than I originally thought."
"To… happiness?"
She scoffs, looking away from Amara. "Making others happy, and allowing them to make you happy. I can see that, for those who are soft like you, there is some worth in that venture."
Amara laughs. "Aww, Lae— I knew you had it in you!"
"I would never waste my time and effort on such a fruitless venture!"
The wolf statue sinks into the ground, revealing a staircase, and a hidden vault below.
"Woah," Wyll remarks. "Well… after you?" He offers his arm to the elf.
She takes it, and starts to descend the stairs. In the vault, there is a shocking amount of goods. Books, scrolls, potions… armor, weapons, gold.
Shadowheart nudges the githyanki. "Are you sure it's a fruitless venture? Seems rather lucrative to me."
The githyanki huffs, but doesn't answer.
"It's fine," Amara says with a laugh, "let's head out. We have to prep the camp if we're going to celebrate."
They climb back up the stairs now laden with their reward, and make their way to the gate of the grove once more, where the tieflings have gathered all of their belongings. Carts led by oxen and horses are loaded to the brim with belongings, and packs stuffed full line the road.
Amara nearly runs directly into a small child as they approach Zevlor. "Oh!" she exclaims, dancing around them. "Are you okay?"
"Fine!" he chirps, looking around. "Gotta go, though— wait! You're the lady who saved the grove, aren't ya?"
She blinks a few times. "I helped with the goblins, yes."
He flashes sharp teeth in a wide smile. "Hold out your hand, lady. Let me show you something."
He shows both of his hands in a dramatic flare, before flicking a golden ring into view.
"Go on. Take this ring. It's lucky."
Amara smiles at him. "Fancy trick," she compliments, eyebrow quirked.
"Go on! Take the ring and watch your fortune change!"
Wyll laughs from next to her, "Take it, Amara, what's the harm?"
She accepts the ring, holding it up. "Am I to watch my fortune change now?"
The small tiefling holds up a gold coin. "Call it. Heads or tails?"
"Heads," she says, watching him grin. He flips the coin, and it lands gracefully in his palm.
"Heads it is! See? That's the kinda luck you get from just one of my lucky rings! You get that one for free for all your help— I've got plenty more. Real cheap, too. Interested?"
"Highly," Amara says, leaning down to his level. "Do you have other wares, as well?"
"Boy, do I! I'm Mattis— let me show you what I got!" he rolls out a myriad of rather random items.
Not a single one possesses any magical abilities, but Amara sees that each ring and pendant he has will be a good canvas for her to try and make something for Gale to eat.
She picks out another ring and pendant.
"Lady, you got good business sense," Mattis says, teeth bared in a wild grin.
She leans in and says, "May I give you a piece of advice, one individual with good business sense to another?"
He considers this for a moment, and then nods. "Sure! You're a good customer, after all."
Amara's grin turns a bit feral. "I would invest that money into finding a copy of Akdam's Traveling Spellbook. It's easy to find a copy of it these days, in any old bookshop, and it's thin and portable with a couple simple spells in it. That way, the runes you draw into here won't be gibberish, at least."
Mattis opens his mouth and then snaps it closed again.
Amara winks. "Nice shop you got, kid."
*You suddenly feel something moving against your back and turn.*
It's another young tiefling, looking quite horrified at being caught. She puts her hands to her eyes and begins to shake her shoulders as if suppressing tears.
Amara sends out a burst of Weave.
It slips down her body and flows through the air, silken and light, and floods the air with the scent of cinnamon and amber. It seeks out thoughts to broadcast as spoken words; searching, prodding, looking.
*You see her hand in your bags… and the shame in her heart.*
Amara shrugs one shoulder, giving her a small smile. "Something tells me the thieving life isn't for you," she observes.
The other little tiefling cries louder. "I can't do this anymore, Mattis! I'm sorry!"
"Silfy!" Mattis yells after her as she turns tail and scurries down a ladder.
Amara turns back around, quirking a brow up. "Partners, are you?"
"So, what?" he asks, jutting his chin into the air. "Look, you caught her. Good for you, you aren't a chump like everybody else around here. Now, do me a favor. Make room for the chumps."
Silfy soon pops back up, tear tracks still on her cheeks, and next to her is another tiefling. This one has a bandage covering her left eye, and markings on her face.
"That one?" she asks, and Silfy makes a sniveling sound of confirmation. "Well, well. Mattis sure knows how to pick a mark." She climbs up and walks toward Amara and the young tiefling. "My kids say you've been busy since you got here. You're the one who saved Arabella from the druids. Don't know what those bastards would have done."
"I have a feeling Halsin will see to it that nothing like that will happen again," Amara assures her. "Though, I'm just glad I was here and able to help."
She tilts his head up, smiles. "I should also probably thank you for going easy on Silfy," she says, gesturing toward the paler tiefling. "She came and got me after you caught her. Not many marks would've done the same."
"If I might ask, why're you running all these schemes and swindles? They're quite risky, as I'm sure you realize."
She shrugs her shoulders. "We're saving up for a better hideout when we get to Baldur's Gate. Now that we're leaving, we need all we can get. Why, you planning on telling me stealing is wrong?" she asks, a mischievous smile on her face.
Amara crosses her arms over her chest, considers it for a moment. "Quite the opposite," she admits. "In fact, I want to invest in the newest thieves' guild on the Sword Coast." She pulls out a small pouch of coin from her inner pockets.
The tiefling looks surprised at first, but then laughs joyously. "Won't turn down free money. I've got operating costs you wouldn't believe. Come see me in the city sometime, huh? I'll repay this and then some."
"I'll count on it," Amara replies.
She smiles again, looking through the coin. "I'm Mol, by the way. See you around, maybe. Mattis, Silfy. With me."
All three children quickly disappear back down the ladder, and Amara just smiles after them.
"Cute," she remarks. "And probably terrifyingly good at what they do."
"Do you think it will prove a legitimate investment?" Shadowheart asks. "They are just children."
"I'm positive they are more formidable than a large population of the Sword Coast," Amara drawls out. "Let's continue to Zevlor."
The tiefling catches sight of them first. "We're ready to head to your camp— are you?" he asks, checking a list he has in his hands.
Amara is hit by the sudden thought that she's so glad she went back to make sure he lived.
"Let's go there right away," Amara says. "We'll lead the way, and let you all set up there while my companions head back out to get more supplies for partying tonight."
"Excellent," he intones. "Lead the way, then."
/ / /
Amara bursts into the camp with the entire population of tieflings in tow, and she beams at the three members of her party waiting for her as they arrive.
"Ta-da!" she presents with a flourish. "We're going to throw a party!"
"Fuck yes!" Karlach says, jumping to her feet. "I was just getting to know your friends here— they told me of your exploits at the goblin camp. Argh, I've missed so much of your adventure already!!"
"Would you like to come with me now?" Amara offers, helping a few of the tieflings down off of one of the horse-drawn carts. "We're going to take two of the carts into town, and get some food and wine, maybe even some things for the camp itself, for tonight's celebration. It won't be assassinating goblin leaders, but—"
"Yes!! Let's go!" She pumps a fist in the air. "We should all go! I would love to talk to all of you!"
Amara immediately looks toward the refugees. "Oh, I don't know if—"
"Nonsense," Zevlor interrupts. "We are plenty capable of organizing ourselves. Go with them, Amara, enjoy yourself. This is a night to celebrate you and all you've done for us."
Volo flounces up to them as well. "If they need any information about the camp, I could of course provide!" he insists. "Really, Amara, we have this covered! Go, off with you!"
She gives a laugh and shrugs, spinning back the way they came. "I guess we're getting kicked out. We need—" Lae'zel already has a horse hooked up to their camp's cart, and Shadowheart has finished unloading one of the tiefling's carts with Wyll. "Oh."
"Let's gooo!" Karlach claps her hands together a few times.
Laughing, Amara just allows herself to be herded back onto the road, toward the nearest trade post. Wyll and Shadowheart are in an animated conversation, and Gale and Astarion appear to be finishing whatever they were discussing with Karlach.
It's loud.
Amara smiles, listening a bit aimlessly to both conversations while she walks.
"Bored?" Lae'zel asks her when they meet in the middle of the group.
"Oh, not at all. I'm just enjoying the noise." Amara gives a soft laugh. "I'm just so used to the quiet. I forgot how enjoyable vigorous conversation could be."
"I have a question for you."
"Well, in that case, let me stop talking," she teases, though it seems to fly over the gith's head.
Wyll, sensing Amara might need him to mediate, looks over at her, halting his conversation with the cleric, which makes Gale and Astarion's conversation with Karlach halt abruptly.
Their sudden silence makes Amara laugh nervously. "Goodness, now I feel like I'm in trouble."
"G'lyck. No trouble. I had a dream last night. As we all did, I suspect. Someone came to me and promised to protect me while claiming that the parasite could empower me."
Amara's stomach turns.
"I ask your opinion on this."
Amara would like to scream into a pillow.
"To be honest… I don't know what to believe," Amara admits. "I have asked of all of you what that figure asks of me. To trust in her, because she has my best interests at heart. I… I do not know if I can trust her, though."
Lae'zel snarls, shakes her head. "The parasite has taken root, it would seem. Every word, every promise— it is ghaik deception."
"If that is true…" Amara ventures, "we should ignore this dream figure at all costs."
"A wise choice. These parasites are a threat to be destroyed, not an opportunity to be exploited."
"Wait, now," Astarion jumps in. "I can't say I know what your visitor said to you exactly, but in the strange dream I had last night, mine promised me protection, and all sorts of delicious powers from these parasites in our heads. Isn't that the definition of an opportunity to be exploited?"
"Kainyank! How shortsighted! You blindly trust the words of a hallucination induced by the very entity enticing you to trust it? Have you no brains, vampire?"
"If they're going to be in our heads anyway, why shouldn't we see what these tadpoles can do for us?" Astarion argues. "Amara?"
He looks right at the other elf.
She stutters, opens and closes her mouth.
"Oh, Astarion… I'm sorry. I just don't trust her—it. The idea of manipulating other people's minds… taking their agency, their free will… eating the parasites of dead True Souls to obtain their abilities? I don't want to do that."
Huffing, Astarion puts his hands on his hips. "Is there a reason you're always such an utter drip? Do you have some sort of condition? Honestly, it's like you hate good news."
"It's good news that our symptoms are being delayed, at the very least," Amara argues. "And I would love if this mysterious figure is truly an ally of ours."
"It certainly claimed to be," Shadowheart points out. "In fact, this… dream companion was quite insistent on it, in my vision. But… I don't know."
"Ugh!" Astarion huffs. "You're all such sticks in the mud!"
"It would be a shame if it was evil," Karlach mentions.
Wyll blinks at her. "Why is that?"
"It was such a beautiful entity, don't you agree? And the way it promised to protect me was so pure of heart."
Astarion snaps and points at her. "I knew I liked this one! You agree, right? We should be using these abilities!"
"I certainly hope it isn't an evil entity," Karlach ventures, "but I also believe it must be related to the worm."
"Some kind of psionic trick?" Amara asks.
"Damn right. Thing's like a splinter— we just need to find a way to squeeze it out."
"Shit!" Astarion snaps.
Shadowheart just sighs, shaking her head. "It seems like we can't escape this mess, in the waking world or otherwise. What about you, Gale? Do you agree with Karlach?"
He looks over at the tiefling, and then quickly glances at Amara before looking straight ahead. "Well, I— I do admit that the visitor was of a certain appealing nature, though its visage is not unparalleled amongst the beauties I've seen in the world."
"Not that!" Shadowheart says, and Karlach lets out a boisterous laugh.
"Oh, little wizard, I think I know what you mean!!"
Astarion opens his fanged mouth, looking down at Amara with glittering red eyes, and she just jams her elbow into his side. "Ooft— Amara!!!"
She clears her throat, feeling her face and neck flare with heat. "You were saying Gale? I, ah, believe Shadowheart meant the analogy to a splinter."
Gale clears his throat, tangling his fingers in the substantial length of his hair. "My apologies," he stutters out. "I'm not quite myself yet. I heard much the same as the rest of you; that it was watching over me, protecting me. And, that our tadpoles could prove beneficial, if we embrace what powers they have to offer. As far as a splinter goes… I can't say I am entirely sure what to make of it. An uncanny apparition, truly."
"I take it… this isn't common?" Amara ventures.
He chuckles, shaking his head. "In all my readings on the effects of illithid parasites, I've never come across any accounts of correlating dreams between infected parties. Very curious. Another unique quality of our predicament, perhaps."
"Great, so glad we just keep collecting them…"
"Are you against using the powers as well, then?" Astarion demands.
Gale hedges slightly. "Nothing wrong with maintaining a healthy suspicion in such matters."
"Argh!"
"Still," he adds, pointing at the vampire, "it might be wiser to keep an open mind on the matter. Our visitors' promises of aid might yet bear valuable fruit."
"Tempting as that sounds," Wyll argues, "we should recognise this dream for what it is— the tadpoles' little trick. I know that it's an attractive sentiment, Astarion, but no good ever came from trusting honey-tongued strangers conjured up by illithid worms."
Astarion throws his hands in the air and lets them fall back to his sides.
"If all of you are so insistent— fine!"
"Wise choice. This dream figure is no friend to us."
The air is heavy. Amara can feel it as she tries to walk forward, like goo has stuck to her shoes, like the water content around her has thickened uncomfortably.
Amara ignores it.
They purchase what they need, and turn around just as the sun is disappearing beneath the horizon. Amara yawns, feeling the exhaustion sink in. She hasn't used much Chronomancy that day, so at least the feeling isn't rattling through her bones, but she's barely slept since this whole thing has started.
Next to her, Lae'zel makes another sound.
Amara starts to think it's just a githyanki way of getting someone's attention in as close to a polite way as they can.
Like "ahem", but not. Just a blade's edge ruder.
"Hey, Lae. What is it?"
"I have another question."
"By all means, go ahead."
"What led you to bring Wyll into the party for today?"
Once again, all the conversation going on among the other companions ceases.
Amara gives a nervous laugh. "Goodness, now I really feel like I'm in trouble. No particular reason. I wanted you to come with me, and needed a fourth."
"If you hadn't taken Wyll, our interaction with Karlach would have been much rougher. There is something unusual with your foresight, and I require more information."
Amara rubs her fingers together, shifts her weight while she walks. "Oh, do you?"
It comes out a bit more angry than she meant for it to.
Lae'zel looks up at her, startled. Then, her expression hardens. "Yes. As our leader, we have a level of trust in you that may require you to be more forthright with us. It is difficult to trust sources such as the visitors of our dreams, but you— we can trust you, so long as we know where your information is coming from. If it comes from the tadpole, it should carry the same doubt we have in our tadpole dreams."
"So, all of you can tell me that your favorite fact about you is how much you value your privacy, or that your source is a lovely entity who is extremely personal, or demand that there's no need to share details because your privacy is paramount— but I have to be forthright if I want to lead you?"
Lae'zel falters slightly. "Well— I…"
"I know little about each of you, unless you require something of me, with the exception of Shadowheart. To me, I can wait. If that waiting eventually rewards me with precious information about each of you, the way it has with our cleric, then I am to be ecstatic. If that waiting never rewards me with anything outside of your trust and gratitude, then I am to be content."
"All this to say— you did know we would meet Karlach today," Lae'zel decides to say.
Anger flares through Amara's veins.
"Stand down, Lae'zel," Wyll belts. "Leave her be."
"Don't you want to know, especially?!" she demands. "Istik! She is lying to us!"
"Lying?" Shadowheart balks. "She respects our personal choices, we can respect hers. How is that lying?"
Gale reaches for Amara's arm, and she avoids him. "Lying by omission, I suppose she's saying," Amara says.
Karlach looks rather hopelessly between all of them. "How is that— how is that a lie? Even if you did know you would encounter me, and you brought the Blade of Frontiers, where is the lie?"
"There isn't one," Astarion points out. "Though it is most curious… is that why you aren't interested in the tadpoles, darling?"
Amara really, truly glares at him.
His smile drops. "Amara?"
They reach the camp, and Amara quickly whips into the bustling activity inside, leaving the rest of her party to flounder.
"Tsk'va…"
/ / /
"Nice going, gith," Astarion drawls out, lounging on a cushion by the fire while the party rages around them. "She's royally pissed off at all of us now."
"Shut your mouth, istik!" she hisses. "How was I supposed to know she would lose it? She's such a pleaser of all people, look at how she mingles with these teeth-lings."
Karlach, from where she's sprawled out nearly in the fire itself, looks up. "Did you just say… 'teeth-lings'? It's…tieflings."
"Bah. I am unfamiliar with the— well, I shall not say 'culture'. 'Custom', perhaps. If it bothers you, any of you can educate me on matters of this Fay-run."
"Gods. We have to get Amara back over here, she would have a field day," Astarion drawls.
Gale watches the elf from his cushion, chin propped in his hand. "She must be truly angry with us," he points out. "I believe she's made the point to speak with each and every refugee, and not come over here for a single minute."
"Now she's having the bard teach her to play the lute," Wyll notes. "I believe that is a perfect example of stalling."
Shadowheart groans, putting her face on her knees.
Karlach makes a noise of interest behind them in their circle. "Do you all know… anything about her?"
"It would be conjecture," Gale begins, "but I would say Amara relies on acts of service to show her affection to others. She is warm and her companionship is easy. She is open in an emotional way, but…"
"She's an elf," Astarion points out, closing his eyes. "It's impossible to tell her age by looking at her. She's older than roughly fifty, but that's all you can glean for about two hundred years or so. A lot can happen to someone in two hundred years…"
"So we are just meant to blindly follow?" Lae'zel snaps. "No, I don't like it. I refuse."
"Then, I will be the first to say it: you are free to leave," Wyll points out. "Amara is not holding you here. She would do anything for you, must you really know things about her she does not wish to share?"
"How can you follow someone who will not share anything?"
"She likes long baths, and the break of dawn," Shadowheart says, looking at Amara.
The elf laughs, making a dramatic swooning motion while Volo and a tiefling bard - Alfira - attempt to console her about her skill with a lute. It lights up her face, wrinkles around her eyes, and deepens the laugh lines around her mouth. She starts looking through some of Alfira's notebooks, writing in them with a fine quill.
"Those are not qualities of a leader that I'm looking for," Lae'zel growls out.
"She likes to nap," Shadowheart adds in a quiet voice, "and she hates when rooms are excessively clean. Though, the most interesting one to me was that she dislikes excessively windy days. She says they make it difficult to breathe." She looks over to the others. "Please don't tell her I told you. She did not swear me to secrecy, but given how she has closed the book on questions, I hesitate to think she is eager to share… anything."
"It's almost strange to hear… facts about her," Wyll admits. "Sometimes she seems a bit…"
"Inhuman?" Gale offers.
"She's an elf," Astarion repeats.
"Yes, I know, but it is a word that suits this moment. She can be so at ease and in command that it can be difficult to remember she is a person, with things she likes and dislikes. A person who would rather be napping."
"Great, now I feel worse," Wyll groans. "She always looks so exhausted."
Lae'zel heaves a great sigh, and she takes a breath in and yells, "Amara!"
The wizard looks up from the notebook she's writing in while speaking with Volo and Alfira, and quickly finds Lae'zel's eyes.
"I have another question for you!"
The whole party can picture Amara smiling at this, shaking her head slightly. Her viridescent eyes get a twinkle of amusement to them that's particularly reserved for when she's looking at one of her companions, pleased with something they've said or done.
It's taken the longest with Lae'zel, to get this expression regularly, but their contentious friendship has finally become more lighthearted.
Or, it had.
Amara doesn't smile at Lae'zel's proclamation. She holds the githyanki's eyes for a few moments before nodding and returning back to speak to Alfira for a moment.
"Shit," Astarion drawls out, impressed. "She is really pissed off at you."
"I will rip your tongue out and feed it to you, vampire!" she hisses, crossing her arms over her chest in fury.
Amara gets up from where she sits, and Alfira grabs onto her arm, tugging.
"Oh, please, just one song?" she begs, and Amara's nervous laughter can be heard all the way at the fire where the rest of the companions sit. "It can be any of the classics! You can just play chords as a backing track!"
Shadowheart blinks. "Is she… trying to get Amara to play the lute?"
"Oh, this I have got to see," Astarion eagerly says, sitting up.
The elf takes the lute, seemingly nervous, and both Alfira and Volo cheer her on excitedly, resulting in something of a hush to fall over the raucous celebration. Volo rushes to get her a stool to stand on top of, the closest they'll get to a stage, and he claps several times and she waves him off with laughter, asking him to hold up the notebook she'd been writing in earlier.
She plucks the strings a couple of times. "Well, ah, I'm no bard, but… here goes."
The strumming of the chords is clumsy but charming, with a melancholic minor tone that none of the companions recognize from any popular bard songs. She hums an unfamiliar tune, and looks up at the notebook, but there's something about her gaze which makes it look as though she's staring far through it. A thousand yards away.
"Far off the coastline is a room above the sea,
and none did dare go near it, for it had tales of treachery.
The old told the young to, 'Beware its slumbering god;
He is buried in the waters deep: cast away and flawed.'
One such young girl is no more than five and ten,
who grew up on these stories and the fists of violent men.
She ran to the floating room to finally be set free,
and instead, she met an ancient god who spoke words most lovely.
She learned to wield the power of the sea, the sand, the air,
her god kindly taught her how to Weave the magic that they shared.
If she questioned His kindness, He would never tell her why.
He only told her she would serve a great purpose, and had to stay alive.
She slumbered in her haven, her watchdog god below,
and was visited by a deity with a body of rainbow.
He spoke long words of wisdom and called it prophesy,
that she sacrifice her body, to let her friend and god go free.
At once she called for Him, and He whisked her far away,
and she cried to Him about what the deity did say.
He assured her to close her eyes, that it would all be over soon,
and wrapped His hands round her throat to bring her to ruin.
Though it was her fate to fall and rouse this sleeping god,
she clawed and scratched for freedom while mourning his facade.
Abandoning her fate, she cried and sweat and bled,
and the sacrifice emerged from the sea, having become the god instead."
/ / /
Amara hands the lute back to Alfira, who takes it without looking away from Amara's eyes. "Thank you for the, ahm… encouragement?" she ventures. "My friends asked me a question that was difficult for me to answer, and that helped."
Alfira holds the lute to her chest. "Wait— wait, that song. You wrote it just now, right? Is it about you?"
Amara just smiles. "Enjoy the rest of the party, Alfira."
"Amara!"
She laughs, and turns back to the tiefling. "Yes?"
"Listen— the song, you're so talented! And with everything you've done for the grove, you're all anyone talks about, that's why I approached you! See, when I heard what you'd done— it inspired me. Made me feel brave again. I want to join you— stay with you, fight by your side, even when the rest of the grove leaves. I want to help people, as you've helped us."
"Are you sure?" Amara asks, tilting her head. "I lead a dangerous life."
"I've been running since Elturel—" Alfira argues. "And when we finally arrived in the grove, we found danger there, too. Unless I hide away from the world, I can't avoid it. So I'd rather face it head on— with you."
Amara smiles. "Join us, then."
"Really? Just like that? Oh, thank you— thank you so much."
She smiles. "Now, I have… a conversation to go have."
Alfira looks over to the fire, where all the other party members are staring at her. "I'm sure it will go well," she offers warmly. "They look quite affectionate toward you."
"Oh, I hope so."
She presses her fingers together until they hurt, and then rubs them into slow circles as she walks toward the fire. All her companions go from looking at her, to looking anywhere but her.
"Are we all still angry with me?" she asks when she's close enough, putting her hands behind her back.
"Amara, darling, I believe it is you who is furious with us," Astarion drawls out.
"At this point, I think we mostly just wish the discussion hadn't happened," Gale admits. He tangles his fingers in his hair again. "Is it— are you… I mean, that's not to say we aren't interested in the information, it's more that we have no desire to wring it out of you when you are reluctant to share."
"Could I join you, then?" she asks, gesturing to their circle around the fire.
"Oh! Of course—" Shadowheart starts trying to shift, pulling at Wyll and trying to make room in their circle.
"No need, there's plenty of room," she assures the cleric, sitting in the small amount of space between Gale and Astarion, putting her legs in Astarion's lap and leaning back against Gale's propped up leg.
"You have no fear, do you?" Astarion asks, hands hovering awkwardly over Amara's legs tossed haphazardly in front of him.
Amara hums, and answers honestly. "I'm afraid of a lot of things."
Lae'zel meets her eyes, the fire burning between them. "Even though you're a god?"
She groans, rolls slightly so she's able to look up into Gale's eyes. "She just likes to stab me, doesn't she? Why does she do that?"
He laughs under his breath. "She doesn't want to waste time, I suppose. We were going to let the issue drop, but…"
"I just had to bring it up," she drawls out, rolling back to be able to see the others as well. "To answer the question you're really asking me, Lae'zel, no. I'm not a god."
Her eyes narrow, "But you wouldn't have—"
"If I had to use any term… I would be a demigod. And even then, I would say I'm… ten percent god, ninety percent elf. So even demigod is a generous term."
Amara can feel Gale's muscles flex uncomfortably where she rests against him, and Astarion grips her ankle with one of his hands before realizing what he's doing and quickly lets go. The others seem equally as unsure.
"Well— you wanted to know, didn't you?" Amara asks.
"Why call yourself a god, then?" Lae'zel asks. "Did it just sound better in your little song?"
Amara sighs. "To be fair to me, yes, it sounded great. However, when I killed that deity and sank the temple, what came out of the water wasn't me anymore— gods, even fledging ones, are an untouchable kind of creature. I won't ever… I just— I can't live without this piece of Him attached to me, because of what He did. I'll never be one hundred percent elf, unless I'd like to be a corpse. This is the closest I'll ever get to being… me."
"Bloody hells," Shadowheart growls out. "No wonder you hate the gods."
"Which god?" Wyll asks, looking at his feet. He's holding a bottle of wine which is almost empty.
"Ah, there it is," she drawls out, rolling over and putting her arm over her eyes. "Quite a question, Blade of Frontiers. Care to guess?"
Gale clears his throat. "Considering the prophetic god was your visitor… and not your assailant, and that there hasn't been a massive spell of panic over a missing god, I would venture a guess that He was an ancient deity who was sealed away, one who provides you with knowledge of the future which you use to keep us safe and efficient. The god you killed was Chronos— right? The god of time."
She laughs, dissolving into a slightly hysteric sound, pressing both of her hands to her face. "So long since I've heard His name spoken aloud…"
"That's how you knew you would encounter me?" Karlach asks softly. "And you brought Wyll because you recognized me?"
"Not just that," Shadowheart recognizes. "You skip rooms we don't need to enter, and know that odd plans will result in few casualties."
"Is that why you don't like to battle?" Astarion asks. "And here I thought you were such a wet blanket! You just see the easiest path, don't you?"
Amara removes the hand from over her eyes and looks high up into the sky. Her chest is tight, and it feels hard to breathe. "I am Chronos' progeny, and though His powers do extend to future events, that portion of His abilities is incredibly destructive on my body if I stay a mortal being. As it is, I can use approximately, you guessed it, ten percent of Chronos' powers, and one of them is… that I can return to a point in the past I can visualize."
There's quiet around the fire while Amara's words sink in and their meaning dawns.
"No…" Astarion grabs onto Amara's ankle again. "No. You can't."
"Wait— what?" Karlach asks, sitting up. "What's going on?"
"If she returns to the past," Shadowheart explains slowly, looking at the ground, "it means she didn't foresee that you would be on the path to the grove today. She went there without Wyll. And then—"
"Chk! Went back!" Lae'zel realizes, snapping to look down at her. "At the grove, your battle strategy. It was so immediate, so thorough. I did not want to admit I was impressed until I saw a repeat of it— it was not your battle instincts that gave you such an edge over any githyanki strategists I know, it's…"
"Repetition," Gale breathes out, no small amount of horror in his voice. "When we walked by that room, you'd already been inside of it. Every battle we faced against the goblin leaders— you'd fought them before."
"Fought, yes. And lost," Amara confirms. "And lost, and lost. And not just by a little. Wyll died at the grove. Gale died to the priestess. Shadowheart was killed by the hobgoblin. The drow got me through the guts. And that's just on land. We all died on the ship, sometimes a lot. Whenever someone dies, I rewind it back, and try again. Whenever something happens that could be disastrous, I go back, try again. Whenever I learn something but doom myself, I can go back." She looks up at Gale, blinks. "Try again."
"Holy hells," he breathes. "No wonder you're so exhausted."
"I miss taking naps," she admits, trying for a smile.
"One more question," Lae'zel demands, but it's softer this time.
Amara closes her eyes. "Go for it, Lae."
"If you can rewind yourself out of danger… why even let yourself get infected?"
"Ah, that is surprisingly a harder question to answer than the Chronos one. Well… it's also rather straightforward. I did. The first time around."
Wyll looks up, surprised. "You avoided infection?"
"I rewound to before I was kidnapped, and simply left the vicinity," Amara says. "I avoid death often. It's out to get me, in a way. I'm used to it, at this point, like a stone in my shoe."
"Why come back?" Karlach asks. "You must have rewound again, right? Got kidnapped?"
"I learned… that even though I avoided this fate, the horrors of it still festered. After I learned this, I just couldn't… I knew I needed to be involved. I would need to be on the front lines."
"Istik! No survival instinct!" Lae'zel pops to her feet. "I cannot stand this— this talk any longer. I am retiring for the evening."
"Lae," Amara says, and the githyanki woman, to her credit, does stop and wait. "I'm not angry. I… thank you for breaking this cycle of privacy. Perhaps now we all will share more. If anyone has a secret stranger than killing a god, I will kiss them on the lips."
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 12: Progeny's Affections
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XII
Progeny's Affections
It's still dark the next morning when Amara rises, as if the sky is holding its breath. The stars are faint, but scatter across its breadth, and she traces them as they disappear into the morning.
There's a snap of a twig, and Amara looks over, spotting Wyll sneaking away from the camp toward the river.
"Agh, Hells," he whispers. "I was hoping I wouldn't disturb you."
"You're no disruption, Wyll," she says quietly, pulling her legs up to her chest. "I was hoping to speak with you, actually."
"Really? I'm honored," he remarks. "Come, let us not disturb the others." Amara rises and follows him, and he clears his throat. "In truth, I was also hoping to speak with you. I wanted to make it clear that your generous offer of personal information last night was appreciated. I would have said more during the party but… I did not want to cast a gray cloud over what was surely already a difficult admission to make."
"I'm sure it was difficult to hear, in a way, as well."
He laughs under his breath. "It was… surprising, let's say."
"It is both my greatest strength and most dangerous shortcoming that I often get away with impossible things," Amara intones, obfuscating her direct meaning.
Wyll hums. "I am glad you are aware of the danger in it," he remarks. "From what I understand of your ability, though it is a powerful one, it has… damaged your own value of yourself. Don't forget that even if you can, as you say, get away with something impossible, that we don't need you to throw your life away so needlessly."
Amara gives him a tight smile. "I don't believe any rewind has been needless. So far, there may have been some more… personally picky ones, like rewinding when I make someone angry and wish to change what I said, but I wouldn't take it back."
"Do you know what happens next?" Wyll asks, and Amara laughs.
"I rarely know what will happen next. Even I, when I rewind, am merely guessing and hoping what I do next works better than what I tried last time. It's not like seeing the future. It's all guesswork."
"So you don't know how the tieflings will fare? I fear they aren't ready to get on the road on their own, goblins aside."
"I can't say they will not encounter anything on their travels," Amara admits, "but I can give them hope. Their determination to survive will keep them going better than any prophecy."
"You're good at that, you know. You've given me some just by being here," Wyll informs her fondly. "And I believe that is just you, by the way, ten percent demigod notwithstanding."
Amara groans. "I am beginning to sincerely regret disclosing this. Can you imagine Astarion when he becomes comfortable enough to tease me for this? Or - gods forbid - Shadowheart. She is opening up to me. She will undoubtedly tease me for my godly side while openly being disdainful of them."
Wyll laughs, quickly stifling the sound as it is still the break of dawn. "She cares about your disdain as well, Amara."
"Yes, but I will laugh," she bemoans. "And that will be my downfall."
"Is it truly a hardship, if it makes you laugh?" he inquires, smiling. "You laugh often, I've noticed. Not that it's rare to do so, but none that I interact with on a regular basis have the same temperment you do. It was wonderful, actually, seeing you interact with the tieflings. I'm sure you've inspired them as you inspire us. Inspire me."
"I feel as though our disagreement prevented the rest of you from fully enjoying the party. You mostly kept to yourselves."
Wyll looks a bit shy at this. "I can't speak for the others, but I wasn't in that festive of a mood. In fact, if we hadn't sat together to discuss upsetting you, I probably would have spent the evening alone."
"Well in that case!" Amara gives him a smirk. "I'll get pissed off at the lot of you more often."
Wyll tosses his head back and laughs, and Amara has to shush him to keep him from waking the others.
"Still," she continues, "we will have to have another evening where the mood is lighter. Dance, drink, and no discussion this time."
"I would never protest to you having a bit of merriment," Wyll tells her. "I doubt we could deny you much of anything."
"Would you dance with me, then?"
He laughs again, a quick and startled sound. "In truth, I always enjoyed a bit of pomp," he admits. "I once beat the Baldurian record for the most sarabandes danced in a single evening. Much to the exhaustion of the good ladies and gentlemen of the Gate."
"Then you will put me to shame!" Amara dramatically puts the back of her hand to her forehead. "I will undoubtedly trample your feet, if you are so graceful."
"In the interest of being more open, as you said, considering you have breached that door… I had years of dance lessons, it's an unfair advantage."
"Lessons?" Amara asks, intrigued. "You don't say…"
"Though, in truth, it's less about your education and all about your partner." He smiles at Amara, gesturing to her. "You cut quite a fine figure. In fact, our whole group is rather eye-catching, now that I consider it. I can just imagine leading you with an entire ballroom watching."
Abruptly, the smile drops from Wyll's face.
"But who am I fooling? I can't go back to that life."
"Why not?" Amara asks, her lips lifting. "This is the progeny of time asking you, you know. You never know what the future holds."
"Progeny of time or no," Wyll whispers back, "I'm afraid these feet of mine are firmly planted to the ground now. The person I was when I galavanted across that ballroom— he's gone now. So is the passage of time."
"Then I suppose I can only lament that I will never see it," Amara remarks, stepping back from him.
"Aw, by Baldurian's elbow, I can't stay feeling gloomy with you looking at me like that. You have a vow from the Blade. He will show you a wonderful time, another night. But not tonight. Tonight is about you."
Amara's smile does return at that. "I'll respect your wishes, Wyll, but don't forget how the future can surprise us."
She walks away from the river, leaving Wyll to bathe, and trudges up back to camp. She tries to rationalize the thought process Wyll was using— to cast away a whole part of him. It must have something to do with the Blade of Frontiers.
Oh, how she wishes he shared more. Perhaps his load would be lighter.
"Oh!" Amara nearly runs right into Gale, her hands bracing against his chest, quickly pushing herself backward.
"Amara," he croaks out, voice thick with sleep. "Lost in thought, I see." He holds her arms to steady her, and she settles her palms over his forearms. "It's a pleasant morning, so long as you haven't imbibed half as much wine as I did last night."
When the works strike Amara, she laughs softly and looks into the deep brown eyes of the wizard. They are a little bloodshot. She reaches up and holds his face for a moment. "Oh, Gale. Would you like me to brew a potion for you?"
Interest flares in his eyes. "Would you? I would be fascinated to see what you come up with."
Stepping back, Amara nods. Gale's gaze lingers on her hands for a moment. "I'll brew several, just to be safe. I sincerely doubt you are the only one who may be experiencing symptoms. It's still early— are you sure you want to be up?"
He chuckles. "There's something about this time that's growing on me, and I do believe you have something to do with it. Nothing like a brush with destruction to make one appreciate the fire of dawn in the morning. It seems the sunrise now gives me a renewed appreciation for life."
"You weren't a morning person before?" Amara asks, genuinely curious.
"Oh, no," Gale insists, chuckling slightly. "My work often kept me up late into the night, under the majestic celestial canvas. I share my love of the night sky with my companion. Though our nights are definitely unaccompanied by such revelry as we had last night. She preferred it when we were alone, curled up before a crackling hearth with some ancient, esoteric tome between us, ink glinting in the firelight…"
Amara opens her mouth. "Are you… are you talking about your cat?"
"By Ahghairon's lost nose— no!" Gale's voice goes squeaky and high pitched in indignation, and Amara erupts in giggles. "Tara is not any cat," Gale whines, holding Amara by her arms. "She's a tressym," he insists. "And given your confusion, I'm guessing you've never met one. They're brilliant creatures— fine company for any self-respecting wizard."
Amara looks up, now very close to Gale. His hands twitch, and his grip loosens on her arms, but Amara doesn't step away from him. "Of course, of course. My apologies."
"She'd be most impressed by our efforts saving these tieflings," Gale continues, gesturing to the sleeping guests in the camp. "Proud, even. And I've given her little to be proud of recently. After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself, but Tara never did. It was her encouragement, her research that led me to my treatment. Once we knew that magically-infused items were the key, she went out to find them for me. She saved my life. After so long being cared for by someone else, it feels good to have repaid the favor. Not directly, to Tara, but to these poor tieflings. I'm sure she would approve."
"She must be very smart, to have done all that."
"'Smart' does her a disservice. She's a fine wizard in her own right, though somewhat held back by her lack of opposable thumbs. You remind me of her somewhat. There's a steeliness to you, an unwavering tenacity even in the face of, to be frank, quite dire odds. I wish she were here for me to make a formal introduction, but I would never ask her to undertake such a journey. She is safer at home. Besides, she was always telling me I needed to spread my wings, so to speak. Find mortal friends, instead of hanging onto Mystra's coattails. So that's what I'm doing. I hope."
"Bad luck on that front— I'm actually a nymph in disguise…"
"I knew it!" he breathes out with exaggerated dramatics. "Nymphs are known sticklers when it comes to their bathing routines. You, my friend, spend just about as much time in a fresh spring as you can. Frankly, I'm surprised to see you haven't bathed already this morning— your nymph routine has been interrupted it seems. Not that— that I look to see if you've bathed often or anything, and not that you have to bathe if you don't want to! It's not that I can't appreciate your musk after a battle. I actually rather like it… oh gods, what hole have I dug for myself?"
Amara bursts into laughter, holding onto Gale and leaning forward, completely into his space. She can feel the warmth from his body, the way he tries to steady her, and the hesitant smile that flickers on his face is equal parts sheepish and enamored.
"Oh, no," she breathes out. "Gale, you can't do this to me."
His mouth works around the words he can't say. Eventually, he settles on, "What is it that I'm doing? Babbling?"
"It's so utterly charming," she argues, looking directly into his eyes. "I've never met someone who enthralls me so."
"Well— well, I… were you listening to the same rambling I was?"
She laughs again, reaching up and holding his face. "Yes, how could I focus on anything else? Any moment of any day, I would vastly prefer your earnest nature to a silver tongue."
Gale swallows, visible to Amara as she stands so close. "Oh, how I wish I didn't feel like death warmed over this morning."
She laughs, steps away. "Would you like me to go start on that potion?"
"I hesitate to part from you, if I'm being honest," he admits, again the earnestness just dripping off of him.
"Feel free to tell me what else you like about me, then, other than my musk and bathing habits," she teases, and watches in real time as a rosy hue rises to Gale's cheeks.
"Gosh. I really did say that, didn't I? Let me try to make up for it: were I to recite a list of all the things I like about you, Amara, I fear we'd still be here at dusk tomorrow. Many things, I assure you, but a conversation better saved for another time."
"Perhaps you can set aside some time for me, then. I'd love to hear more about you, and about Tara."
"Oh, I have a sincerely vast amount of stories about Tara," he assures her.
"Was it ever lonely, if you had Tara for company?"
"Sometimes. But I imposed it upon myself, after all. I set up enough wards to keep an army at bay, never mind the few colleagues who sought to inquire about my welfare. Tara did her best to keep my spirits up, of course, but there's only so much one tressym can make up for one's entire social circle. And she was often gone seeking items to treat my condition. You're the first person I've spent any significant time with in a year or more. Spending time in your company, I realize that I may have left behind the greater part of my wit, and sensitivity, in my tower."
"You're doing just fine, Gale."
"I'm glad. To know you enjoy my company is, well, it's rather wonderful actually. I'd be loathe to waste the time of someone who's become rather important to me."
"You're not so bad yourself. Though you're usually more… erudite."
"Wine is to wit as meat is to… to… oh, I can't bloody remember it. There I go, then, proving your point. Perhaps we'd better leave it at that. My ineloquent tongue isn't worthy of your ear at present."
Amara's grin turns a bit feral. "Gale, I would take your tongue any time."
"Ama— Amara!"
She laughs, touches his arm as she passes him. "Please let me know when we could spend some time together."
With a surge of warmth in his face that reddens his ears and even down his neck, Gale clears his throat. "Tonight, as we travel on. There's something rather magical I wish to show you."
"I like the sound of 'magical'. What do you have planned?"
"A lesson," Gale offers vaguely, chuckling. "And trust me when I say— few have experienced the pleasure I offer to teach. However, it's something best experienced in more intimate surrounds, once the others have retired for the night, and the stillness has settled. For now— please, let me detain you no longer."
"I will see you when I return to camp, Gale," Amara says with a smile.
/ / /
Amara reaches the camp again to find most everyone up and in their tents despite the early hour. She pops into her own tent and dresses, strapping on her cuirass and rifling through her chest of alchemy ingredients and enchanting supplies. After grinding up the denser chitins and minerals with the herbs, Amara carries the mortar out to the fire and begins boiling a mixture of wine and milk over the fire, slowly adding her dry ingredients to the potion, her Weave stirring it while she idly carves into a couple of the jewelry items to see if she can't make more snacks for Gale.
"Is that a cure-all potion?" Shadowheart asks, coming out of her tent and sniffing the air. "Probably a smart idea, given how high everyone's spirits were last night."
"And how many of them they imbibed," Amara quips back. "Will you be needing any?"
"I partook, but only minimally," she assures the elf, sitting with her at the fire. She looks around at all the tieflings as they awake and begin to gather their belongings after the celebration, once again packing their carts. "Strange… you know who I never thought I'd find myself caring for?"
Amara glances at the tieflings, and remembers Shadowhearts' remark about walking past all the corpses from the nautiloid. "Refugees?" she asks, turning back to her potion and adding the rest of the ingredients, wielding her Weave around the fire.
"Exactly right. Never gave them much though. Certainly not that bunch in the grove. Yet we came through for them. We saved their lives. Odd."
Amara hums. "Not so odd, I don't think. We did the right thing," she says, looking over at the half-elf, "wouldn't you say?"
"That's more easily said by some than others." Shadowheart keeps her gaze fixed on Amara's Weave blending the potion to completion. "But nobody's here to debate right from wrong, I suppose."
Amara takes her potion off the fire and distributes it into a collection of mismatched vials she could find. "Then perhaps it's all right if it feels odd to you. Is odd bad?"
The cleric looks the wizard over, and then gazes into the fire while Amara finishes filling the bottles. Then, she abruptly stands. "I'll go… see if anyone needs one of those."
Startled, Amara hands her all but one of them. "Thank you. And— Shadowheart?"
Dark hazel eyes search out her bright green ones.
"It's okay if you don't know how to take this yet, how to feel about it. We have plenty of time to figure it out."
Shadowheart opens her mouth, takes in a short, audible breath, and then spins on her heel and leaves the campfire to approach the tieflings with the cure-all potions.
Amara chuckles lightly, and looks up to see that Lae'zel had been watching the whole exchange. "Have some thoughts?" she asks the githyanki woman, who only frowns.
"I have seen the kith'raki tear a screaming neogi's legs from its belly to fashion into blades," she informs Amara.
Great, Amara didn't ask.
Then, Lae'zel flicks her gaze toward where Shadowheart is passing out the potions. "Yet they could not match the nerve it took to undertake such an abominable task. It was enough to drive me to madness."
Amara gestures between them. "Is this a compliment, or…?"
"The blood on you is minimal, though that's hardly surprising considering your soft, weak nature. What's surprising is that you should have a powerful, impenetrable exterior— yet you deny yourself. Why?"
"That's a difficult question for me to answer," Amara admits. "Especially considering that I could achieve a great deal with my individual talents, and receive the coordinating accolades for them, so I'm sure that I would struggle to explain to you specifically why I made my choices, given githyanki rites of passage."
Her eyes burn into Amara's. "Try."
Amara sighs. "It's… let's just say it's like the tadpoles. Without your permission, you were given a source of immense power. These worms grant us power over others, and maybe even more if we use them more. Should you choose to do so, give in to the power, you would surely be able to accomplish many of the goals you set out to do, with great efficiency and speed. However, it comes at the cost of your looming demise becoming a monster. As you use it, the power consumes you. It eats at you. You lose who you were more by the day, until eventually… you would have no idea where the real you went, or what you even are anymore. Sometimes, Lae, power is more like a disease than a gift."
"The things you say are confounding," Lae'zel admits to her. "Do all of Fae-run share these viewpoints?"
Amara blinks at her. "Fae…run? You mean Faerûn?"
"You're all so picky. Do the pronunciations of these things truly bother you all so? Bah. Leave me now. I must think on your words."
Amara laughs, stepping away from the githyanki woman and stretching her legs. Gale hasn't come back from the river yet, so she secures his potion to her belt and begins to ready her pack for the day.
She spots one particular tiefling out of the group that she needs to speak with.
"Karlach!" she calls, gesturing for the barbarian to come over to her. "I must hasten to speak with you, if you've a moment."
"For you? Anything!" she chirps and quickly ends the conversation she was having with another tiefling and jogging over. "Gods, isn't life just amazing? I know I've only heard tales of your adventures to save these refugees, but it still strikes me as incredible. Just look at this place, these people— happy because of all of you."
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a great outlook?" Amara asks, a smile taking over her features.
Karlach laughs, eyes sparkling. "In the Hells? Never. Before that, I may have heard it here and there. Still, it's been ten long years since I've heard a kind word like that, and it feels like even longer since I've been able to exist somewhere where good is still possible."
"I'm all gladness, then," she earnestly tells the barbarian.
Karlach gestures like she wants to nudge her with her elbow. "Plus, you know how to throw a party! Good potations, and even complimentary hangover cures. Oh, sorry, I'll stop going off here, what did you need?"
"No need for an apology; I thoroughly enjoy your personality, Karlach. I'm entirely pleased to welcome you into our little group. Though Wyll and Gale often agree with my choices and Shadowheart seems interested enough, no one has anything to my, how should I put this…"
"Temperament?" Karlach asks, grinning. "Yeah, I can see that. I think you and I will get on just fine."
"I'm hoping so; we usually depart camp in groups of four, and our mission this time is to see if a gith crèche has a solution for our…" she taps under her eye, "ocular problem. Would you—"
"Fuck yes!" Karlach's hands form fists which flail in the air. "I would love to adventure with you— I pack quite a punch, you know. Gods, this is going to be so fun!"
Amara laughs, pleased. "Splendid. We shall depart soon then, if you want to prepare anything. Before we set out for the crèche, we'll hit the lookout to tackle those paladins out for you."
"Really? Oh, yes!! We can smash them together, I'm sure!!" Karlach surges forward for a moment before holding herself back, her smile dimming. "Damn, I fucking wish I could hug you. What I wouldn't give for it…"
"I'll pick up some ingredients for a fire resistance potion." Amara winks at her. Karlach laughs, her smile returning. "There, that's much better. Let's think like that! Now, I'll leave you to prep."
"You got it, soldier!"
She walks back to her tent, securing her bow to her back.
"So are you taking her with you?" Astarion startles Amara, appearing right behind her. The scent of his Weave is weak this morning.
"Karlach? Yes," Amara confirms. "We will first deal with the lookout point where the Paladins of Tyr she mentioned hunt her, and from there we will take the crèche. Why do you ask?"
He raises his chin. "No reason. Why should I want to battle these faceless paladins? Or delve into a den of githyanki, for that matter. No, no, I'm quite sated here at camp."
"Just cur-ious, then?"
"Amara, darling, you really should learn that there are moments in your life to practice survival skills…"
Amara laughs. "Why should I, when I can just rewind them?"
He looks surprised for a moment. "Ah. That's right… how often do you do that, exactly?"
"A progeny of time never reveals her secrets," she teases, pressing a finger to her lips. "Oh, and Astarion, since you'll be at camp and so will Gale, perhaps you should see if he tastes as awful as he fears. You look like you're beginning to need it."
His ears flatten to his head. "That's… I don't know if I like that you can tell that."
She just smiles and briefly touches his arm. "I'm just making sure you stay healthy. You were right, after all, you did fight better! And you also seemed happier. Just ask him, all right?"
Astarion sighs heavily, airing on the dramatic side. "If I must."
"Did you enjoy the party last night?"
He scoffs. "You mean, where we all sat around the fire and teased Lae'zel for how badly she pissed you off? You know, I liked it more than I thought I would, for that reason alone."
She waps him on the arm. "I meant with the tieflings! Not being mean to our fighter."
He smiles, widely at first, but it dims with haste. "You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I'd be the one they toast for saving so many lives. And now that I'm here… " he tails off, kicking an empty bottle of wine. "I hated it. It was awful."
Amara rolls her eyes. "You did a good thing. Suck it up and enjoy yourself."
"The corpses littered in the camp say otherwise— wait. Did you just… was that a vampire pun? Amara, you are the absolute worst."
Laughing, Amara argues, "Come on, what better reward is there for good work than a satisfying bit of wordplay?"
Astarion scoffs. "It's actually worse than what we did get— a pat on the head and vinegar for wine."
Ah, that's right. Vampire tongues give all food the taste of ash, and can turn even the finest wine to vinegar.
A shame.
"And it was such a delicious, dry red too…" Amara laments. "Hey, do you think if I tweaked a potion enough, you could taste it?"
Astarion doesn't seem keen though, just narrowing his eyes. "Don't tease me, it's not nice."
"But I love teasing," Amara remarks, smiling.
"Well, darling, perhaps we should upgrade from teasing at this point," Astarion offers, flashing his fangs.
"Upgrade?" Amara repeats. "What exactly are you thinking?"
"Oh, nothing much— all I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?"
"And what's your idea of 'a little fun'?" Amara quirks an eyebrow at the other elf.
"By the hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion."
"Oh! Gosh," she breathes. "Right. That thing people do when they like each other."
He gives a disbelieving scoff. "That's one way to put it. After all, don't we like each other? Find me tonight after you return from your mission with Lae'zel and we can make our own entertainment. What do you say?"
Amara smiles at him, but shakes her head.
"Oh, come on! Don't be so sour! It will be fun— you can have fun, can't you? I guarantee I'm good, darling."
"Astarion," she says carefully. "I do think sex is fun. I also don't doubt your, ah, skillset. I just don't want to have sex with you."
His eyelashes flutter, he steps back, but easily makes it look as if he's just righting his footing. A quick laugh escapes his lips. "And here I mistook you for someone with taste," he drawls out, but there's something unbalanced to his words. "A pity."
Amara steps into his space. He lets her in.
"Now what? You rejected me, didn't you?"
"Sometimes, you look at me like I will hurt you," Amara states boldly, and Astarion reels. She catches him with a light touch, feathery and gentle. "I won't. I wouldn't dream of it."
"You— you think you could hurt me even if you tried? I could rip your throat out before you even make a move, you— you…"
She touches his cheek. "I do like you, Astarion, and I will continue to like you. That doesn't mean I want to have sex with you. I can separate those things. You owe me nothing, but you are free to like me as well, and sex doesn't have to be a part of it."
"Why do you touch me so much then?" he asks, whisper-soft, between them. "You are fearless with your hands, and I can't understand what you want from me."
"I don't want anything," Amara clarifies. "I just like touching. I enjoy contact of all kinds. If I like a person in the right away, I would enjoy having sex with them, but for everyone else, I still want to touch them, just in a different way."
She steps back and allows the vampire his space. For a moment, he just stands there, his eyes focused on some distant point. Once Astarion has collected himself, his bright red eyes snap to hers. He takes in an audible breath into his unbreathing lungs.
"Am I allowed… to touch you?"
"You're your own person, Astarion," Amara says with a wide smile. "My thoughts on this are the same as when you need blood; I just want you to respect my comfort. If I tell you something makes me uncomfortable, I'd like you to respect that."
"Of course," he responds immediately. "Of… of course."
Astarion reaches out and touches Amara's face, similar to how she usually does. It's a faint touch, hesitant in all ways, and his eyes are intensely focused on where the pads of his fingers brush against her skin.
Abruptly, he pulls his hands away.
"Be safe out there," he says softly, and whisks away from her tent.
She smiles to herself and grabs her arrows, heading back out to her campsite. "Ready to go?" she asks, seeing that Gale and Wyll are finally back. Wyll looks up at her and points to Karlach.
"I take it I've been benched?" he asks, but there's no venom to it.
"Yes, my apologies for not speaking with you first, Wyll. I owe you some knocking of heads, I promise."
He chuckles under his breath. "Just do right by the Sword Coast, and I see no issue in leaving it up to you. But!" He holds up a finger. "The Blade stands at the ready."
Amara smiles sympathetically at him and unhooks her cure-all potion from her belt. "Gale, I'm a woman of my word," she guarantees, passing him the bottle.
"And my savior," he exhales with relief, taking the potion.
"Amara," another voice catches her attention, deeper and more commanding than any in her party. The wizard looks up to see Halsin approaching them. "A word before you depart, if you could?"
"Of course. Just a moment," she says, holding her hand up. "Lae'zel, Shadowheart, are the both of you nearly ready?"
Both women give affirmative responses, speaking with an unarmored Karlach, who is seemingly excited about this being a "girl's mission" - adorable.
She returns to facing Halsin. "This is about next steps, correct? The origin of the tadpoles?"
"First," Halsin says, "I trust you enjoyed your evening? After all your efforts, it was well-deserved. It may be some time before you are afforded another such night— there is much to be done, and I promised I would help you however I could. I'm certain a cure for you can be found at Moonrise Towers, but it's… complicated."
"Bah," Lae'zel spits. "We need not this Moonrise Towers. The crèche will provide what we need."
Amara holds her hand up. "There is no harm in learning more about another possible solution. You recall what Raphael said, don't you? That we… 'shop around'? That implies there are a plethora of possible ways for the tadpoles to be removed… and plenty of them dead ends. Go on, Halsin."
He nods. "This journey, specifically— it's extremely perilous. Though it seems you're well accustomed to navigating danger."
Shadowheart sighs. "I suppose it was too much to hope we were going to be cured here and now. To Moonrise, then."
Amara regrets how much she agrees. She eyes the druid carefully.
"What's so dangerous about it?"
"To get to the Towers, you'll need to pass through a terrible place— a cursed place. This curse shrouds everything in shadow— you will not find life, light, or anything natural there. Any who linger are twisted by the curse; they become shadow beings— tormented, dangerous souls."
"What do you suggest?"
"You could go overland— along the Risen Road or through the mountains. Easier at first, but you'll run into the shadow curse eventually. You could also go under. There is a tunnel somewhere in the ruined temple of Selûne. It leads to Moonrise Towers through the Underdark."
Astarion makes an exaggerated sound of disdain.
Ignoring him, Halsin continues. "Long ago, a man called Ketheric Thorm built a secret stronghold deep down there, before rallying a whole army of Dark Justiciars— Shar worshipers."
Amara does not look at Shadowheart, but the half-elf startles.
"Dark Justiciars? I must see for myself."
"Aradin and his lot were looking for a way down there— as you know, they were promised riches if they retrieved a relic called the Nightsone. But I think there's more they were not told. From this stronghold, Ketheric's forces could access both the temple of Selûne and Moonrise Towers - but he was defeated before he could launch an attack. Through this path, I'll wager you will trek a direct line to Moonrise Towers, and may even bypass the worst of the shadow curse."
Amara taps her chin. "That place we found— it must be a hidden entrance shielded by Selûne. Considering we have opened it already, the way is clear."
"You are right," Halsin realizes. "That descending plateau was indeed in the Underdark— it would require us to delve past the temple of Selûne, but there must be a trigger that brings us onto Ketheric's path toward Moonrise. If only I was able to follow you initially…"
Amara gives him an encouraging smile. "Though it might be too late of an offer for the goblin camp, you are always welcome, Halsin."
"I would be honored to offer my skills, my counsel, to your camp," he says, bowing his head to her slightly. "I've long sought to return to Moonrise Towers. It seems our fates have aligned."
"What about the grove?"
"I've chosen a successor as First Druid— Francesca of the High Forest. A bird's already been dispatched to summon her."
Though it makes her feel rather stupid— Amara blinks at him. "Uh… who?"
"Precisely! Who indeed? You do not know, and neither do any of the others. The grove needs to move beyond the mistakes of the past. What it needs is an unknown quantity; an outsider who can enforce the Oak Father's teachings without bias. This is why I chose Francesca. She will restore simplicity and purity to the grove in my absence."
Sounds like the grove will be in good hands then. We should get going."
"Indeed. We've quite the journey ahead of us. You have a different mission today, though, I am to understand. Let me detain you no longer. I will remain and assist the tieflings in their departure."
"Give them my best," Amara says. "I never did like goodbyes."
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 13: Dhaeroaw and Hshar'lak
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XIII
Dhaeroaw and Hshar'lak
The raid on the tollhouse is swift, with a fighter and a barbarian in the party.
The paladins, for their part, don't seem reluctant to hunt a devil on behalf of another devil. Rather, their bloodlust is undeniable. When cornered, they even have the gall to beg Amara to spare them Karlach's wrath.
"Don't let her hurt us— please, we just want to go home," he implores the elf, and Amara narrows her eyes, scrutinizing. Silken magic of cinnamon and amber fills the room, wraps itself around the paladin and sinks its barbs into his mind; searching, prodding, looking, for this innermost truth.
"The archduchess will be delighted when we return with Karlach's head on a pike."
Amara takes a few steps around the room, and the armored human watches her like a hawk. "You and your associates— you're Paladins of Tyr? And yet you follow orders of a devil?" she asks, conversationally.
"We follow orders of no devil!" he protests. "We are paragons of Justice, who—"
"Enough of this charade," Amara growls out. "I know who you really are. Tyr would never allow you to follow Zariel. You tell lies, false-paladin."
"Enough— enough!" he protests, backing away from Amara. "I'll not play pretend anymore. I never was good at playing the coward. There is no beast here or in the Hells I fear; not with Her Ladyship's protection. Least of all this dog. You'd do well to reconsider your alliance with this animal. She destroys all she touches. Useful in the Blood War; frighteningly dangerous anywhere else. Rage all you want, Karlach. Burn with the might of the Hells. Zariel will find you; she will bring you home in pieces, and your little friends will have to watch. Unless we feed you their eyeballs first. And you—" He jabs in Amara's direction. "You'll soon learn what it means to ally yourself with the likes of this garbage."
Karlach lets out a sound of rage, and the human stumbles backward.
"Avernus was never my home. It was my prison. I'm free now. AND I'M NEVER GOING BACK," she howls, as flames flare up around her, and once more they delve into combat with the remaining false paladins.
It gets a little trickier than Amara would like.
The paladins are heavily armored, and there are more of them than she'd anticipated.
Amara snaps once, and it's because at one point Karlach's explosive abilities nearly sink the whole toll house down the side of the hill, so she rewinds before the tiefling can cause the landslide and positions her outside the room and fighting two paladins instead of four.
That, shockingly, goes smoother.
Amara's main target remains containing the mage on their side, while the rest of them whittle away at the seemingly endless health of the many others. They do fall, but not nearly fast enough.
Lae'zel takes a devastating hit to her side and before Shadowheart can heal it, a fireball Amara can't contain roars upside her head.
The sound of both of them calling for help sears through Amara's brain as she snaps a second time.
She focuses a terrifying assault on the mage this time, and decimates what was a much more drawn out battle. This time, Shadowheart is able to heal any wounds the others take.
The followers of Zariel fall, and the tollhouse goes quiet.
"Fuck yes! That felt good— glad you discovered what I did, by the by. Deceivers, the lot of them— not really paladins. Lackeys of the archdevil playing dress-up as paladins of Tyr. No honor among devils."
"As much as a shame as it is that they would do this, it certainly eased my conscience to deal with them in this way," Amara admits. "Still, I would have kept you safe regardless of their validity as paladins."
"Fuck them," Karlach asserts. "Fuck Zariel. I won't go back. I'm never going back. And if any of mummy's little friends want to pick up where the others left off… they'll find nothing but a pile of ash."
"Pile of ash is right," Amara notices. "You're still flaming quite a bit."
Karlach gives a bit of a nervous laugh. "Thank you for noticing. Granted the fire's lasting a little longer than it should. How do I look?"
"I've been meaning to ask about it but not entirely sure how to go about it— you're positively glowing, to put it one way. I'm sure I would have melted a long time ago. How can you stand it?"
"Honey, I could go all night," Karlach intones joyfully. "Hear that?" she pounds her chest and there's a metallic, sort of hollow sound that follows. "Infernal engine for a heart. Lets me burn as hot as the Hells. Seems to be running in overdrive since I left Avernus. Won't be seeing my mechanic any time soon, so I'll just make the most of the extra heat. Just don't get too close 'til I've found a way to calm it down."
"An— an infernal engine?" Amara balks. "How the hells did you get an infernal engine for a heart?"
She gives a dark laugh. "High pain tolerance. And a dynamic duo of truly shitty bosses. I only tell you this piece of my tragic backstory since you revealed what you did last night, by the by. Let's save the rest of the scar-show for later, after we've worked up more of an appetite for tragedy."
"I believe that's more than fair," Amara agrees. "We did, after all, only meet yesterday."
"Gods, is it only yesterday?" she remarks. "How time flies. Regardless, I'll need to find someone who can tune up my engine sooner rather than later. Believe me when I say this thing is hot."
"Believe me, when I say it's visible," Amara assures her. "We'll get it taken care of. We're a remarkable bunch. It seems we're all in need of or running from something. I'm sure we'll find a way to help you."
"Fuck, you guys are great! Well, I do have a lead for whenever we have the time— the first time I faced down those 'paladins', they let slip there was an infernal mechanic in the area. A tiefling. He might be able to stabilize things— if I can find him."
Something about that strikes Amara, from the night before. She'd only spoken with him briefly, when she'd made a point to speak with each tiefling who'd come to the celebration at her camp, but it rings a bell.
"I wonder if they meant Dammon— a tiefling weaponsmith."
"A weaponsmith, huh? Not sure if he's the guy, but I'd love to find out. A tune-up would do this rusty heart a world of good."
"Chk," Lae'zel remarks, walking between them. "Must we delay further? We have completed the quest Karlach asked of us, it is time to rid our skulls of these invaders."
Amara smiles at her and shakes her head. "You do have a point, my githyanki friend. Let us continue this conversation later, Karlach."
"Sure," she says with a returning smile. "Lead on."
/ / /
The mark that Zorru made on Lae'zel's map leads them to a mountain pass, where though Yul may have been laid waste to by a githyanki, it certainly has plenty of activity.
At the bridge of the pass, several knights in armor are engaged in a rather heated argument that Amara can't make out from here, but she can feel the animosity spark in the air.
And then, she can feel real sparks.
A massive red dragon appears from between the clouds, letting out a mighty roar and flapping giant wings that shake the world below. Flames crackle at its mouth, and with a gust of heat and malice, the beast descends on the bridge and incinerates both the wooden trusses and all the living soldiers who couldn't run fast enough.
Amara snaps.
She takes off at a sprint, ignoring the calls of her name behind her, and just barely makes it within spellcasting range when the dragon descends this time, and instead of letting the knights on the bridge try to make a run for it, she gathers her Weave.
She feels it solidify in the air, like hard stone, cool to the touch but warmed from the sun. It sinks into her skin, smooth but strong, and smells of moss and earth, dirt and rain. The Weave grows stronger, more solid, until she can move, push, shove with it.
She promptly dumps all the knights off the bridge and into the water.
It's not guaranteed that they'll all make it out of the raging water, but it's safer than being swallowed by flame, like the bridge ends up a moment later.
"Gnoll's fucking balls," Karlach breathes from behind her. "You went back in time just now, didn't you?"
"Shh!" Amara hushes, watching as the rider of the dragon hops off of the beast. "That's a dear secret of mine, Karlach, let's not broadcast it, please."
The githyanki who dismounted from the dragon thankfully doesn't seem to have noticed the interference, and he directs his attention toward the woman on the bridge. "Stop wasting time, Baretha. You're not here to play with the locals," he chastises.
"Of course, kith'rak. We merely sought to—"
"No excuses," he interrupts. He must be fun at parties. "Question, kill, then move on. Find the weapon."
Very fun at parties.
"Our queen watches us. Fail her at your peril."
Amara leans over to Lae'zel. "Your queen sounds like she's fun at parties."
Lae'zel completely ignores her.
Luckily, Amara already knows what Lae'zel is like at a party.
"A red dragon!" she exclaims. "I envy its knight— would that I rode such a steed. A crèche must be near. Come— my kin await."
"Lae, wait—"
Lae'zel does not wait. She directly approaches the githyanki man, who's proclivity for partying must coordinate with his friendliness. Meaning, he won't be all that welcoming.
"Rider— my time is short. Lead me to—"
"Sh-sh-shh. Such a familiar tone. Were I not merciful, I would slice the skin clean from your meat. Yet you are not bleeding. For I am nothing if not merciful. Your name, child."
Amara has to bite her tongue. She nods to her fighter, wanting her to maintain her control over this situation, as much as she would like to punch this githyanki man.
"…Lae'zel."
"'Lae'zel'. Proud, regal, even. You will call me Jhe'stil Kith'rak."
"Voss, Knight Supreme. The queen's silver, the queen's sword," Lae'zel realizes, the look in her eyes blisteringly intense.
"I am who you say. A ghaik vessel has fallen from the sky, Lae'zel. Thieves aboard have taken a weapon most precious. It is polyhedric in shape, and inscribed with the sacred runes of our people."
*You suddenly feel a strange anxiety take hold— not your own, but that of the artifact your party carries. Somehow it's afraid… you don't know why. You attune your mind to it. The artifact does not want to part from you. It does not want to fall into the gith raiders' hands.*
"Take word to you crèche. You are to join our search," Voss says, and Lae'zel blinks a few times, and looks to you for help. "Speak up, child. Affirm your mandate."
Oh, does Amara want to punch him.
"Just tell him the truth, Lae," Amara urges her. "It is all right. Perhaps he can help guide us to the nearby crèche."
Lae'zel gives her a subtle nod. "My mandate, Jhe'stil Kith'rak, is to locate this crèche. I was infected aboard a ghaik ship and need to be purified. Your mandate is to aid me."
Voss leans in, and Amara's stomach sinks like a stone. She presses her fingers together.
"Purified?" he all but spits out. "Soon, your skin will go gray, and your blood will run silver. You will shed your skin to become ghaik. Only in death are the infected cleansed."
Oh… shit.
"Baretha, see that her skull is split and the tadpole crushed. Then examine her corpse. I will take word to the Undying Queen— our search continues."
*A current of deception carries Voss' words. Wherever he flies, it is not to Vlaakith.*
Oh, shit!
"Qudenos— to the sky!"
Amara makes a split second decision, and before she snaps, she wraps her entire arm in Weave and steps into Voss' path.
"Out of the way, slave!"
Oh, he did not just…
Amara inhales and twists at her hips, forcing both her fist and a wave of solidified Weave into his face to a flurry of saliva, teeth, and blood.
She snaps a moment later.
"Speak up, child. Affirm your mandate," Voss urges, and this time when Lae'zel looks to Amara for help, she chooses something else.
Something that hopefully won't cause the hope in Lae'zel's entire species to be crushed in an instant.
"Ahem, so… play along for now?"
"What?!"
"Just… don't tell him the truth, okay?"
"Why shouldn't I?" she demands through their connection, and Amara can feel pulses of anger, anxiety. She sends back comfort, assurance. "He could direct me to the crèche."
"We will figure it out, you have my word. It is much worse if you tell him the truth. Please. Just trust me."
"…You saw it, didn't you? What happens if I tell him the truth."
"Please, Lae."
Her eyes burn, but not in anger— just intensity. "You honor me with this duty, Kith'rak. I shall alert my caretaker with haste," Lae'zel says immediately, backing Amara up.
*The Kith'rak nods, content with Lae'zel's answer.*
Chronos' sodden timepiece, thank the bloody gods.
"You serve your queen well, child. Take your slaves, and hunt those who escaped the ghaik ship."
Breathe, Amara. Remember what it was like to punch him.
"They must carry the weapon. I fly now to Vlaakith, our Undying Queen. She will see your faith rewarded in this plane and ours."
Sure, alien man. Sure. You keep lying and we'll see how that goes for you.
Amara will punch him again, she is sure of it. And next time, it will stick.
"Qudenos— to the sky!"
Voss turns his back to them, and for a moment Amara really considers stabbing him in it, but the giant dragon's maw right there is a pretty good deterrent. Voss climbs aboard the creature who takes off with an earthquaking launch, streaking the sky with red until it disappears among the clouds.
"Dammit all!" Lae'zel hisses the moment all the other githyanki are out of earshot. "You did well to intervene, vexed as I am to admit it. The Jhe'stil Kith'rak would have flayed our skin and left our carcasses to burn in the sun."
How utterly charming of him.
"All for the sake of the artifact that we carry," Lae'zel hisses, and she turns to Shadowheart. "I have held my tongue until now. My people search for that relic, covered in the runes of my people. Why do you, a half-elf, carry a gith relic?"
"There's nothing more I can tell you," Shadowheart insists. "All I remember is that I have to get back to my contact in Baldur's Gate. It's not a matter of choice, Lae'zel, I have had my memories suppressed for Shar. I can't."
Karlach's mouth drops open at this. "Suppressed? They can do that?"
Lae'zel ignores her.
"It is an artifact as ancient as Vlaakith herself— you stole that from my people," Lae'zel asserts, leaning in toward the cleric.
"Yes, and a lot of my people died in the process. I won't fail them— not after what I saw your kind do to them. I have trusted Amara's word so far that individual actions mean something, as thus far you have also proved trustworthy. Please."
"Woah, woah!" Karlach holds her hands out toward both of the women. "Let's calm down here!"
*A powerful artifact indeed, to have caught the attention of so many. Not least, the Absolute itself. The three figures in the vision - the Chosen - are searching for it. With the cultists' aid, it will not be long before they find it, before they find you.*
Gee, thanks voice in Amara's head. She really needed that piece of good news today.
*You have evaded them so far. Thanks, it seems, to the artifact itself. But how long can such protection last? Shadowheart has made her position clear— she will see that it is taken to its destination. At any cost.*
Oh, so you'll comment on the other's actions, hmm? Narrator?
*No doubt the githyanki will seek to reclaim that which is theirs. And you still do not know what it even is.*
Voice, you're just being too helpful today. Really, that's enough now.
Amara steps between Lae'zel and Shadowheart. "Enough, both of you. We need to work together."
"For now. But any crimes against my kin will be answered for, in time."
"Your kin almost skinned you and left you to bake you in the sun," Amara comments. "Don't forget that, either. We have your back, Lae. Do they?"
Lae'zel is silent after that.
They keep walking.
Amara eventually clears her throat.
"Lae'zel, do we, ahm, know where we're going?"
"Chk," she growls out. "The crèche is near, this much we know. We follow the path forward and into the valley. No one, not even the ignoble Jhe'stil Kith'rak, will keep me from purification."
Eeeeaaa… Amara wonders if this is a good time to mention the new information she learned.
She sucks in a breath, holds it, and then decides it might be better for Lae'zel to learn at the crèche, first hand. Besides, she can always rewind to right here if that opinion changes.
The valley gives way to the Rosymorn Monastery, and if nothing else, Amara just decides to follow the bloodstains on the ground. Something obviously happened here.
"I think we have to take that," Shadowheart points out, directing everyone's attention to a skylift.
"Chronos break my hands," Amara mutters, much to the surprise of her three companions. "I hate the look of that thing."
"Well— the worst we can do is give it a shot!" Karlach bursts out, and she makes for the wheel controlling the mechanism. With a grunt of effort, she manages to get the wheel turning, and breathes out in exhaustion. "By the Nine Hells, that was stuck! Probably hasn't been used in a good while."
"Great…" Amara bemoans.
The skylift begins its rickety assent to them.
Great.
Shadowheart gets on first, and offers her hand to Amara. The elf sighs and looks at it for a moment. "We will be fine," Shadowheart assures her. "Come."
Amara takes her hand and climbs aboard the skylift. With a lurch, it begins descending. Amara squeezes her fingers together and wishes to death she could squeeze her eyes shut too, but she needs to see if the whole thing starts to fall.
Miraculously, the descent is rather smooth. The only uncomfortable jerk is when the skylift reaches the monastery, coming to a halt. Amara can't get off of it fast enough.
They roam the empty monastery until Amara walks directly into a rather hostile situation where two githyanki are surrounding three gnomes wearing uniforms that could be from the monastery.
An armed gith quickly whirls his crossbow on her, and Amara snaps.
She sneaks up on the five of them this time, keeping her feet light and peering around the corner, watching the events unfold.
"That's enough. On your feet," one of the githyanki raiders asserts.
"Where are you taking us?" a blonde gnome asks.
Behind her, an elderly gnome raises her palms and adds, "If this is about that 'weapon' your friend was talking about, we don't have it, and we don't know shit about it!"
"Silence! Move," the gith hollers, shoving that gnome with his crossbow.
The blonde gnome speaks again. "No. No no no. I'm not going in there. I won't!" She looks left, then right, and then shoves the gith with the bow and makes a break for it.
Amara gasps, knowing that won't be enough.
Sure enough, the gith lets an arrow fly, and the gnome falls.
And Amara snaps.
She lets it play out much the same, but nudges the arrow so it misses this time, flying free over the gnome's head.
The gith's companion lets out sneering laughter. "Nice shot," she remarks snidely. "Now give me that." She wrenches the crossbow from his grasp. "If either of you would like to give that a try, I can guarantee you this: I won't miss. Now. Through the doors. The Captain is expecting you."
Both the elderly gnome, and a third male gnome look crestfallen at this, but turn their heads down and walk forward, through the doors and deeper into the monastery.
"Forward," Lae'zel commands. "Carefully. These cultists have the crèche on high alert."
With the state of some of the… "guards" in this place, Amara isn't sure about that. That being said, sneaking through is preferable to beating her way inside, and the monastery is huge.
And Amara is starting to drag.
"Are you all right, soldier?" Karlach asks at one point, and the elf catches a glance at herself in a glass pane.
Frazzled hair, deep bags under her eyes. There's a drawn color to her skin that can't be good.
"Fine," she replies. "Just really looking forward to my head on a pillow tonight. Let's get us all safely back to camp, yeah?"
The tiefling hedges, her kind eyes shining. "Wish I could do something for you. Carry you, even— but I can't even do that much."
Amara huffs a laugh out. "Just keep protecting us— you bring me peace, just knowing you're on my side."
Karlach's expression lifts a bit. "Then watch this!" she exclaims, and surges forward.
Amara keeps careful track of their progress, Shadowheart scouts ahead and keeps them quiet and stealthy, and Karlach and Lae'zel break down any barriers that keep them from progressing.
It's well-coordinated teamwork.
It feels like it takes ages, but they finally—
"Your curiosity is getting the better of you," a voice that is not the narrator rips through Amara's skull and she nearly trips. She would have landed right on her face if Lae'zel and Shadowheart hadn't each grabbed one of her shoulders.
"Which one… are you?!!" Amara grates out from between clenched teeth. "We already get enough commentary!!"
"Do not let it," the voice - the dream visitor, perhaps? - continues, unhindered. "Stay away from the githyanki."
Amara ignores it.
"They're hunting you," the voice, gods, it could even be the Absolute, urges, desperation in its voice. "They want the artifact. They'll stop at nothing to take it from you."
"I… don't care!! Get out of my head!"
Amara bursts through the door at the bottom of the staircase, and the women stumble into Crèche Y'llek. They stand on a platform atop a staircase leading down into a long hallway, where three githyanki stand guard.
"What should I do if the ch'r'ai takes me in for questioning?" one of them asks, and Amara raises her arm to stop her party from advancing.
"Why," the gith across the way asks, "have you anything to hide?"
Amara is intensely interested in the answer, and Lae'zel is intensely disinterested in waiting for it.
She marches directly up to the nearest githyanki, a woman with impressive dreads and even more impressive armor, who startles to alertness upon noticing their party.
"Sentries, to arms!" she hollers. Great. "Istik. State your purpose. Quickly."
Amara yields to Lae'zel.
"Stand down, gish. Is it not Vlaakith's command to welcome her faithful?" she asks, and Amara really has to admit, she admires the guts.
"I expected no visitors, faithful or otherwise. Why have you come?" this… gish asks.
"We seek the zaith'isk. Show me the way," she urges, and her eyes are wet with intensity.
"You are infected?" the githyanki woman demands, scowling, fury and disgust racing through her features. "A ghaik thrall is something to eradicate, not reason with."
Amara shifts uncomfortably, pressing her fingers together. If she has to, she will just rip Lae'zel out of here, share her memories if the githyanki woman does not believe her. She thinks the worm can share what she remembers and the others do not.
"The faithful may be purified," Lae'zel insists. "This is Vlaakith's protocol!"
"Chk. Fine— let the ghustil carry out your fate."
Amara does not like the sound of that.
"Report to the infirmary at once. And step carefully. Crèche Y'llek watches you."
Amara quickly touches Lae'zel's arm, and moves to her other side, bustling her past the githyanki in the hallway and down through the doors at its termination.
As soon as they are out of sight of the gith, she lets Lae'zel go.
"Stay close to me," she tells the fighter. When Lae'zel glares at her, she adds, "Please."
Lae'zel growls at her, "You think adding groveling to your statement will convince me? If you seek to request something of me, you need only prove yourself worthy of the request."
"I don't wish to treat you the way that Voss did. He made you uncomfortable. That's not respect."
Lae'zel's eyes widen.
"Besides, do you really mind if I make a request… politely? Is that truly insulting to you? If so, I will stop."
Lae'zel is quiet for a moment, walking through the crèche. Finally, she says, "It is not as displeasing as I thought. I will tell you to stop if it becomes so."
"I can accept that," Amara says with a smile.
They reach the infirmary, an expansive room of light and dark gray stone bathed in the sun streaming in from a window that hangs behind a curled, organic form up on a raised platform. Within the room are many tables covered in research materials, and several glowing capsules that could very well be… eggs.
Hmm. Yeah. Gith crèche, huh.
There's one figure in the room.
Amara's head splits again, and she holds her temple as it throbs, and the voice speaks once more.
"That vessel contains a parasite. You should take it."
She growls under her breath, but doesn't respond out loud, just shakes her head. So it's the dream visitor. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
They forge on, approaching the gith who is peering intently at an illithid parasite in a strange, observational device.
"Intestinal coloration consistent with samples 231 to 259," the ghustil says. "Do you have a question or are you just going to stand there gawking?" She turns over her shoulder and observes the odd collection of adventurers in her midst.
"I am a Child of Gith, not discarded rat-flesh. Am I not due your respect?" Lae'zel asks, and Amara's chest throbs for her.
She wishes this would go differently for her, but she has a bad feeling.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," the ghustil says. "Let the istik with you speak, and I will decide what respect you are owed."
Lovely. Just lovely.
Well, considering that some of these gith call Amara a "slave" just because she is an elf to Lae'zel's gith… "I'd prefer Lae'zel to speak on my behalf."
Lae'zel looks at her suddenly, looking shocked for a moment. She covers it smoothly, quickly.
"Lae'zel, is it? Fine— and be quick. My work is of vital import."
"We carry ghaik tadpoles, and have done so for countless days— yet we show no symptoms. We must enter the zaith'isk."
Well, that was quick.
"You are infected, but showing no symptoms of cerebral impairment? Fascinating," she breathes. "Either your tadpole is special, or you are. We must find out which."
Spoken like a very morbid doctor, which Amara figures is just about what she is.
"Go to the zaith'isk. I will ensure you are cured."
Oooh… eee… Amara is not pleased.
"And the zaith'isk is?"
"The apparatus at the top of those stairs. Quickly now— time is of the essence. Even githyanki rarely experience the zaith'isk. You are very lucky, istik."
*The device is strange, made of taut flesh and pockmarked metal. It waits for something.*
Las'zel does not feel the same unease. "The zaith'isk. Vlaakith's purity, distilled. My duty. My right."
Amara lets her eyes roam around the device, in all its alien nature.
*The device is an ingenious synthesis of illithid anatomy and metal alloys. It hums with psionic energy, hinting at paths into unknown minds and unseen planes.*
"Stand aside," Lae'zel orders as Amara is busy observing the device. "My time has come."
"Lae," Amara says, tilting her head back toward the doors. It's an extremely subtle hint, but the gith is extremely intelligent.
She sighs. "This is important to my people. It would be important to me. Please."
It's a pleasant surprise, to be sure. A warm feeling spreads through Amara's body and she gives a radiant, grateful smile.
"Go ahead, Lae, you've earned it." Amara steps back toward Shadowheart and Karlach, and reaches to touch Lae'zel's arm before stopping herself.
Lae'zel's eyes bore into her hovering hand, watching it drop back to Amara's side.
"Praise Vlaakith," she says, but it sounds a little distant. "Let it be done."
The ghustil steps up to the zaith'isk. "Sit, child. Let the zaith'isk end your suffering."
Amara presses her fingers together.
Lae'zel sits back into the seat of the strange device, which shifts and twists, curling around the fighter in a way that unsettles Amara and makes her stomach twist and flip.
"You must focus on the parasite at all times. The zaith'isk will do the rest."
A great light starts to pour out of the zaith'isk and Lae'zel gasps and makes a sound of pain, and Amara squeezes her fingers together tighter, tighter, tighter.
*An unseen blade cleaves your mind in two. Impossible pain sears your bones and body in concert with Lae'zel's. The zaith'isk's psionic forces battle Lae'zel's thoughts. There is no chance she will survive this unscathed.*
"Ngh!" she screams. "Vlaakith tavki na'zin. Vlaakith tavki na'zin!"
"Yes, child," the ghustil twitters urgently. "Speak the Tla'ket. Meditate on its verses."
*You feel Lae'zel's mind rip and rupture. Is this purification? Is this the cure?*
Karlach pokes her weapon into Amara's shoulder, shaking her out of her own pain. "Get her away from that thing— now!"
In her moment of clarity, Amara yells, "Lae'zel— get out of there! You won't survive this anguish!"
"I— I— yes. I feel it. Splitting. Burning. NGH!!" She screams, and the sound of it echoes in Amara's ears in a way she knows will haunt her.
Lae'zel leaps from the zaith'isk right as it presses down onto itself, as if attempting to impale whomever would be unfortunate enough to be in its seat.
Ah, yes.
"Let the zaith'isk end your suffering" indeed. Well spoken, ghustil lady.
"Shka'keth!" said ghustil yowls, watching the entire contraption turn to rubble.
"What madness is this?" Lae'zel demands, and she looks at Amara like the elf will have the answers for some reason.
Amara opens her mouth and shakes her head, but she has so many denials to give that none fall from her lips.
"The zaith'isk nearly destroyed me!"
Amara gestures with her hands as if to say, yes, she knows. She was here.
Fed up with Amara's miming, Lae'zel whips her head around to the ghustil. "I AM GITHYANKI. I WILL NOT BE GHAIK!"
Unfortunately, Lae'zel's self-centered, yet heartfelt decree falls on even more narcissistic ears, as the ghustil couldn't be less concerned with her. "My life's work… gone." She mourns the pile of scrap metal and wriggling… ugh… flesh pieces. Oh, gods.
Shadowheart picks up one of the pieces of the scorching metal. "Is it not normally so self-destructive?" she asks conversationally.
"Gone, gone, gone…" the ghustil whispers over and over. "And yet she," whipping around to face Lae'zel, her voice gets much more cruel, "lives, and so does her parasite."
*Her voice cuts with a fanatical edge— an obsession bordering on mania. If there's a chance the parasite lives, she wants it.*
Amara hardens her resolve. She won't let that happen.
"Your zaith'isk tried to kill Lae'zel. And failed. Don't blame us for the cruelty you've chosen to display," Amara spits out. "We came to you for salvation. Lae'zel carried faith in your people, your queen. This is the price you pay for your deceit. The githyanki have no cure for illithid parasites. They merely murder their own infected kin without remorse."
The ghustil growls. "How dare you?! To call my greatest work - the pinnacle of what it means to be a researcher - a mechanic for murder?! It is a tool for research, istik. The tadpoles come out alive, given the subject does not jump out of the zaith'isk. Oh, how precious this specimen would have been… an infected showing no symptoms… how rare…"
Amara steps between Lae'zel and the ghustil.
"If you lay one hand on her, or any of them, I can guarantee you this: I won't just kill you. I won't just kill everyone in this crèche." Amara forces some of her Weave up through her eyes, setting them aglow in bright cyan light. "I will tear it down, brick by brick. Set it aflame, until the smoke becomes a beacon for raiders, and your bodies are trampled as everything valuable is wrenched from your walls, your clothes, your very necks. Stay in your lab, dhaeroaw; conspirator, backstabber, traitor. You who slay your kin."
Amara spits on the ground in front of her.
The ghustil doesn't follow them out.
They make it entirely out of the crèche and nearly out of the monastery before Lae'zel says anything.
"You called her a traitor," she says softly. "A murderer of her kin. Is this elvish?"
"Dhaeroaw. Elvish indeed, at least taught by my mother. We were the only two elves from the isles I grew up on. Conspirator."
She makes a sound deep back in her throat. "In githyanki, we call this Hshar'lak— a traitor. The sort that is hunted, slaughtered, and erased from our histories. Few would dare dishonor their queen. Fewer still would be so… brazen. We must— we must go to the ch'r'ai and inform him of the zaith'isk's tampering."
Amara looks her in the eye. "Would you trust me enough to make a brazen statement of my own?"
Lae'zel holds her gaze for a long moment. "Yes."
"I have no issue informing your ch'r'ai, and if indeed it is just this ghustil who tampered with this zaith'isk, there would be gladness in my heart that the violence and needless death was at least somewhat contained. However… I believe, for you own defense, you should prepare yourself."
Lae'zel's eyes narrow. "For what?"
"For every zaith'isk to function this way. For there to be no tampering, Lae. For this to be the design of these machines— their machination. For the zaith'isk to be a murder weapon of your people."
"Vlaakith would never—"
"All I am saying, is that you should prepare yourself… that someone in power has led their faithful down a path of destruction, because she thought it was the best thing for them. For them, to prevent them from becoming an illithid monster, and for other gith, to save their lives. The sacrifice of the few for the good of the many."
"Vlaakith… Vlaakith…"
Lae'zel says no more, and instead of locating this ch'r'ai, they exit the monastery, and Amara squints into the sun. She turns back to the githyanki woman. "I hope, for both our sakes, that she rewards her faithful. She certainly should, for you deserve it."
Shadowheart holds onto Amara on the teetering skylift again, and once they are across the ravine, Amara successfully opens a waypoint to their camp, and so ends one of their leads to remove the parasites.
"Shop around," indeed.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 14: Woven Together
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XIV
Woven Together
Amara stretches and yawns as they walk through the waypoint, opening her eyes and coming up short.
Big yellow eyes stare into her own.
*You recognize the feathered creature in front of you— it's the owlbear cub from the goblin camp.*
"Oh," Amara breathes out, while the creature scurries toward her, hooting and cooing, and comes close enough to nudge his beak into Amara's hand. "Well, hello, there," she soothes, scratching at the soft feathers around the hard beak. The cooing grows louder. "I see our camp family is growing larger."
"Ah," Halsin's voice draws Amara's gaze up toward him as he jogs over to them as they emerge from the waypoint. "I see you've met our newest friend— I'm still trying to decide on his name. I came across him wandering while escorting the tieflings a ways out. He is a clever creature, eager to interact with nature."
Amara bends down and ruffles the feathers around the owlbear's face. She fetches a piece of food from the back pouch of her belt.
*The cub's eyes lock on to the food in your hand.*
Amara wiggles the thin strip of dried meat enticingly.
*Eagerly, the cub snatches the jerky out of your hand, tipping its head back to down the morsel.*
Laughing, Amara rises and watches the owlbear trot off to Halsin. "How about Erek? Elvish for—"
"Earth," Halsin finishes, his tone warm and open. "I do enjoy that. Erek it is."
"Welcome to the camp, Erek," Amara sings, and she lets her eyes drift from the pair of them. "Any other news? How fare the tieflings?"
"They missed seeing you off, but are in great spirits— the camp, however…"
Amara snaps to meet the druid's eyes. "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing bad!" he insists. "It's just…"
She quickly dashes past him and sees that everyone is accounted for; Gale chats with Volo and Wyll at the dining table over a few open notebooks, while Astarion seems to be deep in a discussion with Alfira.
The only odd thing is that there's been a line of stones places dividing the camp in two.
"What's… what's going on here?" she asks, and the wizard and vampire look up at her at the same moment, pointing to one another.
"It's his fault!" they both assert, pointing to the other one.
Amara sighs, and crosses her arms over her chest. "Explain. Now."
Astarion rises, and Amara realizes that there is, actually, something wrong with him. She quickly whisks herself into the camp. His face is more gray than his signature pallor, and there's a sickly darkness beneath his eyes. He holds his stomach as he tries to stay standing.
"I did as you asked," he whines, "and that scumbag completely played down how absolute vile his blood would be."
"Astarion, how can I elucidate this to you: my qualifier about the purity of my blood was an estimation, at best! I had no method at which to fully comprehend its… flavor."
The vampire gives a full-body shiver. "Urgh, it simply tastes of bile! What is wrong with you? What did you do to yourself?"
Gale winces, and Amara immediately refocuses them.
"Shadowheart, were there any cure-all potions left from this morning? I think he's poisoned."
"Poisoned?"
"Astarion—"
"Poisoned?!"
Shadowheart just passes Amara one of the potions, and she pushes it into his hands.
"What did you do?" the vampire repeats, ridiculously yelling halfway across the camp, over the line of stones the two of them had to have set up. "They say wizards are always out for power—"
"Stop." Gale's voice is heavy, and Amara pointedly does not intervene this time. Astarion's made his bed, Amara did her best to cool him off. "We each have our secrets in this group— this is one of mine. I am truly sorry I cannot be of any help to your needs as I am, but the state of my blood is not an invitation for you to pry into my hardships, Astarion."
Astarion grits his fanged teeth and turns on his heel, showing Gale his back, and downs Amara's cure-all potion.
"I know what it is to have an uncontrollable hunger within you," Gale tells him, the earnesty warm in his voice. Astarion's frame startles. "You can hardly be blamed for your desperation in trying to satisfy it. All I ask is for… for some understanding in return."
Astarion looks over his shoulder. "Whatever has happened to you, Gale… I don't believe it has been easy. If it taints your blood in such a way, I can imagine… it must be painful. I apologize."
The wizard opens his mouth and says nothing right away, so Astarion turns away, going back to the sitting area of his tent and busying himself with a tome.
"Thank you," Gale manages to say eventually. "Thank you, Astarion— I sincerely… appreciate it."
Amara flicks her gaze to Gale. "Do you think we could move these rocks now, since the war has ended?"
Gale gives a light chuckle, and purple Weave gathers at his hand. He casts a Mage Hand, and Amara casts one of her own and they toss the rocks back into the woods.
"Forgive us for making such a fuss right as you return," he says with a crease in his brow. "I… hesitate to guess, but I don't suppose you had much success?"
Lae'zel juts her chin up.
"The mission was a failure," is all she says, before retreating into her tent and closing the fabric off behind her.
Gale stares after her for a moment. "I feel for her, truly. She had such faith in this gith crèche holding the solution to our cranial invaders. What happened?"
Gale gathers the Weave from the spectral hand and tosses it into the flames of the campfire, which roars to life.
Amara looks over at Astarion in his camp and Wyll at the dining table, and sees that they're both listening, and so she takes a breath. Gale sits heavily down beside the fire, warming his hands, his brow dotted with sweat, heavy bags beneath his eyes. She joins Gale around the newly lit fire, and says, "It would probably be easier to show you."
*Your tadpole reaches out to the others, probing at their minds for a connection. All three of them let you in willingly, instantaneously.* Amara closes her eyes, focuses on the events at the mountain pass, the monastery. *Visions, blurry at first and mere smears of color, quickly become clear pictures. The image of Voss makes itself visible first, and where Lae'zel reveals the truth of her infection, he reveals his own truth: only in death are the infected cleansed.*
"Holy hells," Wyll whispers from the table, as the vision continues.
*You see, though motion blurs more than still speech, as Voss commands his fellow gith. Waves of horror, disbelief, and anger come through your connection when Voss issues the command to split Lae'zel's skull open and crush the tadpole, then examine her corpse. Wyll seems ahead of the others, anxiety seeping into your open wavelength, and when the vision shows you rounding on Voss and punching him in the face, the feeling redoubles. In the corner of the vision, your fingers can be seen snapping, and then, time rewinds.*
"I knew it!" Wyll says, and the connection floods with countless emotions from the three of them. "You're showing us— you can show us futures you rewound. Amara, this is…"
He trails off, and Gale supplies a word. "Extraordinary."
"I had wondered if it would be possible," Amara admits. "Unfortunately, there is plenty more."
*The connections strengths, and more images fly through to the others. The gish who hinted that the ghustil would carry out Lae'zel's fate, that there was no hope for her once infected, and how you carefully guided the githyanki fighter further into Crèche Y'llek.*
Astarion is leaning against the table which holds his mirror. "Darling, does every gith besides Lae'zel seem to know the illithid parasite is a death sentence?"
"At least in this crèche, it seems," Amara answers grimly.
*Finally, the visions show your companions, your friends, the infirmary. The ghustil's excitement. The wretched appearance of the zaith'isk. Lae'zel saying please. And finally… the zaith'isk itself. The mind-splitting pain Lae'zel experiences in it, and how you and Karlach scream at her to escape the machine. Lae'zel leaps free just before it would murder her, and the connection is flooded with adrenaline, fear, and finally relief when she's free.*
"By the Nine Hells," Wyll exclaims. "They tried to murder her… this is the reward she gets for trusting her people?"
*You attempt to sever the connection, but the vision is still bright in the minds of the others. They probe for more, wanting to see you reach safety. They long to know that you make it out, what happens once the machine has been destroyed. Would you like to force them out, or let them see more?*
Well… Wyll seems to agree with her, so…
Amara lets the connection linger.
*Your own words echo in your ears. Your accusation toward the ghustil. Dhaeroaw— traitor. Pulses of emotion fly through to you; your companions are shocked, surprised, and even somewhat elated. They approve of your words, even if they come as a surprise. Your rage is palpable even in these mere visions, and your friends feel as though watching you defend Lae'zel would indicate you would defend any of them should the need arise.*
Amara severs the connection once the visions show her party reach the sunlight.
"Amara, darling," Astarion drawls, "I… didn't know you had that in you."
She looks over at him, smile sloping up. "Had what, rage?"
"You were positively horrifying," he remarks, but he sounds entirely pleased. "By all means, feel free to continue showing your rage whenever you'd like."
"It was an admirable defense," Wyll compliments. "And it kept that gith from following you or alerting the others. A successful intimidating tactic."
"Masterful in every right," Gale agrees. "I am glad you are on our side, let's say."
Amara laughs, and gathers her legs up in front of her, holding her hands up in front of the fire. "I have a bit of a temper," she admits. "You just wouldn't know it, since when I indulge I usually just rewind."
"You're kidding," Astarion asserts. "When you punched that gith—"
"Oh, yes," Amara confirms the unsaid end of his sentence. "Yes."
Wyll bursts into laughter and Astarion bites his lip to keep himself from laughing and turns back to his camp, shaking his head. They chat a bit more, with the three male companions expressing their gladness that the four female ones came back safely, all things considered. After some time, Wyll and Astarion quickly resume their own activities, Wyll returning his attention to Volo and Astarion finishing his conversation with Alfira, and Gale sighs and runs a hand down his face.
Amara stands, removing the cuirass from over her robes and setting it by her bedroll, and sits a bit closer to Gale than she was before.
"You don't look all that great either," Amara points out, touching Gale's cheek. "Are you sure it was only a hangover this morning?"
The wizard winces. "In truth, my condition is worsening again. I need to consume some powerful magic, or it may become volatile."
"Oh!" Amara pulls her hand away and looks toward her tent. "I made some things we could try this morning, one moment."
Gale blinks after her. "Made some things?"
Amara comes back with a small chest of items that she sets down in the camp site, and turns around, plopping down next to Gale and digging into the box.
"What is all that?" he asks, peering over her shoulder at a collection of various random items. Boots, helmets, jewelry— even a few circlets and precious gemstones.
"These are my Gale snacks."
Pretending not to be listening, Astarion knocks over the mirror he was looking into, making a stifled sound of laughter as he desperately tries to bury his mouth in the crook of his elbow.
"What?" Amara asks, looking up. She's holding a pile of rings and amulets in one hand, and a loose boot in the other. "What's wrong?"
The vampire waves a hand in her direction, his body wracked with the strain of holding back his laughter.
Gale clears his throat. "Deepest apologies, Amara. I must have misheard. This chest contains…"
"My Gale snacks," Amara repeats, and Astarion makes another undignified sound before retreating into his tent. She frowns and continues, "It's where I put all the items I find that have powerful magic but useless enchantments. Things that won't be a loss to, well, lose."
The wizard touches his mouth briefly, and then covers his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Must we, ahm, use such a moniker for this chest? Is there not a more apt term for such a collection of items? It's not as if I'm truly eating them…"
Amara holds up a boot. "So you don't want a snack?"
Gale sighs. He accepts the boot. "I thank you most ardently for the snack, Amara."
"Oh! Before you use that one, I'd appreciate it if you try one that I enchanted first. Of course, you're welcome to anything in this chest, I'm collecting them for you, but if I can turn any old trinket into an item you can absorb the Weave from, that makes this all a lot easier. Here," she says, passing Gale one of the rings she enchanted that morning.
He holds it up to the waning sunlight, admiring it. "Impressive amount of magic you've squeezed into this. I will of course give it a try, and I must thank you again, considering… you really are going far beyond anything I expected to accommodate my condition. I hope you know that."
Amara just smiles at him. "You're my friend, Gale. You mean a lot to me."
The marking on Gale's chest begins to glow as he raises the ring up, the Weave pulling up from it and circling around him. "You mean a lot to me as well. More than I could express in a timely manner, I fear."
"We'll have time," Amara promises. "I'm holding you to it."
He laughs, and the glow of Amara's Weave blends into his, becoming bright purple and swelling through the camp. He tips back slightly, and without thinking Amara lashes her hand out and grabs him, righting him as he regains his sense of balance.
He shakes his head, bleary-eyed.
"It is a strange experience each time anew— like a lost soul is spelunking through the darkness that is me, only to be sacrificed on the dread altar of the heart. But… this doesn't feel quite right… it never feels right, but it relieves. This doesn't relieve… ahh…"
Gale winces in pain, doubling over, and Amara's hands are on him in an instant. "Are you all right? What can I do?"
He groans again, his weight leaning into where Amara's warmth presses into him. "The magic isn't having the effect it should have," he attempts to explain.
"Because it's mine? I can get you—"
"No!" he shouts, catching the attention of everyone in the camp. "No," he repeats, much quieter. "Your Weave was incredibly powerful. It should have worked. It wasn't the item. It's me. It's not like the previous times, but like… like a rainstorm that quells a forest fire. It merely drizzles. The embers still sizzle. The fire remains undefeated. I'm not certain what's going on, but nothing good. Please, I need to think… I need to retrace my steps to a glade of calm and think. I will find you later, when everyone else has gone to sleep."
He rises, forcing Amara to let him go.
"Thank you," he adds, as if he remembered and said it in a hurry. "For crafting me an artifact. For thinking of me. A great deal of trouble it was to… a great deal of trouble indeed."
Gale takes off, stumbling over his feet, and Amara watches him go. She thinks for a long moment about following him, but eventually decides against it. He told her that he would find her later. She trusts him to do so.
She rises to her feet and approaches Karlach's tent instead, trying to take her mind off of the vampire and the wizard.
The barbarian spots her immediately and smiles sympathetically. "Copper for your thoughts?" she asks, attempting a bright tone.
Amara tries to match it. "I want to talk about your infernal engine."
"Old Rusty? Sure," she says, gesturing to the flaming glow in her chest.
"How did you end up with such a…" Amara gestures flailingly to her own chest. "A… contraption, for lack of a better term, in your chest?"
Karlach takes in a deep, dramatic breath."The year? Ten ere. The place? A sleepy little town called Baldur's Gate. Our hero? Karlach, a knock-kneed delinquent from the Outer City with everything to give and nothing to lose," she says with a scowl and wide, open gestures. She closes her eyes as if concentrating hard. "I was a kid looking for a way to fill my days and make some cash when I fell into the wrong crowd. Worked for a guy I respected. A lot. Turns out the feeling wasn't mutual."
She gives a dramatic pause, opening one eye like she's checking on Amara, causing the elf to giggle.
"Through the jigs and reels, he made a deal with Zariel behind my back. You know Zariel, right? Archdevil of Avernus?"
Amara rolls her eyes and Karlach guffaws with laughter.
"She put this thing in my chest," she explains with emphasis, "and set me to work. Well, to war. I learned quick how to stay alive. And the engine served me when it came to killing devils. Ten years of that. The stories I could tell."
That sobers Amara a bit and she hums. One thing stands out to her. "You mentioned a boss who gave you up to Zariel. Do you mind telling me who it was?"
The tiefling shrugs. "Guy named Gortash. Politician. Inventor. One of those wheeler-dealer types who seems to have a finger in every pie."
Amara knows the type.
"I guess I was naive to think everything he got up to was above board. What did I know? I saw a job— a good job with people I liked doing work I was good at. Sometimes I'm jealous of that girl. Ugh, to feel so invincible again."
"Don't we all wish for that?"
Karlach nudges her slightly. "You kind of got it, don't you? All that rewinding around. Hey, after the dragon, did you do any part of today over?"
Amara just smiles and shrugs. "Nothing of consequence."
"So, that's a yes."
Amara clicks her tongue.
"Ugh, I don't envy you, really though. I don't think, at least. Pretty sure my brain would explode if I had to keep track of everything you've got going on."
She gives a condescending chuckle. "You've got that right. There's a lot I take advantage of, for sure, but…"
"It takes advantage of you, too, don't it?"
Amara rubs her fingers together.
"Ah, well," Karlach exclaims. "We don't have to talk about it anymore! Seems Gale deserves the night off, shall we try to whip something up for dinner?"
"I'd be delighted to make something somewhat palatable with you," Amara says with a flourish.
She notices later that Astarion joins them, coming out from Shadowheart's tent with a brightness to his eyes and spring in his step that he didn't have before. She doesn't mention anything about it, but does make sure that the cleric gets a slightly larger portion of the only mildly dubious stew they make for dinner.
After the sun has set, Amara leans back on her elbows atop her bedroll, and closes her eyes, only for the slight shift in the Weave around her to reveal a familiar presence.
"Hey, Lae," she greets, not opening her eyes and letting the githyanki woman hover around her. "Is there something I can help you with?"
She wasn't expecting the fighter to come out of her tent this evening, not after the day she's had.
Lae'zel doesn't reply. She just sits down next to Amara.
Slowly, the elf opens her eyes but keeps them focused on the sky, the appearing stars.
"I have a confession," the githyanki says bluntly.
Amara licks her lips. "I know I was rather bold today, and there are a lot of delicate—"
"I was too hasty to judge you," Lae'zel interrupts. "I thought you witless, gutless, and unimpressively bland."
And she hid it so well.
"And what about now?" Amara asks, instead of about thirty other thoughts that zing through her mind.
"Now, well— you've earned my respect, and more still." Lae'zel turns to face her, her skin lit by the fire. "You've proven your wits. You can be efficient and dominant, in and out of battle. You've proven your courage. I swear, you would tear the horns off one dragon to plunge into another. And you're hardly bland. Your scent alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end."
Amara takes a sudden breath and chokes on it. "H-hold on!" She puts up her hand. "Are you coming on to me?"
"Isn't it obvious? When you spit at the feet of the ghustil, I realized how deep your guts truly run. It isn't that you are weak, it is just that you make the high choice of giving everyone your good faith upon first meeting. Once it becomes lost, you can… rage. It makes me want to taste you. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same. Do you?"
"I'm flattered, but the answer is 'no'." Amara is as decisive as she can be. "I don't believe you and I have the temperaments to make a balanced pairing."
Lae'zel rolls her eyes. "I am not proposing a lengthy pairing. I won't be your girlfriend. I will bed you. Yes or no."
"No," Amara reiterates. "I don't… really do that. No offense to you, of course."
The githyanki frowns. "But you touch everyone."
Amara blinks, once, slowly. "I— what?"
"You touch Astarion's face all the time. You touch Gale's chest, his arms. You hold Shadowheart's hands, her shoulders. You brace Wyll's arms, and lean against him. That night, at the fire, you even put your legs in Astarion's lap and laid in Gale's. You don't touch Karlach because she would burn you, but why don't you touch me?"
"I— did. Today, just today," Amara argues, for some reason.
"You herded me into the next room so I would not make trouble, and let go as if I were the one to burn you, and when your body seeked to reach to comfort me before I entered the zaith'isk, you physically stopped yourself. Do you dislike the idea of contact with me that much?"
"No! I don't want to sleep with you—" Amara hisses, trying to keep quiet. "But I don't touch you because I couldn't imagine a world where you would enjoy such a thing."
Lae'zel juts her chin into the air. "As I have told you, Amara. I will inform you if you do anything that displeases me. Do not make assumptions."
Amara smiles warmly at her. The implication sinks in, slow at first and then pleasant and inviting. If the githyanki is offering… well, Amara does enjoy physical contact, after all.
The elf leans over, wrapping her arms around the other woman. "Then, excuse me," she whispers into Lae'zel's hair. "If it were me, and I had gone through what you went through today, I would surely want to be embraced. I'm so sorry that the zaith'isk wasn't what you wanted it to be, Lae. I promise you we will find the solution."
Lae'zel doesn't hug back, but she doesn't push Amara away either. After a few moments, she leans her head against Amara's.
It's thank you enough.
/ / /
The sun sinks. Amara sits on her bedroll, watching the stars begin to glow, flaming and bright, shockingly beautiful. She stole a bottle of wine from Astarion when he went to the river, and takes multiple pulls from it. The sky dyes itself blue to yellow, burning up into an orange to a red, and then fading to a pink, to purple, and deepening into a navy.
"Amara," Shadowheart says as she lays down next to her, "try to get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."
Amara raises the bottle of wine. "To the Underdark."
Wyll sits on his own bedroll and raises his hand, his brow quirked. "To the Underdark, indeed. May I?"
Passing the bottle over, Amara gives him a sympathetic smile. "Worried?"
"Nonsense. The Blade is always at the ready." He tips the bottle back and takes several long drinks, giving a content sigh and admiring the label. "Hells, this is nice— where did you get this?"
"Stole it," Astarion accuses from behind her, and Amara doesn't even turn around.
Smile evident in her voice, she just teases, "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, fangs."
He scoffs and makes himself comfortable on his own bedroll and puts his hand out for the bottle. "Sure, darling. I'll pretend for a moment that I didn't see your footprints, and you didn't leave a noticeable scent in my tent."
Karlach grabs the bottle from his hands. "Quiet, little vampire. There's potations to go around," she says with a laugh, tipping the bottle back.
There's a disturbance in the air.
Chronomancy Weave builds, growing heavy and dark, and weight down on Amara like she's been drenched and set aflame.
"Hell's fire. She's coming," Wyll manages to say, scrambling to his feet.
Quickly, the others around the fire are focused, rising if they're sitting, sending questioning gazes to Wyll, to Amara.
Amara feels like she's drowning, burning.
The air is so heavy.
She can't breathe.
A pool resembling oil bursts to life next to the fire, and surrounding it is a ring of flame. The oil ripples, disturbed, and a set of leathery, slickened wings protrudes from its center. A horned creature, wrapped in the bat-like wings, makes itself known as the wings part, and the oil wrapped around her body burns away to reveal the devil underneath.
Gray skin, red hair, four horns. Beady, dangerous red eyes. Her clothes are fine, revealing, and mark her out as something meant to tempt, to be dangerous. To plant ideas in the minds of mortals, ideas that only doom them.
"Wyll," a sultry voice drawls condescendingly. "You've been naughty. And you know what happens when you're naughty."
Karlach's face falls immediately. "Gods damn it. Anyone but her."
Well… that certainly doesn't bode well.
Amara swallows her fear, the heaviness, and asks, "Just who in the Nine Hells are you?"
"Wyll, you absolute stinker!" she sneers. "You kept me a secret? Time to let the hellcat out of the bag. Call me Mizora," she drawls, with an elaborate gesture. "I'm Wyll's patron, the font of his power. My pet's been unruly— and his leash needs a yank."
She gestures sharply forward, and something in Wyll's chest propels him forward toward her. Amara's gut churns with discomfort. She clenches her fists, her nails biting into the meat of her palms.
It hurts. The air is so heavy.
She called Wyll her pet.
"We had a deal, Wyll," she accuses, "But Karlach's still breathing."
"I've taken more pleasant shits than you, Mizora, and at least those can be buried after," Karlach snarls, and Amara would hug her if it wouldn't burn all her skin.
"That's no kind of talk for a lady. By the way, Karlach— Zariel sends her regards."
Amara cracks her neck. Presses into the injuries in her hands. Lets the sting ground her.
It wouldn't do Wyll any good to attack his patron.
"You told me devils only. She's—" Wyll struggles to speak. "—a tiefling. Not a monster."
"How precious. The little pupster's found his bark. Clause G, Section Nine: 'Targets shall be limited to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless.' Karlach meets the criteria by virtue of heaving no heart."
Oh, Amara could just…
"Get to the point, devil. What do you want?" she asks, knowing this is the "penance" Wyll mentioned.
"The point? Oh, yes— thanks for the reminder."
She raises her hand, which slicks itself with oil and bursts into flame.
The ripple effect is immediate.
*Wyll burns in the fires of Avernus; the lightning storms of Dis strike his flesh. His soul passes through each layer of the Hells, gaining their essence— and their torment.*
He crumples down, in the same kind of pool of oil, circled in flames, and Amara has to physically hold herself back.
She'll snap if she has to.
She can always save him.
She has to know more.
But it feels heartless. Disloyal. Cruel.
The fires die. The oil burns away. Wyll stands, but he is changed. His skin which had a pleasantly clay-toned ruddiness is red through and through, and two massive ribbed horns, obsidian and matte, curl back over his head, reflecting the flames of the camp.
His eyes snap to meet hers, and she sees his remaining eye has blackened sclera, his iris disturbingly red. Amara knows it is not the skin of a tiefling, but a devil.
"That's better," Mizora drawls, pleased.
"What the hells have you done?" he demands, and Amara finally allows herself to look away.
"A promise broken, a price paid. You know the terms. Get used to the new form, pet— there's no going back. Some magic, even I can't undo. Now. Let's see how the Frontiers fare without their precious Blade."
Amara grits her teeth. How dare she assume that Wyll couldn't protect the coast, in any form.
"Karlach. Keep an eye on him, would you?" Her eyes swivel to focus on Amara, who reluctantly meets her putrid gaze. "I'll be keeping mine on you."
Amara sneers at her, bites her tongue.
"Oh— and Wyll? Don't forget. Our pact still stands. Ta-ta!"
The flames, the oil, they take her over again, and the devil disappears.
Wyll takes several steps back, shaking his head, his mouth working but no words coming out.
Astarion reaches out and grabs Amara's arm.
"Shadowheart— can you heal Amara?"
The elf flicks her eyes in the vampire's direction. "I'm fine. Let me go."
"You cut your hands again."
"I'm fine. Let's worry about Wyll right now— and where is Gale?"
Wyll heaves a sigh. "Lady Amara, please let Shadowheart heal you. As for Mizora— the gods can damn her straight back to the Hells."
The cleric holds her hands up and Amara sighs, offering her bloodied palms up. "How are you, Wyll?"
"Just look at me," he demands. "I did what was right. And Mizora made me pay for it. I'd be hunting devils and demons, she said. Traitors and hypocrites - heartless evils of all sorts - but not…"
He trails off and watches the curing magic seep into the damage Amara did to her own palms with her nails.
"…not Zariel's victims, not innocent tieflings."
"She does not exactly strike me as… a paragon of honesty," Amara admits. "Devil and all."
He lets out a self-flagellating chuckle. "All these years, you'd think it's a lesson I'd have well learned. It's Mizora who grants me the power to conjure armor and cast eldritch blasts. Before I was infected, I could even call hellbeasts and summon festering clouds. But I promise you, every thrust of my blade and every flame I sparked was for the good of the Coast," he assures her, pointing a determined finger in her direction.
"What are… the terms of your pact?" Amara asks, rubbing her sore hands.
"I can't utter the terms of circumstances of the pact," Wyll admits, a deep frown on his face. "I can tell you most all else— but the pact? I'm forbidden, unless Mizora permits it. But I'll say this: the moment I pacted myself to Mizora I have not regretted for a heartbeat. It was my proudest deed. It was worth the sacrifice. All I can give you on that is my solemn word."
Karlach claps her hands excitedly and gestures for him to follow her. "In the meantime— let an experienced tiefling teach you a thing or two about those horns."
"I— actually… actually that would be appreciated, I would think," he admits, running his hand down his face.
Amara rubs her hands together and watches them walk away. Her voice is caught in her throat.
Shadowheart takes her hands gently. "He'll be all right."
"But—"
"You should get some sleep."
Amara hedges, tries to breathe, but the air is still chokingly heavy.
"I will," she lies.
"You won't," Shadowheart points out. "Just don't stay up too late, all right?"
Everyone else follows shortly after, except for the one person Amara's been waiting for.
She gets a bit impatient. She needs to get her brain to focus on something - anything - else. She goes looking for Gale.
He's at the edge of camp, near his personal tent, with his back facing where Amara is approaching from. Light purple Weave pulses and permeates through the general area, distinctly the wizard's, and pours out of his open palm, raised to his face.
The familiar visage of Mystra floats in his hand.
Amara can't see the expression Gale makes looking at her, but the fact alone that he's summoned the likeness of the goddess means something, and Amara, while her Weave does connect her to Mystra in a distant way, has met the goddess before and…
They did not exactly get along.
"Impressive spellwork— I'm sure Mystra would be flattered by such a likeness," Amara says, the closest she can get to a positive comment.
"Oh!" he startles, turning over his shoulder to watch Amara approach him, and he quickly closes his palm over the spell. "My, you startled me. I… I was miles away."
"Miles away you may have been, but you do look a little better." She touches his face, more vibrancy in the color of his skin, less darkness around his eyes.
"I'm doing a little better," he confirms. "I helped myself to your… collection." Amara presses her lips together to keep from laughing. It feels a bit inappropriate. "I was much more careful this time, took the Weave in significantly slower, and it seems to have helped. I shudder to think I should need this much now, and what will become of me eventually…" His voice trails off.
Amara puts her hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"
He gives a small smile, and an answer from miles away, that doesn't quite make sense to Amara, but at the same time… does. "My apologies. I have just been… pondering what I lost."
In the tunic Gale wears at night, his marking is not nearly as visible, but Amara knows where it is. She moves her hand from his arm, to where she believes the center of its circle is.
"Do you think it helps to do so?" Amara asks softly. "Sometimes I find it only makes me feel worse to dwell on it."
"Mystra commands all magic," Gale says in answer. "Salvation, if such a thing exists, is hers to bestow or withhold. And yet, even now, more than I fear losing my own self and soul, I fear losing my command of her art. Magic is… my life. I've been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it."
His hands illustrate his passion for his words, and Amara can understand why. Gale's talent goes beyond just being inclined toward mystic arts; he connects with his magic, and that's why it rolls off of his fingers in such an effortless way.
His adoration of it is evident every time he casts something.
"It's like music, poetry, physical beauty all rolled into one given expression through the senses. Is it the same for you?"
Ah. Her expression shifts, from the warmth and ease at listening to Gale describe his relationship with magic, to a kind of worry that she quickly tries to erase.
She retreats from where her hand is still making contact with Gale's chest, and summons a flare of Weave to dance around her hand and up her arm, before it flies into the air and disperses.
"I do think there's something intense and beautiful about magic. It's been intertwined with my soul since before I even came of age, and through my long middling and adulthood. The entire time I've been a practitioner, it's felt more… implied that I should be. I feel like a musician, a writer… they express their brand of magic willingly, and sometimes I feel like I— don't."
Gale swallows, and Amara is still close enough to see his throat work around it. "Then dismiss those fields out of hand. How do you feel when you cast? You have a mastery of the Weave which is rare, even for the most learned of wizards. It jumps to your hands, dances for you."
Amara closes her eyes, her brow twitches, pulls down. "I— I don't…" She presses her fingers together with one hand, and pushes her hand through her loose curls with the other.
Gale catches her wrist. "Perhaps I can show you what I mean by reaching into the Weave together."
Amara's eyes flutter open, and she smiles. "By all means."
"Then follow my lead." Gale walks around Amara, coming to stand by her side, and he keeps his eyes locked on hers the whole time, his body language open and easy. He makes a few gestures, large and ostentatious, which cause an orb of bright purple magic to flare in his campsite. "Now you," he urges.
Amara's motions to summon her Weave are much smaller, sharper, but she knows all kinds of magic. It isn't difficult to copy the full-body, almost dance-like motions Gale displayed, and she feels his familiar Weave tingle at her arms, down her fingertips.
Her Weave is normally bright cyan, but with this, bright, glowing purple leaps from her extended hands, a Weave that is not her own.
*A familiar feeling— like a kind word and a kind touch at the same time. It's warm and comfortable.*
Amara looks over at Gale, pleased as the warm feeling spreads in her chest. She wants more.
"Excellent," he compliments with enthusiasm. "Now repeat after me: Ah-Thran Mystra-Ryl Kantrach-Ao."
It's not a difficult incantation, but one Amara would never say on her own, as it honors a deity who rejected her. However… the words come easily, next to Gale.
Purple floods Amara's vision again, and she blinks, admiring how it twinkles, shines, and then fades.
*Ah, yes: the scent of rosewater and a sense of wellbeing. A sliver of Weave that tastes sweet on the tongue.*
"Very good. Now I want you to picture in your mind the concept of harmony. As true as you can." Gale keeps his voice even, its tone richer and deeper than his normal speaking voice.
Amara closes her eyes.
What she pictures isn't her magic, her practice. It isn't the study and learned process of wizardry. It isn't her youth, tumultuous and chaotic. It isn't even a familiar tune, a newly acquired taste.
If Amara thinks of harmony, she pictures Waterdeep.
She pictures the beautiful clearing where her cottage was built, its small garden and even smaller storefront. The bubbling fountain and paved pathway. The sound of birds, the scent of salt in the air.
The first place Amara ever felt utter peace.
"Amara," Gale urges softly, his hands finding her arms, holding her steady from behind. "Open your eyes."
Another burst of purple magic flares and glows, beautiful and bright, and this time when it fades, the feeling of Gale's Weave remains. It ebbs and spreads, flowing around the campsite like wayward mist, surrounding the pair of them with a feeling of familiarity and comfort.
*You see - or is it sense? - the unmistakable presence of Mystra, the Lady of Mysteries. There's something like the anticipation of a kiss, then the pleasure of being cloaked in peace.*
Amara turns to face Gale, startled at first, and finds him already looking at her, deep into her eyes.
*You are safe. You are nestled in the cup of Mystra's hand.*
Flicking her eyes away from his for a moment, Amara revels in the feeling for a long moment. She's never felt so accepted by her own magic, if this is what it feels like for Gale every time… she can see why he adores his abilities so.
"You did it," he says, the pride in his voice evident. "You're channeling my Weave. How does it feel?"
Amara looks around at first, at the swirling purple mist. She closes her eyes again, takes a slow, deep breath in and lets it permeate her lungs, seep into her body. "Magical," she teases, a lilt of laughter in her voice. She opens her eyes, flicks them toward him. "Sensual, even."
Gale responds in that deep voice again, "That it does."
*The Weave connects you. The moment feels intimate.*
Amara breathes it in, holds onto it. She wants this to last.
*You realize the Weave is making you one. You have but to imagine your desire, and Gale will know it.*
He's watching her every move, every shift of her body, every twitch her face makes. His eyes trail across her expression, her form, but always return to her eyes. Amara helps herself to the same, watching how his hands flex, how his throat works; she admires how the deep, near blackness of his eyes shine, and how his breath passes between parted lips.
She doesn't even have to touch him, to telegraph how she would like to catch that breath between her own lips, to tangle her fingers in his hair, run her nails across his scalp, and just ever so slightly tip his head back. The first press of her lips would be soft, a question waiting for his invitation. There would be a tender gratitude when she's allowed to continue, and each subsequent press of her lips would turn from reverent and affectionate, to impassioned and heady.
Gale's eyes widen, he sucks in a breath that's audible to the elf, and he takes one step back, and then two hurried steps forward. "I… I didn't think…"
Amara covers her own mouth. She forgot about the Weave.
*You perceive quick-fire gusts of embarrassment, trepidation, and finally… elation.*
Oh, relief, thank the gods.
"Sorry," Gale rushes to say, though now he's smiling, and his eyes are once again intensely focused on Amara's. "I wasn't expecting… but it is a pleasant image to be sure!" He gathers himself, gathers his thoughts, and color rises to his cheeks, in his ears. "Most pleasant, in fact. Most welcome."
*The Weave evaporates, and as it does so, you realize the night feels suddenly cold and lonesome.*
"There it goes. How easily things slip away from us, no matter how hard they were in the obtaining," Gale laments, sloping the smile he gives Amara. "Good night. I enjoyed sharing a moment of magic with you."
It's a sudden goodbye, one that takes Amara somewhat by surprise.
"Does it have to be good night?" she asks, watching Gale take a few steps back.
"I fear I will cast myself in a poor light should I remain," he explains, and further away, it's more difficult to see, but Amara's darkvision still affords her the ability to see that the highest point of his cheekbones are a marked different shade of, well, gray, in this light.
"We shared a moment in your Weave," Amara points out. "You don't want to give casting mine a try? I admit, I don't have a great deal of experience as a conduit, but I believe your talents can more than make up for that."
Gale gives a nervous laugh. "Oh, Amara… I don't know…"
Her lips curl up, a mischievous grin taking over the more warm, tender one. She clasps her hands behind her back. "Ah, well. Can't be helped. Good night, then."
He blinks a few times. "R-right. Good night… you're really just— giving up like that?"
Amara does a victory dance in her mind. She's got him.
Outwardly, she gives a single-shoulder shrug. "It's understandable, really. My Weave is Chronomantic. It's an incredibly rare and specific type-case, not easily wielded. It took me roughly fifty years to get it right. Even someone as talented as you wouldn't be able to summon it in a single night."
Gale steps closer and opens his mouth, but snaps it shut a moment later. He holds up a finger. "Now, wait a minute. I see what you're trying to do. I won't be easily swayed, Amara, so you need not even try."
"And what am I trying to do?" she purrs, getting into his space. "Hmm?" she walks around him, feeling him turn to keep his eyes on her. "I'm just stating facts. My Weave was fundamentally altered when I consumed the magic of a god. It's holy, deitous, divine. I can see why you'd be nervous to fail at summoning it."
"But you aren't a god," Gale argues. "You're a wizard, and your magic is still channeled through Mystra. It's castable."
Amara turns and makes deep eye contact with him, stepping until they're nearly chest-to-chest. "Is it?"
"I'm positive it is."
"No one has ever wielded my Weave, other than me. There isn't another soul on this plane, or any other, who uses Chronomancy Weave, other than me." Amara makes a sharp gesture with her fingers, flipping her palms facing up, then down. They let out a pulse of cyan light as bright as the day, between the two wizards. "Will you be the only other?"
Gale takes a long breath in through his nose.
He repeats the sharp gesture, and then flips his palms, and the same pulse of cyan light flares between them. "Oh, I dearly hope I don't regret this…"
Amara beams at him. "Thank you for trusting me."
His eyes find hers. "I want to feel what only you have ever felt."
*A new feeling this time, familiar to you but distinct from Gale's Weave. It's like a cold hand at your back, steady and unwavering, strong and confident.*
Gale shivers. "How… unusual…"
"Are you sure you want to continue?" Amara asks. "That was just the somatic component."
"Tell me the verbal component," Gale whispers. "Please. This gives me great insight into your… relationship with magic, and how it differs from my own."
"It won't be easy," Amara teases with a smile. "Ga-Awdee Ad-Gaan Ya-Delchee."
The rapt attention Gale pays to every way the syllables curl from her tongue is almost intoxicating, and when he repeats it, it's flawless.
*The scent that fills the air isn't pronounced at first, just a faint touch of freshly washed linens, dried by the sun. Then, it grows stronger and almost overpoweringly of ozone, sinking into the earth like raindrops into the mud. It tastes of electricity, humming in the mouth, a roll of lightning and thunder.*
Gale lets out a shuddering breath. "Is this how it always feels?" he asks. "It's so… intense. Nearly painful."
Amara tilts her head and considers. "It's all I've ever known."
"The focus—" Gale stops himself and shakes his head. Amara can feel so much Chronomantic Weave in the air that all the hair on her arms is standing on end, like the anticipation of a lightning strike, making her body shiver. She can only imagine what it's like for the other wizard. "The inner focus component," he manages to say. "Mine invites Mystra in. Her domain doesn't exactly overlap with yours, though. I would assume you don't do the same."
"Correct," Amara confirms. "Time is Chronos' domain alone, and so now it is mine to bear. I channel some of Mystra, but she does not mingle with my magic unless necessary."
Gale frowns. "She doesn't have something against what happened to you, does she?"
"Let's focus for now," Amara urges. "I want you to picture a moment where time stood still for you. It could be attached to any emotion, so long as it possesses some time distortion."
Gale closes his eyes, pushes a breath out of his nose. There's a flash, a flare of cyan, and a deeper, darker teal. It grows and spreads, permeating the air. It doesn't disperse like the mist of his but rather continually falls from some unknown height in the sky;
it falls like rain.
*The intensity of the scent of ozone disperses, becoming more calm. It fades until it's more of a faint rumbling, and the scent of salt joins it, like waves lapping at an ocean shore in a light rainstorm, while the clouds flash with light high above.*
Amara looks over, and Gale's eyes reflect the falling shimmer of Weave, his lips slightly parted and his breath high in his chest, short.
*The feeling isn't anything like being held safely in Mystra's embrace, and the peace isn't a cloak. In your Weave, time stands still. Impossibilities become realities. Infinity feels tangible, like an entity that you can touch. It isn't warm, it isn't kind, and it isn't peaceful, but you feel as though you could sink into it all the same. It's otherworldly.*
"Amara… words can't describe…" he breathes out. "It isn't… comfortable, per se, and yet— and yet it… enraptures. It's beautiful. It might just be the most beautiful raw Weave I've ever… ever seen."
*The Weave connects you. You can feel Gale in every sense of the word, and even into his mind. His focus is at first on how powerful he feels channeling your Weave. How indescribable the feeling is. There's a detached part of him that seems to remind himself that this isn't an enjoyable sensation, that there's something cloying and choking about it, but Gale pushes that part of him aside and redoubles his focus on you.*
"We're connected again," he whispers in their close proximity.
*His mind fires quick successions of emotions. Trepidation, anxiety, awe… arousal.*
He covers his mouth. "Amara, I— this was why I didn't want to… to…"
Amara steps even closer, their feet intertwining. Gale drops his hand to catch Amara's shoulder, and she stills. They stand at almost identical heights, allowing her to feel his quick, uneasy breaths ghosting out from his lips onto hers.
*A clear vision filters into your mind, through your connection to Gale. He's still holding you by your shoulder, and he slips a thumb under the neckline of your robes, dragging his finger across the collar until he reaches the clasp and flicks it open, before pressing the full flat of his palm to your bare skin. There's a delicious drag of skin-to-skin as he runs his hand up your chest to your neck, pressing his thumb to the bottom of your chin to tilt your head, your lips parting in anticipation of—*
Gale rips his hand from Amara's shoulder, and steps back, a blush flaming across his face. "I'm so sorry," he insists. "I knew— I shouldn't have done this." He shakes his head. There's still a near-drunk bleariness to his eyes, and he pants slightly as he steps further away from her.
Amara reaches up to touch the clasp of her robes, still firmly closed. The sensation of Gale's palm against her bared skin felt so real. His thumb dug into her chin a moment later. She wanted so desperately for him to kiss her.
"And here I was, nervous about you catching me thinking about a desperate little kiss," Amara teases, and Gale covers his face with his hands.
"I could offer you a supernumerary of apologies, and it would never be enough," he emphasizes. "That was incredibly inappropriate of me. You look— you are… oh, gods, I'm just digging myself deeper here. You're beautiful, Amara." He pulls his hands down from his face enough that he can look at Amara now, but one hand still covers his mouth. "In this humble opinion of mine, I would venture to say you may be the most lovely creature I've ever laid eyes on. Your personality and understanding only coaxes me in further, but I am loathe to drive you away because of my— my basal desires."
Amara bites her lip. Her entire body hums.
"I certainly wasn't expecting it," she admits, but when panic floods his eyes, she uses the last dredges of her lingering Weave as its gentle rainfall peters out.
*You send honest waves of your initial shock, followed by how flattered you were and how eager you were for more, how his vision stoked your increasing excitement, and when he abruptly brought the vision to a close, how disappointed you were at it all coming to an end.*
"It may be true," Amara begins, smiling up at him, "that I wasn't expecting such forwardness. However… it was pleasant, to be sure," she echoes. "Most pleasant. Most welcome."
*The Weave slips away, the last of its drops sinking into the soil of the camp and leaving behind nothing but a faint sheen that glints in the moonlight on each blade of grass.*
Gale works his mouth briefly but can't bring himself to say anything. In fact, the coloring of his face has only darkened. Amara is sure she is also blushing at this point, quite furiously.
"Need me to prove it to you?"
His brow twitches, and he covers his hand with his mouth yet again.
Amara repeats the somatic and verbal components of his Weave spell, and this time, when she pictures a moment of harmony, it isn't just her cottage in Waterdeep that she pictures; it's the moment she spends with Gale of Waterdeep, her momentary visitor, now blended with the man she's come to know. He laughs and touches her across the dining room table, his face vibrant and alive and his smile beautiful and reaching his eyes in a way that makes him the most handsome person Amara believes she's ever seen.
Once more, the Weave of Mystra fills the air, and the connection between the two of them snaps into place, with Amara in the driver's seat.
She allows her imagination to run as it likes, knowing there's a high likelihood Gale is seeing every moment. She would peel his hand from his mouth and press a kiss first to his knuckles, and then down the length of his index finger, lips falling to his palm and then to his pulsepoint, where she would press the flat of her tongue there and feel the fast thrum of his heartbeat, aching under his skin.
With her free hand, she would unclip the clasp holding her robes closed, and guide his hand back into the collar, stepping fully into his space and closing their distance. She'd take his face in her hands and kiss him once more, running her tongue along his lower lip, pulling it into her mouth, and deepening it while her own hands drifted to the back of his head, tangling and tugging at his soft hair, and fingering the cinched tie which holds Gale's tunic to him.
She would tug decisively at the strands, yanking his mouth from hers, and smile up at him as she began to peel his clothing away.
*You snap the connection closed after that, and almost immediately, the Weave dissipates, leaving you and Gale to stand there, breathing each other's air. The look in his eyes is hazy, unfocused, and his chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath.*
"Believe me now?"
Gale gives a full-body shiver, blinking like he's trying to look away from Amara, but he can't.
"Yes," he exhales, and it's as if Amara pulled the syllable from deep inside him. "I should— I have to go. I need— you've given me… a lot to think about."
Amara smiles, touches Gale's face. She drags her hand down his jawline, and presses her thumb into his bottom lip, peeling it back just slightly before releasing him.
She steps back.
"Don't have too much fun… thinking about it, without me. Okay?"
Gale's eyes close, and he breathes out a shuddering sigh, nodding. "Good night, Amara."
"Good night. I sincerely wish you the most pleasant of dreams, Gale."
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 15: Hold My Hands
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XV
Hold My Hands
Unfortunately, Amara quickly realizes that pleasant dreams were to be had by none of them.
Fitfully, she thrashes in place before her eyes fly open, and she startles into a sitting position, eyes darting around the foreign yet familiar alien landscape. She does not recognize the location, but she's been here before all the same.
The dream visitor. She's come calling again.
Sure enough, the golden-haired stranger is right there, back turned, in all her ethereal and oddly recognizable beauty. When she looks over her shoulder, her voluminous curls cascading down her back, green eyes sear into Amara's.
"I promised I'd be back," she declares.
And, oh, Amara distinctly is not a fan.
She leaps to her feet, readying herself.
"Don't worry—" she says, in a tone she must think is assuring.
Amara is very worried.
"I have things under control. For now," she continues, regardless of Amara's personal feelings. "You haven't been using the parasite's power. You think you don't need it."
The desire to correct this dream visitor pulls at Amara's throat like a noose, but she restrains herself.
"But things haven't gone as you expected. You hoped a druid as powerful as Halsin might be able to remove your tadpole. But he couldn't."
Perhaps the dream visitor was more correct than Amara thought about having things… under control.
"You're desperate to be rid of it."
Amara isn't really, but okay.
"Understandable, but you're looking for solutions in the wrong places."
Amara clears her throat, which still feels tight. "Tell me who you are," she demands, the feelings of familiarity and distrust ripping at her mind.
"It's complicated. But I'm an adventurer, just like you."
It's news to Amara that "it's complicated" has come to be synonymous with "I'm about to lie to you."
"Just like you, I was infected with a mind flayer parasite. Just like you, I seek to be free of it. But to do that, we'll need to think beyond local healers."
Amara licks her lips. She presses her fingers together.
"Your parasite is unusual— it is wrapped in magic that prevents its removal."
Suddenly struck with a memory spurred by her date with Gale, Amara suddenly remembers her successful analysis of the affliction in his chest, and the tadpole behind his eye. While she wouldn't normally be able to discover such information, the disharmony and dissonance of his two lethal conditions let Amara see the source of magic behind both.
Netherese.
"Until the source of the tadpole's magic is destroyed, any attempt to remove it will kill you," the dream visitor assures Amara, and she does not like how she states it like a fact. "You were lucky that Halsin knew this. His instincts are right. The parasites are merely a symptom of a greater sickness in Faerûn."
The doubt is strong, beginning to overpower Amara's forced instinct to trust this figure. "How do you know so much about these tadpoles?"
"I have kept a careful watch on the movements of the cult. Though the Absolute's aims are not yet clear to me, its methods are," she says, and the mere mention of the Absolute's cult makes Amara's stomach turn.
"So this cult is using illithid spawn in some way?"
The dream visitor shakes her head, curls bouncing. "These parasites are more than illithid spawn— they are vessels for control. The infected hear the voice of the Absolute, and believe it to be a god. That is how the cult of the Absolute is spreading. The highest of their rank - the True Souls - carry a tadpole just like yours. It is how they receive their orders. It is what makes them obey. When the order to transform is given, it will not be a matter of days— they will be mind flayers in an instant. Were it not for my protection, so would you."
The doubt in Amara grows, to the point where it's uncomfortable.
So far in her time with this parasite in her head, there's only been one small stretch of time she felt the effects of ceremorphosis. That first night she met - and was "protected" - by the dream visitor.
Most decidedly, those symptoms were still on the path of transforming over a matter of days, not an instant.
"Why should I believe you?" Amara asks, obfuscating the fact that she already does not believe a word this creature - if it even is a creature - says.
"Because we share a common cause and a common enemy. We are alike, you and I. I've been trying to escape from this evil for a long time. Once, I almost succeeded."
The kernels of truth intrigue Amara, but she sees them for what they are amidst a greater lie.
"Now, through you, I've been given a chance. You can go where I cannot. And I can protect you from that evil."
What is this protection? Is it using it on itself? How can her companions save themselves, when it never could? How long is "a long time", and if this dream visitor did indeed almost succeed on one attempt, why wouldn't it use that failure to inform Amara's attempt?
That's what time travel is founded on.
Failure.
Impossible tasks become possible, because of Amara's failure.
When she loses, she simply tries again.
If she loses again, she tries again.
And she'll try again, and again.
Until she wins.
And each time she tries, she will always, always change her approach. She will take charge, make changes, and inform people even using subtle means to influence their behavior.
Did this dream visitor resist using its tadpole's powers, and how is attempting to get Amara to use hers? Why is its argument so lackluster, then?
Amara is not convinced.
She is afraid.
"If we work together, we may turn this around," the dream visitor insists. It suddenly looks over its shoulder. "Hells. They need me. I have to go."
"What's happening?" Amara asks, straining to see the problem. Perhaps it will answer more than this stranger.
"The power I use to protect you, I stole it from someone. They want it back. I will hold them off for as long as I can, but sooner or later I will be worn down."
Oh, lovely.
Yes, let's add a time table.
Amara loves a time table.
"You must discover the source of the magic that controls the parasites before that happens."
This doesn't nearly help Amara determine if this strange visitor even knows the source of the magic. It could, perhaps it doesn't, though.
"The cultists are gathering at Moonrise Towers."
Of course, they are.
Lovely.
"Use the powers your parasite gives you to convince them you are one of them. And when you find the source of their magic, destroy it. Go. Our freedom depends on it."
Amara is unceremoniously dumped out of the vision and she awakens roughly in the middle of the night. And oh, Amara really is starting to dislike this dream visitor.
/ / /
Dawn creeps from dark into pale light, as night becomes day, and Amara watches the sun climb into the sky. Lounging by the fire, she carves at a pear and tries to settle herself. She's been up for some time, silently packing some of their camp belongings in preparation to head to Moonrise today, and then bathing before anyone else could rise.
She spots the wizard who occupied her mind the entire time as he walks over from his tent. He spent the night there, the first night he spent away from their circle around the fire.
A part of her worried she pushed him too hard the previous night, but that knee-jerk instinct is soothed almost immediately when Gale sits, not on his own bedroll, but directly next to Amara on hers.
Their thighs touch.
"Oh, hello," she greets jovially. "Don't worry, I wasn't using that personal space anyway."
Gale laughs, and there's a deliciously rosy hue to his cheeks that Amara desperately wants to touch. She settles for drinking it in with her eyes instead. He's lit so well in the dawn sunlight.
"I dearly hope I'm not bothering you," he remarks. "I just wanted to speak to you about… well, about last night, before everyone else is up and abou— about. Amara. You're getting, ahm… quite close."
Amara is close. Inches from his face, in fact, because she's seeing something for the first time. She has to see it closer.
She leans over him, hovering above his lap, and the wizard only lets out a small sound as she gently raises his chin with the hand not boxing him in.
"Oh," he exhales, quite breathless and a little dizzy, "hello. Don't worry, I wasn't… wasn't using that— that personal spa-ace… Amara…"
"Your mark," she says, fingers trailing up from his jaw onto his cheek. "The one on your chest. It goes all the way up to your eye. Are these your veins?" The barest brush of her fingerpad traces the swaying line until the fluttering of his eyelashes touch her skin. "Ah," she realizes her proximity and freezes, the only way to avoid overreacting. Slowly, she sits back, which lands her more or less in his lap.
Truthfully, no less compromising.
"My apologies," she exhales, a little breathless and quite dizzy. "I was caught up in my observations."
Strangled, Gale manages to say, "Believe me, you can do that… any time you'd like."
Amara laughs, and does manage to pull herself from Gale's lap. "Still, I'm sorry— you were saying something."
"I have precious little chance of recovering any trail of thought, much less whatever semblance of eloquence I may have practiced before approaching you, I'm afraid."
She bites her lip. Rubs her fingers together. "Would you like me to rewind that? I could see it being unplea—"
"No!" he bursts out, and then quickly quiets himself, casting a spell over the two of them for privacy. "No," he clarifies, much softer. "I would never want you to rewind a moment we share like that. It was like last night. I was surprised, but pleasantly so. You have always been very giving with your physical touch, but you keep a certain distance. I quite like… when you disregard that distance."
"Then, you did like last night?" Amara ventures, her nerves fraying.
Gale gives a soft sound and clears his throat. "Oh, yes. Amara— I am quite beside myself with how much I enjoyed it. I could hardly pry myself away. Amid the madness that has befallen us, I would never have thought I could develop feelings of this strength and speed, but you are unlike anyone I have ever known. Honestly, now more than ever, it's important to recall what makes us human. Well—" He stops, touches his ears and gestures to Amara. "You know what I mean. A stolen glance— that sudden heartbeat… sometimes the little things are worth more than kingdoms. They promise things to come."
Amara lets a slow smile come over her face. "Oh, I can definitely promise many things will come."
Gale snaps his head in her direction, eyes widening and he squeaks out, "Amara…!"
She laughs, and rises, touching his shoulder. "Why don't you go ahead and start packing? I'll get something going for breakfast. We should leave as soon as we can. I'm sure the journey won't be easy…"
"To Moonrise Towers? I thought we might chat about that, last night I had a dream th-at, Amara!!"
Amara trails her fingers across the broad expanse of Gale's back, in a swaying motion alternating between a light touch of her fingerpad and the slice of her nail gently biting in. "Oh, that?" she replies nonchalantly. "We should most likely talk about that together. Let's wait for the others to awaken." She squeezes his shoulder and lets go, making for their food stores. She waves her hand behind her and looks briefly over her shoulder, green eyes glittering in the morning sun.
The breakfast she makes is somewhat less dubious than her dinner the previous night but also consists half of fruit. Nature did most of the work, so Amara guesses that she can't take credit for that. She sets everything up on the dining table and the others waken and begin to wander over, yawning and looking like they only got about half the night's sleep.
Amara figures they kind of did.
Wyll breaks the ice once they're all seated. "I had another dream last night," he admits. "And looking at how eerily similar we all look, I assume we all did."
There are various noises of affirmation.
"The visitor came to me, and ordered me to penetrate the heart of the very cult that's spreading the infection. It gave me a tadpole gift, too. Just like it did the first time it appeared."
Halsin bites into an apple, and around the mouthful, he asks, "Wait, all of you have shared tadpole dreams?"
"Allegedly, we have unusual tadpoles," Amara says drolly. "The dreams that connect us aren't a common symptom, but we don't exactly have common tadpoles."
Shadowheart sighs, setting her fork down. "And when one of us has a tadpole dream…"
"We all do," Wyll jumps back in. "I suppose the dream figure, that golden-armored paladin, thought her—its, what have you, gifts and advice could be of help to us. At first I thought we should avoid these 'gifts', no matter what advantage we gain. And yet… I can't help recall the words of my father. 'The best plan is the one that works.' These powers could be enough to edge us towards victory."
Amara looks at him skeptically.
"A bit of shiny armor doesn't impress me that much," Karlach seems to agree with Amara. "I don't want to get taken in by a pretty offer and pay the price later on."
Wyll raises his hands up. "If it's mind games these parasites wish to play, we'll play. And we'll win."
"Really?!" Astarion jumps in. "For the love of— you couldn't have taken my side last time? All I wanted was one of you to agree with me that the powers could be a good thing!"
Wyll chuckles and holds up his hands. "Well— is it enough that I might agree this time around?"
Astarion works his jaw, which is visible from how his muscles flex on his face. He crosses his arms and sits back in his chair. "One thing gives me pause. The gift last time was pleasing. I was happy to be bribed, so to say. The only thing is that this time, it gave us another gift, too. Just like it did the first time it appeared. Rather generous, if you ask me."
Amara's brow jumps up.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. You'll give yourself wrinkles, darling."
"So you agree this whole thing feels like a trap?"
His expression turns rather sour.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. You'll give yourself wrinkles. Darling."
"I'm an immortal vampire," he snaps. "I don't wrinkle, thank you."
Lae'zel looks at the vampire with narrowed eyes. "The paladin is a persuasive creature. It tempts us with power, expresses its admiration, its adoration. Avert your eyes, whenever it appears. And do not avail yourself of this new power, no matter how alluring. You've no idea what damage it could do to us, how far into illithid madness it could drag us."
"Yes, yes, now I get to be on the majority side, whoopee," Astarion drawls, picking at his nails in a bored manner. "I'm suspicious of being treated well, isn't that just stupendous? I won't use the damn powers."
Lae'zel ignores all of his superfluous comments and just nods. "Well chosen. Battles are won with swords, not mind-games born of brain-worms. And there will come a battle, of that I'm most certain. The one truth that fell out of the dream figure's cankered lips."
Red eyes flick to green ones. "To answer Amara's question about this being a trap, though, I would say she's half right."
Amara tilts her head. "And the other half?"
"There's always more than meets the eye to a trap, and so long as we proceed carefully and use what we were given with care, we can come out on top, of course."
Amara considers that for a moment. "So you do admit it's a trap."
"Naturally."
"But you want to trap… the trap?"
"What else should we do? We have to head there for our own needs, so it's not like we can just ignore this dream visitor's suggestion."
Shadowheart makes a humming noise. "That suggestion is, at least on the surface, in opposition to the Absolute— but it wants us to embrace the tadpole? Venture right into the heart of the cult?"
Amara crosses her arms over her chest. "It would be easy to present an opinion we would agree with, and then follow it with a plausible action that actually benefits the opposite to our cause. We do what it wants, and all it had to do was tell a little white lie."
Shadowheart's frown is deep. "I'd like to think that's not true," she supposes, "that we are just lacking information. Perhaps we truly have a secret protector— or you're right, and we're walking into a trap."
Amara heaves a sigh. "The unfortunate thing is that our next best lead for a cure is in the same place, so we're doomed to go there regardless. I suppose only time will tell."
She tries for a smile. "Then it's good we have the progeny of time as a friend."
Laughing, Amara nods. "I might as well be good for something. Pack your things. We have a long journey ahead of us."
They all disperse, packing up their personal backpacks and the two drawn-carts that they own with various crates, chests, and bags.
A loud bark startles Amara out of her packing, and she turns to see a white dog at the edge of the camp.
"Oh— oh! It's you!" she realizes, approaching the canine. "You found us just in time, boy," she tells the slightly dirtied creature, digging around in her pack and pulling out two strips of dried meat. She tosses one to Halsin. "For Erek, distract him for a mote?"
"Ah, good thinking," he compliments, beginning to speak fondly to the owlbear, having the feathered creature dance in a skilled circle.
"Hey, boy," Amara coos, holding the treat out. "You're so smart for finding us, aren't you? You remember me, right?"
He barks twice, and approaches hesitantly, taking the jerky politely between his front teeth before plopping down on the rocks and tearing into it. Amara gives him a few affectionate ruffles of his scruff, and strokes of his head, peering at his collar.
*You spot a name on the dog's collar— "Scratch".*
Finishing the jerky, the dog pants and looks up at her with a soft, submissive gaze.
"Want to come with us?" she asks, stroking his face again.
Two barks, and he patters on his feet a few times.
Amara laughs and she shoulders one of the last bags not packed on one of their two carts.
"Come on, then! We're going to be on the road for a while. Hop into a cart if you get tired, okay?"
They take the waypoint directly into the Selûnite Outpost that had been their dead end before. With all of them in tow this time, Amara encourages everyone to tread carefully.
"There's a reason we don't travel in such a large group," she advises. "It's difficult to keep an eye on everyone. Stay close. Everyone needs someone watching their back. Leave no one on their own. It is a more exhausting way to travel, but we must make this leg of the journey together to establish a new camp in this area."
Responding positively for the most part, Amara's companions pair off. Astarion watches Lae'zel's back, who keeps her eye on Karlach. The barbarian volunteers to protect the party's warlock, who in turn will keep the uninfected druid from harm. Halsin's animal form gives him great melee strength, and a unique ability to protect Gale, who offers to shield Shadowheart from harm. The cleric resolves to keep Amara herself safe, and Amara completes the circle by keeping her eye on the ever-disappearing Astarion.
As Amara had feared, they couldn't discover a way to open the gate. There is, however, a way down.
Between her and Gale, and several bouts of Arcane Recovery, they managed to turn one of the craggy rocks into a usable ramp enough to haul their carts down the side of the cliff face. Lae'zel lifts the last of their goods back up onto the cart and Amara slumps over onto her.
"That was significantly harder than it needed to be," she whines.
"Chk," the githyanki chastises. "You throw a tantrum over necessary work. We must keep moving." Still, she doesn't push Amara off.
The elf sighs, and pulls an apple out of her pouch. It will have to do.
Lae'zel plucks the apple from her hand and replaces it with a pear.
"You like those better," she states, bluntly, and then begins walking forward.
Amara stares after her for a few beats, before smiling and taking a bite out of the sweet, soft fruit.
"Stop!" Karlach's voice can be heard, and Amara startles, only halfway done with her snack, and rushes forward, expecting danger. "Amara— look."
Wild-eyed and worried, Amara's breath catches in her chest when she sees it— or, well, them.
Stone statues. Though, they most likely weren't carved. They are figures, living individuals who must have been turned to stone, and they line a pathway further up the road. They wear all sorts of armors and are different races, ages, and gender presentations.
Amara has a terrible feeling about this.
*A shiver runs down your spine. The ground moves as if breathing, and you realize it is not the earth, not the soil, but a creature rising up into the air whose lungs expand and contract in a most gruesome manner. Its single eye cracks open, haunting in how it flicks this way and that. You recognize this creature. A spectator.*
"Get back! Get everyone back!" Amara commands, but it's already too late. The carts are too close, the animals are out and unprotected, and Alfira takes a hit immediately— she crumples to the ground with a gurgle that echoes in Amara's brain like a ghoul.
She snaps.
At the bottom of the cliff, Amara stops everyone. "Volo, Alfira— in the back. Halsin, get the animals up in the carts and turn them around, tuck them away."
"What's going on?" he asks, but he immediately lifts Erek up to stow away.
"Spectator," Amara says grimly.
She tries fighting.
The carts are protected, the bards are hidden, the animals are stowed away— but keeping the entire party alive proves… difficult.
Amara won't say impossible.
A paralyzed Gale takes such a devastating bite to his torso that his blood splatters onto Amara's face.
She snaps.
Landing at the base of the cliff again, her mind is racing.
"Amara?" Gale asks, and his hand touches the small of her back. "Are you all right?"
She snaps to look up at him. The warmth of his blood is still on her cheek.
"We need— we have to be very… very… careful here," she says, and her voice trembles slightly. "Help me cast invisibility."
She tries sneaking everyone past, but it's just not possible with the carts, even turning everything Invisible and Silencing the cart's wheels. When one entire cart is shoved off the side of the cliff, Amara hears Alfira scream for help.
She snaps.
She takes off this time— to see where this fucker is coming from. She's hearing echoes and smelling blood that hasn't been spilled. Her body and mind both ache. She doesn't know what to do if she can't figure out a better strategy— or where to go.
Where else would they go?
"Amara!" Shadowheart catches her arm, pulls her back. "What's going—"
The spectator bores up out of the ground, and Amara tries to shield the cleric from the damage she knows is coming, but there's just not enough time— no amount of magic she could cast that could save them.
Pain erupts in her back, and the sound of Shadowheart's shocked, pained gasp of Amara's name digs into her chest like a knife through it, slashing clean through her heartstrings.
She snaps.
The first thing she does is sit down— she's not used to this.
"Tired, darling?" Astarion drawls, crouching in front of her, but his smirk is quickly wiped from his face. "Your eyes— have you been rewinding?"
"Bad," she whispers. "I don't know how to do this."
"Are there enemies ahead?"
"Just one," she whispers, describing it.
"Let me strike first," he offers, helping her up.
Amara takes a breath. "Okay," she agrees. "Okay. When we take this corner up ahead, hug the wall."
Astarion's skills are incredible. The idea isn't bad; to whittle the beast's health down with a single surprise attack to begin with, but it's… difficult.
It might be…
impossible.
She snaps when he dies trying to get out of range.
She snaps when he doesn't even make it to the spectator this time.
She… she doesn't think it's possible to get the vampire out of there with his life intact.
The closest he gets to escaping is when he ducks behind one of the petrified individuals, and the spectator's ray hits the stone instead of his skin. It makes Amara wince, knowing the creature could very well have been saved in some way, but at least it prolongs Astarion for the moment.
Or— she thinks it does, until the petrification seems to reverse itself, and the grimacing tiefling reanimates, pulling a weapon from her belt and ramming the blade through Astarion's ribs.
The sound of his screams of pain overlap in her mind.
She snaps.
"More— there's more," she mutters to herself. "What do I do? We couldn't even get passed… couldn't…"
Wyll touches Amara's arms. "Lady Amara?" he urges softly. "Talk to me. Did you just rewind?"
"They just keep dying," she whispers.
He searches her face with his dual colored eyes. "Okay," he says placatingly. "Talk me through it," he requests. "Let's come up with something."
Amara's eyes scan the road ahead. "Those statues… petrified warriors," she says blearily. "The spectator brings them to life."
"Spectator?" he balks, fear writing itself across his face. "Wait— then perhaps these individuals are his victims as well. Let's try to talk to them."
Amara is dubious but…
Only trial and error conquer the impossible.
She takes the lead as best as she can, drawing the fire from the spectator. She's beginning to recognize some of its attack patterns. She eventually manages to catch another statue in its radius. Just like the previous time, this masked human comes to life and swipes at Amara with a blade. Cussing in Elvish under her breath, Amara tries to dodge.
Her heel gets stuck in the soft earth.
The scream wrenched from her lungs echoes in the cavernous Underdark as the blade sinks through her shoulder's flesh and embeds itself into the bone, nearly amputating it. A Witch Bolt spell flies between her and the assailant, just glancing off of his chest.
He releases his blade and staggers back.
Astarion is behind him a second later, knife at his throat, and then the masked man is dead.
And Amara has learned something else.
She snaps with her non-dominant hand.
Crumpling to the ground, she holds her shoulder and shakes. "Blood, bone…" she mutters. "The screams…"
She knows the others are talking to her, but she can't hear them. Their hands are on her, but she shakes them off.
"No, no, no," she chants over and over. "I can feel it all over me— the blood, it oozes. Bones break. They won't stop screaming. I can't keep them safe." Amara squeezes her eyes shut. "I'm so cold…"
There's a shuffling around her, and suddenly a flood of warmth blooms across her skin.
"Hey, soldier," Karlach's voice soothes. "Can't touch you, but I'm right here. Wish I could hold you tight— you look like you could use a good squeeze. I take it there's a tough battle ahead?"
Amara hesitates, chews on her lip until it bleeds. "I can't keep you safe," she whispers.
"Let us prove to you that you can. Small team, front lines, simple strategy. You're a great leader, Amara."
Amara swallows. She's so off-balance. Exhaustion pumps through her body like lead in her veins.
It hurts.
"Okay," she agrees. "But don't blame me when it's an odd battle."
Karlach throws her head back with a laugh. "I'm all the more intrigued! Let's have at it!"
Amara ends up pulling Gale, Wyll, and Karlach forward and keeping everyone else back with the carts, and the four of them employ a rather… peculiar strategy. Letting the spectator hit the nearest statue, the moment the petrification wears off, Amara just bashes the drow in the face with her bow.
He blinks, rapidly, and seems to come to.
"Are you okay?" Amara demands, while her companions distract the one-eyed beast. "What happened here?!"
The drow shakes his head, shivering in displeasure. "Dust," he chokes out. "On. My. Tongue!" He spits out, and bright, intelligent eyes snap to Amara's. "I offer to parley, and he brings a spectator? Twit. Quite ruined my ambush."
"Yes— spectator, still an issue," Amara urges, spinning the drow around to face the creature.
"By the— of course it is." He looks over his shoulder. "Do I get to know your name?"
Amara gives him a wry smile. "If we survive."
"Oh, may we be so lucky," he jeers in return.
Amara just repeats that. The spectator does bring the petrified warriors to life again charmed, but it only takes a single hit to bring them back to Amara's side.
With a whole party to watch out for, Amara is hopelessly watching her companions take lethal damage.
With a whole party of her own, and a whole party of the drow's, they're more like a small army.
The spectator simply can't damage any single one of them enough to matter.
It finally crashes to the ground, a heap of viscera.
The drow exclaims victoriously, laughing. "How exhilarating! To finally down such a malignant creature— tell me, elf, how does it feel to assist one such as myself?"
Amara's brow goes up.
She kind of feels like hurling— it might be humorous to do it right in this drow's face.
Instead, she withholds the urge for now.
She can hear Astarion let out a thrilled giggle behind her.
"Assist?" she asks, putting her hands on her hips. "You mean how I rescued you and your people?"
"Rescue?" the drow emphasizes, as if the word is ridiculous.
Amara is now getting the faint urge to punch him.
"Helpless babes are rescued! And I— I am Dhourn. Third son of House Ba'Tol, first rank evoker, and initiate of Gravenhollow's…" He trails off, pulling something from his pocket. "…Oh. Oh no no my dear dark GODS BELOW, NO!"
*A memory shard. A container onto which brief mental impressions are projected, and stored for years at a time.*
Amara has procured them before; they certainly aren't that dim when first activated, however. This one must be quite old.
"It's fading— it seems you've been frozen like that for a while."
"Far, far longer than I realized," Dhourn agrees grimly. "Then my enemies have already found the forge. Which bastard stole my glory— Xargrim? Filro?"
"Do you speak of the Adamantite Forge? It's still hidden, as far as I know."
"Impossible. My rivals would have stopped at nothing. Unless… hah. Hah! The fools must have turned back. Or better yet, died in the search. Good. If they had just surrendered their research to me, we might have found the forge together. But no— they hoarded their knowledge, left each of us clinging to scraps. I had the good sense to lock mine away in the memory shard. And now I can claim the forge alone."
…Uh-huh.
"What knowledge does the crystal contain, exactly?" she asks, crossing her arms.
"Bold of you to ask."
Yes, okay, Amara definitely wants to punch him. She's decided.
"The others knew of the forge's defenses, its operation… but I know where to find it. The rest I can figure out with time, now I am the only one searching. Or… almost the only one. You proved your power in freeing me—"
Amara looks around the passageway. "Let me stop you there," she interrupts. "You mentioned before that you had wished your previous rivals had the good sense to join forces, yes? Well… seems a perilous journey. Is going it alone truly such a good idea?"
"You bloody well—" He stops, clears his throat. "What I mean to say, little elf, is that I have undertaken this research myself, beholden to no house or hold."
"House Ba'Tol, you said? You'll be welcomed back— all the male heirs died, I believe."
It is a bald faced lie.
"…Then my brothers have perished in my absence? With no sons to replace them…" Dhourn grips the shard and his eyes, intelligent and bright, dart around to his party members. They're receiving healing, chatting with Amara's party, and they've all lost years of their lives. Perhaps the elves and tieflings have family to go back to, but the humans… Dhourn hands Amara the memory shard.
She accepts it with a nod, her expression neutral, but inside she is celebrating. This is so much better than punching him and rewinding, and it will probably keep more of his people alive. Maybe even keep him alive.
"The memory shard answers to the pass-phrase 'Dhourn, Lord Archmage'. Not that I require you to take over my mission, but… if my house would fall without me, who would I be to risk the life of its last heir in the pursuit of a mere relic? I must return to my house, and tend to my family."
"I think that wise," Amara agrees, holding the crystal to her chest. "My name is Amara, should you ever need to find me."
"A pleasure, Lady Amara."
Dhourn and his merry band hustle off, and for a moment, Amara just watches them go.
Wyll eyes her carefully. "You lied to him," he points out. "Any particular reason? Did something happen that made you realize you needed that crystal?"
"Nothing so noble," Amara admits, feeling the weight of the magical gemstone. "I just didn't like him."
Wyll just blinks at her. Karlach bursts into guffaws of laughter. Astarion shakes his head, holding back laughter of his own.
Lae'zel narrows her eyes at her. "You are much more blunt now that we've known you for some time."
Amara gives her a sloped, exhausted smile. "It's not such a difference, I assure you. I just normally hide my more gray morality. I did think about just punching him, but ultimately I decided that we could benefit from this forge of his. And he was a dick."
Shadowheart heals the group's worst injuries, laughing under her breath as she does so, and heals Amara last. She touches the elf's face when her countenance does not improve.
"Was it a difficult battle?" she asks, her voice gentle, the question vague but one the whole camp knows the true meaning of.
Amara tries for a smile. The mental and emotional exhaustion from the sheer amount of snapping so far is finally setting in. She's sure she fails to make it look natural. "We need to get camp set up. We attract too much attention in such a large group."
Her companions exchange worried glances, but they can't argue with her, so they just nod. They reach a new area, another difficult place to get the carts down into, but with some magic and brute strength, they manage to sink the carts into a more scorched landscape of the Underdark and continue through until reaching the base of a structure.
"Hold on," Amara stops them. "Let's set up temporarily here. This isn't a safe place to camp, but this place is oozing with magic. I need to check it out."
"I'll come with you," Gale says immediately.
"Astarion, Karlach, you come too," Amara says. "Once we're in there, I'll see if I need a different combination and return here to swap."
Wyll looks at her with wide eyes for a long moment. "That is rather frightening to listen to you speak about so candidly, you realize."
Amara just smiles conspiratorially at him. "Well, we're friends. I trust you. Let's go."
The four party members set out into the dilapidated tower, which quickly proves a difficult ruin to explore. Arcane Turrets have been placed throughout, though they only require a few well placed Witch Bolts and some rather impressive explosions once Karlach has been Silenced.
Free from the meticulously placed defense system, Amara and her party climb an exhaustive amount of stairs to a massive door, where two lanterns hang at its opening, humming with magic.
Amara fiddles with them for a time before just crawling in through the window instead.
Fuck these puzzles.
There are, of course, more turrets inside.
Lovely.
These are taken care of with growing ease, which leaves Amara free to explore, the rest of her companions reading some of the tomes left out, considering the broken machinery lying around, and marveling at the insane contraption at the center of the tower.
"Woah, look at this crazy thing," Karlach gushes. "The stuff in here is amazing. Are we looking for anything in particular?"
Amara's eyes seek out Gale, only to find him already looking at her. "I don't know about particular…" she mutters.
"There's an excessive amount of magic here," Gale supplies. "Could be useful."
Astarion's voice echoes across the tower to them. "There's a place to jump down to the next level here," he yells, and the other three join him, helping each other climb off of a balcony and down onto the balcony of the floor below.
There are some potion ingredients on this floor, and some rather concerning specimens Amara isn't too interested in looking closely at.
*Your tadpole squirms in your skull.*
"Gah!" she gasps, wincing. "Don't— do that!" she chastises, holding the side of her head.
*It writhes, causing a horrible throbbing that seeks to be dulled.*
"Yes, well, good for it," Amara bites out under her breath.
After clearing the floor out of all the ingredients Amara thinks that she can utilize to create some potions for them, her and Gale cast Featherfall on the group, and they leap to the next floor down.
They climb down a series of sloping cliffs and large mushroom caps, into the back garden of the tower, filled with massive fungus and a knotted tree that casts a vibrant, pale blue light over everything.
At its base are several blooms.
Amara stares at them, recognizing the pattern of their petals, the twist of their roots.
"What, no commentary?" she growls under her breath. "You recognize this bloom from years studying the flora and wildlife. No? Nothing?"
Amara's narrator stays stubbornly silent.
"Fine, I'll figure it out myself…"
She gently pulls the bloom up by the roots, it's strange pull at her Weave unnerving her. There's a lurch in her stomach. The urge to snap.
Danger.
*A chill runs through you.*
Oh, so now there's commentary? What is this, a surprise attack?!
*Your magic— the air in your lungs, the pressure against your skin, the thrum like a pulse, a drum, in your ears… it's all fading.*
Amara's breath catches, fear beginning to roil in her stomach.
Her companions are immediately at her side, and Amara just tries to cast a simple cantrip, the easiest of magic, just to prove that she can still form light, fire, water— anything.
*The magic in your fingers sparks but your spells fail again and again— consumed by the sussur flower.*
Sussur flower? Sussur flower?! What in Chronos' sodden timepiece is a sussur flower?!
"Hey." Karlach grabs Amara by the arms, makes her focus. Make eye contact. Listen. "What's wrong? You look spooked."
Gale takes the flower from Amara immediately. "It's this, isn't it? This flower isn't agreeing with you, is it? Doesn't sit well with me either."
"What— what is it? It's drawing all my magic to it. It's— it's gone."
Astarion makes a sound of startled shock. He laughs nervously. "Might I suggest getting it back? I don't travel with you for your personality, you know."
Her eyes flick to him. For a moment, she feels like she can breathe out. There's no immense pressure on her lungs, no heaviness to the air. And, as usual, Astarion is able to make her smile with his quips.
"The feeling is very mutual, my friend," she teases back.
"See? Your sense of humor is still intact, at least. Let's finish up here quickly— the sooner we can get your magic back, the safer we'll be. Until then, just, aha… try not to die?"
Amara's expression shutters after that, something that Astarion definitely notices. His hesitant smile drops.
"I'm— I'm more than my magic… right?" she asks, again failing to cast a basic cantrip.
Karlach steps between her and the other two, again focusing the elf's gaze upward, toward her eyes. "I would say so, surely. Chin up, soldier. Might want to start learning to swing a sword. Stay behind me until then— I'll crack anyone who messes with you."
Amara gives a faint laugh. "Okay. Let's just— let's just figure out how to get into this tower. Why does this place have such a horrific plant in the back anyway?"
Amazingly, the door to the tower is… just open.
Amara's party enters its lowermost level, and with a fair amount of arguing and a lot of trial and error and misunderstandings and reading the tomes in the room, the party comes to the understanding of how to activate the contraption in the center of the room.
Once Amara's magic comes swimming back to her, she immediately snaps, and redoes the entire tower in a matter of ten minutes instead of roughly two hours.
The sussur flower is decidedly unpleasant both times, nearly draining all of her magic from her. Amara can feel the grip of Chronus on her body, but can't feel his influence in the world around her.
The dissonance of it is shockingly uncomfortable.
With the teleportation circle activated, the elevator is able to assist them in navigating through the tower with ease, and countless magical items are added to Amara's ever-growing collection.
Amara even finds a handwritten letter, among all the especially valuable loot. It's torn, worn, and blotted with tears, barely legible.
But the heart wrenching words burn themselves to the back of Amara's eyes all the same.
She summons a bit of Weave, and turns the note to dancing lights. No one else needs to know the suffering of the author.
Amara thinks they have it all together, as they go yet another floor up, and a metallic voice suddenly reminds her that first and foremost, time is never predictable.
"New sounds through damp and dark oppression break / Is it the foe, that foul contemptuous heel?"
Thoroughly startled, Amara whirls around and her eyes widen. The creature before her is less of a creature and more of a construct, of twists of glistening metal and glowing vitals.
*You know these words— they are from the opening stanza of a play you found in this very tower."
Oh, so you'll speak to Amara about this? But not about a flower?
Amara is grateful for the information all the same, and clears her throat. "'Or art thou friend, a rescue from my lonely wake?'"
"Come out of love for me, not love for blood and steel…" The construct leans forward, its movements jerky and halted. "Command as you see fit, my lord, my liege."
"Amara, darling, you do take me to the nicest places," Astarion drawls out, his lips peeling back as he observes the creature.
"Oh, don't complain. If there's really nothing good here, it will simply be like we never even considered coming."
Karlach frowns. "Doesn't that get… I don't know, tiring for you?"
Amara points at her. "Karlach, the minute we fix that engine, I am taking a nap with the warmest snuggle buddy I've ever come to know. Mark my frigid little words. Have you no concept, no consideration, for my sacrifice? The best part of any day is a good nap. Do you see me napping any time soon?"
Laughing again, Karlach just shakes her head. "Then to honor your sacrifice, I would eagerly welcome the nap, if just to give you one to look forward to."
Amara winks at her, and then refocuses at the construct. "Now, our new friend here on the other hand… perhaps doesn't make for the most comfortable of bed partners."
"Or the most original conversationalist," Gale remarks, standing next to Amara. "Don't get me wrong. I love poetry as much as the next wizard, but using it to command an automaton… seems a bit self-indulgent to me."
"Less to program," Amara points out. "'There is light in every living thing," she quotes. "It's crawling t'wards the surface to survive.'"
The construct whirs. Computes. Thinks. Decides. "And in its wake, it tramples everything. / We'll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive."
Behind its back, the construct pulls two wicked blades.
Amara immediately snaps.
"'How can I trust?'" she tries instead, unbeknownst to all the others. "'How will I ever know? / How can I show myself, my darkest me?'"
"If you do not your deepest secrets show? / Reveal your truth, give what you wish to see."
Amara hums, secretly holding back a massive sigh of relief, and she watches the automaton pace around the room. More than any other area of the room, it seems to circle a small desk in the corner. There isn't much on it— just a few trinkets.
Amara raises her hand and casts a slow spell. The sea and storm enter the room, the air growing denser and full of salt, and the breeze from the ocean's motion picking up her hair, the loose paper in the room, and anything not affixed or heavy. The wind grows stronger and stronger, and her Weave howls with it, raging over the ocean, until the clouds part and reveal the stars to guide the lost ships home. Guiding. Checking. Searching.
One item catches her search; a ring sits on the table, soaked in magic. Amara settles the items left astray by her magic back down, finding yet another piece of poetry scrawled across a worn page. This one was left out of a tome, so it didn't even have a book sleeve or shelf to keep it safe from the elements of the Underdark.
For some reason, this poem strikes her the deepest.
Amara sets it reverently aside, knowing a living hand penned the words, and slips the small, unassuming piece of jewelry onto her finger. She feels a slight tug at her gut, back toward the elevation, and down, down, down…
There's a floor beneath the ground one, a hidden basement. Once they descend, the ring is emanating a glowing light, which grows brighter and dimmer as she moves about the space. Amara and her party heatedly discuss what the rhyme and reason could be for the fluctuations, while Astarion insists they simply must take all the loot on the bookshelves.
"I know most of these spells," Gale chastises. "We've no need to log ourselves down. We already have the entire camp waiting outside for us."
"Still— we could sell them! Have you no entrepreneurial senses?"
Amara halts the both of them. "Pick nothing up."
"But—"
"This dalliance has delayed us too long. I will reset, and we will loot then."
The vampire's expression goes surprised for a moment but he shakes it off. "Perhaps one day I will get used to the way you think…"
Amara's hand wraps around a staff leaning against a table in the far corner, the guiding light from her ring absolutely beaming now. "Let's see…"
Eventually, she manages to find a lever, and upon pulling it, reveals a path back to the ground floor. Satisfied that's all that's down here, Amara snaps and they loot the room, finding the staff and a decent ring, in addition to all the tomes.
Amara also finds a diary.
A lonely diary.
"How swift!" Karlach comments, before her eyes glance over at Amara. "Hey, by any chance, you didn't…"
"Several times, yes. Exploring this tower took us several unnecessary hours," Amara admits, paging through the diary. "We should go."
Gale audibly swallows next to her. "If that's all you need, we can exit from the ground—"
"Actually…" Amara reads the final diary entry. It's ten years old now. "I'd like one more moment on the top floor. If it ends up being nothing…"
He clears his throat. "Right."
Amara takes the group to the top floor of the tower, and once again approaches the construct— Bernard, as she learned.
It— he… he bows his head to her. "Command as you see fit, my lord, my liege."
"'The silence stretches on— I'm all alone. / Please, can I hold your hands, for just a while?'"
"Of course, my love," he answers, "Don't be afraid, sweet girl." This doesn't sound like a poem. It just sounds like a friend, a lover. "What can I do? Say, would you like a hug?"
Oh, run Amara through. This poor woman, who lived alone in this tower.
With a small voice, she answers, "Yes, please."
"Come here. For just a moment. Let it out."
Awkwardly, with jerking movements, the automaton works his arms around Amara's form. Her companions are obviously uncomfortable with how strong the metallic construct probably is, how easily Amara could be crushed, but she's not paying them much heed.
She's trying to keep her tears at bay.
*His arms are too tight and too low for a comfortable hug— as if he's meant to be embracing someone slightly shorter.*
"Remember: you are loved, Lenore. So much. You're doing great. And everyone will be / so proud of you. As I already am."
With the same jerking, unsteady movements, the automatron lets Amara go, and once again stands upright.
A tear slides down Amara's cheek.
Bernard returns to his resting position, waiting for Lenore, in this long-abandoned tower, with its weather-worn tomes and torn, crumbling papers. And its diary, its last entry ten years old.
She wipes the tear away.
"Come," she commands her companions. "Our camp awaits our return."
In contemplative silence, they leave Lenore's tower, and her memories and constructs, behind.
/ / /
They have to set up a temporary camp with round the clock watches, waiting until they come across a safe enough spot. Amara is just too exhausted to keep going.
Her camp is exceedingly understanding, for some reason, and they occupy themselves by laying out their finds from the arcane tower, and Gale even offers to create a flowing font of water for her use to bathe in, knowing they don't have a safe water source at this camp like they did their last one.
It's an oddly touching offer.
Of course, he has to add his signature Gale anecdote to go with it, and that's Amara's favorite part.
"Just imagine it, Amara, all that's waiting for us at the end of this perilous adventure. Soft beds," he gasps in a way that makes Amara have to press her lips together to hold back her smile. Home cooked meals, and all the other little luxuries this wilderness so brashly denies us. Gods," he draws the sound out, almost in a groan. "I'd pay a king's ransom for a hot, lavender-scented bath— minstrels serenading as I close my eyes and let the water's warmth dissolve all my woes. Plenty to look forward to."
Amara thinks, as long as Gale is there, he has a point.
She doesn't say that, though, just smiles. "I think that's a lovely desire to hold on to. Don't go forgetting it, now."
Gale gives a hearty chuckle. "Oh, I won't. Enjoy your, well, shower, I suppose."
She goes in ready to charm the water warm, but Gale has beat her to it. She bathes and returns to a warm meal, which is rather lackluster but is the best they can make with their minimal ingredients.
She's taken one bite before two artifacts from the tower are thrust into her face.
"These are githyanki," Lae'zel points out, blunt yet accusatory.
Amara frowns and sets her spoon down. "Listen— we're not out here to open a museum of artifacts stolen from your people. I brought out all the things I found in the tower to see if anyone could see use in them. I'm not hiding anything from you. Can you read it?"
Quickly, Amara finishes her dinner, and she looks over to Lae'zel. who is flicking her gaze continually over the ancient runes on the slate, and turns it over in her hands. "Chk. It's very old. I cannot make out its purpose."
Amara offers her own hand, and Lae'zel passes her the disc.
At some point, Astarion snatched her emptied bowl.
Wandering to her bedroll, Amara sits down, the githyanki woman at her heels, and looks at both of them, scrutinizing.
*The disc is formed from slate and engraved with githyanki writing. You examine them closely, but can't make much sense of them. Using the cipher you found, you might be able to reveal the disc's meaning."
Swallowing, Amara looks more at the second gith artifact, matching up several of the symbols in her mind.
*A pattern forms as you gaze at the disc, and from within that pattern, a story emerges. 'The Prince of the Comet, Part One.'*
"Oh, shit—" Amara startles, pulling the disc closer. "It's a storybook."
"A what?"
By now, more members of camp are watching Amara and Lae'zel. The elf raises her hand and gestures for them to come closer, to sit by the fire.
"Hang on, let me read ahead a bit… okay, 'so it was that we were free from ghaik shackles and turned our blades on each other. The heavens were shattered, and once great empire was divided in two. Gith traveled to the Hells to broker help for her people, her cause. Vlaakith would have you believe… Mother Gith proclaimed her… our queen'…" Amara trails off, brows furrowing.
"What's wrong?" Lae'zel asks, and by now she's so close that she's basically crawling on top of Amara.
"Don't— you're elbowing me!" the wizard whines. "Here, just— stay still!" She situates the githyanki woman in her lap. "It gets harder to read. I can't tell which symbol this one is with the cipher."
"It is 'lies'," Lae'zel supplies. "Rather emphatically."
Amara breathes a laugh. "Right, okay, I can do emphatically. 'Lies! Gith made no such proclamation. Vlaakith seized the empire against the Mother's wishes. But Gith had nurtured a son. Orpheus, Prince of the Comet, the True Heir! He knew Vlaakith's treachery.'"
"Tsk'va! Lies! Vlaakith is—"
"Hush!" Amara bumps her with her knee. "I'm reading us a bedtime story. We'll discuss its validity and the permutations and consequences of that after I've finished."
"You know not what you speak of. My lady is—"
"'Orpheus rallied Gith's honor guard and declared the throne for himself. The War of the Comet had begun'," Amara talks over her. "How curious. That's how it ends— it's labeled 'part one'. There must be more somewhere."
*It's an intriguing tale— and a forbidden one, given how expertly it was encoded.*
Amara begrudgingly has to agree.
Lae'zel hesitantly takes the two artifacts from Amara, and puts them in her lap. Her eyes flick to Shadowheart.
Immediately, the half-elf tenses. "Mention it not," she advises. "We have exhausted this discussion, Lae'zel. I won't warn you again."
"It is an heirloom to my people!" she yells, climbing out of Amara's lap.
The elf sighs.
"Heirloom?" Shadowheart mocks in return. "Plundered from some conquered realm, more like. This artifact is the only thing keeping us from becoming slaves to our parasites. Be glad I have it."
Karlach pops her head out of her tent. "What's going on?" she asks. "Why're they arguing?"
"Lae'zel thinks I have something important to her people. She's deluded, clearly."
Amara, with a flat affect, merely chastises, "Shadowheart."
"Lies," Lae'zel growls back. "She carries an heirloom of my people. I must know why."
In the same tone of voice, Amara adds, "Lae'zel."
"We should stop them, shouldn't we?" Wyll asks, starting to put his hands up as the two of them approach each other.
"Oh, no, I say we let them continue," Astarion drawls out. He rolls his eyes when he catches Amara glaring at him.
"I believe Wyll's sentiment is the right one," Gale throws in. "We're in enough danger already— must we fight with each other too?"
Amara rolls her Weave between her fingers. With a flick, she can feel the wind on her skin, in her hair. She smells cut grass, fresh herbs, and the sun-baked earth. The colors of the world around her bleed, blur, mesh, and then separate back out again. Changing. Moving. Stepping.
Amara uses a Misty Step to appear beside the both of them, one hand on each of their shoulders. "Stop this."
"But—"
"Chk!"
"You've both been through this argument before. It won't get us anywhere but further at each other's throats. I need you both, okay? I need you."
Shadowheart makes a gasping sound that startles the githyanki, and for a moment, the scowl drops from her face.
"Can I do it, Lae'zel?" she asks, in a softer voice than she used before, a touch of vulnerability to her tone, her expression. "Can I turn my back on you?"
"Never," Lae'zel snaps instantly. "Thieves aren't afforded such luxury."
"Loosen the grip on your pride for one blasted moment, won't you?" Shadowheart demands, pushing forward toward the githyanki woman, against Amara's hand braced against her shoulder. "We needn't be enemies— there's plenty of those to go around already."
"Tsk. What would you have, that we be friends?" Lae'zel practically mocks.
Oh, Amara wishes she could just knock the gith upside the head.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Shadowheart mocks right back. "But imagine what we might achieve if we channeled some of that hostility back at our real foes instead of each other. They wouldn't stand a chance."
Lae'zel's brows raise at this. She looks… pleasantly surprised, even.
"I could find that amenable."
"Thank the gods. I really need to sleep now, devils and dream visitors be damned," Amara quips, and she lays down on her bedroll. "Who's taking the first watch?"
"We're splitting half and half," Shadowheart informs her. "Astarion, Karlach, and Wyll are sleeping while you are. We'll get you up part way through the night to switch."
"Mm," she says by way of reply. "Sounds great."
The rest of the camp disperses.
Karlach stays in her tent. Wyll stays up with Halsin for a while, patrolling the outer ring of camp, and the watch for the night stay on the perimeter, and even a distance out.
It's more difficult for them to move quickly, so an early warning system is paramount.
Astarion lays down next to Amara.
She cracks an eye open.
"Hello, darling," he greets in a low voice.
She mumbles a reply.
Chuckling, he leans his head back onto his hands, folded behind him. "Don't rewind so much tomorrow. We'll figure out where to camp. You shouldn't be exhausting yourself to this extent."
Amara hums.
"I already have an idea," she claims, voice thick with sleep. "One snap."
"Snap?"
She presses her fingers together to show him the gesture. "Rewind. Somatic component."
"Ah," he answers, his foot bouncing. It abruptly stops. "Wait— are you saying you're going to scout ahead for an entire day to find a decent camp spot, and then snap back?"
She makes a sound and closes her eyes again, letting her hand fall back to her bedroll.
"Amara, that's a suicide mission."
"What does that matter?"
There's no reply, and Amara has to crack an eye open again. Astarion is half sitting up now, his mouth partly open.
"What?" she asks, both eyes opening. "What's wrong?"
His mouth snaps closed. "Nothing," he lies, completely obviously. "Get some rest, Amara, darling."
Amara's eyes stay open, focused on him.
"Look— I don't want to talk about it while you're practically asleep," Astarion asserts. "You can ask me anything else that your pretty little mind can think of, just… not that."
Amara makes her sleepy little hum again.
"How does someone become a vampire, exactly?" Amara asks, angling to understand if Astarion's condition is reversible, and if he'd want that in the first place.
He scoffs. "It's simple. Just find a vampire that will drink your blood and turn you into a vampire spawn: their obedient puppet."
Okay, two things: Amara has mistakenly convinced Astarion she would like to be turned, gods forbid, and Astarion absolutely would want his condition reversed, if it's possible.
"In theory," he continues, "the next step is to drink their blood. Once you've done that, you're free and a true vampire."
"'In theory'?" Amara asks through a yawn, filing that away as a possible way to treat Astarion.
"People think the biggest threat to a vampire is a cleric with a stake. It's not," he says, his expression unmistakably… sad. "The biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire. They're scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts." His expression grows darker. "So why would any vampire give up control over a spawn to create a competitor?"
Okay, strike that. Not a possible way to treat Astarion.
"Trust me. It doesn't happen."
Amara rolls the words around in her mouth. Blast it, she's wide awake now.
"What?" Astarion asks. "Now, do you want me to spill my guts for you? Tell you about how I am a slave to a scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beast who wouldn't know kindness even if it came up and bit him?"
He reaches out and touches Amara this time, holding her chin and hovering over her. It's close to the position he bit her in before.
"Is there anything you like about being a vampire?"
He startles, lets her go, scrambles back to his own bedroll. "What?"
"You have some additional strength, speed. Your teeth make for powerful weapons, aimed at our foes. You can feed and fight at the same time. You live forever. Do any of those things make your current state worth it?"
Astarion's brow lowers dangerously. "Darling, make no mistake. You don't know me."
Amara sighs. She figures she won't learn that information today.
She snaps that question out of time.
"Trust me. It doesn't happen," Astarion says, and this time, Amara reaches between their bedrolls and touches his arm lightly. The vampire sighs. "I may have gotten a touch heated there."
"I just wish I could do something."
He makes a sound at the back of his throat. "We shall have to just let our adventure run its course. I trust you. Do you trust me?"
"Of course."
His red eyes glitter. "A curious choice, to trust a vampire."
"I don't trust a 'vampire'," Amara clarifies with a clear voice. "I trust you, regardless and all-encompassing of everything you are."
Astarion doesn't reply, and Amara rolls back over to her bed. She makes herself comfortable and closes her eyes.
His blood red eyes stay fixed on her the entire time she's falling asleep.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 16: Running High
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XVI
Running High
Amara chooses to ask over breakfast.
"Gale, would you like to go on a suicide mission with me?"
He spits out a mouthful of water.
"I'm— I beg your pardon?"
"I've never had a partner before, so it will be an unusual experience for us both. Ordinarily, I would consider them 'information gathering', and to be clear, I don't usually die. In fact, I've never died," she proclaims with a note of pride in her voice.
"Yes, I've noticed," Gale drones out, unamused. "So you are proposing that the two of us go on a mission to gather information, and after we procure the knowledge you wish to possess…"
"I come right back to the breakfast table, and we move the camp," Amara confirms, taking a sip of her light soup. "What do you say? I just learned Misty Step the other day. I'm itching to see how far I can push it."
Gale sits back, crosses his arms over his chest, and the corner of his lip twitches like he's combatting a smile. "The poor man's teleport, hmm? While I could see it being an attractive option, there are a plethora of lesser-known mobility spells that have a larger breadth of impact on your abilities. I have to wonder if you've explored any of those avenues."
Amara puts her hand on her chest. "Ouch. Am I bleeding?" She makes a dramatic show of checking her hand for blood. "Before I had this worm in my head, I'll have you know I could summon spirits, call lightning from the sky— even shape the dreams of others. That being said… as far as mobility spells go, I have Spider Climb."
Gale blinks at her. "You don't have Fly?"
Amara rolls her eyes. "I thought a climbing spell would be more useful since we were about to go underground! Not a lot of flying, in my thought process. What do you have?"
He frowns. "Fly, obviously."
Amara rolls her eyes. "Obviously."
"And Kinetic Jaunt."
She quirks a brow. "Sidestepping enemies?"
"I'm so glad you asked," he says, brightening.
"I didn't—"
Gale holds up a finger. "Kinetic Jaunt has a plethora of benefits that Misty Step simply cannot compare to. See, while you could potentially, say, break free from a grapple or span a gap I could not even with my increased speed, my spell allows me to work in both complete Silence and Darkness. Additionally, as it's a sidestepping ability, I won't be hit while moving away unlike you."
Amara stands from the table and gathers up everyone's dishes. She arches a brow. "Interesting."
The confidant smile drops from the wizard's face. "What is that supposed to mean."
A slow smile spreads across Amara's face. "It's a lot of… curious points."
"I'm missing something," he says, but Amara just shrugs and sets all the dishes in a pile, casting Create Water and beginning to clean them. "Amara," he whines. "What am I missing?"
Amara laughs openly, taking pity. "Tell me, Gale, have you ever been in a… dangerous position when you used Kinetic Jaunt?"
His eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"
"Let's say we're in a heated battle. You've cast Hypnotic Pattern offensively to keep an enemy at bay, and two others are still encroaching. You want to disengage from the opponent directly in front of you, but—"
"Hells!" he curses. "Concentration!"
Amara laughs even louder, and flings the water spell into the ground. "Come along, Gale of Waterdeep— let's go for a jaunt, shall we?"
He points accusatorily at her. "You are pushing it, Amara."
"Shadowheart!" Amara calls, catching the cleric's attention.
The others are milling about the camp, but they seem to have tuned the wizards out. Shadowheart snaps to look over at Amara immediately, though, setting a book down in her lap. "When will you be back?"
"In a second," Amara answers, her lips sloping in a smile.
Shadowheart's thick brows lower. "Is that literal?"
Amara just smiles wider.
She uses Misty Step and teleports out of the camp, laughing. "Catch up to me with that jaunt of yours if you can, Gale!"
His laugh of disbelief is audible, so he's already caught up a significant amount. "You can be more arrogant than I am sometimes, you know that?"
"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean!" Amara calls back, over the wind as she runs over the landscape.
It's a terrifying place, if she's being honest. Dark, full of mist and growth the likes of which she's never seen before. Massive mushroom heads, glowing spores. Polluted waterways trickling through craggy rocks. Decrepit and manmade forms that could house life.
Amara Steps over a rushing river, and scrambles up a steep wall with adeptness.
"A-Amara!" she hears from behind her, as she clears over the rocky wall.
There's a flash, and suddenly he grabs onto the edge of it, scrambling for purchase, and she slows to grab onto his hands, pulling him up.
"Well, isn't this familiar?"
"Oh, shut up," he responds, panting slightly.
Amara looks around, danger prickling her senses. The beach they're on is near a source of water, sure, but it's in the wide open and she can tell— they're being watched.
"Can you keep up?" she asks, leaning in closer to him. "I can start this over. I thought you might enjoy—"
"I'm fine," he insists, though he's still short of breath. "I can keep up with you."
"We're being watched," she tells him, close enough to once again see the way his mark crawls up his neck, over his jaw, across his cheek. She touches it lightly. "Feeling brave?"
"Around you? It's hard not to."
She laughs. "Off we go, then!"
Gale catches her hand. "One thing. Amara— I…"
Her smile turns down at the corners. "Is now the time, Gale?"
"It's just… my affliction— it is dangerous."
"So am I."
"Not— not like that. It's dangerous to others, but also… to myself. I shouldn't form… attachments. Not like this. I'm sorry, Amara."
She touches his face again, drifts to right below his bottom lip. "Is that your only reason to show reluctance?"
"Amara, please…"
"You've already formed an attachment, Gale," she asserts, confident. "Your ailment aside."
He swallows, pulls his lower lip between his teeth. Amara pulls it back out.
"If I were well, Amara, I would go about this entirely differently. There would be many things I would… but to think this way is fruitless. I face a deadly fate. And I will face it alone."
"Say my name again," she requests, taking a few steps back from him, her Weave beginning to gather at her feet, ready to Step. "Please, Gale."
His eyes burn. "Amara. I would wish— if I could only…"
"Fate is a tricky thing. It exists, but is not all-powerful. I've been running from my own fate for a long while." Amara extends her hands, takes Gale's and Steps, in a flurry of bright, glowing blue light, and she begins to move surrounded by raw magic. "I'm quite good at it, too," she brags, "the running."
"Amara— what are you…" Gale scrambles to keep up, his own magic joining hers, a canvas of blue and violet in the dark landscape.
She leans in close to his face, mid-Step, floating on magic, and her lips hover just above his. "I do so love how you say my name," she whispers. Then she is ahead of him by a significant amount, and he has to push his own Weave out to catch up, as they tumble down the side of a cliff, Amara floating in Feather Fall and Gale with Fly.
"Do you think you could run?" she asks over her shoulder to him, and he catches up as the hit land again.
He pants, looking deeply into her eyes, his own so drowned in darkness that she can't see a hint of their pleasant brown warmth. "Run? From… my fate?"
"I've been running for hundreds of years, you know. From countless attempts on my life. Mind flayer parasite included," she says, taking Gale's hand, tugging it as she keeps moving. They reach the opening of something of a cave, and Amara slows them to a stop, and turns to face him fully.
"I don't think this is something I can run from, for very long," Gale admits.
"You can always run," she assures him. "That's the fun in it, adrenaline pumping, narrowly escaping, finding new solutions to old problems. And you don't have to be alone." She holds his hands, pulls him forward with a gentle tug. "You just have to say my name again. Say it, and I'll run with you. We'll run together."
Gale's chest works visibly as he breathes, each breath labored, his gaze burning. His mouth opens, his eyes water with emotion, and his voice cracks when he says, "Amara— I…"
Amara leans forward, places the softest brush of her lips to his cheek, angled toward the corner of his lips. "Time to run, then." She grips his hands. "Do try to keep up, my dear?"
The cave dead ends in a rather safe area, but Amara worries they'll have trouble getting across the landscape right outside of it. They leave and go east instead, across large plateaus of mushrooms that nearly derail the pair of them, almost sounding like… singing. Eager to get away, they veer south, over several more bodies of water, and eventually end up back near where the Selûnite Outpost is located, but this time approaching from the outside.
Amara winces when she watches a monster get fried, the magic from two illuminated posts on either side of the gates clearly a protective measure.
"At this point, it's looking like that cave is our best bet," Gale remarks, and Amara's significantly slowed down to keep pace with him now. He's gone though all the potions they brought, and his brow is wet with sweat, his countenance quite drawn and ill.
"We can go back to this morning and make straight for the cave, and create a waypoint there," Amara suggests. "It would not be the easiest on our magic, but I don't think we could maneuver the carts— oh, wait. Stop!" She holds onto Gale's robes and points, as the curve of the wall near where they'd fought the Spectator is riddled with mushroom caps sticking out the side of it.
The air is heavy.
Amara bolts for the wall, activating Spider Climb and scaling the wall with ease, and for a moment she ignores Gale calling her name at the bottom of the wall to observe the giant glowing blue circle at the top of the wall.
The air grows even heavier.
With great hesitation, Amara touches the edge of the circle and it fluctuates between blue and green and with a plummeting feeling in her stomach and the sense of falling forward, she stumbles forward and finds herself looking right at Gale, who blinks at her.
"How did you— where did you…"
Amara laughs, throwing her head back. "Mushroom circles!" she says, clapping her hands together. "Oh, this is simply splendid! And we're not too far from Lenore's tower! This will work, perfectly, I should think. Agreed?"
To test it, Gale steps into the mushroom circle and appears at the top of the wall, peering down at Amara and yelling, "Hello!" down at her, followed by an unintentionally loud, "Gosh, this is high…"
She holds back her laugh as he returns, and smiles at him. "Satisfied?"
"It's certainly— secluded," he concludes. "I do believe it will work splendidly."
"Then, I believe it's time to return to this morning—"
"Amara!" he interjects, startling the elf. "Our conversation is— it's important to me. I realize you could repeat it, but I… I would like to attempt to keep it in its most genuine state."
Amara frowns. "Gale, I mean this in the kindest way possible, but this adventure of ours took hours. Hours we don't have to spare. We must reach Moonrise."
He sighs, struggling, and grips his hands together. "Yes, I do— do understand. Is there any chance it could work like your Misty Steps spell? And as long as you're holding on to me, I come with you?"
"You— you mean, we would both keep our memories?" Amara asks, her mind racing. "Well, I've never attempted such a thing. My somatic component only requires one hand… so theoretically I could hold onto you with the other…"
"Could we give it a try?"
She eyes him carefully. "I give you no promises, Gale."
His lips turn up in a small smile. "I will have to live with that, I suppose."
Amara holds out her hand. Gale places his palm in hers, and she intertwines their fingers. "Hold on, then. I haven't the faintest idea what this will be like for you." She raises her dominant hand between their faces, so near each other, and snaps.
Hours before, that morning, Shadowheart asks, "Is that literal?"
And then there's the sound of retching, and Amara and everyone else turn to see Gale coughing, half collapsed over the dining table.
"Shit," she curses, a bit loudly, and she rushes over to him. "Oh, that was a terrible idea, wasn't it? I'm so sorry— I was excited about it and I shouldn't have done something so reckless when I didn't know what it would do to you. Would you like me to roll back further? I could—"
"No!" he strangles out, wiping his mouth and sitting up, further into where Amara's hands press into his back, his arms. "No, I'm quite all right. Quite— ugh…"
Amara quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. "Yes, you certainly sound right as rain. Are you just nauseous or in pain too?"
"N-nauseous," he chokes out.
"Sit," Amara orders. "I'm going to make you some tea."
By now, the rest of the camp has realized something is wrong. "What happened?" Halsin asks, coming out of his tent.
"I took Gale back in time with me," Amara admits. "Do you have any ginger? Licorice root?"
Halsin stares at her for a beat.
"You can… do that?" Wyll asks, while Amara gets some water boiling over the fire.
"Apparently," Amara says with a shrug. "I haven't ever done it before."
The druid returns with a pouch full of herbs, which Amara picks through and is pleased to find both ginger and peppermint. "You do scare me a bit sometimes, wizard."
Shadowheart sits next to Gale and hands him a small roll, which he takes gratefully. "Are you all right?"
He breathes slowly, blinking into the sunlight of the morning. "What a peculiar sensation, like the reversal of one's senses followed by an onslaught of familiarity. I felt lost to the world for a moment, as if I had drowned in a sea of nothingness, was lost a dark fate previously unknown to me. Then, suddenly, I could smell the campfire."
"Really?" Amara asks, handing him a cup of tea. "Sound always comes back to me first. How curious. Drink."
He eyes it suspiciously, sniffing at it.
She eyes him incredulously, frowning at him.
"Drink. It."
He drinks it.
Karlach sits heavily on the other side of the dining table, putting her elbows on it. "But you remember everything, though?! How long were you two gone?"
Gale sputters over the tea for a moment before recovering, wiping his mouth again. "Several hours, I believe. As far as I am aware, I have all my memories. I would say a slight discomfort is little cost to pay for something that valuable."
"I agree," Lae'zel interjects, standing in front of her tent. "We should each take an innocuous trip back, and get this visceral reaction out of the way."
Wyll nods along with her. "That is a good point. There's a high likelihood that we would become as accustomed to it as Amara is, considering how difficult it is to even tell she's moving through time in the first place. We could at least avoid getting sick. No offense, Gale."
"Only a little taken," he quips back, finishing his cup of tea. "We did manage to find a safe spot to make camp. It is probably only an hour's journey from here to set up."
Amara takes the cup from him. "Do you need more rest before we travel? You still look exhausted." She touches his face, the darkness beneath his eyes still prominent. Her frown deepens. "Your mana should have replenished. And yet you still…"
He carefully pulls her hand from his face. "I'm all right for now."
Amara frowns. "I collected so many snacks for you."
The laugh that forces itself out of his chest is a pained one. "And I thank you, Amara, I really do. I will tell you immediately when I require one."
"If you're sure…"
"I am."
Amara worries the front of her robes in her hands but ultimately leaves him be, and Shadowheart tends to him for a moment longer. She directs Lae'zel and Astarion to keep circling their border, while Karlach and Wyll help Volo and Alfira pack everything up, and Halsin and Amara see to the animals and setting the carts up.
They reach the mushroom circles within two hours.
"Splendid," Halsin compliments. "We can take it from here. Take a party with you and begin the hunt for the trail to Moonrise, Lady Amara."
She nods to him and looks over all her companions. Her fingers ache as she presses them together. There's a light throbbing in her head.
"Shadowheart, I know that you—"
"I am always ready," she interrupts, already knowing what the wizard would say. "As the healer, I am prepared at all times."
Amara takes a deep breath. "Wyll, I believe I owe you from last time."
He grins. "The Blade is always at the ready. Lead the way."
She eyes Gale. "Stay here," she advises.
"Amara—"
"If I run into something, I can always come back for you."
He hedges, obviously unsettled. "I am not so weak as you think."
"It isn't because I think you weak," she counters softly. "It is because I care for you. Rest."
Gale doesn't seem to have an argument for that.
"Astarion," she decides. "Suit up."
"Really? I— of course." He quickly straps a new chest piece Amara hasn't seen him wear before on, and she quickly tries to orient herself.
"We'll go north for now. We saw a lot of life there. There were some buildings to the west, as well. We could check the contents of the crystal, and discover the forge's secrets as well."
Shadowheart nods and Wyll puts his hand on her shoulder. "We'll follow your direction, Lady Amara."
/ / /
It goes as poorly as Amara can just about predict.
They make it about half an hour north before there's a booming sort of voice that splits through Amara's brain and she has to resist snapping the instant she hears it.
((*more are coming*))
Wyll throws a hand out in front of Amara, halting her.
"Who— what in the hells are you?" Astarion growls, looking around them with haste.
((*they're coming. they're coming*))
"Chronos break my hands," Amara curses, and she feels her companions snap to look at her, surprised with the vitriol she speaks with. "Tell me I'm not imagining that voice, please. The last thing I need is another voice in my head."
"No, someone's coming," Astarion confirms. "And someone else wants us to know…"
"Before we jump to a hasty conclusion, we should identify its source…" Wyll argues. "It might be some devil's ploy."
((*they're coming. you're coming*))
Well, isn't that just perfectly ominous?
Amara just continues her merry way down the odd wooden rod staircase. Why not, at that point? Right? Just— why not? Might as fucking well.
*You are swallowed by a chorus of turbulent music. Through one creature sings many voices: the harmony of an entire collective.*
"The singing we heard—" Amara realizes, grabbing onto Wyll's arm. "Gale and I were flying over a large collection of mushrooms. It was… them."
There, on the edge of a large shroom head, is a fungal creature.
((*Sovereign. she has come. she is here*))
*The choir fades. A single melody rises above the others, brassy and commanding.*
((*I am Sovereign*))
*You see a vision: your lifeless body, wrapped in fungal tendrils. The sovereign is threatening you.*
((*state your purpose*))
The music washes over Amara. The brassy tone is indeed commanding, but… it hides something. Something else. Something… more fragile.
*You detect a distinct quiver in every note. These creatures have experienced recent tragedy.*
Amara's heart sinks. There's so much pressure to move quickly, to keep going— but so much pain. How much pain did everyone suffer while Amara was none the wiser?
She has to do what she can, as quickly as she can.
It's what she is meant to do. Why she remains here.
"I sense your fear," she urges, in a soft voice. "I've come to aid you."
*Fungal roots weave through your mind, seeking your true intent.*
…Shit.
*Then the sovereign drones a new melody, cautious but welcoming.*
Oh, okay.
((*descend to me. let us speak in flesh*))
Mm. Okay… Amara doesn't really like that phrasing.
*The persistent music coaxes you forward. The sovereign expects you.*
Wyll walks next to Amara as they traverse deeper. "This appears to be a myconid colony," he advises her. "Have you much knowledge about them?"
Amara shakes her head. "I haven't the… pleasure. No."
"They live in circles like these, protected lands, with a form of hivemind and yet individual personalities. They're generally peaceful, sentient creatures."
Amara speaks with several of them as they walk through the colony, and though she agrees with Wyll's summary of their nature… she finds something gloomy and almost eerie about their mood. Something droning and almost dirge-like in the melody they share.
"Corpses," Shadowheart points out as they reach a new area. "Duergar. Dark dwarves."
*The sovereign's thick fingers stroke the corpse at its feet. A droning melody greets you as the creature turns its gaze to you.*
Amara shivers. See, this is what she means. Something is wrong.
((*flesh-talker*))
Mm-nn. Oh, boy.
((*I show you a memory. watch and listen*))
Mm-nn! Oh… fine.
*A violent vision grips you: duergar chopping myconid remains.*
((*they broke our peace. they killed our young*))
*The sovereign's song slows to the pace of a dirge. It is still in mourning.*
((*we laid waste to many. but intruders remain. lakeward*))
*The sovereign's song halts as it measures your worth.*
((*I sense your resolve. you will find duergar invaders near lake's edge. cleanse the Rot. destroy them*))
"I admit, I like this one's approach. A little genocidal, but effective," Astarion drawls, and Amara waps him affectionately on the arm, and he retaliates by wapping her back in the stomach.
"If I do assist you— I'd like to know why the duergar committed such an attack," Amara asks the sovereign.
*Deep purple swirls into familiar shapes: gnomes in mining gear chased by duergar.*
((*the duergar seek a gnome. it is a guest*))
Amara's brows raise. "You harbor a fugitive gnome? Admirable of you," she recognizes.
*The sovereign says nothing, but you hear appreciation in its song.*
Well. Fine. What is Amara supposed to say? Forget it, if you want them dead, you can kill them yourself? She just isn't that kind of person.
"Sure, I can handle those duergars nearby," she agrees, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
*An illusion comes over you: a duergar, choking on a cloud of gleaming dust.*
((*accept this gift. it will help you exterminate.*))
*The sovereign gifts you one more vision: a wall of vines parting to reveal glowing light.*
((*riches of magic and mind. cleanse the Rot, and they are yours*))
Amara quickly looks to her companions, finding anxiety in their eyes. She must reflect it to some extent.
((*you do the Circle a service. we will await word*))
Amara steps away from the myconid, and all the spores in the air, and she opens her mouth to comment about the task which she just agreed to when Astarion grabs onto her arm.
"Amara," he says, his tone grave. "Blood."
She snaps to look at him. "In… a colony of fungal people? Take me there."
His eyes, too dark to really see their red hue, focus on hers for a few moments before he pulls her forward and over the large mushroom cap.
"Oh, gods!" Shadowheart exclaims, seeing her first. "There," she points, and Amara sees her too. A gnome, laying on her back, hands pressed over a wound on her stomach.
"Don't," the gnome says firmly.
*Her condition is familiar. Poison, derived from a wild weed common to the Underdark.*
"Shit," Amara curses. "Blood and poison…"
*She'll need an antidote soon— most likely held by the poisoner."
"Who did this to you?" Amara asks,
"…Duergar… slashed me…"
Amara realizes this must be the gnome that the sovereign spoke of.
"How did you end up here?"
"Myconids - agh! - took pity on me. Sound lads— especially since the grays gave 'em hell for it."
"Now that's hospitality. The fungus could teach our druid friends a thing or two," Astarion points out, and Amara is pleasantly surprised. "What?" he asks, putting his hands on his hips. "I didn't exactly like how they treated the tieflings, you realize."
"You said you hated the celebratory party."
"I hated being treated like a hero!" Astarion corrects. "Very different, darling, come on. Keep up."
"Um, poisoned gnome, you two?" Wyll mentions again. "Lady Amara? Potions master? Alchemist? Antitoxin?"
"Oh! Right, right!"
Amara leans down next to the gnome and quickly pulls a potion from her pouch. She guides the bottle to the gnome's lips and helps her drink it, steadying her by holding the back of her head.
When the gnome starts to come back around, Amara helps her sit back up again, until she is able to hold herself up in a sitting position.
"Ah… gods… whatever that is… I needed it." Suspicious eyes jump up to Amara's. "Why're you helping me?"
"How could I pass by? You were in pain."
"No arguments there. Felt like a hook horror was sorting through my guts. But… ngh… that cure did the trick. Quick-sharp, too. Name's Thulla. I thank you for your help, but I gotta get moving— ah!" She holds her side, wincing in pain.
Similarly, Shadowheart winces in pain behind Amara. "Ngh… it hurts…"
Amara flicks her gaze to the cleric, but she just shakes her head.
"Garl's garters, I don't have time for this. My kin need me," Thulla says, shaking her head.
"Take it easy and tell me what I can do."
"…seems you're the helping kind. All right— I need you to rescue my kin."
Astarion hits Amara in the stomach and she waps him on the leg.
"Not charity, mind— we can pay. We're Ironhand clan, best artificers in Baldur's Gate. We were on an expedition down here when the duergar snatched us up."
Amara sends the other elf a look that says, see? I told you.
"I got away, but not the others. The grays have them digging out some old ruin across the lake."
Amara clears her throat and refocuses on the gnome instead of her rogue. "What was this expedition your clan were on?"
"Just mining for materials. Nothing unusual."
Oh, sure. Yeah. Amara is sure.
*The briefest hesitation, but enough. She's lying.*
Yeah.
Amara got that on her own, thanks narrator.
"But our work pays well. Help my clan and we'll make it worth your while. I swear."
Amara crosses her arms. "You're lying."
"…Fine. It's complicated, but my clan has trouble back in the city. A blood-feud. We were searching for something to turn the tide. That's all I can say— but it's worth a lot to us. Understand?
Amara doesn't really understand. She wishes people wouldn't feel the need to beat around the bush so much.
"All right," she sighs. "I'll free your people if I can."
"Thank you. Only wish I could go with you. But here— I nabbed these boots from the grays when I ran. I'll feel better knowing you're using 'em to kick some duergar ass. I'll mark where I made my escape. And… wait here, I suppose. Not much choice, eh?"
/ / /
"Two missions? Really?" Astarion asks the moment they're out of earshot. Or rather, he hisses it in Amara's ear. "Don't you have any sense of time, for its domain's progeny? We are short on it, or haven't you heard?!"
Amara rolls her eyes. "We have a month," she says, before she really thinks about it.
Her companions stop walking and she slows to a stop.
Really, her and her big mouth.
"How do you know that, Lady Amara?" Wyll asks, voice a touch lower than usual.
She puts her hands on her hips. "Oh, please. It's not such a secret. I have mentioned it before, in a roundabout way. I learned about this plague of mind flayer parasites that happened all while I avoided my fate, and went back in time. I went back a little over a month, which means - conceivably - we have at least a month before anything happens with our worms. Maybe even more, of that I'm not entirely sure."
"A month— well… that certainly is a weight off the mind," Shadowheart remarks, her eyes wide.
"And is there a reason you elected not to tell us this earlier?" Astarion accuses.
Amara stops, turns. "Sure, darling," she drawls. "Because time is flexible. It's ever changing. I believe, at this point in time without me here, at least one of you was permanently deceased. I don't know which one, but one of you was. You did not stick together as one team. There was no 'safe camp'. There were just groups of you, trying to survive without rest. Dying one by one. Just like I am attempting to change that fate, so too might fate change something else."
"You're saying, because you are intervening this time around, the timeline might shift," Wyll supplies, holding his hands up. "And that's why you didn't tell us. Correct?"
She flicks her eyes in his direction. "You are mostly correct, yes. However, I would say the main reason I didn't tell you is just that it slipped my mind, if I'm being honest."
"Slipped…"
"There are a lot of things I willingly withhold, and a lot of things I withhold just because they never occur to me that they're useful bits of information. It's hard to retrain my brain to be more transparent when I've never had a group I've been so honest with before."
She turns, keeps walking.
"Amara—"
"Hold up."
They're approaching a dead end, but there at the end of it is a hobgoblin. Amara feels a tug toward him, though not to him specifically. More like the air around him.
She swallows. "Come with me, we will resume this conversation after."
"Wait, Lady Amara—"
"Ah, a visitor!" the hobgoblin says before he even turns around. "You're a welcome sight."
Amara finds that ironic.
He does turn around then, though. "But let us observe the customs of the locals," he surmises, hands extended, and giving Amara a bad feeling.
*The scholar's brow tenses. His voice spills into your skull, the spores connecting mind to mind.*
"Blurg, proud member of the Society of Brilliance, at your service," he introduces himself through the forced connection, which Amara instantly severs.
She has enough voices in her head, thanks.
"Hgh— nzzt. Or perhaps not. Your mind is far more complex than that of the fungi," he remarks, though whether that's a compliment or an insult, Amara can't really tell.
Amara decides she should finally say something to the silver-haired hobgoblin. "I've… never heard of the Society of Brilliance," she decides on.
Damn. So clever.
"Understandable. We are small in number, and rarely stay in one place for long," he admits, gesticulating widely. "My colleagues and I are working to improve the conditions in the Underdark. This need not be such a dire, hostile place."
Admirable, but Amara is… suspicious of such an endeavor. She would love it to be true, however…
"It's curious to find a surface dweller here. What has brought you down so deep?"
Shit. Yes, Amara is also here for supposed admirable purposes that would seem suspicious, though he may love them to be true.
Mind flayers? Yes, he would certainly believe that.
Actually, it might be kind of funny just to see what he'd say.
"A mind flayer infected me with a tadpole," Amara tries, fingers poised to snap.
"Truly remarkable!" Blurg declares.
Yes, it's highly doubtful, and— what now?
"But why come to the Underdark, where they hold so much power?"
Wait, can we go back to the remarkable comment?
Or, no— wait, what's this about power?
What happened, this was supposed to be a throwaway comment?
Amara takes a deep breath, and holds it until it hurts. She just decides to be honest, she supposes.
"You were infected by an illithid tadpole? It's a miracle you're still intact!" the scholar exclaims. "You must be worried sick, but have no fear," he assures her, finger raised. "I have a friend who may be able to assist."
The air grows heavier.
Heavier.
Heavier.
"Omeluum!"
"I hope this is important, Blurg. My zurkhwood samples need constant attention," a voice rings out. It's both in the world and… not. It's in Amara's head.
But not.
"It is!" Blurg insists. "This adventurer has an illithid tadpole inside her head. But she hasn't turned."
The heaviness that threatens to crush Amara's chest, her skull, it moves. Grows closer, hovering just above Amara's shoulder. She hears a gasp from Shadowheart and a sound in Astarion's throat, the rattle of Wyll's rapier.
"No ceremorphosis?" the voice returns. It's in Amara's head just like the connections she shares through her tadpole, but there's no connection established. It's just… there. "That's impossible! But intriguing."
Amara doesn't move. Doesn't look. She keeps her eyes forward.
Waits.
The mind flayer comes up on her left side, in a robe distinctive to a scholar, with its arms folded behind its back, tentacles moving as it hovers, floats, moves to stand by Blurg.
"Are you looking to have it extracted?" it asks, a crushing weight to the words.
Amara feels the sweat on her brow. She feels it trickle down her face, her neck. It pools in her collar, sinks into her robes.
"An illithid is your friend?" she asks, looking between the mind flayer and Blurg, "How is that possible?"
"I have broken free from the elder brain's yoke. I no longer serve the Grand Design."
By the Nine Hells.
Amara would like to carve that clue into her skin to hope she doesn't forget it, but she has a feeling the weight in the air will do it for her.
"I ask that you refrain from violence, while I respect that your opinion of my kind may not change."
Amara has a feeling that her enemy's name just altered slightly.
"What is… this 'Grand Design'?" she asks, her voice sounding normal out loud, but feeling like she's attempting to speak through spikes in her throat.
"A collective quest to eliminate the gith and enslave all other humanoids."
Wyll makes a contemplative sound. "It's a good thing… we did not bring Lae'zel."
"If that settles matters for the time being… would you like a diagnosis?"
Run Amara through. Holy Hells.
"Open your mind to me."
Wait!! Amara did not answer!!
"Let us see what lurks within."
A lot!!! Let's not!!
She flicks her gaze toward Shadowheart. The cleric has her own eyes narrowed. She gives a short shake of her head. When Amara looks at Astarion, the vampire just shrugs unhelpfully. And, of course, Wyll actually nods.
Useless lot.
Amara sighs. She supposes… there's no… real harm. What will this mind flayer do? Make it worse? Amara can undo anything it does.
Theoretically.
Omeluum raises an arm, crosses it across its body, and raises the other upright.
*As Omeluum's mind pierces yours, the tadpole pulses with power. It feels ten times its size. Alive, awake. Almost smug.*
Ugh. Figures.
Ouch.
"This is most unusual. The incubation period should be complete, as should your transformation."
Amara blinks, unsettled, in pain. Her temples throb. Her stomach roils. Anger floods her veins, but she doesn't know if it's her own. And how terrifying is that? Who's emotions is she feeling? What life has she led to have to even question such a thing?
She misses Waterdeep.
She misses the isles, before the temple, before her mother died.
"But the larva is infused with strange magic."
Netherese, Amara recalls.
"It appears to be in some form of stasis."
Again, Amara can't tell if that's good or bad. There's not enough inflection in Omeluum's voice. She just wants to lay down.
"Can you extract the tadpole?" she asks. She already knows the answer.
"No. It appears to be shielded from physical and magical interference. And even without the shield, the extraction would involve severe cranial trauma."
Great. Thanks, Omeluum.
"That doesn't sound ideal," Amara bites out, probably a little too harshly.
"It is not ideal. The process would surely kill you."
Great. Thanks, Omeluum.
"But not to worry. Should you transform, I will happily perform a new examination."
Oh, how generous of you, Omeluum. A thousand blessings upon you, for such a kind gesture, how could Amara do without you?
She swallows her anger, her vitriol, the venom bitter on her tongue, and instead attempts to form her distaste into the story of her infection.
"A nautiloid? Fascinating. I have never set foot on one myself. They were our warships during the greatest eras of the Illithid Empire. We ruled the entire Astral Plane from their decks. The design was lost when the gith rebelled and ended our dominion."
The heaviness finally begins to dissipate, and Amara takes the first full breath since she saw Blurg. She needs to get away. She gives the mind flayer and hobgoblin a tight smile. "Thank you, truly, for the information. It's given me… a great deal to think on."
"Of course. I am sorry I cannot assist you in its removal. But I have… an idea."
Amara rubs her fingers together.
"Oh?" Blurg perks up, interested. "Perhaps I should start taking notes."
"There may be a way to bypass that stasis. There are many alchemical substances that can influence the mind."
Amara inhales sharply through her nose. "Bypass? What kind of alchemy are we talking about?"
"A tincture distilled from a collection of rare mushrooms. They have subtle psionic influence. I would require a fresh tongue of madness and timmask spores. But be warned. In their natural state, both of these mushrooms can be quite dangerous. Timmasks cause confusion in those that approach them. The tongue is… self-explanatory."
Amara's pack weighs on her heavily.
Shit.
Lenore's tower.
"These?" she asks, pulling the specimens from her pack.
There's no surprise on Omeluum's face, but the burn of the mind flayer's eyes is intense. Scrutinizing. Amara realizes it's probably… disbelief. "These are fine specimens. It will only take me a moment to brew them to proper potency."
Wyll grabs her arm. Shadowheart touches her back. Amara can just barely hear Astarion say her name.
*Omeluum turns away to prepare the potion, lost in its own musings.*
While she waits, Amara opens her connection to the others.
"I alone will test this," she tells them, pushing assurance, comfort, and confidence through the connection.
"No!" Wyll pushes back. "It's far too dangerous!"
"Amara, darling, it's… it's a complete unknown— this could really hurt you!"
"Shadowheart, could you keep me alive for a precious few seconds if it kills me?" Amara asks through the connection, her tone flat and even.
A beat of silence in their connection.
Then, "Yes. You can trust me, Amara."
"I do. So, all of you trust me. 'Shop around', remember?"
"Oh, I hate 'shop around'! What happened to giving a blanket no?" Astarion pouts.
Wyll takes one of Amara's hands.
Omeluum turns back to them.
"You must drink the entire draught. I can make no promises as to its taste."
Amara swallows. She squeezes Wyll's hand. "What exactly is this going to do to me?" Amara asks, taking the bottle.
"It will lower the psionic defenses around the larva. If I cannot remove it, I may still be able to tell you more about its origin."
*Omeluum watches you with cautious intensity. It expects doubt. It expects fear.
Amara does doubt it. She is afraid. But she is more than those things, as well.
She drinks it.
*The acidic liquid tightens your throat, burning on the way down. It's a bolt of agony straight to your stomach.*
Amara throws the bottle to the ground. She squeezes her fingers together, ready to snap, and Wyll has a death grip on her hand. Shadowheart's hands are on her back, a healing spell prepped on her palms. Astarion hovers at her peripheral, expression drawn, paler to the point of nearly grayed skin, hands extended toward Amara as if to stop her, but he hesitates. Doesn't approach. Doesn't touch.
"Not a drop left. Very good," Omeluum compliments. Amara just grits her teeth in reply. "As the potion influences your mind, you may find yourself acting irrationally. Try and stay focused."
Astarion's ears flatten against his head. Wyll grabs onto Amara's arm as well as her hand now. Shadowheart abandons just pressing her hands onto Amara's shoulder blades and grabs her shoulders, steadying her.
*The world loses its edge, its finer boundaries. You are fluid but trapped, like a creature suspended in amber.*
Amara blinks, watching creatures fly past her. She sees the faces of the isle. The creatures of the oceans. She sees the columns of the temple, and all its ghosts. The face of Chronos, and blinding rainbow skin. Crystal. She blinks them away. Away, away, away, and focuses. Focus. Focuses on the pressure of Wyll at her arm, Shadowheart at her back, and the real, true face of Astarion, whose eyes hold her own; he's scared, but for once it's not for himself.
*The shadows and colors dance around Omeluum, but you stay steady and staring ahead. The tadpole spasms, seizes. It's fighting the potion even harder than you are. Fear pierces your mind like knives of ice. The parasite digs deeper, as if it means to hollow out your skull.*
Amara thinks she screams.
Finally, Astarion's hands are on her too. He's cradling her face, touching her cheeks. He taps either side, trying to get her to focus on him, keeping her eyes open.
His eyes are so red. Rubies. Chocolate cosmos.
He's talking, but Amara can't hear him. She can't hear anything he's saying, but his lips move, and she tries to read them, but her mind is taken up with the pain.
He opens the connection between their tadpoles wider.
*Panic laps at your body in waves, coursing through you like fire. You haven't felt so alive in years," Amara does hear. It's in her head, but it's not her narrator. It's Astarion's. *Pity that it's from fear.*
No.
No, no. Amara doesn't want that for him. She can't have that be the case.
She pushes comfort through the connection.
Warm sunshine. Cool water. Silken blankets.
Astarion's eyes widen, and he grips her face, brings it up to his. He rests their foreheads together.
*The cold blades lose their edge,* Amara hears her own narrator once more. *You are stalwart, turning that tide of fear against itself. The parasite swells with power— more power than you have felt since you rose from the sea. It surges and twists, lashing out against that which would dare to intrude.*
"Ah!" Omeluum shouts suddenly, and Amara's ears ring.
*The parasite in your mind quiets, pleased with itself."
"Omeluum! Are you well?" Blurg asks, as the mind flayer's eyes sink into Amara.
"That larva is like nothing I have ever observed before. Its power is… unsettling."
Shaking, Amara puts her free hand on Astarion, not pushing him away, but shifting him so she can properly look at Omeluum. "I felt it grow inside me," she growls, accusatory. "There's more power than ever."
"Such an outcome was not in my calculations. There is more to this being than mere stasis."
Amara burns with rage.
She desperately tries to control herself. "So after all that, did you learn anything?"
"The tadpole remains lodged. However, I may have discovered another solution, albeit a temporary one."
"No!" Astarion shouts, pointing at the mind flayer. "No more solutions!"
Wyll grips Amara's hand. "I have to— have to agree. I don't know if this is a good idea."
"If there's any danger in it, I am against it as well," Shadowheart says, finally stepping away from behind the wizard.
Omeluum holds up its hands. "A moment. I possess a Ring of Mind-Shielding. It prevents elder brains from noticing my presence. It will not remove the larva, but it will limit its influence, both positive and negative. I would offer it as a gift, but in truth, the ring is priceless. Is there anything you could offer me in turn?"
Astarion growls and Amara reaches out and grabs his arm. She grips Wyll's hand. Shadowheart catches her gaze.
Diminishing the power of the worm is all Amara wants right now.
She works words around in her mouth. "You are a scholar. Is information valuable to you? I could offer you every last detail about the nautiloid that one could offer."
After all, Amara has spent hours - hours - aboard one, across her multiple snaps.
"A fascinating topic indeed. What can you tell me?"
There's nothing Amara can't tell it, straight out of her memories. Horrible, repeated, nightmarish memories. Living, dying, and returning there in her dreams. She can offer it a detailed, logical analysis of the spelljammer, down to its navigational system.
She even steered the things, for gods' sake.
"What a brilliant experience," it says, and although there's nearly no emotion or intonation to the voice, Amara can almost feel the admiration of the tale. "To feel one step closer to my ancestors is a fine gift indeed. Here. It is yours. May it serve you as well as it has served me."
Amara takes it, unsettled, with fury still in her veins. She can feel it eating at her. Her body hurts. She slides the ring on her finger and tries to convince herself she feels the slightest bit… better.
"A pretty thing," Astarion says, his voice strained. Amara realizes he's trying to make her feel better. "And at least it offers us some protection from the tadpole."
Amara looks up at him.
He doesn't even want that. He likes the power from the parasites. He wants to keep his. It must be linked to his vampirism in some way that Amara hasn't pried into yet. But he's saying it anyway, to make Amara feel better.
She wants to hug him.
"Of course, the larva remains. Be ever-vigilant of its growth," Omeluum advises, and Amara just nods, the anger flaring again. She knows that better than anyone else. She is the one tracking it so closesly. It's the mind flayer's fault it grew to this point today in the first place.
Wyll tugs Amara's hand after that, and the wizard lets him pull her. He keeps pulling her, out of the little nook where the scholars occupy themselves, and over the mushroom caps.
She's exhausted.
It hurts.
"Where are we going?" Amara asks, and her voice is flat. Emotionless.
"Camp," Shadowheart snaps immediately.
"But it's not—"
"How do you even know what time it is, darling? There's no sun."
Amara looks over at Astarion, an unimpressed expression on her face. "Progeny of time."
Wyll tugs on her again. "We're taking you back to camp."
"You're poisoned," Shadowheart tells her. "We've no cure-all potions, you aren't in any shape to make one, so I'll have to cure you. I won't cast it until you are back in camp. So, walk."
"Someone carry me," Amara jokes.
"You should have brought Karlach for that," Wyll quips. "We'll make it. Come on."
Amara falls silent after that. Quiet. Focused.
Her eyes start to cross. She doesn't know who catches her, but it happens twice when she nearly keels over.
"Shadowheart—" she hears Astarion's lilting voice say. "Just do it! She'll come back to camp!"
Suddenly, her mind clears and the feeling of being nearly about to hurl disappears. The swirling shadows and lights passing across her eyes vanish, and she blinks the Underdark back into focus.
"I'm so sorry, Amara," Shadowheart says earnestly. "You listen to reason. You would have come back to camp. I didn't have to hold the cure over your head. I shouldn't have—"
Amara just smiles at her, and reaches for her hand. She gives it a quick squeeze. "I think I should lay down."
She closes her mouth, worry glinting in her eyes, but she nods. They make it to camp with haste. In fact, it might have been a little too much haste, because the moment the four of them make it through the mushroom circle and appear in the camp, stumbling past a magical scrying spell Gale must have set up, they seem to alert the whole camp.
"What's wrong?" Karlach booms, reaching them first.
Amara holds her hand up, stopping the rest of them. "We're back early, I know. My fault. I might even undo all of today— I promised two people we'd do them favors, well one of them was a sentient mushroom so I don't know if that's a person but you get the idea, and then we met a mind flayer and I got really high and now I'm dealing with that."
Wyll immediately steps in front of her. "Terrible explanation," he asserts. "Disregard—"
"You met with a ghaik?" Lae'zel snaps, venom in her words. "Did you speak with this creature?"
"Hold on, I'm more caught up with— what does she mean 'high'?" Gale asks, approaching her and trying to look into her pupils.
"She was poisoned," Shadowheart clarifies. "She just took the poison willingly."
He blinks at Shadowheart, and then at Amara. "Why?"
She taps him on the cheek. "Just shopping around. Didn't work though. Just hurt like a bitch, made me see Chronos' barnacle-crusted face, supercharged my tadpole to near godly levels, and made me want to shank someone."
Astarion makes an exasperated sound. "Stop making it sound so bad! You— did you really hallucinate Chronos' face?"
She gives a loose salute. "And a bunch of faces I remember from the isles I grew up on. All the people who died when his power exploded and I sank the temple. All those people who died because of me— who I killed. It was great, would recommend to anyone. Potion seemed easy to make, if we want to find another pile of poisonous mushrooms."
"Okay, time for bed," Shadowheart interrupts, dragging Amara away. "Karlach, Lae'zel— help me."
"What in the hells did she drink?" Halsin asks as the three women basically escort Amara toward the mushroom circle.
Wyll sighs, deep and tired. "I think— tin… masks? And tongues of madness or something?"
"Fresh tongues of madness, and timmasks," Halsin corrects. "Highly dangerous. She drank that willingly? And has not reversed the effects?"
"It - the mind flayer, that is - said that she may… act irrationally. She may decide to snap once the potion is fully out of her system."
Amara is successfully escorted to the mushroom circle and down the cliff face, and she can no longer hear the others. They help her toward the small body of water just beside it.
"Chk. How could you trust a ghaik?" Lae'zel asks, and Amara looks at her curiously, while the barbarian warms up the spring and cleric helps her out of her armor and day clothes.
"Have you heard of the Grand Design? From any of your githyanki records?" she asks, stepping into the water.
She snaps to look at her. "If this is about what that ghaik spoke to you about— it is manipulative. They are controlling, evil creatures. The sworn enemies of the githyanki."
Amara just lets the topic go. She sinks into the water. She might sink a bit too far, since the fighter suddenly dives into the spring and yanks her head back above the water line.
"Tsk'va!" she gasps. "Get her out of the water!"
Shadowheart helps the githyanki woman pull Amara out, and the wizard haphazardly casts a few spells to dry the water from her body. She hears more cursing from Lae'zel, and Karlach laments that she isn't much help, and Shadowheart just quiets them both.
Now in her night clothes, Amara is hauled on Lae'zel's back through the mushroom circle again, and laid in her bedroll.
Amara remembers nothing after that.
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 17: The Disease Called "Deity"
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XVII
The Disease Called "Deity"
The camp watches Amara sleep.
"This feels creepy," Wyll finally admits.
Shadowheart sighs, drawing her legs up to her chest. "We're just making sure she's okay."
Closing the book he's reading, Gale rubs at the bridge of his nose. "From some of the reading we have from Lenore's tower, it appears the mushrooms - though assuredly dangerous and absolutely not advisable for consumption - should have no lasting or lethal effects."
"Chk. She is a fool for consuming them in the first place."
"The potion did have some effect on the tadpole," Astarion points out, though it's a weak point. "Just not the one we wanted."
"What made you trust the mind flayer?" Karlach asks. "Just sayin', it's the last source I would assume we'd go to for getting the little wrigglers out."
Shadowheart looks into the fire. "The ring on her finger. It belonged to the illithid. Amara managed to bargain for it. Omeluum - the mind flayer - made a point to say that it had been freed from some greater control, and that ring helped shield it from discovery."
Gale's eyes snap down to it.
"No! You're not eating that one— it's too valuable!" Astarion snaps, almost on autopilot, and after a moment, there's a break in the tension and Karlach starts laughing, Wyll ends up joining her, and even Shadowheart is suppressing laughter. "Okay— not that funny. I knew he wasn't going to— oh, never mind."
"We should get some rest. Amara may not be fit to guide us tomorrow," Lae'zel points out.
They quiet, looking into the fire.
"She should be fine," Gale assures them after none of them move. "She will be fine."
"I'll take the first watch," Astarion drawls. "I'll keep an eye on her. I can hear her heart beat if I listen closely enough."
"I'll take the next," Shadowheart volunteers. "In case anything happens in the middle of the night."
Gale clears his throat. "I was going to save this for some important battle, as a surprise, but I took the time to dedicate our latest feat into an incredibly specific category—"
"You learned Cure Wounds," Shadowheart guesses.
He deflates slightly. "My surprise…"
"Amara did challenge any of you to fill the healer role, lest my spot be permanent."
Frowning, he just says, "Still, I can only cast it once per day. I will still need to foster more alchemical prowess. I also took the opportunity to learn Guidance, since Amara speaks so highly of it, and Spare the Dying to give me one more healing option."
"Useful," Shadowheart remarks, quirking a brow. "How does that—"
There's a crackling at the edge of the camp, like the earth moving, branches cracking, vines aching, snapping, and all of the camp is on their feet in an instant.
Wind, dirt, and rocks go flying, and white fabric begins to erupt from the center of the rubble.
"Wyll! Cover Amara!" Gale commands, and he summons his Weave to his hands, beginning to feel the power pool in his palms. The warlock pulls his rapier and scrambles over to the bedroll where Amara is still sound asleep. The others draw their weapons, Lae'zel takes the front, armed with a new, engraved sword, Shadowheart buffs the party and runs for her spear, in her tent on the opposite side of camp, Karlach yanks a great ax out of her pack by the fire and readies it over her shoulder, Astarion actually goes for Amara's bow rather than his crossbow, since hers is closer, and Halsin shifts to his bear form and shoots to protect Alfira and Volo.
The white fabric becomes gold-accented, shimmering ivory robes, draped over an almost gaseous form. A deep laugh fills the air, cacophonous and arrogant.
"How cute," a distinctly male voice drawls. "Look at all of you, like cockroaches crawling over the dirt."
A face materializes under the hood, which he pulls back using a gloved hand, and reveals a face chiseled out of crystal. It reflects rainbows across the walls of the cavern, its ceilings and floors, and paints everything in an eerily peaceful light.
"Who are you?" Gale demands, holding a Chromatic Orb up in one of his hands. "How did you find our camp?"
The mysterious figure laughs again. "Did I tell you to speak, insect? I will only speak to Amara, God Eater."
"God Eater…" Gale repeats, mostly to himself. He shakes his head. "She won't speak to you. Go."
He laughs, but this time is more strained. He walks forward, right through the rubble as if his body is not really there. His robes float on an invisible breeze, trimmed in gold and jewels, ruffled, cinched around a lithe waist with a belt that radiates intensely dark magic.
Gale feels his chest throb. Ache. He shivers.
"Wake her," the man demands— but he is no man. Gale knows this feeling.
This is a god.
"We refuse," Shadowheart asserts, raising her spear. "She is resting. Leave us."
"All of you— petty, pitiful creatures," the god snarls. "Out of my way!"
"Never!" Lae'zel screams, raising her sword. "You do not know her allies— we are mighty!"
"Fuck yes! Let's get him!"
With a howl of frustration, He raises His hand, and for a moment Gale realizes that something incredibly horrible is about to happen. This is an unknown god, about to launch an offensive magical attack upon them.
They could easily perish.
"Amara—" Wyll's voice suddenly cuts over Gale's spiral, and he turns his head.
Cyan Weave fills his vision. Amara is half-standing, still one knee on the ground, and her eyes glow. They leak Weave like nothing Gale has ever seen, completely obscuring her irises, consuming them. There's so much magic moving around her, that it almost encircles her head.
Like a crown.
"SAVRAS," she yells, savagely, like a beast. "Get away from them!!"
"Ah, you've deigned to awaken," Savras responds, and Gale cannot believe this is truly the God of Prophecy before him.
*You recall the history and legends of Savras well, this Lord of Divination. Mostly because He was once a deity of wizards, making Him a focal point to several of your studies. Fate and divination were actually His secondary fields, and His fate at becoming solely known for His visions had to do with Azuth, who stole His place as the god of spellcasters and forced Savras to swear an oath to Him.*
"Did you not hear me?" Amara asks, but it doesn't… sound like her.
She stands, sways, and more Weave leaks from her body. It pours from her mouth, as if possessing her. The Weave from her eyes tightens, cinching around her head, and growing spokes in the back until it no longer resembles a crown, but is one. One that covers her eyes, keeping them hidden.
"I told you— get away from them," she hisses out, and staggers forward until she is in front of her companions. "Get out of my camp, you bastard!"
"Amara, hear me. I came to deliver—"
Amara thrusts her hand out, and a solid wall of Weave slams into Savras, and actually sends the god, in all His fine robes, flying backward, right off the cliff face. More cyan light, raw Weave, leaks from Amara's body. She cracks her neck, snaps her wrist twice, and starts to walk forward toward the edge of the cliff.
Her feet are bare, and leave glowing footprints as she walks.
The length of her hair grows, but any growth to the ends is all just waving blue light, purely the Weave, and even her clothes start to change.
Savras, struggling against something, rises back up until He is on the same level as Amara, staring with blinding rage into her eyes. "Wait— you disgusting creature!! I am attempting to offer you something, don't you have any—"
Amara just whips her hand out, and a coil of her Weave leaves a sizable gash across Savras' face.
"Leave," she demands. "Now."
A long, bright blue staff starts to materialize in her hand, and she slams it to the ground, sending ripples of Weave out from the epicenter. Her.
"A-Amara! Don't be foolish— this is your last chance!"
"My last chance?" she asks, tilting her head in an eerie way. She twirls the staff, and a long, glowing blade starts to extend from it.
*You recall much more obscure imagery,* Gale's narrator supplies. *Not of Savras, but of a different god. An older god. You only read about Him for enjoyment, not for any kind of study. He's been known to be dead for a long while. One of the most powerful gods there ever was: Chronos, the God of Time. There were very few accounts of any seeing Him in person. That is common, for ancient deities. There are, however, plenty of statues of Chronos. Statues, which depict Chronos as a tall man, wearing a flowing robe, with large, feathered wings. Almost always, these statues show Chronos holding two things: an hourglass, and a scythe.*
"Savras," she growls out. She sounds nothing like Amara. "Do not be foolish. This is your last chance."
He laughs, disappearing and reappearing in the middle of the camp. All of the party members scatter, using their various mobility skills and spells. "And what will you do, Amara? Kill me? You gave up all your most powerful abilities! You aren't a god— and I am not as pitiful as Chronos was. He was a mere echo trapped in a temple."
Amara swings the scythe in the air, and then drops it. It slams into the earth with a spectacular, ear-splitting clang. "Are you willing to bet your future on that?" she asks, walking toward Him. The scythe drags in the dirt behind her. "Mortals have killed gods before."
For a moment, Savras does not respond. His hands twitch in their fine, golden gloves.
Gale blinks, and suddenly Amara is on top of Him, her blade slashing across His chest. He cries out, vanishing and reappearing where He originated from, holding where silver gushes out of His crystalline wound.
Amara flicks the scythe blade. "Get out of my camp. I will kill you if you don't, and if you lay a single finger on a single hair on my companions' heads— I will eat you."
His laugh is not confident this time— it's scared. "And explode? Your fragile little form could never handle two gods, Amara. You are a mortal. You made your choice."
Wreathed in vibrant cyan, robe pooling at her feet, billowing behind her, Weave-extended hair floating on air, crown on her head, eyes on fire… Amara does not look like a mortal.
She points the scythe at Him.
"Are you willing to bet your future on that?" The next moment, not even a blink this time - just Amara in one place and then in the next - Amara is swinging the blade directly down into Savras' chest. "I've eaten a god before."
The tip of the scythe hits unmarred ground, and Savras is gone, along with any evidence He was ever there.
Amara stands up, her Weave sinking into her skin until it's all absorbed.
The cavern seems far too dark now.
"A… Amara?" Astarion asks, because the other elf hasn't turned back around yet.
She sways, and then completely collapses once again. Gale and Shadowheart rush to her side instantly, rolling her over. Shadowheart checks for a pulse, and startles when what she finds is weak, thready.
Gale opens his mouth to ask, "What's—"
And then Amara coughs, and blood pours out of her mouth.
"By the Nine—" Shadowheart scrambles, attempting to identify what's happening. Her hands shake. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears. Her stomach aches.
The rest of the camp gathers around them.
"What's going on?" Halsin asks, crouching next to Gale and Shadowheart. "She didn't take a hit, that I saw!"
"It's her organs," the cleric realizes with breathy horror. "One of them - I'm not sure which - has burst. It's filling her chest cavity with blood, and one of her lungs is deflated, and I believe it has a tear in it, so she's— she's breathing in… she's—"
"Breathe, Shadowheart," Halsin advises. "We shall save her life. Ask the questions later."
She blinks, realizes tears have clouded her vision, and wipes them away. "O-okay. Gale— cast Spare the Dying. Now."
His breath catches. They're all shaking, Shadowheart notices. She looks up.
"Karlach, this is a big ask, but you have the best temperament for it. I need you to do something for me."
She startles, hands fluttering. "Yeah— yeah! Anything!"
"Open a connection between all of us, and— and do what Amara does, and send… comfort. Reassurance. Confidence."
The tiefling swallows, thinks for a moment, and then gives a solid nod. She closes her eyes, and suddenly there's a prodding to all of their worms.
*You open your connection, and you can feel it immediately. It's warm as the fire you all sleep around. It's happy dinners and falling over each other laughing. It's gentle touches and trusting one another while you're asleep. It's soft and precious but so, so strong. It's beautiful and unbreakable, and it gives you strength.*
Gale cracks his knuckles. He focuses. Claps, holds his hands far apart, moves them back and forth, and claps again. "Nana-Nee Mystra-Jeet Aawaax-Do!" he chants, and purple Weave envelops Amara, sinking into her skin. Her face twists with agony, and she coughs, spewing more blood from her mouth.
*You sense from the open connection between all of you, a collective horror. There's an intense fear, so much that each of you feels a knot in your stomach. Which of you the feeling originates from, you'll never be able to know. You feel cold, your blood stiff in your veins.*
As Gale's Weave dissipates, the pain in Amara's face unravels, and her brow relaxes. It relaxes all of them, as well. With Shadowheart on one side and Halsin on the other, a glowing, beautiful display of lights starts to stitch Amara back together. Halsin's druidic Weave and Shadowheart's divine one manage to repair Amara's lung, but even they can only staunch the bleeding in her body.
"Okay," Wyll says, putting his hand on Shadowheart's shoulder. "Okay. You did it. All of you did it. It's time— time to rest now."
"Do we have to— to sleep far away from her?" Lae'zel surprises everyone by being the one to ask. She crosses her arms over her chest. "Is there something wrong with my question? Sticking together is a sign of strength, we are more formidable as a team than as individuals."
Alfira appears from the edge of camp. "I couldn't agree more," she says, trying to sound chipper. "Let's huddle up. We used to do it all the time in the grove."
"A capital idea!" Volo agrees, and the bards deal with gathering all the supplies so the companions don't have to leave Amara there.
They're in their day clothes. They haven't bathed. Shadowheart and Halsin only wash the blood off of their hands with Gale's summoned water.
But it's enough. It's enough.
They lay down, surrounding the elf, and sleep doesn't take them swiftly, but when it does, it takes them deeply.
/ / /
When Amara wakes, she has a horrible taste in her mouth.
Like dust and grime, and she coughs, trying to roll over to sit up, only to be blocked from doing so. "What the—"
Astarion is holding onto her arm.
Lae'zel is lying atop her leg.
Shadowheart is half on her bedroll.
Is— is Amara lying on Gale?
Where's— there's Wyll, at her feet.
Karlach is there too, just a bit further away, with a line of pillows dividing them just so no one gets burned, and Halsin is on the opposite side of their pile. The bards cap off the other two ends.
The fire burns low, nearly extinguished, and everyone is still sound asleep.
Amara tries to identify the taste in her mouth. It's so familiar, and yet, she can't place it.
She tries to remember why all her companions would be piled around her. It's not that she minds— she likes it quite a bit, actually. It's just, she was a bit out of it, but she remembers everything up to lying down…
Lying down…
Amara glances where her bedroll should be, by the fire.
She isn't lying by the fire anymore.
She's moved.
She rolls her tongue around in her mouth again.
The taste… she knows it.
Necromancy magic.
Amara springs up, disturbing practically every one of her friends, and she tries to scramble to her feet. "Argh!" she yelps, dropping to her knees and hunching over, holding her stomach. "Ahh— fuck! Shit—"
Hands brace her sides, delicate yet strong. "Come, lay back down," Shadowheart encourages her. "You've lost an organ."
It hits Amara. It's real. It definitely happened.
"No— that's… I couldn't have…"
Amara wants to stand. Her stomach tells her that's not a good idea.
"Ugh," she groans, and more of her companions try to urge her to lay back down. Lae'zel tugs at her legs, Gale's broad hands urge her back by the shoulders, and Astarion presses accurate pressure to the worst of the pain.
"What— what happened?" Karlach asks, sitting up and having to hold a pillow to refrain from touching. It starts to smoke.
"Give her a moment," Wyll advises.
She groans, tilting her head back into Gale's lap. "No, it's fine," she hisses through her teeth. "I don't— don't remember. I do know what happened, but I wasn't in— in control."
Gale's face suddenly changes, as if remembering something. "You were unconscious," he realizes. "You never woke up."
She flinches, putting her hands over her face. "It was Him. Wasn't it? Just His voice was enough to make me…"
"Savras," Shadowheart says, the bandage ripping off. They all look at her, and Amara doesn't blame them, not with her actions the previous night being what they must have been. "The Lord of Divination. He is the deity with a body of rainbow, from your bard song."
Amara breathes out a depreciating laugh. "That's right. You impress me, Shadowheart— but I almost would rather you have forgotten. Yes, He is the one who first told me I would die at the hands of Chronos. He has been, let's say, upset with me ever since."
"I would say it is you who seemed upset with Him," Lae'zel snaps out. "What drove you to such a display of power? And why do you not use such domination in our other battles?"
Amara looks at her for a moment. "How did my body seem to handle the aftermath?"
She frowns. "You were weak."
"Lae."
"…Not well," she admits. "You threw up a lot of blood. Punctured, deflated lung. Burst organ."
Amara groans.
"We fixed your lungs," Halsin supplies. "I believe the organ that was bleeding so profusely was your gallbladder, but your left kidney has also ceased functioning."
"That's old," she tells him. "Those are the consequences of my actions," she drones out. "See, mortals aren't meant to wield the powers of gods. I have a few of Chronos' most basic abilities that I can use, but if I happen to push my luck…"
"You push the limits of your body," Wyll summarizes. "And being unconscious, you weren't the greatest judge."
"I would think not," Amara responds. She sighs. "What, ahm, what does the gallbladder do, exactly? Is that a bad one to lose?"
"It stores bile," Halsin replies immediately, and Amara's nose wrinkles.
"Lovely," she drawls. "So glad I know that now, and I lost that. So, what, now mine is just going to be… loose?"
He frowns. "Of course not. I would be no healer if I did not ensure your continued function. It will go right to your liver."
"That sounds…bad."
"Just monitor your intake of fats," he advises, rising. "And try not to do that again."
"Believe me, I would like to keep my organs from exploding." Amara flicks her gaze over to meet the cleric's again. "So, how am I really?"
"I think you should stay behind and rest," she advises. "We are more than capable of going out without you for once."
The air is heavy. Amara can feel it press on her chest.
She can't breathe.
She cracks her knuckles, rubs her fingers together. "I would love to believe that— really I would. But there's something almost magnetic to how we attract death. I don't know how else to explain it," Amara says. "I can't tell you how many times I snap when we face battle. If I am not there to mediate the flow of time as you're journeying, I can almost guarantee… you will return with news of a grave injury or death, and I will have to rewind anyway. Please, don't put me through that. I will consider myself on light duty. Directing strategy only."
Wyll stands, pretending to be admiring his rapier. "Take four of us with you, then."
"No," Amara says, stubbornly. "It's too dangerous—"
"If you aren't participating, we need a fourth, darling," Astarion drawls.
Amara squeezes the bridge of her nose. "All of you love to push my boundaries," she mumbles.
"As you love to push ours," Lae'zel snaps out. "Take the wizard and the barbarian with you, in addition to your usual cleric and rogue."
"Excuse me— we have names," Astarion asserts.
"Fine," Amara agrees. She works to get herself to her feet. "We leave in an hour."
Hobbling off to her tent, Amara begins the arduous process of numbing her pain, without making her injuries worse. She didn't lie, she'll sideline herself while directing them, but she can't be limping around out there.
Eating proves difficult, but she gets down some bread and cheese, and hefts a pack onto her back, starting for the first time onto the road with five of them. Amara still thinks this is a bad idea, but she supposes if it makes the others happy, she'll leave it for now and only come back and fight harder against it if it fails miserably.
Gale hands her a potion. "Made it while I was making breakfast. I did attend potion classes at Blackstaff, but… well…"
Amara snickers, taking the tincture and holding it up to the dim glow in the Underdark.
"You used enough Rogue's Morsel," she tells him. "That's a tricky part— see the light fogginess? Those murky striations mean it's past its saturation point, and the Morsel won't fully incorporate with the base. That's good. What Suspension did you use? Laculite?"
He leans over, looking into the bottle. "How can you tell that? Laculite leaves no residue."
Amara cups the bottle in her hand, and there, on her palm, is a subtle green glow.
"Well, I'll be damned…"
"Try burning up some Balsam and using those ashes next time. It produces a stronger result," Amara advises, tipping the potion back. She sighs in relief when she feels it work, soothing some of the agony from the still festering wound in her torso.
Their pace is slow, going down the wooden rod stairs and past a series of glowing purple crystals that serve as lanterns. Eventually, they reach what could serve as a gate, a built structure with an obvious opening, and Amara leads the party through it.
"What…?" The voice startles Amara, and she turns to see a heavily armored individual - presumably a duergar - who has caught sight of them. "Gekh! Got someone sneaking up on us!" he yells.
Well, hey. Amara wasn't exactly…
That's such an insult to her sneaking abilities.
She starts by just holding her palms up, open and obviously unarmed. A peaceful approach.
Above her, another duergar's voice draws her attention. "You move pretty quietly."
Well, okay. Perhaps it's just natural talent then.
"Not quietly enough for my liking, though."
Next to Amara, Astarion scoffs.
"Noise gets you eaten down here," the duergar advises. "Reckon I'll hush you, before something hungry comes along."
*His fist grips an ax. On his gnarled, gray skin, you see the Absolute's brand.*
Another one of these— gods damn it! Amara has had enough of them! Enough!
She nudges Astarion. "What was it you said, before?"
He snaps down to look at her. "I— when do you mean?"
"I believe it was something like, 'I like this one's approach. A little genocidal, but effective'," Amara quotes. "I'll keep myself to the back. Cross my god hating heart."
He barks out a laugh, and looks at her in disbelief. "You're serious?"
Amara cloaks herself in Weave and Steps to the back, yelling, "Weapons to the ready!"
The duergar, who Amara assumes to be the one the sentry called Gekh, laughs coldly. "Funny. You looked like the sort to beg for mercy."
"Sorry to disappoint," Amara sneers back.
"No matter. You weren't getting any," he declares, as if Amara couldn't talk her way out of this.
She absolutely could. Idiot. She just decided not to. Stupid.
"Finally, some action!" Astarion cheers, before disappearing from view into the plentiful shadows of the Underdark.
Amara takes a careful breath and opens her connection to the others.
"Take care to stay hidden, fangs," she teases. "Evidently we aren't sneaky enough for this ilk."
"Do not push me, Amara— you are in no state!"
She sends laughter through their tadpoles and then steadies herself. "Take special care with the back. I'll scout with you. Shadowheart, Karlach, you two form our offense for now. We need to push into their camp. Gale, support them from behind. Once we're inside, Shadowheart can fall back and heal."
There are various affirmatives, and Amara cloaks herself in invisibility, leaping over several of the stacked wooden palettes and crystal formations, before she's able to climb over the odd wooden rods and leap down. It's not an easy climb, but it gives her a good view of the battleground. The battleground, which gets progressively more complex as undead enemies begin cropping up.
Amara greatly dislikes necromancy magic.
It's both more difficult with four of them to direct, and strangely easier.
There's a feeling of guilt there.
Amara deals no damage.
She downs no enemies.
She protects none of her allies.
All she does is maneuver them, like living chess pieces, across a battlefield. She feels a tug of discomfort every time she does nothing even when she sees an opening where she should be casting a spell, but instead she just directs Gale to do so, and fills the gap with Shadowheart. She protects their magic users with Astarion's backstabs, and assaults forward using Karlach's brute force.
And… it works.
Until it doesn't.
"Gragh!" Gale exclaims, and he drops to one knee. Thankfully, the flurry of arrows that could have come flying directly at his head and chest fly mercifully overhead in this position, but the wizard doesn't rise. He pants, gripping at his robes, almost pulling them away from his collar as if they're choking him.
"Gale!" Amara screams at him. "What's happening?!"
"My— my condition…" he struggles to say, and Amara can barely hear him over the rest of the combat.
Amara curses under her breath. She's too far from the wizard to get an item to him immediately, so she tries something else. "Shadowheart," she alerts their cleric. "The gloves I gave you before. I realize they aren't as disposable as what we usually sacrifice, but I can't protect the three of you with Gale incapacitated like that."
"I understand," she replies immediately, and takes an immediate action to reach the wizard. She strips the gauntlets off and presses them into Gale's hands while Karlach and Astarion work tirelessly to keep heavy fire off of them.
"Thank you," Gale wheezes out, and his mark, fully exposed from his clawing at his robes, begins to glow his signature bright purple.
Even Amara notices how quickly the magic is consumed.
Gale's face is slack with fear once the light fades.
"Good gods," he exclaims, sounding slightly better, but there's still a distant hollow to his voice. "It hardly has any effect. Mystra have mercy on us all."
"Can you get up?!" Amara asks, and Gale staggers up but falls, and even Shadowheart can't catch him and keep him upright.
That looks like a resounding no.
Amara snaps.
Her eyes follow Gale, and the moment he flinches for the first time, the moment his hand goes to his chest and pain ripples across his face, Amara dismisses her invisibility.
"Gale!!" she screams, getting his attention.
Amara gathers her Weave in her hand. At first, it reacts like any normal amount of magic. It sways, oozing like mist, gaseous and floating, and then begins to swirl around a point hovering just a few inches above her palm, like an epicenter attracting the gravity of all the lighter, wispier magic. The entire sphere grows heavier, denser. It becomes impossibly heavy, a collection of magic with a great weight, as if forming a crystalline structure in the form of a perfect, water-tumbled sphere.
When it is as large as a fist and heavier than its equivalent in steel or gold, Amara lets it drop to her palm. She raises it, reels it back, and then lets it fly. The remnants of her Weave in the air propel it forward, and the sphere curves around enemies and allies alike on the battlefield, sculpting itself directly to Gale.
It slams into his chest, his arms coming up to catch it but the impact is too great, and he staggers backward, bracing himself against the onslaught of magic. Cyan erupts in the air, and violet, purple, and indigo hues battle like tendrils seeking to consume every inch of it. They caress the surface of the Weave from the sphere, which bursts from its center as if popped, and the tendrils wrap around it, pull it in, and consume it.
The glow is unlike any other time Amara has ever seen Gale consume an artifact. It takes nearly an entire minute.
The wizard gasps the moment the glow disappears, staggering backward, and he struggles for a moment longer to breathe, before he turns and releases a devastating Fireball before an enemy can hit a now-exposed Amara.
"Shit—!" she startles, scrambling down from her high ground. "Are you okay?" she asks, while Shadowheart and Karlach down the last two undead.
"Gods," he struggles to say, breathless. "It's like a draught of cool water soothing a parched throat— welcome and wonderful. That was— Amara, that was a near dangerous amount of magic. Though I must thank you for your quick thinking and even quicker hand. I can't quite remember a time I've felt so peaceful inside. It's good to perceive this constant fear repressed into a quiet scare. Let's hope it will last a good long while."
Amara desperately hopes so.
Soon enough, the only duergar left is Gekh.
All of them focus their entire offensive force on him, and turn by turn, they whittle him down, until he is crushed beneath them.
Astarion laughs as they loot the last building, at least six amulets around his neck. "Your mean streak strikes again— is this leftover from your rage yesterday, Amara, darling? You certainly pull no punches when you choose not to."
She looks out over the camp. "They certainly eased the mental strain of it," she remarks. "Slavery, forced labor, kidnapping, physical abuse… bringing their dead back to life to work for them. The myconid colony was right to harbor that gnome safely from them. There is a fine line between a beast and a monster. These creatures were indeed monstrous."
"And you?" he asks, keeping his tone purposely light.
"I walk that line," Amara returns cautiously. "I'd like to think I remain a beast, if anything."
Gale looks at her, a question dancing in his eyes.
"What?" she asks. "Is that an 'enjoying the view' kind of stare, or an 'Amara, you have blood all over you in a weird shape and I don't know how to tell you' kind of stare?"
"Weird shape— Wranzumin's third ear, absolutely not!" he says, delight in his voice. He laughs, and while the question is still twinkling through his eyes, his countenance is bettered with the pleasant expression. "Though, you are a little… here."
Water springs to his fingers, and he carefully swipes the cool sensation across her face. "If you won't ask— I will. How are you? It had to be stressful, for the arcane hunger to hit you in the midst of battle."
He smiles, steps back from her. "'Stressful' is certainly a way to phrase the feeling. It was unforgettable, that is for certain. That being said, your quick thinking and creative solution to a difficult situation was beyond admirable— and I can't thank you enough. It's one thing to merely give me trinkets we come across while journeying, but you have clearly given my condition such careful consideration, and I can't help but feel…"
Amara stops him, and just smiles. "I do that because I want to, Gale. Come, let us return to the myconid colony and deliver the news of the duergar."
He takes her arm, looks nervously at the other three, and nervously licks his bottom lip. "Listen, I need to speak to you, to all of you. I'll speak to the others separately, back at camp. It would be unconscionable of me to remain silent. Let me do this, Amara."
She looks at him, touches his face, pulls her hand back. "Do you want to?"
"More than anything."
"Then by all means— go ahead. You're among friends," she assures him, smiling.
"I might just be about to remedy that," Gale quips, and Amara rolls her eyes, but Gale's expression is a touch too serious for that. "You have to know who I was. You have to know who I really am."
Amara reaches for him again, and Gale grabs her hand.
"What I am is a walking shadow of the promise I once held. I'm what one might call a wizard prodigy, who from an early age could not only control the Weave, but compose it, much like a musician or a poet." He gestures grandly with his free hand. The one holding Amara's trembles slightly. "Such was my skill that it earned me the attention of the mother of magic herself. The Lady of Mysteries. The goddess Mystra."
Amara's mouth goes dry.
Her ears flatten against her head.
She knows her palms must begin to sweat, but Gale doesn't let go. He just grips harder.
"She revealed herself to me and she became my teacher. In time, she became my muse, and later, even my lover."
Amara's hand twitches violently in Gale's grip.
"It seems you and I have had quite different experiences concerning Mystra."
"It is fair to say her intimacy is not easily won. Nevertheless, I did." Gale gives a dark laugh. "Is that enough to earn me your promised kiss?"
She takes in a sharp breath.
"Sorry, no, I realize I've taken you quite aback," he quickly backtracks. "In my head, it was much more… elfin. Judging by the look on your face, you're hardly in the mood. In all honesty, I've heard many a response from those who know. Many fixate on our bond, and others denounced me for my view of her as a muse. Most were just disbelieving, though."
Amara swallows. "Were you happy?" she asks, the only question she can stomach.
It hurts. It's so close to her life with Chronos, who raised her out of a terrible situation. They were never lovers, but they also did not know each other for that long. And with what Amara knows of deities now, perhaps Chronos thought her trauma was enough to bond her to him, and he didn't even need that much devotion from her.
Her hatred for gods burns.
Her memories of Mystra fester.
"Oh, yes," Gale assures Amara, and he does smile. It's sad, but in the bittersweet way one smiles of a happiness that has slipped away with the flow of time. "We enjoyed each other's company— body, mind, and soul. But even so, I desired more."
Amara bites her tongue.
"You see, no matter how powerful a wizard we mortals can become, we never scratch more than the surface of the Weave. Mystra keeps us in check. There are boundaries she doesn't let us cross. Yet every time I was with her, I stood on the precipice, gazing into the wonders that lay beyond. I sought to cross her boundaries."
He wants to tell her.
Amara wants to listen.
She just… why does it have to be about gods?
Amara already knows how this story ends, if his current chronic illness is any indication.
Still, she asks, "How exactly did you try to cross those boundaries?"
"I tried to convince her. I pouted, I pleaded, I swore my ambition was only to serve her better. But she only smiled and told me to be contented. As inconceivable as it seems to me now, I shared a bed with a goddess and yet I wasn't satisfied. So I sought to prove myself worthy to her instead."
Amara recognizes that as insecurity, not dissatisfaction, but she keeps her mouth shut.
"We come now to the crux of my folly. Shall I share the story behind it, or would you rather head straight to its sordid finale?" he asks, gesturing sharply.
"All, Gale. Please. I need… to hear you say it."
"Very well," he agrees, soft-spoken. "Here goes: once upon a very long time ago, a mighty lord lived in a tower. A flying tower, to be precise." His voice retains its preformative air, and for a moment Amara can almost pretend they aren't speaking on a topic that makes her ill. "I'll save his history for another time, but the gist of it is that he sought to usurp the goddess of magic so that he could become a god himself."
Amara startles violently. Her mouth works, but nothing comes out.
Gale notices immediately. "Shh. Let me finish. Settle." Gale squeezes her hand, pulls her a step closer. "He almost managed, but not quite, and his entire empire - Netheril - came crashing down around him as he turned to stone. The magic unleashed that day was phenomenal, roiling like the prime chaos that outdates creation. Even the Weave itself could not withstand the onslaught. It fractured, then shattered, and all magic was lost to the mortal realms until the day Mystra returned. She restored the Weave, reuniting all its scattered shards. Or so I thought, until in the course of my studies I learned of a book. A Netherese tome in which a piece of the fractured Weave had been sealed beyond her reach."
"Oh, Gale…"
He stops gesticulating, and his hand comes to take her other one. "'What if', I thought," he continues, much softer. "'What if after all this time, I could return this lost part of herself to the goddess?'"
Amara gives a wet laugh. "I guess you ruled out flowers and chocolates altogether then," she jokes, trying to lessen the vice grip her unease has on her core right now.
Thank the gods, Gale laughs back. "You know me," he asserts. "My gestures can never be grand enough. I was certain that this deed of raw power draped in romance would convince Mystra to take me by the hand and welcome me into her hitherto forbidden domains."
Amara shivers. The thrum, the weight, the intensity of Chronos bears down on her.
"I was mistaken," Gale confirms. "I obtained the fabled book and took it into my study. As for what happened next…" He pulls her hands, closing the distance between them, and lowering himself to one knee. "Here. Place your hand over my heart. Let me show you." He guides one of her hands on his chest. Over the mark.
She lets him.
There's a sharp tug, a pull on her Weave, and suddenly purple magic erupts from the mark, almost blinding.
*You feel the tadpole quiver as you realize Gale is letting you in. Into the dark.* His expression twists, and he grabs Amara's hand, pushing her closer. She can feel his heat, through the robe, pulsing out of the mark, flowing through the Weave.
Amara recognizes it. The dangerous thrum of a god. A pulsing numbness, only— where Amara feels something crushing her lungs, Gale feels something starving, trying to consume him from the inside.
*You see through Gale's eyes, staring down the corridors of a dread memory. A book, bound, and then suddenly opened. Inside there are no pages, only a swirling mass of blackest Weave that pounces. Its teeth, its claws, it's unstoppable as it digs through and becomes part of you. And gods, is it ever-hungry…*
"What is it? What do you see?" Astarion asks, a trill of panic in his voice as he sees how pain twists both Amara and Gale's face.
Amara lets out a sobbing sound and she leans into the other wizard. "How— how are you still alive?" she asks.
"Thankfully, the moment I absorbed the fragment wasn't enough to kill me outright. It was only the beginning," Gale said grimly, and the look on his face is a sword through Amara's gut.
He releases her hand, and the glow of his Weave dissipates. He rises slowly, and Amara aches to hold him, to soothe the look of self-hatred off of his face.
"This Netherese blight… this orb, for lack of a better word, is balled up inside my chest. And it needs to be fed. As long as I absorb traces of the Weave from potent enough sources, it remains quiet. Were it ever to fully destabilize however…"
"You— you will die," Amara finishes, eyes tracing the mark that curls up from his chest, his neck, and across his cheek.
"Rather worse, actually," Gale counters. "I will erupt."
Amara's stomach plummets.
"I don't know the exact magnitude of the eruption, but given my studies of Netherese magic, I'd say even a fragment as small as the one I carry… it'd level a city the size of Waterdeep."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Amara asks, knowing the weight of carrying that around must be… unimaginable. "You— you…"
"I know," Gale assures her, looking down. "I know. All of this… it must feel like a betrayal. Say the word, and we'll part ways."
Fear shocks through Amara's body, and she stops denying her instincts, and instead just reaches out and puts her arms around Gale's neck, pulling him into an embrace.
Gale flails for a moment, before his hands come to rest on her hips. "A— Amara, I…"
"Don't you dare say that. Don't you dare. You aren't alone. We agreed you wouldn't do this alone. I wish you'd trusted me more, told me sooner, yes— but it will unfortunately take more than a bomb in your chest to drive us away at this point." She pulls away, smiles at him. "You're stuck with us, at this point. Right?"
She flicks her gaze toward her team, and Karlach is the first to answer.
"Absolutely," she agrees with enthusiasm. "We're all risky in our own ways. We stick together anyway. Right?"
Astarion scoffs. "So that's why your blood tastes so vile? Hells, so long as you keep it far away from me, I see no reason we can't all be dangerous together, darling."
Gale's voice is thick with emotion when he manages to say, "That is— a great relief. Oh, a great relief indeed!" He turns solely to Amara and touches her cheek, strokes it with his thumb. "You truly are a soul that steels my own. From all my new-rallied heart I thank you." His gaze flicks to the others. "I thank you all. I'm truly humbled that you stand with me. I'll do my best not to let you down. I stand at a precipice, but if you do not give up hope, neither shall I. I'll fight, I'll resist, I'll run— as long as I can. Now— even I am tired of the sound of my own voice. Let us venture forth. The myconid colony awaits us."
/ / /
All the duergar corpses that were in the myconid colony before are now walking around, infested with spores that move their bodies.
Amara tries hard not to think about that.
She heads right up the round-wooden rod steps and across the mushroom caps until she returns to where she last saw the sovereign who gave her the mission with the duergar .
*It greets you with a harrowing elegy, cheerless as the new moon.*
Mm-hmm. How lovely.
"The duergar are slain; the rot has been purged," she says, cutting right to the chase.
*The music shifts— still melancholic, but now streaked with hope.*
((*do you hear? a new harmony. serenity. I name you Peace-Bringer*))
Amara is startled for a moment, the moniker unexpected. Her names have always been so… ominous.
*Fragrant spores waft through the air. Your heart swells with bliss with your every breath.*
The peace is something you have never indulged in before. It is sweet. Precious.
Gentle.
((*freely you have given to us. freely you may take. the guardian gate is open. go and claim your reward. but before this, I have another boon to ask of you. you have cut out the duergar blight— but not its source*))
*In your mind's eye, Spaw shows you a drow, striding among myconid dead.*
((*Nere, this one is called. he hunted us— hunt him in turn. bring me his head, and I will know my Circle is safe*))
"I'm more than happy to kill this— whoever he is, but tell me there's something in it for us?" Astarion lilts, and this time both Amara and Gale playfully poke at him.
The myconid - Spaw? - thankfully ignores him.
"Consider it done. I will bring Nere's head to you," Amara promises, bowing her head slightly.
((*the drow lurks in the ruins beyond the lake. bring him death, and return*))
They speak to a few more of the myconids, discover a particularly interesting tome, and at the mouth of the colony, Shadowheart puts her hand on Amara's shoulder.
"Let us rest, Amara. Not just eat, bathe, and sleep— rest. We can spend some time unwinding from the battle, and prepare ourselves for the day ahead. You are still healing."
"Tomorrow, we take the rest of the Underdark by the short hairs!" Karlach asserts, going to a big smile. "What do you say?"
Amara looks at Gale, who looks better but still a touch exhausted.
Looking over at Astarion shows skin a touch too gray, and eyes that dart to the shadows.
"A nice afternoon… could probably do us some good," she admits.
She is still exhausted.
"One condition."
Basically all of them talk over each other to agree.
"I want you to tell me what happened with Savras."
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 18: Rest and Reformation
Notes:
I'm planning out the last phase of the fic now, I have a little bit of backwriting to do but just wanted to make sure everything worked well timeline wise and I also moved to a new house in the middle of all of this haha the current word count I'm at is 491,767, so I'm going to plan the last leg out and then fill in the gaps with writing everything out and my post speed should go up when I'm sure I won't stumble on a plot hole by posting! 🥰
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XVIII
Rest and Reformation
The lack of sun helps everyone else ignore their perception of time, but Amara feels strange putting her night clothes on so early in the afternoon. Sometimes she wishes she could shut off all of Chronos' abilities.
Scratch that, she wishes that all the time.
Still, Karlach is so giddy about the idea and Gale seems eager as well, putting extra care into food and wine for them while Halsin stokes the fire and they gather around it on summoned pillows and cushions.
Shadowheart casts another healing spell over her, and Amara can finally feel some of the tension in her torso permanently relax.
She cracks one eye open and looks at the cleric. "Thank you," she offers earnestly. "You didn't have to do that."
The half-elf rolls her eyes. "What else would I use it for? We're relaxing tonight, aren't we?"
"Are we?" Amara asks, playfully, knocking her leg against the other woman's. "I hear whispers of something brewing. Wyll likes to think he's quiet, but he's much louder than he thinks."
"Hey!" the warlock exclaims, loudly, but he's laughing. "It's not so bad as you think; we are merely discussing a little give and take!"
"Oh, yes, and that's clearly never gone wrong for any of us," Amara quips back, sending a pointed glance to nearly everyone in their camp.
"Ouch, Amara, darling— sharp!" Astarion exclaims, before laying himself out on his bedroll covered in pillows. "You really ought to learn how to exercise a single fun bone in your decrepit body, you realize? You're the quintessential bore."
Amara rolls on top of him, and his flimsy nightshirt offers little protection from an onslaught.
"A-Amar—" He immediately tries to push her off, but she wriggles her way to keep him from using his full strength. "Really— Amara, this is entirely ch-childish!! You're resorting to tickling?"
"It's working," Amara argues, "so stop calling me a bore!"
Eventually, the vampire does overpower her, tossing her back against the pillows, and leveling a glare at her. "You— you are a bore with a death wish!"
A Mage Hand gently wacks Astarion on the back of the head. "Please, don't throw any of us near the fire," Gale chastises. "It's dangerous."
"But she—"
"He's just being a drip," Amara teases, throwing a pillow which Astarion easily dodges. "What's the plan for tonight?" He throws one back which she catches.
"It was my idea!" Karlach chirps, making a little area for herself with no pillows. It can't be as comfortable, but she would set the pillows on fire should she sit in them. "We pass questions around, you know? I ask one to Lae'zel, and then she gets to ask one to Gale, who gets to ask one to you— and everyone has to go before someone can go again. Give and take! How's that sound, soldier?"
Amara fluffs her loose hair a few times. "As long as you all tell me about Savras first, I can find a question and answer session amenable."
Shadowheart offers the first piece of information. "He appeared in camp, just like Raphael did. Just… whoosh… and He'd invaded. It took me a moment to recognize Him, but He was so insistent on speaking with only you, that I recalled your past."
Gale swallows, and once again he looks at Amara, picks at his fingers. He presses a hand over his chest.
"Go ahead, Gale," Amara requests. "You're looking at me like that again."
"He called you something— and you almost seemed to confirm it later." He leans forward slightly, and the light of the fire illuminates him. "Amara, God Eater."
Her eyes look down, focusing on the fire. "Ah." She flicks her wrist twice, rubs her fingers together. "Yes, He's… still upset about that. It's one of my more ominous monikers. You said I confirmed it? I spoke?"
"Oh, yes," Gale confirms readily. "You were quite vocal. You, ahm, threatened to… well, eat Him."
"To be more specific, I would eat His magic after killing Him," Amara clarifies. "It… doesn't really make it less ominous, but it does make more sense."
"Gods help us— both of you eat magic now?" Wyll balks.
Amara finally smiles. "Hey— I did it first! It's… oh, how do I explain this… it's a technique that Chronos originally taught me. He needed a wizard, since His goal was to take over my body and resurrect Himself, thus freeing His magical core embedded in the soul under the temple. The problem was that the first person to actually venture into the temple was a child— me. He didn't want to wait for me to learn the long way, so He taught me a very unstable shortcut."
Gale's brows shoot up. "You learned spells by…"
"Consuming them, yes," Amara confirms. "It was a lot of damage I had to undo over time. Not that Chronos cared. Ironically, it was that ability to consume raw magic that let me fight back against Him. Since He was made entirely of magic, once I started consuming Him I… couldn't stop. Before I knew it, I had eaten His entire core. That was all there was of Him, so he just vanished from existence."
Astarion's eyes are wide when he asks, "And you can just do this…" he rolls his hand in the air a few times, "to anyone? At any time?"
"Ah— no." Amara frowns. "For instance, I would have to battle Savras and best Him in combat first. He's still a living deity. Only then could I access and begin consuming His magical core. Not to say I would either— it would probably kill me."
Lae'zel finally speaks, clearing her throat. "To be clear, you were extraordinarily intimidating. It was exhilarating to watch. You stood up to Him with such a declarative nature— with no room for arguing. When He dared to push back, you crushed Him with sheer force of power and held Him with your will. Glorious! A sight to behold! He tried to intimidate you, but you laughed in His face, and glowed with the power of the gods. You held an illustrious, supreme weapon, and slashed Him in an instant! The coward fleed, clutching His guts, and you gave chase! You delivered your powerful blow to the mere ground as you sent the god running, clutching His coattails between His legs! Kainyank!"
"Supreme weapon?" Amara asks, smile dropping from her face. "Gods— I didn't. Did I?"
Wyll gives her a pained smile. "The scythe?"
Amara groans and falls back into the pillows.
"Would it help to know it was fucking cool?" Karlach asks, leaning in over the fire. "Because it was. It lit up the whole cavern it glowed so bright!"
"That's Chronos' thing," Amara bemoans. "It only comes out when I'm really angry. I can't even bring it out when I want to."
Gale chuckles, trying for a smile. "Does His ghost summon the hourglass too?"
She peeks between her fingers at him. "That piece of shit— no. It comes out when I make other stupid decisions. I suppose that means I can bring that one out at will, but it always means I've made a mistake. Any time the whole—" Amara gestures at her face and the back of her head. "You know, hood and crown and blindfold thing comes out— and let me just say, what god of time looks so grim? Why can't He look more regal and studious? He looks more like a god of death!"
Gale puts a finger up. "Actually, there's a reason for that!"
Amara blinks at him. "You cannot know that. I don't know that. And I met Him."
"Aha! It's symbolism, all based in iconology. A scythe is commonly associated with the sliced shape of the crescent moon. I'm sure you're readily aware of this, being the progeny of time, but lunar cycles are heavily linked with three prime modules of time: birth, death— and the growth experienced betwixt. Now, the god of time could just be represented with lunar symbology, but there's another significance to the elevation of the crescent into a weapon— that it is wielded by the hands of the beholder. An unstoppable flow of time, in the hands of an all-powerful deitous being, becomes the inevitable. Birth, then growth, then death. In the end, the god of time will cut down all living things."
Amara's lips twist. "Sounds like a real fun guy."
"You don't—" Gale's smile droops slightly. "You don't have to become that."
Rubbing her face, Amara tries to focus on something else. "Okay— so that's Savras. Let's play this game now, yes?"
Wyll snaps his fingers a few times. "Hear, hear! I'll start us off. My question is for Astarion."
"Oh?" the vampire asks, rousing himself to pay closer attention, smiling so widely his fangs flash. "By all means, darling, go right ahead."
"I've been so curious— how is it that you can stand in the sun? I know it's not because of your status as a spawn. All vampires, true or otherwise, are unable to survive in the light of day."
"Ah, you're right. By all means, I should be cinders in the light. I hadn't seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed here. Someone - or something - wants me alive. They've changed the rules. Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation— they're all perfectly mundane activities now. As for my other quirks— well, we can figure those out in time."
Amara, her curiosity piqued, leans into his space. "What's causing the change, do you think? The mind flayer's parasite?"
"That's my theory," Astarion confirms. "But who knows? I've not exactly had the opportunity to develop as scholarly a disposition as our resident wizards, here. And my days as a magistrate are long past."
Amara blinks at him. "You were a magistrate?"
He tosses a hand in the air. "Once upon a time back in the city, my dear. It's all rather tedious. After Cazador had his say in it, I didn't get up to much of anything for my own satisfaction." His eyes narrow at the other elf. "I suppose… you want to know about Cazador."
"Astarion…" Amara reaches forward, puts her hand on his knee. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
"I don't want to say a damned thing," he snaps, then pushes his hand through his hair. "But that won't do anyone any good." He sits up, but angles his legs so Amara can still touch him. Clears his throat. Arranges his clothes. Smooths his hair back.
"Niar," Amara drawls out. "Don't push yourself."
Red eyes snap up to hers. "Did you— did you just call me, 'little sun'?"
She shrugs one shoulder. "Do you like it better or worse than fangs, fangs?"
He tips his head back, letting out a laugh. "You really never cease to surprise me…" He takes a long, slow breath. "Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur's Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power— I mean power over people. The power to control them completely. He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn and he became my tormentor."
Wyll takes a page out of Amara's book, and leans up against Astarion's other side. He tries for a non-confrontational voice when he asks, "Tormentor? What did he do?"
Astarion eyes him, and Amara figures he's not used to the others touching him as much as Amara does, but he relaxes against the warlock just as much as he does toward the wizard. "He had me go out into Baldur's Gate to fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find. It was a fun little ritual of his— I'd bring them back and he'd ask if I wanted to dine with him." Astarion's voice twists, lifting in pitch with vitriol and bitter hatred. "And if I said yes, he'd serve me a dead, putrid rat. Of course if I said no, he'd have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse."
Amara stares at him for a few beats, and her eyes water. Her heart stutters over itself. Anger pulses once, twice, three times through her veins. She takes her hand off of Astarion's knee as she feels the need to curl it into a fist, and instead just burrows into Astarion's other side.
"That sounds terrible, Niar. I'm so sorry," she whispers, and even she can hear the undertone of fury that laces the apology.
The vampire swallows, breathes. He doesn't even need to breathe. His body is dead. His lungs don't function. He breathes regardless. "Thank you, but this isn't about sympathy. It's about knowing what we might be up against. The mind flayers aren't the only monsters out there. And they might not be the only ones hunting us. All I'm asking is that you keep your eyes open. And watch out for anything lurking in the shadows."
"Chk," they hear across the fire. "You worry for nothing, pale skin. Mighty warriors stand by you. We will watch your back, don't worry."
"Though she puts it bluntly," Shadowheart adds, "Lae'zel speaks the truth. You are far stronger than any time Cazador has confronted you before. We shall face him and free you from his grasp, Astarion, and we shall do it together."
"And by free you from his grasp—" Karlach smashes one of her fists into her other open palm. "She means we'll fucking crush him for what he did to you!"
"I haven't met this vampire lord myself, but I assume there is much to be learned on the matter," Gale supposes. "We could easily discover a method by which we could overtake him, utilizing our unique combination of skills. If we are to challenge a fledgling god, a mere true vampire should be child's play. Wouldn't you think, Astarion?"
He gives a disbelieving laugh and hides his face behind a hand for a moment. "Just don't get yourselves killed. It would be a waste of your perfectly manipulatable skills, you understand."
"Of course," Wyll drawls back. "We understand perfectly."
"What more could I ask? Now, is that all?" He clicks his tongue, but his voice does waver slightly. Amara smiles to herself. "Does that mean it's my turn to ask a question?"
Wyll chuckles. "Those are the rules."
"Alright, if Wyll gets to ask a question he'd been dying to know— so do I. Lae'zel. What in the sweet hells are you doing here? What could possibly have brought you to Faerûn of all places?"
"Chk. To journey to such a place— I did no such thing. I was taken from my crèche. You cannot see it from here, trapped so deep underground, but were we on land, you could see where the githyanki do battle in the sky, among the Tears."
Amara perks up. "The Tears of Selûne, you mean?"
"Yes. Rocky bodies named after a false goddess. As the moon crosses the sky, the Tears follow behind it. Rocky bodies tumbling through the Sea of Night. One of them is my crèche: K'liir."
"It must be quite a shock, to leave your crèche behind and arrive here," Astarion supposes, trying to make it look like he's studying his nails.
"Do you think me so sheltered? My entire clutch battled beholders deep within the Eye of the Sky. We infiltrated a neogi Spelljammer and laid waste to its crew," she proclaims proudly. "The Tears span Toril's sky, vin'iisk. There is more to this realm than this grassy pebble."
Nails now forgotten, he gives a nod, a bit wide eyed. "Duly noted, darling. Your turn."
The githyanki woman immediately flicks her eyes up to Shadowheart's hazel ones.
"Oh, heavens," she remarks, drawing her knees up to her chest. "Me?"
"Kainyank!" Lae'zel spits. "To be so cowardly over a simple question. I ask after your visceral reaction to the wolves we faced in battle. At the time, Amara did not notice, and you begged me with your eyes to not mention it. This is beneath you. You are a true warrior of fine skill and unmatched intuition. You have a grasp of the battlefield and your allies and enemies alike, and use it to accomplish dominating victory! You should not cower at the sight of furry dogs, nor hide such a reaction from a leader who cares deeply for your mental and emotional wellbeing as much as your physical one, as wasted as that effort is."
Shadowheart's eyes crawl up to meet Amara's, and the cleric sighs. "I kept it from you because I did not want to be a coward," she argues, but the dull tone she uses makes it rather unconvincing. "I figured you would go to such lengths for my comfort that it could jeopardize the team, and I decided to care more for our collective wellbeing than… than for my own sanity."
"Shadowheart—"
"Amara," the half-elf interrupts. "It's okay. Lae'zel, though harsh, is not wrong. I have found myself thinking that exact thought an unreasonable amount of times lately."
"Shka'keth!"
"However… it is a difficult thing for me to explain in words. Instead, I shall see if using the tadpole has any merit. Forgive me," she says, closing her eyes.
*You feel a sudden prodding, almost like a knock, and recognize the familiar sensation of your cleric. Like the moon on the water, and the smell of night air. You let her in, and spill trust through the connection. Every one of your companions shares in the bond.*
"I don't remember how it started," Shadowheart, voice soft but slightly strained, says as the connection strengthens and settles. "Only how it ended. I was fleeing."
*Your mind opens to a vision, a young girl bathed in the dark of night and the light of the moon and the stars. She sits, dazed, in a small, dirt clearing, touching a fresh slice on her cheek. With a shock, you recognize this much younger figure as your friend— Shadowheart. Then, a growl. The piercing eyes of a beast, hungry, hunting, as a wolf emerges from the surrounding brush and approaches. It stalks forward, unhurried and licking its sharp teeth, and the small child you know as your close companion startles and tries to stand, to run, and behind her— behind her is a figure.*
"A follower of Shar," Amara breathes out, unknowingly right into the connection. She has only met Lady Shar one time, and to say they "met" at all is a stretch, but the visage of those who follow the Mistress of the Night can be a distinctive one.
*Followers of Shar emerge from the forest, spears drawn, and the one kneels down in front of the young half-elf girl, preventing her from seeing the carnage. Only a single yelp is heard as the beast is downed. A hand raises to the mask that conceals her face…*
"She asked me my name," Shadowheart says, outside their connection, though it echoes with strength through their minds. "I can't remember what I said. I can't remember anything before those woods. All I know is she saved my life, and gave me a new home. With Lady Shar."
Immediately, the connection severs as a sharp pain sears through all of their hands and Shadowheart rushes to stop it.
"I'm— I'm so sorry!" she bursts. "I had— ngh! I had no idea it would do that, I am so sorry!"
Wyll shakes his hand out, holding it up to get a better look at it in the dim lighting of their little cove. "Damn, Shadowheart— that's what's always bothering you?"
"Hurts like a bitch!" Karlach agrees. "You don't have any idea what triggers it?"
Frowning, Shadowheart admits, "No, I honestly don't. Perhaps once I did, and I can again. But for now, I can't seem to make heads or tails of it."
"I say, it's quite a sharp bugger, isn't it?" Gale agrees. "Perhaps we should start writing down the situations in which it crops up, and see if we can't find some causality? We are a party with two wizards— I'm sure we could hypothesize something."
"Do you think it happens when you speak about Lady Shar?" Amara asks, rubbing the back of her hand.
Shadowheart frowns. "It doesn't happen every time. I can feel her influence, but it is not as if she is inflicting it personally. Sometimes I wonder if it's supposed to be guiding me, punishing me, testing me… but perhaps it's none of those. Perhaps it's completely random."
"Shadowheart, darling, I doubt a single thing related to these deities is completely random," Astarion drawls.
"I would like to agree with you," she ventures. "I hope there's more to it— some meaning that Lady Shar will reveal to me, when the time is right. Until then, all I can do is endure."
Amara leans forward and asks, "Is there anything I can do to help with it?"
"I don't think so, but you're sweet to ask," Shadowheart says, smiling.
"Ugh, Amara," Astarion says, shoving her slightly aside. "You have such a bleeding heart. And anyway, Shadowheart— really, must your name be so long? Amara, come up with another of your ridiculous tender-hearted names."
Rubbing at her arm, Amara levies a glare at him. "I can't tell if you approve of the names I pick or not, with that attitude."
He tsks. "Just pick one, so her name isn't so long."
Amara flicks her eyes to the cleric. "Is that all right? I have a feeling your name is connected with your goddess."
She tilts her head. "It is something of a term of endearment for you, right? I wouldn't mind having one of my own."
"What do you think of 'nodelvae'? I would probably end up shortening it to 'Vae'."
"My elvish is… patchy," she begins. "But I think I hear 'moon'. What else?"
"It's a portmanteau," Astarion supplies. "A combination of moon and light. The same as mine is a combination of little and sun. While I love the artistry, I am loathe to point out it's no shorter than her name, Amara, darling," he says, poking at the wizard.
"That's why we'll shorten it," she argues, pouting. "But we have to know what the full name is."
Shadowheart laughs then, her eyes twinkling. "I do like it. Vae is nice."
"I am all gladness, Vae," Amara lilts, leaning back. She settles her back against Gale and puts her feet in Astarion's lap. He attempts to toss her legs away and they have something of a battle over his lap.
Shadowheart taps Wyll on the shoulder, and Amara watches them silently switch places, and the cleric tosses her legs atop Amara's own, putting her head down on the warlock's thigh.
"Excuse me!" Astarion squeaks. "Why is it that I always get all the legs?"
"You are cold," Lae'zel supplies emotionlessly.
"Precisely!" he argues, which Amara is frankly surprised that he wasn't insulted by. "A pillowy thigh which never warms from your touch? There would be no need to flip this to the cold side— I am always chilled. So why am I not the first choice?"
Amara grins a feral grin. "Because this is more hilarious, obviously."
He rolls his eyes, tries in vain to once more free his lap from what is now four legs, and everyone else in camp laughs. "Yes, yes, make all the fun you'd like! Vae, ask your question!"
Shadowheart hums. "My question is for Gale."
"Gosh," he breathes. "Well, okay then! Lift myself up here— some of these have been quite heavy. Ask away, Vae."
"Before, when you divulged your past with Mystra, you mentioned a 'mighty lord', but only briefly. Shar and Mystra are not… well…"
"They certainly are not the closest of friends," Gale supplies with a wince. "In fact, their rivalry should make it impossible for us to bond in the way we have."
"At least on your part, yes," she agrees. "It isn't that followers of Shar are indifferent to those who walk with Mystra, it's just that she is…"
"She certainly has vigor," Gale agrees a tad sheepishly. "But you seek to know more about Karsus," he reroutes their conversation back to her question. "Karsus was perhaps the most powerful wizard that ever lived. The-child-who-would-be-a-god, the elves called him."
Amara gives a rather disdainful laugh. "And he tried."
"That he did," Gale agrees, and though his voice is lacking her venom, it's equally as grave. "With a spell of his own devising he endeavored to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic."
"Wait, wait," Karlach sits up suddenly, waving her hands, "did this happen recently? What happened to Mystra?"
"Mystryl, she was called then," Gale corrects gently. "Imagine what it must have felt like. To be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken," he finishes, brassy and grave.
"Bah. He was a fool through and through, istik."
"I'm inclined to agree with our githyanki friend," Astarion drawls out. "He had such powerful abilities on his own— why endeavor to seek more?"
"Ah, but that's the question, isn't it?" Gale asks, raising his hand up. "As Karsus aimed his spell at her, she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed. It would have been the end of everything had not Mystryl sacrificed herself. The goddess of magic is all magic. By dying, the entire Weave was lost, and the spell that challenged a god failed. It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization."
"Well, fuck," Karlach remarks. "And now it all came back together! We have magic again— and Mystra! Gods, what would it have been like to be there? To experience it?"
Gale gives a light chuckle. "I think we have enough of our own problems right now," he remarks. "As for the child-who-would-be-a-god, he was turned to stone, and his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that came to be known as Karsus' Folly."
Amara snaps her wrist twice, rubs her fingers together. "Nothing good ever comes from mortals wanting to be gods," she remarks, and looks at her friends. She's sure her eyes say more. I should know.
"Loving them has its side effects as well," Gale offers. It's not the same, but Amara can appreciate the similarities. "Now, so many centuries later, I tried to follow in the footsteps of Karsus, not to destroy Mystra," he clarifies, "but to prove my love for her. I tried to control only a fraction of the magic that was unleashed that fateful day. I merely sought to return one tiny diamond to an imperfect crown. Gale's Folly one might call it. History. Repetition. It's the way things go," he finishes, and there's a sadness in his voice that silences the camp for a moment.
"Chk," Lae'zel snaps. "So it does. Danger follows us everywhere. You are a powerful man, quite skilled in your own right, as you are wont to make it known to others. Still, as much as you help us, you pose a threat to us as well."
"Lae," Amara drones out, and it's said low and even, but it's a direct threat to watch her words and everyone in the camp knows it.
"I speak the truth!" she spits out. "What is he planning to do if he loses control? Each time he hungers for magic, it seems to grow more dire. He could be overtaken at any time."
Gale holds up his hand. "If it should ever come to that, if I ever know I am no longer able to stop it, I will do anything I can to ensure no one but me pays for my mistakes," Gale assures her, and the rest of them, with immediate haste.
"Gale—"
"I will find the remotest place on the surface of Faerûn, or perhaps here, far below, in these depths of the Underdark. I will await that death alone."
Amara's breath quickens.
She sees him for a moment.
Gale of Waterdeep, as she first met him. In the cottage, with the dark circles under his eyes and the tired lines about his mouth. The hopelessness in his gaze, tinged red as he held back tears in her presence.
No.
No, she won't let him go again.
Gale continues as long as she doesn't hinder him. "I promise I will not betray your trust. You kept me by your side despite the menace that I am. If worst comes to worst, I will be long gone before the curtain falls."
Amara has to hinder him. Now.
She pulls her legs from the jenga pile atop Astarion and twists so she's facing Gale instead of just leaning against him, half in his lap, and grabs onto the front of his robes with one of her hands.
"I will hear no more of you putting yourself down with such defamatory statements, do you understand? I travel with Gale of Waterdeep, with pride in that fact. You agreed to run from your fate with me, not away from me. I expect you to make good on that promise, and I shall make good on a promise of my own."
Amara yanks him closer, until they are barely apart.
"So long as you will have me, Gale, I will not let any other have you. Not even death."
He doesn't respond, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, and this close up Amara can almost feel his skin heat. She leans back, smooths where she creased his robes, and that seems to break him out of his spell. "A… dangerous promise…"
"One I intend to keep, dangerous or not."
Astarion clears his throat from behind her. "Not that I'm not enjoying the show, darling, I just have to point out— I didn't know you were so possessive."
Amara flicks her gaze over her shoulder. "Neither did I."
Karlach barks out a laugh. "That does sound like you! I think they're sweet together, vamp, so leave them be. 'Sides, I agree with Amara more than I do Gale. I don't want him running off to explode somewhere. We'll figure out something together. Now, we've got to stop the wizards from talking or I think we'll be here all night. Gale! Ask your question!"
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. Amara notes it shakes slightly. "Ah, right, right! I have to admit— I am more than a little curious about your pact Wyll. Is that something I could pry into? From my understanding, warlock pacts tend to be unforgiving things. While I have a great deal of sympathy for the penance you paid in sparing Karlach's life, I have to admit that you were lucky you did not face a more severe punishment— by all accounts, Mizora could have taken your soul when she came."
He puts his hands up. "I'd count my lucky stars she didn't— but I reckon luck is on holiday," he remarks. "I'm only alive because my patron still has use for me."
Astarion eyes him. His expression is wiped of emotion, but there's an intensity to his eyes. "You should get out of your pact."
He scoffs. "A possibility that's kept me awake countless nights. But I don't have half a clue where to start, other than play her games, and play by her rules. That's the only language devils listen to."
"There must be some loophole in the contract that lets you out," Astarion points out, as if this is obvious.
"There could well be: she has the blighted thing, what I know of it is simply what has engraved itself upon my memory. My contract is very clear I can bring Mizora to no harm— she'll have to let me out of my pact willingly. The only way out is if I can out-bargain her. We're standing here with nothing but the clothes on our backs and the worms in our heads."
Amara smiles at him. "We can beat her, if we put our worms together."
He laughs for a moment, and nods his head a few times. "We can, I'm sure of it." He looks around the fire. "How glad I am that all of you see me as more than my patron's pet. I don't know how to thank you enough."
"Your patron is rather hard to love," Karlach growls out. "How are you holding up, by the way? Being a devil suddenly can't be an easy change."
He considers this for a moment. "It's said that anyone who bathes in the River of Blood emerges as one born anew. It's a lot like that, I imagine. I feel the weight of these horns on my head, curling upwards like a mammoth's tusks. I feel these ridges snaking down my neck. Not to mention a few bumps and prongs in unmentionable places."
"Oh?" Astarion drawls, and Wyll throws a pillow at him. Astarion throws it back and it hits Wyll dead in the face.
"Ooft! Good— good aim!"
"If you didn't want a reaction, darling, don't go around mentioning your unmentionables. You bring it upon yourself, both the flirtatious remarks and the well-aimed pillow shots."
"I was going to make a dramatic suggestion!" he remarks, and Astarion laughs.
"Come now," the vampire says. "Far be it for me to limit dramatics in our camp."
He rolls his eyes. "Even after all this time, I haven't had the heart to peer at my own reflection since the change. Be my mirror. What do you see?"
"Hah! What would you like me to say; quite the handsome devil?" Astarion asks, in his usual unserious manner.
"I accept your flattery in any form, Astarion," Wyll points out, jutting his finger in the vampire's direction. "Joke or not."
"He's right, though," Karlach remarks. "As far as devils go, I feel few of them are as dashing as you."
"Tsk'va, the horns matter not. Your strength is what makes you desirable," Lae'zel snaps, and Wyll blinks at her a few times.
"Thank you, Lae'zel— I think."
His eyes flick over to Amara's. "You'd like to know my thoughts?" she asks, a smile growing on her face.
"Is that so strange? You were the first to see me. You saved me. Brought me back to join your team. I joined you as a hero, not this devil."
"Wyll, you joined as yourself. You joined as the Blade of Frontiers. When I look at you, I still see the same man. You're still you."
"If only half the world had half the heart you do," he remarks slowly, his voice thick. "I suppose I'll grow used to the new me, horns and all. The people will see a curiosity. Maybe even a beast, hungry for their souls. But I will slay their monsters, keep them safe. And one day they will see the Blade of Frontiers again." He raises his arm, and puts it across his chest in his usual salute.
Smiling, Amara mimics the gesture. "I believe it's your turn."
"Right, right… Karlach, we've never had the chance to have a real conversation. I suppose you could say I'm bursting with questions."
"I suppose you'll be wanting to know about how friendly Mizora and I are, first and foremost?" she asks, sitting back in the dirt. Amara frowns. She looks ever-so-lonely over there outside their little pile.
"'Taken more pleasant shits' is one way to define friendly," Wyll remarks with a chuckle. "But go on."
"We were both part of Zariel's inner circle," Karlach explains. "Her by choice. Me by force. In the grand scheme of things, I'm inconsequential to Zariel. Sure, I've got the engine. But I wasn't even her strongest fighter. But she favored me like a child favors a captive pet. Mizora envied the attention I suppose. I'm sure when Zariel gave her the order to hunt me down, Mizora was delighted."
Wyll licks his lips and his eyes jump over to Amara.
Catching on quickly, she points out, "I can see why you were so keen to escape."
"No kidding," Karlach says with a heavy sigh. "The fighting, the chaos, the betrayal… it all had the makings of a good stage show, but I did not want to be one of the players."
"Do you think she'll keep coming after you?" Wyll asks, his voice grim.
"I don't know," she answers honestly. "You'd think she'd have more important things to do. Devils and their pride."
Astarion barks out a laugh. "You'd be surprised. Pride goes a long way. I would love to think I'm free now that I've been, how shall I put this, misplaced by Cazador, but… sooner or later, he will probably hunt me down, as well."
"Though my big speech was for our resident bomb," Amara drones, jutting her thumb in the direction of Gale who lets out a distant sound of protest, "it goes for all of you. So long as you entrust yourself to my care, so long as you let me lead for you, care for you, love you, I won't let you go anywhere you don't wish to go. I won't let you be taken by anyone you don't wish to go with. You're one of my people now, and all of you are protected by each other just as much. We're a family who's found each other in this large world."
"Oh gods, I wish I could hug you!" Karlach howls in frustration from her lonely part of the camp. "You— you deserve it! I deserve it! I want more than fucking anything to toss my legs on the pile on top of Astarion, lay around, drag Lae'zel into there because I know she wants to join but isn't sure how— gods! It's so unfair! This bloody engine!"
Amara presses her lips together. "Oh— Karlach, I'm so sorry."
"No, no," she assures her with a slight gasp in her voice. "I'm just all worked up, soldier. Family. My family is long gone. I was trapped in the Hells for ten years. I never thought I'd get another, but… and now I can't even touch any of you."
"We could try several spells to cool her down," Gale suggests, gathering an icy Weave in his hands.
Amara hums to herself. "The heat is generated inside her. I doubt it would work for more than a few moments before we'd start to singe. It's not quite the same, but…"
She makes two sharp gestures, flicks of her fingers tangling and untangling, and snaps her wrists downward, and a haze begins to glow around her. All the other companions, remembering the morning, immediately startle to attention, but Amara just smiles at them and steps back, leaving the hovering mist where she was standing before.
Amara flicks her fingers again and the haze solidifies into an identical copy of Amara.
Or, almost identical.
Her hair is a little shorter, and her ears are round. Human.
"Is— are you in the Underdark?" the copy asks, turning around to face Amara.
"Haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," Amara drawls out. "Hey, I need your help with something. I need you to cast Simulacrum for me."
The copy blinks. Amara blinks back. "What? Do it yourself. Why do you need me to do it?"
"Why would I have summoned you if I could do it myself?"
The copy crosses her arms and looks around at the companions.
"Don't look at them," Amara asserts. "I just need a quick favor."
"What in the sweet hells are we into?" the copy asks. "Why are you so weak? You can't even cast Polymorph, can you? You never leave your ears out like that anymore. What is going on? You're traveling with a group? You haven't teamed up with anyone since Mystra ki—"
"Okay!" Amara snaps. "I'm dismissing you if you won't cast it."
"Just tell me why you need it," she argues. "Are you in a lot of danger? How much are you snapping?"
"A lot," she confirms. "And we're relaxing— it's a moment of reprieve. One of my friends - and yes, they're my friends, don't say anything - has an overheating issue. A Simulacrum wouldn't be able to singe like we could."
The copy looks over at Karlach, sitting all alone around the fire. "Oh, for the love of— I don't even know you and I want to give you a hug. Here, come here." A flash of cyan Weave and a whirl of creation and color, and suddenly there are three of Amara, and the copy… of the copy leaps forward to hug the barbarian.
Karlach, seemingly deciding not to question anything for now, waits to see if the Simulacrum spell will catch on fire, and when it doesn't, she sweeps the copy of Amara up off her feet and into a bone-crushing hug.
"Ow," the original Amara remarks, rubbing her back. "Look at that strength… my bones."
"That's a great barbarian you've got there," the copy remarks. "Just watching that hug gives me back pain and makes my heart swell. That's ideal," she says with a nod, and then flicks her eyes over to Amara. "Don't push yourself, okay?"
Amara flicks her wrist twice.
"Hmm," the copy says. "You already have. You're missing another organ."
"Will you stop?"
"You'll kill yourself at this rate."
"Savras walked right into the camp. I wasn't even awake at the time— I'm not stupid."
"I know," the copy says. "I'm you. Don't get us killed, okay? And whatever is going on with you, figure it out. I don't like it one bit."
"Trust me, neither do I."
The copy smiles. "I know."
In a flash of Weave, the copy is gone, and with her, the Simulacrum Karlach was still hugging.
"So— Karlach," Shadowheart begins. "It's your turn. Would you like to ask Amara something? She's the only one who hasn't gone yet."
Karlach, still beaming from her experience embracing the Simulacrum, turns to Amara." Oh! Yeah— what the fuck was that, girl?"
Amara bursts out laughing, and shakes her head. "For what it's worth, it's difficult to wrap even my head around fully. The abilities I have left after sealing most of Chronos away are few and far between. The main one is, of course, my snap which allows me to turn back the clock. In the same vein, I can… let's say, draw forward a previous incarnation of myself. As long as I maintain concentration on it, that copy can maintain a physical form, hold a conversation with me, and even cast magic. I borrowed her magic since she won't be affected by the worm as I am. It seems to weaken us, for some unknown purpose, and I'm currently unable to cast that spell myself— or, well, I suppose I should say I'm unable to cast it at this time."
"So, let me get this straight," Astarion lilts, "you can pull any old version of yourself back from time into the present?"
"I would show off, but I'm resting," Amara teases. "But, yes. I was a master of disguise, once upon a time. A lot of my pulls I make don't look much like me, but that's on purpose. I've been running for a long time."
Shadowheart licks her bottom lip. "From what?"
Wyll corrects the question. "From who?"
She winks at them both. "The golden questions. Who would be after the progeny of time?"
"Gods," Astarion guesses. "At least four of them. Like you said, they were the only ones you were sure knew your secret."
"Was Mystra one of them?" Gale asks, meeting her eyes. "Your pull mentioned her."
She rubs her fingers together, flicks her wrist. "Gods can be particularly cruel when they believe they have lost. It is a personal vendetta at that point. They seek to redouble your punishment, as if to make up for their perceived shortcomings. There is no winning, when up against a god. You either submit to the loss, lie down and die, or you nearly kill yourself to win, all while thinking of how the battle next time will be twice as difficult."
Shadowheart stares at her with wide eyes. "I think… if I were you, I would detest deities as well."
"But you must remember, you are not me, and I do not wish to be a poison, Vae."
/ / /
Amara wakes them at dawn the next morning.
Of course, it looks no different in the Underdark, but she knows the time all the same.
Food is slightly more difficult to come by in this place, so Amara has to get a little creative with Gale for breakfast. They'll need to find a trader, or take a trip back to the surface soon. The only one of them looking particularly vital is Astarion, and isn't that just backwards?
Lae'zel crunches straight into a pear and puts another pear in Amara's hand.
"Where exactly did you get these?" the elf asks, but she immediately accepts it nonetheless. Gift horses and mouths and all that.
"Chk. If you have to ask, you do not deserve the answer," the githyanki woman deflects, crossing her arms and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
"Aww, thank you, Lae'zel!"
"I do not collect them for your consumption, istik!"
"That's really so sweet of you."
"You are trying my patience, Amara. I will slice the fruit from your stomach if you continue!"
Amara finishes the pear and smiles up at the fighter. "Really, though. Thank you. The fact that you know it's my favorite— we don't have a lot down here. I do appreciate it."
With a grunt, Lae'zel whips herself away and ducks back into her tent.
"Get your armor on!" Amara calls to her. "I have a feeling the people holding the deep gnomes might prove somewhat hostile, if the other dark dwarves are anything to go by. Having our best fighter will be a good idea, I feel."
Shadowheart eyes her. "Are you in good enough shape to participate?"
"I feel fine," Amara assures her dismissively.
It isn't really an answer.
Amara knows that.
Shadowheart knows that too.
"You take four of us."
"Vae, I don't—"
"Just until we are out of the Underdark," the cleric insists. "Please."
Amara frowns. How dare she.
"Well, now, someone is pouting," Astarion drawls, putting his crossbow at his back. "Come now, Amara, dear. Lae'zel, Shadowheart, yourself, and who else?"
Wyll yawns, sitting down at the dining table across from Karlach. "Stealth and magic are probably a good idea for an unknown like this. Gale is more versatile than I am, and you have a heavy hitter in Lae'zel already. Karlach and I can stay behind."
"That being said—" Gale hands Amara a cup of the tea she had started over the fire. "Where exactly are we going?"
"All Thulla said was that the dig is across the lake," Amara recalls. "I believe we might have seen a glimpse of it as we were flying above a majority of the Underdark, but seeing it in the distance is a far cry from successfully navigating to it."
"There was a raft docked at the duergar camp," Shadowheart recalls. "Is that the lake Thulla intended us to cross?"
"We can only assume so," Gale agrees. "If the duergar are involved, I would venture a guess that they would have crafts stationed at both the dig site and inland."
Amara gives a sharp nod. "Then, back to their camp we go. Is everyone ready?"
After a round of affirmatives, Amara slings her pack over her back and they jump through the mushroom circle and start the trek back up through the myconid colony and down the myriad of wooden rod steps.
As Shadowheart recalled, there is indeed a raft docked in the water that looks to be in good condition. The way forward is murky at best and sinister at worst, but Amara feels a heaviness to the water, to the air, to the wind.
She detests it, but at least this means they're on the right track.
*The craft is ready to sail,* her narrator says, absolutely scaring the pants off her.
Jeez, give a girl some warning, why don't you?
How do you even know that? Can you see the rudder from there, oh, omniscient voice in Amara's head?
*Would you like to sail into the darkness, or leave?*
Is that a trick question? Amara would like to leave, but this isn't really about what Amara wants to do.
She stumbles on board, quite literally almost as she nearly wipes out the second she takes two steps onto the swaying docks of the vessel, and catches herself just enough to look natural.
At least, that's what she tells herself.
She approaches the massive set of winged fans in the back of the craft, and watches her companions disperse to other stations to man, or just loiter about waiting for something to do to crop up.
Amara tugs a little at the rudder of the ship to get it moving, and realizes she's actually making it do something.
This is so far above her pay grade.
The boat eventually starts to move, and Amara guides it through the water toward the dark passageway in the distance, squinting rather significantly. "Um, Gale?" She calls. "Could you—"
A bright orb of light suddenly flares up from the deck of the ship, floating into the air and lighting the entirety of the surroundings. It isn't as if the wilds have been brought down from the surface into the Underdark, but it certainly makes the venture into the unknown slightly less terrifying.
Amara struggles to steer the ship, once fully running it aground against some rocks and having to snap the vessel back several minutes onto open water, but she does manage to eek it around sharp corners and the winding bends of the craggy rock faces.
The longer she steers, the stronger the presence of Chronomancy Weave in the air becomes, until it is so heavy that for a moment Amara can't even make out what's happening, until Astarion is suddenly next to her, grabbing her arm.
"Don't you hear that?" he hisses, alarm in his voice.
She strains her ears against the roar of the water. It shifts, lapping against the side of their skiff. But there's almost too much noise— too much movement.
Another raft.
In the light of Gale's spell, Amara watches another almost identical raft to theirs put on considerable speed to overtake them.
Amara can't drive their boat well enough to know how to do that.
As the boat approaches, Amara realizes it's filled with duergar.
Amara really wishes she could drive their boat better.
One of them, tattooed across the face - and didn't that have to hurt - demands Amara's attention with a familiar kind of authority. "Elf! What are you doing on Gekh's raft?"
Oh, lovely. Yes, this will certainly go well.
Amara opens her mouth to reply, and the duergar jumps aboard Amara's ship.
Oh, lovely. Yes, this will certainly go well.
"Where's Gekh?" he demands without waiting for her to answer. "Who are you?"
Amara bites back the desire to immediately push the dark dwarf off her raft. "I'm afraid Gekh is dead," she supplies instead, taking solace in the look of shock on his face. Then, she tells a little lie. "He fell fighting the myconids." And their allies, she supposes.
What? She doesn't see the harm in it.
"Damn— the sergeant'll be pissed 'bout her boots," he spits out, and Amara has to lick her teeth to keep from hurling an insult.
So that's what he's upset about?
Boots?
"Come on. Let's get you to shore," he commands. "You're the one telling the sergeant what happened. The rest of you—" He whips around to face the other duergar. "Keep patrolling. I'll be heading back with this one."
He pushes Amara out of the way to make himself at home on Gekh's raft.
Amara pushes him off the raft.
She snaps and just remembers how it felt, and the sound he made when he hit the water. She rubs her fingers together and snaps her wrist twice, letting the duergar take control of the large fanning blades at the back. It's not like she was very good with them in the first place.
"What's your name, elf? Mine's Corsair Greymon."
She eyes him carefully. "Amara. Pleasure," she grits out, walking down the stairs to join the rest of her friends. If the duergar wants to steer, the duergar can steer.
Amara can't be next to him, or he goes into the drink again.
*You continue forward in silence until the lights of a camp twinkle in the murk.*
And twinkle in the murk they do, thank you, narrator. Amara is now highly doubting she ever saw this particular structure with Gale— she has a feeling she should have remembered it better. It's towering, and the heat pouring off of it warms the water to the point where the raft itself begins to bake. The stone the building is made of almost seems to crackle, a series of sparks pour out of the naturally formed fissures that mar its surfaces.
As their vessel approaches its entrance, Amara's eyes stay fixed on a series of massive statues of dark rock and golden accents, blindfolded and dual-wielding blades. Even the entrance itself is unusually impressive, as a series of blades and gears rotate and whir, pulling up spokes that sink deep into the water, serving as a gate that opens and allows the raft inside.
Greymon whistles under his breath. "Well, I'll be plowed sideways— we got a welcoming party."
Oh, Amara really doesn't like the sound of that.
Getting plowed sideways or a welcoming party, for that matter.
Thankfully, the welcoming party is more of a welcoming pittance, as it's only two more duergars waiting to greet them as their raft docks at the dig site camp.
The moment they're close enough, the duergar woman snaps, "You shithead!" at Greymon.
A real charmer, that one.
"About time you showed up. We got trouble," she informs him, laying that charm on thick.
He scoffs. "Spit it out. Sergeant finally choked on True Soul Nere's prick?"
Good gods. Amara glances at Gale, who is looking at her equally as wide-eyed.
"Drugh no," the duergar woman replies, blessedly. "The Twat-Soul caused a rockfall."
Behind her, Amara can hear Shadowheart repeat, "Twat-Soul?"
And Lae'zel responds, "Is this the correct pronunciation?"
To which Gale replies with an emphatic, "No."
Amara has to jump off the raft after Greymon, lest she burst out into laughter.
"A rockfall?" Greymon replies, and she tries to focus on that. "He isn't trapped, is he?"
"Tighter than a ring on a fat finger," she growls, simmering, and Amara really didn't need that image.
"You're shitting me," Greymon replies. They really have such pleasant language here. "He pay up?"
"That's the trouble— he's got the gold on him. Sergeant's arm is falling off with all the gnome slaves she's been beating." She turns to look at Amara as if just noticing her, and crosses her arms, brow cocked. "Who's the hoon, Greymon— another slave for the dig?"
Astarion jumps down next to her and snarls, "Call me 'slave' again, and I'll feed you your own stomach."
"Ooh— this one's feisty," the duergar woman trills. "Thrinn's gonna knock the snot right out of him."
Amara puts her arm in front of him, protecting him. "Watch yourself. I was told to report to the sergeant, and that's all."
"Aye. She sniffed up Gekh's corpse. Found the hoon sailing his skiff," Greymon agrees. "Amara, this is Morghal. Morghal, play nice."
"That so?" she sneers. "I… nngh…"
*You feel the slightest of stirrings in your head. The duergar is not infected, yet your minds resonate.*
"I'll be. You're one of them cult-freaks. Felt the tingle," she remarks, looking up with a cold gaze. "Your Twat-Soul chum owes us a load of coin. You want through? Make a donation." The cold steel of a knife glints in the warm orange light of the forge.
Amara's eyes fixate on it immediately. Her blood surges through her veins. Her fingers tingle. She grips her hands tight, rubs her fingers together. In her peripheral, she can see Gale and Shadowheart jump down from the ship after Lae'zel, who seems to be making a direct march up to the dark dwarf.
No! Nope! Probably a bad idea.
Amara steps in her path and declares in as even, determined a voice as she can, "I'm not giving you a single coin."
Morghal stares for a beat, as if determining how serious Amara is, and then scoffs. "Unclog your hole— just shitting around."
She most certainly was not. If Amara hadn't passed muster, she has a feeling the blade wouldn't be making the cute little arch in the air it's making now before Morghal stores it in her sheath again. It would be in her gut.
"But I'm warning you— that Twat-Soul ain't settle up soon, there'll be hell to pay for the lot of you cult-buggers."
Great. Thanks, worm.
Morghal seems to determine that's the end of the conversation, and Amara isn't exactly going to argue with that, so she lets the duergar disperse and then turns to her companions again, brows up.
"They're still in earshot, Amara," Shadowheart advises. "Take care with your tongue."
"But 'Twat-Soul', really? What did we do to get signed up automatically for so much bullshit?"
"Be thankful, unfair as it may be, that we are still somehow at the top of this veritable food chain," Gale advises, and Amara is loathe to agree.
She wanders the docks at first, waiting for all the duergar to disperse, reading several notes she finds that paint a particular kind of… picture of what these individuals are like. When she feels less watched, Amara gestures for her party to follow, and they climb a lengthy series of stairs past a waypoint, and several caged corpses of drow.
A sound of utter disgust escapes her mouth. "Is this truly how low they have decided to sink?" she hisses, and Astarion looks delighted and while Gale and Shadowheart try to keep her quiet. "Dead drow," Amara points out to them, eyes meeting Lae'zel's. She narrows hers. "Publicly displayed."
"These duergars are sending a message," the githyanki woman supplies, tone neutral.
"I dislike their tone, then," Amara snarls back, and Lae'zel's brow twitches with interest.
"We are here to fetch someone's head, you realize," she points out.
"And display it on a spike?"
She hums. "You have interesting standards."
"I have lines, Lae'zel. There are just things you don't do."
They continue climbing the stairs quietly after that, Amara finally acquiescing to her friends' pleas to stop denouncing the practices of the plethora of dark dwarves all around them. The higher they climb, the hotter it gets. The cotton of Amara's robes starts to stick to her skin, and she has to start walking with extra care that her arms don't touch the leather of her cuirass, lest it chafe.
The others don't fare much better.
At the top of the stairs, a massive arched doorway opens into a large, sweltering room. Metallic grates give line of sight into what might actually be burning embers below, causing steam and smoke to rise up from the patterned openings. Heat distorts the room itself, bending and twisting it in mirages of color, and the temperature spikes a concerning amount the moment the party steps inside.
They are far from the only ones in there, however. A group of deep gnomes - Thulla's people, presumably - mine at a pile of rock, and a smattering of duergar stand aside, guarding and ordering them. A scrying eye keeps its watchful gaze over the entirety of the proceedings and appears to be the only thing unaffected by the heat.
As far as who they are meant to speak with, Corsair Greymon mentioned a sergeant, and if Amara was curious who the "sergeant" was, it's not hard to tell.
The copious amounts of whipping and screaming give it away quite readily.
"Faster!" she screeches, making more than one of them flinch. She tsks, and turns to the masked duergar next to her. "Heat up some rocks," she orders. "Let's see how the little pricks do when we strap fire to their legs."
Shadowheart clamps a hand down on Amara's shoulder and just says. "You know I agree with you," right into her ear. "Lady Shar has many methods of extracting both information and labor from those she favors and those she does not. I would easily say this… is not the most sophisticated way of getting what you want from someone."
Amara blinks. "You think?"
"Move, hoon." Amara startles, realizing the sergeant is actually talking to her. Great.
"Bare feet, I see," Amara says, the first thing she notices. It's definitely the wrong thing to say, if the expression on Sergeant Thrinn's face is anything to go by. "I nabbed these boots from a runaway gnome— yours perhaps?"
Astarion hisses in a voice just loud enough for Amara's hearing to pick up, "What are you doing?"
"Panicking!" she hisses back.
"Never thought I'd see these back. Nasty sneak gave even Gekh the slip," the sergeant says, clapping. She points at her feet and one of the gnomes comes running, falling to his feet and crawling over to put the boots on her feet. "Crafty little shits, these ones. You need a stiff cane to keep 'em in line."
When the gnome finishes putting Sergeant Thrinn's boots on, she kicks him in the face.
And Amara likes to think she's a decent person— sometimes even a good one. She likes to think she's logical and kind. That Lae'zel's right about her bleeding heart and how wasteful she is with her time and resources. How she gives them freely to others, all out of the goodness of her heart. But as much as Amara would like to convince herself she's a thoroughly good person—
She's not.
A hail of scorching bolts come raining down on the duergar woman. Four rays of fire and light dig into her skin, burning and eating away at it.
Amara casts it again, without hesitation.
Before that one is even finished firing, she casts it again, even though only three rays fire this time.
"Ah— Amara?" Astarion asks from behind her, drawing his weapon. They all draw their weapons except Amara, actually.
She just stares at the smoking body of the sergeant.
The duergar rush into the room.
She thinks Gale grabs her arm, or maybe Shadowheart, but she's not paying attention. She knows there's an ax-wielding dark dwarf with a heading right for her, a mask glinting in the firelight. She knows her companions are trying to get her to safety. She knows that.
But it's okay.
She only needs a moment more.
She breathes in the scent of burning flesh. Feels the simmer of Weave on her fingers. Her chest pulls. Her heart hammers.
Amara snaps.
"Move, hoon," the sergeant, alive and unburnt, orders as she tries to get by Amara and her companions. "I don't have time for drungnin' outsiders."
Burning flesh. Simmering Weave. Sinnew. Heartbeat. Life. Death.
"How is the dig going?" Amara asks, conversationally.
"Poorly, obviously. Tunnel collapsed on a True Soul. Absolute's going to eat my liver," Thrinn laments. "Now move. I've got no time for—"
*The parasite stirs, but it's a mere tickle. You hear no thoughts or memories, just an echo of scars that never healed.*
The sergeant spits a curse in dwarvish out under her breath. "A True Soul, eh? Useless rakkah of a lookout could've told me. Glad you're here to take responsibility. Tunnel's collapsed, trapped True Soul Nere. He's stuck in there with poisoned geysers. We don't get him out soon, it's both our heads."
Astarion gives a little trill of laughter next to Amara. "No need for that— Nere's is the only head that matters to us."
Amara elbows him.
"Clearing that rubble will be no easy feat," Amara comments, trying to talk over Astarion. "Any ideas?" She glances up at the gnomes and their pickaxes. "That seems to be a little… slow."
"Not a one," Sergeant Thrinn remarks unhelpfully. "Unless you count tacking aboleth fangs to my whipping cane."
Amara cracks her neck, flares her nostrils. She can smell the burning forge below. She focuses on that.
"We'll figure it out," Amara promises with an even tone.
"Get Nere out and you'll have the Absolute's blessing, no doubting that."
Amara couldn't care less about that blotter. Sodding fucking goddess and her bloody fucking cultists.
"I'll take care of it." Amara tries to step away from the conversation. She needs to be focusing on something else. She counts her heartbeats.
"Entrance to an ancient temple. General's orders, Nere said. Must contain somethin' important,'' Sergeant Thrinn goes on, and Amara rubs her fingers together. Her Weave dances between them. Sparks. Festers. Burns.
Gale grabs her arm.
The sergeant looks over her shoulder and continues unhindered. "He got me to recruit nonbelievers. But not everyone's seein' the Absolute's truth. They don't get paid soon, I'll have a riot on my hands."
Riot. Yeah. That sounds good.
Finally the fucker had a good idea.
Amara gives her a tight smile. "I'll take care of it," she repeats, and she means it this time. Oh, she'll take care of it all right.
"Thought you would. True Souls don't abandon their own," the sergeant says, as if that even means anything.
A load of bloody nonsense all of this is.
Not for the first time, Amara considers a very dangerous idea, before dismissing it.
Gale tugs on her arm again. "Let's go," he advises in a low, warning tone of voice.
Amara lets herself be dragged away. They get out of earshot and Gale pulls her fingers up, splaying them in front of his face to examine them. He makes an exaggerated noise of concern. "I knew it! I recognized the weight of such Weave from my juvenile days. Wild and unstable. Now, I was a precocious little whelp in my youth and got up to things I should never have been trying— you though, what were you doing that you burned the pads of your fingers?"
The smell of burning flesh. Amara's nose twitches.
"Having a temper tantrum," she replies in a monotone. "Don't worry, I erased it. Mostly. The anger still festers. A bit."
"A bit?" Gale repeats, showing her the fingers again. "What, praytell, did this abundance of anger blossom into? If indeed it was an event you had to erase as you claim, I assume you were guilty of casting something, and knowing from experience that the physical toll of a misfire does not carry back with you— would you give me due credit of telling me what exactly you cast that made such an impression on you through the flow of time?"
"Nothing so heinous," Amara replies, now with a frown. "You know as well as I do that the worm suppresses our greater abilities until we can regain them."
His eyes narrow. "What did you cast?"
"Scorching Ray," she replies, but her voice wavers. Her Weave sizzles on her skin, bubbling with heat. Gale's eyes snap to it, practiced and overflowing with intelligence.
"Show me."
Amara snatches her hand away.
"No."
"Amara—"
"No, not that."
Gale presses his lips together and approaches her with open palms. "I just want to see what happened."
"There's a reason I erased it," she tells him, stepping away. "We have to get to Moonrise. Let's see if we can't discover a way to clear this cave-in."
Gale looks over to the others for help, but the only other one who replies is Astarion.
"Darling, it's her choice. Besides, doesn't it just make her more mysterious," he drawls, obviously joking but Amara appreciates the misdirection. "I personally love the implication of gray morality. I'd love to see her rain fire down on someone who probably deserved it, but the scintillating mystery of why she's hiding it is delicious as well."
"Enough," Amara declares, cutting a glance in his direction. He shrugs with one shoulder and that's all the apology she's going to get.
It's time to incite a riot.
Outside the forge itself, two duergar are engaged in a heated discussion.
A duergar man with extensive face tattoos gestures widely. "Seen her run with a barrel under her arm. Just a small one, but enough to blow the drow out. Someone should grab it. Slaves are never gonna manage with pickaxes."
His companion, a female duergar whose smooth scalp reflects the firelight, glares at him openly. "Can't go chasing 'maybes'— the sergeant's our ticket in."
Hmm. Interesting?
"Would you look at that, Kur. Someone's having a listen," the elder duergar says, grinning as he sees the elf approach.
*A shiver runs through you. Your mind is awash in ancient resentments.*
"True Soul, no less. What do you think, Kur— should we take Nere's debt off her?" he asks, with a lilt of hatred to his voice.
"Don't be absurd," Amara drawls out, crossing her arms. "I hate these True Soul cultists."
She doesn't even have to lie.
"Yet you've all got that Twat-Soul stench."
Astarion scoffs loudly. "Stench?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd say a mind flayer shat a worm in your brain."
"While it is a detestable choice of verbage, the ghaik are a cruel and brutal race of beasts," Lae'zel sneers at him. "We bow to no one, and will dig the eyeballs from the skulls of the ghaik who interfere with us any further."
"Lae," Amara warns softly.
The duergar isn't put off, however, and he sneers at the githyanki woman. "Should split your head open and poke around in there if you lot don't pay up."
"I'd like to see you try," she growls, and Shadowheart holds onto her, preventing her from lunging at him.
"As you can see," Amara tries once more, holding Lae'zel from the other side. "We are no more True Souls than you are."
"I'd venture to say we quite detest them, rather," Gale adds.
*The shiver returns. This time, it's colder. Sharper.*
"The stench don't lie. You're one of them," he argues, standing his ground.
Astarion grits his teeth. "Stench?! You insult us. It must all be in your imagination, dwarf. We bow to no Absolute."
He grunts, looks them over again. "Could be you're right. Something's different with you lot. In that case— want to earn some gold?"
Riot, riot… riot!!
Amara cracks her knuckles loudly. "What gold?" she asks boldly. "I thought you hadn't been paid yet."
"Ain't my gold I'm offering," he states, as if it's obvious. "It's the True Soul's. Thrinn's after the Absolute's glory— that's why she's got those slaves digging for Nere. But we ain't need glory— just coin. And Nere's got plenty. Help Thrinn free Nere— then you and my chums grind him up."
Riot… riot… RIOT!!
"Whatever the spoils, we'll drop you a fat cut. You in?"
Amara licks her teeth. "Sounds good. I expect half the spoils."
Astarion makes a noise of pleased surprise. Lae'zel cuts her a look of raised brows.
"Half? You drugnin'…" He bears his teeth, leans in. Amara leans right back. "Fine," he spits out. "Half it is. But first we need to take care of something. You seen that weird orb eye floatin' about? Knife it. And don't get caught. The cult watches through it. And we can't risk more Twat-Souls showing up. You still standing about? Get on it! Call on me when you're ready— Brithvar's the name."
It takes Astarion all of five whole, gloriously easy minutes to drag the Scrying eye away and knife it to its demise. Meanwhile, Amara approaches the cave-in.
*As you near the rubble, a fragmented voice clutches at your mind.*
"A Tru… Sou… True Soul? Finally! You must clear… rubble. Filling… poison!"
Well, he's alive, at least.
"Is anyone else in there?" Amara asks through their shaky connection. The rocks between them must be quite densely packed.
"Gnome slaves… passage trapped. Careful of… mercs…" He pauses, and Amara is split, on one hand furious that he too seems to have no moral standing, but on the other glad that she will have no issues taking his head. "…Get me OUT!"
Yeah. No foreseeable moral issues there.
*The view through Nere's eyes is a blur. You only make out a bit of rubble and a few moving figures.*
Amara focuses, squeezing her eyes shut.
*The blur resolves into an image. Two gnomes feverishly removing debris… while two others lie dead at Nere's feet, their flesh scorched by powerful magic.*
Burning flesh. Sizzling Weave. Adrenaline rushing. Blood pumping.
Fast, wet, hot.
Flesh, sinnew, bone.
*You sense Nere's frustration, tinged with rage, as the connection fades.* Amara shakes her head, trying to rid it of her anger, her bloodlust. Her exhaustion must be getting to her, chipping away at the humanity she has left. Her most precious resource. She focuses on something else. Anything else. *The gnomes speak in soft whispers, the words all but lost in the hot air.*
Ah yes, eavesdropping. A more than welcome distraction.
"We'll never get through," a deep gnome wearing a hat insists. "We need that smokepowder."
Ah-ha! Explosives! Astarion will be pleased about this.
"Philomeen's gone. And if she's smart, she won't be coming back."
"Tell the sergeant where she went— Beldron's still trapped with that maniac Nere!"
"Forget the smokepowder— they'd kill Phil on the spot, I won't let you do it."
Well, these two certainly aren't getting anywhere. Amara approaches them, obviously giving both the gnome male with his hat and the ivory-haired gnome woman a great startle. Her eyes are wide with fear; one Amara knows well.
"Be at ease," she soothes. "I am a friend. Thulla has sent me to aid you," she says in a low voice, not to be overheard from the distance the duergar are standing at, blending with the hot air as the gnomes did.
If anything, this only seems to make the gnome woman look more surprised— shocked, even. "Glittering gods," she utters. "She actually survived…?"
"Praise Ironhand," her companion agrees. "Laridda— our prayers are answered! Ma'am— I, Lunkbug, have a favor to ask you. Our friends are trapped in the cave-in. And I know a way to get them out."
"Bug, please. True Soul Nere will— you know what he'll do."
"Leave the True Soul to me. Now tell me what you know," Amara requests, trying to sound reassuring."
"Lunkbug, don't!"
"I've… I've got no choice, Laridda. We have to chance it. A few days back, there was a… a scene. Our friend Philomeen, she's a sapper. Set off a blast and ran off. We set a spot for hiding if someone found trouble. I'll mark your map. If Philomeen made it, you'll find her there. She'll have the stuff to blow that tunnel wide open and get Beldron and the rest out."
"And the poisonous geysers on the other side— they don't release anything flammable? I wouldn't want to make a bad situation worse."
"No, nothing like that!" Lunkbug assures her. "Just drop it near the cave-in and set it alight and it should blow the rock away without catching nothing else on fire."
"Please," Laridda begs her, "please don't hurt my Phil. I beg you."
"Hurry. Our people won't last in that cave-in forever," Lunkbug adds, and Amara knows that all too well.
Time is an unforgiving beast.
Thankfully, she has something of a leash on it.
It takes her over an hour to find the door Phil is behind, and longer still to discover how Astarion should pick its lock. Of course, when one has a leash around the throat of time, one is wont to choke it.
It takes her all of three minutes the second time around.
Fire flares in the deep gnome's hand as Amara approaches, and the elf immediately puts up her palms in a show of pacificity. "Philomeen?" she calls.
"Hold it. I swear to Ironhand, one more step and I'll blow us to chunks!"
*An ashen scent fills the air. The barrel is filled with smokepowder. But the scent is acrid, as if contaminated somehow. Or much, much more concentrated.*
Gale gives a bit of a strangled sound at the mention of exploding. "As an expert on the subject, my dear lady— I'd like to point out that blowing oneself up is never the solution."
"Shut your mouth, hoon, or I'll shut you down," she demands, the fire in her hand flaring.
"Yes— yes I do see that," Amara remarks, coming to stand in front of her friends. She rubs her fingers together. "You are Philomeen, aren't you?"
"Dropping my name like your cultist arse knows me," she spits out, disgust dripping from her tone. "Like we're friends."
Oh, Amara really hates gods.
"I know what you are," she accuses, and she would be half right. Ish. "One of Nere's cult-goons. Sailed right in." Okay, less than half right. Amara has no idea who this Nere fellow even is, thank you very much. "Better to die in this shit-heap than rot in Moonrise. You want me? Come get me."
"Woah, woah!" Amara holds her hands up higher. "I've never even met Nere! I have no reason to drag you back to him— or to Moonrise, for that matter. It was Laridda who sent me to find you. Something has happened— the gnomes need your help."
A flash of real emotion crosses Phil's face. "Laridda?" It quickly hardens into anger. "Ruddy mind games. I… I know all about your tricks, True Soul."
Fire flares over the pot.
It twists and dances.
Phil looks at it. Her expression twists like the bends of the flames.
She extinguishes them and looks back at Amara. "Shit. I can't do it." Amara relaxes, relief coursing through her body, her mind abuzz, but she still keeps her fingers pressed together. For safety. "Go on, drag me to Moonrise. I'll make you cult-nutters suffer."
"Chronos' sodden— Philomeen, calm down for a moment. I swear to you, I am here for the sake of the gnomes. Not the Absolute. Beldron's trapped in a cave-in, and I need the smokepowder."
Phil still doesn't look impressed. "You want to waste runepowder on— look. You have no idea what you're dealing with. Any true Ironhand would trade their life for a grain of this stuff. It's the whole damn reason we're here, and I'm not leaving without it."
Amara sends a prayer up to Balduran— he won't be able to hear it, or answer, but to pray to a hero seems more sound of mind than to pray to a god at this point.
"Philomeen, you are trading lives for this stuff. Your own people are trapped behind dozens of feet of solid rock. If we don't do something about it - and quickly - they will succumb to poison gas filling the limited air on the other side. I don't ask this of you lightly."
She still hedges, biting her lip, tugging at a loose strand of hair before fruitlessly trying to tuck it behind her ear. "Tell you what, elf— you let me go, and maybe I'll spare you a vial."
*'Ironhand', 'Runepowder'. Where have you heard these terms before?*
Gee, Amara doesn't know— but she's sure her little on-board tour guide would be positively delighted to enlighten her.
*Runepowder is gnomish folklore— an explosive of awesome power, handed down to the gnomes by their war-god Gaerdal Ironhand. A formula so dangerous it was stricken from history— if it ever existed to begin with.*
Gee, Amara is positively delighted to be trying to touch that. Yes, let's all touch that. Get it in their hands and eyes. Probably very safe and sanitary, that. What could go wrong?
"'Runepowder'? I thought that was a children's story," Amara ventures, verifying her narrator's words.
"We've heard the same ones, I bet. A fistful of fire that can turn cities to dust."
Eeee-yaaaa. Well.
"Well it's real, and I need to bring it back to Badlur's Gate."
Amara would love to know why. Well, not really, but yeah. Would LOVE to know.
"I'd rather my clan were with me, but…" Phil trails off, shaking her head. "The mission comes first. A vial's what I can spare you."
"This mission— just asking for asking's sake," Amara clarifies, hands still raised. "It wouldn't happen to be using a fistful of fire to turn a city to dust, would it?"
Phil scoffs. "Look. We're freedom fighters. We need this powder to prove a point. To people who really need a point proven to them. Let me go, and you'll be on the right side of history— that's all I can say."
Amara presses her lips together. Rubs her fingers in slow circles. "So— no blowing a city off the map? Full of innocents and children?"
Phil crosses her arms.
"A verbal answer would be great."
She rolls her eyes. "No blowing a city off the map. Trust me, the people getting a fistful of this powder are far from innocent."
Amara nods a few times. She hopes she doesn't regret this. Who knows when she'll come to learn of this failure— how far back she'd have to turn. "Deal," she agrees.
Phil a canister from her back pocket, and the sodding madwoman tosses it through the air to Amara. She fumbles with it slightly, falling to a knee, but does catch it. "Chronos break my hands," she bites under her breath. She checks said hands for any powder residue.
Perhaps no fire spells in the coming battles, until she's had a good wash.
"Listen…" Phil catches her attention again. "You see Laridda at the dig? Tell her I'm dead. Impaled, half-eaten… I don't care— make up a story." Amara's brows fly up and then bunch together. The muscles in her jaw tense. She looks over her shoulder.
Shadowheart looks back. "I'm not sure I blame her," she says softly. "Though Laridda might."
Amara tries to speak, but nothing much comes out.
Astarion comes up and grips her arms on either side. "We'll pass on the word, darling. I take it your beloved might have been less beloved than first glance would have it seem?"
"Beloved?" Phil says, a shake of her head derisive and bittersweet. "I might have been hers. She sure as hells wasn't mine."
"Ah," Gale's voice sounds from behind Amara. "Most unfortunate, but we will do as you ask."
Phil nods to the both of them. "I'm getting the runepowder back to Baldur's Gate. Alone."
The deep gnome is gone a moment later, and with the canister in hand, Amara is ready to rescue - and subsequently demolish - the drow trapped behind rock. She leads her party back to the dig and informs the sergeant and the gnomes that she's secured an explosive, and to clear the area. She sets the vial in a crevice of the rock, and backs up, notching a fire arrow in her bow and pulling it taut.
Letting it fly.
The explosion rocks the room, sending gusts of heat erupting throughout. It must jump several degrees in an instant, and the heat clings to Amara's skin with horrific intensity.
The passage, now clear, allows for a towering drow and several deep gnomes to appear, sweat-streaked and bloody.
"Finally," Nere sighs in near ecstasy. Amara approaches him, ready to extend her hand to greet him, and he turns away, instead facing the gnomes he emerged with. One specific one, with long, matted white hair, particularly blood-streaked and in dirty, torn clothing, shrinks away from him. She looks positively terrified of the drow. "Worthless slaves," he bites out. "Your incompetence has been my ruin. Nere. Does. Not. Fail," he proclaims, gathering a burst of Thunderous Weave in his palm and slamming it into the gnome woman's body, sending her careening over the edge.
Amara hardens her Weave, a solid, iron-wall of force.
She slams it into Nere and shoves him off the edge right after her, and into the lava below which only gurgles as it consumes him.
For a moment, everyone is still.
Amara cracks one of her knuckles and it's so silent that the sound of the joint popping echoes. "It could be a bad sign," she says into the stillness, "that I've graduated from a good sucker punch to brutal murder when one of you fuckers pisses me off. I should probably… meditate? Is that what people with anger issues normally do?"
She looks over at Astarion, quirks her brow up.
"Never really had anger issues before."
He tries for a smile, but his eyes flicker all over her face. Searching for something. "You wear them very well, darling," he drawls. "Still… you might want to…"
"Yes. I know. I'll just…"
Amara snaps.
This time, when Nere begins his burst of Thunderous Weave, Amara activates a very particularly placed Misty Step, flying directly across the gap and scooping the deep gnome into her arms before landing on solid ground again.
Pain sears through her body, digging into her flesh, shocking her down to her toes, through her fingers, up through her hair.
"Argh!" she exclaims, rolling while protecting the gnome tucked into her chest. "Shadowheart!" she calls, voice cracking.
A Healing Word descends on them both.
Nere spits viciously at the display. "You care for the weak, True Soul. Most curious," he remarks, his face a twist of disgust. The gnome clings to Amara's armor, her torso, and she shakes violently. Her face remains buried, not daring to look up at the drow.
"Of course I care." Amara cradles her as best as she can. "I refuse to let them suffer any longer."
He scoffs, front teeth flashing. "The Absolute demands their slaughter. Yet here you stand, in bold defiance. A test— yes, you must be. The Absolute bade you to try Nere's faith."
"You think too highly of yourself," Amara snaps at him. She puts her hand on the back of the gnome's head, shields her. "I receive no orders from the Absolute, and have never heard of you. This god you worship is a fraud, out for power using violence and fear - though not a rarity among other deities - those who follow the word of the Absolute are just as disgusting in their practices as the Absolute themself. This isn't a test, Nere, I just detest everything you stand for."
Nere growls deep in the back of his throat. "Thrinn," he hisses. "Carve out her heart and serve it to the rothé. If the Absolute is merciful, perhaps she will be yet saved."
Riot… RIOT!! RIOT!!
"That's your cue, Brithvar! It's time you got paid!" Amara yells, passing the gnome to one of her friends and pulling her Weave to her fingertips.
"Damn right it's time," Elder Brithvar declares, drawing his sword. "You owe my crew a tenday's worth o' coin, Nere— and the reckoning's come."
Nere scoffs, gestures to the duergar man as if he's a shit stain on the stones. "You bargained with this wretch? How vexing. Here is another bargain for you, foul creature: direct your blade at the heretic, and only then shall you have your coin."
"You're damned right I'll have it." He pokes the blade closer to Nere. "I like the deal I got with that one. We beat your arse and dig the dues out from your carcass."
Nere barks out a laugh. "A foolish mistake. Let Nere be your end."
Amara can't even imagine how difficult the battle would have been if Sergeant Thrinn hadn't mentioned the riot. As it is, half the duergar fight for Amara, and even then, she has a difficult time directing them.
She teleports high above the battlefield, onto a swinging metal platform, and directs her team with as much efficiency as one can when there are rogue, violent duergar going every other second.
They might be unpredictable, but they certainly are efficient.
YEAH, RIOT!
Finally, Nere and his loyal duergar are nothing but smears on the ground, and finally—
FINALLY—
Amara has gone through a battle without a snap.
They're a little worse for wear, more than just banged up and scraped, but between potions and spellwork, Amara thinks they'll recover.
Yes.
They'll recover.
"Sschindylryn's shithouse— you see it?" Brithvar asks while standing over Nere's body. Amara has to lean over, through the blood and guts all over the ground, but she does see the illithid parasite. Her blood runs cold, goose pimples raising across both her arms as shivers dance across her skin. She doesn't want to get any closer to that thing. "Cock-stench had a wriggler in his skull. All the more reason to clear out."
How pleasant a turn of phrase. Amara gives him a tight, polite smile. "Couldn't agree more."
"Here's your cut. Extra too, like I promised," Brithvar says, head held high, a heavy pouch of coin extended. "Clan: grab your gear, wipe your arses. Time I scrammed before more pricks from Moonrise Towers move in."
Amara clears her throat. "And the slaves? What about them?" It burns a bit on the way out, but she says it to get what she wants. All to get what she wants.
"Clan property. They come with us," Brithvar states bluntly.
Gale puts his hand on Amara's back. "We promised Thulla—"
"I know," she whispers back. "Wherever you will go, do you truly believe they will not slow you down? Let them go, lest they become your death sentence."
"Mm— you got a point. Likely to be all hobbled up, what with the lashings," he remarks openly and Amara simmers. Anger festers close to the surface. Elder Brithvar's keen eyes pick up on this. He turns and hollers to the deep gnomes, "Gnome pricks, you're off the hook. Scram, before I get my senses." He looks Amara up and down again. "You got a soft spot for 'em?"
"I dislike removing the free will of others."
He clicks his tongue. "So it's the slave part that gets your panties in a twist. Suppose you can get away with whatever heroic bullshit you want. You got the might to back your mouth up with."
"I suggest you get gone then— before I change my mind about our alliance."
He barks out a laugh. "You going up through Moonrise? Dangerous place, that is. That's my last piece of advice for you cock-suckers."
Amara crosses her arms. "What makes Moonrise Towers such a threat?"
"Your brain going mushy, jargh? That's where those Absolute-freaks hole up. Goblins, drow, gnolls, even humans— ain't no one they won't try to turn. The way I hear tell, some prick there calls the shots. The General, Nere called him. And there ain't no way I'm sticking around long enough to meet him."
"I doubt I'll be so lucky," Amara remarks. "Make your clan scarce, Elder Brithvar."
His eyes narrow, but he nods. "Got it. Clan: move out!"
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 19: Mist of the Morning
Notes:
Heyyy sorry for the long pause between updates - life has been absolutely crazy and I haven't wanted to run out of the edited material I have before I'm sure I won't write myself into a time-travel plot-hole haha I'm in the last loop of craziness in my pre-writing, so once I get through that I should have more freedom to post regularly, and once I finally finish writing this behemoth, my posting speed will increase a lot! In the meantime, please enjoy my sporadic posting as much as possible 🤣
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XIX
Mist of the Morning
Lae'zel is a little too pleased to be elected as the one to fetch Nere's head while Amara sees to the gnomes, with Shadowheart and Gale offering a mote of healing to their numerous injuries, old and new.
The moment Amara approaches the gnomes, bloodied and dripping with sweat, the very picture of disgusting, she is as utterly tackled as a rather towering elf can be by a deep gnome.
"Meerna— take care!" a more masculine voice interrupts, and Amara quickly recognizes the white-haired gnome she rescued from Nere's tantrum earlier. Like before, she practically scoops the other woman up in a tight embrace.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!!" she sings, choked up and still trembling. "You saved me!"
"That monster would have killed her," her friend says with a shivering voice. "She— she would have been gone, if not for you. I'm Welso. Praise Ironhand and— praise you! Thank you, elf, for rescuing my beloved. For rescuing all of us!"
Behind her, Amara can hear Lunkbug's voice. "Beldron! Praise Ironhand— are you all right?"
"Lunkbug! Better now that I'm with you," his voice replies, and Amara turns to see a relieved smile on Lunkbug, as he adjusts his hand and beams at another gnome in red, also with a hat but in brown this time.
Cute.
"I was so worried," he admits, his voice loud and unrestrained in his relief. "Did Nere hurt you?"
"No, no—" He holds his hands up, assures Lunkbug as best as he can. "I'm alright. Did the sergeant hurt you?"
"Who cares? We're together now, thank Ironhand!" Lunkbug exclaims, and rushes for the other gnomes, throwing his arms around him. Beldron returns the embrace enthusiastically.
Beldron smiles, and his gaze drifts from Lunkbug up to Amara, who is now joined by Shadowheart. "We ought to thank someone a little closer by, I think. Gaerdal Ironhand you may not be, but you damn well fight like him. I'm grateful, don't mistake me, but… why help us? You're one of them, aren't you?"
Run Amara through, no.
"The cult thinks it owns me. I beg to differ," she asserts roughly, aggressively.
Beldron smiles wider. "That didn't much look like begging. But no complaints from me. Here— the Ironhand Gnomes honor their debts. With Wulbren gone, that falls to me."
Shadowheart steps in and begins casting a healing spell over their gathering.
"Make it quick!" another male voice says. Amara recognizes it, but not from her recent memories… from a little further back. She searches out the voice, and her eyes land on a familiar gnome. "We need to find Wulbren— now."
"Barcus!" Amara recalls, recognizing the gnome from the windmill. "I suppose you did say perhaps we would meet again. Is Wulbren the friend you mentioned you were looking for?"
His eyes search her, recognition alight in them. "That's right— I had hoped to find him here, among the Ironhand Gnomes, but I was captured by the duergar."
Beldron sighs and puts his hand on the other gnome's shoulder. "You're a little late, Barcus my lad. He's already been sent to Moonrise Towers. We were just slave-hands to the cult, but not Wulbren. He… knows things. Things they want to know too." His expression turns down into a grimace.
"What has he gotten himself mixed up in now…" Barcus laments to himself, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Moonrise is a dangerous place. If they're keeping him there— this is no time to be coy," Amara says to both of them. "What is it that Wulbren knows?"
Beldron sighs. "You'll call me mad, but… fine. Wulbren's found the formula for runepowder."
Barcus whips around to look at him. "What?!"
"Aye. The explosive of Gaerdal Ironhand's own creation. Fistfuls wiping out armies, all those old stories. Only Wulbren couldn't leave the stories be— so he went and bloody found it. A small supply, tucked away down here with a manuscript. He'd just made sense of the formula when the cult jumped us— so he burned the damn thing. If there's a single copy left, it's sitting in his head. Those Absolutists pull it out and make runepowder… they could flatten the whole of the Sword Coast."
Lovely. Sooo lovely. Oh, Amara is just so pleased to hear that.
"Oooh, Amara, look at this!" Astarion calls, interrupting her thoughts.
She turns, and sees a metal, cage-like object dangling from his hand. Putting her hands on her hips, she asks, "Are you really looting right now?"
*The object catches your eye— a lantern, it seems, though no light flickers within.*
He openly pouts. "Well, what else am I supposed to do? I already spend most of the day standing around and looking pretty."
"So instead you find us broken treasures?" Shadowheart pointedly asks. "There's even dust inside it…"
"It could have hidden value!" he argues.
Amara narrows her eyes at it, brings her Weave to her eyes. She hears the sound of waves crashing, the call of birds, the howl of wind. The storm that parts over a night sky blossoms across her eyes and reveals the North star, beating a path down in front of her, as if carving something out for her to follow. Guiding. Checking. Searching.
*You see no burner or wick. It was not fuel that lit this lamp, but magic. The dust that lines its internals is pixie dust, used to illuminate the lamp— or left behind after a pixie's death.*
"Pocket it for now," Amara tells him. "It's magical in nature. It could prove useful where we're going." She turns back to the gnomes and licks her lips. "They've already taken Wulbren to Moonrise, then— how long do you think he can hold out?"
"Not long enough," Beldron admits solemnly. "My people can barely stand. And we have business back in the city."
Amara recalls what Thulla said about their supposed blood feud. She bites her lip, rubs her fingers together.
"That business is what sent us after the powder to begin with. Now… we'll have to make other arrangements."
"And just like that, you'd leave Wulbren behind," Barcus accuses, his tone biting and harsh. "I knew you lot were foolish, but I didn't know you were cruel."
"If you knew half as much as you think, my lad, Wulbren might have kept you around."
"Hush now," Amara chides. "There is no need to bicker amongst yourselves. My path takes me to Moonrise as it is. I'll see about freeing Wulbren."
"He'd admire your resolve. And your optimism," Beldron says, a smile on his face once more. "My people will find somewhere to regroup across the lake. Then on to the city. If you find yourself in Baldur's Gate, seek us out. We'll raise a glass to Wulbren together."
Amara puts a hand to her chest and bows her head slightly. Beldron and Lunkbug shuffle off to check on the other gnomes who are speaking with Gale, and Amara turns to Barcus.
"Well. You… did it!" he says with a bit of a spring. "I shouldn't be surprised, considering our history. And yet…"
Amara gives a soft chuckle. "You certainly sound surprised."
"Nothing good happens in the Underdark," he argues, explaining his surprise. "I knew that when I decided to venture down here, and yet the harsh reality of it surprised me as well. Still, I must offer you my gratitude once more. You've saved me from a most torturous capture. Now, I must go save others from a most torturous capture of their own. As you know, some of the Ironhand Gnomes - my friend Wulbren among them - have been taken prisoner in Moonrise Towers. They're not even going after him. I wish I were surprised about that. And so… to Moonrise Towers I go."
"Their mission is a noble one as well," she points out. "The Ironhand Gnomes fight for gnomish recognition in the city. To go to Moonrise would certainly be a death sentence not only for their party but for their cause as well."
"Their cause has little to do with freedom and everything to do with power. I told Wulbren not to go near them, but did he listen? He did not."
Amara hums. "I should like to know more about this. First things first— it's been a long day and a long battle. You look exhausted. You should rest at my camp."
Barcus narrows his eyes, his ears twitching. "Certainly not! In case you haven't been paying attention, my friend has been taken captive. He needs me."
Amara clicks her tongue, and smiles rather wickedly at the gnome. "I suspect I'll be rescuing you a third time, then."
"Pah. I was unlucky twice. The odds of it happening again are very slim." He looks up, looks down. "…Then again, a small rest might be prudent. Give me time to think. Hm. Hmm."
He makes a show of thinking on it. Ponders. Puts his fingers to his chin. Wonders. Taps it repeatedly, rhythmically. Tilts his head left, right, left.
"Fine," he relents, and Amara sighs in relief. "Show me where to go, and I'll try my luck. I'll have a better chance of rescuing Wulbren if I'm at my best. And. Erm. Thank you."
Amara sees to the last of the gnomes, and gives them some of their rations and potions for their trek back to Baldur's Gate, and then turns to rally her wayward group, who are sniffing around the room still.
She finds Gale in a heated discussion about something or the other that he did in a bar.
"Believe it or not, but I witnessed a similar standoff as that back at the Yawning Portal. Of course, an establishment like that invites all sorts of outlandish entertainment."
Meerna puts her hands on her hips. "What in every Hell is the Yawning Portal?"
"An inn in Waterdeep. Never a dull moment there. Adventurers come from all over Faerûn to try their luck down the well: leads into the Undermountain, you see— full of death, danger, and vast amounts of treasure. Hard to resist."
She quirks a brow up. "What was the standoff about?"
"Oh, a drow, a dragonborn, and a cleric of Cyric walk into a bar. Your standard fare. Maybe someone was cheating at cards, maybe it was some weird lovers' quarrel. In any case, out came the crossbow, and a hush fell over the entire room."
Amara holds her fist to her mouth to keep quiet. The man literally mimics holding a crossbow. He can't be so charming, it's not fair.
"What happened next?" Meerna asks, not nearly as charmed as Amara but equally as enthralled by the tale.
"I stood up and yelled: 'Shadowdark ale for everyone!' The crowd cheered, the tension drained into five dozen tankards, and soon all was well again. In a place like the Yawning Portal, the most powerful magic is calling for a round of drinks."
"That is a similar standoff— though admittedly a much more tame result," Meerna replies. "Far fewer spears."
Gale laughs and pats her on the shoulder. "Each battle is one of a kind, my friend. One of a kind."
"I'd drink to that!" she agrees.
Gale catches Amara's gaze and nods, coming to join her. They find Astarion absolutely weighed down with all the loot he can find off the bodies, and convince him they won't be stealing it if they take some of it off him so he can move properly.
Lae'zel is another matter entirely, just holding the head having cleanly removed it.
Amara would rather listen to an hour of her worship of Vlaakith than look at that.
She struggles a bit to find Shadowheart.
"This is entirely too many of you…" Amara mutters.
"Chk, it's one more," Lae'zel remarks. "Are you seriously incapable of keeping track of a single additional party member? Most githyanki clutches are six strong; mine was even larger at eight."
Amara rolls her eyes. "I'm not listen-iiiing. Looking for Vaeeee."
"Cazador kept watch over seven of us spawn," Astarion offers. "He certainly seemed to have no issues. I can't even say he was equally as cruel. His cruelty varied. It depended on his approval of you. How loyal you were. How well you satisfied him. And he had no trouble keeping track of all seven of us."
Amara's blood boils at that. She grips her hands into fists. Doesn't let her nails pierce her skin, but lets herself feel their bite. "He's a bastard— but he's not keeping you safe. It's another matter entirely to protect seven other people. And as for a githyanki clutch, it's survival of the fittest— you also aren't protecting one another. If you aren't going to help me find our cleric, both of you can hush!"
Gale's hand comes to Amara's back, and he gently rotates her. "She's there," he says, pointing a ways away to where she stands in front of a bloodied statue.
Amara holds her hand up to hold them back, and approaches the cleric quietly. She recognises the visage the statue is of, and the face Shadowheart is making looking at it.
She tries for a conversational tone. "Looks like someone's not a fan of Shar. Smeared the Absolute's symbol all over her."
The half-elf lets out a shaky breath. "There's more," she says, pointing in a different direction. "Skeletons. That way."
Amara takes her hand. "Show me, Vae."
Shadowheart leads them to a smattering of skeletons dressed in armor dark as night, and Amara swallows the pulse of discomfort she feels.
*As you look at the skeletons, you realize they are all clad in the same dark armor.*
"Dark Justiciar uniforms," Shadowwheart confirms. "These were Shar worshipers— the same as me."
"Whatever killed them made an enemy of a powerful goddess," Amara assures her. "Of that, I'm sure."
Shadowheart just nods at her.
"There's a great deal of Sharran iconography here," Amara points out. "Could be something to that."
Shadowheart presses her lips together. "We may not have the time for such a thing."
Amara shakes her head, giving the cleric a small smile. "We should find the way through to Moonrise by the end of the day, but we need to pack up the camp to head out. We may as well explore for as long as we have the opportunity to today."
"Yes, I certainly would love to explore a dusty, bloody ruin for the rest of the day," Astarion drawls.
Shadowheart shoulder checks him when she walks past, pulling Amara by the hand. "Darling," she drawls back. "I'm hurt. I thought we had something special."
Astarion barks out a laugh.
Lae'zel stops them, pointing. "Duergar ahead. One did not leave with the clan."
Amara rubs the fingers of her free hand together. Unlike usual, she's holding them high enough that they're fairly visible, and she knows Astarion watches the tick like a hawk. "Perhaps they are not of the clan."
This dark dwarf has long white hair tied in a knot at the top of his head, a war hammer glinting at his back. "How peculiar," he says as soon as they approach. "Smooth face, cobbled edges. They're a sign— they must be."
How delightfully ominous.
"Please— a quick look, if you don't mind," he requests. "I am Stonemason Kith."
"Amara," she greets in return. Her eyes drift across the rubble. "Is there something in particular that I should be looking at?"
"The rock. The rubble. All of it, if I may be so bold."
…Right.
"Take a look. Tell me what you see. And be thorough."
Amara exchanges a glance with her companions and shrugs. "I can oblige."
*Your eyes scan the collection of dark rock. Smooth. Craggy. Some tinged in gold, others in mineral deposits. Would you like to access the statue pieces for technique and composition, examine the fallen rubble, or survey the area for unseen curiosities?*
Amara digs deeper, knowing something must be lurking beneath the surface here.
*Several glassy stones stand out in the debris. Their borders are coated with tiny yellow crystals. The hottest of flames smoothed the stone and left sulphuric crystals behind. The fires of the Hells have touched Grymforge.*
"Amara," Shadowheart calls out, bringing Amara's attention to her. "The statues here…"
"Sharran?"
*The statue's meandering curves and golden edges stand out against the weathered masonry behind it.*
"Two styles, two eras. The statue was carved from newer stone and erected by late-comers to this ancient fortress…"
"Two eras, you say?" Astarion says with interest. "The rubble is curious as well. It tells quite a tale, Amara, darling. See all the boulders and bricks strewn about? Many are split clean in two— yet some walls remain fully intact. I would say no quake brought these rocks down— they were smashed through in an instant."
Gale hums. "You're saying— something big charged through there."
Lae'zel's brows raise. "Something… very big."
"What do you think?" Stonemason Kith asks Amara, his eyes keen.
Amara relays her own findings and summarizes those of her friends.
"Incredible!" he exclaims. "An entire history, risen from dirt and debris. Picture it: an ancient city, hewn from the stone by disciples of Shar, later abandoned. Untold centuries later, a new tribe revives it. Fresh walls, fresh sculptures… until a great hellbeast charges through, toppling the walls and crushing the people! Heh— this explains the infernal plate I found. Perhaps you might have use of it. But my work has only begun. There is more still to find. I must get to it!"
Amara pockets the infernal alloy, which she bets is heavier than most metals— but not this heavy. The alloy is so wrapped in Chronomancy Weave that she feels she can barely hold it aloft.
"An ancient Sharran city…" Shadowheart mutters. "This bears investigating."
Kith points deeper into the forge. "It won't be an easy trek, but you can try that direction."
Of course, "that direction" turns out to be a chamber filled with poisonous green gas.
"Hey, Vae, I get that your god likes Her secrets hidden— but gas?"
Thankfully, Shadowheart laughs. "It looks like there's a door on the other side of the gas. Knowing my goddess the way I would do, I would say She most assuredly likes Her secrets hidden. Both with gas, and locks."
Astarion groans. "Oh, please tell me one of you has some sort of potion I can take. I do not want to breathe all that in right now."
Amara unclips a bright green bottle from her belt and holds it out to him. "See you on the other side, Niar."
Astarion snatches the bottle from her. "You are too arrogant for your own good sometimes, Áralta."
Her brows perk up. "Radiant dawn? I thought our verbose wizard was the one who fancied himself a poet."
The rogue downs the potion and tosses the bottle back at Amara. "Hush, darling, the bragging is a poor look on you." He passes through the gas with ease and after another few moments, it becomes obvious that his adept skills lend themselves perfectly to such an old mechanism.
He pushes the door open and the rest of them dash quickly through the gaseous smoke to the other side.
Once across, Shadowheart gasps out, "More statuary— all Sharran! Gods, I had no idea such a place existed in the Underdark…"
They look around the platform they're standing on, finding that it dead ends into a crumbling mess of what used to be a bridge. Amara takes quick stock and two snaps to discover that none of her spells are capable of getting her across the gap left by the destruction wrought here.
"Damn," she curses, coming back to the moment just after they entered. "No way across I can see."
The disappointment that writes itself across Shadowheart's face is almost too much for the elf. "It's all right— there haven't been Shar worshipers here in many years. I am… contented in my cloister. I just…"
Amara pulls her into an embrace. "I'm sorry."
The cleric lets one of her hands drift to Amara's back, and she returns the hug with hesitant grace. "Thank you for trying, all the same. You are more than accommodating, Amara. Your nature is like none I have ever known— or probably will ever know again."
"Would you like me to—"
"No," she says softly. "Let's get Nere's head to the myconids and head back to camp. It will be a long day tomorrow."
/ / /
There are more gnomes in the colony when Amara and her companions arrive, and she beams when she sees them.
"Thulla!" she calls, waving a hand.
The gnome woman laughs under her breath, and stands with a small wince. "Amara, oh am I so glad to see you. No need for me to ask how you fared— some of my kin have already made it here, safe and sound. It's past time we were back in the city. But if you find yourself there, call on us. The Ironhand Gnomes are good friends to have."
"And I am all gladness to have them," she replies sincerely. "I have heard word of Wulbren, still locked in Moonrise."
"Aye, I heard about Wulbren. But the cause is bigger than any one of us."
Amara nods. "Diplomatic. The lives of the few for the good of the many is not uncommon."
"You've made sure his work is done, even if he's not there to see it. He'd be grateful," Thulla assures her.
"Then I look forward to hearing it with my own two ears when I get to Moonrise. I will see you in Baldur's Gate, Thulla," Amara says, and she extends her hand.
Thulla takes it, but she pulls Amara forward and wraps her arms around Amara's legs. "You saved us— and Meerna. If you save Wulbren too, you truly will have earned a bond that will span generations." She looks up at Amara. "Thank you, Amara."
Amara leans down to embrace her, and when she pulls away, she offers a gentle smile. "Then let Ironhand bless our children's children. Safe travels, Thulla."
"And you."
She turns and once more faces the sovereign of the myconid colony. There's a swell of music and Amara feels something peaceful settle in her soul. Blissful.
((*Peace-Bringer*)) it greets, and warmth of the purest kind spreads through Amara, from the crown of her head to each of her toes. ((*Be at home.*))
And she is. Even in this strange place. It feels like home.
"I've brought you Nere's head," she offers, and Lae'zel steps forward with it, offered by the roots of his hair. It's a little savage for Amara's tastes, but she supposes that's fine.
Ugh.
Gross, gross, gross.
((*the drow sought to shatter our Circle. now his flesh may feed its growth*)) the sovereign says, and Amara tries to smile. It's a good thing, she's sure. ((*in dealing death, you have brought this Circle life, and thus we name you— Life-Chanter*))
Every myconid in the colony begins to dance, waving their arms and releasing clouds of glowing spores, fungus clouds of incandescence lofting into the air until there's a haze about the entire colony.
It's more magical than Amara has ever thought the Weave was.
((*as our Circle grows, so shall your song. wherever you go, only listen— and you may hear it*))
Amara bows before the sovereign and takes the arms of Gale and Shadowheart and pulls them through the dancing myconids, slightly dizzied by the impact - the memory - of the day. Its totality.
"Are you quite all right, Amara?" Gale asks, but he lets Amara pull her along.
"I don't think so," she answers, but she takes a slow, deep breath in. "But I will be. Moonrise tomorrow."
Shadowheart squeezes her other hand. "Moonrise tomorrow."
They make it back to the camp, up through the mushroom circle, and immediately those left at camp are at attention. It also seems like Barcus has made it there successfully.
Wyll takes stock of all of them quickly, and when he sees no obvious injuries, he relaxes and smiles at them. "I see you've been busy. Are we packing up the camp in the morning?"
"Yes," Amara says with a level of confidence she isn't sure she really has. "Grymforge should have our passage— we just need to get it the rest of the way open."
Halsin pats her on the back. "And so we shall. But for tonight— we feast, and then rest."
Amara's smile is tired, but at least it's still there. She claps her hands. "Volo! Alfira! Some music?"
She snuggles up between Scratch and Erek and doesn't even make it to her bedroll that night, the comfort of soft fur and feathers and the sound of energetic music and nonsense words too comforting for her to stay awake through.
Her rest doesn't last long, however.
It's Gale's voice that shakes her awake. More accurately, his screams.
Amara scrambles to her feet, nearly pitching over, and she slams right into Astarion who has a knack for catching her in her worst moments. "He's there, darling," he says in a rush, words nearly slurred together. Amara searches for where he indicated, and finds Halsin and Shadowheart on either side of the wizard, while he clutches his chest, his face a twisted mess of pain.
His face and body are doused in sweat, and he writhes in agony, chest rising and falling with considerable effort as he tries almost in vain to take in air. His feet dig so deeply into the earth as he jams his boots into the ground that he's tearing up even the deep red mud underneath, which spills to the surface as if bleeding out.
Amara rushes him in an instant and drops to her knees by his head, pulling it into her lap.
"What's been done?" she asks in a hurry.
"He took freely from the chest of gathered items as we were preparing for bed," Wyll informs her, standing off to the side. "I believe it was a pendant of some kind."
"As usual, he did nothing but complain afterward," Lae'zel snaps, and Gale groans in Amara's lap.
He tries to pant out words, "Not… enough…"
"The idiot didn't try another one right away though," Karlach scolds, tapping her fingers on her arms in concern. "He just tried to keep going. We all laid down for bed, and he started getting all twitchy, so Astarion got up to get him something else. A headpiece of some kind that was just dripping in Weave."
Gale clutches his chest, and purple Weave starts to leak from between his fingers. He coughs violently, and a viscous substance that looks like— like solidified Weave leaks from his mouth. Amara stares at him in horror.
"And he consumed the magic from this headpiece and this happened?!"
He lets out a sound of agony. "Hurts… clawing at my ribs… stomach… insides. Eating. Chewing. Hungry."
*Flashes of darkness fill your mind. You see the cover of an ancient tome, dark and powerful, one which should never be touched. Inside, the hollow black void where the pages should be leaps into your body. It seeps into your bones, your marrow, and digs into your innermost parts, and then seems to try to eat its way back out. At once, you are freezing and on fire and in more pain than you've ever experienced, as you feel yourself being eaten from the inside.*
Amara gasps, breaking her connection to Gale as the sensation of nausea crashes over her violently. "Gods— Gale, how do you survive this? How do you smile? Laugh? How do you get up every morning and keep— keep going?"
"Even I ca—can admit… I'm… I am really in a poor state" He coughs, and more of that substance spills from between his lips. It's purple, but only just a blade's edge away from black, and contains such a density of magic that it might as well contain the cosmos. "So tired…" he pants out, his expression pure pain. "Might explode any day. Any night."
His meaning is clear.
Amara does not care.
"What do you need? What is the backup plan?"
He swallows, the rivulets of his solidified Weave streaming down from his mouth across the length of his neck, and beginning to pool in the hollow of his throat. "It refuses… to be sated. We have… we have plenty of artifacts. If I just— just…"
"No."
His eyes finally open, pupils blown wide. They search for Amara's own green eyes for a moment, as if having trouble finding them, and once they do, there's a shock of betrayal running through his. "You promised," he pushes out of his abused lungs, voice cracking. "I trusted you to— to help me. Amara, please."
"I won't give you another," she says softly, and she hears her other party members shuffle around near her, and Shadowheart takes in an audible breath as if to say something. Amara holds up her hand to stop her.
Gale's hands, shaking, his veins standing out as his skin is starker with pallor, raise up to grip at whatever fabric they can from above his head, which rests on Amara's lap. "Don't abandon me. I can— I'm still useful," he insists.
She gently cups his cheeks with her hands, wipes the Weave he's coughing up away from his mouth. "You're very sick, Gale. I won't keep blindly throwing more Weave into whatever beast has plagued you, not when it seems to only be making you sicker. You trusted me to help you in the way you understood you needed. Now trust me to search for another way to help you."
His teeth grit. His body shakes.
"Amara—" he coughs again, and she takes the opportunity to show him the dark purple leaking from him.
"You're rejecting it, I believe."
"That isn't… that's not…"
"Let me help you." She strokes his face soothingly, wipes the sweat from his brow. "You aren't alone in that tower anymore, Gale. No one has abandoned you. You have not warded anyone away. You don't need to be useful to be saved. You just need to be you."
He takes a shaky breath, and when he opens his eyes again, a single tear trails down the side of his face. "Help me…"
Amara releases a burst of her Weave over him, sending it searching under the light of her familiar North star senses, until it's able to locate several important Arcana aspects she'd missed before. She casts it again, and then once more, all narrowing down her search for more and more information.
"Something has changed…" she whispers, theorizing out loud when she's no longer able to keep the thoughts contained in her mind any longer. "Before, when you consumed the magic contained within an artifact, it was like there was a process done to it that made it digestible to the orb, kept it stable. Now, it's like that process has halted. You have overloaded the capacity the orb has to carry Weave with, and it is spilling out into your body, and yet it still hungers for more as it isn't truly feeding… at least, not in the way it was before…"
"What's different?" Shadowheart asks, casting a few spells of her own over Gale. "The illithid worm?"
"It did alter my affliction," Astarion points out. "Daylight and water and door frames and all. There's a possibility it affected Gale as well."
Amara shakes her head. "It's… older than that. It's almost more like a fuel, that's slowly been trickling down to nothing all this time, and only now has it run completely dry."
"Well, what do we do about his condition now?" Wyll asks, which is a very valid question.
"Now, right, yes." Amara repositions Gale's head back on the ground and comes around to his chest, throwing her leg over his torso to straddle him, and placing both of her hands firmly down on his chest. "Gale, are you listening?"
"Mmph— uh…"
She peeks up to see his face better and finds it's gone a tinge red.
"Oh, please, you bedded a goddess. I'm only straddling you."
Astarion scoffs and Karlach guffaws behind her. "I'll have to try that move when I get this damn engine fixed," she teases. "Nice going, wizard boy."
"Ignore them," Amara chides. "Focus on me. Only me."
"She does make it rather compelling, doesn't she," Shadowheart adds offhandedly.
"Oh, come now," Amara tsks, glancing at the cleric.
"Darling, is that an order?"
"If I could reach you, Niar, I would slap you for that. I'm trying to help our mutual friend here. Gale, are you listening?"
"To all the humiliation? Yes, I wouldn't miss it for the world. What do you need me to do?"
"I need you to release a portion of the orb's power."
His eyes fly all the way open and he jerks violently, almost as if to throw Amara off of him. "Have you lost your wits?!" he demands. "Never! By Gadreel Darkweed's twin tails, Amara, do you want to die?"
"Just a portion of it," she argues. "You are the most talented mage I've ever met. Look me in the eyes while you do it. Release what it's gathered and can't use, and I will absorb it and let it freely go into the environment."
"If I hurt you—"
"You won't."
"Amara, you haven't the faintest idea how—"
"You won't. I trust you."
"You've known me a tenday, a fortnight at most."
"Adoe mur n'col Sin'tee lor mur Tel'Ath Arael."
"Amara— my… my Elvish is a little rusty, I'll admit…"
"Time matters not," she whispers, leaning closer to him. "when compared to matters of the heart. Look me in the eyes, Gale of Waterdeep. You amaze me. Astound me. Enthrall me. You do it every day, with a smile on your face. Today is just another day. Smile for me, and do it again."
He gives a breath that might be a laugh, because it does make him smile. "Well, if you were going to compliment me…" A purple glow begins to emit from the orb, soft at first and then growing steadily more bright. Gale blinks twice with purpose and then does not close his eyes, keeping them fixed on Amara's like hers are a beacon, a lighthouse on a shoreline.
The glow spreads, flaring and ebbing, and snaps onto Amara's skin like a leech trying to consume her with a ravenous sort of hunger. At first, she lets them in. She lets them bury their teeth and claws inside until they bury deep, until they cannot escape.
And she pours fire into her veins.
Cyan mingles with purple. It grows lighter, softer, until it's heathered and near periwinkle, a lavender that has a haze to it, like the mist of the morning. Amara draws it in like air, draws it in as if she's diving into water, draws it in like soil under her feet. She keeps her eyes on Gale until the misty Weave is gone, and then finally closes her eyes, leaning back to breathe it out into the night sky, a pure white.
It floats into the cosmos like scattered constellations.
And Amara cries.
She can't stop the tears from falling. They're silent at first, and it takes a moment for anyone to notice, as they're all watching the Weave from the orb become one with the stars, but it's Lae'zel who notices first.
"You are leaking," she observes, rather harshly, and Amara gives a wet laugh.
"Poignant of you," she chastises.
Gale's hands are on her immediately. "You're hurt," he guesses instantaneously. "I knew that was an idea in poor taste— not that you were incorrect in your assessment, of course. There were many failure points, is all, and in the state I was in, to trust me to properly release… Amara…"
By now, the tears are coming faster, falling from her jawline, and she can't make them stop.
For all the Arcana checks she did on the orb, she should have noticed earlier.
She reaches out, puts her hand on the mark left behind. The smooth, faint indentation in Gale's skin, as if something pressed ever so slightly in with an implement of some kind. Amara supposes that is roughly what happened. In the center of the circle is a small bruise— from what exactly, Amara can't say.
Perhaps it's just from the immense pressure on Gale's chest all this time.
He takes her hand. Not to draw it away, just to be a comforting presence atop her own hand. "Are you in pain?"
She shakes her head, then stops, thinks, and nods. "But not physical pain," she clarifies, voice thick. "I just… am emotional over what I realized."
His eyes flick down to the orb. "You know why it's destabilizing?"
Amara chokes out a sob. "I know the fuel it was using before, the one that's run out."
"What was it? Perhaps we can restore it," Gale says hopefully. "Recharge it, or something of that ilk."
Amara just shakes her head. "I'm so sorry, Gale."
His mouth works for a few moments before he closes it, and then his jaw tenses.
Shadowheart helps Amara off of him, and sends her a concerned glance. "Will you tell us what it is? The fuel?"
"I don't think it would do us any good," Amara replies softly.
"What?!" Gale struggles to his feet, Wyll on one side and Halsin on the other to help him up. "Amara— you can't just solve a key piece to my ailment and decide not to inform me on the subject! It's my body!"
She covers her mouth, shakes her head.
Karlach looks nervously between them. "Woah, woah— let's just play it cool, okay. We're all tired, high-strung. That was a pretty freaky thing that just happened. Let's all cool our heads, and talk about it in the morning, yeah?"
Looking displeased, Astarion crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't know if I could sleep if another member of the camp was holding a key piece of information about my body and its chronic terminal illness."
Gale gestures to him wildly. "Yes, exactly! Amara, please!"
She presses her fingers to her eyes, wipes a few tears away. "It doesn't just concern your ailment, Gale. It is… I want to make sure—"
"Damn that to the Hells!" he insists. "Just tell me! Please!"
Amara looks at him in shock over his language, and her heart breaks and then heats all over again. She knew his goddess was cruel, but this… "What do you remember about the first spell you cast?"
He blinks a few times. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"If you want to know, just answer the question, Gale."
"I cast my first spell whilst still a babe," he says, gesticulating with his hands. "My mother took an awful fright when I conjured up a score of rabbits in the pantry. Why— what does it matter?"
"A babe— so, you'd say three? Maybe four?"
"Possibly even younger," he corrects. "Is this going anywhere?"
"What somatic component did you use?"
Gale stares at her.
She waves a hand. "You know, to activate your first ever spell? Wizards study for years to begin crafting magic at their wiggling fingertips. And sure, let's just say you managed a somatic component for Conjure Animals by happenstance, blame it on your talent. What of the verbal component, Gale? Were you already calling upon 'Mystra-Ryl's and 'Kantrach-Ao's to aid you?"
"Stop," he growls. "I don't understand— I don't see what this has to do with the orb."
"Yes, you do," she argues. "And it terrifies you. Like it terrifies me. Does it enrage you the way it enrages me? Does it break your heart as it's breaking mine?"
Karlach looks between the two of them. "Uh— am I missing something?"
"We all are," Wyll confirms. "I haven't the faintest idea what they're talking about."
"Fill the rest of us plebeians in, darlings?"
Amara doesn't look away from Gale. "There's a reason it takes years of training for a wizard to cast their first spell. It's not something easily done, not with any amount of talent or skill. Magic is difficult to harness. Unless…"
"You are born with it," Shadowheart finishes for her. "No. But he is…"
"I'm a wizard," Gale stresses, and Amara knows he's saying it to her, but it sounds more like he's saying it to himself. "Not a sorcerer."
"Are you sure?"
He reels back. "Yes! Of course I'm sure, I think I would know!"
"How would you tell the difference?"
"Well—" He comes up short, thinking, his bountiful mind racing. "There must be a distinction. Someone should have… should have pointed it out. I would have known. Wouldn't… wouldn't I have? Mystra would have, surely."
Amara bites down so hard her teeth ache. "I believe She did," she grits out. "And what a celebration She might have had— to steal you away from sorcery so wholly and completely, you would never even know your true self."
He licks his lips. "She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't…"
"Wouldn't She?"
His gaze hardens with anger. "I'm not a sorcerer, Amara."
Her gaze softens with grief. "You're right, Gale. Not anymore."
"W-what?"
"The Netherese Orb. That's what was keeping it stable all this time. It was feeding on your internal connection to the Weave, using it like a conversion agent to turn all kinds of magic into one it was compatible with, until… it ran out. You felt the effects of our parasite's weakening us, but yours… that feeling only grew in you while ours slowly diminished as we grew stronger. It's not the worm taking your abilities— it was your innate connection you had to the Weave being eaten, Gale."
He clutches at his chest. "That can't be… Mystra would have said something. She wouldn't have… She wouldn't have…"
"I'm sorry, Gale," she says, approaching the wizard and taking his hands, pulling them closer to her, "I'm so sorry. If I could go back and fix it— I would. I just… I would. I feel so many things when I think of you, and what you're going through. You deserve so much better than this. I am deeply sorry about what's happened to you, about how you were lied to and used, about how you were abandoned so easily in a time of great need, and at the same time I am deeply angry. I have no doubt in my mind that Mystra recognized you for what you were the moment She laid eyes on you."
"Then why would She train me as a wizard?"
"They're more in Her domain," Amara argues. "Plus, to have you submissively suppressing your own sorcery was probably a subject of great pride to Her," she spits out. "Most likely, every spell you 'learned' from her at a young age had a duplicity to it that also allowed sorcerers to cast it. You weren't even activating any wizardly abilities, just using your innate connection to the Weave to mimic them. Only later in your life did you develop honest wizarding skills. Though probably at an accelerated rate than your peers, to be sure. Being Mystra's Chosen will do that to you."
Gale puts his hand to Amara's face, wipes a tear with his thumb. His face is a mask of disbelief and grief. "There is a part of me that feels hollow," he whispers, as if saying the words is what makes them true. "Do you think… is that a symptom of what I have lost?"
Amara presses his hand closer to her, holding it there. "I'm sorry."
His eyes close and he takes a shaky breath in, holds it for a moment, and then lets it out. "I… I must think on this further. Ruminate. I must have more recollection of an innate connection, if this is true. I will pace my own memories until I am sure." He opens his eyes, looks at her. "Do you think Mystra knew what the orb would do?"
Her teeth sink into her lip, threatening to draw blood. Anger surges through her body, sizzling as if something deep inside her had been lit aflame. "I am positive She did."
His brows dip, frustration and reluctance painting his beautiful features. "You think Her capable of turning Her back on me so quickly?"
"I think Her capable of that, and much worse. Most likely, She is aware you have suffered through the expulsion of your sorcery and now remain solely a wizard. If I know Her as I do, and I do know Her, She will finally make contact with you. May even make you an offer of sorts. After all, you have nowhere else to turn to now that your wizardry is all you have left," Amara finishes, her voice more gravelly and growling.
Gale lets his eyes linger on hers for longer. "She does hold it against you, doesn't She? What happened with Chronos."
Amara looks away first, taking Gale's hand from her cheek. "As I mentioned: I was sure in my knowledge that there were at least four immortal beings who knew of my ascension and subsequent rejection of godhood. All I will say is that Mystra is one of them."
"Then we both know Her personally… but it seems we knew very different sides of Her."
Amara gives a humorless laugh and releases Gale's hand. "You will find that often with gods. They contain multitudes."
Gale brings his now freed-hand to his chest. He grips the fabric there. "Then I have lost far more than I realized… I must… I only seek solace in my thoughts now."
"We're here, you realize," Amara offers softly. "This isn't your tower, Gale. You needn't force yourself to be alone."
"Come the morning, though we bear it no particular visual differentiation, I will return as Gale of Waterdeep once more— but for tonight? A moment to myself… I think I am dearly overdue. I will sort through all I can conjure from my recollection, and see how true your theories ring. Both… about my true designation as a sorcerer, and… Mystra's seeming knowledge and subsequent indifference to that fact."
Amara nods slowly, a few times, and then reaches up to pull Gale close to her.
*You push briefly at the connection between the two of you, and Gale readily lets you in. You push a slew of comforting, apologetic, sincere emotions through to him, brushing a part of you against a part of him that would never be possible outside of your unique conditions. A visceral shiver runs through Gale, and you sense an outpouring of fear, betrayal, pain, and finally a spike of security— aimed at you.*
She severs the connection, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, right there in front of the rest of the camp.
"Good night, Gale. Come find me if you need me."
Notes:
I've made a tumblr for this fic!
Thanks to all of you lovelies who have been engaging in the comments, I decided it would be great to have a place to sporadically post art and previews, and answer questions you might have.
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗
Chapter 20: What Lurks in the Darkness
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XX
What Lurks in the Darkness
It takes nearly the whole day to get the carts through the Grymforge. There's some creative maneuvering with the rafts, which Amara insists she didn't snap once during.
Which isn't technically a lie.
She snapped three times.
Once everything is safely inside the forge, Amara goes on a hunt for the gate, spreading her forces wide. When Gale sends a Simulacrum to inform her that he's found a gnome mentioning the Shadowlands, she snaps back to before their party split, leading them to a golden gate with a gnome directly outside it.
"You're not going up there, are you?" he asks, staring at the veritable parade behind Amara. "You've either got iron guts— or one of those Moonlanterns."
Amara has a feeling she knows the answer, but she asks anyway, "A Moonlantern? What's that?"
"One of Nere's magic lamps. You won't last without one."
Great, that tells Amara nothing new.
"The death-dark's clogged the top-land, clear to Moonrise Towers. Only a Moonlantern dispels it."
Okay, that's a little new.
"'Death-dark'? What are you talking about?"
"Shadows— thick as a duerro's skull. Sucks the breath right out of your lungs," he says, snapping his hand in the air like he's trying to grab the breath from Amara's lungs, as he states. "Go on up, if you fancy. Me? I'd sooner take a swim in the Darklake."
"Yes, believe me— it's not because we fancy it," Amara says. "Is it this way?"
"Through the gate and up the elevator," he says, jerking a thumb.
Amara nods and gestures for her team to follow, and they step through the arched stone past the metallic blockade. The room the elevator opens up into is large, dark, and full of shadows that almost feel alive.
There's a dirtiness, a disgusting film over everything that coats like grime and sticks like glue. Light filters in from somewhere, but even the light is gray. Dingy, old.
The room is also not unoccupied.
A presence laden with magic stands at the far end of the room, a thick velvet set of robes pinned with jewels and metal medallions, a velveteen perked cap atop his head, accenting his long hair which is whitened with age. He turns, stroking an equally as long beard, and speaks.
"Ho there, wanderer. Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man."
Amara doesn't get the chance to reply, since Gale beats her to it. "Elminster?"
Surprise and - is that delight? - alights in the elderly man's eyes. "The very same, Gale. And a fair bit miffed he is, too, finding himself forced to expose his best pair of boots to so many miles of country road on your behalf."
Amara takes a look around the fairly inaccessible room they're standing in. "Many miles, you say. Considering where we've found each other, I'm inclined to agree. Where do you hail from?"
Gale gives a chuckle, but it's nothing like his usual laugh. A little darker. "Originally? Shadowdale. Lately? The fanciest inns of Waterdeep." He turns to Amara, and meets her eyes.
*You feel a soft knocking on your consciousness, a brush like a hand to your cheek. It's Gale, asking to be let in. The moment you let the connection form, you feel his anxiety. He is obviously familiar with this man, but his familiarity offers him no comfort.*
Amara pushes back, comfort and curiosity. Gale didn't wish to talk that morning, and Amara respected that, but she's tried to make it known that she's right here, when he's ready. She pushes that feeling through their connection now too.
*Gale's presence brushes against yours again, a gentle denial and a singular request to wait for your answers.*
Amara nods to him. She can do that.
He returns her nod and gestures to the elderly man. "Meet Elminster Aumar. A good friend of mine, but rather more significantly, he's the most famed and respected wizard in the realms."
But Gale doesn't look like he's speaking to a regaled wizard of fame and renown.
He looks pissed off.
"Am I, indeed? Most famed and respected errand boy, more like. I was bid to spare neither time nor my own self to find you. She sent me, Gale. You know of whom I speak."
*A spike of pure fear. Disbelief. For a moment, it's as if you and Gale are one. Where his panic starts, and yours ends, it's unclear. Your hearts beat together as one, rapid like a rabbit's, prey fearing a predator.*
"But why? Out with it, Elminster. Please!"
Amara reaches for Gale, but he shakes her off at first.
"Young man, has your sojourn away from Waterdeep washed away your decorum as well as your patience?"
Gale obviously bites something back, and though Amara pulls away, still reeling a bit from the unexpected rejection, he suddenly takes her hand.
"I'm sorry," he says through their connection. "I was just surprised. You said— you knew she would contact me. Now that… now that…"
Elminster interrupts Amara's focus on Gale. "Nigh a tenday I've gone without honest fare worthy of the name— drank naught but what the sky entitled my thirst. Why, some bread, cheese, and a cup of wine would appear unto me a feast! Surely you won't begrudge me a mite of rest and repast before I get 'out with it'?"
A tenday. His journey must have started nearly the same day theirs did, and to arrive only the day after Gale has lost his original magical font… is Mystra truly so aware? Or was this just a coincidence?
"I suppose… we could part with a few of our rations," Amara ventures, and she squeezes Gale's hand supportively.
*Your palms sweat as she holds them,* Gale's narrator says, the connection growing wide enough to let her voice in. *Waves of reassurance and support flow through her connection to you, strong and easy, the way she always is. She is like an anchor in a terrible storm, but even that does not fill the aching void inside of you. You recognize it for what it is now: your connection to the Weave, gone. For now, the beast that has consumed you is quiet, content, but you know it won't last, and now you have nothing left to feed it. Just in time, too, for look who's come calling?*
Amara pushes something different through their connection this time.
*You're pulled from your thoughts as your parasite writhes behind your eye, and a shiver cascades down your body. A physical sensation like something wrapping itself around you grips you to your core, and then it's like all sensation shuts off. All, except where Amara is touching you.*
Amara doesn't use the parasite for this. She just uses her body.
She shows him with her hands, her warmth, her touch. She is here for him. She is next to him. Touching him.
She is real.
"I want him gone," Gale stresses, backing the connection off until Amara's thoughts are once again her own.
"I could venture that guess," Amara quips back, sending the tickling sensation of teasing. "Just feed him, and he will leave sooner. Give him what he wants. The more comfortable he is, the faster he will go."
Gale grumbles, through the connection.
Amara almost laughs. She didn't even know they could do that.
"A great kindness this is!" Elminster exclaims, eagerly accepting some food from Haslin and wine from Astarion. "See, Gale?"
A pulse of annoyance. Amara pushes her own annoyance right back. Gale laughs through their connection this time, even as his face remains impressively neutral.
"Even in these barren parts, the art of hospitality begets inspired new works if one only keeps up the practice."
"Oh, for the love of…"
"This way, then, hmmm… do you have nothing for me to sit on? Quickly now, a chair? Don't dawdle now, lad," he tells Wyll, who is trying to pull one of the dining chairs free from the cart.
Gale leans over to Amara, but he chooses to speak out loud this time. "Nigh on thirteen centuries old, and he still thinks with his stomach. We'd best comply, and see if he's more disposed to speak plainly once it's stopped its grumbling."
Amara can't help the smile that appears on her face. She closes their connection but keeps hold of Gale's hand. "If we must," she teases. "I do have basic manners, at the very least. And, I suppose I'm as curious as you are to hear what he has to say."
"A wise choice. Better to indulge our curiosity than Elminster's appetite."
Amara laughs, and the sound finally makes Gale smile.
Elminster fixes his gaze back on the pair of Gale and Amara, bread and cheese in hand, sitting in a fetched chair. "It took some doing finding you again, dear boy."
"Well, now you've found me, perhaps you can share your purpose," Gale supposes hopefully.
"Have mercy on these old bones, m'boy. A short respite will not harm us," he ventures. "Sit, sit."
They gather the remaining chairs, until the mismatched dining set is set out in this grimy, dark place. Eventually, their short rest turns into a short meal.
"Good cheese," Elminster comments. "Know you what causes this abundance of holes to form in the interior? Occasionally, we call these holes 'eyes'."
"Elminster, I'm begging you, I realize it comes across as impatience but bear with me…"
"Right, right. It was my stomach talking, you understand. Plenty to digest, after all. A good deal to stew over, if you will. Words ladled with import should be savored so as to better absorb their meaning, wouldn't you agree?"
"Elminster."
"Right. Ahem. You see… I, er… ahem. That is to say… Gale, m'boy, I've come to address a most pressing matter. I'll speak as plainly as I can, forswearing the accustomed frills that decorate my speech. I'm here on behalf of Mystra. The message and the charge I bring you are Hers."
Amara could laugh at that. She stops herself, and crosses her arms over her chest to hold herself back. "What message and what charge would that be?"
"The long-awaited question. Now - if you please, Elminster - for the too-long-awaited answer."
Elminster's face pinches, and his countenance grows sad, drawn. "You know where you went wrong, Gale. We needn't dwell on that here and now. But even so, you're to be given a chance of redemption."
Gale's body jerks, and Amara can't look him in the face, she doesn't want to know what expression he's making at that prospect.
"Mystra would consider… forgiveness?" he asks, and Amara's heart tugs viciously.
"She would consider what She considers to be forgiveness," Elminster supposes, and Amara can't help but agree with that sentiment. "Mystra is aware of the misadventures that have befallen your… merry little band. She knows of your strife with the Absolute, that most insidious of evils."
Of course she does.
They probably all do.
"If even the gods know, why are we facing these threats alone?" she asks, her nails biting into the skin of her arms, through the thin fabric of her robe sleeves.
"They choose the instruments of their will with great precision," Elminster says with an air of wisdom. "Sometimes the single drops we think we are do not realize what waves we are building up to be."
Amara scoffs, shaking her head, and looks away.
"Do not discount yourself, and by the same token, do not discount your enemy." He holds up a finger, shaking it authoritatively. "You must know that the Absolute is more dangerous than you can possibly conceive. It threatens all who live— even those who are undying. It threatens the gods, the Weave, the very fabric of the universe itself."
Amara desperately wants to snap at him, she can feel her Weave tugging at her fingertips. Anger festers in her veins, spirals through her body. She can feel it burn, feel it scorch her from the inside. She wants to let it out.
But this moment is for Gale, so she refrains.
"That is why I have come here to charge you, Gale, with its destruction. It is Mystra's belief that only you can."
"Gale?" Amara asks, and in an instant her body goes from feeling like a raging inferno to feeling doused in ice. Her skin aches. Itches. There's something horribly foreboding happening right now, and she feels as though she's already failed to stop it. "Alone? How so?"
"The orb," Gale answers, a grave weight to his voice.
Amara wants to scream. Explode.
"Precisely," Elminster agrees.
She wants to lash out. Throw herself to the stones.
"Mystra granted me the power to stop the clock, as it were, on the orb's rush to overpower you. Instead, you will be able to unleash its lethal combustion at will."
She can't stop the Weave from jumping to her fingers. It burns so hot, so cold, so fast. It singes her skin, but she ignores it. She sees that it's caught Gale's attention— he must have attuned himself to her more wild displays of magic.
Elminster doesn't seem to notice.
"You must find the Heart of the Absolute, whatever that may be, and use yourself as the catalyst that will burn it from this world."
Gale grabs Amara's arm. "Breathe. Your Weave is—"
Amara shakes him off and Steps away a few feet, feeling something snap inside of her. Anger overflows and she can feel her magic starting to leak, not just from her fingers now. It burns from her eyes, festering and swirling. It doesn't quite form a crown, having no purpose other than battling overwhelming emotion, but the potential is there. Cyan Weave drifts around her, clinging to her clothes.
It's not just Gale who says her name then, but all of them. Trying to catch her attention, talk her down. Calm her.
Gale approaches her first, and Amara stops him, hand extended toward his chest. "She wants to kill you," she says, voice void of tone.
Gale swallows. "She wants me to save a lot of people."
"She waited until you were in the most pain, and then requested you to end your own life, without even so much as the decency to ask you in Her own voice."
"Amara—"
"I could just kill Her. Right now."
He opens his mouth, his eyes widening. "I don't want that."
"I think about it, sometimes."
"About… about what?"
"Ascending again."
Gale licks his lips. "Could you… do that?"
"If I wanted to. I would lose my humanity quickly if I did. So I would have to have a very good reason to."
"And what would that reason be?" he asks, his voice shaking.
The wisps of Weave connect behind Amara's head, forming her crown. "With the sliver of time I would have to keep my wits, I would slaughter the whole of the pantheon. Every god, evil and good. Release their abilities to the world at large. When only I remain, I would snuff even my own self out. This world does not need deities, who only abuse the people who live in it."
Gale swallows and doesn't respond, eyes burning into the festering embers that make up Amara's.
"But I talk myself out of it every time."
"Talk yourself out of it now," Gale advises. "Please. Settle yourself, and hear my friend out, dear."
Amara tilts her head. "That orb in your chest. If Mystra's only goal is to defeat the Absolute, She shouldn't have any problem if I'm the one who detonates it."
Gale's brow twists. "What are you—"
With one hand extended, Amara touches the barest corner of the mark, and pulls.
She hasn't done this in dozens of years— perhaps a century. But the feeling is familiar, perhaps a little too familiar. The Netherese magic jumps at her call, and Gale reels back, but nothing he can do can interfere with it now.
"Amara— stop! Stop, right now!"
She pulls, twisting the magic between her fingers, as it snaps and nips at her skin, biting and making her hand bleed. Blood and Weave mingle, dripping onto the stone floor. She tugs harder, pulling the hungry creature as it tears her body apart.
"Amara, please!" he begs. "Please stop!
Though he claws at the mark on his chest, there's nothing tangible for him to hold back. Unlike Amara, the Netherese magic doesn't respond to his fingers, and she keeps pulling until the last of it snaps away from his skin.
It curls over her palm until it forms a solid orb, true to its name, which is no larger than a grape, and Amara raises it up to her lips and swallows it.
*Pain rips through your body like nothing you've ever felt before. It sinks so deeply into your bones that you doubt you'll ever shake the echoes of it. It's like a forked knife stabbed through your chest, tipped with a poison that runs through your veins and dries them out until there's nothing but dust in its wake.*
Amara can feel with certainty that the pain won't abate. It will only worsen.
She has not the capacity for this orb.
Through gritted teeth, she looks up at Gale and says, "I'm sorry— it seems I'm entirely useless to you. I can't contain it."
"You— you shouldn't have even tried!" he hisses.
"I will discover… something— something else," she promises.
Amara snaps.
She has to reorient herself for a moment and listens to Elminster speak again.
"Mystra granted me the power to stop the clock, as it were, on the orb's rush to overpower you. Instead, you will be able to unleash its lethal combustion at will," he says, and though the pain she felt and the release of her Weave abated her anger somewhat, Amara feels it swell once more.
The feeling of helplessness in the face of Mystra's seemingly easy ability to cure Gale of what ails him, while She withholds Her ability so wantonly… how can Amara not be furious?
"That's monstrous," she accuses. "You're asking him to kill himself."
"He is not," Gale clarifies. "But it seems that Mystra is."
"It brings me no pleasure saying this, my friend, but such is Mystra's will. Yours must be the sacrifice that will undo the Absolute. And for your sacrifice, you will be redeemed— such is Mystra's promise."
Amara has to turn away.
She doesn't wish to show her fury to Elminster, who seems genuine in his grief over the news, but she can't keep her anger tamped down. Her magic burns her flesh again.
"With that, I've said my sorry piece, and need only bestow unto thee the charm I was bid. Is— is your friend quite all right?"
Gale is able to turn fully to Amara, and he catches her face, pulls her hands toward him. "You're hurting yourself."
"I just need a minute."
*You feel Gale knocking at your connection.*
Amara shuts him out.
"Amara—"
"A minute, please," she begs him. "This is for you. This moment, this is supposed to be yours. You should get to be the emotional one. Let me calm down. Give me a minute to calm down. Once I'm calm, I'll go back and you— you…"
Gale wraps his arms around Amara, even as her dangerous Weave bites and burns. "That's not important to me. You and our companions are important to me. We can figure everything else out first. Breathe, Amara."
Amara does. She breathes in, breathes out. She's the picture of calm, a vision of peace. She snaps, and returns once more.
Picture of calm.
Vision of peace.
"With that, I've said my sorry piece, and need only bestow unto thee the charm I was bid. My'Nahastra Mystra'Ryl. E'Deelion Thras'Anas'Tthra.," he chants, one hand held high up and absorbing purple Weave into the air. It collects into Gale's chest, turning the mark on Gale's chest a blindly white color. It even seems to add some runes into the center of the circular mark.
It gives Amara a sense of unease, in addition to her anger. She knows how easily Mystra could remove the blighted thing, and yet— She doesn't.
"It is done," Elminster says with finality, grim and severe. "Both charge and charm have been committed into your care." He turns to Amara, who this time isn't throwing a temper tantrum, but she certainly isn't excited by the prospect of him speaking to her. "To you, I commit into care Gale himself. I count on you to shepherd him well on this strangest of journeys."
Oh, fuck no.
"That strange journey is destined to be a long one," Amara observes. "We'll find another way."
"Or some other fortune altogether," Gale surprises her by saying.
"Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky-strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow, come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself."
Amara nods a few times, like any of that is tracking. She chances a look at Gale, who does actually look as though he's affected by the words in the way only a man who understood them could be.
"Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will," he advises, as if this is a revelation. "Take your time in this decision, dear boy. It will be your final one."
Gale licks his lips. "You may be proven incorrect— time is not on my side, I fear."
"I know what you mean." Elminster stands, gathering and adjusting his robes. "Trust me— for the moment, all is well. Or at least acceptable."
Gale gives a humorless laugh. "Oh, to have but a thimbleful of your confidence at my disposal."
"Then should you take a thimbleful of it now," he offers. "Farewell, my friend."
"Farewell, Elminster. I'm glad She chose you," Gale remarks, and then Elminster is gone in a flash.
A literal flash bang of Weave.
Everyone else starts packing up whatever was unpacked, as if purposefully giving Amara and Gale more space.
"An audience with Elminster is… never less than memorable," Gale supposes, and though he looks like he's trying to smile, there's pain in it. "I'd have hoped to introduce you to him in less dire circumstances, but those are hard to come by these days."
"He seemed… appropriately delicate," Amara says, and she can hear the edge of anger to her tone. "It couldn't be easy news to deliver to a friend, to ask you to give your life for any cause, even if it's on behalf of a goddess."
"It's not a demand he wanted to make of me," Gale agrees, but there's a quirk to his brow. He brushes some hair from Amara's brow. "As Mystra's Chosen, he had no choice but to deliver Her message, however much it pained him to do so. For Mystra to have sent him… the severity of Her bidding could not be clearer. Or weigh more heavily on me."
Amara turns, not being able to look at him.
"Amara," he pleads. "You should know better than anyone. Time seems so infinite when you are young… a month is an age, a year is a lifetime… it is a strange feeling, to realize how little of it one might have left."
"Stop, Gale, I can't—" she says, her voice cracking. "You're seriously considering doing what Elminster said?"
"Of course— he offered the clearest solution to our problem. All I have to do is find the right place and time, close my eyes, and let go…"
"I can't talk to you right now," she says, trying to walk past the other wizard.
"Then the slate will be clean, wrongs will be righted, the Absolute will be gone… and I along with it." Gale tries to step in front of her, but Amara feels her magic festering again.
"I will hear no more of this," she says decisively. "There's surely another way."
"If there was, I'm sure the goddess of magic and the greatest wizard who ever lived would have identified it, but alas… only one solution is offered," Gale says, and he tries to catch Amara's arm.
She doesn't let herself be caught.
"But that remains ahead of us for now. The Heart of the Absolute must be discovered before I can stop its beating," he points out, holding his hands up, palms exposed.
"And I believe in failure," Amara tells him. "Failure, until you succeed. The easy way out would have been dying over a century ago. But I keep running, and you took my hand and promised you would run with me, didn't you? Sure, blowing up the Heart of the Absolute could be an easy solution, and one a goddess would be eager to present. It wraps up many loose ends for her, and is efficient and most assured to be successful, but that hardly makes it our only option. You're not blowing yourself up, if you stay by my side. Do you hear me? Hear me, Gale. What was my promise?"
"You said… as long as I would have you, you would let no other have me. Not even death."
"I won't let you blow yourself up, Gale. I promise."
He squeezes his eyes shut. "You know— I placed a spell on my person. A bell of some sort. I can't know what it is you rewind when you snap, but I can tell when you snap. You rewound twice. Why?"
Her Weave flares. Burns.
She meets his eyes. "I was angry."
"Amara—"
"Okay, we move out!"
"Carts are ready," Halsin confirms.
Lae'zel gives her a nod. "Everything's a go."
Amara readies a bow and heads to the front of their pack, right past Gale, and starts to lead them out of the gatehouse and into the next chapter of their adventure. If possible, it's even grungier than the initial room was.
"By Balduran's bones—" Wyll exclaims as they stand in the murky air, and he lights a torch to give them something to see by. "Halsin, you spoke true. This land is swallowed by curse, most definitely."
Karlach laughs under her breath. "Stand by me if you need to keep warm in this awful place."
"Awful place is right," Gale agrees, casting a powerful light cantrip above them. "This is no typical gloom. Need to stay alert."
"I won't have to worry about the sun, at least," Astarion says, nudging Amara with his elbow.
She nudges him back. "We'll get you a healthy dose of sunlight soon, Niar."
He gives a dramatic sigh. "Oh, well if you insist."
They maneuver the carts and their caravan down the craggy rocks and over the walkways, and the darkness grows so deep it's almost blue.
Karlach curses a few times in a language Amara recognizes as infernal. "I don't know what I expected, but damn— this place is cursed."
Amara nods in agreement. "I've never seen darkness like this before. It's unsettling to me— Shadowheart, have you experienced anything like this? You have a greater chance at being at peace than we do."
"I can feel the shadows' power here… but they don't seem to be harming me?" she supposes, turning her hand around in the darkest patch not protected by Wyll's torch or Gale's cantrip.
Amara turns to face her better. "You mean, the Shadow Curse doesn't seem to affect you like it does us?
She nods. "Not as badly, at least. Do you know what this means? I must be blessed. Lady Shar is protecting me where others are left to face her wrath. She loves me. She must do," she says with a warm tone.
Amara licks her lips. Shar isn't capable of love. She can't bring herself to say this to Shadowheart, though, and besides… maybe the cleric is right. Maybe Shar does love her. Maybe Amara is a hypocrite for believing all gods cannot feel, cannot maintain some amount of humanity. So instead, she just asks, "So what does all this mean, Vae?"
"Lady Shar wouldn't bless me like this for no reason— there must be something she wants of me," Shadowheart supposes. "Those signs we found, about Dark Justiciars… perhaps they were no coincidence. In either case, I need to watch for any place dedicated to Lady Shar. A temple, perhaps."
Amara nods. "There hasn't been a shortage of Sharran locations on our journey. I expect that should continue. For now, let us focus on getting further in."
It's not easy to carry everything in their caravan, over bridges of wood, vines, and rocks. They have to keep to the light, lest the Shadow Curse blight upon their skin, or even the skin of their animals. There's plenty of proof that it consumes all life it touches, indiscriminately.
It seems Amara's group isn't the only one using torches and light to keep the shadows at bay.
"Stay together!" belts a feminine voice. "Keep to the light!"
It doesn't take long to spot them, around a bend and down a ways. Four or five of them, humanoid, with a leader of strong features. It was her commanding voice Amara heard, her crimped dark hair illuminated with the torch she carries.
It doesn't take long for her to spot Amara in turn.
"Stop— who's there?!" she demands. Next to her, a man holds a crossbow, pointed at where Amara is behind the bend.
"An expert in magic," Amara ventures. "Perhaps I can aid you in traversing this darkness. What do you know of it?"
"Enough not to trust a voice from the darkness. Come into the light— hands high," the woman demands, which— fair.
Amara comes around the corner, illuminated by Dancing Lights, and sees that it's actually all of the others who are pointing their weapons at Amara. Even the leader is holding an ax high up. She raises a brow and looks curiously at Amara, scanning her.
Suddenly, her eyes widen and she looks over her shoulder. "Yonas! Move in!" she calls to the man holding the crossbow, who looks over his own shoulder only for something to manifest behind him, sinking claws into his back and pulling him away, deep into the shadows.
"Yonas? Yonas!" another woman holding a torch calls, and they rush forward.
A masculine voice calls back. "I'm here! Where are you?"
"Yonas? Can you see our torches?" the leader asks.
"I can't see anything," he responds, voice shaking. "Something's wrong."
"Follow my voice," the leader says instead. "Come back to the light."
"Who's there? Meg? Is that— argh!"
The leader squeezes her eyes shut, pain visible in her expression, and after silence falls, she asks, "….Yonas?"
A figure stumbles out of the darkness, legwork sloppy, as if being guided instead of moving of its own volition. "There you are…" Yonas' voice says, but the figure doesn't have a mouth. It shudders, shivers, and doesn't move or click correctly in the way that it should. That Yonas should. "Come… join me…"
Oh, lovely.
Yes, because the Absolute cult wasn't bad enough.
Ugh…
Yonas extends a hand and ventures closer into the light, his skin cracked and glowing from the inside, green pus-like substance leaking out of his skin and eyes, and his body creaks and snaps and— and crumbles away.
Undying. Decaying.
"Yonas…?"
"The darkness can force rapid transfiguration?" Amara remarks, horrified. "What magic is this?"
"Now is not the time," the leader snaps at her. "Harpers, to arms!"
They beat the monster Yonas has become by pouring light into him. It's nothing like Amara has ever seen before. She's familiar with no other kind of magic that acts this way. Frankly, she's horrified. It's difficult to keep the monster at bay, her combat party illuminated and fighting, and her caravan party safe from— from whatever just happened to Yonas.
Amara keeps her fingers pressed together the whole time.
Finally, the battle is won, and Amara turns to the Harpers once more. A human man who nods in approval, looking over Amara's companions. "Nicely fought. You've got some chops," he compliments. "More will be here soon. I'm Harper Karrow. We need to go— there's a place nearby."
Amara blinks. "All right. Lead the way."
"Thank you…" Another Harper approaches them, earrings dangling from her ears. She wipes the blood from her face. "Wouldn't have made it without your help. I'm Harper Meygan. And that one…" She points to their leader, who is saying a short prayer over the fallen body of Yonas. "….is Harper Lassandra."
Lassandra rises, fixes some of her armor. "We move," she says. "The caravan comes with, if they'd like."
Amara nods. "We'd like. I am Amara," she greets, and then introduces her party.
"Keep close. Avoid the shadows," Karrow advises, though he doesn't really need to tell Amara twice. She learned quite well.
With even more of them, the light is plentiful and the ease at which they maneuver the carts is more skillful, but it doesn't change the fact that it's so much for Amara to keep track of.
How dearly she'd like to nap.
Eventually they approach a bridge, overflowing with a magical aura that hums with a protective glee that settles some of the fear and agony in Amara's soul.
"This place is protected," she recognizes the voice of her dream visitor saying to her. "You might find allies here, or at least supplies."
"Here it is," Lassandra says. "Step lightly. You are unfamiliar faces. A lot of them."
"No shadows here," Amara observes. She waves her hands through the magical barrier. "Something must be keeping it at bay."
Karrow chuckles under his breath. "Wasn't sure we'd see it again, this old girl. Hold up."
Another presumed Harper, an elf in similar armor, holds her hand up protectively, right at the gate. "You there! Step forward and keep your hands off your weapons!"
"Easy!" Karrow says, holding a large hand up. "They're with us."
The elf stands down, looking them over. "This true, Lassandra?"
She gives a half-shrug. "They are with us. We didn't exactly read their biographies on the way here, but they fought alongside us."
Sighing, the Harper gestures for them to follow. "Come." She turns and calls into the settlement, "Jaheira!"
Another woman responds to the name. Double blades at her back, fire in her eyes, age and wisdom lining her face that could fill tomes upon tomes. Probably the strongest fighter Amara can recall seeing in recent days.
A druid half-elf.
With a burst of druidic Weave, she entangles Amara by her feet.
"Just this once," Amara sighs out, struggling to free her boots, "I wish people would simply say hello."
She expects to have to snap back, but this Jaheira smiles, looking amused, and says, "Hello."
Next to her, the elf draws her weapon.
Great.
Lovely.
"Easy," Amara says, holding her hand up to the both of them. "It's fascinating— both your command of magic and its technical implementation are impeccable."
Her smile widens. "A good start— but you've told me something I already know. Tell me something I don't."
"I have a caravan of people— we mean you no harm." Amara asks, "Could you explain to me the hostility?"
"Absolutely," Jaheira says, and she pulls a glass bottle from her pouch. A glass bottle, with an illithid worm inside of it. "This is why we're here, you see. It is a curious creature that hides all manner of secrets. But if there's one thing that we know—" She turns a glare to Amara, brow perked. "It knows its own kind."
Gods damn it.
Inside the bottle, the thing's teeth gnash and gnash.
Amara shivers uncomfortably.
"You should never have come here, True Soul," Jaheira accuses.
"I am not… a True Soul…" Amara says, holding her head.
"Stop!!" a voice says from behind Jaheira, and it's one Amara recognizes. "What are you doing? She's the one who saved us!"
Mol runs out from the settlement, and Amara's eyelashes flutter in surprise. "Mol!" she says, happiness racing through her veins like liquid sunshine.
"She's the one who protected the Emerald Grove?" Jaheira asks, and the disbelief is audible in her voice.
Halsin hops down from the caravan. "Jaheira!" he greets. "I was going to let Amara handle this— but seeing you know of the Emerald Grove, are the tieflings here?"
"Master Halsin!" Mol recognizes, the tip of her tail lifted high and surprise on her features. "You're still with her— that's good. You've gotten to see her in action, how is she? Didn't leave a goblin standing, she didn't. Not so bad to hang around with either."
It's not quite true, but Amara won't turn down a little embellishment right now.
"Saved one of my friends from a druid with a snake. Knows when to be discreet, too," she mentions, referencing many of Amara's interactions with the Grove. "I'd pretty much trust her with my life."
"A True Soul with a mind of her own… how is that possible?" Jaheira asks, finally releasing her spell.
Amara steps out of the vines, shakes her foot to rid it of a coil of plant debris. She swallows, and decides to produce the artifact from their stores. "Because of this artifact," she explains, and her fingers uncurl from around the metallic, angular device.
Jaheira startles, and she pulls the bottle from behind her back again.
Inside, the illithid worm writhes. Screams. Burns.
"What in the hells is that thing?" Jaheira asks, and Amara cradles the artifact protectively.
"So far it's been a life-saver. Here's hoping you agree."
She smiles again, shakes her head in disbelief. "More or less. Congratulations. You've earned yourself the benefit of the doubt." She turns to the elf still pointing the crossbow at Amara. "Hear me, Harpers! All clear, at ease!"
Amara finally relaxes when all the weapons are put away.
"I'll not pretend to understand what that artifact is, but I'm old and wise enough to recognize a sliver of hope when it crawls out of the dark," Jaheria says, tone grim and eyes hopeful. Amara roughly knows the sentiment. "Tell me— why have you come here?"
"To destroy the Absolute in its lair: Moonrise Towers," Amara says plainly.
Jaheria's eyes illuminate. "Then you've found an ally in me, for that is precisely why I am here. There's food in the inn over there. Beds too if you require rest. Aloe oil in the cupboard in case the vines gave you a rash."
Lovely.
"Settle in, then come join me for a drink. You may just be the godsend we've been praying for."
No pressure or anything, though.
Amara herds the caravan through the gates, and the Harpers direct them where to set up a camp. She turns before following them to Mol, who is still standing there near to Jaheira.
"Thank you," Amara says genuinely to the tiefling.
"Don't mention it," Mol replies. "I owe you, remember?" She flashes a mischievous smile. "Come find me later, when you're settled in."
Karlach excitedly saddles up next to Amara as they start to walk behind the caravan. "Oh my god, soldier," she squeals excitedly. "That was Jaheira. The Jaheira!"
"She lives in the city, right?" Amara asks, feeling like there's a lot she's missing.
"Don't you know the whole story?" Karlach asks, confirming there's a lot Amara's missing. "Years ago - over a century - Jaheira was part of a group that saved Baldur's Gate from Sarevok. A Bhaalspawn trying to plunge the city into war. My mum used to tell us stories about them— the legends who protected the city from evil. She said Jaheira was a powerful druid. Adamant. Tough. I've told myself those stories a thousand times since. I never thought I'd meet Jaheira. She's a hero, and I was always… some Outer City kid."
Amara smiles and pushes a bit of her Weave into the tiefling to mimic an elbow nudge. "Welcome to the hero club, I guess."
Karlack barks out a laugh. "Can't believe it. She even wants to talk to us about working together. What a day. So wish I could just—" She mimics the same gesture Amara was trying to make. "Hey— do you think that tiefling weaponsmith you mentioned is here?"
"He could be," Amara supposes. "If Mol is here, there's a good chance."
"Fuck yes! Oh, I can't wait!"
They set up a perimeter around the camp and find Wyll and Halsin already lighting a fire. Alfira and Volo help Astarion and Shadowheart set up the tents, while Gale and Lae'zel delve into the settlement to forage for something for them to eat.
Amara lays out all their beds around the fire, and stretches out. "Oh, I hope there's somewhere good to bathe around here," she remarks. "I can feel the shadows itching at my skin."
"This place… there's a power in these shadows, I can sense it," Shadowheart confirms. Her voice is grave, and not at all as reverent as Amara would expect one who follows the Mistress of the Night to be. "I can sense it. It's ancient, familiar…"
"Don't let it worry you too much," Amara says. "We'll figure it out. Find that Sharran place of worship you need."
"And for now— let's eat," Gale adds, coming back into their camp. He and Lae'zel each carry two bags. Gale quickly sees to fixing something over the fire, and Lae'zel immediately hands Amara a pear.
"There is a bathhouse at the end of the road," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
Amara blinks after her. "Thank you, Lae," she says fondly.
"Chk! I only tell you because you are a mess. Take better care of yourself." She disappears into her tent a moment later.
Amara gets a feral grin on her face. "Gale says he likes my musk."
A spoon flicks in her direction. "Behave, Amara, or there will be no dinner for you. Astarion, chop these up for me. Big chunks."
The vampire blinks at the board and knife shoved at him where he sits at the dining table. "Me? Darling, I think you have the—"
"Big. Chunks." The wizard advises, waving a finger in Astarion's direction, and then he gets back to whatever stew he's making.
"Is there anything I can do?" Karlach asks from next to him. "I don't know much about cooking, but I'd love to learn."
"Have you cleaned a fish before?"
She blinks big eyes at him. "Uhhh…"
"Here, I'll show you— Shadowheart, can you peel the potatoes?"
She startles, having been focused on trying to force open the artifact. "Oh, I'm— I'm not quite proficient with knives."
"I'm sure you'll do fine."
Amara presses her lips together to hold in laughter.
"Like this?" Karlach asks, but the way she's holding the knife is fundamentally different than Gale is.
"No, not quite just. Angle your wrist more. Yes, wonderful!"
Amara smiles, resting her elbows on the table and watching.
"Gale, darling, how big are big chunks, exactly? Is this too big?"
The wizard leans over to peek at what Astarion has on his cutting board. "Perfect. Put them in the pot right away. You see, more fibrous vegetables take a great deal longer to break down and become soft in a— wait! One moment, Astarion." He plucks the chunk of carrot still connected to the greens off the board. "Let's not put this piece in there, yes? You can chop it right at the base, and still salvage most of the vegetable. No greens, though. They'll be a tad bitter for this stew."
Amara buries her face in her elbow and laughs, watching Shadowheart try to catch his attention.
"Yes?" he asks, the wrinkles around his eyes prominent with mirth. "How are the potatoes coming?"
"They're… cleaned— or, peeled, I suppose. They're just a bit…"
"Ah, I see the issue." Gale picks one up and admires it. "A tad small."
"As I said, my proficiency with knives is…"
"All it needs is some practice," Gale assures her. "And all we need is a few more potatoes. Two birds, one stone. Or should I say— two potatoes, one stew!"
Amara is laughing now, thoroughly enjoying herself, and the look on Gale's face.
"It's times like this that I remember our resident archmage probably made quite the teacher," Astarion says, leaning over to Amara.
She leans back over, but doesn't lower her voice whatsoever. "What I would have given to take one of his classes; I would have dropped my quill in front of him plenty of times."
The noise Astarion makes is inelegant but unrestrained, and he leans over right into Amara's space. "Áralta!! What in the sweet hells goes on in that brain of yours sometimes?"
"It's a good image, what can I say? Sometimes it would be me, bending over for that pesky quill— but we all know the temperament of our resident wizard. He would be more than happy to be the one to prostrate himself occasionally—"
A small potato flies past Amara's head.
"You're walking a fine line, Amara!" Gale yells at her, an obvious flush across his cheeks. "Your friends are helping with this stew, do you truly want to go without tasting it? You do your utmost to run that mouth."
Amara flicks her eyes over to Astarion, and his brow quirks in question. Her smile gets more devilish. "What was that about my mouth, Gale?"
Karlach and Astarion are both laughing, and Gale is obviously suppressing an expression, trying to seem firm even with his red-tinted ears and rosy complexion. "Those lips are devilish, Áralta. You seem to find great joy in testing my patience, and as we both know, any good test requires thorough exploration and repetition. If threats of hunger won't stopper your tongue, you force me to venture into other avenues of experimentation to silence you."
Laughing delightedly while her companions make exaggerated noises of disgust over the open flirting, Amara makes herself comfortable cuddling into Astarion's side.
He makes a noise but lets her, and settles his arm around her once she's still. "If he keeps your portion, you can have mine," he whispers, and she giggles, making him smile and the laugh lines around his mouth more prominent.
"What was that, Astarion?" Gale asks, though his tone is knowing.
He clears his throat and obviously changes the subject. "Just about that visit from your dear old friend earlier. I can't believe Mystra's demanding you sacrifice yourself to destroy the Absolute. It's just a waste of a perfectly good cult that we could be controlling."
Gale rolls his eyes. "No need to dwell on it. The Absolute has to be stopped, and this is a viable solution."
Astarion narrows his eyes. "It's also a waste of a perfectly good Gale, I suppose."
The wizard snaps up from his stew. "What— you…"
Shadowheart makes a huffing sound, having finished with her extra potatoes. "Personally, I also can't believe Mystra actually expects you to just sacrifice yourself like that. Seems like a waste of a fine mind. And a fine chef." She holds up the final potato she peeled, which is actually sizable. "And a fine teacher."
Karlach noisily comes to join them at the table, leaving Gale with an assortment of half his perfectly cleaned fish and half her… more or less cleaned, partially butchered ones.
"Is this about Gale's granddad?
Amara would love to say yes.
So she does, kind of.
"Looked like it," she says. "But no, that was Elminster Aumar— the most famous wizard in the realms."
"Huh. Doesn't ring a bell. But all right! Must've had something important to say to Gale, if he came all this way. Good news, I hope."
Amara would love to lie and say yes.
But she doesn't, not even kind of this time.
She looks at Gale first, and then at Astarion and Shadowheart. "I don't think it was. It turns out Gale has an explosive bomb in his chest— and the sacrifice that Niar and Vae mentioned is… well, Mystra has asked him to use it to blow up the Heart of the Absolute."
Karlach sits wide-eyed across from Amara.
She looks at their rogue, and then their cleric. "Woah, now. He's got a… well, I guess that would explain a little, but… Mystra… I mean, this is a lot to take in." She holds her hand to her temple, her eyes wild as her thoughts try to process everything. She finally turns to their wizard. "What're you going to do?"
His mouth works, but no words come out. He looks helplessly back at Amara.
"I don't know if even he's sure," Amara translates. "I think he's of several minds." He looks grateful, and Amara is greatly tempted to open a connection between them, but she restrains herself for now.
"Sometimes I worry how well you can read me," he admits. "I am loathe to wonder how deeply into those several minds you can peer."
Amara's breath catches. She tries for a smile. "I liked it better when we were teasing."
He laughs softly. "Too dark for you?"
"Considering the larger part of you wants to follow through with it, yes."
His eyes snap to hers, and they're wide, his body still.
Amara chews her lips. Rubs her fingers together. Astarion grabs her hand to stop her nervous tick.
"Of course you want to follow through with it," Amara says softly. "It was Mystra's command, after all. I don't think this is the time, or the place, to really discuss if it's the proper solution to our problem. As I know your mind, I'm sure you know mine, and can guess I have… formed my own opinions."
He laughs softly. "That is a soft way of putting it, yes. I have not forgotten my promise to you, though. It weighs heavily on me. I realize my devotion to Mystra is one thing, but I— I promised we would run from our doomed fates until we couldn't anymore. I want to keep that promise."
Karlach makes an affronted sound and waves between the two of them. "Well, then keep that promise— pick the right option. Fucking wizards, man! They always need help picking the simple, obvious option."
Amara quirks her brow up. "Oh, do we?"
"Shit— sorry, forgot for a mote there that you're a wizard too. My bad. But seriously— if Mystra can't think of any way to stop the Absolute than sacrificing Gale, She's no god worth worshiping. Oh shit— sorry, Gale, I meant to say that in gentler terms, but…."
He hovers his hand over the finished stew, lifting it from the heat. There's a line of shock in his expression, but it's not affronted or insulted. It's more like he's become… aware of something he wasn't before.
"Is that dinner?" Wyll asks, joining them at the table with Lae'zel once more. "Smells fantastic."
"Dinner and a healthy discussion about Gale's brush with Mystra," Shadowheart informs him, passing their mismatched dishes around.
Wyll makes a tsking sound. "A shame my first brush with the famed Elminster couldn't be a tad more… optimistic. Listen— I might invoke the Triad from time to time, appeal to Helm. But I'm no man of faith. Not like you, Gale. I don't know what drives a man to consider his own death, among countless others, to be an appropriate exchange for his goddess' forgiveness."
Gale brings the stew to the table. He sighs, rubs the heel of his hand into one of his eyes. "Mystra is magic. I'm nothing without Her. So long as I remain out of Her good graces, it will continue to weigh on me. Does that truly not make sense to any of you?"
Wyll gives him an apologetic smile. "To me, it all sounds like nonsense. The faith that matters is that which you hold in yourself, in the ones that most matter to you. Big bomb be damned, Gale, you've got everything you need to defeat the Absolute already: talent, nerve, and powerful allies at your side. I hope you'll come to see that."
He freezes long enough that Lae'zel takes the ladle from him and starts to serve everyone else.
"Your companion and friend— Elminster? Even the githyanki have heard tell of the Sage of Shadowdale. Some of his works have been translated to tir'su. That doesn't mean his every word carries wisdom, however." She sets the pot aside and puts Gale's bowl in front of him. "Near as I can tell, Mystra demands your faith, but holds no faith in you. Why else would She demand you sacrifice yourself and perhaps so many others? Does She not think you can destroy the Absolute with your own immense talents? Does She not know the mighty company that you keep?"
Gale drops his fork, and just stares at Lae'zel.
She shrugs, digging into her bowl. "Demanding Vlaakith may be, but she acts for the good of the githyanki people. Mystra is concerned only for Herself. Bah— perhaps you really would find forgiveness in a fiery death. But I can't help but wonder why you'd want it at all."
"I… truly did not know you all thought that way about this— about me. I will… revisit some of my thinking, apply some of these new sentiments." He picks up his fork again. "Thank you. All of you. Truly."
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 21: Oakmoss & Mint, Hellfire & Brimstone
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXI
Oakmoss & Mint, Hellfire & Brimstone
"Happy?" Wyll asks Amara, as she sits on her bedroll in new night clothes.
"I smell like oakmoss and mint," Amara preens, braiding her hair. "The bathhouse had soap that smells of oakmoss, and mint," she emphasizes, pleased and comfortable. "I'm very happy."
"I am glad to see it," he replies. "Perhaps we should take turns going to visit—"
There's no warning for it this time, just the scent of brimstone and a sudden eruption of hellfire and oil. Before she knows what's happening, Wyll is yanking Amara to her feet, putting her behind him. A moment later, an oil-slick Mizora is emerging from the oil pool and her wings are unfurling. There's no heaviness to the air even as she stands there, burning eyes scanning the party as they scramble to come to attention.
Why is there no Chronomancy Weave? No weight to her? Last time, there was so much pain when she appeared. Amara's chest was in agony.
"Playtime's over, pet," Mizora drawls to Wyll, and Amara has to wonder if her eyes were really that on fire last time.
Karlach comes to stand in front of Amara as well, effectively forming a perfect shield. "Ahh, I love this time of year. The dickheads start popping up wherever you look."
Amara bites her lip to keep from laughing. Now isn't the time.
"What do you want, Mizora?" Wyll asks, a droning to his tone of voice.
"Drop the attitude and perk up your ears— you've got a new mission," Mizora informs him. "Absolute's cult has gone and grabbed one of Zariel's assets. A devil— and a powerful one at that."
Amara squints. She rubs her eyes. Why does Mizora seem… smeary?
"They're locked up in the cult's fortress, Moonrise Towers. And you're getting 'em out."
Is that Amara's imagination? It looks like she's an oil painting that isn't quite dry yet, and someone left her in the sun all too long.
Oh shit, she should be paying attention.
Absolute cultist. Zariel asset. Moonrise Towers. More errands.
Lovely.
"If this devil is so powerful, how did they manage to get captured?" Amara asks, which she feels is a fair question.
"Wyll, your playmate's wasting precious time. Let's see about getting her priorities fixed," Mizora taunts, and Amara would very much like to punch her. "Ahem. Clause Z, Section Thirteen: 'Should promised soul refuse obeyance or neglect duty, the pact-holder should cast the promised into Avernus as a lemure.' I'll make it simple: Wyll fails or refuses, and he turns to a thick blob of stink-flesh and sinks to Avernus. Now be a good boy and play fetch, pup— or you'll spend an eternity sizzling in the Hells."
She wiggles her fingers condescendingly, and the whole of her form seems to glow a faint red, and is wavering as if an illusion, or a heat mirage.
What in the…
*Mizora's words may be flippant, but they are tinged with desperation. She cannot afford for Wyll to fail this mission. This may be your best chance to negotiate Wyll out of his pact.*
Oh, great. At least Amara looks and smells good for this bit— she'll look the part.
She takes a deep breath, psyches herself up, and steps between Karlach and Wyll.
"We'll rescue your asset— on one condition," she says, now in front of them and facing the devil directly.
"Oh? And what condition is that?" she asks, intrigued.
*Your mind links with Wyll's, drawn in by his increasing panic.*
"What are you doing?" he demands, and the connection floods with anxiety, desperation, and what Amara is sure is a learned response from being threatened. Not once. Not ten times. Hundreds of times.
She sends back wave after wave of soothing, affection, trust. "Trust me," she responds. "I want the best for you. I care for you. Let me help you."
There's a pulse of fear. A pulse of apprehension, and a moment of tension that snaps. Tentatively replaced with trust.
"Mizora, we'll rescue this asset if you release Wyll from his pact," Amara asserts, and she keeps her voice even, low.
*There's a pulse of panic, but it's quickly followed by elation. Wyll is overflowing with a joy he suppresses from showing on his face, but he's both impressed with your forethought, and utterly touched that you're stepping up for him. Your connection with him opens wider.*
"Interesting," she drawls, her fingers twisting together. "Now why should I go letting my favorite pet off his leash?"
Amara relaxes, rolls her shoulders. She can do this.
*Wyll pushes wave after wave of reassurance and confidence in your abilities to you. He opens the connection wider, and showers you with the feeling of praise and sunshine.*
On the isles, the elders spoke of the temple, the old god under the sea. They spoke of the cloud spirits who would eat children's souls, the webbed monsters who would drag fishermen into the drink, and the devils who would sink their claws into the townsfolk and drag them deep down.
*You recall an old incantation from one of the elder's stories, said to void a devil's contract: "Abi, diabole, et nunquam redi."*
Well— better that than nothing else.
Amara takes a deep breath, and speaks from low in her chest when she begins to recite, "Abi, diabole, et nunquam redi."
Mizora leans back, and begins laughing uproariously, having to cover her face at one point as if preventing tears from streaming down though Amara knows that can't be the case.
"I've never seen such a fearless display of sheer idiocy. Bravo!"
Amara's cheeks burn. She thinks briefly that she might regret this if Mizora is a devil who possesses the ability to recall through rewound time— but she's willing to risk it.
She snaps, and goes back about a minute.
"Now why should I go letting my favorite pet off his leash?" Mizora asks, and Amara decides to go for intimidation instead. Of course, it would be easier to impress a devil with her guts than successfully lie to one.
"Did you know the best way historically to break a contract with a devil is to make a deal of a different kind with someone who despises them? Tell me, Mizora, do you have any enemies? I'm sure someone out there might be… interested in something I have to offer. A few tempting words, and you'll have painted quite the target on your back."
"Incredible— you actually think you hold the winning hand," Mizora drawls, and she does actually sound impressed. "Fine, I'll play your game."
*You can't believe your ears.* Wyll's narrator is able to speak through your worm, loud and clear, through the wide-open connection he's established with you. *It's been seven years. Seven long, horrific years. It's more than the feeling of freedom blossoming. If you had discovered the way out of the pact by clawing and begging, or fighting your way out of it— perhaps you would feel a sense of vindication, and righteousness. Like this, though, you realize with just a few words, some advice, and protecting the Sword Coast the way you love to do most, you've gained allies. Allies, who can do what you have never managed to do on your own, because they care for you.*
Amara sends soothing waves through the connection.
Wyll still feels some amount of apprehension, tension, worry. Amara tries to soothe it away.
Affection. Sincerity. Love.
They focus on Mizora again.
"But I amend the pact once the mission's done— not before. Clause F, Section Nine: 'Soul-binder shall bestow reward or favor only upon soul-bearer's fulfillment of related obligation.' Now to Moonrise, pet," she says to Wyll, as if she isn't batshit crazy. "And do mind the shadows— they've been especially hungry."
In a whirl of fire and oil, Mizora is gone.
Amara turns to Wyll, and clicks her tongue. "She even has a clause for withholding your rewards? What did you sign?"
He severs their connection and puts his hands on his hips. "You will burn me alive for saying so— but I didn't exactly read it before I signed."
"You're kidding me."
"I'm unfortunately not."
"Oh, darling, that is a crime," Astarion accuses. "This dark land must be filled with the broken, the beaten, the desperate. The perfect preying ground for a devil who offers a way out for those who sign on the dotted line. We will remedy this immediately."
"After bed," Amara emphasizes. "Come, that's enough excitement for the evening. Let's get some rest."
"Yes, yes," the vampire titters. "For all you know, we will end up seeing our friend Raphael down here somewhere."
Amara groans. "Don't jinx it! Do you want to see him?"
Astarion gives her a rather pointed look. "Help me find him, and you'll find out. When I was taken to his House, I was caught off-guard. But now… now I know what to ask for."
She raises her eyes to him curiously.
"And I will have the decency to know what I am signing away," he drawls, shooting a look at Wyll, who puts his hands up.
"It was a whole situation, but I hear you. I walk with my mistakes. I must tell you— I am wary of watching you do the same."
Amara rolls her eyes. "It's his funeral."
It breaks the tension enough for Astarion to laugh. "Perfect. I knew you would understand."
"I wish we were only dealing with Raphael," Karlach growls out. "Why did it have to be Mizora? Why did it have to be Zariel? Godsdammit."
Wyll flinches. "Aw, Karlach… I'm so sorry."
"We're supposed to risk our necks to get one of her assets? What if it's a runaway, like me? Or something far worse?" she asks, and Wyll shakes his head.
"I don't have a choice…"
Amara reaches for her, sending a pulse of her Weave to make up the rest of the distance. "I know where you're coming from, Karlach, I really do. If we don't help, Mizora will turn Wyll into a lemure. Could you live with that? I know I couldn't."
"Look, Wyll's happiness is my happiness. I'd sooner see myself a lemure than him," Karlach says emphatically, and the warlock looks up suddenly, his face openly touched. "But it's a bad idea to play games with a devil. You never win. Not ever."
Amara holds up a finger. "You don't win against devils ninety-nine percent of the time. This is going to be part of the one percent."
"I never used to think—" Wyll starts, stops. He grips his hands. "I would dream about what it would feel like, to try to claw my way free, finally. I imagined it would be terrifying, and lonesome. It would represent the end of my capabilities as the Blade, or I would do it until I died a miserable death. I was afraid to put myself through that, so I just let my hatred fester and kept going, telling myself I was protecting the Sword Coast— that I was doing something good. And yet, the more bullshit she pours, the more of it I'm forced to swallow. Now— I've finally had enough, and I never thought it would feel…"
"If I could hug you, I would tackle you to the floor," Karlach swears.
Wyll laughs, and it untwists the misery on his face. "I will take you up on that once we meet with this weaponsmith."
Shadowheart starts passing around a bottle of wine. "But first, Moonrise Towers."
"Right," Wyll says, accepting the bottle. "Mizora's set me on fiends inside and outside the Hells. She's never ordered a rescue. Gods, she makes a mockery of everything the Blade stands for. Such an arsehole."
Astatrion lets out a laugh. "I'd drink to that, darling. Any idea who this devil is that needs freeing?"
"Not a one. All that matters is that we free it," Wyll asserts, passing the bottle to him. "Fail, and I'm made into a mindless blob clawing at demons on the front lines of the Blood War."
Amara shakes her head. "It's not going to happen. You mean too much to the Sword Coast— to us."
"And it means everything to me. As do all of you. This feeling— I've never felt it before. I've had fleeting fancies before, but the bond we share… the trust that runs between us, it's like nothing I've experienced before. I've felt lucky, I've felt skilled, I've felt like I barely managed to scrape by before— I've never felt blessed the way I do to have all to have all of you in my life, even if it means we must first deal with this tadpole we also share."
*Wyll opens his connection to everyone, and sends pulses of affection, sincerity, and love.*
"I always knew what my future held, and I know I chose right," Wyll says softly, looking around at the whole group. "Thank you— for sticking your neck out for me. I mean it," he says directly to Amara. "But— I'm not going to celebrate 'til I'm actually free. I can feel Mizora scheming, plotting. She won't let me go without making a fuss. Trust me on that."
"Enough fuss," Amara says firmly. "It's time we all get some rest. There's no point on dwelling on Mystra or Mizora for today— nothing we can do until we get to Moonrise."
"You're right, of course," Wyll says, holding his hands up. He stands. "I think I will visit that bathhouse before I retire. Good night, Amara."
"Good night, Wyll. Don't stay up too late."
/ / /
"The voice of the Absolute is strong here. And getting stronger."
"Oh, for the love of…" Amara mutters to herself. She sits up, once more in her dream world, where her curly, golden-haired dream visitor is leaning against a pillar. It isn't in its usual armor, but a silken gown of maroon and golden accessories, that make the stark tattoo around its eye more vibrant and beautiful.
"I don't know how much longer I can resist it," it advises, and run Amara through doesn't that just… sound lovely. "But it's good to see you're making progress."
Are they? Amara isn't so sure they are.
The golden-haired paladin comes and sits next to Amara in the grass.
Oh— well, that's. Okay. Sure, why— why not.
"You took an unexpected route here," it ventures, practically side-eying her. Lit from behind, it's hair is a halo of glow that is just so familiar. "You did a brave thing, saving those people in the grove," it praises.
Amara's stomach lurches. It feels good, her chest warm, but at the same time, some niggling feeling in her brain tells her there's no reason the dream figure would be bringing this up now unless it was trying to use it for something.
But what?
"I did what I could, but I'm not sure they'll survive out there on their own," Amara says, her honest feelings. She won't let the praise color her response.
"Don't be so hard on yourself. It's not your fault the world is wicked. You did the right thing," it praises again, and then grimaces and looks down.
*The hurt runs deeper than she's willing to show you.*
Amara breathes in, holds it, then asks, "Are you all right?"
"Yes. Yes, I am."
*Beneath the resilient veneer, a touch of fragility. She needs comfort.*
Amara sighs. "You are an incredibly difficult being to trust."
It looks up, shock painting its features. "How so?"
"You remind me of a predator personally informing its prey on how to behave to avoid being eaten. It's difficult to take the advice without assuming there's some amount of manipulation afoot. Even the confirmation I have that you're telling me the truth - a narration of your honesty - comes from the same source of plague that you do."
"I'm protecting you," it insists. "It's only because of me that you're aware and have your own conscience."
"I have no way of confirming that," Amara argues. "I want to trust you, but I also feel as though that feeling is being artificially manufactured. Who are you? Who are you trying to look like? I recognize you, but I don't know you. That scares me."
The dream figure swallows. Blinks heavy eyelids. It looks exhausted. So tired. Drawn, gray in the face. Overworked to the point of sickness. Amara's every instinct would be to wrap it in an embrace, if only…
"What can I do? What do I do?" it asks, hugging its legs to its chest. "It's not just you, it's all of you. None of you trust me. This needs to end, and I can't do it by myself. I need help."
…Fine.
Amara scooches over and puts an arm around its back, pulling it closer until they share just a few beats with their heads leaned together, and tension pours out of the golden paladin's body. "It's been… a very long time since someone did that. For me," it says as they part. "Once… I was safe, in a calmer place than this. I have not felt such warmth since I resided in that little tavern room— and have long felt I was excluded from your… affections."
Amara swallows. "You've been watching me. You know me."
"I don't deny it. There's a part of me that's always envied how free and— loving you are with your touch. Your space is open to others. You share it readily. It's a comfort, to even those who have never known what it is to share the space of another. Sometimes I myself can barely even remember what it was like before… it just doesn't stop. We are being bombarded by waves of telepathic energy. Wave after wave with hardly a breath between them. I almost dare not rest."
"What… are the waves?" Amara hesitates to ask. "I cannot hear them."
"Each wave, a set of orders to the infected. The order for your transformation has been given many times already."
Amara's eyes flick to the grass. "Do you know where the orders are coming from?"
"There is no doubt. Moonrise Towers," it confirms. "I just hope my powers last long enough to see this through. In any case, the Absolute knows you carry me with you now. It wants to retrieve me."
Amara rubs her fingers together, snaps her wrist twice. Her mind races. "Why does the Absolute want you?"
"I am the only one who can resist the Absolute's influence," it claims, once again standing. "Hence its fear of me, its… its desperation. Unfortunately, that also means it is dedicating more and more resources to my retrieval. The task ahead is monumental. But we're all that stands between victory for the Absolute and freedom for all. This is not just about you and I anymore. It has become far bigger than us. You must infiltrate Moonrise Towers. Discover the secrets of the Absolute and put an end to it. So we can finally be free. Now I must rest, and you must carry on. Do not let my efforts be in vain."
Amara is roughly pulled out of the dream and back into the camp, and she sits up. She's nowhere near as disturbed by these dreams, but still doesn't wish to attempt sleeping again.
She can still feel the warmth of the dream visitor on her hands.
/ / /
Unlike their wooded camps, there's plenty for Amara to do at dawn.
Surprisingly, many of the Harpers are awake already, including a fair few merchants. Amara even finds an alchemy table and is able to turn a sack's worth of gold into a backpack full of ingredients into a crate's worth of potions that sell for more gold than she could carry.
Pleased with her morning errands, Amara purchases some things that merchants certainly charge her too much for, and then makes her way back to the one who sold her all the ingredients to begin with.
"Back already?" the blonde human woman - Talli - asks, brows raised. "I know I advised you to stock up while the getting's good— you've damn near cleaned me out of the bountiful land's greenery."
Amara smiles at her. "Just on my way back to the camp. You don't happen to have anything I could take off your hands at no cost to myself, do you?" she asks, her grin sloping into a smirk.
"Cheeky," Talli says, chuckling and waving a finger. "But since you're asking…" She pulls a camp supply pack and passes it to Amara. "Your group is going to be busy, I expect."
Amara laughs to herself. "Only very," she confirms, slinging the pack over her shoulder. "If you come across more ingredients, let me know. I'll whip up some potions for you."
She smiles, nods. "An alchemist— I should have guessed. You have the look about you."
Amara nods and steps back, counting what she has left on her person, and she nearly runs into two people she didn't see her first time through that morning. "Oh! My apologies—"
"Hey. That's close enough," the human man warns, and Amara's smile falters. "You ain't no Harper and you ain't no Fist. Don't need the likes of you crashing our party."
Fist? Party? It's like seven in the morning. And what's a Fist?
"Give it a rest, Ulthred," his halfling friend says to him. "We need all the godsdamned help we can get."
Amara flicks her gaze to the rising sun. "What party is it I'm crashing?"
"Rescue party," the Harper says succinctly.
"Not that you'll give a triple-shat damn, but we were ambushed by them bloody cultists."
Well, okay. Harsh. That's rude.
"Bastards torched the pig-sty we were staying in and made off with the Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate himself."
Well, okay. Shit. That's bad.
"Let me guess," Amara drawls, unimpressed. "Moonrise Towers?"
His eyes narrow. "It's where those shit-eating cultists hole up, so of course."
"Then, crashing the party or not, I'm afraid I'll be a part of your attempt in some capacity. I have business in Moonrise Towers. If there's a place to drag the Absolute down— it's there."
The halfling elbows his human companion. "See? They really aren't with the other cultists."
He curses under his breath. "Shut it, Essius. Just don't get in our way, cult-freak. I wish we'd get up and head out now. All this standing around is making me antsy."
Amara breathes in through her nose. "Gee. Can't tell."
His nostrils flare and the anger that appears on his face tells Amara it's a good time to snap.
So she does.
She steps away without saying anything, and makes the rest of her trek back to camp. By the time she gets there, the others are finally rousing. Gale sets a plate on the table for her and she sits down across from Wyll, Lae'zel, and Shadowheart and picks up the lightly toasted slice of bread and butter.
"You look perplexed," Wyll ventures, "Did something happen?"
Amara looks up at him over her toast. "Hmm? Oh! I just learned of yet another hurdle waiting for us at Moonrise. Evidently, there was an attack against the Grand Duke of Baldur's Gate. He's being held captive there. There's a few people here staging a rescue, and though I'm not proposing that… we… Wyll? Are you quite all right?"
Wyll's hand is pressed to his mouth, covering it, and his eyes are wide with stricken horror.
"Hells— Ulder Ravengard's been taken? From Waukeen's Rest?"
She reaches out and covers his other hand with hers. "He called it— well, the man looked like a guard? He called it a pig-sty. So if that sounds like Waukeen's Rest, then sure. Are you all right?"
"We need— we need to seek him out and get him to safety," he practically begs, turning his hand around to grip Amara's. "You see— Grand Duke Ravengard is my father."
Amara drops her toast.
"I know I haven't said," he admits, and there's a misery in his voice that hurts Amara's heart. "Our relation was no matter of pride, not least for him."
"But you've spoken so fondly of your father," Shadowheart argues, touching Wyll's upper arm. "Our choice couldn't be more clear: we must rescue Duke Ravengard."
Lae'zel makes a noise at the back of her throat. "Your concern may be a distraction. We have a long way to go before we reach Moonrise."
"I am more than worried, in truth," Wyll owns, but he steadies his gaze toward the githyanki woman. "But I am equally as determined."
"What makes a duke of Baldur's Gate so interesting to the Absolute?" Amara wonders out loud.
"Exactly my thoughts," Wyll agrees. "Even the houses of Menzoberranzan would have little use for my father."
"Right, yes… them."
"If I were to make a guess, I would assume they have a goal in mind for his territory. His absence alone will sow chaos in the city. If they were to infect him— he could lead Baldur's Gate to ruin."
"All the more reason to find him," Shadowheart asserts.
"The Absolute has seized not just your father," Lae'zel agrees, "but the future of this Sword Coast you hold so dear."
Wyll's mismatched eyes find Amara's. She frowns, worries her lips between her teeth.
"Wyll," she begins, a little apprehensive.
His eyes flick downward.
"You shouldn't keep secrets like this from me. From us. We're here for you— your background is of no consequence to us. We won't hold who you are against you. There isn't any weakness in letting us know you."
"I know," he agrees instantly. "And you're right. My story is one of two men. The Blade of Frontiers," he introduces, holding up his usual gesture. "A man hunting the fiends who prey on the weak and claw at the Coast. And Wyll Ravengard. A memory of a memory. A man who belongs to the past. I wanted you to know the Blade, not the shadow he left behind."
Amara licks her teeth as words jump to leave her mouth.
Wyll laughs under his breath. "I can see a thousand responses in your expression."
Karlach joins them at the table. "Sorry— was listening in. I know that face when I see it too. Let me give it a try: 'Wyll,'" she begins, mimicking Amara's accent, "'your shadow is a part of you— not something you must leave behind to become someone else.'"
Amara shoves at her with a pulse of Weave. "Oh, come off it! I would have been more sincere about it!"
Astarion drapes himself over Amara's back. "Face it, darling, we know you too well. You are a nag and a lecturer."
"Hey!"
Gale replaces her cold toast with a new piece. "Amara, dear, the ease at which you would introduce yourself to Wyll Ravengard just as you would the Blade is more idiosyncratic than you might think. Many of us wish to cast off pieces of ourselves we dislike. You are the only one who encourages affection for even our least favorite parts of ourselves."
Amara abruptly gets up from the table, throwing Astarion off of her. "Great! Okay! Thank you everyone! Time to start the day— I'm going to find Jaheira."
Astarion snickers, righting himself. "Oh, dear, we've embarrassed her."
"Gale, Shadowheart, Karlach— I hope you're ready." She grabs her bag and puts the new toast in her mouth. "Mm-leff go," she mutters around the bread.
Trudging ahead, Amara hears the three of them struggle to gather everything they need, and she tosses a few things she bought in her tent and walks out of the camp. It only takes about five minutes for the other three to catch up to her.
They speak to a few more Harpers and tieflings and various other occupants of the settlement as they try to locate Jaheira that morning. Some are hostile, but others are welcoming enough. They certainly aren't pleased about the party's parasites, the rumors of which seem to have spread like the shadows outside the city limits.
They get truly sidetracked only once.
"A forge!" Karlach says, loud enough to draw considerable attention. "Amara! A forge!"
The weaponsmith of the tieflings turns around, mopping sweat from his brow, and immediately focuses in on Karlach. "Aha— I thought I sensed an infernal. What are you doing here?"
"Same as you, I reckon. Trying to stay out of the shadows," Karlach says with vigor. "Hold on— I know you. The weaponsmith, right? Drafted into the Blood War when your city was swallowed by Avernus. Not too different from my own story. Well done making it out alive," she praises warmly.
"Same to you," he compliments with his tail swaying easily behind him. "Though unless my senses deceive me, you brought a bit of the Hells back with you. Infernal engine?"
"Who needs a heart when you've got one of these to keep you warm. Thank you, Zariel," she spits out.
"Forget warm— you're burning up," Dammon points out. "Might be burning out a piston ring— or leaking oil. Mind if I take a listen?"
Amara and Shadowheart exchange a glance.
"Please do. I've been dying to find an infernal mechanic."
Dammon walks forward, bending over so his ear is level with Karlach's chest, and leans close enough that after a few moments, his eyes go wide and he jumps back, his ear and the hair around it singed. "Now that's hot," he remarks, rubbing his face, the middle of his tail lifted. "Too hot. I think I could sort you out, but I'll need some infernal iron and a lot of luck."
"Hey soldier—" Karlach whirls on Amara with a wide grin. "We've got some infernal iron already. Let's give it to him, hey?"
"Absolutely— let's see what his upgrade involves," Amara says eagerly.
"Please let this work," she prays, pulling out the metal they got at Grymforge and passing it to Dammon.
"Mm," he hums, hefting it up and down. "The weight of it. And that blaze of chaos. I can't imagine this where my heart should be. Must be quite the experience." Karlach just gives him a sad smile. "Give me just a moment… and I think…"
He turns and begs to hammer away over the Harper fire, his frame not giving away what is an impressive amount of strength coiled in his musculature. Amara looks over at Karlach who is already shooting her a particular glance behind Dammon's back.
"There," he says, and Karlach positively beams at him. "You'll have to install it, I'm afraid. I don't think there are thick enough gloves in all the realms to protect from that kind of heat," he remarks with a teasing smile.
Karlach accepts the upgrade, and carefully goes about placing it into the mechanism installed in her chest cavity. Dammon watches eagerly, fascinated.
"That feels… good." Karlach breathes out, surprised but sounding ever so pleased, and completely relieved. "I'm still burning hot as Hell's hole, but I feel less… changeable. Cheers, mate."
"Pleasure," he says, and he seems to genuinely mean it. "And as for the heat, I haven't got any solutions now, but I'm not giving up. Could be if the combustion chamber has its own insulation, or if we had some kind of enchanted coolant…" He looks embarrassed for a moment, realizing Amara's party is watching him speculate. "Let me sleep on it. I just might be able to work something out. Hopefully the next time I see you, I'll have something promising to report. I'll need more infernal iron either way, though, so keep your eyes open."
"We can do that," Amara promises. "Do you happen to know where we can find Jaheira?"
"Ah! That I do. Here, I'll walk you to the doors to the Last Light Inn."
Amara resists rolling her eyes. How aptly named.
"Take care," he says at the doors to the building, and they thank him.
Amara turns to Karlach before they go in. "How are you feeling? Good enough to keep going?"
"Good? I feel great!" Her tail flicks back and forth playfully. "Dammon's upgrade didn't cool me down, but it did juice me up. I don't think I've ever felt more powerful."
Amara laughs. "Sounds perfect. Just checking on you. We'll get that iron for the second upgrade— I want my nap with you, you hear?"
Karlach laughs, smiling widely. "Aye, soldier. Let's get you to Jaheira."
She nods and opens the door, walking inside the somewhat gloomy place. A familiar face greets Amara as soon as they enter, and she turns to see Mattis, most likely still trying to swindle a whole new clientele as their Thieves Guild grows.
"Welcome to our humble— wait, are you Karlach?" he asks, interrupting his own little routine. "A lot of us were in Avernus. We saw you fighting. You were so good!"
The tiefling looks taken aback, but— pleased. Her eyes illuminate with pride. "Well! I, uh— yeah. I guess I was. I mean, you should avoid fighting for devils if you can. But if you can't, it helps to have a good right hook." She even mimics the right hook.
Amara beams at her, pleased as well.
"I saw you lay out a maw demon in two hits!" Mattis brags, gesturing wildly. "Bam, bam! We were all like 'woah'. How'd you learn to fight like that?"
"Had to. Life didn't pull any punches. It was up to me to learn to take a hit— and deal one back."
Mattis looks up at her in wonder. "I've been tossed around a lot too. I want to learn how to fight back, too."
"From the look of things, you've got your wits about you. A clever mind and a bit of style will take you a long way," she advises, flicking a flaming finger in Amara's direction. "Fight with those, and you may find you never need to use your fists at all."
"In that case, want to buy a lucky ring I found?" he asks, and Amara bursts out laughing.
"Ha! Nice try, shorty. Keep it up, though, and you'll be scamming with the greats in no time," Karlach advises, and Amara wishes she could throw an arm around the barbarian.
Soon.
"You got any stock for an extra special customer like me?" Amara asks instead.
"Hmm. I'm not supposed to mention it to anyone, but I do have something pretty special in stock. A key."
Amara's eyes glitter. This sounds promising.
"What does it look like?" Mattis does a series of showmanship and flashy moves, tempting his wares. "What does it open? What treasures await behind its lock? That's for one lucky buyer to find out."
Amara and Karlach exchange amused glances.
"Mol gave it to me, and I shouldn't let it go to just any old jack-a-day," Mattis asserts, quirking his brow. He wants Amara to bargain.
She'll bite. "I'd like to buy it from you," she offers. She could probably get it without coin, but funding their guild is a delight for her.
"This is a, ahem, valuable piece, so it's gonna cost a lot. And that is non-negot… non… the price isn't changing! A thousand!"
Amara fights not to smile. "You drive a hard bargain, but it's a deal," Amara agrees. She passes over a large pouch of coin into his hand and whispers with a wink, "And it's 'non-negotiable'."
"Yes!" Mattis exclaims with his tail coiled into glee loops. "That's my first negotiation. Here. Pleasure doing business with you."
Mattis runs off and Amara looks fondly after him.
"Kid really looks up to you. That's nice to see— and you were so good with him," Amara praises.
"It is, isn't it. Hope he makes it out of this mess with his wits in one piece. I'd like to see him set up in a proper home in the city. Every kid deserves that."
Amara hums, looking her over once.
"What's that look?" she asks, crossing her arms.
"Nothing, nothing," Amara insists. "I just think you'd make a good parent."
Karlach scoffs. "Not in a million years. Or— well, maybe more like five. Can't see it just yet."
"I think that's perfectly realistic."
It seems that Mattis' exit alerted some of the others in the inn, as a tiefling approaches them with her hands on her hips. "Thought you'd be ten yards tall, the way Zevlor spoke of you," she supposes, and Amara feels some leftover flush in her cheeks. "Cerys. Scout. Seems we missed one another at the grove, but the others told me how you helped us. A pity. You pulled them from one death-trap only for me to land them in this one."
Amara cringes. "I feared… it may be a perilous journey. What happened exactly? Where is Zevlor? Is he here?"
"He's gone, and more than half the others with him."
Amara freezes, feeling her face go pale. "Gone— as in…"
"We were ambushed out in the cursed lands— cultists of this Absolute. Zevlor froze, begged us to surrender, but… they were toying with us. Making examples. And we'd had enough of taking it. Those of us who cut free just kept running 'til we found this place. The others… maybe the cult got them. Maybe the curse."
Amara presses the back of her hand to her opposite cheek, feeling how cold and clammy her skin's become. Fear rages through her. She tries to look on the bright side. It's hardest when she just wants to lie down, when she wants to be the one to be afraid, or contradictory.
But instead she just breathes in. Breathes out.
"Have hope," she advises instead. "You survived— I'm sure the others did too."
"Zevlor had hope. It didn't save him. A little sense will serve us better, I think," Cerys snaps, and yeah… Amara would really like a break from being the exhaustingly positive one now, please. "But… thanks. It was sweet of you to try."
…Damn it. That's why she does it.
Cerys walks away with that, and Amara can't bring herself to say anything in response.
Shadowheart places a gentle hand at Amara's back, turning her. Looking over in that direction, Amara spots Jaheira walk into the room. Jaheira also spots them.
"Please, be welcome," she greets. "Have a drink." She picks up a silver goblet filled with— is that wine?
"It's not even eight in the morning," Amara points out.
"Oh my gods!" Karlach squeals next to her excitedly.
"To your very good health," Jaheira cheers, and hands Amara an identical goblet.
"It's not even eight in the morning," Amara repeats under her breath. She raises the goblet to her nose. "You'll have to pardon my friend Karlach. She's very excited to meet you."
"Tsh. Yeah," Karlach admits, and she smiles so widely and openly. "I mean, it's an honor, M'lady." She even does a little curtsy.
"Wow, she gets to be M'lady? Why don't I get curtsies?" Amara asks, trying to identify the scent of the wine.
"I will gladly drink to your health as well, Karlach," Jaheira says, ignoring Amara.
*You perceive a faint hint of Klauthgrass, a herb that is said to elicit the truth. Jaheira smiles at you knowingly.*
"It doesn't spoil the taste, if that's what you're wondering," she asserts, and her jaw is raised, her gaze down the bridge of her nose.
Amara leans in. "It's not even eight in the morning." She drinks the wine anyway.
Jaheira's eyes sparkle with interest. "Well over a century old and yet it hasn't lost a hint of flavor. Still not quite so sure about you, though. People tend to lose more than just flavor when illithids get their hands on them. I speak from experience."
Amara's nose wrinkles.
"There's an air about you. Something— alien. Answer me true and do not lie: the parasite is changing you, isn't it?"
Amara takes a quick step back, but her gaze remains curious. "It's trying to change me, to win me over, but I'm resisting its temptations."
"And you're certain you will continue to resist?" Jaheira asks.
"Yes."
Jaheira's eyes flick to the wine. "Good. I will take your word for it. And hold you to it, too. I have every reason to be cautious. I've traced people like you, people with parasites in their brains, all the way here from Baldur's Gate. The cult of the Absolute is spreading through the city— quietly, quickly, and with unsettling deliberation. We tracked them to this ancient village only to be faced with a man we killed and buried over a century ago."
Amara's brow quirks. "Sounds like necromancy at play."
"It seems likely," Jaheira agrees. "Which means he isn't working alone. He was a Sharran, once— took to building an army of Dark Justiciars beneath this very village. Alongside the local druids, we made it our business to see him deposed— dead and buried."
Flicking her gaze over to Shadowheart, Amara sees the cleric is already looking back at her. She gives one quick nod, an assurance that she's okay. Amara sends a gentle brush against her consciousness with her tadpole, to let her know that she's open to a connection at any time.
"And now he's returned?" Amara asks Jaheira.
"Not only does General Ketheric Thorm live again, it seems he is no longer mortal. He has become, in fact, invincible. We met him on the road here— commanding an army of the Absolute, intent on destroying Baldur's Gate. I put an arrow through his eye myself, only to watch him pluck it out like a splinter." She points to her own eyeball and Amara touches her face in empathetic pain. "He healed right in front of me, and chased us into the shadows. Things looked hopeless, but experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things look, there's always hope."
Amara would really like to agree with her there, but that does sound pretty bad.
"You are that hope," Jaheira asserts.
Oh, shit.
Amara doesn't know how to kill an invincible, self-healing, immortal Absolute cultist!! "What do you have in mind?" She tries for conversational. It's a start.
"Protected by your artifact, you can infiltrate his forces at Moonrise Towers, posing as a True Soul."
Amara dislikes the plan so far.
"Find out what it is that makes him invincible so we can strip him of his advantage."
Amara dislikes making that sound so easy.
"Once Ketheric is without his shield, the sword: together we assault his tower, and put a final end to this blight."
Amara dislikes how difficult that battle will be.
But— well, what else is she going to do?
"Ketheric's days are numbered— I'll make sure of it," she asserts, arms crossed over her chest.
"Without a cure for your infection, your days are numbered too, yet you selflessly offer to spend them fighting alongside us. I like you," Jaheria appeals affectionately, a smile on her face. "I promise I will do everything I can to make sure you survive this. Any cure starts with understanding the disease."
"Well— for another time, we have plenty of bread crumbs. It's the following the trail that's proving particularly tricky."
"For another time, then. Forging on now, all I can tell you is that whatever magic Ketheric's using to control these tadpoles, it must be at Moonrise."
"How do I reach him?" Amara asks. "The Towers are surrounded by shadows."
"You're not our only secret weapon," Jaheria eagerly informs her. "Isobel— a faithful cleric of Selûne, and a light in the darkness. She cast the moon shield around the inn. It's the only reason we're still alive. She's upstairs in her chambers. Tell her I sent you and she'll see you through the shadows safely."
Amara feels a tug on her arm, and she allows Shadowheart to pull her away.
"Thank you, Jaheria," she says, jutting her chin down in a nod.
The druid returns it, mirth in her gaze.
Amara and her companions sit at a bar and the half-elf taps her fingers on the surface of it a few times, in thought. "Not the cheeriest of inns, this place," she begins, tapping again. "But I suppose the mortal peril lurking just past the firelight is liable to put a dampener on the mood."
Her voice is soft. Sad. Ruminating.
Amara hums. "Remember when you told me Night Orchids were your favorite flowers?"
"Rings a bell…" she ventures. "Why?"
"It just so happens I have one right here," Amara says, pulling the flower she got from a merchant earlier that day out.
"Oh hell, you didn't pick that by hand did you? They're deadly poisonous!" she practically yells, and Amara is ready to snap right there, but then Shadowheart quickly chirps, "Joking. They're safe— and beautiful. Thank you."
She plucks the flower from Amara's hand and admires its petals almost lovingly.
"I don't have anything to give you in return, I'm afraid."
"It's just a token," Amara says softly. "I don't expect anything in return."
"Well, perhaps I can come up with something later, all the same." She tucks the bloom away with all the care one would a precious object. "Now, onto harsher topics. I can see you've braced me appropriately. Ask away."
"Ketheric Thorm— let's start with him. What do you think of him?" Amara leaves it rather open-ended for her.
"Difficult to say— a fellow servant of the Nightsinger would surely be an ally to me under most circumstances… but something doesn't add up. I'll need to see where his allegiances truly lie."
Amara nods. "I appreciate your willingness to withhold judgment for now. There's a number of things here which I imagine can't be easy to process— especially considering you're operating on…"
"Less than my usual recollection, yes," Shadowheart agrees. "It weighs on me. Worries me. Which I am sure does not escape your notice."
"I just want you to be okay," Amara says truthfully. "All this talk about Sharrans and Dark Justiciars gathering— I can't fully understand it, but I can support you. Some decisions we come to as a group may contradict your personal preferences, and I worry about you."
"I just want you to be okay," Shadowheart echoes. "You've done more than enough for me. I am willing to put aside some of my feelings for your sake, while we save ourselves and others."
"Not that we've waylaid the tension somewhat, what would everyone say to a drink? Preferably one that is not spiked?" Gale asks, and he leans over the bar to flag someone down, but a tiefling presses himself up against the bar and interrupts. A tiefling who—
"Rolan!" Amara realizes.
"There's another bottle of Arabellan Dry back there," he says to one of the tiefling children that Amara doesn't recognize, pointing in a general direction. "Put it on the bar, then piss off and leave me alone."
Yeah, that's Rolan, all right.
"Jaheira said we should serve drinks, but that we shouldn't serve drunks," a purple-skinned Mephistopheles tielfling says mischievously.
"Jaheria didn't save your ragged little tail from the cultists— I did."
Amara licks her lips. "I hear escaping from the cultists was difficult. I take it you were part of the reason it was possible in the first place?"
"Why, did you and the bard want to write a ballad about me?" he sneers. "You can leave out the part where my brother and sister were dragged away screaming while I was saving the orphans. If that wizard of yours hadn't filled their heads with all that self-righteous heroic crap at the grove, none of this would have happened."
Amara would like to point out that everyone has their breaking point— that even the tieflings could desire their own defense. But she doesn't.
"Do you know where they are?" she asks instead.
"Dead for all I know," he snaps at her, his tail rapidly thrashing. "Or in the cult's tower with the others who were taken."
Gale leans over to her. "We are reaching a volume of requests where it may be prudent to inscribe them in some way— if we're to recall them all at a later date."
"If they're alive, I'll rescue them," Amara says, ignoring the wizard.
"They're my responsibility," Rolan yells at her, and his tail knocks something off the bartop, curling up in the middle. "You go save the world, or your own arse, or whatever it is you do. I'll fix this."
He slams a hand on the bar.
"Where's my wine?!"
Amara swings her legs off her chair. "I guess I need to start a list, hmm?" she says, leaning back into Gale's space. "Gnomes, tieflings, devils, oh my. Who isn't at Moonrise?"
"We should see if we can't chart the path," Shadowheart begins. "Jaheira might—"
Amara startles.
"What's wrong?" they all ask, practically simultaneously.
She shakes her head, as if dislodging something. "It's nothing— or, well… no, it's definitely something. It's difficult to explain. Something just appeared in the inn. Something… important."
They exchange glances.
"Do you know where?" Gale asks gently.
"Yes," she confirms. "This way."
Through several doors and deeper into the inn, the Chronomancy Weave in the air gets stronger and more and more recognizable. It hurts. It crushes her lungs. Twists at her insides.
Raphael.
"You're kidding me—" Karlach says abruptly. "How did you…"
"Careful," Gale warns. "He's sitting across from Mol."
Amara's heart staggers. Worry courses through her.
They get close enough to be within earshot now, and the devil, still in his human form, gestures to the tiefling girl. "Your move, Mol," he says, a chessboard between them.
"You trapped me," she argues. "I didn't even want to take this one."
And isn't that an apt description for dealing with devils?
"Calimshan rules, dear," Raphael drawls. "The first piece touched is the first piece moved."
"That's garbage. No matter where the knight goes, I'm gonna lose it."
Amara has to give it to her for being so upfront with a devil, though. She knew she liked Mol.
"Then make the sacrifice useful. Guard your Mystra, or come for my Cyric," he advises, and on the surface, it's good advice but Amara isn't so sure.
Going by Mol's expression, it looks like she isn't so sure either.
"What's going on here?" Karlach asks, enough to draw attention.
"Look who made it!" Mol cheers, a smile alighting her face once more. She looks so youthful like this. "For once, I saved your butt out there, didn't I? We're square now, chief," she declares. "Say, do you play lanceboard by any chance? It's my first time playing."
Oh, Amara could kill that devil.
*The keen gleam in Mol's eyes reveals the lie. She knows the game well, and she wants to win.*
Oh, well… nevermind. All the more power to you, Mol.
Gale clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, leaning over Mol to peer at the board. "He's laid a fine trap for you, Mol. But it looks to me like his Cyric could be dethroned."
Amara smiles to herself. It's a wonderful way to approach Mol. Offering her a potential move that she has to parse out the rest of the way, allowing her the independence of the game with the advice of a master player. She winks at Gale and he looks back at her and smiles.
After Mol completes the move on the board, Raphael exclaims in a display of dismay.
"My, the Theskan Double Counter-Gambit. Vicious. Exactly what I would have done."
Mol's singular red eye glitters. She claims another piece, winning the game. "How's that for Calimshan rules?"
"Brava! Lovely work. I see I was right to make you the offer I did."
Oh, Amara does not like the sound of that.
"You will consider it, won't you?"
The good humor vanishes from Mol's face and she rises from her seat without a goodbye.
Raphael chuckles and stands as well, turning instead to face Amara. "What a lovely specimen she is. A blushing apple, begging to be plucked."
"Please let me smack this creep," Karlach growls, and Amara's expression must match the intensity of her glare, since Raphael falters slightly, backs down.
He turns to Gale instead. Amara has not enough mercy to tell him the bomb of their group probably isn't the one to show him mercy, either.
"The Theskan move suggestion was inspired. I had no idea you played," he praises, and Amara all but rolls her eyes. He's the erudite of their group. Of course he plays.
Gale crosses his arms over his chest. "Is that why you're here? To play games?" he accuses, and his voice is cold and distant.
"To play the game," Raphael answers, thinking he must be so clever. "The vast lanceboard of souls. But don't you worry about Mol— it goes without saying she still has the unconditional freedom to choose the only option she has left."
…Right.
"Besides, I do enjoy being in this neighborhood again. It has such a rich history of abject tragedy. And tragedy, my friend, well there's my bread and bloody butter."
Amara steps closer to him, and Raphael's eyes glitter with interest and he doesn't move away. "Just what is this region's history of tragedy?"
"Why spoil it?" he asks gleefully. "It's all out there, waiting to be discovered. You never know what you might find if you just… dig a little deeper."
With her face right in Raphael's, she hisses, "Just stay away from Mol, you hear?"
"She won," he asserts. "She has a taste for it now. She'll be the one who comes to me."
Amara will see about that.
"But enough about my lesser pursuits. Why bother with trifles when I'm in the illustrious presence of my very favorite client!" He steps back, away from Amara, but only to bow in a flourish. "Tell me, O apple of my eye, how have you been? You don't have any gills to get green around yet, but you do look a bit worse for wear in this light."
Amara gives him a tight smile. "You know, I've never been better."
"Splendid," he drawls. "And yet… I have this picture in my head— of you tossing and turning in the middle of the night, thinking strange things, dreaming strange dreams."
What Amara would give to just deck him.
She has a terrible feeling he would remember, even if she rewound, though.
"And there's this little voice inside of you asking: 'Is this my will, or is it the worm's?' But you have no answer, and no way of knowing. The good thing is, though, there's only one little voice you really should listen to. Mine."
Amara positively burns with rage.
"See you soon."
Raphael and his chessboard vanish in a flash of spark and smoke.
"Calm yourself," Gale urges, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We'll warn her"
"In much better news, there's a kitty," Karlach points out. "You like animals, right?"
Amara turns around, some of her fury festering down. "Really?"
Shadowheart catches on quickly. "Come say hi, Amara."
She juts her lip out. "I'm not a child. You needn't tempt me with an animal."
"So you… do not wish to visit with the cat?" Gale asks, moving so Amara has a line of sight. "If it pleases you, I have the capability to cast Speak with Animals on us."
Amara sighs in defeat. "It would please me greatly."
Karlach cheers in victory and with a flourish of Weave, Gale casts the promised spell. Shadowheart leads Amara across the room to a small kitten pattering about, his claws making soft noises on the hardwood floors.
He takes notice of them immediately.
"Hiss!" His little voice comes filtered through the spell, as he thinks the onomatopoeia purposefully. "I say: HISS!"
"Easy, kitty, I mean you no harm," Amara urges softly.
The kitten's response is anything but soft. "AND YET YOU HARM ME BY YOUR VERY PRESENCE!" Hmm. "This is my territory. And you're in it."
Amara holds up her hands. "My intentions are pure. I only wanted to admire you up close."
"Hmm," he hums, sitting back on his legs. "I'll allow it. You may call me His Majesty."
Adorable. Amara must spend too long quietly admiring him, as he snaps at her.
"You've had enough! Now go! Quickly! HISS!" He licks his paw a few times and Amara smiles, and watches his ears go from being flattened back behind his head to perked up again.
"You seem like someone who knows what he's about. Heard anything interesting around here?" Amara asks.
"Good of you to notice. For my part, I have noticed the cleric is a liar."
Next to Amara, Shadowheart tenses.
"She promised me a bit of milk. But do you see any milk? Do you? Nor do I. Disgraceful." he sneers, ears moving.
Gale puts his hand on Amara's back and disappears a moment later. She assumes she knows what mission he's undertaken.
Amara takes that as an invitation to ask His Majesty another question. "Quite the specimen you are." she compliments. "How did you come to this place?"
"I slinked, of course," he mutters, and what did Amara expect. He doesn't say anything else.
Shadowheart places her hand on Amara's arm and asks, "He meant the cleric of Selŭne, yes?"
Amara nods. "We should pay her a visit."
Gale comes back with a small dish and a bottle of milk and sets the dish down. "Better?" he asks
His Majesty looks up at him suspiciously. "It will do."
Amara bites her lip to stop the smile that blooms.
Yeah, so maybe she is easier to distract than she'd like to admit. So what?
"Now who's trying to get on who's good side?" Mol surprises Amara by asking, and she whirls to see the young tiefling girl leaning against a pillar by where they're standing, the tip of her tail lifted again. "Nice strategy back there," she praises, and her smile is open and genuine. "If we put our heads together, I bet you and me could make a tidy stack of coin in Baldur's Gate," she jeers, leaning in and gesturing sharply with her clawed hand. "But Raphael's offered me a partnership already, and it seems like a sweeter deal than throwing my lot in with you."
Amara licks her lips.
"No, kid," Karlach says softly. Her tail droops into a coiled pile on the ground. "No." Flames lick off of her body, and the look on her face is haunted, sad.
Amara goes down on one knee, able to meet Mol's glowing red eye head-on. "Do you know how he can offer you such a 'sweet' deal?" she asks, voice even. Mol's eye narrows. "Raphael is no joke, Mol. He's a real, literal devil. You and your soul are in danger if you side with him."
"You… you aren't joking?" she asks, staggering back a step. "Huh. I kind of believe him more now than I did a minute ago."
"I wish I was joking— can you tell me what exactly he offered you?"
"Protection for me and my kids," she says immediately. "That's all. Not that it's any of your business— I'm not poking my nose into whatever trade you made with him."
"I haven't made a deal," Amara protests firmly. "He'd like to tempt me into one, but I know what he is. I know he can't offer me anything worthwhile."
"Really? Cause it looked like he was doin' a pretty good job. If I had to deal with gods and worms in my head, I'd make a deal with anyone." Amara must make a face at that, because Mol sighs. "Look, you saved us. Not knockin' that. But after you left, Zevlor lost his nerve— gave up the fight. I won't. Now there's no grove, no coin, no one taking us to the city. I'm not letting my crew get eaten by shadows. Maybe I'll make a deal, maybe I won't. But it'll be my choice— not the devil's and not yours."
"I'm not saying he has nothing to offer you, Mol. I'm sure he does. I'm not telling you what to do either. I just want to make sure you have all the information I can offer you— a deal with a devil is sweetest the moment you taste it, and only grows more bitter as it lingers. You will gain what you seek, protection for your kids. But I guarantee, if you deal with Raphael, the day will come when you realize you've lost somewhere along the way. That's how getting in bed with devils works. You're clever. Frighteningly so. You don't need a stuffy old man like him. You'll go far in the city, and we'll make sure you get there safely— you'll make sure you and your kids get there safely. I just wanted you to know that."
Mol crosses her arms over her chest. "Yeah, all right. Now get out of here, you hear?"
Amara can do that. For now. She only hopes she's done enough.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 22: A Certain Kind of Filth
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXII
A Certain Kind of Filth
Halfway up the staircase, Shadowheart takes over the lead of the group, and who is Amara to argue. Amara certainly has feelings she can't necessarily justify that help her navigate, and if Shadowheart as a follower of Shar is following a Selûnite trail, Amara trusts her enough to follow behind.
The room they end up in is a bedroom.
There's even a diary by the bed, which Amara chances a quick read-through before snapping, thus returning the book to its exact place.
"[T]here's been a filth in me," this cleric wrote. "I feel it in my very lungs." And Amara can relate— though it still… is worrisome. "[I]t will never out, this death that reeks within me." Amara has to wonder if she's been infected— or something worse. "There are some things even the Moonmaiden cannot heal… I should never have come back" the book says, before abruptly stopping, without so much as a punctuation.
Shadowheart roams the room, a haunted look in her eye, until she comes to stand facing a closed door at the opposite side of the room.
"Do you want to open it, or should I?" Amara asks.
Shadowheart doesn't answer, she just opens the door.
Inside, a silvery-haired woman wields a gorgeous flare of moonlit Weave. It sparkles and shimmers, cascading light down from the moon itself, and gathers between her palms in a perfect spark that resembles a hand-held star. She releases it in a gust, and it flies into the barrier surrounding the settlement, renewing the Weave which protects the Last Light Inn from the shadows.
The cleric - Isobel - gathers herself after, having expelled a large amount of divine Weave, and looks up reverently at the moon for a few beats before dissolving into a coughing fit, her gloved hand pressed to her mouth.
Amara must make a sound of concern, because Isobel turns around a moment later, taking notice of all of them.
"I didn't realize I had an audience," she remarks, her voice a tad hoarse. She remains calm, however, and walks past them into her room. "The True Souls who are going to save us all. I'm Isobel. Pleased to meet you."
Amara takes a slow breath and smiles. "Amara. I'm all gladness to make your acquaintance." She introduces the rest of her party, and speaks of the rest of them waiting at her camp. "And I hear you might be a savior of all of us as well. I've heard you're the protector of this inn— the banisher of shadows."
"Myself and our Lady are doing what we can to hold the line. I hear you and your tadpoles will be our offense," she ventures, peering at each of them. Her gaze lingers on Shadowheart the longest. "Free from the Absolute's influence, yet able to walk among cultists. It's almost too good to be true. But I'd be a poor cleric indeed not to avail of a blessing when I see one."
Oh, yes, attribute it to the gods— what do Amara and her party's free will have to do with any of this?
"Let me guess: Jaheira's sent you to beg a protection spell off her favorite cleric," she supposes, her hands bracing themselves against her chest.
Amara opens her mouth to protest, saying it can wait if she's exhausted herself, but Isobel doesn't wait a moment.
She throws her hand back, flashing with golden light, and she throws it forward and into every member of Amara's party— including Shadowheart.
"Ngh… it hurts…" the cleric says, her hand glowing purple.
When the glowing stops, Amara takes her hand.
"Perfect," Isobel comments, having not heard Shadowheart's cry of pain. "It'll make you immune to the lesser effects of the shadow curse, which will get you closer to the Towers. But there are places it won't help— places where the curse is darker. Stronger. The cultists are able to traverse even the deepest shadows, though. I don't know how— the Harpers are trying to figure it out."
"Selûnite magic," Shadowheart mutters. "Dark Lady forgive me."
"Good nose," Isobel comments, but Amara can already tell it's not a compliment. "Like a nasty little terrier." Yeah, there it is.
Amara needs to separate them. She'll wrap this up quickly. "Anything else I should know before heading off?"
"Ketheric is a frightening man. But you have something he doesn't: allies worth having," Isobel says proudly. "While you're busy in the Towers, I'll be sure to— wait."
Amara's ears perk up. What is that? Wings beating? They sound massive.
"Do you hear that? Something's wrong…"
A man lands on the balcony that Isobel stood on to perform her ritual, two massive black wings protruding from his back, and on his chest is the symbol of— a fist. A Fist? Sweet hells— is a Fist what they call members of the Flaming Fist? Gods, it's like Amara didn't even live in the Gate. How did she miss that?
"Hello, Isobel," he greets, folding his wings behind him, but it's obvious from Isobel's body language that this man isn't welcome in her room. He saunters in anyway, chest puffed, jaw protruding.
"Marcus— is that you?" she asks, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. "What's happened to you?"
Ah. So the wings are new, Amara is guessing.
"I've been blessed," this Marcus fellow says, and Amara has Opinions on the usage of that word here. She has a feeling he genuinely thinks he's been blessed, but the blessing… well, blessings always come at a cost. What cost did this Marcus pay for his? "You can be too," he urges, giving Amara chills. "Come with me and you can hear it all from Ketheric himself."
Lovely. Oh, yes— let's all just march up to him and demand a blessing. I'm sure that won't go poorly.
"Isobel, do you know this man?" Amara asks with an air of urgency.
"He's a Flaming Fist— or was. Came with the others when we created this haven."
"And I thank you for your hospitality," he drawls, but he turns to Amara and instantly connects to her worm. With his worm. That he has.
Which is bad.
So bad.
Oh gods, so bad.
"True Soul. My instructions are clear: take the girl to Ketheric. Alive."
Gah! Oh— shit. Fuck.
Amara is so unprepared for this—
"I'm not like you— I don't take orders from the Absolute's cronies, in case you weren't in the loop," Amara sends back to him through their forced connection.
"We are all alike in Her service. Do as I say. The rewards will be great," he replies, completely missing the point.
Just— no. No.
Isobel looks between them in concern. "What's going on?" she demands. "If you have something to say, say it."
Amara meets Marcus' eyes directly. "Marcus is trying to kidnap you, Isobel." His face twists with fury and Amara just smiles at him and through their connection she asks, "What's wrong? Did I hurt your feelings, boot licker?" The rage grows on his face and Amara draws her weapon, severing their connection forcefully. "We're going to fight our way out of this one."
"Pathetic," he growls furiously. "The Absolute sees all— your treachery will be punished!"
"The Absolute," Isobel says in fear, stepping back from him. "Of course. You can't believe them, Marcus. Ketheric will never give you whatever it is you've been promised."
Amara wishes she could express how truly too late it already is.
"He already has," Marcus argues, expanding his wings as if they prove his point. "Time to go, Isobel." He puts his hands to his mouth and screams and through a hole in the ceiling of the inn descend a half dozen winged horrors.
Their onslaught is violent, vicious, and immediate.
Blood splatters the floors. Tieflings, Fist warriors, and Harpers are carried back off into the sky, and the rest draw their weapons in a panic.
The battle is godsawful.
There are just too many of them, and Amara and her team just can't move fast enough. They go for Isobel immediately and with such violence that Amara—
Can't.
Keep.
Her.
Alive.
She figures now is as good a time as any to deal with some motion sickness, and yanks Shadowheart aside, gripping her hand between the two of them. "Requesting a peacetime meeting?" she asks, and the cleric blinks rapidly. "Hold onto your breakfast."
Amara holds her other hand up between their faces.
Snaps.
Ten minutes before the battle, Shadowheart stumbles over her own feet, gripping the wall and gasping for air. "By all the loving— a little more warning would be great, Amara!"
Karlach and Gale stop walking.
"Did you just— you rewound," Gale realizes, whatever spell he crafted tipping him off. "What's wrong?"
Amara shakes her head. "Just wanted another opinion. Tough battle in there. I wanted to see if Shadowheart had any good ideas."
The half-elf slouches against the wall. "Gods— give me a moment, Amara. I feel as though the world dropped out from around me and I was lost. Swallowed by darkness, trapped in it. I bit my lip— suddenly I could taste the blood in my mouth."
Amara hums. "Strange. Yet another sense. How does it get determined, I wonder?"
Shadowheart shakes her head. "How— how long do we have before Marcus shows up?"
"About eight minutes. Any ideas?"
Shadowheart presses a hand to her temple. "Realistically, Marcus and the horrors aren't too difficult to deal with. I'll leave them to all of you. I'll make Isobel my priority. I'll keep her away from damage and continually cast Sanctuary— heal her as needed."
"It's not bad," Amara remarks. "Let's give it a try."
This time, the battle starts, and Amara immediately sends out an Alarm spell to the whole of the settlement, before the horrors even come in. Weapons are drawn and at the ready as they spill in from the sky.
"Moonmaiden, guide my hand!" Isobel boasts, before being swept up into a Sanctuary.
Marcus growls in anger, pulling his club out, his wings unfurling, but Gale rains down Scorching bullets on him and Karlach wildly shoves at him before whirling through more attacks on the surrounding winged horrors.
Amara doesn't have to snap out of the entire combat this time.
She snaps, but it's here and there; to position them differently, have Gale cast a different spell, Karlach eliminate a different target first, Shadowheart move Isobel before protecting her.
And Amara throws a slew of spells and scrolls between every command.
The last horror falls, and Jaheira sends a wave of healing magic over them all. "Isobel!" she exclaims in worry. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," the cleric confirms, brushing herself off. "I spent most of the battle in protected spaces."
"Marcus has been with us since the start— they've been tracking us this whole time," Jaheira realizes with wide eyes, shaking her head. "And that was no random attack— you were their target, Isobel. They know how important you are." Those intelligent, wisened eyes move to Amara. "But they don't know about you."
Amara lets out a soft laugh. "Yes, he definitely spoke to me expecting me to agree with everything he said. I'd venture a rather safe guess they have no idea who we are just yet."
Jaheira nods, satisfied. "Ketheric will strike again. We need you to strike first. Discover the source of his invulnerability. Make him mortal, so we can make him bleed. Good luck."
"With how things are panning out?" Amara smiles in dry humor. "We're going to need it." She bows her head to Jaheira as the druid rushes off to take stock of who's injured, missing, and… dead.
"We're in more danger than I knew," Isobel admits, voice soft and fearful. "If something happens to me, everyone in this inn is dead. Like that," she says with a snap.
"It's undeniable you're valuable - Marcus told me Ketheric wanted you captured - not killed. Why?"
"Why does a man like him do anything?" Isobel asks, dodging the question. Amara quirks her brow up. "Power - spite - some kind of twisted, personal morality."
Amara doesn't think so. Amara thinks there's more to this.
"I can understand why he'd want me dead. Without me keeping the curse at bay, everyone in this inn - everyone intent on killing him - is dead too. As for why he'd want to take me alive… I don't know. And I don't want to find out. Now that we have you, I hope I won't have to."
Amara reaches forward and takes her hands. "Once I take Ketheric's head, you'll be safe again."
"No mercy," she says, but her expression is somber. "For Ketheric will have none on you. End this."
The group says their goodbyes and Amara squeezes her hands assuringly before dropping them and retreating back to the first floor of the inn. Jaheira catches her attention again before they can leave.
"Traitors among us, a child taken… and still I can only feel relief. If they had taken Isobel too…"
Amara knows it's not easy to be a leader. Sometimes the emotions bit is a complicated one. "We were all caught off guard," Amara says, because it's true.
"Honesty will serve you better than charity," Jaheira argues anyway. "I blundered into their trap— and it cost us. You have the honor of making up for my mistake," the half-elf says. "I trust that you will."
Lovely. Amara is really looking forward to that nap.
"How is everyone handling it?"
Jaheira pushes at her temple. "Reeling. Some of them may be able to shine some light on Marcus better than I could, but he gave no indication of his true allegiance that I could see."
That bodes… poorly.
"We'll speak with them. Thank you, Jaheira. Make sure you get some rest too," Amara says softly, and the half-elf dismisses them with a wave.
Amara takes Shadowheart and Gale through the Last Light Inn, making sure wounds are healed to the best of their abilities, and asking to the emotional wounds from betrayal.
They enter a dining room filled with members of the Fist, and Amara catches the middle of a conversation. "He still won't speak— just keeps going with the bloody song."
Well that doesn't sound like it's about Marcus.
"Nothing of use on his person?" a dark-skinned elf asks.
"His original writ of duty— signed by Eltan himself. Fella must be one of the very first Flaming Fist."
"He must know something," the elf woman insists. "Let's not give up on him yet."
Amara is spotted after that, and she launches into her usual rigmarole, but she keeps their words filed away. She bids them farewell and delves deeper into the inn, until she all-but stumbles onto a room with a man lying prone, his chest bandaged. A young woman stands over him, and Amara startles her out of whatever she was saying, so Amara snaps and sneaks up on the room this time.
"Flame Cullagh— that's your name, isn't it? Art Cullagh? I'm Fist J'ehlar," she introduces herself, even though the man is prone, seemingly uninterested.
He opens his mouth and blearily recites, "Mm, mm, Thaniel and me are… climb, climb, climbing up a tree…" Sweat lines his brow, dripping from him.
"We… we need you, sir. One of our own's been taken— a Grand Duke. You might know something that could help us bring him back."
Cullagh doesn't respond, and J'ehlar shakes her head, looking up to the doorway. Amara stands there, brows drawn. The condition is more than worrisome.
She straightens, pulling herself together. "We found him out in the shadows, just… wandering. Nothing survives out there for long. Don't know how he made it, or where he came from…"
*This is no physical ailment, it is a spiritual malaise. The man's mind has been gripped by the Shadowfell… yet it has not broken.*
"The name he mentioned— 'Thaniel'. Who is that?" Amara asks, the main thing nagging at her.
"No idea, I'm afraid. Whoever it is, must be someone important to him. He's been saying the same thing over and over, ever since we found him…"
Amara has a vague idea that it isn't so much a "someone important to him" as it is a figurehead for something, but she keeps quiet.
"That song— have you heard it before?"
"No— not until I met Art, anyway. It seems to be all he remembers," she says sadly, looking into his eyes.
Amara wonders if there might be something else that could speak more than he can. "Did you already check for personal effects?"
"This was in his pocket," J'ehlar says, pulling out a worn letter. "He doesn't seem to have any reaction to it now, but he held on to it for a hundred years, anyway."
Amara pockets it, humming to herself. "Can he hear you?" she asks, looking down at Cullagh.
J'ehlar looks down as well. "You hear me, don't you, sir? You might not be able to answer, but you hear me."
Before she leaves, she makes a promise. "I'll see what I can discover."
"Thank you," J'ehlar breathes out, relieved.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 23: Intimacy
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXIII
Intimacy
They have dinner at the inn that night, to give Gale a night off without Karlach and Amara subjecting everyone to a dubious meal.
It's nothing like the tiefling party. By all accounts, it's a somber evening. A battle was won, but a traitor revealed, many injured or missing, and it's certainly no cause for music and celebration. Still, the Harpers and Fist try to make the inn more accommodating for the True Souls who will venture out in the morning to save them.
It's more of a funeral march send off than a grateful gathering.
Still, Amara enjoys a good potation, eats more than her portion, and enjoys laughter around a beautiful fire. Familiar faces, new names, and budding friendships abound.
It's late into the evening when they start to trickle back into camp.
Amara notices it when she sets up her bedroll.
She notices it when she gets back from the bath house.
How could she fail to notice it when she finally lies down?
Astarion did not return from the inn.
She bites her lip, turns the flesh over in her mouth. She could go looking for him, check to make sure he's okay. He would hate that, though— find her hovering. Still, it's not like she would be at a loss if she discovered something really did happen to him.
Come the morning, she could just go back, keep a better eye on him.
Trying to put aside her unease, she tries to remind herself she trusts the vampire. He's over two hundred, he's been at this for a long time. He can take care of himself. He's streetwise, stealthy. Hard to overpower.
Astarion can hold his own.
He doesn't need Amara there to hold his hand.
She just wants to be there to offer it, if need be.
This time, if he doesn't want it, she won't pry. She can go to bed without him in the camp. She can absolutely do that. She doesn't have control issues, or anything of the sort.
Amara does, however, send a few choice words up to the general universe, the ether, what have you, that come the morning— if she finds that anyone's hurt her friend, they will have hells to pay. And please, for all the gods sakes', let the night be uninterrupted.
They never get a good night's sleep in this damn camp.
She tells herself she'll just wait another ten minutes.
Or a half hour.
And after that, maybe just an hour.
However, no matter how long she waits, there's still no Astarion.
Amara tries to occupy her mind packing some things for their trek back into the Shadow-Cursed lands. She loads a few extra potions, makes a few extra scrolls. Wastes some time here, dawdles over there.
Frustrated, she decides she's wasting her time and should just go to sleep. She tries lying back down. That's where she is when she first feels Astarion's Weave approach their camp again. There's a sense of relief that makes her want to spring up and face him, but she doesn't want the vampire to feel like Amara was waiting up for him.
She was.
Of course, she is adamant that it's because it's her turn to keep watch, and she'll stress that to anyone who asks.
Of course.
"Chk," Lae'zel's voice cuts through Amara's thoughts. "Your scent is overpowering, vampire. At least bathe after you bed someone."
Amara springs up to face him.
"Gods damn it, Lae'zel," the elf bites out, shoving a hand into his hair. "You've sicced the party lecturer on me."
Glancing around the rest of the camp, Amara realizes she wasn't the only one who stayed up, worried about the rogue. In fact, all of them are awake. Just, now they're all averting their eyes and pretending they aren't all eavesdropping.
Amara would roll her eyes fondly if Astarion weren't watching her so aptly.
Instead, she crosses her arms over her chest. "Party lecturer?"
He spreads his arms and does a twirl. "How does the afterglow look on me, hmm? Are you going to tell me all about how I shouldn't indulge in such impulses, that I have a damaged relationship with sex because of what Cazador did to me? That I should abstain?"
Frowning deeper, Amara tilts her head. "Why should I?"
He scoffs. "What do you mean, why should you? That's all you do, is tell me about how the violence I've experienced has shaped me, or about how the world's slanted views of racism make us violent against each other for no reason. Hells, Amara, why shouldn't you lecture on this when you lecture us on everything?"
"Gods, Astarion, you weren't thinking about my opinion while you were having sex, were you?" Amara teases, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the vampire.
He throws his hands up. "Not during, thank you very much, darling. But directly after, it did cross my mind that I'd rather you not find out. I knew you'd disapprove."
"I don't."
His red eyes narrow. They sparkle with distrust. "You must."
"I'm not your mother, Astarion. You can have sex, if you'd like."
"But— you…"
Amara jumps up from her bedroll and walks in the direction of her tent. "That's not to say I'm not interested in this, though. There must be details here, and as you're my best friend, I am dying to hear them. Here, I'll make us something hot to drink - I have a new recipe I've been wanting to try, hoping you'll be able to taste it this time - and we'll chat."
"Wait, wait." Astarion halts her, holding up his hand. "You want… to gossip about my… lay?"
Amara blinks, and then smiles blindingly. "Of course. I need all the juiciest details, Niar."
"What about— what about Cazador?"
She holds his gaze for a long moment. "Why should he have this piece of you, too?"
He sucks in a breath, fast and sharp.
When he doesn't answer, Amara continues. "Since you seem to be asking my opinion, I'll assume you'd like to hear it. He deserves no pieces of you, Astarion— so don't willingly let him keep this one. Of course, I don't want you hurting yourself further in the process of letting yourself heal, so I want you to tread with care. But abstaining entirely and treading with care are very different things."
Astarion clenches his hands into fists, tries to speak, and fails.
Amara smiles, holding her hand up. "Just wait for me. Let me set my tent up real nice. Silk pillows, soft blankets— and I'm really curious if you'll be able to taste something other than vinegar from this, I've been practicing. And then we get to the real benefit of treading with care instead of abstaining— we have something to gossip about!"
His ears flatten. It could be a trick of the light, but his eyes look moistened. He nods.
"I don't think you're ready to hear how juicy this gossip is, Amara, darling," he begins, making the other elf laugh.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. He was an incredibly lovely creature."
"Unlike yourself?"
"Hah! Darling, you'd best watch your words…"
After that, morning does come. It comes with no interruptions. No devils, dreams, or deities. No earthquakes or shadows or ambushes. No ghaik, goblins, drow, or duergar.
Just the silent rise of the sun, and the drops of dew on the grassy bits around their camp inside the enclosure.
It comes on soft, it comes on slow.
Dawn light filters through a wispy veil of shadow, alighting on the camp like a whispered word, a begged promise for someone to part the curtains.
To let the light in once more.
Amara watches the light from the opening of her tent until she feels Astarion stir behind her. His hand briefly touches her back.
"You realize, darling, it's frankly disturbing for me how easily you can move without arousing my notice."
She turns a feral grin on him. "I'd quite like to avoid arousing any part of you."
The vampire goes to jab at her playfully, but with a wiggle of her fingers and some quick spellwork, Amara's form disperses into gas and solidifies once more out of his reach.
"Nice try, Niar," she teases. "You'll have to be faster next time."
He leans back on his hands. "I'm plenty fast. You're just a monster."
The playful smile on Amara's face falters slightly. "Yes… right."
Astarion's gaze flits across her changed expression rapidly. He changes the subject in an instant. "You know, that Fist was tripping over himself for a night with yours truly," he brags, his drawl thick. "So why aren't you? Truly."
"Truly?" Amara crosses her arms over her chest. "I just don't see you that way. Perhaps I feel… we are too similar, on occasion. The way you look at me. When you prepositioned me, it just felt like… well, like you wanted something in return."
Amara watches the vampire's throat work around a swallow.
"Well…" he begins. "Yes, I suppose I did. I believe you decided to give what I wanted to me anyway, however."
She tilts her head. "And what was that?"
"I wanted your protection," he says, scoffing. "Cazador taught me my most valuable asset was my body. I figured if I gave it up to you, you would… cherish me more."
Amara settles a vibrant green gaze down to his blisteringly red one.
"I already know, darling," he drawls out. "I can see it. Hear it. I never needed to give you my body to make you value me. You value me for other things, even if I can't comprehend how you possibly can do that. I feel safe, with you, even without sex. That's the only reason I could even ask the Fist last night— it was fun for the first time in… centuries. I didn't want anything. Other than the sex, of course."
"Of course," Amara drawls back. "Let me know if you ever need me to reassure you, Niar. You are safe with me— with us. Valued. Cherished. We will take care of you, because we love you."
Astarion's ears flatten again.
"I'll keep saying it, until you really believe it."
He laughs, under his breath, and shakes his head. "Last night, you said something else."
"I always say a lot of things," she points out. "Party lecturer, remember?"
He laughs. "Oh, I'm sure you'll never let me forget. It was just— you called me… you said I was your best friend. Shouldn't that be Gale? Or Shadowheart at the very least? And if you want best friend material you should be talking to Karlach."
"But I'm not talking to Karlach," she says gently. "And though I cherish Shadowheart very much, what she needs isn't a best friend, and though I share a dear friendship with Gale, you and I both know I'd be interested in a different kind of relationship than that."
He gives a laugh that Amara thinks is meant to sound mean, but comes across a little too sad. "So— you're saying you think I need a best friend? I've lived for too long a time to desire such a juvenile—"
Rolling her eyes, Amara points out, "We're practically the same age. If I can admit I'd like you to be my best friend, can't you?"
The sadness that appears on his face is brief, only there for the barest of seconds, then gone. But Amara saw it, saw how deep it went, how etched, how ancient, how unbreakable.
But as impossible as it might seem to break, Amara has a saying.
It is both her greatest strength and most dangerous shortcoming that she often gets away with impossible things.
"If you're such an old man, then—"
Astarion throws a pillow at her. "Old?!" he screeches, probably waking half the camp. "How dare you?"
"It's not like you're aging gracefully," Amara teases, throwing the pillow back at him.
"Aging?" he demands. "What do you mean 'aging'? I'm a vampire— forever young. Or did you forget?" He sneers at her and raises the pillow to throw it back at her, but Amara disappears and reappears. "Oh, you skeeving little—"
Amara turns, sticking her tongue out at him, and Astarion whips the pillow in her direction. She surrounds it with her Weave and whips it right back at him. "So is the tadpole causing all that sagging skin, or…" she teases, eyes alight with mischief and mirth.
"What are you talking about— ooft!!" he demands, missing the pillow entirely until it collides with his face. "Amara, you bloody devil! Tell me the truth! My skin isn't… is it?"
Amara laughs, the sound unrestrained, and shakes her head. "I'm only kidding. You look great, you already know that."
"Really?" he asks, following her. He throws the pillow up in the air, catches it. "Anything in particular?" He even does a little spin for her.
Their theatrics wake the camp, who rouse slowly.
Wyll yawns. "Engaging in vanity this early in the morning?"
Astarion scoffs. "Petty vanity it may be, I dearly miss my days preening in the looking glass."
Amara stops running for a moment, turning to look at him. "Wait! You can't even see your reflection!" she says like it's an accusation.
Astarion quirks a brow. "You're just now figuring this out?"
"But— that pretty mirror I bought at the grove," she bemoans.
He whips the pillow at her in her moment of weakness.
"Argh! You— you waify little twig!"
Gale uses a quick Mage Hand to commandeer the pillow. "No fighting so early, would you please? You two were up late enough, weren't you?"
"Elves," Shadowheart points out. "They probably only meditated in there for three or four hours."
He shakes his head. "Elves…"
Karlach stokes the fire and stretches out in front of it, "Yo, sunshine," she says to Astarion, clearly taking him by surprise. "How long has it been since you've seen yourself then? I got a friend back in Baldur's Gate who can draw a mean portrait."
The vampire blinks rapidly at her. "I've never even seen this face," he admits, and Amara snaps up to look at him. "Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red, anyway."
Lae'zel approaches him from her neighboring tent, already fully dressed for the day, and not-so-gently encourages his face to look down at hers. "What color were they before, ra'stil?"
"I—" he says abruptly, but stops, and the accusatory surprise fades into something softer. Sadder. "I don't know. I can't remember. My face is just some dark shape in my past. Another thing I've lost."
Amara looks over to Gale. "Least groomed locust?" she asks him, and for a moment his brows furrow before realization alights on his face.
"We could try it," he supposes. "I have no idea if it will work on a vampire spawn."
Astarion looks between the two of them. "What?" he asks. "What are you two talking about?"
She steps into his space. "We see you, Niar."
He looks around at the camp, and notices Gale beginning to gather Weave in his palms. His piercing red gaze flickers back down to Amara. "And what do you see, exactly?"
"Let us show you."
The spell illuminates the camp, violet magic lightening to lavender in the dawn light seeping in through the shadows, and it lightens until it becomes practically see-through. It collects into solid fragments, and though at first they look like glass, it quickly becomes obvious they're not see-through at all— but reflections.
They reform into a solid mirror wall.
Astarion steps forward, and so does his reflection. "What is— what am I looking at… what is that?"
Amara touches his arm gently. "It's you," she whispers. "It's a mirror image duplication spell. Gale created it."
The vampire takes in a short, sharp breath.
Lae'zel clears her throat. "You know, I care not what color your eyes are, Astarion. They are strong and piercing regardless of the hue they take on."
"Oh," he drawls, the sound surprised, and his eyes take on a roundness that he doesn't often let show. "Go on…"
Karlach flares her own fangs at him in their reflections. "That dangerous smile," she teases. "I daresay it's one of your loveliest features."
The mention of it makes the vampire smile, and the tips of his fangs flash, almost surprising Astarion.
Amara supposes that makes sense. He may never have seen them before.
"Very good," he praises anyway, even if he sounds a bit off balance. "Now just tell me I'm beautiful and we can call it a day," he deflects, his hand pressing to his chest.
Amara laughs. "You're pretty good," she compliments. "Not 'Gale' good, but pretty good."
Gale whips around to look at her. "Amara!"
"How dare you!" Astarion drawls back, humor in the way his eyes meet hers in their reflections. "I thought we had something special." He tsks his tongue loudly, a dramatic display. "Still. You're nice too. It sounds like I'll need more beauty sleep going forward if I'm to catch up with the competition."
Shadowheart inhales through her nose, and she comes to join Astarion on his other side. "You know, Niar, you are a very beautiful creature. I particularly love when Amara makes you laugh, though. You get these… creases around your mouth, when she makes you smile."
"Excuse me?" he barks, suddenly affronted. "I'm an eternally young vampite, not your doting grandmother."
Amara slaps his stomach lightly. "Relax, sunshine, they're attractive. We're praising you, remember?"
"By reminding me of the wrinkles I have?" he demands.
Amara rolls her eyes, which Astarion can see blatantly in the reflective Weave.
"By reminding you that your smile is equally as soft and warm as it is 'dangerous'. You look lovely when you smile, Astarion. We're complimenting you."
"You can do better," he argues. "What else?"
Wyll comes up behind him and raises his hands, gently touching the curled strands of hair around the vampire's ears which twitch wildly. "I've always found this part of you quite attractive. The way your hair curls just here, around your ears."
Astarion sighs, almost in exhasperation. "This is meant to be flattery, not poetry. Haven't any of you ever given a simple compliment?"
Wyll touches his shoulder gently. "I've known a great many elves, but none I've found so ravishing with such little effort as you, and no amount of shallow praise could convey that. My apologies."
"Is it really so hard?" Astarion demands, his hands palm up in question. "'You're beautiful', just two little words."
"We are telling you that you're beautiful," Gale offers gently. "We're just proffering you a duality of compliments, and you are accepting one half and rejecting the other. You preen over pretty words that concern your features and actions that you control. The way you look at others, the way you direct their gazes, their focus. The praise that sinks deeper into you, which admires the features you can't actively change, which does not let you exert power and control over others, you struggle to accept. We see all of you, though. We appreciate the elements you put effort into; the way you look at us and smile at us are indeed beautiful. We also cherish the smaller pieces of you; how you light up when you laugh, even how your hair curls, we notice these things and find them just as beautiful."
Astarion spends a few more moments looking into the reflective Weave, and brings a hand up to touch the curls of hair around his ear. "I— I didn't… I don't… excuse me, a moment."
"Astarion!" Amara calls after him, and he cringes, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing himself. "If you want to come with today, you need Isobel's blessing."
His eyes open, and he turns to look at her for a moment. Blinks. "…I'll get it."
"Feet hit the dirt in half an hour," she declares. "Make sure you get something to eat."
"I'm not a child!"
"Be back by then, Niar," she sing-songs.
"Yeah, yeah…"
After Astarion disappears from their camp, Gale dismisses the spell. "Did I say something wrong?" he asks softly. "I fear he took my words poorly and I scared him away."
"He just needs time," Amara says gently. "We did the right thing, by assuring him he has more value than he assigns himself. He only needs time to come to terms with that new value."
Wyll looks down and fiddles with his hands. "He went through a lot, didn't he?"
"And we'll be here for him. Let's have breakfast, before we flirt with each other any more. By the way— Lae'zel, what does 'ra'stil' mean? I haven't heard that one before."
"Bah," she spits out. "It is of no importance. I want a rice dish for breakfast, Gale. The one you made the night before we left the Underdark."
He chuckles under his breath. "Want me to teach you how to make it?"
She considers that for a moment. "It would be an enriching skill. Proceed."
Amara settles at the table to watch them, and Karlach sits opposite her. "You good, solider?" she asks, looking at Amara's expression.
"Just nervous," she explains. "I feel like I should get a little more rest. There's this… looming feeling that I'll be snapping a lot today."
Karlach swallows, nods a few times. "We've got it, solider. We'll do our best, like we always do. Stay alert. Stay at it. Gale and Shadowheart have traveled back with you already— if you need us, we can jump back with you."
Halsin comes and joins them at the table. "I see all of you are busy this morning already. You share such a… special bond."
Amara smiles at him. "It comes from sharing a special ailment, I suppose. How are you holding up?"
"The shadow curse is upon us. As foul as I remember it— perhaps even worse. But with the Oak Father's blessing, we may soon see it banished from these lands," he proclaims, crossing his arm over his chest. "I also beg Oak Father's blessing I can figure out how to sustain a regular diet without Gale's cooking," he supposes as the camp starts to smell divine. "I fear I am developing a dependency."
Amara laughs and shakes her head. "I would wish you luck, but I don't foresee much success in that area. Gale's cooking seems to be one of the few bright spots in this bleak place— so many perilous dangers, countless lives hanging in the balance of Moonrise. Hells, the Shadows seem to infect readily, happily. Even drive wanderers mad. There's a member of the Fist at the inn who got lost in them, you know, and he just keeps singing this same refrain. It's a bit haunting, about climbing a tree with some… Thaniel."
"Thaniel?" Halsin asks, turning to face her. "Amara, you must take me to this man!"
She blinks a few times. "Do you know him?"
"I have to confirm my findings— you truly do find yourself stumbling into such unusual clues, don't you? I've never met someone quite so fascinating as you."
Amara huffs out a laugh. "It's the chaos. Prepare to come with us, I'll show you where he is before we leave. Plus I'm sure the settlement could use your talents after last night. Let me know if you need anything else from me, okay? These lands must bring back bad memories for you. I only hope you're still faring all right with us."
"It's not easy, seeing the ravages of the shadow curse… but your camp is most welcome solace," he compliments eagerly. "You've shared your fire with me, your company. A small pocket of light against the darkness, but one I couldn't do without. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Amara says warmly, touching his upper arm.
"You're too modest by far. What fate would I have met without you? Rotting in the goblins' cells? Dying against an onslaught on the Grove? More good has been done since I met you than in a hundred years before," he claims, tenderly. "Words cannot express my gratitude."
"No words needed—" Amara assures him. "I understand how you feel."
"Yes. I think you do…" He hums, a sultry smile on his face. "Forgive me. Sometimes I forget myself," he surmises, looking down at Amara with intensity in his gaze, "gazing on the beauty of nature's creations."
Breakfast is set down on the table with a little more force than necessary.
"I hope it is to your satisfaction," Gale says, a tightness to his voice.
Oh, shit.
He walks away from the table without eating, so Amara gets up from the table without eating and follows him. She flicks some of her Weave forward, forming a Minor Illusion of a brick wall. Gale comes up just short of it but doesn't turn around. He just dismisses it and attempts to keep walking, but the delay is enough time for Amara to catch up to him.
"Spike the rice?" she quips, walking up until they're walking side by side.
"I didn't, but I suppose I can't say the same for Lae'zel," he replies. "I wasn't watching her the entire time."
"Never thought this would be the way we'd go— food poisoning."
Gale stops, turns to Amara. Her smile falters. "There's nothing wrong with the food, Amara. Go eat."
She rolls her eyes. "I know that. I came to make sure you were okay."
"So you can come after me, but not Astarion?"
Her brows furrow. "What are you talking about?"
"He stormed off too, but you didn't follow his heels. You spent the night with him, didn't you?"
"Gale," she gasps out, "we didn't—"
"Even at the table, with Halsin, his words made your cheeks flush, gave your eye this… twinkle. He is a free spirit. Quite open. And Astarion would allow you great freedom— I imagine you could have them both if you'd prefer it. At first I told myself it was casual, not a matter of the heart… but clearly I was wrong. Your connection is palpable— no tadpole required."
Amara knocks at their bond anyway. Knocks, knocks, knocks.
*Where you would normally feel Gale readily let you in, eager and willing to share, you feel a rough slam as he shuts you out, cold and bitter.*
"Perhaps you have grown closer to all the others than I realized. And it looks like I'm the last to know."
"Gale—"
"I… I thought you would show me the respect of telling me first, but no matter. Am I worth anything to you? I— I can't imagine sharing you, Amara, I'm just not that kind of man. To know I had less than the whole of your heart— I can't do it. Not when I would give all of myself to you."
"Gale!"
She grabs his robe collar with one hand and pulls him into her space.
"Let me in," she demands. "I'll show you."
He takes a sharp breath in, closing his eyes. "I— I don't want to. A connection goes both ways. A door allows passage through from both sides. The same as you could show me your feelings, you will sense mine."
*You knock at his consciousness. It is nowhere near as cold and bitter, but something in it trembles, fearful. He still doesn't let you in.*
Amara reaches up, puts her hands on his face. She strokes his cheeks, tucks his hair behind his ears. "I didn't have sex with Astarion," she says bluntly.
He licks his lip. "You… you didn't?"
"He makes me happy, the way all of you make me happy. You're all my family. You're the only one who makes me want that."
A soft color touches his cheeks. "A-ah. So, ahem, I've… been jealous all morning— for no reason?"
Amara smiles at him. "Let me in."
*You knock again, but he gently urges you not to.*
"Can I have a nickname?"
She laughs. "Do you feel left out?"
"Yes. I was thinking something in the realm of a 'master of magic'— some combination of 'faer' and 'lian'. Ah— or some combination of 'kekuel' and 'ar'."
"'The greatest intelligence'?" Amara asks while trying not to laugh. "How about Cúnar?"
Gale looks at her curiously. "I'm not familiar."
"'The most humble'," she teases with a vicious smile.
"I'm being serious, Amara!" he whines, but he fights off laughter.
She laughs freely, and hums, thinking. Runs several words through her mind. "What do you think of Inya?"
His eyes narrow on her. "Is this another slight against me?"
"It's short for something," she replies, smiling warmer now. "Let me in."
*You knock.*
"What is it short for?"
*Gale slowly opens his mind to yours, and a flurry of apprehension hits you. Hurt, fear, jealousy. Shame, as well. Shame at his own emotions.*
He closes his eyes, but Amara catches them wet with moisture before he shuts them.
"Daoinya," she whispers to him, again stroking his face. "It means 'celestial star'. What do you think?"
*You're hit with a flurry of emotions. Surprise, first. Elation, eagerness, curiosity. His joy blossoms, but it's still streaked with interest, with unending questions.*
"I assumed— why not something about magic? Or my scholarly nature?"
Amara hums softly.
*You push reassurance through your bond with Gale. You push images as well, and sensations of touch, smell. The scent of early morning, before dawn breaks. When the stars still shine in a dark sky, their glimmer fading into the light. There's a feeling on your palms that you share with him, the warmth of the earth as it soaks in your body's heat, and the dampness of dew. You share not just that morning, but countless mornings you spent watching the sun rise, the stars fade.*
"Dawn is my favorite time of day," Amara says softly. "It's when I think of the future. I don't get to borrow many of Chronos' future-centric abilities, so it's often a difficult subject for me. Being in so much danger for most of my adult life, making… plans has been difficult, as well. How do I choose a place to live, a group to trust, a family of my own, when any moment could be my last? But those moments, when the stars are still out— they're when I let myself dream. And lately, I dream of you."
*You pour your visions of dreams into your bond. Sometimes they're soft, a horseback ride through the trees which stream down beams of sunlight, or a cozy couch in your old cottage where you both are reading a book with magically turning pages, curled together. Some of the dreams could happen on your mission; pressed closely together in front of a campfire, sharing a passionate, open-mouthed kiss while you press your hand to Gale's jaw, pull him closer by his entire back as if trying to get impossibly close to him, or a vision of the two of you covered in blood and sweat, stripping each other of your damaged armor in frenzied movements.*
Gale gasps, stumbles backward, but he doesn't shut down their connection.
He opens it further.
*You feel him shiver, both physically and inside himself, and desire begins streaming into the connection. It reminds you of another day, this one in the Underdark. There were no stars, so you conjured them yourself out of Weave on the ceiling of the cave. That dawn, you dreamed something particularly racy, laid out on a soft mattress covered in blankets. Gale eases a soft gown up your thigh, hooking it around his bare back, and leans over you. Your hand traces the Netherese Orb mark on his chest, and it begins to pulse a soft periwinkle. His hand cards through your hair, then braces above your head, his other palm splaying over your exposed hip.*
"Gods— Amara," he breathes, and the connection between the two of them trembles.
Amara gently lets it go, but not without another pulse of desire. "You're the only one I have these feelings for," she assures him. "Do you believe me, Inya?"
"I believe I would be insulting you supremely if I didn't." His voice is laced with a breathiness that sends Amara's pulse racing. "I would beg more, as I also believe you have plenty you haven't shared, but I'd rather enjoy that particular image of you for the first time in person. I happen to share those feelings with you, as I am sure you know."
She brings her hand down his face, dragging her thumb across the entirety of his lower lip. "Oh, yes. I know."
He lets out a shaky breath against her thumb, which is slightly dampened. She shivers and his eyes darken with lust.
"I like that look on you," she whispers softly, taking her hand back. "I feel like you're really looking at me."
"I happen to like looking at you," he whispers back. "I do it often."
Amara breathes in, holds it for a moment. "That look, though— that way you're looking at me, it's like you're looking at something real. You don't want to admire me. It's not the idea of me you're looking at. You're finally looking at me."
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 24: Dust in the Eye
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXIV
Dust in the Eye
Amara does get a breakfast, it's just… well, cold.
Astarion returns perfectly in time, and Amara takes him, Lae'zel, and Shadowheart, along with Halsin.
The inn is quiet as she navigates back through the winding path to where Art Cullagh is lying in the same position he was in the previous night, still mumbling to himself.
"Mm, mm, Thaniel and me are… climb, climb, climbing up a tree…" He writhes on the bed, still covered in sweat.
"It's true then: he's met Thaniel— there's no other way he'd know that name. This is just what we needed— well done."
Amara nods like she knows what he means by that.
"We need to wake him," Halsin says with urgency. "He must know something about where to find Thaniel."
"Any ideas?" Amara asks, having run out of them on her own.
"If he was able to escape the Shadowfell, then it mustn't have managed to consume his spirit—" He glances down at his completely prone, mumbling form. "Not all of it, anyway. We need to unlock whatever's left of him, inside his head. There must be something to trigger him— a word, a memory, an item. We just need to find it."
"This is to lift the curse?" Amara asks. "This Thaniel can help with the Shadow Curse?"
"It is imperative we find him. The best and only lead I have now is speaking to this man."
"A trigger. Got it… I'll see what I can do," she says.
Halsin nods and smiles widely. "I don't deserve you, my friend."
"Will you stay here?" she asks softly.
"I will see if I can make him more comfortable while we wait. He seems rather in pain."
"Perhaps it is I who doesn't deserve you," Amara says, bowing her head to him. "We will return in the evening, hopefully with good news."
"Best of luck."
Amara has a feeling they'll need more than luck, but she accepts it anyway, and leads their little party to the bridge they entered on. It turns out they aren't the only early risers, though, and four others wait for them on the bridge.
"Amara?" one of them says, an elf like her. "I'm Harper Branthos. You mean to reach Moonrise. And I've orders to help you. The path to the Towers is drenched in blackness so deep, even a torch cannot quell it. Yet the cultists have found a way to move freely. Whatever this method, you must claim it. A cultist convoy crosses the land as we speak. I've readied an ambush. Say the word, and we fly."
Amara nods, "They'll have information vital for us. Let's take on that convoy. You lead, I follow."
"Splendid. I'll mark your map, should you lose the way," he offers. "Harpers— with me. Stray no more than an arm's length from your course."
The course is a brutal one. One filled with floating fragments of darkness and smoke. Following the Harpers is difficult, but between Gale and Amara, they keep it as well-lit as they can and their Blessings keep them protected.
They climb a structure which has been thoroughly scouted, and crouch, lying in wait. Though what exactly they end up waiting for, Amara could never have expected. The "convoy" is as illuminated as they were on the trek to the structure, considering a large lantern is held aloft by… by…
A giant spider humanoid.
Well.
Might as well.
"We bring more to your church every day, my Queen," he rasps, in a particularly spine-chilling voice. "Your followers are legion."
Harper Branthos puts his hand on Amara's shoulder and whispers in her ear, "We'll wait for your signal. Go!"
Nodding, Amara darts to the end of the structure with Astarion, the two of them hiding and peering around the edge of it.
The spider-centaur-creature continues his speech. "Your faithful stand ready, Majesty. Soon we march. Soon the world will bow to you."
Boy, doesn't that sound great.
Next to him, a goblin brawler makes a sudden noise. "'Ere, web arse— something moved up there. Want me to drag it out?"
Damn. Why can't Amara sneak?
She raises two fingers and quickly signals for the Harpers to rush down through the wooden pass. Arrows rain through and spells fly.
"Heretics in the dark!" the drider hisses in fury. "Kill them— destroy the blasphemers!"
The first thing Amara notices isn't the veritable melting pot of enemies, or the skill and violence with which they assault the Harpers and Amara's party, but— the massive circle of light surrounding the drider.
It's just like what surrounds the Last Light Inn.
Their brutality is difficult to maneuver around, though, but Amara tries not to snap. Instead, she utilizes potions and Shadowheart's considerable talents, letting the Harpers make up for her lack of offense.
The drider goes down last, gurgling while clutching his staff, trying to hold himself up with it.
Amara yanks it from his hand.
*The Lantern gives off a chilly glow, protecting all in its vicinity from the surrounding shadows,* Amara's narrator confirms for her. Her eyes narrow. A Moonlantern, then, she supposes. Moonlanterns, Moonmaidens.
This must be how the cultists can traverse even the deepest of shadows.
"Incredible magic," Branthos comments, wiping the blood from his face and downing a Greater Health Potion. "I can feel the light lifting the shadows— even those within me. Be safe. And be brave. We expect no less."
"You as well," she dismisses.
Amara looks closer at the lantern, comparing it between her broken one.
*You notice a tiny pixie trapped within. These fey creatures are infamous for their trickery— sometimes playful, sometimes malicious.*
Amara doesn't need her narrator to tell her the pixie notices her back.
"Oh please, oh golly, me-oh-my, you must release me or I'll die!" she chirps in panic. "This lantern only lights the way when I'm hurting night and day!"
Well, that doesn't bode well. Amara presses her lips together, rubs her fingers in a slow circle, and grips the lantern staff tighter. "Who are you?" she asks first.
"My name? My name is Dolly thrice; now won't you free me from this vice?"
Amara turns her tongue over in her mouth a few times.
"What are you thinking, darling?" Astarion whispers in her ear. "This lantern could be necessary to reach the Towers."
"Chk. We can release the creature if you desire it once we've freed all the others you've promised," Lae'zel points out. "Your list is never ending, rak'vik— bleeding heart."
Amara turns back to the pixie in the lantern. "I need protection from this curse," she speaks plainly to the creature. "If I release you, will you help me travel through the shadows?"
"It would be my pleasure— truly! Once I'm freed I'll help you duly," she promises, flitting between the lantern's glass windows.
"What's this mechanism at the base of the lantern?" Amara asks, reaching for it. Perhaps it's how to open it.
"I dare not name it, newfound friend," she says hurriedly. "The faintest touch could spell my end."
Ohh-kay. So, not the way to open it, then.
Amara just reaches for one of the sides of the lantern and yanks on it. It gives, and the pixie flits out of the glass container eagerly, a slight creature composed entirely of shades of purple, barefoot in a gown of iridescent leaves.
"FINALLY!" she exclaims, flying in excited circles. Her voice doesn't sound quite so lilting and lyrical now. "Been trapped in that coffin with no one but a mad drider and my own farts for company."
Ah. Amara is starting to see the "infamous for their trickery" that her narrator mentioned. Luckily, this seems to be the "sometimes playful" kind.
"Did me a good turn there, didn't you," she says, and she does stick around, for her part. "What do I owe you?"
Amara rubs her fingers together suspiciously. "I need to get through this shadow curse. Can you help?"
"Sure I can. But will I?"
Ah. And there's the "sometimes malicious."
"Yeah, sure. Why not," she supposes, back to playful again.
Amara has to admit, she does actually like her.
She pulls out a brass bell from— well, nowhere. "Here. Give this bell a shake, speak the magic words, and you'll get what you've earned. Protection from the shadow curse— what more could a dingus want? You're welcome!"
And then Dolly Dolly Dolly is gone.
Amara hums to herself.
"Hmm, never met a pixie before," she says to her companions. "Curious little thing." She tosses the bell up and catches it.
"We do get to see some interesting things," Shadowheart admits. "Almost makes the mortal peril worth it." She hesitates for a moment. "Almost."
Astarion huffs to himself. "And how exactly do you know you can trust that little thing at its word?"
"I don't," Amara admits, rolling the bell around in her hand. "But if this bell proves useless, I'll just roll back. Keep her in the lantern."
Lae'zel rolls her eyes. "Waste of time."
"My bread and butter."
"Are you going to ring it?" Shadowheart asks, looking forward to where the shadows get so dense they're hard to even see through— going more blue than black.
She tosses it up again. Shakes it once.
"RING, RING, UNTER-SCUNTER," Dolly thrice chimes, appearing once more. "Didn't go far. Knew you'd come calling. You look like you want to say the magic words. Like they're right on the tip of your lips…"
Amara clicks her tongue. So this is the catch.
Amara filters as many rhymes through her head in quick succession as she can.
"Oh, my lovely Dolly thrice, who is so very sweet and nice— won't you assist your humble friend so I won't meet my cursed end?"
"HEH! I sure love it when they beg," she chitters happily.
The pixie's protective magic settles over all of them and though it doesn't make the shadows magically lift, their oppressive nature vanishes entirely, and Amara takes a short breath where finally it feels like she's taking in more air. She feels like she wants to scrub her skin clean.
Ignoring that, she sets up a waypoint and continues through the dense shadows.
She's expecting enemies.
She's expecting shadows— drider, hobgoblings, goblins, half-orc, drow, duergar… anyone they've seen on the Absolute's side so far.
She's expecting claws in the darkness and screams and blood and pain.
She's not expecting a small, silver-haired child.
"Boo!" he yells, and Amara sends a hurtling fireball his way, and snaps the instant she recognizes what made the sound.
She jumps back instead, and shields her companions, and the tiefling boy laughs mishcheviously.
"I scared you— I saw it. Nobody beats me at hide and seek," he brags, and Amara takes a second to look at him closer. Her breath catches. "I'm Oliver. Will you play with me?" he asks.
Oh, gods.
This child. He has no blessing. No pixie. No lantern. He stands in the thickened shadow regardless. He must be magical— but how?
Look at him… the shadow eats at him. It's torn away at his face, leaving one of his eyes vibrantly cyan and leaking some sort of magic. His chest… torn open and blackened as if burned, only it's no burn it's all… all shadow.
*Not an ordinary child, but not a spectre either. One part of a greater whole. Something ancient. And oddly… sad?*
His claws are like no tiefling's. They're… like the creature Yonas turned into. A shadow creature.
Amara kneels down in front of him. "Hello, Oliver. My name is Amara. You're quite clearly a magical anomaly, sweetie. What's really going on here?"
"I don't know what you mean. I'm just me. I have a mummy, a daddy, a pet doggy," he argues, gesturing with his shadow creature-clawed hands.
Perhaps he is just him. But whatever that is, there's something to discover there. Something keeping this boy alive— aware. Something potentially important.
"What are your parents' names?" Amara asks, tilting her head slightly. "Maybe I can find them."
"They don't need names," Oliver argues, voice shaky. "They just need to be mummy and daddy, and do what I want. Now play with me, or they'll be angry with you."
Oof. Now that's a toughy. Amara is not a fan of that.
*The boy doesn't like these questions— because he has no real answers. And perhaps no real family.*
"You want to play?" Amara asks. "All right, then— do you want to hide or seek?"
"I'll hide, you seek! Find me, and you win."
She smiles, standing. "Win, hmm? Sounds good."
"Get ready— and no cheating," he warns, and his eyes begin to glow intensely, shadows licking off of him like smoke as he disappears into the darkness.
Yeesh.
Amara twists her fingers, and quietly casts a slow incantation. There's a cold scent, like pine on a winter morning, and a stark warmth she only feels under the direct sunlight in below-freezing temperatures. Burning and numbing on her skin, flashes of sun and snow, and shapes that reveal themselves from the bleak white landscape. Reveal, expose, uncloak.
The invisibility spell surrounding Oliver wavers and then drops, and Amara makes a show of searching until she "happens" across him, and dramatically reveals his hiding place as if she stumbled across him.
"You weren't supposed to find me. You weren't supposed to win," he argues, and the shadows back off of him. It looks like the reverse of being eaten. Amara smiles, but she has to place it carefully on her face.
Amara laughs softly. "Do you want to play again?"
"That's a good idea— you're smarter than some playmates I've had. They always tried to leave before I was done with them. Try to find me again— but my family will be looking for you at the same time, so don't get caught!"
Oh, shit.
Oliver disappears, invisible once more, and long, gangly shadows with grasping claws and painted faces appear. Wraiths. So this would be mummy, daddy, and the puppy, then.
Oh, shit.
Quickly opening their connection, Amara directs the rest of them while she makes a beeline for Oliver, and tries to ensure her safe path of travel to the boy as quickly as possible to prevent them from taking too much damage.
"I win!" Oliver cheers when she finds him again. "I always win, in the end. You did better than most though, so I'll let you go. Here— second prize. You'll need it."
He hands Amara a ring of Pass Without Trace.
As worrisome as this child's behavior is, she has a feeling he's right— they might need this.
/ / /
Now, the battles Amara was expecting do indeed happen.
Clawed shadows, shadow vines, cursed blights, shadow creatures.
Just about any entity infected with darkness, their party decimates them. Amara does have to snap, but for the most part, she tries to settle into a routine of utilizing potions, spells, and scrolls of revivify before defaulting on a reflex to snap.
They take a short rest after a battle she has to snap twice in, and Amara leans into Lae'zel's space, munching on some rations.
She makes an exaggerated sound of complaint. "You are heavy," she huffs out.
"You're right, I've gained a lot of muscle since this has started," Amara agrees. "You don't think it looks odd, do you?"
"Chk. I will not dignify this with a response."
"Spoilsport."
"Angler."
Amara turns to her. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"You fish for compliments."
"Worse than Astarion?"
She rolls her eyes. "At least Astarion has the decency to be direct in his request for them."
Amara throws her hands up.
"Ignore her," Shadowheart advises. "Come here instead."
"Evidently I am exceedingly heavy," Amara warns her.
The cleric laughs. "Unlike our fighter, I won't be detoured by that. Come here." She raises her arm and lets Amara sidle up into her space.
"How are you faring?" Amara asks her, trying to be conversational. "You don't seem as participatory in any of our discussions, and don't seek me out the way you used to. Have I done anything?"
Pressed so close, Amara can feel the half-elf startle. "I… I won't pretend that I don't know what you mean," she admits. "I guarantee it isn't anything you've done. It's this place. Ever since we entered the Shadow Curse, I've felt like something's calling to me. Some purpose that I need to find. Give me some time. If I can figure out whatever it is that I need to do, well… then I should be back to my usual self. At least the one you came to know when we first met."
"I don't mind any version of you," Amara tells her earnestly. "As long as you're happy."
Shadowheart doesn't answer right away, just looks at Amara, who closes her eyes for the rest of their short rest.
The cleric shakes her out of her meditation when they're all ready to head out, and she stretches, yawns, and freezes. Senses something. It's not heaviness in the air caused by Chronomancy Weave, but something else— something darker. Chronos' power is heavy, and it's not gentle. It isn't kind or soft. It isn't, however, evil.
This is evil Weave.
"Anyone else sense that?" she asks, but she only gets blank looks in return. "Oh, I miss Gale… come on, time to be a blood hound. Someone is doing something particularly nasty in this direction."
Soon, it's not just the Weave's pressure Amara is sensing, but it's color she can see. Necromancy Weave, flaring green in the distance. Amara gestures for the rest of her companions to slow, linger, and crouch. She takes the lead, recognising a man animating a woman's body.
"Where lies your guilt?" he demands of the corpse, who struggles to speak.
"The… Waning Moon…"
Amara gets closer, recognizing the man as a Shadar-Kai. Above his shoulder, a white bird flaps its wings, beady eyes focused on the animated body.
At this point, Amara's still hidden, but she decides to change that.
"Not many people out here in the darkness," she points out.
The Shadar-Kai doesn't even startle. Dark eyes turn to face her, scanning her body. His skin is pale, faintly ruddy, and dark dots cover his most angular features. Around his eyes, the markings of tentacles curl out in various directions. "I am not 'people'," he argues calmly. "Though many would question how wise it is to approach a stranger in the dark." His eyes grow more steely. Dangerous. "Be on your way."
Next to him, the snow white raven lets out a caw.
"A fair point— perhaps this one could assist us," he admits, quickly changing his tune. Amara is surprised, changing her stance, and closes the distance between them. "The murdered lie silent," he informs her. "The raven asks— will you be their voice?"
Amara's gaze roves over the body of the woman. "Depends. Who murdered this woman?"
"She is not the victim. Nay, she is the perpetrator. This woman tended a bar where she took her patrons, her friends, into her confidence— promised their secrets were safe with her. Yet she turned their words into knives— and stabbed them in the back. They died because of her— and to this day her victims lie unavenged."
Unavenged, huh? Amara looks once more at her corpse.
"She's dead," she points out. "How much more can she pay?"
"Death is not the end— merely another beginning," he muses, and he isn't exactly wrong. "I seek a record of this one's crimes— written in her own hand. Through it, I can summon her spirit— and force her to face trial for her crimes."
Both of Amara's brows go up.
"That's some powerful magic."
His head tilts and he regards her with curiosity. "Not for one such as I. Your soul sparks with justice. With fortitude. This is your chance to bring a murderer to justice. To avenge her victims."
Amara breathes in through her nose slowly. "Why is this something you want to do exactly?"
His eyes narrow at her. "I seek the joy of bringing suffering to the unpunished. Her victims deserve closure, and the ledger is key."
Amara sighs out. "Fine— where is this ledger?"
"Go to the distillery, the one she calls The Waning Moon. Find it— and bring it to me. And together, we shall mete out justice long overdue."
Astarion scoffs. "Look no further, friend, you've never met someone who gets off on justice quite like— augh!"
"I'll keep an eye out for the distillery," Amara says over him, taking her elbow back. "What should I call you?"
His dark gaze sweeps over the pair of them. "You may simply refer to me as, 'He Who Was'."
Behind her, Amara hears Shadowheart say, "Ominous…"
She fights a smile and just says, "I'll find you when I have the ledger then, He Who Was. I'm Amara."
They leave the clearing where he still stands with his stark white raven on his arm, and venture back into the cursed lands. They hold very little in the way of hope, and a great deal of enemies. Even more than the Undersark, the paths are winding and there are enemies around dozens of corners. They crawl through the murk, sprout from the ground, and hang from the dripping trees. The assortment of creatures is beyond Amara's imagination, and she's actually thankful she has to repeat several of the combat scenarios—
they're frighteningly disorienting the first time around.
The worst of them, in Amara's opinion, are the shadows themselves. The gangly, clawed creatures with their painted-on faces. Smiling, reaching things with an intent to consume, to harm, to kill like Amara's never felt before.
"One of your tief-lings," Lae'zel points out, sounding the word out carefully, correctly. "Mage."
Amara squints in the distance of the battle. "How can you see that far?"
"Come," she commands, practically hefting Amara up by the back of her robes and jumping a distance across the battlefield. "I'll take you to him."
"Woah— wait, wait! Lae—"
The fighter drops her right in front of Rolan, and Amara decimates the shadow pushing him back. All the rest of her companions deal with the rest of the creatures.
"Gods damn it all. I can do nothing right— not a damn thing," he curses himself out the moment the fighting is over.
Lae'zel makes an exaggerated sound and crosses her arms over her chest. "Look around, istik. You were outmatched in that fight— there is no shame in that."
"Yes, there is! I came here to save Cal and Lia! Instead, I found myself cornered by shadow-fiends and in need of rescue. From you, of all bloody people."
Amara catches his eyes. "You were trying to help your family," she points out. "Alone, might I add— you're too hard on yourself."
"Or not hard enough. I've failed Cal and Lia, again."
"Then help them now— ask for help Rolan. I don't know Cal and Lia, I don't love them like you do, but I'm going where they are. It doesn't matter my personal feelings, Rolan, I would give you my sincerest word. I'll bring them back."
"You don't even know if they're alive," he hisses, eyes burning.
"Neither did you. But you're out here, risking your own life."
For a few moments, Rolan stands there. Breathes these short, anxious breaths, and then shakes his head. "Fine. Be on your way— I'll return to Last Light… I know when I'm outmatched."
"Rolan—"
With a cast of Misty Step, he is quickly out of earshot.
/ / /
The next creatures they come upon aren't shadows, and aren't beasts. They aren't friends or foes. They don't leap from the shadows— they lie on the ground.
Skeletons, in familiar armor.
"Dark Justiciars," Shadowheart says under her breath.
*Followers of Shar, who fell along ago in the service of Ketheric Thorm,* Amara's narrator supplies her as they wander the pitiful graveyard drenched in shadow.
"We'll find more about them out," Amara says to her softly. "I promise."
The cleric pauses for a moment. Nods.
Amara turns to say more when suddenly the onslaught of her dream visitor's voice slams into her brain.
"We're close. I can feel it— the Absolute. Its power is strong here."
"A little warning?!" Amara demands, shaking her head. "Gods."
Astarion sniffs the air near her.
"Do you mind?" she asks him.
"Do you smell that?" He ignores her.
"I take it you're not smelling me, then?"
"Vinegar," he hisses. "The distillery is up ahead."
She blinks at him. "The Waning Moon?"
"Perhaps." He crouches, stalks forward. "There."
Amara follows where the vampire's pointing, and finds the sign for the distillery's moniker. Through the tall windows of the old building, Amara can see figures inside the structure so she gestures for the rest of the party to crouch out of sight.
They're far enough in that Amara can lead the party inside without being seen. The multiple levels provide a particular challenge, however, as it's impossible to successfully navigate down the staircases without being seen.
Amara tries once, twice, three times.
She sends Astarion alone.
She tries it invisibly.
She snipes the lookouts.
Battle breaks out each time.
Frustrated, Amara snaps and throws her hands in the air right there next to Astarion while he's still pointing at the sign. "Okay, we're not sneaking in. We're just walking in the front door," she says, surprising them all.
"But—"
"No buts. If it doesn't work, we'll fight. Sometimes, people like talking," she remarks tartly.
Inside, Amara hears on of the zombie-like creatures speak for the first time.
She didn't know they could do that.
"I don't know you..." he says, voice soft and far clearer than Amara was expecting. He blinks. "Perhaps I forgot you."
Amara swallows. "What is this place?"
His head tilts. Just a bit too far. "We used to dance. There used to be music," is all he says, before he shuffles off.
Amara just watches him, before deciding she's had enough of this shit. She just wants the ledger and then she wants out. She'll ask nicely for it.
"What's the plan?" Shadowheart whispers to her.
"Well, where do you go in a distillery?" Amara asks, clicking her tongue. "Let's ask at the bar?"
Astarion laughs, and walks with Amara up tothe bar, where a massive, shabbling figure looms behind it. Amara hefts herself up on a stool merrily, and pats the bartop several times eagerly.
The undead hobbles in a turn, hand bigger than Amara's face dragging across the bartop, and turns beady, milky eyes down to look at Amara. The sound of chains grates on Amara's ears with his every move.
"Drink," he commands, and in front of Amara is a tankard also bigger than her face, and coming off of it is the mist of Weave. Necromantic Weave.
She's good, thanks.
"Gulp it down," he gurgles out, his voice distinctly difficult to understand, as if there's something caught in his throat. Or something missing in his throat. "Wet your whistle. Tell your story."
Amara taps the rim of the tankard. "What is it that you're serving?"
"Only the best," he slurs. "Oblivion. And beyond."
Oh, isn't that lovely?
"Go on," he urges, and really, Amara's good.
Maybe sobriety would be a good look for her.
"Cheers, bottoms up, down the hatch,"
A connection opens between them instantaneously.
"Darling, don't you dare drink that vile concoction," Astarion warns her. "I can only imagine what it would do to you."
"Or what it did to him," Shadowheart points out.
"Do you think he was once a man?" Amara asks into their shared headspace.
"Tsk'va. The shadows have corrupted him— not some filth he ingested."
Shadowheart's sympathy bleeds into their space. "Poor soul. He is beyond comprehension."
"Shadow or oblivion, don't worry. I'll be cautious." Amara picks up the tankard.
*Leaning in, you can see how the creature's skin barely holds it together. The bulge of its belly is on the cusp of bursting wide open.*
"He looks set to burst— and we'll probably be left hip-deep in his juices," Shadowheart remarks.
"Ew, ew, ew!!" Amara pushes disgust, hatred, repulsion. "Don't you dare— don't say that shit!"
"Grow a stronger stomach," Lae'zel snaps.
Amara practically gags. "Don't mention stomachs right now. I'm begging you, Lae."
Unaware of their silent conversion, the hooded bartender commands Amara once again. "Go on. Drink, make it drank, be drunk. You and I both, to our good health."
Amara flexes her hand around the handle of the tankard. This will take some decent sleight of hand. She raises the tankard and mimes taking a drink.
The creature waits, watches, until she sets the tankard back down again.
Amara only lets out the breath she's holding when he raises his own tankard and takes a long few gulps.
"Ah," he sighs out in ecstasy. "Elixir. But such a small sip you take… fear not. You will soon quaff as I do."
Sobriety is looking better by the minute.
"Now tell me a story, a fable, a saga. Delight me."
Amara taps her fingers on the table, taps her heel on the floor. Rubs her fingers together. "A story, you say? Let's see… a tale worthy of you… from aboard a mind flayer vessel, I've witnessed the Hells themselves."
"So have I," he proclaims wildly, "when my cup runs dry. Let me pour you some sympathy."
Hilarious.
"You ask. You drink. Then you amaze, enthuse, astound me. Again."
Oh, shit, does that mean Amara can ask a question? This is SO much better than fighting.
"Who placed the curse on this land?"
"Father Ketheric created. Father Ketheric sustains," he slurs, and— sorry?
Sorry?
Oh, SHIT, does that mean this creature is Ketheric Thorm's SON? This is SO much better than fighting.
"Drink it in, toss it down, lap it up." Thorm continues their game without pause, even though Amara is reeling.
"How did you become… what you are now?" she asks, not understanding how Point A got to Point… W? Y? Z?
"Father Ketheric's laughter. Not joy, not ever-never. Only laughter," he replies cryptically. "Questions done, finished, over. Only drink."
Amara works her wrist carefully snapping it a few times to ease the tension in her arm, and then she mimes drinking again, and this time the creature drinks with her so she is able to vanish its contents entirely for him to refill.
"More stories," he demands. "Tell me of foes felled, villains vanquished, beasts bested."
Might as well stay on theme.
"I ripped apart winged imps spawned from the fires of Avernus," she details.
"Did they bleed flame?" Thorm demands, beginning to paint his picture of it. "Did their screams rend the sky? No— don't tell me. Let me dream. Ask, question, make your query. And drink once more."
Amara licks her lips.
"How do the Thorms sustain the shadows?" she asks, desperately hoping its a method she can reverse, or stop altogether.
"The spirit of the land," Thorm says cryptically again. It's all he gives her. "More. Drink."
Amara pushes it.
"What can you tell me about Ketheric?"
"Father. Father is father. Eternal, invincible, forever, except not. No more. Questions. Drink."
Amara leans in, pushes it further.
"What do you mean? How can I defeat Ketheric?"
"No, must not, can not, will not mention her. The customer is always right but also wrong."
"Stop pushing him," Shadowheart advises her through their still open bond.
"Chk. He won't last another round. She is getting all she can."
"Just pretend to drink it, Amara, darling."
She rolls her eyes. "You all worry too much. Look, here I go, miming drinking again…"
This time, when she sets her tankard back down on the bartop, Thorm is already swaying. "I— I know you," he seems to realize. "I knew, I know, I am knowing. You want father's personal mysterious - (secret) - secret." It's such a curious derision that Amara leans forward onto the bartop, tilting her head to listen. "No, not, never! Father said, ordered, commanded. Don't say it, don't say it! The cage. Her cage."
"You can tell me, Thorm," Amara urges, running her finger along the rim of her tankard. "We've shared stories. It's your turn, isn't it?"
He looks at her a long moment, shakes his head. "Talk and… perish, die, buried. Buried in Thorm tomb. Father told me." He drinks another entire tankard of oblivion. Amara cringes and doesn't even touch hers. "I can't perish— no, nay, neither. Too strong, too…"
The same noxious, Necromantic Weave begins to drift out of the seam holding Thorm together.
"Get out!" Shadowheart commands.
"Rak'vik! Duck!"
Astarion just grabs Amara and tackles her down behind the bar while there's the sound of a particularly… wet explosion.
Out loud, she says, "Ew, ew! Oh, gods! Oh, sweet Elysium— I'm going to be sick!"
"Don't you dare, darling, I am pressed up against you."
"I don't want to look at it— someone find the ledger? Please? Pretty please? With a sprinkling of sugar on the top?"
"Kainyank!" Lae'zel spits out. "Stop groveling. Astarion, with me. You take the upper floor, I will take the lower one. We will find this ledger. Shadowheart will wait outside with Amara."
The cleric nods. "We'll keep the connection open if there's trouble."
"Tsk'va. There will be no trouble."
/ / /
Shadowheart opens a connection when Astarion and Lae'zel step out of the distillery. "She fell asleep again." Her hands carefully rebraid Amara's hair, as the elf dozes in her lap.
Astarion scoffs. "Elves don't—"
"—sleep, I know," she quickly tacks on. "She doesn't normally slip into meditative states with such ease, though. Is—is that okay?"
"She's exhausted. Maybe we should—"
"I can hear all of you," Amara groans, eyes opening. "Did you find the ledger?"
The fighter and the rogue exchange eye contact. Astarion holds a leather-bound book up, then tosses it to her. "Now we just need to find that pale elf fellow."
"He's a Shadar-Kai," Amara corrects blearily. "A Shadowfell elf. The raven with him is an emissary or a vessel— some representation of the Raven Queen.."
Lae'zel stares at her for a few beats. "The shadow creature can wait. You are slowing."
"But I'm still moving," she argues. "And— there's something."
Shadowheart touches Amara's shoulder. "One of your…"
Amara sits up, blinking heavy eyelids. "Chronos deals with all of time. That includes the future. I can't use his abilities, but sometimes they… bleed into how I perceive the world. I can feel when things have importance. There's a weight to them, and a weight when important things are about to occur. I can't see what will happen, I only know something will. That's the best I can explain it."
"And you're feeling something— heavy? I take it?" Astarion guesses, gesturing with one hand. "Where?"
She purses her lips. "It's up that path— it's too far away to tell for sure,"
Astarion rolls his eyes, rolling his whole head in the process, and puts on of his hands on a cocked hip. "Then we go see what's bothering you, darling, and we call it a day before we get too steeped into anything. Does that sound fair?"
"We might not have a choice," Amara points out.
"Then rewind back to here. You don't have it in you for an entire lengthy battle," Shadowheart argues. "Deal?"
Amara sighs.
"We'll keep insisting you bring more of us next time," she teases. "Just say deal."
"Fine. Deal."
The path is decently long and winding, and is as riddled with enemies as the rest of their trek through the cursed lands has been. The longer they walk it, the heavier the air becomes. Amara's breathing starts to become more labored, as if there's something pressed up against her mouth, and she struggles to keep going at the same pace.
"Do you know what it is?" Lae'zel demands.
She wheezes, presses her fingers to her temple. "Raphael. I think. Or a devil, at least."
Astarion's brows perk up. "Out here?"
And "out here" is a clearing, of foggy shadow and wisping bits of utter blackness. Tall cliff faces line the path, weaving them toward an open maw in the rock, a horrible twisted funnel into darkness. And standing there, right before the terminus of the path, is a familarly disguised devil.
"Raphael," Amara greets the cambion, who is picking at his nails and doing his best to look preoccupied.
"Our hero thought but of treasure ahead. Did not consider the peace of the dead…" His voice is practiced, his expression pinched. "Through the dark she went creeping, and awoke what was sleeping… a new grave they dug, which she herself fed.
"Tsk'va. How childish."
Amara clicks her tongue, tries to breathe. "How long have you been standing around practing that little recital?" she asks, attempting for a little vitriol.
Raphael doesn't rise to her taunt, however. "Until it was perfect. I've grown quite fond of you, you know— in my way."
Great, Amara didn't ask him to do that.
"I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead."
As far as Amara is concerned, he's the danger she's here for. He's the one pinging her Chronomancy Weave.
"I can handle myself, Raphael," she asserts boldly.
"Intrepid as ever," he says, but it's without any playfulness. "It would be pointless of me to try to bar you from entering, but I can… set the scene as it were. Prepare you for your role."
Amara has a feeling she should know what's in that cave.
Oh, well.
"Fine, paint me a picture," she requests in as pretty a voice as she can muster.
Raphael does, this time, raise to her teasing, but only slightly. "There is a stage down in the dark upon which a great drama has suspended itself in time," he alludes, and oh, Amara is so tired of people not daring to be more direct. "Its actors dwell there still, mired in the languor of their long-tired scenes. If you, however, through the dark go creeping and awake what is sleeping… chances are many more graves than yours alone will soon be fed."
Fuck it, Amara is tired of the coy bullshit.
"Paint me a clearer picture than that," she demands, crossing her arms over her chest.
This actually makes Raphael smile. "Very well," he concedes. "There is a creature that lurks in silence and shadow— a creature who, like me, is very much of the infernal persuasion."
Rivals, then. Amara takes down that mental note.
"Should it make its way out through the very doors you are about to brazenly swing open, you'll have unleashed a pestilence upon this realm. In truth, it is carnage incarnate. So if you meet the devil of which I speak, kill it. Consider no other course of action."
Amara would love to know what her other options are.
"You're still only telling me half of what you really know." Amara steps into his space. "I can tell. Are you requesting something of me, Raphael?"
"This creature and I go back a long way," the devil confirms for her, and she resists doing a little victory cheer. "I admit it would be in my best interest as well should it remain trapped in the dark, or misplace its head perhaps. I should not relish its reacquaintance. Let's leave it at that."
"This devil," Amara tries to prise more information from him. "A cambion, like yourself? Orthon? Pit fiend? Lemure?"
"Getting warmer, warmer, hot," he says, searingly, and Amara has to resist jumping back in disgust. She holds his gaze, however, and doesn't retreat.
"Are you afraid of this creature, Raphael?"
"Lisen here, pipsqueak," he hisses, a fleck of spit hitting her cheek. "Do not underestimate this opponent. At best you will have the blink of an eye to strike. Strike first. Strike true. Defy the odds, for they are distinctly in its favor. That much I owe the bastard to concede. After all, if there is one rule I hold dear, it's that one must always give the devil his due."
Raphael makes like he's about to leave, and Astarion steps forward. "Wait!" he calls.
He literally warned Amara he was going to do this, in some capacity, so she isn't surprised, necessarily… she is, however, apprehensive…
"Before you go," he begins, obviously a mote nervous, "I have a proposal of my own."
"A proposal?" Gods, Raphael couldn't look more excited. Amara detests this. "If you're hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey."
"This is serious business, devil," Astarion demands, and Amara is suddenly unsure if it was the right decision to bring him. She rubs her fingers together. "My old— well, a long time ago someone carved some runes into my back. I'd rather like to know what they say."
"It's something of great importance to your master," Raphael says with such instantaneousness that Amara feels her gut lurch. He already knew. "But is it a love letter, a warning, or a deed of ownership? I can give you all the gory details."
He knows. He already knows. He doesn't even have to see them.
"And I will—" he promises. "Once the beast that lurks below is vanquished, and sent back to the Hells."
Gods. Amara hates this man— this devil. She hates him. Hates him.
She isn't even aware of her ticks until Astarion takes her hand, stilling her. She looks up at him, and remembers what's important. Her best friend. The one she actually cares for. He's been hurting all this time— wanting to ask this, to know this.
She holds his hand, and tugs it gently. "Scars, Niar? Cazador gave you scars?"
"You haven't told them?" Raphael interrupts, and Amara just wants to bash him over the head. Her anger flares and Astarion holds her hand tighter. "And you've kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you."
She whips around to face him, a whirlwind of insults on her tongue. Devil be damned. She's had enough.
"How dare you say such a thing!" she hisses, fury like fire on her tongue.
Raphael just shakes his head. He smirks. "Why shouldn't I? It's true. Why not let them see? Don't be shy."
A burst of heat erupts between Amara's palm and Astarion's and they flinch, letting go, and she looks over in horror as a red glow surrounds his body until it burns away his armor as if it was nothing, and he's left bare.
"Gods damn it," he spits out, though it's lacking his normal flare, and sound more defeated and annoyed. He doesn't hide anything, but his hand flexes. His stance shifts. Discomfort is visible to Amara in every line of his body.
Cyan light flares in the clearing they stand in, pouring from Amara with urgency and rage. Astarion snaps to look at her and she doesn't look back. She only looks at Raphael. The light connects at the back of her head, into a crown, and cascades down her back.
Raphael makes a sound of interest, followed by laughter. "So it really is true. I had my doubts, but…"
Amara ignores him. She pulls the hood away, detaching it from her crown, and the robe of shimmering Weave comes with it. She turns and immediately wraps Astarion in it, cinching it at his neck. "Are you all right?" she asks him.
He gives what he probably thinks is a confident laugh. "Of course, darling. Not how I was imagining showing these to you for the first time, but a glimpse at my gorgeous body is never a bad thing."
"Don't pout, spawn," Raphael practically sneers. "Just destroy the beast and I'll happily reveal your secrets instead of your skin."
Amara turns burning, glowing eyes on him.
Raphael's face does actually twitch with discomfort for a moment.
Astarion quickly reaches up, pulls her closer. "Yes, fine, we'll kill this damn creature of yours," he agrees, and he keeps Amara's face near his chest, wrapped in the otherworldly robe of her Chronomancy Weave giving him a modicum of modesty.
"Then we have an understanding. I look forward to our next meeting." His smile grows more wicked, comfortable now that Amara has been restrained. "Scars often tell such wonderful stories— I think yours might be truly exquisite. Don't let your deitious leader keep you from showing them off."
Raphael vanishes in a gust of smoke and a shower of sparks and Amara reaches up immediately, but hesitates.
"Can I touch you?" she asks, and surprise flashes across the elf's face.
"You know I don't mind it," he ventures. "Why ask now?"
"You don't mind it when you're comfortable," she argues, keeping her voice soft.
He sighs. "It's just some clothes, Amara."
"But you didn't get to choose to remove them. I want you to get to choose this."
He laughs, but it's a sad sound. "You're disgusting— being so kind. It makes me want to— want to… oh, please, come here."
Amara puts her arms around his neck and pulls him down, where the pressure of her Weave surrounds him, the scent of ozone and rain, soil and sand, the feeling of her presence and comfort and affection.
"Well. Now you know," he whispers into her hair. "Do you want to see?"
Amara shakes her head, her face pressed into his chest. "Only when you want to show me."
"It's just skin."
"It's your skin."
"Gods damn it, Amara…"
"I can't even imagine it, Niar. The carving… it must have been excruciating."
He finally reaches up to hold Amara back. "Cazador worked on it from dusk until dawn, all with an ancient blade he called his 'needle'. Cutting and tearing, starting over if I screamed or winced too much. It was a rough night."
He steps away from Amara, pets her hair.
"But what's done is done, so how about we stop discussing it and go back to camp for tonight? I'll need some new clothing…" he ventures with a forced laugh, and oh Amara wishes she could take it all away.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 25: Shadows and Starlight (Rating: E)
Notes:
This is one of the explicit chapters of this fic! You can skip it if that isn't for you, I've written the scenes to mostly fall within their own chapters so for those who don't enjoy that kind of thing, they can just hop right past!
For everyone else: enjoy 🥰
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXV
Shadows and Starlight
Dinner is ready for them when they collapse back at the camp in the inn.
"How did you know?" Amara demands, gesturing wildly to the veritable feast on the table.
Gale's eyes twinkle when he looks at her. "I felt you rewind multiple times, and suddenly you stopped. I figured you finally succeeded after a difficult battle, but it's been so many hours and you've snapped… well."
She gives a self-depreciating chuckle. "I've been busy."
It quickly becomes obvious that they have been busy.
"Astarion—" Wyll is on his feet in an instant. "What happened?" he asks, and all the members of the camp are looking at the vampire in his gown of Amara's Chronomancy Weave.
The pale elf does a little spin, showing off the sparkling, hooded garment. "I had a bit of a run-in with a devil, darling, it's nothing important. I just require a change of clothes."
Gale sends panicked eye contact at Amara.
She holds up her hands. "I know, we've exhausted the topic. Let him deal with it how he wishes."
Karlach quickly drags two new packs toward the dining table. "Here, fangs, we went kind of crazy buying a few new things. Grab something out of here."
The elf's ears twitch and flatten. "Thanks."
"The rest of you— eat," Gale urges them. "Obviously you have much to tell."
Amara keeps quiet about Astarion, but she tries to remember everything else from their journey that day, and details all the clues they found, the enemies they fought, the people they met. She shows them Madeline's journal.
"Even this mentions Dark Justiciar— of course, it mentions Ketheric and Moonrise Towers as well," she says flippantly. "We can't find a single clue that doesn't connect everything."
"It even mentions the Thorms," Shadowheart says, gathering their dishes. "And then, of course, there are the actual entries about Madeline's thoughts."
Karlach sits back, tipping her chair. "What do you think, then? Do you think you'll take his side or hers?"
Amara hums. "It sounds like he's going to summon her ability to share her side from her own thoughts. I'll make my judgement after that."
"Diplomatic," Wyll remarks. "You look exhausted for today, though."
"He's right, tomorrow will be busy for you as well," Gale points out.
"Chk. Every day will be busy until we get these damn tadpoles out of our skulls."
Amara wants to argue, but she accidentally yawns and that ruins any argument she could make.
"See? Point made," Wyll says triumphantly.
"Yes, yes," Amara says, waving a hand. "We will probably take Moonrise tomorrow. I know it will require me at my best. Gale, Astarion, Shadowheart, be ready. As for me, I'm taking a bath first."
"We did a bunch of laundry," he tells her. "In the bags Astarion looked though, there's a lot of new clothes."
"Don't mind if I do."
Amara takes off toward the bathhouse, a multi-layered top cinched with laces and a pair of color-matched silk shorts. She tries to soak out the exhaustion in her bones, which helps to some extent. She wishes it helped more, but she doubts there's anything that would out her body's lingering tension and pain.
She gets back to camp, rubbing tiredly at her eyes, and does a double take.
There's a Simulacrum standing in Gale's tent.
"What in the sweet…"
"Good evening!" he greets when she draws near enough, and she smiles in disbelief.
This man…
"I am here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep. He wishes to extend you an invitation for a private conversation in a more suitable locale, with apologies for delaying your rest and a most sincere hope he more than makes up for the lost time."
Amara laughs, utterly delighted. She can't remember the last time her chest felt so lightened, so suddenly. She must hear this image speak more. It's even more than a Simulacrum— this impossible wizard has somehow further enchanted an already advanced spell.
"On behalf of Gale?" she asks, feigning incredulity. "You're not Gale?"
"You are speaking to a mere projection of Gale— his appearance, his voice, and a certain measure of his personality," he says, doing a gesture with his arms that makes Amara positively giggle, "reconstituted in this case to play as emissary and usher."
"Oh, Gale," she whispers, pressing her hands together over her mouth to hush herself. It's enrapturing. She's never felt so swept up in someone else before.
"Would you care to join him?" the image of Gale asks. "What little I could gleam from the portion of his mind that is open to me, it is a matter most urgent."
"Very well, show me the way," she says, perhaps a bit… too eagerly.
"Gladly," he chirps, gesturing widely with one arm. "Simply follow yonder path and soon you will find him."
She does a flourishing curtsy to the Simulacrum, who bows in return, and Amara sets off along the path, peering around every so often and trying to spot the wizard or feel his Weave. She eventually does catch on to a trail of it, laden with the rich, dense scent of parchment and ink, of cranberry and oakmoss, of amber and dark, aged wines. She follows it, still within the reach of the Moonmaiden's protective circle, but into a grassy clearing where the wizard sits, casting.
His Weave surrounds him, in purples and lavenders, glittering stars floating off of his skin as if he's something impossible, celestial.
He stops casting the moment he sees her and she would rewind, just to watch him for a moment longer, but… he would know.
Instead, she approaches, and soaks in the feeling of his eyes on her, scanning her body and staring into her own eyes as she takes a seat next to him. He settles, leaning back on his hands, his legs spreading out slightly in front of him. Amara is careful to sit just about as close to him as she can, without touching just yet.
She wants to gauge if it's something he desires right now.
"I love this time of night," he breathes out earnestly. "There's an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness, when you'd almost believe the dawn will never break."
His hand gestures out to the sky, where an aurora has been painted. A canvas of color, strewn across the heavens, swirling madly in loops and spirals, waves and undualtions of hypnotizing beauty. Impossible, and amazing. The stars twinkle through the color, break through the shadow, and for a moment—
For a moment, time stands still.
"The cradle of eternity," Gale sighs. "The timelessness of lovers. The most beautiful of fantasies."
Amara looks down to find Gale wasn't looking at the sky like she was— he's been looking at her.
Gods.
She reaches up, cups his jaw. "You seem… especially philosophical this evening. Are you all right?"
"I will be, soon," he promises, and Amara lets her hand drift back to her lap. "I am perhaps just one hard day away from being without any troubles at all." He looks up at the sky as he says this. "This may be my last night alive. I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty and wonder…" His gaze drifts back down to Amara, who hasn't looked away from him. "…and with company to match."
"Gale—"
"I thought this place might bring me peace," he interrupts softly, and he lets their hands overlap where they rest on them to prop them up on the soft blankets he's laid out. "I thought it might make the weight of what I must do feel a little lighter… but I am not so sure."
The way Amara's breath staggers must be audible, as Gale's eyes flick to her. She sighs. "Ah. So we… are having this conversation now."
"Is it the time and place?"
Amara gives a short, sad laugh. "If not, we are quickly running out of times and places. You— you know I do not want you to do this, Gale. I recall you yourself once told a deep gnome that blowing oneself up is never the answer, or don't you recall?"
"Amara— it is not so simple," he says with a stern voice. "Babe or crone, coward or hero, death is assured. Mystra's forgiveness is not. If you knew the end was near, would you not want to ensure it had meaning?"
He looks at her so earnestly.
And yet, so forlornly.
Why does fate always wield double-edge swords?
"I am terrified," Gale whispers, his cadence tripping slightly on the words. "I will not claim otherwise. My face could scarcely conceal it even if my words sought to deny it. I know you have spent your life running from your inevitable— have you never thought it better to meet it? On your own terms?"
Amara furiously cards a hand through her hair and tries to breathe.
She's aware of Gale's eyes flicking over her worriedly.
"What's wrong? What is it?" he asks, anxiety spiking.
"Nothing, it's nothing," she assures him. "I just wish you had never cast the spell that lets you see when I rewind."
She sees his eyes go wide with surprise. "What— what exactly do you want to rewind?"
"I'd like to quickly scream and erase it."
His mouth opens, jaw works, but it takes him a few moments to find his voice. "And, praytell, why would you like to do that?"
"Because you can be infuriating, Gale of Waterdeep."
His responding chuckle is disbelieving. "Go on…"
"I have endless protests! Questions! Counterpoints! So much so that it hardly seems fair to foist them all onto you—"
"Say them."
"No, they would be cruel to—"
"Amara. Say them now."
She looks into his eyes, dark in the night, from the shadow, and lit in the starlight. Beautiful, ethereal, celestial. "Inya," she says like a prayer, "I don't want you to do this."
"I have to," he responds like a rejection.
"You say you want to meet your inevitable end on your own terms— how are these your own terms? It isn't as if you thought of this. We didn't theorize this solution. You were ordered to go through with ending your own life by someone you trusted. That isn't your terms, Gale! And you say you want to earn Mystra's forgiveness? I raise you the question: why? Why? When she betrayed you so readily, abandoned you so instantaneously, lied to you for the duration of your entire relationship!! She does not deserve your forgiveness, Gale, so why do you desire hers?!" she demands, her voice raising in passion and fury. "And— AND!! You keep saying you must, you have to, like you have no choice! You do have a choice! You have more than a choice! You have us!"
Gale covers his mouth, looks away.
"Look at me," she begs him, and his eyes immediately meet hers once more. "You have us. You have me. When you say that you must sacrifice yourself, you speak as though you have forsaken even considering other options— as if they aren't worth anything to you. As if you aren't worth anything to us. Your life is worth something, Gale, to me. Don't give it up so readily."
He takes a shaky, unsteady breath in. "What other options do we even have? Mystra and Elminster—"
"—don't have us! Think about it— we were captured to be thralls for the Absolute's cause. A follower of Shar who desperately wants to follow in the footsteps of so many we've seen evidence of throughout this adventure and a talented healer, the protector of the Sword Coast pacted to a powerful cambion and the son of the Duke, a loyal githyanki warrior and sworn enemy of ghaik with unending insider tactics and knowledge of the cause, one of the Szarr family's inner circle and an immortal creature of considerable talents, the right hand woman of the archdevil Zariel and a front line warrior of the Blood Wars, a studied archmage of innumerable skills and accomplishments and former chosen of Mystra, and a literal demigod with the power to turn back time. Just imagine what would have happened if we really fell into the Absolute's clutches."
Gale swallows. "There would have been no stopping the cult…"
"We would have been a force of nature. We are a force of nature. If there's anyone who can figure out how to defeat the Absolute, it's us. Nothing is inevitable. Not when we face it together. You don't have to die."
Gale presses his hand across his eyes, and when he breathes, it's wet with emotion. "One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime," he admits, his voice thick and choked up. "You prise the fear from my heart, Amara." She pulls his hand away to see his face, and tears fall freely. "I'm so very glad you came, to share this with me."
She wipes each tear that falls away, strokes at his hair as he speaks, as the painted sky above makes each silver gray strand shimmer with life.
"I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you. You must know that you're… that you're very special to me," he admits, his expression pinched, and he takes both of Amara's hands in his and turns to face her properly. "If things were different, if we were home, I'd have taken the time to do things properly. To say it all better. But time is short."
Amara's breath catches.
"I'm in love with you."
"Oh, Gale…"
She pulls slightly on their joined hands, and Gale eagerly leans in, allowing Amara to do the same. Their lips meet easily, softly, with just the slightest bit of apprehension. This isn't the time for the passion and sometimes the veracity of any of Amara's daydreams; Gale needs something else.
She keeps the kiss light and incredibly soft, her lips relaxed and loose, but she doesn't pull back. She presses them to his over and over, warm and inviting, and feels the wizard practically melt with each continued touch. Their palms press together, more points of contact, more points of warmth. Amara draws him slightly upward with her kisses, so she can line their legs up, press her bare legs to him as well.
He shivers, finally pulling away for a gasp of air.
"I'm real," she whispers to him, and his eyelids flutter. "I'm alive. You can touch me. You can taste me. You can feel me."
His throat works, his breathing speeds up. "Amara— what…"
"Say it to me again. I want to hear you say it again."
Dark eyes find hers. "I'm in love with you."
She lets go of his hands, so she can press her palms to his cheeks, and tips his head back. She kisses him soundly, only once, her tongue dragging along the bottom of his lower lip. "Say it again," she whispers against his spit-slickened lips.
"I'm— I love you, Amara." His words slur slightly, and his eyes are hooded with lust when they find hers. "What is this about?"
"What do I taste like?"
He laughs, from lower in his register than Amara has heard from him before. "Lemons— from dinner."
"Am I warm, Gale?"
"Extremely," he sighs out. "Why— why do you ask these things?"
She tucks his hair back. "Because I want you to tell me you love me one more time, but I want you to mean it."
His eyes open the rest of the way. "I do—" There's a tinge of panic there now.
"No, no. I know. But you aren't saying it like you mean it," she whispers against his ear, and then lets her teeth latch onto the outer shell of his ear and drag slightly down, until her tongue tastes the cold metal of his earring.
He stifles a moan, and his hands twitch before grabbing for Amara's waist. "How do you want me to say it, then? Just tell me, my love, and I'll say it."
Amara leans back, looks him in the eye. "You're saying it like you worship me," she tells him softly. "I'm no goddess."
"You're quite close to one," he argues. "But really, Amara, it's a compliment!" he assures her.
But she shakes her head, cups his face. "I don't want that. Especially not from you. I'm a person. I'm mortal— I cherish that about myself, and I want for you to see that. I'm a person, with all the imperfections and shortcomings and flaws that people have. Hubris and weakness, regret and failure, jealousy and anger. I'm real. You can touch me. You can taste me. You can love me, Gale, because I'm a person— I can love you back."
Gale's smile falters. "Why… are you saying all this?"
"I don't want to be an idea you love. I don't want to take up the spot in your heart Mystra vacated. I don't seek to cast you in a mold of my creation. I knew the moment I first set eyes on you that I liked you, I already liked you, flaws and all. You owe me nothing. You must prove nothing to me. I don't want you to die, Gale— I would never ask you to give something precious up for my sake, certainly not your life. I don't want to take from you, or hurt you. I see how much you are still hurting. I need you to know the difference."
His breath catches. "Between what? You and Mystra? I know that difference, Amara, believe me."
"Between a mortal and god. Between a mentor and equal. Between someone who cannot love you, and someone who is so unbelievably head over heels for you that she turned back time and subjected herself to this damn hellscape, just to try and make sure you lived."
His eyes are breathtaking.
Gorgeous.
They glow with intellect— more than she's ever seen in another living thing. His mind works, turns information over and over, and it makes his eyes glitter in the most magical, wondrous way.
"You knew me already," he whispers, his lips wet with his spit as he licks them. "When you met me— that's why you were so pleased to see me. So familiar. We'd met before. Was it in the timeline you avoided infection?"
Amara gazes at him in adoration. "You are brilliant," she compliments, short of breath. "It's enthralling, your competency. I will never grow tired of watching you put things together."
Gale's jaw falls open. "Then… I am correct?"
She beams at him. "I've loved you since I met you in Waterdeep, in a future long gone, I should think," Amara admits. "Of course, I wouldn't have labeled it love, then, but our bond was nigh instantaneous." She looks up at him with watery eyes. "If you want me to love you, you have to let me in. You have to love me back. The way only people love. Say it, Gale."
"Amara, Áralta, you're real. I see you. I taste you. I feel you. I don't ever want to stop. I love you."
She pulls him in once more, this kiss the barest brush of their lips.
"Gale, Daoinya, you're deserving. I want you, I need you, I will fight to keep you alive. I love you too."
"That's a relief," he says with a laugh. "I was beginning to think this was a test I was failing."
Amara licks her teeth and smiles widely. "Well, you are a bit out of practice with the kissing."
"Not if I have any say in the matter," he quickly responds, and Amara snaps her gaze up to look at him, thoroughly delighted. "I wanted it to be perfect," he tells her, rising from their blanket. "To bond with you in the that gods do… intertwining our spirits in visions of the Weave."
He offers Amara both his hands and she takes them, allowing him to sweep her up and into his arms.
"But you wouldn't like that, would you?"
She touches him reverently. "You're thinking too hard," she advises. "I don't wish for you to think everything must be perfect. In any direction. I want you. Whatever you that you'd like to give me. I don't need you to be performative, or forge a mask you think I would prefer. I am always most contented when you are thinking about how you are being perceived the least."
"Are you sure…?" he asks. "You specifically advised not to be treated as a goddess."
"Then don't treat me as one," Amara advises, "but if you'd like to pleasure me through astral visions composed of Weave, I'm sure we can find a way to debase it. There are plenty of ways to carnally enjoy one another that are distinctly… mortal, regardless of if we abuse the Weave or not."
Gale's eyes positively glitter. "I could conjure up any sight that you could dream of, and a few you could not. I could use the Weave to make us feel sensations beyond reckoning. I could do more than woo you. I could wow you."
"My sweet, that sounds positively lascivious. Wow me."
He takes her hand, kisses the back of it. "You said you would… allow me whatever it is I'd most like to give you?"
"Please," Amara begs of him. "I want nothing with more intensity."
"Then… how about the perfect night in Waterdeep? Yes… let's imagine how it would be."
There's a flare of light purple Weave behind him, and suddenly everything turns a glaring white, but all the while, Gale holds her hand, and Amara finds she isn't nervous in the slightest. The white fades, and Gale is casting with only one hand, rapidly commanding the Weave in a complicated illusory set of spells that is positively…
masterful.
It just takes Amara's breath away.
How this man commands his magic.
How much more powerful he must have been, with his innate connection.
How it was taken from him so savagely.
But that is an anger for another time. Tonight— tonight is for them.
"The scene is this:" Gale begins, and Amara feels a thrill run through her that raises the hair on her arms. Oh, yes. Yes. He enjoys setting scenes. They really do match a little too well. "You and I stand in the room that is the center of my universe."
The set of spells finishes, and Amara looks around in awe and wonder. It's a place that must carry the same scent as Gale himself, built of fine, dark woods, rich chevron flooring covered in hand-woven, colorful rugs with matching heavy drapes, and filled to the brim with books.
"The sculptures, the paintings, the walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books," he narrates on his own, gesturing around him. The entire place is lit by candlelight, and Gale leads her by the hand through the warm, comfortable room.
Amara's eyes prickle.
She told him he could show her anything.
He chose to show her his home, his heart.
She really does love this man.
"The grand piano plays the Lliirian Suites all by itself, and as we look out beyond the arches that lead to the terrace, we see the weary sun take its daily dive into the sea."
He lets go of her hand and snaps and the doors framed by the drapes open, and the dusk sunset is suddenly visible off of a balcony, overlooking the water. Ships passing, the rocky cliff faces across the bay, it's all so familiar.
Amara feels her heart pulse, tug, beat.
Oh, how she misses Waterdeep. Look at it.
They walk onto the balcony and it's all she can do not to start crying at the first sight of it. It feels like it's been months.
Hells— with all the rewinding, it probably has been.
She can't look at it anymore, or she'll break.
She turns and takes a seat on the small sofa also on the balcony, and instead watches Gale watch the sunset. If she misses Waterdeep— his heartbreak must run even deeper than hers. She stays quiet, allows him all the time he needs to linger there.
After what she perceives as far too short of a time, he startles, noticing her absence next to him, and turns. His posture relaxes the moment he finds her, already looking back at him. "My favorite spot," he informs her, pointing to where she'd chosen to take root. "Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words." He takes a seat next to Amara on the bench.
She glances down, notices that he's conjured a single book out here with them.
Curiosity gets the best of her.
"What's the book?"
"It's called 'The Art of the Night', and it details the first thousand nights of a newlywed king and queen." He shows her the rather racy cover and turns back to her, a palpable liveliness and excitement to his countenance. "They turned everything they did into an art. The art of conversation. The art of taste, time honored and newly acquired. The art of the body. The exploration and acceptance of the self and the other. The art of the night itself. I say we take a page from their book."
Gods, what Amara would give for him to never stop talking, alternatively.
She could listen until the end of time, she thinks, and so long as she is around— time will never end.
Still, she did tell him they could abuse the Weave, so she supposes she can't just ask to be read to.
"You're remarkably upfront about your intentions," Amara notices. "I wasn't expecting it, as much as you flush when I tease you, but I have to say— I like it."
"You're simply even more upfront than I am," Gale retorts. "I'm many things, but coy's not one of them," he says with a laugh. "What do you say?"
"I think that sounds delightful— but I have to say, with all that we saw in the tour of your tower, I didn't see a bed."
Gale picks up the tome and quickly flips to a page. "The stars will be our bed," he offers cryptically. "Come here." He places the book between them. "Why confine ourselves to the pleasures of mortal flesh? It is but one stitch in a vast tapestry. Let me show you more."
Gale's hand covers one of the handprints on the page, and he doesn't give Amara the instruction, but one look at his clever eyes tells her to mimic him. She follows his lead, something she finds exceedingly easy, and crosses her arm behind his to place her palm over the illustration on the opposite page.
Her gaze catches on his and lingers, studying the endless stories he keeps contained in their deep brown colors, flecks of brightness like sparks of gold buried in soft, wet earth. He blinks, and Amara unconsciously does the same, and there's suddenly a haze of periwinkle magic hovering just on the outside of their skin.
A projection of Gale's palm pulls Amara's hand up from where it rests on the book, their spectral fingers lifting as Gale urges Amara's projection from her body. He hovers, an image of light and shadow, glowing softly in the conjured sunset's haze.
The further Gale pulls Amara up, the more his illusory world melts away. Suddenly, they float in a sky of stars. Blues, purples, pinks. The lightest whirls of light are pure white, and the darkest corner of the abyss is dark as pitch. The color is as textured as cloud, and the stars are plentiful and scattered, glowing like firelight.
They float among them, an impossibility come to reality, and though the painting is a masterpiece, Amara finds Gale basking in his own magical prowess the most beautiful element of it all.
"Why not explore all the impossible pleasures only magic can offer?" he asks her, his voice ricocheting through her mind and body, echoing deep within her.
She touches his face, lets her fingers run down his neck. "Show me more," she pleads softly, watching him have the same visceral reaction she did. "Show me it all."
Gale pulls on her hand, just a short, sharp gesture, and Amara floats closer, His arm wraps around her waist, touching reverently at the small of her back, and she runs her fingers down the length of his spine.
His hands find the backs of her upper arms and he pulls his mouth to hers, claiming it with a ferocity wholly different from their previous kissing. Amara returns it with equal veracity, finally getting to give in to an age-old desire to twist her fingers into his hair and devour his lips with passion and need.
When Gale pulls away, he gazes into Amara's eyes with such compassion, such earnesty— it's deep and real and fragile.
The way you'd look at something breakable, tangible, but oh so precious.
"When you wake, it will be back at our camp, back in our small, dirty, bloody patch of existence. But stay with me now. There are endless worlds out there. Countless ways to declare love. Infinite ways to express it. Too much for one night…"
Gale's hands caress her body, even just its spectral image, and it sends indescribable thrills to a part of her brain she's never stimulated before. His hands touch her back, the dips of her body, her hips, and curve down in the slightest touches over her thighs.
He rubs a slow circle into her hip bone, and Amara realizes the scar on her hip - the one she got before she became a progeny who could reverse her own injuries - is distinctly missing. It's missing, because Amara didn't conjure her own projection. Gale did, and he doesn't know about that particular burn. These projections of them could look however Gale would like them to— they're made of his Weave, after all.
His projection has one glaring flaw. One he could have easily left out.
The dark orb pulses with magic, with energy; it's burning, searing, blazing. It lays buried deep in Gale's heart, as if trying to eat its way out, and yet— Gale has left it.
His most glaring flaw.
Amara presses her lips to his once more, drawing his lower lip between hers, and sucks it into her mouth. Her kisses angle up to the corner of his lips, and then down to his jaw, nipping gently with her teeth. She rolls her tongue over his pulsepoint, zaps it with a few quick bursts of her Weave, leaving Gale shaking. He whimpers and she bites softly at the lines of purple trailing up his neck, kissing down until she reaches the edge of the orb's mark.
Right over his heart, she presses a long kiss to the very center of the circle.
"Yes… infinite ways to express my love for you, Áralta. Too much for one night… but we shall try."
His voice touches her everywhere. It's all simultaneous, all-emcompassing. With a fluid gesture, Gale picks up Amara's hand and holds it away from his body, and then slides his palm up against it.
It's euphoric. Rapturous.
Amara gets lost it, drowning in it with no desire to breathe, and her head lolls backward at the assault on her senses. She exposes her neck, and sighs in ecstasy when Gale's mouth latches onto her pulsepoint. He lavishes the spectral form with his tongue until she writhes against him, her form rippling.
"Sweet hells, Amara," his voice rumbles through her body.
She feels the inferno inside her stoke, and only desires to feed it more.
Hunger that burns.
She leans back, and startles when she feels another point of contact, another hand that Gale's projection has created, as it slides across the swell of her ass and down her thigh, hooking her leg behind his back and bringing her body flush to his.
"You look delectable," she purrs to him, her hands caressing his chest, his mark. She can feel no beating underneath his skin, as he's a mere projection, but it rises and falls with rapid breaths all the same. "I love when you look at me like that."
"Like what?" he asks, his hands - gods, how many has he created? - stroke her body with the full intent to overwhelm her.
It's working.
"Like you're starving."
Her body shimmers as she lets out a slow moan, Gale's hand on her cheek, her neck, her breasts. They trace paths with his nails down her stomach, her back, over her thighs. "Maybe I am," he admits, and this time Gale lets a thumb grace under her lip.
"What will you do?" she asks, thankful she doesn't have to make her projection's lips move. She's speaking from her soul directly into Gale's, and they both can feel it. "I wouldn't want you to go hungry."
"I could ask you the same," he ventures. "I believe the look in your eyes is quite similar." His thumb presses into Amara's lip. Pulls it down.
"If you're offering, my love, I would consume you."
Gale makes a sound like a growling rumble from deep in his chest, and Amara presses her tongue to his thumb, drawing it into her mouth. "Amara— good gods…" She feels him tense, his many appendanges tightening around Amara's body, and he twitches where he's pressed against her stomach.
The projection has no taste to it, but the way Gale gasps is sweeter than anything Amara has ever tasted. She sucks on his thumb, and presses herself into Gale, knowing exactly how to exert pressure on him. His moan is more wanton at that, unrestrained and so hungry.
"How do I abuse your projection more?" she asks him, begs him, around the digit between her lips. "I want to please you like no one ever has before. Godly, mortal— I want none of it to matter. I want to consume your mind. Overtake you."
Countless fingers, numerous hands, drive Amara practically insane. He uses his palms, the heels of his hands, and even hints of his nails. They bite into her skin, trace shapes into her hips and her stomach, and drag across her hardening nipples.
He drags his thumb out of her mouth, and it makes no sound, but is erotic all the same.
"Then take me, Áralta. Defile this sacred space— I want to make love to you like a mortal while treading in the land of the gods. Touch me. If you want to profane our projections as I can, just think about touching me. Think about how hungry you are for it."
Amara smiles, strokes his face. "A gentleman might lead by example."
"Are you looking for a gentleman right now?"
"I'm looking for you to ravage me," Amara purrs.
Without warning, he wraps her in countless arms and lays her backward, onto a bed of starlight and canvas of color. Amara clutches to him as his hands slide across her back, her breasts, her sex. He buries his head into her chest, lavishing her sternum with kisses, tongue, teeth. He takes one of her nipples into his mouth and sucks, tonguing it lasciviously, while he kneads the other one and tweaks that nipple between two of his knuckles.
"You tempt me in a way you shouldn't," he growls into her skin before knocking her knees apart with an intense desire that courses through him. "You indulge my hunger in a way you shouldn't."
"And yet you let me," Amara responds, arching her back as she feels overflowed with salacious, decauched thoughts. She wants him closer. Wants to feel how deeply he can fill her, sate her.
She pulls him, finding multiple hands of her own the more she gives into her feelings of desire, of starvation. Her hands caress his chest, his arms, scratch complex, celestial patterns into his back. She pulls him into her, their bodies quivering where they join, and a spark of electricity - though who's Weave it is is indistinguishable at this point - runs through the both of them.
She strokes up his length with two hands, one lavishing constant pressure around him while the other is merciless— twisting, pushing, tracing his veins with her nails.
"Gods— my turn," he growls,
"Oh, is it?" she asks, but she does release him.
Gale throws her legs over his shoulders. "You said it yourself: you want to be ravaged."
Amara is touched everywhere as she's hoisted up, supported at the perfect angle for Gale to run his tongue across her lips. Every stroke is slow, methodical, and meant to draw the most cries from Amara as Gale possibly can.
Ah, oh— she knew the man could wield his tongue, but this is on a whole other level.
He doesn't only generate hands and arms— soon, her thighs and stomach are under assault. Multiple mouths, lips, tongues, teeth. Biting, licking, sucking. Marks would be appearing like red welts if they weren't mere projections, and Gale only grows more veracious the more Amara writhes and cries.
He licks at her core, a thumb pressing into her clit with slow, tortorous circles that increase in speed notch by notch until she's arching into the electric thrill of it, grabbing Gale by the hair she's pretty sure is the head with his tongue plunged deep inside her, and she pushes him in deeper, silently begging for more, faster, harder.
She feels the tension in her tremble, ready to snap, and though she isn't sure if this will work here— she forces open her connection with Gale.
Amara's release hits her and the stars are even on the insides of her eyelids now, glittering and hazy, and she spasms through the impossibly vast sensation. Gale's voice matches her as they call out into the stars together, and can feel him through their bond, reeling from the sudden snap.
"Cheeky," he pants out. "But I will be leaving the connection open. You will regret introducing me to shared orgasms."
"I'm counting on it," she assures him, pushing up against his chest and hoisting him up, rotating them in the starlight until their positions are reversed and now she hovers over his groin, and it's her countless hands which lavish pleasure onto him.
The first thing she does is a kiss, claiming his lips possessively, hungrily. The feel of him is incredible, and she grounds herself in the non-taste of him. She could touch the swell of his chest, the undulation of his abdomen, the wiry muscle of his arms, for hours and hours. The desire to consume him the way he consumed her is overwhelming, and she knows she can create the same number of impossible mouths.
She presses kisses across his entire body; his chest, his legs, his face. Peppers kiss marks, then bite marks, then soothes them all away with her tongues.
Working her way across him, she grinds her chest first down his length, feeling him tense as she presses her breasts to it while sliding down his body. He's making continual sound now, as if praying, but all the sounds are of pleasure.
Amara sits back onto his thighs, folding some of her extra projected pieces away, and just leans down to lick a stroke with a flattened tongue, following the same path her hands did earlier. She so desires to see him flush like this, writhing underneath her. His hands paw for her body, but she wants to focus, so she distracts him, hands playing with his nipples, stroking his neck, his mark.
She sets a thumb heavily on his tongue.
"Suck," she instructs him, her voice deeper than she's sure he's ever heard it. It seems to drive him crazy, and his head tilts back. She can only imagine how it would look, his eyes rolled back in his head. She takes his tip onto her own tongue and he moans around her thumb.
It's not hard to tease him, taking him back out of her mouth and swirling her tongue around his girth, lips sending small zaps through his body, until he's unraveling before her, coming completely undone. Only then does she start to take him into her mouth, down her throat.
It's like warm velvet, and though there's no taste to it, Amara decides on one.
Starlight.
He tastes of starlight.
The closer he gets, the more his member throbs, heavy on her tongue, and she chases that. Relaxes her body, keeps her jaw slack, her throat loose, until she can feel Gale press against the back of it and she has to use her hand to make up for what she can't swallow down.
By now, his groaning is constant and he's salivating around her thumb, the drool pooling and dipping from the corner of his mouth, and it's the color of pearls, shimmering in this ethereal place. She wants to debase it even more, with their lovemaking. Create more beautiful things from their lecterous acts.
Her mouth and throat constrict around him, and she feels him pulse once, twice, and then the connection between them blows wide open as he bucks up into the back of her throat in wild ecstasy, orgasm spasming between their shared headspace.
She's never felt something which shook her so deeply, the release entirely in her brain and yet its effects ripple through her body with a stirring vengeance. At first, she struggles to swallow, so she just lets it gather in her mouth, but eventually she recovers enough to start gulping it down, and their bond rattles, ripples, with overstimulation. She licks every drop of pearlescant starlight from his length, and leaves them both a shivering, twitching mess.
"I must have you," he asks, begs, pleads.
"Take me," she requests, implores, pleads.
The sound Gale makes is a strangled one, and he tumbles them over one another in their starry expanse, swallowing the gasp that escapes Amara's lips in a passionate locking of their lips. His hands knead her breasts and cup her sex, which is soaked through even in this ethereal space, and every swipe of his fingers through it makes the most debauched of sounds.
And every stroke through her folds he makes, he presses unrelentingly into her clit.
The sensation and shivering rushes through the both of them, their connection wide open.
"By Zivrina's broken horn— is this how is always feels for you?" he asks, slipping his finger into her with another sinfully soaking sound.
Amara keens, feeling him almost immediately slip another in. "Gale, I won't last much— ah!"
"I know," he pants, "I can feel you. Everything about you. Everything you feel. We're a pair of gluttons, you and I."
"Indulge me," Amara begs. She bucks his fingers deeper into her sex, and Gale slips a third one in, making the both of them cry out.
"And let you gorge yourself?" Gale asks, but his voice is trembling. Pure desire rattles through him. He hooks a finger into her and she squirms against him, a pulse of the inferno inside her drives them both into a bout of intoxicated moaning. He slides a fourth finger into her as another pulse of wetness soaks his hand.
"In return, you can devour me," Amara promises.
His fingers prise themselves from her slick, which he uses to draw a pattern onto her thigh with. "If you are offering, my love, we share our love affair with gluttony."
He lines himself up with her entrance, and slips himself into her with an easiness that must be associated with his Weave in some way. Amara's body flutters with tension, anticipation, but before she can make so much as a sound, Gale swallows her breath with his lips.
This kiss is still yet unlike anything they've shared.
Desperate, needy— as if he cannot breathe on his own and must steal Amara's air from her mouth.
His ministrations continue; his hands and mouth lavish her with pleasure while Amara claws at his back, hands tangling into his hair to press him even deeper into the kiss. He grounds himself, still touching her breasts, and using her hips and shoulders as leverage to sink himself into her deepest parts.
She breaks her lips from his and screams out, "Gods— Gale!"
The other wizard presses his hips to Amara's, fully seated in her, and pants wantonly while allowing Amara to adjust.
Around them, the entire illusory landscape shutters.
Gale grounds himself, eyelids fluttering.
Amara grinds herself against him, tipping him slightly forward. Both of them let out a growl as it pushes him even deeper inside her, the sensation cascading through both of their senses. He scrambles for purchase, grabbing onto his usual spots, and slides out of her before gently thrusting back in, head tilted back at their combined pleasure.
"Fuck, Gale," she hisses out. "I told you I wasn't interested in a gentleman tonight."
"Gods— I really let you tempt me in ways I shouldn't." He rocks back and this time he holds nothing back when he slams into her. At first, he only manages it once, as it sends cascading shivers through them, but when he can support himself again, he fills the celestial starscape with the most erotic wet sounds Amara's ever heard as he rocks into her again and again as if lacking the ability to slow himself.
Their forms tangle together, beginning to merge into a singular shape, one which slowly begins to spin in the twilight air. At first, the more Gale loses himself, the brighter the stars blaze, the more the Weave in the air shimmers and spins, until the floating clouds and glistening stars are all an abstract haze of color, like a fever dream.
Amara at first pulls his lips to hers, caresses him with kisses. She nips at his skin, his jaw, his throat, but the longer their senses overwhelm one another's, the more they're both lost to their echoing moans and the wet, sinful sound of Gale losing his own rhythm.
The illusion flickers, swirling colors fluttering as his surmounting pleasure threatens to break his concentration.
When her walls flutter around his cock, that concentration shatters.
He sheathes himself deeply inside of her and she can hear him plead her name into her very soul, spilling inside of her. His release is so intense and overwhelming, it instantaneously triggers Amara's own, and he slowly begins working back out and in her, feeling out the pulsing stimulation between them.
*Your bodies and minds weave together in a masterpiece of intimacy. Never have you felt such wonder, such love— as vast as the universe itself, and just as heavenly.*
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 26: The Evil Within
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXVI
The Evil Within
Amara snaps awake with a startle, right before the break of dawn, when the shadows have already chased all the stars away.
She sits up, disoriented at finding herself on her bedroll— she's not sure where exactly she was expecting to find herself, but she supposes it wasn't here.
Gale's bedroll is empty, doesn't look slept in, and worry surges up into Amara. This wasn't where they were when he pulled her into his illusory Waterdeep, either. She rises from her place by the fire and is oddly unsettled by the lack of usual morning-after soreness. With all the things Gale did to her body yesterday, it should be a canvas of markings, but she's unblemished.
His tent flap is closed when she approaches, and without a door frame to knock on, she sends a Minor Illusion, the sound of knocking against a pane of glass, into the other wizard's tent. With bated breath, she waits a few moments and the flap is peeled back, revealing Gale's familiar face, albeit slightly disheveled.
"Good— good morning," he greets jovially. "Come in?"
Amara smiles at him. "I'll make tea," she proposes. "You look ravishing like that."
"You aren't going to let up anytime soon, are you?" he asks with a debonair smile.
"Where's the fun in that?"
She sets the water to boil over a conjured fire, and before Gale can stop her, she sprawls out on the bedroll in his tent. "So— I don't recall how we got to bed last night. Care to fill me in?"
No longer spectral, Amara can admire how his coloring flushes. "Ah. That. Yes— I may have lost my concentration at the last moment. As I might have mentioned, it's been a while for me. Your enthusiasm and… veracity, while wholly welcome, may have been a bit more of an overload than I was anticipating. Next time, I will have more safeguards," he assures her.
Amara raises her arm, a request for him to join her. "And good thing, that, because I dearly missed being able to wake up next to you after such an evening."
"My sincerest apologies," Gale offers, and he does take Amara's hand, lowering himself onto the bedroll next to her, tangling their legs together. "There were some other things about last night I was hoping to speak with you about."
Her eyes glitter, and she uses a quick Mage Hand to continue making tea. "I'm listening."
"Have you ever walked to the very edge of a great precipice, and shuddered at how easy it would be to step into the void?" he asks, and Amara presses her hands to his chest. "Ever since Elminster told me of Mystra's… expectations of me, I have felt like I've been walking along such a cliff face, with a great drop to nothingness never out of my sight. But you— you led me away from the edge."
"Oh— oh, Gale," she whispers, and presses a kiss to the rise of his cheek.
"Without your words, your touch… I fear I would have sought purpose and solace in that void. You reminded me what living can feel like."
"I'm all gladness," she rushes to say, her hands pressed to his cheeks. "Keep focused on that feeling— you'll need that resolve soon enough."
"Indeed," he agrees without resistance. "I'll guard my resolve like a lit flame in a… well, in a gale."
Amara lets out a delighted laugh, and carefully extinguishes the flame from under the tea kettle, and pours them each a cup. "This is what I meant when I said I like you best when you care least for putting on a performance for others. I like you most when you're just acting like yourself."
"I would say you have strange tastes, but when they concern me, how could I not be utterly flattered?" He flashes her a charming smile. "I have to say— I hope the end is much farther away than I had suspected. I hope that night meant as much to you as it did to me. And I hope we will have more time together. Together… alone."
"Need you really inquire about such a thing?" She strokes his face reverently. "It was wonderful. I hope there is more to come as well."
"I'll see that there is— woe betide anyone who tries to stop me." Gale gathers Amara up, summons their teacups from across the tent, and settles her into his lap. "Truly— thank you for such an unforgettable night."
"That's quite the look on your face," she remarks breathlessly. "What are you thinking about?"
"You." He takes a sip of his tea.
"Oh?" She takes a sip of her tea. "Then tell me, Gale, what does our relationship mean to you?"
"You must know," he answers, and he touches her jaw, turns her to face him. His eyes are round, loving, reverent. "Our relationship is the brightest spot in our otherwise bleak endeavor. To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before."
He smiles, and Amara wishes she could soothe away decades of his pain with only her kisses, but she knows— she knows all she can do is make his future brighter.
"You are everything to me," he says like a promise. "And yet our relationship is only a nascent fraction of what it will become. You give me hope, and I've not had that in some time."
Amara knows she's gone completely flush in the face.
"So verbose so early in the morning— I thought you weren't a morning person."
"I wasn't, until I met you," he answers, smiling wider. "But to be fair to you, I have… been lying awake for some time this particular morning."
"You aren't feeling ill, are you, my sweet?"
"Hardly," he says instantly. "I'm feeling grateful, mostly. For meeting you. For having someone who cares that I'm here, alive, and not reduced to a cloud of netherese vapor. It all built up in me to the point where— well, sleep was elusive."
"Do you still wish to come with us today?"
He nods. "There's a high likelihood you'll go to Moonrise. I should be there, regardless. There are a myriad of things we don't know, and even more we don't know we don't know. I want to be by your side." He sets their emptied tea cups to the side. "Any more questions for me, my love?"
"Cheeky ones, maybe."
"I happen to like you cheeky."
"Then, yes," she purrs. "I can think of several. Do you still harbor feelings for Mystra?"
"That's cheeky, for you?"
"To ask about one's ex-lover the morning after? You've still some afterglow on you, Inya. I would say that's quite cheeky."
"Fair enough," he concedes with a faint laugh. "I harbor plenty of feelings for Mystra. And all of them complicated. It's not easy to turn away from one you once loved, but now that I see our relationship with all the illumination hindsight has to offer, I mostly feel only regret."
"If it makes you feel any better, it does feel less cheeky now."
His smile returns as he laughs again, and he shakes his head. "You are my heart. It used to be such a point of— of pride to be with an immortal being. Only now do I realize she never once saw me when she looked at me. You do nothing but see me. I was not the first wizard to fall under her spell, nor will I be the last. I was an amusement to her, a mortal to be trifled with, amused, and eventually discarded."
"You still look like you're in pain, when you discuss her," she remarks softly, tracing how his brows pinch, how his forehead wrinkles, his frown lines deepen.
"I regret the way I hurt her. Of course I do. But she would have seen me destroy myself to earn her forgiveness. There is no love lost between us. None at all."
"Should I give being cheeky a try again?"
"I don't know if you know the meaning of the word this morning," he teases.
"Am I the first… mortal being you've been with?" she asks, her lips lifting up into a smile.
"What a question…"
"A cheeky one?"
He taps her on the nose. "Quite so. No, you are not the first," he claims, sounding equal parts amusedly insulted and a tad embarrassed. "Though you are the first since my relationship with Mystra came to its ignominous end. When the true danger posed by my condition became apparent, I had no choice but to sequester myself away from civilised society. A reclusive wizard— who'd have thought?"
"I rather liked him, the moment I saw him," Amara says, echoing her sentiment from the previous night.
"Can you tell me about that?" he asks softly.
"Our first meeting, from my perspective?"
He blinks at her, eyes wide and brown and soft, filled with emotion. "Is it wrong of me to be upset we will forever have different first encounters?"
"You happened to fall for a manipulator of time. For all we know, we could have yet another 'first' meeting."
"I suppose you're right," he concedes. "You do have a rather divine ability. For as much as some aspects of it have started to normalize, I sometimes forget the breadth of it is much larger than I realize. After so long with Mystra, though, I can safely say you fall distinctly away from the camp of deitous lovers. The pleasures of mortal love are much sweeter than I remember. Though perhaps that's simply because it's with you."
Amara leans in, kisses him.
"I was taken in Baldur's Gate," she whispers against his lips. "My home was to be destroyed anyway, so as soon as I got myself away from the mind flayers, I got out of the city. A few days later, I was in Waterdeep. I built a little cottage. I had a fountain and a garden and a storefront. It wasn't a glamorous life, but it was mine. Peaceful, gentle. It meant a lot to me, that little plot of land, the practice. Then, one day, you were there."
Gale swallows. "How long after the nautiloid crash?"
"Over a month," she answers. "You were… not well. I assisted with your arcane hunger, but you discussed another struggle with me after that, and revealed some details about the tadpoles. We… connected, on a level I'm sure you're familiar with having met me. But it was just too late. You left after that— I assume to find a place to…"
"Amara, I'm so sorry, I…"
"Once you left, I ran my choices through my head countless times. Played our interactions through over and over, and then… just… couldn't go another sunrise knowing you wouldn't be in the world to see it with me, wherever you were."
Gale buries his face in Amara's neck. "Thank you."
"You were the one who convinced me," she points out.
"I mean it— thank you. Thank you."
/ / /
He Who Was is mysterious in many ways, name included, but thankfully he isn't as elusive to find. He's right where Amara left him last.
"Ah, splendid," Gale remarks as they approach. "The corpse and the raven really make the scene."
The raven. Amara flicks her gaze to him, slowing their approach. "Can you cast Speak with Animals on me again?"
"If that raven really is a vessel of the Raven Queen, there's a high likelihood that—"
"What if I said 'please'?"
Gale huffs a laugh and with a wave of his hand, he casts the spell.
Amara approaches the Shadar-Kai, whose gaze snaps to her with a terrifying intensity. "The air stirs in trepidation— you have the ledger," he notices, and Amara contributes it to a sense similar to hers.
She pulls the notebook out from her pack. "Here— take it."
He accepts it, holding it in his hands as if it's going to shatter. "We have it— her lies, her guilt. Madeline reported her friends to a Dark Justiciar and fled when they were butchered. Well, she flees no more. I will be the conduit for Madeline's spirit. I will force her to face trial. And you will be the judge. Make her beg, make her suffer."
"I'm here to make sure she sees justice," Amara assures him. She wants to make a distinction.
"There is no justice for traitors— only pain," he asserts, and he takes the book with care and sets it at the apex of the sigil. "Witness her," he commands, and Necromantic Weave flares from Madeline's body, and up and around He Who Was.
The spirit of Madeline spirals up his body and pours into his eyes and mouth, turning them a swirling, pearlescant green. His breathing trembles and he groans in agony as his freewill is ripped away from him. The traces of green slowly fade.
"You!" a feminine voice snaps from his lips. Madeline. "He said I was gonna be punished, that you'd be the judge. But I didn't mean to hurt anyone!"
Okay. That's a bit… weird.
Amara holds up her hands. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
"I said it didn't mean nothing'," he— she says shakily. "That Ben n' Marc were just drunk n' whining. The Dark Justiciar promised she was gonna chat with 'em. She promised."
Amara opens her mouth, closes it. She shakes her head. "Wait— if it was drunk complainin, why did you report them?"
"The Dark Justiciar said to report everythin', big or small. She ain't the type you say no to."
Oh, fuck no. Hells, that's just stupid.
"She gave 'em a dagger each, and told 'em to press it against their stomachs. On the count of three, to 'start stabbin', and not to stop 'till she said so. She never said stop. I'd do anything to take it back. Anything."
"Coming from someone who has encountered a significant amount of unexpected strife, I guarantee you there were countless moments you had to stop, think, and correct your course of action. Your cowardice and inaction has murdered your friends. Think about that."
"You're right," she whispers in fear, voice trembling, body shaking. "I'm a killer. A monster. I should have… died instead…" Her voice trails off, barely there, and takes on a deeper tone.
The green glow returns to the eyes of He Who Was, and then pours from him and returns to the corpse of the tavern owner. The Shadar-Kai struggles for breath, and when his fully black eyes find Amara's one more time, they fill with elation.
"Ah! Glorious," he breathes out. "Look— my hand still shakes." He shows his arm to the group. "You broke her— most thoroughly. Well done."
"I would think she should have known better, but even barring a stronger bout of common sense, her moral compass should have led her to put a stop before her friends were killed. She was punished— that's all that matters," Amara says sternly. "Leave her to her rest now."
"If you are satisfied, then so am I. You have done well. Her pain and anguish were sublime— I will treasure it."
…Yeah.
Thanks.
"Here— for your services. Should I find another murderer in need of torment, I shall call upon you. Farewell."
He vanishes after that.
Amara takes a sharp breath in.
"Gods damn it— I didn't even get to talk to the raven!"
"It looks like you may be able to summon, if not that raven, at least another familiar of the Raven Queen with his payment," Gale points out, observing the gloves. "They are quite a rare piece, these."
Astarion plucks them from his hands. "No eating them, then!"
"I don't even need to do that anymore!"
"Boys," Shadowheart chastises. "Let's not squabble over leather. What's next, Amara?"
"Keep the trek going to Moonrise? After the boys settle which of them gets the wield the leather, I suppose."
With a snort of disgust, Astarion waps the gloves back against Gale's chest. "You two think you're incredibly hilarious."
"You finally noticed!" Amara chimes sweetly, starting back up the path to the nearest waypoint Amara made the previous day to transport them back to Reithwin Town. "Come on, we're burning daylight."
Astarion glares at the sky. "You can even see the sun."
"Burning it!"
They step out of the waypoint and honestly the shadows are thicker than Amara even remembered. They're so dense she feels like she's practically choking on them, even after ringing the bell and coming up with a rhyme for the pixie.
They walk up an unfamiliar path, duck into unfamiliar businesses— there's even a Mason's Guild of sorts, teeming with rotting boxes, robes, and overgrown with fungal infections and mold. At the far back table, however, is something Amara is keen to pocket.
Infernal iron.
She's sure Karlach will be happy about this later.
They try to find their way back through Reithwin, but the gloom makes it a rather difficult task.
"Did we take this path last time?" Shadowheart asks, squinting in the murk.
Gale fires a swirl of Dancing Lights to make it a bit easier to see. "Better, Vae?"
"You're too kind. Has Amara given you…?"
"Inya. She has a way with finding an odd placement for each of us, I think. For the vampire, she chooses a moniker of the sun. For you, a daughter of darkness, she names you 'Nodelvae' after the moon. For me, she chooses 'Daoinya'. 'Celestial star'. It's curious, how she chooses these things."
Amara turns to them, crosses her arms. "I can hear you, Gale of Waterdeep."
"You'll need to come up with your paradoxical titles for the rest of us now. You've created a trend, this bad habit of yours."
She rolls her eyes and ventures into what looks like a tollhouse. "If you're going to run your mouth all day, wizard, practice your cantrips out there. Anyone interested in the adventure can come with me."
She can hear his laughter echo in the chamber of the vaulted stone ceilings, followed by unhurried footsteps. She checks a few dead-end doors and empty rooms and—
is that a floating skull?
"You should leave now. I should have left when I still could."
That would be a yes. It's a talking floating skull. With blue flames licking out of it.
Further attempts to talk to the skull provide one more detail: it's a floating skull with blue flames licking out of it which can only say one thing.
Amara leaps to the second level in pursuit of another skull she can see from below, and practically lets herself fall back down when she finds something much, much worse than a floating, flaming, talking skull.
It's a figure made of gold— literally dipping gold coin. Pointed claw, round in face, and sculpted to look… rather…
Well.
"Oh, well that's just horrendous," Astarion says instantaneously.
It - whatever it is - zeroes in on Amara's party immediately. "WHAT DID YOU BRING?"
Amara isn't really sure how to answer that. She leans back from whatever this thing is. She can't tell if she's insulted this creature with her wares, or if it's expecting an offering.
She hopes it's not an offering. She doesn't have much.
"What do you require?" she tries instead.
"I REQUIRE GOLD," it says, which.
Well.
Well.
Amara probably should have been able to guess that.
She tilts her tead. Tosses the creature a gold piece, flicking the thin metallic coin over to it with her thumb.
With grasping claws, it clambers for the piece, holding it with sincere reverence before shoving the gold piece into its waiting maw, gold dust wisping off of its mouth. "AGAIN!" it demands, and this close up, Amara can see its mask has tear tracks of gold on it.
In her ear, Astarion whispers, "Are you really going to…?"
Amara licks her teeth. "I don't hand out so much gold for so little in return," she reassures Astarion and herself.
It hovers, lingers. Hesitates. "YOU MAY PASS THE RIVER. BUT FIRST YOU MUST PAY."
Again, Amara really is firing on all cylinders again.
It's a tollhouse.
"You're a toll collector. Or you were, anyway," Amara proclaims.
It tilts its head. Considers. "I COLLECT THE GOLD. THE GOLD SO YOU MAY PASS."
"I've already paid," Amara claims, gesturing to its body. "Can't I pass?"
"MORE GOLD!" it demands, growing more furious.
She crosses her arms over her chest. "How much do you want, exactly?"
"ALL THAT YOU HAVE!"
Amara laughs. "Then I have met your demands," she lies. "I have no more money to give."
"IF YOU CANNOT PAY, YOU CANNOT PASS. GOLD. GOLD. GOLD!"
The creature leans forward menacingly, shifting and bearing its claws, puffing its chest, and suddenly Amara realizes there are countless other enemies in the room.
Nope!
Not happening.
Bad idea.
She snaps, back a few questions.
"YOU MAY PASS THE RIVER. BUT FIRST YOU MUST PAY," it demands, it's lilting voice far less angry.
Amara tries a different tactic. "Why stay in this rotted building? Take your gold and be free."
"THE GOLD IS NOT FOR ME," it argues. "THE GOLD IS FOR THE TOLL. I COLLECT THE TOLL. I COLLECT THE GOLD."
Taking a step closer to the golden creature, Amara looks around with exaggeration. "Says who? Seems to me there's no one here to oversee you."
"GOLD… GOLD! GOLD…" it repeats, confusion evident. "NO, I PAY IT BACK!"
In a flash of golden mist, the creature almost seems to explode.
Amara coughs, a puff of the golden dust coming out of her mouth. "Please tell me," she whispers into the silence of the tollhouse, "that dust isn't a living thing."
Shadowheart looks her over.
"Don't tell me."
With a flourish of her hands, Shadowheart casts a spell to Cleanse the dust from her body.
Astarion, unbothered by the dust, is sorting through the loot. "Ooh, counterfeit-in-progress", he says, waving around a scroll. "Juicy. Right here, some illegal trade in this tollhouse."
"Really, Astarion, are you going to rummage around this whole place?"
"Why, of course, darling. Can't you just smell the gold?"
He's not wrong, either, and it's not long before the rest of them are searching for more. Amara herself is searching for more— even if what she's looking for isn't gold. There's no end to the clues and their connections.
"'The Rumor of Reithwin'," she reads aloud to her companions. "'Land of darkness, land of gold, / Land of Sharran, soldiers bold. / The tollhouse countless riches keeps, / Where darkest shadow curse still creeps. / The greatest treasures of them all / Lurks deep within sepulchre's walls. / Tomb of Thorm, O veiled by night, / Reveal the means of Keth'ric's might.' And here, scribbled at the bottom, it says, 'It's true. All of it.', in all capital letters."
"So we need to find this— this tomb of Thorm," Gale supposes. "It contains the source of Ketheric's immortality."
Amara looks back at the desecrated pile of golden dust. "You don't think— that creature wasn't a Thorm, was it?"
"Considering the state of the Thorm in Waning Moon?" Shadowheart supposes. "It—she… could have been."
"I… am not looking forward to seeing Father Ketheric," Amara says with dread in her voice.
/ / /
The tollhouse leads to a bridge over a long drop, which just so happens to be Moonrise— already.
"Does it feel like it's happening too fast?" Amara asks.
Astarion snorts. "Darling, we've been up here for days already. It took us days to get here. I'd venture to say as fun as our adventure has been, we could really use the win."
Through the gates, two heavily armed individuals stop Amara and her party before they can approach a long series of stone stairs. "That's far enough," one of them warns in a low voice.
"Looks like that win will have to wait," Shadowheart remarks to the vampire.
Immediately, Amara senses a resonance between the guard and her.
*His thoughts invade your own, probing for purchase. Your parasite purrs in recognition.*
Oh, ergh!! No need for that language, narrator! Come on.
"Ah, one blessed like myself," he realizes, correcting his tone instantly. "What news, True Soul?"
Gale leans in and whispers, "Or, maybe it won't have to wait?"
Amara tries to hush them silently. "Little from the field," she offers vaguely. "What news inside?"
"General Ketheric's advisor went off on a field trip— Z'rell's in charge 'til he gets back," he informs her.
Next to him, his female companion offers a little more information. "You'll find Z'rell in the audience chamber, True Soul. She'll be wanting to hear from you."
Amara swallows her discomfort and says, "In Her name."
"Praise the Absolute," they both respond.
Gesturing for them to follow her, Amara climbs the stairs and opens the main door.
It's bloody unlocked.
"There can be no doubt." The dream visitor's voice startles Amara. "This is the place. This is where we'll discover the secret of the Absolute."
"Can you please not scare the pants off me when you do that?" she hisses at it.
They walk past two absolutely massive statues wearing helmets, and down another set of stairs. The place is crawling with people. Cultists.
One of them is posted at the bottom of the staircase. "Another True Soul. The Disciple will want to see you— through the main doors."
Their variation is admirable. Goblin brawlers, half-orc warriors, adept drow.
Of course, they're all united under a particularly… shitty set of circumstances.
Amara lets their voices filter in and out of her notice. A hoard of the goblins are huddled together to one side of the room. "Bunch of the others were rounded up in the main hall a while ago. They ain't come back…" one of the brawlers mutters to a few others.
On the other side of the room, there are humans and elves in simple garb, though their voices are pinched— strained. "Where do you hail from, brother?" one of them asks.
"I was a farrier in Dessarin Valley. Then the dreams came," he responds, tense but laden with pride.
"My brothers had the dreams too, same as me," another one of them admits. "But they wouldn't admit it."
"That's right—" the last one says, raising her voice. "The Absolute Herself called us here. They cannot stop us from seeing Z'rell now!"
Amara exchanges wary glances with her companions. She mouths, "Dreams?" at them.
Astarion grabs her by her shoulders and corrals her toward the next set of doors. "Darling, you needn't be so nervous."
"We have your back," Shadowheart encourages her.
Gale takes her hand. "Is there anything in particular that's bothering you?"
She breathes in softly, looks at the number of people in the room.
Imagines if they all attack.
Hears the sounds of death.
"We aren't here too soon, and we didn't get here too fast," Shadowheart insists.
"It's as you said to me, we can tackle anything if we pursue it together," Gale reminds her.
Astarion scoffs. "Cliche and juvenile way to put it, but not false. Come, darling. Let's take this place by storm."
Amara flickers her gaze to all her companions. "Force of nature," she whispers like a mantra. "Let's go, then, if you're all so keen."
The next door is at the top of another set of stairs, which is of course guarded by two more cultists. "Welcome back, True Soul," a tattooed drow says reverently.
Amara does not like the implication that she should have been turned here, and not aboard a mind flayer vessel. What the hell happened to them?
"Z'rell is holding an audience with the General— deciding the fate of those who have failed the Absolute." He gestures to the doors as if intending Amara to go beyond, as if there's no reason she shouldn't.
Oof. That does not sound like a place Amara and her group should be.
She opens the door.
The room is a desolate church, filled with candles and cobwebs. Dark, dingy, with a wrinkled fabric runner and frayed tapestries. What should be a sacred space, a holy room, a chamber for audiences, has no ornate decorations, no care taken in its cleansing, no tenderness to its sanctity.
The false god is worshiped with false believers, who know not how to worship, only how to grovel in the dust.
"We did as we was told, General!" a goblin insists. A familiar goblin. The one who wasted time spinning Barcus around a windmill. "Followed every order—"
"The facts suggest otherwise," a half-orc woman interrupts. "You were ordered to retrieve the artifact— you failed to do so."
"Us?" the goblin flounders. "No no, it was Minthara. She got the orders, she—"
"Enough!"
*A pulse of mental energy washes over you, filling the room. Your tadpole squirms, urging you to obey.*
Amara presses her fingers together until her bones ache.
"You failed to retrieve the artifact," the orc - who Amara is pretty sure is Z'rell - reiterates. "You failed to protect your True Soul. You do not deserve to live."
There's a pause, and Amara takes in a breath against a crushing amount of Chronomancy Weave.
Time lingers, as if stretching, giving her an opportunity.
Amara simply declines to take it.
"Mercy, General! Please!" the goblin begs, and Amara keeps her lips sealed shut.
"General Thorm?" Z'rell asks, and she turns to— a man.
A regular-looking man, thank the blessed gods. He's an elderly looking half-elf, a crown on his head, silvered, bejeweled armor with hints of gold and chain mail. He's normal man shaped and also not a solid blob of living gold.
"You have seen what these creatures are capable of, and you have seen their inadequacies— isn't that so? What is your judgement?" he asks, deferring back to Z'rell.
Amara doesn't have to tell him that's a death sentence. He knows very well. He just doesn't want to pass it himself.
"You know I'm loyal, tell 'im—" the goblin asks, but—
Hold on.
Why is he looking at Amara?
"Enough! True Soul— tell the General how the goblins served our cause."
No— Amara does not want to be judge, jury, and executioner here! She's abstaining! Withholding! Sealing her—
Oh, for the love of… fine.
"I did not witness the whole of their service," she admits. "But they're faithful to the Absolute, I'll give them that."
He points to Amara, fear rattling through him alongside the relief. "See? What'd I tell yeh? Praise the Absolute!"
Thorm stares for a beat, and then says, "Faith without action is anaemic, sickly. In a word, useless. We are too close to the ending— and the new beginning." He rises from his seat. "I can coddle failure no longer."
Then why ask, you old fart?!
"Kill them. Quickly," he orders Z'rell.
"What? No!" the goblin yells, utterly terrified, with an edge of anger.
Next to him, a goblin woman with curly white hair seems to share his anger— and more. "You creaking old bag of shit!"
Hey, yeah! That's pretty good.
Then she shoves a guard and steals his ax and throws it right through Thorm's chest.
Woah, no! That's fucking crazy!
Amara holds her breath as the general lays slumped in his chair, his blood splattered all over him, the weapon, and the chair… almost black in color. The goblins all start cheering at the death, but Amara knows better. She keeps her fingers locked up tight, ready to snap. Thorm's eyes flutter open, and his hand reaches for the ax handle. With a grunt of agony, he wrenches the blade from his chest.
"I'm so sorry, my lord," Z'rell simpers. "She's an unbeliever— outside my control."
He drops the ax in front of the goblin. "Try again," he urges, and Amara nearly takes a step forward to stop the goblin when she actually picks up the ax and tries again. She lops into the General's neck, but he merely says, "Huh." He plucks it from his flesh and the gaping wound closes up.
"No— NO!" she yells, attempting to run, but Thorm brings clasped fists down onto her head with full force and the goblin collapses to the floor.
Thorm turns back to Z'rell, wiping his hands. "Dispose of the rest as you see fit."
She nods, but there is a look on her face that doesn't seem to be getting off on whatever Thorm is getting off on.
"Or better yet— put that True Soul to use. You have far more important matters to attend to— or have you forgotten?"
"Of course not, my lord. Thank you." They all watch the General leave and Z'rell turns back to Amara. "You heard the General. The goblins are yours— deal with them however you wish."
Great.
Thanks.
She runs her tongue over her teeth. "What am I meant to do with them, exactly?" she asks, making her there isn't an expectation she has to fake.
"They are yours. You can release them, kill them, or feed them to each other for all I care. Just deal with them. Here, in the seat of the Absolute's power, your authority over them is complete. They will obey any command. Report to me upstairs when you're done."
The goblins huddle together, and the moment Z'rell is out of earshot, the goblin she recognizes faces her again. "Please— you gotta help me. For old times' sake," he begs, hands extended toward her, body low as if ready to splay himself on the ground.
"What is your name?" Amara asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Fezzerk," he responds immediately. "I am Fezzerk."
"Stand up straight, Fezzerk."
Surprise ripples across his face, but he obeys shakily, until he has risen to his full height, with the best posture he can muster while still trembling in fear.
Amara darts her eyes to the adept cultists in the room. "Guards," she orders. "Release them."
A shuddering sigh of relief comes from Fezzerk's mouth. "Praise the Absolute! And praise Her True Soul!"
Shadowheart takes her arm. "Your merciful streak will be the death of us one day," she advises softly. "Let's hope Z'rell won't be too angry."
"I checked," Amara defends. "She said I could 'realease them, kill them, or feed them to each other'. Theoretically…"
She snaps her eyes to the two goblins, allowing a flicker of her Weave to flare through them. "Behave," she requests. "I want to hear of no further atrocities committed in your name, my name, or the name of the Absolute. Buy a farm, or something. Out with you."
She steps aside to let them by.
"Thank you," Fezzerk says, "Really. Really."
"Go."
They scamper away, back out the door Amara and her party came through and presumably out of Moonrise proper. She doesn't know how they're planning to get through the shadows, but she trusts they'll figure it out.
"Done, in your own way," Astarion drawls. "Now, let's report to the lovely Z'rell."
"Okay, let's—"
"The seat of the Absolute's power— occupied by a General that cannot be killed. But his followers are flesh and blood," the dream visitor whispers into their consciousnesses.
"By all the heavenly…"
"We must learn more about his power," it advises.
"What do you think we're doing?" Amara hisses.
"Ignore it," Shadowheart says, taking her by the arms. "We have dealt with the goblins as requested. Now we must seek council with Z'rell."
"Right, right," Amara mutters. "One step at a time."
They move past the cultists in the room and reach a set of stairs on either side of the throne, which they ascend with care. Amara doesn't trust a single step she walks.
"General Thorm's prayers and preparations must not be disturbed," Z'rell's voice interrupts as Amara tries to navigate. "The rooftop is off-limits to everyone."
The guard at the door Amara was about to approach asks a curious question. "Even you, Disciple Z'rell?"
"Everyone," she stresses. "Keep watch, and ensure that nobody passes." Then, the half-orc woman turns her attention unfortunately to Amara. "Excellent timing, True Soul. The goblins— tell me how they suffered. No. Better yet— show me."
Well, shit.
So much for preparations.
*Her mind enters yours abruptly, flickering across your memories in a blaze of excitement. Tongues of psychic flame lap for the memory of the goblins dying by your hand.*
Well— if that's what she's looking for, Amara can provide. Just— just as long as Z'rell doesn't look too closely. She conjures the memory of countless battles, quickly forming a believable image of their deaths.
"I see you like to handle underlings physically?" she asks, which— sure. "So do I."
Great, thanks for the information. Amara hopes she's long gone before this comes to bite her in the ass.
Amara rocks back on her heels. "Got any more for me to punish?" she breezily asks.
"Plenty," Z'rell says, a little too quickly for Amara's tastes. "But I hoped someone of your talents would be more ambitious."
What does this woman even know of Amara's talents?
"You came here to answer the Absolute's call. Let's see what you're made of."
*She parts the folds of your mind again, touching your wants and hopes. Tasting them.*
Amara slams up a wall of resistance with urgency, the lack of any sort of warning or permission making her temper flare.
*Every emotion soaks into her mind's palate, but there is purpose to her exploration— she is searching for proof of your faith.*
"You carry much anger in you," she notices, and Amara's teeth grit.
"And you carry little gentility in you," Amara retorts.
"You don't wish to share your love of the Absolute?"
"We seem to have very different definitions of sharing, if you are so eager to bore into my brain— without permission."
*You feel her exploration deepen. Insistent. She won't let this go without being driven out.*
Amara tries to focus— on something, anything, other than her betrayal of the Absolute.
"Hmmmm. You've used the wizard well," she blithely comments, and anger flares over Amara's body with a vengeance.
She snarls at the half-orc. "Get out!! Out of my head!"
"But the desperate one who would love such a pathetic man must hunger for greater delights deep down. With the Absolute, your fantasies can become more real than flesh. The pleasures of the mind can surpass those of the body. She gave me everything I wanted."
Gale grabs her arm and pulls her back, making Amara realize just how close she nearly got to the half-orc, Weave sizzling on her fingertips. Suddenly, the wizard intrudes on her mental space as well.
*You feel Gale's familiar presence as it surges into you, wrapping around every exposed facet of your mind and locking it down with steel armor. Anger rolls off of him in waves, but unlike the gushing waterfall that your own fury often takes on, Gale's is a controlled, constant stream of boiling rage.
"I think you've had enough," he warns in an even, determined tone of voice, and abruptly shuts Z'rell out of Amara's head. "We've tarried near a fortnight reaching this place, serving where we could and spreading Her word. We've far exceeded what has been asked of us, and cleaned up messes from other True Souls. The goblin camp was in total disarray when we got there— you should count yourself lucky we managed to keep as many in line as we did. Not to mention Grymforge. Nere was beyond a failure, as more gnomes fell by his hand than he bothered converting, and he got himself blown up and the passage blocked on top of that. So, back off of her."
Her eyes flick between the two of them. "You possess a great deal of nerve, human. Beware your hubris. She granted me a great boon— the power to cut the thread of life with a thought." She raises her hands, and between her palms gathers a spark of light, and beyond her one of the trolls swoons and falls dead to the floor. "But I can caress as well as cut. That's why you should stay on my good side."
Shadowheart steps in front of the two of them. "And how do we do that, Disciple Z'rell?"
"The best way to do that is to serve General Thorm. I have a mission for you."
Amara's psyche trembles, as the dream visitor gives her some indication it's about to speak. "That's it— play along. The closer you can get to the General, the closer you'll be to the answers you seek."
She grits her teeth. "I live to serve," she manages to say in a pale resemblance to her usual voice. "What do I need to do?"
"There is a relic that General Thorm requires— he sent his most trusted advisor, Disciple Balthazar, to retrieve it. The relic is beneath the Thorm family mausoleum— that is where you will find Balthazar. But we have lost contact with him— go there, aid Balthazar if you can, and bring the relic home."
Amara h6ad a half dozen questions.
She also can't stand to be looking this woman in the eye any longer.
"Understood— I'm ready to head out," she simply says, to end this interaction.
"The shadows around the Mausoleum are deep and hungry— you will need a Moonlantern to survive them," she advises, seeing that Amara doesn't carry one. "Take one from Balthazar's chambers. But don't pry— the last person who snooped into his secrets lost their head. I believe he uses it as a chamber pot."
Amara accepts the key. "Understood," she repeats, and steps away.
"Darling, do you know where this Balthazar's chambers are?" he hisses as they abscond.
"No idea," she snaps. "And I wasn't about to ask. We rip this place apart."
He makes a trilling sound. "Have I ever told you how intriguing you are when you are furious?"
She flicks her gaze to his waiting, red one. "Loot the place, Niar. Every gold piece. Every title of interest from each bloody shelf. I want every potion, every ingredient. Unlock each door, each chest. Leave them nothing."
"Whatever you say, oh illustrious leader," he purrs and then disappears into the shadow ahead of them.
/ / /
What starts as a spiteful hoarding of material goods quickly becomes something more dire: the darkness that lurks somewhere in Moonrise Towers is frankly terrifying to Amara.
According to many, many, many letters, scraps, and books found in Balthazar and Ketheric's chambers, there's been mention of study of an Apostle… but not of which god.
There are also maps.
Many maps.
Altered maps, showing invasion routes for the Absolute's forces to follow, in order to overtake both Baldur's Gate and the Sword Coast as a whole.
"We'll stop it," Gale assures her, taking the map from her hands. "We can do it."
She nods, watching him set the map back down where she picked it up from. "How can they— how can they even think this is the justified course of action? How does this happen?"
Gale levels a look at her, lips pulled into a sorrowful frown. "I don't know, my love. I don't know."
"Amara!" Astarion calls, from deeper in the tower. "Come listen to this."
The wizards exchange a glance and follow the sound of his voice, across several wooden planks, to a stone brick wall.
*Through a narrow crack in the wall, you hear something shift against stone. The pulse of a crawling, living thing.*
Amara sends a pulse of Weave into the opening in the stone wall, a gust of amber and myrrh, oakmoss and mint. The feeling of a rocking ship, the path of the constellations. Guiding. Checking. Searching.
*You can't quite catch a glimpse, but you recognise this feeling— the same alien presence you felt on the nautiloid. Would you like to reach in, or leave?*
Oh, hells. Fine.
Amara reaches in.
*Your awareness unfolds, expanding through every wall in the tower— every mind. A vast, living network, extending down into the dark— where something wakes.*
"Gods. What is it? What now?" Shadowheart asks, her expression plastered with fear.
"It's a trap!" your dream visitor insists.
*Tendrils snap like iron cords around your wrist. That presence in your mind looms large, closer now. Would you like to tear your arm out of the tentacle's grip, wriggle your hand free, go limp and ride it out, or do nothing?*
"Oh, hells," Amara bites out. "Not fine."
Amara relaxes her body, rotating her arm by the wrist and feeling out what's grabbed onto her, waiting for the most opportune moment.
*You stop resisting, your arm bending with the movement of the flesh. And suddenly, an opening appears. With a soft sucking sound, your hand pulls free. The flesh within the wall retreats."
Shaking her hand out, wet with some kind of sticky viscera, Amara makes exaggerated noises of disgust.
"Careful, in future— you can't just stick your hand in every strange hole you come across," Shadowheart teases, and casts her Cleanse spell to rid Amara of the substance.
"I learned something!" Amara protests. "But… thank you."
They follow the same kind of viscera, a dark pink, mucus-like substance, down from the rafters. It pours out of an opening in a tower, and leads them to another floor of the towers. A floor, which, this time, actually has some living occupants. One of them is posted in front of what looks like advanced alchemical equipment, and Amara finds herself wanting to approach the drow who's working the toolset.
Shadowheart catches her arm. "Are you sure?" she asks. "What if they're hostile?"
"Then I snap," Amara reminds her softly. "Gale and you are prepped to come back with me. I'm sure Astarion could handle it."
Her eyes linger on Amara's for a few moments. "If you're sure."
Amara just smiles at her, as brightly as she can, and approaches the drow chemist, who immediately stands at attention when she takes notice of Amara's approach.
"Araj Oblodra," she introduces herself immediately. "Trader in blood and the sanguineous arts. It is a pleasure to stand before a True Soul. And your pale companion."
Amara startles, and looks quickly at Astarion, who looks equally as off-balance.
"I'd like to offer my services, if you're willing?" she asks, tilting her head.
"Why are you interested in my pale friend?" Amara asks, licking her teeth.
"Please, you think someone in my line of work wouldn't recognize a vampire spawn when they see one?" she asks, and she feels Astarion stiffen. "I trade in blood and the potions that can be wrung from it. I'm more than happy to make you one, if you'd honor me with your blood."
Amara touches her neck unconsciously.
"With one drop, I can brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest, I keep for myself."
Oh, Amara does not like that.
"What kind of potion is this, exactly?"
The drow woman shrugs. "No idea! But it will be unique to you— your blood essence and the Absolute's blessing intertwined. We can learn exactly what that means together, hm?"
"And what exactly will you do with the blood you keep?"
"Research, naturally. A little experimentation, perhaps— and I have an innate curiosity for all things sanguine."
…Well.
Amara supposes she can see what the potion is, at least.
"Sounds interesting. Let's do it."
"Just a little prick and it's all over. Close your eyes," she instructs, and Amara feels a small course of regret in her body. She keeps watch, puts a dab of a healing potion over the prick mark, and observes what she can of the drow woman's process work.
She can hardly follow some of the distillation.
"There we are. All of your very best traits in a bottle. Use it well!" Araj passes Amara a small glass vial, which Amara pockets. Araj flicks her gaze between Amara, the vial, and Astarion. "Although perhaps there's one more thing we could discuss: your friend."
"What about him?" Amara asks, resisting stepping in front of him.
"He's a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn, at least. I am sure about this."
"Don't worry," he drawls. "We're all friends under the Absolute. I won't bite."
"Oh, I'd prefer if you did," she quickly responds, and her eyelashes actually flutter. She turns back to Amara. "I assume he belongs to you?"
"Excuse me?" Amara asks, practically breathless with how quickly the rage hits her. "He's his own person."
"I'm sure he really believes that," she responds, and again she flutters her lashes at Astarion, pushes her lower lip out in a pout. "How utterly adorable. Do you have a name, spawn?"
"Astarion, but hold on—" He puts his hands in front of his face, as if forming a barrier between them. Heat rages through Amara's skin.
"Good. Now, Astarion," she interrupts, with no care for his protests. "I've dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl."
"I'm sorry?" he asks, leaning away from her, waving a finger. "You want to be bitten?"
"To feel your life's blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it," she confirms, and Amara wants nothing but to snap right at that moment. "I'll even compensate you— a potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it. It's not for sale, but it's yours if you bite me."
"I will have to decline," Astarion says, immediately. No hesitation.
"Excuse me?" Araj asks, wide-eyed. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it."
"I gave you my answer," he asserts.
Araj turns back to Amara. "Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"
Amara flexes her fingers. Doesn't rub them together.
No snapping.
Astarion declined.
He should get to decline.
She won't take that away from him.
"He said no," she asserts. "There's nothing more to discuss."
"How very disappointing," she says, her lips pulled down in disgust.
Amara takes Astarion by the wrist and leads him out of the room, thoroughly done with running into living people in the towers. She just wants to get this over with.
Back in the hall, she turns to the vampire and her hands hover around his face. He takes her wrists and presses her palms to his cool skin. "Are you all right?" she asks, in a whisper.
"Why wouldn't I be, darling? Should I be bothered that drow tried to trade me for some potion?
Amara shakes her head, rubs his cheeks with her thumbs. "I wouldn't have ever, Astarion— not for anything, especially not for a measly potion. Not if you didn't want to."
"There was something wrong with her blood," he insists, a desperation in his gaze. "I could smell it from where we were standing. It was rank, Amara."
"What do you mean?" she asks, worry rising. "What's wrong with her blood?"
"I can't say, it just smelled wrong. Unnatural."
Amara's hands tremble and Astarion grips her wrists harder. "Would it have killed you?" she asks, her voice wavering. "If I had— if I had pushed you… if I'd asked, if I'd been tempted…"
"You weren't, darling," he insists. "You didn't."
"But if I had—"
"Drinking it wouldn't have killed me, but… it would not have been pleasant," he clarifies. "I didn't entertain the thought for a moment, and neither did you. You rejected the idea the moment you heard my rejection. And for that… I want to thank you."
"Niar," she says, but her voice breaks slightly. "You owe me no gratitude— that drow's words were vile toward you."
Astarion takes a deep breath, and glances at Gale and Shadowheart, but refocuses on Amara. "I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master," he hisses out, anger building. "What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered. You could have asked me to do the same— to throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned." His eyes flutter closed and the anger rushes out of him. "But you didn't. And I am grateful."
"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," Amara insists, again stroking his face with her thumbs. His eyes open, glistening vermillion.
He lets out a soft laugh. "It's a novel concept, I admit. And a…" he hesitates, smiles down at Amara, "a little intimidating. It would have been so easy to bite her. To just go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of disgust to force myself through. And then I could have carried on, just like before."
"No," she says immediately, "No, no. That would've been wrong, Niar."
"You realize, the entire reason for my existence was to seduce anything with a pulse. Oh, don't look at me like that. Consciously, I would love to think differently. On an instinctive level, it's as if nothing's changed. It feels like I'm still just a means to an end. You made me see I never stopped thinking like I was still his slave, even in freedom. But I'm more than that. More than a thing to be used."
"Of course you are," Amara insists. "I care about you. We all do, Astarion."
He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching her face. His mouth is open, each breath short. "If it were anyone else," he says softly, his thumbs rubbing into the pulse points of her wrists, "I would say they were lying."
"You're safe with us, Niar, because we love you. Whatever you want to do, whatever you don't want to do, you won't have to face anything alone. No matter what you do or where you go, you go there loved."
Astarion pulls at Amara's wrists, putting them behind his neck, and he sinks into an embrace with her. She can hear the sharp intakes of breath he takes when he buries his face into her neck, her braids, and his hands are careful to keep only the pads of his fingers grasping for purchase at her back, his sharpened nails avoiding injuring her.
He peels away slightly, and puts an arm out, palm up. His eyes are wet with emotion and round with vulnerability. Gale takes his gesture first, stepping into their huddle, and Shadowheart joins a moment later.
"This is sweet and all," she says, but her voice is a tad thick as well, "but we really should keep moving."
"Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing," Astarion remarks, gesturing to their group embrace. "But for the first time— I feel as though it doesn't matter what comes next. I've never felt so… hopeful."
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 27: Silver and Stone
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXVII
Silver and Stone
"Can I take that back?" Astarion asks as they descend another staircase. "The 'hopeful' comment? The overwhelming scent of blood in the air has changed my mind."
Amara flicks her gaze around them. "If I had to venture a guess, I'd say this will lead us to the prisons. Not a hopeful place, but one we need to go to."
The vampire glances at her. "What makes you think that?"
She takes his hand and holds it up between them. "Hold on tight, Niar."
"Wait, are you—"
The snap echoes between the two of them and brings them back to the base of the staircase. Gale whips around to look at them, clearly sensing the rewind, and Astarion reels, practically falling over. His hand clasps over his mouth and he retches, stumbling into Amara.
"You—" he slurs out. "You are such a devil. Rude, cruel, senseless."
"Shh," she chastises. "Listen. Those two guards we're about to pass."
The vampire keeps his hand pressed to his lips and swallows, expression twisted with disgust, but he does keep quiet.
"It is impossible to keep a garment clean down here," one of them says. "Damn prisoners."
"You'll find it all the harder once we're off on the march," his partner replies.
Astarion flicks his glare in Amara's direction. He mouths, "March?" at her.
She shrugs.
He rolls his eyes as they keep moving forward, through the maze-like series of rooms. Some are filled with more items to grab; scrolls, potions, and letters line the tables, walls, and shelves. Some are emptied of everything except the stench of blood. Some still are occupied, only not with items of value, but cultists who whisper words of ecstasy over the pain and suffering of others.
The lower they go, the darker the prison becomes— until the darkness takes on a green, hazy tint. Massive structures puncture deep into the ground, where mint colored mist drifts up from the depths below to surround them.
"What is that?" Astarion demands as they approach one of the prison guard towers perhaps, but he isn't looking at the towering cylinder of stone, he's looking into the distance, where a stone circle depresses into the ground and the center drops away into a glowing pool of red. As they approach it, waves and ripples of Weave spill from the top and a noise pierces through the air.
Like screaming.
Amara leads them in the opposite direction.
"Don't you think we should—"
"No," Amara declines succinctly.
"But what if—"
"No."
"Amara, consider—"
"Mm, no."
She reaches the other side of the room, and a scan of towering bars inlaid in the stone shows her— horns. Amara rushes forward and at the same time, the tiefling she spotted in the cell rises to her feet and presses herself to the bars.
Amara recognizes her from the party, her name starts with an L… Larissa? Lamissa?
"Oh no," she breathes, her wide honey-colored eyes flickering over Amara's face and her tail wrapped so tightly around her leg that Amara worried for her circulation. "The cult got inside your head too?"
Amara rushes to the bars and presses herself against the other side. "No—" she assures her immediately, the sound gusting out of her mouth. "The other tieflings sent me. They're in a place called Last Light— it's safe there."
"Oh, thank the stars," she breathes in relief and her tail droops down from its tight coil. She reaches out and tangles her fingers with Amara's through the bars. "When they disappeared into the darkness, my heart just about stopped. I couldn't bear the thought of them being hurt. Not after Zevlor."
"Don't worry," Amara assures her. "I'm going to get you out of here."
"I'd offer to bet on it, but I know you'll win this one," the tiefling says knowingly— Lakrissa! That was it, Amara is pretty sure. "Speak to the gnomes— they've been knocking about their cell for days. Whatever they're up to? I'm in."
Looking a few cells down, following the sound of "knocking about", Amara does see the familiar silhouettes of gnomes. She makes quick work of the trek, and stands at the bars while one of the gnomes insides commands the others.
"Nimble! Check for gaps, cracks— anything to leverage the rock," he instructs, and thank the gods Amara is the only one eavesdropping. They should really designate someone to keep watch. If Amara was anyone else, they'd all be dead with this little display. "Nickels: tools— get creative. This rock is basalt— it'll crack with enough pressure."
The gnome - Nickels maybe? - looks up to nod, and freezes, staring at Amara.
*You watch the leader of these gnomes spin around, and notice a certain confidence to the lines of his body and how he holds himself, but his eyes… betray the fear he feels at your proximity.*
"Ah! Don't mind us, True Soul. The back wall is weak— we're working to brace it."
It's not terrible— but he is owning that there's an opportunity for escape, with that admission, so it's not good either.
"Are you Wulbren?" Amara asks, and he stiffens, his ears flicking. The fear in his eyes grows. "Barcus sent me."
His head tips up, eyes narrowing. Not the face Amara would make if a dear friend of hers sent for a rescue. "…Barcus is out here? Didn't think he had the stones."
…
"Excuse me?" Amara asks, thoroughly taken aback— too much so to realize she should be more insulted on behalf of the gnome at her camp.
His eyes flick one way, then back at Amara. There's less fear in them, and more… contempt, now. "If he sent you, you're no slave to the Absolute," he realizes, plans already forming. "You're a damn wolf among sheep, aren't you? I reckon you and I were meant to meet— you are right, I'm Wulbren."
He sticks his hand between the bars for Amara to shake.
"Amara," she introduces with her handshake. "Pleasure to meet you."
"We've got a plan," he informs her, his expression serious, his eyes watching the others who might be patrolling this part of the room. "For us and the tieflings both, but we're scuppered without the right equipment. We need tools. The headcase of a Warden robbed ours, but anything that breaks rocks will do— even if it's not Ironhand quality." He gestures to the back wall with his eyes. "Whatever you find, throw it through the bars. But for the love of Gaerdal make sure a guard doesn't see you— or we're both done for."
Right. Tools. Warden. All sounds easy enough.
"The Warden is in the structure behind us?" Gale asks, and Wulbren nods.
"Just be careful."
Amara reluctantly gets closer to the red screaming hole— ugh. The pit, she'll just say, and crosses the bridge to reach the prison tower. Inside is - surprisingly - a tiefling. Just goes to show the breadth of this plague. Locking her own innocent people in cells.
Amber eyes flick to her, and she smoothes back a mohawk of red locs. "You spark of the familiar. Do I know you, True Soul?" she asks, shifting the middle of her tail into an arch. Amara realizes she's going to have to lie probably, and she saddles herself up to be as deceptive as she can. "Hm," the Warden hums, seemingly having no patience to hear Amara's answer. "Perhaps not— your face is rather bland."
Okay. That's… uncalled for.
"Regardless," she continues unhindered, "know this— I am the Warden. The prisoners are my charges, and I answer to Disciple Balthazar himself. Stay on my good side."
And Amara doesn't like power, she really doesn't. It's just— sometimes… she'd like to knock some people down a peg. A follower of a follower of a false god thinks she is threatening enough to be talking so deeply down to her.
What Amara would give to have a conversation with her after slaying the god she worships.
She doesn't say any of that, and instead decides this might be a good opportunity to learn some new information. "This Disciple Balthazar you speak of— none will tell me much about him. Who is he?"
"Under ordinary circumstances, you would have met him by now, True Soul. A shame that he is on a mission and you haven't been able to speak with him face-to-face yet. Disciple Balthazar is chief advisor to General Ketheric and one of the Absolute's favored. His necromancy is second only to the General's— it is an honor to serve him."
Amara has to focus to keep her lip from curling. She believes honor and servitude shouldn't belong in the same sentence.
"It seems a busy job," she notices, gesturing outside the room. "You certainly have no shortage of heretics rounded up. This must be an interesting sector to advise over in our order— you must confiscate lots of interesting things from prisoners."
"Indeed," she confirms with narrowed eyes. "But all are kept out of reach from… sticky fingers," she sneers toward Amara's hidden hands. "They're under constant surveillance in the office above. Prison security is my highest priority."
…Right. Sure.
Amara gives her a tight smile. "A pity then, that we don't see eye to eye. I came to inquire about a particular prisoner— Duke Ravengard?"
"He sounds important, and I'm afraid the mere dregs are the only ones left in my care," this so-called Warden admits. Bloody useless, this one is.
As a last ditch attempt to learn something before looting the place, Amara sends out gentle waves of cinnamon and amber, probing tendrils of Weave that spiral out into the room. Searching, prodding, looking.
*Your mind swirls with information about the prison: the small levers behind the Warden's desk open every cell, while the larger one triggers the alarm. As she mentioned, any interesting items confiscated from prisoners lie above the Warden's office, just up the ladder.*
"If you are going to stare," she hisses with vitriol, the tip of her tail flicking rapidly, "kindly do it elsewhere. You are free to roam where you wish, but do not speak to the prisoners."
Well. Oops?
Amara takes the invitation for what its worth and just climbs right up the ladder. She takes a seat once she's up there and looks around.
"Ah," Astarion drawls, joining her where she sits propped in a seat. "I see the issue." A Scrying Eye flits through the room.
"Think you can take care of it?" Amara asks, casting Invisibility over them both.
"Darling, I'm an expert now," he assures her, and she quickly loses track of him as his every footfall is silent.
The eye is a pile of scrap on the floor a moment later.
Several moments after that, there's been a thorough looting of the upper floor of the Warden's tower.
Instead of climbing back down the ladder, Amara leads the group out with a casting of Featherfall, and all of them drop from the tower's window to the ground below, right in front of the cells.
"Out of all the things to not require rewinding," Gale remarks, shaking his head.
Amara shrugs. "Not my fault they have shitty security, love. Let's just keep up the whole, not getting caught bit."
She approaches Wulbren after the patrol has passed, and Astarion has taken out another eye.
"You feet fly fast, my friend," he greets. "Any luck with those tools?"
Amara slides a hammer through the bars. "I assume this is yours?"
"Blessed, Gaerdal— I never thought I'd see it again," he breathes in relief. "Thank you."
*Your conversation has been cut short.*
Amara's head snaps to look up, straight into the eyes of a guard.
*These prisoners are for Disciple Balthazar's attention only*
Shit.
Amara snaps.
Several seconds earlier, after Astarion downs the eye, Amara flicks her eyes to the guard who is about to break her patrol path. "Gale," she selects, flicking her eyes at the wizard. "Go work some magic. I need to have this conversation without anyone interrupting."
He follows her gesture to the guard, and concentration flickers across his face as a plan forms with great speed. "You have my word, Amara, I shall not let anyone by me."
Amara approaches Wulbren a second time, and this time is able to learn about what he intends to do with the hammer.
"The plan is to wait for a quiet moment, then bust out the back wall," Wulbren explains, hanging the hammer at his belt. Amara resists rolling her eyes. She definitely could gather at least that much. "We'll grab the tieflings along the way," he says without much care. "We'll need 'em if it comes to a fight."
Amara dislikes his reasoning, as well as the lack of any real basis for this plan.
Do they know what's behind the wall? Is it even a place that they can escape from? How exactly are they planning on "grabbing the tieflings"? Do they know much about their battle prowess— or are they merely meant to be sacrificial in this plan?
Too many questions.
"You, however, are the clincher," he claims, and Amara doesn't really want or need that title in a plan this shoddy. "Once we move, keep the patrols busy. If the bastards spot us, all of bloody Moonrise will come down on us."
Amara has a feeling this will go poorly.
"I will keep the paths clear," she promises, stepping back. "Be careful."
"We'll move once it's quiet— until then, be ready."
Amara nods and moves over to the other cells with the tieflings, and finds more familiar faces standing at these bars— Lia and Cal.
She heaves a sigh of relief privately to herself.
Chronos' sodden timepiece. They're alive. Thank the gods.
Lia presses herself between the metal. "You want to help?" she hisses out, practically like an accusation. "The gnomes, couple cells down, are up to something. Get us in on it!"
"I've already spoken to them," she assures her. "We have a plan."
"Whatever it is, we're in," she practically begs and her tail is thrashing behind her desperately. "Don't leave us in here."
"Never," Amara assures her. "I'll be keeping this path clear. I'll make sure - no matter what - that you get out."
It doesn't go so well the first time.
And by that, Amara means that combat erupts, they trigger the attention of a massive amount of Moonrise, the Warden opens the cells, and more than half of the tieflings and gnomes die when cultists rush in.
She snaps that one away.
The entirety of the circle of cells is fairly well guarded. It's unfortunately a little too well guarded for Amara to think she can get them out of there without alerting anyone. She starts with splitting their party, leaving Astarion and Gale to assasinate the Warden, while her and Shadowheart pick off guards and toss them into the depths around the prison tower.
Wulbren breaks into the back of the wall, and begins to move— but so far, there's no other sign of movement.
Amara and Gale distract the remaining guards, and the gnomes escape their cell, which is mercifully still closed. The tieflings scamper about, clearly distressed and desperately waiting to make sure they are included in this plan.
Shadowheart takes out another Scrying Eye and Amara waylays another guard by faking an emergency in another room, but she isn't sure how convincing that is. Or— well, actually, maybe it ends up being a little too convincing, considering it draws two more guards from a neighboring room.
Shit.
They're in combat proper now, easily spotted up to no good, but at least it seems exceedingly better than the previous time, when there were three times as many guards and the prison cells doors were open, their occupants trapped and being slain within. Between three accomplished spellcasters and a rogue who becomes one with the shadows and then sinks his fangs into them, the measly amount of guards left are taken care of with relative ease.
Relative.
Looking back, Amara sees that the gnomes bashed into the back of the tieflings cell as well, and now all of them are out. She still can't see them, so the wariness and fear for their safety is still there.
"What are you thinking?" Gale asks when she stares for a beat too long at their emptied cells and she startles and turns to look at him.
"Oh! I just… I was just thinking…"
"Did this go better than last time?" he asks in a soft voice. "You didn't take anyone back with you."
She bites her lip. "It went leagues better. But it still…" She looks around.
"It weighs on you."
"What if…" She takes a sharp breath in. "What if, the moment we destroy the Absolute, all these people… wake up? As if from a horrible nightmare? Yes, their actions are evil and cruel, and some of them must have had those tendencies to start with but—"
"If we slaughter indiscriminately, you fear we kill those who could resume a normal life," Gale finishes for her. "Would you like to return?" he offers her his hand. "I believe we could repeat the same quality of escape attempt, most certainly, if we actually prove incapable of improving. However, I would venture into conjecture by saying with your mind and our strength behind you, we could succeed at this prison break with far fewer casualties."
Amara takes his hand reluctantly. "Are you sure you want to… return with me?"
He nods. "Positive."
Shadowheart appears from behind her and puts her hand around their joined ones. "Count me in, as well."
Astarion glares at the three of them. "Well," he snaps. "I'm not going in blind, then, am I?"
Amara lets out a soft laugh. "Get over here, fangs," she teases. "Your dramatic side is showing."
"Darling, it's always showing."
He adds his hand to theirs.
Amara raises her free hand between all their faces, and snaps.
This time, they don't start with murder, they start with magic.
Amara Steps into the cell with the gnomes to follow them through the back, and Gale casts a massive Darkness spell over the prison gates. On the other side of the prison cell, Amara pulls a scoll of Wall of Stone out, and covers the gap in the wall.
In the cell a few down, the gnomes are banging at the back of the tiefling's wall, and Amara runs not toward them, but toward the boat moored in a small inlet, and begins detaching the bittle chains with a series of scrolls of Acid Splash, before kicking it free of the last of its bonds.
The gnomes and tieflings come running, filtering in on either side of the docks, and Wulbren sees Amara has already freed their sea vessel. "Boat's good to go— all that's left is to ship off," he comments, looking up at the elf. "My plan, for now, is to hide out on the water. Unless you have a better idea?"
"I'll come with you," Amara says quickly, and she sees the telltale shimmer of an Invisibility spell being dismissed, as her companions come into view. "I know a place called the Last Light Inn. You'll be safe there."
Wulbren's expression flickers, and his eyes get wide with surprise. "'Safe'? No small claim in these parts. Lead the damn way."
/ / /
Cerys runs out of the inn the moment Amara and her group is approaching, and flings her arms around the tall elf as soon as she's in proximity. The thick chain-metal of her armor clangs against the decorations of Amara's robes, a merry sound harmonizing with Amara's laughter.
"Well, hello to you too Cerys!" she exclaims.
"By the gods," she exclaims. "Look at them!" She dashes around Amara a moment later to embrace the other tieflings, checking them over for injuries.
Shadowheart works to herd them into the inn, and Amara helps herself to making enough potions to go around to heal anything Cerys was able to spot.
"Damn fine job," the tiefling scout compliments, taking the last potion from Amara. "We're bruised, battered… but we're together again. You damn well brought them back," she says, amazed, her tail swaying behind her.
Jaheria replaces the potion Cerys took with a glass of wine.
A very filled glass of wine.
Amara looks at her over the wobbling rim.
"Oh, be still, cub," she chits. "There is nothing extraneous in it this time. It will not elicit any more truth from you than normal potations might."
"Good to see you too, Jaheria," Amara remarks dryly and takes a sip of the finely aged beverage while the druid pours more for her companions.
"Yes, it is good to see the shadows haven't consumed you," she remarks with equal dryness. "What news do you bring of Moonrise? Other than the obvious."
Amara hums around the rim of her glass. "I saw Ketheric." The half-elf's brown eyes snap up to hers with interest and she nearly spills some of the wine. "He regenerated before my eyes."
"Gruesome, isn't it?" she asks, handing Astarion the wine glass with the least in it. His ears droop, but Amara has a feeling Jaheria just didn't want to waste good wine on him. Poor thing. "I'm glad you survived the encounter, at least. Did you learn anything more?"
Amara steps back to the alchemy table and pours her wine into the vat, beginning to add some additional ingredients and infusing it with her Weave. "Ketheric is calling himself a 'Chosen of the Absolute' now," she starts. She's actually learned a great deal more than that.
Jaheria lets out a disdainful laugh, her eyes carefully watching what Amara is doing to her wine. "'Chosen'," she snarls unkindly. "That's three masters Kethereic has served. Our paladin isn't very picky. He's aligned himself with mind flayers, but I cannot see what he gains. Perhaps we can force it out of him once we have him up against a wall."
"I'll certainly give it my best shot," Amara promises with a sloping grin, as she coaxes her altered wine back up into her glass. She then switches her glass with Astarion's, plucking the thing right out of his hand.
"Can I help you, darling?" he asks, obviously taken slightly aback. "I was enjoying my meager portion of vinegar."
"I have it figured out now, this time for sure," she promises, smiling widely at him.
He scoffs, and raises the glass to his lips. There's the slightest twitch to his frame as he tastes it, but he goes utterly still a moment later.
"Well?" she asks, nearly sloshing her own wine over the side of her glass in an attempt to get a peek at his expression. "Can you taste it?"
Slowly, the vampire lowers the glass, and his other hand comes up to cover his mouth. "What— what did you do this, Amara?"
"Oh, gods," she heaves out. "It's terrible, then? Gods dammit. What am I doing wrong?"
He swirls the wine in the glass. "What's… just tell me what's in it? Besides wine, obviously."
"Hmm?" She perks up, looking at him. "Oh, you know. Just some stuff."
He blinks, unamused. "Stuff."
"Sure."
"Amara, though I adore you, I will not blindly drink things you have mixed up in— in a vat without knowing what you put in here."
She huffs, putting her hands on her hips. "I know what's in there!"
The vampire rolls his eyes. "Tell me one thing you put in this."
Amara mutters something.
"Oh, no, no, no," he chimes, "you are not getting away with this. You speak up right now, Amara, darling, or I shall have Jaheria fetch the Klauthgrass and poison you with it again!"
"You're so dramatic! It has goodberries in it," she admits, waving a hand around. "There."
Gale clears his throat. "I don't believe you know that spell."
She hisses something unintelligible at him.
"What else," Astarion demands. "It's not this good because you crushed a few berries inside it."
Amara looks up at him. "It's good? I thought—"
"Please realize, my dear, I haven't tasted anything for centuries. The fact you could create a sensation on my deadened tongue at all is nothing short of a miracle, so you'll have to forgive me for being a little suspicious for what exactly I'm tasting before I let myself— I…"
"It has mergrass," Amara says immediately. "It possesses the ability to modify your thoughts— you're not actually tasting the wine. I'm drawing forth a memory based on a flavor palette I'm accentuating with the berries, and with a handful of other fruits and some mint. All of that I seal together with my Weave."
"I'm drinking… your magic?" Astarion asks, and he swirls the wine in his glass.
"It binds everything together," she explains. "Influences your memories. Tricks your tastebuds, your olfactory receptors. You sense what you want to sense; the wine tastes how you expect it to."
He licks his lips again and takes another slow sip. "…Thank you, Áralta."
Gale clinks his glass to both of theirs. "Cheers, then. To flavorful potations. You must teach me that binding spell when we have the chance, Amara," he says, raising his glass to his lips.
Amara waits, flicks her eyes to him, and at just the right moment, she purrs, "If you're into that, I suppose we could incorporate more binding."
Gale's wine is not kind to his nasal passages after that.
"Blessed be Gaerdal— could you be any louder?" Wulbren asks when all of them are laughing as Amara soothes away the consequences of her teasing from Gale's meatuses, while cleaning his armor up from the spilled wine. She flicks her gaze down to the deep gnome.
She flashes him a smile instead of rising to his words. A response she learned after many decades of practice, and a good teacher. "Oh, I'm sure I could if I tried," she assures him. "Tired after the sailing? I'm sure we could find a room to accommodate you."
He scoffs. "Steering a boat is hardly a challenge— and this place is near a beacon in the darkness."
Amara elects not to mention the challenge she suffered through when steering her boat.
"Very well," she acquiesce with all the grace she can muster. "What will you do then if you aren't intending to stay?"
"I have plans in Baldur's Gate."
Amara loves when people say they have "plans". It's so cute. And vaguely ominous.
"The work of many years labor that will finally bear fruit."
Ah, yes. The explosive powder with the power to level cities. Amara remembers how fond she is of that plan.
"You should look for me once we're in the city. The name 'Wulbren Bongle' will be mentioned among many, I've little doubt."
"Care to elaborate on these 'plans'?" Amara asks, hoping to clear the air a little on the violence aspect.
"That's Ironhand Gnome business," he shuts her down immediately.
Lovely.
*You recall stories of the Ironhand Gnomes— a talented group of inventors who were banished from Baldur's Gate.*
Hmm. Well? She could poke a beast, she supposes.
"Weren't the Ironhand Gnomes exiled from Baldur's Gate?" she asks, and she keeps her voice light, but with the slightest air of purpose to it. She knows what she's doing, and she's fine with him knowing that, should he be keen enough.
"Do not speak of a story you only know the half of," he warns, leaning in close. "We are inventors of the highest order, matched, perhaps, but never surpassed by the Gondians at the High House of Wonders."
Sure, those guys. Love those guys.
"But our forebears were foolish— complicit with Sarevok's madness over a century past, and so we were banished. Still are to this day."
"Sarevok?" Amara asks, staring at the gnome with wide eyes. "The Bhaalspawn?"
"The very one. It's the only mistake the Ironhand Gnomes ever made— and it's cost us everything."
Oh, yes, because living things are so rarely known to make mistakes.
"I've fought tooth and nail to restore our reputation," he insists with vigor. "Particularly against Gondian detractors who live in glass houses. Our return to Baldur's Gate will usher in a new era for the Ironhand Gnomes. The realm deserves the benefit of our genius."
"Right," Amara says, nodding sagely. "I'll leave you to your own devices, then."
"Appreciate it," he replies succinctly, and Amara turns back around.
"Niar, did you finish that wine already?" she demands, seeing the empty glass in his hand.
"Mm-huh?" he slurs out, a wide, open grin on his face. "What did you say, darling?"
She rolls her eyes. "Nothing of consequence, dear. Perhaps we should—"
The sound of someone raising their voice catches Amara's attention.
"Did you enjoy relaxing here while I battled that wretched darkness?" Rolan demands, and Amara sighs.
"Oh, here we go…" She pushes Astarion into a seat at the bar and guides Shadowheart into the one next to him, to watch him, and she rushes around to where the three tiefling siblings are.
Rolan is standing facing his brother and sister, his eyes burning with emotion and his tail nearly knocking over the barstools with its violent thrashing. "What were you thinking?"
"Oh, I'm sorry that we got captured by murderous lunatics." Lia's voice drips with snarkiness.
"I thought you were dead, you ass," he retorts, and Amara's heart truly does go out to him. She just wishes he would, you know… calm down a little. "Both of you!" His eyes catch on Amara and Gale as they approach.
"We're all safe, Rolan," Cal assures him, and Amara finds herself smiling. She likes this one. "That's what matters."
Amara puts an arm around Cal and Lia. "Rolan here was in a bad state without you two," she remarks, and the tiefling's anger festers for a moment before he deflates, his tail hitting the ground with a depressed thud.
"I was just… overwhelmed. It doesn't matter."
Lia looks at Amara, who mouths, "Go on," to the tiefling, and offers a warm smile and a nod in Rolan's direction.
"I'm sorry," Lia offers, her voice much warmer and calmer. "We should have been here."
"No— no, it's not your fault," Rolan says, and regret flashes across his stern features. "I shouldn't have shouted— I'm sorry."
Cal turns Amara's arm around him into a full hug. "Thank you— for saving me," he says into her hair, and the tip of his tail prods at her ankle, wrapping around it once. "And the two idiots."
She returns his embrace for a moment and pulls away. patting him twice on the cheek. "Don't mention it."
"Humble too?" Lia asks, but she looks at ease, amused. "Imagine that."
Rolan clears his throat, and meets Amara's eyes directly. "She has no cause to be humble," he states boldly, firmly. "She's brought us back together— a task I failed miserably at."
Amara steps into his space for a moment, and extends her hand. Rolan looks at it for a moment before taking it, and while Amara does shake his hand, she pulls him in just slightly, not an embrace, not even a hug really, just a closeness marked by her palm on the back of his shoulder and the proximity of their eye contact.
"You have no cause to be so severe," she states with just as much firmness as he did. "You have plenty of drive and more than enough intelligence, Rolan. What you lack is trust in others. You are powerful on your own, but with the right people your strength isn't merely added to theirs, but multiplied with it. To go at a monumental task such as this with nothing other than your own determination— you are lucky to be alive. Should you have accepted my hand in the first place and come with me, I would have had no troubles bringing someone of your caliber along."
Amara steps back, and clasps Rolan's hand with both of hers.
"Should I have undertaken the same task as you, with none by my side, I surely would have perished." She glances over at Gale, a warmth blooming in her expression, and her eyes flick over to where Shadowheart and Astarion chat at the bar. "I love my traveling companions as one would a family. They are my heart. They protect me, and I them. I can be humble, not because my task was not great, or of great importance to you, but because I know I did not take it on alone. It was something we did together."
"For the love of— oh, come here," Lia says, and she yanks Amara away from Rolan to hug her. "You may have wasted your breath on that brick wall, but I will truly owe you a life debt if he takes your words to heart. You sincerely went out of your way to help us, it's only right you get something in return." She pulls away, her eyes glistening. "Here— I hope it helps."
What she pulls out for Amara is a massive amount of gold coins.
Ah.
Well, Amara isn't going to turn that down, now is she?
"I'm sure I could put this to good use somehow," Amara quips. "But you don't have to do this."
She sniffles. "I'm not the best at showing it, but I love Cal and Rolan to death. They're family. This is my thank you— thank you, for bringing us back together."
"You are most welcome," Amara says, looking the siblings over again. "Take care of each other."
"And you, them," Rolan says, flicking his eyes to Amara's companions.
"Always."
There's one more person Amara would like to see before she takes care of her rather drunk companions. With Gale at her side, they walk upstairs to Isobel's bed chambers and she knocks at the doors which open on their own to reveal the cleric sitting on her bed.
"I knew you'd come see me," Isobel says, her gaze flickering around the two of them as she rises. "You haven't brought your cleric for me to tease, though. A shame."
Amara licks her teeth. "She's… well. She's considering a lot of things, these days."
Isobel quirks an eyebrow up. "Is she now? I'll believe it when I see it. Still, I'm glad you stopped by. You did well to help those people escape Ketheric and I wanted to thank you personally. Every soul saved is a blessing, and you're raining them upon us."
"Yes, I met him… he is quite a character," Amara drawls out. "Did you know he's presiding over trials now? About the loyalty others show to the Absolute."
"Almost laughable, that he sees himself fit to judge anyone."
Amara nods a few times.
She thinks that means Isobel is aware that Ketheric is her father.
At least, Amara is ninety-nine percent sure he's her father.
Maybe eighty five.
Seventy.
She thinks she'll wait on that conversation.
"Did you learn anything about how we might defeat him?"
"Not yet, but I think I'm on the right track," Amara says, knowing she has a great many small clues that don't connect correctly, like all the edge pieces of a puzzle done.
"That's fantastic," Isobel compliments anyway. "Well done. I'm glad you've made progress. Protecting this inn— well it takes it out of you. I'll hold out as long as I can. By the sound of things, we'll have a more permanent solution soon."
Her gaze grows sincerely affectionate.
"So glad you're on our side."
"Just take care of yourself," Amara requests, reaching out to hold her by her arm. "We'll see this through until the end."
Isobel nods. "Moonmaiden's blessing be upon you."
Gale tugs the back of Amara's robes and they start to descend the stairs again.
"Are you… pouting?" she asks, but she's smiling as she says it so Gale only flicks a glare at her.
"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."
"You are!"
He flicks his hair back and the silver of his earring shines in the firelit sconces. "Sometimes, Amara, it seems as if any of the folk we encounter on our adventure would give just about anything for a night with you."
She stops, stares.
"What?"
His round, drooping brown eyes find hers. "You heard me. Watching people converse with you— they trip hand over foot for you."
"Very funny," she quips, beginning to walk again.
"This is no laughing matter, Amara."
"Are you considering taking up bardship?" Amara drawls.
"You know I am not." He catches her by the arm. "I'm— I suppose I'm looking for a little reassurance here."
"Oh," Amara utters, surprised. "Why didn't you just say so?"
She steps into his space instantly, hands at his cheeks, and pulls him in for a searing kiss. She presses against him until he has to take one step back, and then another and another, until his back is shoved flush against the wall. Amara takes her time roving her hands over him, even in his armor as he is, and when she steps back, his face is fully flushed a delectable rose.
"Would you like to lay claim to me somewhere more public?" Amara asks mischeviously, her voice husky with lust.
Gale groans, and he exposes the column of his throat as he tilts his head back against the wall. "No, no—" he insists, a bit of alarm in his tone. "This is plenty. I just… just needed to know…"
She presses an open-mouthed kiss to his pulsepoint, then licks a long stroke down his marking to his chest. She breathes a gust of cool air over his dampened skin and meets his eyes with searing, viridescent ones. "If you will have me as yours Gale, I shall take you as mine. So long as we're together, you're the only one I desire carnally."
A shiver passes through his body. "Gods."
She giggles mischeviously. "Too much like Lae'zel?"
"Ugh, Amara," he says with a laugh, pushing her off of him.
"Come, let us check on our drunk."
Shadowheart seems to be more inebriated than Astarion by the time they get back down there.
"Two drunks," Gale corrects.
"Gods dammit."
As she begins approaching the bar to fetch the half of their party that's about to start loudly singing on the bartop, she notices something. Someone. Lakrissa is standing off to the side slightly, looking around with the middle of her tail raised enough to tuck the arch close to the curve of her back.
"Is everything all right?" she asks the tiefling.
"Oh!" she turns, fidgeting. "Yes, of course," she says immediately. "Or, well… not really. Is… Alfira not here?"
Amara blinks. "Alfira? She's at my camp."
An illumination races through Lakrissa's eyes that Amara can recognize instantly. Oh.
"Do you— you wouldn't mind terribly showing me the way, would you? I'd very much like to see her." Her tail starts to wag behind her.
"Of course not," Amara says eagerly. "If you could just help me with my friends here, we should be getting back anyway."
"Your pale elf and dark haired friends seem to enjoy their wine," Lakrissa notes, and Amara snorts.
"You could say that," she drawls, looking at Astarion in particular.
Somehow, Amara manages to wrangle their group back to the outskirts of the protective circle, where Amara's party had set up their camp several days prior, and Lakrissa eases Astarion down into his tent with Amara while Gale handles Shadowheart, but the moment Amara rises, there's a gasp behind her.
"You're here," Alfira breathes out, having just come out of her tent to greet the returning adventuring party. Her gaze is solely focused on Lakrissa and her tail wags behind her, the tip lifted high. Ohhh. "You're all right— how?" she asks, practically giddy.
"We're 'two tiefling queens', remember?" Lakrissa seems to quote, doing what looks to be a familiar gesture, if the giggle Alfira makes is anything to go by. "I couldn't leave my favorite bard without her partner in crime for long. I did have some help from an old friend though."
They both turn to look at Amara, and Alfira presses her hands to her mouth, her eyes welling up with tears. "How did you do it?" she asks, and she looks like she's like to run up to one or both of them for a hug, but she isn't sure where to go.
"A lot of trial and error," Amara admits, before laughing under her breath. "But we managed in the end. Practically a heist. Stole the lot of them right when they weren't looking, so to speak."
"I'm sorry if it was difficult," Alfira soothes, knowing of Amara's exhaustion first hand. Time travel isn't a kind affliction. "But if this is the results it gets you in the end, I'd say your mind is brilliant for what mere trial and error can come up with!"
"You should have seen her. She was brave but also terrifying— in a good way," Lakrissa tacks on at the end.
Amara has to resist telling her she doesn't remember the half of it.
"I never thought I'd see… well, anyone, again," Alfira remarks, gesturing to Last Light Inn. Thank you— a thousand times, thank you." She finally seems to decide, and runs up to Amara, practically leaping into the elven wizard's arms. She leans away and her smile grows wide and relieved the longer she looks at Lakrissa.
"Why are you smiling at me?" she asks the bard.
"I'm just glad you're safe," Alfira deflects, but the coloring on her cheeks and the wagging of her tail tell a different story.
"Well, go on, then," Amara urges, pushing her toward the other tiefling. "She's real. You can touch her too."
Alfira's coloring deepens. "I know that," she replies breezily but doesn't approach still.
Amara clears her throat. "You're dismissed from camp this evening. If you'd like to… catch up with anyone."
Lakrissa laughs, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, I knew I liked you. Come on, your majesty," she says to Alfira with a bow. "Let's away for the night."
"But—"
"Please?"
Alfira crumbles immediately, and extends her hand which Lakrissa takes eagerly.
"Have her back by midday, at the very latest!" Amara requests, and Alfira squeaks but Lakrissa just laughs again.
They walk away, hand-in-hand, with their tails wrapping together and coiling at the tips.
Amara quickly sees to Shadowheart and Astarion's comfort, before approaching another tent. "Hey, solider," she greets, and the tiefling looks up at her with wide eyes.
"Well, hey, yourself. What can I do for you?"
"Tag along with me for a quick errand?"
Surprise flickers across Karlach's face, but she quickly breaks out into a wide, pleased smile. "All right, yeah! Let's go."
They leave the camp and approach the outside of the inn, and before Amara can say anothing, Dammon beats her to it.
"There you are. I was wondering where you'd run off to." The tiefling weaponsmith smiles widely at the two of them, his tail flicking back and forth nervously. "Well… two things. Good news and bad news."
Always a toughie. It's never obvious to Amara.
She turns to the tiefling and defers to her instead. "Which do you want to hear first, Karlach?"
"The good news, obviously!"
"Obviously," Amara agrees.
Dammon gives them both a knowing grin and his tail settles into an easier swaying motion. "I only need one more piece of infernal iron to craft an insulating chamber that could make it possible for Karlach to—"
"—touch people?!" she interrupts, glee in her voice.
Oh, how Amara's been waiting for this— she doesn't even comment when Karlach's tail waps at her legs as they're standing closely together.
"Exactly," Dammon confirms, and his voice is warm.
"Oh my gods." Karlach looks between Amara and Dammon with so much excitement she can't stand still. "It's really happening. It's been so long. We can get the iron—
Amara pulls the iron she got at the guild from her pocket. "We got the iron," she corrects, holding it out to Karlach.
"Fuck yes! Let's do this thing!"
Dammon looks pleased, but he holds his hands up. "Hang on— I think you'll want to hear the bad news, too."
"Yeah, sure, but first— fix me. Please."
Amara smiles at her. "Have some patience, Adonrua, let's let Dammon speak. I need to make sure you're safe before we proceed."
"Ohhh, all right then," she agrees reluctantly. "I don't know Elvish, you know."
"Oh, I know," she responds.
"I don't enjoy saying this, Karlach," Dammon begins. "But there's no two ways about it: your engine is going to blow, and I can't fix it. I'm not sure anyone can."
Amara's gaze snaps to the fire burning under Karlach's skin.
"Is there— is there a reason it's so unstable?" she asks, panic rising. "Can anything be done?"
"It's simply too hot to exist here in the material plane. Unless you return to Avernus - for good - this thing is going to blow. Sooner rather than later."
No.
No, no, no.
"But— but still, you can give me something that'll let me touch again, right? Safely?" she asks, and Amara hates the implication she's making.
She doesn't deserve a mere compromise.
"Yes, but—"
"That's all I need to know. Do it. Please," she begs him.
Amara's eyes water. Sting. She turns halfway around, facing Karlach but looking down, not able to meet her eyes. "Go on, give him the iron. Let's make this happen," she says with more confidence than she has.
"Well— all right. This shouldn't take long," Dammon assures them. He accepts the iron and gives Karlach a smile. "By the way— I picked up some Elvish. It's a little patchwork, a little rusty now, but 'adon' is most certainly 'peace'."
Karlach quirks a brow at Amara while Dammon turns to hammer away at the iron.
"Peace?" she asks. "Do I look particularly peaceful to you?"
Amara lets out a chuckle and finally meets her eyes again. "The other word it's combined with is 'akhrua'. 'Warrior'. Together, the name would be 'warrior of peace'. That's what I think of when I think of you. You're a strong fighter, but I genuinely believe you're one of the kindest, sweetest, most genuinely good-hearted people I've ever known."
Karlach's lower lip trembles and she presses them together to keep them steady. "You can't do this to me when I just learned what I learned, Amara," she says softly, her tail curling behind her. "I can't— I… how am I supposed to…" She sucks in a breath. "I can hug you in just a moment. One more moment." She watches Dammon for a beat, her eyes sparkling, and she blinks a few times in utter excitement. "Okay, okay— one more question: you shorten a lot of these names, would mine be Adon or Rua?"
"Which one do you like better?" Amara asks, smiling at her. "Peace or warrior?"
She smiles back, her eyes glittering. "Peace."
"Adon, it is, then."
Dammon hammers a final time, and sets the tool aside. He turns around, and holds out what looks like a chamber. "Same as last time— you'll need to install it yourself. But this should do the trick."
Karlach takes it reverently and rotates it into place around the infernal engine, and the whole thing pulses with flaming energy.
"There," she breathes out when everything's in place. "So did it… work?" she asks, flicking her eyes up to the mechanic.
Dammon smiles widely at her and gestures to Amara. "Only one way to find out."
Amara can always snap if this goes poorly.
She runs for the tiefling, putting one hand on her shoulder and immediately collapsing her into as tight of a hug as she can manage. Her other arm comes up to hook around Karlach's neck when no flames burn her, and she hops up, forcing the tiefling to grab onto her, laughing as they stumble back a few steps.
"Amara!" she protests, but she holds the elf aloft as if she weighs nothing. "Oh… oh, thank you…" Karlach sinks into the hug with wild abandon, gripping Amara with considerable strength, burying her face in the braids at her neck, and her tail wraps up and around Amara's leg tightly, filled with such joy.
She sets Amara down, but the smile on her face is broad and beautiful and her tail uncoils slowly, savoring the contact. They both turn back to Dammon and he's smiling as well, his eyes relieved.
"I can't believe it," Karlach sighs out, obviously pleased. "Thank you, Dammon. Thank you so much."
"It's the least I could do," he says humbly. "Before you go— I feel the need to reiterate," he ventures, looking between her and Amara. "That engine of yours— it's contained for the moment, but it's just too hot to exist here in the material place indefinitely. I know you know that, but the thing is, there's a cure."
Karlach looks up, surprised.
"I wasn't making any headway with the mechanics— none at all. The environment here is just too cold to sustain metals like the ones inside you. You have to return to Avernus or this thing is going to burn you up from the inside out. And sooner than you think," he stresses.
Karlach shakes her head, eyes growing more guarded. "The minute I set foot back in Avernus, Zariel will force me back into service. I'm not doing her bidding again. I'd rather die," she says.
She says it out loud, what Amara is sure she was thinking before.
She confirms it.
Amara wishes she didn't do that.
"I get that," Dammon assures her. "But don't rule it out. The world just might be better with you in it— even in Avernus. I won't stop trying to figure out a cure, but… at this point, I think we all have to face the inevitable."
Inevitable. Impossible.
Greatest strength, most dangerous shortcoming, yada, yada.
Amara's on it.
She decides they should celebrate first. "First things first. Karlach, you have touch back. We ought to celebrate that."
"Right? All this doom and gloom. I believe I owe you a nap, if I recall."
Amara laughs. "Quite right."
"Thanks, Dammon," she says, addressing the mechanic one last time. "Really. You've given me more than I could ever repay."
"It's been my pleasure," he says affectionately. "Good luck— both of you. Look after yourself, all right?"
Karlach roars as she barrels into camp, and Gale looks up from where he is at the fire, just in time to save her tail from knocking things into the flames, and the tiefling scoops him up in a hug that startles everyone else. Then, like she's picking things up to make a collection, Karlach goes around and gathers all the others into tight embraces, nuzzling into them, lifting them into the air, rolling around in the dirt with them.
She finally flops down in the center of camp.
"This is the best day. The best day."
Amara lays down on top of her with an exaggerated oof! "I'm so happy for you, Karlach."
"I'm so happy for me too!" she trills with joy, wrapping her arms and tail around the wizard. "And so happy to finally get the chance to cuddle up to you tonight. Please tell me we're all sleeping in one big pile, please. It'll make me the happiest woman on the Sword Coast."
"No objections from me," Shadowheart says, having seemingly sobered up a bit. "You'll be a comfort in this dreary place."
"It does always bring a certain level of comfort," Wyll agrees. "Sure, let's all gather our blankets and comforts together."
"As the most cold-blooded among us," Lae'zel remarks, "I claim the spot closest to Karlach after Amara."
"I resent that sentiment!" Astarion snaps, voice still slurring just a little. "At least you're alive. I'm significantly more cold-blooded on account of being dead. But fine. Take it."
Gale laughs under his breath. "Easy, Niar. Amara, may I…?"
"Sure," she agrees readily. "I'd love that."
Astarion looks over their group, and his hands twitch. "I'll abstain this time, actually, I think. I—"
"Get in here, sunshine!" Karlach belts, throwing her arm around his neck. "Center of the pile!"
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 28: Viscera
Notes:
Hi sorry sorry!! Back at it haha was a little busy - I wrote a 300 page original novel and got engaged, but I'm determined to finish this fic up!! Let's go!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXVIII
Viscera
Gale wakes suddenly, while the moon is still at its zenith in the sky, and feels a weight to the air that zaps at something beyond his skin— deep within his senses. He rapidly tries to locate the source of the danger, as electrified bursts of pain fire across his very neurons.
Bright cyan Weave drifts in the cool night air.
"Shit," he curses, aloud for once, and there's a shift to the pile of adventurers— which only makes Gale recall exactly how they all fell asleep that night. Karlach and Astarion are on the pile of blankets near the fire, with Amara sprawled on top of the both of them. Lae'zel is as cuddled up to Astarion as she would allow herself, pushed moreso into him by Wyll. Gale himself is pressed to Amara's back, with Shadowheart at his.
They're too close.
Astarion makes a noise from under Amara. "Can't you just use magic to get yourself out of the pile if you have to shit, darling?"
Rolling his eyes, Gale whispers back, "Open your eyes, Niar— look at Amara. Don't wake her, though."
Shadowheart's hand comes to touch his upper arm. "Whasswrong?" she slurs out, voice still heavy with sleep.
Gale swallows, and raises his hand to one of the floating wisps of Weave. He tries to absorb the fragment into his own control of magic, but it sizzles dangerously on the skin of his knuckles before evaporating. "Do you recall the morn Amara woke last out of all of us?" he asks, trying to keep his voice as faint as possible.
The cleric sits up immediately, and the sleep is shaken from her clouded mind in an instant. Blue magic swirls around them while Amara herself lies on her stomach, right on top of Karlach who's literally coiled herself around the elf. One of her legs is thrown over Astarion and she's far enough over that Gale is also touching her.
Weave licks off her skin, dangerously close to her companions, before lifting away and floating into the air.
"Tell us what to do," Lae'zel demands, having been awoken by Astarion. She leans over and shakes their warlock awake.
Gale takes a deep breath. "We should keep her at rest, if that is possible. Her Weave is incredibly unstable, it's not letting me absorb it. I will continue to try, but no one else should touch it if they can help it."
Karlach brings her hands up slightly, on either side of Amara.
Gale grabs one of them immediately. "No touching!" he hisses as quietly as he can. "What did I just say?"
"She's having a nightmare!" the tiefling argues, and from where she lays she can see plainly that Amara's features are twisted, contorted with pain and fear. The elf twitches, and a whirl of Weave ghosts off of her.
"Vae," Wyll hisses across their group. "Can you cast something to calm her? Soothe her?"
Shadowheart stands up, extracting herself from the pile while carefully avoiding touching the wisps of cyan magic in the air. She crouches back down nearer to the elven wizard, and she wraps a hand around her ankle.
The chill of her Lady's influence descends on her as she beckons for it, and fills her with its familiar sting. Like cold fingers guiding her hand, the spell Calm Emotions manifests itself in a flurry of icicles that expel themselves from Shadowheart's skin. She pulls her hand away, and waits to see if she feels the wretched burn of her hand, but the injury remains silent, and the cold guidance chilling her skin lifts.
Amara hadn't quite been writhing, but the twitching of her arms settles, and Karlach watches aptly as her breathing evens out and her features slacken.
"Better?" the cleric asks, and the sleep is again heavy in her voice.
To be safe, Gale gathers some of his own Weave in his palm, with a few quick gestures and words to focus it, and light violet magic pulses up from him. The air fills with the sound of heavy rainfall, and the scent of lavender and cedar, and a Sleep spell rolls off of his palm and into Amara.
"Chk, her power still grows," Lae'zel notes, and her eyes flick worriedly between the elf and the wisps of magic coming off of her body. "How do we settle her?"
"Perhaps there's a way to see what she's dreaming of?" Wyll suggests softly. "If not a spell, then… the tadpoles?"
Karlach just reaches up and holds the elf by her shoulders, rocking her slightly. "She is fighting something awful. How do we tell her she's not there?"
"She is there. At least in her mind," Lae'zel corrects. "We must assist in her battles, so that she may be victorious."
Shadowheart flicks her gaze to Gale and Astarion. "What woke her last time?"
They exchange a glance of their own. "The sound of the destruction of the camp?" Astarion suggests.
"Yes, waking her would not be the issues," Gale says hurriedly. "It is the damage she could do if woken without dissipating her Weave fir— first…"
The wisps begin to move, swirling closer to Amara's body. Karlach holds her tighter. Shadowheart grips at her ankle where she'd cast her spell. Astarion's palm comes to press against her waist. Lae'zel and Wyll move in as well, the fighter poised as if ready to strike while the warlock goes to wipe the sweat-dampened bangs from Amara's face. Gale presses in closer, watching the petals of blue magic sink closer to the lot of them.
None of them move away from the danger, and instead press closer.
"Whatever you battle," Lae'zel tells her unconscious body with a firmness unique to her, "you do not battle it alone, ra'stil. You are formidable on your own, but with all of us at your side, how could you fail? Do not let such a miserable thing as a nightmare triumph against you in this way."
The petals drift lower, and Gale gasps as the first one lands on Karlach's skin. The tiefling tenses, eyes screwed shut to brace herself for the pain— but it doesn't come. She looks down at the Weave resting on her upper thigh.
Shadowheart reaches up and picks the fragment up, and it remains solid.
As it rotates in the light of the moon, it becomes more elongated, and the edges fray and feather like— like…
Feathers.
The Weave keeps pouring out of Amara, but now instead of burning whatever they touch, they just seem to glow with a tempered warmth. More and more of the wisps of Weave return to the font at her shoulderblades, splaying outward and gathering until they resemble a recognizable shape.
"Wings…" Karlach breathes, reaching up to run her fingers through the feathers of Weave. "She has wings."
The Weave solidifies fully, even moving in a cohesive singular flap that shakes magic that feels like sunlight free of the thousands of feathers. They're such a bright blue that they're nearly white, and they glisten silvery in the light of the stars and moon above.
Gale swallows his trepidation, and cards his fingers through the downy feathers, finding them to have an incredibly softness to them for being made of pure Weave. "It's a symbol of Chronos," he says, still keeping his voice low and soft. "Though it seems the worst of all options, I would wager a hearty bet it is Him she is engaged in combat with. I would imagine their clash lasted but a few moments, in reality, but in one's dreams…"
"It is much easier to convince oneself they've lost," Wyll confirms. "He had wings?"
"Ah, now that is a difficult question. None who worshiped Him while He lived kept detailed records, if they kept any at all. His physical appearance, we have only guesses at. In most renditions of Him, He has broad, expansive wings. They are such a remarkable feature, that the few bits of statuary of Him that remain all have him with the wings fully unfurled."
"If she can call any of His symbols," Shadowheart reasons, "then it stands that she has access to all of them. Do the wings bear us any danger?"
"Not that I know of," Gale says, but his voice hedges slightly. "His other symbols - the hourglass and scythe - have some documented abilities. But not the wings— they're never mentioned."
"Then we won't mention them to her," Lae'zel agrees immediately to where she sees Shadowheart is going with this.
"Are you sure that's wise?" Wyll asks, his gaze lingering on Amara's peaceful expression.
"She posed us no danger," Karlach points out. "I don't really want to lie to her…"
"We don't have to lie," Shadowheart says with a frown. "We just don't have to mention that we ever saw them."
The wings flutter gently, casting silver and blue glowing hues all over the camp. Amara snuggles into Karlach more, and the tiefling holds her with great care. The rest of them seem to give up arguing, seeing the peaceful expression that overtakes the elf's features.
By the time the last one of them drifts back to sleep, the fire is burning low but Amara's wings fill the camp with reverent light.
/ / /
Breakfast is warm and ready when Amara returns from the bathhouse the next morning. They have more maintenance to do than usual after clearing the table since there was so much loot in Moonrise, so they start sorting it out as the sun rises. Some goods are distributed back out to the rest of them, and many stay in the camp stores.
"Anything of interest?" Wyll asks, looking over some of the spoils.
"Well, if you count that Ketheric Thorm seems so keen on mentioning his love and sacrifice for a daughter by the name of Isobel interesting…"
Wyll looks up. "I'm sorry, what now?"
"Ring any bells?" Amara asks, fluttering her eyelashes.
"I thought his verbiage was almost endearing," Gale chides. "He clearly holds a great affection for her, so let us not make any assumptions until we've sorted through it."
"That 'almost' is doing a great deal of heavy lifting," Shadowheart points out. "That man changes allegiances more frequently than a courtesan changes her bedsheets."
Wyll stares at her. "Everything good, Vae?"
She levels her dark, hazel eyes at him. "At least he's proof you can turn from Shar and live to tell the tale. Though some may not call that living…"
Amara licks her lips. "Are you… looking for that proof?"
The cleric shoots her a pointed look. "I am… gathering information," is all she reveals. "Excuse me."
Wyll watches her go. "In all my years as the Blade, I've witnessed countless cruelties, faced unimaginable evil. But Thorm— he is made of pure hate. Even these documents and letters cannot sway me from what his actions speak of. The Sword Coast will rejoice when the bastard's fallen."
Amara's gaze hovers over him now. "Everything good, Ebrae?"
"Fine, just— lest we forget, we've a devil to rescue. Two missions, one destination. And— what did you just call me?"
The wizard just smiles. "Any idea where we'll find Duke Ravengard, now that we've reached Moonrise? He wasn't being kept with the others."
Wyll laughs. "Now that, that doesn't surprise me, certainly. My guess? Thorm will have confined him in the bowels of the tower."
Great. Lovely.
"The deeper we dig, the closer we get," he says like a promise. "Now— what did you call me?"
Karlach laughs. "Did you get one too?! I got mine yesterday."
Amara rolls her eyes. "It's not like they're on a schedule," she says, but she feels color touching her cheeks.
"You got one?" Wyll asks, and the excitement in his voice completely ignores Amara's protests. "What is it?"
"Adon," she says, rocking back dangerously in her chair. "Technically it's— what's the whole thing again?"
Amara laughs to herself. "Adonrua," she reminds the tiefling.
"Warrior of peace," Astarion drawls out. "Interesting."
"It's in keeping with her contrary nature," Shadowheart points out. "I wonder if yours is too," she says to Wyll.
The warlock catches Astarion's eyes. "Tell me what Ebrae means?" he asks in a soft voice.
The other elf licks his lips and glances at Amara. "Knowing her… it is a portmanteau. This one is tricky. Ebrae is not a word in Elvish. Ebrath is, it means 'friend', so the question becomes— what word is she combining it with to give it that suffix?"
"Itae," Amara provides, but gestures for Astarion to go ahead.
"What does that mean?" Wyll asks softly.
"The most beloved in ones' memory," Astarion translates, matching his soft tone. "She is naming your legacy. Not as the blade you wield protecting the Sword Coast, but the memory you leave behind in all those you save."
Gale chuckles. "You must always make them more complicated than you have to, don't you?"
Amara smiles. "If I wanted the Blade of Frontiers, I would call for him; he already has a moniker. If Wyll Ravengard would like a nickname from me, I will name him as the man I know. He is the presence at my side in battle, the comfort I return to after a long day away from camp, a warm and earnest individual who I am honored to say I call a most beloved friend. Ebrae."
Wyll sniffles, and covers his mouth slightly. "It's— I… I like it, Amara. I love it. Thank you."
"I haven't compromised you, have I?" she asks cheekily. "Would you like to come with me today?"
He perks up immediately, snapping his arm into position. "The Blade is at the ready— and, I suppose, so is, well, Ebrae. Should you have need of me. Who else will come with us?"
Amara flicks her gaze over to where Lae'zel is very obviously trying to make it look like she isn't interested, or listening. A smile spreads across her face. "Lae, do you feel like coming?"
The githyanki woman doesn't startle, but she stops for a moment, and turns slowly, keeping her expression cool and neutral. "I will ready myself momentarily."
Gale pouts, looking up at her. "Are you going to take Shadowheart?"
Amara laughs. "Do you think yourself capable of filling her shoes?"
"More than!" he insists.
"You don't have to," she argues, trying to keep her voice warm but easy-going. "She is plenty capable, as are you. Your areas of expertise needn't overlap."
"I would like to come with you," he insists.
Amara can always come back if she has to.
"All right, then. As long as you behave."
Amara catches her cleric's attention. "Shadowheart, could you send a Sending spell when Alfira gets back? I just want to make sure she's safe."
The half-elf blinks heavy eye-lids. "Of course," she agrees with ease.
Amara checks on the animals, and on Barcus and Volo as well.
She throws another stick for Scratch and feeds Erek another piece of jerky when she feels the impressive presence that always accompanies their camp's druid. "I find it odd," he remarks, watching her ruffle the white canine's fur, "how you can seem so at home here, in the middle of nature, and yet I can picture you just as naturally at home in high society."
"High society?" Amara echoes with a laugh. "Hardly. The only mingling I ever did with nobles was selling them magical items and potions at ten times the normal price while passing through large cities whenever I had to move my shop."
"Swindling, then?" he remarks, but his expression is endearing.
"I resent that," she argues immediately. "All my items are high quality, and if they wanted to pay me such a large amount, I thank them."
Halsin laughs, which lights up his face in a pleasing way. She's all gladness to see it— she's honestly been a bit worried about him.
"Still feeling at home here with us?" she checks in. "The surroundings are less bucolic, I understand."
"Less bucolic indeed," he offers warmly. "Though there is still much on the horizon. There are a great many things I'd like to say to you, and even a thing or two I could think of I'd like to do… but the curse grips my mind for now, and I would loathe to give you only part of my attention. Perhaps, if I manage to break the curse… perhaps then I can show you just how grateful I am."
Amara tilts her head at the druid. He sounds an awful lot like he's flirting with her. Maybe Gale was onto something yesterday.
"If I may, Halsin?" she says, ignoring his preposition for now.
"Of course."
"Your singular focus is admirable, but do not forget you are a living creature who deserves to be alive. You fight this curse with friends. You should live amongst us, as well."
Halsin stares at her for a few beats. "I forget myself. I shall… think on your words. This curse is still important to me, mind. It's been weighing on me for the past hundred years. However, I've never thought of what it would be like to share the burden of that weight with others. I'm not sure I know how."
"Plenty of wizards about," Amara remarks. "I'm sure we could whip up a lesson or two."
Halsin laughs, and Amara rises from where she is still crouched with Scratch and bids him farewell for the morning, noticing her party members are ready to go.
They stock up on everything they can think to bring and leave the Moonmaiden's protective circle, with Amara struggling to come up with a third rhyme to please the pixie. As with all their previous treks throughout the lands, they are rife with shadow creatures— this time even recognizing undead Harpers like Yonas.
She sees their familiar armor.
It hurts her to hurt them, but she knows they'll at least be able to rest this way.
Amara leads the battle up to a strange stone structure, where the shadow-cursed Harpers have the high ground, but she does manage to pierce through their offensive front with three magic users including Wyll on their side this time. Once they've made a path, Lae'zel all but obliterates them.
Breathing a sigh of relief at one battle down for the day, Amara observes this landmark yet unfamiliar to her. It's truly terrifying how easy it is to get turned around in the murk of these lands. She notices, on one of the skeletons long dead, not a part of their battle but one long past, very familiar markings.
"What's caught your attention?" Gale asks, and Amara looks up at him as anger fills her chest.
*You feel a rush of outrage. This woman worshiped Shar to the end— so why does the Nightsinger's curse not spare her…?"
Yes, exactly!!
"It's probably nothing," Amara mutters, but something nags at her all the same. She looks more at the structure as a whole.
She steps back. Further back. Further, further back.
The statue at the top of the structure is Shar, most definitely, and the plaques surrounding the base of the statue…
"Are you sure about that?" Gale asks, and Amara tilts her head.
"No…"
"Chk. Well, hurry. What are you thinking— out with it." Her words may sound impatient but her gaze is curious.
Amara sinks her fingers into the plaque, and it depresses. A loud click is herd inside the stone, echoing as if the inside is hollow, followed by a series of ticks.
"Fascinating," Wyll remarks. "Do you reckon—"
"Ooh, I sense a secret!" Gale says excitedly, and he begins to move to another plaque to read it.
"It's timed," Amara says quickly. "There must be an order to them."
It takes them— well. They don't get it on the first try.
"Finally," Lae'zel snaps, drawing her hand away from the final plaque. "Are you satisfied yet?"
"Hardly," Amara breathes in fascination. "This is amazing. Quickly, let us look inside."
Lae'zel rolls her eyes but she follows Amara down the stairs without complaint. The lower down they go, the less oppressive the shadows become, until Amara cannot feel their presence at all.
"The curse has no effect here— what is this place?" she asks aloud as she scans the landing at the bottom of the staircase.
"It appears to be a sanctuary of some sort," Wyll recognizes. "It is exceedingly well-maintained, for being at the heart of such dangerous terrain."
Amara takes hold of an old stone railing, the material cold with a light coating of dust but otherwise unblemished, and a faint casting of particles floats through the air, lit by the moonlight streaming down into the sanctuary from somewhere high above. Her each and every footstep echo resoundingly in the chamber.
When she reaches the bottom of the staircase, she finds herself standing at the feet of a towering rendering of a follower of Shar, eyes folded over with a blinding cloth, arms folded over an ample chest. They dot about the room as if guarding it, prepared to come to life, Amara only coming up to about the height of each one's ankle.
And there, in the center of the room on a raised plateau, is Shar's likeness, in a curvaceous form of shining black material, not a speck of dust in sight.
"A Sharran sanctuary," Wyll concludes. "Well…"
Gale clears his throat. "'Do you accept Shar's test of your intellect?'" he reads off of a plaque, and then sighs heavily. "All right, I see I have swayed the world when I should not have."
Amara sends him an apologetic smile. "Next time, Gale. You have my word."
"And I will hold you to it. Take me with you?" He holds his hand out. "I'd like to recall why I was rejected from the mission today. Or, rather, ejected."
Laughing, Amara takes his hand and snaps, rewinding back to before she accepted Gale's request to replace Shadowheart, and instead asks him to preform the Sending spell, taking her cleric with her as usual.
Even if she's a bit hungover.
She perks right back up when they make it inside the sanctuary, after all.
*You feel a knocking at your consciousness. It isn't as practiced as Gale's or as confident as Wyll's, and it isn't as natural as Astarion's. It's a bit reserved— perhaps even a bit shy.*
Amara looks over at Shadowheart.
*Shadowheart knocks again, this time with a little more ease. You let her in readily, and are flooded with her feelings. She understands why you picked her instead of Gale— she still holds some reservations about your ability to manipulate the adventure as you do, but there's respect there as well. Admiration. Where all of you stand, she should be feeling a sense of home, something akin to a welcoming, but… it's cold. She's confused, frightened.*
Amara floods her with positivity. With warmth and home, with hearth and stove, and wine and silk, with affection and support. She is there for the cleric, both emotionally and in proximity.
She gestures for Shadowheart to descend the stairs first, and with a grateful smile, the half-elf does.
*The connection widens the more stairs Shadowheart descends, like a maw opening as you're lowered into it. Thoughts and images flicker through your might, doubts and uncertainties, information which seems factually inaccurate, but shouldn't, and information she knows are lies, that may not be.*
All of you reach the bottom of the stairs, and Amara slips her hand into the cleric's, squeezing twice. "Take your time, Nodelvae," she whispers softly, and for a moment it almost seems like the moonlight grows a little brighter in the sanctuary.
*Shadowheart opens her connection even more, until it is a freeflowing estuary. You breathe when she breathes, blink when she blinks. It feels as though you are one.*
The two of them approach the statue closest to the base of the stairs, and Shadowheart squeezes Amara's hand.
*Do you accept Shar's test of your intellect?* her narrator asks her, their connection open enough Amara can hear into her head. She feels Shadowheart take a breath because their connection inflates Amara's lungs slowly as well, and then lets out the controlled breath. *You are Shar's child— there is no reason to shy away. Would you like to nod in acceptance, or leave?*
You send another wave of support, reassurance, happiness, and feel Shadowheart nod.
*You feel a small pulse of energy race up your spine,* her narrator says, and though Amara can't feel it— she can. *And a strange sensation of acceptance.*
"See?" Amara urges softly. "You did wonderful."
"Do you think—" She looks up, at the other ones. "Do you think the other ones give similar blessings?"
Amara flicks her gaze upon the other statues. "Perhaps. Would you like to give them a try?"
"No, I— I think we all should take one," she says eagerly. "Wouldn't that be fair?"
*The connection has dimmed slightly, you are not so overlapped with her thoughts, but her emotions still race through you. She needs this. She feels as though she is connected with her patron at this moment, as if this is a pivotal acceptance or rejection of her lifelong devotion.*
Oh, shit.
"I could try," Amara says, attempting a smile. She isn't keen on Shar, or any god for that matter, but as long as it's for Shadowheart— she would do anything.
The cleric's face goes slack with surprise for a moment, and Amara realizes that she forgot connections go both ways— Shadowheart might have heard that.
Amara ignores the flush in her cheeks and approaches the next statue.
*Do you think yourself wise enough to be granted Shar's blessing?*
Wise? Oh, the things Amara could tell you…
*You feel like a veritable sage, after all you've experienced of late. Would you like to nod, or leave?*
Is that even a question, narrating voice?
Amara nods.
*A warm swell rises through you. Acceptance— you are worthy.*
Shadowheart lets out a gust of relief next to Amara, and she turns and beams at her friend. "And not even a little bit of smiting!" she cheers victoriously, and the half-elf rolls her eyes with a laugh.
"You twat."
Behind them, Lae'zel just mutters, as if discovering something, "Twat-Soul…"
Amara bursts into laughter and feels some of the tension still bleeding through her connection to Shadowheart ebb until it's pale in comparison to the happiness rippling through it.
"One up here," Wyll says, recovering the fastest among them.
"What does it say?" Amara asks.
"'Are you bold of heart and sharp of tongue?'" he reads, squinting at the text. "'Can you turn any and all to the Dark Lady's cause?'" He gives a harsh laugh. "Felt someone cackle at that— guess we're being listened in on," he says, tapping his forehead.
Some of Amara's good humor dissipates. "Mizora's here?"
"Well— not here here," he's quick to clarify. "It was more of an echo, in the corners of my mind. My beloved patron knows a thing or two about turning people… let's say."
"Kainyank— then let her devious machinations work for your benefit for once," Lae'zel snaps. "Bring them to the forefront of your mind, let this blessing glimpse them, and your servitude will serve us well."
Wyll fixes his gaze on the statue for a moment, before a shiver passes through him, and Amara - though not connected to him in any way - knows what he is feeling. She's felt it twice now. He shakes himself once it's passed, and looks at his hands.
"How do you feel?" she asks, genuinely curious.
"Strange," he replies immediately, curling his hands into fists. "But good. It was like this— this confidence surged through me. I feel like there is nothing I can't do, no one I can't win over. The statue seemed to agree with whatever that feeling was, and that's what she approved of."
Amara opens her mouth to say something, but a shifting in the stone catches everyone's attention. The elf pours reassurance once more through her connection to Shadowheart, as they watch a wall drop in the room to reveal a hidden area.
"Everyone, stay cautious— watch your step," Amara warns, and she takes up the head of their formation. Inside, it's something of a ritual chamber, with yet another statue and a bowl of some sort, a dagger resting on its rim. Amara eyes it with a sense of unease she seems to share with Shadowheart.
The blade is sharp, and the handle firm. Yet… death exudes from this dagger as it might from a fresh corpse.
"We should… get out of this room," Amara advises, trying to step back.
*An altar to Shar. It appears to seek prey, and a blood offering— your blood,* Shadowheart's narrator says once more. Amara snaps to look at her.
"Vae, I know you mentioned to me once what pain means to Shar, and I haven't forgotten."
Shadowheart cuts her eyes back to Amara.
"But please, don't do this. I have an awful feeling," she begs.
Shadowheart hedges, her breath catching.
*You can feel the shift in your connection. Something is very wrong. Shadowheart's normal thought processes are almost interrupted, altered in some way. You can't place it, but this isn't the logical, strategic cleric you fight side-by-side in battle with. This is someone else.*
"I must," she whispers, and her trembling hand picks up the blade.
*Take the dagger,* her narrator is commanding her.
Amara's stomach turns.
*Recite Shar's wisdom and offer blood from your arm.*
It sounds— it sounds like she's being corrected. Coerced to do something she isn't necessarily against, but…
The knife slices into Shadowheart's arm and with the first drop of blood to hit the bowl, Amara's connection to the cleric shatters. Amara reacts, crying out in pain and gripping her head. Lae'zel and Wyll both rush to hold her, but she can't look away from the blood dripping into the bowl in front of the statue.
Drip, drip, drip.
Too much. Too much.
Amara grabs Shadowheart by the knife wound in her arm and growls out, "Enough."
The cleric startles, steps back.
"Heal it," Amara orders. "Now. The rest of you, head out."
Wyll leans in and says, "Amara—"
"Out," she says, meeting his mismatched gaze. "My intensions will not change, so let us just make haste."
His head bows slightly. "As you wish."
Amara watches them go, and watches with diligence as Shadowheart heals the slice on her arm entirely, before the two of them leave the sanctuary. Once they're out, Lae'zel has prepared something for Shadowheart to eat and drink, and they take a short rest while Amara stands guard a ways away, trying to cool her racing mind, and the call of her cherished friends perishing on the battlefield echoes through her memories like ghosts living in her body.
/ / /
Things are a little tense after that, but they manage, and Amara insists on walking to their destination, since there could be more that they're missing, and they really need to discover more before the inevitably end up clashing with Ketheric.
Plus, they will undoubtedly clash with Balthazar and need to loot the Thorm mausoleum, both of which will be no small task.
Amara pushes through a set of stone gates, and something new does catch her attention.
Something unexpected.
A small tiefling girl she didn't see at the inn, or in the prisons.
"Arabella!" she yells when she places the face, and the little girl waves excitedly to her.
"Hey!" she chirps just as excitedly, her tail coiling in swirls and loops. "I know you! You're—" She cuts herself off when, right behind her, a shadow roars to life.
Well— don't you just have lovely timing?
A second shadow rears up after him.
What, is Amara throwing a tea party here?
She jumps back for better distance, expecting to have to pull Arabella with her, but the child doesn't seem startled in the least.
And— wait a moment, what is she doing all the way out here? How is she alive?
Her eyes flare a deadly, necromantic green, and Weave leaps from her fingertips with a howling vengeance. "Twist 'em up!" she commands, and vines of pure Weave burst from the ground, sinking thorns like fangs into the non-flesh of the shadow-creatures, who - though they can't take piercing damage very well - seem to quite dislike the Necromantic Weave the tiefling girl is so adept at wielding.
Wyll blinks a few times at the display. "Is that… the kid Kagha went after? Seems she's learned a new trick."
"Sorry," she apologizes, blinking heavy eyes up at Amara. "Knocks the wind right out of me."
Amara has about a thousand thoughts, and visions of bloodied arms and screams for help dancing in her head. She tries to swallow but her mouth is much, much too dry. "I could only imagine. That's a powerful spell," she manages to compliment, looking at the struggling shadowbeasts. "But you shouldn't be out here even if you can cast something like that— you should be with your parents."
"That's who I'm looking for. Mum and pops, I mean. When Zevlor— when he…"
Oh, shit, that's right. Amara didn't find him either.
"Well. There was an ambush," Arabella explains, pain evident on her face, and her tail slumps to the ground. "Mum yelled 'run!' So we ran. I could hear 'em running behind me. 'Til I couldn't. Still can't find 'em— but I bet you can. You'll help me, I just know it!"
Amara smiles at her, a soft, small thing, but a smile all the same. "I'll find your parents— you can count on me," she promises.
"Thanks, miss. I knew you'd help me again!" She smiles widely before her eyes dart behind her. "The vines won't last forever. I don't— I don't s'pose I can stay with you? Just 'til you find mum and pops. I won't be any trouble, I swear it!"
Amara's eyes widen. "Of course," she says immediately. "You can stay in my camp."
A gust of relief flies from her lips. "Aw, thanks— you're the best. So you send mum and pops there. I'll be waiting, hero-lady!"
Amara catches her arm softly, lowering herself just slightly. "One last thing, Arabella."
Her eyes widen. "I didn't steal nothin' else, I swear it."
With a soft laugh, she shakes her head. "Not anything about that. I just have to ask you— your vines, they're a powerful spell. Where did you learn to do that?"
She hesitates for a moment. "That druid idol I took? It changed me. I can do all sorts of stuff now, not just the vines. I think real hard and say some loud words and then it happens. Mostly."
The elf nods a few times. "Would you like it if we practiced some magic together sometime?"
Arabella's eyes shine. "Really?"
Amara smiles. "Your magic is… a little wild. That's not a bad thing. It's very powerful and you should be proud. I just don't want you to get hurt. I would love to teach you some things, and I'm sure Gale would as well— you remember him, don't you?"
She beams. "Yes! I do, of course I do. Thank you, hero-lady! I can't wait!"
Arabella runs off with her tail perked up, tip swaying, and Amara watches her until she's out of sight.
Chronomancy Weave is heavy in the air. It doesn't bode well.
The graveyard they're standing in doesn't bode that well, either, but Amara digresses. She reads what she can from what's been left of memories in the yard, and makes her way to the other end of the plot of land.
Of course, it's a dead end.
Well…
"You are not thinking about climbing up that tree," Wyll asks, but he also looks like he's considering climbing up the tree.
"Just for a quick look?" Amara says, flashing a grin. "We might be able to get into this building through the roof."
"Curious…" Lae'zel mutters, and she's already starting to climb up the tree roots like they're stairs.
"That answers that," Shadowheart supposes, and she hikes up the fabric around her boots to follow.
They reach the roof of whatever building is at the apex of the cemetery, and Amara finds a few things of note including a book of poetry she eagerly pockets, and she does find—
"A ladder!" She looks excitedly toward Wyll. "Well, wouldn't you know…"
He rolls his eyes fondly. "After you, then, Lady Amara."
She descends the ladder and is immediately hit with a foreboding stench.
"Gods dammit," she cusses, the sight of blood in a drag trail leading toward a door.
"Well, wouldn't you know," Wyll chastises, his feet hitting the tiled floor after her. "What is this place, anyway?"
Amara roots around and finds several notes that are… relatively unbloodied.
"According to this, I think we're in the Reithwin 'House of Healing'," Amara says, a tad grim. "A hospital, of sorts."
"My, that's…" Shadowheart, now having descended the ladder, glances over her shoulder in the direction of the graveyard. "It's certainly in an ominous location, isn't it?"
"Shit," Amara mutters, holding a paper up for the cleric. "More Shar."
Shadowheart hesitates for a moment, and at first reaches for it with one hand but stops herself, and takes it with the arm she didn't cut with the knife. "Another Thorm," she realizes. "Have we heard anything about this Malus Thorm surgeon yet?"
"Nothing other than this yet," Amara confirms. "And he sounds lovely."
"'He allows supplies to dwindle, leaves some patients' injuries to fester so he may 'study', and commands me to nurse only Dark Justiciars that seek treatment'... 'The will of Shar'." Shadowheart's gaze grows slightly distant and her grip warps the paper slightly.
"Amara!" Lae'zel hisses, calling her forward. "You will want to see this."
Exchanging a look between Wyll and Shadowheart, Amara quickly follows the githyanki woman further into the House of Healing, and realizes that the room ends in a circular balcony, overlooking a much larger room below.
A chilling voice echoes up fom the chamber below.
"Witness the solace of the Lady's whispers with each slice." Amara shivers, and follows the sound of the grating male voice. She peers off the edge of the balcony and below— she sees a mockery of a medical procedure in progress. "Only with unwavering hand can we show our subject mercy," the same voice grumbles out in a commanding, educating manner.
"What in the nine hells…" Wyll mutters.
One of the figures looms over the prone patient. "See here, how I soothe each vein with the tenderest touch." The way the figure moves… the way they all move…
Something is very wrong.
"We should… not be here," Amara says softly.
She steps back from the balcony and starts to lead them back down the stairs, intending to head back up the ladder, when she's practically slammed into by a wall of force. With a gasp, she struggles to breathe as her own Weave impresses itself into her skin, her sinnew, her bones.
Hands come up to hold her steady, but she's gone so cold she's numb to touch.
She can't breathe.
The air around her is so heavy, she feels herself creaking under the strain.
It hurts.
Shadowheart grabs Amara's face, forces their eyes to meet. Vibrant green into dark hazel.
It hurts.
"What's happening?" the cleric demands. "Are you injured? Is it something in this building?"
Hurts…
A trail of blood flows from Amara's nose. She raises her hand, and points toward a door off to the side— not where the surgery is taking place, but a mere side room. Her hands shake as she holds them up. Blood gushes from her face. She can taste it on her tongue as it slips through the cracks of her lips.
Divine Weave wafts over her and the blood clots and clears, but the pressure on her body doesn't relieve.
Nothing seems to relieve.
Lae'zel grabs onto Amara immediately and hefts her practically up and over her, taking her toward the door she indicated.
"Thank you, Lae," Amara slurs out, the pain making her head throb, her bones ache.
"Tsk'va— you take no care of yourself. Let us get this over with."
Wyll opens the door and instantly the stench of sweet rot swells in Amara's senses, and she leans harder into the fighter supporting her, her head swimming. There are corpses in this room— and one of them is animated, and Amara's Chronomatic Weave practically yanks - begs - her toward that one.
A female in a nurse's uniform.
Almost as silently as Astarion, Wyll draws his rapier.
"No!" Amara grunts out. "Let me—"
The nurse spins around, blue rotting skin flaking to pieces, with eyes shrouded by the leather headdress she wears. "Don't call the doctor yet!" she begs of them in a soft, dainty tone of voice, and her hands frantically gesture to the two corpses beside her, one on each bed. "I've got potions, sutures— I know I can do this…"
Amara's nose starts to bleed again.
"Oh," she mutters, stepping more into the light. Her lips are bloodied, her veins stark purple. "You're a patient," she notices, although she can't possibly see. "Don't be afraid. I'm Sister Ludwin. We can help you. This is the children's ward— triage is back that way."
Neither of the corpses she's working on are children.
No—
No…
"Did you see?" Lae'zel asks, and she arranges Amara more carefully in her arms.
Amara just makes a gasping sob of a sound.
Lae'zel continues anyway. "Arabella's father, in the oh-so-decaying flesh."
"Lae, do you have to?" Wyll snaps, and he covers his mouth and turns away. "Gods dammit!"
"I must— I must speak with him," Amara rushes to say. "I have to know what happened. For Arabella."
"Are you sure that headpiece is safe to use?" Wyll asks.
"I'm willing to risk it." Amara downs a health potion to stop her bleeding and pulls a roll of bandages out, blowing the clot into the mess of them. She shakes her head, as heavy as a boulder, and approaches the bedside of the dead tiefling.
She hates necromancy, but she kept this headpiece in case… well.
She puts it on.
Putrid green Necromancy Weave fills the room and animates the corpse, which rises from the bed like a doll getting its strings pulled, and Amara nearly loses consciousness in the moment with how much it takes out of her.
Gods. It hurts. It all hurts so much.
Damn Chronos— damn Him so far beyond even the worst all the hells have to offer.
*The corpse regards you lifelessly,* Amara's narrator chimes, as if reminding her that she's still here. She's still trying to do something.
She clears her throat and takes a few short breaths instead of a deep one. "Remind me— who are you?"
In the wispy voice the dead use to speak, Arabella's father rasps, "Locke… husband to Komira… father to Arabella…"
"How did… you die?" she asks, her skin cold and sweat gathering all over her. Cold chills race across the expanse of her body.
"Surgeon…" he whispers, and then takes a rattling breath in. "Sisters…"
Gods… if only she…
No. Amara can't afford to think… can't afford to think like that. She can't save everyone. She just— isn't built that way. No one is.
"Why were you in this place?" she asks, wondering how they even got here.
"Zevlor… betrayed… ran… shelter…"
This is another reason Amara hates speaking to corpses. There are at least three interpretations she can parse from that, and the pauses don't help.
"Where is Zevlor now?" she asks, knowing only that everyone seems pissed off at the missing tiefling.
*The corpse remains silent. It does not know.*
Lovely. That's just great.
*The spell's power wanes. You can ask no more questions.*
Amara's lip trembles as the corpse sinks back into the sheets, and the weight of her Chronomantic burden finally begins to lift. She sighs. "Is there anything of theirs in here? We should return it to her if we can…"
They scour the room for notes, trinkets, and books— anything that could have originally belonged to Arabella's family.
Amara even finds a music box. It's not something she thinks belonged to them in any way, but… it's the last thing which causes her pain to look at, so she pockets it.
They take a short rest so Amara can catch her breath, and she drinks an entire bottle of water and eats two pears that Lae'zel carves for her.
"What would you like to do now, Amara?" Wyll asks, and his hand rests on his rapier.
Her eyes flick to his blade, and then out to the main room. There, behind a set of doors where a trail of blood must continue— Amara knows the surgery is still ongoing.
"That surgeon— he's responsible."
Wyll just nods. This is a fact, for all of them.
"I can't— I can't return to Arabella so long as Malus Thorm lives."
Shadowheart touches her shoulder softly. "Are you feeling well enough now?"
Amara touches her own face. "I can handle it."
They help her to her feet and walk into the main room, and Wyll opens the doors, the sticky trail of blood worming its way underneath and down the hallway.
"Your eyes are sharp, sisters." That voice— that must be Thorm. "Tend to your scalpels, so I might say the same of them. Witness the solace of the Lady's whispers with each slice. The objective of the scalpel, sisters, is to soothe, for the scalpel, indeed, is an extension of Shar."
"What in the Nine Hells…" Shadowheart mutters, and they approach the room. Inside, there are four uniformed nurses just like the one with Arabella's parents, and an elven-esque creature with automaton hands.
Writhing, alive, on the table in front of him is a bald, naked human man.
"See how the patient reacts when I but stroke the right nerve. Hear its comfort. Hear the very melody of mercy."
This close— Amara can see the man in front of Thorm has no eyes.
She feels sick.
"Pray, sister, show us the extent of your beneficence," he instructs, and a nurse steps forward with a scalpel, and all but guts the man. Amara feels herself lurch forward. He's beyond saving, but she still can't stand to hear him suffer. "Stop," Thorm says, but his tone is even. Not even disappointed. "Stay your hand, for it slaps where it should stroke. We can hardly hear the patient's sighs of solace. Perhaps it is our unexpected audience that makes you quiver."
Amara startles.
They've been spotted.
She should snap.
It's the most logical thing.
But…
If anything happens— it could be one of them on that table. If something happens to her, it could be one of them on that table. If the battle goes awry, it could be one of them on that table.
Amara decides to speak with the surgeon first.
"Come. Step forward," he commands, and when they all turn to regard Amara, she sees that Malus Thorm's legs are robotic as well as his arms. "You are no sister, but that matters none. Every student is welcome."
Well, as a wizard…
"A student, yes," Amara starts, and she ignores the roiling of her stomach. "Do please enlighten me."
One of the nurses points her scalpel at the elf. "Absence."
"Absence," Malus Thorm echoes, holding his bloody claw up. "No other word captures the heart of Shar so very perfectly. It is the scalpel-led journey that leads from pain to peace."
Shadowheart's eyes dart to her arm. "A stinging truth," she supposes.
Amara flicks her eyes to her. "Is it?"
The cleric presses her lips together.
"See? What is the light of eyes but the cancer that causes one to witness the laceration of being?" Thorm asks, and Amara has to bite the inside of her mouth to hold her disgust at bay. "If light is the symptom, then darkness is the cure, for in light there is presence, but in darkness there is absence."
The same nurse as before echoes, "In light is presence; in darkness, absence."
Thorm looks Amara over, his glasses strapped to his face focusing on her face. "But you: look how the succour of Shar eludes you. See how painfully present you remain… we do not wish to see you suffer so. Let us cure you."
Amara's eyes rapidly flicker over all the implements being pointed at her.
*The sisters' blades are bloodied and dull. Only the most measured hand could make a clean incision.*
Licking her lip, Amara says, "Their blades are uneven. Efficient surgery will require further training."
Thorm tilts his head the other way. "Their incisions are, as yet, still streaked with imprecision— that much I must concede. How to steady their hands, I wonder."
Amara looks them over. How they hunch. How their bodies twist, riddled with broken bones, split skin. Her eyes water looking at their many injuries, and their inability to care for themselves. The abuse they've suffered, in the name of healing. For who knows how long.
It is time to rest, now.
"Why not have them hone their skills on each other?" Amara asks, tilting her head.
"Yes…" Thorm seems far too pleased with this suggestion. He gets closer to Amara, and she can see his face is riddled with missing patches of flesh, grommets pierced into his skin and bone, and other various holes, both naturally formed and self-inflicted. "For are we not all in need of a cure?" he asks philosophically. "The scalpel does not discriminate. Let each and every one of you partake in its soothing journey."
They start to turn to each other.
"Absence, sisters. Acquaint yourselves." Thorm steps back and lets the carnage ensue. "It is a proud moment when one sees one's teachings so lovingly taken to heart."
It blessedly doesn't last long. Amara doesn't let herself look away, but each one only takes a few hits, and they barely bleed. They have hardly anything left in them, before they collapse to the ground and finally… rest.
Malus Thorm turns back to Amara. "You are to be commended for their graduation— rewarded with the promised cure." His claws flex, in a way he must think is inviting. "Come, I will acquaint you with the Lady's dark-fingered embrace."
Amara rolls the words around in her mouth. She needs him to do something— needs to choose the phrasing for this very particularly. Appeal to his delusions. "My magic has blinded me— I see now that Shar is the only path." She steps closer to him. "Show me how— I beg of you."
Thorm leans back, impressed. "Your diligence is exemplary. Very well: your own scalpel you will be. Observe— then succeed me, into the succour of Shar."
Thorm raises his claws, and they move in such a disturbing manner that Amara truly does almost lose what she just consumed.
This time, Amara does look away.
She hears the sound of the single blow, and then his body collapsing— then silence.
For a moment, she centers herself, and then rushes for the table. The man on it is still writhing, and Amara starts by speaking to him before touching. "I don't know if you can hear me," she rushes to say, and then gently touches him. He flinches, but doesn't pull himself away or scream. "I'm so sorry— gods, I'm just… I'm so sorry this happened to you. I can't— there isn't anything I can do for you." A glance over all of him shows him… spilling out onto the table. "But I will make sure you go gently. I'm here with you. I'm so sorry."
He makes a few soft sounds, and his hand grapples for Amara's. She squeezes, and whispers reassurance over and over, until his body settles.
She casts Disintegrate.
Slowly, the man fades away into ash. Amara holds his hand until it disappears.
"Amara," Shadowheart calls to get her attention after the man is finally gone. "Take a look at this." She holds up a battered lute, her finger points to the initials "AC" meticulously carved into the body of the instrument.
"Art Cullagh," Amara realizes. "Do you really think?"
"It's worth a try, right?" she asks, and Amara gives her a small smile.
Lae'zel steps back into the room, sheathing her blade, and meets Amara's eyes. "All of them have been disposed of now," she says succinctly.
"Thank you for doing that," Amara says, but there's no warmth in her voice for a life taken.
"Chk." Lae'zel tosses her hair over her shoulder. "You somehow turn even killing the weak into a soft hearted thing."
Amara gives a soft chuckle. "What can I say? Shall we leave?"
"And return to Last Light," Wyll says firmly.
Amara snaps to look at him. "It is only midday."
Shadowheart huffs. "It's disorienting that you know that. Really, Amara, let us take you back to camp. You were in a bad way before. I've never seen you come apart like that, or bleed spontaneously in such a fashion."
"We should inform Arabella," Wyll points out. "And we may have something for Fist Art Cullagh, now."
"All of that can wait," Amara argues. "And I'm fine!"
All of them protest in their own way.
"Let us take care of you, Áralta," Shadowheart insists. "Like you take care of us."
Amara sighs. "Well, how am I supposed to refute that…"
"Where's the nearest waypoint?" Wyll asks, and Amara opens her mouth to answer, but Lae'zel interrupts.
"In my final sweep, I found a path at the back, including a key for the back door.. There's a waypoint directly outside the back door."
Amara looks at her in surprise. "Really?"
Lae'zel rolls her eyes, but she's smiling.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 29: Storm Over Crescent
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXIX
Storm Over Crescent
"You're back!" Arabella's voice is the first thing Amara hears when she drops her pack in camp.
It clearly startles everyone else, because it's unusual for the group to be back so early.
"Is everything all right?" Gale asks, setting aside his book. "Are any of you hurt?"
Amara shakes her head, and when the little tiefling girl runs up to her, she gives the warmest smile she can manage and drops to her knee. "Hey, you," she greets, and her heart pangs. "Don't you look cozy."
Arabella grins proudly. "I made it, easy-peasy!" She looks around behind Amara, spotting Shadowheart, Wyll, and Lae'zel, but no one else. "You find mum and pops?"
Amara reaches out to take the little girl's shoulders, rubbing twice, and she takes a sharp breath in and holds it. "I did find them," she states, and still doesn't exhale. Arabella's smile drops, eyes flicking all over Amara's expression. She's clearly reading what Amara is building up to saying. "Your parents are dead, sweetie. I'm so sorry." The air finally leaves Amara's lungs.
The tiefling girl's tail thrashes viciously twice, as if twitching, and then coils around her leg as if trying to hold her— comfort her.
"No," Arabella states, and her voice trembles. The camp is dead silent around the two of them. "No no no," she whines out, on the verge of tears. She sucks in a breath. "I don't believe you."
Amara's eyes fill with tears and before she can even blink, one of them spills out down her cheek, and Arabella's eyes trace it. "I'm so sorry, Arabella," she repeats, and she puts her hand up to the back of the little girl's head.
"It isn't true. It isn't!" Arabella insists, and she grabs fistfuls of Amara's robes and beats at her chest. "Get away from me! Go!"
Amara lets her go immediately, but Arabella doesn't let go of her robes.
"I don't believe it," she repeats, and there's such horror in her voice. "They can't be…" She starts to hyperventalte, and Amara sinks to both her knees now, the child's hands still in her clothes, and her face is wet with tears.
"Arabella, you have to breathe," she urges. "Look at me."
"No…" she wheezes out, struggling for a proper breath. "NO!" She stomps and a flare of her Silvanus-touched magic pours out of her, searing up from the ground. Amara feels dozens of shards of earth pierce her skin and slice her face and she winces, falling slightly to one side.
Her companions push in, but Amara puts a hand up. Holds them at bay.
Vines twist at her arms, dig into her legs. She ignores them.
Instead, she pulls the tiefling closer, wraps her into her arms. "No!" Arabella screams, and another pulse of magic sends waves of pain through Amara, but she just strokes the girl's hair.
Amara starts to hum, something soft and soothing, and rocks back and forth.
"Far away, in starry skies;
Glittering like gemstone eyes.
They watch us all, from far above,
And remind us of their constant love.
Night or day, dark or light,
Those patterned webs shine so bright.
When we're lost, they guide us home.
But they also encouage us to rome.
Never fear, you're never alone;
they'll never be just a tombstone.
A guardian, a guide, a keeper above,
darling, don't fret; for you'll always be loved."
Arabella curls into Amara's lap, and the pulse of her magic is still here, still festering, still angry— but the tiefling sobs into Amara's robes.
"Listen, firestar," she whispers into the tiefling's hair. "How our hearts beat. Can you hear it?"
She chokes out a sound that might be a yes, and her tail falls limp to the ground.
"It's not fair— it's never fair. I wish we could fix it. There are… so many people I wish I had been able to save, but I would destroy myself if I couldn't see that at the root of this— there must be balance."
"They're dead…" She sobs, buries her face into Amara, and her tail wraps around Amara's waist. It's grip on the wizard is frantic. Terrified. "I can't…"
"You can." Amara softly urges. "You can, firestar."
Arabella sucks down one breath, two breaths. "Balance." She sounds the word out carefully, and suddenly, the wild magic still cutting into Amara's skin levels out.
*Your very soul is tangled in shadow. Arabella's magic, wild as cursed briar. Her talent is now yours, too.*
The waft of green magic peels off of Amara's skin— the same way it does Arabella's. And she can feel it— the unbalanced nature of it.
"What will I do?" the small child asks. "Where— where will I go?"
Amara looks around a bit. "Well, if you'd like to stay with all the people you knew— many of the tieflings from the grove are right over there." She points to the Last Light Inn. "However, if you'd like to stay here with us, at least for now—"
"Yes!" she says quickly. "Please," she follows it up with quickly. "Yes, please."
Amara smiles a small thing at her, and tucks some of her hair behind her ear. "We'll do everything we can to make a home for you," she promises. "We're— we can be kind of a mess, but we're a family."
Arabella swallows. Then, her eyes widen. "You're bleeding, miss," she notices.
Amara looks down, and indeed, she's actually covered with small slices and gouges. Sticky, drying red smears cover her arms, face, body, and legs.
Horror passes over Arabella's features. "I did that, didn't I?"
Gale is at Amara's side a second later. "Ah-ah! That's what we have lovely spellwork for. I'm sure Shadowheart or Halsin can fix her right up."
"I feel like I haven't got any handle on this," Arabella admits. "I wasn't gonna use it 'til I understood it better, but…"
"The Weave speaks to us all in different ways," Gale advises her. "Just keep listening. If you travel with us, I'm sure we can whip a lesson up for you."
Arabella's eyes glisten and tears spill over and down her cheeks. She nods.
"Hey-yo, kiddo, come on over," Karlach beckons. "Let's get you set up, yeah? We'll get you a comfy little place to sleep, right here between Amara and me, how does that sound?"
Arabella rubs at her eyes. "Good," she agrees, and she takes the other tiefling's extended hand.
When they're a distance away, Amara lets herself tip backward, splaying on the ground, and a myriad of open wounds weep across her body. She opens her eyes to see a massive wood elf hovering over her.
"Halsin," she greets warmly. "How can I help you? I'm a bit… uh…"
Her blood stains the clay dirt below her.
"Allow me," he offers, and golden Druid Weave floats up from his palms and soothes into Amara's wounds with the smell of honey and spice floating into the air. She breathes deeply and feels the soft, earthen magic sink into her body and then delve into her bones. "You… are exhausted…"
Amara's eyes flutter open, and above her, Halsin's expression is pinched in concern. She smiles at him, lifting a hand to his face. "Nonsense," she comforts the druid. "You did me a sincere favor— that was far more than a typical healing spell, wasn't it?"
"Amara, I am not saying this in jest," he protests softly, and holds her hand where it lingers on his face. "My magic is meant to seek out what it deems as damage. Your weariness has permeated so deep into your body that it registers as wounds."
Her smile turns downward slightly. "Time heals all wounds," she tells him gently. "Time is also the most lethal source of ruin. Time courses through my veins, and is on my every exhale. I can feel it's weight, and it's salvation. It tears me apart, bit by bit, to exert my control over it— but for the hope and joy that time can give me back, I will continue to use it. I can only thank you profusely for easing its effects on me, my dear friend."
His ears flatten to the side of his head. "I… worry desperately for you, when you leave the camp. Those of us who stay behind— we all worry."
"Rest a little easier, then, knowing I will use my own manipulation of time to keep us as safe as possible, and I will work a little harder, knowing once I return I will have some relief from what pains me."
His expression pinches against and he rises, running a hand down his face. "You should rest."
"Ah— I did find something. We should visit our singing friend, minstrel he may not be, as I think I may have found something belonging to him."
A guilty interest sparkles in Halsin's eyes. "Are you certain you are well enough?"
"You tell me," she teases with a full smile. "Do you doubt your own healing skills?"
He huffs, but it sounds remarkably close to a laugh. "Then I would be honored to accompany you. Here," he offers her his hands, "let me help you."
"I thank you." Taking his hands, Amara allows the wood elf to help her to her feet, and she checks in with the others and retrieves the lute from the House of Healing, before walking back toward the inn.
Cullagh almost seems unchanged since Amara's last visit. Only his bandages seem changed; clean and white, unstained by blood and sweat. Still, the man himself writhes and mutters under his breath.
"Mm, mm, Thaniel and me are… climb, climb, climbing up a tree…"
"There it is again," Halsin says with a gruffness to his voice Amara isn't used to. Frustration, anger, something. "He keeps saying Thaniel's name— he must know more. We need to rouse him."
She puts a hand on his bicep. "Calm yourself, Silharrn. That is what we are here to do."
The wood elf looks at her, eyes darting across her face. "You… have named me."
Amara carefully extracts herself from his side and with huff of laughter, and sits at Cullagh's bedside, the lute in her lap. "Are you so surprised? You are a part of our little family, after all. Now, come join us. The music might help restore him."
"Show it to him," Halsin urges, and he comes to stand next to Amara at his bedside.
"I play quite ill," she warns him, though her voice is teasing. She raises her hand up to the strings and begins a simple bard tune, that utilizes several basic chords. On the bed, Cullagh writhes as if something is on top of him, fighting him, and his face twists with agony.
Amara knew she wasn't the most skilled player, but this isn't exactly assuring her of much.
She changes tunes, this one beginning with a minor chord that rattles through the air with power.
"Thaniel!" Cullagh shouts, flinging himself up on the bed. "He's still trapped there—" his voice catches, rough and harried, and his eyes are wild, feral. "He needs help!" His eyes dart across those gathered around him, and find Halsin almost immediately. He scrambles back on the bed and one of his wounds must open as red begins a slow bloom on his side.
"Calm," the druid advises, raising his hands. "Breathe."
Cullagh tries to move further from the large wood elf, and in the process seems to look closer at Amara, and his gaze lingers for a moment on the lute in her hands. Recognition flits through his gaze.
"My lute," he mutters, accepting the instrument from Amara. "You got it back. How?"
Halsin puts a warm hand on Cullagh's shoulder. "There is time for heroic tales later. You've been trapped in the Shadowfell for a century— take a moment to clear your mind," he urges, and his warm healing Weave begins to stitch together the wound the Fist opened.
Sweat drips down Cullagh's face, and his wary gaze follows Halsin as he crouches, trying to appear less intimidating, perhaps. "A century…" he echoes, his voice a mixture of disbelief and somber acceptance. "You're Halsin."
The druid stiffens, albeit very minutely, so much so that Amara nearly missed it.
"Thaniel said to find you," Cullagh clarifies. "You must help him— please."
Amara reaches out and touches the back of Halsin's head, which is about even with her hip while the man is perched next to Cullagh. She can just feel the waves of guilt rolling off of him. It's a kind of self-flagulation Amara is overwhelmingly familiar with.
"I will," Halsin insists, and he also doesn't seem to react much to Amara's hand in his hair. "But I need to know where Thaniel is. If I venture into the Shadowfell blind, I will never find him."
Cullagh looks away, and his eyes again glance up at Amara, before going back down to Halsin. "I'm not sure I can put it into words— the landscape there shifts and changes."
Halsin is still beneath Amara's gentle ministrations, and he doesn't immediately speak. She waits a few moments, but he doesn't so much as twitch.
"Was there anything that could offer guidance?" she asks, and she gently scratches with her fingernails. She can feel the druid finally move as he shivers lightly. "Something that didn't change?"
"Lavendar," Cullagh remarks, seemingly lost in a memory. "Whenever I saw Thaniel, I always smelled lavender."
There's a shift in Halsin as some of the tension drains out of him. "I can work with that," he assures the Fist, and he begins to rise, so Amara takes her hand back. "Rest now," he advises, and he helps the man settle back onto the bed. "We will return when we have news."
Cullagh nods, and his eyes drift closed again, and Amara tugs Halsin away with her.
"Are you all right?" she asks softly, and his expression is pinched.
"Not yet, but I will be. I must thank you for your keen senses, as embarrassing as it is that you can so plainly see through me," he says with a soft laugh.
They walk out of the inn and start back toward camp. "You are personally invested in this, Silharrn, it would take a fool to not see that you were anxious about a lead. I'm all gladness I could provide one for you, even if it is minimal."
Halsin smiles fondly at down her, nearly a head taller, and clears his throat. "Would I be able to beg a spot on your team for tomorrow? I have what we need to proceed, but I'll need your help. It could prove most… perilous."
"Of course," Amara affirms for him. "You are always welcome to travel with me."
At the mouth of camp, the druid turns to her. "It is sometimes too easy to forget how easily you open your arms to others. Might I ask after my name?"
The others begin to call them over, food on the table. Amara turns teasing eyes toward the druid. "Now, the others, I would expect them needing a translation…"
He laughs, and as they approach the table he pulls her seat out for him. "I see I have disappointed you, I promise my Elvish isn't rusty, the translation merely… eludes me."
"Oh, I'm sure, darling," Astarion drawls, and begins passing them dishes. "Well, let's have it, either one of you. Let's see if I can't one-up our hulk of an elf here."
Halsin chuckles. "The name she has bestowed upon me is Silharrn."
The elf taps his spoon on the side of his plate a few times. "Storm… free… limnic…" His red eyes snap up to Amara's. "It is clearly a water-based name. I would not necessarily call that contrasting to a druid's initial impression…"
Amara tips the last of her soup back. "Giving up, Niar?"
He flicks some soup at her from across the table.
"Wha— hey!"
Shadoheart whisks the mess away with a Cleansing spell. She props her chin up in her hands. "We give up. What does Silharrn mean?"
"'Still as the water before the storm'," Amara translates. She looks over at the wood elf with soft, warm eyes. "I don't believe you much like to lead. You dislike its weight. You do, however, eagerly seek to comfort and protect others from the whims of the world. That often lands you in positions heavier with responsibility than you might like, but you accept it all with grace, to shield others from what may harm them. You give them refuge when they have none, peace when they find the chaos overwhelming, and stillness when all they expect is a storm."
Halsin's eyes fill with emotion right there at the table, and he has to avert his gaze. "Excuse me, you'll have to forgive me for… for…"
"There is nothing which needs my forgiveness," she assures him. "But if it is all the same to you, Halsin, I don't want you to deny yourself becoming a shield from the storm, but just because you chose to brave the tempest does not mean you must face it alone. If the weight of what you love to do is too heavy for you to shoulder on your own, then share that burden. Let us weather the storm together."
He takes in a shuddering breath and casts watery eyes around the group. "Perhaps you are right. It has been decades since I last adventured in a party, and decades still before that that I could say I actually relied on my companions."
Amara smiles at him. "We're a family, Silh. Relying on each other is part of the deal. Now, eat your dinner."
He laughs, but complies, and Amara begins gathering everyone else's dishes.
When she picks Lae'zel's up from her, the githyanki woman fixes her with a profuse glare.
"Woah," Amara breathes, and she sets everyone's bowls down. "What's wrong, Lae?"
"Tsk'va," she spits out. "Do I have to schedule mine?"
The wizard blinks a few times. "Schedule?"
"Even the druid has a name now, and he is not even infected!" she hisses. "We travel together, train together, as those in K'liir did. You are ra'stil to me— kin. What do I not have that they do?"
Amara blinks. "This is about… my nicknames?"
"K'chakhi!"
The githyanki abruptly gets up from the table, and makes to leave, and Amara has to scramble for a moment. "Wait! Lae'zel, you already have one," she insists. "That's why I wasn't sure."
"I would know if I had one," she insists, but she's standing still, glaring down at Amara. "Do not try to fool me by coming up with mine last."
"I gave yours to you first," Amara argues anyway.
"Chk. Merely shortening my name is not the same!" Her hand collides with the table as her volume and pitch rise. "You clearly thought long on the translation and specifics of each name. If you find me unworthy—"
"Lae is short for something!" Amara interrupts, and she stands so now she's above the githyanki woman. "It's short for Laegiess, not Lae'zel."
Lae'zel snaps her gaze to the two elves, and Halsin recovers first, clearing his throat. "'Protector of the crescent,' isn't it? How very clever, to craft such a name that disguises itself into githyanki."
Hesitant, alien eyes flick to Amara. The anger is still there, festering deep behind confusion now. "Why did you not tell me?"
"Lae, when I chose your name, you were still quite hostile toward me. I have learned since then that you will vocalize any time you feel I am overstepping, but at the time I wanted to choose a name in my tongue that could be mistaken for githyanki, so you wouldn't be uncomfortable with it."
The anger dims, but the confusion remains, alighting into curiosity now. "Say it again."
"Laegiess," Amara repeats with ease. "Which does indeed mean 'protector of the crescent'."
The githyanki woman takes a breath in and out. "Why?"
The utter lack of flourish has its own charm to it now. "Because I have never seen you fight harder or with more skill than when you are doing so while others are in peril. You may deny it with your words, but your actions speak for themselves again and again. More than that— the crescent symbolises intuitiveness, psyche and empowerment. All of those things I would associate with you in spades, Lae. When I chose the name, I had less examples, but now I am even more assured in my decision."
"The… the githyanki do not protect," she protests, and though she is trying to make her voice sound angry, the fire isn't there.
"Then you are more than githyanki now," Amara says softly. "We each can become more than we were born and raised as, as we are surrounded by and begin to love others. You more than anyone else in our little family act as a protector and guide. You exhibit more patience than I could ever give you credit for, given many other gith in your situation would surely have abandoned us. But not you."
Lae'zel stares for a few beats, and then drops her eyes to the table. "I can now… relate much better to Halsin's emotional state."
Gale smiles fondly at the both of them. "Additionally, as I have discussed once before, Chronos has some roots in the crescent."
"The scythe," Lae'zel says firmly. "I recall. But that is… your symbol."
Amara just smiles affectionately at her. "And in that way I am honored to name you someone I rely on to protect me. I trust you to watch my back, and I always will."
Lae'zel presses her lips together and her eyes get narrower, squinting against some kind of emotion, and she spins around. "Everyone else calls you Áralta. May I choose my own?"
Amara blinks, surprised. "Of course."
"Duj," she says, her back still turned but her voice's strain carrying enough of the sentiment. "Joy."
"That's beautiful, Lae, thank you," Amara responds affectionately, and she lets the gith fighter whisk herself away from the table without further comment, and Amara doesn't think githyanki can blush, but Amara can recognize flustered body language in any species.
She picks the bowls back up.
Astarion narrows his eyes at her. "Did you come up with that just now?"
Her eyes flick to his. "Darling, that's a wonderful compliment, but even I am not that creative under pressure."
"Gods," Wyll comments, looking between them. "I can't tell. Should I be able to tell if she's lying?" he asks no one in particular. "Why can't I tell?"
"Because she lies the same way she tells the truth— with a smile." Shadowheart pats his arm. "You'll never be able to tell."
Gale begins to Create Water to help Amara wash up the dishes, and he smiles over at her. "When did you come up with it?"
"Such little faith in me, Inya," she teases. "Lae got her name first, and all of you are being ridiculous. Everyone go to bed. I'm going to take a bath— Shadowheart, would you care to join me?"
"I would love to," she responds warmly, with a wink to the boys.
The camp closes down slowly, fireflies in the air and torches burning low. The dining table is packed away, the bedrolls are spread out, and Amara's companions are sprawled about camp. They're reading, training, or speaking in hushed voices.
Amara walks through the peaceful camp, and she sees that out of all her party members, one of them is missing. She picks up a few things from her tent and approaches a different one, sending another Minor Illusion to knock at Gale's tent, and the wizard peels back the tent flaps and peers out at her.
"Good evening, my sweet," she greets, smiling at him and stroking the side of his face. "Room for one more in there?"
"For you?" He beams at her, and his eyes go soft. "Always."
She passes him and curls up on his bedroll, picking up to tome that he was reading, setting it in her lap and leaning backward so her back is perfectly arched. Gale crosses his arms and his eyes scan her, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
"Yes?" she purrs to elicit a response from him.
"No amount of lexicons or dialects could properly convey your beauty, or the impressive way you wield it like a weapon against me. I've never felt like this— not even when faced with a goddess," he admits.
Amara roves inhuman, green eyes to him, and her pointed ears twitch. She twists slightly at her waist, further accenting her body in her small clothes, and she slowly turns a page in his book.
Gale makes a sound and snatches his book away from her. "Was this— were you holding this upside down?"
"Maybe," she admits, and she stretches her arms above her head, arching her back and pushing her chest up. "Was more focused teasing you."
"You are evil," he groans, and he yanks at the clasps of his robes, peeling them back and tossing them in a heap in corner of his tent before lowering himself down to Amara's level and crawling over her. "I was actually reading that, you know."
"Well, if you'd like to read, I could accommodate you," she taunts, wrapping his legs up with hers.
"I've been thoroughly distracted, thank you," he promises, and tilts her head back, beginning to press warm kisses to the column of her neck. Amara yanks her bag closer to her and pulls out the worn book she specifically brought, opening it behind his back.
"Then I suppose I'll just have to read to you," she purrs.
With his lips still pressed to Amara's neck, he asks, "Read what, love?"
"'I hold my breath for the sun to fall / For the hot collapse of day, I'm brought to you. / While Reithwin sleeps, the world entire is ours, / The grass - our bed, the dew - our silver candles, / The moon and stars our private canopy.'"
Gale sits up slightly. "Are you… reading me poetry right now?"
Amara's eyes twinkle as she shushes him softly. "'And you the brightest of them all, / My light, my heart, my world. / I would watch the stars with you to the end of time - / But night forever arches into day, / And the sleepy nothing of the sunlit hours will mutter on. / So instead I shall find eternity in a moment, / And by the glance of moonbeams in your eyes will I be brought to rest / As rest should be— enduring, still, / Longing for naught but itself.'"
A shaky breath is the first thing Amara hears, as Gale lifts himself from Amara's body, his eyes swimming with tears. "Give me just a moment, love."
Amara sits up and watches him pull on a new set of rather more revealing small clothes than he usually wears, but he also pulls out a battered notepad of his own, and a well-loved quill, flipping rapidly through the pages with the help of his Weave.
"Is that…" Amara doesn't try to peek, but her voice is light with trepidation, exhilaration.
"I wouldn't say any of them are finished," he rushes to say. "Just let me— oh!"
He stops on one of the pages, and hesitates.
"Relax, sweet thing, I would love to hear you weave words. In any state of completion."
Gale sinks back down onto his bedroll and smiles at her. "Just— don't judge me so harshly."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"'What I thought was / whole, was split and rendered through / my heart as halved as the / mealed red buds scattered 'cross the grounds. / The moon bit the sun and / its light went out. I thought the dark / would grow, until it was no more. / Or a sudden spark would thrill my world / and fill it with colors galore. / But you were not an explosion. A painting, / nor a spell. You were not the sun who spoke / the moon's crescent until it fell. You were / not a phoenix, or a goddess made of stars. / My love for you was gentle, slow and easy. / "This way," in dulcet tones, warm and affectionate. / You were candlelight. Dim and soft. / Incandescent, like the sun healed whole.'"
Amara slides her arms around his neck. "It's perfect."
"The few rhymes are a bit slanted, and the verbage is—
"Perfect. It's all perfect. You're perfect. Kiss me. Please. Now."
Gale laughs, and wastes no time complying.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 30: The Spirit of the Land
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXX
The Spirit of the Land
Halsin is standing by the lake's edge, a torch in his hand, when Amara approaches and silently puts her legs over the edge of the cliff face.
"You're here, good," he greets, but there's a stiffness to him that concerns Amara. "Now we can begin."
Amara looks up at him, unimpressed. "Good morning to you as well, Silh," she greets drolly. "I brought Gale and Astarion, but I may change my mind once I know what to expect. Are you planning on filling me in?" she asks with an exaggerated fluttering of her lashes.
"Thaniel is no ordinary little boy," Halsin insists, some amount of veracity in his voice. "He is the very spirit of this land, and he's currently trapped in the Shadowfell, but thanks to your efforts, I know where to look. Now I must go there— alone."
Unimpressed, Amara crosses her arms over her chest.
"I see what you are thinking, Áralta, but hear me. I have not forgotten your kind words. This is a weight I choose to bear— it's an opportunity that has been a hundred years in the making. It has to be me, and only me."
"I am still not hearing a good reason for that," Amara insists, and the druid lowers himself to sit beside her. "Why even bring me here? I thought you wished to travel with my party."
"Believe me, I didn't bring you here to witness an old druid's grandstanding. You have a part to play in this— and I trust you will play it well. With the Oak Father's blessing, I can infiltrate the Shadowfell, but doing so will sap my strength. I'll need your help if I'm to return."
"I don't like this, Halsin," Amara insists.
"I know. You are warm of heart, for how you care. I need you to stay here. Keep the portal open until I return— and defend it at all costs."
"My companions are more than capable of defending the portal," she insists. "Going in alone is suicide. I'll come with you. Let me do this with you, Halsin. I can assist you best when I can see you."
"No." His voice is firm and determined. "If there's any interference with the portal, then our one chance is lost forever. And so am I. Believe me, I'd rather have you by my side, but this is the only way." Amara must be making some sort of face, because Halsin seems to crumple. "You make it easy to believe things will be different. I wish we could start now. This took me years of study, however, and it not something I could easily teach you. I sought out the Oak Father's favor, to find a way to part the veil. Pray that this works."
"And if it doesn't?"
Halsin flicks his eyes down to her. "Then, you will rewind, and tell me the phrase: 'the lights in Menzoberranzan never go out'. I'll know I have given you something to say that will prove I was wrong. We can figure out something else from there."
That's good enough for Amara.
"All right…" she supposes. "Just… be safe, Silh."
"You as well, Áralta."
He turns around and begins gathering Weave, which overflows from his fingers and spills down like liquid gold.
"Oak Father, hear me, aid me. Force open the jaws of Darkness. Make passage for your vessel of Light." A swirling pool of melten light casts rays as bright as dawn onto his skin, dyeing it a blissful orange. "It's ready," he says, looking over his shoulder. "I'll return with Thaniel as soon as possible. Stay close to the portal— buy me what time you can."
Amara is reluctant, but she nods. "It shall be done."
The druid disappears into the portal with a small waver of golden light, and Amara stares at the ripple until it ceases.
"Amara," Gales calls softly, almost a coo. "They are awaking."
She flicks her gaze away from the portal, and sure enough, the shadows around the lake's edge undulate and pulse. They open maws and flash claws, spit mist and whip thorny vines. Faces appear in the haze and murk, all cracked and slack, dead and lifeless.
Taking a slow breath, Amara straightens, cracks her neck.
"Let's go. They don't get within ten paces of this portal."
Astarion and Gale both give noises of affirmation and ready their weapons and spells.
Countless enemies pour out of the dim around them; giant faceless shadow creatures with gangly limbs and sharp talons, thick, thorny vines which seem to be able to move feely through the earth, shadow cursed pilgrims and innocents, as well as those in Harper armor, and other possessed shadow spirits dripping with dark muck and glowing green mist.
Amara knows the battle is going to be treacherous.
She leaves Gale up near the portal, using his most damaging ranged spells, while she focuses on keeping any of the entities from encroaching— Grease, Sleep, Charm, anything to prevent them from getting into close combat with the other wizard. Astarion cleans up at the edge, slashing his way through sneak attacks at the backs of the darkened, cursed creatures.
It works.
Until it doesn't.
Amara is only one elf, casting spells to waylay an army. Eventually, they break through and begin closing in on Gale. He holds them at back while he can, but it draws the focus of his spellwork from long range to close range. That leaves the shadow drenched spirits at the fringe able to focus on Astarion.
Amara snaps.
"You rewound," Gale points out. "The shadows wake; were we defeated?"
"Not defeated," Amara says, her eyes watching the darkness sprawl and spread, gush and bleed. "But I realized we would not win. Prepare a Sending spell. We must notify the camp— they'll need to make haste."
Understanding flickers through Gale's intelligent eyes and his Weave immediately bursts forth. Amara rubs her fingers together, licks across her teeth. Help is coming, but it's still a long way away. They have to hold out until assistance arrives.
This time, Amara is incredibly aggressive in her tactics. Gale's spells explode across the largest areas he can offer, catching whole groups of shadows before they can disperse. Amara focuses all of her aimed spells on the smallest and weakest of creatures, picking them off before they can even make it into the clearing that the party is staged in. Astarion stays ranged this time, and though his damage is less, he is entirely hidden and she aims to keep him that way, picking off entity after entity.
This way, it's more like two sides of a war meeting in the middle.
Gale expends what little healing he can cast within the first few minutes, and Amara has to juggle casting spells and throwing potions. When her and Gale run low on spells, they cast with scrolls, which makes it even more difficult for Amara to keep them healed.
A claw stabs through her shoulder and her yelps, whipping around to see the faceless creature attached to it. She scrambles to snap as the entity heaves her off the ground and whips her backward. Gale calls her name as she hits the dirt, rolling several times before a vine ensnares her ankle and savagely yanks her back deeper into the shadows.
A scream tries to rip itself from Amara's throat, but it is immediately halted by the sight of steel, flashing in the hazy green of the Shadow-Cursed lands. A blade whips away at the vine as if it was nothing, and Amara is lifted into Lae'zel's arms as if she weighs nothing and isn't two heads taller than the githyanki woman.
"Calm, ra'stil, we have come," she grunts, in what is probably meant to be a soothing manner as much as the gith can manage it. It warms Amara probably more than Karlach's engine.
Healing magic of such a tempered, high quality descends upon her and Amara looks up to see that Shadowheart is in front of the portal, masterfully blanketing the battlefield in Divine Weave, which stitches up with wounds and eases their fatigue as best as she can.
Karlach and Wyll are back-to-back, their magic and bladework a sort of dance of ease that should take dozens of years, not days, to form. Still, their reliance and intuition about one another's abilities is beyond remarkable.
Amara tries to join them once more, along with what seem to be a few Harpers and even a few tieflings from Last Light. Spells descend, the Weave thick in the air, arrows fly and blades arch, blood splattering the ground in thick, blackened globs, and through it all, not a single faceless shadow creature breaches the line of defense Amara set up. The vines shrivel into the ground, stripped of their teethy thorns. The innocent pilgrims and cursed Harpers are laid to rest at last, their grotesque, zombified forms crumbling where they are corroded by the shadow. The clearing becomes a little lighter after that, as even the possessed shadow spirits are released into the air— leaving mostly stillness behind.
The portal bursts with light, and Amara's heart seizes in her chest for a moment. Did one of the shadow-cursed Harpers touch it? Did a stray arrow nick it? A rouge spell? She doesn't want to turn around, and see the radiant, undulating edges collapse in on themselves, taking the druid with them.
She doesn't want him to die, even if it's temporary.
"It's done," she hears instead. Halsin. She turns and sees him, unharmed - without a scratch on him, actually - with the portal still fully intact at his back, and in his arms… "I have him."
A small non-Asmodean tiefling boy, with closely cropped dark hair. While Halsin bears no wounds, this boy, this spirit, definitely does.
Amara rushes to their side, and when Halsin sets the young boy down, Amara kneels at his other side. "This is Thaniel?" Amara asks, and gods, his face, his skin. Corroded by something. They look festering, painful.
"It is," Halsin confirms, but his voice is heavy. "But something's wrong. Dreadfully wrong." His hands pass over Thaniel's body over and over, but the golden magic turns red and thick every time, and Halsin's expression becomes more and more overtaken with fear. "No, it can't be…"
His breathing is labored, bordering on hyperventlization, and Amara reaches toward him. Gale crouches at his back, steadying him, and Astarion crouches next to Amara, putting two fingers to the boy's throat.
"He's not dead," he confirms with a seriousness to his voice. "We should get him somewhere that isn't so exposed."
Halsin seems to gather himself, nodding. "Yes, quite right. I'll bring him back to camp. He'll be safest with us. I need to examine him. I need to understand what's wrong. It's almost like something missing from him."
"Relax for now," Amara urges. "You are safe, and so is he. We will solve this. Come, let's away back to camp."
The druid nods, and carefully gathers the boy into his arms again. Thankfully, they aren't far, and are able to make it back by midday. Everyone settles those left in the camp, and they make a tent up for him to rest in.
Amara brings him something to eat and some water a while later. "How is he?"
"Thaniel is resting," Halsin confirms, but he doesn't exactly sound pleased about it. "But it's no easy slumber. I discovered what's wrong with him."
"Have something to eat first," Amara urges, and she makes sure he does even though he chuckles while doing so the whole time.
"You are too good to me."
"I care for you, Silh, that's what this is. Tell me of Thaniel."
He takes a slow breath. "The shadows rended him in two when they bore him away to the Shadowfell. Half of his essence remained here, amidst the curse. What stayed behind would have been the strongest part of him, but after all these years left in darkness, corruption must have taken hold."
Amara brushes some of the hair from the boy's face. It's oddly familiar…
"How do you know this?" she asks, sitting back on her heels.
"I knew something was wrong when he didn't wake up, but now I'm even more certain," Halsin says, and his voice is deep with dread. "By now, we should have seen some small glimmer of Thaniel's power— a sign that the land is healing. New growth, flowers in bloom. But there has been nothing."
Amara's own Weave flickers between her fingers. "Can it be undone?"
"Perhaps," Halsin admits. "If we can find Thaniel's lost half, and make him whole again. Only, the missing half may not come willingly. The curse will have sunk its tendrils deep, twisting Thaniel's essence into something… else."
Amara looks back down at the boy's face. How familiar it is. Even the damage to it…
Missing half. Twisted essence. A personality that might not come willingly.
She licks her lower lip. "I met a sort of shadow child before— a little boy named Oliver. Around Thaniel's age."
Halsin's head snaps up to look at her. "And you saw this boy yourself?" he asks, his voice light with disbelief and elation. "That can't be a coincidence— but we need to be sure. And I truly mean we, if you wish. Every moment counts, and I've asked much of you already without being at your side."
"Halsin—"
"If you want me, I'm yours," he promises, and the words are heavy even without Chronomancy Weave. Halsin himself makes them weighted. "Against the curse, against the Absolute— anything. Just say the word."
"Then join me," Amara offers, and with it, her hand.
"Good. Now our roots can deepen— together."
"Part of the family," Amara assures him. "Now, are we going to search for this Oliver?"
"This late in the day?" Halsin asks, lifting his eyes to her.
"We've rested. We'll take some camping gear if we're out all night and need it."
Shaking his head, Halsin stands and helps Amara do the same, and leads her out of Thaniel's tent. "You are too good for this place."
"And it's plenty of work," Shadowheart chimes with a smile on her face. "Those who are more selfish are definitely not as busy."
"Shadowheart, dear," Amara drawls. "Would you kindly look after Thaniel? I'm going to take Gale and Astarion again. I'll send word if we need anything, just like we did with the shadows at the portal."
The cleric rolls her eyes with a smile. "Yes, of course, dear. Hurry back."
Amara slings a pack over her shoulder and scans the camp. Alfira is back with Volo, and the animals are eating for the afternoon. But she doesn't see Barcus or Arabella.
"Looking for your little firestar?" Karlach asks, packing up what was set out for lunch. She jerks a thumb in the direction of Amara's tent. "She's holed up in there. Might want to go see her before you leave."
Astarion picks the pack up off of Amara's shoulders and slings it onto his own without a word, just a wave of his fingers. He snatches some of what Karlach is packing away despite her insisting he's "wasting" it, and him asking if she'd rather offer her blood instead.
Amara could tell him that's a bad idea, and she's not even a vampire.
She ducks into her own tent, a place she visits very rarely, preferring to sleep under the stars and nearer to the fire, and sure enough, tangled in her bedroll and blankets, is the little tiefling.
"Hello, little firestar," she greets softly, taking a seat where the girl pulls her legs up to make room. She reaches up and brushes Arabella's hair from her temples. "Did you get anything to eat?"
"Not hungry," she insists, drawing a blanket up to her chin. Burning eyes meet hers and the sound of a thrashing tail tip can be heard beneath the blankets. "Are you leaving again?"
"I am," she says directly. "I would really appreciate if you ate something before I left."
Arabella sighs. "You're going to be busy a lot, aren't you? You help a lot of people."
"My family is here still— and you are free to visit the inn while we're still here. The other tiefling children are inside."
She pulls her legs to her chest. "What do I do if you die too?"
"How could I do such a thing when I have a lovely girl like you waiting for me when I get home? And such capable fighters at my side?"
Arabella's eyes fill with tears with Amara's hands flutter helplessly around her.
"Can I hold you, firestar?"
A sharp nod.
Amara wraps her arms around the tiefling. "What can I do to assuage your worries?"
Arabella buries her face into the crook of Amara's elbow. "Do you always talk like that?"
With a soft laugh, Amara corrects herself. "Tell me how to make you feel better."
Bright orange eyes peer up from Amara's lap. "I want to know you can protect yourself. You got my power, right? Let me show you how to use it, so you know." The fire in her eyes is bright and passionate, and Amara smiles widely.
"I think you explained it once. You manifest it with a spoken component, right?"
Arabella extends her hands and green and black mist starts to drift off of them, thickening into a shadow-esque Weave that appears somewhat nature touched. Rooted in the land but poisoned by the Darkness somehow.
Amara lets her own fingers unfurl next to the little girl's. "What do you think of when it happens? Is there an image or a scent that you focus on?"
The tiefling shakes her head. "It's like… I can feel the ground inside my body, and everything gets really cold."
Amara hums and closes her eyes. She shuffles her feet forward and listens for the sound of the dirt and rocks scraping at the soles of her shoes. She strains to hear the gusts of wind hitting the tent's walls, and the hairs on her arms stand on end as a chilled breeze seeps inside. Inside and inside it goes, past the tent walls, past Amara's skin, and deep into her body, her bones, settling somewhere in there.
She feels the heavy tug of nature, of air and wind and sky, and the rough slide of earth and dirt and mud, and the insistent tug of wave and water and rain. And she feels the cold, something festering and deep and alive, something deep within her.
"There!" Arabella chirps. "You're doing it, that's the magic. Now, you just have to tell it what you want— I've found it works best holding things still."
The little girl tosses Amara's pillow in the air, and the elf's gaze snaps onto it. "Seize!" she commands, and instantly a barrage of thorny vines, half-visible and a misty mix of black and green leap forward and wrap around the downy silken cushion, utterly tearing it to shreds.
"Woah…" Arabella breathes out. "That's so much more powerful than mine…"
"I, uh, I've used a lot more magic than you," Amara says sheepishly, but really she's a bit startled too. She didn't expect a word that specified restraint to completely maim the thing. She'll have to learn to hold back before she really uses it. "Feel better now?"
Arabella picks at her fingers. "Do you think it might help you manage 'til you get back here?"
"I'm certain it will," Amara assures her, taking the girl's hands so she can't pick them bloody. "Thank you for giving me such a wonderful gift, and teaching me how to use it."
Her eyes water again and tears trickle down her cheeks. "I miss my parents…"
"I know, firestar, I know…" Amara cradles her as best as she can.
"I don't want to lose you too, miss. I do like you a lot."
Amara kisses her temple. "Don't think about that now, firestar. Get some rest, and then please try to eat something? You can tell me all about what you ate when I get back, okay?"
Arabella sniffles. "'When'?"
"That's right, when. I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't worry, 'Bella— I know it won't be the same, but we'll love you so much, in our own way, here. You won't ever want for anything we can provide for you."
The girl burrows back into Amara's bedsheets, blankets, and pillows, and says nothing else.
Amara rubs her arm and kisses the top of her head.
"I'll be back, brave one."
/ / /
The look in Halsin's eyes as they reached the ruined battlefields outside Last Light is nothing short of haunted. "Once, you could hear nature's symphony in this place," he remarks. His voice is deep with agony. "Now it's quiet. Quiet and dead."
Amara lets her eyes linger on him. "Silh, it certainly is not nature in its normal state, but…" She waves a hand, and her Weave reverberates through the shadows. She urges Gale to do the same, and his violet magic mingles with her cyan, and it illuminates the shadow a pale lavender and suddenly the air is filled with a soft humming, the white noise of rain and wind, and the smell of earth and growth. "There is plenty of life in a land so filled with magic. It's bursting with it, it's just… under the surface. We will surely restore this place."
Gale claps a hand on Halsin's back. "Have faith, my friend— and don't tempt our group too much. We'll start up with animal noises, if just to make you feel more at home."
Halsin laughs heartily, and watches the last of the lavender magic dissipate into the air. "I'd venture to say you bleat well enough as it is," he teases.
Astarion finds that particularly hilarious, and Amara has a feeling he won't let Gale live that one down for a long time.
"Very funny, Halsin," Amara says, tapping his side with her elbow.
"Sincerely, though, thank you— I appreciate all you both do for me," he says, to both Gale and Amara.
"We're almost there," she says softly. "Are you ready?"
He gives a decisive nod. "As much as I can be."
Gale spots him first. "There— on the ridge."
"Oak Father preserve us," Halsin breathes. "Look at him."
Oliver does indeed look like Thaniel, now that Amara has seen him, and the damage they both bear is frighteningly similar. Where Oliver's horns are more traditional for a tiefling, Thaniel's are more like a fledgling deer's— and both of them have a skin tone one would expect of a nature spirit over a tiefling.
"I won fair and square," he belts out when his dual-colored eyes settle on Amara, burning and angry. "There's no point in playing again— I want a challenge."
*Though shrouded in shadows, the child's resemblance to Thaniel is unmistakable. This must be his dark half— warped by the curse.*
"Go on. Find someone else to play with," he demands, all sharp teeth, white hair, and frightening claws.
Amara settles her gaze on the nature spirit tiefling. "I know who you really are," she says, watching how his eyes flicker, glow, spark. Like candle flame. "I know where you really belong. You need to reunite with Thaniel."
His eyes flick down and away. "Spoilsport," he spits out angrily. "I'm not going back. I like it here— I've made a family for myself, I get to play all the time."
Amara lowers herself. "Oliver. Like it or not, you don't belong here."
"Yes I do," he snaps, bearing his sharp teeth, a whole mouth of them. "You can't make me do anything. I don't want to play with you anymore."
In a gust of green mist and invisibility irridescence, Oliver disappears into the murk of the shadows.
"He's scarpered— and I suppose it's up to us to find him," Gale remarks with a heavy tone.
In front of them is a swirling portal of light white glow, an extremely pale blue-ish purple that makes Halsin click his tongue.
"A Shadow Portal. This is not good."
"The same thing you opened earlier?" Amara asks with a mote of panic in her voice. "Isn't this extremely dangerous for us to follow him through?"
Golden Druidic Weave flows from Halsin's hands as he scans the portal that looks like solidified moonlight. "Since Oliver is a manifestation of Shadowfell, he seems to have a much more stable ability than I do. The Oak Father gifted me a certain degree of ability to summon a portal, but their stability is highly questionable. This is a much more reliale connection to the shadow realm. Still, we should proceed with caution."
Amara nods. "I will take us back if necessary."
She leads the way, stepping through the circle of moonlight, and the world they enter into is terrifyingly dark. It's so soaked in shadow that even the pixie's blessing seems to struggle combatting it.
Oliver stands at the high ground.
"I'll make my own fun if I have to— and my own friends."
Amara does not like the sound of that. Especially with how her last battle with the shadows went…
At least this time, Amara has another weapon. And she has a druid with wild shape.
With Halsin as a main force of offense as well as their off-action healer, Gale and Amara are free to maintain high ground for casting spells and shooting arrows and Astarion has never dealt with more distracted enemies than ones focused on the prowling bear.
Whenever a swirling shadow creature or faceless, clawed mass of darkness gets too close to any of her companions, Amara thrusts a hand out and listens for the sound of armor, of metal gnashing like teeth, of blades and arrowheads, of fire and lightning crackling, and the sound of acid splash and grease spread. The sounds of pain and effort, of life on a battlefield.
It sinks into her skin, raises the hair on her arms, and vibrates her so deep that she feels as though a bubbling spring has poured into the marrow of her bones.
Darkness and mist lick off of her body, and the heavy weight of nature presses down on her even more than her albatross of time, if but for a moment. The howling wind, the moving earth, and rippling water, the crackling flame; they combine under Amara's skin until she unleases them.
"Seize and shred!" she commands, and the voice that comes out of her body is pulsing with something that is distinctly not Chronomancy Weave.
Countless ghostly vines rip up from the ground and entange the shadow creatures roaming the landscape, and all of them are pulled helplessly away from where Oliver stands. He howls with rage and - perhaps some fear - and the entage spell tightens, tightens, tightens around the shadows until they come apart as if something has ripped them to pieces.
"You should have just left me alone!" Oliver screams, but there's no one left to protect him and Amara starts walking. Just walking, her crossbow in hand, up to where Oliver is looking down on all of them.
"What fun would that be?" she asks when she's close enough for him to hear her over the din of battle.
His face twists with fury. "You don't get to have fun," he decides, voice trembling. "I'm supposed to be the one having fun!! You can't even get me in here!!"
Amara hears him laughing after that, but she merely extends her hand, her own command over inky darkness and misty green peeling off of her skin.
"Shatter," she commands, and her tendrils of thorny vines spring forth again, encircling the dome black as night that encases the child.
"No, no!" He screeches. "Spoil my fun? I'll teach you a lesson— just you watch."
There's a blast of almost Necromantic energy and the vines seem to wither away, curling into themselves and sinking back into the earth.
Amara sniffs. "All right, have it your way."
A hail of Scorching Ray fragments spear down from the cloudy, Shadowfell sky and peirce into the top of the Nightdome surrounding Oliver. Four and then three and then three.
"You're spoiling my fun!" He sounds much more scared than angry now. "Stop it right now, or you'll be sorry!"
"Shatter," Amara tries again, and in an instant, her Entangle spell crushes the protective field around Oliver and retreat, as the boy drops down and covers his head with his hands.
"Why are you doing this?" he demands, voice choked with tears of frustration. "All I wanted to do was play!"
Their little clearing in Shadowfell then fills with more shadow creatures, a mockery of "friends" conjured by a lonely boy missing half his soul. Amara's heart tugs painfully and she approaches him, lets her companions deal with the extra shadows.
They do so with ease.
That only seems to unsettle and threaten Oliver further, and he looks up with fear and anger and defensiveness in his gaze. The look of someone fearing for his life. Pleading for it, reluctantly.
"Why couldn't you just leave me alone? Why can't I just stay here, playing? I had everything I've ever wanted, right here, and you've ruined it!" His voice grows in anger and the shadows around him tremble and fester. "I'm not leaving— you can't make me!"
Halsin places a hand on Amara's shoulder. "Be gentle. He's much more than a child, but he doesn't truly know that."
She takes his hand. "You know him," she realizes. "Thaniel, at least. Don't you? At least, once you did. Talk to him, Halsin. You know what needs to be said better than anyone."
"It shall be done," he says warmly. "Oliver," he begins, with that same warmth and groundedness to his voice, and he gets on one knee in front of the child. "Nobody is making you leave— this is your home. But it is dark, empty… lonely. I don't want you to be alone. I want you to be with Thaniel."
"Why should I go back to him?" Oliver asks, demands. "He abandoned me!" His eyes are wide, round with vulnerability. His brows are tipped, tilted. Hurt.
"No—" Halsin starts, emotion in his voice which he catches, restrains. "You were stolen from each other. Neither of you are to blame. And I know your pain. I truly do. Thaniel was my friend also. I played with him, grew up while he stayed the same. He made me who I am today, and then he was ripped away from me, same as for you."
"Oh, Silharrn," Amara breathes, pieces clicking together.
"But you need not be alone any longer. You need not invent friends. Thaniel is back. He is waiting for you."
Oliver looks down, his expression pinched. There is disbelief, born of reluctance, and full of distrust, written plainly there to see. It's a painful expression to see on a child's face.
"…Fine," he eventually acquiesces. "I'll do it. It might be nice to be with him again."
His heterochromic eyes scan the lot of Amara's party again, and land on her. His expression lightens slightly, and he smiles.
"Bye. And thank you for playing with me," he says, before his body fades into greens and yellows, natural colored floating lights that burn away the damage festering in his body, and his energy - his magic - disperse into the air.
Silence hangs over the party for a few moments.
"It's done, at last," Halsin says, breaking the stillness. "Soon the land will be unshrouded. We should return to Thaniel when we can."
"We can return now," Amara says, seeing the anxiety on his face. "We'll rest, and head out again first thing in the morning."
He relaxes instantaneously. "You go far to accommodate me."
"Darling, you don't know the half of it," Astarion drawls. "The nearest waypoint is up ahead, I think. Let's use that, yes?"
Even the waypoint doesn't get them there before Oliver rouses Thaniel, and when they reach the camp again, the spirit of the land is just— sitting at their dining table.
"You did it!" Shadowheart says cheerfully when they walk back into camp, and the boy turns around. He's still injured, and there's darkness under his eyes and something haunted in the way he looks, but he's smiling and— he's awake and alive.
"You're Thaniel, yes?" Amara asks, setting her pack down. "It's so wonderful to see you awake. I'm Amara."
"The druid Halsin spoke to me while I was sleeping. He spoke of you— said that you fought shadow and spirit to restore me." He rises from the table to greet her properly, bowing. "A hundred years of sickness, almost ended. I feel every root that riddles the earth beginning to unfold."
Amara's eye twinkle. "I sense a stipulation."
"There is but one anchor," Thaniel confirms, and Amara nods a few times. "It holds the shadows in place. The soul that brought it into being."
She swallows. "Ketheric Thorm," she says, rather certain at this point.
Thaniel nods. "For the land to heal, Ketheric Thorm must die."
"Rest for now," Amara urges him. "I'm sure you'll have much to do once we take care of him. We're going to head out first thing tomorrow— hopefully we'll discover the solution rapidly."
Thaniel nods and Shadowheart helps him back to his tent.
"Thank you for being so good with him," Halsin says, his voice heavy with emotion.
Amara flicks her gaze up at him. "Are you sure you don't want to go see him?"
"I will, when things have settled down," Haslin assures her, but it sounds more like he's readying himself.
"If I might ask, Silh… what happened before, when the shadow curse was unleashed?"
Halsin doesn't look reluctant, but he doesn't exactly look pleased at having to answer either. He just looks like he expected this eventually. "Druids and Harpers joined together to put a stop to Ketheric Thorm. We marched on Moonrise and, after much fighting, we prevailed." His expression and tone grow bitter. "Even in defeat, though, Ketheric turned to Shar. Not long after we sealed him away in his tomb, the shadow curse took hold. No one had seen the likes of it before. No one knew how to react… then it started to claim all those within its reach. Those who had survived the battles now fell to the shadows— became part of the shadows. And worst of all… I lost contact with Thaniel."
Both of them look toward the tent where the spirit of the land rests.
He closes his eyes as overwhelming emotion washes over him. "I wanted to try and find him, but we couldn't stay— we would have all succumbed. When the Archdruid of the Grove - my predecessor - was seized by the curse, I had to lead the survivors to safety. That was my first day as Archdruid. An inauspicious beginning," he recalls somberly, and his expression is downcast and— utterly crestfallen.
"Silharrn," Amara says sternly. "You give yourself far too little credit. Inauspicious? Sound like you did what you had to, and saved lives."
Some of the deep guilt fades from Halsin's expression, soothing itself away. "You are right. But I must not lose focus until everything has been put right. I've wasted too much time already— years in which nature has suffered."
Amara puts her hand on his arm. "Just don't forget— you're alive because of your own strength, Halsin. And you're still alive. Time passes— it will still pass, but that doesn't mean we're wasting it. Take it day by day. We'll do this. Together."
He flicks his eyes away, voice heavy when he echoes, "Together."
She leaves him after that, to bathe and eat. She expects Gale to be in his tent already, but unexpectedly returns to find him displaying several basic somatic components for Arabella to copy. They speak in hushed tones at the dining room table, and Amara makes her way over to join them, but stops.
The smile on Gale's face is different than she can remember seeing it before.
Softer, less preformative. He's pleased— pride glistening in his eyes.
Instead of risking ruining their moment, Amara retreats, and curls up in Gale's tent alone, where he'll find her there when he comes to get ready for bed. She swears she'll go back to sleeping around the fire, but for tonight— she knows what she wants.
When he arrives roughly an hour later, neither make mention of his impromptu magic lesson— but then again, they don't do much talking either.
Still, they get enough sleep, since they have to be up before the dawn would crack should light be able to penetrate the shadow. She wakes him softly and they merely extract Astarion and Halsin from the camp without ceremony, getting back on the road. This time, Amara chooses the waypoint Lae'zel discovered outside of the House of Healing, which puts them just about where they met with Raphael what seems like ages ago.
"So… this is the mausoleum," Amara muses to herself. "Z'rell mentioned Balthazar is here as well too, did she not?"
"I believe we also found a note near the tollhouse that referenced this place," Astarion mentions. "Something about the source of Thorm's power being locked in his tomb."
"Then we shall knock down many birds with few stones," Amara remarks. "Tread carefully, it is most likely infested with shadows still." They descend into the depths of the tomb, and instantly, Amara can feel the effects of her own Weave pressing down into her, ripping at her psyche.
Gale is in front of her a moment later. "What is it, my love? What can I do for you?" he asks the moment he sees her waver.
She gently shakes her head. "Nothing, it's— it's nothing. At least, nothing we can do anything about. My magic is unsettled here, that's all."
He looks up at her, his expression pinched with worry, his hands brushing across her face. "Can I not alleviate any of your discomfort?"
She just smiles at him. "Not right now. If it gets any more difficult, it will show. Come, let us keep going."
Inside, the mausoleum is all stone walls, flickering torchlight, and fine filigree metal passageways. Terracotta urns lay in smashed pieces, and piles of dirt are filled with bone and skulls from various species. The scent of death and decay has sunk into the porous stone like a sponge soaking up rotten water.
Gale backs off, and lets Astarion and Halsin push open the gates, but Amara quickly stops them all and holds a finger to her lips. In the distance, reverberating off the hard surfaces of all the stone, is a nasally voice.
"Nere, Z'rell, Minthara— whoever you are, leave. I shall carry out General Thorm's will alone." Amara locates the voice— it's not coming from a living creature's mouth, but rather a floating skull similar to the ones that Thorm child was using, a mixture of purple and blue flames pouring from its unhinged jaw. It must trigger whenever it senses someone enter the mausoleum, and carry the word of Balthazar.
Amara regards the skull, and then steps onto the raised area which looks like an entombment. Right there on the tomb is a diary bearing the name of Ketheric Thorm. This must be his tomb.
"Not wanted," the skull snaps. "Not needed. Leave."
Amara ignores the skull, and instead reads the plaque of the tomb.
*Here lies Melodia Thorm, beloved wife and mother,* it says. So, not Ketheric. She picks up his diaries instead and pages through them enough to gauge something of an understanding. Grief, she understands— but grief is no excuse for cruelty. To become a monster simply because…
Amara puts the diaries down.
They move further in, and Amara stops, staring at the sunken area of the next room. "An open tomb— empty," she relays to her companions. "Not ominous in the slightest."
"Who's?" Halsin asks, descending the stairs with Astarion.
*Here lies Isobel Thorm.*
Well, shit.
"Isobel," Gale says grimly. His soft eyes flick up to Amara with hesitation fraught in them. "You really think it's the same as the cleric at Last Light Inn?"
She takes a rather raspy breath in. "I had been fairly sure she is his daughter… let's say I had not foreseen we'd find her coffin in the tombs." She looks around the room with trepidation. "We must proceed with care. Be wary of where you step and what you touch."
After searching several of the rooms and nooks, Amara unearths a small tome of necromantic rites which has been bound open to a specific page, where a note has been scrawled as if the tome was being made to use as paper.
"'General Thorm's orders were clear'," she reads out loud. "'In order to find what lies beyond this mausoleum, one must walk in his own footsteps, deed by deed. 'From splendor, to tragedy, to infamy', as he puts it.' Do you think this has to do with this room?'"
"The Bright Tower—" Halsin starts, stops. "This portrait is of Moonrise. Or it used to be."
Amara comes to stand next to him. "Splendor, do you think?"
He hums. "Could be," he admits, and he raises his hand to the button beneath it. "Shall I?"
Rubbing her fingers together, Amara nods. "Go ahead."
The druid presses the button and they hold their breath, but all that happens is a faint blue hue that rises from the painting. "What of the others?" Halsin asks.
Gale makes a humming sound from the other side of the room. "Ah, this one appears to be of Ketheric Thorm. He seems… bowed by grief. If I had to guess, based on context of this room, I would say it's for his daughter."
Astarion clicks his tongue. "Tragedy."
"Is there a button there, Gale?" Amara asks, still pressing her fingers together. Her bones creak.
There's a soft click and the same blue glow begins emanating from the painting.
"Now what are we looking for, darling?" Astarion asks. "Infamy?"
Amara nods. "On the other end of the room perhaps?"
They cross Isobel Thorm's tomb and there's a single portrait of Ketheric Thorm hanging centered on the back wall.
"It's him," Halsin confirms. "He appears… to be leading Shar's forces."
Astarion snorts. "Quite the about-face for a warrior of Selûne."
The vampire presses the button and— instead of a blue light, this time it's more of a soft green one. Almost Necromantic in nature. The moment the light takes over the portrait, the walls on either side of the painting fall away, and reveal a room beyond.
Amara takes ten steps into the room.
"Shit," she cusses, looking at the massive statuary at the edge of where the walkway merely ends.
"That disc must be the way forward," Halsin notes, pointing at the circular metallic plate between the two statues.
"Where will it bring us, though?" Amara asks. "Do you see that iconography? I feel as though Shadowheart should be here… if we're about to delve into a place guarded by Dark Justiciar statuary."
Halsin regards her carefully. "We could wait for her to join us, of course, by sending word. Or…"
Amara's eyes flick to him. "You don't have to do that."
He extends his hand with a small smile. "I have heard I will keep my memory if I hold onto you while you return. I will assist in explaining to Shadowheart why you are waking her so early in the morning."
Smiling back, Amara takes his hand and holds her fingers up between them. "You seem to be able to hold your own. I… think I could bring you both back with me. But it would certainly help to have you with me to defend why five of us are going."
Even though Halsin didn't look detoured by the idea of switching with Shadowheart, the realization Amara isn't going to leave him behind makes his eyes light up in a way that tugs at her heart. The joy on his face at being relied on and trusted to help shoulder her burden— he truly is a selfless creature.
"Did you have anything to eat this morning?" Amara asks.
Halsin blinks a few times. "Of course. Why?"
"I hope it wasn't anything too delicious— you might lose it," Amara teases, and snaps.
/ / /
It's difficult to say how much more quickly they get to the disc - it's definitely quicker - and Shadowheart's cautious gaze scans the statues while she clutches her forearm she sliced into over the altar of Shar.
"Breathe," Halsin advises, seeing the same thing Amara is. "We are with you."
She shoots the druid a grateful smile. "I just… wasn't expecting so much of Her influence on this journey. At first it felt as though she was guiding me, looking out for me, but…"
Amara takes her hand. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We'll figure this out."
Shadowheart nods a few times.
Gale steps the farthest onto the disc. "Are we ready?" he asks. "Vae?"
She hesitates, but nods again.
He presses the button, and a spray of light purple glow erupts from each of the Dark Justiciar statues, and from the button under Gale's hand. All of them startle as the the disc shudders, and then slowly begins to lower.
"Down, is it?" Amara drawls, and she shuffles over to look over the side. "That's stupendeously ominous."
"Could I ask you something, Amara?" the cleric asks softly, and she's looking up at the statues as they sink lower.
"Always."
"When you first started naming us, it was… a bit more casual. You chose 'Nodelvae' for me— everyone else seemed to ask why their name was chosen. I understand… a lot of them. Even Niar makes sense— you chose 'little sun' because 'Astarion' means 'little star', right? Only, we all see him."
"Hey!" the vampire protests. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Shadowheart's dark hazel eyes hover over him. "You bask in the sunlight, Niar. You look like you would drown in it, if you could. The way you stand in it, look at it, soak it in. You turn your hands in it, stretch your body out in it. You think we don't see, but we just don't say anything. You've been in the darkness for centuries— you've had enough of the stars. Amara knows that too, that's why she named you after the sun."
Astarion blinks, and though he can't flush, the embarrassment is written clear on his face. "Well— well, what about you and the moon, then?"
"What… what about me and the moon?"
"Those prayers you say, the ones when we're fighting particularly tough battles."
Shadowheart freezes, and just her eyes turn to Astarion. "What… prayers?"
"When you talk about the Moonmaiden smiling on you, and how you're Her seventh, cloaked in silver," Astarion quotes, waving his hands in the air. "'Cower from her light!'" he mimics her higher pitched voice.
"I don't— I don't…"
She looks helplessly around, and Gale sheepishly nods, while Halsin clears his throat.
"Vae," he begins. "When I first began journeying with you, I only heard one or two utterances of this kind, but the longer I've been with you… the more you've been saying such things in the heat of battle."
Simmering, Shadowheart growls, "I worship Shar— or have you forgotten?!"
"Me?" the vampire snaps. "It seems like you're the one who forgets— it's the only part of Her you seem any good at following. For being a cleric of a god of night, secrets, and loss, you seem to embody the literal opposite of her beliefs on a regular basis!! You rise with the sun, seem to adore the moon, spout prayers of Shar and Selûne in full earshot of anyone listening, and can't bear to lose anyone!"
The disc has reached its destination long ago, but none of them make any move to get off of it.
"Amara," she asks, with a trembling voice. "I do not pray to Selûne. Do… do I?"
Green eyes gaze into hazel ones.
"The light of the moon follows you," Amara tells her softly. "For just a moment, when you move out of its shine. It bleeds into shadow as if chasing you, attempting to follow you where it cannot go. Did you know that?"
"That doesn't… it doesn't mean…"
"To me, it looks like the moon is always trying to catch your attention, from the moment it appears until the moment the light of the morning swallows it. A god of the night cannot bar you from worshiping the moon which rises in the night sky. A god who embraces darkness and pain can only encourage you so much to do the same; you continually turn to the light, and chose kinder, gentler interpretations of Shar's teachings than torture. A god of loss can only make people suffer to a certain extent until they turn away from them— we have a point where we decide enough has been taken from us. And lastly; a god of secrets, who is attempting to maintain servitude, would do everything they can to keep their followers from worshiping the moon, turning to the light, choosing to do something kind, and rejecting suffering. A god like that would take even the memories of their followers, just to keep them in line."
Shadowheart shakes her head, pressing her fingers to her temples. "No— no, no. This is the Gauntlet of Shar, before my very eyes," she says, gesturing to the room they're in. "Don't you see? The Dark Lady guided me here. She wanted me to find this place."
Halsin's palm lands heavily on Amara's shoulder.
She sighs surreptitiously. "What is this place?" she asks instead. She'll let this go, for now.
"The Gauntlet of Shar," Shadowheart repeats. "I can't believe it… I can't believe we found the Dark Lady's sacred crucible."
"This is the place then, isn't it? The one where you could become a Dark Justiciar. You've dreamed of this."
Hazel eyes hesitate over Amara's bright green ones. "I know," she says, soft and unsure. "I can scarcely believe it's real, but here it is, before my very eyes. I could reach out and feel the polished stone walls raised in Lady Shar's honor…"
Amara watches Gale and Astarion exchange a worried glance behind Shadowheart's back.
"Normally it would not be for me to pursue becoming a Dark Justiciar without a superior's command," the cleric comments, and Amara can't help but agree even though she does not want to meet… Mother. "But this is different. My lady wanted me to find this place, I know it."
Amara… feels differently, but she keeps her mouth shut for now.
"So— it's something about this place specifically," Amara says instead. "This location is sacred to Shar?"
"The Gauntlet of Shar is no ordinary temple— it is the highest test of the Dark Lady's faithful, to judge if they are worthy of becoming a Dark Justiciar. The Gauntlet has double meaning— it speaks of the ordeals to be overcome, and of the armor-clad fist of Lady Shar that would embrace the worthy. Survive the crushing gauntlet, and be embraced by the Nightsinger at its very core."
Amara recognizes the name— Nightsinger. It tugs at something in her brain, and weighs on her bones and sinnew with Chronomancy Weave.
She swallows her discomfort and tries to keep listening to Shadowheart.
"The old ways were lost over time," the cleric explains, "now some claim the rank simply by killing a single Selûnite. But before, they were a true elite. Many would attempt the trials, but few would succeed."
Lovely.
It only sounds horrificially dangerous.
Halsin catches Amara's eyes and keeps her steady, and she licks her lips and hides her discomfort.
"Let us have a look inside, then," she advises. "Still, take care, Vae, this place is not in prime shape."
The cleric falls silent finally, once again striking Amara with her willingness to divulge the secrets of her goddess with ease— seemingly in opposition to everything she should stand for. None of it makes sense.
That is, if Shadowheart really is a cleric of Shar.
Amara is starting to doubt that.
They venture deeper into the Gauntlet and Halsin takes special care to stay by Amara's side, while Gale takes the lead for her. She trusts him the most to do so.
"Shar's armies of destruction arose from within these halls," Halsin notes, and Amara flinches when she realizes it might be painful for him to be here, amidst the origin of one of the veritable wars he fought in.
Shadowheart bristles at that. "Those who do not listen to the reason of Lady Shar's words must instead feel the keenness of her blade," she states, and Amara is struck with how much it feels… coerced. Like a line fed to her repeatedly.
It doesn't sound like Shadowheart talking.
Judging by Halsin's expression, he's come to the same conconlusion.
Anger ripples across his features, but it's not directed at the half-elf, rather… at the goddess she's defending rotely. The effort it would take to create such an immediate responsive defense… Amara shudders to think.
Gale is looking back at her, unsure how to proceed, and Astarion is looking at the cleric, horror in his eyes and his ears pressed back flat against his head.
Halsin presses the issue. "You sound like a student, reciting words for a test without considering their meaning,"
Shadowheart turns dark eyes to him. "I've considered them plenty. Besides, Lady Shar favors action over words. Try it out, sometime."
Amara snaps.
She prevents Halsin from speaking again, laying a hand on his arm and gently shaking her head. He looks reluctant, but he does bite his tongue. She mouths, "Thank you," to him, and he nods in response.
They climb another set of stairs— Shadowheart is in the lead now that Gale was waylaid slightly by his own moral compass. Amara takes his hand and threads her fingers through it. She needs the contact, if just for a while.
He squeezes lightly.
"Careful," Astarion warns as they near the top of the stairs. "The stench of the undead…"
At the top, stumbling skeletons in armor shuffle around aimlessly. Shadowheart swallows and clears the last few steps. One of the skeletons takes notice of her and thrusts an arm out, stopping any further advancements she could make. All its movements are twitching, and its head snaps up and to the side, glowing eyes taking in Shadowheart as if attempting to identify her.
"You do not belong here," it rasps, its jaw moving and clicking in a mockery of speech.
Amara's eyes widen as she feels her parasite writhe behind her eye.
*Your mind upends. Somehow, in the decayed soup of this creature's brain, a tadpole lives. Another presence nurtures it, manipulates it like a puppet.*
The other skeletons speak as well, each in a different hoarse, raspy tone.
"You blunder," one growls.
"You meddle," another accuses.
The original one who addressed you adds, "You upset my plans. Leave."
Amara has a feeling she knows whose plans those are.
"Z'rell sent us," Shadowheart informs them, clearly on the same page as Amara. "We're here to help a certain Balthazar."
"Z'rell lacks imagination," one of them growls again, clearly irked.
"Z'rell lacks faith," another accuses, and Amara can't exactly say it's wrong.
"Z'rell lacks in many ways, but I do not."
Lovely— so this is Balthazar? Amara figured.
"Leave," Balthazar possessing this skeleton growls. "Before—" Something catches its attention momentarily, distracting it, and then anger overtakes it, and it becomes almost impossible to understand the raspiness in the skeleton's voice. "—stupid, worm-infested cockhead! You have awoken the shadows! My forces are split. The defences are thin."
"Rally on me— a wall of bone and blade against the darkness. Now!"
Great— lovely.
A fight with more shadows.
Just want Amara wanted!
More! Fucking! Shadows!
This time, there are living pools of shadows that the rest of them seem to be spilling out of, and instead of pilgrims or Harpers, this time they're Justiciars brought to life in shadow. Shadowheart seemed insistent at the skill level of Justiciars and— she wasn't lying.
They are incredibly formidable.
Amara has to snap twice before she doesn't get immediately sliced open, and once she has that part figured out, she has to get away enough to activate Arabella's cursed briar abilities. That takes another snap, and she still gets herself cut up something awful.
When she's free enough, she focuses all her energy on repeating the same thing she did with Oliver. Spells fly, whizzing with life and thunder and spits of caustic acid damage. Weapons clang against armor, shields bashing and clanging and echoing like they're howling in pain.
She can feel the sound sink into her, become one with her. It rumbles so deeply inside her body that it becomes like a beast gnashing to escape, and the licks of darkness and mist lift from her body in threatening lashes.
"Rip and restrain!" she screams, and the vines burst out of her body and slam into any nearby creatures, literally tearing them up off the ground and slamming them back down, before beginning to actually tear pieces of them off the whole.
While the shadows are entangled, Amara Steps away, and begins devastating the gaping maws of blackness that the shadows are pouring out of. She directs Gale to join her, and the two of them rain damage down on the portals and anything that seeks to escape them. Astarion is a flurry of arrows fom the darkness, and his sneak attacks wipe out enemies that have taken one or two hits the literal moment their blackened blood drips from their bodies. Halsin focuses on contraining the shadows with his own nature magic— though it isn't as vicious and tormenting as the briars that Amara can cast, and when necessary he assists Shadowheart with healing so the cleric can cast offensive spells of her own.
Finally, the entry hall seems clear of shadow entities, and all of them collapse in something of a circle, passing food and water and healing potions to one another.
"What's next, darling?" Astarion asks. "Not that I'm not adoring the constant battling of these shadowy creatures. It's, of course, the light of my evening."
"Don't whine," Gale chides. "It is a poor look on anyone, darling," he teases, mocking Astarion's accent.
The vampire bristles outwardly, opening his mouth, but Shadowheart walks between the two of them and approaches an ancient-looking altar in a lowered portion of the entryway. "Lady Shar…" she breathes, and all of them seem to tense as she approaches the altar. "So many must have failed to make a visage so grand. It's beautiful…"
Astarion makes an exaggerated gesture with his eyes and mouths, "Go ahead," to Amara.
She stands and joins the cleric at the altar.
*Upon the altar is an inscription. Brave the Gauntlet of your Lady Shar. Surmount Her trials, and rise a Dark Justiciar.*
Shadowheart takes a soft breath in. "My convictions have proven true. This is the Gauntlet of Lady Shar. Perhaps here, I can show myself to be worthy. A Dark Justiciar, at last…"
Gale joins them by the altar. "The trials of Lady Shar. Do you recall what they are?"
Chuckling in good humor, Amara points out, "If it only took you a glance to tell where we were in the first place, then you must know the nature of the trials, surely."
Her lip twitches up. "Lady Shar's values are clear— Her children must excel in stealth, combat and navigating her sacred darkness," Shadowheart recites with unnatural ease. "Lastly, She asks for a sacrifice. To become a Dark Justiciar, one must spill the blood of a Selûnite."
Halsin gives a cold laugh. "Even back then… it seems the blood of the innocent plays into the Dark Justiciar's legacy."
"Take care whom you disrespect," Shadowheart snaps. "Dark Justiciar are the Dark Lady's cadre of elite warriors. The most faithful. The most envied. The most ruthless."
Amara carefully steps closer to the altar once all of them are standing around it, and her eyes scan the surface of the stone device.
*There are recesses on the altar that look intended to house something. Another such receptacle already contains a gemstone.*
Curious.
Amara kind of wishes Lae'zel was here.
"Amara," Astarion calls, and she flicks intense green eyes to him. "Something's still moving out there," he tells her, and his own gaze is flitting restlessly around the room.
"A shadow?" she asks, stepping away from the altar.
His tongue quickly wets his lower lip. "I believe it is traveling on more than two legs. That does not… bar it from being a creature of shadow, however."
"Curious," Amara says, somewhat to herself. "Let's track it."
His brow quirks up. "You must be joking."
She smiles. "I most certainly am not."
It takes a little wanderingand two dead ends but Amara sees it too. Only briefly, just out of the corner of her eye, a possibly quadrupedal, feline creature with multiple whipping tails, perhaps. She quickly follows it up a set of stairs despite a few protests from behind her.
For a temple— Amara disapproves at how Shar runs this place.
"Gods," Shadowheart mutters. "You could almost row a boat through here, with all the blood that was spilled. What happened?"
Amara flicks her gaze over to her, hearing her cleric's actual voice for the first time in a while since they made it down here. Shadowheart is a kind person and a critical thinker; she isn't one to recite scripture tonelessly and without moral regard.
"Good question…" Amara mutters. "Perhaps we are meant to follow these trails of… carnage… to Raphael's old 'acquaintance'."
"Something wrong— this feels…" Shadowheart looks around, at the hanging bodiesand vats of ash and bone in the fire pits. "This feels like a trap"
The entire Gauntlet shakes, rattles. The floor shivers, as if threatening to cave in, and all of them freeze. A few paces ahead of them, up a small set of stairs, is that cat-like creature they merely caught glimpses of. It's black in color, mostly, only shrouded in a dark blue power. Beady, piercing yellow eyes stare out at Amara, and behind the panther with its massive paws are two twin whipping tail-like appendanges on its back that are thicker than Amara's thighs, entirely separate from its tail.
"What's this?" The voice that resounds in the bloody, ashen chamber is deep, almost melodical. "Fresh entertainment."
Oh, that's just lovely.
All manner of normal people say shit like that, for sure.
Gale tugs on her arm and she lets him drag her eyes off of the blue-lit panther up to a craggy rock where a massive— massive red-skinned orthon, with a plethora of thorns atop his head and leather armor adorned with plated skulls.
Oh, lovely. There's more than one.
"But you're too fresh for this place, aren't you?" the deep, almost soothing voice asks. "There's a whiff of the surface to you…" This red-skinned devil is positively towering, and his eyes spark a glowing, threatening orange, pupils a mere slit down the middle.
Amara licks her lips. "That… would be Raphael's acquaintance. An orthon. Very bad news for us."
The spark of glow in the creature's eyes turns to a full burning, and he points a truly massive crossbow at them.
Dammit.
Amara is going to have to fight this thing, isn't she?
She is. She knows it.
"Raphael!" he howls, accusatorily. "How dare you speak his name in my presence?! You carry his stench all over you— where is he?!"
"He never mentioned your name," Amara says blithely. "Just that you were so dangerous, and you would kill me so fast if I didn't kill you first. I shouldn't even speak with you, he said. Kill on sight, he said. His usual dramatics, I'm sure you're aware."
A deep, deep growl comes from the orthon's chest. "That perfumed trickster swindled me— trapped me," he bellows, and he really does have a nice voice.
It's a shame she has to kill him.
Maybe once she gets Raphael to tell her what Astarion's markings say… she can rewind. Depends how this interaction goes.
She tilts her head. "Not even a name to work with? He wants you dead, you realize."
"Where is he?" the orthon asks, pointing the crossbow more threateningly at Amara. "Spit it out— now."
"Careful—" Shadowheart urges, hissing the word through her teeth. "I'm not sure we want Raphael as an enemy," she rationalizes in her usual, non-brainwashed fashion, so Amara is more keen to trust her.
"I've got nothing to spit out," Amara drawls, low and dangerous. "Not for you, anyway. Raphael's tasked me with something… simple."
His eyes burn. "Bold of you. Stupid, but bold."
The crossbow levels itself at Amara's face once more, and a half dozen other creatures on the craggy ledge where the orthon is appear, in golden masks. The feline creature seems just as eager as the rest to rend Amara's flesh from her bone and—
Oh.
Shit.
They're going invisible.
Amara snaps.
Nope. No, no. They're going to talk for as long as they can.
"Let's share our experiences about Raphael, unnamed stranger. Perhaps we can… help each other," Amara drawls instead.
The orthon chuckles. "Bargaining, are you? A Kara-Tur warlord once tried the same— I made him watch as I ate his concubines and young then fashioned a codpiece from his skull."
…The orthon is failing whatever standard Amara was going to set out for him to pass, to save his own life.
"You can't help," the devil growls out. "It's not just walls that keep me here. Not the traps, the dark or the creatures it hides. Something stronger holds me— a contract."
Shit.
"What contract, nameless stranger?" Amara asks.
Those glowing orange eyes narrow. "Either I fulfil the contract, die trying… or forfeit my freedom. If I leave this place now, I'll become Raphael's slave."
Amara flicks her eyes to Astarion. "Could you take a look at it?"
"You realize…"
"Yes, it's been centuries since you practiced, but still. You have the best chance at catching something the rest of us will miss."
Red eyes flicker with distrust.
Amara knocks at his connection, and the vampire opens it instantly.
"Trust me, darling," she says as comfortingly as she can.
He hesitates, and apprehension floods the connection.
*Your parasite writhes with anxiety— Astarion's anxiety. You have no clear picture of what the markings on his back look like, but flashes of the long nights he spent mapping out the markings by running his fingers along the jagged scars flow into your mind. You can feel the abused skin on your fingertips.*
"I will make sure you get your deal with Raphael. I want to make sure we have all the information we can gather before we attack," she promises.
His worry doesn't ease, so Amara begins to push a steady amount of warmth and adoration through their bond.
Sunlight, silk, soft feathered pillows. Gentle touches, warm skin, a press of lips to his temple.
"I'll look at it," the vampire agrees, and there's a marked difference to him. A relaxed line to his shoulders that wasn't there before.
The devil hesitates, but then produces the contract, and Astarion takes it sharply.
"Spill all the blood sworn to the night, / Silence all prayers; smother each rite. / Wander Shar's halls; hungry to slay; / Leave no Justiciar alive to obey."
Astarion makes a pointed noise of disgust. "Rhyming…" he mutters under his breath.
"Leave none to hear it, then be set free; / This song is your oath, swear, swear it to me."
The orthon roars it all with such emotion, and all of you stand there a moment afterward, in a bout of silence.
*Well, that explains where all the Dark Justiciars went.*
Amara has to focus for a moment to not erupt in laughter.
Really, narrator? That's what you decide to say in this moment?
"…That's it," the devil remarks, and he shuffles back a step.
"Well…" Amara takes a slow breath in and out. "I'm not surprised you seem to have stomped all those… Dark Justiciars. I suppose that is what orthons are known for…"
His lips peel back from his teeth. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"What's your name, orthon? You have one, don't you?"
Glowing eyes spark. "…Yurgir."
"Yurgir, then," Amara repeats with a smile. "Your song— your contract. You obviously get something out of succeeding, or you never would have accepted. You've been toiling away, if the carnage is anything to go by. What is the obstacle preventing you from freedom?"
"I did as instructed," Yurgir argues, vehement. "But the song still rattles about in my head— the contract still stands, somehow. If I break it, I will become Raphael's slave forever."
"Yes, yes. I got that part," Amara remarks, and her eyes scan the room.
"Anyway, enough prattle. The lyrics are clear— all who hear the song must die."
"Excuse me?" Amara asks, blinking.
Which part of the lyrics are clear about that exactly?!
"Time to die," Yurgir asserts, ignoring her.
Amara has some idea what's going on, but she merely files that information away. She can bargain Yurgir's way out of here another time if she wants to.
"Now, prepare for battle." She pushes assurance into her connection with Astarion again before gently closing it.
"The lyrics are a trick," she lies outwardly and straight through her teeth to Yurgir. "You've always had an audience— your followers." She gestures to the others in the room, including the blue-tinted panther and several masked… devils? Amara isn't sure. "Get rid of them."
"The merregons? They barely have a thought to share among themselves," he argues, but his eyes stray to them and begin to glow. "But… they do have ears."
Amara licks her lips.
She can't believe this seems to be working.
"Kill yourselves," Yurgir orders. Which. Wow. "Back to the hells with you."
Amara made herself look when the nurses killed each other— she can't look now. The merregons lop at each other with axes so large that they spray blood halfway across the room. When one of them falls, their axe teeters off the edge, and Gale has to slam his body into Amara's and Jaunt forward slightly to get them both clear of its executioner slice.
Yurgir growls in fury and agony. "I still hear it. Seems your theory is wrong."
Amara flicks her gaze to the panther. "Me?" she asks, and she's aware how tense her companions are. "You're just not finished yet. That feline creature can still hear you, can't she? Kill her."
That seems to give Yurgir more pause than anything Amara's said so far. "…Kill Nessa?"
Amara knows this battle would have included all the merregons. Would have had Nessa lunging for the people Amara loves as well, but—
But there's still something which hurts.
"Stay very still, my beauty," Yurgir requests of the big cat, and Amara closes her eyes as she listens for the single arrow.
A soft thump tells her that Nessa has fallen to the ground.
"I still hear it!!" Yurgir thunders, and his eyes are on Amara as she gathers herself.
Her eyes are wet.
She doesn't even like this orthon— not really. He's a devil, just like Raphael. He's hurt and maimed and killed for fun. He abuses and uses as he pleases, she knows that.
But she still knows… she'll go back.
"Exactly," she says, and her eyes are heavy, dark. "Kill yourself, complete the contract, and you'll be reborn in Avernus. You'll be free."
Yurgir snarls at her, teeth flashing, eyes simmering. "If you're wrong about this, I'll claw my way out of Avernus and eat you alive— contract be damned," he bellows.
It doesn't matter, anway.
He pulls a blade from his back.
"Nicely played, Raphael. Bastard," he bites out, and the blade goes into his chest. Black-red blood gushes up and over his skin, and he teeters where he stands and then falls from the craggy ledge, tumbling to the ground below with a booming, bloody splat.
Shadowheart breathes out into the silence that follows. "I've seen you do that multiple times now, but I still can scarcely believe it."
Halsin is just staring at all the corpses. "She's… used her words to massacre… before this?"
"I would venture to say her silver tongue is more dangerous than any spell she knows, or arrow she fires," Gale remarks. "Still… your opponent was a devil, this time, Áralta. I'm rather… I mean…"
"Terrified but slightly turned on?" Astarion remarks, and Gale shoves at him.
"My, if Gale is complimenting my practised tongue…" Amara drawls.
"Not you too," he whines.
Halsin is still just looking at Yurgir.
Amara chew on her lip. "This was definitely deception, and more than a little wordplay," she assures him. "If he hadn't revealed the contents of his contract, I wouldn't have been able to do that."
It doesn't seem to make him feel any better.
"Let's make a quick camp," Amara declares. "We don't have to sleep, but we should rest."
"I'll help you set it up," Gale offers, and several Mage Hands spring into action in his bright lavender magic.
Amara smiles, and creates her own cyan ones, which flitter about the area to create a useable fire for him to cook over. She pulls at his robe clasp with one of the Hands as it goes to start help unrolling the bedrolls.
He snaps to look over at her and she takes that opportunity to run one of the Hands up his leg, fingers brushing the inside of his thigh.
"Amara."
She turns and looks over her shoulder, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Yes, sweetness? Is something wrong with the rations?"
He clicks his tongue. Amara runs a Hand across his jaw and presses the glowing cyan thumb to his lower lip, and then scatters her spell so it evaporates like it's returning to the stars.
"Is something… wrong?" she purrs, low and teasing.
"Everything's fine," he quickly says, but she can tell she's wound him up.
Once the bedrolls are out and whatever miracle he has cooking over the fire is bubbling away, he sits next to her so closely their thighs touch.
"You will be the death of me," he remarks, but he's smiling.
"And it will be my pleasure."
He laughs, and shifts, and Amara realizes he's sporting a lot more of a reaction to her taunts than she would have thought. "You were… something else these last two days, you know that? Especially with that cursed briar ability…"
A slow smile spreads across Amara's face. "Terrified but turned on?" she asks, echoing Astarion.
He flicks dark eyes at her. "You have to admit: it's quite thrilling to fight off such grim creatures as this region throws at us. Especially being at your side."
"So he admits it," Amara teases, and she can feel her cheeks warm. Her skin must be a pleasantly rose-tinted hue.
Gale leans in. "I, ahm, once read a book that explained in some detail the effect a brush with danger has on one's desire for… other forms of stimulation." Amara can't control the delighted expression that blossoms on her face. "Have you ever read anything on that subject?"
"Read it?" Amara asks, and her eyes are twinkling. "I could have written the thing."
It's a lie and they both know it but she likes seeing his ears flush and the color spread across the planes of his face, down his neck.
"You are dangerous," he tells her, and he means both in this conversation and the topic the conversation is about as a whole. "I would never have believed the text, before I met you, no matter who penned it."
"Now that you have met me though…?" Amara asks, tapping his shoulder with hers.
"You never look so beautiful as at the end of a stirring battle, your cheeks flushed, gaze bright, muscles glistening…" Gale trails off, and Amara can see the starvation in his gaze as his eyes rake over her hungrily.
"My, Gale— here? Have you no shame?"
He bites his lip in a wide smile. "I have no less shame than you have, Ms. Mage Hands. And honestly, I can't imagine anywhere that could turn my heart from you, cursed or otherwise. You'd always be as beautiful, and as impressive. Perhaps it's just the thrill of our near-undead experience talking. But standing at your side through such darkness and disrepair, it only makes me want you more."
Amara is breathless at that, and Gale knows it— the way his eyes linger on her mouth makes that obvious.
"It's a shame… you haven't read the text firsthand," he remarks, and his own voice is rougher, deeper.
"Truly," she agrees. "We'll have to… read it together, perhaps. When all this is over. In the meantime… I believe there were some rather detailed diagrams on the subject that were published…"
"Oh!" Amara is close enough to Gale to actually see his pupils dilate. It makes her shiver. "Is that so? Then… I might suggest we… pool our knowledge. No sense in letting valuable firsthand experience go to waste."
Astarion throws two bedroll pillows at them.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 31: Trials of Gluttony
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXI
Trials of Gluttony
There's a rat on the throne of bones.
Amara can't make this shit up.
She still isn't in perfect condition, the camp they set up was rather the best they could do but hardly comfortable and the stench of blood and rot is strong in the air— she can't exactly sleep peacefully in those kinds of conditions.
Wandering off landed her in an even bloodier area, where whole feet and hands are just severed in piles of meat and viscera.
How very… pleasant.
And above all the hacked up corpses is a thone at the top of several stone stairs— and sitting in the throne is a chittering rodent.
Amara is prepared this time— she knew after having Gale cast his Speaking spell on her that she wouldn't always have him around when there was a strange ox or a beautiful cat or a white raven or a… bloodied rat.
She quickly drinks down a potion of her own creation that will achieve the same effect, and continues her early morning stroll up to the base of the meat throne.
"Unworthy!" the rodent squeaks. "Unworthy to walk among friendly bones! Leave!"
Well, now, that's not exactly… what she was expecting.
"Calm down," she urges, exhilerated to be speaking with an animal. "What are you talking about?"
"Talking of you— intruder, invader, unworthy one!" it squeaks viciously. "These halls are not for you!"
"I mean you no harm," Amara insists, eyes wide. "Something you spoke of interests me— what do you mean 'friendly bones'?"
"We outnumber you, leave me be!" it hisses, bearing its tiny fangs.
"There are more rats?" she asks. "Rats who are friendly to the bones of fallen Justiciar, you say… I see." She gives the rat a wide, rather grim smile. "I see perfectly."
There's more chittering behind her, but Amara ignores it and instead takes her walk in a different direction. Down to where Nessa's body lies, next to a glittering gem which Amara pockets before closing the beast's eyes. This close, she finally realizes what it is.
A displacer beast.
Resemblings a sleek big cat of fur so black it's almost blue, and it actually has six legs instead of four. The extra limbs at its back are more like tentacles, and though they connect more naturally with the fur from its shoulders, their tips are covered with otherworldly pads— with spikes.
Even in death, Nessa's eyes radiate a kind of malice, a glowing malevolence that is… unsettling.
"Looting? Without me, darling? I'm hurt."
Amara startles, and Astarion laughs, bringing a hand to steady her. "When did you get up?"
"Since when do I make you jump, Áralta? I thought you could sense me, or something just as sneaky."
"I can sense your Weave," Amara corrects, narrowing her eyes at him. "Most people use some magic, no matter their class, and how they bend the Weave to their bodies and what happens to it after they become comfortable using it makes it distinctive to them. Your Weave was altered by your… affliction. I can recognize you easily."
He scoffs. "Don't let your guard down too much," he chastizes. "Any spawn might read similarly, if that's the case."
"I highly doubt I'll stumble across one if I hadn't all this time," Amara says with a scoff.
His red eyes flash. Anxiety races through him. "You know my past," he says, tucking a strand of Amara's hair behind her ear. "Do you really think the Szarr family kept only one slave— one vampire-spawn? With how convient it is to have a never-dying creature, unable to resist their commands, do you honestly think his greed was limited to just this beautiful face? I may not be kept by him any longer, though… even that is debatable. Still, I've at least been— let's say, conveniently lost. They won't ever control me again."
"How… how many others like you?" Amara asks, touching the side of his face.
He inhales, and then lets the breath out sharply. "Cazador sired seven spawn— me and my six 'brothers and sisters'. He always insisted we were a family— even when he was carving scars into our flesh. I was one of his first, some of the others came years later. He was a monster to us all, but did take special pleasure in my pain. He said my screams sounded sweetest. And now that I'm gone… I don't know. I pity the other six…"
Amara looks down.
She wants to comfort him.
This is her best friend.
But she can't find the words— they get stuck in her throat.
It hurts.
Astarion moves slightly, and startles Amara again.
He gives a weak laugh, "Really now, I thought my Weave was distinctive? Is it only so when you aren't busy daydreaming about displacer beast corpses?"
Amara forces a smile "I was distracted, okay? Are you happy?"
The vampire's eyes twinkle, and he steps back. "What thoughts plague our illustrious leader?" He floods his voice with mirth— as if to improve Amara's mood.
Amara rolls her eyes. "I'm fine. I'm just…"
She looks down at the big cat.
Teeth, claws. Blood, bone. Spit, tears.
The echoes of a battle unfought rage in Amara's ears. Futures averted. Destinies waylaid. Deaths thwarted. Screaming, begging, crying.
The sound of agonizing attempts to stay alive…
"I hope you aren't bothered by this creature's tentacles," Astarion says with a scoff, snapping Amara out of it. "We are still doing fine, if you haven't noticed. Not a tentacle to be seen." He gestures playfully at his mouth region.
Something loud and cruel, dark and festering, settles in Amara. Peace, for a moment. She smiles at the vampire. "Yes, yes," she chides. "I wasn't put off by the displacer beast, Niar. Though, I am hoping we will stay blessedly tentacle-free."
"Naturally," he agrees with his usual swagger. His keen eyes still look over Amara's expression— searching. "But I was thinking: what if we don't?" he continues in his playful tone of voice. "Of course, first sign of change and I'll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours. I am open to suggestions. Knives, poison, strangulation— whatever you'd prefer."
Amara laughs, pleasantly surprised by his ability to take her mind off of things. "Hmm," she says, drawing the sound out. "Poison? That seems quick."
Astarion's face lights up, delight evident. "A fine choice! I can think of some nightshades that are deliciously fatal. If they're mixed well, you'll just close your eyes and drift away. And if they're not… well, I'm getting ahead of myself. This is all a worst case scenario, obviously."
"Obviously," Amara drawls, mimicking his accent. "Thank you, Astarion. Really."
"If you wish to talk about anything, Amara, I'm sure any of the others would love to hear you out."
Amara laughs, and Astarion smiles, pride in his eyes.
"If, however, you wish to merely be distracted, I would be honored to play hypotheticals with you, any day," he promises with a flourish of a bow. "For now, let us wake the others— yes?"
Amara nods. She rubs her fingers together.
The two of them approach their makeshift camp and find Gale already cooking something over the fire with Shadowheart's help while Halsin packs the camp up.
"There you are," the wizard says warmly. "Everything all right?"
Amara tilts her head and smiles mischeviously. "I think there are rats in here that are followers of Shar."
Shadowheart stop chopping.
"…Rats?" she asks.
Which. Fair.
"Friendly bones," Amara drawls, and she sits next to Gale. "How's breakfast coming?"
He blinks at her. "You get up to so much in so little time."
"It's a specialty."
He hands her some spiced rice and she is happy to hide any further answers deep in the bowl. She devours the meal and helps Halsin with the packing when she's done, and they're quick to be ready once more.
They delve further into the ruined Gauntlet, and somehow it gets even more disgusting as they go.
*A well-chewed spider carcass oozes on the ground,* Amara's narrator chimes in, helpfully, as she tries to scurry past the bloodied creature.
She winces. "Ugh… great…"
*A cavalcade of nasty smells rises from the corpse— but one of them is familiar. The prickling, metallic whiff of magic.*
Sure, sure— perhaps from what killed it?
Amara isn't— she isn't interested!!
*Fresh bite marks, an odd puncture wound, and a faint pulse of something not entirely natural.*
Ergh!!
"You can stop now!!"
The others look at her, but the voice doesn't seem to heed.
*The meat is oozing, but not with blood— it's been dosed with a potion.*
"Great, good," Amara mutters. "And I care why…?"
*Sulphur, decay, and a thin whiff of something unexpectedly fragrant.*
Amara covers her nose. "Okay, if you're hinting at something, I'm missing it," she admits. "I got the rat thing. I don't get this thing. What do you want me to do here?"
*Would you like to lick the spider meat?*
Amara steps off the platform.
"Damn narrator and her fucking bullshit…" she mutters under her breath.
"What, ah, what were you talking to?" Gale asks. "The little nagging voice that seems to narrate our every move?"
Amara scoffs. "She likes to pretend she's ignoring me, but I know she listens. She likes to mock me."
He licks his lower lip. "What did she want you to do?"
"Give it a lick," she drawls in disgust, looking over her shoulder at the spider corpse. "It's doused in some kind of potion— which she literally told me right before asking if I'd like to ingest it by licking the dead spider meat."
Trying hard not to laugh, Gale manages to say, "Well, I - for one - would like to say I'm glad you did not listen to her."
"I ignore her just as much as she ignores me," Amara grouses.
"Still, you mentioned the rats again. Do you really… think… that…"
They were walking while they were talking, deeper into the Gauntlet, and they stop at a large, arched opening leading into a gilded room. Right there, in front of the archway, are two rats.
"Well… at least they aren't in thrones this time," Amara remarks to herself.
"Thrones?" Gale asks, astounded.
"I don't have another potion," she mutters to herself.
"Unworthy of dark cloak!" one of the rats hisses.
"Oh. Guess I… don't need one," she mutters.
"Unworthy of dark fur! Unworthy!" it squeaks viciously.
"Well…" Astarion stares at them with wide eyes. "You weren't kidding, were you, Áralta?"
Halsin makes a small humming sound. "This rat is not merely territorial— it's proud," he informs Amara. "This place must mean a great deal to it."
Shadowheart looks on disbelievingly. "Dark Lady condemn us— rats. Rats in the Gauntlet."
"We've always been here— it's ours," the rat insists. "We watch over it. You do not belong."
"Unwelcoming vermin aside, we need to explore this place," the cleric asserts.
"Leave! Away!" the rat hisses viciously. "My nest— my dark!"
"You're just a rat," Astarion points out, and his tone is a little more bitter, a little more cruel, than Amara is used to hearing. "Is it really wise to stand up to us?"
"We are small, but many," the tiny creature snaps. "Leave, or see what happens."
Amara watches Astarion's lips curl back in distaste, and she pulls him away. "Let's go back the other way for now," she urges. "If we have to, we can smash our way through."
"Are you sure?" Shadowheart asks, and her voice is also more severe then usual.
Who knew a couple of rats could set them all so on edge.
"Positive. This place is sprawling, Vae. Come, let us try this way."
Descending in the other direction, they encounter another ancient alter— this one with the bust of Shar atop it.
It looks distrubingly like the altar they found in sanctuary under the pillar.
*The bowl contains an ancient, rust-colored bloodstain. It forms a neat disc, as if spilled calmly and willingly.*
Oh, and Amara just… hates that.
She wishes she didn't.
But she does.
She tries to conceal it. She presses her lips together. It's not a smile but it's not a grimace.
"This is a trial," Shadowheart says, and her voice is monotone. "Initiates were meant to prove themselves to Lady Shar here. This one would test their ability to navigate her sacred darkness."
Amara looks out past the altar, where the darkness is syrupy thick.
"How do you… activate the trial?" Amara asks, though she already knows the answer.
Shadowheart draws a dagger from her back.
Gale takes Amara's face in his hands and makes her look away. "Close your eyes, my sweet," he whispers, and after fluttering her lashes a few times, she squeezes them closed and only listens to the sound of a blade slicing through skin, of blood splattering in the bowl.
"The trial is activating," Gale narrates for her. "Lights are illuminating in the room, all around busts of Shar, but their glow is not strong enough to pierce the stygian center of the room."
"The Dark Justiciars were said to be sure of foot in even the darkest recesses of Lady Shar's embrace," Shadowheart's voice echoes in the vast room. It sounds strained. "I must remember where to step, and have faith that she will guide me."
Amara opens her eyes, turning slightly to see the cleric climbing down the side of the platform they're standing on. She takes a step into the darkness and cries out, mostly in surprise, but not without pain. Amara lurches forward, but Gale tightens the grip he has on her, holding her to him.
"Let her do this," he urges Amara. "She will return safely."
"I know," she whispers back to him, frightened. "I just wish she did not… have to hurt so much."
"Sometimes we feel the same about you," Astarion points out, though his eyes stay fixed on the darkness. "She ran forward for a ways, and then jumped to one of the platforms with the lit statuary."
"Do you think she's in full control of making these choices?" Amara asks as though she's accusing them, but why and what of, even she's not entirely sure.
Halsin makes sound of understanding. "She certainly seems… driven. Though what gives her that drive and whether the source has good intensions for her, I cannot say. She has leaped to the next platform and after hesitating for a moment, she walked right off of it onto a caliginous pathway obscured from view."
"I am sure some gods are benevolent, when it suits them," Amara spits out, "but only then. They possess no capacity to care for mortals beyond their own goals and desires."
Gale pulls back from Amara slightly, and his brows are furrowed. "Not every god… is like Savras and Chronos, Amara."
"I am not speaking of my own plagues," Amara says, and she fully separates from the other wizard. "I am speaking… from experience."
Amara watches Shadowheart jump to the altar on the other side of the room. She approaches, and takes into her hands the gemstone sitting within the lap of the bust, and a burst of purple flame erupts from the sacrificial bowl that the statue holds. With but a light touch, Shadowheart disappears from the other side of the chasm and reappears with their party.
The stone lips of the bust of Shar, looming over the pool of Shadowheart's blood, part. "The first trial is completed," the altar speaks. "The first sign you are worthy. Continue— do not fail me."
Shadowheart goes down on one knee. "Yes, my Lady. I will succeed."
Stone remains stone, bereft of life.
"Amara," Astarion calls, Shadowheart looks up at the elves. There's a tension in the room. "What did you mean?"
Amara doesn't answer right away.
"Did she say something about the trial?" Shadowheart asks, rising and unclipping a health potion from her belt, dumping it on her knife wound. "Amara, this is— this is my dream. I'm realizing it right now. You said you cared not for whom I worshiped, has that changed?" Her dark hazel eyes glance at Halsin. "We have heard many more accounts of… Shar worshipers than you had previously encountered, I should think. I won't say I could blame you for changing your mind."
"In a way, my mind is much the same," Amara tells her softly. "I never wanted you to feel the need to hide things from me. If this is your dream, I would be nowhere else but here for you to bring it into reality, in case you… should need me for something. I don't, however, hold any affection for your goddess. I hold affection for no deities, and that has not and will not change."
"But you aren't a deity," Gale seeks to remind her. "You speak of their nature, but only know their minds in the distant realm of holding a fraction of one's magic."
Amara stares at him for a few beats too long. The air hangs. Stagnates.
"I am… not a deity," she says, like a confirmation, but to whom exactly she's reassuring of this— she is afraid it's not them. "But… I was."
Astarion scoffs, but it has an edge to it. Discomfort. "Surely not for that long, darling. You can't be an immortal creature for lengthy periods of time and then simply decide to reject it and go back to… how things… were…"
Amara smiles at him, but it's a sad, small thing. Broken.
"You've caught me," she says in a tiny, fearful voice. "See, it took me fifty years to not rip myself to pieces when using any of His abilities. Only, when you're immortal, those pieces just… stitch themselves back together, after a time. I learned which spells hurt the most, doing that. It wasn't until much later that I finally gained an understanding of how I wanted to live."
"So you rewound… all those years?" Gale asks, his tone hesitant.
"To the day I ascended," Amara confirms. "Even in that day, just the one day, my humanity was already starting to slip away. It took me a week to esca— to rid myself of the damn godhood, and I… I just kept myself focused, all the while, on keeping my morality about me. I didn't want to become that… monster again."
Shadowheart's face is pitying, sympathetic, but there's a line of pure sadness there too. "I don't believe Lady Shar is a monster," she says softly. "I wish you could see that."
"I know you don't believe that— that's why I'm here," Amara tries to argue. "If you believe this to be your destiny, as your dear friend, I will back you. Always, every time."
"But you won't be happy for me," Shadowheart all but accuses.
"I'll be happy that you're happy," Amara all but confirms.
The cleric steps into Amara's space, glaring into her face. "What was it like that makes you think she is not good for me?"
Amara licks her lips. Rubs her fingers together. "It's— it's not that I think Shar is against you specifically, Shadowheart. It's the way the power and the immortality… rot you away. Every god, born or ascended, is thrust into this seemingly endless stream of strength and impossibility. You are invincible, unbeatable, insurmountable, in every way. You are crafted to be revered, worshiped, and adored. It's worse than any drink, any substance you can imbibe, and it spreads through you constantly. An addiction fed by your own energy. Soon, it doesn't even matter if the attention you get is because you are loved— or despised. So long as it feels like something, so long as we are being noticed, lavished with prayers of lust, reverence, agony, it matters not. When you are a god, you are always starving; you'll feed off of anything you can, eventually, or go mad abstaining."
Amara's heart thunders in her chest from the memories, the years spent sealed behind magic, yearning to be worshiped.
"Which did you choose, then?" Shadowheart asks quietly.
Amara's chest hurts. It's tight and her heart feels uncomfortable in her body, like something that should have fallen silent long ago.
"Of which choices do you speak?"
"Did you feed off of the pain and misery of your worshipers before you erased them?" Shadowheart asks, and though her voice is still quiet in volume, it's sharp and bold in cadence. "Or did you abstain, to keep your humanity, and starve?"
Amara licks her lower lip. She feels as though she'll be sick.
"You forget," she utters softly. "I will never rid myself of Him. Still, He lingers, in the outermost parts of my consciousness. And I will never be free."
Shadowheart's face goes slack with surprise.
Amara hardens her expression as well as her tone of voice.
"I will starve myself out, if I must, while I can still perish from the hunger."
/ / /
They find another altar, another bowl, and another dried, crusted ring bearing the stains of an ancient blood offering.
This time, the mood is much more somber.
Amara makes no comment as Shadowheart approaches the altar. "This is another of Lady Shar's trials," she says, but her voice isn't the monotone it was the last time. There's a softness to it, something more humane and— feeling. "This one appears to be the one which initiates would face that would challenge their combat prowess."
"Yes, well, you're quite adept at that, darling," Astarion remarks. "Go on, then."
Halsin steps to block Amara's view and the moon elf turns anyway, not interested in watching. She watches Gale work his fingers and suddenly the beating of her heart is much louder— in fact, it's all she can hear, the rest of the world Silenced to her.
She can only watch as Gale watches over her shoulder, and then snaps his fingers to dismiss his spellwork, allowing all the sounds of the Gauntlet to come rushing back to her.
"The Dark Lady teaches us that we are our own worst enemy, much of the time." Shadowheart is saying.
And that just breaks Amara's heart.
"Her embrace will elude us until we shed that which holds us back," she proclaims, readying herself. "Whatever we find ahead, it will likely be dangerous."
They walk into a much larger chamber that Amara can immediately tell is full of places for enemies to hide, but Shadowheart doesn't seem detoured in the slightest.
"Plenty of spots in the darkness for me to ambush as well," she advises. "Wait here. I will return momentarily."
Amara bites her lip but doesn't argue.
The cleric weaves in and out of the dark corners she mentioned, and Amara can only watch.
"She is strong," Halsin says boldly. "She will return, I have no doubts."
"Neither do I," Amara is quick to say. "But to wish this for her— I cannot bring myself to do it."
"You don't see the charm in this place?" Astarion asks, and she can tell he's trying to be distracting again. "It's certainly a grand temple, wouldn't you say?"
Amara just gives him a Look.
"Well, it's a 'run down, bearing the weight of centuries' sort of grand. Which is my favorite kind, incidentally," he drawls.
Amara opens her mouth to respond, but there's a loud crash and a flare of Divine Weave and Amara shudders, sympathetic pain stabbing at her.
"Still," Astarion drawls again, though he's lost some of his more playful tone. "There is something in the air down here, I suppose, which warrants your concerns."
"I can feel the Weave growing more distant by the moment," Gale agrees. "We walk Shar's path now— best we don't spend too long in her shadow."
Amara just nods.
The room is too dark to make out anything of substance. She can only hear shattering sounds, armor clangs, and the soft sound of crackling spells.
Then, a divine light fills the hall, overwhelming the dark murk and purple glow with sun yellow and soft blue. It dims slowly, as if the darkness is creeping back, and in a gust of purple flame, Shadowheart once more appears beside them, holding a gemstone in her hands.
Without hesitation, Gale casts one of his healing spells.
The plethora of marks on Shadowheart's body begin to seal up and she pants, shoving the jewel into Astarion's hands and downing a health potion to supplement the spell, and then dumping yet another bottle onto the still-weeping cut on her arm.
"One more left," she says, and there's a wild sort of look in her eye.
"Vae, if I may," Gale begins, a tentative hand coming down on her back. "Perhaps we should make camp again, if not for a whole night then at least for several hours. You need a full meal, and—"
"I need to prove my capabilities to Lady Shar," she stresses. "We can make camp once— once I have earned her affections, and can rest in her embrace. Come, we waste time here."
"What exactly was that trial, darling?" Astarion asks, and though he keeps his hands to himself, Amara sees his fingers twitch.
"Nothing worrisome," the cleric claims, delving back into the larger expanse of the Gauntlet. "It was my own reflection, as I figured it would be. Had we all gone in, I'm sure there would have been a reflection of each of us, which would have significantly increased the difficulty of the trial. As it is, I know myself and my own weaknesses all too well. It was challenging, of course, but hardly impossible."
"And are you all right?" Amara asks, tentative.
"I have healed plenty."
She swallows. "That's not what I asked."
Dark hazel meets vivid green.
"I am all right, Áralta, please… be happy for me, for I am close to achieving what I have wanted for many years."
"If that is the case, then I am all gladness," Amara says, but she looks anything but.
They wander through the many winding halls of the Gauntlet and Amara begins to wish she had an innate sense of direction rather than an innate sense of time. It doesn't really help to know the sun's position in the sky when she's hopelessly lost deep underground.
The third trial is difficult to find— though that would have been the case even with an innate sense of direction. It would have been the case even with a map. The altar is hidden in the darkness beyond a ruined entryway, where a once-grand chandelier crashed down with a sizable chunk of the ceiling and now lays in golden rings of tarnished metal.
*Another bowl, bearing the stains of an ancient blood offering.*
Amara scrubs her face and silently sends a sarcastic thank you to her narrator.
"Amara," Gale begins softly, "would you like me to—"
The elf holds her hand up. "I appreciate it, but I've— I've got it."
She squeezes her eyes shut and just presses her palms over her ears. She can still… still hear it just faintly on the edge of her senses, but she ignores it. After enough time has passed, she pulls her hands from her ears, and finds the cleric just reaching to grab the knife wound on her arm.
"This is indeed another of Lady Shar's trials," she says, mostly to the group as a whole, but there is a bit of pointedness toward Amara. "This one will put my skills of stealth and infiltration to the test… Lady Shar values those that can remain unseen and can still obtain what they want. Stealth is a virtue derived from her very essence."
Amara resists mocking that, for the cleric's sake.
"Would you like me to come with you, darling?" Astarion asks. "This is, after all, my specialty."
"I'll be fine," she snaps, and proceeds to crouch. "Just wait here."
Amara frowns, but she listens, and watches the half-elf slip into the darkened maze in front of her. Of course, she hears little else after that, but then… that's the point.
Halsin touches her arm lightly, and though she doesn't startle, she tenses to the point where the druid must notice. "Could I pry for a moment, Amara?"
She tries for a smile. "You are welcome to ask me anything you like."
Halsin is absolutely not convinced. "I know enough from observing you, at camp, and watching you deal with the consequences and after effects of your abilities, but… I am curious about your history."
"It would be stranger should you not be," she remarks, though it's something of a dig at herself. "What are you curious about, Silh?"
There's a snap and a cry and Shadowheart reappears amongst them, only she's clearly furious about it as the purple glow which transported her there dissipates.
"Are you—"
"I'm fine!" she snaps. "I have to do it again."
"Shadow—"
She disappears back into the maze.
Halsin makes a disapproving sound low in his throat. "Perhaps now is not the time."
"Remaining silent will hardly make Vae's trek through that darkness more bearable; feel free to ask anything of me, Halsin. I will tell you if it's something I'd rather not answer."
"In that case… I am most curious about the years you spent fully ascended, though they have been erased now. How long were you a god?"
She looks on, her mind wandering to days upon days spent waiting for everything to be over, nights spent questioning where she had made her first wrong decision. All of them with seemingly no limit, no end.
"Around… a hundred and fifty years or so," Amara admits, much to the obvious surprise of all her companions.
Halsin looks especially taken aback. "That long?"
She scoffs. "That's merely around a third of your lifetime thus far, I would guess. Is that truly as surprising as you're making it seem?"
"For creatures with lengthy lifespans and immortal folk, less than two hundred years may be more trivial than for most, but you wield a lot of power and influence as a deity. If you were ascended for more than a hundred years, you must have had worshipers. Clerics, at the very least. Chronos had quite a following, so I wouldn't be surprised if you did as well."
Amara smiles somberly. "There were none who worshiped me, neither in my name nor Chronos'."
"None?" Halsin asks, startled. "Did you reject the service of clerics and paladins and the like?"
Something rattles from within the darkness.
Amara stares for a few seconds, but there's nothing else to indicate anything happening with Shadowheart.
"I never got the chance. Honestly, as miserable as it was, it is my only solace that I spent those years as a baseless god, with none to feed into my ravenous appetite for attention and power. Had I been in a position where I could be worshiped— I don't think I would be here right now."
From somewhere deep in the darkness of the trial, flames begin to glow.
"I know what you'll want to know next," Amara begins, slow and careful. "What stopped me? I was a god for that long, wasn't I? And I had a good century being in control of my abilities, in that time. What could have kept me from filling that deep emptiness that opened in me when I lost my mortality?"
The druid sets his jaw, his gaze hard and serious. "I… couldn't imagine," he admits. "I could only guess someone desired to stop you from doing just that, and… saw to it that you could not do as you pleased."
"A hundred and fifty years… it's a long time to be held prisoner, no matter one's lifespan."
Halsin's eyes widen. "Who imprisoned you? And why?"
"The gods," Amara says simply. "Not just any one of them, but rather as many of them as it took. And I can't say why— only that they seemed so sure I would become the same kind of monster Chronos was, and, granted, given enough time… perhaps they would have been right."
"Not just any god is capable of restraining another," Halsin ventures. "Even a fledgling one. Who did that to you? It wasn't Shar, was it?"
Amara flicks her gaze to the ground and pointedly does not look in Gale's direction. "This is one of those things I'd rather not answer."
With a flare of purple fire, Shadowheart appears once more in front of the altar of Shar, and this time there's a determined, fierce look to her eye.
"The trials are complete," she confirms for them. "We can reach the inner sanctum now." She seems to read the room and her eyes snap to Amara's. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything is fine," she says immediately. "Are you sure you don't want to rest after the third trial?"
"We can set up camp once we've located the inner sanctum." Her intelligent eyes scan over everyone again. "Are you sure everything's all right out here?"
"I'm sure they'll fill you in," Amara says, and she steps away from the altar. "I don't wish to speak on the matter further."
She looks worriedly to Amara's other companions but allows the elf to walk ahead of the rest of them.
"What did you guys do to piss her off?" she hears Shadowheart ask.
It does actually make her feel a little better.
"Nothing, I swear!" Halsin replies. "She invited the questions!"
The sound of derision Shadowheart makes afterward makes her feel even better.
They descend a winding stone staircase that only makes Amara realize how large of an endeavor it would have been to build this place.
Unbelievable.
"I thought we had exhausted all of the trial locations?" Halsin asks, and he points to a looming doorway Amara doesn't recall passing before, its archway doused in hazy Weave.
"I don't think that's a trial…" she breathes out. "It could be the sanctum."
*You can sense the presence of a housed spell, carved deep within the stone of the archway. There's an ever so faint lingering scent the nearer you get to the opening, like the crisp pine air of a densely packed, untouched forest.*
"A Silence spell…" Amara touches the rune at eye level with her, and though she can't make out the detail of the rest of them, she's sure that the archway has been engraved with this spell purposefully. All sound - and therefore any spell with a verbal component - will be swept away at this door. "It's a library."
"A silent library," Gale remarks. "Rather apropo."
"I have a feeling we won't be behaving very well inside…" Amara remarks, pointing. "Look— Justiciar."
Astarion narrows his eyes peering through the spell at the door. "That moronic devil did an awful job being thorough with his contract."
"Well, if I decide to come back and not kill him, that knowledge will come in handy," Amara blithely remarks.
"Today would be an awful day for you to relive," the vampire points out, his ears flattening against the side of his head.
Amara shrugs. "I've relived worse. Plus, perhaps I will throw less of a tantrum the second time through. Now, more importantly, something must be powering this spell… let's find that first."
Before anyone else can stop her, Amara is through the Silence spell, with her bow in one hand and a smoke bomb in the other. She hurls the bomb where a majority of the Justiciars are, and proceeds to scan for anything that snags her perception of the Weave.
One of the others must open the connection between all of them, because suddenly Amara's mind is flooded with emotions that aren't hers.
"We need to search for a way to dispel this— there are more of them than I suspected," Gale's voice echoes through her mind, nervousness and anxiety racing through their bond. "Amara and I won't be much help if we can't cast spells."
Amara sends a wave of incredulity back. "Do you think the huge swirling dark pit at the center of the room could be it?"
For a moment, the silence spreads in their connection as well.
"Could be," Gale finally relents.
They don't have a traditional melee specialist with them now— but between Halsin being silently directed toward the portal in his Wild Shape, and Astarion descending on it while Gale rains arrows down after him, it won't last long.
Shadowheart keeps the Justiciar from reaching the portal to the best of her abilities, and Amara is just throwing shit.
Poison tipped arrows, void bulbs, vials of acid, flasks of fire, spore grenades, web grenades.
Pretty much emptying her pack.
The portal slurps away once Astarion lands a particularly devastating blow to it, and the Silence spell lifts without fuss. Amidst the chaos Amara sewed with her cupboard-full of dangerous items she realizes now might not be a good idea to just have rattling around in her pack, the Justiciar fall with little consequence.
Gale and Amara rain spells down upon them. Shadowheart scarcely even needs to heal, allowing her to inflict terrible wounds and deprive them of their health. Astarion cleans up those who remain standing after taking a few blows, and Halsin keeps anyone from getting too close to the mages— he's rather intimidating as a bear, Amara has to admit.
They regroup in the center, where the swirling portal was, and collapse.
"Camp," Amara requests, melting into Gale's side. "Now."
Everyone sounds off an affirmative, but, you know, the universe just doesn't like Amara to have her way.
"Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?" Raphael's familiar voice asks, and all of them have to tense, safe no longer, and turn to try and find where the devil is in the massive library.
"From history or context?" Amara asks to stall him.
"It returns to the hells," Raphael answers his own rhetorical question, coming into view in front of them all. "To the very point where it last stood before venturing to whichever devilforsaken plane it died on. In the case of our friend Yurgir, the orthon you so handily dispatched in the temple of Shar, he manifested in my House of Hope."
That sounds so much like entrapment that Amara has to bite down on her tongue to keep herself from saying anything.
"He returned to me chastened but intact, his wounds healed, his body restored. He thought I would dismember him but he has his uses so instead I am reeducating him."
Amara is so horribly uncomfortable with that, she can't even begin to fathom a response.
Astarion steps in front of her, so she doesn't have to come up with one.
"We delivered the devil. Now I want what I'm owed— we had a deal."
"Indeed we did. I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours— it's a rather grim tale, even for my tastes," he says with a dark chuckle.
"Stop stalling," Amara requests, when she notices the strange lull that happens after.
"As you wish," the devil acquiesces, but Amara still has a bad feeling. "Brace yourself, Astarion— we're about to unveil your destiny. Carved into the ivory skin of yours is one part of an infernal contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master, Cazador Szarr."
Lovely.
More contracts.
Just want Amara needed.
"In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed. The Rite of Profane Ascention. It promises to be a marvellous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical. If he completes the rite, he will become a new kind of being— the Vampire Ascendant. All the strengths of this vampiris form will be amplified, and alongside them he will enjoy the luxuries of the living."
That is probably… not good.
Of course, Raphael has no filter and no ability to stopper himself— so he keeps going.
"The arousals and appetites of man will return to him, and unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun. But the ritual has a price, as all worthwhile things do. Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, if he is to ascend. Imagine how he felt, then, when one of those precious spawn simplydisappeared into thin air."
Okay… very not good, then.
"The only missing ingredient is Astarion. You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual— your scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life. And that, my tragic and toothsome friend, is that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business elsewhere."
Amara takes a long breath in.
"Fuck."
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 32: Oh Night, Sing me a Song
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXII
Oh Night, Sing me a Song
Amara is back to poking around before everyone else is up from their nap. There are buttons all over the room and Amara definitely gets the correct button on her first try and doesn't electrocute herself and snap back and try again.
Definitely.
Definitely.
Still, she manages to lower the gate leading into the next room and then spends the next few hours combing through the written materials in the room with Astarion when the noise of the gate wakes him from his meditative state.
They're all very… godly.
All about "destined warriors" and "endless ecstasy of oblivion", how-to guides on "pleas[ing] the Nightsinger" and "releas[ing] you from your shackles". Of course, there are also the ominous classics, "Lady Shar knows what you bury, deep inside your spirit. She knows what pains you, and gnaws away at your very being"— Amara is good, thank you.
She hears a buzzing sound for the umteenth time in a row, and Astarion screams.
Amara drops what she's holding and tries to Step through the gate which she lowered, only to find it up once again. The entire floor of the room is covered in a dense field of black, writhing tentacles. They snap onto and pull at Astarion's legs, and his face is a twist of fear and agony.
Amara snaps.
She bolts for the room and watches the rogue take an umbral gem off the podium in the center of the room, and then go to place a book down on its surface. Snatching the tome from his hand before it can so much as kiss the stone surface, she brings it to her chest.
"What do you think you're doing?" she snaps, a bit more vicious than she probably meant it to come out.
Astarion's ears flatten against the side of his head. "Darling, I was just testing the reactions of the podium. It's not like anything bad happened."
Amara just raises both eyebrows at him.
"Oh," he breathes out, connecting the dots. "Something bad does happen."
"Unless you're really into tentacles grabbing at you, yes. And mind you, lots and lots of tentacles."
His face goes ashen.
"Let's go disarm the rest of the bookcases, yes?" she asks, holding her hand out.
The others rouse from their nap slowly, finding Amara and Astarion with a stack of tomes, eagerly debating in hushed tones which they think will lower the relief of Shar in the next room.
"Listen to this one," Amara insists, aware that Gale is now watching her from where he lays. "'What can silence the Nightsong? Only the Nightsinger herself— Shar. Mistress of the', yeah, yeah. We know. 'Her names are many, but her purpose is simplicity itself: light was a mistake, and life is an illusion— a discordant song composed of lies, breaking the peace of oblivion. Put your faith in Shar as your champion; allow her to silence the false song in your heart and return you to her embrace. Nothingness is all you need. The eternal womb, where you are safe in the darkness, with Mother Shar.' Yikes," Amara says, mostly to herself, checking to make sure the next page doesn't continue it.
"It sounds promising," Astarion says with a hum. "Shall we try it?"
Amara's eyes twinkle. "What's the worst that can happen?"
"Tentacles?" Astarion suggest, but Amara just laughs.
She goes into the room beyond and takes a deep breath before placing the tome on the stone podium. Everything shutters and shakes, and for a moment Amara is worried that the floor will erupt in tentacles like she saw last time; an undulating blass mass of slick and ribbed, toothy appendanges.
Instead, the relief of Shar merely slides away and reveals a corridor beyond.
"Well… aren't you two… vigorous," Shadowheart comments, coming to stand next to Amara. "You've progressed a ways into this curious little space."
"We had our fun," Amara admits sheepishly. "Would you like to take over again?"
Shadowheart looks her over. "Have something to eat, first. Gale is gathering some rations."
She accepts them with a smile and a soft kiss to his cheek, right there where all the others are watching. "I can eat and walk," she says over her shoulder, toward the cleric. "Let's go."
With a roll of her eyes, Shadowheart does as she asks and walks forward, to where an altar of Shar has something other than a blood-stained bowl. Instead, it's a solid stone disc with a spear resting atop it.
"Spear of Night…" Shadowheart mutters. "A weapon to slay the Nightsong."
"Wonderfully ominous," Amara chirps. "What do we do now?"
"I suppose… we return to that ancient altar, from before. We have the gemstones for it."
Amara nods, but there's a weight in the windless underground Gauntlet that tells Amara they're highly - highly - likely to get distracted on the way there.
Still, she says, "Lead the way."
They backtrack out of the library and try to navigate to their starting point, which is easier said than done, and eventually Amara snaps their failed hour of attempts away and takes the lead once more. Only— the last time they found this area, it was empty. It did take a whole extra hour to reach here, Amara supposes.
Now, though, one of the animated skeletons patrols as if waiting for something.
"Head inside, now," one of them snaps, pointing, well… not in the direction of the ancient altar.
Amara exchanges a worried glance with Shadowheart, but the cleric just shrugs.
Oh, lovely.
This won't go poorly, Amara is sure.
Another armored skeleton waits in the room where their party enters, this one far more of a holy sanctuary than anything in that laughable joke the Absolute has set up in Moonrise. It's all fine fabrics and dark woods, deep obsidians and royal purples, lit by purple candles sometimes held in gorgeous golden fixtures.
Amara thinks, once, it was probably beautiful.
"You prowl my battleground," the skeleton growls at them, eyes a burning wisp of Weave. "Why? Are you friend? Foe? Thieving scavenger?"
Amara opens her mouth to reply, when suddenly her senses are utterly assaulted as a vision is thrust into a connection she didn't allow.
*You find yourself in a dead, putrid skull— somehow hosting a tadpole amongst a squirm of maggots. Another presence lurks within, manpiulating the corpse like a puppet.*
Images flash through Amara's mind.
A golden broach of two pieces, with the symbol of the sun and an upright triangle.
A belt of golden beads, with a tipped triangle surrounding a metal-cast skull.
A pair of green eyes the color of Necromancy, with scelra deep as pitch, and bleached out, blue skin. Slashes and gouges mar their flesh.
"Ah," the skeleton rattles out, retreating from Amara's mind. "A friend— an uninvited friend. I did not request help."
Amara breathes out, trying to steady herself. "I have a feeling I've seen a glimpse of you now— may I know who I'm speaking with before we continue this conversation?"
"Come join me," the skeleton says, relaying the message, "and find out. I want to look at you with my own eyes."
Amara opens her mouth to reply when suddenly the ground beings to rock— a tumultuous shifting of the earth beneath her feet and she instantly starts to look toward her companions, their safety paramount.
Is it an enemy?
A natural disaster?
A portal opening?
…A god?
Whatever it is, she'll snap back however far she must to keep them far away from whatever threat is looming over them right at that moment.
She doesn't have to wonder for long, however.
"Stinking pile of ogre afterbirth! The quakes herald the shadows— they've found me!"
Abruptly, the spirit of the one Amara assumes to be Baltazar leaves the skeleton he'd been inhabiting like a doll with cut strings, and the quakes worsen in intensity, forcing Amara to her knees as her elbows slam painfully into the cold stone floor. She looks around in panic to see her party members in much the same state.
Swirling pits of darkness open all around them, and from their gaping maws step shadowy Justiciars, as if emerging straight from an inky non-existance. Their bodies drip with viscous, muscus-like darkness which land in splashes and drips at their feet at they take off near whoever is nearest to them.
"Shit!" Amara curses at the top of her lungs. "Gale! To me! We must close as many of those tremors as possible before more arise!"
The wizard attempts to climb to a standing position, casting a Grease spell to keep the incoming Justiciar from reaching his prone form. "Argh— my knees… I'm on it!"
With some degree of difficulty, Amara and Gale manage to target the tremors with long-range, high damage spells to close them as rapidly as they can. It doesn't stop the Justiciar from targeting them with a sincere vengeance however, which shifts some of the group's usual dynamic as the wizards don't normally draw such heavy fire.
Halsin jumps in to protect them bodily, the three of them keeping in close proximity at all times.
These Justiciar are practiced warriors, however, and it doesn't take long before one of them lands a solid blow to the druid's chest. Halsin coughs a great deal of blood up and falls to his knee, grabbing the spear protruding from his body and yanking it out, only to pull the Justiciar in by it and merely smash the skeletal face of the warrior in with a bloody fist.
"Silharrn!!" Amara screams, and she fires a rapid set of her highest level Magic Missle before dropping to the druid's side while blood flows from his chest and mouth, and she grabs his hand in hers. "Hold on— hold onto me, okay?"
"Amara," he croaks out, but there's a wheeziness to his voice that tells her that his lungs have taken great damage. "What are you…"
Amara keeps hold of the wood elf's hand and snaps.
What she's not expecting is for the druid to still have trouble, despite this being his second journey back in time.
Perhaps he was onto something when he claimed he couldn't imbibe well; he doesn't seem to have a steady stomach.
With a Thunderwave, she pushes the reeling druid aside while he recovers from his jump in time, and Gale whirls around to see the Justiciar narrowly miss stabbing into Halsin's chest. Where the Justiciar stood is merely a smear of ash a moment later, after a few quick gestures of the human man's practiced hand.
With Halsin still recovering from jumping back, Astarion takes a more highlighted position than he's used to— but even out of the shadows, he's agile and fast, and nearly unstoppable with a few short blades, dealing heavy damage to the Justiciar in the chinks of their armor.
This time, since Astarion is the heavy hitter, it's Shadowheart who cleans up after him, Inflicting Wounds to evaporate any health the Justiciar have remaining, until the battlefield is merely a stain of shadow and ash.
Since that leaves him with the most magic left in the group, it's Halsin who heals everyone's wounds once his stomach has settled and the room isn't spinning.
"Which sense returned first for you?" Shadowheart asks, flexing her arm which had taken some damage from an arrow. "There seems to be a great deal of variance."
"After the emptiness subsides?" Halsin considers this. "I would say I could hear, before anything else. It was dark, and I could not smell all the tell-tale scents of blood and battle, or feel the exertion of my body."
"The same as me," Amara drawls out. "Curious."
"Lay back," Halsin says softly. "You have a large cut on your forehead."
"That would explain the slight wooziness…"
He gives a gentle chuckle before enveloping her in his golden Druidic Weave. "Thank you. For saving me. That may have been salvageable, but it would have been… immensely painful."
"It is my utmost pleasure," she assures him, sinking into the feeling of his unique Weave cleansing even her Chronomatic exhaustion. "It's what I come on every mission for, after all."
Halsin is quiet for a moment. "I won't deny it's value. But you are valuable with or without it, Amara."
The elven wizard just smiles and lets herself enjoy the healing sensation in silence after that.
She lifts her her head once all her wounds have sealed shut, just in time to see a door slide away and reveal a neighboring room, with a hulking figure inside. Shirtless, and with a hunch in his back that makes his neck thick as she's ever seen on a living creature, with bulging muscles and wrinkled, folded skin like tissue paper over sinnew.
Amara lays her head back down.
No, thank you.
"You dawdle," one of the skeletons hisses at her, rattling. "Come closer. Now."
Shadowheart leans over Amara, and their eyes meet.
"How are you holding up?" she asks the prone wizard.
"Peachy," she responds. "But I do kind of want to nap, and not meet any other weirdos who worship the Absolute."
"For all intents and purposes, we are some of those weirdos."
Amara makes a face. "I know."
"Come, let me help you up," she offers, extending her hand. and Amara stands, brushing the evidence of battle from her body.
"Enough dawdling— come to my inner chambers," the same skeleton demands.
Amara just sighs.
Inside the room she'd snuck a glance into, the rather zombified man stands behind a stone table inalid with skeletal features, as if guarding whoever is toiling about atop the table. A hooded, blue-skinned man with gouges in his face and gold medalions about his body.
Amara recognizes him from the flashes she saw earlier, through the tadpole, only… his eyes were green, then, not amber.
"Ah," he drawls, in a deep and melodic tone. "The interloper— and in one piece as well. Not just any True Soul would have succeeded in following my path through this place. You should be pleased."
"Balthazar, I presume?" Amara begins, drawling her own tone slightly. "Z'rell sent me. She thinks you're in danger of failing your master," she states, knowing it's a bit of a leading statement.
"General Thorm?" he asks, and just for a moment there's a tread of fear in his expression. "Rubbish. Everything is at hand here— Z'rell merely envies the General's faith in me. I am in the midst of a grand strategy."
Uh… right.
Amara is sure.
"But you're here now."
No! Wait! She just—
Ugh, dammit…
"And I may be able to put those limbs to work. You know what's at stake here, I take it?"
Oh, shit. Amara didn't know this was a quiz.
*The name Balthazar seems familiar, but not as a servent of Ketheric Thorm. Where have you heard it before?*
Great question— Amara still didn't know she was being quizzed.
*It comes back to you— Balthazar headed a monastic order that controlled a place called Amkethran, in the deserts of Calimshan… but he is long dead, from what you recall.*
Lovely.
"You know…" Amara ruminates to herself. "I find it curious— Balthazar. I heard of a monk by that name once. Though… he died a long time ago."
"Oh, him?" he asks lightly, fingers steepled together. "Yes, I decided to take his name for myself after taking his rib bones. Suits me better, I think."
Riiiiiiiiight.
"But enough idle chatter— keep to the matter at hand. You do know what's at stake here, yes?" he asks again, more pointedly this time.
She isn't getting away with avoiding the subject.
"Fine," Amara says with a sigh. "Z'rell said Ketheric wants you to find a relic. That's all I know."
"General Thorm to you," he corrects sternly.
Amara does not want to ever call him that now, just out of spite.
"But yes, recovering the relic is the crux of it. He commands, and I, his humble servant, fulfil that command."
Ugh. It just disgusts Amara, the groveling. There's just no reason to embelish like that.
"While you, an infinitely more humble servant, fulfil my command. I will put you to work— as a scout."
Amara's temper starts to flair. Her fingers twitch with the desire to toss Ketheric's head at his walking corpse's feet.
"What are the properties of this relic?" she asks,utterly ignoring his attitude. "Magical or otherwise? So I can be of better assistance, of course," she adds with vicious politeness when his expression twists with dissatisfaction.
"Fine," Balthazar says with a sigh. "If it'll spare me your bleating. The relic lends the General his strength, his invulnerability. It must be recovered, before his enemies attempt to exploit it."
What Amara would give to see his face twist when he realizes who he's talking to. It will be so incredibly satisfying.
"And you need my help?"
His expression does twist, and though it's sweet, Amara craves more. "I do not need you," he voraciously corrects. "Or your help. But you are here in spite of that, so I may as well make use of you. The relic is close, but the way is barred and Shar's dead are… uncooperative. Clear the path for me— by blade, cunning, or whatever it takes. I will remain here until you have suceeded, or fallen."
"I'd trust this gasbag about as far as I can throw him," Shadowheart surprises Amara by spitting out, and Amara chokes on her own spit.
"And how far is that?" she whispers back, hardly restraining her laughter.
"Not far," the cleric admits. "But perhaps better to play along, for now."
Amara turns a rather pointed smile at Balthazar. "Well then, I'm sure I'll see what I can do."
"If you're quite finished, I expect you to get to work," he snaps.
Amara licks her teeth.
"Oh, absolutely," she drawls. "It will be my pleasure."
/ / /
They find another disc like the one which initially lowered them into the Gauntlet, and Amara observes the two glowing purple gems that seem to power it, before delicately depressing one of them with the toe of her shoe.
"Woah!" she exclaims as the entire thing shifts beneath them. "How fascinating— what powers the movement of this disc?" she wonders aloud. "This must lead to the next part of Shar's Gauntlet— what inspired such a contraption? And how deep underground did they build?"
"Even I am not sure," Shadowheart admits, trying to keep her balance while the disc docks. "Another ancient altar… I had no idea the Gauntlet was so complex."
"It has space for three gemstones," Astarion points out, pulling one of them out of his pack.
"And we have surmounted all the trials," Gale points out. "Shall we see if inserting them clears the way to the inner sanctum?"
Shadowheart holds one of the gems in her hands and gazes at the altar. "I can feel it… I am so very close, to proving myself to Shar, to becoming a Dark Justiciar, to being welcomed into her loving embrace."
Amara puts the gem she was holding onto into the altar, and it glows and sparks with magic and enegy. "Then let's get you there," she says more confidently than she feels, and gestures for Astarion to do the same.
The rogue places his opposite Amara's, and the glow becomes even brighter, piercing into thedarkness of the Gauntlet's depths with bright, magnificent light.
"Go on," Halsin encourages her, and he places a large hand at Shadowheart's back.
The cleric takes a step forward and places her gemstone to complete the trio, and at first everything glows so beautifully and brightly, because the door to the next room rises like a gate, and all the light vanishes as if pushed away on a gentle breeze, leaving a soft, welcoming darkness in its wake.
Shadowheart swallows. "Let's… let's go," she whispers, seemingly to herself.
They enter a massive chamber, running down a series of low, sloping steps into the innermost section of the room, where a glistening pool of water ripples a faint, almost ghostly blue in the darkness surrounding the room at large. It's otherworldly, untouched, and peaceful.
"This must be where initates undertook their final preparations," Shadowheart breathes out. "The end is near."
"Well, that's ominous," Amara remarks, and she takes the cleric's hand, beginning to walk with her toward the water's edge. "Let's be positive, yeah? This is your dream."
"The end draws near," a much more powerful voice echoes the sentiment right in Amara's face.
Shar.
"Oh, come on," Amara gripes, but she is glad to see Shadowheart have to supress a smile.
"You show great potential— do not falter now," the voice of Shar says to Shadowheart, who squeezes Amara's hand with a vegence. "One more test awaits. Descend to the Nightsong. Make a sacrifice. Rise again a Dark Justiciar."
"Is She… in the water?" Amara asks.
"Almost there." Shadowheart is definitely ignoring that Amara is asking stupid questions. "I will not fail you, my lady."
The words strike Amara— physically, like a blow to her chest.
She drops Shadowheart's hand, and tries to mask the sudden pain overtaking her senses. Her eyes water with the effort of not crying out. Her lungs ache— crushed under an unseen weight. She doesn't so much as twitch, doesn't breathe. Her skin sears, pain rippling across its surface as if being boiled.
"This must be the last step," Shadowheart mutters, as Amara has successfully hid her plight from the cleric. "I need to pray. Only by Lady Shar's grace did we even make it this far."
Amara turns around.
All three of the male companions take notice, but Halsin reacts the fastest when blood starts pouring from both of Amara's nostrils. His Druidic Weave surrounds her, and when both Gale and Astarion reach for her, she shoos them away and points to Shadowheart, who is now kneeling on the ground and focused on Shar.
She squeezes the bridge of her nose and just tries to focus on the pressure relieving.
Nothing seems to help.
Amara is dizzy. It hurts.
"All right," Shadowheart mutters, as Gale and Astarion are both fluttering where she can probably see in her periphery. "No need to dash in ahead of me— I'm ready."
"What was all that about then?" Gale asks, stepping to block the cleric's view of Amara.
"Nothing," she assures him. "Just a show of respect. Trust me, you wouldn't want to displease Her. Not here."
Well, shit. Amara hopes She's pleased with this particular performance— she can't exactly help it.
"Let's continue," Shadowheart says, gesturing toward the pool of water.
*Your party is gathered. You are ready— or so you hope.*
Gods— even Amara's narrator has to take that wishy-washy attitude with her. She is agog to see just how this will go— she hopes well. For Shadowheart's sake, at the very least.
It is hard to stay positive when the mission they are going on is to kill something, but Amara is doing her level-best to forget that bit.
"Lead the way," she says instead, to the half-elf,
Shadowheart steps forward first, the toe of her boot dipping into the rippling cerulean surface, and Amara takes in a sharp breath, staggering forward. Strong arms catch her and she leans into Gale's chest, struggling for air.
"How do I help you?" he asks, in a whisper, but they aren't able to hide it from the cleric this time, who turns in the shallows of the water to just catch Amara pressing her hand into her face once more. Blood oozes between her fingers.
"Again?" Shadowheart asks, and she makes to step out of the water. "Why is this happening to you?"
A harsh crackling starts back in the direction the party came from, and the earth seems to shift. Amara startles, rearing back from Gale and straining her ears even as pressure roars in them with a howling vengence as if she is in a voracious wind tunnel. She can hear the tell-tale snap, crackle, of branches breaking, of vines bending to their breaking point before snapping.
"Savras…" she whispers in horror, and feels Gale tense next to her.
"Everyone! Into the water!" Gale orders, attempting to pick Amara up.
Seeing them struggle, Haslin steps in and just scoops Amara up.
The ground almost seems to erupt— something bursting forth from it, sending stone and dirt spraying into the air, swirling in a conjured wind. White fabric flaps in the debris and breeze, centered in the midst of the explosion, a glistening and almost pearlescant ivory color accented in pure gold. Somewhere inside the robes is a gaseous form that all of them recognize.
From the Underdark.
"Struggling, little God Eater?" Savras' disembodied, cacophonous voice echoes in the vast chamber as the party scrambles into the water. "You can run from me all you like, hide behind your worthless, fleshy friends. I can cut them all down with ease should I choose to do so. You cannnot, however, run from yourself, little Chronos. Your puny protectors can do nothing as you are crushed under your own weight. Embrace it, or perish."
"Go to the deepest pit of the Hells," Amara hisses hoarsely at him, as Halsin descends her into the drink.
"Cute," Savras drawls. "Keep crawling, little cockroach. Soon enough, the earth will claim you once more."
Over Halsin's shoulder, Amara sees His face materialize under His hood, the chiseeled crystal reflecting the cerulean waters of the inner sanctum.
She raises a middle finger at him.
*As you are lowered into the silent water, a foreign sensation travels through you. It curls its way up your body, squeezing tight."
Darkness overtakes Amara's vision, and suddenly Savras is gone as so is the inner sanctum, and the Gauntlet as a whole. They vanish— entirely.
Groaning, Amara rolls over and clutches her head, which pounds. She struggles to breathe, but this time not because there's a crushing weight bearing down on her lungs, but because there's something blocking her nose.
She doesn't want to commit to memory how disgusting it is to deal with the blood clots left there.
Just— ugh. UGH.
Shaking Gale awake, she sits back and tries to collect herself. "Gale," she whispers hoarsely. "Where are we?"
He sits up groggily and his eyes widen when they take in the barren, purple-tinted landscape, held together with barbed ropes and full of tretcherous spiked rocks. "Shit…" he breathes out. "Not what I expected from a moonpool, exactly."
Amara flicks her eyes up to him. "Did you just swear?" she asks, a bit delightedly. "You don't normally do that."
He rolls his eyes and proceeds to ignore her and start rousing the others. Most are confused— though Halsin seems more shocked than startled.
That alone gives Amara a bad feeling about where they are…
Sitting up, Astarion asks her, "Darling, did Savras follow us?"
Amara winces. "It doesn't look like it…"
"Was your episode about His arrival?" Shadowheart asks, helping the vampire to his feet.
"I don't think so," Amara supposes. "It's my Chronomancy Weave that gives me that effect, though… it's been worsening lately."
"That is most concerning," Haslin says with a frown. "He seemed to know this piece of information, to be honest."
Amara nods a few times. "I would suspect he's only saying it to be a dick," she asserts. "But… perhaps he is right. When I rejected my godhood originally, I had some inkling that it would impact me eventually. I believe I am slowly living the effects of that, I'm no longer able to withstand the strength of the future, which is far too powerful of magic for a mortal body. If I don't ascend…"
Gale clears his throat, and his face is a blatant mess of concern. "We can— we can figure something out. If there is no other way than ascending you, perhaps we can keep your wits about you. There must be an unorthodox solution to your unorthodox problem. For now, let us focus on our unorthodox surroundings."
"If it gets you to stop saying 'unorthodox'," Shadowheart teases with a small, unsure smile. "Let's see…" She takes a deep breath in, her eyes closed. "It must have been no ordinary water. Lady Shar… I can feel her all around. This is her domain. This is the Shadowfell."
"You did well—" another masculine voice compliments, and Amara reacts on reflex, sendng a truly massive sphere of lightning magic at the source of the voice.
The charred body of Balthazar slams to the ground, sizzling away, and Amara sighs, her nerves settling. Her skin festers with burning Weave. She can smell the scent of burning flesh. Her eyes water. Her lungs sting.
Shit.
Shit, shit.
She centers herself after a moment and snaps.
"You did well," Balthazar compliments, "Better than I would have credited you with. Now hurry along and bear witness to my masterpiece."
Amara glares at his form as it floats in front of her. "This is where you wanted me to scout?" she asks, indignant.
"This is the Dark Lady's domain— he does not belong here," Shadowheart says, more or less in agreement with Amara.
The pieces connect rapidly in Amara's brain. "The Nightsong…" she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for Shadowheart to hear, and her eyes go wide. She flicks her viridescdent gaze back up to Balthazar. Fine, if this is how he wants to play it— Amara can play. "I cleared the way to this place, not you," she asserts, because it's true. "Why shouldn't I just kill you instead of letting you interfere?"
"Raise one finger to me and I'd sunder you like lighting would a rotten oak. Now enough dullar questions— follow me."
Ironic, considering what Amara just did to his rotton body.
He floats away, unable or unwilling to acknowledge Amara's bloodlust.
Astarion, however, doesn't experience the same deficiencies. His hand comes down on her shoulder. "Restrain it, for now," he urges her. "He could still prove useful. You may take out any frustrations you have on him the moment he ceases to be of any use."
Amara breathes out, "Oh, trust me, Niar— I shall." She moves forward, to follow the necromancer, but comes up short at the end of the stone formation they're on.
"Worry not," Halsin's calm voice assures her. "Here in the Shadowfell, you are much lighter than you are used to. Simply jump and trust that you will not face the consequences you normally would when you make contact with the ground one more."
The dubious glance Amara sends him is only returned with a soft smile, so Amara just has to truth him.
She still squeezes her eyes shut on her first jump.
"Aha!" Gale exclaims as they land. "How intriguing— as if the land itself is blessed with Feather Fall."
He isn't wrong, either. The rate of falling isn't quite the same, but the effect is there. Amara's feet land on the ground without so much as more impact than a regular footfall, and no discomfort or pain reverberates up her legs.
It's actually a little fun.
What's not so fun are the… ghosts? that dot the path they follow. Dark Justiciar, Amara assumes, who whisper words of conflicinting advice.
"Kill her," is the first one Amara gets to hear.
Which is just lovely.
"Listen to her," another one urges instead, as if to purposely contridict the other.
She stops, tilts her head.
The ghosts disappear, but still she asks— "Do you mean the Nightsong?
Further down the past, two more Justiciar offer words of advice.
"Look upon her."
"Descend to her."
Amara stops, stares. Thinks.
"'The greatest treasures of them all'…" She quotes to herself. "'Lurks deep within sepulchre's walls. / Tomb of Thorm, O veiled by night,'…'Reveal the means of Keth'ric's might.'"
"Amara?" Gale asks, his hand coming up to her shoulderblade. "What's wrong?"
"Whatever is down here— it's what keeps Ketheric strong." She turns to Astarion. "Do you remember what his son said? The one in the Waning Moon?"
His brow furrows. "He did mention something about this… oh, what was it?"
"He mentioned a cage," Shadowheart answers. "He specifically said, her cage, buried in Thorm tomb. We are nearly there… have to keep going. The answers lie ahead," she assures them all. "We just have to seek them out."
Amara eyes her carefully as they crest over the last ledge, overlooking a large magical sigil far below.
"Are you quite all right?"
The cleric takes a shaky breath in. "Lady's Shar's will shall be done," she says instead of answering. "As sure as night will fall."
Shadowheart goes to jump, but Amara holds her hand up.
"Wait a moment, Vae. Listen…"
Far below, Balthazar is… speaking. To someone. As if there was someone just waiting down here, far, far beneath the Gauntlet, in the Shadowfell, all the time.
"Unkind, Aylin," he rasps, in a sickly sweet tone. "Unkind and incorrect. I could never hate my master work."
Amara's stomach flips.
She doesn't like this.
"Please, Aylin— spare me. Your insults grew tired and shopworn years ago."
Years? How long…
Amara nods to Shadowheart and the two jump to the final platform.
"Nightsong…" Shadowheart breathes out. "It's… a person."
Indeed it is— with a rather muted pallor, in tatered clothing and ratty, matted blonde hair. She struggles against what look to be two spectral hands of unnatural size and length that sprout from the ground in the middle of the sigil, and Bathlazar regards her with a cold, cruel smile.
She shakes off the hands, which disappear into the swirl of magic around her, and the necromancer's smile drops.
"Balthazar," she calls, her voice melodic and soothing. "You will have to add more bars to my cage, should you wish it to still be effective." Intelligent and wary eyes snap to Amara and her party as they approach. "Or perhaps you merely lead this would-be Justiciar's blade directly toward my heart?"
Taking a few steps toward Shadowheart, the Nightsong is suddenly restrained by more of those spectral hands.
Those pale eyes turn back to Balthazar, and Amara tries to place just what she is— if she's an identifiable race at all. "I invite you: heap more sins upon your head," she says lightly, her voice airy. "My retribution will be all the sweeter for them."
Balthazar shakes his head in disappointment. "All this time, and you still fail to appreciate the gifts I bestowed on you, Aylin. Sad, to see a thing of beauty not recognize its own worth."
Amara practically growls at the implication in that, and though she doesn't think she makes any noise, the Nightsong looks at her, with curiosity in her eyes.
"But General Thorm," Balthazar continues, lumbering and stupid and unaware, "he appreciates you. And he wants you close at hand, so I am here to whisk you back to him."
"Ketheric," she snarls out, and spits on the ground, and Amara could just cheer.
Oh, she likes this woman.
"I welcome the sight of him, after these hundred years. He whose immortality I supply with my very soul."
"General. Thorm. I'm sure you'll be on your best behavior for him. But just in case, I've taken some precautitions." He turns to Amara— and quite frankly she's impressed he even remembered she was there. "Keep back," he advises. "It will take quite some concentration to secure Aylin for her little journey."
Shadowheart grabs on to Amara's elbow with urgency. "The Nightsong is Shar's sacrifice— she's my destiny. He cannot have her!"
Amara doesn't exactly like that implication, but she puts a hand on Shadowheart's grasp all the same. She knocks softly on their bond. "What are you going to do to her?" she asks, addressing Balthazar instead of Shadowheart.
"Bring her home— what else? Aylin is so much more than you comprehend. She is an aasimar, bound to a soulcage of my creation, and lending her immortal strength to General Thorm."
Shadowheart grips Amara's tighter, and their connection opens, freely letting in the cleric's anxiety, her flares of anger, the slight thread of betrayal and trepidation she feels. The fear.
Balthazar smiles, something cruel and wicked, and Amara knows her own anger is flowing freely back to Shadowheart. "Her power, his will, and my genius. An unsurpassable feat."
Amara will see about that.
"Ramblings most unsane," Nightsong mutters, and Amara couldn't help but agree. "Poor Balthazar, for maggots ate his brain long ago."
"Amara," Shadowheart insists through their bond.
"I know," she responds, soft and soothing. "Trust me, Vae, I will ensure the outcome of today is as you desire it, even if we must do it a thousand times."
"Hold you tongue, Aylin," Balthazar snaps, bringing them both back to the conversation. "Or I'll take it away from you again. And you—"
He snaps to paying attention to Amara again. Her rage simmers.
"No more questions. No more interference."
Amara removes Shadowheart's grip on her and cracks the knuckles on her hands.
"Amara, wait—"
"No, he's right," she drawls with a coldness to her tone. "No more interference. I've had enough of this. Prepare yourself, Balthazar."
He laughs wildly, and the Nightsong's eyes widen.
"Fly at me, you fool. You cannot stop what is to come."
Amara immediately feels like that might have been a bad idea.
It's not just Balthazar.
It's not Balthazar and a couple of umbral tremors that spit out Justiciar.
It's dozens - dozens - of undead wards that he controls.
Skeletons, zombies— Amara can't even identify some of them. Rotting, rotted, flesh peeling off, nothing but bone, stinking, crumbling creatures of shambling filth. All of whom were probably alive at some point, and dredged from their resting places only to be made to face magic and blades.
To be cut down, and for what?
For the pathetic, cowardly creature currently running for cover?
A spell comes flying at Amara and she doesn't even bother to identify it before Counterspelling it, making a warpath right for Balthazar— if she kills that horrid creature, perhaps all of his creations will rest.
To lead, she opens their connection.
"Gale! Cover the area with your largest area spells!" she directs.
And that works for a while, but there are just so many undead.
"Astarion— backstab anyone who gets too close to him," she orders.
And that works too, until some of the seemingly endless wards start making him a target just as much as Gale.
"Shadowheart!! Shield them!" Amara begs.
And that only works so much— she can't cast it infinite times.
"Halsin, your wild shape's claws should easily be able to strike them down! Don't leave Shadowheart's side!"
And it's just too late.
Amara doesn't reach Balthazar in time.
Cloudkill sinks into the battlefield and the air fills with choking, screaming, begging for help— for Amara to rewind.
The sound of struggling for breath, for life, of holding on by a thread— the call of her name with the last breath of air into lungs.
Amara rubs her fingers together.
The battlefield goes silent.
The sound of succumbing to death.
Amara snaps.
"Spread out!!" she screams into the connection, desperation in her tone even in their heads.
She sees Balthazar earlier this time, Stepping through the battlefield with malice roiling through her. Anger sears through her body until she's run so hot that she goes utterly chilled, her fingers and toes completely numb. She feels as though the entire outer layer of her skin is simmering, as though she would burn anything that touched her.
His eyes latch on to hers.
She hears the clashing of weapons, the soaring roar of voices. Lungs expanding, vocal cords humming, limbs moving. Her blood roars in her ears. Her fingers twitch.
Life.
She sees blood. Guts. Hears silence, sees stillness. Darkness, emptiness. Even the echoes of her name are deadened, and all that is left are cold fingers reaching out to her, frozen in rigor.
Death.
She's upon Balthazar before she even knows she made it that far. Her fingers twitch. Her body moves as if puppeted by the gut-wrenching flurry of rage, of utter fury and impossible amounts of Weave drifting in, around, and through her body into the elements around her.
Balthazar's eyes light up green.
Necromantic green.
Amara doesn't like Necromantic Weave.
But she did learn it, long ago, and though the tadpole stole her spells— this one, this one, she reaches for.
Her hand latches around the thickest part of the cultist's face, bloated from death and sliced, slick with blood and scattered with a crust. She hisses out an incantation she shouldn't be able to use anymore, not since the nautiloid, and casts Horrid Wilting as her overwhelming Weave turns sickly green.
Balthazar's head withers away until it's a mere husk, and his body drops unceremoniously to the stone ground, twitching.
Death smells rotten, and is silent and still.
Amara watches until the last moment Balthazar moves. Until she is sure he is gone.
Echoes of screams for help bounce in her ears.
She flicks her wrist twice and looks back out at the battlefield, but the undead wards are still active— Balthazar's death did nothing to eradicate them.
Too late, Amara realizes that with the connection open, her fury is laid bare in front of her companions, and the bloodlust she feels as her temper snaps must be felt intimately by all of them. She turns to find Shadowheart closest to her.
"I'm fine," she says, aloud, instead of to all of them.
"You're not," the cleric argues. "I had no idea…"
"I'm fine."
With a wave of her hand, Shadowheart casts Calm Emotions, and her Divine Weave floats over Amara with a chill like cold water being dumped over her head. Slowly, the feeling begins to return to her extremities, and the screams of her name in agonizing pain, in the voices of her friends and loved ones, dims to a whisper until fading out into nothing.
Like Death.
Amara shivers.
At this point, Amara hasn't been paying enough attention— and the wards have separated Amara's party too far. No matter what she does, the numbers of the undead are simply overwhelming. She keeps their healers at the front to no one's health dips too far— and even when Astarion is pushed off the side of the cliff, she uses one of the precious scrolls they've collected instead of snapping.
But it does her little good.
She ends up snapping to before she murdered Balthazar, and this time she knows where he is.
Immediately, she merely Thunderwaves him off the edge of the platform, unconscious.
Then, she leaps right into directing her friends.
"Gale! Draw the enemies into one area! I will keep it wet— use lighting damage to zap them all to lower their health!" she commands, casting Create Water over the area.
And it works— the combination is lethal.
"Astarion! Halsin! The ones at the fringe will try to run. Pick them off!" she orders, watching the movements of the weakest wards.
And it works, especially the combination of them.
"Shadowheart, keep them both shielded, and Gale took a hit," she monitors, trying to keep an eye on everyone's status before they even ask.
Eventually, they whittle the undead wards down.
One last one tries to shamble away, but when four Magic Missiles of bright cyan Weave come crashing into its head, the ward crumbles into dust.
Shadowheart pushes admiration, comfort, and reassurance through their bond. "We're okay," she says softly. "We lived."
Amara breathes heavily. "By the skin of our teeth, perhaps. Are you all right?"
Shadowheart glances toward the Nightsong in the soulcage. "Physically, yes. Emotionally… I am as prepared for this as I can be, I feel. My destiny is before me. You have my back?"
Ever so grateful she rewound yet another of her temper tantrums, Amara draws the cleric into an embrace. "We feel differently about what you are about to do, Vae, and I would never be able to fool you into thinking differently, no matter how I toiled. However, you happiness is paramount to all, for me. You are a dear friend, a very special one, and the closest confidant I have. Please, do what you must. I will always have your back."
When Shadowheart pulls away, there's a sheen to her eyes. "Leave the connection open?" she asks softly.
Amara pours love, support, gentle affection through it. "Of course. Whatever you need, Vae."
Their party walks back to the sigil - the soulcage - and the Nightsong meets them as far as she can. "Balthazar has drawn his final rancid breath. A pity it was not my hand that brought it about. Instead, it was you." But she's not pointing to Amara— she's pointing to Shadowheart. "You, who have come to seek the praise of your wicked goddess. You, who have come to drive a dagger through my heart."
Nightsong rushes Shadowheart again, and the spectral hands hold her back.
"Not a dagger," Shadowheart corrects, with as much tenacity as she can muster. Amara sends her an extra pulse of confidence. "A spear. My Lady Shar's spear." The cleric turns to Amara. "Her fate is mine to seal. Let me handle this," she requests firmly.
"The fate you seal is your own," the Nightsong asserts— and honestly? Amara agrees. Her fingers twitch, skin burning. "To be a Dark Justiciar is to turn your heart from everything but loss. You will know no love, no joy— only servitude. Until, of course, your mistress inevitably discards you." Behind them, Amara sees Gale tense. "And there is much She does not tell you— a terrible blood price that may extend beyond my own death."
Amara feels herself resonate with Shadowheart, both of them feeling a sense of unease.
The cleric shakes her head, doubling down.
*You feel Shadowheart bristling— this is important to her. But your bond is strong. You may yet be able to sway her from the path of duty to the path of light. And Nightsong is not blind to your conflict. Behind that raging heart is the restless beat of one who knows too well that her fate hangs in the balance.*
For a terrible moment, Amara recalls her own cage. A wall of solid Weave, translucent and cold. How it bit at her skin as she clawed for it, how it rattled her bones when she beat on it. Each toiled moment spent behind its confines, an immortal wishing for death, any escape from the endless days alone in the frigid, purple-tinted box.
She closes her eyes and breathes, banishes the thought. Instead, she pushes trust through her bond with the cleric.
Dark hazel eyes flick to her.
"I trust you," Amara urges softly. "I won't interfere."
For a moment, the words and their many meanings just linger in their shared headspace, and Shadowheart opens her mouth and then slowly closes it, and her mouth forms a thin line, a determined frown.
"Well, well, well," the Nightsong supposes, shrugging. "What's that I sense? A spear intended for my heart. Empowered by your goddess, aye— empowered to kill the child of a god."
Amara's breath catches.
Her mind races.
She pictures every god who came to gaze through the wall of her cage, like she was an animal set for viewing. Which god had a child— who is this woman's parent?
"Do you know what I am, little assassin? For I know you— a lost child, frightened by wolves in the dark."
Amara's lashes flutter. Surely she heard that wrong.
"What did you say?" Shadowheart asks, obviously agreeing.
Amara tries to send assurance through their bond, but Shadowheart begs for more.
"Much as been promised to you, hasn't it?" the Nightsong asks. "But what has been taken from you? What do you know of your own heart— your own life?"
The pain and loss, the misery and confusion, all of it pouring in from Shadowheart is almost too much for Amara to bear.
"I sense more in you than you know," the Nightsong says, and her voice is soft, almost comforting.
"Whatever you think you know of me won't matter, once I become whom I'm meant to be," Shadowheart asserts, but she looks toward Amara as if expecting the wizard to stop her.
Amara doesn't, she just joins their hands together, lacing their fingers.
The bond opens, wider now, and she feels Shadowheart startle. A question probes the innermost parts of her connection through the tadpole.
*The fingers of Shadowheart's mind peruse the memories floating at the surface of your consciousness. You can't recall feeling anything quite like the sensation of her running a tentative brush across your emotive memories; she strokes how you felt locked deep away in the outer planes, and pages past your physical symptoms of escape— how broken your fingernails were, how raw skin on your palms and the sides of your hands became. When she stops, the memory she lingers on is far gone, into a future that will never come to pass.*
"Oh, Vae," Amara warns softly. "You don't need to see that."
*Your emotions - but truly its the lack thereof - flood your connection with Shadowheart. The indifference you felt for anything that did not benefit you, how you lusted after escape and any other selfish desire at the expense of anyone else, and you would have damned anyone, even a lover, if it meant you would have gotten what you wanted. You held no feelings of love, nor even fondness. Everything was felt merely in a scale of what benefitted you the most.*
"Ah!" Shadowheart sucks in a breath of air and pulls her hand from Amara's, and a circular, glowing marking pierces through-and-through her palm. She extends it, and a purple glow begins to take the form of the spear that she picked up from the silent library.
It takes Amara a moment to realize it— but Shadowheart is crying.
Round, hesitant eyes look at the spear, and then at the Nightsong, and then she squeezes her eyes shut and more tears pour down her cheeks.
She tosses the spear with her full strength off the side of the rock, letting out a shuddering, panting breath, before she gathers herself and closes her eyes, and then turns back to Amara and collects the elf into an embrace.
"I… I can't believe I just did that," she says into Amara's braided hair. "Lady Shar will disown me… what will happen to me?" Then, softer, "What happened to you?"
"Not what will happen— what will you do?" the Nightsong corrects, obviously not hearing Shadowheart's comment meant only for Amara. "Your past is not yet lost. Your future is not yet fixed." She gets down on her knees. "Lay a hand on me in friendship, not-quite-Sharran, and I will fight the battle that has been waiting for me this last century. Then— oh then, we will have much to discuss."
Amara wipes Shadowheart's face and sends wave after wave of love and affection through their bond, and lets her go, allowing the cleric to reach forward and put her palm on the Nightsong's shoulder, as requested.
At first, nothing happens.
Then, Amara feels the hair on her arms stand on end.
The Nightsong - Aylin - falls to her hands and knees, and she pounds the ground with a fist wreathed in white, pearlescant, pulsing light.
"Our Lady of Silver. Hear me!" she proclaims into the sky. "She Who Guides, the Moonmaiden Selûne - MOTHER OF THE SO-CALLED NIGHTSONG." She roars her words, rising, and her entire body becomes wreathed in the same light. "THE NIGHTSONG IS NO MORE!"
Lifting from the ground, Aylin's body soon becomes covered in blessed armor, gifted to her by an unseen force, and she breaks through the soulcage with ease, accepting a glowing, luminescent sword which descends from the far reaches of Shadowfell. Once she's fully encased in armor and armed, she turns and giant, full wings sprout from her back, feathered and bountiful and natural.
An aasimar once more.
"I am resplendent," she sighs in pleasure, and lands on the ground once more. "You have given me a great gift, little warrior. Don't you find it oh-so-curious that you would spurn your Dark Lady? Perhaps you feel a stirring of the truth already. But that will come later. There is a battle yet to be fought. You have done what we feared was impossible. You have released me from a century of sorrow. Your power is great. So too must be your weapon. You must choose what you will weild. And the Moonmaiden will provide. This I have said; thus will it be so."
Shadowheart tilts her head in interest, but Amara has an inkling she knows why this is the case.
"Are you ready?" Aylin asks, and she addresses Shadowheart directly.
The cleric stares at her dubiously. "Ready for what, exactly?"
"To kill Ketheric Thorm," Aylin states bluntly, her wings unfurling. With a mighty surge, she leaps into the air and begins a twirling ascent into the sky.
Shadowheart watches her go until she can't see her anymore.
"We need to leave," she says eventually. "Lady Shar won't stand for us to be here— not after what we did."
"If Shar is angry, She's being remarkably quiet about it," Amara remarks.
"That's what frightens me. She must be angry, yet I don't feel it, or hear it… there's only silence."
And Amara can feel her fear. She does her best to soothe it away.
"Let's get out of here, please. Whatever's coming, I don't want to be in the heart of the Shadowfell when it finds me."
Well— Amara isn't going to argue with that.
"The Nightsong will be headed for Moonrise Towers. We'd better get there, and see what she's unleashed against Ketheric Thorm."
Amara nods, and they quickly make their way toward the exit of the Shadowfell. Amara steps through it. She makes it two steps forward before she doubles over.
"ARGH!" she screams, clutching her hand to her chest, as her stomach roils in agony and her body feels like it's splitting itself into pieces. She can't identify the sensation— she feels as if she's burning, her skin melting, her body oozing fire instead of blood, wet with it, and also freezing away with the sensation of every nerve ending spasming and dying within moments.
She's aware of only some of her actions; how she expelled the contents of her stomach, torn at her face and arms with her nails, and ripped some of her hair out. With what little of her wits she can keep about her, she manages to recognize this is the fault of no Chronomancy Weave, in fact— it's not related to Chronos in any way.
The body-tearing, mind-rending agony is coming through the tadpole.
Shadowheart.
Amara just manages to get her bloody fingers to snap.
"We'd better get there, and see what she's unleashed against Ketheric Thorm," Shadowheart is saying.
Gale snaps up to look at her immediately. "Amara? Why did you snap?"
Amara quickly gathers the cleric up in a hug and severs their connection, making the half-elf jerk in the embrace. "Don't worry," she says firmly. "I know this must all seem like some sort of terrible dream. But it's real. And I left the choice to you— you stood before the Nightsong. You heard your Lady speak to you, you must have, and you chose this. Shadowheart, from the day you met me, you have always been one of my people, and I protect my own. Today, tomorrow, always. Some days will be easier, and other days— they'll be like today. But I will always choose you."
When Amara pulls away from the embrace, her eyes are glowing— fully opaque with cyan light, which seeps out in a steady stream of glowing tendrils.
"What are you doing?" Shadowheart asks with a trembling voice.
"Protecting my people," Amara states, as the tendrils connect behind her head and form a crown, gracing her with the cosmic robe of her unique, deitious Weave. Her body - and soon even her skin - is wreathed in magic, in a subtle blue glow.
There's a rumbling in the distance of the Shadowfell.
"That's Her," Shadowheart says in a trembling voice. "Amara, don't! You're angering Her!"
Amara laughs, and more of her Weave drifts off her body, like a mist covering the stone they're on and dripping off the sides. "What's wrong, Mistress of the Night, Lady of Loss? Afraid you can't block your latest toy from leaving if I'm here? I thought I wasn't such a threat to you— isn't that what you told me when you came to see how I would grovel to escape my cage?"
Light begins to seep out of the surrounding sky, darkening everything.
"I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you once more," Amara growls, and her form grows larger, hands big enough to wrap around Shadowheart's body coming to cover her, protect her from the encroaching darkness. "This one is my friend— you can't have her. She has made her choice."
There's a shrill sound like a kettle on too long, and… things start to move in the darkness.
"Halsin," Amara drawls, from somewhere in the realm of her Weave. The druid startles. "Open a portal from this side, the way you opened one from the other side."
"The Oak Father did not say—"
"Trust me," she coos.
"Amara," Shadowheart says with a shaking voice. "Why are you doing this?"
Otherworldly eyes lock onto the cleric's fearful ones. "Because, my moonlight, your goddess has no plans to let you out of this place. The moment we step out, She will keep you here— torture you. We had our connection open. I felt it."
Shadowheart's eyes widen, and Amara doesn't even need their bond to tell how betrayed the cleric feels— it's written all over her face.
"What… what did She do?"
"I cannot say for sure," Amara says, and behind her she is aware of the golden light of Silvanus' portal being opened. "But I can say it felt as if I was suffering the agony of a thousand people, all at once. My blood was boiling, my hair was on fire. I thought I'd claw my own face off with the pain…"
Shadowheart balks, and though no tears gather in her eyes this time, there's a reviling edge of agony on her face.
"You did not wait for my punishment to be complete," the voice of Shar echoes in the Shadowfell. All of them freeze, and Amara recovers first, her clawed hands of Weave tightening in their protective circle around Shadowheart. "You are wrong to say I would have never let her leave. I would have released her— though it would have been more akin to a banishment. The child will be an outcast, all of my children will know her and revile her. She will always be alone."
Amara growls in pure, unreserved fury, "She will never be alone."
"It's ready," Halsin yells, and within moments, Amara has whisked them through Silvanus' gate.
Unlike the last gate, Shadowheart passes through this one with ease.
Instantly, Amara dispells the illusion she cast to bolster the small amount of her Weave she was actually using, and takes the Chronomatic power back into her body, shivering as her insides still roil at the effect even that much had on her.
Her bright green eyes find dark hazel ones.
*Shadowheart looks distraught— abandoned by her goddess and all former allies. And as for her divine magic…? Admitting who empowers her now may break her spirit for good.*
"Do you really mean all those things you said?" she asks, and her eyes mist over now that they are outside the Shadowfell. "That I am… one of yours. That you will always protect me. And that I am… not alone?"
"Of course you are not alone," Amara says immediately, gesturing to their party. "You have us. You'll be one of mine, so long as you'll stay by my side, Vae."
She gives a weak smile. "Today, tomorrow, always," she echoes. "You've done more to help me than my faith has in recent times, if I'm honest. Thank you. And about what… I saw."
"If you don't want to discuss it, you needn't mention it," Amara says softly.
She swallows. "The gods. They kept you— like an animal. In a cage. They came to see you, like you were entertainment for them." She pauses for a moment. "Shar came to see you."
Amara's eyes widen, her lashes flutter. "You saw that?"
"She offered you something, but you denied Her."
"Many of them offered me something," Amara says vaguely. "I denied all of— well, almost all of them."
"None could blame you for that," Shadowheart quickly says. "What happened to you, what your mind became… I can only be grateful you control time."
Amara gives her a weak smile.
As if sensing that's all she can take, Shadowheart clears her throat. "The Nightsong promised she'd tell me something about myself. I need to speak with her as soon as I can. What she said to me back in the Shadowfell, about the wolves… that's no coincidence. She took flight to hunt down Ketheric Thorm. All I can do is help hasten his demise, and hope that answers soon follow."
"We should stop at camp first," Gale says, gesturing to them.
They are kind of a stinking, bloody mess.
"Ah. Yes. Quite. Gale, could you—"
"Open a waypoint? Of course, my dear."
/ / /
If Karlach, Lae'zel and Shadowheart hadn't come with Amara to the baths, she probably would have fallen asleep in them.
Lae'zel mostly just nodded along with everything Shadowheart had to say about their time in the Gauntlet. "You performed valiantly, in my opinion, ra'stil," she finally says. "Your decision was a difficult one, but you made it on your own. Take more pride in your own accomplishments, for you are a mighty warrior, worthy of the highest accolade in your faith."
Wide hazel eyes blink a few times. "I… thank you for saying so, Lae."
"Bah. It is mere logic." She says, once more helping Amara not sink into the hot spring water.
Behind them, Karlach heats the water again, her tail thrashing, as a sound of worry rises in her throat.
"What's wrong?" the elf slurs with tiredness, her body lethargic from lack of energy and magic, damaged from overuse of Chronomancy Weave.
"I hate seeing Shadowheart suffer like this," she admits, quiet enough for the half-elf not to hear while engaged in continued conversation with the githyanki. "All for doing the right thing."
"She's got us," Amara says with a yawn. "We might not be a goddess, but I'd like to think we can love her more than one can."
The tiefling chuckles, the sound reverberating low in her chest. "You're quite right. It's up to us to look after her now. If she needs a rest, we carry her. If she needs a hand, she has ours. If she needs ears, we've got plenty between us. Whatever she needs."
"That's the spirit," she slurs.
"It seems perhaps you might need something yourself," Karlach points out, as Amara once again starts to doze off. "Up we go," she says, hefting the elf out of the water. "Why does it feel like we do this every week?"
"Because we do," Shadowheart mutters. "That's what she gets— going on every mission."
"Maybe she can sit the next one out?"
Lae'zel scoffs. "She would never let that happen— she would rewind until she could convince you otherwise. Her own wellbeing aside."
Karlach grumbles while Amara situates herself into drying herself off and getting dressed, but then allows the tiefling to carry her back to the camp from the bathhouse. "Got some cargo," she chirps when they get near the dining table, and she sets the elven wizard delicately on the tabletop.
Arabella is sitting in Gale's lap, and it's simply too adorable - even as the wizard himself looks rather unsure what to do next - so she instead rolls into Wyll's lap, setting her feet on Astarion's lap in the neighboring chair.
"Every time…" he mutters to himself.
Halsin joins them at the table with a smile on his face. "Always lovely to see your bond," he says with warmth in his tone.
"Do you want her legs?" the vampire asks, lifting her by her ankles.
He smiles. "I'm sure I would be honored."
"Be my guest, then," he mutters, and he gets up out of his chair and offers it to the druid. His gaze flickers to Amara.
"Yes?" she drawls, a smile on her face.
"I just— normally I request my dinner from Shadowheart, given that you're usually, well…" He gestures to her, looking sleep-deprived and exhausted. "But I figured since her day has been, well, some type of way, that I would ask you instead."
"I'm right here," Gale remarks indignantly.
"Sorry, darling, but as long as you have that netherese bile in you, it's a no thank you."
Lae takes the seat across him at the table with a few dishes for the dinner cooking over the fire, while Halsin takes Astarion's previously occupied seat and places Amara's legs in his lap. He's even stronger than Amara was expecting him to be— even in his thighs.
"Does it have to be Amara? Or just not Shadowheart or Gale?" the druid asks curiously.
Astarion's ears flatten against his head. "They are the only ones who have offered. I only feed on the ones who have offered."
Wyll and Halsin look at each other.
"I would… be all right with it," Wyll ventures, and he combs through the tangles in Amara's hair with his talons. "Knowing that Shadowheart's been holding up well, and that you have held your word up quite well give me much confidence. Plus, I have seen how much healthier you are on a steady diet as compared to our first few days on this adventure— I am glad to see you this way."
His eyes widen. "What people would say, if they knew the Blade of Frontiers was offering… to be fed on by a spawn."
Wyll gives a wry smile. "Not just any spawn. You."
Astarion snaps his gaze away. "Yes, well. Fine. Meet me in my tent after everyone else goes to bed."
"It would be my pleasure," Wyll drawls out, and his voice is pitched lower than usual.
The vampire stalks toward his tent and Amara beams, preening as Wyll's claws massage her scalp. "Adorable," she drawls, and her gaze flicks over the camp. "Thank you for doing that, by the way. It's appreciated, both for his sake and mine."
"It really is my pleasure," Wyll confirms for her, much more in his normal tone of voice. "We were dearly worried, when it took you several more days than usual to return."
"We were not in a position where it made sense to leave," Amara confirms, to which the warlock is mkes a sound of understanding. His fingers try to weave her hair together, but it quickly becomes obvious that might not be his forte.
Arabella climbs off of Gale's lap and clambers over, wrapping her tail around Wyll for stability and letting her deft fingers braid Amara's silken blonde hair.
Wyll juggles both of them in his lap, exchanging a glance with Gale, who shrugs and is smiling with the warmest look on his face.
"We did rest," Gale assures him. "It was, of course, even more precarious than a camp, but it suited us the best. It would have raised the danger level to leave and try to come back."
"Yes, of course. I understand perfectly," Wyll says, and Amara glances over her shoulder to smile at him. "Just— for the next leg of the adventure, would I be able to accompany you?"
"I don't see why not," Amara says. "You can tell Astarion you're switching tonight."
He nods and smiles. "Thank you. It will ease my burden." Then his smile drops. "You know— Karlach told me something interesting while we were in camp. We had to talk about something. I take it you knew."
Amara's eyes go back down to the table. "About her engine?"
Shadowheart approaches the table holding part of their meal, and glances at the tiefling who is holding all the portions of meat. "What about your engine?"
At a loss, Karlach sighs, her tail drooping. "Just something Dammon said. I'm burning hot. Too hot. Eventually I'll burn until I'll explode— if I don't go back to Avernus, which can handle the heat. And I'm not going back to that place."
"No," Shadowheart says immediately. "Oh, Karlach, no. You can finally seek out our touch— the touch of another… and to be told you might not have much time left… I'm so sorry, Karlach."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," she says with a laugh. "I'm fine! Happy! Look what I can do!" She drops the food on the table and throws an arm around her. She looks up, eyes scanning the group. "Gods, Gale, you look just as constipated as before."
He gives a light chuckle. "I am sorry. It's just… I know well the pain of seeing your life's hourglass running empty, grasping at any means of slowing the grains as they slip inexorably through your fingers." With a breath, he makes his smile warmer. "Your fate may be ordained, but your actions are not. You will make each breath count— we can be sure of that."
"How does it feel?" Amara asks, trying to focus on a positive.
It seems to work, as Karlach beams. "Like I got something back— something I've wanted for a really long time. Touching you guys, it makes me feel like… a real person. My heart races, but I don't hurt you. I don't have to be afraid of myself anymore. I don't have to hold back. Not sure if the world's ready for unleashed Karlach, but it's getting it anyway. Thanks to Dammon. Thanks to you. Thanks to fate."
"I'm all gladness you got what you wanted," she says sincerely. Arabella finishes her braids, so Amara pulls her legs back from Halsin and scoops the tiefling girl from Wyll's lap, cradling her in her arms.
"Me too, soldier. Gods! Me too. For every knock we take, I feel like I get a little treat just to keep me going." Karlach comes up next to Amara and gives the tiefling in her arms a kiss on the crown of her head.
"How beautiful it must be, to know you can hold a hand, to caress a cheek, after going so long without," Wyll agrees, giving the tiefling a smile and a gentle touch at her back. "We'll get you fixed up, won't we?" He looks up at Amara. "There's always a way— there has to be."
"We'll look until the last moment," Amara promises. "Of course we will. And Karlach doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to do," she promises.
"Enough about me," the barbarian asserts. "Let's compliment Shadowheart for the difficult choice she made today!"
"Oh, I don't think…"
"Shar's ire may have shaken you, Shadowheart, but you have not let it slow you. There is untold strength there, I feel," Halsin says fondly.
She stares for a moment before collapsing into her seat. "I feel as though that was the most foolish thing I've ever done— and yet all of you seem so… pleased with me?"
"I believe we would have been supportive of any of your choices," Gale remarks. "That is the nature of a support system. We know how you cherished Shar— and can only imagine how it must feel to be without Her support. The gods are nothing if not vindictive in their vengeance. We want you to know the good things we see in the decision you made, as there are plenty."
"Shar may have called you 'nothing', but it is we who know better than that," Wyll assures her. "You are something. You are worthy, you are strong. You are… Shadowheart."
"Gale, Wyll," she breathes out, emotional.
"Nothing can take the you from you. Not even a goddess."
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Gale agrees.
Amara sends a spark of Weave into the tabletop that forms a heart out of a crescent moon.
"We love you, Vae," she mutters sleepily. "With all our hearts."
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 33: The Maw Beneath
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXIII
The Maw Beneath
Amara likes to think that she can expect a large variety of things nowadays— but walking up to Moonrise Towers a second time to see its base strewn with bodies of zealots and adepts is not exactly what she's expecting.
"'Unshackled from shadows, she will rise in moonlit glory and carve a path of brightness to the accursed one's second death'," Amara hears a voice she recognizes say, as if quoting something.
"Jaheria?" she asks, attempting to find the half-elf walking amidst the corpses.
Infinitely wise eyes find hers in the darkness, and the druid beckons her closer. "So sayeth the wise Alaundo," she continues, her dual swords sheathed at her back, but the tell-tale signs she's fought recently on her armor and skin. "That beacon of angelic wrath has taken the fight to Ketheric on the rooftop, and the first line of defence has been killed while you rested. That is all we could manage without you— storming the tower won't be easy, and if we wait too long, Ketheric will gather his strength and retaliate."
"We're ready," Amara assures her.
"Good," she says, a smile on her lips. "For now, he's on the back foot for the first time since he returned from the grave. This is it— the spearhead moment. You've brought us this far, so how shall we proceed?"
Oh, great. Decision making.
Lovely.
Let's just start leading an army?
Amara is totally qualified for that.
"We move in and secure the ground floor first," Amara states, picturing the opposite for how she would defend such a building. "Cut off all the exits."
"A sound strategy," Jaheria compliments - and isn't that a fucking relief? - "Once it's done, me and my Harpers will hold the ground floor while you hunt down the general himself."
Lovely. Sounds easy.
"Florrick left some of her Flaming Fist— they'll scout the prisons and barracks below, to ensure we're not taken by surprise."
Amara would not have thought of that, so… good.
"Say the word, and we're off."
"Let's do this," Amara agrees with a smile. "I am all gladness that we are standing on the same side."
"As am I. Let us rip True Souls from a false god. As good a prophecy as any." She turns to the gathered folk. "At the ready, Harpers! In the light there will be victory! In this light we will avenge the fallen!"
There are cheers from everyone who's lived this long— and Amara's heart goes out to them.
"The time as come," Jaheria once again addresses Amara. "Ketheric will taste of death at last."
Through the doors of Moonrise once more, Amara nearly comes up short.
"Oh, shit," she mutters.
"You dare show yourself here, after all you've done?" Z'rell demands, and well— yes?
Amara smacks her lips and takes a page out of Astarion's book since he's still back at camp. "Darling, it's called follow-through. Did you really expect me to only go as far as I did?"
"You have betrayed me, you have betrayed General Thorm— you have betrayed our god!" she asserts, and Amara slowly descends the stairs while the half-orc keeps beady eyes on her. "And for what?" she demands, a little softer, genuinely confused. "These Harpers? Moonrise will be their tomb— and in death, you will all serve the Absolute."
Amara tosses one of her braids behind her back. "Z'rell. You have fundamentally misconstrued one thing: we have never for a moment fought for the same side. Your god has never been my god— that beast you worship is nothing more than a monster with grand dreams of genocide. That being said, I don't need to annihilate those who oppose me to feel a sense of accomplishment. I don't even really wish to kill you. If you surrender, I'll let you live. No questions asked."
Z'rell laughs. "Like a kitten roaring at a tiger. Boys— make this traitor bleed."
Amara's eyes narrow at her. "Are you stupid— or just stubborn?"
Her lips peel back from her tusks. "I would ask the same of you, but I know the answer already."
"Slaying Balthazar was easy— both in task and motivation, since he left such a sour taste in my mouth. I suppose I should thank you for easing what was a difficult decision on my part."
Z'rell lets out a mighty roar and brandishes her weapons, beginning an all-out sprint in the direction of the elven wizard. Amara supposes that makes sense.
With a few quick snaps of her wrists and a confidently belted incantation, Amara spreads Grease down in front of the steps they're at the top of, and peers down at the veritable army charging at them. She supposes assaulting the tower was bound to result in a decently… negative response. They certinaly didn't hold back— there are disciples, zealots, adepts, and… creatures of all kinds. Perhaps a little over a dozen of them.
Oh well.
Nothing a little trial and error can't fix.
Gale joins Amara in pushing everyone back from the entrance, and Jaheria entanges anyone who manages to either avoid the spells or have the good fortune to run right through them unharmed. Anyone who ends up tangled in Jaheria's thorny, surprisingly vital vines is easily picked off by the rest of her Harpers and the members of the Fist.
There's one obvious gap in the Grease patch, but not for long— Halsin quickly fills the last gap in their defense with a large Moonbeam, creating a solid line between the warring sides of the Tower. Still, the cultists attempt to attack, which means the ones who haven't fallen victim to Sleep spells or the thrall of a Charm are wading through the Grease, leaving some of them prone.
In a flash, Wyll is through the defensive line, taking care of the prone cultists with an impressive, deadly display of swordsmanship, his magic whirling around him.
Alone on that side, though, it's not long before he is under heavy fire.
"Wyll!" Amara calls, gathering her Weave in her palms. "Hold on— we're coming," she promises. "Shadowheart—"
"On it," the cleric says immediately, and focuses on healing.
The arches above the entryway are raining fire down on everyone, but it's much more dangerous every time Wyll takes a hit. She gathers the remnants of her Divine Weave from healing her party and it forms into a spectral spear of sorts.
Rather than radiating the power of darkness— it casts the gorgeous glow of the moon through the Towers.
The cultists scatter after the spear literally splatters the drow it hits, and Gale picks half of them off, leaving Amara able to put nearly all the remaining ones to sleep. The battlefield grows staggeringly more silent after that.
Jaheira rears back, and a Thornwhip rolls off her fingers, up toward the archers in the rafters above, tearing half the structure down with her. The Harpers shoot from where they are and the Flaming Fist run up the fallen beams to attack the ones who run.
Between Wyll's rapier and Halsin conjuring an Ice Storm, all the remaining gathered few and the cultists in a charmed Sleep are decimated in a matter on minutes— perhaps even seconds. A few more guards rush in from neighboring rooms at the sound, but honestly Amara isn't even worried.
Divine Weave like a summer's full moon evening descends over the room, and Shadowheart heals the Harpers and Fists who have taken damage, and hurls yet another spear at one of the arches above, leaving only the newest set of guards and one familiar face.
Amara and Gale eliminate the guards with a hail of Scorching Rays.
The half-orc, alone in the Tower, holds her sword as if it's a shield, and Amara holds her arm up to steady her team. "Halt," she commands them. "We did well. Rest and heal."
She descends the steps and approaches the disciple, Grasping the blade of her weapon and sending a cascade of shocks up its length.
With a gasp of pain, Z'rell releases her blade and drops to her knees.
Amara's eyes flick cyan.
"Do you get it now?" she asks.
"That you are stronger than I?" she croaks out, one hand pressed to her chest. "Yes, how could I not? What I do not get… is why?"
Their eyes meet.
*You feel your parasite writhe behind your eye. Z'rell paws for answers, scraping unkind nails across the folds of your memories for any indication of what differientiates the two of you and your worship of the Absolute.*
Amara pushes back. She drags rough hands across the palette of Z'rell's mind, and wherever she spots a moment of doubt, any moment of uncertainty, she flashes images upon images of genocidal maniacs from historical manuals and first hand accounts of cult escapists— word for word accounts of exactly what is happening in the past happening again, now.
"Why?" Amara echoes. "Why I don't follow that blasted creature? I should ask why you do— that is what makes no sense to me. Perhaps you are just cruel beyond normalcy. Perhaps I could show you countless bloodied children, begging for the Absolute to tell them why it murdered their parents, and you would not understand. I cannot help you, if that is the case."
Z'rell's face slackens in surprise. "But… the Absolute is going to bring about a new world order— a better world! She only has the greatest things in mind for—"
"It's a monster," Amara stresses. "And if you can't be made to see reason, then that is because you are one too."
"How can you think that?" Z'rell asks with real distress. "We share a connection to our goddess— the Absolute should join us on the same side! If you were this strong, you should have been leading Her armies!"
Amara looks down at her, and for a moment she feels pity, but the simmer of anger is there as well, low like a campfire flame. She reaches forward. The half-orc flinches, but has not the energy to move, Amara presses her hand over Z'rell's eye.
"We do share something, Z'rell. You may not be aware of it, but you have a parasite writhing behind your eye. It's what gives you that 'connection' to the Absolute, and to others who were forcibly infected. I was ripped from my home, which was utterly destroyed in the process, to suffer this fate. I feel no… connection to any entity who would do this to someone, or who would gather armies. Consider for a moment who you would be killing when you march on the Sword Coast for your false goddess, for your… 'better' future."
Amara takes her hand back, and once more covers it in lightning, shocking elemental magic.
"We were never on the same side."
With a few archs of lighting from her Grasp, Z'rell falls to her side with a dull thud.
Amara wipes her hands on her robes. "Let's keep moving— anyone need a potion?" She unhooks one from her belt.
They heal and redistribute throwable items and potions, allowing the Harpers and Fist to cast some spells from Amara's scroll collection.
"You've been in here before," Jaheria points out. "Do you know where you're going?"
"I assume the door that people were ordered never to enter into, as Ketheric was occupying whatever is beyond it," Amara drawls. "Be safe holding down this floor, okay?"
Even now, Amara can hear armor clanging signifying someone is positively sprinting in their direction.
The druid just laughs. "We will be fine. It is you who must take care. Ketheric may not be invulnerable any longer, but he is still formidable."
Amara nods and resists the urge to draw the other woman into a hug.
Perhaps she will indulge when they win.
For now, she takes off toward where she first had a conversation with Z'rell, where the ornate doors lead up to the rooftop. She pulls the doors open, their hulking weight unnecessarily unwieldy, and beyond it is endless amounts of stone stairs.
As they get closer to the top, Amara sees Aylin— wings tucked behind her in aerodynamic flight as she soars above.
Aylin might not spot Amara as she crests over to the top of the roof, but Ketheric certainly does, pivoting on one foot and sprinting to meet Amara halfway through her advance onto the rooftop while Aylin is mowing down others on the rooftop with her blade.
"YOU!" Ketheric howls, spittle flying from his mouth. "What have you done?! What have you done to me?!"
"Oh, please," Amara drawls, stepping forward. "You know very well what I did. You're smart enough for that, at least. You were feeding off Nightsong for a century. No longer."
Ketheric's face distorts with malice. "How dare you interfere? You are like the digits of a hand— it is for you to act, not to decide."
Amara licks her teeth. "What, like these digits?" She holds up both her middle fingers at him.
"You serve the Absolute. You. Serve. ME! Bow, you dog. BOW!"
There's a pulse of green light - almost Necromantic in nature - and Amara's brain erupts in agonizing fire as her tadpole writhes. Then, as if jumping to her aid, the artifact glows a magnificent orange and moves between her and Ketheric, and then blasts her backwards, away from him.
"Ugh," she groans, while Gale helps her up. "Could have done without being knocked on my ass, artifact, but thank you…"
It flies into her chest, completely consumed with its dusky glow, like Amara is holding a star.
"The Prism," Ketheric breathes. "You've had it all this time— you worm! You will bow before me. And if you will not bow, you will break."
Amara's brain wracks for a comeback to his wordchoice— worm is rather apt.
She doesn't get the chance to respond, however, before Aylin collides with him, sword held aloft over his prone body.
"You," Ketheric rasps out.
"How good it is to see you again, Ketheric," she snaps, perfectly, satisfyingly contrary. "At last you've found a god-master that suits you, it seems."
"Aylin. The thief," he accuses, rising to his feet. "You stole Isobel from me, and now you think you'll take my life in the bargain?"
Well— hmm. Amara didn't exactly expect that.
Though, she supposes…
Selûne.
"You dare to speak her name?" Aylin snarls. "After your crimes innumerable, you would evoke her before me?"
"Enough!" Ketheric shouts, as if he's the one who gets to decide. "This ends here and now— at last."
Aylin, unlike Ketheric, has actually witnessed you fight, and nothing but confidence shows on her face. "He will crumble at the power of your touch— give him all you have."
She thrusts her blade into the air and the wisps of white light drift off of her sword, her armor, and up from her eyes.
Similar to how Amara's cyan Weave emits from her own eyes.
"THE GODS FIGHT AT OUR SIDE!" Aylin declares, and the battle begins.
Again, there are about a dozen enemies spread in front of Amara, all backing Ketheric— not enough to really be an "army", but certainly enough that Amara isn't pleased about fighting them all. Too many wayward spells and pointy things.
Of course, an arrow instantly goes for Wyll and Amara has to instantly Counterspell Bone Chill before it can hit any of them. "Fall back!" Amara yells at Shadowheart, who is far too close the the wards able to cast such disgusting Necromantic spells. After a moment's hesitation, the cleric complies, and instead of attacking directly, she surrounds herself with glistening Spirit Guardians which flit and float around her, made of shards of moonlight.
They fight defensively, with Amara trying to understand where everyone is and what they're able to do to herself and her friends— and she snaps.
She takes a more offensive approach the next time, keeping Gale and Halsin with her on either side this time, and they successfull kill at least half of the cultists, but Wyll struggles directly against Ketheric and Shadowheart can't keep up with healing him.
Amara snaps again, but this time she takes the other wizard and the druid with her, and they know where everyone is, so they don't even need her to direct them. They take care of everyone one the fringe and keep pushing the cultists' front line closer and closer into the center of the roof.
Instead of Wyll or even Amara focusing on Ketheric— they leave that to Aylin.
She's certianly spirited enough.
Shadowheart keeps her focus on healing and maintaining her Spirit Guardians, while Amara boosts everyone's armor and Gale creates more opening's for Wyll's mastery of his sword. Halsin picks off the last of the zealots while still in wild shape.
Ketheric gets a good hit on Aylin.
Amara and Gale cascade bolts of Magic Missile over his head to keep him steady.
Wyll holds the non-immortal Ketheric from behind, his rapier pressed against the paladin's throat.
When Ketheric attempts to whirl on them, fury on the tip of his tongue, he lets his guard down just enough.
Aylin slices his dominant arm off.
Well— yeah. Okay. Amara wasn't exactly expecting it, but she can work with that.
"Stand down, Ketheric!" Amara yells, erupting in cyan Weave. "You don't have to face your end like this— don't live your life in servitude!"
Ketheric laughs, holding the bleeding stump that was his arm. "You've come this far. You've stripped your enemy of his advantage. Why would you show mercy now?"
Amara's scythe forms in her hand. "I may," she says, her voice cool and echoing. "Or I may not. But if you continue to attack those that I love, I will crush your skull."
"We're not so different, it seems," he says, eying the scythe. "We both want what we want, and no opposition, no resistance will prevent us. And yet… you have beaten me."
Aylin comes to stand next to Amara and the two of them look down at his bleeding form. "What will you do, Ketheric, now that your retribution has come?"
"It has taken a century of misfortune. A century of loss. A century of regret. And now… perhaps it is over." He lowers his head, as if expecting Aylin to chop it off.
"Does death frighten you, old man?" she asks, putting her blade at his throat.
"Nothing frightens me. Not anymore." He takes a deep, slow breath and his eyes flash with green light. "You must return to your prison. And my daughter must be reclaimed."
"Reclaimed…?" Aylin pulls the blade from his neck. "What do you think Isobel is, you—"
Ketheric slams a fist into the stone ground, and chaos erupts.
Amara grabs Aylin's shoulder and Steps back as far as she can reach, as a monstrous tentacle comes reaching up from the depths of Moonrise. It slams into the ground, into the columns of the temple, and into the archways all around the rooftop.
"No!" the aasimar yells, struggling against Amara. "I must finish him!" she insists, and then runs forward.
"Wait— Aylin!"
But Amara is too late, and the tentacle lashes out until it brushes against her and she disappears into a fine black mist— and then it does the same to Ketheric.
Amara's tadpole tingles. "That tentacle was colossal," her dream visitor says. "How can such a thing be possible?"
"Snap!" Shadowheart insists, running for her. "Why aren't you snapping?!"
"He fled," Amara points out, her eyes tracing the destruction. "I think he took Aylin with him."
"How do you know that?!" she asks, grabbing onto Amara's robes. "What if she's dead?!"
Bright green meets dark hazel.
"Then I rewind to when he kneeled at my feet and I blow his head from his shoulders."
Shadowheart's hands unwind from the fabric they grip, and Amara carefully, tenderly takes them in her own hands.
"I think he will lead us somewhere important— or I wouldn't bother following him."
Shadowheart frowns, looking reluctant, but she does look like she sees what Amara is saying. "So… where do we go now?"
Amara glances once more over the destruction around them. She simply says, "Down."
/ / /
"No," Amara groans, while staring into the fleshy bowels of Moonrise Towers. "I didn't want to go into the screaming red hole before— this is absolutely not where I want to be going."
"It's illithid in nature, at least," Gale points out. "It… may not harm us. Too badly."
Amara makes a sound of disgust and leans over to look at how the viscera, mucus-like substance clings to the walls of the tower.
*The hole yawns back at you, impossibly wide— a single tentacle burrowed through stone.*
"Look at all the bugs it's attracting," she whines, and closes her eyes.
She feels and smells the familiar sensation of Feather Fall being cast over her and sighs.
Lovely. This is just grand.
Amara really, really hates this.
She's going to gut Savras when she sees him again.
And she leaps.
Of course, the viscera sticks to her robes like sick, and she can't even bring herself to touch it to wipe it off.
"I'm going to burn these robes," she mutters, standing stock still while Shadowheart rapidly casts a Cleansing spell over all of them.
"Lady Amara, I was under the impression we left our most dramatic member at camp," Wyll quips.
Glaring at the warlock, Amara shivers in disgust. "As I said, I'm making up for his absence."
"Perhaps more than making up," Halsin quips and Amara waps his arm.
"…Ow. Sweet Hells, what are you made of?" she asks, rubbing the back of her hand. Then she looks around a little more and the humor, what little of it there was, drops from her expression. "Gods, I'm going to be sick. Look at this stuff— it's… undulating."
Her tadpole writhes. "This must be where they harvest the tadpoles," her dream visitor says, and oh— oh Gods, no, no, no… Amara does not like that implication. "We're close to the source of the infections."
"That's… horrible," she whispers. "Thank you, mysterious visitor of my dreams, for giving me… nightmares tonight."
Gale puts his hand on her back. "Are you all right, my love?"
"Not in the slightest," she replies immediately. "Look at all of this, sitting beneath Moonrise. For how long? And how deep does it go? It feels like we are inside a monster right now."
And it continues to feel that way.
Wyll slices through the membranes that prevent their advancement so Amara doesn't have to look. Gale and Halsin easily crush the brain creatures Amara remembers from her many trips aboard the nautiloid— intellect devourers.
Occasionally, her dream visitor sends waves of sensation into her brain to let her know its going to speak. "Tread carefully," it warns. "We are very close to the source of the Absolute now. That telepathic storm has become a tempest."
They pass through a door that looks like peeling several dissected layers of teethed flesh away and Amara just decides to stop emoting to avoid— feeling.
That seems healthy.
She can't wait until this is over.
It still gets worse.
"The stench," she bemoans, casting Prestigitiation immediately to waylay the overwhelming misery of rot and filth and death— blood and gore. "I shudder to think how many pilgrimages to Moonrise ended down here…"
Wyll thrusts a hand out in front of her. "Shh… someone up there."
Amara strains her ears, and sure enough, she can hear a masculine voice.
"Steel loves meat. It sings chop, chop, chop." The owner of the voice comes around the corner, emerging, and Amara sees the hulking body of a bugbear. "Pretty red. Pretty pink. Make more. Never think. Always chop, chop, chop."
A flutter of fury races through Amara's veins.
She approaches him, her fingers pressed together in case he immediately lashes out, but he does not, and merely turns to her with a grunt.
*No will sparks behind his eyes. His mind has been hollowed out, to better echo the commands of the collective.*
The flutter of fury sparks into an inferno inside Amara.
*You could kill it, end its miserable life of enslavement. Surely that would be the humane thing to do… or you could take advantage of its vulnerability and plunder what's left of its hollow mind for anything that could serve you.*
She licks her teeth, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her Weave simmers on her skin, fizzling. It hurts. "What is this place?" she asks, looking at all the hanging bodies behind the bloody bugbear.
"Nur. Sery," he says, stiltedly. It doesn't look like a nursery to Amara, but… "Here. They become."
She glances back at her companions. "Become what?" she asks, dreading that she already knows the answer.
"Part of One Mind," he answers, a little more strung together. "Four little feet. Dancing. To same song."
*With a lurch, you realize he means the intellect devourers— the walking brains. Here, they are harvested— made part of the hivemind.*
She lets out a shuddering breath. "I need to find your master— Ketheric." This has to end.
"Mas. Ter? No. Down. Deep," he says, and suddenly he shuts his eyes and his voice fills with fear. "One of Three. One of Three."
Amara's eyes water, her body singing with rage.
"There's nothing I can do for you except end your suffering," she says softly. "You seem like you are suffering to me. Would you like me to send you somewhere you won't have to suffer like this anymore?"
He breathes out, a gust of relieved air. "Yes," he says, sounding pained and desperate and— and Amara is just so angry. "Yes. Please," he practically begs.
"Close your eyes," she says softly, and puts her hand on his face.
His eyes, dark and vacant, lock on hers, and then slowly he closes them. "Death," he sighs peacefully. "Free at last. No more chop, chop, chop…"
Amara casts Disintegrate, and he merely fades away into a fine powder.
The intellect devourers around the room seem to catch on to what's happening, but Wyll and Halsin have them readily handled.
"Amara?" Gale asks, wiping a tear from under one her eyes. "What do you need?"
She takes a moment to steady herself, catch her breath. "To… eradicate the suffering from this place. I cannot remove it from time. I do not possess that kind of power. But I can stop them from doing that to anyone else in the future."
On his person, the butcher carried a toy block.
It has no magical properties.
It isn't a storage container for a valuable item.
There's nothing protective or precious about it.
It's just a wooden block, with letters and shapes carved into its painted sides.
She holds it to her chest.
"No more. No more of this."
"Amara!" Halsin calls. "There is another strange door ahead. If we are leaving a trail of bodies, we should move quickly."
She nods, and pockets the block.
The "strange door" ends up being another one of the fleshy, multi-part, teeth-filled doors.
Amara's least favorite.
The inside isn't much better. Amara immediately recognizes the mind flayer pods and the strange illithid devices.
Her mind lurches. "Mind flayers and civilians side by side…" Its voice doesn't sound pleased about the revelation. "This must be where they infect and transform those they kidnap."
Amara lays her hand on one of the control devices for a pod.
*The device releases a stream of fragmented memories and emotions— all that remains of the pod inhabitant's former self. Amusement… curiosity… fascination. He believed the horrors of Moonrise to be a fleeting dream that would fade on waking.*
Amara pressed her forehead to the device. "I'm so sorry. They lied to you. I wish it wasn't so."
She keeps going through the room, only to find more of the same.
*Though this pod is empty, traces of psychic energy still linger around it, and memories of its former inhabitant spill into your mind. You see the streets of Baldur's Gate… the emblem of the Flaming Fist… martial drills and courtly dances. You feel the courage of a soldier who became a commander, and the intelligence of a commander who became a Duke. Ravengard was here, in this pod, not long ago.*
"Shit," she curses, stepping back from it. "Shit, shit, shit."
"What's wrong, Lady Amara?" Wyll asks, his hands coming to brace her by her arms.
"These people— they're all from the raid where your father was kidnapped," Amara states, listening to a few more of them.
"Waukeen's Rest?" he asks, startled.
"The Duke was here as well… but his pod is empty. There is no mind flayer in it."
Wide, heterochromic eyes snap down to hers. "He was here? My father?" He swallows audibly. "Does that mean…?"
"We don't know that for sure," she argues quickly. "Come on, let's keep looking." She approaches the last apparatus in with the mind flayer pods. "We might be able to—"
*Your tadpole forms a telepathic connection with the device, and a chorus of static energy fills your mind. Every mind flayer in the room calls out hungrily from its pod, seeking release. And sustenance. But there are others in the pods— those not yet infected, not yet illithid. Terrified, desperate to escape.*
Visions of trapped individuals flash through Amara's mind, of all races in all states of injury, and—
"Zevlor!!" Amara exclaims, almost startling herself out of her telepathic connection. Her blood rushes in her ears. Questions on how to release him, is he alive, how injured is he— they race through her head with a vengeance.
She needs him to be okay.
*The device is open to your tadpole's command— to your authority.*
Amara has the feeling this illithid device isn't able to differentiate between friendly pods and dangerous ones— if she releases Zevlor and the others in containment, they'll have to deal with the mind flayers.
"Ready for a fight?" she asks, her hand on the device.
The watchful eyes of her companions snap to the mind flayer pods. Spells are readied and weapons are drawn. "Set them loose, Amara," Shadowheart advises, summoning her Spirit Guardians who fill the fleshy cavern with moonlight.
Amara closes her eyes and lets the sensation of authority fill her.
She opens the pods.
Both the innocents and the created-mind flayers spill out, only to be instantly subjected to combat. A myriad of spells rains down on the mind flayers. They're pushed away from the civilians with all manner of force, including ranged and bladed weapons, but though they're weak from the pods and reeling from reclaiming their own thoughts—
the civilians are quick to fight back.
"Enough!" Zevlor roars, and he jumps down in a devastating blow on top of one of the mind flayers, a flawless example of Searing Smite. "My mind is my own!"
The half-orc who recovers herself quickly follows his lead, and cleaves an intellect devourer clean in half. "For the Duke!"
Third and final to escape from the pods, a woman in Flaming Fist gear performs a Menacing Attack on the nearest mind flayer, and uses a Trip to stumble yet another one.
It's the quickest battle Amara's fought in a decent while.
She carves out a path straight for Zevlor the moment the enemies are all dealt with, and practically tackles him in an embrace. "You're alive!" she cries, clutching him against her. "Thank the gods— I've been worried!" The tiefling seems unsure of what's happening even when Amara pulls back and touches his face, examining the damage he's sustained. "Where are you hurt? Where— Halsin! Halsin, can you help us?"
Druidic Weave cloaks over the both of them a moment later, and the plethora of open wounds and bruises, even broken and fractured bones, slowly start to stitch themselves back together across Zevlor's body,
"Hells…" he breathes out, hellfire orange eyes rapidly trying to discern his situation. His tail raises in the middle, horror dawning in his expression when he observes the mind flayer corpses. Finally, he does touch Amara, just the slightest brush of his fingers on the underside her forearms which she offers to steady him if he needs. "I didn't think I was going to make it." His eyes dart from Amara, to her party cleaning up after the battle and tending to the other two survivors, then to Halsin and back to Amara. "Thank you…"
"Truly, Zevlor, truly— I am all gladness that you are all right. I had dared to hope, of course, but at this point I've been inside much of Moonrise and you…"
"I know." His grip on her grows more assured, and his eyes a round sort of desperate. "I… owe you an explanation. Much more than that. But first, please… the others. The ambush— tell me they survived." His tail thrashes, wild and worried.
"Oh!" Amara rotates her arms and grips his arms back, pulling him closer. "I should have led with that— I found as many of them as I could. They have refuge in a safe part of the Shadowlands, and those that ended up in cells in Moonrise have been returned to the rest of their people already. Many of them are alive, Zevlor, I promise you that."
The man practically collapses in relief, with Amara holding up more of his weight, and she once again reaches up to hug him.
"That— that's so… I'm incredibly grateful," he says, and his voice breaks in the middle. "You do so much for us, without asking anything in return. I owe you another life debt for this."
"I don't need another life debt, I would rather you take care of your life more. I want you around for a long time, Zevlor. All those you protect are alive and well, and I want you to be as well. But they are so vague about what happened out there— what the hells happened to you?"
He pulls back, and his eyes burn with shame, his tail contorting painfully. "If you've heard even the vaguest accounts, then you've heard the bulk of it, I'm sure. That I froze, or broke, or some other lie that is kinder than the truth. We were ambushed by cultists, yes. And then I heard… Her."
Amara startles in Zevlor's grip, and for a moment he tightens it, as if begging her not to pull away.
"Their false god, whispering promises in my mind," he continues, a little shakier, but he makes a point to emphasise the word "false" in his statement.
She breathes in. Leans back into him to convince him he isn't driving her away. "What did it promise you?"
Sharp teeth threaten to puncture his lower lip. "That I would be a paladin again— with a god's purpose, a god's power. Everything I needed to protect my people. And all the while, the cult tortured them. They fought, and ran, and died around me, while I imagined myself their savior. By the time I regained my senses, it was too late. I did not just surrender to the Absolute. For a moment, I welcomed it."
"How do you think the Absolute has built a cult?" Amara asks, placing a hand on the side of his face. "It's a master at enthralling others. Knowing people's greatest desires and exploiting them. That would just make you guilty of having something you desire, Zevlor."
"It would be nice to think so," the tiefling says, removing her hand from his cheek. "But whatever these monsters twist us into… I believe it begins in us. I won't make excuses. I can't make amends. But I know something of what you came to do— I want to help, if you'll let me. Ketheric is below. He thinks you're no longer a menace. Descend and show him how wrong he is. If there are any more survivors to be found, I'll find them— and lead them out of this place."
"That is helpful, Zevlor," Amara says sincerely. "Could I offer an opinion before I leave?"
His eyes flick down and he nods. "I could deny you nothing, at this point, Amara."
"I respect how you regard your temptation. I won't argue it. I will say, however, the only thing I think could be worse than your perceived failure to resist that temptation would be refusing to so much as try and make amends. If the tieflings hold it against you, and you hold it against yourself, none of you will heal. You owe it not just to them, but to yourself to mend what was broken— even if it's my belief that it's the Absolute's fault, and not yours."
The tiefling paladin grips hands into tight fists, and he nods twice. "I— oh… Amara."
"Here are the coordinates to my camp— I'll find you when everything is over. And good luck, Zev."
"And you, my friend," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "And pathetic, inadequate as it is— thank you."
Amara hugs him one more time. Tentatively, his tail touches at her ankle. She reluctantly lets him go, and his tail trails up her calf for a brief moment. "In return I offer you a sincere and heartfelt, affectionate, you're welcome."
Zevlor goes one way and Amara goes another.
She grabs on to Gale as they walk.
"We did good," he assures her. "He's safe."
She nods. "For now. He deserves…"
"I know."
"I wish I could give him more."
"That's… that's one of the many reasons it was so easy to fall in love with you."
Amara squeezes his hand.
"We'll do everything we can to help him, after we deal with Ketheric," Gale promises her. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah," she promises. "Yeah, I'm all here."
They enter the next area, which has a whole other kind of stench.
"Brine pools…" the dream visitor breathes out in near horror. "But empty of tadpoles. Unusual. Harvesting all the larvae indicates they are getting ready for something big."
Amara finds a few things in the room, including a… questionable dictation of ceremorphosis by a name that tugs at Amara's brain: Gortash.
She pockets the book.
"Argh—" Wyll winces from behind her, and Amara turns around.
"Are you all right?" she asks him, reaching out.
He turns her hand away. "Fine. I've just got this… pounding headache all of a sudden. Something seems to be trying to get my attention…"
"Um…" Shadowheart stands in the far back cornerof the room. "Perhaps this?" she asks, pointing to a mind flayer pod away from all the other ones. "It almost looks like… Mizora is inside."
"Mizora?" Wyll stresses, voice raising in temper and pitch. He and Amara exchange a glance and quickly make their way toward the pod. "You're Zariel's asset?" he accuses.
"My dumb little stinker. Took you long enough," she sneers.
A real charmer.
"Now by Graz'zt's cock, get me out of this thing."
Hmm. Ew.
Wyll holds up his hand. "I'll do it— and you'll set me free. That was the deall."
Amara feels a rush of pride at seeing him stand up for himself.
"Yeah, yeah." She rolls her eyes condescendingly. "So get to it already."
*The controls are open to your tadpole's command— to your authority.*
How familiar…
Amara takes a more diligent approach since this device is considerably more complicated than the one in the other room. She examines the device on the left.
*The symbol's meaning comes into focus: 'annihilate'.*
Well, that would be bad.
For good measure, she exames the device on the right.
*You decipher the symbol: it's an illithid sigil meaning 'unleash'.*
That seems considerably better.
*Would you like to connect your mind to the 'unleash' device and activate it?*
Amara surges her authority through the device and the different pieces move and shift, until the top pops open and Mizora steps out, unfurling her wings. She stretches her body, golden jewelry glittering the strange light of the visera-covered mindflayer colony depths of Moonrise.
"You did all right, Wyll," Mizora compliments, floating down from the edge of the pod. "I'd give your belly a good rub, but never could stand the smell."
Um. Gross?
"You're free, Mizora. I held up my end. Now you hold up yours. Sever the pact," he demands, pointing a finger.
Amara sends reassurance and pride and affection.
"Mm. Hrm. Mm-mm-mgh-AHEM."
"Here it comes," Wyll bemoans through the bond. "I knew she was dreaming up a way out of this."
"Just give it time," Amara assures him. "We'll get you free."
"Clause Z, Section Thirteen: 'If the soul-binder consents to separation, she will release the soul-bearer from all obligation within six months.'"
"Six months?" he demands, words biting. "Gods damn you."
"Wyll, it's not a no," Amara stresses.
"Ignorant thing. It's always the terms and conditions that get you."
"She'll find a way to wiggle out of it within six months!"
"We won't let her. Astarion will help."
Before Wyll can open his mouth again, Amara jumps in. "You'd think we'd get reward for going through all this trouble," she says, hoping the sheer audacity will be a good distraction.
"Another one? Well— after jumping through all those hoops, a little treat wouldn't hurt," Mizora supposes. Wyll doesn't cease his deep frowning, but he does look a mote surprised.
Mizora's oil-like magic covers her hand and with a few twists of her wrists, she summons a flaming circle around Wyll.
Thankfully, this time he doesn't descend screaming through the flames of the hells, but he does seem to gain a full-body enchantment that seems based in flames. When Mizora's magic fades, flames lick off of his body almost like they do off of Karlach's, and a twisted rapier hovers in the air in front of him.
"All that power. And to think you want to throw it away," Mizora tsks. "Now, you've got business in the Towers to take care of. Don't you fret, I'll find you soon enough. You're going to need me. Count on it."
"Never ever," Amara promises him.
"Oh— and go ahead, tell your chums how we met. It's a real cracker of a tale. Ta-ta!" she chimes, and her wreathes herself in flame and oil before disappearing, back to Avernus and Zariel, most likely.
Amara severs her connection to Wyll.
She grumbles to herself. "Gods. She's truly insufferable."
"Lady Amara— about what Mizora said…"
She smiles at him. "I'm pleased there is no barrier that would prevent you from sharing what led to your pact and exile. However, just because it would not be impossible for you to tell me, does not mean you are required to. I would force you to do nothing, Wyll."
He relaxes a moment later. "Yes… yes of course. I ought to know you that well by now."
/ / /
If Amara thought they had finally exhausted the non-Ketherics of the Towers, she would be wrong. There are people yelling about this and that as they delve further into the disgusting place.
Why are so many people in here?
Get out!
Can't you see it's disgusting here?!
"General Thorm was attacked," a lady says, suddenly in front of Amara while she was trying to loot.
AH!
"The order to evacuate given," she continues, in a sort of spike… bone armor. And a… triangle helmet. Girl, what are you wearing on your head? "You should not be here. I conclude you are one of the attackers."
Amara is goddamn about to be.
"You should be careful, throwing such accusations at a True Soul," Amara declares.
"Trying to pull rank?" she spits out.
Um, yes?
"And yet not a word of concern for our dear General."
Ugh…
Why does groveling have to be a part of it?
The bone-armor-triangle-hat-lady sneers at Amara. "I shall present your bones to General Thorm as retribution for what you did to him."
Amara spits back at her face. "Wouldn't you rather present an arm to him? He's missing one, poor thing. That's what he gets for being so weak."
And Amara really needs to learn to shut her mouth.
She's so tired of fighting— and this stupid part of the Towers seems to have so much of it for some reason.
Seriously, whose bright idea was it to stash so many weirdos in one place? One very disgusting, meaty place?
"It keeps going?!" Amara asks after she already feels like they've fought ten or twenty or a hundred people.
Their battle rages through a tunnel— and yes, Amara snaps.
Of fucking course she does.
This person dies, that person dies.
Amara fucking dies, this time!
The big guys with wings are back, from when Isobel nearly got taken from Last Last. Marco or Malus or— Marcus, that's it. Winged horrors, or something equally as dramatic. And, of course, because these morons practice necromancy, there's no shortage of undead creatures they keep facing as well. Zombies, undead wards, Amara has stopped trying to identify them all.
Honestly, it gives her a headache.
There's a huge red sigil on the floor in this room with a skull in the center— like, what in the hells?
Amara really can't make this shit up.
She doesn't even want to know what that does.
She's good.
She just directs her team.
Shockingly, her and Gale cast magic. Wyll jumps around the battlefield using his and his blade does the rest of the talking. Shadowheart heals. Halsin is a terrifying bear.
It's fairly standard.
Amara has to snap twice, still, it's a little tricky at the beginning— something of a bottleneck, but eventually she has Gale lead and he seems to get them in without complaint, so she proceeds with the rest of the fight. It's difficult just in its nature, but Amara won't be able to keep snapping if Ketheric really is at the end of this again.
So instead, she tries using one of the death scrolls they have with them.
*You unfurl the Scroll of Revivify, the parchment crackling in your hands,* her narrator gently corrects.
Amara again wishes she had a source to turn disbelieving eyes to.
Did she really just…?
Oh, fine. Amara is sorry. Instead of snapping, she tries using one of the Scrolls of Revivify they have with them.
Is that better, narrator?
She makes clever use of her potions, and about half the healing spells they have at their disposal which is probably not advisable considering this might not even be the last battle before they reach Ketheric, but… what else are they supposed to do?
"Amara!!" Shadowheart's panicked voice pierces her heart, and she turns to see the cleric crouched next to Gale, who is lying facedown on the ground.
Her lips part for a moment, and a gust of air slips through them.
She tastes blood and the bite of metal on her tongue.
The battlefield is acrid, the smoke stifling in her mouth, throat, and nose.
Her skin itches, as if it no longer fits right.
"Gale?" she asks, and it's too quiet to be heard over the din of battle, but its as loud as she can make sound come out of her mouth.
Something lunges for her, but she's not paying attention.
A large mouth of ursine teeth snaps it away.
"Inya?" she asks a little louder, and her footsteps as she approaches him are cacophonous. "Vae, heal him."
The cleric worries her lip between her teeth. "Amara… I don't think…"
An undead blast of something threatens to come their way.
A blast of energy sends it spinning in the other directions, scattered acoss the stone.
"What is the matter?" Halsin asks, shifted back into a wood elf. "Do we need to use another scroll?"
"I believe so," Shadowheart ventures softly, laying one hand on Gale's shoulder. "He's… lost a great deal of blood," she utters, and pushes him up just slightly.
Amara's breath catches when she sees it.
Red and glistening beneath him.
Her stomach churns.
Screams echo in her brain. Hands reach for her skin, pull and twist it. Her body lurches forward at the beck and call, the push and pull, of life and death.
It hangs in the balance, on the precipise of the scales, swinging on the pedulum of time.
"Lady Amara," Wyll whispers softly, his hands coming up to brace her side. "All will be well. See? I am fine, and I was in much worse shape. All the enemies have been dispatched. Let us use one of your scrolls—"
"Well met!" somone says. A voice, warbling as if not quite spoken correctly, and somewhat resembling the voice of the person Amara loves the most in this world.
Amara swallows, and raises her eyes to a Simulacrum of Gale, morbidly standing above his body.
"I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep," this… thing that is not her Gale says. "And if you see this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished."
It's only when Amara lets out a little gasping sound that she realizes she's crying.
Wyll wraps her in a tight embrace.
"By the Nine Hells, Gale," he mutters. "How did he even create such a thing?"
"However," the projection continues, in its horribly layered voice which sounds nothing of the honeyed romantic, earnest way that Gale of Waterdeep speaks. This… this…
Amara cries into Wyll's sleeve.
"For reasons that cannot be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convience," the projection says as cheerily as such a thing can.
"Shit," Shadowheart says, sitting back.
Amara just stares. "What did it say?"
"Just stay calm," Wyll soothes. "He didn't mean it for us— he probably didn't even think of reprogramming it since you are so quick to erase our injuries normally. This isn't meant for our ears, Amara."
"I agree," Halsin says eagerly. "This is not the way your dearest Gale speaks to you. This is clearly meant for strangers."
"You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self preservation alone," it says, as if sensing that there's arguing going on around it. "Many lives depends on my return to the living within the span of two days. I trust I have made myself clear?"
Amara bristles.
Wyll tries to hold her, but she wrestles out of his grip. "Áralta—"
"How could he— how could he?" she asks. "Listen to the way he's speaking, as if he only ever expected to expire in the presense of total strangers with no regard for his own life. Who didn't— who wouldn't…"
The spectral Simulacrum continues when Amara does not stop him. "I have upon my deceased person a magical item that can accomplish my return, but such is the value and rarity that it is protected by a multi-layered security protocol."
"Sweet Hells, Gale," Shadowheart sighs out.
"I will now explain the protocol: step one is to retrieve from my person a pouch I wear over my heart. Next, you must unthread the purple seam that seals it in a counter-clockwise fashion. Do not touch any other colored strand. Inside the pouch, you will find a folded letter and a tiny flute. Unfold the letter, and note the markings in the top and bottom corners. Those are the notes you will need to play. Starting from the bottom right, play the notes in correct order— clockwise this time."
"…Sweet Hells, Gale," Wyll echoes.
"Upon completion of the tune, a magma mephit will appear, which will pose the following question: i'ss k'cha t'chiss n'aga? This is Ignan for 'What is my name?' The answer is 'K'ha'ssji'trach'ash'. Pronounce the name correctly and the mephit will breathe on the letter. Stay clear because the little scamp can melt metal. Words will now appear on the letter's surface, effectively turning the letter into a Scroll of True Resurrecion. Use it to bring me back to life."
"How delightful!" Halsin says cheerily.
Amara is less pleased.
"I'm with them, actually. Sweet Hells, Gale. This is all ridiculously elaborate."
"So it is: our very lives depend on it. Now repeat my instructions back to me, please."
"Come again?" Amara asks, blinking at the callous nature of the comments from the Simulacrum.
"Humor me," it requests. "I need to be absolutely certain you understand."
Any humor in the situation is immediately lost on Amara. "No, thank you," she requests firmly. "I'll revive him with this." She pulls out another Scroll of Revivfy.
Gale's Simulacrum frowns. "That is… adequate. Not as pleasant as a True Resurrection scroll."
"That's what potions are for," Amara snaps at it. "Now, I'm running out of patience for you. Begone."
With a familiar whirl of magic, Amara revivifies Gale the same way she did Wyll minutes prior.
The wizard rolls over, desperately panting, trying to catch his breath.
"Halsin," Amara drones, anger festering in her tone, laced with hurt. "Help him up, would you?"
Druidic Weave wraps itself around Gale's body as the druid eagerly helps the human man to his feet, and Gale groans, holding his stomach as it stitches itself back together. "My word," he manages to say, still rather breathless. "I say, that was rather… unpleasant. It's certainly good to be alive."
"Need more?" Halsin asks him, hand on his back.
"No, dear friend, that's enough for now," Gale says heartily. "I'd shake your hand but my hands are still cold! In the meantime: thank you! Both you for the healing and you, Amara, for the— erm… ah…"
Intelligent brown eyes catch on festering green ones.
"Did something happen?" he asks, shaking his hands out. "You appear quite… apoplectic."
Amara actually lets out something of a growl. "Apoplectic indeed. Make sure no one leaves anything behind. Time to go."
"Wait," he tries, stepping closer to her and he laughs nervously. "What's wrong, Amara?"
She glares at him with such intensity that he steps back.
"Calm yourself," Wyll advises. "I don't get the feeling he even knows it happened."
Soft brown eyes flit between the different companions. "Did I do somet— oh gods above. The Simulacrum."
Shadowheart winces sympathetically. "Not on purpose then, I take it?"
His hands flutter around him, gesticulating wildly. "I— of course, at one point, created that system as a measure to prevent catastrophe when my condition was incredibly unstable. Since Elminster was able to stablize me, I haven't had need to worry about spontaneously… ahm, exploding, as it were, I am so sorry— it slipped my mind to disengage the specter, as Amara is… she's…"
Amara looks over her shoulder at him.
"I keep you safe?" she guesses, but her tone is still chilly.
His expression falls. "I don't— I didn't mean for you to see it, Amara, but I wasn't expecting… it to anger you to this extent. Was it something that I said in the spectral vision?"
Anger and heartbreak roil through Amara.
"'You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self preservation alone'," she quotes coldly. "'It is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convience'."
Gale's brow furrows and he looks at a loss.
"Your specter looked into my eyes and said that," Amara tells him, finally turning to face him. "You lay dead at my feet. I could taste blood and smoke in my mouth. My hands shook. I felt like I was going to be sick. When Shadowheart… turned you over… the blood…" She shakes her head, tears gathering in her eyes. "I knew I could bring you back— possessed the scroll in my back pocket, and of course could just snap if I had to. But still, seeing your corpse there… going cold, in front of me, was an incredibly painful sight."
"I… I'm sorry," Gale whispers. "I could see how many times you were snapping— I thought I could handle myself. I was wrong." He steps closer to her and Amara regards him hesitantly but lets him.
Amara looks up at him, dull green into dark brown. "You lay dead and my feet, and my heart was shattering. If I lost you, I would struggle not to lose myself. And what do I hear— 'it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience,' from a— a thing that stole your appearance, but looks right through me! 'You may rest assured that I do not speak out of self preservation alone', Gale? Really?"
The wizard swallows. "It was… it was never meant for your ears," he assures her, closing the distance between them. "I'm so sorry."
Amara grabs onto his robes and pushes her fists into his chest. "It's like you never expected anyone to love you!"
Gale's eyes go wide and his mouth drops open but no words come out.
Amara pounds on his chest twice more. "You're— you're begging me to revive you," she gasps out. "You don't have to beg me to revive you, any of us would be devastated to lose you, you— you…!!"
He wraps his arms around her tightly. "You weren't ever meant to hear it," he assures her, stroking her hair. "Never ever. I promise, you'll never hear it again. I'll change it tonight, I swear it. You are so reliable that until this point it never activated, and I utterly forgot it would still activate at all. I'm sorry, my sweet."
Amara holds him and pressed her face to the column of his neck. "Never ever," she requests. She sniffs indignantly. "Also, the process to get your scroll is insane."
He laughs, and kisses the top of her head. "It's important!"
"It's ridiculous."
"Did you tell that to the Simulacrum…?"
"Of course I did."
"Of course you did," Gale says, laughing again, and he leans back from Amara and fusses over her hair. "Are you… all right?"
Amara just sighs. "Ask the mephit," she teases.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 34: Recognizable Faces
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXIV
Recognizable Faces
Amara finds a head. A living head.
Really, she just— can't make this shit up.
"…empty vessel… nothing more… lending voice… to elder lore…" the head rasps in a feminine voice. She pulls some of the mind flayer's bottled brains out and slots them into the mechanism next to the… head. "Every day he comes. Every day for three days, to ask me how I feel. I want to tell, but… I am confused. Which… which day is it?" she asks.
Oof. Amara regrets already.
"Who is this 'he' you're talking about?" she asks, even though she's pretty sure it's Ketheric.
"We are his pets. His plan," she says. "Lord Gortash."
Oh! Well, shit.
"It's the first day."
"The first, yes!" she chirps. "Five says since he put that thing in my eye, but the first day he came to visit. He says I am the last. That the other subjects have all changed."
Amara swallows. "Tell me about these… others."
"Seperate cells— I never saw them. But when they changed… MY HEAD! I CAN FEEL THEM IN MY HEAD!"
"It's— it's the second day!"
"Eye hurts," she says, calm again. "Head hurts. But he says I am past the worst of it— that I won't change like the others. He's given me a place of honor, so he can repeat his miracle. And a name: 'True Soul'."
"It's… the third day…"
"She whispers in my mind. She sings. Praise the Absolute. Praise the Absolute. Praise the Absolute."
Amara pulls that brain from the mechanism and puts in the only other one she has.
"HmmMM… fine bones… sharp jaw… some variety of elf?" she asks, seemingly with some amount of awareness. "Pretty enough for a flesh-prison— if not the noble githzerai features I was born with."
Ah.
That explains it.
*The monk-like githzerai, sibling-race to the warrior githyanki. Their contempt for one another is eclipsed only by their shared hatred of the illithids.*
"I'd guess you're no willing guest of the ghaik either. Perhaps we might aid one another," she suggests.
It's… better than whatever Amara had just been dealing with before.
"How did you end up in that vault?" Amara asks, her curiosity winning out. "Githzerai are supposed to be ultimate warriors."
"Warriors of the mind. Oh, there's some physical prowess involved, but the battlefield on which we truly fight the ghaik is their own. My order taught a psionic technique much-feared by the ghaik. They destroyed us for it, and kept me as a trophy. I never broke, but… I've spent all these centuries awake. Aware. So here is my offer: use your tadpole. Erase me—and I will pass my technique onto you."
Amara would have done that for her, whether she offered anything in return or not— but…
*You catch the lie— the monk isn't telling everything.*
Now… now she's curious. Well, curiouser.
"If you want my help… then tell me the truth."
The head's eyes widen with fear.
"…All right," she caves immediately, voice riddled with nerves. "I… the ghaik did not find my monastery. I led them there. They promised me immortality. And they gave it. I have been their rotting trophy for centuries."
*As her agitation swells, so does her latent psionic power. To your tadpole, that guilt and terror are almost… fragrant.*
Ugh. Stupid tadpole.
*You realize the illithids locked her away not as a trophy, but as a fine vintage.*
Ugh! Damn illithids!
"Please— touch my mind, and purge it. The moment you do, my knowledge will be yours."
Amara pushes, gentle because she still doesn't wish to hurt her— this… has been punishment enough.
*The awareness that floods you is nothing like the tadpole. It is tentative, and tinged with the loneliness of eons. It fades beneath your touch, but you feel something left behind. A fragment.*
"It is only knowledge yet, without comprehension. But when you use it, you will… see…" She trails off, and Amara shakes off her discomfort and refocuses on the githzerai. "And I… I see…"
She is silent after that.
"Let's go," Amara says softly.
The only place left makes Amara extremely uncomfortable, thank you.
"Is anyone else's tadpole squirming around a lot more than usual?" she asks, a fair bit annoyed.
"It's almost like it's excited by something," Shadowheart responds. Which. Amara isn't pleased about the phrasing, to be honest. "Drawn to it." That's not much better.
"Oh, joy…" she drawls out.
The platform they're riding on lands and Amara has to step off of it. The ground squealches under her boots.
"Gods. Why?"
Gale makes a sound.
"Are you laughing at me?"
He shakes his head but has to press his hand to his mouth.
"I thought you loved me."
"Amara," he wheezes through his fingers.
"Have you no sympathy?"
"I am so sorry, my sweet."
"There is not a bone in your body that is s—"
*No longer a background murmur, the presence in your mind builds to a roar.*
Amara winces, grabbing her skull, and the humor of the moment drops. Everyone else seems to be in the same - or worse - state. The worming of her tadpole slithering through her mind grows even more insistent.
"We've found it," the dream visitor says, an air of dread to its voice. "The Absolute is behind this door."
"Oh," Amara breathes. "Well— shit. Is it weird to say I didn't expect to actually find it?"
"It would be best if you entered… quietly," it advises.
Amara frowns.
Well, okay.
She glances at her companions and opens her connection to all of them for a moment, just to push a wave of pure affection through, before closing herself off and pushing through the door. She anticipates a rather… unpleasant assault on her mental defenses, so she builds them up as strong as she can make them.
Inside… is also not what Amara was expecting.
Wyll grabs Amara's arm when a black man comes into view, in heavy silver armor— presumably Ulder Ravengard. He's… on his knees, and propped on his back…
Amara has never seen the woman before, but the air about her… that she recognizes. The Chosen of a God.
Next to her is a man in a fine robe, who is facing the opposite way. "You said it was under control," he snaps, and turns over his shoulder to make eye contact with a familiar face.
Ketheric Thorm, holding his stump of a shoulder, glares openly at the dark-haired man. "It isn't you I answer to, Gortash," he responds, his voice even. In fact, it's almost… tired.
Suddenly— Amara recalls where she heard the name.
Karlach.
"Oh, the General voice," he remarks, waving a hand that glints in the strange light generated by the bowels of the Towers. He seems… almost covered in gold. Golden emblems, golden sleeves,golden belts… it's… something. "Is this where we salute?"
"Salute, yes," the woman drawls, sitting with a long, blonde braid as long as her body in her lap. "With clevers through his blood-starved flesh. How it crawls with failure like flies on a lick-wet carrion."
Ketheric thrusts a finger in her direction. "You forget yourself, Orin," he declares. "I have played my part."
"You've built an army for our masters, true enough," Gortash admits. "But what of the Astral Prism?"
Suddenly it feels extraordinarily heavy in Amara's pocket.
Then, Gortash surprises her. "A rogue True Soul, flaunting it under your nose all this time. And you ran from her."
How did he know?
"Sure that they would follow, and deliver it into my hands here."
Amara looks at her friends.
Shadowheart shrugs.
"If you would cease these distractions—" Ketheric tries to argue, but he doesn't get far.
Gortash interrupts him. "The distractions have been yours, Ketheric. Perhaps we never should have dug your daughter up."
Even Amara knows that's probably too low of a blow.
Karlach is right; this guy is a motherfucker.
Ketheric seems to agree if the way he rushes at weirdly dressed… politician? with his remaining fist raised is any indication, but he does come up short.
"So you haven't lost your edge," Gortash replies amusedly. "But you're still not as sharp as Orin is, I wager."
Amara tilts her head, confused, and Astarion bodily moves where she's watching from so she can see from a different angle— the woman who was perched atop Wyll's father now has a strange, curved red blade poised at Ketheric's throat.
Gortash laughs to himself. "The slayer against the undying one. That would be fun to see."
She closes her eyes and hisses with… pleasure? "His cryptbreath sings to my sinews, again again againagainagain!" She gasps in a breath and removes her blade, looking distinctly disappointed. "But he must lead the murdermarch to Baldur's Grave."
…Grave?
"If the weapon is truly in your grasp, Ketheric, might I suggest closing your fist?" Gortash hisses, as if it would be that easy.
Simpleton.
"Orin and I can wait for you no longer. The plan proceeds - we're going to the city, and we expect you to follow - army and the weapon in tow."
Amara will see that doesn't happen, thank you.
Then… Gortash does another… interesting thing.
He takes several steps forward, past Ketheric, and holds one of his heavily gilded arms up. "The edict of Bane," he proclaims, and a shining, pinkish light erupts from a gem on the back of his hand.
Bane— oh, fuck.
One of the worst of the gods— worse still with those that he rose to power with, but still one of the worst on his own. And Bane is quite literally the God of Tyranny, of Hate and Strife and often is called Bane, "the Lord of Darkness".
Shit, shit, shit.
Orin steps up to join him, and holds up the blade she'd used to threaten Ketheric earlier, which releases a vibrant red light from a gem by the hilt. "The lash of Bhaal."
Fuck— no fucking way…
Bhaal is somehow worse than Bane. There's far less nuance in his legacy— Bhaal is the God of Murder. It's just— you'll be hard-pressed to find anyone more sadistic and cruel than Bhaal.
And it would track that if there are the Chosen Three, that the Dead Three…
Astarion grabs her and moves her again, and her jaw drops when she sees— well, a giant brain. Like an intellect devourer, only… a hundred times bigger. And spiker. And wearing— is that a crown?
Oh, gods, it's pulsing.
Oh, gods, it has wriggly little tentacles hanging off of it— ew, ew, ew!
"Look at that crown," Gale says, sounding almost… awed.
Amara puts her hand over his mouth. "Are you crazy?" she hisses in his ear. "They'll hear you at this rate! You'll give away our position over jewelry?!"
After looking over his shoulder in disdain, Ketheric turns to join the other two, and the gem on his chest glows dark red. "The testament of Myrkul," he proclaims.
Yeah, there is fucking is.
Gale removes Amara's hand from his mouth.
"Jewlery?" he asks, like those insane idiots haven't become Chosen for the Dead Three.
Damn it.
Myrkul— the God of Death. In a way, it's the perfect completion of the trial. He's also known as the Lord of Bones and is exceptionally, exceptionally, creepy.
Amara should know.
She met him, in a future long gone.
"It is no mere piece of jewelry," he whispers to her. "It radiates with power unlike anything I've ever seen. To have it… to hold… if only I could…"
The dream visitor wriggles the tadpole before speaking. "An elder brain…" it says, bringing Amara's attention back to the… the, well, the elder brain. "One of the cruellest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals,"
Lovely.
No way Amara can foresee that going wrong.
"But I can't… this is it. If… if I was going to do as Mystra commands, this… would be the moment."
She flicks her eyes to his dark ones. "In the end, it will be your choice. But… please. Gale. I ask you with the whole of my heart not to do this."
"What… choice do I really have?" he asks, in a harsh whisper. "More than just a goddess counts on my courage: whole worlds hang in the balance."
She takes his face in her hands, sweeps her thumbs across his cheeks. "You could choose me, the one who loves you. We can find another way. Together."
He grips her hands, a shudder running through him, and squeezes his eyes shut over unfallen tears. "I love you too," he breathes out, with nearly the same tone of voice as he took with the crown. "Much more than myself. More even than Mystra." When he opens his eyes, Amara has to catch several tears which escape, but she does so eagerly and readily.
Then, she kisses him soundly on the lips, right in front of all their companions.
He has more tears on his cheeks when she pulls back, so she wipes those away too. "Very well," he agrees, standing down. "Whether I condemn this world or not: I choose you."
Free to do as it pleases now, the elder brain is reaching out with several tentacles toward the platform— right where the Duke is.
Wyll nearly jumps off of the platform they're on when one of the elder brain's tentacles reaches for the Duke, who is whispering something repeatedly under his breath. Halsin and Gale keep him from giving them away, but it's the way Shadowheart embraces him that actually makes him stop struggling.
Orin gets on the ground next to him and whispers something none of hem can hear from there. She holds his head steady and all of them wince in recognition of the painful insertion.
"No," Wyll whispers into Shadowheart's hair.
Gortash claps his hands together. "Now! It's really time we were going. We will empty this place and begin the march. You may catch up withthe army once you've retrieved the weapon. And Ketheric— do try not to sulk. You're supposed to be the fearsome General, come to conquer the city."
Ketheric grips a massive hammer in his hand and turns, walking away.
"And I am the hero who will save it," Gortash yells after him, and Ketheric stops and looks over his shoulder with overflowing malice before walking away.
Gortash, Orin, and the Duke disappear in a whirlwind of color.
Amara feels her tadpole writhe again. "This is bad— they are gathering."
She pushes her own thoughts back. "The cultists? How do you know?"
"Allow me," it says.
*Your mind pools and ripples, and before you suddenly is a display of an army. Creatures the likes of which you don't even recognize sprawl far and wide. Right there among them in a flash of purple, almost like an energy field, appears the same massive, tentacled brain creature from the cavernous bowels of the Towers.*
"It is time, faithful ones. March on Baldur's Gate. We go to prepare the way," the echoing voice of the… elder brain? The Absolute?
Amara isn't sure she wants to know.
Well— okay.
That was a lot.
Amara wishes they had some time for an aside.
They don't.
Ketheric is right there.
"There you are," he says somberly when they approach. "As predicted. What is it, I wonder, that draws one toward death like a moth to light? You could have run away. Absconded with the Prism— the one thing that could prevent me from fulfilling my destiny. But the lure of one's destiny is irresistible, isn't it? Perhaps you hoped to learn your place in history before you are erased from it. A bright flash of clarity before the snuffing-out."
Amara just looks up at him somberly. The air fills with a denseness— something cold and heavy that presses against her very bones. She's so tired. It hurts so much. "I just… want to be free of what I never asked for. I don't want this parasite— or this life."
"Impossible," Ketheric informs her succinctly. "You are bound to it, and in death it will bind you to me. That is the power my Lord Mrykul has granted me— command over the immeasurable legions of the dead." He paces grandly around in his high ground, clutching his stump. "But He did not only give me power— He gave me the one thing no other god could grant me. My daughter's life returned. Her heart beating once more."
"It sounds… expensive," Amara drawls, disdainfully. The weight of her Chronomancy Weave increases. Her head pounds. Her bones creak.
"For that, He asked that I serve as His Chosen, join Orin and Gortash to grow the cult of the Absolute, and then… take control of it." He takes a step as close to the edge of the overhang as he dares. "He's never had a more devoted follower."
Amara swallows. She harbors a grand hatred for such manipulation.
The Dead Three are truly worse than the dirt they bury their dead in.
"I have fought great wars before," Ketheric continues, "in the service of other gods, and other powers. But for Myrkul, I would condemn all of Faerûn to death."
These people are so out of their goddamn minds, Amara swears.
"You are all that stands between me and my destiny— and you have brought the Prism here." He takes a quiet, quick breath. "I will kill you now. And then I will raise you as my servant."
Amara has to focus— she can't start bleeding from her nose in front of him.
But she knows there's something important here.
She can find it.
"Ketheric," she says in the same soft, commanding tone. "You've lived a life of tragedy, but it does not excuse your actions. Look at where your daughter is, Ketheric. Is she here, with you? Or does she oppose your every move? Your family loved you as much as you loved them— don't betray them any more than you already have. Melodia wanted more for you than this, Ketheric. Stop, and I can still offer you a more merciful solution, It's still not too late. You can repent."
"Repent? Would that even be possible?" he asks, sounding like he already knows the answer. "Perhaps…"
"Come with me," Amara offers.
Suddenly, Ketheric looks a great deal older than before.
"No…" he whispers, and he backs up. "No… there is no repentance."
"Ketheric—"
"No repentance. No release." He keeps backing up. "My debt can never be repaid."
Amara licks her teeth, rubs her fingers together.
"I can talk to Him. Let me—"
"He is here," he breathes, his remaining arm extending. "He is watching. He is listening. He is… He is…"
Ketheric tips himself back into nothingness, and lets himself fall.
At first, Amara reaches to grab him, but she's too slow. Her stomach plummets and she squeezes her fingers together.
"Do I— do I snap?" she asks, turning to her party. "Or is that… enough?"
"You dare end one who belongs to me?" a voice echoes in the room.
"Oh, fuck." Amara knows that voice. The pressure on her body lets up slightly, but it leaves her woozy, stumbling forward slightly. "Not you."
Light sparks and suddenly there's a gust of wind blasting up from the hole Ketheric tipped himself into, and light spears up from the depths of it.
"I am the smile of the worm-cleansed skull. I am the regrets of those who remain, and the restlessness of those who are gone," He rasps, voice thick and ominous. "I am the haunt of mausoleums, the god of graves and age, of dust and dusk."
A giant hand of bone flies out of the opening.
"I am Myrkul, Lord of Bones, and you have slain my Chosen. But it is no matter. For I am Death. And I am not the end— I am a beginning."
For the second time in her long, long, repeating life— Amara comes face-to-face with Myrkul. His hulking, arched body of bone, chipped skeletal face with its hood of scrap and triangular golden emblem of a crown, and the many, many skeletons that surround Him— almost acting like His accessories and clothing.
He extends a hand and in the distance is His pronged scythe, as if combined with a trident, and appearing as if made of organic material instead of metals. It unjams itself from the ground and flies into His hand.
Shadowheart takes one look at it and joins Amara where she stood speaking with Ketheric.
"Shit."
"My sentiments exactly," Amara drawls. "Get back everyone! He's got a nasty swing!"
Everyone manuvuers carefully around the room, getting close and backing off, casting spells and swiping at the hulking god's large body. Shadowheart conjures her Spirit Guardians and Amara immediately notices how deeply the radiant damages cuts into Him.
"Vae!" she screams. "Conjure a greataxe!"
A few moments later, a deadly guillotine of moonlight cleaves into the Lord of Bones, radiating with Selûnite Divine Weave, and Amara cheers at the sight of Myrkul reeling backward from the radiance of it all.
Then, Shadowheart just shoves an undead ward off the edge of the cliff before hopping down to safety.
"Gale!" Amara directs, point to where most of the Necromites linger. "Block them! Make a bottleneck!"
"On it!" A moment later, a Cloud of Daggers erupts in the only path that the Necromites could take, and Amara is impressed beyond belief with the brutality of the spell.
A cascade of lightning is Called upon Myrkul's head, and Halsin stand atop the platform weaving the electrical current with an intense look of concentration, while Wyll stands by his side wielding an incredibly powerful Eldritch Blast that sends bones flying off of Myrkul's body with wild abandon.
Behind them all, Amara spots what she was looking for: Aylin.
She's in another soul cage, guarded by several intellect devourers and another mind flayer.
"I've got Aylin!" she calls. "Keep everyone away from me!" she directs, and Steps rapidly in the aasimar's direction. It's a bit difficult to dodge everything, but Amara manages— and she tries to keep her eyes on everyone's status.
They're low on healing and even lower on life-saving items.
Amara has to stay on top of it.
Shadowheart leaps back up on the platform, putting her Guardians in range to decimate the deity with all of their radiant, divine might.
Gale keeps his attention on the Necromites, using Thunderwave to push them off where they're trying to weasel around his Cloud of Daggers.
Halsin shifts into his Wild Shape and begins tearing the undead to their little writhing pieces.
Amara makes it to the bottom of the rock formation below Aylin.
The mind flayer levitates over her, brandishing talons and teeth behind tentacles, trying to latch onto Wyll. Amara can hear him struggling, his voice raised in indignation and a bit of panic. She darts up with Spider Climb and a moment later is on top of the cliff— raining down Scorching power atop the collection of walking brains in a flurry of fury and fire.
Her hand slams into the barrier of the soul cage, snapping it.
"Thank you, friend," Aylin says, before bounding over to the platform occupied by Myrkul and delivering a devastating blow with Lunar Smite.
The Lord of Bone howls in rage, and lifts His scythe into the air.
"Get off the platform!" Amara screams again. "Or at least duck!!"
It doesn't matter, as Myrkul slices a devastating blow through the bodies of everyone on the platform.
"Damn, damn, damn," she remarks to herself, and Steps across to His platform before gathering her Weave into her palms and casting the strongest Disarming Strike she possibly can— ripping the scythe from His hands into hers.
"Raaah!! Give that back!" Myrkul demands, shaking the room with His rage.
Amara lazily spins the weapon in her hands. "This old thing? My, my— it certainly is… charming, in its own way. A bit topheavy, no? A little unnecessarily gnarled, perhaps. Dulled. Possibly more of a decoration than a weapon," she adds, her eyes simmering with anger.
She smashes the dull side against His jaw, dislocating it and a piece of it tumbles into the pit below him.
Myrkul roars again, with nothing resembling words in there this time. He tries to swat at her companions with just His bony arms, but He's much too slow— all of Amara's companions and her manage to dodge it.
All of them attack.
Shadowheart plunges a holy, Spiritual greatsword into His chest.
Gale Jaunts up to the platform and grabs onto the last of His swiping arm, devastating with a Shocking Grasp.
Halsin blankets the group in an intense Druidic healing aura— but none of their wounds seem to stitch up.
"Beware the death stink of the god of graves," Amara drawls at his side. "We will need to be further away from him if we want any chance of healing. For now… we'll just need to survive."
Growing even more furious, Myrkul practically shoves Aylin off the side of the cliff, but with a few flaps of her wings, she is hovering over the side of the pit.
"You pathetic excuse for a deity— Amara, Master of Hands. You and all your slaves. How fucking dare you!" He snarls. "I will drag you all to the worst possible realm you can imagine when I strip the flesh from your bodies and grind your bones into the dust that salts this land— that brings draught to those you love and famine to your homelands!"
Before Amara can realize what's happened— it's too late.
Myrkul whipped Wyll off the platform at the same time He did Aylin. Amara just didn't catch it.
She snaps.
"Aylin!" she screams, interrupting the speech of the Lord of Bones. "Please— my warlock! Get him!"
The aasimar doesn't hesitate, and dives for Wyll.
"Hey!" Amara screams, getting Myrkul's attention. "You ugly bag of bones! Give Chronos a little kiss for me, in whatever dull hell you end up in."
Amara aims a Spiked Bulb right into Myrkul's broken open jaw, and after a few moments, it absolutely erupts inside Him. The explosion sends all the pieces of His bones scattering all over the battlefield, as well as falling and disappearing into the depths of the pit below.
The pieces left on the land start to fade, crumble, and reduce to ash, which is to be expected. What Amara is not expecting, however, is that when even Myrkul's ashes reduce to a green vapor, the same vapor reforms into Ketheric, once more in front of Amara.
"Impossible…" he pants, broken and bleeding, bruised and glistening with sweat. Fresh blood drips from his missing arm and mats his hear. "Death cannot take me… I am its master…" He looks up to the roof of the cavern. "My Lord, hear me!"
Of course, there is only silence.
One of the Dead Three has returned to the grave, after all.
Ketheric falls to his knees.
"Nothing… I am forsaken." He drags himself upright and beady, malice-ridden eyes rove over to Amara's. "You… you have no idea what you've done."
"Get back," Amara orders her companions. "His life was being sustained by Myrkul. With Him dead, this pitiful display is but an echo of the power keeping him here. He has moments left."
"Isobel…" Ketheric weeps, before tilting his head back, and erupting in yellow-green flame. It pours from his eyes and mouth, drips from his nose and ears. It consumes his face and melts his skin, collapses into his armor until it melts him away completely into a charred husk.
"A bargain with a god is a heavy one," Amara drawls, looking at his blacked, thinned stick of a body protruding from his armor. "The Chosen of Myrkul is dead— permanently, this time. Was it worth it, Ketheric Thorm? I think not."
"Ketheric's Netherstone—" the dream visitor says arrestingly, startling Amara. "It's in his armor. Take it."
Hmm.
Gross!
Amara doesn't really want to touch the body, but… well, she's rather be the one to rewind if it's dangerous, so she crouches next to Ketheric and "gingerly" rolls him over with her boot. She uses the tip of an arrow to prise the stone from its cage at his chest.
*In death, the body is cooling, but energy radiates from the stone.*
It even glows pink in her hand.
And blue? Blue-ish purplely… wait a minute—
Amara whirls around, and sees a familiar sky, a familiar landscape, through a portal, and walking through it…
In this light, fully awake, Amara knows that woman.
A kind woman, whose husband was cruel man.
A beautiful woman, of rolling golden curls and soft green eyes.
A lonely woman, who offered an orphaned elf a place to go.
A woman who owned a bar, on the third isle.
A woman whose bar Amara worked at, when she was thirteen.
A woman who offered to adopt Amara, if she'd like her to.
A woman Amara turned down.
A dead woman.
Someone Amara killed, a long time ago, when Chronos stole her mortality.
"Remarkable," this creature, imitating Aurelia - but why? for what purpose? Amara needs to know, now - says, out loud, in the real world. "Truly."
"Yes," Amara drawls, her expression settling into something she can control. "It is truly remarkable. I wouldn't have guessed you would so blatantly steal the face of someone important to me."
Surprise overcomes its face— Aurelia's face, or what was her face, once.
But Amara knows now isn't the time.
She snaps it away.
"Remarkable. Truly," she— it says. It! Or…
Ugh! Dammit!
"And now the picture comes together," the soft voice from Amara's childhood says. It's painful to hear again, actually. Because of her, that voice was eradicated. Of course, Aurelia would be long-dead by this year, being a human. But… Amara is what cut her life short. "The Absolute is neither god nor man. It is the elder brain you saw, held here by those three against its will. The crown it wears controls it, and these stones control the crown. It has been dominated."
Aurelia would never wear armor. The thought almost fully consumes Amara to the point where it's hard for her to listen correctly.
"To master an elder brain… to subdue it… our enemies are formidable."
Amara wasn't really listening.
She knows she'll have to snap and listen better— listen again.
So…
"Why her?" she asks.
It… she tilts her head. "What do you mean?"
"Out of everyone in my life," Amara says softly, "there are probably only two people you shouldn't have picked, and Aurelia is one of them."
"Amara, I apologize, but… I don't know who that is."
Amara just smiles softly, raises her hand. "It's the face you're wearing."
She snaps when the dream visitor's skin goes pale and horror overtakes her eyes, her hands coming to stop Amara from snapping.
"Our enemies are formidable," it says seriously. Because it isn't Aurelia. It's a creature who doesn't even know her name— but has stolen her face.
Instead, Amara asks another potentially insensitive question: "How is it you're able to leave the Astral Prism now?"
"A temporary reprieve, but a welcome one. With the brain on its way to the city, its influence here is weakened."
A rather telling response…
"You said it was being controlled by mortals— that's the three Chosen, with these…" she turns the pink crystal in her hands around "…gems?"
"Netherstones," the dream visitor clarifies. "And yes. Ketheric was Myrkul's Chosen, as I'm sure you discovered… battling his sponsor. A remarkable feat, by the way. As for the others, I know Lord Enver Gortash— an arms dealer and slaver. He is a worshiper of Bane, the god of tyranny."
Sounds delightful.
"The other is a mystery to me," it admits. "But the way she spoke, it is most likely she follows Bhaal— god of murder. Which means the Absolute is a front for the gods of death and our enemies are Chosen of the Dead Three."
Amara's brain races and races.
She starts connecting dots.
Her Weave sparks on her skin.
"Amara?" the dream visitor asks, seeing the smoke and smelling the burning flesh.
"Clarify something for me," she demands, her voice trembling with rage.
Her body burns. Her fingers shake— they feel like ice. Inside, it's like her veins are filled with something fizzling, carbonated or roiling like a hot springs.
It hurts.
She grits her teeth, swallows it down.
"If I can, I will," it promises. "What is it?"
"The elder brain— it normally is a thinking creature?"
The dream visitor's eyes flicker, move. Blink, blink. "Well, yes. That is putting it lightly."
"It sounds, to me anyway, that these three have interfered with not only the brain itself, but… the tadpoles as well. After countless trials, they created what they call… a 'True Soul', loyal to the Absolute to a fault, but without changing."
It looks curiously at Amara. "All of that tracks for me as well. What are you getting at?"
Amara can't even look at Gale. "Say we destroyed the elder brain—"
"That would be difficult, even for you."
…
"We just killed a god."
It doesn't look amused. "It would be difficult," it stresses. "Even for you."
"Say we hypothetically destroyed the elder brain, what… happens to all the tadpoles it spawned? All the ones that the Chosen of the Dead Three toyed with?"
"Amara… let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Why shouldn't we?" the wizard asks. "If we have deities out there, requesting city-wide explosions in the proximity of the elder brain, I'd like to know if destroying the Absolute would complete the transformation of the thousands of infected. The army currently marching toward Baldur's Gate. Do you know what that would do to the Sword Coast? The number of lives it would claim?"
"You're not angry with me, Amara— you're angry with Mystra. Do not mistake it," it stresses adamantly.
"How do we cure this?" Amara stresses equally as adamantly. "We need a wide-spread way to tackle this."
"Perhaps you have not found a cure," it admits, "but you've found the source of your infection. And the reason for its abnormality. The crown atop the elder brain. Its markings suggest it was forged in Netheril, an ancient empire whose mastery over magic rivalled that of the gods. The crown's Nethese magic must be the true source of the parasite's abilities. This must be what elevates their potential."
Finally— so that's what connects Gale's Netherese orb to his tadpole.
So she wasn't crazy, all the way back there in Waterdeep.
"And it must be the reason nobody could heal you," it adds, reaching for Amara's face, but the wizard steps back. The gesture seems to startle her companions. "If… the crown can do this to the parasites, I dare not imagine what it is doing to the brain."
Amara pushes her face into her hands.
"What do we do now, then?"
"We prepare for the fight of our lives," it says somberly. "And the lives of everyone in Faerûn."
Oh, lovely. That sounds lovely.
"The army of the Absolute is marching on Baldur's Gate. Within the city, an elder brain brimming with power, ready to turn on everyone within its reach into mind flayers. All it needs is an order."
Yes, yes! Amara gets it! Of the utmost importance and all that junk!
"An order the death gods' Chosen are on the cusp of giving," it seems content to add, just keeping on and on. "We must wrest control of the brain from the Chosen before that happens— we must take their stones. Our chances of success are slim—"
Thanks.
"—but we must not fail. If we fail, everything ends."
But no pressure.
"I will be your shield, but you must be the sword. And when the chance comes to strike, you must take it. For there may only be one chance."
Well— as long as Amara is around, there is no such thing as just one chance.
"We leave the heart of the Absolute, alive, thanks to you," it says, smiling with her face. Her smile. "You did well to defeat Kethertic. But Ketheric was only the first to fall. There are many more battles ahead, and they will not be so easily won. You will need allies."
Amara frowns deeper. "I know. Plenty have offered their assistance— Jaheria, Halsin. And I have a team."
"Jaheria's wisdom will be an asset to you on the journey ahead. Her Harpers, too. Halsin's strength and loyalty will bolster you in times of need. But if we are to succeed, we will need others."
Amara throws her hands up. "Then, I'll… seek more allies in the city."
"Good. I am glad to hear that. Baldur's Gate may not know it yet, but it's fate is bound to ours. Seek on its streets those whose purpose aligns with our own, and invite them to our cause. Together, we will put an end to the Absolute, the Chosen, all."
…
Mhm. Yeah. Not suspicious at all.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 35: Vigilance
Notes:
I'm back from holiday break!! Sorry for the short notice haha I may or may not have been back for a week and just been laying in my bed with my cats, no one has any proof. Enjoy this chapter 🥰 I'm just about done with writing Act 3, which is about 3/5 done with the whole fic, and the other 2/5ths have a few chapters written amidst their outlines when inspiration struck, so I'd like to think I'm almost done lmaooo maybe some day.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXV
Vigilance
The portal that opens in the pits of the Towers only takes them back up as far as the lobby.
Gods dammit.
Still, the Harpers, Flaming Fist, and even Isobel are there patrolling— and the moment the lot of them appear amidst the blood and battle, there's a cacophany of relieved voices that surround them with urgency.
"Jaheira!" Amara calls, seeing the druid in the distance.
Instantly, she is met halfway in her pursuit of the elder half-elf, who surprises her by pulling her into a hug. "So good to see you glow with victory, cub," she greets warmly. "Though, our enemies spread like rub-rot— treat one patch, and two more bloom it is place. An elder brain, bound by lost Netherese magic, with servants of the Dead Three holding the chain," she spits out.
Amara blinks at her. "Oh. So… no need to catch you up, then."
"We were halfway down to you by the time the battle with Myrkul was at its climax," she admits. "We pieced it together."
Laughing, Amara hugs her back more firmly. "I'm almost relieved not to have to explain it— it's been a whirlwind."
"Reminds me of old times," the druid teases her.
"Old times?" Amara balks, pulling her away at arm's length. "Don't tell me you've tangled with the Dead Three before?"
"Extensively. Mind flayers too— but I never dreamed of seeing gods and illithids working in consort. It is most disturbing. But take courage— you have killed a man who could not die, stripped the Absolute's army of its general, and slain his god. Few could ever claim the same."
The wizard's lips curl up. "Birds of a feather," she supposes.
This seems to please Jaheria greatly. "And don't forget," she insists in her thick accent, "you have his stone. And you're on the scent of two more."
"The Netherstone?" Amara asks, pulling it out of her pouch.
"Keep it safe, keep it hidden," the druid insists. "These Chosen have reason to fear you— and I would like to be at your side when you confront them."
"I'd… be all gladness to welcome you to my side, if you are sure," Amara says, thoroughly surprised.
"Glad to be there, to be sure," Jaheria replies, clasping Amara's hands. "Falling foul of Ketheric convinced me that my grand adventures were behind me— that even if I survived, I should hang up my blades. But you convinced me otherwise. We ventured into darkness together— now we've come out the other side, I'd say I'm feeling a little refreshed."
The smile Amara gives her must be blinding. "I am only too glad to hear it. You are a marvel both in combat and with your people. A great leader and a strong strategist. We will only be stronger with you on our side."
Jaheria nods, satisfied. "When we reach Baldur's Gate, there will be even darker paths to tread. I will follow you wherever they lead."
"Then… let us head to my camp. We have much to pack up as we make our journey."
"How does your rabble compare to a shadow-cursed inn?" she teases, shoving at Amara's shoulder.
"Certainly just as loud, quite often. Maybe even louder," Amara says with a laugh.
"Then it sounds like a place I will be all-too-happy to belong in. It should not take us long to reach the city and prepare another camp. With the Absolute's army gone, the Risen Road should be clear— we can follow it all the way to Baldur's Gate. There's a Harper safe-house in Wyrm's Crossing— Danthelon's Dancing Axe. We'd do well to check in with them before entering the city proper."
She blinks, and the next moment she looks a bit chagrined.
"Beyond that, our course is yours to set. I can recall how to take orders, as well as give them," she assures, playfully sheepish.
Amara just laughs. "Fret not. I am not a tyrannical leader. I appreciate your insight and wisdom greatly— so long as you can appreciate if I choose not to take it, on occasion, we should have no issue."
"You are a great warrior as well as a good person," Jaheria states warmly. "And I'm sure I will not struggle under your guidance. Let us journey."
Before they can exit Moonrise, Isobel approaches them, but she's not focused on Amara or any of her companions— she's looking at the aasimar with them. "Aylin," she breathes out, her voice full of disbelief and a flare of hope.
The former Nightsong's eyes widen, and she turns, pretty much whipping around, and her voice is equally as breathy, disbelieving. "Isobel." With urgency, she rips the helmet from her head, and the massive pair of wings dissipates from her back, leaving her looking mostly like a heavily-armored paladin.
They approach each slowly slowly at first, but then Aylin falls to her knees and Isobel rushes closer, startled.
"My love…" Aylin breathes out, taking the cleric of Selûne's hands when Isobel gets close enough. "You were dead. I saw your body…"
"I'm here," she assures the paladin soothingly, touching Aylin's chin and lifting it reverently, urging the aasimar to her feet. "A-and so are you." Aylin takes her hand and rises to her full height, a head taller than the silver-haired cleric. "And my father, he— he can't hurt us any longer."
Isobel throws her arms around Aylin.
"I dreamt every night that you'd come back to me," Aylin admits, grasping desperately at Isobel's back. "That somehow it was all a nightmare dawn would undo."
Pulling away from the hug, Isobel smiles blindly at Aylin, and closes her eyes with a sincere peace in her expression. "I had no dreams at all. Nothing but darkness. And when I awoke, my father said you were dead."
Aylin shakes her head. "His soul was poisoned by the god of death. His sick devotion ruined him. But for all his sins, he brought you back to me. Are you all right?"
Stroking Aylin's face, Isobel smiles again. "I will be. And you?"
"In this moment, I want for nothing," she proclaims, her voice pitched low and loving, and she leans down to kiss the cleric. Amara looks away for a moment, to give them a bit of privacy, but she quickly looks back as Aylin's armor clinks and Isobel laughs delightedly as the paladin sweeps her up into an embrace and spins her around.
It finally feels like the anger floods out of Amara's veins, and leaves only a cool balm of peacefulness in its wake.
Isobel, still held aloft, looks over at Amara, a flush to her cheeks. "Ah! Excuse us. I was just coming to speak with you— this is Aylin. Aylin, this is—"
Putting a hand on Isobel's back, Aylin smiles, bright and full and beautiful, at Amara. "Ho! But we have met. This is the solider that freed me most valiantly from the Shadowfell. Her and her companion's mastery is what rooted the villainy from this place and freed it from your ruined father."
Isobel breathes solemnly. "May he rest in peace at last, now that he's dead." When she turns to Amara, she puts her hands out for the elf to take. "I have more to thank you for than I knew. And we have much to discuss. Perhaps we could join you in your camp later?"
"You'd be most welcome," Amara assures her, squeezing her hands.
"We look forward to it," the cleric says warmly.
Behind her, Amara can just feel Shadowheart hovering.
Aylin chuckles upon seeing this as well. "You there, Sharran," she calls, and Shadowheart startles. Amara turns, dropping one of Isobel's hands but keeping hold of the other. "By the fires of your camp's hearth, we will discuss all we must."
"I'll be ready," she replies instantly. "Whatever you have to say had better be worth your life." She touches one of her symbols of Shar on her body, pain lacing her features.
Aylin gives her a succinct nod. "Now— you will leave us. We must take succor in one another's bodies and words."
Isobel pulls her hand from Amara's and snaps, "Aylin!" in surprise, and then quickly addresses Amara once more. "We'll see you later."
Amara bows out as gracefully as she can and walks back to her party. "Let us venture back to camp," she tells them. "We have much to inform the others. And a single night before… we must follow the war path."
"You sound so dramatic," Gale remarks, a faint smile on his face.
"Haste doesn't sound like that poor of an idea to me," Wyll argues.
"Thank you, Ebrae. I see someone is on my side. Finally."
"Gods above," Gale laments.
"Gods be damned," Wyll asserts, voice filled with equal parts strength and dread as they make their way down the steps of Moonrise. "With that parasite in his brain, father could wreak untold havoc in the Absolute's name."
Ah. Amara didn't exactly think about it that way.
"Should Baldur's Gate fall to the Absolute, every one of the Coast's cities will be ripe for the plucking," Wyll continues dramatically. "We're not just fighting for our cure. We're fighting for my father, we're fighting for the Gate, we're fighting for all of Faerûn."
Amara shakes her braids loose, carding her fingers through the tangles. "Right," she drawls slowly. "No, uhm, pressure, though."
He lets out a chuckle and his shoulders droop. "My apologies. I lost myself for a moment there. I am deeply concerned for father, and more than a little filled with unease over Mizora."
"I can only imagine," Amara soothes, touching his arm lightly. "Let's start where we can. The Absolute's cult has Ravengard. Where will they take him?"
"Wyrm's Rock fortress. All travellers to Baldur's Gate flow through it. It serves as headquarters for the Flaming Fist— and their commander: my father. The Absolute's army's on the march. Gods forbid a tadpoled Grand Duke throw open the gates for them."
Well, shit.
This whole Grand Duke business is much worse than Amara thought originally.
"Gosh," Gale remarks, eyes wide. "That seems… bad."
Wyll snorts.
"What of the remaining Chosen?" Shadowheart asks him eagerly. "Do you know anything of Gortash and Orin?"
"Orin, I'd never heard tell of. But Gortash I know," Wyll says eagerly, taking Amara's arm which she has hovering near his. "Or know of, more precisely. A self-styled 'strategic advisor' to Baldur's Gate's peers. A bit player with dreams of a leading role, the way father told it. He had no use for Gortash, and even less for his 'advice'."
"What a dream boat," Amara drawls. "Sounds like a catch."
"Hush," Wyll urges her. "Don't be rude."
"Rude? He's a slaver, isn't he?" Amara juts her chin up. "I'll be as rude as I like, thank you. Any other details for me to be rude about?"
Shaking his head, Wyll admits, "I don't remember much beyond that. But where these 'Chosen' are concerned, I have a suspicion we're about to know more than we'd like."
They reach the waypoint, laden with exhaustion, Amara lays her hand on the whirling magic sigil and suddenly they are whisked back to Last Light.
Amara lets out a relieved breath.
She walks back into camp, drops her bag on the ground. "Karlach!!" she calls, and the tiefling looks up from what she was doing with Arabella, eyes a bit wide. Amara just holds open her arms.
The barbarian lets out a guffaw and stands, coming to scoop the wizard off the ground. "Gods, you look like shit!" she says fondly into their embrace.
"Thank you," Amara says with equal fondness.
"The others are right back there?" Karlach offers, humor in her voice.
"Lae!" Amara calls right away.
"You do not need to scream for me," the githyanki huffs, her arms crossed over her chest. "I am right here."
Amara throws herself at the fighter, who barely budges and makes no move to hold Amara back. Amara hugs her tighter, hopping up to wrap her legs around the waist of the much shorter woman, but still Lae'zel just maintains her power stance.
"Anything in particular happen, or is she just enjoying herself?" Astarion drawls.
"Well, I suppose you could say something happened," Gale remarks. "We killed an unkillable being, discovered the nature of the Absolute, stole away one of the three emblems of power which controls the false god and—"
"We killed one of the Dead Three," Shadowheart finishes.
Astarion blinks. Karlach blinks. Lae'zel doesn't blink, but she finally touches Amara back. "Tsk'va— you killed a god today, Duj?"
"I really missed you," she gushes. "For once I wished I traveled in a larger group."
"I'm sorry, I also feel like we should revisit the 'stole a third of what controls the Absolute' bit," Astarion snaps. "What does that even mean?"
Quick as they can, Amara and her party explain all that they discovered, including Amara's belief that killing the elder brain outright would doom the Sword Coast. While they're talking, Halsin goes to check on the tieflings and then Thaniel, and the occupants who stayed behind in Last Light slowly trickle into the camp. They're joined by Jaheria and the Harpers minutes later, along with the few remaining members of the Flaming Fist including Zevlor arrives, who assisted them in rescuing several stray prisoners from the depths of the Towers. Finally, Isobel and Aylin arrive as well.
"What is he doing here?"
Amara turns around and sees that Rolan is glaring at Zevlor.
The elder tiefling casts his eyes down, steps back, and Amara is at his side in an instant. "Rolan," she drawls in warning. "Steady your tongue."
Cerys scoffs, sitting by Arabella at the dining set. "Why should he? It's a valid question. It's not like the old Hellrider did much for us out here. Really, it was you who did all the leading and the saving."
Anger roils in Amara's gut. "Hard to do much leading and saving from a colony in the depths of the Towers. I was lucky to find him at all— and consider myself luckier still that he returned."
"I don't," she says succinctly, her tail tip twitching. "He doesn't have any fight left in him."
The words are so harsh she can see Zevlor flinch from them as if being physically hit, and his tail wraps around his own leg.
"Have you no loyalty?" Amara demands, looking around at the faces of the tieflings gathered in her camp. "This man is his people— he has given his everything to you, and this is how you chose to act when he stumbles? Turn your back on him entirely?"
Rolan growls at her, an inhuman noise unique to his biology. "I looked up to him— we all did. But he let us down when we needed him most. The only thing we can say that came from his blunder is that there are less mouths to feed now, so perhaps the scavenged supplies will last us to the city."
Amara's eyes sparkle with fury. "Take that back," she demands.
Zevlor grabs her by the arm. "Amara, stop. Please. I beg of you— they have spoken. I will respect their wishes."
Amara shakes him off and steps closer to Rolan. She sees Cal and Lia exchange a worried glance at once another, but they don't step up. "Take it back, Rolan."
"I owe a life debt to you— not to him," Rolan snarls. "He almost lost me my family."
"Have you any idea what our situation is?" Amara demands, while Zevlor tries once more in vain to get her to back down.
"I will leave, Amara— they do not want me here. I will not linger where I am unwelcome."
She holds up her hand. "I asked him a question."
Rolan's lips pull back as he bares his teeth at her, his tail whipping behind him furiously. "I know that he was supposed to lead us— and he froze. Wanted to surrender— and while he was busy standing there with his weapon sheathed, our people - his people - died around him. I could have done better. I will do better."
Amara's Weave sparks on her skin, flashes of scorching energy dancing across her and leaving seared paths. "Prove it."
He puffs his chest up. "Fine," he grits out. "It will be simple."
"You're right— because we'll play a game," Amara states, simmering. "You can cast Prestidigitation, right?"
His brow furrows and his jaw bunches. "Prestidi… why?"
Amara flings her hand out and with a flourish, Karlach's hair turns bright orange.
"Can you undo that?" she asks, purposely making her tone more haughty.
Rolan presses his lips into a thin line. With authority, he points a finger at Karlach and her hair returns to black.
"Do you think this is funny?" he snarls.
"No, not at all. I think we're at war."
His eyes widen. "What…?"
"To win the game, change the color of my hair," she states. "If you win, I'll apologize to you and drop the subject."
"That's it?" he asks. "What are the stipulations? What happens if you win— how do you win?"
"Don't worry about that." Amara regards him rather coldly. "You'll know."
Anger once again floods Rolan's features and he flexes his dominant hand. "If you won't add any complexity to my task, then I will choose a hideous color for your hair and this nonsense shall be over with." His tail coils and twists in on itself.
"Think what you must."
Amara flicks her wrist twice.
"Are you ready?"
His eyes narrow. "Just start."
"If you insist— three… two…"
A glowing red symbol flashes over Rolan's eye, a palm pressed across his face.
*As the symbol glows, power courses through you. Authority.*
"…One— zero."
Amara floods Rolan's brain. She fills it with visions of accolades, adoring fans lauding his skills, a lavishing lifestyle supported by his own innumerable talents. He shows him possible futures, of his siblings in safety and comfort, wrapped in fine silk and drinking from crystal glasses. In his dedicated study are books of his own pen, and surrounding him are not masters of the arcane bestowing their teachings upon him, but acolytes who sought him out to learn from him.
"All of this could be yours…" she whispers into the folds of his brain. "Don't you wish for a life of comfort and acknowledgement? With your skill, you could easily wield enough power to protect all those you care about— and more. Your name in the mouths of others, awed by your abilities and the breadth of your skillset."
While her visions and whispers work, Amara stares at his frozen body in real time.
"Rolan?" she calls, teasingly. She holds her finger out, Prestidigitation sparking at the tip of it. Then, instead of firing it at the other mage, she snaps it over and fires it at Cal— whose hair erupts into a viridescent green.
Rolan doesn't so much as twitch.
Amara steps closer. "Oh, Rolan?" she sings, and fires another Prestidigitation at Lia this time— though she tries to dodge, her hair ends up indigo anyway.
"Rolan— what are you doing?" his sister hisses. "Move!!"
But he doesn't.
Amara walks closer, and fires another spell, and another.
Red hair, purple dreads, locs of yellow sunshine.
She turns shining white hair dark navy, and soft brown locks a vibrant, sky blue.
Amara meets Zevlor's eyes before she sends a spell at him too, and his hair turns a shimmery black. She winks at him.
When she stops in front of the tiefling, she shoves at his chest and severs the spell feeding images into his brain, and he startles awake with a gasp, his tail stiffening.
"W-what? What did you…?"
His eyes flicker over Amara, and then up to Zevlor, over her shoulder. Some of the color drains from his face. Amara takes the opportunity to step around him in a slow circle, while Rolan takes in everyone in camp whose hair color is different— practically everyone.
"Do you get it now?" Amara asks him, and she gently directs him to look at her. Holds his face in place. "That was just a game. I like all of you— I'd never hurt you. The same can't be said for the enemy so near to you. Imagine, if you will, that I'd been casting Firebolt. Or Ice Knife." She snaps Rolan's face to look at his siblings. "Or Disintegrate."
He lets out a shuddering breath that he struggles to take back in again.
"Remember this. There are people in the world who are kind, but the world itself is not. It will not have compassion for you. Right now, whether you intend to take up a blade or a staff and fight in it, we are in a war. We are fighting for our lives. There is never a time that is so unkind as wartime."
Amara dismisses all her Prestidigitation. She takes Rolan's hands in hers and holds them tightly.
"Don't you see? It's up to us to be the ones who show each other compassion. I beg you to find yours. After all— you awoke to your loved ones with colorful hair. Someone else awoke to actual dead bodies, slain around him. Put yourself in his shoes and show some compassion, my friend."
She lets go of Rolan and walks back to Zevlor, aware that the other tieflings practically swarmed the poor thing with questions the moment she turned her back.
"What… did you do to him?" the Hellrider asks.
Amara flicks her gaze to him. "A mimicry of what happened to you."
Zevlor's eyes widen. "You… did not have to do that."
She hardens her gaze. "Yes… I did. You deserve my support."
"I… I have done nothing to deserve it," he argues.
Amara scoffs. "You act like there's a requirement."
"Isn't there…?"
"No," she says, laughing. "I like you, Zevlor. That's enough for me."
"I do not… do not deserve you…"
She reaches up and touches his face. "One day, you'll understand— deserving is not such a give and take. Come, join me by my fire. Until your people come around, you are more than welcome to stay with me."
He glances over his shoulder at the conversing tieflings.
"Honestly, it went better than I was expecting," he says, before they've even made it three steps.
"You were expecting worse than… deep resentment?"
Hellfire orange eyes snap to hers. His tail flicks behind him. "They could have resorted to violence."
Amara snorts. "Zev, dear friend, no. Besides, don't you recall what I said about making amends? How would you do that if you didn't try to return to your post as their guide and protector?"
That only seems to make him more upset. "I have thought about your words, my friend; it's just that… my life as a Hellrider was precious to me, and both that and my oath and role as a paladin were ripped from me when my homeland fell. I lost my identity and my ability to protect my people at the same time. We've been refugees ever since, and the danger has been— I've just never been able to…"
"You need something back," Amara summarizes with a somber tone. She looks over to the tieflings still gathered around. "Don't forget, you still have them. Don't lose them too, just because of some lousy false god."
Those flaming eyes flick downward. "I know," he replies softly. "I prayed and prayed— but Helm is practically infamous for His intolerance for Oathbreakers."
Amara comes up short.
"You— you're a paladin of Helm?" she asks, reeling.
"I— yes?" he ventures. "The Hellrider's main deity is Helm. Have I never mentioned?"
"He of the Unsleeping Eyes? God of Guardians? The Vigilant One?"
"Amara, what is the matter?"
She looks across their camp, and then back to Zevlor. "Just— let me do the talking, all right?" she requests.
Zevlor blinks. Blinks again. "Amara, I've prayed for days. You won't be able to—"
Amara gathers him into a tight hug, pressing his face into her loose, wavy hair.
"Trust me, my dear friend. This is something I can do for you."
Before Zevlor can reply, she pulls away and calls for her friends to help clear a spot in camp. She's going to need a large space for this. When she's ready, she casts a spell she hasn't cast in a good while— Polymorph.
"Um— Amara?" Gale asks when her cyan Weave shimmers away and leaves her changed form standing there.
About four feet tall, with short, wavy hair that's pure white and glints in the light the color of champagne. Big, round green eyes with long lashes, and a constellation of stark white dots all over her freckled, sun-tanned face.
Karlach squeals with joy. "Oh my gods— look at her! It's baby Amara!"
Amara puts her finger to her little lips. "Shh," she says in a youthful voice. "I have something important to do!" she insists, with a slight lisp from a missing tooth.
Shadowheart stares for a few moments. "I was not expecting to see something so adorable today."
"Shh!"
Ignoring them, Amara claps her hands together and then forcefully pushes them outward. Markings start to appear on the backs of her hands, of multiple eyeballs that shift, looking left and right. She speaks a lengthy incantation, including Helm's True Name, which makes itself into mumbling as soon as it comes out of her mouth.
For a moment, nothing happens, but then the end of a sword pierces up from below the earth. The metallic blade causes a fissure that snakes outward on either side, and then crumbles inward. Armored hands reach for the edge of the gap, metal scraping against metal, and a massive, hulking body levers itself up from down below, exhaling a gust of smoke through the chink in his helm.
"Oh, Great Guard— God of Guardians. Blessed be thy name who graces us with His presence. Vigilant One, the Watcher, He of the Unsleeping Eyes, I beg an audience with you," Amara says in her slightly lispy voice.
"Great gods above," Zevlor breathes. "You summoned my god."
"Of course she can summon gods too!" Astarion snaps, and he starts trying to rescue things from their camp that try to fall into the chasm.
When Helm straightens, He is nearly twenty feet in height, in full plate mail armor which glints silver in the daylight, His face concealed entirely by His helm. He lowers himself to one knee slowly, and glowing eyes glisten from within His visor, menacingly.
Amara waits just a few beats before extending her arms up toward Him.
"Kainyank— you've got to be kidding me."
Helm lowers His hand until it touches the dirt.
She runs up to Him and climbs up His armored hand, gripping tightly to His thumb while He lifts her back up and presses her against His chest.
"By the Nine Hells." Shadowheart sits at the table, starting to peel an orange. "I'm starting to not even be surprised— that's the most surprising part."
Aylin and Isobel are just gawking.
Jaheria silently sits down next to her. "Is this… common for her?"
"Never seen her summon one of her own free will," Wyll drawls. "But she does have a lot of dealings with them."
"God Eater," He rumbles, loud enough that Amara is sure all of Last Light can hear them. "You have made it a point in your life to avoid requiring the assistance of deitous beings. What can I possibly do for you, child?"
"I have a request," she says succinctly. "I declined your offer before. Now, I would like to collect."
Wyll laughs disbelievingly. "See what I mean?"
"I'm beginning to think that I do," Jaheria drawls in her thick accent. "At least she will be entertaining to follow."
There's a rumbling laugh. "Is that so, Amara, reviler of gods? What is it I can offer you?"
A tiny hand points to Zevlor, and those menacing, giant eyes slide to the Oathbreaker Paladin. What was once a rumble of laughter quickly becomes a rumble of disdain.
"Child, that is one of my former paladins. I do not take back in those who do not take their oaths to me seriously."
The same small hand touches the shining metal of His helmet. "Helm, this person is very special to me. He's been through so much, all in the name of guarding and protecting the people who matter to him the most. I only ask that you listen to his prayers— understand what's happened to him, and then decide if you will not be lenient. Sometimes, it is not the us who break the oaths we make. Sometimes… it is our oaths which break us."
For a long moment, the god just stares at Amara, and then He moves to set her down.
"Shit," Gale curses, and all the camp members turn to look more surprised at that than at the god talking to a child version of their leader. "Oh, please, all of you are overreacting."
"Amara, my child, please— let me see you in your purest form for a moment. Though your visage is charming, this is a discussion for adults."
Amara hesitates for a moment, but nods.
She dismisses her Polymorph, and cyan light pours from her eyes. She casts a Minor Illusion so as not to hurt herself, but no one needs to know that.
Her own form grows much larger— not twenty feet, perhaps, but at least comparable to Helm's height. She extends her hands, and her light forms her scythe in one and her hourglass in the other.
Over her head, her crown and robe hood form, cascading down her back, and she pulls the hood down to reveal her cascades of hair made of pure cyan light.
Finally, at her back, she completes what is meant to manifest when she is a deity. Two massive wings, full-bodied with sleek, glowing feathers that drift in the air around her.
Aylin puts her hands out in a disbeliving gesture.
"To be fair," Lae'zel states crisply, "we have not seen the wings in this capacity either. They are quite grand."
Jaheria looks around. "She's a god?"
Halsin gives a good laugh. "Not quite. She is of their better half. Touched by the cruel actions of one in her past— but I won't speak on them without her permission."
"She'll hurt herself at this rate," Shadowheart says, and her fingers twitch, itching to cast a spell to prevent the damage to Amara's body she recalls happened the last time she used that scythe.
"Fret not," Gale assures her. "My senses tell me she is supplementing her natural Weave with an illusion. I expect it is to limit the damage we know overusing her abilities can cause."
Astarion hums appreciatively. "Certainly… resourceful of her."
"Better?" Amara asks Helm in her normal, drawling accent.
Helm's own yellowish-golden light flares in His visor for a moment. "I forget you resemble Chronos so much."
"Well, I did eat him."
Jaheria looks at all of them.
"Erm… that's a long story," Wyll says haltingly.
"She eats magic," Gale corrects. "She's just also dramatic."
"And you should have all of his power," Helm seems to begin to argue, but Amara flips the hourglass in her hand and flicks intense eyes up at Him.
"What does the hourglass do?" Isobel asks, equal parts fear and awe on her face.
Shadowheart tilts her head and her ponytail sways. "We actually don't really know. She's never used it, that we could tell."
"That you could tell?"
"Occassionally, some elements of her adventures are obscured from us," Gale informs their newest allies. "Amara can go back in time."
Jaheria mutters a few Elvish curses under her breath. "What have I gotten myself into?"
"Chk. She makes a good leader. Reliable. Steadfast. And kindhearted all the while being intensely powerful," Lae'zel summarizes succinctly.
"I do not want all of his power," Amara is saying. "I never did. I also told myself I would grant no wishes of any deity who asked something of me— but if I upheld that without allowing you to speak your mind, we wouldn't be speaking like this right now, would we?" Amara asks Him.
He grumbles under His helm.
"Helm," she asserts. "I am not asking you to suddenly accept Oathbreakers in return for my favor. I am telling you I have prior knowledge this oath was broken under extenuating circumstances, and the paladin is special to me. I care deeply for him and his people. I have met no one who so readily embodies a guardian, a vigilant guard. He is the caretaker and protector of a wonderful collection of individuals with immense strength. He deserves this. Please, just listen to his story."
Suddenly, a hand pushes the helmet of the god aside, and a gorgeous goddess with a long ponytail of rich reddish-black hair appears. "Amara!" She trills, sounding thrilled. "Ethsunn, why did ye not bring me t'see our darling Amara immediately when she called?"
"Another one?" Astarion balks. "You have to be joking, Amara."
"Honey, I—"
Amara dismisses her Minor Illusion and stands as she normally looks, with waves and waves of white hair that occasionally glints champagne. "Hello, Murdane," she greets shyly.
"Oh, 'hello, Murdane,' she says, like a stranger. Come here, girl!" She says, before shrinking to a normal height and pulling Amara into an embrace. "Oh, I know ye don't like interacting with any of us, but I do still wish I could see ye. Ethsunn, look at how she's grown."
Helm sighs heavily and shrinks as well, until He's still well over the height of everyone else, but at least a reasonably humanoid size. "It is no fault of mine that she caters to her own advantages. If she wants something, she chooses to appear as a child as she knows it will earn her the most sway over me. She is manipulative and intelligent, Murdane."
"Well, what does she want?" the god of reason asks.
Helm pauses. "She… wants me to consider reinstating one of my paladins in return for, well… you."
"That all?"
He obviously bristles. "Murdane, I am strict about my oath! If I forgive it once, I will have all kinds of disobedients asking for my forgiveness!"
His lover frowns. "And that would be a bad thing, b'cause…?"
"Oh— fine!" Helm whirls on Zevlor. "Your prayers and words are kept in Everwatch. I will not forgo them, they will be reviewed in their entirety. In the meantime, Amara, God Eater, is a reliable judge of character. If she wishes to trade her favor from me for you— then so be it." He thrusts his palm in Zevlor's direction and a whirl of silver and gold light surrounds the paladin and soaks into his skin.
"See, Ethsunn, that wasn't so hard, wuzzit?" Murdane purrs, letting Amara go to take His arm. "Oh! One more thing before that means we have to leave— Amara, I've heard the gossip lately that ye slayed Myrkul. Is that true?"
Amara frowns. "Well, I didn't eat Him, if that's what you're trying to ask."
She puts Her hand in front of Her mouth. "Oh my. How many does that make it, now? Ye have always said if ye ever ascended again that ye would assasinate the pantheons. I'm beginning to believe ye, child."
The new allies in Amara's camp look up, startled, at that.
Amara licks her teeth. "Two, of course."
Helm grumbles loudly. "I have it on good authority you've slain at least four gods."
Now even Amara's companions look up, startled, at that.
"Naughty," Amara chides. "Just don't tell Savras yet."
"I refuse to get involved in your conflict with Savras and Mystra. You may handle that. Frankly, I am surprised you haven't dealt with them yet."
"Thanks for your opinion," Amara drawls. "But I'll figure it out."
"I'm… sure."
Murdane reaches forward and takes Amara's hands. "I would love t'say that we will see ye again, child, but… we also would… we'll respect your feelings. Now that our favor has been repaid, this will likely be the last time we speak."
Amara gives her a weak smile. "Just keep doing all you have been doing, Murdane."
"And ye won't eradicate the pantheon?"
Laughing, Amara shakes her head. "Not in this timeline, at least."
Murdane and Helm step back, arm in arm. "Thank you, then, one final time, for reuniting my love and me, Amara. Best of luck to you."
She nods. "Thank you for your understanding and flexibility, Helm."
He grumbles to Himself. "You should be thanking Murdane for that. I wouldn't hear the end of it if I didn't comply."
And then, the two of them descend back into the fissure, which closes after them.
Amara immediately turns to Zevlor. "It worked, right?" she asks the tiefling. "He gave you your oath ba— Zevlor?!"
There are tears on the tiefling's face, but his tail is raised, swaying.
"Putting aside the impossibility of what just happened…" he croaks out. "Why do you keep doing things for us? For me?"
Amara smiles, approaches him again and puts her hands on his face. "How many times must I say it? Because I like you. At first, I simply felt a comradery with you. I knew what it was like to have nowhere to go. Now… all of you have become special to me on a personal level. I need all of you to be okay at the end of this— Helm was the only god I made a deal with when I had full access to Chronos' abilities, and I told him I wanted a favor, when he couldn't free me from where I was trapped. I dislike interacting with the deities, though— even Helm and Murdane. I don't mind that being the end of my interactions with them. At least this means some good came from bringing Murdane back."
Zevlor hugs her so tightly he picks her up off the floor, his tail gripping up her leg affectionately.
"I— I can't… there's no way to express what this means to me. You have given me more than I thought another living being could give. You are the strongest, k-kindest…" His voice cracks, and he buries his face deeper into Amara's neck. "I apologize for this display. I j-just…"
She weaves her fingers into his soft, dark blonde hair and scratches gently.
"I'm so happy I can make you happy, Zev."
After a few moments, Astarion clears his throat. "Are we going to talk about the two gods Amara brought into camp to wheel and deal with, or are we going to pretend that didn't happen? I vote we talk about it."
Amara laughs freely, and it's enough for Zevlor to set her down. She leads him over to where the rest of them have gathered— they end up needing more chairs, but that's easily solved. Amara herself just sits in Gale's lap.
"All right— what do you want to know?"
The vampire rolls his eyes. "You are an insufferable bastard sometimes, you know that?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"You just happened to know Helm?" he urges.
Amara smiles drearily and sighs. "I technically know almost every deity. After I bested Chronos, my body had to quickly adjust to a godly level of power being thrust into it— too quickly. Without Chronos there to stablize it, His temple sunk and I was plunged into the water. To save myself, I expelled a large amount of my magic— to a lethal degree. It drew the attention of many other gods, and not the kind of attention you want. By the time I made it to shore, four of them were waiting for me."
Gale tucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Which four, if I might pry?"
"I'd rather not say."
He looks like Amara's answer surprises him, and that makes her heart throb painfully. "Could you just tell me…"
"You want to know if Mystra was one of them."
He licks his lips. "…Yes."
Amara sighs. "Yes, She was."
He nods, and his expression grows haunted, a bit distant, as he files that information away somewhere. "Did She… help you?"
"She said She would," Amara says softly. "They took me to the outer planes, told me I would learn to control my powers. Well— I guess they were right. They just didn't mention I would be doing it from inside a crystalline cage."
"Where Shar came to see you," Shadowheart recalls.
Amara gives a humorless laugh. "Where countless gods came to see me. Major, lesser, of any pantheon. Some just wanted to gaze on the one who killed Chronos, others… they wanted to make a deal. They promised they could release me from my cage, if I joined sides with them, pledged abilities to them, or did them major favors in the timeline. Helm was one of the last to approach me."
"And He wanted… Murdane?" Zevlor asks, obviously having been listening closely.
Amara nods. "The God of Pragmatisism and Reason— She is quite decent, for a deity. I don't mind Her, if I had to deal with any of them. I suppose that makes sense, given Her domain. People don't remember it anymore, but there was once an event known as the Dawn Cataclysm. A… divine event, they called it. Lathander the Morninglord directly created the opportunity for the Queen of the Depths, Umberlee, to drown Murdane in a watery embrace. That's how She was lost during the Cataclysm, and how Helm came to detest the Morininglord."
"I've… never heard of this," Zevlor remarks, blinking wide eyes.
"That's because I erased it."
"Gods above…" Shadowheart heaves out.
"One of Chronos' greater abilities is a full manipulation of the timeline. Helm wished for his lover back, so I granted it, by completely eradicating the event within which she died."
Hellfire orange eyes spark and fester. "You are… dreadfully powerful."
"I was," Amara corrects. "That's not an ability I have any longer. I would be obliterated in an instant if I so much as tried to activate it."
"How… many abilities do you have, exactly?"
Amara just smiles at him. "Let's move onto lighter topics, shall we?" Her gaze flicks to the wood elf. "Halsin, I see you have returned from tending to one of our guests. How fares Thaniel?"
He seems startled to be the change in subject, but he takes it in stride. "Thaniel rests well. He's healing very rapidly, now that Oliver has returned to him."
Amara wasn't exactly expecting that phrasing.
Evidently, neither was Karlach. "What happened to Oliver, exactly?" she asks, curious. "Did Thaniel… absorb him?"
"No more than my right hand can absorb my left," Halsin says in good humor. "Oliver is helping Thaniel to recover; they both lie dormant, like trees awaiting spring. Once the curse is lifted, they can stand as one or as a pair. Whatever they wish."
Shadowheart hums contemplatively. "Do you have an opinion?"
"I certainly hope they will remain as a pair. It would be good for them both to have a friend, once I'm gone. Still, I would like to return here some day. See Thaniel and Oliver again— in my meditations, or perhaps in person, if the Oak Father wills it. I hope he does."
"You mentioned that they make the choice once the curse is lifted," Astarion drawls, trying to seem bored. "If Ketheric is dead— when will the curse actually be lifted?"
"I can't say for certain, but we'll see it come to pass long before this place recedes behind us. Don't worry— all is at hand. We can depart whenever you're ready."
"Tomorrow will be soon enough," Amara assures him. "For tonight, we should focus on ourselves. I may be a stranger to the pain that's stricken this land, but…" Her eyes drift to Isobel and Aylin. "I get the impression today marks a major milestone for many."
Isobel's cheeks flush again and she looks over at the aasimar. "You are quite right. I can't quite believe it— Aylin is really here, right in front of me. And my father… what happened to him… what he'd become. By killing him, you set him free. You set Aylin free. And me."
Amara genuinely smiles at the two of them. "You and Aylin seem to have a lot of… history. Care to share?"
"A great deal of history, to be sure, but still some of the details elude me," she admits. "Ketheric Thorm is - was - my father. He raised me to serve Selûne, as my mother, rest her soul, had wished. He was everything to me, all my life. When an emissary of Selûne came to our little town, we were elated. Dame Aylin. Daughter of the Moonmaiden herself." She leans in, eyes glittering. "Tell me, do you believe in love at first sight?"
Amara laughs.
She pictures Gale of Waterdeep, in her cottage far from here, near the Waterhavian shoreline. "Certainly. There's magic in a look," she agrees. She wouldn't have come here if she hadn't felt it— whether it was true love in that moment or not, it was something.
"That's exactly it. And I tell you, I took one look at her, and I just knew. She was it," Isobel sighs out dreamily. "Lucky for me, she felt the same way."
Aylin smiles widely at the cleric. "I loved her from the moment I beheld her sweet face, her great wise eyes."
Isobel blushes at first, but soon casts her eyes back to the table. "We may have fallen instantly for each other, but my father was skeptical. Aylin is immortal, after all. I understand it's… strange. There's an imbalance between us, certainly. But I suppose loving Aylin felt the same as loving myself. It was natural."
"It sounds lovely," Amara assures her, folding her hands under her chin. "All strangeness aside."
Isobel beams, but then her smile seems to dim. "Then - and this is where I still need answers - I died," she says haltingly. "I'm not sure how. Why. All I recall is black, black, black."
Amara can only imagine how uncomfortable such a sensation would be to recover from, when a worshiper of Selûne is so accustomed to the light.
"Next I knew, I was being jolted awake. I smelled musty air. I saw shadows. And then my father's face, so changed, so hideously warped…" There's anger in Isobel's face, amidst the confusion, the questions.
"Ah… perhaps I can't shed light on all the mysteries you face, but I can answer this: he'd become the Chosen of Myrkul."
She gives a mirthless smile. "I didn't know that then. But I could see the change in him. He told me we'd be together now, said Aylin was dead. I couldn't speak. Could only run." The look on Isobel's face and the sound of her voice are so pained that it physically hurts Amara. "I found Last Light within the shadows. Made a shelter here. Prayed my father wouldn't find me. By the time Jaheria came, I'd pieced together just enough to know I'd been dead a hundred years. That my father was the source of the horrors plaguing this land— my home. I couldn't tell her who I was. I had to protect them - and myself - no matter what."
"Don't forget all you did for those who sheltered with you," Amara reminds her. "It was in the interest of both their safety and yours that your identity be left a secret. I can understand your choices."
She shrugs and looks around the lively camp. "It's all out in the open now. And with my father dead, I have nothing to fear. Except for Aylin. She needs healing. Rest."
Amara couldn't agree more, if the countless scars all over the aasimar's face are anything to go by.
"I'm grateful for your help," Isobel tells her earnestly. "And your friendship. I hope we won't intrude on your hospitality for too long, but I'm grateful for a safe place to… well, just to be."
"You're welcome as long as you wish to stay with us," Amara assure them both.
Shadowheart comes to sit with them at the table.
"The shadows are losing their grip on these lands," she reports, her voice sounding vaguely hollow. "Shar can indeed be thwarted. Comforting to know."
She bumps Amara's arm with hers.
It's not quite a positive tone, but it's getting there.
Amara turns to her with a soft smile. "You're my people," she offers in a gentle voice. "I'm here for you, if you need me. I thought you might have needed reminding, after everything."
"Thank you," Shadowheart offers. "I think any attempts at comforting me might be in vain just now… but you're sweet to keep me in your thoughts."
Across the table, Isobel asks, "How are you feeling?"
"Do you really need to ask?" she snaps instantaneously, but then seems to regret it. "I'm sorry. I have a lot on my mind… the Shadowfell, Nightsong… I can think of little else."
Amara puts a hand on her arm. "Perhaps our new friend and former Nightsong can offer some reprieve."
Dark hazel eyes flick over the table to pale blue ones. "Yes, I'm counting on it— I have little else to turn to."
Aylin smiles at her from across the table. "You are an impatient one, aren't you?"
"Considering you hold the wisdom of my future - or the knowledge of if I even have one at all - can you blame me?"
"I suppose not," Aylin says with a shrug. "Very well— come closer then."
Shadowheart doesn't rise, but she doesn't tense up and try to retreat either. "What is it?" she asks cautiously instead.
"Come to this side of the table. Feel my voice rattle your bones as I proclaim our victory," she urges, and the playful smile on her face makes Shadowheart smile back. She leaves Amara's side of the table and approaches Aylin, who takes her by the hands. "Moonmaiden, Selûne, hear me: Ketheric Thom, traitor, Apostle of Myrkul is dead at last!! My mate most high, darling Isobel, is safe and well. Safe and well and returned to my embrace. Blessings upon the slayers of the wicked one!"
And then— the light in their camp moves.
It parts and shifts the darkness, even the normal still night air is suddenly pierced by a beam of the moon, which alights atop Shadowheart's head and dances around her with a kind of manic glee. The cleric turns wide eyes to it, watching it push and pull at the shadows and float around her as if being welcomed home.
"Ah-ha!" Aylin laughs joyously. "We are a powerful party, indeed. Faerûn itself trembles at our touch— look at how blessed we are! The Moonmaiden smiles upon you, Shadowheart! My darling Isobel says it and I agree with pleasure— we shall stay allied at your side for as long as we are needed."
The light finally dissipates from around Shadowheart, and the cleric turns wide, astonished eyes to the paladin. "I have… so many questions," she breathes.
"Pray ask, and I will tell."
Shadowheart considers it for a moments and then asks, "Are you truly Selûne's daughter?"
"Do I not radiate with my mother's brightness, her glory? There can be no doubt: I am of her silvered flesh, her celestial womb."
"Would your mother be willing to aid us in the fight against the Dead Three?" she asks, considering they've received… little help from the deities thus far.
"Why, she already has," Aylin argues. "She has brought her sword to your side. Dame Aylin. So mighty are her wonders, her great wisdom. Together, we will set this fair land free of tyranny and murder."
Amara is happy to let Shadowheart have the reins here— she desperately does not want to be grimacing in the face of Dame Aylin's brilliant smile.
It's not even that she thinks Selûne is necessarily one of the trickster deities— Amara just forgot for a moment what it's like to listen to clerics and paladins, on occasion.
Shadowheart doesn't seem to have this problem, as she merely perks up. "This land— how did you come to be trapped in the Shadowfell, Dame Aylin?"
"Hmm," she hums under her breath, considering. "Ketheric Thorm. Father of my one and only love. Enslaver of Dame Aylin," she begins somberly.
"Aylin…" Isobel says softly.
Aylin shakes her head, smiling at her love. She flicks her pale eyes back toward Amara and Shadowheart. "Ketheric Thorm never did trust me, even when he worshiped the Moonmaiden. He was threatened by my love for Isobel, by her love for me. When she died - curse the day, the hour! - we each of us mourned bitterly. But Ketheric's pain could be touched by no aid, no boundary."
Amara feels for him, but… his actions…
"He was still a worshiper of Selûne, then?" Shadowheart clarifies.
Both Isobel and Aylin nod. "It was only after Isobel's death that he turned to that wretched— ah… to your former mistress— the Lady of Loss, for relief."
Isobel's eyes narrow. "And she whispered into his ear, poisoning his mind."
"He and his loathsome advisor Balthazar lured me into the Shadowfell," Aylin explains. "Claimed they'd found someone in need of my aid. There they trapped me in their infernal cage. I was killed, murdered, made dead, over and over and over by Justiciars of every make and kind. I was reborn, for it is my nature. And Ketheric fed upon my immortality all the while."
Shadowheart goes paler, almost ashen, and her gaze can't hold Aylin's and instead burns into the tabletop.
Aylin clears her throat. "But lo! The brute is dead. And we, we live!"
Shadowheart gives a weak smile, but a smile all the same. "So we do. I hope to continue living, while we're at it, though I do have my worries. What with my… former mistress, as you put it." Her hazel eyes move up to Aylin's pale ones. "What do you know about me? You spoke of my past, being chased by wolves— I told no one about that… almost no one. But I certainly didn't share that with you."
"There is nothing I can tell you that you do not already know yourself," Aylin tells her cryptically. "They trained you well, trained you hard. Chiselled away any part of you that did not fit their plan. They made you forget."
Amara holds her breath.
Shadowheart manuvers them so they may holds hands instead.
"I chose to do that," she argues. "For this mission. To protect Shar's—"
"—secrets," Aylin finishes. "Yes, yes. That is an old song, girl. Your goddess cares more for her precious secrets than she does her devotees."
Shadowheart squeezes Amara's hand so tightly that it starts to ache, but Amara says nothing.
"Get to the point," she demands.
"When you freed me, you severed a bond between me and that dog, Thorm. A bond of pain— his, inflicted on me. When I laid eyes on you, I sensed a similar bond. You, tethered to two others, someplace distant. Let me help you remember."
*You feel Shadowheart's mind tug at the edges of your known, knocking. She wants you to see whatever is about to be revealed.*
Amara opens the bond immediately, but instantly asks. "Are you sure? This is for you."
"I'm not interested in anything that I cannot share with you. I am your people."
"Today, tomorrow, always."
*Your mind joins intimately with Shadowheart's. A torrent of gratitude, disbelief, love— their purity is unmatched.*
"Today… tomorrow, and always," Shadowheart responds, and even her voice in Amara's mind trembles.
*Something pulls at you both, bringing you elsewhere… you see a youthful half-elf, a scratch upon her cheek, just as you remember from what Shadowheart willingly showed you previously. A yellow-eyed wolf stalks toward her, lips pulling back from teeth, and the young girl - Shadowheart - looks up to see a follower of Shar. Other Sharrans surround the wolf… and the vision changes.*
A restless gasp is pulled into Amara's lungs - from Shadowheart, most likely - and she digs for more context on the feeling.
*You feel the fear. The unease— the confusion, from Shadowheart's younger self. You feel a similar fear and confusion from her current self, but it isn't at the looming threat of death, but at the soft glow that the wolf begins to emit before transforming into… a half-elf man. He reaches… reaches… for Shadowheart. Pain, confusion, agony— they catch and scrape at Shadowheart's psyche. She can't see. Can't understand. Neither can you.*
Shadowheart grips Amara's hand until her bones creak.
*A spear is shoved into the half-elven man's body. Shadowheart's very soul screams in pain.*
"What…" Shadowheart whispers, terror racing through her and into Amara. "Who was that man?" she asks, but if Amara knows… she is sure so does Shadowheart.
And Amara is fairly sure she knows.
*You remember that it is a common rite amongst Selûne followers to send their children off into the woods to find their way home. Perhaps this time it had gone awry.*
Shadowheart's bond shoves shock through to Amara and whips to face her, her ponytail flying. Amara realizes belatedly that if, on occasion, Amara can hear the narrators of her companions… it would make sense they could sometimes hear hers.
Shit.
"You already know," Aylin answers her, and Amara is inclined to agree. "Did you not see yourself in him? Do you not recognize your own blood?"
Well, Amara probably would have gone about that a little more… gently.
"My father?" she asks meekly. "That was him?"
"That is him," Aylin corrects. "He lives still, and your mother too."
Suddenly, there is a slab of denial that separates Amara from Shadowheart's innermost thoughts— though the cleric doesn't just break their connection, which she could. "No," she insists. "It can't be. I'm an orphan."
"And who told you that?" Aylin asks.
Amara bristles. Her blood starts to boil. She knows if she holds Shadowheart's hand any harder, she'll break a bone— so she just flexes her other hand, flicks her wrist twice.
When Shadowheart doesn't answer, Aylin goes on, "Was it your adoptive family? You are not to blame. You were young, impressionable. They took you because they wanted to break and remake you."
Amara does not like most deities, even if they may be neutral.
That is, because if ever something came long to threaten what gives them standing, power. What motivates others to worship them, feed their addictive nature, any deity would turn to violence.
But some…
Some deities, Amara detests.
Some are evil, merely for the sake of it.
For its entertainment value.
When Amara breathes in, she smells must and shadow. When she breathes out, she breathes a furious gust, which tempers the scent into something like the singeing of flesh, the twisting of bone. Overcoming the stench of rot with the miasma of flame.
And Shadowheart looks.
"Amara?" she asks.
Because Shadowheart feels.
So Amara breaks their connection, and watches the half-elf's eyes go wide. "What's wrong?" she asks. "You pull away from me."
"It's nothing," Amara mutters. "I want you to be able to focus— this time is yours. These answers are for you. I… don't want to distract from them. Please— don't mind me."
Shadowheart knocks.
Amara squeezes her eyes shut.
"I mean it, Vae. Talk to Aylin. I'll be right here— just not…"
"I don't want you to hide anything from me," the cleric says softly. "Even if it is a godly amount of anger."
Amara's eyelashes flutter. "You needn't be subjected to me… to my…"
"When you are angry, the air changes," Aylin surprises them both by saying. "Like the buzz of the world before a thunderclap, a lightning strike. You cannot hide your anger, no matter how hard you try, godling."
Amara licks her lips. "People… don't need to see."
Shadowheart laces their fingers together. "I want to see you. We want to see you. I have never met someone who so desperately desires to see you than Gale, and both Astarion and Halsin hold you in high regard as well. To Lae'zel, you have opened a whole new world; there is nothing she would permit you to hide, and to Karlach and Wyll you present a picture of a person who sees them in ways they have never been seen before. You see us, Amara. Let us see you."
Shadowheart knocks again.
This time, Amara relents.
The cleric flinches, when the connection is established with no barrier. Amara's blood boils, even if its heat has been tempered by the kind words of a dear friend.
"So— what do we do now?" Amara asks Aylin, desperate to get them back on track.
She rubs her fingers together, considers snapping, but Shadowheart is holding onto her so tightly that she wouldn't be able to get away with it.
Aylin gives them a patient smile and refocuses on the half-elf. "Just remember, not-quite-Sharran. You are a child no longer. You are a woman. One who knows what must be done."
"My parents," Shadowheart utters softly, as if the concept itself it foreign.
That alone causes another swell of anger. She tries to follow it with support, encouragement, comradery.
Shadowheart returns all her emotive prompting with a soft, soothing hush that is cool to her blazing veins. "I need to save them," she concludes.
"Of course," Amara says readily. "We are at your side."
Aylin gives a decisive nod. "Your parents are with your abductors. You will need to return to their lair. But be warned. You may have once thought of them as comrades, mentors, friends, even lovers. They will all be enemies now."
Hurt and sadness flow in through Amara's connection.
She pushes back adoration and comfort.
"You have been forewarned for what is to come, but not yet forearmed." In Aylin's hand forms a spear.
Amara's eyes widen. "Careful—" she says on instinct, lurching forward slightly. Chagrined, she follows it up with, "Ahm. The Spear of Night? Isn't it?"
Shadowheart's brows dip. "I thought I cast that into the Shadowfell."
"I was able to retrieve it, before it sank too far into Shar's umbral domain. Shar is quick to discard whatever she has no use for. I think you know that well enough."
Another surge of red-hot anger simmers its way through Amara as if eating her from the inside.
Shadowheart douses the inferno with a soothing balm of icy reassurance.
"But I felt it call to me as I took flight," Aylin continues. "Whatever Shar calls her own, Selûne has equal claim to. They are one and the same. Their power is matched… and mirrored. Take it— you will find it useful. What you do with it… that will be up to you. Same as before."
"I'll need every advantage it seems…" Shadowheart reaches and takes the glistening spear— which is changing shape slightly as they speak. "Thank you."
"A debt repaid," Aylin remarks instead. "You returned my life unto me. Now go and claim your own."
Pain erupts through the bond and Shadowheart wrenches her hand away from Amara's in shock. Both of them cry out as the piercing, impossible pain rips through them. "Ngh!! It hurts…"
This time, Shadowheart snaps the bond so Amara hurts no longer.
Isobel, frightened, hovers her hands near them both, while Amara clutches her head and Shadowheart holds her hand.
Aylin shakes her head. "Shar torments you still. What a spiteful creature she is. This will not stop until you take action. See that your parents' sacrifices are not in vain, allow the Moonmaiden to guide you at last."
Amara dislikes several parts of that statement, but she still takes the cleric by the hand again. "We will use this information wisely, and we…we thank you, Aylin."
Aylin and Isobel nod, stepping away from the table. "We'll leave you for now," Isobel says softly. "Let us know if you require anything. Either of you."
For a moment, neither Amara nor Shadowheart say anything.
Then, the cleric huffs out a laugh.
"What?" Amara asks, her lips quirking up. "What is it?"
"What Aylin said about the air changing when you get mad— it's damn true. I've felt it in battle sometimes, rippling across countless enemies. Gods know how many things you'd rewound, snapped away. But feeling it like this… I do finally believe I've come to understand the saying 'the anger of the gods'— a great warning to all that a god possesses the capacity for rage unlike anything a mortal could ever know. You may be mostly a mortal, Amara, but your fury is a vestige of your godhood, no doubt."
Amara gives a humorless laugh. "Believe it or not, I think I used to be angrier."
That makes Shadowheart smile wider. "I do, in fact, believe it. How new is your shiny disposition?"
"Newer than you'd think," Amara admits. "Someone beloved to me left nothing behind, so I took up his disposition in his memory. Not an easy feat— and obviously one I still have much to improve on. Come, let us speak of lighter subjects."
"Lighter?" the cleric asks. "Like what?"
"I think we shall throw a party."
/ / /
Since the party they had outside of the grove consisted mostly of Amara's party and the tieflings, it's no surprise that there are plenty of takers for a social gathering, considering most of those who reside near Last Light are either in Amara's party or a tiefling themself.
She is working on some of the finer details - potations - when she notices a familiar face vying for her attention.
Ho. This should be interesting.
"Wulbren," she greets succinctly. "Can I help you, or are you here to assist with the party?"
"The party?" he asks, his brow pushing up a decent amount. "No, nothing like that. I merely owe you an apology."
She thinks for a moment of just accepting, and then comes up with a more entertaining response. With a rather feral grin, she asks, "I kill Ketheric, and suddenly we're friends, are we?"
Wulbren doesn't seem to like her joke as much as Amara did. "I saw you as a means to escape, nothing more," he explains outright. "But when the sky lit up - when I realized the curse lifted - I knew you were behind it." While he still may sound a little… up his own, so to speak, Amara sees genuine emotion in the deep gnome's eyes. "I apologize— for not seeing your true worth. And for being, quite frankly, rude in both Moonrise Towers and Last Light."
So she decides to meet him halfway. "I can be rude myself sometimes," she admits, thinking of many, many, many examples of this.
"Gracious as well as impressive— a fine combination," Wulbren compliments. Not exactly what Amara was going for, but she'll take it. "And that's precisely why I want you on my side in Baldur's Gate. The Ironhand Gnomes are going to save the city— and you can be part of it."
Hopefully by not blowing it up.
Please Wulbren, don't blow up Baldur's Gate.
Amara liked the city while she lived there.
"If you want my help, Wulbren, I'm going to need more to go on," she says diplomatically. "Is this a saving the city by blowing the city up type of plan, save the city by supplying illegal weapons to the right people type of plan, save the city by rooting out the evil type of plan… what kind of plan?"
"The plan is what it's always been— to bring the work and innovations of the Ironhand Gnomes to every corner of the realm."
Great, so Amara has learned nothing new.
"Problem is, Baldur's Gate is sick. Once the pinnacle of greatness, it's eating itself alive to save itself from starving. Find me in the city— once you see what it's become, you'll know that I and I alone can stop it."
That's not exactly what the other gnomes said… but… okay.
Amara won't argue.
Instead, "Very well. Consider our alliance forged. Now, will you help me with this?" she asks, gesturing to the large amount of food and drink that is being rounded up from the bar.
Wulbren sighs. "I suppose, if I must."
Of course, the makings of a party were already there when Amara decided on one. There's more food now, and much more wine. Alfira and Volo play lively tunes at the front of the camp, and partners of tieflings, Harpers, and Fists dance on a makeshift patch of dirt that looks like a floor for the practice. There are signs of magic-casting about, of hushed conversations around the backs of tents, and a kind of merriment Amara hasn't felt since they left for the Underdark, really.
"Amara!" Alfira beckons her over. "Come help; the children and I are writing a song. We could use your fine mind."
Amara smiles, and tries to relax. She sits down amidst the tiefling children, and quickly learns they couldn't give a toss about the song and just miss Mol, but they dutifully write it with Amara and the bard regardless, so Alfira can perform it for the whole of Last Light.
While the tiefling is serenading everyone and Volo makes a lovely tune to accompany her, Amara approaches Wyll.
"Ebrae," she says softly, extending one of her hands. "Come dance with me."
Hesitant dual-colored eyes flicker across Amara's face. "Oh, I… wouldn't you rather ask Gale?"
She smiles rather mischeviously. "I'm sure he'll weasel his way over to me; but I would like the dance you promised me the most right now."
"I'm… I'd be so rusty," the warlock tries to argue, and his deep, earthen red clay skin grows darker at the cheeks.
"Not any worse than me. Come, let me tread on your feet, you fine warrior, you."
Wyll laughs, and allows Amara to help him stand up. "Very well. But I beg you to let me practice a little…"
"Oh, if I must," Amara teases, and her eyes twinkle.
She returns to Alfira and Volo and directs a few things she would like to play, hoping to get a lot more dancing than they did at the previous tiefling party.
Amara does love a good dance.
Looking up as one of the more energetic pieces starts, Amara spots Wyll with impeccable form, doing one of the traditional dances. There's almost a layer of mastery there, as if he's rediscovering something he previously had been quite adept at— and Amara knows this to be the case.
"Nice form," she compliments eagerly, clapping her hands along with the music. "Where did you learn to dance like that?"
With a flourish, Wyll finishes one of the more extended moves, and turns a smiling face to the wizard. "I've attended my share of fancy balls and masquerades. A few elegant moves can turn all the right heads," he says with a bow. "Though I wouldn't mind more time to brush up on my skills, I wouldn't want to disappoint my new partner."
"With skills like that," Amara says, her gaze drifting over the party members, "I could see me being far from your only partner tonight."
He gives a laugh. "As luck would have it, I'm in a rather hopeful mood. The thought of all the attention— excites, rather than detours me this evening. Still, you have the first dance on my card. May I?" he asks, extending his hand.
Amara beams at him, and places her hand in his. They move to the center of the camp, in front of where Alfira and Volo play, and Wyll begins with a dance Amara is positive he's making up on the spot, with all the confidence of someone doing a centuries old shuffle that Amara should be able to follow along with.
Eyes are definitely on them as he slides and claps in perfect time with the music, and in a lull he leans in and offers his hand again.
Amara bites her lip. "Oh, I'm afraid I can't do anything quite so polished," she admits, but her eyes sparkle all the same. "I do hope this is a satisfactory alternative."
Instead of taking his hand, Amara backs off and begins a series of more natural, less practiced movements that flow easier from her body with the thrum and beat of the music. There's some flair and wild abandon in it, but she's all right with that, so long as Wyll keeps smiling and laughing like that.
Then, she gathers her Weave on her fingertips.
There's no guide or spellbook for this— just how she wants to move it.
Her magic swells, the clearing filling with the scent of ozone and rainwater in a forest of trees. The feel of a light breeze and a gentle buzz, the sound of insects and owls, and the warmth of a hearth, a stove, a campfire— the heart of a home.
Amara thinks of a moment suspended in time, of floating in an astral sky, in a tangle of impossible limbs, and her Weave sparks to life in bright cyan, and with every move that she makes in her wild dance, streaks of starlight pouring from her fingertips paint the sky.
"Amazing…" Wyll breathes, when she comes to stop in front of him and offers her own hand, slowly fizzling out its starlit path, and the entire cleaning seems to glitter with leftover magic. "How utterly breathtaking, Lady Amara."
She gives a rather breathless laugh and a curtsey. "I'm afraid grand displays are a bit easier than a common nobleman's dance for me, loath as I am to admit since I dragged you up here."
Wyll laughs, and bows low in a specific position, offering his hand. "Then just follow my lead. I'll guide you, my friend."
Amara smiles and accepts his hand, which he pushes up and against his palm as he rises, beginning to lead Amara in a slow circle, their steps in time with Alfira's lute. He stops her by pulling lightly, and they retreat the steps they took. He squeezes her hand and lets go, only to swoop in with his other hand with a large, predictable gesture.
Their slow circling of one another continues like that, as Wyll introduces a series of steps which mirror and repeat, back and forth, fast and slow, up close and an arm's distance away.
It's a thrilling thing, to dance with someone so practiced. His confidence radiates, as does his happiness.
Amara senses Astarion coming up behind her before she sees him, and positions herself in such a way that the vampire won't surprise Wyll with his approach. Sure enough, the warlock spots him, and his brow wrinkles just slightly. There's a change in the music, and Astarion reaches out to tap lightly on Wyll's right shoulder.
Oh, she has the most viciously lovely idea.
Wyll carefully eases their dance to a slowed pace, opening up their formation.
"Care to join us, Niar?" she asks.
"I've been known to frequent a few rather debonair events, in my time, darling," he drawls.
"I'm sure you have," she drawls back in his accent. "Far be it from me to stop you, then," she chimes, and when the music is suitable, she slips out of their arrangement.
"Ah— Amara?"
Wyll laughs softly, and extends his hand. "Well, you typically are meant to tap the shoulder of the leader, when you wish to join the dance. Though, there is no specification on with whom you must dance with once you've been accepted. I suppose Amara deigned that I would remain the leader."
"That little…"
Amara comes to stand by Shadowheart while she watches the two of them.
"Astarion puts you to shame," the cleric jabs.
Amara gawks at her. "Wow, Vae. Talk about a critical hit," she drawls. "You've left me bleeding here— look at how savagely you come after me. Do I look like a nobelwoman to you?"
"Do I?" she asks, and her eyes are lit up in the moonlight.
"I suppose not… why?"
"Let me show you."
Amara trills with laughter as the half-elf pulls her back to where Wyll and Astarion are dancing, the center of their makeshift dance floor. Shadowheart is as much of a leader as Wyll was, but rather than subtly hinting at what Amara's next move should be, the cleric just pulls Amara physically along with her.
"V-Vae! Slow down!" Amara says through a laugh, almost losing her footing, but Shadowheart just pulls her closer and swings her around.
"Slow down? But this is so much more fun," she argues, smiling. It fades out to a more sober expression a moment later. "This feels nice. I didn't think a party would be a good idea after the day I've had."
"Distractions can be a good thing— so long as you continue to pursue what you're distracting yourself from."
"It's going to be difficult to forget," Shadowheart supposes, pulling Amara bodily through a series of quick turns and vibrant footwork. "I've been lied to, my whole life," she states, pulling the wizard close. "And I was gullible enough to just believe it."
Amara leans more into the cleric, letting her sweep the two of them across their dance floor. "Your parents are alive— they've been hidden from you your whole life, but they're alive."
"And I have to save them," Shadowheart stresses. "I think a part of me always knew that— a part that Shar denied to me."
"Shar denied you many things," Amara says softly. "Now, you do not have that barrier. Whatever you must do, I will be by your side."
"Thank you." The cleric pulls Amara in while they dance together. "Though, please refrain from foolish heroics, will you? When the time comes, we will be entering a nest of vipers. I couldn't bear to lose you. Not after everything."
"I'm your people and you're mine," Amara promises her. "Today, tomorrow, always."
The music ebs out to a slow close, and Amara sees Gale appear behind Shadowheart and tap on her right shoulder. "May I?"
She sighs dramatically, but allows their dance to open to him to take Amara's hand. "I suppose, if I must."
"Go nowhere," Lae'zel requests. "This looks entertaining." She takes up Shadowheart's hands. "You will show me how this works."
Amara laughs delightedly as Gale spins her around and pulls her close, and they watch cheek to cheek as Halsin spins around with Astarion, and Wyll pulls Karlach onto their dance floor. More tieflings and Harpers and Fists start joining them, laughter and voices abound.
"Dancing under the stars like this," Gale whispers into Amara's hair, holding her close, "truly eases the bleakness of our situation. A night like tonight could have been much more somber. You have given everyone a gift with this suggestion."
Amara leans against him. "I find myself thinking how lucky I am to have all of you," she breathes in relief.
Gale's eyes scan around. "It appears one of your favorites isn't partaking." He indicates where a particular Hellrider sits alone at their dining set, his hellfire orange eyes regarding the party with a kind of vacancy and longing in his expression.
"Oh," Amara sighs. "Gale…"
The human wizard spin her around and parts them elegantly. "Go on, then," he encourages her. "If you don't drag him out here, I will."
Laughing under her breath, Amara squeezes his hands and parts from him. Immediately, those intense, infernal eyes catch on her form as she approaches him. "Zev, my dear friend," she greets warmly. "You sit while we make merry. Come, join us."
He gives a light laugh. "I am satisfied at a distance," he claims, holding his hand up. "It is an incredible feeling to see all these smiling faces."
"And yet it seems you would go without," Amara remarks, close enough to tap at his cheek. "Smile, Donbiyr."
"Are you not…"
Amara tilts her head, firmly in Zevlor's personal space, and his eyes are flaming. "Not what?"
His lips press into a thin line. "I realize, of course, that you are a gracious and generous person. You don't subscribe to the horrid mentality that so infects the land; I admit, you probably are even more open-minded than I am. But being open-minded does not necessarily translate into…"
Zevlor gestures to himself.
In response, Amara just puts her hands out. "Dance with me, Donbiyr."
He flexes his hands, talons flashing in the light.
"It would bring me such joy," Amara urges. "Please."
"I… am honored you think me deserving," Zevlor answers, and places his hands in hers.
The elven wizard sweeps him onto their dance floor. "Deserving plays no part, so don't be silly. I ask you to dance because I want to. It bring me joy because you bring me joy. To see you alive - your people smiling and laughing - how can I not be joyful?"
In the center of the dance floor, Amara sees nearly everyone has shifted partners once more. Halsin is dancing with Gale, Astarion with Lae'zel, Shadowheart with Karlach, and Wyll has somehow convinced Jaheria to join him.
"Am I allowed to ask if… 'Donbiyr' is Elvish?"
"Allowed— you are a professional at unnecessarily putting yourself beneath me. I do not allow or restrict you from anything." Her eyes sparkle. "Ask me again."
Bright, flaming eyes roll. "Is it a nickname in your native tongue?"
"It is," Amara confirms, and her smile grows wide as she follows Zevlor's eager lead. "Do you know any Elvish?"
"I admit I don't," he says reluctantly. "I… am curious, though."
"Do you know any Celestial?"
He blinks, his hand falling to Amara's waist in a slow guidance of her spin. "Unfortunately not. Does it have some relation?"
"Certianly," Amara says with a bright smile. "Murdane, Helm's lover, chose the name 'Ethsunn' for Him, which means 'silver' in their tongue. The reason is something of a secret, but for the same reason She selected it for the guardian god, I find it to be a good selection for you. 'Donbiyr' means 'shining silver' in my native language."
The tiefling's cheeks are dark with color and he is looking everywhere but Amara.
"I— I see."
"I do hope you like it." He seems unfocused, looking at all the other people surrounding them, who are watching with small smiles on their faces. "Are you all right, my dear friend?"
"I am fine!" he quickly assures her. "And— and I do like the name. Very much, in fact. It's just… this is nerve wracking," Zevlor whispers to her. "I feel as though all eyes are on us."
Amara follows his rigid, careful lead— he's closer to Wyll's style of leading than Shadowheart's for sure. "Then let them stare," she advises. "You are luminous."
His eyes flick back to Amara and he gives a nervous laugh. "I don't wish to call you a liar, Amara."
"And you are a wonderful dancer."
For a long moment, those flaming eyes hold hers. "It was a mandatory part of our Hellrider training."
"Dancing?"
"Choose to believe it or not," he offers sheepishly. "I haven't felt so connected with my roots in a truly long while. I always knew I would go into their ranks, and thought I would never leave. I never thought I would be the sole guide to fellow tieflings, but…"
"They mean the world to you," Amara finishes.
Warmth overtakes his expression and his tail sways peacefully. "They have agreed… to allow me to lead them to Baldur's Gate once more."
"That's great!" Amara gushes, squeezing his hands.
It makes his talons scratch against her skin, and it's Zevlor who flinches, not Amara.
"I am all gladness for you," she continues as if she didn't notice. "Our destinations are the same, so I hope to see you again. And when we have solidified peace once more, I hope to see you often."
"It would… it would be my absolute pleasure," he responds genuinely, before there's a tap on his shoulder and the partners shift again.
Lakrissa approaches the camp a while later, from the inn, and calls everyone to a meal. It's the last full one any of them will have before they reach Baldur's Gate, so they made all they dared. It's grand and plentiful, filled with laughter and ease. No one stays in the same seat for long, getting up to hear someone else better, or visit with someone going in another direction, sharing advice and well-wishes.
Of course, the evening spirals into too much wine— as well as beer, rum, and other spirits.
Amara finally steps out into the night air for a fresh breath.
Lae'zel steps out a moment later. "Drink, Duj," she offers, handing her a glass of water. "You will need it."
"Did you have a good night, Lae?"
The githyanki juts her chin up. "It was most entertaining."
"I'm all gladness to hear it."
"Come to bed soon. You had a long day, filled with battle. You need your rest."
Amara smiles at her. "I shall, my dear friend."
Shadowheart follows Lae'zel soon after, in a heated discussion with Wyll and Karlach, and the three of them drag her back bodily. Karlach and her take a quick last stop at the baths, and by the time the two of them return, the whole of the camp has returned and is readying for bed.
She catches Astarion's elbow as she passes, "Hey, Niar, it's been a while. Do you need—"
He gives her a wry smile. "Darling, I'm spoken for tonight, but… thank you."
Amara blinks, and looks around him. Standing in Astarion's tent is… Halsin.
"Oh," she says softly, smile flitting on her face. "Have fun."
"I intend to," he purrs, and presses a kiss to her cheek. "I'll tell you all the salacious details tomorrow."
Smiling, Amara shakes her head and squeezes his arm. "Just don't let him break anything important of yours."
That makes Astarion erupt in laughter and he disappears into his tent after the hulking druid. Amara looks at her own tent and her bedroll by the fire, and then chooses Gale's tent instead.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 36: Velvet (Rating: E)
Notes:
This is one of the explicit chapters of this fic! You can skip it if that isn't for you, I've written the scenes to mostly fall within their own chapters so for those who don't enjoy that kind of thing, they can just hop right past!
For everyone else: enjoy 🥰
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXVI
Velvet
Unsure if she could weave the former archmage a whole sky full of aurora borealis, Amara settles for filling the ceiling of Gale's tent with starlight. The soft, floating starlight descends in glowing orbs which slowly fade out of sight.
Amara is still weaving her masterpiece when the tent flaps part, and Gale's eyes find hers first.
"Ah— Amara. There you are. I was… looking…" Slowly, his attention is drawn instead to the night sky contained within his tent. "Did you cast this for me, Áralta?"
Amara just smiles and lays back against the pillows in Gale's tent, which are plush enough to support the both of them now. "Join me, Daoinya. Shall we stargaze?"
Gale holds her gaze for a short moment, and Amara can see the color of his eyes melt, like pools of molten dark chocolate. With a flick of his wrist, almost too casual, Gale casts a complicated spell giving them total privacy, another example of his absolute mastery of the arcane.
He stoops low and crawls closer to her, his hand pressing against the outside of her thigh as he curls himself around her. "You are perfect, do you know that?"
Laughing in delight, Amara settles against his chest and curls her fingers into his hair. "It's been a long while since I've had to romance anyone," she admits. "You make me want to try. I know I am rusty, to say the least."
Gale nudges her nose with his. "You make my head spin, sometimes."
She laughs softly again and nestles in, tangling their feet together. "Still enough awareness about you to pick out some constellations?"
Rubbing a slow circle into her lower back, the human wizard hums. "Shall I draw us up into your creation this time?" he asks. "I should have enough magic left for the evening to do something close to our first night of intimacy— if that's something you'd be interested in."
"Oh," Amara breathes out, and scratches at his scalp soothingly. "We could. You think you could keep my starfield?"
"I could do it justice, I think," he says with a nervous smile. "You don't seem that eager, is there something worrying you?"
"Oh! No," Amara corrects immediately. "No, I apologize if that's the impression I gave, sweetness. I just wasn't considering something like that when I created it."
"I— I don't believe I have the energy to drum up something as magnificent as our last romps," Gale admits.
"Inya," Amara draws out slowly. "Have I given you the impression that… you need to submerge our spirits underwater, or create cloudscape of no gravity, or walk amongst the stars to… please me?"
Gale's eye widen and a look of stricken panic flashes across his face. "Do you not enjoy it?" he asks softly, as if afraid of the answer.
In a venture to settle his nerves, Amara pulls his face to hers. She keeps the kiss soft, repeatedly pressing her lips to his with subtle pressure and angle changes until she feels Gale relax under her, his hand gripping into her waist and a soft groan slipping between his lips for Amara to swallow.
"I adore every moment I spend with you," Amara clarifies first. She kisses him again, long and slow this time, pulling his lower lip into her mouth and gently running her teeth across it, drawing more sounds from the other wizard. "The way you make me me feel is amazing," she continues, tipping Gale's head back and running her tongue along the seam of his lips, and his mouth opens, breath stilled, for her to run her tongue along his.
When he can come up for air, the human gasps and he just manages to say Amara's name a few times. "Amara— Áralta, please…"
"Every magical experience you've poured your soul into has been nothing but incredible," she assures him. "I want more. I always want to see more of your magic. You astound me. Amaze me. I will never get enough of it. But…"
Amara shifts so she's fully on top of him, her leg carefully pressing into Gale's crotch, hiking his leg up.
"I also will always want you," she whispers, before biting into his earlobe above his arcane focus. "You attract me. Arouse me. I will never get enough of you."
"Am— am I enough?" he asks, his fingers tangling in her hair. "Without it? I won't be able to tantalize you the same. I don't know… if it will be good enough for you."
With deft fingers unclasping Gale's robes, Amara tilts her head in curiosity. "Do you not want to have sex with me, if we are not astral projecting?"
Quickly, Gale sits up, cradling Amara in his arms as he holds her aloft. "I never said that!" he insists with vigor. "I didn't— I wouldn't… oh, Amara. It's just… that's what I can offer, don't you see? How can I compete with anyone when I am… am…"
"When you're what?" Amara asks, with even more softness in her tone than normal. "Incandescent? Breathtaking? Radiant? Perfect?"
Gale's face flushes, and he tries to turn his face from the elf, but she gently takes his chin and makes him keep his eyes on her. "Oh," he breathes out, clearly pleased but equally as embarrassed as well. "Perhaps, if you put it that way…"
Amara laughs, and she kisses him deeply, shifting on his lap and feeling the distinct outline of his arousal pressing against her as she is still molded to his body. To get a reaction out of the other wizard, Amara rolls her hips down on him and he breaks away from the kiss with a gasp, steadying her by her hips.
"You absolute…"
That only encourages Amara's laughter more.
She tilts his chin up and with the exposed space, she presses her lips to the darkened vein coming down from his eye and toward his orb, which pulses faintly with light as she showers it in open-mouthed kisses. She continues to strip his robes from his body, and is thankful he's sitting up now so she can manage to pull his clothing away.
Gale's own deft hands manage to undo the ties and lacing of her smallclothes, and before he can even get the flimsy pieces of cloth free from her body, his hands are sliding up her back and around to her chest. Amara breathes out to steady herself before delving in for a kiss as she is immediately hit with wave after wave of pleasure and admiration for the wizard's quick fingers paying attention to her breasts.
They break apart from the kiss, and Amara fixes glittering green eyes on his molten brown ones.
"Is this okay with you?" she asks, threading her fingers through his hair. "I want it, but only if you do."
He gives a nervous laugh. "Oh, wanting it isn't the issue. I want you desperately. I only worry about how good it will be. For you, especially."
"Oh, the quality won't be an issue," Amara echoes him assuredly. "Touch me, Inya."
He mumbles a few curses under his breath as he kneads into her breasts, his thumbs pressing perfectly up against her hardened nipples, which makes Amara gasp, jerking in Gale's lap and pressing back down against his arousal as her eyelids flutter.
"Hah…" Gale breathes out, sounding fascinated and excited. "I've never been able to hear you quite like this. It sounds…"
Amara presses herself up against him, her hands trailing down his bare stomach lazily, and her voice is raspier and deeper with desire. "More salacious this way?" she guesses. "Does it feel like that as well? The sounds you make, the things I make you feel?"
Gale makes a stunted, gasping sound and his stomach muscles flex against Amara's fluttering touch. "It's— it is rather intense," he admits, trying to keep his voice in its normal speaking range.
"If you think this is intense… I will shatter you, tonight," Amara promises, and kisses her lover's swollen lips once more, toying with them using her teeth and running her tongue along the abrased areas. When he is clearly distracted, she drops her hand from his stomach to the hardness currently pressing to the inside of her thigh.
He breaks off the kiss and lays back, his hair spreading around him and sticking to his forehead already, his face flushed a succulent rose hue, Amara watches his every twitch as she lightly squeezes his length, pressing her lithe fingers along the veins she can feel even through his remaining small clothes, and watching as his face twists from the sensation, and his hand comes to cover a moan which nearly spilled from his mouth.
Amara must rectify this.
She reaches up and pulls his hand away. "Oh, I don't think so," she teases. "I want to see you. Hear you. Taste you."
Gale groans, the sound coming from low in his throat, and he nods, his eyes wide and expectant. His chest rises and falls quickly, in anticipation. She makes a show of untying and undoing the clasps of his undergarments, before quickly pulling them down to his thighs, which draws another delicious sound out of his throat.
But Amara wants more.
She'll never feel as though she's gotten enough of him.
Dipping her head down, she presses the flat of her tongue against his leaking tip, curling her mouth around him as he writhes from the sudden warmth and wetness of her mouth, and his hands grip the fabric of his bedding to keep from reaching for Amara herself.
But she so desperately wants him to, so she'll just have to overwhelm his natural instincts.
So she presses her tongue to his velvet arousal and commits to making the wizard lose his mind.
She makes quick work of lavishing him with her lips, tongue, and barest brushes of her teeth, swirling around his girth and using her hand to slowly pump his slickened length until she is able to relax her throat and take him completely into her mouth.
The noise Gale makes as his eyes roll back is addictive, and Amara is only driven more wild feeling the wizard's heels digging into the bedding as his hips attempt to thrust himself down Amara's throat and he desperately tries to stop himself.
She can feel him pulse, and knows she could grip his base more tightly to draw out his orgasm, but she can always just give him more. So, instead, she begins bobbing her head along his length faster, and twice his tip hits the back of her throat, which makes the man seize and cry out with breathy moans that are just wantonly pouring from his mouth.
His hands fly up to her head, pulling down, and more of Gale's length than she's ever taken is swallowed, until she abruptly chokes on the sudden intrusion and the constriction around him must shock the wizard, as he makes a high-pitched choking sound that turns into a open-mouthed groan. Of course, because this is Gale, he lets her go as if that would kill the mood.
Amara slackens her jaw and bobs lower and lower until she chokes again.
And again.
She's salivating around him to the point where her hand pumping his base is making a vulgar slick sound, and it seems as if that drives Gale over the edge. He pulls Amara's head down again, and thrusts deeply down her throat until it constricts around him again—
and he spills down her throat with an incomprehensible string of words that sound mostly like a prayer, as he pants wildly.
Amara continually laps at his length to get every drop, even as Gale makes continuous groaning sounds, once again fisting the sheets below him, and Amara crawls further up his body to kiss him deeply, and spread his own taste across his tongue.
"By the gods," he whispers against her lips, and his eyes are practically black they're so dark, his pupils so blown wide. "By the gods."
"Let them watch," Amara purrs, kissing him again and tangling their tongues together, feeling her lover tremble beneath her. She breaks away, and admires her wizard. Bitten-red, swollen lips, mouth open as he attempts to catch his breath, his coloring a perfect flush, and his eyes wild.
"You will be the death of me," he pants. "How can I… how can I please you? Tell me. I'll do anything."
Amara hums, and runs her nose up along his. "Are you up for it?" she asks carefully. "I hope you realize, the sounds and sights you just gave me will keep me going for weeks."
"Sweet Elysium," Gale says, and his tone is gentle and pleading. "You realize what you are doing to me, don't you? You may be satiated, but please my darling, please. I need you. I want to watch you unravel. I want to see you. Hear you. Taste you."
"Oh, you devil," Amara breathes out, her fingers tracing the edges of his marking again. "Throwing my words back at me."
"I learned from the best," he counters, his hands gliding across Amara's body tantalizingly. "Give and take, you could say. I'd like to return much more than your clever phrasing back to you. Will you let me?"
Amara's breath catches when Gale's palms pass over her breasts once more, before setting to work undoing the last of the laces still holding Amara's small clothes to her body, before tossing them away. "Will I let you? Sweetness, must I beg?"
He gives a low chuckle, deep from his throat, and he pushes Amara back slowly, his fingertips dancing across her body until she's shivering beneath him. "I wouldn't say no," he taunts back. "I believe you would sound quite lascivious begging for me."
Amara's eyes glitter and darken with desire, her lips parting soundlessly as Gale's ministrations grow more confident, caressing up her thighs and over her stomach, kneading into her breasts and slowly swirling around her nipples as they stiffen.
"Then make me," Amara drawls out in challenge, her breathing growing heavier as Gale's talented fingers pinch and twist, rolling her nubs until she can feel it throughout her whole body, like a fire spreading.
Gale merely smiles at this, his expression one of eager possessiveness. "It would be my pleasure."
His lips find hers again, and while he works her up with his relentless hands, he draws more and more stifled sounds from her through open-mouthed, deep kisses. He moves from her lips to her jaw, kissing and nipping across the curve of her face until she gasps as he takes her earlobe between his teeth and lightly sucks it into his mouth.
"Hah— Gale," she exhales, her back arching further into his touch.
The wizard releases her ear, and starts pressing soft kisses down her neck, and when he speaks he leaves his lips there against her skin so she can feel every word. "Feel like begging yet?"
Amara grinds her teeth, closing her mouth over a moan as he presses the flat of his tongue to her neck and licks down its length to her collar bones. With no hesitation, Gale swipes his tongue over one of her nipples, before drawing it into his mouth.
The elf writhes beneath him, and her lips part around a desperate moan, as his tongue and teeth tease her nipple, and his other hands eagerly works her other breast. He even seems to be leaving a trail of fire as his free hand caresses and massages into her body, fingers working into her muscles and curves.
As Amara grows louder, her movements more insistent from Gale working her into a frenzy, the human wizard switches his mouth to her other breast, and returns his hand to her spit-slickened nipple, twisting and flicking the sensitized nub. When Amara makes a particularly deep groan at that, bucking up against Gale, she feels him exhale shakily as if trying to maintain control.
His hand wanders the other side of her body this time, pressing into her stomach and down the curve of her hip, before faltering for the first time since his onslaught began. He swirls his tongue around once more before popping off with a distinctive, slick sound.
"Ga-Gale?" Amara asks, as the other wizard props himself up above her, hovering, and his dark, lustful eyes flick across her flushed body and settle around where his fingers are dancing around the patch of skin on Amara's hip which is rippled from heat.
"What— what is this?" he asks, and those talented, powerful fingers press into the twisted skin.
Catching her breath, Amara realizes what he's touching, and that this may somehow be the first time he's seen it. "Oh, just a burn," she pants out. "Just something— something I got before I met Chronos."
"I didn't know…" Gale whispers, and his focus is still obviously on the scar.
Amara whines, and bucks her hips to get his attention back on her.
"Ah! Apologies," he says worriedly. "I just… I wouldn't have ever known about it, if I stubbornly insisted on singularly magical trysts with you. Even touching you is… you're like velvet."
"You enjoy the finer things, don't you?" she asks, her breathing heavy. "So touch me more."
Gale makes a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. "Are you asking?"
"Gale," Amara whines. "Touch me more."
"Are you begging me to?"
"Gale…"
Hands trail fire down her chest, her stomach, her thighs. Amara tilts her head back, mouth open, gasping, as the heat seems to build and build. Gale's thumbs rub circles into her inner thighs, purposefully teasing and attempting to draw more whining from the elf.
"Please," Amara sighs, her body shivering. "I want you to touch me. I want you, Inya."
Gale's breath catches and he complies immediately, two of his fingers, so much warmer than they should be, swiping through her folds in a way he knows will make her jerk in his grasp. "This bodes poorly for me," he admits in a husky voice. "However will I retain an ability to say no to you, when hearing you beg is this… delicious?"
Amara fixes wild, delirious eyes on him. "Then don't say no."
He moans, and his wrist rotates, his thumb pressing into her clit and rubbing slow circles into it as he works a finger deeper and deeper into her, easing her into it. "What are you doing to me…?" he asks, but Amara's mind is too focused on the symphony of sensations harmonizing with the rumble, the raspiness, of his voice.
She can't even begin to rein in the sounds being wrenched from her throat.
Gale adds another finger, and his other hand begins exploring her body— only this time, instead of trails of fire, her entire body trembles visibly as trails of ice send goosebumps across her.
"You— you…!!" Amara gasps, feeling the duality of temperatures inside and outside her body, as the starfield above her turns periwinkle in color, tinted by the small amount of magic Gale is exuding to control the temperature of his hands.
In lieu of an answer, Gale just returns his mouth - now frigid - to her nipples, as his hand continues to work in and out of her, and the amount of friction and pressure he applies to her clit increases along with the temperature of his fingers.
"Gale— Gale!!" Amara moans out, along with a myriad of other sounds as she chases her mounting pleasure using his hand, thrusting and arching into him.
He starts indiscriminately kissing and sucking at the skin of her chest, leaving a field of markings in his wake, and rapidly switching between hot and cold temperatures as he adds a third finger and begins thrusting in and out of her with wild abandon.
"Gods, look at you," Gale's voice rumbles through Amara's mind and settles there, making her light headed.
Desperate, dark green eyes open to meet heady, practically black ones.
Gale lets out a groan of satisfaction. "There's that starving look, even when I have you against my hand, a writhing, dripping mess, moaning my name… you still want more."
Gale presses savagely against her walls, glides in and out of her heated, soaked folds before pressing up against her clit and there's a pop of arctic chill that spreads through Amara's veins with such intensity that she can't even make a sound— just sucks in air between her teeth before her mouth falls open in a silent moan.
"Sweet Hells," Gale breathes out, his voice echoing in Amara's ears as her body trembles against his continued ministrations, which begins to make the most debauched sounds Amara can recall hearing, as Gale's fingers once again soak heat into her walls. "You're divine. Illustrious. Exquisite."
Panting, Amara just barely manages to catch Gale's bare shoulder, pulling him closer to her. "Inya," she whines, her voice breaking in the middle. "Gale…"
"Yes, sweet thing?" he practically purrs, his lips hovering over Amara's, his breath coating her spit-slickened lips.
"Please…"
Lowering himself slightly, Gale captures her lips in a kiss, and when a pleased chuckle rumbles through him, it vibrates through their joined lips and makes Amara gasp, breaking their kiss. "You'll have to be more specific, Áralta."
The elf threads her fingers through his hair, and yanks him back down into a crushing kiss, her back arching to press their bodies together. An intense thrum of pleasure races through Amara's veins when she swallows the sound that startles out of her wizard.
"I'm ready," she manages to say, their heavy breaths mingling as their mouths part. "I want to feel you inside me. Please."
"Gods help me," Gale whispers against the corner of her mouth.
Amara wracks her brain for a clever response to that, but has hardly enough time before suddenly Gale withdraws his hand from his relentless ministrations, and sets his wide, large palm against her sternum, pressing her down with authority which sends her head spinning.
He sits back, and looks down at her, his eyes impossibly dark, drinking in his position over her salaciously. It makes Amara's mouth go dry, to see him looking so confident and— almost arrogant. She catches a flash of his tongue as he licks his lip, and his calloused palm, still slick from Amara, slides down his toned abdomen to take himself in his hand.
"Chronos break my hands…" Amara mutters, her heart racing so quickly that it roars in her ears. His entire body moves, muscles glistening and flexing, as he prepares himself and positions his body above Amara's, his free hand grasping her hip right over her burn scar, cupping it protectively.
Beautiful dark eyes meet pleading green ones.
"Are you—"
"Please. Please, Gale, please! I need it, I need you—"
Gale sinks into her— it's not a single thrust of practiced hips, but the slide itself is so slick and so easy that the burn of the stretch just makes her throw her head back in ecstasy. Clever lips find Amara's neck, and suddenly the burn becomes quite literal.
"Oh! Oh— Gale," she gasps, feeling his magic sink through her body once again, the inferno in her body only becoming more stoked as the heat builds and builds.
"Fuck," the wizard curses, his mouth still pressed to the hollow of Amara's throat, his teeth catching. His voice seems even deeper when swearing, somehow, and Amara groans wantonly. "I won't last long if— if you keep that up," he assures her, his tongue licking a stripe up to her jawline, while he slides in and out of her with a steady, unfaltering rhythm that stretches and spreads Amara apart, growing more and more heated by the second.
Desperate for something to push her over the edge, Amara grabs onto Gale, her nails biting into his skin as she rocks her hips up in time with his thrusts, hearing the effect this has on the wizard immediately.
"You're perfect," Amara pants, managing to catch Gale's eyes as their rhythm starts to fall apart. "You feel so good. You're so good, Daoinya."
Gale's eyes flutter shut, squeezing in focus, and his pace increases faster— faster. His head drops to her shoulder and he grabs her by the hips to yank her up, shifting the angle to allow him to thrust in even more, fill her even deeper.
Amara archs up into his body, this time able to vocalize her mind-numbing pleasure as Gale flips his soft heat into an arctic chill, and her orgasm rattles through her, causing her to clench around the wizard even tighter than before.
His mutterings of prayer-like pleas are met with Amara wrapping her legs around him.
"In— in me," she requests. "Please. Want to feel you."
Utterly without rhythm now and just chasing his pleasure, Gale still shakes his head. "We sh-shouldn't," he manages to say, his voice raw.
"Already drank something," Amara pants out, whining. "Please. I knew I wanted this."
She feels more than sees Gale look around his own tent, and when he buries himself into her, she is comforted that he must have seen her tea set and the satchel of leaves she bought specially for situations like this beside it.
Burying his face along the side of her neck, which is peppered with evidence of his affections, Gale lets out a deep, full-bodied moan and his hands grip her hips tight enough to bruise. "Oh, fuck…" he pants, another curse so quickly.
Amara turns and presses her lips to his forehead, just trying to catch her breath. "By the gods, Gale, didn't you say you hadn't done that in a while?" she teases, shifting slightly when Gale practically collapses on top of her, still inside her.
His responding chuckle warms her throughout, his chilled Weave dissipating. "My dear," he croaks out, his voice obviously wrecked from all the sounds Amara had pulled out of him. "As pleased as I am to hear you enjoyed it as well, you have shattered me. I shall never be the same."
"Gale," Amara chastises, holding back laughter. "You have had sex before, we've discussed this."
The wizard makes a surprised grumble and is clearly holds back laughter of his own as he props himself up, and slowly extracts his body from Amara's, his tent filling with soft periwinkle light as he begins cleaning them up using his magic.
When she feels a familiar tingle around her hips, she reaches out and grabs his wrist.
"Wait," she requests. "Leave the bruises."
That seems to startle Gale. "Wha— but they're, ahm… you probably can't see them, Amara, but they are quite obviously… handprints."
Amara makes a pleased, purring sort of sound. "You were that aggressive?"
He sags slightly, and lays back on his bedroll, delicately drawing Amara against him so she can sprawl across his chest. "I… did not realize. I was not entirely myself, I fear. You are right, I have had physical sex, but as I said… it has been a while. I'd forgotten, or never experienced, how good it actually feels. I became… overwhelmed."
Letting out a slow hum, Amara starts tracing patterns across his chest, over the orb.
"I liked it," she states bluntly, thinking the direct approach best.
"You— you did?"
"I like you a little wild," she teases, but quickly takes on a more serious tone so he doesn't think she's joking. "I like every side of you. Even more than that, I like drawing out new ones. Meeting all the different facets of you. I love you."
Gale buries his face in Amara's untamed, tangled hair. "Oh, Amara…"
"Thank you for indulging me."
"Hah… I should be thanking you. I haven't felt so good in years."
Amara laughs lightly. "I shall keep that in mind, when you are least expecting it."
"Oh, surprise sex. Heathenous of you."
"Yes, I know. How do you hold affections for me, I wonder."
"It is indeed a mystery. I am a most generous and magnanimous wizard, you know."
"Whatever would I do without you?"
"Not have sex until you're delierious, for one."
Amara waits a beat before suddenly erupting in laughter and burying her face in the crook of his neck.
She certainly does feel a bit delirious.
But she wouldn't have it any other way.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 37: Sunrise
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXVII
Sunrise
That morning, the sun rises.
Amara wakes Gale to watch it pierce through the murk of the shadows, which they do in silence. Each beam of light to make it through creates a glow about the camp that seems impossible and beautiful and ethereal.
Dawn touches Last Light with tender fingers, caressing each sleeping figure until they rouse with curiosity and awe.
*The curse has been lifted, the lands cleansed of the shadows. Ketheric's reign of living death is over.*
The golden touch of dawn becomes actually magical, spreading an almost spidery spread of light that touches the stone and petrified vine about the landscape, spreading like wildfire and consuming everything it touches. Shadow burns away in a brilliant flash of golden light, and in the place of the dead grass, the thorny vines, and the crawling, spear-like branches grows new life.
*Your courage has been tested, and in this, at least, you have triumphed.*
Flowers bloom. Trees sprout. Grass waves in the wind.
Golden light drifts across the sky.
And it's beautiful.
"We did that," Gale says softly to her. "Remember that, Áralta."
"Believe me, I won't soon forget," she assures him, and stands. "Come. We have much to prepare."
Since the camp is mostly awake, it isn't hard to get packing. The packing itself isn't the cleanest nor the fastest job any of them have done, since each of them continually get distracted by rays of the sun breaking through the shadow, and new growth happening all around them.
But for some reason, that only makes this time all the more special.
They strap everything down into their two carts and Amara tends to their animals, preparing them for the journey. Jaheria joins her to help connect their oxen to the carts. "Your little group seems skilled at this," she comments. "In fact, they're admirably skilled at most everything."
"Aren't they just?" Amara gushes lovingly. "If I wasn't leading them, I'd be content just… watching them."
She tightens a strap and turns bright eyes to the elf. "When you first arrived, Halsin and I had a discussion— he expressed how he always felt he couldn't participate, could only watch. Seeing how much they mean to you, I can only say I can see where he's coming from."
"I'd like to think he feels more included now," Amara says, glancing at the large druid currently trying to wrangle not any animals, but both Lae'zel and Shadowheart. "And I hope you'll come to feel the same now that we're travelling together— though that makes me realize I don't know much about you."
"That speaks well of your taste," Jaheria teases in good nature. "I've heard my share of bad ballads about things I never did. If you have questions, ask. Just don't expect my answers to rhyme."
Amara laughs freely. "Believe me, I once told my own story in rhyme— it's more trite than I was expecting. I'll stick with regular questions with regular answers. Is it true that you've fought the Dead Three before this?"
Jaheria considers the question and gives a quick shake of her head. "It was Bhaal alone we faced in our time— and bad as that was, he had no elder brain for a lapdog then." Her expression grows more serious and contemplative. "Help won't come from the history books, Amara, or from any old tales I can spin you. This is your story to write."
"Ah, I make a poor author," Amara teases. "My only redeeming quality is my penmanship."
"Then at least it shall be splendid to look at," Jaheria says with a gleam in her eye. "There: have I fulfilled my role as your wise and wisened elder?"
"Elder— hush, you," Amara drawls. "You're not that old." Her wide eyes regard the half-elf. "Are you?"
With a gleam in her eyes, the half-elf smirks. "I've passed enough years that counting them is a waste of what remains,"she says sagely. "Which is to say— yes. I am that old."
Amara laughs uproariously and holds onto the other woman's arm. "These lips are sealed," she says with another chuckle. "I'm going to go check on the caravan— we should be ready to head out."
She checks on everyone, and finds Arabella running around trading a few basic spells with Gale instead of helping, before Karlach scoops her up and starts running around the emptied camp with her. Halsin and Wyll tries to wrangle them back in line, while Lae'zel makes smart comments leaning up against one of the carts. Astarion gets a kick out of watching Shadowheart try to get the other oxen situated.
Amara wishes this moment could last forever.
It could— but she wouldn't do that. There's something… unnatural about that.
Instead, she just watches. Smiles. Kisses her lover when he finds her.
She says goodbye to the last tenday of her life— which took over a month to snap through.
Last Light disappears behind them and Amara watches it over several glances until she can't see it any longer— it marks a kind of somberness to leave it behind. Still, she is beyond pleased to see it coated in a glow of golden light fluttering through the air as they go.
Amara does have to snap twice— the roads are still too treacherous for their carts to pass safely, but the only one who notices is Gale, who merely looks over at her both times with knowing eyes. The journey is slow but markedly easier than previous ones— there's an occasional need to defend the caravan from an errant gnoll or the like, but for the most part it's steady progress.
And steady progress is more than Amara can say she's experienced in this whole thing so far.
"Here it is, up ahead," Jaheria indicates as the sun begins sinking below the horizon. "Wyrm's Lookout. We should stop here for the night. A minimal camp will suit us— uh…" Guiltily, she looks up at Amara.
The elven wizard laughs. "Just be yourself, Jaheria. In all honestly, I feel your exhaustion to my bones as well. Sharing a leadership role wouldn't be a hardship for me."
"Kind of you to admit it," the druid says with a huff. "Very well, if I won't insult your honor as a leader. Let us gather a minimal amount for camp— leave the tents in the carts, we shall be fine sheltering in the lookout itself."
"You heard the lady," Amara says with a twinkle to her eye. She hops off the cart and starts unloading a few things with Wyll and Karlach, until her and the tiefling get distracted running around the lookout.
"Gotcha!" Karlach hollers, tackling Amara to the ground with her tail.
Amara roars with laughter and they roll around for a few moments panting and giggling. "Oh— we should… we should get back down there," she manages to say.
"Aww, but you were smiling so sweetly," the tiefling compliments, her tail thrashing side to side. "And the longer we stall, the longer I can ignore that Gortash is in there."
"Oh, Adon," she coos. "We'll get him."
Intense brown eyes, pupil slitted like a feline's, snap to Amara's soft green ones. "I'm going to want to kill him," she warns in a low voice.
"Just send a thought or a prayer up that we don't have to kill Bane when we kill him," Amara gripes. "It's not that greasy-haired, gold-wearing Banite I'm worried about."
Chuckling under her breath, Karlach helps Amara up, and the two of them look over the edge of the wall, toward the city in the distance.
*Beyond the campsite, the city waits in uneasy silence— one sleep away.*
Amara groans. "Is your narrator being ominous about the city?"
"I think she just likes to tease you," Karlach says with a smile. "Mine is very sweet to me."
Amara grins viciously. "Trade?"
Karlach just picks the elf up by the waist and slings her over her shoulder. Amara screams as the tiefling just starts running back down through the lookout, and Amara sees various traveling companions of theirs - tieflings, Flaming Fist, the like - jumping out of their way.
Amara is only set back down once they reach where their smaller party appears to be making camp.
"About time," Astarion drawls condescendingly. "Were you two planning on helping, or just playing here where it will be more annoying?"
"Annoying," Amara answers immediately. "Do you have something we can light on fire?"
"Ooh, fire!" Karlach claps her hands together.
Gale laughs under his breath and gestures to the gathered elements for their cooking pit. "Start dinner, you heathens."
Amara brandishes a knife and several vegetables at the tiefling. "Chef," she addresses.
Karlach bows her head and accepts the items. "Chef," she returns the address.
Astarion lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a growl, while all the others are giggling or smiling.
They struggle a little bit - Gale, is this chopped too small? When you clean the chicken, do you mean defeather or… skin it? Or…? Bath…? Gale— come taste this, is it too sour? More salt? How dark does something have to get before it counts as being burned? - but they make dinner!
You almost can't tell Gale didn't make it.
Haha… yeah.
"Excellent work, chef," Amara compliments as she finishes her last bite.
"Oh, the credit goes to you, chef," Karlach responds, smiling wildly.
They look at each other and dissolve into snickering again.
Amara rolls her bedding out between where Gale and Astarion already have theirs, ignoring that it overlaps since they're all so close, and stretches out amidst the plethora of blankets that Wyll and Halsin found and dumped into the camp. There's a haze of peacefulness in the air, a kind of softness that Amara would ordinarily be comforted by, but she's consumed by a restlessness all the same.
Astarion grumbles when he discovers Amara and Arabella sprawled in the blankets right next to his bedroll, but ten minutes later, he's curled up at the elf's side. Shadowheart comes next, meditating on her bedroll, before Karlach tackles her to the ground and envelops her in a tight embrace in a mess of blankets instead of on a particular bedroll. Wyll tries his best to arrange pillows for them, and lays out on his own bedding. Gale wraps both the elf and the tiefling in his arms as they've fully migrated onto his bedding at this point, and summons another layer of blankets to cover them. Lae'zel comes freshly bathed, and drags Halsin from whatever he was fussing with to their circle of blankets to curl up in.
Silence settles.
The fire crackles, dims.
*The events of the last days weigh heavily upon you,* Amara's narrator says sagely. *Sleep's rest is slow to come to one whose mind is so full.*
She licks her lips. There's a sour, acrid taste on her tongue— death.
*The Absolute is not a god, but an elder brain controlled by the Chosen of the Dead Three. They mean to use it to take control of the Sword Coast. All who carry the tadpole are governed by the brain, and by extension, the Chosen. It will take but one order to transform them into an army of mind flayers.*
…Great.
This narrator is a treat. What a skilled comforter.
*This would have been your fate too, were it not for the Astral Prism and the mysterious visitor inside of it. With her help, you have uncovered the cult for what is really is— a plan of conquest orchestrated by the gods of death themselves. Together, you have the power to thwart the Dead Three.*
What, is her narrator in cahoots with that thing? Amara is not a fan.
*If you follow this path to its end, the elder brain will not answer to the Chosen. It will answer to you.*
Have you learned nothing about Amara, narrator?
*Will you liberate them from their parasites and their religious delusions? Or will you use the power you gain for your own purposes?*
Yes, because Amara is the kind of person who has "purposes". If she were to declare a "purpose" at all, it would be to end the suffering happening at the hands of the cult. There is no such thing as ending the suffering of the world; without suffering, there would not be balance, but evil can still be rooted out where it does not belong. Where it is being brutally forced on the world.
Amara will free everyone from this machination— difficulty be damned.
Baldur's Gate was a home to her for many years. She'll protect it.
*You will not have long to wait. All you need to do now is sleep…*
That's… unnerving— Amara does not like that her eyelids are growing heavier just because her narrator would declare it so.
There's a tug on her psyche like… frustration.
*But sleep is not for you.*
A voice splits through Amara's mind. "Hear me. Gather. The reckoning is upon us," The pain shakes Amara to her bones and she writhes on her bedding,thrashing in place, "The city thirsts for domination," the Absolute's voice echoes in her brain, tearing at the its folds.
The Prism flies for Amara's hand, but when she reaches for it, it dashes from her grip.
"No," she utters, falling back and clutching at her skull. A glance around her shows her companions all roiling with agony, while Halsin rouses himself and tries his best to understand what is assaulting the minds on his friends. Jaheria enters from the neighboring room, her weapons drawn.
"March," the Absolute orders. "Join my power."
"No," Amara growls. "Never." She reaches forward, trying to grab for the Prism, but it darts from her grasp once more and she sinks back to her hands and knees, trying to claw her way forward after it.
Hovering in the air, the Prism shutters and then opens the same swirling purple-blue portal that the dream visitor stepped out of last time. This time, though, the visage of a trusted adult from Amara's childhood doesn't step through the portal— three githyanki do.
They're immediately under attack, their minds reeling from the continued assault from the Absolute, and all of them were caught by complete surprise. Halsin jumps in front of Amara to protect her from the blade of one of the githyanki, and Shadowheart just manages to conjure a Shield over Lae'zel when a martial attack flies in her direction.
Wyll rolls over, watching the third gith make a beeline for them, and his eyes meet Amara's as both of them struggle not to get sick. He is unarmed, and his body seems to spark with the power of the hells as he uses his magic instead.
Over the entietry of the area near the Prism's portal, Wyll spreads the Hunger of Hadar, and yanks the gith angling for Karlach forward, forcing their face into the dirt, using a Sorrowful Lash. Between Amara and Gale, the Weave descends in a defensive flurry, around La'zel who run forward without weapons drawn.
"State your purpose!" she hollers at them. "Stand down!"
One of them rages, eyes wet with malice. "We stand down to no one, Hshar'lak!"
"Don't speak to them," the voice of the dream visitor insists. "Fight your way to the portal. I need your help!"
"Damn," Amaa curses. "At arms! To the portal!"
One of the gith runs out of Wyll's field of Hunger, but before she makes it three steps away, Karrlach cleaves her clean through. "I can make it if I sprint!" she yells back to Amara.
"Run!" Amara yells back.
"I'll cover you, cub," Jaheria adds, and suddenly vines rip up from the floor and entangle any of them in pursuit of Karlach.
Amara Steps after her and sees Gale Jaunt his way past two of the gith, Wyll deacivates his Hunger and takes off with Shadowheart, as Halsin protects them from pursuers. Lae'zel lags behind, so Astarion has to distract her, and Karlach scoops her off the ground and bodily takes her through the portal.
It isn't until a moment later that they're all through.
Of course, they go from an ambush to total chaos. A massive skull formed out of some unnatgural material comes crashing to the astral plane's otherworldly ground, shattering several of the crystals sticking out of it. Inside the hollow of the skull, some sort of multi-faceted iridescent orb is undulating.
Lovely.
Oh, that just can't be good.
Of course, there are even more githyanki within the world of Amara's dreams with her dream guardian, They're on the move— shockingly so, and all headed for the unknown skull which crashed to the ground. The moment one of them reaches it, he delivers a solid punch to the rainbow, undulating sphere, and it struggles to maintain its shape but ultimately bursts.
Shit.
Oh, that just can't be good.
"Where's our dream guardian?" she yells over the chaos, trying to locate flashes of golden hair and paladin armor.
"I'm here—" her voice resonates, but still in Amara's mind. "Help me! I'm under attack!"
Amara exchanges a panicked glance with a few of her companions, and helplessly just has to rush forward. "Where?" she demands, Stepping forward and focusing all her mana on moving across the landscape, throwing bombs and fire-based spell scrolls whenever anyone takes notice of her.
She notices something strange immediately.
There are intellect devourers crawling over the rocky land.
Except— they aren't attacking Amara, similar to how they treated her in Moonrise, they're rather… friendly. Something about that unnerves her.
Behind her, Gale showers the field with flaming spells, and Wyll pulls anyone not in the inferno in with Sorrowful Lash, and casts buffs on anyone within range. Glittering with Infernal Weave, Karlach leaps into battle, slashing through the armor of githyanki like it's made of paper.
"Hurry!" the dream visitor howls in panic. "I can't hold them back alone!"
Finally on the move, Lae'zel crosses blades with one of them. "Gish! I demand to know what it is you are after! As another of Vlaakith's faithful—"
"Hshar'lak!! Die!!"
The attack on her is brutal, and Shadowheart and Astarion have to come to her rescue— the rogue backstabs her attacker while the cleric rapidly stitches together the gash across her chest.
Between Amara, Gale, and Karlach, the rest of the gith's forces wean.
"It's not over— come to the skull!"
Oh, fuck off with that— Amara wants to grab at her hair. Or the dream visitor's hair for that matter, that Aurelia impersonator.
With a series of jumping and magical movements, they reach the skull and Amara staggers backward at the sight of it. Seemingly restrained, bound and gagged within the skull, is another githyanki. The gith swarm the restrained man— and have to fend off intellect devourers and even flying rocks, being flung by… a mind flayer.
A mind flayer.
There's a moment where time seems to slow, where her Chronomancy offers her the chance to intervene.
Amara holds her breath— she lets time continue to tick.
A githyanki woman runs toward the mind flayer, and for a moment— Amara recalls Omeluum. All it tried to do for her despite just meeting her, as furious as she was with how "shop around" seems a complete failure of a tactic. The priceless ring she still wears on her finger, that it gave up despite knowing the risks.
If it was friendly— perhaps…
The mind flayer throws another rock, but the gith dodges, and Amara doesn't move to intervene, still letting time tick on.
With a brutal kick, the illithid goes flying back and the prisoner of the skull seems to rouse from his vegetative state. Before the githyanki can reach him, however, they vanish, leaving Amara and her party still reeling from the psychic attack outside the portal, and the battle the followed.
The illithid turns over, and beady purple eyes snap to Amara's. Unlike the malice the leaked from the mind flayer she once met on a beach, this creature looks at Amara with…
hope.
"Before you do anything," it says, still into her mind. A hand is extended as if to stay Amara's, should she choose to order his demise. "I am your ally," it stresses, desperately.
Amara's eyes trail over the vestments it wears. Their size… their grandeur… the color of its eyes.
She… recognizes this illithid.
"We are in DANGER." The fear, being pumped directly into Amara's mind, overpowers the pain still roiling through her. She has to focus. The creature points in the direction of the skull. "The githyanki is the source of our protection against the Absolute. I MUST subdue him or everything we've worked toward is lost."
Looking at the methods at which the gith man would be… subdued, Amara is positive she isn't going to have a favorable response to this.
"I know that look," it stresses to her. "Believe me, I know your heart will protest, but you must trust me. Don't let my form deceive you."
And oh… Amara is connecting dots probably faster than the illithid would like her to, now.
It struggles to stand, wanting to appear more trustworthy and less… well. Amara won't say that. "I am the one that's been protecting you," it confirms. "I am the one that came to you in your dreams."
And, Amara suspects, the one who infected them in the first place.
Chosen.
But why? Why them? And how? How did it know?
"Help me," it begs, hand extended toward her.
Amara turns her eyes up to the creature. "Prove it to me," she says softly, and those purple eyes never leave hers. "Prove to me that you are who you say."
It seems almost eager to comply. "You saved a child from a viper, back in the druids' grove. You saved the aasimar Nightsong from her soul cage. You saved the tiefling and restored his oath. Though it cost you a favor from a god." The way it speaks… almost as if it's reminiscing itself.
"You seem to recall the kinder parts of this adventure."
It hesitates slightly. "It has been an expected bright spot in a world of darkness. I would have relied on you regardless of your personality, but the choices you made… allowed me the opportunity to like you, as well. A luxury, given our situation. Truthfully, your continued existence as yourself and not a mind flayer should be all the proof you need."
"Anyone observing or even hearing of our adventures might know those things," Amara says, and she steps closer to it. "How do I know you're the thing that stole Aurelia's face?"
Surprise bursts in Amara's mind, and she realizes it's from the mind flayer.
"You knew… have you always known?"
"I felt it, but… only when I saw you outside of my dreams was I able to place the name."
Its eyes simmer with emotion. "I told you about my room in the Elfsong Tavern, that night when you held me. I was vulnerable— you comforted me. It was something only we shared."
Amara holds its gaze for a moment, but nods. It's enough for her.
"Now HELP ME!"
"All right, all right! How do I help?"
"The guard," it says immediately. "Destory the guard. They prevent me from subduing their master. Oh, don't look at me like that, Amara. There is no other choice. Do it. NOW!"
Lae'zel catches her elbow. "Aid an illithid against githyanki?" she breathes out, horrified. "We cannot, we must not!"
The mind flayer closes its eyes. "Your blind loyalty will be your undoing, Lae'zel," it proffers. "Fight with me. For your own survival."
Panicked ochre eyes meet steady green ones.
"Calm yourself, Lae. We do nothing if not learn in this moment."
Amara watches her words filter though the githyanki woman's mind, before understanding cools her furious expression.
If this is a poor choice, Amara will take it back.
Lae'zel nods and steps down— impossible things really do happen.
After all, it is both Amara's greatest strength and most dangerous shortcoming that she often gets away with impossible things. This situation included, apparently.
The illithid extends its hand to her. "Together we can turn the tide."
"I expect answers for this," Amara stresses, and readies another burst of Weave in her hands, which rains Missiles down on the githyanki near the skull.
They rally, yelling in their native tongue, and Amara sets her jaw.
Surprisingly, it's Lae'zel who leaps into action next, devastating the nearest monk before Shadowheart can be attacked with a flurry of Lacerating blades. Her expression is pinched, but her ever move is determined.
Fierce.
*A knock raps at your mind.*
Amara's lashes flutter as she processes the harshness of it, but she opens her bond and Lae'zel's emotions flood into her. Determined, but reluctant. Confident, but concerned. Collected, but… scared.
"Do you know the gith man in the bonds?" Amara asks, dodging a blow and raining a Fire Bolt back in return. Her eyes follow Wyll as he blankets the battlefield in lashing Hunger, watches Astarion's cunning sneak attacks as he plays Excecutioner to all those who flee from Wyll's field of control, and takes in the brutality of Karlach moving with considerable speed and efficiency within the field as if unaffected— cleaving through enemies as if they were made of air.
"I do not," Lae'zel responds, and her own keen eyes follow Shadowheart casting Guardian of Faith, and throwing a spear made of pure moonlight, and Gale bombarding the battlefield with Scorching bullets into the githyanki. "But they are my people. I feel… split."
And Amara can feel it.
"I know," she responds, because they share their emotions on an intimate level. "I won't allow the maiming to be senseless, Lae, you know that."
Amara gestures widely, wrist snapping, and with a boasted incantation she rains a Knife of ice into the heart of the final githaynki, and the battlefield stills.
"I do know," the fighter responds. "I trust you."
"I won't let you down."
The illithid floats closer to the bound gith, and with a sharp gesture, it forces his head back until he ceases his struggling. The skull's sphere reforms its barrier, and after waiting to confirm that everything is steady, the illithid turns back to Amara and her party who are healing.
It floats back down to her.
"Thank you," it says. "That was too close."
Amara licks her teeth.
"Don't look at me like that," it says, making Amara realize she must have been making some type of face. "I am a mind flayer, yes. Without me you would be a slave to the Absolute."
"Of all the beings to be indebted to… a bloody mind flayer," Shadowheart says with a huff.
Amara just smiles at her. "Truly, what other option is there? Doesn't it just… make sense?"
Wyll glances up at her. "There is no way you knew she was a mind flayer all this time."
"Perhaps not a mind flayer per se," Amara admits with a smirk. "But that woman you were seeing this whole time was a visage from my childhood. I knew… it was a disguise, at least."
The illithid's eyes light with concern. "I suppose it was… considerate of you not to bring it up before. And I ask that you do not judge me for it now. It's like I said before— I'm just like you."
Amara tilts her head. "If I were attempting to gain the trust of those who should fear me, I could see using a disguise myself. Now that the disguise has been dropped, I'll ask you again, illithid— who are you? And I'm going to need a name this time."
Those beady purple eyes burn as they look at her.
"You may call me the Emperor," it says, clearly having a flare for the dramatic. "I was once… an adventurer. I came from Baldur's Gate, though I was never one to be constrained by circumstance. I longed for more."
*Your mind ripples; the Emperor requests entry. Would you like to allow it?*
Amara blinks, but she doesn't hesitate to allow it. The images fill her mind a moment later, of a man in a green hood overlooking the sprawling ciy of the Gate, and he stands, the Weave dancing at his fingertips, an expert casting of Feather Fall.
"That longing brought me to Moonrise Towers on a search for treasure. To a colony of mind flayers who caught me, changed me into what I am now."
In her visions from the Emperor, the hooded figure in green approaches a version of the Towers in much more pristine conditions, before flashing to show him tied up in a dark dungeon surrounded by illithids, one of which extends a… familiar worm gripped in ebony talons.
"For years I served the elder brain— the one you know as the Absolute," it explains.
The vision shows… the pulsing, undulating brain as it glows an unsettling red, surrounded by floating illithids. Dozens of them. All… loyal to that sticky, visera-covered brain.
"I was a thrall like any other. But I was fortunate. I broke free, and started a new life in my old city."
A dark alleyway, footsteps echoing against the stone. A man in leather, looking over his shoulder at… something chasing him. A moon high above, and a silhouette of… the pursuer.
"I sustained myself on criminals. Unglamorous, but there were plenty of them, rarely missed, and they fuelled me while I did my work."
A cloaked illithid - the Emperor, it seems - devours the man in a vision so real it gives Amara goose bumps.
"I had the good fortune to meet Duke Stelmane. We formed a partnership, and through her I became the governing force behind the Knights of the Shield, the largest mercantile operation in Baldur's Gate. People referred to me as the Emperor— such was my influence. Though, of course, they had no idea what I really was."
From the visions, Amara sees that the Emperor is disguised but… not that well.
"My needs were sated. I was… happy."
It lounges in a large stone seat, wine glass in hand, across from a smiling Duke Stelmane who tips her glass in its direction.
"Happy… for a while. Until my true nature was discovered by the tyrant himself— Lord Gortash."
The vision swings to a familiar man— still just as coated in gold as he was standing in the depths of the Towers, arrogance and a kind of giddy delight on his face in this memory of the Emperor's. It's thrown to the ground, and quickly taken once again into the grasp of the elder brain.
When the Emperor closes their connect, it's abrupt, but gentle.
"He tore me from my home and brought me back to the brain where I became a slave once again. A slave he continued to call the Emperor. The name was intended as a slight— to remind me of the heights from which I fell. But I have grown fond of it. It encapsulates well who I've become."
Amara's hand twitches as if to reach for the illithid, but she restrains herself. "So… when you said you knew Lord Gortash…"
"Indeed," it confirms Amara's unspoken words. "His hubris knows no bounds. To enslave me, that was his nature. But to enslave an elder brain? A questionable decision. I shall look forward to sharing his downfall with you."
Amara looks across the ruined Astral Plane.
"If he saw to your enslavement again… how did you end up in here?"
It regards her warily. "Gortash sent me on a mission to retrieve the Astral Prism. I was one of many, but the first to find it. How Gortash or the other Chosen learned of its existence, I do not know. The moment I found it, I felt a change. My free will returning. I followed the feeling inside— and found the githyanki. I realized what the Prism was for— containment."
"For him?" Amara asks, looking over at the githyanki. "Or for you?"
Those eyes deep set within its skull narrow. "While my body was within the Prism's bounds, my mind was free. I could resist the elder brain, the Chosen. Better yet, I could plan to overthrow them. All I needed to do was subdue the githyanki and find allies in the outer world. You."
Amara looks over at where the gith man is suspended.
"…Do not look at him like that," the illithid requests. "I do not do this out of… desire to see him like that. I derive no pleasure from this. It simply is a means to an end, until the danger is no more."
"You'll let him free then?" Amara asks.
Those purple eyes burn.
She asks something else. "Who is he?"
"Prince Orpheus, son of the first leader of the githyanki."
"Orpheus?" Lae'zel snaps, disbelieving and accusatory. "Impossible. He was slain by the Jhe'stil Kith'rak himself!"
"Quite possible, I assure you," it stresses succinctly. "His power has been the source of your continued protection against the voice of the Absolute— the power to disrupt hivemind communication. It is the same power that enabled Orpheus' mother to bring about the fall of the Illithid Empire eons ago, a power she passed on to him, and that I leveraged for you."
"It lies!" Lae'zel cries. "Ghaik trickery!"
"When Orpheus' mother left, a usurper took her place— Vlaakith declared herself 'queen' of the githyanki. Vlaakith wanted his power, but Orpheus rose against her. And so she sealed him and his loyal honor guard within this Prism. Bound by infernal chains, Orpheus could never leave. Bound by duty, his guard never would. They were close to breaking my hold on their prince— and if they had succeeded, we would be lost."
"Have they not… tried before?"
The Emperor's eyes flash. "Eliminating them was difficult on my own. I am relieved you have embraced your potential enough to assist me. Alone, Orpheus will be much easier to control."
"Do the githyanki wish to… free him?"
"Some githyanki still revere him, in defiance of their teachings. Vlaakitch was safe as long as they believed him to be dead. But as you can see, he is very much alive."
Lae'zel looks helplessly between Amara and the Emperor. "I don't understand," she asserts. "The histories claim the prince was burned to ash in the skies.
"Your histories are fabrications," it levels at the githyanki woman, whose eyes widen as she reels back ever so slightly. "The prince was not killed, as you can very well see— he was imprisoned."
Okay. A little harsh.
"She kept him this way because she was reluctant to readicate such power, power that she might one day wish to take from him. If the githyanki ever find out what she has done, there will be civil war. Vlaakith will be finished."
Amara licks her teeth, rubs her fingers together. "How did Gortash and the other Chosen find out about the Astral Prism, then? If it was such a close secret for Vlaakith to keep?"
"A very good question. One that I have been unable to answer. That Orpheus lives at all is ruinous to Vlaakith— she has done everything in her power to keep his existence a secret. That Gortash and the Chosen found out about it… this is impossible to explain. But it was important enough that Gortash sent me to retrieve it."
"You and half the True Souls we came across…" Amara mutters. "Is his power transferable? Why has she not taken it yet?"
"There may come a time when that is necessary, but there is not guarantee that his power would survive his passing. The risk is too great."
Amara glares at it. She did not mean to imply killing him, and it should know that.
"The moment his protection is gone, you would become enthralled to the elder brain just as I would. We may look different, but to the elder brain we are already the same— thralls in its design."
She considers the creature for a moment. "We are… alike in other ways too, I should think."
"You are already more illithid than you realize— it has improved you. You seek to reverse an inevitable process, a process of evolution. When I first escaped from the elder brain, I too rallied against the change. But the longer I have inhabited this form, the more it has grown on me. Even if my original body remained intact after I transformed, I would not return to it. Doing so would only impose limitations. As an illithid, I have far surpassed who I ever was before. You, too, should embrace this change."
Amara opens her mouth, but slowly closes it and presses her lips into a thin line.
"I believe we'll have a better chance of defeating the elder brain if you embrace your latent illithid potential," it continues to argue. "I've been studying you for a while now. I believe I can trigger the next stage of your tadpole's lifecycle while continuing to preserve your independence. You haveseen what I can do. Imagine yourself with the same strength. The same intelligence. The same devastating beauty. If you let me, I can evolve you."
"Emperor, I… I…"
*Even as you struggle with the words, you feel a lurch of disappointment. Your mind bristles with illithid potential. How could you be so cruel as to deny yourself what you want most in the world?*
Amara shuts the feeling down with such ferocity that it's a marvel something does not burst in her skull.
*The feeling withers away, and once more, your mind is your own.*
"I felt that," the Emperor says, in a softer voice. "I should have known, from watching you. This is… simply not something you desire. You see the value. You just…"
"…Don't want it," Amara finishes for it. "I am all gladness you are at peace with yourself, honestly, Emperor. I believe you, that the battle would be easier with the assistance of an illithid nature, as well, but… I cannot go through with another fundamental change to my body like that. I am… tired. Too tired to embrace something so catastrophically revolutionary as spontaneous evolution."
"Perhaps," it ventures, handing Amara a bright white tadpole. "you will be more inclined to try to when you see more of what our enemy can do. That is all I will say on the matter. We mustn't lose focus. We need to resume our journey. You heard the Chosen— the brain has gone to the city, and the army marches to follow. We must not let them reach it. We must find the brain, and bring it under our control."
/ / /
Amara drops the rations she was bringing over to Gale for their breakfast preparations when she sees Shadowheart the first time the next morning.
The cleric stifles a laugh, hand pressed to her lips. "Is it really so different?" she asks, and her hands reach up to bring silvery-white hair over her shoulder. "I did not think it would shock you so."
"Diff— Vae, it's the color of the moon and the stars!" Amara gushes, practically tripping over herself to get closer.
Gale makes a squeak about the food, but she just shuffles a few Hands behind her to clean it up.
"Be honest, then," Shadowheart ventures, a tad nervous. "What do you think of the new look?"
"Are you kidding? I love it, of course!" Amara gently tosses some of her bangs behind one of her gently curved ears.
Shadowheart gives a soft laugh. "Well, I'm glad someone does. Perhaps I'll get used to it. I have a lot to get used to, right now."
"I absolutely— oh, Shadowheart! I love it!"
Her cheeks flush. "Stop— stop it, Amara," she protests gently. "You're layering it on thicker than even Astarion can handle."
As if sensing perfect timing, Wyll slides in behind her, and places his hand gently on the cleric's back. "Personally, I also love the new look, Shadowheart," he emphasises. "Softer, less severe. It really suits you."
"See?" Amara drawls, and she takes the cleric's hands. "It's just beautiful!"
"Not more of you," the half-elf groans and Karlach lets out a boisterous laugh.
"But it's true!" she belts out. "Gods, you looks like a stack of gold! Never thought I could get so excited about someone's forehead, but here we are."
"All of you are being ridiculous."
Gale comes to press his hand to Amara's shoulder and smiles blindingly at Shadowheart. "Trust me, my dear, there's no more radiant sight than that of someone who's learned to love themselves anew. Shadowed in name, but no longer in spirit. We are simply overjoyed for you, and will be as ridiculous as we please. Wyll is right— it suits you."
"A new look, for a new Shadowheart," Astarion drawls from where he sits perched next to Halsin, an obvious smear of blood at the corner of his lip and looking happier than ever. His grin grows as feral as it is bloody. "Nice as it is, she still doesn't have the best hair in the camp."
Amara plays with her loose curls. "Aww, thank you, darling," she drawls in a mimicry of his accent.
They begin preparing breakfast, and Amara notices a tad late that Lae'zel is nowhere to be seen, and all of the githyanki corpses are gone from the previous night. Even the blood has been cleaned from the camp's dirt floor. Breakfast comes and goes, and the camp is packed up.
Finally, Lae'zel reappears, a conflicted look on her face and a smear of dirt on her cheek.
Burials, then, Amara could suppose.
"All right, Lae?" she asks, and the githyanki woman snaps her head up to meet brilliant green eyes with concerned ochre ones.
"Yes. I have many things to consider from with the ghaik said— but that is not all. This morning, I discovered something. There is… something different about Shadowheart."
Behind the gith, Shadowheart pauses in her connecting the oxen to the cart.
Amara fights to not break out in a smile and keeps her expression carefully neutral. "Oh?"
"New facial creases, perhaps?" Lae'zel guesses, but she seems to be growing more perplexed by the minute. "A fresh battlescar I hadn't noticed? Bah— it eludes me."
"Take a—" Amara's voice cracks with her effort to hold back her laughter. She clears her throat and makes it sound like she coughed instead. "Take a closer look at her hair when you next see her, and report back to me."
Those intense eyes of hers sparkle with curiosity and interest. "Will do. Thank you."
"Anytime," Amara manages to say, though the word is a bit wobbly.
The carts are readied, and the caravan departs, and Amara walks at the head of the group— being quickly joined by Shadowheart once more, as she fiddles with the Prism.
"Seems more dangerous now that there's…"
"Living things inside it?" she guesses.
Amara just gives a hesitant laugh.
"It's really sinking in now— there's been a mind flayer inside the artifact - or the Astral Prism - this whole time we've had it…? Sounds like utter madness, eventhough I've seen it with my own eyes. The more I learn, the less I understand just why I was sent to retrieve that thing— but it matters little now. I do not serve Shar anymore. Nor the Mother Superior. The Prism is no longer my mission— saving my parents is."
"Are you… all right?"
"I'm not sure what to feel, truthfully. My parents are… alive? And I need to save them? I'm lucky to have you by my side— I don't think I could face what's to come, otherwise."
"We are here for you," Gale adds, coming up on her other side. "I'm sure many things await us ahead, both for us personally and… for our shared affliction."
"You speak of the Chosen and the elder brain?" the cleric guesses.
Gale looks forward down the road with a determined expression. "The elder brain. But more specifically, the crown that it wore. Netherese magic. So pure - so complete - that I doubted what I was feeling at first. Most Netherese artifacts contain only the faintest amount of their former power— the ghost of an echo of a memory… that crown was different. I can't fathom how such a wonder survived— surely everything of its ilk was destroyed along with Netheril itself… but no matter. It exists, and I must learn more of it."
Shadowheart and Amara exchange a glance, and the cleric holds up her hand. "Back up a little— why is this crown so important all of a sudden?"
Gale looks a tad offended. "The crown sits on a gargantuan elder brain bent on destroying us and everything we hold dear. Understanding its true nature might unlock the means of our victory."
"Not a slight against you Gale," Amara sings out. "Just a question."
He frowns. "We need to learn more about what we saw. Simple as that. An artifact as powerful as that crown must have been documented somewhere. As luck would have it, we'll soon find ourselves near one of the finest book collections this side of Candlekeep— Sorcerous Sundries. I need to go there, and learn all I can."
Amara takes in a slow, deep breath. "Sounds like an excellent idea."
At that, Gale does seem to brighten. "The only kind I have," he quips, which brings a smile to Amara's face as well as an eye roll. "Sorcerous Sundries is no mere trading post. It's been serving the arcane community for centuries. Their collection of rare tomes is unparalleled. Netherese texts are hardly commonplace, but I'm certain they'll have one or two stashed away. You'll have to forgive my eagerness, but if my suspicions prove to hold water, this could be the answer to all our problems."
They fall silent for more of the journey, stop to rest, eat, and find a stream to refill some of their water supply. Eventually, Wyll and Amara are more toward the back, after tending to the supplies, and she studies him in a fashion she thinks is stealthy but most certainly is not.
"Making your rounds?" he asks, startling her.
She frowns. "Nothing of the sort. Just… checking on you in a natural, easy-going fashion."
He huffs out a laugh. "This is about Mizora, isn't it?"
"Well…"
She did just agree to let him out of his contract. In six months.
That's not a small thing.
"I won't pry," Amara promises, and she does mean it.
"I know," Wyll hums, and he does know she means it. "But do you want to know?"
"Of course," she responds immediately. "Do you think I could do this much adventuring if I wasn't the least bit curious? That, and this creature has hurt you a lot— I want you rid of her, and knowing how the two of you became acquainted in the first place… well, it might help."
"Then I don't mind telling you," Wyll says earnestly. "But first, a question. If your home city were under siege, what would you sacrifice to save it?"
Oh, fiddlesticks.
Run Amara through— that one is a tough one.
She knows what he's looking for at least, and it's certainly not her ifs, ands, and buts that she would really give for this question. "I'd give my life if it meant keeping the residents safe," she answers, believing it to be the "correct" answer.
It seems she was right, as Wyll replies, "As would I— and more. I was seventeen. Father - Ulder Ravengard - had just been named a Grand Duke, and was called away to Elturel to help settle a dispute. That's when the Cult of the Dragon made its move."
Amara's eyes widen.
*The Cult of the Dragon— a fractured religion. Some believers hold that undead dragons will inherit the world. Others worship the dragon goddess Tiamat and intend to summon her to Faerûn.*
Yes, thank you, narrator. Amara's got it from here.
"The Cult of the Dragon had infiltrated Baldur's Gate?" she questions, having never heard of such a thing. "To what end?"
Wyll thumbs his bottom lip."To conjure the Dragon Queen and lay waste to Baldur's Gate," he says, as if this is obvious. "A tenday after father left, I heard a whisper as I slept. 'Dusthawk Hill. The Queen of Chaos awakens. Go alone.'. I grabbed a rapier and set out."
Oh, Wyll…
No…
"There wasn't a cloud in the sky, yet not a single star was shining. There they were, gathered at the foot of the Hill," he details, and his eyes get misty and far away.
*Your head tingles. Wyll wants to show you want happened.*
Amara immediately opens their bond wide, wide enough for the images to flood in.
*In the looming shadow of the mount, five groups of five figures each encircle a lofty totem. Atop each totem, a dragon's head is carved, and a massive orb held in its mouth. The cultists chant, first softly, then crying to the starless sky. There is a crack of thunder, a gust of wind— and a dragon's white head appears in the storm, the first of Tiamat's five heads. As the maelstrom howls, Mizora's lips press to your ear. 'She will destroy Baldur's Gate. Grant me your soul— and I will give you the power to save it', she whispers.*
Oh, Wyll…
He winces, his eyes fluttering open. "She read the terms while two devils stood witness. And I said yes. One soul for one city."
"A brave choice. And a frightening one," Amara says first, and she pours her honest emotions through their bond. "I mean, twenty-five cultists, Wyll? On your own? That sounds terrifying."
"I had Mizora at my side— and the archdevil Zariel guided our hands that day," he admits.
Amara wraps her arms around him.
"I burned with the fires of Avernus and oozed the rot of Dis." His voice trembles.
Amara holds him as tight as she dares.
"The cultists choked on our poisons and burned from our flames. When we were done, all that remained were five greyed orbs atop a pile of ash."
Her hand presses to his neck, where his scars raise from his skin. Claw marks, that look distinctly like Mizora herself could have made them.
"My soul was bound and my lips were sealed."
Amara licks her lips. "And what about your father, the Grand Duke?"
Wyll doesn't look pleased when he answers her. "He returned to an unsuspecting city and a wayward son with a smirking devil at his side."
Wyll finally holds her back.
"I tried to tell him the truth, but my mouth couldn't form the words. I led him to the battlefield, but Mizora had swept it clean."
His fingers dig into her back.
"After, he said only one word: 'Go.' So I did."
"It was brave, what you did for the city," she whispers into his ear.
"I don't know that it was brave. I just know what it was right."
"It can be both," she assures him. "It's both."
He lets her go, straightens up. "Any— anything else you want to know? I'm an open book for you, if you please, Lady Amara."
She swallows her emotions and tries for something… lighter. "All right. Let's see… what was it like, being the son of a Grand Duke?"
It seems to do the trick, because Wyll lets out a laugh. He shakes his head. "Not so enchanting as you'd think. The Portyrs, the Caldwells— they were the bluebloods hosting the fancy balls and drinking from gold goblets. Father's the son of a blacksmith, born with barely a coin in the coffers. He made a name for himself among the Flaming Fist."
"Part of the organization we fought alongside just now, right? The one Art Cullagh belonged to?" Amara confirms.
He smiles broadly. "The very same. Brave as Balduran, stubborn as a deep rothé. Daring, outspoken— but hardly posh. I spent more time dueling with father than I did rubbing elbows with lords. Not to say I didn't develop a taste for good wine and a talent for courtly dance."
"Good wine? I'll toast to that."
"Hear, hear!" Wyll cheers, and the last of the tension soothes its way out of his facial features. "Though truth to be told, I'd sooner down a week-old hooch at a ramshackle inn. Better company. And a better buzz."
"Hooch aside— were you furious at your father for throwing you out of the city?"
"Furious? No, never. He did the only thing he could. In his eyes, I invited a devil into our midst. I was a fool at best; a traitor at worst. And Grand Duke Ravengard suffers neither."
Amara takes his arm. "Do you… miss him?"
He wraps a hand around her elbow and matches her walking pace. "More than you know. The better question is: did he ever miss me? If he did, he missed the Wyll Ravengard he once knew, not the helltouched warlock he returned to."
Amara reaches up and hesitates. "May I?"
He tilts his head, but there's no wariness in his expression. "At this point, Lady Amara, there is nothing in the world I wouldn't entrust you with."
She reaches up for Wyll's face, and the softest parts of her fingertips trace the puckered lines which mar his skin. She rotates her hand until her nails match up with the lines, and she drags her fingers across them lightly.
"It may be a literal fact that you are touched by the hells," she begins carefully, "but no amount of words in a contract could change the man you are. The man raised by the Duke. Do not discount yourself simply because someone you admire has discounted you unfairly. There is a boundless amount of you to love, Wyll Ravengard, Ebrae, and we will rescue your father and remind him of that."
Gently, Wyll takes her hands from his face. "I can only hope you are right. Though now… I am even more of a monster than he last saw me. If all it took before was a prosthetic eye and the stench of Avernus, I can only imagine…"
"Is that… how you lost your eye, then? In the battle with the Cult of the Dragon?"
"Suppose I gave myself away there," Wyll drawls. "It is. The one scar I ever bore of it. Mizora replaced it with a sending stone. She uses it to track my location and speak from a distance. I could flee to the Spine of the World or the depths of the Lowerdark, and still never shake her."
"We'll free you from her yet," she assures him. "You have my most solemn word, Ebrae."
They rest one more time before Baldur's Gate comes into view, and she is digging in her pack for the pears she knows are in there when she senses it.
"Hello, Niar— is everything all right?"
The vampire is standing behind her, ears flattened against his head. "Yes, all right, fine," he mutters too quickly.
She tosses him a pear. "Talk to me. You've been… quiet, lately."
"I've been… contemplating," he says, running his hands over the skin of the pear. "All of this business with Cazador— it's a lot to take in." His eyes flick up to hers. His ears twitch. "What do you think I should do? We are closing in on him by the moment."
Amara breathes in, holds it. "Your free will matters most of all to me, Astarion, you know that— but that being said, I… can't let Cazador complete that ritual if I can prevent it. He could unleash terrible horrors."
He scoffs. "The end of my life among them. Just when I was starting to enjoy it." His voice grows less flippant and more… fearful. "He'll never leave me alone. I didn't think he would when I was just one more wretched toy for him to play with. But if I'm the key to this power he craves, he'll hunt me to the ends of Faerûn."
"Tell me what you need, darling," she says firmly.
Astarion takes a breath to steady himself. "I need to take the fight to him. And I need you to help me."
"Don't forget, Niar, we killed a god. Your master will be formiddable, I am sure— but I am not worried. I will make sure you are free, even if I have to reset that fight a hundred times."
The moon elf sucks in a breath and pushes it out in a gust of emotion. "Thank you."
It seems there is something to haunt them all in Baldur's Gate.
Amara can feel the tension rise as the dirt treds below their feet.
The city grows ever closer.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 38: Homesick
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXVIII
Homesick
The Emperor wastes no time, that's for sure.
"We must find where Gortash and Orin have established themselves, and take their Netherstones," it reverberates through Amara's skull the moment they breach the city limits, and breathe the familiar city air.
"I'm certainly… not used to the realization that a mind flayer is speaking to us, currently," Wyll mumbles.
Amara levels a teasing smile at him. "Come now, Blade of Frontiers— what did you think the guiding voice in our heads was?"
He frowns.
"Well. When… you put it that way…"
"Amara, darling, you seem even more biting the closer we are to reaching the city. Nervous?"
"Whatever about, darling? The Chosen? Their gods who back them? All the potential areas of burden awaiting us?" She flutters her eyelashes at the vampire.
He rolls his eyes. "This is your home, isn't it?"
"I'm sure I'm not the only one nervous to be going home." Amara pointedly looks right back at Astarion and then flicks her gaze over toward Shadowheart and Karlach as well.
Their cleric sighs. "She isn't wrong, Niar, as the city grows closer, so do my nerves to the surface. My former peers will be watching, no doubt. Waiting for my return."
"We could avoid them," Amara assures her.
"Or kill them," Astarion teases her.
She flashes radiant Weave in both their faces.
"Hey! I wasn't even joking!" Amara protests, waving her hands around in front of her face.
Shadowheart laughs softly. "I actually think we should do what we can to find them— what they know could help us."
Amara opens her mouth, big and ready to pour out some grand speech she thinks will be useful - it won't - but she thinks it will, when a child bodily runs into her. She catches the child against her stomach with a soft sound of surprise, and steps back to see a young, possibly barely teenage human, with vibrantly ginger hair.
"Oh! Sweetie, are you all right?" she asks, holding the girl by one of her shoulders.
"Fine. Erm. 'Scuse me," she says, stiff and a bit awkward. "I can't find my mum."
"For the love of…" Astarion waps Amara on her arm. "What is it about you that makes people think you can find their mothers?"
"Don't listen to the awful pale elf man. He has a stick up his butt," Amara coos, and she focuses her attention on the ginger girl. "What's your name?"
"Yenna!" she chirps. "And my cat is Grub. He's shy, I'm not." Amara opens her mouth but Yenna seems keen to prove just how not-shy she is. "My mum is called Emery. She went to go get some herbs— for her spots. She was sick. And she was supposed to come back the same day."
Amara rubs her fingers together. "How long ago was that, sweetheart?"
"She left last tenday," Yenna says succinctly.
Damn.
Amara reaches into her pack and pulls out some gold and supplies. "Take these for now, Yenna. I'll keep an eye out for Emery— but you must be starving."
"Oh!" she chirps, accepting them. "Erm, thank you— thank you so much! I don't have anything and you can't do anything without any coin. I'll pay you back. When I find my mum."
She runs off before Amara can do anything and the wizard groans.
"You're going to snap, aren't you?" Shadowheart asks.
"Yes, well…"
Immediately, it's like she's grappled, as her companions vie to get brought back with her.
"All right, all right! Lae'zel— don't tug on my hair! Kar— Karlach, you're on my foot. All of you are being ridiculous!"
Amara snaps.
Not everyone takes it well, and she knew they wouldn't, so she leaves the dizzy ones behind to meet Yenna on the path, this time without slamming into her.
She approaches, eyes alighting on Amara as if deeming her to be an appropriate target. "'Scuse me. I can't find my mum."
It's… a bit suspicious, but Amara can worry about that later.
Amara asks the same questions she did before, and this time instead of offering money, she just regards her carefully. "Sorry, sweetheart— we just got into town. I'm afraid I don't know your mother."
"But— erm. I'm Yenna. I'm… I don't know where to go," Yenna says, wringing her hands together.
"Good," Astarion quickly adds, and Yenna's pale eyes flick up to him. Calculating.
Amara likes that.
"That'll make 'getting lost' even easier. Honestly, kids these days."
Amara doesn't like that, so much.
She elbows him rather viciously in the side.
"Ah, come on," Karlach says, coming up on Amara's other side. She's huge and red and covered in golden piercings and grommets, literal flames licking off of her. There must be a certain kind of intimidation the barbarian possesses, but the calculating eyes Yenna turns to her are the same. "What's with you, sunshine? We have room. Kid needs us."
"Absolutely not," Astarion hisses. "We've hit our quota for mangey strays."
Amara casually casts a Silencing spell over him. "Ignore him," she says warmly. "No such thing as a quota like that. I can't say finding your mum would be an easy task, Yenna— and I can't say waiting for her would bear much fruit. I can give you some supplies, but you are also more than welcome to just… join us. We will be setting up a camp. There will be consistent food and water, and a place to sleep. It won't be luxurious, but I would be glad to offer it to you."
"Ugh," Lae'zel shudders. "Isn't there a human creche she can join?"
Amara throws the Silence spell over her too.
"They're just grumpy," she tells the child. "We've walked a long way to get here."
"That would… really be all right?" Yenna asks, and she looks over at the carts and oxen.
Wyll smiles at her, and again she doesn't seem bothered by his dual colored eyes, deep-set scars, or curling horns. "It isn't much of a home— but what's ours is yours."
"Yes!" Karlach cheers. "We can play one-a-cup!"
Astarion certainly looks unhappy.
Evidently, Amara isn't the only one to notice.
"Oh, cease your querulous behavior, my friend," Gale says, "If the child's desperate enough to seek safety in our company, who are we to turn her away?"
"Exactly," Shadowheart agrees. "She's little— won't take up much space, or make much of a dent in our provisions."
Astarion throws his hands up and walks back to the caravan.
A smile plays on Yenna's face.
"May I… wait a little longer for my mum?" she asks. "If she does not come, I could find you?"
Amara smiles. She knows the emotion well, painted over the young girl's face. "Yes, of course, sweetie. Here, take this with you."
"Oh, thank you!" she gushes, accepting the food and money again. "I do hope my mum comes back, but— but if she doesn't… I'll find you, miss."
"Amara," she says warmly. "Call me Amara."
Yenna repeats the name and runs off toward the fluffiest orange cat Amara thinks she's ever seen.
"Well— now that was certainly an interesting first interaction," Karlach says with a huff of a laugh. "But we're here! Can't you just smell the city? How alive it is? I've missed this!"
The hustle and cacophony of it all is certainly familiar, as countless voices emonate up out of the craggy stone surroundings, and it all sets Amara at peace.
"It's home— for sure," Amara says with a sly twist of her lip. "The marketplace certainly hasn't suffered for lack of my presence, I see. How about you?" she asks, nudging Wyll and Shadowheart. "Any thoughts from our non-Silenced friends?"
"It's incredible to be back," Wyll answers. "My home, my city."
Shadowheart hums. "Are you excited to return?" she asks, genuinely curious. "Or reluctant? A little of both, perhaps?"
Wyll smiles knowingly. "Baldur's Gate is where I first raised a glass in toast at the tender age of fourteen— and got so tipsy from wine, I puked in Dillard Portyr's bushes," he details. "It's where the Flaming Fist chased me after I'd stolen a peach from a cart in the Wide. I got a good chewing out over it too. It's where my father taught me to hold a rapier, to read the books of law… to know right from wrong…"
"How long's it been?" Karlach asks, nudging him.
He nudges back. "It's been seven years since I left. It's no paradise— but it's home, and it's worth saving. Come now, though— I'm far from the only Baldurian here. The Gate belongs to many of us, after all. Someone else regale us how it feels to be back."
"Ah, I just can't get over it— how it smells the exact same," Karlach says, her tail swaying happily behind her. "Ten years on, but still home. Incredible."
"We approach Wyrm's Crossing," Shadowheart says, and her expression is carefully neutral. "We could be inside the city walls before long… and I could be back where this all started."
Gale clasps her shoulder supportively. "You mentioned Shar followers might be watching for us. You think we can use them to track down your parents?"
"I hope so," she responds. "So long as I'm willing to stroll right into the Mother Superior's trap, they have no reason to not tell me where to go."
"Ah," Amara intones. "Knowing walking into a trap. Lovely."
At that, Shadowheart does smile. "We approach the chokepoint— Wyrm's Crossing. If it were me, I would intercept a new arrival there. I'd find somewhere before the bridge, blend in amongst the crowds, and wait."
That doesn't bode well.
Amara gets into trouble with unsettling ease.
She sides with refugees over the citizens who mistreat them, pranks the Steel Watch with eager glee alongside Astarion and Karlach, and rummages around a circus guarded by a tamed ghoul.
So she's really not surprised when the clown attacks them.
"That… really shatters… some childhood memories…" she pants, holding the large hammer with colorful painting on it.
"You aren't kidding," Wyll mutters. "Dribbles? Part of the Absolute cult? Where haven't they dug their dubious claws into?"
"I don't think I want to know," Amara snarls. "Let's make sure everyone's all right."
They tend to a few of the civilians, passing out food and potions, and Amara approaches a rather… distressed elf with a distinct head of green hair.
"Is everything all right, sir?" she asks him. "We're trying to see if anyone needs—"
"Ohh," he bemoans. "How could Madam Lucretious let this happen?" Amara blinks. Uh… who? "And what are you doing back here? Out!"
Amara curls her healing potion into her hand. "Right," she says, and steps back. "Of course. My apologies." She turns to find Gale right there and jumps. "Ah! You— you startled me," she says, clutching her chest.
"Are you all right?" he asks, brow quirked up.
"Fine. I want to get out of here and make a camp as soon as possible. Even a quick battle like that one unnerves me. We shouldn't be traveling altogether."
"You seem to be handling it fine."
Amara flicks her gaze to him. "My stance is firm, Gale."
He takes the potion from her clutches and chuckles. "Very well. Allow me to help then."
They find a few more circus members still reeling from the battle, including the trapeze artist, whose dreads are lined with a beautiful, vibrant blue to match his eyeliner.
"Please, eh, enjoy…" he attempts to say, but his words stutter and stagger. "Enjoy the circus, which will never be the same without Dribbles…"
Oh, run Amara through, why don't you?
"That might be all I can take," Amara says, holding her head.
"I think there's one more," Gale encourages, showing Amara a few more of their companions speaking with a red-headed individual by a large tree.
She nods, and walks up to make sure the performer doesn't need anything. "Hello," she greets. "Was there anything you—"
"Violence erupts here— my home," she interrupts, as if performing.
Shadowheart shoots Amara a comforting glance. "She's fine. I took care of her already."
The woman, who appears to be a nymph - perhaps a druid of some kind - continues, "My refuge in this city of stone and steel, under siege. Solace escapes me…" She turns and faces Amara directly. "Your eyes, stira. There is pain, endless and deep. But also devotion— blazing like the sun. You're in love, are you not?"
Amara is surprised, for a moment, until she remembers this is a circus. There is always a love-related booth. She supposes this nymph just was not in the employ of the circus when Amara last attended.
Amara would have remembered someone like her; her skin like pale bark, thin winding lines of glowing green Weave pulsing through her, the same color as her irises which pour color out as if it's trying to escape. Her body is protected only by a collection of leaves and vines, carefully placed.
She is beautiful, in a graceful and natural way.
Well— when at the circus, Amara supposes…
"I do love someone," she admits. "Someone close to me, actually."
"You are wise to admit it," she says sagely. "When it comes to love, vulnerability is armor. Truth, a sword. And trust, a shield. I pray you wield all three, stira." She gestures to the collection area for her attraction— ah yes, well… when at the circus. "Bring the one you love to me. I will look into your hearts and see if your love is eternal. Or doomed eternally."
A touch… dramatic. But Amara supposes it makes for a good circus attraction.
"Sounds… magical," she says with a bit of a teasing smile, linking her fingers through Gale's. His cheeks flush with the recollection of his first proposition of her time. "What say you, Gale?"
"Thoroughly magical," he agrees, leaning in to bump his forehead against hers. "Let's have at it."
"Close your eyes, little ones. Be still as stone to earth. And remember to breathe." The nymph doesn't seem to activate any type of Weave, so Amara closes her eyes, but something— something wavers around her.
Her eyes snap open and the world around her has changed.
It's now a more dense wilderness, with a vast landscape of trees and a rocky cliff face with pouring water and a raging river— a river which separates her from Gale. The only thing that connects her to him is a large fallen log over the river. A walkway with a waterfall backdrop.
"Ah. Glorious. Your bond is sweeter than nature's dew. I see you. Know you. But do you know one another?" she asks, standing next to Gale. Amara rubs her fingers together. She doesn't like this— him so far away, the nymph next to him rather than her.
She's regretting this.
It's no longer fun.
*You feel a soft knocking at your consciousness, and when you open your bond, a rush of comfort and reassurance floods your flurried mind.*
"Calm yourself, my sweet. I am safe. You are safe. We are surely still standing right where we were before. Let us merely enjoy this illusion for what it is— a magical experience. You know me well. Have fun proving it."
A smile plays at Amara's lips.
"As you wish," she responds.
"We look forward to your game," Gale passionately tells the nymph. "Ahm…?"
"Zethino," she introduces herself. "And you, Gale: the learned wizard. The charming gentleman. The walking apocalypse."
*A tinge of anxiety worms its way in through your connection with Gale, as the two of you share your worry of how exactly she knew this. You do what you can to merely comfort him.*
"All is well. I will take us back if there's any danger. Be at peace."
*The concern eases, but only slightly.*
"Listen. Think," Zethino commands. "If the wizard were given the choice, what food would he be?"
Amara clamps down on her initial response to that, but she's aware it probably bleeds though the connection.
"…Amara," Gale's voice comes through, an amused warning. "Humor the question, please?"
"It is ridiculous though, you must admit," she argues. "A man as complex as you reduced to such an adolescent question? It's too adorable."
"It is a circus game," he reminds her. "Please, play along?"
"A roast onion— versatile, with hidden layers," she answers, choosing an answer for an adolescent question with as much complexity as the man contains.
"An apt metaphor," Gale seems to approve, following Amara's logic. He leans in and his eyes sparkle. "Though I hope it won't lose me some kisses."
"With the way you cook? Never," Amara promises.
"And for Amara: the burdened demigod. The sacrificial protector. The unraveling one. As familiar as you are with the culinary, Gale, what food would she be?"
"…I see what you mean," Gale mutters through their bond.
"Humor me," Amara teases.
"I would say she is a handful of the freshest berries, then. Versatile, as well, brilliant and vibrant in color, and with many properties beneficial to others."
"Gale, that's lovely." Color touches Amara's cheeks. "Thank you."
Zethino looks between them with her glowing gaze. "Your bond beats in pleasure. It is an honor to behold. Please— take one step closer to one another," she requests, and Amara and Gale both step onto the log over the river. "The heart is fraught, so let us turn to the joyous. When is Gale happiest?"
Amara's gaze snaps to the other wizard's and recalls the night they shared, which he thought might be his last.
"Tread through those memories with care, Amara, dearest," he warns. "We are with company, or have you forgotten?"
In rapid succession, Amara flashes several images of their astral pleasure through their bond and feels it thrum with energy as Gale reacts strongly, and she merely smiles. "While on his balcony, in Waterdeep," she answers seriously, and she floods their connection with the image of his back, the precious moments she watched him while sitting and admiring his form as he overlooked his illusory city.
"Bravo," he says, a tad breathless. "That is indeed where my mind wanders to when times are hard…" The images in their shared connection drift. "Amongst other places," he adds privately.
"Wonderfully done. Now, when is Amara at her happiest?" Zethino asks.
Gale smiles at Amara. "She is at her most peaceful before the sun consumes the stars, but… I think she is happiest when she is merely with us."
"I've been without company for… a long time," Amara whispers. "I cherish all of you most of all."
"Sweeter than the wild's bounty," Zethino compliments. "Please— step closer to one another. Hear how your bond thrums with pleasure. Strong. Vital. Pulsing with affection."
*You can feel it, an almost tangible thread connecting your heart to Gale's— something stronger than you've felt with any other living being: something that almost feels alive.*
"Our touch has been that of sunlight, but now we must ask the deep. The difficult. We often gaze through a veil of roses, but love accepts both the petal and the thorn. Gale— what is his greatest flaw?"
*A flutter of anxiety, which you quell immediately with a rush of adoration. You will love him more for all his imperfections. You show him the particular moment of kissing his mark, to prove it. The anxiety in him settles.*
"He thinks he, and the world, might be better off if he were dead," Amara answers, and feels the waves of emotion ripple through their bond.
"Oh," the man breathes. "Hearing it said out loud— yes, I fear it is true. Fate seems determined to make a sacrifice of me."
"So… we'll run, and if we can't run?"
He smiles. "We'll fight. Perhaps fate can yet be defied. With you by my side, it's easy to think… well, that the impossible is possible."
"A touching display," Zethino remarks. "Tell me, Gale, if Amara knows your weakness so well and you are so ready to acknowledge it, does she return the sentiment? Do you know her greatest weakness?"
He meets her gaze, and the bond is quiet. "She holds far too little regard for her own life," he utters softly.
Amara lets out a soft laugh. "I suppose… you are right, though it stings to hear aloud. Years of treating it like a flexible concept have… made me cherish it less."
"You have proven to know each other well; step forward."
Gale steps the last step forward and meets her in the middle, the waterfall rushing next to them. "A perfect score," he breathes. "It seems we know each other quite well— perhaps even better than we know ourselves. Certainly, you know me better than I know myself."
"I press my finger to your bond and find a shield— impenetrable. It is…beautiful," Zethino says, enthralled. "Your love is one few have— cherish it."
Amara takes both of Gale's hands and looks deeply into his eyes. "I do," she proclaims and watches his eyes widen, his breath catch.
*You feel through your bond a sudden catch at your heart— and realize it is Gale's. His pulse is rapid, his breathing shallow and emotional. His eyes water intensely.*
Amara raises a finger to brush at his lashes.
"My apologies," he utters huskily. "Must be… some dust in my eye."
Amara laughs softly under her breath and severs the connection. "Yes," she responds, ignoring the waterfall next to them. "Must be."
Zethino dismisses her illusion, and sure enough, Amara is precisely where she remembers standing before, her hand linked with Gale's.
"Go in peace, seedlings," Zethino urges. "And know that you made one whose heart was long quiet beat with love anew."
Gale squeezes Amara's hand and urges her down from the platform. "Come now, I believe it's time we set up that camp, yes?"
Amara lets out a relieved sigh. "Yes, I agree. Let's."
They meet back up with Jaheira and Halsin, who had been watching the caravan, and Amara visits with Volo and Alfira, who are playing with Arabella with Isobel and Aylin.
"Bella, we brought some things back for you!" Amara coos excitedly, lavishing Arabella with some of the things they bought in the circus, and then lifts her up onto her hip as they walk around, the caravan beginning to move.
"Where will we camp, miss?" she asks, her arms looped around Amara's neck and a little bear tucked in between them.
"There was a waypoint a ways back here— we'll find a safe area where we can cast some protective spells nearby," Amara explains. "Then, once we're inside the city, we'll move everything through the waypoints into the city and set up another camp near where my… well, on my land. How does that sound?"
"And you're gonna get 'em? The ones bringing the army here?" the small tiefling girl asks.
"Yes, sweetie, that's the plan."
Arabella rests her head on Amara's shoulder. "If Gale teaches me enough things, can I help?"
Amara swallows. "You do a lot for me right here in camp."
"Like what?" she scoffs, more than a little doubtful.
"You give me a reason to cherish my life. To come back. To keep fighting."
Amara feels the little girl tighten her grip around her neck and her tail wrap around the elf's torso, but neither say anything.
Eventually, they find a decent spot rather secluded from the path. The buildings are dilapidated and abandoned, but it's not like Amara's group needs them. With startling efficiency, they unpack the tents and dining set and construct them, and repurpose one of the most suitable buildings into a barn for the animals.
The sun starts to dip in the sky when the fire finally gets going, and Amara sprawls on the ground next to the fighter of the group.
Lae'zel hands her the pear she was slicing up and starts slicing up another.
"A lot on your mind, Lae?" Amara asks, accepting the fruit.
"Certainly," she states with severity. "Orpheus. Right there, before me. Gith's only son. He lives. The Tainted Blood of the Mother. The traitor prince, the lakzerai."
Amara blinks a few times as she nibbles on her pear slices. "Orpheus is a traitor? Oh— because he rose against Vlaakith?"
Her ochre eyes narrow. "He sought Vlaakith's head in a ghaik ploy for her throne," she corrects harshly. "Listen close— the Emperor spoke only in half-truth. For you to know the tale of Orpheus, you must know the tale of Gith, and of Vlaakith. Long ago, when we rose up against our ghaik slavers, Mother Gith made for the Hells to secure an alliance with the archdevil Tiamat. Tiamat gifted the githyanki our red dragons. Gith remained in the Hells, and Tiamat's envoy proclaimed Vlaakith our ruler. The first Vlaakith of many. It is Vlaakith One-Five-Seven whom my people now call 'queen.'"
"And how did Orpheus fit into this whole… one-five-seven business?"
"Orpheus was - is - Gith's renegade spawn. A ghaik thrall who would return us to our slavers. He convinced his own mother's honor guard to join a coup against Vlaakith One. He would have fed our empire to the illithids had he succeeded. It was Kith'rak Voss himself who slayed the prince in vicious battle. Or so the varshes teach us."
"So…" Amara draws those deep, earthen eyes to hers. "You would not want to rescue that githyanki?"
Her expression hardens. "No. Should Orpheus go free, he would hand Vlaakith's dominion to his ghaik masters. The Astral Plane would be first to fall. The others would soon follow."
Amara considers for a moment, and her mind flashes back to something she gathered from the Towers. "Wait here a moment," she says, and dashes to find the disc she collected from looting the bedchambers in the higher floors of Moonrise. She brings it back to Lae'zel and hands it to the fighter, along with their translation disc. "We found this a week back or so. I haven't read it yet— but I think it's a continuation of the last one. It was about Orpheus, wasn't it? Only… that story doesn't match the one you're telling me. And neither does the reality of Orpheus' fate; he wasn't killed, he was imprisoned. Can you trust your teachings?"
"Bah— you are basing this off a mere tall tale," Lae'zel sneers, though she takes the discs delicately from Amara. "I trust my teachings entirely. 'Vlaakith'ka sivim hrath krash'ht. Only in Vlaakith may we find light.'"
"Is that…"
"The creed," Lae'zel confirms. "I will not abandon all ten-thousand protocols over a sovereign secret or a bedtime story."
"Then… what would you prefer to do?"
"Find a way to enter the Prism and slay Orpheus. He is a ghaik puppet cloaked in githyanki skin, and the most powerful mind-master known to my people. One word from his scheming lips, and the people would doubt. Two words, and they would rage. Three words, and they would bow to the False Prince. The githyanki would be slaves once more— and one by one, the planes would fall to the ghaik."
Amara licks her teeth. "I extend the same suspension of my personal feelings until there is proof to support them to you that I offer to everyone else," she begins. "But I do want to pose just two questions. May I?"
Lae'zel breathes harshly out of her nose. "I respect your brilliant mind, so— yes."
The elf smiles gratefully. "I am sure he holds great power, but… I have to wonder if some of his persuasive abilities could simply come from… revealing the true nature of things. After all— if you learned a terrible truth after a lifetime of lies, would you not doubt? Rage? Follow a true leader? And if someone was desperate to keep such a leader silenced but alive— what better allegiance to rumor him joined with than your people's natural enemy? There is no better way to sow distrust in Orpheus than to smear his name with the association with illithids. Don't you agree?"
Festering ochre eyes burn their way into stillwater green ones.
The githyanki fighter thrusts the discs toward Amara. "Read this."
"Lae?"
"Read it to me. I want to know what it says."
"I… well, all right." Amara carefully gathers the disc into her lap and turns it several times until she starts being able to recognize the translation. "'The Prince of the Comet'," she recites, "'Part Three.' Hmm. How strange— perhaps we are still yet to find the second part?"
"Perhaps," Lae'zel snaps. "Do not stall."
Amara gives a huff of a laugh. "'The histories tell us that Commander Voss, Jhe'stil Kith'rak, pierced Prince Orpheus clean through with his sword of silver. That his flesh was torn and fed to the great red dragon Ephelomon'," she reads on. "'Vlaakith's faithful roar out tale. But beneath the roars, we hear whispers carrying truth and prophecy. The Prince of the Comet is not dead. The Prince of the Comet will come again. The Prince of the Comet will liberate us from Vlaakith's tyranny. Praise be to Mother Gith, Queen of the One Sky! Praise be to your son Orpheus, the True Heir, Prince of the Comet!'"
Lae'zel is frowning deeply. "This does not even seem like a story."
"No," Amara agrees. "It sounds more like madman ramblings. We shall just have to learn more, shall we?"
The githyanki woman eyes her carefully. "You don't wish to persuade me any longer?"
"I only want the best for you," Amara tells her. "Come, let us join the others at the fire. They seem to be causing a ruckus."
And making a ruckus, they are.
"I certainly won't dignify that with an answer," Shadowheart snaps, and Karlach laughs boisterously.
"Oh, out with it!" Wyll requests, and he nearly spills the wine bottle he's holding.
Gale plucks it from his hand. "Look at you lot— dinner will be ready momentarily," he informs them. "You're somehow ruining your meal just with potations."
"Don't be such a sourpuss," Astarion sneers. "Shouldn't you have the most intriguing love tale of all?" he asks, seemingly on topic. "A goddess made you her conquest, didn't She? There must be quite a tale there."
"Not one for you, I am with Shadowheart on this."
Amara and Lae'zel take their usual places by the fire and Amara leans up against Halsin. "Are they speaking of what I think they're speaking of?"
It's actually Jaheira who answers her, though.
"Idle chatter for you young people; talk of past loves and love-making," she teases.
Amara giggles and tucks her feet under herself. "My, we've never been so blatant. Who's idea was this?"
Halsin leans in and his breath tickles her ear. "Wyll's, if you can believe it."
"You'd be surprised; I overhead once what kind of literature he snuck as a boy."
The warlock flushes. "It was one book," he protests, but it's weak.
"You can quote it," Amara argues teasingly. "And so can Shadowheart, despite her loss of other memories. I will hear no excuses from either of you."
"Can you blame me?" he asks, holding up his hands. "After the love master in the circus, and watching Isobel with Aylin— how nice they must feel to have each other to hold after all this time."
"Start us off then— if you're such a romantic," Amara teases. "What are you asking for? Our love affairs? Types? Favorite types of literature—"
Wyll throws the bedroll pillow this time.
"Whatever each one of us is comfortable with!" he says with color rising in his cheeks. Then, he clears his throat. "I don't mind going first, since I was the one who proposed this. The Blade of Frontiers hasn't had much time for love, but… Wyll Ravengard certainly had his suitors," he begins coyly.
"Oh, this is certainly juicier than I was expecting," Jaheira taunts in her thick accent.
Wyll glances at her and looks like he might regret this— but he pushes on. "I entertained many, from all backgrounds and of all shapes and sizes. But… there was one in particular who I favored, before…" He clears his throat. "Well. I'll spare them the humiliation of any of you lot being able to track them down easily, but they just… they had this pull to them. The first time I ever saw them across the manor— it was like only the two of us were in the room. Colors were made brighter, metals gleamed like magic, jewels glittered. Everything they wore made them look as if they were ethereal. Unreal."
Astarion hums. "That's actually more interesting than I was expecting you to say, darling," he drawls. "You almost sound like this creature was driving you mad."
Wyll gives a laugh and pushes his hand over his mouth. "Honestly… I fear they were."
The vampire flashes fangs. "Oh, give us the bloody details if you're going to tease them, why don't you?"
Wyll chuckles. "They just had a sway over me."
Shadowheart scoffs. "Please— tell us something filthy if you're going to tempt us into the subject as well."
His eyes are wide as they regard the cleric.
Amara just laughs, so hard she practically falls over into Halsin's lap.
With a sigh, Wyll tries again. "I had no idea you would all be so… insatiable. All right. The sway they had over me was that if we were in the same room, they had this way of drawing my eyes. Suddenly all I could think of would be running my hands over their delicate features, pulling their gold and jewels from their perfectly tanned body." He shivers and his voice takes on a lower register. "To remove each carefully pinned layer of fabric they adorned themself with… to run my hands where my eyes had never seen… the thoughts would consume me if I let them. We were always in company so the more they enchanted me, the more dangerous it was to remain… enthralled, lest I do something right there at a banquet."
"Fuck," Karlach breathes out. "That's a serious infatuation you had there."
Wyll lifts his eyes to the tiefling. "You asked."
She guffaws. "It's not as if I'm a prude! Gods, I'd take just about anyone right now. After all those years in the hells with no one who would withstand - well, that's not to say that there was nothing down there that could take the heat, but I do have some standards - but anyway, I still want someone who can hold up to what I have to offer."
"Was there anyone like that before Zariel?" Amara asks, stretching out more. Her head lays on Halsin's lap, and Shadowheart shifts to take Amara's legs.
Karlach smiles and her tail flicks around. "No; no one like that. Sure taught me what I wanted though. Someone crazy enough to take me on every sunrise, crazy enough to take my body every sunset, and crazy enough to let me take care of them. Someone soft but able to really let me… drive them up the wall, you know? Not afraid of getting burned."
"Dinner is - ahem - served," Gale says, his voice cracking audibly in the middle. Amara grins at him.
"Come feed it to me?" she teases, and he flicks a roll of bread at her.
"Truly, Gale, darling, I had thought perhaps you were more basic, but you can't even take a little risque discussion?"
Gale raises his eyes to the vampire. "I merely prefer to keep my sexual interests private. It's something I like to explore with my partner. And my partner alone."
Astarion, seemingly unafraid since he doesn't need to partake in the meal so Gale has nothing to deprive him of, grins something feral at the other man. "Ooh, does that mean you secretly have a colorful sex life we're all unawares of? Is Karlach's proposition tempting to you— I'm sure Amara can polymorph into a muscular race if getting pegged by someone enormous is more your speed."
Shadowheart just waps him in the face.
"Astarion," Halsin warns, "you will have to be respectful if you want to continue the discussion. Allow him his space." Gale hands him his portion of the meal with a grateful smile.
"All of you can be such wet socks," Astarion grumbles, rubbing his nose. "It's just sex."
"Tsk'va," Lae'zel snaps. "Even I know this plane has a strange relationship with intercourse. How you can be so socially inept to discussing it eludes me."
Astarion just balks at that, and Amara dissolves in laughter and nearly spills her stew.
Gale plucks her precarious bowl from her hands and nudges his way into the circle, between Amara and Halsin, which inadvertently presses him against the both of them. "Let's see then; perhaps there is something I can offer. All of you know my transgressions with the Mistress of Magic, but before her there was… a boy at Blackstaff. A fellow student of mine. I always drew a considerable amount of attention, but never did people pay so much attention as when it was the both of us."
Amara smiles at him over her stew bowl.
"Oh, don't look at me like that!" he says, his cheeks coloring.
"Like what now?" she purrs.
"That… that lecherous smile of yours," he accuses.
"Oh, nothing, nothing," she drawls, having finished her dinner. "I can only… imagine… what kind of magic the two of you were applying when you were busy together."
He flicks her hard in the forehead.
"You're worse than Astarion!"
Amara just laughs.
"I for one agree with her," the vampire drawls. "I quite wish I could have been a fly on the wall for some of those experimental spells… though that's not to say I didn't have quite a bit of my own fun. You stumble across a plethora of different people with… unusual tastes when you aren't that picky, you see. You'd think the drow or such would be the kinkiest, but honest to the gods— the dwarves were deliciously rough."
Everyone else makes various noises.
"Not sure I needed to know that," Shadowheart says contemplatively.
"It is most intriguing to me," Lae'zel argues.
"Well, yes," Astarion drawls. "You'd like whoever you mate with to be able to beat the shit out of you."
Her ochre eyes narrow. "They would need to be strong, yes. I should like to admire them for their strength, and their pride. I should like to revere their scent, desire to taste them and long to touch them from the moment I awaken to the moment before I rest. I will take them with brutality befitting of our bond, and they will prove themselves not only able to withstand it, but able to find ecstasy in it. I will leave them bruised and perhaps bloody, but more than anything I will leave them dreaming of the next time my hands will be on them."
"Oh," Astarion manages to say.
Shadowheart is the first to smile. "See, now that is filthy. Thank you, Lae."
"Bah— it is nothing. Merely what I desire. I have not yet had the opportunity to seek a mate, but from the experiences I have gained traveling with all of you… I do also hope they may possess a bit of the kindness Amara does. I have learned the true value of this quality."
"Aww, Lae!" Amara coos. "That's so sweet! After something quite… sexual."
She just nods, and finishes her own dinner, setting the dishes on the table.
Jaheira laughs heartily. "All of you are such fun! I wish I had a story— perhaps something from my youth, but I can hardly remember now. I can't say my stories would be much fun to listen to. I had a husband once; his name was Khalid."
Karlach leans against her in the same friendly manner that a lot of them are lounging against one another. "Come on, you can scrounge up a few lousy details— that look on your face alone tells me how much you adored him. There's gotta be something juicy."
Jaheira laughs and holds her hands up placatingly. "Perhaps. Khalid was a wonderful man— I will never take another partner, for he has my heart for eternity. Others… did not see him the way I did. He was not nearly so outgoing or outspoken as I was. As kind and generous as Amara is, I doubt he would join us in the city— too many crowds, you see. My husband was brilliant and devoted and wonderful, and also exceedingly timid. Whenever anyone regarded our coupling, there were… let's call them 'rumors' that… oh, how did they phrase it? That I was the one who 'wore the trousers' in the union, I believe."
Karlach claps her hands together merrily. "That's exactly what I was talking about! Oh, Jaheira— how wonderful for you both. I'm sure he was perfectly lovely."
"Yes, your love for him is clear," Shadowheart compliments. "We are sorry for your loss."
Jaheira waves a hand. "I appreciate it, but I have many things in my life that he would want me to continue with to keep me going. He is everywhere around me, and just about as outspoken as he would have been if alive," she quips, but there's a sad edge to her voice.
Astarion clears his throat, and shifts. "Well— if anyone would like to bring the tone back to salacious, they are welcome to."
Halsin hums. "Wasn't there anyone among all your conquests that stood out to you in particular, Niar? Or perhaps before your vampire days?"
He scoffs. "I hardly remember my time as an Ancunín, much less if there was anyone I desired carnally. And as Cazador's slave I— well… there was… one."
Amara looks up at him suddenly.
"Astarion—"
"No, nope!" he cuts her off. "No millions of questions, no opening the bond. I don't want you to know, I don't want you to see. He was— he was perfect. I'll ignore any biting comments about not being perverted enough, this man was not someone I wanted to bed and begone by the morning. This man was the moon and the sun and the stars— his smile was more radiant than a god of beauty's and his laughter rang out like a chorus of angels. He wasn't meant to be touched by something evil, like me, and certainly not by Cazador. I couldn't bring him back— so I didn't. I let that sweet man go, I just couldn't bring that darling boy to his death. And… I paid for it."
"I am sure it was a steep cost," Halsin says gravely. "He may not know what you did for him, but you do, and now… so do we. That is valuable in its own right."
Astarion scoffs. "I would have rather successfully escaped from Cazador— perhaps I could have…"
"Such is life," Halsin tries, softly. "I have also been with many individuals, most of them casually passing attractions and some of them a deeper connection— and I also bear the scars of loss. It is the balance of nature."
Red eyes flick up to him. "What… kind of loss?"
Amara sucks in a breath to cease the conversation if it's unwanted, but the druid places a warm arm around both Gale and her.
"It is fine, I assure everyone. We are sharing fantasies and memories— and scars. We are family, yes? The closest of friends. It was a long time ago. I was a foolhardy young druid, intent on seeing the beauty of nature's unworldly fauna and subterranean glow for myself. Certain… events transpired, and I found myself a guest of a noble drow house for a time. Well, something between guest, prisoner, and consort, perhaps."
Amara's breath catches. "'The lights in Menzoberranzan never go out'…"
"Afraid so," he says softly. "You have a splendid memory as well as a romance with time. Indeed, the house matron took an interest in me, and the patron also…" he trails off.
Gale surprises Amara by taking Halsin's hand, since she can't.
"They saw me as a novelty, perhaps," he continues, and he rotates his palm to take Gale's hand. "I was chained in their bedchamber for nigh on three years."
Even Astarion looks fully horrified at that.
"Three years?" Amara asks, faintly. It might have been too soft to even be heard, if the camp wasn't deadly quiet. "That's…"
Awful? Unforgivable? Ruinous?
The anger that sparks inside Amara's body is deitous, that's for sure.
"It was not ideal…" Halsin admits, rather underwhelmingly. "But not without its positives either. I did what was necessary to survive. And perhaps a few things that were less than necessary." He seems to sense the practically terrified nature of the camp and chuckles. "Don't misunderstand me— I feared for my life, and wanted my freedom back, but I was willing to wait for my moment, and eventually it came."
Yeah, Amara wants to say, after three years.
"Lolth's noble houses are constantly at each other's throats, and eventually, some rivals of my hosts sought to unseat them. It was chaos— drow against drow, the clash of blades echoing throughout caverns, the feel of warm blood that I could not see… I took my chance and fled while all were distracted. I never looked back until I breathed fresh air again, and never learned what came of my hosts."
Amara dislikes that he keeps calling them… "hosts." But she won't disagree.
Gale nudges her, signifying she should get up, and she gathers the skirt of her robe and rises, walking over to Halsin and practically collapsing on top of him in a hug.
"Ooft! Amara!" he says with a laugh. "I really am all right— you… you…"
She holds him tenderly, her arms around his neck and her face pressed to the side of his.
"Now you're really part of the family," Shadowheart says. "Just wait until she gives you grief for how you started that speech."
"What— whatever do you mean?"
Wyll scoffs, trying to recover. "'I was a foolhardy young druid', she's never going to let you get away with that. Sooner or later, you'll get a lecture on youth and the value of recognizing that no matter what age you were when you went through something, it doesn't devalue the trauma, or something to that effect."
"But I really was just—"
Amara hugs him tighter.
Gale speaks to him gently, still holding his hand. "Remember, Amara was only fifteen when Chronos tried to kill her— she understands well how youth can factor into dangerous situations. I myself got into plenty of trouble as a youth. Would you like Amara to blame herself for her childhood decisions that led up to a god betraying her, or the god?"
Halsin holds Amara tightly with his other hand. "…The deity, without question."
"So why," Amara whispers into his hair, "are you at fault in your recollections, and not those who wronged you?"
"This— this hardly seems like the romantic game we were playing before. Who's yet to take a turn?" Halsin asks, and Amara slowly sits back, frowning at him. He picks her up and puts her on Gale's lap instead. "I'm fine, Áralta," he argues. "Shadowheart— I don't believe you've gone yet, have you?"
The cleric startles, and then looks down. "Oh. I get the pleasure of following that up, do I? Well, I… I am sure there's been someone but I still…"
"Don't have your memories," Amara finishes, curling up to get more comfortable against Gale's chest.
"I suppose I could fantasize on what I want now," the half-elf says, "but is that truly me? Or will my tastes be different when I am more fully restored? In truth, I am nervous to remember. What if I don't like who I was? What if I prefer who I am now?"
"My, my," Astarion drawls out. "That is a very deep conversation to not have when we're… trying to flirt with each other, I suppose. We already ruined it slightly, with death and Cazador and slavery, but still."
Shadowheart's lip trembles. "I don't— don't really want to go, if that's all right."
Astarion looks stricken, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out.
"You don't have to take a turn, darling," Amara says for him. Grateful red eyes meet understanding green ones.
She flicks a hesitate smile up at the moon elves. "Thank you, I— I will perhaps come up with an answer and surprise everyone when the mood is low again. What about you? You've been around, Amara— how old are you again?"
"My, you do know how to lay it on, Vae," Amara purrs, fanning her face. "How smooth."
Some of the sadness and tension leave the cleric's face as she rolls her eyes. "Just tell us how old you are?"
"Chronologically or all together?" Amara asks, her eyes twinkling. "They're very different numbers, after all. I lived about twenty years before the godhood thing, then a hundred fifty in the outer planes, but only if you are keeping track of the total. After that, I'd say it's been another one seventy or so if you're looking at a calendar, but if you count all the rewinding it would be a clean two hundred thirty easily. So either one-ninety— or four hundred."
"That's— that's how much time you've rewound?" Gale asks, and there's a fair amount of horror to his voice.
"That's twice your life," Astarion points out. "More than twice your life."
Amara flashes a smile at them. "Why do you think I like naps so much?"
Karlach frowns and her tail thwaps at the ground. "What in the Nine Hells was making you rewind so damn much?"
The elven wizard shrugs. "The gods. They didn't like that I escaped their little prison in the outer planes. A couple of them chased me around."
"Chk. Cowardly— how could they so brazenly lose a prisoner and foul up retrieving you?" Lae'zel asks. "The proper procedure would be to negotiate or kill someone smart enough to escape."
Amara tilts her head. "I don't know if I should be comforted by that."
"Still—" Astarion stresses. "Though not the most conducive to romantic partnerships, if you've been around two hundred to four hundred years, you've had to have a juicy fling or ten. Spill!"
Amara chuckles. "Actually— I had very few… flings? Lays? What have you. They weren't really very favorable to me. I much preferred the route Jaheira took."
There's a moment where the words crawl through the camp for a moment.
"Wait," Wyll starts. "Are you saying…"
"You're married?!" Astarion bursts out.
Amara rolls her eyes and gestures to Gale, who is practically encompassing her. "Of course not. Not… well…"
"You are a widower," Jaheira concludes. "Exactly like me."
"That's right," Amara confirms, and she looks into the fire for a few moments. "I met him early on— all of you would never have recognized me back then. I was originally quite… gloomy. A woe-as-me type, if you will. And many things made me angry, and I had a much harder time containing that anger than I do now. For whatever reason, that lunatic talked to me in a tavern for three hours and decided to follow me for the rest of his life; that fucking goon."
Jaheira huffs out a laugh. "What was his name?"
"Ozxire, or just Oz," Amara recalls fondly. "He was happiness personified. He laughed in the face of adversity and triumphed over tragedy time and time again. He picked me up from my lowest and taught me how to smile again, how to dance, how to taste, how to sing. He taught me how to be alive, after being haunted by a hundred years worth of memories where I felt as close to dead as I've ever been."
"He was human?" Jaheira guesses, which— fair.
"Actually— he was a Mephistopheles tiefling. Granted, this was long before… everything; Elturel, Avernus, refugees, he predated all of it. I knew only that he'd had his horns shaved down and his tail docked before he was thrown from his home, and he never could bring himself to talk about why. I never seriously asked."
Gale touches Amara's cheek gently to draw her attention. "What… happened to him, then?"
Amara's eyes flick to the Mystra symbol hanging from Gale's ear— his arcane focus.
"One of the gods chasing me," she says softly, her eyes back on her hands in her lap. "Eventually, they grew wiser. If they can't catch me, they can bait me. Of course, I wasn't supposed to be so near, but I was coming home early because that day was out anivers— ssar… excuse me," she says, her voice breaking and trembling. She gathers herself and tries again. "That night was our wedding anniversary, and I purposely told him I was running late, so I could surprise him. Instead, I came in to find Her standing over his body."
"So you know who did it?" Astarion growls.
"Oh, I do," Amara confirms. "She told me— that I could go back, if I wanted, but I'd never know how far back to go to keep Her from having this idea. A day, a year, right before I broke out of the planes? Who knows. And so long as She could remember, She promised to kill him over and over and over again, until I surrendered myself back to the outer planes."
"Kainyank! Vile creature— to manipulate you so. You left your beloved dead so as not to torment him with further deaths?" Lae'zel guesses.
Amara rubs her fingers together. "Not… quite."
"I feel like… this is about to hurt," Karlach says, and she curls closer into Jaheira and yanks Lae'zel to join them.
Amara smiles. "I don't have to say anything."
She's met with a chorus of reassurance that they want her to open up to them.
"Well… all right…"
Extending her hand, Amara gathers cold and still Chronomancy Weave, and fills the air with the scent of ozone and rain, forests and pine, and suddenly her hourglass appears in the palm of her hand.
"When She told me that so long as I brought him back to my side, She would kill him, I knew I had doomed him by allowing him close to me. The obvious choice would have been to leave him dead, to limit his suffering, but such a happy man… for all the smiles and laughter he'd given me, I owed him the sunrise, I owed him the next dawn, I owed him… a life. A beautiful, bright life filled with joy. I couldn't give it to him, but… perhaps someone else could. Still, I wanted Her to remember I made this choice, so… I used one of Chronos' abilities."
Gale clears his throat. "One tied to… the hourglass?"
"Yes— and one my body can't handle anymore. I knew that, at the time, but only in a vague, abstract sense. I hadn't used any of the restricted abilities since I descended from godhood and the outer planes. The ability I used allowed me to restore a version of Oz's body and mind from his personal timeline. I could… rewind him, but leave the rest of the world where it was."
"You… erased yourself from his life," Jaheira concludes. "So that goddess would have no reason to hunt him."
Amara smiles somberly. "He ran from the house in utter confusion. I saw him once more, years and years later. I bought him a drink, spoke perhaps three sentences, and melted down our wedding rings that night. I believe he died about eighty years after that, and I never saw him again. I've tried to— to keep the happiness he gifted me, though. The kindness. The light. I was trapped in the dark for a long time, and… I don't want to forget who let me out. Even if he forgot me."
Shadowheart looks at her intensely. "Is that… why you're missing a kidney?" she asks. "You lost an organ using the hourglass just like you lose an organ using the scythe?"
Amara puts the conjured illusion away. "There comes a price, for using abilities beyond mortal control. If I use them, I pay it. I'll pay it, until it kills me. While it still can."
"When do we get to hug you now?" Karlach asks, and again her tail is rapidly hitting the ground.
Instead of answering, Amara just puts her arms up.
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
Chapter 39: A Certain Kind of Madness
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XXXIX
A Certain Kind of Madness
Amara breathes in the dawn air, freshly bathed in cool spring water once more. The bathhouse was a luxury, one of the few in the Shadowcursed lands, but the refreshing douse of water after waking that morning had been welcome.
Amara thought she'd be fine to speak about Oz.
She was wrong.
She walks back into camp and is surprised to find half of them are already up. Normally— or at least, at the beginning of this adventure about a month prior, none of the others would be awake yet.
"Good morning, Halsin," Amara greets, her wet hair loose around her.
"Dawn's greetings," he returns. "Allow me." He steps behind her, and his hands, large and not nearly as nimble as most elves, take the strands of her hair and expertly separate them. "I grew up with a sister, you know. I may not be naturally built for this, but I consider it a learned skill."
Amara laughs to herself. "Do not let me judge you for what you cannot help, then," she says softly, "and instead, I will just thank you."
"With all I owe you, Amara, this is a pleasure and hardly even a favor," he assures her, and he is close enough for Amara to feel his considerable heat through both their layers of clothing.
She tries to ignore that sensation and the soft brushes of his fingers by asking about something else. "Have you heard from Thaniel since we moved on?"
"I have. He speaks to me during my nightly meditations. He is well."
"And Oliver also?"
"Yes, certainly," Halsin assures her. "At times they are one, and at others they divide. Easier for playing, perhaps. And the land thrives, also. I doubt you would recognize it."
"I am all gladness to hear it."
"Perhaps one day you and I can both return, and see it for ourselves," Halsin offers.
"I would like that, considerably," Amara responds, and she relaxes as the druid finishes braiding the last of her hair.
She can hear Halsin swallow behind her. "As would I," he responds, and lets her hair go. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you? I believe we both shared something… difficult, last night."
"You can relax," Amara tells him, and she briefly places a hand on his chest before removing it. "This is a safe place. You may come and go and if you'd like— or stay and wait. Speaking about Oz isn't easy, but I loved him. It hurts, but it also feels good. I imagine the same can't be said for you. Take the time you need to adjust to us, Halsin. I don't believe we are a common group— we are almost entirely made up of outsiders, and exiles. The abandoned. The love we share is because we are bonded in a way only those who know loneliness or rejection can be bonded. We are here for you, when you're ready, Silh."
He hesitates a moment before catching her arm and pulling gently, drawing the moon elf into an embrace that lasts several seconds. "Thank you, Amara. You are— there is truly no one like you."
She just smiles at him. "I will see you when I return, Halsin."
He nods and lets her go, and she grabs some of the food out on the dining table and busies herself in her tent, preparing for the day.
Isobel would have scared the living daylights out of her when she stepped out of her tent, if not for the veritable waves of Selûnite magic that pour off of her now.
As it is, Amara steps out and is able to calmly turn to face the cleric.
"Amara, a minute, if I may?" Isobel asks, and Amara slings her bow at her back and clips one last potion at her belt.
"Of course. What is it?"
"We were hoping that it would take at least one more day to reach the city," the cleric inquires. "There is somewhere I would like to take Aylin— just for the day. We would still accompany you inside, so we don't want to miss you going through the checkpoint."
Amara looks up at the rising sun. "I can assure you we won't leave until next light, how is that?"
She smiles. "Wonderful— and all I need. I appreciate it."
"Might I inquire what it is you will do?"
"Look after my angel, of course," Isobel says with a soft smile, but it dims quickly. "She's been through more than I can bear to think about. A hundred years in the Shadowfell. A hundred years being murdered by Sharrans over and over. It fills me with a rage I can hardly contain. She's a formidable woman, my Aylin, but no one could escape such horrors unscathed. She's in my hands, now, and I intend to help her through whatever's to come."
Amara touches her arm lightly. "Take the day. Do not worry for us— we are plenty capable of taking care of ourselves until the crossing, at least… or I should hope so."
Isobel's smile returns. "We'll both of us stand by you when the time comes to put down the horror that threatens this city. We are your allies for life."
"Today, tomorrow, always," Amara says softly. "Give Aylin my best as well, if it isn't a burden."
"Never," Isobel quickly says. "A burden, that is. Never a burden."
Amara smiles. "Then my best to you both; have a pleasant day and at risk of sounding too doting, don't be back too late."
Isobel laughs.
Amara makes her way to the rest of the group, and while most of them seem in good spirits…
Shadowheart still looks down from their conversation around the fire the previous night. Amara wishes there was something more she could do for her, but any ability she would have to restore Shadowheart to a state with all of her memories is locked deep within her long-cast-aside godhood.
Aylin and Isobel wave as they depart and Amara waves back to them.
Though, now that she thinks about it— Aylin was able to restore one of Shadowheart's memories about her father somehow.
Perhaps if she just…
"Vae," she calls, and the cleric looks up at her questioningly. "Do you mind if I… try something?"
Shadowheart doesn't hesitate for a moment. "Of course. What is it?'' She hands her pack to Lae'zel and walks over.
"I'd like to do… let's call it a memory exercise. Do you mind?"
Shadowheart looks surprised, but there's no trace of discomfort in her expression. "What do you want me to do?"
"Picture something from the Gate— anything you can drum up. It doesn't matter how incomplete it is, even if it's a mere fracture. Latch onto it and let it ground you. Imbue your senses with all that's around you in the memory… and then let me in. Let me help you remember more. I think… I think I understand how Dame Aylin did it."
*The hesitant and soft knock of Shadowheart raps at your connection. You readily let her in.*
"Describe the scene to me," Amara prompts softly.
"I was younger," she begins, her eyes closed and brow twisted up. "Much younger. An initiate at the cloister. I was upset about something… the others were teasing me. Mocking my name. Like I wasn't worthy of it…"
*You send a pulse over the palette of Shadowheart's mind, a slow coaxing of details that swirl up like snow disturbed by a falling branch. Images flash in your shared mindspace: a tiefling, a wild head of purple hair, a beautiful smile.*
"There was… another," Shadowheart recollects. "A tiefling boy with short horns and purple hair. I think he was my friend. He tried to make me feel better…"
*Probing deeper, you draw conversations to the surface. Laughter, hushed words, exchanged notes. You bring forth as much as Shadowheart can stand.*
Her eyes fly open. "'Rennald'," she recalls. "That's the last part of it I remember… that must be his name. Perhaps he's still here, in Baldur's Gate."
"We'll look," Amara promises her, taking her hands. "We'll look, dear friend."
"Are you two done?" Astarion drawls. "We need the word from on high on who's being elected to leave our little protective circle this morn."
Amara rolls her eyes. "Would you like to come, Niar?"
"Rather than being trapped in this dusty hovel? However did you know, darling?"
"Just a lucky guess, I suppose, darling." Amara mimics his accent. "You are, after all, ever so subtle."
"I am, aren't I?"
Amara's eyes flick over the rest of her companions. "I suppose… if Shadowheart and Astarion are coming already, we have a kind of synergy with Gale."
"A strong choice," the wizard compliments with a bow. "Our teamwork is excellent."
"Shall we?" Amara says, gesturing to the mouth of their camp.
Everyone gathers the last of what they need, and Shadowheart is regaling her tale of Rennald - perhaps with some embellished details - to Gale.
"Astarion," she calls gently. "You seem even more on edge than usual."
He tsks under his tongue. "Keep those keen eyes on something more worthwhile. It's nothing important. Baldur's Gate is simply right over the hills. And so is Cazador…"
"That's definitely important," Amara argues. "To you, and so to me as well."
His shoulders slump. "He will stop at nothing to capture me."
"He will never so much as get a chance," Amara promises him. "Come— let me cheer you up. Buy you a new dagger set?"
He does perk up at that. "Hmm… I have been meaning to look into new blades. Oh, all right. Distract me, then."
Amara quickly redirects their group into the smithy, and approaches with the intent to ask after their roguish collection— but is quickly swept into quite the sales pitch. "Welcome adventurer!'' The smith greets with enthusiasm far exceeding the usual strong and silent bluster of a blacksmith. "I take it you're new to Rivington. No doubt you came here to choose from my fine selection of weapons?"
Oh— uh… well, Amara supposes he isn't wrong… so long as he only means in the last five minutes of Amara's life.
"Yes, I seem to have it all," he continues. "Clubs, swords, maces, bows. Cutting and gutting galore," he adds, rather… creepily, honestly. "Why don't we see if we can find the perfect weapon for you?"
Amara shoots Astarion a look but he shrugs and his eyes are alight with amusement, so Amara assumes… this should be fine. Right? Right.
She hasn't gotten a new bow in a long time.
"How will you know my perfect weapon?" she asks, rather curiously.
"I provide a personalized service for my customers," he explains. "To make sure the weapon I choose is the perfect fit. Tell me, how do you like to kill?"
Ahm— hmm.
This is… giving Amara a bad feeling.
"I suppose it depends who I am killing," she answers dodgily. "Avoid it when I can, be efficient when needed, and… well, it can depend on how much they've pissed me off, honestly."
"Oh, good answer," he praises, with a considerable amount of enthusiasm. "Killing is so much more satisfying when you really mean it."
"…Right," Amara agrees, even though she doesn't really.
"And when you kill someone, what do you feel?"
Amara is really regretting this personalized service.
…
Bad, she feels bad. Usually.
"Relieved, I suppose," she admits. "It's kill or be killed these days, and I intend to survive."
The smith raises his hands up in exaggerated gesture work. "I can see it in your eyes, though— you can't help feeling a tingle of pleasure all the same."
The only thing Amara thinks her eyes would be broadcasting right now would be distrust, but she keeps her big mouth shut.
"One more question, if you'll humor me," he begins, pointing a finger at Amara. "Do you think you could turn your weapon on those closest to you?"
Amara blinks rapidly. "No," she breathes out, horrified. "I would never kill someone I cared about."
The man smiles, in a way that makes the hair on Amara's arms stand on end. "You'll do so much worse, by the time I'm done with you."
Amara opens her mouth, confusion abound, but stops when the man's head slumps down. His body snaps forward, and the cracking of bones can be heard. Amara gasps and takes a step back, right against Gale's chest, and his hands come up to steady her.
The smith's body contorts, twisting in a series of bone breaks and blood bursts, his torso rotating too far, his neck bending backwards. His hands come up to snap his neck back into place— but the figure that remains, bones unbroken, skin unbloodied, is not the blacksmith.
It is the Bhaalist.
Orin.
"So," she breathes out in a wispy tone of voice. "You're the lickspittle who crushed the Bone Lord and His thrall." She giggles, her pale, iris-less eyes roaming all over Amara's body gripped in Gale's arms. "Have you come beg-begging, sniffing for our stones?" she snivels in a mocking tone. "Gortash won't like that. A throat his black hand can't choke the spit from. He'll find your weaknesses. Stick a knife in the cracks and prise you apart. Unless you get him first."
Amara levels a glare at the Chosen one, licking her teeth. "He may come after my weaknesses if he wishes," Amara drawls. "They aren't hard to find— but they can defend themselves just fine. And should Gortash or anyone else decide to come after them anyway… just know, you'll have to get close to stick that knife in, and close to me is a dangerous place to be, especially… when you piss me off."
Orin just smiles. "When you find the lording and tell him that, you can also mention… Orin is watching."
She twists a ring on her finger— and is gone.
"Lovely," Amara drawls when the stink of the Bhaalist Weave is gone. "So Orin is a shapeshifter. How long has she been watching?"
Astarion makes a furious huffing sound. "It's not enough we have a gallery of villains to look out for, but now we could be infiltrated by a shapechanger? I can't even tell if any of you are acting strange because you've been replaced or because this group is full of weirdos," he growls out.
"Oh, calm down," Amara chirps, and pokes him in the side. "We'll deal with that if we must. No sense worrying about it now."
Gale hums behind her. "Still— don't you find it worrisome? Orin toys with us where she could destroy us."
"Of course I find it worrisome," Amara agrees. "But not enough to derail us. We have to keep moving."
The other wizard sighs. "Whatever her motivations, I hope she reveals them quickly."
From behind them, there's a rattling before a set of closet doors fly open. "Ungh… my head…" a man says— the blacksmith! "All right, where are you?"
Well, it's good to know that the ones Orin shifts into don't die.
"You!" he roars. "Try attacking me when my back isn't turned, you bloody coward!" he accuses, holding his head and shaking a fist.
Amara flutters her eyelashes at him. "I didn't attack you," she insists. "I've only just arrived— I've been right here the whole time."
"Don't dare lie to me," he orders, pointing at her. "I saw you with my own eyes, grinning at me like some bloody imbecile. I'm going to knock that smirk right off your face."
"Oh gosh, no!" Amara holds her hands up. "Truthfully— haven't you heard? There is someone going around wearing the faces of others. Just now, you were even out here manning your smithy, before the perpetrator scarpered. Tell me," she says, getting out a pad and pencil, "did this creature say anything to you before attacking? Or after? I've been tracking it for a while— this is my first time hearing it's wearing my face. That's… disconcerting."
"I… erm…"
"Is there something of value in your blacksmith stock that would be of interest other than monetary gain? From what I could tell, the creature didn't leave with anything. I think information or intel is more valuable to it. Any thoughts?"
The smith's eyes narrow at Amara. "You say you've been following this thing?"
"Indeed," Amara confirms. "It could be lurking around right now, wearing an unsuspecting face. It's a difficult entity to keep up with, so anything would help."
He presses his hand to his temple. "Ngh… well… right before she hit me, now that you mention it, it was like I was… encouraged to drum up thoughts of all the most recent comings and goings. Who stopped by. Who passed through. As if… someone was looking through the memories."
He gives a violent shiver.
Amara reaches out and touches his arm.
"Why don't you close the shop down and get some rest, here—" She hands him two health potions. "Although nothing could have prevented this creature from striking here, that I know of, I'm still sorry it happened to you, and more sorry all the same that it wore my face to do so. I'll come back to check on you if I have the ability, if that's all right?"
He takes the potions hesitantly. "I s'posse so. Just try to find that damnable creature, would you? Going about knocking people upside the head. Making them… think thoughts. Unsettling…"
"I can promise you that I will continue searching until I find it," Amara says with a smile.
After all, Orin has a stone.
Apparently Amara needs them, for something.
After helping the frazzled smith close down his shop, Amara's party steps back onto the street, and she feels the slightest shift in her tadpole.
"Amara," the Emperor drones into her mind. "It sounds like Orin is using Absorb Intellect, which is an extremely advanced illithid power. She is probably only able to do so as she is both a holder of a Netherstone, and the Chosen of Bhaal. However, you could also reach such heights… if you evolve. You will need to kill True Souls and consume their—"
"I can't," she whispers, but since it stops talking, it must be able to hear her. "I just can't— I know it would probably give me an advantage, but…"
"Advantage… is an understatement. You can change your form with an evolved worm. Displace yourself and items around you, fracture or steal the abilities of others, gain luck and favor like you've never known, or even instantly damage, heal, or kill. It is power unmatched."
"That… Emperor… is what scares me about it."
They make it back to the marketplace area, and Amara instantly spots a familiar face— well, she spots the ginger hair, is really the truth.
Once again, the young girl runs right for Amara.
As if she knows what she wants. And has been waiting.
"Erm. Hi. It's me. Yenna," she starts, again with just that edge of childhood awkwardness. "You remember me, right? You were really nice to me before. And erm. My mum hasn't come back yet."
Still, Amara's heart breaks for the girl.
She stayed in her house, empty of her mother, for too long to let her suspicions abandon this girl on the side of the road— just in case it's true.
"She might come later…" Yenna tries to sound hopeful for a moment, but then her face falls as she faces reality instead. "I don't think she's coming. Could I maybe… stay at your camp like you said?"
"Of course you can stay, Yenna. Gale, would you mind terribly? You move the fastest, could you ferry her back and help her pick a spot to settle in? Have Halsin and Karlach look after her? Then hurry back?"
"YES!" she chirps with such joy and relief in her voice that— oh… Amara knows all too well. What she wouldn't have given for a camp… instead of the temple. "If it's a camp, you've got fire and everything, don't you? I can cook really good! Whatever you want! Thankyouthankyou," she says in a rush.
Gale chuckles to himself. "Let us discuss some possible recipes on the way, then."
/ / /
The town is full, but it quickly becomes obvious to Amara before she even gets up to the gates of Wyrm's Crossing that something is amiss. All of these people are refugees seeking shelter, and there are way too many of them.
Baldur's Gate takes in refugees.
So… why are they all stuck outside?
Still, Amara tries to gather some more laid back intelligence from the general public before approaching, so they can wait for Gale to rejoin them, and instead makes a few potions to sell and the rest to keep.
She's quite good at conserving her ingredients, but she runs out of two rather common ones by perhaps being a bit overzealous and heavy-handed.
"We'll just go forage for more," Shadowheart says. "Gale is an adult— he can figure out where we went. Leave him some magic breadcrumbs to follow, or something."
"Magic breadcrumbs…" Amara mutters to herself. "I'll show you magic breadcrumbs."
Astarion scoffs. "Why are we even bothering to go pick weeds? Just call it a day. You made a few bucks. I'm getting mud all over my—"
He freezes, and when he freezes, Amara freezes.
Shadowheart notices a moment later.
"What?" she asks, looking at the two of them and then rapidly looking all around them. "What? What? What am I missing?"
"Nothing," Astarion gusts out. "I just— I smell blood up ahead. A lot of it."
Amara starts walking toward it.
"Amar— Amara!!" Astarion tries to grab for her but she Steps out of his reach. "Damn you to the Hells, can't you just stay put for five minutes?!"
Amara doesn't find any mergrass.
She does, however, find some bloody footprints.
"Oh, that's just lovely."
"Gale!" Amara turns to see the wizard has rejoined them.
He looks significantly less pleased to see where they've found themselves. "Was this your doing?"
Amara's smile drops. "Of course not!" she admonishes. "We're following it."
"No, no, no!" Astarion chimes. "No, we are not!
Amara holds the vampire's gaze, and a smile spreads across her face. In an instant, she Steps away and is halfway up the bloody footprint trail.
"Amara!" Shadowheart calls after her, but she's laughing. "Don't go anywhere we can't see— oh, Moonmaiden guide us, she's going into a cave."
With an affectionate sigh, Gale is also at the mouth of the cave, and magic erupts out of the cave after them, as Amara is already embroiled in a battle with several unidentifiable mercenaries in armor.
"One day you will regret running in without clearing it with us first," Gale admonishes in good humor, as he Shields Amara and blankets the field in flames.
"You followed," she teases, and she teleports Astarion further back in the… quite bloody cave, in order for him to backstab anyone Gale or Amara damage.
Shadowheart buffs and heals, while getting in several choice shots with some of the throwables she collected and didn't hand over to Amara and her reckless throwing habits.
"Gods— what is that stench?" Astarion asks, appearing from the darkness with one final arrow sticking out of a human man's neck.
Amara waves a powerful Prestidigitation through the air to disperse the rank smell. "I believe… it's coming from those three," she mutters. "I have a feeling they aren't what they appear to be."
"Indeed," Gale agrees, the faint whisper of an Arcana detection spell in the air. "There are powerful disguise spells over all of them."
Astarion makes a noise of disgust. "I vote we don't dismiss the magic— just leave them. I don't… want to know what they are if that's how they smell. Vae, can you not root around in them in case you dismiss the spell?"
She scoffs. "Since when have you now wanted to loot? Look, I found this… Flowery key and a note with Orin's name on it— it's signed, 'Orin the Red'."
Frowning, Astarion snatches the note from her. "Don't mock me, half-elf."
"Don't make it so easy, vampire."
"Children," Gale chastises playfully. "We should— where is Amara?"
Astarion groans. "Don't tell me she's finding more mephitic areas for us to trespass— I have had quite enough of this rancid place."
Amara pops her head out from around the corner. "Don't get into a tiff, Niar. The smell fades this way."
"It also fades that way," he insists, pointing to the opening of the cave.
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Shadowheart asks, following Amara.
"I do not now have and have never had one," he grumbles.
Gale chuckles under his breath. "We all know you are lying. Come, Astarion."
"They delight in ganging up on me…"
Amara's eyes glitter when she looks back at him. "Oh, I assume that would be quite a delight, yes."
The vampire waps at her arm and she bursts into laughter and has to be hushed by a giggling cleric.
"You two are impossible."
It takes Amara nearly the entire time getting out of the cave system to settle herself, which is saying something because they get lost several times that she snaps away until they're able to emerge into something more resembling a building.
Or, well— a crypt, perhaps.
"Great— coffins," Amara drawls. "More coffins. Just what I needed on this adventure."
*Here lies Flinster Sunseeker. Born 1400 DR - Died 1456 DR*
"Riveting," she gruffs.
*Here lies Shirra Clarwen. Date of birth unknown - Died 1491 DR*
Then - well, because Amara just really can't make this shit up - the monk in the coffin gets up.
The very dead, very mummified, very magical monk, with a shriveled face and a voice emanating from the purple-pink light at her chest, Shirra Clarwen roams the room, and speaks. "Ha-he-ho-HOO! Darling Shirra, faithful to the Crying God. Long didst I wait, only to find thine empty flesh."
She hobbles around the room and Amara and all her companions just… watch, for a moment.
"Um, Amara," Shadowheart begins. "Should we, perhaps…?"
Shirra continues, "Gone thou might be, alas… oh ho, honored Shirra. Her spirit hath fled— and her body but merely a husk. Heh heh hee-hee-HEE!"
Oh… kay?
"Swear, I did, to shed this foul mania, and bestow it upon Shirra! She was to endure, to suffer, as was her god Ilmater's wont! Who, now, shall bear the madness Shar has wrought on me, so I might no longer suffer? He-ho-hoo-haHAHAHAHAHA! Shall it be— THOU?"
Amara hears Shadowheart's long-suffering sigh behind her and can't help but agree.
Shar, again, is it?
She opens her connection with the cleric and their similar mindsets of unease and frustration blend together.
"Vae, assist me for a moment. I may perhaps be able to identify this monk's affliction. Could you lend me some of your knowledge of Sharran curses?"
"Of course. I shall provide everything I can recall."
*The monk himself holds your answer. Tasha's Hideous Laughter is a powerful skill— but earning it may come at the cost of wisdom.*
"May?" Amara asks in her bond.
"Well— you could always just…"
Shadowheart takes Amara's hand.
"If it will bring you peace," Amara offers, "I will bear the madness."
"HOO!" this… possessor of Shirra chortles.
Shadowheart's hand clamps down on Amara's as it begins.
*Your muscles tingle and your mouth twitches as the laughing madness spreads through you. The madness tugs at your mind, prods in places best left untouched. You feel your wisdom begin to drain…*
"Calm yourself, Áralta," Shadowheart communicates to her with urgency. "Call on your wits and shield your mind's most vulnerable reaches."
Amara swears she's trying.
It just takes— well.
It takes a few tries.
"Come on, Amara!" Shadowheart urges, having rewound each time Amara has. "Steel yourself and guide the sensations elsewhere. You can do this!"
*You remain wise as ever, even as Shar's madness spreads outward.*
Thank the layers of the Hells it finally worked.
*You giggle, struck by the absurdity of the moment. How quaint that yet another impossible situation has arisen, as this skeleton has arisen and requested to be cured of a Sharran illness. Not even the most creative of minds could dream up such a sequence of events as the ones you've lived in the last month. Outrageous! Ridiculous! Once again, you feel your wisdom draining away. Hilarious! Or is it?*
"Pull yourself together!" Shadowheart demands. "Muster your senses, clear your mind. You will take the madness, but it will not take of you."
It fights— oh it fights.
It hurts.
Amara's stomach and chest ache, her lungs burn. She tries to suppress it all, but…
Snap, snap, snap.
"Hold firm," Shadowheart encourages. "You will make this curse a gift. You will not surrender your wisdom. You are Amara, our untouchable leader. Do it. Now!"
*The urge to laugh dwindles, though you can't help but chuckle. You withstood the monk's madness and earned Tasha's Hideous Laughter.*
Then, as if Amara is keeping score here, the ghost that must have been possessing Shirra appears.
A ghost.
Ghost.
"My friend— forgive me," he requests in his otherworldly voice. "For this mind was not mine own. May laughter be thy gift, never thy curse. The Morninglord calls. Canst thou feel the warmth of His blessing? This is not my final twilight… but a new dawn. Farewell."
*The corpse is an empty husk once more. The spirit who possessed it, as well, now liberated from madness, appears to finally be at peace.*
"Utter madness.Why do these things happen to us?" Amara grumbles to herself.
"Uh…" Astarion holds up an amulet with a cracked gem. "It could have something to do with this. Just a little… trinket I found when I was rather bored in the Underdark. I wasn't exactly expecting it to, well…"
Amara sighs. She holds her hand out. "Let me see it."
Now, it's an ordinary broken amulet— but the faintest traces of Necromantic Weave inside the gemstone tell a different story. Perhaps a trapped spirit— the one who possessed Shirra's body.
"From now on?" She holds up the amulet. "Let's mention when we pick up possessed jewelry, please."
He gives a dramatic sigh. "If we must."
"I'm not touching the rest of them," Amara says, walking out of the tomb area. "Get me out of here."
"A grand idea indeed," Gale agrees. "Come, I think I can see a way up here…"
Amara has no idea where they are.
She sways dangerously on her feet, her vision swimming with exhaustion, so they take a rest while trying to navigate and eventually find a passageway out of this basement.
After some Restoration, two pears, some preserved meat, and about twenty minutes of meditation, Amara feels more like a living person again, so she stands with Gale's help and lets Astarion navigate them back to the surface.
Finally, they see a non-hostile, non-possessed lifeform after they wander a few hallways of what looks like a temple. A blonde elf in a blue tunic, and Amara is just glad to have someone to talk to.
"Excuse me," she begins. "Do you happen to know how I can—"
"I've said all I have to say already," he cuts her off.
Well.
Certainly not to Amara, you total stranger, you, but go on then.
"Now, I just want to pack up my kitchen and leave," he asserts, and Amara rolls her eyes.
If he doesn't want to help, then… "You should probably clean up the massive blood trail before you go," she drawls.
"I'm not touching it," he insists, which— well, it surprises Amara, to be sure. "Not with a mop ten yards long— that's Father Lorgan's blood."
Sorry, what?
Say more right now.
What to even ask first? It's like selecting a delicacy.
"Why've you got a priest's blood on the floor?" she blurts out.
"He was attacked in the cellar," explains this… chef? acolyte? something. "He had a private altar down there— used to like the solitude. The Open Hand temple can be quite… loud. The man ate like a horse. A soup-hungry horse. Usually took enough to feed a small clergy down there."
…
Did this Father Lorgan keep a secret, small clergy in the basement?
Was Amara overthinking this?
Probably.
Amara just tries to leave him be after that and continue trying to leave the Open Hand temple, except—
somehow, she finds something even more unbelievable than an amulet ghost possessing a corpse in the basement who passes the gift of Tasha's Hideous Laughter onto her.
By the Hells, she should be taking notes.
This shit could really make her a better writer.
There's a Hollyphant in the chapel.
Amara knows what they are, in an abstract sense, but it's one thing to know about the existence of these tiny… flying elephantine creatures, and another to see one. And this one is wearing a hat and smoking a pipe.
Amara can't make this shit up!!
Across from the golden furred elephant, flapping its golden wings, is a halfling woman with dark hair and dark eyes. "I still can't believe anyone would murder Father Lorgan," she's saying with a few pleading gestures.
The hollyphant merely flaps its four wings indignantly. "There's enough blood to make a believer out of anyone," she states as if it's obvious.
This makes the halfling look scandalized. "By Ilmater's grace, must you be so insensitive?" When the hollyphant doesn't respond, she only gets more desperate, and Amara recognizes she's dressed in the temple's robes. "Look, Investigator, Brilgor might have been a criminal, but he was no murderer. You're missing something, you have to be—"
"Enough, Yannis!" she gruffs, playing with the pipe in her hand. "Listen to yourself. You are defending a man who ritually slaughtered your high priest. The evidence speaks for itself. Brilgor killed Father Lorgan, then, be it out of shame or profane duty, offed himself with the same blade. Case closed, Sister Yannis."
With a huff, the hollyphant turns and flies off toward the doors, leaving the halfling staring after her. "Shitey little elephant," she curses softly, before realizing she has company. "Oh, um I apologize, stranger," she offers, embarrassed. "Language like that hardly befits a rector of Ilmater."
"I heard nothing," Amara promises her. "Other than, of course, something of a disagreement going on there?"
"You could certainly say that," Sister Yannis ventures. "Two people just died on temple grounds. Our high priest, Father Lorgan, and one of the new refugees, Brilgor. Investigator Valeria thinks it a murder, and is content to blame Brilgor. The politically convenient target."
Amara has a… bad feeling. "Politically convenient?"
"Brilgor was a refugee," she repeats. "No one sticks up for them at the best of times, and with Gortash in power…"
Ah. Great.
"Well, I expect the Flaming Fist will ban refugee aid now one of them's blamed for murder."
AH. Great!
"Would you let me help you?" Amara asks. "I could look around, see if there's anything to prove Brilgor innocent."
Sister Yannis looks surprised for a moment, but doesn't let it phase her. "Feel free to look around the temple— but fair warning. The Investigator won't change her mind without significant new evidence."
"Right," Amara responds, feeling suddenly like she's taken on something she shouldn't have. "And where can I find this Investigator Valeria?"
"Sharess' Caress would be my best bet. That's her usual haunt after 'closing' a case."
…Sounds like someone Amara wouldn't normally enjoy associating with, in any case.
"Any idea what I should be looking for?" Amara asks, trying for a confident smile.
"Valeria never found the murder weapon, so that could be a start. Anything disproving the refugee murder-suicide angle, really."
"I'll do my best, Sister Yannis. For all you've done for the refugees, it is the least I can do."
"I really hope you find something," she answers gently. "For all our sakes."
Amara pretends she knows the first thing about investigating— she does manage to find a corpse. That should count or something, right?
"Have that headpiece on you?" Gale asks when they're far enough away. "I know you dislike using it— I could do it."
Amara purses her lips. "Would you?"
He gives her an easy, eager smile. "With pleasure."
Amara passes the headpiece over to the other wizard, who puts it on without Amara's hesitation. Green Necromantic Weave pulses from his hand and courses through the body of Father Lorgan, raising him off the bed he lies on, his eyes cracking open and leaking green Weave.
Still, Amara just can't get used to the lifeless way they hang there… just waiting for a question.
"Who killed you?" Gale asks, getting right to the point.
"Dwarf…" Father Lorgan sighs out in the raspy voice of the deceased. "Dressed in red…"
Amara and him exchange a glance. Amara mouths, "How?" to him.
"How did you die?" Gale asks, knowing exactly what Amara meant.
"A poisoned blade…" the priest rasps. "Paralysis…"
Gale hums lightly. "Where were you attacked?"
"Tunnels from the cellar… refuge…"
Gale seeks Amara's gaze again. She mouths, "Why there?"
"What were you doing when you died?" Gale asks.
Father Lorgan sucks in a scratchy breath. "Hiding Brilgor… from Fists…"
Then, his body hits the bed, devoid of all magic and life once more.
"Well— that's certainly… interesting," Amara breathes. "I'm so sorry, Father. rest now."
"It's not exactly a solid lead," Shadowheart argues.
"Don't forget how we got in here," Amara points out. "A bunch of bloody footsteps and rank assassins? I doubt they were normal combatants. They were most likely disguised— doppelgangers. Seems a… bloody coincidence, don't you think? There's plenty going on here."
"So what do you suggest, returning to the rank cave to question those… dopplegangers?" Shadowheart asks.
"Perhaps— though I should loathe to expose Astarion to such trauma again," she teases. "We'll return at a later date. Let us see if we can't locate Brilgor's body, shall we?"
Notes:
I have a tumblr for this fic!
You can find my tumblr as snappedtav.tumblr.com!! or by searching for "snappedtav" 💗 Nothing motivates me more than people engaging in the comments here or by sending an ask on my tumblr! Thank you as always everyone!
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