Futures Bound

by songbirdscribbles

Summary:

A loose retelling of the plot of Baldur’s Gate 3 told from the perspective of my female Durge, Kalliope. Kalliope is a “Way of the Shadows” tiefling monk.

She doesn’t understand these bloodthirsty desires or thoughts, but sees their use in battle. Her monastic teachings are very contradictory to this seductive, dark muse in her mind that urges her to “KILL-MAIM-END!”

__________
Sample:

“I do believe, my plant-happy friend, that we’ve just shared everything we know with you. Now, are you going to help us or not?” Astarion sounds as nervous and impatient as you feel.

[…]

Nettie’s lips thin into a tight grimace.

“…Kalliope…” tries Gale.

“No. I’m not taking poison from a woman I can’t trust. You’ve done nothing but deceive us since we crossed that threshold,” you flick your hand angrily, pointing to the door you passed through just moments before. “Despite us answering every question that you asked.”

The dark whisper snakes up the back of your skull, the killing calm begins warming and filling your body.

“It’s just for insurance,” tries Nettie once more, “take it only if you feel yourself changing.”

You sneer. And then, your vision goes red.

Notes:

.

Chapter 1: Nightmares Wrought True

Summary:

You’re whisked away on an interplanar vacation. Only problem — you definitely didn’t plan for or choose this vacation.

Notes:

Work in progress, I’ve never posted anything on AO3 before, so this is mostly written to exercise my writing muscles again.

Mostly story, and of course, Astarion-centric smut once it’s appropriate for the story.

The ship lurches sideways, slamming you into the clammy wall of the pod, waking you suddenly. Your head aches and your eye burns, similar to the burning that comes when an eyelash or sand overstays its welcome beneath your eyelid, despite how hard you rub at it.

Fuck. It wasn’t a dream , you think to yourself, and kick angrily at the door to your pod. It opens with a grating, insectoid click.

The ship lurches again, you tumble forward from the pod, nearly landing headfirst in a glowing cauldron of foul liquid. Other — tadpoles? you’re not sure that’s the best word, but it fits — squirm and jitter within. 

Reaching a hesitant hand forward, you brush the edge of the basin, meaning to pull yourself up. At the slightest touch, the basin shatters just as the ship lurches again. Whether it was previously damaged, or somehow repulsed by your essence — you don’t know.

A quick glance around the room shows other pods. One still locked, an unmoving body inside. Another, burst open, the casing shattered.

Someone else got out it seems, good. Maybe they can explain what the fuck is going on.

Outside you can hear — dragons? Roaring blending and droning with the sound of this — spaceship? Hells. It really wasn’t a dream. Last you knew, you were going about your business in Baldur’s Gate. Finishing a meditation at the ‘Shaded Pass’ monastery before heading home for the evening. Past that — shit. Whatever they did to you — you can’t remember past that.

Before the sky screamed open and that terrifying and grotesque spacecraft tore through the cityscape.

Shattering any semblance of normalcy in the streets. Your memories fade in and out — clammy restraints around your wrists, the pungent scent of the mucosal pod. A horrifying, tentacled creature approaching you, that tadpole clasped gently between its claws. The squirming, gelatinous thing baring rows of teeth, somewhere between those of a shark’s and the rasping lips of a snail’s.

The pain — like molten acid. Unbearable pressure as the tadpole wriggled its way past your eye.

You gag.

“Fucking hells. Only in Faerún…I suppose.” You try to remember anything else, testing what remains of your mind beyond the pain.

Kalliope. Yes, my name is Kalliope. I’m from Baldur’s Gate, trained by Way of the Shadow Monks. My favorite treat is— cubed sun melon.  Fresh cucumber. With chili sauce.

You quiz yourself on other things you remember, or thought you remembered, about your life as you search for any of your belongings. None of the chests or satchels in here reveal your equipment.

“Of course. Just my robes it seems.”

Though you do notice a chitinous chest on a ledge above. A quick search, and you produce a small red gem — pretty but useless — and some coin. You pocket both.

Searching for an exit to the chamber, you see a — “Gods. A sphincter door?! This is a nightmare wrought true.”

You suppress a shudder and approach the door. It slurps open.

In the next chamber, you see more pods and broken bodies. Brains in tanks. More chitinous chests. Across the way, you spot a strange, short pillar near a floating platform. Upon approach, the pillar thrums. Your mind pulses, the tadpole in your mind waking.

Suddenly, you’re stepping onto the platform, and it lifts you to another level. Glancing around you see more of the same. But in the center — a torture chair? A man sits limply within it. Head slumped, mouth hanging open.

“Hells! They’ve opened his skull?!” Despite the bile curdling your innards, a dark curiosity spurs you forward. As you near the chair, you hear a voice. Childlike and warbling.

“Yes, free Us! Help! Friend!”

You crouch and inspect the base of the chair, looking for clues as to what the hell was happening here. The voice again, “Up here! Us, free us!” 

It’s — the man’s brain?! It quivers slightly in the cracked-open skull. You suppress yet another gag — “things are just getting worse and worse…”

“Please, we are trapped. We don’t want to die here. Help Us, free Us!” You inspect the brain — its beautiful texture, glistening pink — that dark curiosity tingling from somewhere within. You could pry it free; you realize. Then your hands are moving. As soon as you pull it from the bony prison, the brain leaps from your hands. 

Horrifyingly, in what must be the fourth nightmare in mere moments, the brain sprouts four legs . Scaly, taloned. Like those of a vulture. Multiple tendrils erupt from the brain’s— back? The creature, overjoyed, jumps with glee and turns to you.

“Thank you, friend! Quickly, to the helm!”

I’m really going to need a drink soon , you think. The brain skitters off, you jog along behind it.

 

---

 

You pass through a few other chambers, snatching what supplies you find amongst the wreckage. Passing through another sphincter-door, you see an entire area of the ship that’s been ripped open. The skies of the Hells filled with red dragons and imps.

Entranced, you’re caught off guard when a woman leaps from a ledge above you. Long sword in hand. Managing a beautiful display of acrobatics, she backflips overhead, before landing with the blade inches from your face. You school your awed-expression into a more neutral one.

“That was incredible!”

"Thrall,” she spits back at you, “you will go no further. I will end you along with the other ghaik abominations!” She glances around, noticing the brain-creature patiently waiting at your feet.

“I’m no thrall, and what is a ghaik?”

“Thrall you may not be, but a fool all the same. Ghaik, mindflayers, your kin call them.” She ducks as a massive red dragon soars overhead, sending a blast of fire further towards the front of the ship. “Come then, istik. We must hurry! Bring your — pet — along with you.”

"You can call me Kalliope, if you wish.”

"I do not. Now, follow.”

"Yes, friend! We go to the Helm,” coos the brain creature.

Still disoriented and seeing no other options, you jog along behind. In this moment, an ally — however terse — is a great gift. After all, you’re gods-knows-where on a mindflayer ship, in hell?!

At least she seems to know something .

 

---

 

Pushing forward, your troupe encounters imps and other brain-creatures. ‘Intellect devourers’, the woman calls them. Thankfully, they pay you no mind.

“They’re…peaceful. Unusual. They assume we are thralls,” says the woman, “leave them be and maintain the deception.”

Further ahead, you enter another chamber full of pods. Some cracked, some with corpses inside, one with a dead mindflayer. In another, a dark-haired-woman screams and pounds on the door.

“Let me out! Help!”

“We’ve no time to spare. We must reach the helm before the craft falters completely!”

You’re torn, between the guilt of leaving the other woman behind, and reason. Beyond that — another feeling shivers through you. Pleasure. The woman’s screams sound so delightful, stirring some dark shadow within. 

The same from before. 

Disturbed with your thoughts — you shake your head and continue on, looting as you go.

In the next chamber, you come across a strange rune. Your tadpole recognizes it, so you pocket it.

“The door here is blocked, blast it! The previous chamber must have a door we missed,” spits the woman, dashing back to the other room.

The trapped woman still screams. Ignoring it as best you can, you search the room. Not a door, but a strange control panel sits to the side of the second woman’s pod. A recession shaped like the rune you found earlier stands out. Curiosity gets the better of you, you place the rune, and the woman’s pod begins to creak open.

In the same moment, the warrior-woman calls from ahead, “Istik, come along! Time runs short.”

The dark pleasure stirs again at the recent memory of the screams. Once again uncomfortable, you sprint after the other two.

“Good luck!” You call over your shoulder.

Her pod is open , you think to yourself. It’s up to her now.

The dark pleasure fades, seemingly disappointed.

 

---

 

A few encounters later, you reach the helm. The brain creature — Us you assume based on how it addresses itself — skitters ahead, claws lashing out at a hell-boar.

Center stage, one of those horrible mindflayers battles a cambion. The two trade blows and slurs.

The warrior-woman skewers an imp before whipping around to face another hell-boar.

You dodge and dash through the fray around the controls, your tadpole urging you forward. Somehow, the tadpole you presume, you manage the controls to the ship. It stabilizes. You take a moment to breathe.

Too soon, the ship lurches again. The roof to the chamber is ripped away, revealing a massive, red dragon glowering down at you. Smoke drifting from its nostrils. The change in pressure, coupled with the beast’s weight send the ship into another downward spiral.

Wind whips at your body, pushing you this way and that. Another lurch, and you’re thrown to the floor.

The ship continues to fall from the sky, whining and groaning as smoke fills the chamber. A glance behind you shows the coastline approaching all too quickly. You scramble, coughing, desperate for purchase. Another lurch. Wind and braids whip your cheeks as you tumble towards the hole in the craft. Terror clutches your mind. Desperation.

At the last moment, your fingers catch the edge. Hauling yourself back up, you press your back to the nearest wall. A cautious glance to your left, and you see the mindflayer from the fray in a similar position, purple blood staining its robes. It looks as if it wants to say something to you, but you’ll never know.

In that instant, a chunk of the craft’s wall tumbles in the air towards you.

A loud crack.

Rushing wind.

Then, everything goes dark.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 2: The Killing Calm

Summary:

You awaken on a beach, blissfully uninjured-- mostly. Soon, you encounter others with an infection similar to yours.

Your eyes snap open as your gut practically rushes up your throat. You’re hanging upside down, midair, the sand of a beach merely a foot beneath your nose. Your hair dangles, brushing the grains below.  

What the hells?  

Just as the thought passes, you’re dropped unceremoniously into the sediment. 

Exhaustion rushes in again, the adrenaline fading quickly. Darkness returns as your body falls into immediate sleep.

 

---

 

The following morning, you awaken to the gentle sound of lapping waves. Gulls and seabirds cry overhead, the sun’s morning rays just peeking over the horizon. You sit up, cautious. Taking a moment to remind yourself of where you are. 

Foolishly, you hope it really was a terrible nightmare. But then the scent of burning flesh and smoke fill your nostrils. You turn to see the wreckage of a Nautiloid ship cracked and draped gracelessly upon the beach and surrounding hills. 

Well. At least I’m not totally insane.

You stand, brushing sand and burned-out embers from your clothes and skin. Taking a moment more, you move each arm, hand, leg, and toe cautiously. Then roll your neck. Miraculously, nothing seems broken.

Everything moves correctly — but it all aches.  

A glance around and you notice wrecked barrels, crates, bodies, and a collapsed dock. You’re not sure where you are, but clearly there’s civilization near enough. The nearest crate is cracked open, inside you see a collection of bright blue water flasks. Immediately you jog to the crate in hopes of finding an intact jug. Graciously, you find two. 

Nearby a discarded pack is spilled across the sand. Crumpled parchment, a hammer, and some other useless items peek from inside. You dump the pack upside down, shake any remaining sand from it, and inspect its integrity. 

Seems whole enough. You slip one bottle into the pack along with the coin and gemstone from the ship, then secure the pack behind you. Mouth watering, you yank the cork from the other jug and drink deeply, some peace returning as your body rehydrates a bit. 

Best ration the supplies, who knows where I am.

You add the partial bottle to the pack and take a turn around the beach. Nothing of note, really. Other than the giant, smouldering craft and a locked chapel door.

Checking a few more barrels, you discover some lockpicks and stale, crumbling cheese. As you rise, you catch a glimpse of the same dark-haired woman from the ship. Her body looks so helplessly arranged. Cautiously, you approach, looking for signs of life. Though deeply asleep, there is a rise and fall to her chest. You debate as to whether you should wake her, when that dark, seductive whisper snakes up your spine again. 

The faint metallic scent of blood begins to cloud your senses. Your hands twitch as that shadow wraps your mind into an embrace. 

How easily I could break and rend. How satisfying that would be.

A killing calm begins to spread within, warming your muscles.

No! I won’t. 

You force the shadow back down once more, grounding yourself. You replace thoughts of carnage with those of your favorite monastic writings. Imagine that you’re smelling warm, sharp incense rather than the earthy perfume of blood. 

Worried that the shadow may fight back, pushing you to do something you’d regret, you dart backwards in the sand. Away from the woman. 

I’ll just have to hope she survives again.

Holding onto the shreds of calm you’ve conjured in your mind; you hoist your pack and leave the beach readily.

 

---

 

Quickly, the sand and dunes give way to loose clay and trees. A forest rises from the beach. Shattered pods litter the path here and there. Other survivors.

Ahead, you hear someone calling, “Hello, anyone there? Help! I need some help!” You make to crouch behind some bushes, getting a peek at what you’ll find ahead.

Between the web of branches and leaves, you spot a lithe, well-dressed man ahead. Hair like gossamer curling around his ears and face.

You wait, watching.

One breath. Two.

Three.

He seems similarly banged up. Out of sorts. Some dirt and dust adorn his tailored armor. A few more moments, you wait. Watching. Listening.

He scoffs and calls again, “Hello? I hear someone there. Could you help me?”

You focus on the tone of his voice, sifting through the notes for any hint of deception. Trying to determine if he may be friend or foe. Failing to notice anything obvious, you stand and continue on from your hiding spot, doing your best to appear casual. Like you weren’t just prowling behind the foliage.

“Oh, hello!” His face is bright and insistent. “Quickly, I need some help. It’s one of those—those brain-things ,” he scoffs, “I’ve got it cornered, you can kill it, can’t you?” He wrings delicate, ivory fingers; shrinking backwards from the bushes just off the trail.

A moment of consideration. “I don’t see why not.” You straighten yourself and step forward gingerly, searching for an intellect-devourer within the brush. At the last moment, you hear the ring of metal from a sheath. Too late, the flash of a dagger in the light, and then you’re tumbled and lowered to the ground, the beautiful man on top of you.

“Shh, shh, shh. Wouldn’t want to damage that beautiful neck of yours.” He presses a dagger to your throat, gentle, yet determined. “You’re with them , aren’t you,” he spits. “With those horrid, ghastly mindflayers? Answer me!”

The feeling of his body against yours paired with the adrenaline of a possible fight emboldens the whisper again.

Awake only an hour or so, and already such an exciting day.

Your blood thrums, you feel joyful out of nowhere. “I’m flattered, it’s a rare treat to have such a gorgeous creature straddling me so early in the day.” His face flickers, a flash of—amusement before that sharpened grimace returns.

“I’m waiting,” he hums, looking you over.

As you make to answer, your tadpole wriggles, joyful as it senses nearby kin. The scene before you fades, and is replaced by flashes of the darkened streets of the Gate. 

Courtesans and revelers weave around you in the bustle of the City’s nightlife. A few beautiful people blush as your attention falls to them. Then, a tavern. Heavily perfumed air, one of those beautiful people draped across your lap. They giggle.

Almost as quickly as the visions faded in, they fade out once more. The trees and birdsong return, as does the awareness of this man restraining you. His lips so very close to your ear. Cool breath caressing your neck.

“What was that?” You blurt in unison. 

“No, no, Darling , I asked you first.” 

Using the moment of his shock to your advantage, you shift your weight to the left in a quick move, pull free of his grip, then raise yourself to a kneeling position.

“I do wish everyone I meet would stop accusing me of working with those things. I am not, ‘with them’, though they seem to wish that I were.”

You’re so tired. Can’t anyone see that you’re just as lost and confused as they are? You stand, and offer him a hand. 

“Now then,” you say, “would you care to continue this conversation like normal adults? Or do you want to keep rolling in the dirt like beasts?”

Another flash of surprise and amusement pass through his wine-red eyes. He flips the dagger behind him, securing it into a sheath at the small of his back, then grips your hand and stands to meet your gaze.

“They took you too? Put one of those — things into your eye?”

“Yes, not the most pleasant encounter.” Not even half as pleasant as this one has been so far.

“I see. Well, my sincerest apologies, can’t be too careful. I’m Astarion, and you are?” In the tussle you’ve both suffered some minor cuts, and the faint smell of iron fills your senses.

Arousing you.

“Apology accepted. I might’ve done the same were the roles reversed.” Climbing on top of you, included. “Though I do recall it was you who called for assistance.”

He opens his mouth to reply, then pauses, a sly grin creeping over his features. “Touché, darling.”  You suppress a blush.

“You can call me Kalliope.”

“Well, Kalliope, I do so apologize once more. I suppose I’m as confused as you are, what with the circumstances...” He gestures around to the snapped trees and smoldering wreckage of the ship. “You wouldn’t happen to — know anything about this worm hitchhiking along in our minds, would you?”

“A woman I crossed paths with on the ship told me it was a gha—a mindflayer tadpole. Apparently, we’ve only a few days before we’re– turned .”

He chuckles, a hearty, pleasant sound. You can’t help but grin. “Of course it’ll turn me into a monster! Why wouldn’t it? That’s just my luck!” Before you can ask what he means — he continues, “Well, it seems that we share the same affliction. Shall we move along? Before we sprout tentacles? Someone in these hills has to have a suggestion.”

You nod, silently agreeing.

He can wield a blade, which makes him useful.

Something dark in you can’t help but imagine how beautiful he’d look in a casket.

 

---

 

The two of you continue on, gathering any supplies in your path and hoping for signs of civilization. Astarion trails you a safe distance away. Your senses are on high alert. Turning a corner, you catch muffled shouting — from a nearby rock? Surely, you’re going crazy.

From the rock, a hand appears. You’re drawn nearer by a man’s voice inside, you notice the fizzling and popping of an arcane gate gone haywire.

“A hand, anyone?” The trapped man waves his for emphasis. 

Once again that dark, sensual voice whispers across your mind. How amusing might it be to just cut his off?

The thought catches you off-guard, giving the darkened muse another moment to intrude. 

He asked for a hand, but what if you took it instead?

Disgusting! You chide yourself and then strain to pull him free. Moments later, a surprisingly well-put-together man dusts himself off, smoothes his hair, and introduces himself as Gale of Waterdeep. Another strange tadpole-song stirs your mind, revealing that he too, is infected.

You discuss the situation, learning nothing new. Aside from a few complicated terms for what you’d already heard from the warrior on the ship. 

From behind, you hear Astarion mumble “…a snarky Tiefling and now a wizard who got trapped in his own portal? Some group I’ve stumbled upon.”

“What was that,” you snap.

“Oh nothing , simply admiring the view from back here is all.” You roll your eyes and move along.

 

---

 

Ahead you hear bickering. A mixture of infernal curses and common. You recognize the dialect as the infernal commonly used by tieflings. You creep forward only to come upon a truly amusing sight. 

It’s the warrior-woman from the ship!

She looks furious as she hangs helplessly within what looks like a shitty bird cage. A pair of tieflings below argue about what they should do with her. You glance at your companions. Gale whispers something about more allies being helpful. Astarion doesn’t seem convinced, he merely shrugs dispassionately.

Begrudgingly, you leave your cover in the bushes and approach the situation, once again pretending as if you weren’t just skulking about. She did help you off of the ship after all.

A life debt.

As you approach, you intend to handle the situation calmly. An agreement could be reached. But that dark whisper caresses your mind again. You imagine the scent of gore and the glint of it off of your pale companion’s dagger. The leash on that shadow snaps . Suddenly your fist is colliding with the jaw of the male Tiefling.

His — sister? Mate? Fellow scout? Hollers his name and makes to run off before Astarion has expertly lodged an arrow in her calf.

“Oh finally! Let’s hurt someone,” he purrs.

She stops in her tracks, a keening scream bursting from her as the arrow sinks into flesh. Gale swears under his breath and summons a freezing blast of arcane energy. In what seems like mere moments later, the fight is over. The warrior-woman is cursing above, demanding to be let out.

You’re tired and confused. That bloodlust still seducing your senses. Humming to you a dark melody of violence. Disgusted at yourself, your tone comes out more acidic than intended, “Say. Please.” 

Astarion chuckles behind you.

“Lae’zel of crèche K’llir does not beg of worms. ”

“Fancy way to say no…” mutters Gale.

You wave your hand dismissively and make to loot the bodies of the two tieflings you’ve just knocked unconscious. As you rifle through their pockets you hear the distinct twang of a bowstring followed by an unceremonious crunching of wood. Then the loud clank of plate armor colliding with dirt.

Lae’zel curses.

Your companions discuss a truce with the Gith. Gale is tempted by her claims of a nearby group of her people who could heal them. Astarion’s lilting voice sounds as if he agrees.

Their conversation fades out as you stand over the body. When was the last time you stood over a body you’d broken ? You can’t remember. Your blood thrums with the temptation to mutilate. To ruin further. Imagining just how easy it would be to snap their unconscious forms.

The crunch of joints rendered. 

The tear of flesh. 

The alluring ruby of blood.

A hand on your shoulder jerks you back to reality. You realize how feral you must look and do your best to shake it off. The pale elf is muttering something to you. Your head clears “—w-what were you saying? Sorry.”

“I was simply wondering if my newest dagger-happy-friend would think to make camp? The others want to at least scout for an area before settling. Our wizard is already whining about how strained summoning the weave feels.”

The rushing, bloodthirst clears from your mind as you comprehend his words. “Um– yes. Sure. Not a terrible idea, I guess.”

The elf gives you a skeptical, almost knowing smirk before turning to speak with the other two. You force yourself to quickly finish looting the tieflings and move their bodies to some nearby bushes. A twinge of guilt seizes your gut as the morality in you realizes how easily you assaulted two of your kin.

You dismiss the group to scout ahead claiming you need to clear your head. Go for a walk.

You’ll grab some firewood on the way back, you insist.

“What in the nine hells is going on? This tadpole is something else…” you mutter to yourself. 

Making for the woods to try and process the day, you admire the oncoming sunset.

 

---

 

You again pass by the clearing where Astarion assaulted you, and a squealing boar flushes from the undergrowth. Startled, you hesitate before continuing on. Further down the path, you find a wrecked trap and salvage some wood for the fire. A twig snaps behind you and you swing around, fists raised. The killing calm surging up in you.

Astarion stands about ten feet behind you, hands up. “ Easy , darling. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Is there something about this neck of the woods that compels you to sneak up behind me,” you bite out.

“No. I just didn’t want to leave you alone out here. I would hate to lose my bodyguard so soon.” He winks and pulls a seductive smirk.

You snort and roll your eyes.

“Fine. Help me with this wood.”

He cringes for a moment — glancing at his smooth, delicate hands — before making to grab a bundle of his own.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 3: Hardly Abstract

Summary:

The beginnings of our infamous party come to grips with their situation. Some better than others, and some chemistry experiments of sorts appear.

A few hours later, you sit loosely around the fire with your newfound companions. Certainly not sitting too close to one another, as a group of good friends might, but clustered about all the same. A meager excuse for a meal had been cobbled together by Gale. Stale, toasted bread coated with half-melted cheese, a few raw carrots and apples on the side, and an overly dry wine. 

“So, Lae’zel, what’s it like living in the Astral Plane? It must feel strange to visit the material plane, where gravity exists.” Gale, already attempting friendship, or unable to quiet his curious mind.

“In the Astral, you simply have to think, and you’re propelled forward. You can leap over canyons with ease. The stars are always surrounding you, a glorious sight. The air is clean and crisp. No foul odors outside of battle,” she pauses to pick at the toast and carrots, “Crèche K’liir would never have served such a meal. The lack of meat alone would be an insult.”

Astarion pipes up, he’d barely touched his food, merely torn it a bit and moved it about. Though he downed wine by the glass. “I agree, the meal lacks a certain — umami flavoring. The hearty meal of a freshly hunted beast sates the appetite much more effectively.”

Lae’zel regards Astarion in what you assume must be her best impression of approval. “Someone of sense. I’m surprised by this, but I think you and I will make a fine team, Astarion.”

He pauses a moment, “Oh, well I’m glad to hear it!”

“Go to Hell.” States Gale bluntly. You all whip around to stare at the wizard.

“Excuse me?!” Astarion sneers.

“No, no. Not you all, just, poorly making a point. ‘Go to Hell,’ an everyday expression. So trivial, it’s almost meaningless. But we’ve seen Hell. It’s real. And it isn’t trivial…”

You glance at Gale and hold his gaze. Taking a moment to think about his words. “You seem much less chipper than you did when we first met.

“Well, devils, dragons, mindflayers — they used to be abstracts. Pictures on a sheet of vellum. What a difference a day makes. Now we have tadpoles slithering around in our heads like carnivorous foeti. That’s hardly abstract.”

Lae’zel grunts in agreement. Astarion, cheeky as ever, simply says, “Well now, don’t be such a sourpuss . Perhaps these tadpoles come with new gifts? I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t able to read people’s thoughts before today. I’m growing to enjoy how — very entertaining it can be.” You realize, with a start, that he’s smirking at you. You simply respond with a quizzical expression.

“Chk. These parasites are nothing but a curse. The only gifts you’ll receive, istik, will be a fleshy new set of tentacles.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a healer. Someone knowledgeable. Perhaps there are Druids in these parts? The forest is so pristine — there must be. They may have an effective remedy.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Gale making to stand and clean up, “let’s rest now and be up with the lark. Find a healer before the wee one gets hungry.” With a winning smile, Gale wanders to the nearby stream and begins rinsing your scavenged collection of dinnerware. 

Following suit, the rest of you stand and brush the dirt from your trousers. Without another word, Lae’zel heads to her tent. Astarion heads to his and procures and book from his pack, then flips to a section marked by a satin ribbon and continues reading.

Seeing nothing else to do, you roll out your bedlinens and make a nest by the fire. Close enough to stay warm, but not so close as to endanger yourself. You settle in and turn to stare at the flames. Astarion’s quip at dinner about newfound powers left you curious.

He’s not wrong. We’re able to hear not only words but see glimpses of one another’s memories if we focus. And how the hells did we survive that fall? You remember the moment you jerked awake, nearly nose-tip to the sand of the beach. How are we not dead? That fall was hundreds of feet. 

You lay there, awake for a while on the brink of sleep. But your muscles are bored, restless. That dark seductive whisper begins to crawl up the back of your neck. With the whisper’s return, you can’t stop imagining all the other ways you could’ve destroyed those tieflings earlier. The havoc you wreaked on the imps while on the ship. 

With a sigh, you pull yourself from your nest of blankets, and make towards the woods. A walk might clear your head.

 

---

 

“Going somewhere, Darling?” Astarion’s voice. 

“Oh, u-um, hi,” you manage. Idiot. You think to yourself. 

You glance to your left and see him gracefully resting against a fallen log. His arms folded neatly under his neck; fingers tangled in his own curls. Your blood warms. 

Stunning. 

Your thoughts catch you off-guard, and you jump a bit. Astarion holds your gaze and quirks his head momentarily. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, it’s alright. I can’t seem to rest. Got a lot on my mind — and well — in it. ” You chuckle at your own, terrible joke. Astarion simply regards you, expression pleasant but unreadable, before returning his gaze to the stars above. 

“It’s quite a sight,” Astarion pauses a moment, then a sly grin crawls over his features, “the stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin.”

You roll your eyes. This man. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful tonight,” you reply, choosing to avoid his taunt. 

I could say the same of you.  

Your gaze falls across the lines of his form, daintily crossed ankles highlight the lean muscles in his calves and thighs. 

His gaze returns to the heavens, “I can see the stars in Baldur’s Gate, of course. But not, with such clarity. It got me thinking, reflecting on what tomorrow might bring, if we find these Druids. Will they know how to bring the worm under control? Will this, little adventure of ours be over?”

You’re not certain how to respond. You’ve only just met this man. On the one hand, it would be a relief to smother the threat of ceremorphosis before its first breath. But on the other— your memory is a wreck. You’re not even sure where or what you’d go back to. Aside from the vague idea of a monastery in the city. Maybe you had people you cared about before, maybe not. 

Surely, I did, doesn’t everyone? 

Yet you can’t help but feel the draw of sadness at the thought of leaving these people so soon. They seem kind enough, or at the very least, interesting. You just don’t want to feel lost or alone, and that’s all that bubbles to the surface when you try to remember the past. 

That, and blood. Lots of blood. 

You pause, taking a moment to choose your next words more carefully. Something more eloquent than the caliber of your earlier response. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” you offer. 

“Good,” he says, sitting up, his weight shifting to his forearms. The rolled sleeves of his shirt accentuate their graceful shape, and you can’t help but feel it was a purposeful choice. “I…don’t want you to run off just yet,” he purrs, voice dropping to a lower tone. 

Oh? His crimson gaze is entirely focused on you. You feel your cheeks heat.

He stands, eyes level with yours. “You’ve been to the hells and back, survived the crash — survived everything that’s followed,” a step closer and his voice drops again. “I’m not easily impressed by people…but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”

His sincerity catches you off guard. His closeness distracts you. I have many talents, if you want to explore them…

Your hesitation provokes that same dangerous smile. He clearly enjoys whatever game he’s playing here, but two can play at that. 

You clear your throat, “Thank you— for recognizing how truly impressive I am.”

The firelight limning his features gives those crimson eyes a devious glow, “ …Aren’t you just.” He looks you over, taking special care to exaggerate the act. 

Making sure that you notice. 

Surely wanting you to wonder whatever it is he’s thinking of you. Or— whatever he wants you to believe that he’s thinking.

Your tricksy expression mimics his, “You can stop staring, darling.”

Abruptly, the mask slips, “O-oh. Was I? I just…I need to get some air. Clear my head,” that dangerous smirk of his returns. 

Oh, he’s gooood. 

“I’ll take watch when I return,” he offers. 

“Thank you, how very thoughtful.”

“I’ll see you later, then. I’m sure.” Astarion turns all-too-gracefully on his heels, making to leave. A few steps off, he hesitates once more, purring over his shoulder, “Sleep tight, darling.” 

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

Focus on your teachings, relax your mind, slow your breathing.  

So much for my walk. You sigh, kick at some loose pebbles, then begrudgingly return to your bedroll.

 

---

 

It’s a fitful sleep, as you wrestle with more uninvited fantasies of gore and violence. You wake occasionally, before rolling to the other side to doze off again. 

During one such moment of consciousness, you notice Astarion sneaking back into camp. He surveys for a bit, and then creeps back to the forest. 

You’re too tired to care. Too exhausted for curiosity.

 

---

 

Gale wasn’t kidding when he said, ‘up with the lark’. 

You awaken well before sunrise to the sounds of rumpling fabric, and clinking plates. Across the clearing, Gale is clumsily re-packing. You yawn and stretch, still sore all-over.

Lae’zel grumpily sits up in her roll next to yours, “Your noises would gain the ire of the largest marut.”

“Apologies!” He calls. 

Across the fire from you Astarion sits up, somehow managing to appear flawless mere moments after waking. “You know, Gale , perhaps this is the reason we’re all so much more beautiful than you— beauty rest is important.”

Lae’zel pipes up, “What is this ‘beautiful rest’ you speak of? I’m unfamiliar with the term.”

“It’s an expression,” you explain, through another yawn. “A flowery way to say a ‘good night’s sleep.’”

“Ah. And here in Fay-runn, you perceive beauty as whoever might sleep the soundest? Or the longest?”

“Something like that, assuming better sleep does make you more beautiful.”

“Another strange custom. I prefer to judge attraction by one’s ferocity in battle.”

“Let’s hope your blades prove to be as quick as your tongue, Astarion,” retorts Gale as he fastens his pack. “We may well need it.”

“Oh, don’t you worry dear wizard, they won’t see me coming.”

 

---

 

You tear apart your nest, pack, and then fasten your own belongings. Heading directly to the stream afterwards to wash your face and complete your morning routine. 

A set or two of windmill-stretches in each direction for each arm, some lunges for the hamstrings, and a handful of push-ups before a final stretch. Finally, you shadow-box at some imaginary opponents in front of you.

“Well,” a purr like velvet shadows, “that was quite the demonstration.” Astarion. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

“And which one would that be?”

“Probably your backside, you know, since your fists fly the other way,” he mimics a punch or two. 

“I could still donkey-kick you from this direction,” you counter, cheeks heating. 

This game again. 

“I’d like to see you try, darling ,” he throws you one of those predatory smirks before kneeling to gently wash his face. “We really should find some soap, if possible. I haven’t had a bath since before the crash,” he wrinkles his nose, “and I can still smell whatever astral beast Lae’zel killed last.”

“Not one for roughing it, I, see?”

“No. No— I’d say I’m used to other ways of ‘roughing it’. ”

Thank the gods my skin is pink; you think as you feel your cheeks heat a bit more.

“Well,” you clear your throat, “I guess you’ll just have to master this way too.” Then you fill your canteen and return to the now-doused-campfire.

Notes:

This chapter took so long to finesse. I’m naturally somewhat socially awkward, and trying to get into the headspace of our favorite Sass-Lord and a Durge who can [kinda] counter that sass takes some focus.

Enjoy!

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 4: A Little Death

Summary:

“Goblins are small, black-hearted humanoids that lair in despoiled dungeons and other dismal settings. Individually weak, they gather in large numbers to torment other creatures.”

—Volo, ‘Goblinoids and other vermin’

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Picking your way through the woods, you search for signs of civilization. You come across a couple more abandoned hunting traps and a poorly hidden hunter’s stash. As you’re rifling through the meager cache, you hear Astarion and Lae’zel have found something else of interest. Pocketing the handful of gold and tools, you turn to see them both inspecting a circle of disturbed earth.

“That’s curious,” the elf ponders aloud. “One of you, got a shovel?”

Gale, helpful as always, offers one that he’s found a bit further up the trail. “Here you are,” says the wizard as he extends the shovel towards Astarion.

“Well don’t look at me,” he quips, “these hands are for lock-picking and disarming traps…among other more measured tasks,” he throws a smirk towards you. Lae’zel catches it and scoffs. He continues, “Not manual labor. ”

You roll your eyes and take the shovel from Gale. “Thank you,” you say. 

Impossible men.  

“Just doing my fair share,” he smiles warmly before shooting a narrow-eyed look toward Astarion.

You begin digging in the area found by Lae’zel and Astarion. The earth is soft. Pleasantly so, allowing you to make quick work of the dig. After a few minutes, you hear a hollow thump as your shovel strikes wood. You motion to Lae’zel to help you heft the chest from the earth, seeing as neither of the squabbling men seem keen to help.

With a bit of work, the two of you free the chest and set it beside the hole. You move to open it, but it’s locked. “Blast it—,” says Lae’zel as she unsheathes her greatsword and arcs it back— making to swing toward the lock. 

Astarion coughs, stopping the gith at the last moment. “Now, now. Let’s not be crude. Let me take a look,” he steps forward and pulls a set of thieves’ tools from his boot. His fingers work quickly, dancing across the lock. Within moments, it falls to the ground. “ …easy… ” he purrs, that sly grin plastering his features once more.

The chest reveals a small sum of gold and some precious stones. “Not bad, for a chest in the wilderness,” croons the elf. He tosses the prize your way, “Here. You seem like the most practical choice for safekeeping.”

“Thanks.” You can’t help but notice Gale roll his eyes at the comment. Not at you — but at the petty quip no doubt meant to raise the wizard’s hackles.

 

---

 

Not far from there, Lae’zel notices three pairs of humanoid tracks. Heading towards the NW edge of the crashed Illithid ship. As she stoops to inspect them, Astarion hushes you all. 

“I hear voices that way…and they don’t sound pleased. Let’s go watch the drama. ”

You call upon the subtle shadow magic in your soul and cloak the group in a thin veil of them. Quieting your steps, blurring your appearances.

“Be prepared for anything,” whispers Lae’zel, as you all creep towards the voices. “This area is too near the ship for my liking.”

 

---

 

You stealth through the underbrush, and come to a small clearing. In the center lays a small hill with thick brush bordering it. 

A good vantage point.  

You catch Gale’s attention and motion towards the hill. It takes him a moment — and then he seems to catch your drift. He grins and creeps forward, knees popping subtly. 

Lae’zel unsheathes her greatsword once more, metal singing quietly. She motions towards the far side of the small hill, and you nod a silent confirmation. She’s surprisingly graceful for one wrapped in so much metal. 

You pause — uncertain of what might happen next. Listening, trying to decipher the argument. Astarion crouches beside you, idly spinning his daggers through his fingers.

You make out a small group of three - a scouting party - outside of a large wooden gate cradled into a natural stone archway. The crank system for it rests above, manned by a cluster of tieflings. 

The commander — given his tone — is arguing with one of the scouts. 

The scouts say that there are goblins on their tail. Urgency in their cadence. 

The Tiefling asks where the Druid is. 

The scouts reply that he was lost or captured. 

You and Astarion share a glance — “…might be our healer,” you mouth.

The Tiefling sputters and chides the scouts for leading the goblins trailing them back to the grove. 

Just as the scout opens his mouth to snap back, a small party of goblins, bugbears, and worgs stream into the clearing weapons drawn. They shout and hoot enthusiastically, arrows soaring, calling for blood.

The scouts panic, demanding to be let in. The Tiefling motions for another beside him to open the gate, the scouts dive for the opening only for the gate to fall back into place just as they’re within arms reach. 

The wet sound of an arrow piercing flesh catches your attention. The bugbear in the horde has landed a killing shot on the gateman.

Collectively, the scouts and tieflings roar in frustration. 

“Time for a little death?” Astarion shoots you an inquisitive smirk, his eyes sparkling at potential danger. 

You return the look and leap into the clearing.

The once peaceful forest is soon littered with broken arrows, puddles of gore, and fallen worgs.

Your fists fly, blood singing as you weave and dodge through the chaos around you. The smell of blood and sight of gore once more brings that whispering instinct forward, for once, you let it slip the leash. It’s like a breath of fresh air.

Intestines throb, blood whispers!

Gale slings orbs of elemental damage across the clearing, using the small, central hill to his advantage. 

Lae’zel roars and slices through anything in her way. She easily downs a bugbear twice her size in a handful of swings, before crushing its skull with the pommel of her astral greatsword.

Astarion uses the cover to his advantage and pins enemies in place using the same hamstringing technique from yesterday. You happily send the pinned targets to their deaths. When Lae’zel inadvertently herds an enemy his way, his eyes flash, and he leaps atop them, blades singing, before dashing back into cover. Quick as an asp.

In the heat of it all, you hear a young man cry out as he leaps from atop the arch. “Damnable roach! Provoke the Blade— and suffer its sting!” He skewers a goblin with such ferocity that you can’t help but be impressed.

Too soon, the battle is over. Bodies lay broken, but the metallic scent of gore lingers in the air. Your blood still sings with lust for the fight. 

More! The shadow within you seems to cry out, More death, more wreckage!

You realize beyond the haze of ruination that Gale is speaking to you, motioning to something. 

You shake it off, and as easily as the killing calm rose up within, it slips away. Like the caress of a lover cast aside. 

You realize that you’ve followed your companions past the gate, then into the sanctuary beyond. Lush ivy and flowering shrubs climb the walls and cushion the clearing. A drastic contrast to the argument taking place just ahead. 

A scout — Aradin — and the Captain — Zevlor —go back and forth, voices raised, casting blame and accusations for the goblin attack and casualties. Aradin claims that the tieflings don’t belong here, and are lucky to have even the shelter they’ve been allowed. Zevlor calls the young scout a fool and dismisses him. Pointing out his failure to retrieve an artifact, coupled with the loss of the Archdruid, Halsin.

“What good was your mission at all if all we’ve earned are lost soldiers and Halsin’s capture?” Zevlor’s frustration glistens in his hellish irises. 

“We asked for more reinforcements, it’s not our fault the goblins outnumbered us,” Aradin spits. 

Mood still heightened from the battle just before, you stomp forward.

“You’d both be smart to knock it right the fuck off. Unless you’d prefer I knock you both the fuck out.”

Resentfully, the pair resolve to disagree and the young scout storms off. You regret not pulling that smirk right off of his face. 

Another time, perhaps. 

“Impressive,” is the commander’s response, “about time someone put that chuff in his place. Name’s Zevlor, and you are? Aside from being opportunely timely?” 

“Kalliope, and friends,” you say curtly. 

“Well then, happy to meet you and grateful for the assistance. I must attend to our fallen shortly, but we may be able to use your help once more. Tensions and tempers are hot just now in the grove. These tieflings I lead are simply a group of refugees seeking safe passage from Elturel to Baldur’s Gate.”

“What is it you’re running from?” Gale asks. 

“The hells, to put it simply,” Zevlor says. “The Archdruid, Halsin, that Aradin and his ilk misplaced was the key to finding a safe route there.”

“We were hoping for a healer,” you say. 

Zevlor shakes his head. “That would’ve been Halsin. But apparently, he’s either dead or trapped within the goblin camp. You could see if the healer’s apprentice — Nettie — has any insight.”

“Dammit,” spits Lae’zel. “I told you that the crèche was the best option.”

“A crèche you say? One of our scouts, Zorru, returned earlier claiming to have spotted a group of gith nearby.”

“Where is this Zorru?” Demands Lae’zel. 

Zevlor turns and motions further within the grove, “You’ll find him that way. Into the Hollow and on the left. Last I saw he was near the makeshift forge, but be kind, he’s had a rough day.”

“Thank you,” says Gale with a polite bow of his head. 

“Of course, we would be in quite the spot had you all not helped to slay the raiding goblins. Find me in my chambers later, if you’re looking for work.”

 

---

 

Following Zevlor’s directions, you soon find Zorru. Not near the makeshift forge, but near a supply shed deeper within the Hollow.

He jumps nervously at your approach and cowers a bit at the sight of Lae’zel. 

“By Mordai’s eyes, more of them?! My friend's blood not enough,” shouts the Tiefling. “Come to rip me open too?!”

Lae’zel sneers at the frightened Tiefling, and you feel a bit sorry for him. Remembering how intimidating she was upon your first meeting on the ship. Impressive, but intimidating nevertheless. 

“In crèche K’liir, a proper greeting begins with a bow. ”

Lae’zel proceeds to interrogate Zorru. You feel somewhat guilty, letting this stranger antagonize your kin. Tieflings have had it bad enough in recent decades. 

After a few verbal lashings, you intervene and cut Lae’zel off. The githyanki relents, to Astarion’s amused snort. 

“Seems the warrior's words cut as deeply as her blade,” the elf purrs behind you.

 

---

 

Exploring the grove, you run into Wyll. The braggart from the battle that declared himself “The Blade of Frontiers.” The memory brings on secondhand-embarrassment, and you do your best to smile rather than cringe. 

Wyll’s tadpole involuntarily connects with yours sending a nauseating pulse through your body. 

Great, another infected. 

This time you’re granted snippets of a battle just outside of Baldur’s Gate. A moment of desperation, hints of a deal being made — but no visuals. Then, you’re abruptly shunted out. 

“I see we’ve the same issue,” he states, rubbing his temples.

“It would seem so,” you say, “and we’re not alone either.”

Just then, your party returns after having chatted with some others in the Hollow. They mention having met a merchant named Aaron and a smith named Dammon. 

You introduce Wyll to the rest of the group. Astarion feigns recognition and humility as Wyll, once again, introduces himself as 'The Blade of Frontiers'.

Gale extends a hand and greets Wyll warmly. Lae’zel simply nods and commends his burgeoning martial skills. 

“If you could spare the time,” the young hero says, “I’d like to share some more information with you later— in a more private setting.”

“You could drop by our camp,” Gale offers. 

“Thank you, I just might.” The hero turns to Lae’zel, a charming grin plastered onto his features. “Do you need assistance in finding such a camp? I may have some suggestions.”

Lae’zel, always the soldier, nods in agreement. 

The two wander off to scout for another campsite. As they depart, you hear Wyll immediately begin to pepper Lae’zel with questions. You chuckle and then continue exploring the grove.

 

---

 

“We may want to speak to this Aaron,” suggests Gale. “Some more appropriate camp supplies would be good. We could also do with whatever healing tonics they can offer.”

“Not a bad idea, wizard,” says Astarion. 

Aaron, a small halfling figure turns out to be just up the path. His stall is a haphazard collection of vases and crates that you’d passed unwittingly on the way in. It’s nothing too impressive, and looks more like a scant pile of discarded equipment than valuable goods. 

Better than nothing , you suppose. 

“Hello,” Gale greets the merchant warmly, extending a hand. “Gale Dekarios, of Waterdeep.”

“Ah, the ones who helped protect our little sanctuary. We are grateful.” Aaron returns the gesture with a hearty grasp of Gale’s forearm. 

“We’re wondering if you might have some basic adventuring gear for sale. Some healing potions and rations perhaps?”

“Of course,” the halfling says. Somberly, motioning to no one in particular, he adds, “just remember that there are others with greater needs.”

You hold your tongue, patience wearing thin with fatigue, and he would assume we are less needy— simply because we’re not explicitly refugees? 

Gale uses his friendly charm to barter for some better cooking ingredients, a set of healing potions, and a few extra blankets. While his silvered tongue does its work, you notice a pair of gloves you’d like, ‘ Gloves of Missile Snaring’, and make a mental note for later. 

Goods distributed and organized in Gale’s pack to his liking, your shrunken group moves along, continuing to familiarize yourself with the Hollow.

 

---

 

Amidst the gaggle of refugees and standoffish Druids, you come across a rather eccentric matronly figure. Her roughspun tunic and apron are a combination of creams and mossy greens. Silvery hair piled somewhat messily behind her head, with a warm smile on her aged face. 

“Ah– if it isn’t the talk o’ the camp! Thank goodness you came along when you did.”

“Indeed,” says Gale.

“Oh–“ she tuts, “there isn’t a bit of colour in those cheeks, Petal. Are you hurt? Cold? Feverish,” she bends forward to get a closer look at your face and worries her hands. Although you feel terrible, with a pounding headache and an aching eye, you didn’t think it was all that obvious. 

She’s oddly perceptive.

“Auntie Ethel will sort you out. I’ve lotions and potions galore!”

You hesitate, unsure of how many more strangers need to know of your — affliction . “Oh, thank you– but I’m just here to trade.”

“Sorry, love. I just lose the run of myself sometimes,” she chuckles. “I must say though– you’re looking mighty peaky. Are you sure you’re all right?”

The hairs on the back of your neck begin to tickle– you don’t appreciate how much of a fuss she is making.

“I– I’ve been better. It’s difficult to explain, let’s just say I’m bone-weary after a rough go.”

“Oh dearie, I’ve seen it all! I once had a fella who’d been caught dabbling with a dryad. The wife was none too pleased and introduced him to a pot of boiling oil– but worry not! I fixed him up and, depending on the lighting, he looks good as new!” She chuckles heartily again, “My point is– whatever ails you…I promise I’ve seen worse.” 

Behind you, Astarion gasps with glee, “Oh she seems positively demented ! I love it, let’s tell her everything .” 

His joy is infectious, and against your better senses, you divulge that you’ve a — rather rare infection. Sensing hesitation, and perhaps an urgency that no roadside crafting booth could handle, she invites you back to her woodland teahouse. You thank her for the invitation and then purchase some more healing potions and herbs. 

This infectious, dastardly joy leaves you pleased with Astarion’s humor. 

Someone else who knows how to make light of darkness.

 

---

 

As you rejoin Lae’zel and Wyll, Gale bemoans the wisdom of the situation. He disagrees with sharing something so sensitive with just ‘any common herbalist.’ 

“And who would you go to?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

“I’m just saying, that there are several very real risks escorting such candor. Not everyone will look past their fear of Illithids to help us.” 

“I thought you were from Waterdeep, dear Wizard. Do you intend to find someone in this area that you already know and trust?” Astarion openly questions the size of Gale’s social circles.

In turn, Gale spirals into another moment of deep thought– stroking his beard and pursing his lips. “You make a good point, Astarion. On second thought– with a home-city so far away, I suppose that I’m contradicting himself a bit. Aren’t I?” 

Begrudgingly, your newfound allies shrug in agreement. 

Everyone here is a stranger.

Chapter 5: Scratch

Summary:

A pleasant encounter in the woods.

Notes:

Just a short little chapter while I figure out the flow of the next story bits.

Upon leaving the Grove, you trace your way back towards camp– eventually coming to a small, forested clearing. Small waterfalls and rapids gurgle nearby. A lone —dog? Is ahead, nuzzling at a clearly, very-dead man. Noticing the look of concern on your face, Gale pulls a potion from his pouch. 

“Here, the stray will make more sense to you if you drink this.” 

You uncork the bottle and down the contents. Suddenly, the forest sounds morph from a peaceful backdrop to a smattering of conversations. 

“This is my nest, mine . Myyyy nestttt,” sings a wren in the branches above. 

“More nuts. Gotta find more nuts. Nuts. Nuts. Savorycrunchynuts,” a squirrel dashing away from a hole at the base of a nearby tree. 

“Go away– I’m basking,” an anole on a rock by the stream. 

Chattering, and arguing, and flirting — the air is ripe with it. 

“Gale, holy hells. What was that?”

“A potion of ‘Speak with Animals’. A favorite of mine. Allowed for some riveting conversation with my cat back home.” 

“You’ve a cat?!” questions Astarion, “…I’m finding you more likable by the moment.”

You approach the dog slowly with your hands out. You make sure to use only subtle eye-contact. Ears pinned, the dog turns and snaps at you, “My Master! Away!” 

“It’s ok, I mean no harm. Are you alright?” 

“Yes. I’m fine. But I’m busy, my master is exhausted and resting in between deliveries. I’m standing guard.” You glance at the corpse behind the dog, somewhat fresh, not yet decomposing. Definitely dead. 

“I’m not sure your Master is still with us—“ 

“What do you mean, he’s right there!” 

You take a breath.

Little to no sense in arguing with a nervous stray.

“Well, if your Master doesn’t recover, you’re welcome to join our camp. I miss my hounds back in Baldur’s Gate. You’d be no burden.” You pull a pork loin from your pack and offer it to the dog. With the other hand, palm up beside it, you give him a moment to sniff you. 

“Learn my scent and find me should you get lonely.” The dog snuffles gently at your hand, before eagerly pulling the loin from you.

“So, what did you discover,” purrs Astarion. 

“They’re couriers. His master is ‘sleeping’,” you say with raised eyebrows, “but I offered him a spot at our camp— should he want it.”

“Hmm. Pragmatic of you. A second set of ears to keep watch alongside never hurt.”

 

---

 

You continue to head northward, Gale confidently leading the way, and Astarion trailing you. It seems you’ve new instincts granted by your tadpole– leading you away from the suspicious eyes of the Grove and towards your other companions.

Not far from the clearing with the dog, you come across a bridge littered with the remains of a cart. Broken bodies also lay strewn about. Some are human or half-elves. Others are goblinoid.

“Poor travelers,” laments Gale, “looks like they ran into another pack of goblins.”

“Gnolls.” You correct him, having found a bloody set of tracks. 

“Yes, oh my. So sad,” remarks Astarion as he rifles through the spilled goods and bodies. “Ah well, waste not, want not.” 

You watch as he slips a second set of thieves’ tools and a spare dagger into his pack. Then he turns to you and tosses another small pouch of gold your way, “For the treasury.”

 

---

 

Eventually, you come across Wyll and Lae’zel and the spot they’ve chosen for camp.

Well, she didn’t kill him. That’s a relief.

While you all set up tents, Gale roasts some fish, along with a slapped-together salad and poutine for dinner. You catch up with Lae’zel and Wyll, mentioning Auntie Ethel and her offer. Then you distribute the healing potions you’d bought from her and sit around the fire to eat. 

“Gale, would you mind telling me more about your cat?” Astarion pipes up. 

“Tressym,” corrects Gale. “Her name is Tara.” 

“I’ve always found them to be such admirable creatures. Skilled hunters, adept at prowling through shadows, and—prudent when it comes to choosing company.”

“They’re absolutely creatures to be admired. Not only are they good at choosing their company — they make for great companions themselves. Tara was exceptionally comforting during long arduous hours of study.”

“Hmm…my m— landlord ,” Astarion corrects himself, “never let me keep pets back in the city. I was lucky to encounter strays around the place at all, really. He hated useless creatures.” Astarion takes a large sip of wine. Again, he’s barely touched his food. A few bites but mostly, he’s just pushed it around his plate.

“Well, sounds like the man never encountered one worth his time. Or rather, one that would consider him worth the time.”

Astarion takes a large sip of wine. “You’ve no idea…”

The elf is rapt with attention as Gale shares tales of his tressym-cat with the group. Lae’zel asks what a cat is, and Wyll conjures a minor illusion of one. For the next half-hour, Wyll patiently answers her questions. 

Gale, feeling inspired, conjures an illusion of a tressym— a winged cat, and goes on and on about their biology and arcane talents. 

“So, a race of small, furred predators. And a separate race of small, furred, yet winged predators?” The githyanki pauses, a discerning look on her face as she gathers her thoughts. “I can see how this realm would find them useful.”

Bored of cat-talk, your mind begins to wander elsewhere. You excuse yourself and then head to the ruins that flank your camp. 

Unfamiliar religious iconography and language are scrawled across the stone. Faded with time, but still obviously a language. On another wall, moss covers a chipped relief of three divine silhouettes. They’re painted in crude greys, reds, and blacks. Below, in common, you see three names:

Bane.

Bhaal.

Myrkul.

The Dead Three.

At the second name, that dark whisper caresses your mind again. Familiarity, accompanied by a sense of — comfort? You spend a few minutes more inspecting the reliefs and phrases upon the other walls of the ruins. You don’t pick up anything of note, aside from the beautiful handiwork. 

Eventually bored, and frankly disturbed by the whisper returning upon reading the name ‘Bhaal’, you wander back to the campfire and slip into your bedroll.

 

---

 

The following dawn, a wet nose slips across your palm. You wake to see the same dog from the forest clearing peering down at you. Opening your mouth to greet him, you remember that the potion wore off last night. Sitting up slowly, as not to spook him, you glance at your companions’ bedrolls. 

Still asleep.  

“Hi boy, it’s nice to see you again,” you whisper. 

The dog flattens his ears a bit, and a small whine escapes him. 

“He didn’t wake up, did he?” 

The dog lowers his head, seemingly defeated. 

“I’m sorry bud, I know nothing I say will fix things, but my offer still stands.” You make to read the tag dangling from his collar, “-' Scratch’ . Hello, Scratch.” 

Scratch wags his tail subtly. He seems to accept your offer; however distraught he may feel. You pat the space next to your bedroll, inviting him to curl up with you for another brief snooze. Scratch collapses next to you with a deep sigh, and you drift off, hand tangled in the dog’s fur. 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 6: Weeping Dawn

Summary:

You follow the closest lead to a healer that you’ve gotten so far. Turns out, that the gods have a funny definition of “closest lead.”

Notes:

Kalliope and her crew just want to get this *worm* out of their damned skulls.

They didn’t ask for all of this oxen-poo.

A few hours later, now mid-morning, your party has returned to the Grove. Following the suggestions of Zevlor and a few others, you head to the inner circle of the Grove where the Druids reside. Reaching the bottom of the worn steps, you’re greeted with the sight of a fuming Tiefling couple and a handful of Druids. 

“Release our daughter!” 

“She’s just a child!”

“She’s a thief, seems the apple doesn’t fall far from th’ tree.” 

“You—you take that back. She’s not a thief, she’s a mischievous child who made a mistake. Release her!” 

“Kahga’s orders stand. And her orders are to punish the child.” 

The mother wails, infuriated, lunging forward as her husband pulls her gently back by the shoulders. One of the druids falls to his knees and a gauzy veil of leaves and vines obscure his form. A moment later, an angry-looking cave bear bares its teeth at the woman. 

The tension in the area builds, it’s now or never. 

Your guilt from the previous day pushes you forward, into the center of the argument.

“Who’re you? Another one o’ them,” spits a second Druid. Beside them, the bear raises its hackles. You scowl and bare your teeth right back. 

A third Druid — a gnome — pipes up — “Wait a moment,” she says, “this is the group that defended our scouts from the goblins.” The tension weakens, and the bear shakes its giant shoulders, smoothing the fur along its back. But their teeth remain on full display. 

Gale steps forward, quickly. Awkwardly. “Pardon our lack of communication, we’re here to see Nettie. We had originally been recommended to see Halsin— yet as he’s not currently here —“ 

“I understand,” replies the gnomish woman. “Let them through, but you two,” she eyes the distressed couple, “you two stay put. Hear me?!” 

The bear and his entourage allow you to pass, and you’re directed to a stone door covered in scrawling runes and swirls. Upon approach, it opens. Much like the vine-covered gate to the Grove.

 

---

 

You can hear arguing as soon as the stone door closes behind you. 

Following the stone steps downward, you’re soon met with the scene of an angry half-elven woman standing aggressively close to a small, lavender-skinned Tiefling girl. A horned adder stares menacingly at the girl, neck taut, curved to the side, poised to strike. “You stole a holy relic. You must be punished!”

“Kahga,” interjects another Druid, “she’s just a child. And she returned the idol. Let her go with a warning and move along.” 

“Enough, Rath. Halsin left me in charge, and as interim Archdruid, what I say goes. We’ve given these hellspawn enough of our grace as it is. They don’t belong here.” 

You bristle at the slur ‘hellspawn.’ A throwback to when tieflings were seen as no better than imps and other minor demons. Tainted vermin — spilled from the hells to plague the rest of the Sword Coast. Even though perfectly “normal” mortal couples could end up with Tiefling children, had one of their parents made a deal with a devil. Besides that, Tieflings had existed in modern society for generations now. Many of them achieving great things.  

“Say that again,” you grind out. 

The woman turns — surely caught off-guard. “ Excuse me?”

“Say. That. Again,” you growl. You feel your blood heat, that dark whisper at the back of your mind rising in volume. You picture the woman splayed out on the ground, neck at a beautifully abrupt angle. 

The whisper grows to a murmur. 

Crimson graces her lips. That stupid hairstyle disheveled and matted in gore. 

“Hm,” Astarion clears his throat, then places a delicate hand on your shoulder, sucking you instantly back to reality. 

“I thought druids were supposed to be peaceful, tree-hugging, hermits. And here you are, ready to put the most sullied fighting pits of the Gate to shame. Entertaining to be sure. But highly impractical. What would your leader say if he were to return, only to be greeted with the news of a dark incident in his chambers?” 

“Excuse me?! What do you outsiders pretend to know about Druidic tenets?” 

“I know enough to see that this is not a balanced conflict. Isn’t that what Tree-Daddy is all about? ‘May you bring balance.' ” You don’t miss the hint of snark and amusement in his imitation of Aaron. 

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” agrees the other Druid — Rath. “Let her go, Kahga. We’ve got a horde of goblins to contend with, and a leader to recover. Mischievous children are not what will bring this Grove to wilt.” 

“Fine. Tsv’vs’sv, Teela. To me.” With an unmistakable air of resignation, the adder turns from the child and curls itself once more around the woman’s ankle and calf.

The woman — Khaga — turns to your group and scowls at you, “Since you seem so interested in helping the tieflings, perhaps you could escort them from the Grove. We’re in the middle of an important, protective ritual. One that cannot involve outsiders. Talk to Zevlor, will you?”

“I’ll think about it,” you growl.

The woman huffs and then stalks off, further into her chambers. 

 “Arabella, little one,” coos Rath, “go. Find your parents. But remember this lesson — sticky fingers lead to sticky situations. The bear does not feed upon honey without disturbing the bees.” Rath then turns to you, “Ahh. You must be the party that helped to defend the gate from goblins a few days back! I assume you came looking for Halsin, yes?” 

“That’s correct. Your furry friends outside broke the news, however. It seems he’s been detained by the goblins,” Astarion answers with a dramatic pout. 

“Unfortunately, that is true. But if you’re looking for Halsin, you’re looking for healing — no?” 

“Right again, my antlered chap!” 

Leave it to Astarion to turn a near-death experience into a comedic bit. 

“We’ve picked up a rather… rare infection. We were told that your healers are the best in the area,” explains Gale. 

Lae’zel clicks her tongue at the last bit, no doubt thinking of the fabled crèche to the north. 

“Uh—oh. I see,” Rath folds and unfolds his hands suddenly nervous. “Nettie?” Calls the Druid. 

“Ay, ‘ow can I help ya?” A small halfling woman appears in an arch you had failed to notice previously. “Rare infection? Did I hear tha’ right?” She glances over the group, sees no rebuttal, and says, “Well then. Come along. With me.”

Nettie waves you over and leads your group through a series of stone archways and chambers. She stops in one that looks somewhat like a kitchen — but also like a morgue. You smell blood. Viscera— you shake yourself before the whisper in your mind has a chance to take hold. 

Glancing around the chamber, you see a large bubbling cauldron, racks of herbs stored in glass jars, an earthen mortar and pestle with a half-processed sprig of wispweed, a smoking pipe, and leather-bound books spread between the table and nearby shelves. A respectable apothecary, if a little rustic.

“So, you’ve acquired some unwanted condition, yes?”

Gale nods in agreement, then drops his voice to a near whisper, “There’s no delicate way to put this — we’ve been infected by Illithid parasites. But ours are different — it’s been days and we’ve yet to experience any symptoms that accompany ceremorphosis. We’re unsure why.”

The woman’s posture stiffens. “Well, I’ve bad news. Halsin was the only one with enough knowledge or skill to attempt a solution for that particular diagnosis. He’s been looking into other infected already,” she motions to a partially dissected Drow. Their skull appears to have been drilled open, and beside the body sits a tray with a single withered tadpole. “But he’s currently lost to us.” 

You notice her slip a thin, thorny branch into her left hand. Subtle, but not subtle enough. Suspicion rises in your gut. 

As she interviews your party about the symptoms, you rack your brain. You’ve seen that plant before—a warped memory comes to you, blurred, but there. 

You stand over a bleeding and broken Harper, their eyes full of pleading, you reach to your hip-sack of poisons and produce that same plant. They scream— then, just like that, the memory fades. 

“Interesting,” you chip in, “I wasn’t aware that Kelemvor’s Kiss had healing properties? Maybe speaking to plants has its perks?” You hope your joke is somewhere near the truth— otherwise, this woman has no intention of truly helping you. 

A glance passes between you and Gale, and then between you and Astarion. Lae’zel, confused but no fool, crosses her arms and stiffens as well. 

Uncertainty. 

The mood in the chamber shifts again, from hopeful to tense. “I—I, you must understand. If you turn here, you’ll kill everyone in the grove. The sick— the children,” stammers Nettie. “I don’t want to use this. But I must know, has anything else unusual happened?” 

Lae’zel scoffs in the background, “ chk. I knew this would be a waste of time. We should’ve headed to the crèche straight away.” 

“I do believe, my plant-happy friend, that we’ve just shared everything we know with you. Now, are you going to help us or not? ” Astarion sounds as nervous and impatient as you feel. 

Nettie sighs, tucking the branch behind her, and instead produces a vial from her pack. Inside you can see a viscous green liquid. “Here, take this instead.” 

“More poison ?!” you spit, “first that woman out there calls me ‘hellspawn .’ Now the Grove’s healer wants to kill us? Without even attempting a cure?! Is that how you ‘diagnosed’ the Drow on the table over there? Or did something else kill them?”

Nettie’s lips thin into a tight grimace. 

“…Kalliope…” tries Gale. 

“No. I’m not taking poison from a woman I can’t trust. You’ve done nothing but deceive us since we crossed that threshold,” you flick your hand angrily, pointing to the door you passed through just moments before. “Despite us answering every question that you asked.” 

The dark whisper snakes up the back of your skull, the killing calm begins warming and filling your body.

“It’s just for insurance,” tries Nettie once more, “take it only if you feel yourself changing.”

You sneer. And then, your vision goes red.

 

---

 

Sometime later, you leave the druids’ chambers wearing a new headband adorned with laurel leaves and holly berries. Your blood begins to calm, and you wipe your knuckles on your robes. 

To the right, you hear singing. You’re not sure why, but you’re drawn to it. 

I think I need a moment. To collect myself.  

You dismiss your companions, sending them to find Zevlor and speak with him regarding their impasse with the Druids. 

Astarion doesn’t move and plants himself by your side. “I’m staying here,” he declares. 

“I’ll be alright, I just need a moment.”

“No, no. Your temper is running doubly hot today, and while usually, that could be quite fun, I’m too tired to clean up another of your messes,” he motions towards the druid chambers you’ve just left. 

Gale catches your eye, a concerned look passes between you. 

“Go on, go on. We’ll find you later,” and he waves them off. Lae’zel looks as if she couldn’t care either way, Gale just nods after a moment and follows the warrior up the trail.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you gripe as you follow the voice. 

“Oh, I’m not doing this entirely for you. That last encounter drained me a bit. I’m in no mood to converse about any more heroics today. Let those two handle the boring things.”

You sigh and continue along the path. Not entirely upset at his company. Around a bend, you find a young Tiefling woman in the midst of composing a song. Hearing your approach, she turns. 

“Oh, hello! Don’t mind me just — trying to find the next verse.”

“What song are you singing?” You ask. 

“Oh, well the working title is ‘Weeping Dawn’. It’s meant to be a ballad to honor my late teacher,” she smiles sadly before continuing. “We lost her on the trek here, an ambush. Gnolls. By the time we heard them — it was too late. She told me to take the children and run.”

Your gut twists, you remember the trashed wagon and corpses by the bridge. Bloodied Gnoll tracks had surrounded them. 

These refugees really can’t seem to catch a break.

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry. Is there a way that I could help?”

“Hm. You don’t happen to play, do you?”

You don’t, or at least, you don’t remember if you do or not. But you’re feeling curious. “A little,” you lie, “but not in a while.”

“Well then, join in. Maybe an accompaniment will help me find the words.”

She hands you the lute, and you do your best to follow along. Your hands are nimble, and you find that you’re a faster learner than you’d expected. You harmonize your lute to hers, and let the music carry you. Let it drown out the constant whispers in your mind. The bloodlust. Pushing them all away, back to whatever dark place they lurk.

“Brava, brava,” Astarion applauds as the song comes to a close. “Oh, I’ve missed the finer things in life. You, little bard, are a treat.” 

The woman blushes, and then starts, “O—oh! I didn’t even think of it, silly me! My name’s Alfira. It’s wonderful to meet you—“ she hesitates, waiting for your names in turn.

“Kalliope.”

“Astarion.”

“Well, Kalliope, thank you for your help! Astarion, you made for a splendid audience.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“Are you kidding? Having someone else to carry the melody gave me more headspace to focus. To feel the words. You were wonderful.”

“It was an— unexpected pleasure,” you say as you make to hand her back the lute.

“Oh, no! Keep it, Lihala would be proud to know it’s in the hands of another young musician.” The woman beams at you. 

A beat passes, you’ve never had an instrument before. At least not that you can remember. You did love how the music sent the whispers away. Besides, it would be rude to turn down a gift given so earnestly. 

“Thank you,” you say as you strap the lute to your pack. 

“Well, it was so wonderful to meet you two,” turning her gaze to you, she asks, “Are you from Elturel as well?”

You think. You try to remember. 

I know I lived in the Gate, but — where am I from?

Nothing comes to mind. You have no home, no answer for her. You think — trying to remember if you’d ever even been to Elturel. You’d studied it back at the monastery, of course, it's a once-holy city. But — was it ever your home?

Unexpected frustration builds. 

Anger. 

Darkness. 

Suddenly the whisper comes rushing back in. 

Chaotic. Sporadic. Insulted. 

How dare she question us. How dare she assume that we are a weak, filthy, castaway refugee! We are powerful! We are better than! We are death incarnate! We render the art that is death! Blood, our paint. Flesh, our canvas.

You grip the stone next to you, losing your balance, as the whisper becomes a scream. 

Screaming. Screaming-screaming-screaming. 

Wailing for blood. 

Howling for violence.

The screams will not stop. Will not quiet. 

Not without blood. Not without gore.

Before you know it, your fist is colliding with the woman’s delicate cheekbone. A sickening crack as you’re pretty sure you’ve just shattered it.

You pull back. Horrified. The screams disappear, momentarily sated. 

“What have I done?!” You gasp. “I liked her! She was so sweet!”

Astarion simply stares at you, aghast. Speechless.

“What is WRONG WITH ME?!” Your breath quickens. Stomach twisting. Head spinning. 

I did that.

The air thins. 

I’m a monster. I’m filth. I have to— have to…

Cool hands on your bare shoulders. Stone beneath your tail — you’re being made to sit. Cool hands on your face, gently slapping your cheeks.

“Hello? Darling? Anyone in there?”

Astarion. Slowly the world comes into focus. The scene unfolds before you. 

Alfira, on the ground, her lute beside her. Not broken. No blood. Her chest rises and falls. 

Alive. She’s alive.

You take a wavering breath. Calm your thoughts. Slow your breathing. Calling upon your monastic training once more.

“Ahem,” Astarion clears his throat. “I know it’s been a bit of a— rough go lately, but what in the nine hells was that?!”

“I— I don’t know. I have these urges sometimes...hear voices..." you trail off. Not sure you’re willing to spill your figurative guts just yet. 

“You lay a woman out with one hand— not even a drop of sweat, and you ‘don’t know’.”

He’s not angry, simply confused. Impressed?

“We agreed the other night that you’re quite impressive but,” he gapes at you. Shock painting his features.

And then he’s laughing. Cackling. Giggling like a child.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you,” he purrs.

 

---

 

Gathering your composure, you head to regroup with the others. You pass by the Tiefling family, reunited. The parents are scolding Arabella, but relief fills their tone. 

Further up the path, perched next to the oxen on an overturned crate, you notice the dark-haired woman from the pod on the ship. She’s fussing with some strange object, muttering to herself. Lae’zel, who had just been observing Wyll train the children, seems to have noticed her too. 

The brunette pockets the object as Lae’zel approaches. 

They’re speaking to one another in hushed tones. But clearly, the conversation is not a calm one. 

Not far from the women, Wyll continues training the Tiefling children. Now and then, casting nervous glances towards the pair. 

Gale also seems out of his depths. He stands halfway between the training ring and the oxen pretending to read a book. His teeth working his lips. 

When he sees you and Astarion, he visibly uncoils. “There you are!” His exclamation steals the attention of the gith and brunette, ending the argument.

“Yes, here we are,” croons Astarion.

Lae’zel has rejoined your group, clearly miffed. The brunette woman follows behind, cautiously.

“Oh, hello! I remember you from the ship — you saved me.” Her smile is warm and bright, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Hesitation. She’s not sure of us yet. 

“Yes, hello. Nice to see that another survived.”

It’s at this moment that Wyll steps out of the training ring and rejoins your growing cluster of infected.

“Well then, have you any more business in the grove?”

“I think we’ve wrapped up what we can for today. We spoke with Zevlor and learned some more about these goblins,” says Gale.

“I traded wares with the small one again, while Gale spoke with the teeth-lings.”

You giggle, “ Tief- lings Lae’zel.”

She sighs. An awkward pause follows. 

“Off we go, then!” Without hesitation, Astarion begins heading toward the exit. Emotionally exhausted, you follow suit. Happy to get a break from the chaos that is this Hollow.

You send Wyll, Gale, and the brunette — Shadowheart — to scout ahead and choose another suitable campsite. It’s no coincidence that you shooed off the three chattiest members. 

Meanwhile, you, Lae’zel, and Astarion head towards the glen that Ethel mentioned when she hinted that she might have a cure. You’ve no intention to meet her today, the goal is simply to get your bearings.

The group is quiet. No banter. Peaceful. 

A relief.

You recognize portions of the path that lead to the glen. The clearing where you met Astarion. The hunter’s cache. The buried chest of gems and gold.

At some point, you pass by a dead boar. You recognize it as the same male from days earlier. Its tusks are uneven, one broken off at the curve. 

Is that — blood? Nevermind. 

Maybe it’s an excuse to prolong your return to camp, or maybe it’s some macabre curiosity, that dark whisper again. Either way, you move forward and inspect.

Astarion clicks his tongue, “Oh come now, a dead animal in the forest. Near a hunter's cache no less, utterly mundane .” Beneath his disinterest, you seem to feel another layer of emotion, but it’s unclear. 

Curious. 

“It died recently. Most likely in the last day,” Lae’zel states. 

“But I see no obvious wounds. No overt trauma,” you add. The bluish-white tissues of its gums hint at poor circulation just before death. You lift the head to inspect the other side and notice that the corpse feels unusually light. Rigid. But not rigor mortis. 

Empty?

“Is it dead enough for you,” Astarion asks mockingly, sighing impatiently. 

You and Lae’zel continue to inspect the boar, feeling its joints, pushing back its fur. It’s nice to make use of your medicine skills. Finally, you notice a pair of tiny prick marks in the neck. 

“Lae’zel, look at this,” you show her the markings. 

“It’s bereft of bodily fluids as well,” adds the warrior. 

Astarion sighs and clicks his tongue once more, “Prick marks and no blood. I’m no Flaming Fist inspector or Gur Hunter, but I’d say that most likely a vampire is lurking about the area. Awful creatures.” He pulls a face. 

“A vampire? Interesting. The githyanki have tablets describing beings of the prime material plane. The ones describing monsters were always the most fascinating.”

“That’s all well and good, but sunset is fast approaching, and I’m exhausted. Even so, I’ll keep first watch, I’m nothing if not wonderfully generous. Let’s go.” Astarion turns on his heel, puts a finger to his temple — no doubt using the tracking abilities that draw the tadpoles to one another — and starts off.

You are truly exhausted and feel grateful at the prospect of a full night’s rest. “Thank you,” you sigh, “I appreciate that.”

Astarion looks genuinely humbled for a moment before his snide mask slips back into place. “Don’t mention it.”

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 7: The Urge

Notes:

Warning, bhaalists are *out there* you guys. Kalliope still has no idea that she’s Durge, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t gonna do Durge stuff.

This is simultaneously my favorite chapter that I’ve written yet, and **the most** disturbing.

Bhaalists gonna Bhaal…

Arriving at camp, you see Wyll by his tent engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with a silver Dragonborn. Her scales gleam like an opalescent rose in the sunset, and a beautiful lyre is strapped to her pack.

More company? It seems this day is cursedly never-ending.

Gale and Shadowheart work at starting a fire and peeling potatoes in the center of camp. Scratch lazes nearby, gnawing on a particularly hefty stick. 

To your dismay, Wyll’s face alights as he catches sight of you. “Ahh, Kalliope! Come meet our newest companion — she followed us here from the Risen Road after narrowly escaping a goblin attack! She wants to join our party.”

You suppress a groan and an eye roll. 

Wyll’s gaze shifts back to the woman, “You know, I’ve heard some of your ballads before in Baldurian taverns, they’re lovely. The Blade of Frontiers would never decline such fine company!”

The Dragonborn woman giggles and — bats her eyelashes at Wyll flirtatiously. 

Do reptile-humanoids even have eyelashes?

“That’s a flattering offer — to join your band of budding legends, but I’m simply looking for a safe place to spend the night. To rest, before I continue on my way. The goblins already robbed me once today, they took my hose,” it’s at this point you realize that she’s not wearing pants. 

“I’m just grateful to not have been injured.”

From the cook fire, Gale shouts, “I’m sure there’s room for another bedroll by fire. We’ve some food to spare, as well.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” she curtsies deeply, “but before we get too far into pleasantries, I am Quil Grootslang. A traveling bard, throat singer, and romantic poet. I’m more than happy to trade entertainment for that bedroll. Would you like to hear my latest work? I’m journeying to Baldur’s Gate to have it published!”

“Uh, maybe la—“ you start. 

“Of course! It would be our honor,” Wyll cuts you off before you can grumble about how much your head aches and your feet hurt. 

The woman clears her throat dramatically, and then begins to sing. It’s unlike anything you've heard — at least outside of a monastery — the song is guttural and tonal. Bellowing, completely in contrast to her light and sweet speaking voice. You assume that the words are draconic in nature, but you don’t understand them. 

I’ve such a headache. 

You groan and massage your temples, straining to appear friendly as Quil finishes her tune. 

The camp is speechless. 

Lae’zel seems as confused by Faerúnian culture as ever. 

Shadowheart’s face is somewhere between a grin and a grimace, while beside her Scratch has dropped his stick. He stares open-mouthed, head-cocked. 

Gale and Wyll — unsurprisingly — applaud graciously. 

Astarion has already poured himself a glass of rich, red wine and is grinning just behind its rim. 

Scoundrel likely enjoyed the secondhand embarrassment over the performance itself. 

The thought brings a smirk to your face. 

Just look at the mischief glimmering in those eyes…

A breath or two pass before you realize you’re staring at the elf. You swear you can hear him mocking you as he catches your eye — whatever are you staring at, Darling?

Abruptly you shift your gaze, then think to feign appreciation for Quil’s song. 

“Wonderful, simply wonderful,” praises Wyll. 

“I’ll only stay one night, I promise. I know I’m iceblood — but I get cold so fast. I need to be by the fire. I’ll be forever grateful.”

“Of course, think nothing of it,” you respond. 

So long as it gets me closer to my own sleep. 

Then, still massaging your temples, you shuffle to the tent that your companions have pitched for you.

 

---

 

Your head is pounding . Quil’s song did nothing to help it — if anything — it made it worse.

Setting up your nest of blankets, you can hear your companions chatting idly in the background with Quil. It takes all of your focus to ignore the uncomfortable warmth spreading through you. 

A — fever? Am I sick? Is this the ceremorphosis?

In the haze, you fail to hear Lae’zel approaching your tent. Suddenly she’s upon you, pressing a dagger to your windpipe, cursing in gith. 

“Can you feel it crawling through you? Tendrils squirming in your chest, gripping your heart, piercing your belly?”

Apparently, you didn’t do well enough to hide how ill you feel. 

Her grip on your shoulder strengthens, you wipe a sudden cold sweat from your forehead. 

She continues, “Your bones popping, your flesh swelling?”

The pounding in your head moves to a deep thrumming within your entire being. 

Lae’zel drones on, “ I can. I see it in you . Feel it in me. We are lost . I will be quick with my blade. First you. Then the others. Then myself.”

A discomforting warmth takes hold, coupled with more cold sweat. Suddenly, you feel that tingling sensation that accompanies a mind-link between you and a companion. 

Lae’zel is uncertain. Disgusted. 

“It’s just a fever — rest will break it. And food.” You do your best to sound sure of yourself. 

She contemplates, the grip on your shoulder wavering ever so slightly. Your heart flutters uncomfortably and your world spins — eyesight blurring momentarily. Through the bond you feel — fear . 

Lae’zel is afraid. Shockingly, painfully afraid. Not afraid of death, or illness, but of insignificance . The great warrior of crèche K’liir, Lae’zel, a failure to her kind. She will wield no silver sword. She will ride no red dragon. Forever unknown to her great Goddess Queen, Vlaakith.  

“Bah. I cannot trust my own mind. So it seems…I must trust yours.” 

She eyes you skeptically, then releases your shoulder to stand and sheath her blade.

“I will wait. But know this, I am watching . If the sickness has not passed come dawn, I will end us all. I will not be ghaik .”

You clutch your head, and the vibrating feeling of the connection fades. Left behind is the same pulsing, nauseating headache from before. You know that you should eat, should drink something. But you feel awful. The idea of food turns your stomach.

A tenday’s worth of tension in a single day. Can we not just catch a break?

Instinctively, you adjust the blankets and lay down carefully. Slowing your breathing, you try to harness your Ki, to soothe that which aches. But as you scan your body, there is no clear source. Not the tadpole, not a poison or illness — something else. Deeper. 

You fail to notice that for the first time since waking on the ship — that dark whisper is completely gone. 

Hidden. 

Retreated to whatever dark folds it inhabits in your mind. 

Eventually, you resign to an uncomfortable night of sleep. Folding your hands under your pillow, you fall into a heavy slumber. 

 

---

The rest that comes to you is fitful. You toss and turn. Stomach twisting, sweat beading on your brow and soaking your blankets. Nightmares fill your head.

Flashes of all of the corpses you’ve made in less than a tenday. The Tiefling couple — your distant kin — frozen by Gale’s elemental malice and then pummeled with your fists. 

The goblins by the grove, their green skin browning as your knuckles bruised their roughened skin. A worg accompanying the goblins, jaw crushed and snapped from its hinges.

That insufferable ‘healer’ with her poisons and false promises. How her screams echoed in that chamber, filling the air with a revolting sort of music.

The lovable bard, Alfira, whose life you spared thanks only to your own horror. 

Weak. Bites the dark whisper as it slithers up your spine, into your mind once more. 

Soft. Merciful. Pitiful. 

You toss and turn, arguing silently with the damned, darkened muse inside your skull. Your headache from before only grows, your empty stomach screaming for something to fill it. To sate it.

Blood and flesh. Spill and tear. Do it, end them. SATE YOUR URGE.

You’re disgusted with yourself. What in the nine hells is wrong with you?! Your silent argument rises to a sleeping groan. You will not. The bile in your stomach churns. Your mouth dries. 

Yes. Yes. YES YOU WILL. The gentle bard, her innards warm. Her marrow sweet as candied pears. But not the hellspawn, no not her. The iceblood. Yes, the iceblood bard.

You’ve never felt so foul in all your life. Your innards turn to liquid. But beyond the disgust, pleasure. Arousal.

Your thoughts turn to Astarion. 

The beauty he rends in battle. Blood like rubies glistening on his blades, spare droplets on his face. Highlighting the angles of it. Those beautiful, dangerous eyes. His pointed smile. He makes death seem like a gift, injury a pleasure.   

Your twisted mind and darkened soul lift. 

The speed and gentle touch with which he picks locks — wields blades. What else can those graceful hands do? 

Warmth pools in your core. 

To share that bloodlust with him, to revel in their screams. To turn their horror to your love song. Their deathbeds, the silken sheets beneath your bare, tangled bodies. 

Your blood heats and thrums, setting your heart-racing. Skin tingling, singing, begging .

Suddenly, with a searing pang of loss and an acrid remorse — your mind clears. 

You awaken, coming to your senses. Your true senses, not the ones brought to life by the whisper in your mind. You are not in your tent. 

You are not resting. You are alone, perched above your prey. Admiring a successful hunt. 

Wait a moment— what—who did I hunt?

The warm, sickly-sweet, metallic scent of blood fills the air around you. You look down, and your normally berry-pink skin is covered in scarlets, rouges, and deepest-reds up to your elbows. The blood begins to form a film on your skin as it cools. 

Too soon, whines the voice in your head, it always cools too soon.  

Taking all of this in at once, you retch. Emptying your stomach further, and it cramps as you remember that you hadn’t even eaten dinner. 

At the toes of your gore-stained boots, lies Quil Grootslang. The bard who’d simply wanted a safe place to rest on her journey to Baldur’s Gate. 

Her legs are jarred at angles that shouldn’t be possible. 

What should be within her abdomen, is steaming and spilling down her torso. Leaking and soaking the earth beneath it. 

Her ribs have been broken open and shattered like a wine barrel. Her neck— no neck should have that many kinks. 

Finally, your gaze trails its way to her face. Her mouth ajar and frozen in a death-scream. 

Her teeth are broken, some missing. The opalescent scales of her cheeks torn away. And those beautiful, frost blue eyes — gone. As if they never existed to begin with. 

What in THE NINE HELLS?! You retch again, falling to the soiled dirt as your midsection cramps and convulses. 

I didn’t do this. I couldn’t have — could I? I was— I was asleep! In my tent a–across the camp!

Raking your memories you find nothing. You don’t remember doing any of this, but your arms and wrists ache. Your dominant hand in particular. 

The pointed nails on your Tiefling hands are dulled and clogged with drying gore. 

It’s revolting. 

How?! Why?! Wha— what have I done?! You suppress a shriek as you clamp your hands across your mouth. 

The whispers sidles its way up to the forefront of your mind. 

You’ve sated the urge. Followed your purpose. Broken, rended, ended that foolish woman. 

You don’t believe it — obviously, there’s no denying it, but you still can’t wrap your mind around the chain of events that caused this wreckage. 

You can deny all you like, but it will never change what you are. You enjoyed it. Took pleasure in it. Found your release without the aid of a lover. All of this fantastic destruction carried out while your pretty, little, twisted mind plied you with fantasies of that beautiful elven man. 

You have no words. This is beyond comprehension. You’ve killed before, but always for good reason. Self defense, protection of the weak — haven’t you?

You glance around the camp, and by some undeserved grace, your companions lie peacefully. You pick out the rising and falling of each of their chests as they sleep soundly through the night.

Safe. Unharmed. Unaware. 

All aside from one. Astarion is missing. He is not in his tent, nor in his bedroll by the fire. 

Panic seizes your heart and throat, you have to clean this up. Dispose of it, erase any trace before your companions rouse or Astarion returns from wherever-the-hells he is. 

A beat passes, and then you’re moving.

Doing the best you can to carry the evidence to the forest beyond camp, beyond discovery.

Before leaving the remains in a bush, far away, you think to grab her manuscript. Perhaps you believe that the small gesture to complete her quest will absolve you. 

 

---

 

Later, you’re in the river that borders your camp, working to scrub your skin and camp clothes clean of the gore. It’s the first time since the crash that you’ve had enough peace and quiet to yourself to bathe, and despite the horrible reason behind it – you’re enjoying yourself.

You untangle your long, teal braids and buns before sinking into the cold, moonlit water.

I’ve got to figure out what is happening to me. I’m a good person – aren’t I? But if I am, how come I can’t remember anything. If it were the tadpole, wouldn’t the others have this issue too? 

You work your fingers through your hair as it floats around you in the water. Dirt and gore flake out of it. 

Maybe I should talk to them…I tried to talk to Astarion about it – the urges – but he seemed more amused than anything. 

You break the surface of the water and sigh, taking a long, deep breath. You run your hands over your face, clearing your eyelids of soap. 

“Enjoying yourself, Darling ?”

You nearly slip on the algae-covered, rocky-bottom, as you jerk around. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” purrs the rogue. He lets his gaze fall to the waterline, then his eyes return to yours.  

It occurs to you that a more modest person might make an attempt to cover themselves. But you want him to see. 

You stand and stretch, before gathering your long locks to wring them out. The motion only reveals more to him.

“It’s not a disturbance if you join me. Otherwise, I’d just accuse you of voyeurism.”

His eyes narrow as he contemplates your offer, and a surprised chuckle escapes him, “A delicious thought, but…” 

“Why the hesitation? What’re you waiting for?” A tense, silent moment passes. You feel your blood begin to heat again despite the chill of the water.

Anticipation.

“The right moment. I—,” he clears his throat abruptly, it seems that now it’s Astarion’s turn to restrain a blush. You smirk, pleased at this momentary victory. A welcome distraction from your darkened thoughts.

You push further, striding closer to the bank. The water now just below your hips.

“You what? Tressym got your tongue, darling?” He’s not the only one who can play this game.

“Tell you what,” he finds his voice, “I’ll consider your offer if you explain why your once-clean camp clothes are positively covered in gore.”

You freeze. Fuck. 

He smirks, confident that he has you cornered. 

“Why don’t you join me, and then I’ll regale you with my dirty secrets? You scratch my back — I scratch yours?”

He hums, once more considering your offer and takes a few measured steps towards your sodden clothes, inspecting them. 

We both know you’re as curious as I am.

“I am curious—“ he pauses, “—how you ever thought this would pass as clean?” He holds up your linen shirt. Once an off-white, it’s now a terrible, brown-speckled mess.

He drops the shirt, and then crouches at the water’s edge, nose to nose with you. “Just what dark business went down while I was on watch, darling?”

“If you were truly on watch, you’d know, wouldn’t you? How do I know that you weren’t up to your own terrible business?”

“Who said that a good watch happened within camp alone? The beast and I went for a perimeter walk. Seems I was concerned about the wrong area, though.” 

His lips are so close to yours that you can feel his breath. Cool as the evening, the crisp scent of wine mixing with something else — bergamot?

Your cheeks flush, and what you assume is the chill of the evening causes your breasts to peak. 

Astarion doesn’t miss a beat, his voice dropping to a dangerous cadence. “So then, would you like some company? Or would you prefer to keep your own?”

Previously, bathing alone was a welcome thought. Yet now, the idea of being alone with only that dark whisper for company terrifies you.

“Remember earlier—“ you begin, “after Alfira? When I mentioned that dark voice that I hear sometimes?”

The flirtatious grin drops, replaced by a look of concern and furrowed brows. “…Yes. Why?”

You hesitate, now or never Kalliope. They’ll discover eventually if you can’t get your shit under control.

“Well…today has been rather…stressful. I don’t remember much from before the crash, but since then…I’ve noticed that those voices — that whisper…it grows bolder with tension.”

“Mhm, go on.”

“Just before bed my head was pounding. Then that bard showed up — her performance made it worse. The headache I mean — but for once the whispers were silent, until I fell asleep.”

You hesitate once more, pondering and then deciding that your fantasies surrounding the elf might be best kept to yourself. 

Though I do wonder what he’d think…

“I slept like shit, I was having nightmares. That dark whisper was having quite the time reminding me of all the violence I’ve caused in the past few days.”

“It gets easier—“ he offers, “the killing. I’m sure one day you’ll quite enjoy it!” He laughs. 

“No,” you shake your head fervently, “that’s just it. It’s too easy. Whenever a fight starts, or the promise of one unfolds — that whisper grows and I’m elated at the thought of spilled blood…”

“Riiiight? I’ve yet to see an issue, really. We’ve all got dark thoughts, though usually we keep those to ourselves. But please, do go on.” 

He’s dropped from his prim crouch in front of you, to a lazier position along the bank. One leg stretched, and the other folded beside it, gaze focused entirely on you. 

“Anyhow, the nightmares. They turned pleasant…sickeningly so…”

He smiles dangerously, hanging on the chance for the more unsavory details. “Mhm,” he purrs again. 

“Th—then I awoke. And— and,” your voice breaks, you struggle to gain your composure. “She was dead. Just — just dead! Beyond dead, I— I tore her apart. Ribs crushed open, abdomen torn, legs wrecked. Her face— oh gods her face!” Hot, angry tears roll down your face. Confusion, disbelief consuming you all over again. 

“Darling,” his voice drops any flirtatious air, “my dagger-happy-friend— who? Who was dead?”

“Quil— the bard. She. I. I— I don’t remember any of it! One moment — nightmares. Gory, bloody things. The next—“ you motion with your hands at the invisible scene from your memories, as if it were before you once more.

Astarion looks at you. Really looks at you. No facade, no mask. No acting. Just genuine concern. “That is…somewhat alarming…so the reason for this mess then?” He motions to your bare form in the river and your poorly-scrubbed camp clothes. 

You simply nod and clear your throat. Wash the hot tears from your face with cool water.

“I’m a monster…” you whisper. 

He picks up the soap and begins scrubbing your clothes once more. After a moment he sighs, “Well, this is beyond my handiwork, we might as well burn them. Wait here, I’ll check my trunk for some spares.”

You nod in silent thanks, and then with near-feline-silence, he prowls into the darkness.

 

---

 

Sometime later, after you’ve collected yourself and properly bathed, you sit on the bank hugging your knees to your chest. Your tail wraps around your center, hugging yourself. A poor attempt at comfort. 

Your ruined clothes sit beside you still. You had thought about putting them back on, but you want nothing to do with the memory of this evening’s terrible events. 

Near silent footsteps sound behind you, and you turn to see Astarion approaching. A well-loved set of trousers and shirt ruffled similarly to his own are folded gently under his arm. 

“Here, apologies for the lack of finery, but this is what I’ve got to spare.” He presents the clothes to you. “I can help you— if you’d like.”

Gone is any semblance of the flirty, presumptuous scoundrel. His voice is much gentler, that dangerous smile replaced with a softer, pleasant air. 

“Thank you.”

He helps you dress and rebraid your hair. Twisting and wrapping the braided buns atop your head. Meanwhile, you finish the two longer ones that flow between your shoulder blades. 

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. “Why aren’t you running me through, casting me away with disgust?”

“Kalliope. You’re not a monster.” It’s the first time he’s used your name. 

“But—“

“Hush. We’ve only known each other a handful of days, and yes, you’ve shocked me during that time. And no — I don’t know you all that well yet. But I’m fairly good at reading people. I’ve known my share of monsters— lived with them. Worked for them…” he trails off for a moment. “You’re nothing like them. A monster, as you so surely claim that you are, would not question this bloodlust. Would not feel guilt for knocking a woman out cold. Disgust at disemboweling a stranger.”

Finished with your hair, his hands drop to his thighs. Still kneeling in front of you, he seems pensive. Holding back his own dark secrets, perhaps. 

“We’ve all got our own trunk of skeletons,” he says finally. “And, for good or for bad, we’re stuck together — at least until we’re free of these tadpoles.”

You meet his gaze, your blue-and-gold, hellish eyes locking with his wine-red ones. 

Beautiful. Is all you can think. 

“Darling, you’re staring again,” he chuckles. 

“Oh—“ you blush, then offer a hand as you pull yourself from the ground, “—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m well aware that I’m simply breathtaking.”

There we are, the cocky wanker.  

You smile, a real-and-true, natural smile as the two of you walk back to camp.

For the first time in memory — I’m not alone.  

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 8: True Soul

Summary:

The weave of an alliance within the party twists its first knots around your secrets. You also discover that your group is not the only tadpoled group in the area, and begin to gather more tasks on an already considerably-long to-do list.

_______

“I’m going to require more expensive inks and vellum.”

—A Wizard’s Woe

The next morning, Astarion makes no mention of your previous night’s confession. He feigns indifference when the camp discovers that Quil ‘left’ before sunup. In fact, he makes an effort to wave it off as to be expected. 

“The woman appeared with no warning, why would she depart with any? She did say she was in a hurry,” no one else catches the glance that passes between you in that moment. 

Though you know he can’t hear it, you send a mental ‘Thank you’ in his direction. He simply blinks and continues polishing his daggers.

Leaving camp, you and your companions stumble upon a somewhat uncomfortable scene. Not far from the glen where you found Scratch, you find a pair of siblings fretting over a dying dwarven man. That same disgusting bloodlust whispers at the edges of your mind — threatening to wrest control from you.

No, leave me be!

You force the dark muse away for now. 

“Edowin, you are a True Soul, you can’t die. Please, stay with us,” cries the sister. 

“I don’t think he’s conscious, can you hear us Ed?” The brother tries to shake the dying man back into consciousness. 

“You! Not a step closer,” snarls the sister at your approach. 

As she glares at you, the tadpole in your skull stirs. A strange symbol marked in the skin over her left eye and cheekbone glows a hot orange. You feel the sensation of a mind link begin to buzz at the edge of your consciousness. 

Are they infected too?

“What happened here,” asks Wyll, peering at the scene from behind you. “If you tell us, we might be able to help?”

As the siblings explain their predicament — the dying man locks eyes with you, and your tadpole quivers in response. Minds intertwining, you see his memories. The siblings Adrick and Brenna are new recruits, yours to shepherd under the banner of the Absolute. 

His voice, barely a whisper sounds in your head: Protec’ them, please. 

With his last breath, the man gasps out, “She is a true soul. Mind her, she will— she—she” he doesn’t finish his sentence, and then, the life in his eyes dies away. 

“Edowin! Ed! Please!”

“He’s with the Absolute now,” frowns the sister. “Edowin our brother. He was chosen, like you. Do you have orders for us? We were reporting to Edowin.”

Wyll explains to the siblings that you’re searching for a Druid by the name of Halsin. He then pointlessly warns them of the dangers of these wilds — an already very obvious fact. You and Astarion share a mocking glance. 

Wyll continues to speak with the siblings, eventually learning that an owlbear attacked and grievously wounded their brother while they were out looking for survivors of the nautiloid crash. So called ‘fugitives’. 

Based on the collection of glances that pass between you and your companions — being referred to as ‘fugitives’ doesn’t sit well with any of you. Choosing not to become further involved — you convince the siblings to avenge their brother by killing the owlbear. 

“The cave is just ahead,” says the brother, “It was too much for us before— but— but if you could help us, True Soul, we may yet stand a chance.”

“Sorry, chap, we’ve been charged with more important ‘True Soul’ duties than monster hunting. But, I’m sure the wrath of the Absolute will aid you in avenging dearest Edowin,” lies Gale.  

As the siblings head off, full of confidence, you and your companions — aside from Wyll — share a moment of laughter at the thought of those two idiots fighting a fully grown monster. 

“Gale, that was impressive. Quick thinking.”

“Oh, I do my best. One can’t always be a gentleman. I doubt those fools will make it very far against the likes of an owlbear— but it’s one less thing for us to focus on.”

Suddenly, that mindlink buzzing begins again. Your focus is wrenched from the conversation, abruptly back in the direction of Edowin’s corpse. 

A psionic connection. But he’s dead?  

Regardless, you can feel the struggling tadpole within the man’s skull. It will die without another host, you can feel its desperation. In this connection with the other tadpole, you unwittingly draw the worm from its host. 

“Well,” grimaces Shadowheart, “that was properly disgusting. But, I suppose stowing it for future use could be a good idea? Maybe seeing one outside of our skulls will help this Halsin or another healer determine a proper cure?”

“ Chk. There’s no reason to collect more of these ghaik parasites. The crèche will have no such need, you’ll see.”

The two women glare at each other. Gale, clearly still avoiding whatever tempest is brewing between Lae’zel and Shadowheart,  merely scoops and bottles the tadpole before tossing it into his pack.

Your plan for the day had been to head to Ethel’s tea house, but given this encounter, the party decides it might be best to avoid this area for now. 

“Wyll, you’ve been in this area for a bit now, I presume, any idea who or what this ‘Absolute’ is?” Shadowheart frowns as she mentions the name of the cult. 

“Not really, no. Though I think there was a prisoner at the grove — Sazza? Who might. We could talk to Zevlor and the others about getting an audience with her?”

“Not a bad idea. Although unrelated, I also remember passing a set of ruins on my walk from the beach to the grove. If this ‘Absolute’ is some sort of religious figure — maybe the ruins hold a hint or two?”

“Ruins, you say,” pipes up Astarion. “Perhaps the kind with forbidden treasure or forgotten riches? I’ve always wanted to dungeon delve!”

A pause as the group contemplates the options.

“I’m only suggesting of course…diplomacy isn’t my cup of tea really,” he shrugs disinterestedly. 

“We’ve noticed…” mutters Gale. 

Astarion rolls his eyes and continues, “but maybe we find something valuable aside from information?” He quirks an eyebrow awaiting a response. 

“If there is an interrogation to be had, I would be there to see it through,” adds Lae’zel. 

“Well then,” you say, “should the four of us check out these ruins while you two ‘diplomats’ dig up something about this ‘Absolute’? They’re not only calling tadpoled people ‘True Souls’ but they were also hunting for us — that can’t be good. Maybe they’re the source and solution of our infection?”

“Fine by me,” chirps Wyll. 

Without any more discussion, the ‘diplomatic’ pair heads back to the Grove for some fact finding. Meanwhile, you, Gale, Shadowheart, and Astarion head back towards the beach. 

There better not be any more brain creatures or squids that way.

 

---

 

Approaching the ruins, you can hear another group of treasure hunters discussing claims and tactics. 

“Competition?” croons Astarion, “this just got a bit more interesting…”

A blonde gnome stands upon a wooden crate arguing with a half-elven man. 

“The crypt is locked, Gimblebock, and we’ve got others to guard it. We should check out that ship-wreck before it’s picked clean!”

“And leave this veritable treasure trove in the hands of these fools?”

They continue to argue as you approach, not noticing you until you’re right on them. Astarion gives you a mischievous look, you shake your head, he pours. 

“Oi! We were here first, get lost before things get ugly,” threatens the gnome. 

“Yea, we don’t need any competition. That ship is ours too! Scram,” says the half-elf, backing up his companion.

You cross your arms and purse your lips, considering how to address the twerps. You pause waiting to feel an argument from the dark whisper within, but none comes. A relief. 

“If you want the ship, take it. I saw a horde of squid-beasts attacking fishermen on the docks — but don’t let me stand in your way.”

The pair share a fearful glance. The gnome clears his throat and attempts to look fearless, “We ain’t afraid o’ no beasts. Nor man. Now scram…”

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t tell you so when they’re cracking your skulls open and slurping your brains for brunch.”

The half-elf’s legs quake, and the gnome takes another gulp. 

“On secon’ thought, that ship’s probably empty anyhow.” And then the pair holler across the courtyard to another pair of bandits, “Oi, we’re leavin’, step up.” 

The four of them scramble from the courtyard away from the direction of the nautiloid, with barely a glance behind them. 

“Well then,” muses Astarion, “that saves some effort on our part. Good work.”

You feel a weak blush creep up your cheeks and ears. 

 

---

 

You and your companions make quick work of the ruins. There were a handful of bandits who’d stayed behind to guard any possible treasures, but between Shadowheart and Gale’s magic, and you and Astarion’s deft hands — they’re not much of an obstacle. Especially given Gale’s observation of some flammable barrels stored in the center of their camp. 

“Not the wisest decision to keep flammables so near your bedrolls, but who am I to question it?” You chuckle in appreciation of his quick thinking. 

“Ooh,” exclaims the wizard as he notices some fresh cheese wheels and other foodstuffs in one of the rooms, “just a moment.” He stuffs his pack full of anything remotely edible. 

Not wasting any time, Astarion loots the bodies and any nearby containers, stuffing baubles, stray books, gems, and extra weapons within his pack before your group continues on. 

“We can examine the goods later, darling,” he casts a wink in your direction. Shadowheart gags dramatically in the background. Gale groans in annoyance. 

Ever the rake, you think suppressing a blush. 

The next few rooms contain abandoned and cracked sarcophagi. Ancient writing is scrawled across the walls. Gale, ever the student, collects a rubbing or two using charcoal and vellum scavenged from the room. Together he and Shadowheart puzzle out that this is a long abandoned temple, to a once-revered god of death. 

Astarion disappears into a room to the west, and returns a short time later with a gold-embossed tome and another pouch of coin. 

“Ohhh, dear Wizarddd,” he coos, flashing the tome at Gale. Immediately the wizard excuses himself from Shadowheart’s side and rushes over. 

“Gods, these are names of gods, once lost, but now restored after the Second Sundering!” Gale is breathless and leafs through the tome hungrily. 

“Peculiar…the last three names in this book are scrawled closely together, but I can’t make out what they are.” He continues to leaf through, when a scroll falls from the tome. “Oh my, gifts abound it seems.”

Now Shadowheart seems intrigued and rushes over to scoop the fallen scroll from the floor, “Handy,” she grins, “…could weaken some heftier foes in the future. May I?” The question is directed at Gale. 

“Of course, happy to share the knowledge.” Shadowheart lovingly tucks the scroll into a case at her side. 

It’s Astarion’s turn to gag dramatically now. “If you book wyrms are quite finished…there’s one chamber left.”

 

---

Pressing on, you encounter some decrepit corpses — they don’t stir as Astarion disarms a few surrounding traps. You call forth the shadows that follow you everywhere, giving your group a bit more insurance that you’ll remain hidden. 

Crossing the main area of the giant chamber, you motion to your companions to halt. Continuing on, there’s a large stone door, with intricate locks. A moment more reveals a button, most likely to override said locks. 

You pause, is this a trap? Should I push it? 

Curiosity wins over wisdom in the moment and you do. As soon as the pads of your fingers leave the opalescent-button, the scraping of sarcophagi and groaning of the undead fills the chamber. 

“Um, Darling, I’m not sure what you did. But get over here, and step quick.”

“Step quick -ly ,” you hear Gale correct him. 

Astarion scowls, “Really? Now?”

“Enough,” barks Shadowheart. “Focus!” She moves her hands and mutters quietly, and suddenly a ring of glistening, glittering spirits surround your party. 

Back-to-back, your group huddles in the center of the chamber. Astarion dodges an arrow, you catch it and fling it back towards the corpse who released it. Shadowheart summons ghostly, holy flames on your foes. Gale sends beams of explosive light at them. You crack the bones of any daring to come near you with your fists. 

Things seem to be going in your favor, until another corpse appears and sends a cone of savage, unforgiving, and bone-shattering cold in your group’s direction. 

“Look out!” Your warning comes a moment too late. You and Astarion dodge in opposite directions, taking only a fraction of the cold. It burns your skin and makes your muscles ache. 

Shadowheart thrusts her shield up, avoiding most of the damage. 

Gale groans, “I cannot die. Please, help m—“ and is knocked to the floor. Wind knocked from his lungs instantly. 

Such a minor setback, a single spell, but then the remaining corpses are upon you. Hacking. Slashing. Hissing and biting at you. All while the decrepit skeleton from the far wall slings elemental malice your way. 

It quickly becomes a very dangerous situation. You take a breath, and gather your inner peace. Then, quick as a breeze, you dash across the room and rain a flurry of blows upon the corpse. Stunned, the growing orb of arcane malice fizzles above its bony palm. 

A moment later, a dagger whizzes by. Then another. One to the sternum, and one to the forehead, and the skeleton crumples into a pile of rags and bone shards at your boots. 

Breathing raggedly, Shadowheart burns the last remaining corpse to cinders in a column of holy fire. She then dashes over to Gale’s unconscious form on the floor. 

Shit. That was a close one. 

You and Astarion regroup with the two casters, a new expression passes over his features. 

Is he— concerned?! Ha! Adorable…

Astarion shoots you a quick glance as you laugh to yourself. 

Shadowheart, clasping her right armpit, holds a leaking gash closed. With her other hand, she murmurs an incantation and soft, glittering light surrounds Gale. Some of his skin knits back together, and then he’s gasping and sitting up. 

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Even Astarion visibly relaxes a bit. 

“Are you alright, Gale?” 

“Yes, it seems so,” he groans as he climbs to his feet, knees popping. “Patched up and pushing on.”

“Are you so sure about that? Your knees seem to disagree,” you tease. 

“Oh, It’s nothing to be concerned about. We can’t all be nimble thieves and acrobats — tumbling and dashing about. Some of us must be the strait-laced scholars.” He feigns an overly serious look before breaking into his usual, warm smile. 

“Hmm. Not one for a tumble?” Astarion clicks his tongue, “We’ll make sure to remember that in the future.”

You suppress a giggle, not missing the double entendre. Gale just scoffs and brushes off his robes.

Everyone patched up and standing once more, you make your way to the opalescent-button from before. This time, it gives, and the stone wall before you slides out of the way. 

 

---

Within you find a collection of ornate jars, a gilded chest, and an altar at the base of a very elaborate sarcophagus. After a moment of inspection — likely for traps — Astarion deems it safe and makes quick work of the locked chest. Following suit, Shadowheart gingerly turns vases and whatnot over, collecting any forgotten goods or treasures.

In one of the vases, she finds an amulet carved from bone. The centerpiece is a skull with its jaw wide open.

“An amulet buzzing with necromantic energy,” she says. A warm glow appears at her fingers and her eyes go white. A moment later, and she adds, “interesting! A way to speak with the dead!”

”That does sound interesting,” you say, genuinely intrigued.

Gale takes a moment to read the sarcophagus, it’s the same runic language from before. Neither of you can read it.

With a grunt of effort, you begin to push the earthen lid from the tomb. You shove it an inch or two, and then it finishes opening on its own. 

You step backwards — startled. Your back presses against Astarion’s chest. Your hips brush his. “Oh— uh sor—“ he just smirks down at you, unflinching. Until the lid to the sarcophagus grinds to a halt, and then crashes to the floor. 

Green-flames torches whoosh to life, and a husk of a body clad in dark, tattered robes floats up and out.  

You’re both unsettled this time, readying your fists as he reaches for the daggers at his hips. Your tail involuntarily curls around his ankle.

You should feel terrified — but an odd peace falls over the room as the being raises its head and meets your gaze. What you expected to be hollow sockets, are instead the kind eyes of an old soul.

They continue to float towards you, and then lower, and land gracefully before you. 

They speak. Their voice as quiet as a whisper, yet with strong rumbling undertones. 

Confident. Wavering. Wizened. Indifferent.

You’re speechless. 

“So he has spoken, and so thoust stand before me. Right as always. What a curious way to awaken. Now, I have a question for thee— what is the worth of a single mortal's life?”

“‘So he has spoken’, who is he? What is he?”

“An arbiter of certain matters, but that is not important now. Wilt thou answer my question?”

You hesitate briefly, “ask away,” you reply. Not really sure that you can deny this entity an answer. 

“So, I ask again. What is the worth of a single mortal life?”

You pause, wanting to give this being a worthy reply. 

Mortal life is for fun and games. Toys to break. Flesh to shred. Souls to rend.

Again, that frustrating and sensual dark whisper crawls up your neck. Towards the forefront of your mind. You think of Quil, what all could she have accomplished had this darkened muse not forced your hands?

How many lives would she have influenced? Brightened? Changed, perhaps?

You think of how easily that light was snuffed out. Her songs silenced forevermore. You don’t think your life is worth much, considering your recent, darkened deeds. 

Does it matter what the soul does with its life?

Would a diabolical contractor ask for more or less — depending on who they were dealing with?

You’re unsure. You don’t feel fit to answer that question. To judge the worth of one over another. 

Foolish, merciful, creature. Life is worth only the torment it can provide. Things to be rended for the dark entertainment of your Lord.

Your mind bristles at the whisper, swatting at it like a frustrating midge. No. Life is sacred. Life is invaluable. We’re all connected. All important.

The voices shrieks like glass grating against stone, and then begins to cackle. An ugly, broken sound.

Lies. Foolhardy, child. Tell yourself what you wish. Yet, deep down — you know our truths.

The whisper fades. Your focus returns, only a moment has passed, and there the entity stands. Patiently waiting. 

Your companions are taut with uncertainty. The silence is palpable.

“I don’t believe I’m worthy of such a decision…” you whisper. “How can one mortal weigh the worth of another? There are simply too many things to consider.”

“I am curious by what standards thou shalt judge,” They regard you, gaze seeming to peer into your very soul. 

“Very well, I am satisfied. We have met, and I know thy face. We will see each other again…at the proper time and place.” 

They regard each of your companions stoically, patiently. After a breath or two pass, the being simply says, “Farewell.” And then shuffles from the room silently.

A long moment passes, no one finding any appropriate words. You glance around the chamber in the silence, to your right, faded and subtle — a mural is painted. The colors have worn and dulled with time and dust. The edges are messy and muddled, but it’s there. 

The same mural from the ruins near your previous camp. 

Again, painted in deep blues, blacks, and reds — three shadowy figures are displayed. Various aspects of death or suffering are insinuated in the smaller collection of silhouettes below them.

Bane. Bhaal. Myrkul.

The second name, once again sends shivers across your skin. Goose-pimples raise on your exposed forearms as a phantom breeze caresses you. 

The whisper returns, apologetic. Seductive. Keening. 

What is it with these three?

You soak in the details, eyes roving every inch of paint. 

The whisper says nothing this time, but you can feel it wrapped around you like a soft cloak. Like an encouraging pair of hands on your shoulders.

Warmth begins to pool in your core. The fading blood scent from your party’s injuries sweetens. Your vision grows fuzzy. 

You say nothing, just relish the silence. The darkness. 

Relish in the comfort that those three names bring to the whisper, and in turn, to you.

Around you, you’re aware of your companions, but their presence is dimmed. Muted. 

Bane. 

Bhaal. 

Myrkul. 

The Dead Three.

Patience apparently worn thin, a gentle, chilly hand brushes a stray hair from your shoulder. A voice whispers near the shell of your ear, strengthening the goose-pimples. Warming your core further. 

“Darling, are we done here?”

Astarion.

It’s in this moment that you’re vaguely aware of the contact between you. Your back and buttocks, barely resting against his chest and hips. A whisper of a touch.

A different whisper this time, your own desire: Let me stay. Let’s not leave, not just yet. 

It seems that in the shock of meeting that strange bone-entity, neither of you had moved. 

His voice brings you back from the velvet shadows that the whisper had drawn you into.

“As much as I’m enjoying this moment, I don’t think staring holes into that mural will gain you any sort of forbidden knowledge,” he adds. 

“Yes, right,” you say, shaking yourself from your near-trance. You take a step towards the exit, regretfully breaking the contact buzzing between you and Astarion. 

“We should catch up with the others, see what they’ve learned.”

“Indeed,” agrees Gale. 

“Yes, I think I’m quite— done here ,” adds Shadowheart, a tinge of disgust colors her tone. So faint, you’re not sure if you’ve imagined it. 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 9: Matter of Coin

Notes:

“Allies come in all shapes and sizes — and ages. There is more mystery to the Weave of the Sword Coast and it’s denizens than you imagined. Pieces of a grand puzzle begin to appear when least expected.”

— Rosi B. D’eirn, 1386 DR

Back at camp— which you’d never bothered to break down this morning due to the opportune distance from the grove, the beach, and the wetlands— you find Wyll and Lae’zel discussing something. 

It’s not a friendly discussion, nor is it heated. 

Is our astral-warrior warming up to us?

“Welcome back, friends!” Wyll’s greeting is as friendly as ever. “We’ve some helpful information to share!”

“Yes, the interrogation of Sazza was quite satisfactory.”

“Glad to hear it,” you say. 

You sit and listen to Wyll and Lae’zel explain all that they’ve learned. Sazza was a goblin warrior from a fort to the west positively brimming with others. She believed in the Absolute and dropped the names of some important people in the faith. 

A priestess by the name of ‘Gut’, a previously Lolth-sworn Drow Paladin called Minthara, and the military leader — Dror Ragzlin. A hobgoblin.

During the interrogation, Lae’zel and Wyll withheld the information that it seems ‘True Souls’ are simply other tadpoled individuals. 

Sazza indeed confirmed that the abandoned Selunite temple to the west was functioning as their base of operations. She had indeed seen Halsin and Aradin sneak in a few days past.  

She also mentioned a nearby abandoned village, saying that they might find some valuable information there too. 

“Talk to Fezzerk,” she’d said.

“Seems that‘s the next sensible destination, then,” says Gale patting Wyll on the back. 

“Not so fast,” butts in Astarion, “we’ve Auntie Ethel to visit still. Remember her? Another potential healer?”

“You only want to visit her because she’s eccentric– like you ,” quips Shadowheart. 

Astarion clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes at her. 

“Well, yes. Aaand we’re exploring every option — right? Soooo , we visit her.” He crosses his arms defiantly, brooding. 

“Our goal should be locating the githyanki crèche along the Risen Road. Like the teeth—“

You clear your throat. 

“Like the tiefling Zorru suggested.” Lae’zel says the word like it’s uncomfortable on her lips.

“I’ve also a request—“ says Wyll. 

“Go ahead?” You say. 

“We’re all aware that The Blade of Frontiers is a well-known monster Hunter.”

You all roll your eyes. 

“Of course, you’d never let us forget,” Shadowheart says. 

“Well, my current contract is what brought me to this area. Should I fail to bring down my mark— my patron will have some pretty serious consequences for me. Perhaps even…diabolical in severity.”

The camp grows serious, even Lae’zel seems to understand the gravity of the situation. 

“I’m hunting a one-horned-devil. She’s a skilled soldier escaped from the hells and the Blood Wars. She’s to be considered extremely dangerous. It’s also rumored that she’s heartless,” Wyll scowls as he finishes the sentence. 

“My, my, now that sounds interesting.”

“Yes, Astarion. Interesting and— unavoidable in my case.”

“Ok,” says Gale, clearly doing mental math, “So we’ve Ethel to visit, Fezzerk and the leaders of the Absolute to consider, Halsin to rescue from the Absolute’s stronghold, the crèche to visit, and Wyll’s mark to locate.” He counts each goal on his fingers. 

“Certainly a handful ,” he jests. The terrible pun earns him a groan from Astarion. 

“Thank you, Astarion. I’m glad that someone got it,” says Gale, ignoring the scowl on Astarion’s lips.

“I do not understand how that is a mere handful. We will need more than one hand to complete all of that,” scoffs Lae’zel. 

“It was a— it was a joke,” explains Gale. 

“I do not understand.”

“Because five, a handfu — oh forget it.” 

Shadowheart giggles at Gale's frustration and Lae’zel’s density regarding humor. 

“Anyone else have anything to complete in this area?” You cast your eyes over the group once, then twice, awaiting an answer. None comes. 

“Alright then, we can decide our next destination after a rest. Gale, can you—“

“—cook?” He finishes your question for you. “With pleasure .”

 

---

 

You make a run to the nearby forest for some firewood for the cook fire. As you return to camp, you see the same Ancient being from the temple. They’re busy flipping through a HUGE, leather-bound tome at the edge of your camp. 

You approach cautiously, “um, hello again.” You’ve no idea how to begin to address this entity. 

“We meet again, as predicted,” says the skeleton, “I shall be here in thy camp, for whenever thou hast need of my services.”

“What kind of services can a—“ you hesitate, you don’t know what to refer to Them as, “— a being such as yourself offer?”

“A mending of the threads between life and death. Should thou or any of thy compatriots perish, I shall conjoin soul to body once more.”

You gasp, impressed by their claims. 

“That’s incredibly powerful magic. How are you able to wield it so easily?”

“Because —“ a pause, “—it is my calling. There is little else to explain.”

“You mentioned a cost earlier— what is it?”

“A matter of coin.”

So much for the philosophical discussion about the value of a life.

“I see. Well, thank you,” you dip your head respectfully and turn to walk away. Then you remember, you still don’t know their name or even their title. 

“Um, I hope that this does not come across as crude— but what exactly are you? What should we call you— my compatriots and I?”

“I am the Guardian of Tombs, a scribe, a seneschal — a keeper of records. But for the comfort of thou and thoust companions, ‘Withers’ shall do.”

“Well, thank you, Withers. Should you need anything, let us know.”

Withers simply dips their head in respectful acknowledgement before returning to the tome.

 

---

 

Gale has whipped up some roast meat, a vegetable stew, and done his best to toast some stale bread. The smells from the cookfire draw water to your mouth.

You and your companions discuss a bit more about where they’re each from. Gale elaborates on his studies in Waterdeep and mentions a mentor of his – Elminster. At his name, Shadowheart, Astarion, Wyll, and you gasp. 

“Elminster, as in the Elminster? The most powerful wizard in all of Faerun?” Ask Wyll, staring wide-eyed at the wizard. 

“The very same.”

“Is it true that he has actually moved mountains?” Shadowheart stares, blank-faced, but incredulous all the same. 

“Yes, he has done that and much more over his 1300 years of life.”

“1300 years old?!” Astarion chokes a bit on his wine.

“Yes, he’s been around long enough to have seen the end of the Spell Plague, the Ascension of at least one or two ‘Mystras’, among other historically significant events.”

“That’s incredible, and he’s your mentor,” you ask. 

Gale clears his throat and does his best to suppress a blush creeping up his neck. “Yes, I Uh, don’t mean to brag but I was quite the wizardly prodigy before our sidekicks came into play.”

“It’s not bragging if you’ve earned it,” says Wyll. 

The conversation continues well into the evening. You share what you can remember of your time in the gate. Your upbringing. 

Shadowheart shares that she’s a follower of Shar. Lae’zel guardedly describes a bit more about her Goddess Queen, Vlaakith. Wyll describes some of the more impressive contracts he’s taken as Blade of the Frontiers , and Astarion shares a bit about his time as a magistrate back in The Gate. 

 

---

 

After cleaning up dinner, and wrapping up conversations, you head to your tent to change into camp clothes. On the way back to the campfire and ring of bedrolls, Astarion catches your attention and waves you over. 

“Yes?” You ask incredulously. 

“I wanted to check in on you, after our— conversation last night. How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine, I suppose.”

“Really— and I say this out of concern— because you look positively dreadful , you poor thing. You look as if you’ve caught a fever — pale, jittery, and twitching.”

“It will pass,” you sigh, “Unfortunately, I’m getting rather used to these headaches that come at night.”

“Hmm. Well, you know where my bedroll is if you have any more dreadful urges this evening,” his voice drops to a whisper, “we wouldn’t want any of our companions to end up like Quil did. Except, maybe Gale.” 

A bark of a chuckle escapes his full lips. 

You force a laugh at his attempt at humor. But inside, you only feel guilt and self-disgust.

“I uh — wouldn’t dream of it,” you force a smile and then head to your bedroll for a night’s rest. 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 10: Trusting Monsters

Summary:

“Shit.”

— Astarion Acunín, 1492 DR

Once more, you toss and turn. Imagery of your hands coated in Quil’s warm, silken blood flash before you. Her innards are wrapped around your throat as her re-animated, gnarled body  and your other companions spit and hiss at you. 

Monster, diabolical creature. Spits dream-Gale. 

I knew I shouldn’t have trusted any of you. Least of all you. Accuses dream-Shadowheart. 

Maybe my target should be you instead. Wyll scowls.

Dream Lae’zel sharpens a silver sword, her eyes glint dangerously as she curses in gith. 

The slick, fleshy noose tightens, pulling you away from them. You scrabble for purchase on the ground, nails tearing at the dream’s earthen floor. 

You scream, but it’s choked out into an ugly noise. 

Behind you, in the darkness, a woman’s shrill cackle sounds. The dark, seductive whisper chuckles alongside her. 

Worthless bloodkin, with her brain full of holes. So many holes! Weakling. Traitor. Embarrassment. We should remind her what she is, Father.  

No! you shout, This darkness isn’t me! I didn’t want it!

WRONG! the whisper bellows and then reverberates in your mind. You will embrace what we have made you. You will fulfill your cravings for blood.

Your companions fade out of view, the last face you see is Astarion’s. That dangerous smile turning to a disappointed look, Such a pity, says dream-Astarion, I was beginning to like her.

You’re dragged further into the darkness, screaming to no avail. Choking, your vision fades to black. 

 

---

 

Your eyes fly open, then flit around and you soon realize that it was a nightmare. Camp is the same. You’re in your bedroll. You can smell the crisp, clean scent of the forest and hear the calls of night creatures. 

Scratch dozes across the campfire from you. You yawn and drift back to sleep. 

 

---

 

A little while later, you awaken again. You’ve not slept well. Even with the initial nightmare over, your rest flits between other fantasies and fears.

Maybe you wake up this time because something is truly wrong. Or maybe, you just get lucky.

The same crisp smell of plants fills your senses, but this time there’s a sweetness to it. And a deeper, warmer musk.

Coming to your senses, you can feel someone crouching over you. Gentle pressure along your side and thigh. Making to roll over, you find Astarion bent dangerously close to your throat, teeth bared. Fangs you hadn’t fully acknowledged before glint in the firelight. 

It’s almost beautiful, if it weren’t so damned threatening. 

He notices your opened eyes, and jumps back gracefully. Sitting up to his knees, “Shit.” A handful of expressions flash across his face. 

Frustration melts into disappointment. Shame, then regret. The expression settles into a fearful, innocent, and apologetic look. Wine-red eyes round and pleading.

You roll to your side and spring deftly to a crouch, eyes fixed on his, hands beginning to curl into fists. 

Yet behind your defensive aggression— curiosity. 

“No, no. It’s not what it looks like,” he whispers as he stands and backs quickly away from you, “I swear.”

You want to believe him, but your blood is heating, fight-or-flight instincts taking over. 

Your voice is a deadly, careful whisper. “You have mere moments to explain.”

You shift your weight to your back foot, remaining poised to attack if need be. Fists curled by your sides. 

He swallows, breathing heavily. “I wasn’t going to hurt you!” He’s panting now, panicked. “I just needed — well, blood.” He takes another careful step backwards, as if you are the predator and he is the prey. 

While any other of your companions might see this as a threat, an unforgivable breach of trust, you can’t help but smile and relax a bit. 

You’re surprised to find yourself pleased that another companion shares your bloodlust.

I’m not the only one with secret urges, it seems. 

“What, what is it?!” He swallows again, and takes another step back. “Why’re you looking at me like that? What’s so funny?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t put it together before,” you giggle. “It’s so obvious now. Your comfort with violence. The calm way with which you spoke to me last night. For Gods’ sake, Lae’zel and I even found the boar you snacked on. No wonder you were so anxious for us to leave it alone.” 

You’re smirking now. Relieved. Delighted even.

“It’s not what you think. I— I’m not some monster, I feed on animals. Boar, deer, kobolds — whatever I can get. But I’m just too slow right now— too weak…if I just had a little blood I could be stronger. Faster. Think more clearly.”

Astarion trails off, and the mask slips. Sheepish about revealing a weakness, the cunning, rakish man is set aside in this moment.

You chuckle, “—You think I’m one to judge?”

He starts. Surprised, then his face softens into recognition. An ally. Someone else who understands. 

Someone else yoked by their bloodlust. 

“Well— I. No, I suppose not.”

“You could’ve told me— I mean. I told you…”

“That’s true. But take it from my point of view, at best you’d say ‘No’. At worst you’d choose to use a weapon other than your fists, a particularly pointy one. Then ram it through my rib cage…” he frowns. 

You take a step closer to him, drop your fists, and then take another. Slowly closing the distance between you. Cautiously, remembering how raw your nerves were only last night. 

“Astarion— I,” you hesitate. Not sure what to say next. What to do next.

What would I have wanted in the moment last night? At the height of my shock? My fear?

A breath passes. Astarion relaxes a bit more, and steps towards you too. 

A friend. Someone to make me feel less abhorrent. Someone to convince me that I’m not alone. That I’m still a person. 

You look at the elf before you, lean, confident.  His silken-white curls framing daintily pointed ears. Glittering, wine-red irises. Full lips. You look deeper still, really look at him. 

You see fear, your own reflected back at you. Loneliness, the feeling that no one else could possibly understand. Desperation, a need to be reminded of your selfhood. That you’re not some aberration or mistake.

He breaks the silence first. “No. I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

“I do trust you. Of course I trust you...”

You trusted me first. That I wouldn’t turn on you like I did Quil. Trusted that I was still worthy. You didn’t rat me out to the group.

His eyes soften, and he releases a long-held breath. “Good, thank you. That’s a relief.”

You so desperately want to touch him. To hold his hand. Brush his arm. Anything. Reassure him — and maybe yourself too — that he’s more than just a vampire. 

Just as you’re more than a degenerate murderer.

You take one step further, holding his gaze and allow your wrist to harmlessly brush against his. A whisper of a touch. If he notices, he makes no move to retreat or comment against it. 

“Do you, do you think you can trust me just a little further?” The question is a whisper, and the moment feels even more intimate. His voice drops to that silky, purring tone, “I only need a taste, I swear.”

You know that he means your blood, but you can’t help but imagine he may mean other things, too. Your cheeks flush, and the heat in your blood morphs from anger and survival instinct, to arousal.

“You’re welcome to more than a taste. Just leave the majority for me, please.”

His eyes widen, genuine, pleasant surprise flickering through them.

“Really— I. Thank you , I promise I won’t take a drop more than I need. We wouldn’t want your skin to lose that beautiful rosy hue.”

He raises a delicate hand and runs the back of his fingers across your cheek. The touch tickles your skin, and goose-pimples dance across your arms. 

Hesitant — but curious, as if he’s testing the boundaries between you. You lean into the touch, just barely. Enough to return the sentiment.

He smiles, “Now then, let’s make ourselves comfortable. My bedroll, or yours?”

Your throat tightens at the offer, all thoughts flush from your mind. “Uh,” you stammer, “m-mine.”

“Of course,” he nods, “whatever you’d like.”

He leads you to your bedroll and kneels to straighten your nest of blankets. Untwisting the ones on top, and smoothing the corners of the ones below. Arranging it exactly how you’ve set it each night so far.

The small act of thoughtfulness and attention to detail twists your gut in a pleasant way. 

He glances up at you and wordlessly pats the spot before him. You kneel, joining him at his side before lying down amongst the furs and knitted fabrics. 

He adjusts the pillow under your head, and raises his eyebrows in a question. “Are you comfortable?”

Your heart skips a beat and your throat tightens again. You nod. 

Then, he’s leaning down over you, one arm on each side of your shoulders, noses nearly tip-to-tip. One last glance, one last chance to let you change your mind. Seeing no signs of refusal he nods and lowers his lips to your neck. 

Your heart jumps again. His lips are impossibly soft, cool, but not cold. He opens his lips just a bit, and moves them gently to the crook where your jaw meets your neck. 

More goose-pimples, your breath hitches. His tongue flicks gently across the skin, once. Twice. A predator appraising his prey. Then, his fangs pierce your skin.

 

---

 

She— she said yes?! You cannot believe your fortune. The generosity. 

You can have more than a taste she’d said. You know full well, that she was referring to her blood. That smooth ambrosia driving your accursed, never-ending hunger. But your condition has heightened certain senses, scent in particular. 

Her body betrays her; perhaps she meant other things, as well.

Your thoughts drift to your hand on her cheek, her skin was so soft. Even the scar that slashes  her precious face.

Your hunger is a sharp pain in your gut, and your focus is drawn back to sating it.  

You walk beside her to her bedroll, it’s a mess. Nothing like how she typically sets it before nestling in. Dropping to a kneel, you instinctively begin straightening the bedroll. Flattening the furs, untangling the blankets. 

You chuckle internally, It seems someone was restless.

Unexpectedly nervous , you take a breath and then pat the bedroll in front of you.

She crawls into her nest, and you straighten the pillow beneath her head. Needing something to steady the growing shake in your hands.

Finding no other excuses to wait, you lean down over her and hold her gaze. Dark eyes burn with bewitching teal irises, a golden hue blooming around each of her pupils.

You swallow, resisting the muscle memory of so many years as an urge to kiss her surfaces. As you kissed all of your past marks. 

No. This is different. She’s not a victim, she offered herself.

Kalliope holds your gaze, she doesn’t shrink away. She doesn’t refuse. You can smell her blood, her confidence— her arousal. You listen to the strong, steady thrum of her heart.

You plant a hand beside each of her shoulders, steadying yourself, and then gracefully bend over her. Your lips graze the skin of her neck, and you relish in the sensation. Lingering there as you use your tongue to find her pulse point. 

 

---

 

You know he’s being gentle — at least — you doubt he was this thoughtful with the boar in the forest. 

Initially, it stings, and then burns, like ice in your neck. A moment, and the sensation passes, replaced by a gentle numbness. 

His tongue laps in time with your pulse, quick, gentle strokes. Warmth begins to pool in your core. Your cheeks flush, and you buzz with anticipation as he swallows the first mouthful. 

A noise somewhere between a whimper and a gasp escapes your lips. A nearly inaudible moan vibrates against your neck as he swallows again. Your mouth goes dry, then waters. 

He’s drinking your blood, you fool. Not pleasuring you, you chide yourself. 

You silently wonder, Just how morbid of a creature am I?

His spare hand is beneath your neck now, cradling your head. You relax into him, leaning into the connection as you feel your blood coursing into his body. Mixing and warming him from the inside. Filling him. 

He smells impossibly good. Like crisp, fresh herbs and sharp musk. A hint of sweetness behind it all.  

Is that — bergamot? Some sort of aged liquor?

Another rumbling moan escapes his lips as he swallows a third time, and you can’t help but gasp simultaneously. Your breasts peak. Pressure builds between your folds, you resist the urge to arch your back and press into him. 

It takes everything in you not to seize this man and ravish him as he feeds. Swallow him whole— taste him. 

Your toes curl, and your hand finds his. The one he’s leaning on. You curl your fingers around his, squeezing. Desperate for more contact. 

Gods. You think to yourself, I want more . I want to get lost in him, in this.

Your tail flicks back and forth, and he removes the hand from beneath your head to run cool fingertips along its length. 

The sensation coaxes another moan from your lips. He swallows another mouthful. 

He pulls away from your neck, for just a moment, and glances at you with a hint of concern. His crimson eyes are hazy, blissful. Heavily-lidded. 

Is this alright? He seems to ask. 

Your eyelids flutter, and you nod. His gaze turns hungry and then he dips his head, returning to your neck. This time, you lean into his lips. 

His tongue passes lazily back and forth over the wound, catching any droplets that escaped during his pause. His lips plant barely perceptible kisses before he settles his fangs back into place.

 

---

 

Your fangs graze her skin gently, you can feel the warmth of her beneath your lips. 

Life. Heat. Sustenance.

Mouth-watering, you sink your teeth in.

Immediately relief courses through you, dulling your hunger. Your heart, that exists somewhere between life and death, thrums. Doubling in pace. 

The taste floods your senses. A scarlet tidal wave crashing through every other thought in your mind. Drowning out anything else around you, it’s all hazy. Everything. Except for her. 

Kalliope. 

She is a blazing star in your focus. An inferno of blues, reds, and gold. Her blood warms you, fills you — better than any beast’s. Absolutely incomparable. 

Your existence narrows to one made to bask in its exquisiteness. 

Gods above.

She tastes warm and metallic, but there is a burning-sweetness to her too. Like summer fruits and a midnight hearth. Sun melon and chilis.

The silken ambrosia flows past your lips and into your mouth. Your tongue moves in concert with her pulse. You draw one mouthful, and as the warm liquid flows down your throat, a moan rumbles up and out. 

Her scent around you strengthens, her pulse beneath your tongue quickens and a whimper of pleasure escapes her.

A delicious sound.

You taste her — not just her blood. But her sadness. Her guilt. Self-revulsion. Then joy, anticipation, and that intoxicating arousal.

You feel yourself echoed in her blood, for you too have felt all of those things. 

Disgust at your weakness, your inability to find your own freedom. 

The guilt of luring so many beautiful souls for your master. 

Sadness at the memories of the ones you felt a glimmer of affection for.

Your cheeks warm, and you feel her blood rush into your body, twining and mixing with your own. Warming you from your stomach to your fingertips.

You draw a second mouthful and the pleasure spreads further into your body. Though a small, shriveled part of you detests it. This bliss. This closeness. You can’t help it, and another moan rumbles against her skin.

Fucking hells. 

Your trousers grow uncomfortably tight. That part of you yearns for her. Needs her. You can hear her pulse speeding around you. Feel it beneath your tongue. Feel it pulsing within your member. Desire racing through your veins alongside her blood  

She tastes as good as she smells. Irresistible.

You think about how she felt against you earlier, in that ruined temple. That ancient creature rose from its sarcophagus, startling your companions, but all your attention was focused on the sensations of her.  

She gasps and whimpers again. Your stomach drops and the yearning below builds, cock now straining against fabric. You resist the urge to drop your hips, to use her own hips as a source of the friction you’re craving.

A third mouthful and the taste is absolutely full of her desire. Your mind buzzes, and you hear her stray thoughts echo into your mind once more, Is that — bergamot? Some sort of aged liquor? 

A chill flutters up your spine. 

How very perceptive of you, darling. 

You groan again, that primal, carnal hunger all consuming.

One of her hands finds and grips your own. In her touch you feel your own yearning reflected. But also, understanding. Comfort. 

An anchor. Someone else like you.

Your thoughts return to the feeling of her muscled back pressed into your chest. Her hip, a whisper against your groin. Her tail gracing your calves, wrapping slightly around your ankle when she startled in fear. 

She gasps and another stray thought of hers trickles through, Gods. I want more. I want to get lost in him. In this.

Desire obliterates any remaining thoughts. 

All of your willpower teeters between moderation and restraining the urge to crawl further on top of her. Or, to switch places and drag her atop you.

Just as she fantasized during our first meeting. 

Her tail flicks back and forth, occasionally brushing your thigh. It draws your attention and curiosity gets the better of you. Gently removing the hand from beneath her head, you use it to catch her tail. Stroke it. It’s smooth yet textured, small ridges running down its center.

You relish in another mouthful, as you continue to toy with the appendage. She quivers and moans beneath you. 

You pull away for a moment, concerned she felt pain, and catch her gaze. Her eyes are glassy and she looks blissful. Her eyelids flutter as she gazes up at you. You hesitate — waiting for any sign that she wants you to stop. She simply nods, urging you on, and closes her eyes once more. 

This time, when you find her pulse, you sweep your tongue in wide arcs around the wound. Catching any stray droplets while reveling in the taste of her skin. Against your better judgment, you place a series of tiny, gentle kisses along her neck.

 

---

 

More buzzing and tingling courses through your body at the touch. At the tickling sensation of his kisses. 

You shiver with pleasure. But also — with cold. You feel cold suddenly. 

Uncomfortably so. 

In the novelty and pleasure of the connection, you nearly forgot he was literally consuming you. 

“A-Astarion,” you breathe. 

Under different circumstances, the cry might insinuate a very different emotion.

 

---

 

“A-Astarion,” she breathes. It could be a wish, a prayer. Your cock twitches in response, you decide instantly that you love the sound of your name on her lips. 

You pause, removing your fangs and lips from her skin, “Yes, darling?”

“I— I’m starting to feel cold.”

Fuck. Just when you’d decided to grant her wish of getting lost within you.

By getting lost in her.

---

 

“Oh, yes, of course.” Astarion whispers and runs his tongue over the punctures one last time. More slowly than necessary, and then presses one last, subtle kiss to the spot.

Despite the warmth still pooling in your core, the growing ache between your folds, and the heat in your cheeks— your extremities have begun to numb and tingle with the drop in temperature.

You shiver again. 

“That was,” his eyelids flutter, “… amazing.” His pupils are large and dark, the tips of his ears pinkened. His tongue flicks out to catch a spare drop from his lips. His expression is one of ecstasy.

“Thank you,” he says, still folded over you. 

Your hand is still wrapped around his, while his other is still busy gently stroking your tail.

Gods. He’s intoxicating. 

You feel drowsy, nerves and blood singing with pleasure. 

“You know,” you whisper, a slight drawl to your words now, “There are other parts of me you could taste. If you’d care to explore them…”

Brave. So very brave of you. 

It must be the blood loss, you think.

He releases a breath, tickling your skin. 

“A delicious thought but,” he squeezes your hand, dragging his soft delicate fingers across your palm before sitting up. The sensation sends another wave of heat straight to your core. “I need to clear my head. That was quite— the rush.”

You nod. Your chest tightens, sad at the loss of contact. You know it’s for the best — if you want to wake up ever again — but you’ve never felt such pleasure.

He stands slowly, gaze locked with yours, “I feel so much better. Stronger. Happy. It worked, thank you.”

“Of course,” you manage, “I couldn’t let you go hungry. Now I understand why your plates are still so full at the end of dinner. Though you do skillfully move it around to maintain the illusion.”

He chuckles, “Perhaps the dog can have my portions from now on.” 

He stands and brushes off his knees. “Well, darling, you were invigorating. But, I need to find something more— filling.”

He stalks towards the forest, a hunter once more, then pauses, “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Neither will I. 

The encounter leaves the darkened whisper and your bloodlust satisfied and singing with pleasure. 

You barely sleep, but this time, it’s a pleasant disruption.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 11: The Right Words

Summary:

Revelations. Offers. Resistance. Promises.

The following morning you awaken just as the first rays of the sun begin to peek through the trees. You stretch and yawn; feeling an ache in your neck you blush and savor the memory of last night. Shivering with the last remaining waves of that pleasure. 

This is a gift you know, I won’t forget it. 

Smiling, you stand and head to the river to wash your face and complete your morning routine. 

 

---

 

A set or two of the usual stretches, a handful of push-ups, another stretch or two, and then finally your shadow-boxing routine. You have no idea what the darkened whisper would look like were they corporeal, but you’re imagining that they are your opponent this morning.

“Your enemy is getting quite the beat down,” Shadowheart giggles as she appears next to you. “Whatever they did to get on your bad side, remind me not to do the same.”

Though you’ve not spent much time with her, and though she is still relatively frigid whenever Lae’zel is present, you’re growing to like Shadowheart. 

The horrors on the ship– resisting those dark voices– they were worth rescuing her.

“I doubt you’d ever commit the same atrocities,” you say, quirking an eyebrow. 

Shadowheart strips off her clothes, aside from her underclothes, and wades into the stream. She sighs at the temperate bliss of the water. “It’s been too long since we’ve had real baths. But, this will have to do.” 

You notice that she doesn’t wade past where her feet can touch, and makes an effort to stay near the shore when the current gently pulls her deeper. 

“Do you ever take those chains out of your ponytail?”

“Hmm. Well, sometimes. But traveling around, it’s just easier to leave them in. Too much of a hassle otherwise. Are you alright,” she asks “your pink is– somewhat muted. You’re giving off a weird aura, too.”

“Oh, uh yes. I’m fine, just a remaining headache is all. I tend to get them in the evenings, unfortunately.”

She hums looking doubtful, then continues bathing. 

“Good morning, ladies,” Wyll says as he approaches, “Oh– Shadowheart, would you like me to wait?” He covers his eyes with a hand, pausing in his tracks.

“Oh no, don’t worry. I’m a cleric, all bodies are the same to me.”

“Just– uh– wanted to give you the chance to protect your privacy. Erm– if that were what you desired, o-of course.”

“How chivalrous, of you Saer Wyll,” you jest and sketch a dramatic bow.

“Well then, it seems like it’s quite the party over here!” Gale, chipper and friendly as always. 

“Yes, it seems so,” Lae’zel echoes the thought stoically.

Gale nears the water’s edge before conjuring a shimmering privacy curtain around himself. “Take no offense, I’m no prude, it’s simply an old habit from the public shores of Waterdeep,” he says. Looking in the direction of you and Shadowheart he winks, “have to leave something to be desired, after all.”

You continue your exercises on the shore as your companions bathe and wash with varying intensity. Idle chatter accompanies the birdsong floating on the breeze as you swap jokes and stories. 

“Well then, I’ll take no offense– but why didn’t you all invite me to the party?” Astarion pouts dramatically as he saunters out of the brush between the river and camp. 

He catches your eye and sends a flirtatious smirk your way, “Especially you, Darling. I thought we had something special.”

Your cheeks heat and flush. You change your stretching position so that your hair falls over your face, attempting to hide it. 

Shadowheart notices the abrupt change in position and smirks at you as well.

Subtle, Kalliope, you chide yourself.

“I did not know this gathering required an invitation,” Lae’zel says, “this is a public river, is it not?”

“Ahhh, Lae’zel, our charming, fearsome warrior! Always a fresh audience for a joke when you need it. How are you this morning, Darling?”

“I am well, thank you. But call me ‘Darling’ again, and I shall separate that head from your shoulders.”

Astarion clears his throat and smiles, still sauntering in your direction. 

“You seem rather cheery this morning, Astarion. What’s the occasion,” asks Shadowheart as she wades out of the water, and sits down to dry in the sun.

“Oh, nothing in particular dear Sharran. Just enjoying another beautiful day without tentacles,” he wiggles his fingers beneath his chin for emphasis.

At this point, he’s sidled right up to the sparring circle you’ve drawn in the sand. His voice lowers, reaching for that velvet, purring whisper as he asks, “ And how do you feel, my dear? ”

You stand and clear your throat, doing your best to appear casual. As if nothing has changed between the two of you. Because it hasn’t? Has it?

“Just fine, my neck is a bit sore— I must have slept on it the wrong way.”

That’s one way to phrase it, you chuckle to yourself. 

“It’ll pass, I’m sure.” He pitches his voice to a whisper again,  “Just be glad I’m not a true vampire. A bite from them and you might wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self. All of a vampire’s hunger but few of their powers.”

You glance nervously towards your companions, fearful for his secret. They’re all still lost in conversation and various stages of their morning routines.

“Don’t worry, darling. They’re not listening. Not now, anyway.”

“How do yo— never mind. But, is that how you can walk in the sun? Because you’re not a— true vampire?” Despite his reassurances, you drop your voice to a low whisper as you utter the last two words. 

“Oh no. I should be cinders in this light. I hadn’t seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed here. Then I woke up bathed in its light,” he turns his face skyward and sighs. “No, someone– or something – wants me alive. They’ve changed the rules.”

You blink in shock as he theorizes. He continues full of gusto, a smile drawing across his decadent lips. 

“Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation — they’re all perfectly mundane activities now!”

He looks so— happy. Maybe sharing his secret with someone was exactly what he needed. Like I needed.

You hadn’t thought about it much since, but having someone else who knew about your urges had lifted a woad’s worth of stress from your shoulders. It appears to have done the same for him — considering how the light dances across his eyes as he speaks.

His joy morphs into a pale mimicry of the lust his eyes held last night, “As for my other quirks, well, we can figure those out in time.”

“Perhaps our new friends aren’t all bad,” you say motioning towards your temple. 

“That’s my theory, but who knows.” A shrug.

“At the risk of coming across as ignorant— how do vampires come to be? I mean, how are they— made.” You hold a breath, worried you’d come across as too insensitive or foolish. 

“It’s simple, really. Just find a vampire that will drink your blood – all of it – and turn you into a vampire spawn: their obedient puppet. In theory, the next step is to drink their blood,” he pauses, a scowl flickering across his face. Then, as soon as it appeared, it’s gone again.  

He continues, “Once you've done that, you’re free and a true vampire. ”

With the caution you’d use to sneak around a sleeping, ancient dragon you ask, “You said ‘In theory’— I— it’s uncommon, then?”

A high laugh breaks from his lips. “You’re so adorably naive. People think the biggest threat to a vampire is a cleric with a stake. It’s not. The biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire. They’re scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts. Sooo, why in the hells would any vampire give up control over one of their spawn— to create a competitor?”

You stay silent, waiting. His calm, flirtatious demeanor has spoiled into something nearer to vinegar. Though you know it’s not about you, it still gives you pause.  

“Trust me–“ he says, “it doesn’t. Happen.”

You’re not sure how to continue. Do you try to soothe his raw nerves right now? Or do you wait— let him process it in his own way?

Barely a whisper, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, you offer, “I-if I can help in any way— let me know. We’re in this together.” 

“Ohhh, you’re such a sweetheart,” he croons.

The flush you’d been fighting from your cheeks sets in fully at the praise. Your stomach turns over itself and the warmth spreads to your ears. 

He sighs, and that charming smile slides back into place. “I’m just glad you’re being sensible about these — revelations. I was worried people might turn up with torches and pitchforks—“ he breaks off at the sound of your companions approaching, “although there’s still time.”

Seems we weren’t all that quiet after all.

Shadowheart clears her throat, “Are we– interrupting something, Astarion? Kalliope?” You tense up as you turn to acknowledge your companions, a flicker of defensiveness in your chest. 

“So we’re traveling with a vampire, are we? Of course, we are.” Gale. “Word of warning, Astarion, I taste absolutely awful,” he sneers. The disdain in his voice is far from masked.

“Oh, don’t worry Gale, I would’ve assumed as much,” retorts Astarion. 

“Ohhh fine,” groans Wyll, “as long as he keeps his fangs off our necks.”

The way he says ‘fangs’ makes your hackles raise a touch, and your tail flicks back and forth. Aggravation.

How dare they make such assumptions— reducing him to a potential threat to be ‘tolerated’.  

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before you speak. You choose your words carefully, understanding that it’s no use fighting amongst yourselves. 

“He won’t hurt us,” you cast a glance over your shoulder in his direction, holding his gaze as you say, “I trust him.”

He smiles, and understanding passes through those crimson eyes of his. “Yes, like she says, I’m here in a spirit of openness and honesty! To work together– as a team,” he adds. 

“You say all the right words, but I’m not so sure you mean the right things.” Gale scowls at Astarion, unsold. 

“Well, if you don’t like it— the road’s right over there.” You glance at each of your companions, waiting for a rebuttal, an argument that somehow weighs more in your mind than this camaraderie you feel with Astarion. 

We’re more than monsters, says a gentle voice in your head, your own. Your higher self. 

“No, no,” says Gale, putting up his hands in forfeit, “I will respect the decision that was made.”

“It makes no difference to me, Astarion is a valuable warrior with or without his condition.” Lae’zel, reliably forward as usual. 

You could kiss her. 

“Maybe we can get him to wear a bell— dissuade any nighttime prowling,” giggles Shadowheart. 

“I wouldn’t have pinned you as that sort of kinky, dear,” purrs Astarion teasingly.

“There’s more to me than you’d expect,” she taunts back with a wink.

“There now, we’re all friends again,” he chirps.

Feeling awkward, and maybe just the smallest hint of jealousy, you change the subject. “Well now, should we go? We’ve got an Auntie to visit— or a devil to kill. Who knows!”

 

---

 

Sometime later you wish you could eat. Your. Words. as you and your companions stand on alert in a rich, overly-decorated salon. A large portrait of a handsome cambion hangs above the central fireplace. While the aforementioned cambion stands confidently before you, waxing poetic.

“—What’s better than a devil you don’t know? A devil you do.”

He pauses for dramatic effect. 

“Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But, a savior that’s for certain.”

You keep your face blank, and tone neutral. “It’s never that simple with the Infernal. What’s your angle?” 

Always better to show them they can’t get under your skin — the only way to get under theirs. 

“Come now, 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. ” He snaps and his fingertips ignite, adding flair and showmanship wherever he can. 

You laugh, mockingly. “You’re madder than a hatter if you think I’ll make a deal with a devil.”

“Don’t be so base my dear. What is madness but a denial of reality? Still, I’ve a feeling you’ll change your mind before it’s changed for you.”

“Clever words, devil,” says Shadowheart, “but you still haven’t told us what you want.”

“Ahh, a cleric. Go ahead, holy one, 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.”

A deep, confident laugh rumbles out of his chest. “Hope, ha! Such a tease.”

“And if we should decide to take your deal—“ Gale begins, “just where will we find you?”

“I’ll be around, my bookish friend. Watching you squirm like a tadpole through a nice, juicy brain. All those pretty little symptoms, they haven’t manifested yet, have they ?”

“Are devils always so clueless,” Lae’zel hisses in question. 

Astarion replies cooly, not a flicker of emotion on his handsome face. “Yes, she’s right. I think you know the answer to that question, devil.”

Raphael ignores the taunts, continuing his monologue. “One might say you’re a paragon of luck— I’ll be there when it runs out…”

One last snap of the cambion’s fingers sends you rushing through space and time, back to the prime material plane. 

 

---

As soon as your feet touch the ground, Astarion wheels towards you. 

“Now there’s a bloody devil trailing after us?! This gets better and better. ‘Shop around’, he said, he seems sure we won’t find anything. And he might be right, we’ve had no luck so far.”

“He’s not, we’ve still other options to explore,” you say ignoring that seed of doubt the cambion tried to sow within you.

“Maybe, but all that ‘Take your time, I’ll wait nonsense.’ He’s playing with us, reminds me of Cazador. Taunting his slaves with hope, when he knew the game was rigged.” 

He says the name ‘Cazador’ with such disgust. Practically spitting it onto the dirt. You want to ask. You want to know what exactly fuels the revulsion behind that name — but you’re not sure it’s appropriate to pry. At least not now. 

So instead, you ask, “What do you think about the deal itself?”

“I won’t lie, it’s tempting, if I keep the tadpole I risk transforming into a grotesque monster. If I lose the tadpole, I return to the shadows— among other things.” He pauses, lost in thought.

“We’re not his toys, or pawns to play with,” you say, reaching tentatively. Your fingertips barely brush the ridges of veins and tendons in his hand. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away. He looks at you now, so much conflicting emotion swirling behind those eyes. “We will find another way.”

He blinks and nods silently.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 12: A Hero’s Heart

Summary:

“The first lesson you need to learn is that devils and demons are not at all alike. See, demons—they’re predictable. […] But a devil—he’ll be your friend, and like a friend, he’ll help you out of a jam.

[…] The devil has the answers. He’ll give you all you want and more. […] in exchange? Just a little thing— a trifle, really. And it won’t affect you in the slightest. All he wants is your soul.”

—Conner Smithson, ‘Virtue on Devils’

“So Wyll,” chirps Shadowheart, “I saw you training those children. You were so gentle! That's... not how I was taught.”

“Cruel words strengthen neither heads nor hearts, Shadowheart.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that— I learned my lesson, after all.”

“And I wonder if you came to resent your tutor? No, I taught them to fight— not to hate.”

Shadowheart hums in contemplation. 

“So, how do you know where to find your mark?” You ask. 

“My patron has a way of sharing information with me. They said she would be northwest of the Druid grove. Near a toll house or a post office of sorts.”

“And how do you intend to handle this? If she’s as powerful as you say, we could be in for a rough time,” asks Astarion. 

“Well, devils are clever — as Raphael exhibited perfectly earlier — we could trick her. If all else fails, The Blade—“

“Yes, yes we know ,” interrupts Astarion, “‘The Blade of Frontiers has never lost before.’ As an alternative plan, you could bore her to death with the hero act…”

“In all seriousness,” counters Wyll, “I’m not exactly sure how to handle her. This tadpole has interfered somewhat heavily with my skills. Weakened me a bit— but we will prevail, I have no doubt!”

You cross a stone bridge, then a small river crossing, cautiously using river stones as footholds. Following the trail to the north, you round a large stony hill and spot an older wooden building ahead on another hill. The pennant flags hanging tattered from the building indicate it is indeed a toll house.

“We’re close,” says Wyll, “I can feel it.”

Once more, you reach into your soul and pull forth a subtle mist of shadows around the party. If Astarion is right, the last thing you want to do is expose yourselves before assessing the threat.

“Yes, it seems we are,” you say as you notice a small pool of blood. You crouch near it, inspecting. The pool quickly turns into a few footprints and a trickling trail beyond that. 

The smell of blood arouses you, and you feel the dark whisper quiver, awakening. Slowly it begins to creep up your spine and into your skull. It’s hungry. 

Here we go again. 

You hold tight to the mental leash that binds it. It could be helpful, or it could cause more problems. Better to be safe than sorry.

“Should one of us scout ahead,” asks Shadowheart. 

“Perhaps. Or, the group could hold back while one of us talks to her,” you suggest.

“Lae’zel, any insightful battle wisdom,” whispers Gale. 

“The githyanki do not skull about in the shadows. We strike hard, and we strike true. If the goal is to end this devil, we need not speak with her.”

“Fair enough,” begins Wyll, his tone adopts a commanding air. A soldier instructing fellow soldiers. “Astarion, Kalliope — you two are our most subtle assets, try to flank around and hold position. Lae’zel, you’re with me. Shadowheart and Gale, can you flank a bit behind our sleuths and do crowd control?”

“Of course, outflank. Outsmart.”

You giggle at his unending enthusiasm. 

“Lady of Sorrows guide us,” she mutters as she casts ‘Aid’ on the party.

The four of them scurry ahead, with Wyll in the lead. Your blood begins to thrum, that darkened whisper snaking its way forward as the allure of battle sets in. 

“Alone again, darling. Shall we? Or do you have something else in mind?”

“Perhaps later I’ll ask for another nibble,” you tease, “but for now, let’s keep focused.”

“So direct,” he purrs, “just one of the many reasons I like you.”

You drop into a crouch, perhaps arching your back a bit more than necessary, and lead the way. 

He wants to be a tease, at least let him enjoy the view.

 

---

 

As you keep pace with the group, creeping through the foliage, you notice a figure ahead. Bright red. She’s found a small alcove on the far side of the river, with only a high stone hill to her back. Looking more closely, something seems off. She lacks many of the traits Raphael had, appearing more like a regular Tiefling than a higher-ranking devil or fiend. 

“Nnnnnghaaaaaa,” she screams in pain, an inferno encasing her whole body. 

“Are you alright?” Calls Wyll over the rushing sounds of the river. 

“Me? Never been better,” she grits out as she fights to control the flames.

Wyll looks confused now, most likely he too sees the lack of overly-fiendish traits. You hold your breath— waiting to spring from your hiding place. Beside you, Astarion flips his daggers in his hands— also raring to go.

“Well, fuck me! It’s you! From the Nautiloid, I can’t believe someone else survived,” she says to Wyll. 

“She’s feisty,” whispers Astarion, “I like it.”

You smile and roll your eyes. 

Wyll holds the woman’s gaze, waiting. Assessing. A monster-hunter at work.

“Please tell me I found you before those so-called ‘Paladins of Tyr’ did,” she says. 

She’s massive. Incredibly tall, and incredibly well-built. Though she seems to have dampened her personal firestorm, she still glows with flame and heat. From your vantage point, you can see her chest glowing, beating in time with what could be a heartbeat. Illuminating the bones in her chest and ribs. 

Burn scars dapple her right arm and shoulder, and her clothes are burned nearly to bits. She yells in pain and frustration as the flames flare up again, die down, and then flare up once more. She’s still struggling to keep the flames surrounding her contained. 

You find yourself hoping you won’t have to fight her — because she looks rather likable. Intimidating, someone worth having at your side. 

You watch as Wyll and Lae’zel cross the river to speak with her. You can overhear bits and bobs of their conversation. Wyll still doesn’t look convinced, you can see his internal conflict written all over his face. They speak for a bit longer before Wyll catches your eye and waves you over. Sharing a cautious glance with Astarion, you stand from your hiding spot and join the rest of your party.

As soon as you reach her and begin to introduce yourself, your mind buzzes— another mind-link. You see put into images the story she just shared with Wyll and Lae’zel. 

Hellfire. Demon hordes. The blood wars— she was on the front lines. Incredible heat surrounds you, her heat. Another memory flashes, her heart being replaced with an infernal engine. 

“Wha— what was that, Soldier?” She asks as she clutches her forehead. 

“Tadpoles,” you say tapping your temple. 

“Unbelievable,” she exclaims. “I’m Karlach, by the way. I’d shake your hand, or hug you, but I don’ want to burn you to ash.”

“I don’t understand,” says Wyll, still puzzling things out in his head. “I was ordered to track you down and ‘take care’ of you. I was told I was hunting a demon. But you’re no demon, are you? You’re just an extremely unique Tiefling. I’ve been had!” He clenches his fists in frustration and falls to his knees dramatically. “DAMMIT!”

Astarion hums loudly in thought, bringing your attention his way. He pitches his voice low – leaning towards you. “Let me get this straight…you want to just ‘team up’ with some bloodstained killer?”  

Your brows knit in confusion, and worry grips your gut– Why is he suddenly opposed to murderous allies?

He waits for your reaction to fully settle in, and then his eyes alight with mischief, “because I’m fine with that.” The grin he gives you is nothing short of impish.

You roll your eyes and scoff before returning your attention to Karlach and Wyll’s conversation.

“I’m sorry you were deceived— but— I won’t pretend I’m not glad for it. If you’re looking to get some of that frustration out, I could use your help kicking some ass.”

Karlach explains the situation with the crew in the toll house masquerading as paladins of Tyr. You all agree to help her clean up shop, and trek up the hill to ‘take care of them’ instead.

“Fuck, yes!” She says as she hefts her great axe from her back. 

 

---

It’s an incredible battle, to say the least. Several of your party almost go down for good, keeping Shadowheart plenty busy healing you all back up. Once you know who your real enemies are, you let that darkened whisper slip its leash once more. It nearly howls with joy as that killing calm settles over you.

Astarion is a whirlwind of blades and fangs, zipping back and forth across the building’s roof. Karlach smites the false paladins left and right, crushing their treacherous skulls in. Gale and Wyll provide cover with a veritable rainstorm of eldritch blasts and magic missiles. Whoever manages to survive all of that, are stunned and slashed by you and Lae’zel.

At one point, Astarion falls unconscious– and your heart jumps to your throat, you nearly freeze and take a smite from one of the ‘paladins’ yourself. “Careful, Soldier!” Hollers Karlach as she cleaves a shoulder — along with the sword-arm — from their frame.

Before you can move to help, Shadowheart has already cast ‘Healing Word’ on him, and he’s crawling back to his feet. You relax a bit.

“That nearly ended me!” He growls as he chugs a healing potion.

By the end of it, you’re all exhausted. Everyone aside from Karlach, she’s positively overheating with rage. “Rrrrrraaaaaagh!” She screams, chest glowing with a faster rhythm.

You glance at your companions, and then at the barbarian, “Go ahead and blow off some steam— tear this place to shreds and finish what the Gnolls started.” She nods, as you motion to the long-dead corpses of the monstrosities around you. Hefting her great axe once more, she bellows and the inferno around her roars to life once more. 

You and the group move a safe distance away and then plop down on the stairs of the toll house, passing canteens back and forth. In the background, you hear shattering pots, splintering wood, and various grunts of frustration.

Astarion, clearly feeling livelier after the effects of the earlier healing potion pipes up as chaos reigns in the background. “I knew we were a strange band– but a fugitive from the hells ?! Now, that’s someone worth knowing.” He pauses briefly, a thought churning in his mind – “Not that I want to get on the wrong side of any devils , but this Karlach is a survivor.”

“She’s certainly faring well against the collection of barrels in the back isn’t she?” Gale quips. Another round of splintering wood and shattering items sounds in the background. You giggle, and the sound brings a sparkle to the wizard’s eye.

“Plus,” Astarion continues, asserting himself back into the center of your attention, “I appreciate anyone who opens a conversation with threats of bodily harm.” A knowing gleam shines in his crimson eyes as his comment earns a smirk from you.

Once Karlach has thoroughly wrecked the place — you all take a short rest. You use the opportunity to get more acquainted with each other. Your party takes turns explaining everything you’ve learned in the last few days to bring Karlach up to speed. 

The Rite of Thorns threatening the Tiefling refugees. Kahga’s bloodthirsty near-infanticide of Arabella. Halsin and Ethel. Nettie’s false cure. The Absolute. True Souls. The Goblin Camp, and Withers. Last but not least, Astarion shares his secret, along with his vow to stay away from any non-consensual necks. 

She takes everything in stride with enthusiasm to spare. “Sounds like you’ve all got your hands full, lucky I’ve got two more!” She flexes her incredible biceps for show. “Although, I think the steam I ‘blew off’ only made my engine hotter. I’ve got to find an infernal mechanic or blacksmith before I melt from the inside out. You said there was a blacksmith amongst the tieflings?”

You all nod. “Dammon,” confirms Wyll.

“Well, if you don’t mind, maybe we can head there next? I’ll be of no use if I can’t get tuned up.” She’s clutching her chest and gritting her teeth again. That unsettling glow in her chest still pulsing like a false heartbeat.

“Of course,” says Wyll, offering the barbarian a hand and a warm smile. She nods in thanks but refuses the help. Wyll’s mouth pops into an ‘o’ shape as he remembers the situation of her personal blaze. “For what it’s worth, Karlach, I’m glad my patron was wrong about you. I’ll probably suffer the hells’ wrath for it— but— we can deal with that later.”

You and Shadowheart share a concerned glance as he says ‘hells’ wrath’. 

Just who is this patron of his?

 

---

During your trek back to The Grove, Gale pulls you behind the rest of the group, slowing to gain some distance. His usually warm smile has dimmed to a half-grimace.

“Kalliope, might I have a word?”

“Of course, Gale. Something the matter?”

“Well— no. And yes. Not quite yet, I mean.”

You give him a concerned glance, and wait for him to continue. 

“I can explain more in detail later, but for now, I must share the short version.” He pauses, clearly curating his next words. “Karlach isn’t the only one with— well— a problematic core. You see—” he pulls the collar of his robes down just enough to reveal a bruised sort of tattoo. It snakes from above where his heart sits, up his neck, and then fades just before his left eye. 

You flush a little at his surprisingly muscular chest, you’d been so bewitched by Astarion, you’d never quite noticed how handsome the wizard was before. Your tail flicks inadvertently as you fail to smother the heat in your cheeks.

“I uh, well let’s just say a past magical experiment of mine didn’t end as planned. I must consume magical artefacts every so often in order to stabilize the volatile energy within my chest.”

“Okay,” you answer a mite confused.

“It will make sense in time, I assure you. But I don’t want to dive into the whole long tale just now– while we’re on the road.” He looks a bit bashful, and guilty, like he can’t stand the idea of being a burden to you. A weak link. 

You conjure your warmest smile and say, “Well, it seems we’ve all got our problems to sort through — in addition to the parasites. Don’t worry, Gale. I’m here for you. Like I told Astarion, we’re all in this together. I meant that.”

He hesitates, and a flicker of distaste colors his features momentarily. Perhaps he’s not fond of being likened to your vampiric confidant.

But he nods anyway, “I cherish your support. Truly. I shall let you know when it can’t be ignored any longer. For now, however, I can hold off. But as soon as we come across any low-level magical items, I’d appreciate you sending them my way.”

“Of course,” you smile and squeeze his shoulder in earnest before jogging to close the distance between you and the others. Now it’s the wizard’s time to blush.

 

---

 

Dammon, the blacksmith, looks overjoyed to see Karlach. They’d been friends briefly during childhood, before the fall of Elturel.

“Karlach,” exclaims the blacksmith as he moves to embrace her. 

“Whoa there soldier, you’re liable to get more than just a ‘warm embrace’ in my current state. Best hold off, for now.”

“Of course, of course. So, what’s the issue?”

Karlach quickly explains that she’s got an infernal engine beating in her rib cage rather than a heart. She explains the pain and nearly-untenable flames burning within and around her. She worries about the engine’s instability.

“Hm, let me have a look.” Dammon leans in — as closely as possible while still respecting her autonomy — and takes a moment or two to listen and inspect. 

“It’s a simple answer, but not so simple a fix,” he pulls a face. 

“Aww, bugger it Dammon! I was hoping this would be easy-peasy for you.”

“It’s not that I can’t help, it’s just that whoever engineered this tried to house metallurgised demono-valves inside a ra-gnax alloy casement.”

Your party just stares at him, blinking. Mouths agape. 

“Our darling blacksmith, could you say that again? In common?” Quips Astarion. He said it, but you know you were all thinking it. 

Even Gale, resident genius, seems perplexed. 

“Right, let me try again: this engine was constructed to withstand the fires and temperatures of Avernus. Literal hellfire. The prime material plane is most likely too cold to support its intended function.”

“Alriiiight—“ she draws out. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, Karlach. That I’ll need some infernal iron to fashion a makeshift temperature regulator. That should at least make the fires more manageable, for you. ”

“Hmm. So all we need is some snazzy demonic iron? Ok! Where? Where do we find it?!”

“Easy Karlach, you’re still a veritable, walking inferno,” Dammon says, trying to calm her endless excitement. “Take this, I’ve marked some places I think you could find a piece or two.” He hands you a map, rather than Karlach. It’d be no use as ashes after all. 

“Well then,” says Shadowheart smiling at the barbarian, “we’d better make haste!”

“Let’s go, go, go!” Beams the Tiefling. 

 

---

On the way out of the grove, you’re approached by a pair of kids. Not Arabella, but they say that they heard about how you helped her and that another of their friends has been missing for a bit. They introduce themselves as Mattis and Mol and say the child was last seen by the beach beyond the Inner Circle of the Druids’ grove. 

“We can’t get back there, they think we’re all pests—but you can! They like you,” beams Mattis. 

“Alright, I’ll do my best to bring them back. What’s their name?”

“Mirkon. He’s a bit of a fool — but even fools are useful,” says Mol. 

The conversation reveals that Mol has a strangely mercantile view of the world. She seems older than her years, but you agree to help. You can’t leave a Tiefling child alone in the wilds, especially when the civilized world is cruel enough.

“Any other orphans you’d like to rescue, Darling? Perhaps a kitten and another puppy as well?”

You sigh and roll your eyes, “Astarion, at the very least, consider that helping these people might bring us another reward?”

“Ugh, fine,” he groans. 

“Don’t tempt me though,” you tease, sticking your tongue out at him, “I might bring home an owlbear cub next.” 

Shadowheart giggles and once more, your group heads off to face some other horror in the name of gallantry and gold.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 13: Conveniently Lost

Summary:

“The harpy sings a magical melody, ensnaring the minds of humanoids and giant-kin alike. The mere sound of one’s song has overwhelmed even the wisest of individuals. The Harpy can stop singing at any time — yet rarely do they relinquish ensnared prey so easily.

While charmed by a harpy, the prey is incapacitated [...] only harm from another’s blade or magicks can provide a hope of breaking the enrapturing allure of such a song. Graciously, once broken, the mind does gain knowledge of resistance to the song. However short-lived.

The dangers of such a creature, its enthralling song, and the process of breaking such a thrall promise risks that this sage cannot overstate.

Avoiding such an encounter is highly advised.”

— Unknown, ‘Nautical Tales and Terrors’

The air is crisp, and clean. A gentle breeze tosses your braids and toys with the loosened strands of your buns. You’ve never felt so peaceful, never felt so— sublime. 

She is beautiful. Tall, light hair, breasts supple and firm. Hips and thighs sculpted with muscle and smooth, plush, cushion. You could stare at her all day.

And her voice.

Gods that voice.

It is ecstasy and agony. Murder and blood. Childhood joy and restful sleep. The most deliciously sweet sun melon. The warm sleeves of enemy blood on your arms. 

Everything. It is everything. And you never want to leave.

Around you, your friends dance with the other women. Swirling and dipping and laughing and humming. Joy. So much joy. 

Watching Astarion in particular, curving about and caressing his partner. The way his body flits around hers. The sweet, indulgent kisses he places on her neck. You want it to be your neck. 

Such glorious bliss. 

Until you are wrenched from it with a violent pain in your gut. Blood suddenly blooming across your abdomen. 

You shake your head, and try not to sway to the ground at the shock of reality as it rushes in around you. Clutching your wound, you look up and see that the beautiful waltzing of your friends and their partners was never a waltz at all. But a battle, a bloody, vicious, and glorious battle. 

Karlach wasn’t waltzing and twirling with a beautiful woman— she was wrangling and grappling with a harpy. Sure, the harpy had a supple form, but her hands ended in flesh-tearing, fetid talons. Instead of beautiful, supple legs, she stood on limbs existing somewhere between those of a woman and a bird of prey. Her stunning cloak was in reality a pair of weathered, worn wings. 

Beside them, Gale was furiously wresting his hands free of another’s talons, mumbling something under his breath. 

Lae’zel across the way, busy beheading another. 

Astarion wasn’t kissing his partner, but feverishly drinking the life force from her, eyes practically illuminated with lust for the fluid. 

“Kalliope!” Shadowheart cries as she sees the redness pouring from within you. “You have to resist it! It’s not real! ”

You grit your teeth and steady your stance. Instead of waiting for that whisper to saunter forward, you bellow internally. Hauling it to the forefront of your mind. Your vision goes blissfully red, and you let loose every inhibition. 

Yes, child! Paint a mural in His honor! Decorate the beach with their innards!

Quick as the wind, you’re pummeling the one nearest you. Stunning her before she has a chance to lure and consume the Tiefling boy. You kick at her wings, cracking a bone. Then with your next breath you reach forward, pulling and twisting the joint further apart. 

The monster shrieks in fury and agony. Her wing hangs limp behind her, the other furiously beating with an instinct to escape. To no avail.  She hisses and whirls to slice at you with those blackened talons. But you’d seen it coming, that killing calm settled into your bones, sharpening your senses, quickening your instincts.

More! Yes! Again! We will bathe in the gore! Worship on their corpses.  

She lunges, you duck under her arm and reach for the soft spot between her collarbone and shoulder with your fingers. You hit. Her arm now hangs limp, ki disrupted. Your own ki surges in response, earning you one more flurry of blows before her next swing. 

Beside you, Karlach has now successfully grappled her target, and she holds the harpy’s body taut and still — Wyll blasts the monster with three thunderous, eldritch orbs. She goes limp, and Karlach discards the body roughly, moving onto the next.

 

---

 

As the last harpy falls stiffly at Gale’s feet, frozen through, you take stock of your party. You all seemed to fare fairly well. Yours was the only grievous wound, and Shadowheart’s gift has already woven the tissue back together.

“It will be tender for a while, and may be a bit weaker too — but you’ll recover,” says the cleric as she stands up from her work. 

“Thank you, Shadowheart.”

She smiles warmly and embraces you, “You really had me worried! They had you in their thrall for a good portion of that fight.”

You simply smile and return the embrace. You don’t remember if you had a sister — or any siblings — back at the Gate, but this woman reminds you of one.

“Hey kiddo,” Karlach calls the boy— Mirkon, “you alright? Got all your pieces and parts?”

The child stands from behind the rock where he cowered for the majority of the encounter. He looks shaken, but pulls a brave face. “Yeah! I’m ok Ms. Karlach!”

The towering woman approaches the kid and ruffles his curls, “Good. I’d hate to hear it otherwise.”

Wyll now approaches and crouches in front of the child, “Mirkon, why in the hells were you out here alone?”

Suddenly bashful, the child averts his eyes. “Don’t get them in trouble— please?”

“Who?” Replies the warlock. 

“My friends. Mol said there would be some good loot in their nest. She asked for someone to volunteer, and so I did! But, well, you see what happened.”

Wyll scowls a bit and shares a skeptical glance with Karlach.

“I almost had it too!”

“Yes, yes, we’re very aware of how completely in-hand you had the situation,” scoffs Astarion. His quip earns a nasty look from Wyll and a mild frown from Karlach. 

“We won’t get Mol into trouble if you promise not to attempt something like this again? At least not for a few years. You’ve got some more sword work to learn first, alright?” Says Wyll, earnestly. 

“Yes, Saer Wyll.”

“Alright then, run along before they’re back for more,” snips Astarion. The elf’s patience is clearly running thin. 

Karlach and Wyll round on him as soon as Mirkon is out of earshot. 

“What?” The elf scoffs as they both glare at him. “I’m only telling the truth. Children need to understand that it is not a kind world. Coddling and sweetness are all well and good — but they won’t keep you alive on your own.”

“The kid isn’t alone, Astarion,” growls the warlock. 

“Right. He’s not alone anymore thanks to us. Any more time, and he would’ve been bones and scraps. Honestly.” Astarion finishes cleaning and tucking his daggers away as he scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Look,” you say, butting in before Wyll snaps again, “neither of you are wrong. Kids need to learn the truth of the world, but they don’t need to be terrified into that wisdom. But since none of us are his parents , it’s not our concern any longer. Shall we go?”

Karlach settles and beams at you, “There we are, that’s why you’re the boss. What’s next?”

 

---

 

Some time later, and your group has split up again in order to shorten the list of tasks ahead. 

Returning to the grove to ensure Mirkon made it safely, you were held up by Mol and Zevlor. Mol, thanked you for the help with Mirkon and gave you the passcode to their hideaway, as well as a hefty discount at their ‘store’. 

Zevlor had asked again for your help with Khaga. “They’re still going to go through with that Rite. It’s not natural, it can’t be. Something seems wrong about it.”

He’d then explained how Arabella had shown him a curious note that she’d stolen from Kahga’s chambers days earlier — the day you’d saved her. Apparently, Khaga had a shady meeting planned in the swamps. 

“Halsin may be gone, but I think this is worth looking into. If they complete that rite, we’re all exposed to the goblins and their ilk once more.”

Wyll had promised to help, as had Karlach. Astarion was itching to visit Ethel, as were you. Lae’zel had no interest in spywork, but it was Shadowheart’s forte. Gale was happy either way. 

So, you’d send Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart further into the swamp to investigate. The rest of you, had headed to Ethel’s. Finally. After days of having the intention to do so.

Part-way into the swamp, your group encounters Ethel arguing with two burly men. 

“Where’s ‘owre sister, witch?!”

“I don’t have a clue what you mean, dearies.”

“We kno’ she came ta see ya,” demands the other. 

“I don’t have your sister my dears, now, run along. I’ve got work to do.”

It’s at this point that the trio notice your approach. “Well, hello Petal,” croons Ethel. “So good to see you again, dearies!”

“You kno’ this bag o’ wrinkles?” Spits one of the brothers. 

“Yes, ” hisses Astarion, “but that shouldn’t concern you.”

“She’s goh’ ‘owre sister. May-reena. She lef’ ta visit this ‘ere witch and now, we kennuh find ‘er.”

Their overly rural dialect is grating on your ears. 

“Where is she, witch,” demands the first brother again. 

“I don’t have your sweet sister. She came to me for help, and I told her that I couldn’t. So I sent her away.”

“Yer lyin’!” Hollers the second again. 

“Look, insolent fools,” hisses Astarion again, “we have a legitimate concern to bring up with Dear Ethel here. Sooo, unless you need the answer beat. Into. Your thick skulls— move along like the woman asked.”

Lae’zel glowers over the elf’s shoulder at the men. You cross your arms and wait, curious and impatient. 

“If I were you,” adds Gale, “I’d take my friend’s advice. This needn’t get ugly.”

The brothers scowl at Gale, and move to attack. But then— they stop, shaking their heads clear of some invisible fog.

“Yer righ’ good saer,” says the first brother stiltedly. 

“O’ course,” says the second, removing his cap and bowing apologetically. 

“We’re sorry ta have bother’d ya’ Auntie. Hav’ a goo’ day.”

The two of them rush off, back up the hill.

“Ho, ho, Petal! That was some clever spellwork! Very good,” Ethel praises. 

Gale turns a pinker-shade of beige. “It was nothing really, barely more than a cantrip.”

You hadn’t noticed Gale crossing his wrists below his waist as he’d approached the brothers. Then moving his fingers subtly to create runic-swirls of weave.

“Well then, come along. Let’s see what we can do about your new pets.”

You follow the woman through the wetlands, it’s beautiful really. Sparkling waters and gentle fog drifting over the lake. Flowers bloom amongst tall grass, and sheep wander aimlessly across the paths. One approaches you to sniff your hand and lets out a long ‘baaaaa’. You giggle and ‘baaaa’ in return. Astarion cocks his head and looks at you in disbelief, a wry smile creeping across his lips.

“Talking to the livestock again, darling?”

You merely grin and shrug, “It’s only polite.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “If you say so, dear. If you say so.”

“Gale,” says Astarion, “that was indeed clever of you back there. Thinking like a rogue, I’m impressed.” His voice sounds mostly genuine, but you can hear the taunting laced within. 

“Rogues aren’t the only group to have a trick or two up their sleeve.”

“Indeed. You know, I’m rather enjoying these walks of ours, Gale. What with the sunlight and leisure. Aren’t you? All that time in a tower, it must be nice to walk about once in a while.”

“I am enjoying them,” Gale pauses momentarily and Astarion sends a small, genuine grin in his direction. Then Gale continues, “in silence.” 

Astarion’s grin turns to a scowl.

You and Lae’zel share a look, and you think you see a glimmer of amusement in her slitted eyes.

 

---

 

Outside of the teahouse, Ethel asks you to wait for a moment. “I’ve got to tidy up some things before you come in. Just a bit dearies, I’ll fetch you when I’m done. Have a stroll about the gardens.”

As soon as she disappears into the house, Astarion wrinkles his nose. “Something’s off,” he says. 

Lae’zel’s expression darkens too, “Yes. You are correct. Something unusual is occurring here.”

You and Gale glance at one another and then it hits you— the air has a strange shimmer to it. It’s almost warbling and twisting before your eyes. 

“That’s strange,” you say, “the air is folding around itself?”

Gale tastes the air and then grimaces. “Illusory magic. Strong illusory magic.” He waves a hand in the air, and a veil of color seems to slough away with the motion. 

The charming wetlands are suddenly very gray and foreboding. The air is sticky, putrid even. Trees bend forward, exhausted with their own weight. Beautiful flowers reveal themselves to be scraggly, thorny bushes and sickly vibrant fungi. 

The sheep are very much not sheep. Formerly hircine in shape and behavior, they’re now very much monstrous in appearance. Small, hunched, red-nosed men stomp around in their place.

“Ugh,” you grimace and wrinkle your nose.”

“There’s something else, too— I smell— I smell,” Astarion pauses in thought and wanders a bit southward before abruptly dropping into a crouch. From his position, he scowls into the distance scenting the air. Then he waves you over. “Ironvine,” he hisses, “and foul, soiled Gur.”

He’s even beautiful when he’s disgusted.

Astarion shoots you a look, and his face softens. “Do me a favor, take Gale over there — Lae’zel too if you’d like, and check it out. I have a theory— but it won’t pan out if I’m there.”

You scrunch your eyebrows, but agree nonetheless. “Gale, Lae’zel, let’s take a walk for a bit. Will you?”

They glance at one another before eyeing Astarion skeptically. “You have my assistance,” says Gale. 

Lae’zel nods and moves alongside you.

 

---

 

Just around the bend, you see a set of stairs that leads to a small overlook. A stone bench at the back. In the center, stands a man idly paging through a book. 

He was right, there is someone there. And it is a Gur.

You strut forward, embodiment of a friendly stranger.

“Hello!” You chirp. 

“Why, hello traveler. How do you do? Apologies— about the smell. Ironvine — it’s an old hunters trick to keep beasts and monsters away.”

Holy hells. Astarion’s nose is powerful.

“Monsters?” You feign concern, “are there monsters about?”

“Not immediately close, but you can never be too careful.”

Gale and Lae’zel flank you from behind, idly observing.

“Forgive the assumption, but are you— are you a Gur Hunter?”

“Right you are!” He adopts a spooky, mocking tone, “I can also lure away your chickens, seduce your daughters, and wither your crops.”

You give him a confused look. Your memory is of course no help, and you don’t get the references. 

“No, no, I jest. If only I had half the powers settled folk think my people do. I am Gur, and I am a Hunter. I’m here to ask the Hag of the lands for her help in tracking my prey. I’ve had no luck as of yet.”

“Hag?” Questions Gale. The Hunter nods in confirmation. 

“‘Your prey?’ What are you hunting,” you ask, genuinely curious. 

“Ahh, best not to share. It may only endanger you.”

“We’ve just returned from slaying a group of Harpies, I’m sure we can handle whatever information it is you’re protecting us from. We may even be able to help,” Gale says, adopting a suave and persuasive tone. 

“Ah well, another troupe of professionals I see. Fair enough—“ the man explains his quarry. He’s hunting Astarion. Your Astarion. Your blood heats at the thought, but you calm yourself. Focusing on gaining information. 

You won’t be so lucky, hunter. The whisper creeps forward, a request to let loose. 

Kill? You bat it away. Maybe later, you tell it. 

“Do you know this Astarion?” Asks the man. It’s a loaded question, it has to be. “I don’t suppose you know where he is?”

“I do. But I’m not telling you. He’s under my protection, so you can call off your hunt,” You smile innocently even as a growl tries to crawl up your throat. Behind it, your bloodthirst and rage are barely held back, the whisper slinking forward. A cat in shadows.

The man clicks his tongue in disappointment, “A shame. Though, I’m impressed. Astarion has quite the friend in you! I’ll make sure he knows that in the end.”

You won’t get the chance, prey. Snarls the darkened muse within. 

“I’d wish you good luck on the hunt but—“

You turn on your heels and force yourself to walk away coolly, calmly. Your blood is thrumming, mind snarling and snapping at the threat. Were your mind more collected in this moment, you might wonder why you’ve so suddenly become attached and protective over the elf.

Maybe it’s because you can’t remember anyone else before this party you’ve collected.

Maybe it’s because he shares your bloodlust.

Maybe it’s the darkened muse— fiercely protecting a kindred spirit.

Or maybe— maybe it’s something you’re beginning to understand in your core, but don’t want to admit. 

You cast a glance over your shoulder at the hunter. He’s watching you go, but not following. Your companions are still flanking you. When you return to Astarion, you beckon him further away from the hunter. 

“Could we— could we have a moment? Gale? Lae’zel?”

“I will wait for the ‘Auntie’,” Lae’zel says curtly, before stepping away. 

Gale eyes you curiously, a sliver of your protection over Astarion is reflected in his gaze. Protection of you . 

Is the wizard jealous?!

“Hello, darling,” he purrs, “what’s so important that you needed to be alone with me?” A dangerous smirk plays on his lips. His ruby eyes glint playfully. You swallow, and still the thoughts rushing around in your head. 

Mainly, the thought of what it would be like to pull this man into the nearby brush for true privacy.

“You were right. Gur Hunter. And he’s looking— for you .” You barely keep the snarl from your words. 

“Dammit,” he curses, “I had a feeling. Of course I’m not safe. So far from the city, finally out from under his talons, and Cazador is still toying with me.”

“You’re sure it’s him? He didn’t say anything about an employer.”

Astarion snarls, and the sight of his fangs makes your feral heart jump. 

“Absolutely certain. Only he would think to send a Gur. It was a group of Gur that beat me near to death that night…I would’ve died had he not—" the mask slips momentarily and sadness filters through.

“Appeared and turned you,” you guess. 

His snarl returns. “They beat me to death’s door before Cazador appeared. He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were ‘eternal life’ or ‘bleed to death in the gutter’, I took him up on the offer.”

You wait, letting him lead the conversation. 

“He’s reminding me that, even out here, in the middle of nowhere, he can still reach me. It’s a message. He can’t stand the thought of his things being taken. Now that I’ve been ‘conveniently lost’, he’s reminding me that he wants me back.”

You frown, a growl rising in your throat. That bastard will have to get through me first.

Yes, child. We are death incarnate, and we know what is ours. We will sunder any who threaten our own. 

For once, you can wholeheartedly agree with the dark muse within your mind.

“Well, what do we do? I’ll protect you— best I can.”

Astarion barks out a cruel laugh, the cruelest noise you’ve heard him make so far. “You? Protect me?! From a Vampire Lord?! ”

It stings a little, no matter how ridiculous it sounds as he repeats it back to you. 

“He could walk through our camp tonight and no one would know it. He could shroud the whole place in mist and summon a pack of hungry wolves before ripping out our throats. No, darling, you can’t protect me.”

Your anger flares, maybe at his words, but definitely at the situation. You don’t like feeling powerless.

“Can he really do that?! What do you suggest we do, then?”

He calms, and holds your gaze sincerely, considering your questions. “During the day, he has to rest in his crypt. And in 200 years I haven't known him to leave The Gate. But, we kill any monster hunter on sight,” a naughty smirk covers his lips, “We can probably make an exception for Wyll… probably .”

“We should start with Gandrel, then.”

You regather Lae’zel and Gale and return to Gandrel. He greets you just as warmly as before, “Twice in one day? If only I could have this kind of success in finding my quarry.”

“Sooo, you’re a monster hunter, I hear,” coos Astarion. “What’re you hunting? Dragon? Cyclops?! Kobold?” Astarion smoothes his features into a suave, yet mocking grin. His voice follows suit.

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m hunting for a vampire spawn named Astarion. Did your friends not tell you?”

As the hunter utters his name, Astarion catches your gaze. His expression is a mixture of disbelief, panic, and pleading. As if he’s still not convinced you wouldn’t turn him over were it to benefit you.

You regard him coolly, and blink slowly. Then, you click your tongue, “Just a spawn? That can’t be too dangerous?”

Astarion’s crimson eyes slide towards you again and all softness is gone. His retort is full of venom. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip out your throat, if he felt like it.”

Is that a threat, or a promise? Wonders the shadowed edges of your mind. Both options excite you. You’re beginning to be less surprised at this darker side of your mind— though not an ounce more approving of it.

“He’s quite right,” says Gandrel, “a spawn is only ‘weak’ when compared to their master. During the day, we reign supreme. But as soon as the moon coaxes the sun from the sky — you’ll not find a more deadly quarry.”

“So,” asks Gale from behind you, “when you capture this Astarion, you’ll kill him?” 

A loaded question, you’re sure. But is he toying with Astarion, or sincere?

“Oh no,” replies Gandrel, “Not this time. This time my orders are to capture him alive, and deliver him to Baldur’s Gate. My people wait for me there.”

“Curious instructions,” muses Gale. 

“Yes, quite interesting indeed,” you echo, “what do you think, Astarion?” You cannot and do not try to hide the devilish smile that creeps across your lips now.

Astarion’s face mirrors your own, it’s almost flirtatious as he holds your gaze. 

You hear Gandrel say, “Astarion?! Impossible!”

Astarion doesn’t drop your gaze, he merely steps closer to you as he draws his dagger and replies, “These days, I’m making ‘the impossible’ look easy.”

Your blood heats in anticipation. Anticipation of the fight. The hunt. It heats with desire as well. 

How is it possible that this man makes murder even more delectable?

You’re uncertain if the thought is courtesy of you, or your darkened muse.

Astarion leans in, lips mere inches from your ear as he purrs, “May I?”

You know he’s asking if he can take the kill. But you wish it were something else he was asking for. Your mouth goes dry, then wettens as heat builds in your core and pressure grows between your folds. 

“There’s nothing I want more,” you breathe.

He strikes.

 

---

 

Gandrel dealt with, your group now waits outside of the teahouse once more. Astarion is glowing with satisfaction, licking a spare droplet of Gandrel’s blood from his dagger. 

You’re still coiled with tension, and the sight of that does not help. 

The heat of the battle. 

The satisfaction of protecting what’s yours.

That beautiful, seductive, fucking elf.

It’s no longer the dark muse tearing at its bindings, but something else. Something equally feral and twice as alluring. You hope this errand doesn’t take too much longer, you need some sort of release.

“Petal?” The voice of Auntie Ethel yanks you from your depraved thoughts and desires. 

“Yes?” You call.

“I’m ready now, if you and your other dearies are too,” there’s something in the way she says it— as if knowing there was something else you’d need to handle here first. It’s curious. 

Entering the teahouse, it’s as gray and damp as outside. It’s somewhat inviting, herbs hanging about, a roaring fire, adorable bits and bobs scattered about. A frog-shaped tea kettle steams on a nearby shelf. However kitschy  there’s no hiding that this home sits mere yards from a bog.

“Now then, Petal, how can I help you? You’ve still got that nasty little bugger in your mind?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Gale. 

“Hmm, well, let me have a look.”

Gale steps forward to a makeshift examination table and lays down. It’s once he’s settled that you notice her, a small blonde woman in a verdant dress. She’s sitting at the center of the room at a table, stuffing her face. She looks miserable.

You tuck the observation away for the moment, refocusing on Gale and Ethel. The woman takes a moment or two inspecting your companion. You can feel weave being moved around the wizard, inspecting. Tasting. Like the woman’s own arcane bird-dog.

“Ethel, I’m full,” whines the woman.

“Dearie, you’re eating for two. You’re full when I say you’re full.” The sudden sharpness to Ethel’s persona is jarring. As soon as the shift appears, it disappears once more as her attention returns to Gale.

”Any thoughts?” Asks the wizard.

“There is some sort of strange magic surrounding the hitchhiker. Like it’s been futzed with.”

“I can’t eat anymore. I can’t,” whines the blonde again.

“Who is that?” Asks Lae’zel, giving voice to your own question.

“No one to concern yourselves with, Petal. Pay her no mind.”

Neither you, nor Lae’zel are convinced. You approach the center of the room, as Ethel continues her investigation.

“What’s your name?” Your question is gentle.

“Mayrina,” she says around a discomforted belch. 

Recognition clangs through your mind. The brothers. They were right. Unease grips you. 

“Your brothers are looking for you,” says Lae’zel. “We encountered them on the way into the swamp.”

“My brothers?!” The woman gasps and jumps from her seat, sending dishes and silverware clattering to the floor. 

“Why would you say such a thing, Petal?” Auntie Ethel looks at Lae’zel with an acidic glare. 

“Ethel, where are they,” cries Mayrina. 

“Hush, pest. Back to your room.” With a simple gesture from Ethel, Mayrina disappears with a vacuum-like whoosh .

“What are you,” asks Astarion, studying the woman more closely.

“A Hag.” Says Gale confidently, he sits up from his spot on the table and turns to face Ethel. 

“How rude, taking me up on an invitation of help, then disrupting my household? Throwing about accusations?”

Ethel’s form twitches and seizes, limbs splaying and stretching. Her mouth opens up into a horrible yawning thing before her features morph. Making her completely unrecognizable.

“What in the sweet hells?!” Barks Astarion. 

“Looks like your Auntie isn’t as charming as you’d expected, Astarion,” says Gale, unhooking his staff from his back. 

“Where are your manners,” growls Ethel. Her voice is now grating and metallic. A warped, rumbling version of her previous one. “Were you raised in a barn?”

You recognize the bitter sting of magic as it gathers at Ethel’s finger tips. Sickly green energy builds at the tip of the finger she has pointed at Gale. 

“Gale!” You scream as it all clicks into place. 

Caster. Malevolent caster.

You swing wide with a quickly made fist, and connect with the hag’s jaw. It’s sticky, too soft, and too hard all at once. An old leather glove, left to sit in a puddle. Your hit knocks her off balance and the spell goes wide, soaring out the door and hitting one of the redcaps in the distance. Suddenly, the redcap is a sheep. 

Ironic. 

“Polymorph!” Gale hollers, recognizing the spell.

“Ughh, why can things never be easy ,” Astarion sighs as he re-draws his daggers.

Ethel tuts at you, wagging a disturbingly long, crooked finger. “What a disappointment.”

Magic sizzles in the air again. Ethel disappears and the roaring fireplace shutters out, plunging the room into dim, murky light. She’s replaced by four savage, wiley humanoids.

Redcaps.

“There’d better be a soft bedroll in my future,” groans Astarion as he flings a dagger into the eye of the furthest one.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 14: Bloody Clever Clogs

Summary:

“Hags are some of the most alluring and terrifying beasts in all of Faerún. Originally from the Fey Wilderness, they have a very different idea of what ‘moral’ means in our realm.

Caution is always advised in regards to dealings involving them. Like djinni and cambion — their dealings always come with a price. Rarely is that price straightforward or affordable. Often, it is neither.”

— Volo, ‘On Hags’

You are exhausted, or close to it. First the harpies this morning, then Gandrel — a surprisingly difficult opponent — and now these revolting creatures. 

They smell— terribly. Their appearance up close is not any better. “I preferred when we thought these were sheep,” you shout as you dodge another spell from the damned Caster of the group. “You little—“ you growl. 

That’s it. You’re next.

“I can’t say I disagree with you,” replies Gale. 

You dodge and dash towards the casting Redcap only for it to disappear into thin air. “Are you fucking kiddin—“ you don’t finish the phrase as the wind is knocked from your lungs and you fall to the floor.

“No! My sweet, bloodthirsty friend,” crows Astarion as you fight to stay conscious. His near silent footfalls dash your way, and the satisfying noise of a blade sinking into flesh squelches overhead. 

“Blasted tiny men,” curses Lae’zel, facing off with the suddenly-reappearing Caster.

From your position on the floor, you get a unique perspective of the conflict raging around you. Flashes of color reflected onto the ceiling accompany each of Gale’s spells. Lae’zel has a particular grunt for parrying, and another for lunging. Astarion is frustratingly quick, and his blades produce a faint warble as they cut through the air when thrown. 

You’re so tired, if you could just rest. Just take a nap, your body feels off. 

Dammit. Poisonous little arseholes.

“Hold on, darling. I’m on the way.”

He’s cute when he worries. Even if it’s just another part of his game. 

You feel your muscles stiffening and joints locking. If you don’t get a potion in your system quickly, the poison will truly set in. 

I cannot wait for the day that I understand my ki as well as my masters did theirs. They were immune to poison because of it. That would be really helpful in this moment.

Creaking leather sounds just out of view, and then a floral, musky scent envelops you. You’re starting to feel a bit delirious, mental faculties melting away as the poison races through your system. 

You focus on your breathing, trying to slow your heart rate.

Astarion’s concerned, pointy face pops into view. “In any other circumstance, the sight of you on your back would be pleasant, but not now.” He uncorks a glass vial and gently parts your lips with his gloved fingers. 

You can taste the redcaps’ blood. It’s foul and your face scrunches up, “ick—“ you manage “redcap— blood.” 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t busy gutting an incubus instead. I hear their blood is delectable. Now come on, drink up. We need you on your feet.”

The cool, astringent liquid tickles as it glides past your lips and down your throat. The magic fizzing and popping as it takes effect.

“Incoming!” Gale shouts from somewhere behind you. 

A redcap lunges into view, and Astarion smoothly pulls yet another dagger from a slit somewhere in his leathers. He raises his bladed hand and plunges it into the creature’s abdomen without even a glance. 

The look of shock on your face prompts him to simply say, “200-year-old predator. Honed senses,” before offering his other hand and pulling you to your feet. 

Your muscles still tingle with the final fizzing of the potion, but you feel clear-headed again.

All but one of the fuckers have been handled. The last one, the fucking Caster, is glowing purple as it snarls at Gale. 

“Yes, go ahead, be frustrated with me. That won’t make the Faerie Fire disappear any faster.”

Now the bastard can’t go invisible.

You charge at the ravenous little beast and land a punch on each of its ears, stunning it. Seconds later, a blade emerges from his rib cage. You look up to see Lae’zel baring her teeth, a satisfied grin pulling subtly at a corner of her mouth.

“Well,” sighs Astarion, “the hag is gone. Should we chase her?”

“After a breather, no use pushing on if I faint immediately,” you pant. 

You take advantage of the stillness and lay on your back again. Gazing at the ceiling as your companions rummage through the hag’s chests and shelves.

I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit.

 

---

You’re aware of someone shaking you gently awake. “Kalliope? Hello?”

“A—Astarion?”

“Guess again my drowsy friend, it’s time we move along, see what other sorts of traps the Hag has waiting for us.”

You rub your eyes and sit up, Gale is crouching beside you. “How long was I out?”

“Oh, just an hour or so. Nothing too egregious, how do you feel?”

“Much better,” you say, stretching as you stand. “Where are the others?”

“They snuck ahead just a bit to get a peek at what’s below. Hags are known for all sorts of foul trickery. Can’t be too careful. 

“Oh, thank you. For staying with me.”

“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t leave a cherished ally behind.”

Cherished?

Gale continues, “Oh, remember that bit about my need to ‘consume’ magic items? That need has been satisfied for now, Ethel had a ring of ‘Minor Illusion’ tucked away in a chest. Not worth very much, Astarion wouldn’t let me near it until he appraised it. He concluded it was near worthless, so I took the gift as given.”

“That’s good news! So how are you feeling then? Ready to dazzle and bewilder again?” You feign a gasp and a swoon, his cheeks pinken and you giggle.

“Don’t you know it! May it please Mystra, among others, ” he winks at you just as he did by the river this morning. Now it’s your turn to blush. 

Two of them to worry and fuss over me now? Curious.

A voice clears behind you, a bit stiffer than usual, “Sooo, are we ready to move along? Or do you and the wizard need to dance around one another some more?”

Astarion, always so forward. 

Is that jealousy I hear in his voice now? This day just got even more interesting.

“No, no—“ stammers Gale, “we’ve checked in with one another and are ready for action!”

You call your shadows from within and drape them around your friends, silencing your steps and breath.

 

---

Below you come across an appreciably twisted art gallery of sorts. As you approach each— piece— Ethel’s voice echoes in your head. 

“Ahhh yes, dearest Efrin. He asked me to stop the disease afflicting him; he never said how.” A hideous cackle.  

Alongside the petrified dwarf, you find a beheaded woman with her own head in her hands. A skull in front of a mirror. An elf terrified and cowering in the corner. 

“Don’t look— don’t look!”

“At what?” You ask the elf. 

He merely screams in terror. “What should I not look at?”

“Get away— get away! Monster!”

Astarion clicks his tongue, “ahh it’s no use now. He’s properly lost his head— aww poor thing, I’d feel sorry if it weren’t so hilarious .” He giggles. “Do something to him, what else can he do?”

You summon some thaumatergic energy to warp your voice and ignite your eyes. “You’re right,” you growl at the elf, “I am the monster,” you roar at him and he faints in a panic. You should feel conflicted, but it was indeed amusing. 

Pathetic, weakened prey— that was nothing! The whisper is chuckling in the back of your mind. It’s a strange, and new sensation.

Astarion claps and giggles once more, “Oh yes! Fabulously done, I think he may have even soiled himself.”

Gale glances between you two and sends you a nasty look before shuffling off. 

“What?” You ask, feigning innocence, “he was cursed anyway.”

He just groans and turns towards a large door wrought from roots and bark. After a moment or two, he simply walks through the door. Without opening it. 

“It’s illusory,” you hear him say from the other side. 

As you move to follow him, Lae’zel whispers to you and Astarion, “I too found the torment of the elf to be amusing, no matter the wizard’s distaste.”

You share a feral grin with the warrior.

 

---

Having navigated through mind-warped minions, poisonous gas vents, explosive plants, and a number of other traps, you and your group kneel. Perched just out of earshot of the scene below, waiting. 

Ethel, or the Hag rather, is nowhere in sight, but you can hear clattering from further within the cavern. Below you, at the center of the cavern, is a birdcage-esque structure. It hangs over a crevasse that may as well lead all the way to the Underdark. Within the cage — hangs the blonde woman, Mayrina. 

“Ethel, please let me out. I’ll be good, I promise. Please don’t leave me here?!”

“Chk. Caged like an animal— not a pleasant experience,” growls Lae’zel as she surveys the scene below. No doubt, she’s remembering your first encounter after the crash — where she herself hung in a similar cage. 

“What are we still doing here,” asks Astarion. “Not that I’m unwilling to help, but if our goal was to be cured by Ethel, I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”

“Would you prefer to just leave this poor soul to the mercy of a hag then?” Gale asks in a hissing whispered tone.

“No, no one deserves to be caged…” Astarion stares off for a bit, lip curling. He is lost in thought once more. “At least not random pregnant women, Khaga maybe? Cazador? Whatever foul creature tadpoled us? Them— yes. But this girl— not her.”

“Wow, Astarion,” you tease, “you do have a heart, don’t you?”

He slings a nasty scowl your way. 

“At any rate, if we do leave Mayrina and her child to this Hag, then there will be two hags to plague this land rather than  one,” Astarion pulls a face at the thought. 

You and your companions gawk at him. “You know that how, exactly?” You ask.

“Oh please, darling. There’s more to me than just good hair and stunning looks. I like to read, too. What else does one do with centuries of time?”

“I could think of a few things,” you grin at him. 

He teases Gale for being a bookwyrm, but really they’re two peas in a pod.

“Right then, we take down the hag, save the damsel, and then what— loot the cavern?” Gale adds a heroic tone for embellishment. 

“Something like that, yes,” you say. 

“Good. I tire of talking, let’s put the blade to this ‘Auntie’,” Lae’zel nods in affirmation and creeps forward to the nearby rope ladder.

One by one, you and your companions slip down the ladder and then press yourselves to the wall. Following the last bit to the central chamber is the easy part, once you’re within earshot of the girl and her cage — you notice a switch on the far side of the crevasse. 

We need to reach that switch…

You signal to your team to wait and then use your shadows to creep forward. Scared to breathe lest the Hag appear or the girl become aware. 

Soon enough, the switch is within arms reach. You cast another glance to your companions, they nod and move to find ambush spots. Once they’re in place, you yank on the switch and then disappear. Rematerializing within the nearest shadows. 

It’s no surprise when Ethel appears almost immediately after you’ve pulled the switch. “Sneaky little clogs. Come to intrude further?”

The noise of cranking sounds above as the cage containing Mayrina slowly begins to descend. Ethel’s gaze is wrenched upwards towards the sound. A wrinkled, evil scowl covers her face as realization sets in. “You want the girl so badly? Fine! Have Her roasted!”

Ethel points a finger at the descending cage and flames dance to life all along the wicker exterior. Mayrina shrieks within, “Ethel, please, stop this! Let me go!”

As Ethel turns to search the cavern for your party, you rifle through ideas in your mind. Calculating the best plan for what should happen next. 

She’s surrounded by shadows, I can make this work for me. 

You scan about, willing the shadows to spill their secrets to you. You can sense Lae’zel poised to strike her back against a mangled tree across the room. Astarion is crouching on a rocky shelf just off center, while Gale stands below, pressed into a divot in the rock wall. You center yourself, feeling the energy of the room around you. You feel the ebb and flow of shadows around each crook and edge of stone. 

Ethel has yet to find any of you, Mayrina and her cage still descend at an achingly slow pace. You wait until the Hag has stepped into a pool of darkness and take a deep breath. 

This had better work. You imagine yourself across the room, just behind Ethel’s location in the shadows behind her. Then suddenly— you’re there. I did it! I shadow-stepped!

Wasting not even a breath, you strike at the Hag, just below the base of her skull. She swings around with an angry hiss. You dodge, striking again and connect with the junction of energy you’d intended. The ancient creature freezes, stunned. Not wasting a moment, your companions spring into action. 

Astarion leaps from his perch, arcing down in your direction, blades extended and fangs on full display. The scraping sound of his daggers sliding between the horrid skeletal armor of her back echoes around you. Ethel howls, enraged. 

Gale ducks out just long enough to sling a blast of ice at the burning cage. Flame and crystalline water collide, and steam replaces the flickering tongues of light. The cage has stopped burning, you breathe a sigh of relief.

Lae’zel barrels toward Ethel, greatsword raised above her right shoulder. Astarion dashes out of the way, just as the warrior slashes at the Hag. “You blunt-faced astral toad!” Ethel hisses clutching her shoulder, and a violet shimmer of light wraps around Lae’zel. She grunts in pain and jerks to clutch her head. 

Gale has stepped closer to Mayrina and her cage, a hand extended to encourage her forward and out. Shaking, the woman darts out of the wicker contraption and cowers behind a nearby boulder. 

The blur of movement draws Ethel’s attention, and another wave of violet light builds before zipping towards Gale. But he manages to counterspell the Hag’s incantation before it hits. She howls in frustration.

You and Astarion use the distraction to your advantage and tag team an attack. You aim below her ribs this time, where a kidney might rest in a humanoid while Astarion slashes towards her kneecaps. You both make contact and the Hag wheels around, claws extended. Astarion, quick as lightning, dodges just in time and Ethel nicks only his leathers before conjuring four, shimmering, duplicates of herself. 

“Find me now, Petal, ” the once endearing nickname now sounds acidic and cocky. 

You scan the room as each of your companions dash toward another duplicate. You look closely for one favoring a knee or one side of their back. There. Back towards the switch, the air moves differently around that particular Ethel. She oh-so-subtly grits her teeth as she takes a step forward.

You focus on the nearby shadows once more, and will yourself to appear beside her. As you pull a fist back to strike, she whips her rancid gaze in your direction. You feel your muscles stiffen as a ‘hold person’ spell begins to sink in. 

Across the way, Lae’zel slices through the midsection of her Ethel and the illusion disappears. Astarion leaps forward once more, ferocity coloring his gaze. His dagger sinks into thin air, and that illusion disappears as well.

It’s this one, you think to no avail— your lips are frozen along with the rest of your muscles and limbs. Astarion’s gaze whips towards you as the thought finishes materializing in your mind.

“That one,” he shouts, leveling a dagger in her direction. The look he gives the Hag is both terrifying and electrifying. The carnal, predatory edge it gives his eyes, the sharp curve it brings to his lips. His pearlescent, deadly fangs peeking from his lips between words. 

Gale moves to stand between Mayrina and the true hag, and then slings a series of glowing orbs of force towards the creature. Even as the Hag twists out of the way or calls forth an arcane shield — the orbs explode. One by one. Unable to move, you feel the burst of air that follows each sparkling explosion.

Ethel hisses, “Bloody clever clogs,” and then she disappears once more. 

“Shit,” Astarion growls across the way and then immediately sweeps his gaze over the rest of the cavern. Nothing catches his eye, and he moves like liquid shadow across the way in a moment, coming to stand guard in front of your paralyzed form. “Are you alright?” He asks. 

You try to respond, but nothing moves and the words don’t form. A muffled groan is all that escapes instead. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

A few more rounds of combat go by, Ethel eventually reappearing before morphing into a perfect imitation of Mayrina. Having learned her tells, your companions manage to discern Ethel from the girl and wail on her. The Hag hisses in disgust, and slings arcane insults back at them with each strike that meets its mark. 

Finally, Lae’zel lands a blow with her greatsword, and your paralysis melts away. A gasp escapes your lips in a rush, and fury fuels you— darting into action once more. You slip into the nearest pool of shadows before reappearing in the shaded area nearest Ethel. 

Your blood heats. The whisper in your mind rages. 

Yes, child, yes! It sounds zealous in its glee. Spill the Fey’s insides, let’s see what color her blood is!

Your vision blurs at the edges, seeing only Ethel. Only your prey. Blood heats and sets every nerve in your body to bristle, you’ve moved far beyond ‘the killing calm’. The feeling in your gut is something closer to ‘murderous glee’ now. You can hear the whisper stroking the backside of your mind.

Feel it practically salivating. 

You move. A blur of fists and anger and vengeance— not sure for what exactly— but still vengeful. Cheekbones crack. Joints fail. An ear is torn. You’re practically rabid with rage. Rage and glee and hunger and arousal. 

All other stimuli fade in the wake of your maddened focus. Ethel says something to you, hands raised in what could be surrender, but you only hear the whisper chanting in your mind. 

Kill! Break and rend! Twist and tear! End this Fey beast, end her here!

You raise your fist a final time, readying what is most certainly the fatal blow. But you feel a hand— strong and cool. Delicate but firm— as it wraps around your wrist and intercepts the blow before it hits. 

Cool lips grace the shell of your ear and you hear a voice like liquid shadows. “Darling, my lovely, bloodthirsty friend, perhaps we should hear the Fey’s offer before snuffing out her life?”

The next second drags into an eternity as your mind — going a million miles an hour — processes every, single, micro-interaction. 

The darkened whisper— that seductive muse balks, furious. Tearing against the impending mental and physical restraints. 

The voice— Astarion . Your blood now warms for another reason.

A scent— his scent— fills your senses. Bergamot. Musky alcohol. Iron. Honey. Blood.  Sharp herbs.

Your muscles cramp, discomfort from the sudden halting of battle wrenching through you.

Words. You hear words. 

Perhaps we should hear her offer first — he had said. Offer. What offer?

You didn’t realize you’d growled the words aloud until you hear a second phrase — a response. It drowns out the furious whisper at the back of your skull — sending it flailing back into whatever mental cage it hides within.

“Ethel has an offer for us, in exchange for her ghastly life, and the girl’s too.” You feel his breath upon your neck, gently caressing. Cold as death— or un death rather.

Your vision sharpens. Scarlet tinges fading from the edges. Your stomach turns as the energy— the ki— coursing through your muscles panics to find another outlet.

One breath. Then two. Calm returns. Three breaths, hold. Release. A fourth. Sense edges back in. Five breaths. Your stomach settles. Six. Your head quietens. 

“There we are, darling . You’re you once more,” his voice is a whisper. Pitched low for only you. 

A reminder that he knows you. Or at the very least, is aware of your accursed urges.

A final breath, and you relax. Mostly. Dropping your arms to your sides, your fists remain clenched and your posture remains taut as a spring. Senses on alert, I do not trust her not to trick us. You turn to look at Astarion, just in time to see him quirk a curious brow.

“Now then, Hag, about this offer of yours?” Astarion purrs at the creature as he relaxes — but doesn’t fully relinquish — his grip on your wrist.

“A permanent boon for you, dearie. For any of you. But only one .”

“Go on.” You scowl in skepticism as Astarion continues speaking with Ethel. 

“Hag’s hair is a unique relic. Imbued with power, Fey power . Unpredictable but bound to permanently benefit your biggest strength.”

“Alriiiight,” he says, still unconvinced. 

“Consume it, and you’ll be permanently blessed. So, shall you have it? The girl goes free too— of course.”

“You swear it?” Astarion counters. 

“On me dainty l’ttle piggy-toes and all the filth caked thereon.”

“Strange thing to swear upon but— alright. Hand it over.” 

The elf extends his left hand towards the bloodied creature and helps her up. Once she’s standing, he doesn’t retract the limb however. He quirks an eyebrow again — waiting. Ethel groans and produces a dagger-shape from her talon. Reshaping the thing momentarily. She then slices through the last five or so lengths of her hair. 

“There you are, Petal . Now, I’m free to go?” The Hag asks, awaiting her verdict with piercing eyes. 

Finding your voice, you finally add, “Yes, but never to return here. Or we’ll end you like we did the mindflayers and Gur Hunter outside your walls. 

“On the weave,” she bows low, before stalking backwards and then towards a stone wall. She whispers a phrase and the wall reveals a stone door into a laboratory. Your party follows her in, she continues to a circle of mushrooms across the way, and then, stepping within them — disappears in a puff of green, ethereal moths and sparkles.

You look down, and inspect the strange tract of hair. It feels magical, and looks unlike any you’ve seen this closely before. Still, you’re not sure what to do with it just yet, so you tuck it away into your alchemical component pouch. 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 15: Rancorous Villain

Summary:

“As a creation of [REDACTED], Sceleritas was a lover of violence and wickedness. He spoke eloquently, describing despicable acts in flowery prose. He served the Dark Urge singlemindedly, attending to her needs with zealous fervor and verbally self-flagellating whenever he fell short of expectations. He showed great disappointment or even disgust when the Dark Urge resisted her violent nature or acted with kindness in any way. He seemed to enjoy being killed, especially by the Dark Urge.”

—Unknown, ‘The Butler’

As the sun dips beneath the horizon, the world is cast into shades of ochres, golds, and verdant foliage. Having already eaten dinner, you’ve chosen to spend this evening alone reflecting on the chaos of the day. Everything and everyone you fought through or negotiated past. The low, sweet call of a wood thrush echoes behind you in the forest and the stream that wraps around your camp gurgles faintly. 

You’re lost in thought. Wyll’s patron – whoever or whatever they might be – misleading him into nearly murdering a slave of Zariel. An escaped soldier from the blood wars of the Hells, with a chronic heart condition – resulting from an infernal engine that’s replaced the organ – on top of an illithid parasite like your own. Karlach has turned out to be a good woman, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the thought of her safety. Her golden-retriever-like demeanor.

Gale and his reveal regarding his own instability. Consuming magical items? I guess nothing surprises me anymore.

Astarion and his – master? You’re still not entirely sure what intricacies lie within his relationship to Cazador, but it’s obviously no less appreciated than the one you share with the dark muse that lives in your mind.

It’s only a matter of time before Shadowheart and Lae’zel reveal their own additional issues as well.

A rustle in the bushes behind you catches your attention, but you don’t whip around. Instead, you remain still, outwardly calm. Listening for the familiar cadence of a companion or perhaps even Scratch. When the footfalls don’t match any in your recent memory – you feel the hairs on the back of your neck begin to raise. 

The faint smell of carrion and iron drifts towards you. Mixed with an overly herbal incense of sorts. The darkened muse within your mind stirs with an uncomfortable sense of familiarity.

“Milady?” A melodic and warbling voice calls from behind you. 

Now, you do whip around to address whatever presence prickles your mind and flesh. A – man, goblin? Something unknown stands before you. Its slightly bent posture reminds you a bit of the beastly presence of Ethel’s true form. It – or rather they – are hideous. About the height of a halfling, gauntly built with hands and feet that end in vicious, curling talons. 

The skin of their face is pulled taut, thin, and reminiscent of death – were death a living creature. Not in the way that Withers appears. No, Withers, while equally deathly in appearance, has kind eyes and an indescribably welcoming presence. This creature – this being – sends every hair not already standing on end to match the ones that are.

Your gut twists as it speaks again, their tiny luminous eyes regard you with a familiarity you wish would flicker out. 

“Oh, jubilant day! I have found your vile self at last!” Their tone is sing-songy and eerie all at once. As they speak, you see a nearly lipless mouth packed with sharp, fang-like teeth, all of them pointed and sharpened like those of a shark’s. Their nose resembles that of a hawk’s bill – just as wickedly pointed and keratinous and similar structures sit where the normally-fleshy lobes of another humanoid’s ears would.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, and your tail begins to whip aggressively behind you. 

“Sceleritas Fel,” they introduce themselves with an overly theatric bow and flourish. “Your loyal and ever-adoring butler. ”

You blink and search your memory for some sense of recognition. Unsurprisingly, nothing comes to you.

Of course, I don’t remember them – why would my mind decide to function properly now, of all times? You push down a growl of annoyance and hold their gaze. 

“I followed you my dear, rotted Master. We have been parted so tragically long.”

“Parted– I– I have no memory of you. I’d think such a– a– unique person would stand out in my memories.” You’re careful with your words, though this creature claims to serve you – they look far more like they might eat you instead.

“Oh, milady,” they coo, “I had heard of your recent misfortunes, but I’d desperately hoped they were untrue. Don’t worry! I will help you recover, and we shall have you back to committing five villainous acts before breakfast in no time.”

It takes nearly all of your focus to school your disgust back into a neutral expression.

“I’ve found you, by following the stench of that bard. What was her name – Quil something-or-other? Yesss, she reeked across the coast like a bit of dog-muck on a sun-warmed road.”

Any control schooling your face to neutrality snaps, and a snarl of disgust replaces it. “Did, you make me kill her?! Are you that depraved voice in my head? The one that refuses to leave me alone?!” 

You can feel that darkened muse waking and slithering forward even now, to no surprise. You’ve learned to expect its presence whenever your emotions are heightened. Especially, if they’re angry or defensive in nature.

“Ohh, now, now milady. You should keep that anger burning – but turn it towards your next succulent victim. Not I.”

This little wretch – the fuck are they on about?

“Besides, any such masterpiece could never be achieved by a lowly wretch like me.” Fel’s simpering smile twists your gut again, and your blood heats.

The creature extends their right hand in your direction and outlines a rune above it with the left. The stench of dark magic wafts towards you as a cloak appears above their talons. 

“Anyways, I come bearing the next piece of your dreadful inheritance. You’ve earned this iniquitous prize by your exceptional show of violence the other night.”

You hesitate before gingerly reaching forward and plucking the gift from their talons.

“Thank you, I suppose. But there is something I’d appreciate far more than any cloak.”

“Ohhh, and what might it be,” chortles Fel with curiosity.

“You’re going to tell me everything about this past life you’re so clearly referencing. And why I can’t remember any of it.”

A gurgling sort of chuckle escapes Fel’s lips. “Oh my dear, dear Master. I would so love to regale you with past triumphs with me at your side – but unfortunately, I cannot.”

“What?! Why not?” You spit the words at the foul creature.

“It’s simple, milady. I’m forbidden to interfere – our ahem ‘betters’ will not allow it.”

Your tail whips again behind you, irritation fisting your gut. 

“Well then, good villain, be true to yourself. Adieu,” the creature tips their elegant, serpentine top hat your way, and then fades to a red glittering outline before disappearing entirely.

Your fingers curl furiously around the cloak in your hands, and you growl in frustration. Furious, hot tears gather in your eyes, and you scream into the empty space Fel had occupied just moments before.

 

---

 

After a handful of rageful laps around the nearby forest, you settle back into your spot by the river. Blissfully, no one has come to bother you or asked you to explain that encounter. Your stomach still curdles at the memory, but you refuse to let one more thing add to the exhaustion of the day. 

Breathing slowly and deeply, you fight to self-soothe. To find the peace you so fiercely crave in the moment.

One breath. I will not be whatever that butler of mine expects. I am not a degenerate murderer. You hold, then release.

A second breath. “You’re not a monster, Kalliope,” Astarion’s words echo in your memory. Your chest relaxes, jaw unclenches as you draw and release a third.

A fourth, languid breath. You hold this one for longer. “I wouldn’t leave a cherished ally behind.” Gale’s assurances lift the corners of your lips.

I am not a monster. A monster wouldn’t care so desperately. Wouldn’t admonish themselves so fiercely.

Slowly, your breath releases, and your senses relax. Your tail has stopped whipping in agitation, and your fingers have released their white-knuckled-grip on the cloak within them. 

I am whoever and whatever I decide. No one chooses for me, especially not such a revolting creature as Fel.

Finally at peace once more, you fold your legs into a meditative crisscross and close your eyes. Willing your mind to focus instead on the fading rays of sunlight and the quietening birdsong.

 

---

 

Sometime later, deep into your monastic trance, another set of footsteps sounds behind you. Gentle and measured, softened leather barely audible on the forest floor. You don’t jump, your hackles don’t raise because you recognize the cadence and rhythm instantly. 

Astarion. You release a calm breath as the thought trickles through, grateful that it’s not another companion. You don’t think you could explain your mood to anyone else right now.

“Yes,” you say without cracking an eyelid or turning to face him, “looking for your own version of dinner?”

A chuckle rumbles out of him, “If that’s your way of suggesting we dine together — I’m going to have to ask you to be a bit more direct. No more midnight surprises, remember?”

The corners of your lips twitch up as he settles beside you on the mossy soil. You chance a glance at him, “So then, what brings you out here?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’d missed your company at camp?” His crimson eyes glitter with a devious sort of happiness.

“Depends on if you’d want me to believe you, or if it were just another part of your game.”

A moment of shock dances across his features, as if surprised you’ve read right through all of his flirtations to this point. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind it. It’s a nice distraction given all of the other perilous bullshit we’ve been dealt as of late,” you bump your shoulder into his flirtatiously. “I’m happy to play along as long as you’d like.”

Another chuckle – this time somewhat nervous – escapes past his beautiful, full lips. Lips that send a shiver down your spine as you remember the soft, cool caress of them on your neck just last night. You don’t bother to fight the flush that seeps into your cheeks.

“Well then, consider me impressed. Two centuries of luring targets back for my master — you may be the first clever enough to see through my ruses. Or maybe,” his voice pitches low, “I’m just out of practice. ”

The tone provokes a thrill in your blood, and you’re certain your own eyes reflect the deviousness in his now.

“But to answer your earlier question, yes. I did genuinely miss your company at camp. Those other five were either at each other's throats over that damned artifact again — in Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s case, trying to outdrink one another in Wyll and Karlach’s, or waxing poetic about magickal theorem. Honestly, I’m starting to think you’re the only one who knows how to have fun around here.”

“Hmm,” you say thoughtfully before casting him a wicked grin, “I thought you enjoyed being at ‘one another’s throats?”

The vampire lets out a surprised sort of sound before the tips of his ears pinken in a subtle blush. He clears his throat before matching your tone and gifting you with his own devious grin. One that must purposefully put those dangerously pearlescent fangs of his on full display.

“I’m not denying that darling.”

A beat passes, the air taut between you two before his grin relaxes and he says, “I wanted to thank you though. For sticking by me earlier, I’m uncertain the others would’ve done the same for me.”

“Well, you’re just lucky I like having you around.”

“Oh?” His brows quirk in question. 

“Of course, I’ve grown quite accustomed to your similarly snarky sense of humor. And you’re much better with your hands than the others.” The words are out of your mouth before you realize the double-entendre of them. You’re absolutely blushing now. 

IDIOT, you scold yourself, what the fuck was that?!

Astarion chuckles, a delightfully mischievous noise, and doesn’t miss a beat. False shock colors his face. “Oh my, Kalliope! I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment. But I assume you mean with— lock-picks and pockets?” His voice pitches deliciously low once more, “I haven’t yet graced you with the full— capability— of these digits.” He inspects his nails and wiggles his fingers with a wink.

You stumble over your words, fully aware of the line you’ve just flawlessly fed to his ego.

“Gods. I— I meant— I’m better with my fists. While I could go around punching every chest and locked door to bits — I– I don’t think that is quite as subtle.” You take a breath, trying to settle your now-pounding pulse. “More simply, we make a good team.”

Astarion chuckles, “Yes, we do, don’t we?” He pitches his voice to a whisper, “Two monsters— just trying to get worms out of our brains.”

“You’re not a monster, Astarion.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it again. You’re always so— kind. It’s occasionally a bit off-putting,” a wry laugh escapes his lips before he continues. “Neither are you, my dear.”

“Occasionally,” you grin at him, “meaning you do indeed like me? Despite my ‘heroics’.”

“Euwgh,” he grimaces, “yes. Despite all that, I thought that much was clear. Given my earlier ‘I missed your company at camp’ bit?”

“Oh, it was,” your grin deepens, “I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“You’re insufferable,” he returns your earlier shoulder bump.

A minute or two in comfortable silence passes. Just the two of you gazing at the moon, enjoying one another’s company. Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you break the silence. 

“Astarion— you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to but— can I ask about… him?”

Shadows darken those crimson eyes, and you almost immediately regret the question. His voice is a hissed whisper as he answers.

“Why do you insist on exhuming the past?” The vinegar in his tone stings a bit. But he sighs and relents, “I don’t want to say a damned thing, but that won’t do anyone any good. I was a slave. A vampire spawn, as I described earlier, is no more than a puppet at the commands of their master. I was kept by the patriarch of the Szarr family, Cazador Szarr.” Astarion’s face screws in pain as he searches through memories for words.

After a moment, he breathes and continues, “Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldurs Gate. The head of his coven and a monster obsessed with power. Not political power or military power – power over people, the power to control them completely. When he turned me 200 years ago, I became his spawn. And he became my tormentor.” 

Astarion swallows thickly, and it takes all of your self-control not to reach out and reassure him physically. He continues, “...and I was never able to resist their commands. His commands. Early on, the times when I tried to resist him– the costs proved that resistance wasn’t worth it.”

You soften your gaze and hold his, “I’m sorry. Truly.”

He blinks and merely continues, not deigning to respond to your sympathies. Probably because vulnerability makes him feel as undesirable as it does me. 

“But now, I’ve been conveniently lost. They won’t ever control me again,” his gaze is stern. Stone cold and rigid as the gemstones his eyes resemble.

You hazard a reach in his direction, grazing your fingers over his own as you say, “Over my dead body will they do so.” You mean it, and you hope the stubborn resolution in your gaze gets the meaning across. A knot forms in your throat, imagining the horrors this beautiful man must’ve endured or been forced to carry out. The pain in his eyes brings about your own confession. 

“I—,” you start, “I met someone— similar from my past this evening. Someone I have no memory of, but they clearly remembered and knew me well.”

Now it’s his turn to look horrified. “You did?! Who?!”

“They claimed to be my ‘Butler’ in a past life. Someone who not only knew of, but approved of and guided my horrible urges.” Disgust pulls at your gut as you continue. “They said their name was Sceleritas Fel. That they found me by following—,” your throat dries, “by following the scent of— her.” You’re unable to meet his gaze as the shame drags your eyes downward. 

“…the Bard.” His voice is barely a whisper. You nod. “Darling, I— that’s awful. Seems we’re both being hunted by our pasts, then.”

Your own thoughts on his tongue brings your eyes back to meet his. They’re pained as they study you, a softness you never see in him when you’re around the others. You nod again, then take an awkward breath. The urge to hug him, to seek comfort in his touch knots in your stomach.

“Want to know something else? Since we’re sharing secrets,” there’s a faint glimmer in his eyes now, as if he’s forcing himself to be the stronger one in this moment.

“Of course,” you say, “your secrets are safe with me.”

He grins sadly before saying, “I’ve had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told…you were- my first.” The admission hits you unexpectedly hard. You blink at him, stunned, as he continues. 

“In all these years, I’ve only ever fed on beasts. Drinking the blood of ‘thinking creatures’ is a different thing entirely. A freedom we were never allowed by him.” 

The heat in his gaze with the next admission twists your gut for an entirely new reason, “You were delectable, and now—" he hesitates, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “I can’t help but wonder how the others taste.”

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “Astarion?! I’m wounded, you’re looking at other necks?”

His grin is feral now, that lust-like deviousness returned to his gaze. “Don’t worry, darling. There’s enough of me to go around— I’m a man of tremendous appetites after all.”

You’re grinning again too. “Based on their reactions this morning, I don’t think they’d volunteer to let you ‘sample’ them.” 

“Of course, but it doesn’t make me any less curious. Can you blame me?”

You giggle and shake your head. 

“Take Gale for example, he strikes me as someone whose blood is rich. Refined like– well-aged brandy. But the Gith, Lae’zel, what in the hells would she taste like?”

“Well, given Gale’s threats this morning— I’m sad to admit you’re probably off base there.” You tap your lips plaintively, “not to sound too— ‘othering’ but Lae’zel tastes like something exotic, surely? An Amnan liqueur? Or maybe gamey and other-worldly, like roasted miniature space hamster?”

Astarion gives you an approving smile, “That sounds very appealing, I’m almost convinced. Still, I am intrigued by the possibilities.” He shrugs unabashedly.

“This is all still— theoretical, right? I’d hate for you to lose your head over this curiosity.”

“Absolutely,” he assures you, a hand over his heart, “a mere thought experiment. Sooo, in the spirit of theoretical questions — if you had to take a bite from one of them, who would it be?”

The darkened muse speaks for you before you can think better of it, “I much prefer eating flesh to blood…” you clap your hands over your mouth in horror as soon as the words are out. 

Who the fuck invited you to this discussion? The dark whisper merely laughs as it slithers back down and away.

Astarion’s eyebrows lurch towards his silver curls. “I do appreciate your— enthusiasm, but let’s try to restrain ourselves a little, hmm? I just mean a sip of their blood – no mastication required.”

“Right, sorry, the uh—“

“The voices in your head told you to say that?” He finishes. 

“Yes, if you’d believe it.” He nods and you continue, “hmmm. Someone well-experienced and thoughtful about their self-care. I'm a woman of specific tastes after all.”

“Oh?” He says, quirking one of those gorgeous brows.

"Perhaps someone well-aged, a select vintage."

"Hmm," he says thoughtfully. 

“Someone, like you,” you narrow your eyes meaningfully at him. 

“Oh.” He says, ears pinkening again before regaining composure, “I’m flattered. Who knew you had such taste?”

How is he so good at his own games, yet still so clueless that my reactions to them are genuine? I’d love to show him just how curious I am about his own flavor. 

The thought curls your toes, the memory of your closeness the night before heating your blood and core.

“I’d hoped, you of all people would,” you say, leaning towards him, not subtle in the least. His gaze heats as he catches your meaning.

You wait for his next move, every muscle on edge waiting to see if he’ll take the bait. Practically begging that he will. Your heart is pounding now, and if his predatory senses are as heightened as he claims — you’re well aware he’s picking up on every, single, clue that your body thrusts his way.

His eyes glimmer and he swallows thickly before leaning in. 

Gods, please let him kiss me.

His gaze drops to your mouth, and he leans ever closer before saying, “Unfortunately, all this talk is getting me hungry. I better find something I can actually sink my teeth into.”

“You don’t have to look very far,” you whisper, chancing another inch in his direction.

Hunger flashes through his gaze at your taunt. The look knots your core, flushing pressure between your folds. His nostrils flare slightly, and you know he can sense your every desire.

 

---

 

“Someone like you,” she says, her teal, hellish eyes glimmering with mischief.

“Oh,” You say. She means it too. Her desire colors her scent faintly. “I’m flattered. Who knew you had such taste?”

One of her thoughts floats past your consciousness, and your gut clenches as the meaning settles in. “I’d love to show him just how curious I am about his own flavor.”

As if her previous statement wasn’t clear enough, she follows up with a hope that you of all people would clock her meaning. Your gaze heats at her forwardness. She’s playing a dangerous game, and she knows it. Your mouth waters, and you’re unsure if it’s from desire- or hunger.

You can hear her pulse begin to race, smell the change in her scent — just like last night. Lust.

The draw of her is unlike any of your previous marks. She’s clever, she sees through my intent yet doesn’t shy away. You’ve never felt matched in this way. And her scent, gods above, her scent. 

You swallow thickly and lean in just as another of her thoughts trickles through, “Gods, please let him kiss me.” The thought draws your attention to her lips, supple and always shimmering with the golden makeup that coats them.

You try to change the subject, suggesting you need to hunt. Now, before you end up doing something foolish. Jeopardizing everything.

“You don’t have to look very far,” she whispers, leaning towards you. 

Your stomach clenches with hunger, and your undead heart skips a beat at the offer. The memory of her taste, the rich ambrosia flowing through her veins, it’s tempting. Too tempting.

 

---

 

“Oh? And why’s that?” His voice is low and sultry, your mouth dries at the tone of it. 

“I’d think a hunter of your skill could recognize why.”

Fuck, I want his teeth in me. Those lips on mine.

Astarion draws a measured hand your way, the pad of his thumb brushing just below your ear where your pulse is racing. He hisses at the touch, and you tilt your head away from him ever so slightly, further exposing the tender skin. His stomach growls— or maybe it’s his voice. You find you don’t care either way.

An achingly tense minute passes, as he no doubt debates whether to find his satiation here, or deeper within the forest. Your fingers still graze his on the soil between you, and you arch them ever so slightly. Just enough to prickle his skin with your sharp, pointed nails and he groans. 

“Do it—” you breathe, barely more than a whisper.

One last glance of his flickers between your lips, your eyes, and that soft, exposed pulse point. 

Then he moves, drawing your neck to his lips. He flicks his tongue onto your skin once. Twice. The sensation forces a whimper up your throat and more heat into your core.

“Kalliope.” He moans into your skin, and the alabaster smoothness of his fangs brushes your neck. His hesitation, an offering. One last moment to withdraw. To rescind permission. To change your mind.

But you don’t. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. The draw of this pale, ethereal elf is beyond your control– and you could not care less. 

“Please,” you whisper. That’s all it takes for his fangs to pierce your skin and his thighs to settle on either side of your hips. 

 

---

 

You want her to say it. To offer herself to your hunger. It feels wrong any other way. He would take without asking, mock your hesitation, but you are not him.

You reach towards her delicate neck, thumb grazing that soft, warm patch just below her ear. Her pulse is racing, she’s taut with anticipation. You hiss with frustration at the temptation. Temptation she only encourages as she tilts away from you and claws gently at your hand beneath hers. 

You groan at the sensation, warring against your hunger and instinct. Against everything he pounded into your head. The insults. The shame. Self-denial. 

Worthless, boy. Slave. Deserving of only vermin. Mine.

The feel of her steady pulse beneath your thumb wrenches you from those dark memories. I will be better than he is. 

The war within you ends with two simple words from her beautiful mouth, “Do it.” A whispered command. A plea and a dare. Her gaze is steady, expectant. You find you can’t bear to disappoint her. 

A heartbeat passes and you’re moving, your lips and tongue grazing her soft, warm skin. You groan, “Kalliope,” her name is a delicacy on your lips. Your fangs tickle as they brush her skin, the nerves feeding them hyper-sensitive. But still that hesitation — that forced shame of two, dreadful, centuries holds you back.

Afraid.

“Please,” she says, her voice full of desire, and that’s all it takes. Settling yourself atop her, you taste her and lose yourself. 

 

---

 

You gasp with pleasure and surprise. The comforting weight of him atop you. His cool fingers wrapped around your neck and tangling in your long, teal-black hair. 

He takes a sip, and you feel the delicious twining of your blood with his, once more. The rhythmic lapping of his tongue matching your heartbeat. The soft caress of his lips around your pulse-point. You fight the desire to arch into him and fail. He groans at the momentary friction between you. You grin, and tangle your fingers into his beautiful, silken curls. 

He downs a second mouthful and then pulls away to gaze at you. Eyes burning with hunger, with lust. “You’re— incredible.”

“Can I kiss you?” You ask— the question surprises even you, terrified but casting caution to the wind. 

“Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

Your terrified heart threatens to beat out of your chest. Part of you expected him to refuse. To have some witty remark as to why that would be a bad idea. You didn’t expect him to agree. 

Cautiously, hesitantly, as if moving too fast will scare him away, you graze your lips against his. You can taste yourself on them, and something within you — and within the dark muse that haunts your mind — tears loose. 

The kiss is hesitant and gentle at first– testing to make sure that this is real. But it’s hungry all the same. His fangs scrape at your tongue accidentally and you taste iron. He sucks your tongue into his mouth and drinks. Surely, not enough for a full swallow, but a taste that tightens his grip in your hair. 

You gasp and push your tongue further, every thought pushing at him to take it deeper. To drink his fill. As if he’s heard your thoughts, he tears his lips from yours and suckles at the dribbling of blood down your neck, groaning at the taste of you. You arch against him once more.

 

---

 

Again, the scarlet tidal wave that is Kalliope crashes through your mind. Drowning out everything else. Everything else aside from her.

You spear your fingers through her long, silken hair. Hair the color of a midnight ocean and relish in the scent of it as you draw a mouthful. The scent of her skin. The scent of her sweet, metallic blood; she’s intoxicating.

She quivers beneath you, pulse racing, fingers fisting your curls as she arches against your quickly hardening length. The sensation coupled with your slowly dulling hunger forces a groan from you. Taking a second mouthful, she arches into you again and something feral within you awakens. 

You pull from her neck and drink in the sight of her. She’s beautiful, you couldn’t deny it if you wanted to, even if your life was at stake. “You’re— incredible,” the words come out as more of a growl than a statement.

“Can I kiss you?” She asks, and your heart stutters, gut clenching.

“Darling,” you purr, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

If feeding on her was breath-taking, the feel of her lips against your own is world-ending. It’s soft and hungry and wild. Your fangs catch on her tongue as she skims it along your lips and the taste of her floods your senses again. You suckle at her tongue, and she drives it further into your mouth. She gasps and you harden further.

The need for her has you tearing your lips from hers and dipping to catch the precious rubies trailing down her neck. You groan again with the flavor, and she presses into you once more, hips bucking under you.

 

---

 

Fisting your hair, he sinks those delicate fangs into your flesh again and you cry out in morbid pleasure. Both from the delicious friction between your hips, and the feeling of your life force slipping into him.

Any semblance of control flows away with your blood through his lips. Your hips are arching and bucking against him, arousal filling your core as he returns the motion. Again, and again. More insistent with each moment that passes.

Fuck, you think as the hard, cloth-bound length of him grazes the thin fabric at the apex of your thighs. You press against him further, pulling him with you as you lay back flush with the ground. Swallowing again, he slides his right knee between your thighs, pushing your left one outward. Angling you both for more contact. 

You’re wet. Slick with desire at the realization that he’s not denying you. That he’s as enthralled as you are. The thought has you wrapping your right leg around his left calf for leverage, and you lift your hips from the ground to grind one long stroke against his cloth-bound cock. He groans, breath-heaving. Then swallows another mouthful, and leans into the stroke.

The need for him inside of you claws at your skin from within. You’re senseless with desire, lightheaded and bucking, arching and rubbing against him as he feeds, and feeds, and feeds.

 

---

 

The hunger you feel no longer belongs to your stomach alone, it’s carnal and lusting. Kalliope thrusts into you from beneath and cries out in pleasure at the friction between you. You return the movement, stroking your cloth-bound cock along the warm apex of her thighs. She tenses and pushes against you, more insistent with each drive of her hips. 

“Fuck,” comes another of her stray thoughts. And then she’s wrapping her arms around your neck, drawing you with her as she leans backward to the soil. Swallowing and groaning, you slide her left leg outward with your right to gift her with more of that delicious friction. Cloth alone separating the head of your pulsing member from her swollen folds. 

Her blood is laced heavily with desire. Desire for you. Genuine want, nothing performative and the knowledge of that drives you wild. Her other leg snakes around your calf as she uses the leverage to draw one torturously slow stroke of herself against your frustratingly restrained cock. 

Her arousal is overwhelming, the scent is heady and intoxicating. You groan and drive your hips into hers as you fuck one another within the bounds of your clothes. You yearn to slip inside of her velvet folds. To fuck her properly. To draw your name from her lips — an oath of devotion, of unending want — and drive her senseless with pleasure. To feel her desire clench around you while tasting it in her blood.

To hells with the shame, he would expect of you. The groveling he would demand if you were to ask for an honest-to-gods night alone with any of the marks you’d lured. Just one, blissful night before handing them over to him.  

But this moment is for you. You and her. 

 

---

 

A delicious, calming numbness begins to spread within you as you’re pushed closer, and closer to your climax from friction alone.

Delicious, forbidden friction. 

More, your desire screams, more. Now. Please.

Astarion’s breath is coming faster now too. You’re so deliciously close to release, so damned close. You can feel his cock twitching beneath his trousers, fighting to be closer and it’s all you need to fall tumbling into the glorious depths of your orgasm. He groans as you finish, and you feel wetness spread from his side of the interaction as well, as he spoils his own pants with longing. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, unclasping from your neck at last, kissing the wound and lapping at any remaining beads of red.

Your eyes are glassy, you know it. They have to be, as his are too. His skin is flush with color, just as it was last night once he had fed from you. You’re both heaving against one another. Swallowing down precious oxygen. 

Your nails curl into his scalp as you press into him one last time, a silent thank you for your release. For your distraction. For the closeness.

 

---

 

More. Comes another of her thoughts, more. Please. Now.

Her breathing is ragged, labored with lust. Gods, you wish you could pleasure her properly.

Tomorrow, you think, or whenever she deigns to spend an evening with me. Then, then I’ll get her soaking wet, and drive her to the edge over and over until my name is the only word she knows. 

You can feel the wetness seeping into her robes, seeping into the outside of your own pants. You thrust into her harder, deeper. Faster until you’re certain she’s close to breaking. 

Damn these clothes, you curse internally. 

She’s clawing your scalp now, your back, shoulders— anything within reach as she rubs and presses into you greedily. The rhythm is uneven, desperate, and you grin against her neck as you continue to feed. You smell her arousal peak and plateau, feel her thundering heart beneath your tongue. 

The knowledge of her desperation, her release, coupled with the decadent friction stroking your pulsing cock threatens to push you over the edge after her. You dry-hump her furiously, chasing your release as her own soaks her robes further. You grunt as it thrums closer and closer. Her name thunders through your mind with each decadent twitch of your cock. 

Kalliope. Kalliope. Kalliope— fuckkk, Kalliope.

You’re spilling into your trousers. Shameless, hungry. Downright feral as this first release in centuries is for you, and you alone. Your own desire. Your own goals. Your own lust. 

“Fuck,” is the only word you can manage as you slide your fangs from her neck and kiss the wound until it stops seeping. 

 

---

 

He smiles against your neck. “If that’s the kind of treat I can expect with every feeding you offer, I don’t know if a beast will ever satisfy me again.”

You giggle and press a thankful kiss to his cheek before holding his gaze. “You’re welcome to feed on me anytime you like.”

“I don’t know if the others would appreciate that — bearing witness I mean — if this is how deeply I’m going to enjoy it every time.”

A wicked grin curls your lips as you nip at the corner of his, “They’re only jealous.”

“As they should be darling, as they should be.”

“I like that nickname,” you admit. 

“Which one— darling?” 

You buck your hips against his in answer and he chuckles. 

“Ohhh, that one? I’ll keep that in mind. Who knows how useful it will prove going forward.”

“You’re impossible,” you tease. 

“As I told Gandrel earlier, these days, I’m making the impossible, look easy.”

You roll your eyes with a smile. “As much as I don’t want to think about you crawling off of me— should we—,”

“Head back to camp?” He finishes. You nod and he sighs. “I suppose we have to at some point. But I’ll need to feed regularly to keep strong.”

“How dreadful,” you tease.

Reluctantly, he crawls off of you and then helps you to your knees, brushing the moss and soil from the back of your evening robes. “In all seriousness,” he says, holding your gaze once more, “thank you. For standing by me, and for keeping me fed. Never in another century would I have expected such— a gift," he gasps. "I know I’ve said it before — but I won’t forget this.”

“I trust you,” you reaffirm, “I’m with you wherever this misadventure leads. Truly.”

The words may seem performative, and maybe some small part of them is, but you know instinctively how heavily those words affect him. How heavily the idea of a truly trustworthy ally— no– friend. Weighs on you both.

“Well then,” he says standing to full height before offering you a hand, “I’m going to go finish filling my appetite. I don’t want to take your generosity for granted.”

“Well, good hunting,” you say with a smile. 

“Eh, there’s nothing quite so— delectable lurking out there in the forest…but I’ll make do. Sweet dreams, my bloodthirsty friend.”

 

---

 

Returning to camp, everyone else is already fast asleep. You take a few moments to tidy yourself up, and then slip into your bedroll. Minutes later, as you drift to sleep, you’re unsure of what was more exhilarating. The veiled taunts during your cheeky exchange, or joining him in his high-stakes, physical game of cat-and-mouse.

You realize you don’t care. You’re just happy to have found a friend— someone— like Astarion.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 16: "He took a little of my blood, I took all of his."

 

“It’s nothing compared to well — other things I could be dining on. But considerably better than the rats and bugs Cazador served me.”

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 17: One Soul, One City

Summary:

"You have made a pact with a fiend from the lower planes of existence, a being whose aims are evil, even if you strive against those aims. Such beings desire the corruption or destruction of all things, ultimately including you. Fiends powerful enough to forge a pact include demon lords such as [...]; archdevils such as [REDACTED] pit fiends, cambions, and balors that are especially mighty; [...] and other lords of the yugoloths."
— Volo, 'On Warlocks'

The following dawn, your morning ritual of bathing and stretching along the riverside with Shadowheart is interrupted by cursing from further within the camp. Cursing, and a very, very angry-sounding Karlach.

“Lady of sorrows, what now ?” Shadowheart groans as she wrings her thick, dark ponytail of river-water.

“Just one morning–” you add, “just one, it would be nice if our biggest issue was Gale burning our coffee and tea. Or even something more normal like Scratch retching up his dinner.”

“I can’t say I agree more,” the cleric adds with a groan. “Well then, better hurry this along and see what all the fuss is about.” You and Shadowheart manage to look bedraggled for all of one more moment before sharing a giggle. 

Shared humor with the cleric has become one of your many coping mechanisms as of late. Adding to a slowly growing list including sharing gossip with Astarion, sparring with Lae’zel, or humoring Gale’s unending magickal theorizing.

Jogging to keep pace with the quick-footed cleric, you make it to the center of camp – where last night’s recently doused campfire smolders behind a glowering Karlach. Beside her Wyll grimaces as another fire douses itself. Hellfire.

Behind them, Lae’zel reaches for the hilt of her greatsword as Gale scowls from his place beside her. Another few paces behind them, just at the cusp of the bushes, Astarion and Scratch bear their fangs and stiffen for a fight. If the air weren’t so tense, you might laugh at how similarly the hound and the hunter look to one another right now.

“Here she comes,” the Warlock grits out.

As the ring of the infernal flame disappears, a stunning and terrifying figure materializes from a dark, slick, ichor. A pale-blue cambion with two, bejeweled sets of horns pointed skyward beams as she looks down her prim nose at the pair. 

“Wyll, dear, what a sweet spot you’ve found for yourself,” she croons as she casts a glance around camp. No doubt counting each and every one of your companions.

Karlach spits into the dirt at the cambion’s feet, “ Oh I love this time of year –the dickheads start poppin’ up wherever you look.”

“Karlach, that’s no language for a lady,” the cambion clucks her tongue in mock disappointment and sends a withering glare in Karlach’s direction before turning her attention back to Wyll. 

“Wyll, you’ve been naughty , and you know what happens when you’re naughty.”

“Gods dammit, Wyll, anyone but her,” scowls the fiery tiefling.

Sensing Shadowheart stiffen at your side, you take a few steps forward. A few more have you crossing behind the figure to stand at Wyll’s flank. A witty remark tries to find its way onto your tongue, but annoyance and better sense quickly send it away.

The figure seems to stand a bit taller as if the larger audience has emboldened her further. “Call me Mizora,” she says with a flourish, “I’m Wyll’s patron, the fount of his power. My pet’s been– unruly. I think his leash needs a yank.”

Wyll chokes, sputters, and grabs at his throat, then stumbles forward as the cambion pulls at an invisible tether between them. “We had a deal Wyll ,” Mizora hisses, “but Karlach is still breathing. Did I not warn you that left unhandled, she could cause unchecked harm to the Sword Coast?”

“You’d better not lay a damned finger on Karlach,” you hiss.

“I’ve taken more pleasant shits than you Mizora, and even those can be buried after. I think it’s safe to say that you’re the bigger problem here.”

Wyll glowers at his patron and chokes as he manages a few words, “You said– devils only .”

“How precious, the little pupster’s found his bark," Mizora smiles in a way that’s little more than a baring of teeth as she yanks again at the invisible tether. Wyll falls to his knees at her feet and gasps for air. “Clause G, Section 9: targets shall be limited to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless . Karlach meets the criteria, pet. Trust me on this.”

“Blast it all Wyll. Why didn’t you tell me about her? Tell us about her?” Your immediate hatred of the cambion in front of you just barely overshadows the betrayal you feel. 

Wasn’t he just giving Astarion shit for hiding his vampiric nature? Frustration at Karlach’s infernal-engine situation? 

This warlock doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to judging others for their secrets.

“He’s the ‘Blade of Frontiers’, ‘Devil’s Plaything’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Mizora quips. “Speaking of,” snarls the cambion as she flashes another menacing smile in Wyll’s direction and flicks her wrist. The very same Hellsfire that encircled Mizora on her arrival, whooshes and surrounds Wyll. 

Your party stiffens in horror as you watch while Wyll burns in the fires of Avernus, then as the lightning storms of Dis crackle and strike his flesh. Your breakfast threatens to reappear as the vile pollution of Minauros comes next, followed by the sulphuric fires of Phlegethos – curdling his very essence and burning his remaining eye to a deep bloodied-red. 

Wyll screams as his soul passes through the freezing, salted depths of Stygia, then the ashen peaks of Malbolge and horns erupt from his skull. That scream is snuffed out as his form is cocooned in a vaporous cloud borne of Maladomini. It’s as if you can feel his soul being wrenched through each layer. Gaining their essence. Their torment. 

The cocoon freezes and is replaced with the brittle, crackling exoskeleton of Cania’s ice and ruin before shattering into thousands of tiny, black, glasslike pebbles. Stone from the sheer cliffs of Nessus. The final layer of the Hells. 

The urge to run and pull your friend from his torment is gutted as the horror of his transformation is revealed with bone-gripping terror . 

Wyll’s once supple, warm, youthful skin is now marred with ridges and scars similar to the ones on your own Tiefling skin. Giant, curling rams’ horns protrude from his forehead and wrap in on themselves until they reach and nearly pierce the back of his own ears. He stumbles back at the unfamiliar weight of them, catching himself on his palms just before his behind collides with the dirt of your camp.

“That’s better,” gloats Mizora. Her sickeningly pleasant smile heats your blood and the urge to crush her stupid lips into a pulp against her too-sharp fangs is nearly uncontrollable.  

“What have you done to him, devil ?!” You spit.

She chuckles primly, an evil glimmer in her eye as she meets your gaze, “A promise broken– a price paid. He knew the terms.”

Karlach roars and the inferno that simmers beneath her skin blazes to life as she bares her fangs at the cambion. “You, bitch!”

“Oh, come now Karlach. He will get used to the new form – he has to.” Another high, ugly, keening laugh. 

“Fix it, Mizora. My soul still belongs to you. Exact another price– not this ,” Wyll moans in agony as he runs his hands over his horns. His ruined, ridged skin. 

“Oh pet,” she tuts, “there’s no going back, some magic even I can’t undo. Now, let’s see how the Frontiers fare without their precious Blade .”

Karlach seethes and your fists curl, nails biting into your palms. Your voice is a low, dangerous growl. Whatever infernal or diabolical heritage runs through your blood, fuels the darkened whisper in your mind, surges to the forefront of your fury. 

“You’ve made your point, devil . What more do you want? Get the fuck out of my camp before I mount those glittering horns in my tent.”

Mizora laughs a high, cruel sound. “I’d like to see you try, you little runt . By the way Wyll, our pact still stands. Break it again, and you’ll have more to show for it than a new set of horns.”

You lunge forward but Shadowheart grips your shoulder, holding you back. She shakes her head sadly, a silent ‘No.’  

Mizora cackles again and begins to draw runes in the air before her, Hellsfire returning to lap at her ankles before she casts a final, simpering grin in Karlach’s direction, “Oh, and Karlach, Zariel sends her regards. Ta-ta.” 

The roaring of flames and that high, keening cackle drown out the sounds of the camp and surrounding forest as Mizora’s form disappears. Back to whatever sulfuric corner of the Hells she hides in.

---

 

Camp is silent for a long handful of minutes. Even Astarion, master of turning horrors into comedic relief is speechless. Your companions look on at Wyll as if his transformation has been into one of a mindflayer – not a devilish, tiefling-human halfway point. It isn’t until Wyll pulls himself to his feet and sulks silently back to his tent that even the birds around your camp dare to make noise. Once he’s out of earshot it’s Karlach who speaks first. Muttering to you in a shocked whisper.

“I’ll be honest soldier – I’m reeling. Wyll hardly knows me, but he chose my life over his.” She takes a shuddering breath before continuing, “It’s been a long time since someone stuck their neck out for me like that.”

“I’m shocked too. Not that someone would stand up for you , but– he’s a warlock. Their pacts are unforgiving at best. He went against a deal where his very soul is the price. I’m not sure if that’s heroic – or just bloody stupid.”

Fighting harpies, slaughtering a gur hunter, standing against a hag – sure those have been dangerous choices in the name of protecting someone else. But none of those decisions thus far have been near-guarantees that your soul would be claimed by the hells. 

Wyll definitely has a strong sense of honor, you decide– only time will tell how far that gets him.

“I’m not sure either,” Karlach admits, there’s a sparkle in her eyes as she continues, “but either way I’m grateful. Really grateful. I could learn a thing or two from a man like that. Hopefully, we don’t turn into mindflayers first.”

You take a deep breath, releasing some of the tension brought on by the early-morning surprise, and decide you’d better head to Wyll to get the rest of the information about this from him while you still can. Before he decides to hide behind his morals and bravery again.

Striding across the camp, you arrive at his camping spot to see him kneeling inside of his tent. Head hung low, facing away from you.

“Gods damn her straight back to the hells,” he groans, passing his hands over his new horns. “Just look at me– 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– not Zariel’s victims . Not innocent tieflings.”

“You’re lucky that she didn’t take your soul when she came– being turned into a devil is lucking out I’d say.”

“You’re right, I know,” Wyll stands and turns to face you, looking entirely more deflated than you’ve seen him appear yet. “But damn it, look at these horns, and I’ve ridges and barbs where there really shouldn’t be any.”

You narrow your eyes in disbelief at the man before you, sure he’s brave and honorable– but ignorant too.

“Wyll– you do realize who you’re speaking to, right? You’re being a bit ridiculous–” You motion towards your own gilded horns and pointed ears. Flick your tail and bare your fangs non-threateningly for emphasis.

He runs his hands down his face and groans again, “I– I’m sorry Kalliope. I know looks aren’t everything but–”

You cross your arms and raise an eyebrow at him, is he really going to keep digging this hole for himself?

“How about you stop digging yourself into a deeper hole with Kalliope, and start answering our questions?” Shadowheart. You didn’t realize that she’d followed you over to talk to Wyll, but you’re glad to have someone redirect this increasingly childish conversation.

“Sorry,” is all Wyll says.

“Yes, I’d say our resident hero has some explaining to do. So much judgment cast on my– vampiric status– yet here you were hiding your own monstrous secrets,” Astarion voices your earlier thoughts with that trademark sass you enjoy so much. 

You take a moment to glance behind you and realize that everyone else has joined to form a loose clump around Wyll’s tent. Looks like we’re all getting our answers at once.  

Wyll sighs and runs his hands down his face once more. “Alright, what do you all want to know? I’ll say as much as I’m allowed to – but I know that it won’t be enough. Mizora only allows me to speak so much about our pact. Much of it is forbidden for me to voice aloud– I couldn’t share the details even if I wanted to.”

“How about you start from the beginning, dear Blade ,” quips Astarion.

Wyll heaves one more sigh, and your tail flicks in annoyance. The darkened muse in your mind stirs — typically you only feel it wake when you’re angry or feeling murderous — but you suppose annoyance is the first baby-step on that spectrum. 

“Yes, but first, a question. If your home city were under siege — what would you sacrifice to save it?”

A valid question, and not one you’d expected to ponder merely an hour or so after waking. What would you sacrifice? Your life? What is your wretched life worth anyhow? Surely it would be worth it if your loved ones could be safe? But what loved ones do you even have?

Is a city full of people ranging from terrible to simply trying to survive worth dying for? Would your sacrifice even guarantee their safety?

Better my life than my soul. A life is temporary, a soul? A soul is forever. 

The whisper purrs in your mind’s ear, Wretched one, imagine the glorious destruction and carnage a city under siege would entail? Streets gilded in gore. Rubble sprinkled with ruined, screaming corpses and bodies.

A second thought and the teachings of the monastery float back through. All life is sacred , but it is also cyclical and comes back eventually. 

“I suppose the honorable thing would be to give your life. Unfortunately, I can’t remember much about where I’m from. Would I care to save it? I’m not sure — but I’m not you.”

Wyll blinks at you for a moment — clearly, he’s never considered that some people don’t have an overbearing, inherent –and perhaps a bit self-destructive– drive for peace. 

“Well, I did care to save it. I was seventeen, and my Father, Duke Ulder Ravengard, had just been called away to Elturel to settle a dispute.”

“I’m sorry — did you just say your father is Duke Ulder Ravengard? As casually as ‘My beer is flat?!” Sputters Karlach. 

“Hmph. I knew you must have insufferable parents to have turned out so— well, you , but the Duke? That explains some things…” mutters Astarion. 

Wyll turns sheepish for a moment, scratching the base of his new horns, “Yes. My father is Duke Ravengard.” There’s an awkward pause as you all consider the news. 

Maybe we need to just all sit down after this and spill our guts. Literally or figuratively. Whatever gets all of these secrets out into the open. I don’t know these people at all.

“That was when the Cult of the Dragon made its move.”

“Ahh, the fractured religion following Tiamat,” Gale observes. “If I’m not mistaken, their followers believe that a swarm of undead dragons will inherit the world. While others worship Tiamat herself and desire her return to the Prime Material plane.”

“Tiamat, a great ally to Vlaakith and my kin against the last attempt at a ghaik ‘Grand Design’,” Lae’zel adds solemnly.

“It troubles me to think that your kin trusted such a despicable figure for aid,”  Wyll counters.

“Were it not for the aid of the Dragon Queen, all of creation would be part of an illithid hivemind. Tiamat is who we have to thank for the red dragons of our kith’rak. Nothing is so simple in war and conquest.” Lae’zel scowls at Wyll and his seeming naivety of Astral politics.

“Well, despite Tiamat’s help to your kin in the past – this group of cultists was very much not invading with a helping hand in mind. They intended to destroy and claim Baldur’s Gate for their own, before summoning their ruthless Queen to Faerun. I would not stand by idly and watch my home be raided.”

The group is silent as Wyll continues. “A tenday after my father left, I heard a whisper as I slept. ‘ Duskhawk Hill the Queen of Chaos awakens. Go alone.’ I grabbed a rapier and set out. 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.”

The buzzing sensation of an oncoming mind-link tickles your consciousness, and you glance around to see your companions have all felt it as well. “Let me show you what happened,” Wyll urges calmly. 

You nod and your vision of the camp fades, it’s replaced in your mind’s eye by Wyll’s memories. Fuzzy, lavender waves of energy ripple at the edge of your sight as the scene unfolds before you.

---

 

In the looming shadow of Duskhawk Hill, five groups of five figures each encircle a lofty totem. Atop each totem, a dragon’s head has been intricately carved. A massive orb held in each of the totems’ jaws. Fervently, the gathered cultists chant. What begins as a slow, rhythmic sound increases to a zealous-outcry of phrases in draconic until the cultists have turned their collective attention to the starless sky above.

  A reverberating crack of thunder splits the silence of the otherwise peaceful evening. Wind picks up out of nowhere and pushes against Wyll’s robes, whipping the grasses of the field into a frenzy. Some of the cultists cry out in ecstasy as a white dragon’s head appears in the center of the unannounced storm. The first of Tiamat’s five heads. One for each color of chromatic dragons.

The maelstrom howls around you, and you swear you can see the outline of a second, red dragon head emerging above. Mizora presses her lips to your ear, and you recognize the voice as the one that awoke you not hours before this moment. ‘She will destroy Baldur’s Gate. Grant me your soul, and I will give you the power to save it.’ 

Her whisper tickles and caresses the shell of your ear, the power is tempting. And in your desperation to protect your home– prove yourself to your father– it’s impossible to resist. You nod, and Mizora’s laughter is joyous. Two other devils appear in front of you amidst the chaos of the maelstrom. Mizora reads out the terms of your soon-to-be pact, and as soon as the last term is read– your lips are moving in agreement.

 

---

 

The lavender waves disappear from your peripheral. Your vision is restored, and you’re once again within the center of your camp. Standing before Wyll’s tent.

“One soul, for one city,” Wyll grits out. He looks pained as if reliving the stress of that evening is shameful to him. But his next words do not match the pain in his eyes. “Mizora stood by me as the archdevil Zariel guided our hands.”

Karlach growls under her breath at the sound of her enslaver’s name. Wyll catches her gaze and nods solemnly in recognition before continuing on.

“The flames of Avernus and Lightning of Dis ravaged our enemy until nothing was left but a pile of ash at the base of the hillock. Upon which lay five greyed, orbs. The last remaining pieces of those blasted totems. In the sky above, the emerging heads of Tiamat retreated and screamed in agony as the portal that the cultists were attempting to open shuddered and disappeared from the sky.”

“I have to admit,” Astarion scoffs, “that is quite the brave choice. Frightening and perhaps foolish, but brave.”

“ A true warrior of the people puts themselves before all else,” Lae’zel says as she blinks slowly, admiration filling her gaze.

“From that moment, my soul was bound and my lips were sealed.”

“Why would Mizora want to save the city?” You ask, incredulously.

“Mizora didn’t, she came on the orders of her mistress Zariel. Tiamat had made a play for power, Zariel had other plans. That’s the most Mizora’s ever said. All that mattered to her was that she got her prize: another pet added to her warlock menagerie.”

“Damn devils,” growls Karlach, “no sense of honor or consideration for anyone or anything , but their own power. Fuck us all so long as they get what they want at the end of the day, right?”

“Sounds like, Cazador ,” growls Astarion.

“What happened when your father returned from Elturel,” Shadowheart asks quietly.

Wyll’s eyes turn heavy with regret, and his mouth thins into a line of frustration, “He returned to an unsuspecting city and a wayward son with a smirking devil at his side. I tried to tell him the truth– but my mouth couldn’t form the words. I’d led him to the battlefield but Mizora had swept it clean,” Wyll’s voice cracks and he swallows thickly. 

For the first time in the tenday since meeting the hero, you see that facade of a faultless hero waver. “After, he said only one word: ‘ Go.’ So I did.”

“Is that how you lost your eye,” you ask cautiously. “In the battle with the cultists?”  

“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 Underdark and still never shake her.”

“Well, much as I would have loved to see the cult wreck Cazador’s precious palace, I have to thank you for averting any world-ending chaos that would have ensued,” Astarion chirps. You know from his tone that though he may be grateful, he’s mostly just trying to lighten the mood.

Too early in the day for depressing backstories, I guess , you think to yourself.

“Well I for one think your dad is a right bastard for throwing out his only son like that,” Karlach says. “Damn, I’d love to see his face if he ever learns the truth of what you did for him.”

“No, I could never be mad at him,” argues Wyll, shaking his horn-laden head. “He did the only thing that he could. In his eyes, I invited a devil into our midst, I was either a fool at best or a traitor at worst. Grand Duke Ravengard suffers neither.”

“Do you miss your father?” Asks Shadowheart gently.

“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 hell-touched warlock he returned to.”

“Well, he’s a fool either way. I’d hug you but– don’t want to burn you first thing in the morning.” Karlach chuckles and smiles broadly at the Warlock. “I’m grateful for what you did for me, Wyll. Really, thank you.”

Wyll smiles in return at the sturdy tiefling before suggesting, “Should we check out that ruined village Dammon marked on the map? See about getting your engine that first upgrade?”

“Hells yea!” Karlach beams.

“Well then,” you say, “let’s gather our band of misfit toys and head out.”

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 18: Moonhaven

Summary:

"Moonhaven formed sometime after the founding of the nearby temple of Selûne. It was raided by Dark Justiciars a number of times in the Year of the Unstrung Harp, 1371 DR.

In the early years of the formation of Elturgard, during the mid–15th century DR, the Hellriders made multiple patrols around and near the village. This upset several of its residents, including Damon Briska, a descendent of the town's founders."

— Ilyn Toth

" [...] As of the Year of Three Ships Sailing, 1492 DR, the town was under control of a band of goblins that operated under the orders of Sazza, of the Cult of the Absolute."

— Volothamp Geddarm, "My Time with The Absolute"

The forest is vibrant with birdsong and scampering wildlife as you travel west towards the location that Dammon marked on your map. A harsh contrast to the somber mood surrounding your camp after Mizora’s uninvited visit. Wyll, despite Karlach’s best-efforts at cheering him up, elected to stay behind in camp anyhow. Sulking and wallowing in self-pity. 

As if horns and a few ridges here and there ever ruined my day, you scoff internally. Nobles, so focused on appearances.  

Now, the tiefling woman chatters along happily with Gale at the back of the group. She shares her happy memories of the city from her youth, but you can tell there’s a hint of mourning behind her joyous tones. Gale in return offers stories of his misadventures as a budding wizard. Accidental fires, summons gone wrong, stories of his best friend and closest confidant – Tara, a tressym. 

Shadowheart follows just behind you, on your left flank, cursing under her breath while fiddling with that strange artifact once more. She’s become less secretive about it – but she’s still refused to let you hold it or examine it too closely. 

Lae’zel and Astarion wander off and then return every so often with random items retrieved from hidden, buried chests. Lae’zel’s strong back and comfort with dirty work carry the bulk of the task, but it’s unexpectedly wholesome how well the two’s skillsets compliment one another’s. Astarion’s lock-picking and perceptive eye, coupled with Lae’zel’s practicality, have turned them into natural treasure hunters. And your entire party has benefitted from it. 

Mostly, they return with old tools, obscure books, used clothing, or nearly-spoiled food – which you manage to pawn to Aaron and Dammon at the Grove. But occasionally, they return with gold, weapons, or other rarities. The gold is put into a pouch that you keep close at hand at all times, then used to purchase healing potions or upgrades for the party. 

After the first time Astarion tossed you a coin pouch, back when you all discovered that initial treasure chest as a party, no one questioned your role as the party’s accountant.

This time, Astarion approaches you with an expression similar to that of a proud child – well, as close to that as the centuries-old, pompous vampire is capable of.

“Darling, you’ll never guess what our Gith friend and I just stumbled upon,” he smirks.

“Would you like me to try and guess – or is that just a figure of speech in this case?” You’re still learning when his sarcasm is sarcasm – or just– his inability to filter his abrasive humor.

He scoffs and pulls a face, “Well don’t be so boring about it. If you lose your sense of curiosity and humor – then the flaccid personalities of our other companions may just push me to a second death.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” exclaims Karlach. “I mean– not that I want to see your pointy-little-face disappear. I just– is that – is that possible? How does that work? Would you become un- undead? Or just – dead? Is it a double-negatives thing?”

Astarion clicks his tongue in slight annoyance, “I don’t know, I’m not really clear on the specifics myself. But I’d prefer to leave that mystery un solved, thank-you-very-much.”

“So, what did you find?” Shadowheart asks, looking up from her artifact.

“Kalliope has to guess first. Honestly, Shadowheart– we just went through this.”

You have no fucking clue what they could have found. 

So far, you’ve found books on dead gods, a backpack shaped like a teddy-bear, weapons and shields marked with the symbol of ‘The Absolute’, and other obscurities. “Any hints?” You ask.

Astarion narrows his eyes at you, purses his lips, and raises an eyebrow expectantly. 

I’ll take that as a no. You sigh and take a guess, “Magical jewelry,” you offer.

“Excellent first guess,” he claps his palms together in approval and excitement.

“Well, that’s all I’ve got. It could be any manner of things.”

“I think it will be very helpful in regard to our uh– arrangement,” he says suggestively. 

“Ick,” Shadowheart pulls a face this time.

“What,” The vampire exclaims, somewhat offended, “it’s nothing vile – Kalliope lets me feed on her at night. It’s not my fault I can’t just choke down half a wheel of cheese, some stale bread, a fish head and call it sustenance.”

“When you phrase it that way,” says Gale, “your condition almost sounds more appealing. Almost. ”

“Well, dear wizard, should you like to become an accursed spawn like my good self — I know a bastard who would have no qualms in doing so.”

You roll your eyes and smile at the fools you’re beginning to consider friends, then extend your hand, curious about this prize. Astarion obliges, and hands you a thin golden chain garnished with a carefully detailed, gilded pendant. 

The pendant is warm in your hand, and the moment that your skin makes contact with the metal, you feel a sense of relaxation wash over you.

It’s molded in the shape of an upside-down teardrop, with the broader end loosely resembling the rocky outcropping of a waterfall. The metal is then etched methodically to simulate a simplified cascade of water, tumbling around, and past a sliver of emerald embedded in the center.

The mention of a magic item has Shadowheart and Gale peeking over your shoulders to investigate with you. 

“There’s a warm wave of abjuration magic coming from it,” observes Gale.

“Ah, ah, ah– don’t even think about it, Gale,” Astarion warns, narrowing his eyes at the wizard, “you cannot eat this one.”

Karlach snorts behind you, and you fight to keep a giggle down yourself.

“It feels comforting,” you respond. The darkened muse, that is constantly sniffing at your intentions, and prowling at the back of your mind— quietens. Muffled by the magic somewhat.

Shadowheart reaches gently around your left shoulder to pass her fingers over the piece. “I think this lets you cast ‘Lesser Restoration’ , Kalliope. People often use amulets like this to heal lesser poisonings and other– ohh ,” breathes the cleric as the realization settles in. 

“That weird aura you’ve given off these last few mornings—” she eyes you warily. “It’s from feeding him? The blood loss?”

You dip your head bashfully and sense Astarion stiffen at your side.

“Yes,” you admit. You’re not sure what's making you feel so small about it– you’re just helping a friend. Keeping an ally and kindred spirit from suffering.

You catch yourself gazing at Astarion in the moment, Gods, he’s beautiful. So beautiful.   

It’s not the feeding I’m self-conscious about – you think to yourself. It’s because– because I enjoy it, you admit. 

What you don’t admit to yourself is what else you wish you could enjoy while it’s happening. With whom . Sick in the head as you are – somehow that admission is still too uncomfortable. Too new.

He could bleed me dry and I’d– at the thought of gore, the whisper stretches and purrs at the back of your mind. Like a cat, wondering if it’s time to bat around their favorite toy. You’re growing accustomed to handling the whisper — deciphering when to let it play and when to silence it — yet it still unnerves you whenever it awakens unexpectedly.

You’re bashful about the feedings, you realize, because you don’t want something so– unexpectedly intimate put to a debate of morality. Especially with a group of such mixed opinions. 

Shadowheart, insightful as always, notices the change in your demeanor and graciously moves the conversation along before that can happen. “Well, I won’t be the one to question how you support the needs of our allies. But given the effects of said support — this amulet is certainly a lucky find.” She folds your fingers over it and holds your gaze, a hint of concern dancing in those hazel eyes. “Keep it close .” 

Astarion relaxes beside you and his smirk deepens with satisfaction. His ego all too easy to stroke with praise and recognition. 

“Well then, should we try it out?” You ask, catching the vampire’s gaze. 

The pair nod, and so you settle the chain around your neck. Warmth spreads through you, and a bead of knowledge skitters across your mind – something novel. You focus on the glittering bead of energy and will it to spread. To thin and encompass your being. 

Slowly, the numb, tingling sensation you’ve experienced these past two mornings weakens and smoothes, until it disappears completely. Any unusual sense of exhaustion or disorientation along with it. 

“I feel— better ,” you sigh. Breathing deeply and beaming up at your friends. “More grounded and centered.”

“That’s wonderful,” says the cleric, “that strange aura around you has disappeared too.” 

You realize she’d sounded nervous before, discussing the topic of bloodlessness. But any hint of her doubt or concern evaporates with your exhaustion.

Astarion’s eyes sweep up and down your form, a mixture of relief, satisfaction, and hunger shining there. Whether he’s aware of the emotions or not— he makes no effort to hide them from you or the surrounding witnesses. 

 

---

 

Soon you come upon a stone bridge, not far from Astarion’s boar. Spread across the uneven cobblestones of the bridge are the ruined remains of travelers and goblins. Limbs and necks broken and bleeding, clothing torn and disheveled. The darkened whisper purrs within, and that twisted sense of pleasure stirs at the sight.

“Poor fuckers,” Karlach mutters.

“Were they heading to the Druid’s grove,” Astarion muses.

“Wherever they were going – they certainly didn’t get far before this band of goblins caught up to them,” you answer.

After rifling through their pockets and belongings, you continue your approach towards the ‘Blighted Village’ Dammon highlighted on your map. The birdsong and natural chatter of the forest quieten – leaving the air eerily silent. 

“Something is off,” Astarion comments, “I can smell trouble ahead – keep your eyes open for an ambush.” 

Surely enough, as soon as you cross beneath the archway of the village’s entrance, a hidden Goblin mage, also known as a Booyahg, announces your presence. “Git over there,” she hollers, “Surround ‘em like.” 

A creaking of shingles ahead catches your attention, and though you can’t see where the others she’s called to are hiding– you’re confident that they’re the ones sending scraps of shingles tumbling to the ground. 

“I know you’re there,” you call out, “might as well show yourselves.”

“You spotted us,” responds the mage, “Good. ‘S like they say, ‘No fun in skewin’ a pig what doesn’t know he’s cooked.’”

The carnage on the bridge has whetted your bloodlust and sharpend your tongue. “Curious, I had a similarly dark thought when I first saw you.” Your fingers begin to curl into fists as the whisper stirs. Not yet , you tell it.

“My, my, you’ve got a set ‘aven’t you? Almost makes me like you. Almost,” she cackles, “I’m gonna enjoy peelin’ th’ skin from yer corpse.” Though it’s small from this distance, you catch a glimmer of the same symbol from the siblings’ foreheads days ago. It glows upon her temple as she threatens you, and you feel your tadpole swelling with confidence as it connects with its brethren.

“There’ll be no skinning today – unless you’re volunteering,” you snarl. Her companions peek over the apex of the roof they’re hiding on, curious who has the gall to threaten their compatriot.

Using the idle threat to distract her, you urge your tadpole to probe within her mind. 

Subservience . It wafts off of her mind as your psyche brushes against it. 

Authority . It gleams within you in response.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? It’s simple really, address me properly, then let us pass. Do that, and I won’t sacrifice you to the Absolute before making new wrist-wraps from your fetid hide.” 

The malicious words feel sweet on your tongue, and you feel waves of fear slap against your mental connection as they register in her simple mind.

The goblin stutters and sketches an unpracticed bow– forehead nearly touching her unkempt feet. “O-of course, True Soul. Apologies. Let ‘em through!” The goblin yells to her companions and they obediently lower drawn weapons.

“Impressive,” comments Astarion, “the old ‘Just Passing Through’ technique. With an illithid twist, of course. Our little passengers are just full of surprises.”

“Yes,” drawls Lae’zel, “let’s just hope those don’t include tentacles in the near future.”

Karlach chuckles and remarks, “Lae’zel, you’re quite the optimist, aren’t you?”

“I would describe myself as a realist,” quips the Gith.

Karlach sighs and says, “It was a joke. Sarcasm? Irony ? Familiar with either of those in Creche K’llir?”

“Yes. I recognized the intention – it just didn’t strike me as humorous.”

“Tough crowd,” you whisper to Karlach as you gently elbow her ribs. The gigantic woman beams down at you.

 

---

 

Stepping through the ruined village, it occurs to you that you never fully discussed what Wyll, Shadowheart, and Karlach discovered about Khaga in the swamps.

“Karlach, didn’t you say you found proof that Khaga is fraternizing with ‘Shadow Druids’? Along with more proof to support the dangers of the ‘Rite of Thorns’?”

“Ohhhh, yea! We didn’t, did we – I suppose what with how exhausted we all were yesterday– and then Mizora’s unwelcome visit this morning…it just slipped my mind!”

“Ooo yes,” croons Astarion, “what is that shade-tolerant-plant of a woman up to? Anything juicy?”

“Well, Astarion ,” says Karlach humoring his craving for gossip, “as a matter of fact she’s been coerced by Shadow Druids – you know, the ones Jaheira and her legendary crew helped to banish nearly a century ago? The ones in the murals spanning the walls of the Druids’ chambers?”

A flicker of recognition passes across Astarion, Shadowheart, and Gale’s faces. Something at the back of your mind flickers – a fragment of a memory – but you can’t recall much. 

Damn my scrambled brain.

Karlach continues, “Well, based on what little Arabella found in Khaga’s chest, and what we found in the swamps – it seems that someone named Olodan has brainwashed her into thinking the ‘Rite of Thorns’ is the only way to protect The Grove.”

“Interesting, and troubling.” Astarion casts a barely noticeable glance your way before adding, “for the Tieflings of course.”

“Exactly, and we found a letter stashed away in a rotted tree– physical proof of their coordination,” Shadowheart adds with a smirk. “She apparently plans to install herself as First Druid, taking advantage of Halsin’s disappearance. Seems Khaga needs a lesson or two in subterfuge.”

You wonder what a Cleric, who dashes about in loudly-clanking-armor, could know about secrecy – but brush the quip aside.

“What a little viper . I’d admire her tenacity,” muses Astarion, “if it weren’t tangling us up in such problems.”

Gale rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but you swear you see a corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“What do you presume we do?” Asks Lae’zel, always the tactician.

“Well,” says Karlach, pausing in her steps and tapping her plump, bottom lip, “we’re here to find that ‘Infernal Iron’ for my tune-up.” She then taps her always-glowing chest for emphasis, “once we find it, we’ll need to go back to the Grove to meet with Dammon. Maybe we confront her then? Change her mind before it’s too late?”

We could just change her mind by force – or into a pulp . A dark thought, emboldened by that pesky whisper flits by. “Not a bad idea, definitely the least ‘messy’ option,” you reply instead.

“I’m all for whatever angle keeps my hands clean,” Astarion laughs, “and I’m always up for a little trickery .”

It’s about this time that your meandering stroll through the village brings you by a decrepit barn. Discordant grunting and thumping echo within. You stop in your tracks, curiosity getting the better of you, and the sounds stop. Just as you’re about to turn away from the building, a low groan and several lurid sounds echo through the rotting planks of the door.

“Euwgh,” Karlach hisses, “whatever is behind that door – let’s leave it be. I don’t want to lose my breakfast so soon.”

“Agreed,” Shadowheart grimaces.

Against your better judgement, and to the horror of your companions, you lean into the door and ask, “Everything alright in there?” An awkward pause follows, before an aggravated voice responds.

“Go, AWAY!”

You can’t help it; your morbid eagerness is piqued. Surely, I’m not the only one who’s curious?  

You glance back at your companions to see Shadowheart and Karlach pulling faces, Gale appearing stricken with concern, and Lae’zel with furrowed brows. 

“Really,” you whisper, “ no one else is curious?” The four shake their heads. A stroke of childish disappointment seizes you, until you catch a wicked glimmer in Astarion’s crimson eyes.

“You didn’t ask me,” he purrs, quirking a silver brow. A twisted thrill run up your spine, and dammit, you can’t refuse that gorgeous face. You return the impish grin and reach for the door.

“Wait, don’t interrupt them–” he says, suddenly severe. You hesitate, fingers inches from the door. He stalks forward and straightens beside you, pinning you in place with his stunning, ruby gaze. 

One tense, slightly awkward heartbeat passes, before his sharpened expression melts into one of juvenile mischief. His fangs flash briefly as a smile, nearly as wide as his cheekbones, washes over his features. “Let me do it, they sound disgusting. ” 

The foul amusement in his tone and features grips your chest, squeezing butterflies free, and you wave him forward. He struts proudly toward the doors and shoves them open with a look of gleeful satisfaction– only to stop dead in his tracks as the reality of the scene within is revealed.

An ogress, almost as large as the barn itself leans forward on all fours, panting. Her skirt – if you could call it that – revealing far more of an ogre than your most vivid nightmares could summon. A bugbear pulls away from her, panicked and covering his erection. Then scrambles to pull on his trousers. 

The ogress snorts like a bull and growls as she pulls herself into a less vulnerable position. Clearly, and understandably, pissed. “Ruined!” she spits. “Moment ruined! SMASH! Grukkoh will SMASH you !”

“Well,” says Astarion, amusement fading, “looks like all the fun is over.”

The ogre huffs as the bugbear grabs a nearby maul.

“I hope that was worth it, Astarion,” Shadowheart groans and pulls her own maul from the loop at her side.

You and the rogue leap backwards as the giant ogress, Grukkoh apparently, takes a swing with a club you hadn’t seen before. Karlach roars, rushing forward to take a swing at the bugbear as he narrows his gaze on Gale.

“Why me?” Squeaks the wizard, “I’m not the one who invited myself in!”

“Puny human--" spits the bugbear, “you didn’t stop them either!”

Metal rings out, piercing your eardrums as Karlach parries the maul in the goblinoid’s claws with her great axe.

“Fair point,” Gale admits as he traces runes in the air.

The bugbear shoves Karlach back, using his clawed foot to kick the barbarian in the abdomen. She groans, and stumbles. 

“Rrrrahhh!” Lae’zel hollers, rushing Grukkoh to slash at her kneecaps.

“For what it’s worth,” you call to Astarion as you ready your fists and loosen your hold on the whisper, “I did find it somewhat hilarious. If not a bit disgusting.”

The rogue flashes a wicked smile your way as daggers appear in his hands. “Oh, I’ve seen worse if you can believe it.” He then flings a dagger at the bugbear’s shoulder– it sinks in and the creature bays in pain.

“Buthir!” Roars the ogress.

“Really?” you call back to Astarion over the din before launching yourself fists first at the stunned bugbear. You’d be damned before he lays another hairy foot on Karlach.

“Oh yes,” Astarion pulls a face, and another dagger slips from somewhere in his leathers to replace the one he’d just thrown. “Gnomes can be– ughhh, ” he shudders melodramatically.

You laugh at the expression coloring his face the same moment your fist collides with the tusked lips of the bugbear. They crush and run like cherries under your knuckles.

Yessss, moans the darkened muse in your mind. You let go of the leash completely and pummel the hairy creature, relief barreling through you with each strike that lands. Astarion’s eyes flash as he lunges at the creature’s opposite side in a blur, fangs bared. Ruby rivulets spill from the bugbears side as the vampire downs a mouthful. 

“That’s more like it,” he hisses, licking his lips, “now I can fight with all my weapons. Teeth included.”

The sight brings to mind your conversation the previous night– whether or not your companions would each have unique flavors. You wonder how the bugbear tastes to him – if there truly is a difference. But now is not the moment for philosophy or scientific musings – not as Grukkoh’s club swings dangerously close to your horns. “– shit!”

Karlach, taking a deep breath, regains her footing and slams the pommel of her great axe into Buthir’s temple, and the beast crumples behind you. “Let’s not kill them,” she pants, “after all, we ruined their morning first.”

“Another fair point,” Gale calls in between handfuls of ice-magic.

Your conscience agrees, but your bloodlust protests, No! Rip them open!  

As the fight continues around you, the darkened muse within rails against your skull, and you resist the urge to comply. Your head begins to pound with a heartbeat of its own as you fight to rein the darkness back in.

Astarion clicks his tongue, clearly disappointed. “Fine,” he says, “but if they track us down later to finish the job – I’m not helping.”

“Wh– you’re the reason we’re here to begin with!” Gale shouts, flustered.

“Yesss,” Astarion hisses in reply, “aaand , I would finish the job were it solely my choice. No loose ends– but Karlach makes a fair point.”

A pained groan comes from somewhere behind the ogress, as the hulking thing’s elbow rams backward into Shadowheart. She wheezes out, “can you all shut up and ‘finish the job’ before continuing this discussion?”

You’re loosely aware of the fight moving around you, but your attention has been stolen by the fight within your mind. The whisper is a roar, and you swear you can see it take shape before you– a warbling, blurred version of Sceleritas Fel– as if formed from smoke. Then a featureless woman, clad in skin-tight armor. You clutch your head, squeezing your eyes shut.

This isn’t real– you think.

Oh child, but it is, argues the whisper. You were made to destroy. To rend and brutalize, not to simper and offer mercy at every turn. You will obey.

In the background, somewhere outside of your skull, Lae’zel leaps from a barrel and somersaults onto the ogress’ shoulder. She howls with satisfaction as she rams the pommel of her own sword into the creature’s temple. “I am fury, I am death!”

Foolish wretch, you could learn a thing or two from your companion you know– you too are fury and death. But perhaps you need reminding? Now kill them!

The darkness tightens around you– a too-tight corset. A vice around your brain.

NO! Your mental voice is strained, thin. And for a moment, your vision refocuses on the world outside of your mind. You can fight this.

“Watch out!” you call hoarsely as the ogress topples backwards. Shadowheart leaps clumsily sideways at the last moment, almost knocking Gale over as she avoids the tree-trunk of a creature. 

“Shit– sorry, Gale!” 

He catches himself with his staff, preventing both of them from tumbling into a heap and grunts, “No big deal– my knees were already aching.”

Just as you seem to reach the surface– you’re pulled back into the vacuum that is your broken mind. You fixate on protecting your friends– you have no friends. They are a distraction, gnats in your ear. Perhaps we should remove them first?

NO! You yell again, you will NOT take them from me. You cannot make me harm them!

Your blood heats further, and your vision threatens to go red– just like it did before you murdered Nettie. Before you eviscerated Quil. Your stomach turns. A sharp, relentless ache builds to split your skull.

“STOP IT!” you scream internally, throwing every ounce of willpower against the bloodlust that works to seduce you towards senseless murder. 

At least– you think you’re screaming internally.

The pain is too much. You groan and fall to your knees, clutching your head as a pain, sharper than daggers, presses outward from the inside.

You will SUBMIT! Roars the dark voice within you.

Milady, Sceleritas croons, it would be in your best interest to listen. Go too long without sating your urges, the ugly little creature ‘tuts’ at you, and there’s no telling what you’ll do.

Maniacal, feminine laughter echoes around you, bouncing through the darkness you’re imprisoned within. 

Somewhere beyond this mental snare, cool, gloved hands grip your shoulders. But still, you see those shadowy figures taunting you. Teasing you. Baiting you to their macabre will.

“Astarion, what’s happening to her?” 

“I’m not exactly sure,” comes the reply. The voices are far away– warbling.

“Darling,” you hear somewhere outside of your deep, red prison. Your purgatory. “Darling, it’s not real–”

But it is. This cage, this fetid, horrible urge within me.

Your jailor, your critic. Your chain and your trap.

“Shadowheart, can you do anything to help her?” Astarion’s voice outside of this place is fearful. Magic tingles around you, tickling, irritating– then fizzles out. 

“It’s not working–” says the cleric from far away. 

The whisper takes over once more. You will fall to your urges, it is what you are. What you were born to be, death, murder, and brutality made flesh. Do not fight it– you will only lose in the end. You chose mercy for the Hag, mercy for these rutting beasts, that sickly, horrible, treacherous whisper cackles maniacally. You cannot hold out forever, murder is your calling. Pain is your peace.

You struggle to flee this place and fear that you’ll be lost here forever. This limbo of revulsion and terror.

“NO! I will not!” You wail again. Internally? Externally? The world is spinning– you don’t know.

You are falling, deeper into this sticky, red, bottomless cavern.

“I have an idea– but you all may not like it– “ Astarion again, somewhere nearby, yet impossibly out of reach.

“Quickly, her heart is bound to beat out of her chest,” Shadowheart’s fingers on your pulse. “And she’s burning nearly as hot as you, Karlach.”

“Do it– “ says a trio of voices. 

Gale? Karlach? Lae’zel?

The bottomless pit heats. Warm, too warm, you think. The walls are slick with blood– or maybe it’s your skin slick with sweat. With gore? You feel a distinct crack in the back of your mind. I’m going to lose it, a cackle threatens to bubble up within you. I’m going to go fully insane.  

Pain, sharp and aching floods your mind. Then, it fades– the aching in your skull numbs slowly. The slickness of your prison, no longer blood, becomes melting ice. 

“Darling,” you hear somewhere. Somewhere closer. “Kalliope, come back to us.” The darkness below you brightens. First mahogany, then red, and then gold – finally a blisteringly bright silver.

Help me, you rasp mentally. Your mind’s voice strained from terror and torment.

“Come back to us– to me, my dark, troubled friend,” Astarion. You’re sure of it. Materializing from that blinding silver– his quavering outline appears. 

Fragile, likely to drift apart should the wind blow too hard.

You reach for his hand, weakly, and find purchase. He pulls you to him, into the blinding, silver aura. “We’re almost there,” he whispers, “don’t let go.”

You don’t. You hold onto his hand as if your life depends on it. Your sanity – at the very least. Numbness continues to wash over you, but it’s calm and cool. Gentle and even throughout your body. 

For the first time since the whisper began railing into your skull, you open your eyes. 

Hazily, you can see your companions – all of them kneeling around you, looks of fear and concern plastered onto their faces. All of them except for– except for Astarion. 

He was just here, you think.

I’m still here, comes his voice, but you don’t see him.

Wh– where? You wonder again.

Right here, and then you see him– smell him. The cool shoulder of his leathers is beneath your cheek– his neck bent to yours as he cradles you gently. Breath tickling over your skin. But something is off– he’s behind you? Under you?

Both are technically true, darling, his voice again but it’s not with your ears that you hear it– it’s with your mind.

What in all the Nine Hells? You think, panicking again.

Ah, ah, ah, he tuts, and then he pulls away from you. You realize his lips had been against your neck, his fangs are red for only a moment before he swipes away any trace of how he just pulled you from your insanity. We just got you back from that dark place– don’t go rushing back into trouble.

The icy feeling– you think. His fangs. ‘Pain is your peace,’ the whisper had taunted.

The pain brought me back?

His lips are not moving. He blinks at you, calm. Serene. As if nothing is amiss. Nothing at all. 

You– how are you– you can hear my thoughts?! A new kind of horror grips you, and that dangerous smirk of his crawls across his still, unmoving lips.

Darling, I’ve always been able to hear them– at least the ones about me. And then his smirk is positively fiendish as he watches the implication sink in. 

You’re not the best at closing your ‘little passenger’ off from mine. When we first met, and I realized you too, had encountered the mindflayers you thought, ‘Not even half as pleasant as this one has been so far,’ he repeats the thoughts of your first meeting with him back to you.

Your mouth is sandpaper. 

Or, how about, when I was apologizing for the dagger incident, and you said you’d have done the same? ‘Climbing on top of you, included,’ I believe is how your next thought went.

No! You shriek internally, Oh Gods!  

Oh, Darling, yes – he responds, chuckling into your mind.

Then why wait until now to tell me?! You’re horrified as all of those lewd, explicit thoughts of him tumble through your brain all over again.

I was waiting for the right moment– to be honest. I knew your reaction would be hilarious, and I wanted to save it until I couldn’t any longer– alas. Surprise!

You’re stunned. This sneaky, little bastard of an elf.

You’re doing it again, he grins.

You flush bright pink– brighter than usual. Fury and embarrassment and arousal and confusion flood your mind all at once. This is too much.

To be fair, Darling, you weren’t responding verbally— to any of us. The situation called for drastic measures.

“Ahem,” Shadowheart clears her throat and raises an onyx brow at you. “You’re just staring at each other, are you alright, Kalliope?”

We are not finished with this discussion, you retort mentally. Not. Even. Close.

Oh, my depraved little treat. I agree. This is just the beginning.

“I– I think so?” You’re honestly not sure.

“Should we carry on without the two of you,” Lae’zel asks, “we still have that ‘Infernal Iron’ to locate.”

“No,” you squeak, voice strained from the stress and embarrassment of the past half-hour. The last thing you can handle is being alone with this man. This– infuriating, gorgeous, stupid–

“That won’t be necessary.” You slide off of Astarion’s lap and move to stand, his crimson eyes locked upon you the whole time, knowing and smug.

“If you’re certain?” Gale questions, “that was– that was quite a lot just now,” he laughs nervously.

“I’m certain,” you reassure them again.

“Well then, I’ll get us patched up, and then we can continue on.” Shadowheart groans as she summons a wave of healing energy over all of you, then sighs with relief when the spell takes effect. 

“What about those two,” Karlach asks, “they’ll live?”

You take a few cautious steps forward to examine the fallen lovers. Both are unresponsive, though their chests rise and fall. Their pupils are dilated, and knots are beginning to form on each of their heads, but otherwise, they don’t look to be too injured.

“Yep, they’ll live. Probably with a heavy helping of resentment towards us – but otherwise– they’ll be fine.”

“And you?” Karlach asks.

“Yes, yes. I appreciate the concern, but let’s get moving. I’d like to put as much distance between me and that– unpleasant experience – as possible.”

 

---

 

Having locked the barn behind you and then barred the door from the outside– your group carefully skirts between buildings. Wary of any attention your confrontation with the lovers may have drawn.

The goblins from before stand loosely at attention, seemingly unbothered, while picking at various orifices and arguing over who’ll get best pick of any loot they find.

You gradually slow your pace to join Astarion at the back of the group. His misadventures from moments ago have inspired your other, less chaotic members to take the lead.

“So,” you whisper to Astarion once you’ve reached his side. “I have to ask– do your musings around unique flavors of blood hold any weight?”

“Hmm?” he mumbles at first, gaze unfocused and far away.

“Did you hear my question?” you whisper again, daring a step closer to his side.

“Oh– yes.” He blinks and looks your way, and you notice a faint blush coloring his cheeks and ears, a new hue of sparkling red in his irises. “The bugbear did have a certain– pungency to him. Much like venison or boar. Not entirely unpleasant.”

A silent beat passes before he adds, “I never quite grasped just how starved he’d kept us all that time…centuries of– Gods.”

“You look sharper than before the fight, more vibrant,” you gesture at your own cheeks, ears, and eyes to illustrate your meaning. “An effect of feeding?”

“Well, unfortunately, I’ve no reflection to verify your observations by– but yes. I do feel sharper.” He sighs with bliss, “the bugbear was nothing compared to you as the chaser– though feeding regularly has been quite the pleasant change of pace.”

“I’m glad,” you say, smiling brightly at the elf “that you’re feeding regularly, I mean.” A millisecond of shock brushes his features, not quite believing someone has his best interests in mind, before he returns the grin. 

Though it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

 

---

 

Once back in the core of the village, you can hear screaming and hoarse laughter coming from the southwest. You and your companions look at one another as if to say, ‘you all heard that too, right?’

“Strange,” mutters Shadowheart. “I wonder if it’s more goblins.”

“Probably so,” says Karlach, “they’re like roaches, aren’t they? Everywhere you look and nowhere they’re wanted?”

“Sounds like they’re either having quite a bit of fun, or being tortured,” you add. 

“Likely both,” Gale surmises. “Well, I suppose that means we’ll be heading that way next– yes?”

Astarion sighs, “Darling, must we always be the heroes?”

“Not always,” you say, “but– sometimes. When it suits us.”

“Alright,” he groans “let’s get a move on then.”

Just past the next building and up a set of stairs, you lay eyes on the commotion. Around a windmill, a group of goblins and worgs stand. Laughing and snickering amongst themselves. The screaming, it seems, is coming from the windmill– you catch a glimpse of a small man tied to one of the panels.

“Get me off this thing!” He wails.

“Fly, birdie! Fly,” The goblins heckle their captive.

“Euwgh, a gnome ,” Astarion groans.

“What’s your deal with gnomes?” This is not the first, or even the second time that he’s expressed a distaste for the shorter race. His distaste of Gur – the wandering, nomadic monster hunters – that makes sense. Given his particular– situation. 

But gnomes? You can’t think of a reason that would make sense.

“They’re just so– animated– like children . Ever visited a suburb with a gnomish workshop nearby? Good luck finding any peace or quiet. Constant tinkering. And like I mentioned earlier– in the way they express their– affections, they’re just– euwgh ,” he shudders dramatically and pulls a face.

“You’re lucky none of us happen to be gnomes, what would you do then?” Karlach asks pointedly.

Astarion merely shrugs, “I guess so long as you could prove yourself capable– you’d be tolerable .”

“I bet he just dislikes them because he can’t crouch low enough to sneak up on them– or pick their pockets effectively,” Shadowheart jests.

“Ha, ha . Very amusing Shadowheart. ” The pale elf pauses, and you can practically see the gears turning in his mind. “Gnomes and I have just– never seen eye-to-eye, excuse the pun.” 

He pins you with another one of those stares that makes you feel so very vulnerable. As if he’s disrobing you, reading far past the surface. “But, is that really what keeps you up at night, Darling? My dislike of gnomes?”

Your cheeks heat, and you clear your throat– suddenly dry before replying.

“Wouldn’t you like to know what keeps me up at night?” You tease. 

If he wants to keep playing this game, I’ll go right along with it. And then, you wish you could take the thought back– fearful that that one too made it past your tadpole-filter.

If it did sneak through, Astarion thinks nothing in return.

 

---

 

A grating voice pulls you from your smug daydreaming, “Look what we got ‘ere. Anova lil’ birdie wantin’ ta fly.”

“Excuse me,” you say, folding your arms across your chest. The gnome wails again in the background, begging for assistance.

“ – HEEEELLLP!”

Ignoring you, the goblin turns his pinched gaze upon the windmill, “Keep flappin’ those wings,” he teases, “and I’ll feed you a worm. ” Another wail comes from the gnome as he makes another circle around the mill. Then the goblin turns his attention back to you.

“An’ you, hope you got a stomach fer heights!” 

“And what if I don’t?” You tap your foot impatiently and glare down at the cheeky little beast.

“Doesn’t make no diff’rence ta me. You’ll scream jus’ as pretty as that lil’ birdie over there.”

“What in the nine hells is this anyway,” pipes up Astarion, “a novel interrogation tactic?”

“Whatsit bloody look like, pasty? We’re teachin’ this ‘ere pipsqueak ta fly!”

“Let me rephrase that,” you growl, that foolish protectiveness slithering unbidden into your voice, “why are you doing this?”

“‘Cause it makes me laugh,” the goblin cackles, a rough, choked sort of sound, and his compatriots around him echo it.

“Well, that’s rather fucked up,” Karlach scoffs. “Game o’ cards or dice not good enough?”

“I didn’t ask fer yer opinion, maggot. Not unless ya want ta join ‘im up there. How ‘bout this– you pay a toll, an’ go on as you like…or else you fly!”

“Chk. I tire of this, let’s just gut the pests and move along with our day,” Lae’zel snarls.

“I like the way you think, ‘Zel,” Karlach winks at the fighter, draws her weapon, and then bounces the shaft of her great axe playfully against her empty hand. 

“Wanna dance ?” she asks the goblin coyly

 

---

 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 19: Wretched Thing

Summary:

“Ogres are hulking giants notorious for their quick tempers. When its rage is incited, an ogre lashes out in a frustrated tantrum until it runs out of objects or creatures to smash.

[…]

Much like hill giants, ogres were gluttonous creatures willing to eat almost anything. They enjoyed the taste of raw dwarf flesh, but would also eat halfling or elf flesh when they could get it. They would often use the skin and bones of their prey to fashion crude loincloths and necklaces.

Ogres were known to typically associate with goblinoids, orcs, and their fellow giant-kin trolls. In the social structure of the giants, the Ordning, ogres were considered the lowest-ranked of all giant-kin. Because of this, they were typically found to be willing servants of giants. The giant races they were most often seen working alongside were hill giants and verbeeg, the former of which they often traded with for trinkets or food.

Many ogres worked as mercenaries, hoping for easy plunder, and in that line of work they were often seen alongside verbeeg. Lone hags, as well as covens, were known to employ ogres as guards, while others polymorphed ogres and sent them out to work as spies.”

— Volo’s Guide to Monsters

Notes:

CW: Mentions of Cannibalism and Self-Harm

The fight with the goblins is entirely too easy, which you’re glad for, given the mental distress your most recent encounter plunged you into. 

Half-heartedly, you stun a few here and there, and then Karlach and Lae’zel finish them off while Gale and Shadowheart provide support. Some receive gory ends courtesy of Lae’zel and her greatsword, while others may manage to make it through the night– thanks only to Karlach’s soft heart – or – well, engine.

By the end of it, Astarion hauls Fezzerk to a nearby post, and then pins him to it with a dagger through his armor. He raises a second to the goblin’s throat, before asking, “Are we killing him, or do you intend to use him for something, darling ?”

You shrug, uncharacteristically detached from the situation, “I’ll let you all decide that.”

“ Excellent,” growls Astarion. 

“Stop!” Fezzerk wails. “I give up– please !” Astarion sighs and rolls his eyes, then pulls the dagger away and takes his sweet time polishing the dagger to let you all deliberate. 

“I know things,” the creature continues, all former sense of bravado vanished. “If you let me live– I’ll make it worth your while. I p–promise.”

“All these birds sing the same song,” Astarion sighs disappointedly. “Why can’t it be fun to win for a change?”

“What’ll you do to make your measly life worth it?” Karlach asks, glaring down at the wretch.

“Ask me anything– I’ll tell you!”

“Where’s the Druid, gobbo,” Karlach asks.

“Druid? What Druid?” Fezzerk looks genuinely confused for a moment.

“Halsin, went to your camp a tenday or so ago with some other blokes. Never returned to the Grove. That druid,” Shadowheart interjects. 

“I don’ remember no Druid, but the lads did capture a rather large bear about that time. ‘E’s penned up with our worgs at the camp. Don’t druids talk to animals an’ stuff? Maybe the bear knows.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me ,” Astarion groans. “Seriously, this is what your life is worth to you?” He returns the second dagger, now thoroughly shined, to the goblin’s throat.

“Hmm,” Karlach hums aloud, “what’re you lot plannin’ for the Grove? Tell me that, give me that nice lookin’ greataxe you got there– and we’ll let you go. You never saw us though, of course.” 

The goblin moves to nod eagerly, then seems to remember the dagger at his throat. He swallows audibly, “Minthara and Gut, they’re workin’ wiv Dror Ragzlin to sack tha place. Strongarm more followers for The Absolute. Raid and resupply, revel in destruction– tha’ sor’a thing.” Fezzerk squirms, feet scrabbling to find purchase on the ground. “Can I go now?”

Astarion looks to you with a bored and deflated expression, We’re really going to spare a goblin? Really? 

You hear the words as plainly as if they’d been said aloud, and it startles you. Unsure how comfortable you are with the idea that this elf can get inside of your head now.

You’ve got enough visitors in there for your taste already.

Honestly, you sigh internally, I really could care less. But if the others want to let him go– let him go. Maybe he’ll owe us something later on.

Astarion gives you a quizzical look, like he’s trying to read the puzzle of emotions on your face. Then he sighs, and unceremoniously removes the dagger pinning the goblin’s armor to the post. 

The creature falls to the ground in a pathetic heap before stumbling towards his greataxe and tossing it to Karlach. “What an upgrade,” she says happily. “‘Ere, this hunka junk isn’t worth anything to me now.” Karlach hurls her axe just in front of the goblin’s feet, where it sinks into the ground, handle up. 

Fezzerk lets out a sound somewhere between a scream and a ‘yeep’, then stumbles backward. Not wanting to stick around and find out if your mercy is a lie or not– the creature hauls the blade from the earth before turning tail and running off to the south– the remainders of his crew on his heels.

 

---

Goblins dealt with, you make your way around the back of the windmill searching for a way to get the gnome down. “Gale, ‘brake release lever’ or ‘brake lever’,” you call from the inside of the crumbling structure. 

“Brake lever, unless you want to send this cheeky fellow soaring through the treetops.”

That could be quite hilarious, you think to yourself– and possibly Astarion. Who the fuck knows anymore– this day is exhausting. Slowly the machine comes to a stop. 

“Cut me loose!” The gnome wriggles against his bonds. 

“If we do– what’s in it for us? Aside from the whole we get to feel like heroes rubbish.” The rogue’s tone is heavy with disdain. 

“Free me, and find out,” says the gnome as you round back to the front of the windmill. 

“Very well, gnome. Go ahead, darling.” 

The gnome grunts as he lands on the ground before you, much more gracefully than the goblin did earlier. “Well, get on with it,” barks the gnome, staring defiantly up at you. 

You give him a quizzical look. 

“The pale one wanted to know what was in it for you all– aside from feeling like heroes. So, go ahead. Extort me. That’s how this works right? You save me, then extort me for a reward? Heroes are never ‘ heroes’ just for the sake of it.” 

“I’ll be damned–” Astarion breathes, “I might actually like this gnome– heroes are always half the problem.”

“Look’it you, Astarion,” Karlach says, moving to clap him on the back before she remembers her condition. “That’s what we call, personal growth. ”

“Take my pack,” the gnome says, “it’s the reason the goblins caught me in the first place. Blasted thing was too heavy to outrun them with. I think they’ve chucked it into the mill’s cellar.”

“Why’re you out here alone,” Karlach asks. “It’s a bit dangerous to wander the Sword Coast alone.”

“I’m not alone,” says the gnome, “well– once I find my friend I won’t be. He’s the reason I’m even out here. Damn fool went missing recently – and I always help my friends.” The gnome pulls a stained locket from his pocket and explains how he found it on a thug after his friend hadn’t come home one night in Baldur’s Gate. 

“If you find him, tell him Barcus is looking for him. Well then, I bid thee farewell. If we should meet again– well– we will have met again.” 

Wasting no time, Barcus turns on his heels and heads for a hole in the ramshackle village wall.

Below the mill, just as Barcus had said, you find a pack with a satchel of smokepowder, a letter or two, and some very interesting boots which you happily swap yours for.

 

---

When you climb back up the ladder to the surface, you see Shadowheart has wandered to a crumbling statue at the edge of a cliff. The statue appears to be to Selȗne, but it’s cracked in half. At its base, there are various offerings and letters, but from what you can see– they seem to be mentions of Shar. Not Selȗne. You vaguely remember from your days as a monk, before the tadpole, that Selȗne and Shar are two sides of the same deific coin. 

Selȗne, the Moonmaiden, the sister whose domain lay in light, love, truth, life, and good-aligned beings. Often guiding lost travelers with moonmotes or sailors across the sea. While her sister Shar, the Nightsinger, was said to be her dark opposite. Called the Lady of Darkness, Shar’s domain lay in loss, secrecy, night, and darknesses of the soul.

You stand back and give the cleric space, at once curious about Shadowheart’s beliefs, and also remembering how often she called to the ‘Lady of Sorrows’. It also dawns on you in the moment, that Shadowheart – though you feel comfortable around her – is the member of your party who you know the least about. Always so secretive, dodging questions about her past. Or at times, not speaking much at all.

“Shadowheart?” You ask, but the cleric remains quiet. Reverent. You step beside her and wait, quietly, for her to speak. Rather than speak, she wails in pain as a strange, purple light suddenly glows from her right palm– like a wound seeping light rather than blood. “Shadowheart,” you say again, more forcefully this time.

“Nngh…it hurts,” she’s clasping her wrist now, teeth bared and eyes pinched closed. Your instinct is to reach forward– to place a gentle hand on her shoulder– but you’re also uncertain if she would welcome the gesture.

The light flares again, and your instinct wins over. Shortly after your hand makes contact, the light gutters out and Shadowheart breathes a shuddering sigh of relief. “What– what was that? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine– it’s just an old wound that hurts me from time to time. Nothing to be concerned about.”

You give her a look that says, bullshit , and the cleric’s stony resolve flickers for a moment. So many secrets in this group, you think.

Her name is Shadowheart, after all– her name being a bit ominous practically screams, ‘I’ll never tell you.’ Astarion’s voice in your head is less surprising this time, and you catch him watching the two of you very carefully from his place beside the windmill’s cellar doors. I’m sure her parents meant well, unless she chose it herself– which is even more worrying, honestly. There’s a pause before he adds, don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.        

Your concern is noted, you think back in his direction. …And adorable…

“If, if you’re sure,” you say. “But, if you do need to talk about it– you can. I won’t press you for answers, so long as you can promise that you don’t have any demons commanding you, a need to feast on me– or my magickal items, or an explosive engine within your chest.” 

You count the known worries of your companions off on your fingers, hoping to lighten the mood and dissuade any mistrust within the woman before you.

“It’s nothing like that– and it has nothing to do with our tadpoles, I can say that much,” she trails off, clearly warring within her own mind about just how much she wants to share in this moment. “It’s just– something I have to live with.”

 

---

 

You turn from the crumbling statue and rejoin the rest of your group. “Everything all right,” Gale asks. Your earlier episode must have spooked him more then he lets on, because he seems less like a wizened magic wielder and more like a mother hen just now. You glance at Shadowheart, letting her decide how to respond. 

“There’s no time to waste, we’ve still work to do. And it’s already past noon,” she brushes past you and towards the stairs leading back into the village.

“No rest for the wicked, I see,” is all the wizard says; though the look he gives you speaks volumes about his disapproval of more secrecy within the group. You hope the look you give him in return is apologetic enough, while still acknowledging his unease.

Down the stairs to your right, you hear a noise disturbingly familiar to you. Tearing of flesh and sinew. Deep voices punctuate the wet sounds. Nausea swims to the surface, as the whisper perks up its darkened ears once more. Gods, not again.

The butcher calls, child. Answer it sweetly. Before you can really decide to indulge this curiosity, your feet are already moving. Clearly, your darkened muse has no patience today.

Inside of yet another falling-apart-building, three more massive ogres stand in a clump around a pile of severed body parts. Tiefling body parts. One of them gluttonously tears at an arm. 

Part of you wants to retch while the other nearly growls with yearning.    

“I’m not sure which is worse,” Karlach mutters, “the rutting ogre from the barn, or this horror.”

You don’t reply, you’ve only eyes for the veritable feast before you. Your stomach growls and your mouth wettens.

Darling, Astarion warns, I can smell your hunger. Get ahold on yourself or there will be some very uncomfortable explanations in your future. I don’t see the others being as– graceful about your– ‘voices’.

“Taste like chicken,” decides the ogre chewing the shoulder-end of the arm. Like a horse would a carrot, you think darkly, and a corner of your mouth twitches upward.

Another across from him glares and raises a tree branch – appropriated into a club. “No chicken. Taste like fish!” He then angrily smacks the first in the nose. Punishment for a poor palate.

A third ogre, adorned with various furs and leathers much nicer than his brothers’, looks between the two, glaring. “Gentleman - contain yourselves. This quarrel sours our feast,” the ogre huffs like a bull, “Besides - taste like pork!”

Wretched thing! You scold yourself, Pull yourself together! The whisper merely laughs in response to your self-chastening.

“If you need a fourth opinion–” your voice is suddenly not your own. It’s taken on a darker tone. A hungry tone.

Astarion, now beside you and clearly on edge, sighs and mutters beneath his breath, “...heeere we go…”

“And what surprise is this?” the eloquent ogre’s gaze drags away from his friends and to you instead. 

You cock a smile and pop out a hip, suddenly very confident and comfortable with the situation.

The ogre looks pleased, “Brothers, look here. I have eyed yet another prize. Fortune favors our bellies! Stranger, be you friend or food? The mark is Her measure: show us the brand of the Absolute.”

“How about a show of hospitality first,” the whisper says through your lips. “Surely, you can spare a thigh-piece for a potential ally?”

“ What?” Gale hisses from somewhere behind you. Astarion steps closer to you, protective or readying to attack the beast– you’re not sure.

The ogre chuckles, “A fellow gourmand? A pleasant surprise for Lump the Enlightened on such a fine day,” he picks up a leg between his claws, and tears a hunk off– offering it to you.

“Long pig– a delicacy,” your lips shape the words, and your voice gives them breath, but internally, you are horrified. I warned you Wretched one, the whisper hisses at you, ignore your heritage, your gifts and there’s no telling what you’ll do.

Horrified, your hand accepts the gift, then moves the cut towards your lips. The sweet smell of flesh, fresh and still rare draws another growl from your stomach.

“Kalliope, what are you doing?” Gale hisses again. 

I don’t know! You want to scream in reply.

My sweet, bloodthirsty friend, you are dangerously close to a cliff you cannot climb back from. Astarion’s tone in your head is the most panicked you’ve heard since meeting him.

A moment drags into eternity, the supple flesh coming ever closer to your lips. Your will, exhausted from before, screams from behind bars wrought by your disturbed muse. You pull at the bars, rattle the door– desperate. Frantic– furious. Yet, some small part of you, buried behind the fog that is your memory, is gleeful . 

Do it, that small part echoes the whisper’s sick intentions.

Your lips graze the offering– rich and supple; and then you’re biting down. 

Tearing. 

Chewing . 

Swallowing, then moving for another. 

You hear Karlach gag behind you, Shadowheart sucks in a breath. Lae’zel curses in gith, and Gale is merely silent. Speechless with horror.

Astarion eyes you warily at your side, gaze wide with shock. For once, at a loss for words.  

“You’ve got none of your own, I notice,” says the voice that is yours-but-not between bites.

The ogre huffs a laugh, “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,” says the first ogre, “good deal.”

“No talk!” Lump scolds as he bonks the first ogre on the head again.

“Forget the goblins, those mangey little fools. You should fight for me.”

Lump looks you up and down, assessing. Before huffing in approval again. “I am by all accounts a student of higher commerce and extortion. Make me an offer– tempt me. ”

Still screaming within your mental prison, the darkness pilots your hand to return the delicacy to the ogres. Lump accepts, and swallows it in one go. “I’ll pay you in the flesh of the fallen - you’ll have your fill,” your arm motions to the butchery before you, “this will be your new normal.”

“A serenade to my ears, and a boon to my belly. We’ve a bargain, my tasty kibble! Take my bonehorn. One blow, and the ground will quake with my family’s name. Use it when the need arises - and never a moment before.”

The instrument is well-worn, smooth for the most part, and chipped in other places. You tuck it into a loop on your pack.

“Ogre kill everyone around! Then ogre eats them,” the first growls and raises a victorious fist. For once, he is not punished for his opinion.

“Well spoken. Indeed, ‘ogre kill everyone around,’” Lump echoes.

Your body sketches a bow, “It has been a pleasure, my articulate friend.”

“Am I not astonishing? A robust diet makes for a shrewd mind, you see. I too am a gourmand. We will keep close, when you are ready, sound the horn!”

You nod, and finally, your body is your own again. Thank you, Wretched one, hisses the twisted whisper as it relinquishes control. Let this be a reminder– we are foul. We are fearsome– not weak and merciful.

The ogres bound off, and you heave a sigh of relief as you’re once more in control.

“Ok,” Gale grits out as soon as the beasts are out of sight, “I have so many words , but right now– I need your words.” The wizard looks disappointed beyond belief.

“That was foul, soldier,” Karlach bites out, “and I’ve lived in hell for a decade!”

“I too– echo their concerns,” Lae’zel adds, calm as ever.

“I– ,” you start, “I have an issue. One beyond the tadpole, I think.”

“ I’ll say,” scoffs Shadowheart, “what a wholesome crew we’ve found ourselves in.”

“Give me a reason not to write you off,” Gale sighs, “ please, Kalliope .” The pleading concern in his eyes tears at your heartstrings.

A long moment passes as you sort through your issues. Wondering what they’ll accept, versus what they won’t.

“You lot are unbelievable,” Astarion sneers, “an astral colonizer who worships a lich-queen, a soldier from the hells with an engine for a heart, and a wizard who eats magickal items to stabilize a volatile orb in his chest. That’s right– I heard the concerns you aired with Kalliope the other day in the swamps.”

No one speaks. 

“And you– ,” he narrows his wine-red eyes at Shadowheart, “I know a Sharran when I see one. Your ilk are far from sinless. I can smell the blood on your hands, Cleric. ” He scans the group with a dangerous glint in his eye, daring them to argue.

“Kalliope has been nothing but helpful and understanding to all of us. Including the ignorant, self-pitying warlock we left at camp with the Lich. Lae’zel, she freed you from a cage. Gale, she pulled you from a portal – how a wizard gets trapped in his own magic, I don’t know. Karlach, Wyll wanted your head , but Kalliope was sensible enough to talk him down. To call him on his bullshit. Shadowheart– you’re nothing if not a walking dark omen–, ”

“Says the red flag…” she mumbles under her breath.  

“But Kalliope, for whatever stupid reason, has yet to press you on your strange artifact, your past, your faith in ‘The Lady of Darkness’.” Astarion’s eyes glint with frustration as he airs the hypocrisies of the group. “And I– well– we’re all well aware of why most wouldn’t keep me around. But that’s beside the point,” he chuckles nervously.

“Your point being, Astarion,” Gale counters.

“That you have no reason to doubt her loyalty or predilections.”

Your cheeks flush– with embarrassment and flattery. No one has ever stood up for you like this– that you can remember anyhow.

“That still doesn’t explain– whatever the Hells that was,” Karlach yells. Even the birds quieten at the barbarian’s outburst.

“...I hear voices,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “At first, I thought– I’d hoped it was the tadpole. But unfortunately, it seems that that isn’t the case– because you all seem hopelessly stable . Well, other than your aforementioned issues.”

All eyes swivel to you, anxiety, concern, frustration flickering across their gazes. You take a shaky breath and continue, “These voices…they…they tell me to do terrible things. Wretched things. Mostly, I’ve been able to keep them under control. ‘The Urges’ I have– my blood thrums in battle, and this darkened whisper in my mind sings with every brutal act.”

“And why are you, Astarion , not as horrified as the rest of us?” Shadowheart turns to the pale elf, mistrust filling her glare. “What do you know, that we don’t? ”

The elf opens his mouth to speak, catches your eye, and then hesitates. The cleric glares harder. Expectant. 

“Because I went to him the other night after someone from my past appeared out of nowhere,” you blurt, pulling any ire from your friend and back in your direction. 

You explain the ‘butler’ Sceleritas Fel, his musings, admiration, and knowledge of your past. Your lack of any sort of memory before the illithid nautiloid and that clammy pod. Your nightmares. Your rage. The bloodlust– all of it– aside from what happened to Quil…and how you decked Alfira in the Grove. 

Through your explanation, your companions look on with horror, sympathy, shock, and disbelief. Astarion regards you with some sort of admiration– a look he’s given to nothing else thus far.

“I– ,” Gale starts, “ I’m sorry . That you have that burden to bear. Is that why– what–,” he clears his throat nervously, “earlier in the barn? You were screaming.”

“Yes,” you admit reluctantly. “The whisper, the darkened muse, whatever the hells it is– it was furious that I’d been so merciful lately. It warned that ignoring my urges for too long would lead to unknown brutality.”

More silence.

“My mind’s never quiet…and earlier, I thought I was going to finally break. Lose control. It wanted me to hurt someone– it threatened to make me hurt one of you ,” your voice breaks as you remember the abject terror of losing control. “I– I was fighting it with everything I had.”

Shadowheart hums in recognition, “That explains why your pulse and body temperature were so elevated. The stress.” You nod. “But it doesn’t explain why Astarion’s– approach worked.”

The beautiful elf catches your gaze with his, and something almost like empathy dances across his crimson irises. Your breath hitches– and the tears you’re holding back grip your throat like a vice. He understands what it’s like– to feel like a monster. No one– no one else will.  

Astarion holds your gaze and nods, nearly imperceptible, as he says, “I can’t explain it either. It was just a hunch–,”

But you know better than that.

 

---

With hours of daylight remaining, your party returns to camp. There’s still half of the village to pick through– but you’re too emotionally exhausted to continue on. Your companions, blessedly, have no qualms with an early rest. 

“We’ll find your iron tomorrow, Karlach,” you promise. Voice devoid of nearly all emotion.

“I’ll hold you to that, soldier,” she gives you a weak smile.

Wyll is lounging in his tent with a book and a horn of ale when you finally reach camp.

“So, Wyll, how was your day of self-loathing,” Astarion asks as he heads to the camp chest to deposit this morning’s scavenged goods. Wyll shoots Astarion a nasty glare.

“It was just fine– thank you,” grumbles the warlock. “You lot look like you’ve seen better days. What happened out there?” 

You slip into your tent just as Karlach begins to debrief her mercenary-turned-friend, concerned of what she might say– how she might say it. But too exhausted to self-advocate any more today.

Your nest of furs and blankets, blissfully, are still thrown open from this morning. Shucking your new boots, and wiping your face with a sponge, you then burrow your way into the heap of covers. You’re too tired to cry, and despite your new amulet, you’re woozy all over again after Astarion’s bloody, rescue approach. The whisper, having had it’s fun with you earlier, has crawled back into its foul crevasse in your mind.

You stare at the wall of your tent, fabric rippling gently with each change in the wind. Voices echo outside, but it just sounds like droning to you. 

You’re numb.

Numb with revulsion. Relief. Despair. Apathy.

What am I to do, you wonder hopelessly. I can’t ignore the urges– clearly. But I refuse to give in. You pull the covers tighter around you, hugging yourself. What is wrong with me?

 

---

 

It’s that thought that circles in your mind as you stare, and stare– and stare at the wall of your tent. Any reckless joy at witnessing Astarion’s childish glee in the barn earlier is gone. 

Any sense of comfort or belonging brought on by your companions’ nearness is also vanished.

 

---

Dinner has come and gone. Sunset is on it’s last rays of light.

Nothing hurts anymore. Nothing– feels like anything anymore.

 

---

 

You’re exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come. You hold out hope that Astarion might come sniffing about for his nightly meal. But that hope is dashed when hours pass and he still doesn’t show.

Maybe he’s finally realized there’s something wrong with my blood.

At some point, you drift off to sleep. Blissful, quiet sleep.

 

---

 

Voices like angels sing in the background, and the air is fresh and cool upon your cheeks. You awaken to a sound like windchimes on the breeze. A man, who looks familiar but has eyes that glow like molten silver crouches before you. His gentle hand against your forehead. Behind him, the sky is a beautiful mosaic of lavender and rose– stars glittering so closely.

“I came just in time,” he muses. “You are transforming.”

Any peace within you shatters like glass, at the omission, and you’re transported. Back to the wreckage of the illithid ship– before the crash. You see yourself through another’s eyes– trapped in that horrible pod once more. Then, the view shifts, and you see the man before you glimmering and twinkling – barely visible – standing in front of that same pod. Mere moments before you awoke and escaped. His eyes are an infernal teal and gold like yours, concern paints his features.

The vision fades, and you’re back on your bedroll under the lavender sky, the familiar man still kneeling before you. You make to sit up, and you feel lighter than a feather– wherever you are.

“Your voice– I know it. I’ve heard it before.”

“Yes,” says the familiar man, a crinkle forming beside his kind eyes, “you have. I saved you before,” he reaches out gently to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. There is somewhere else that you remember this man from. 

His facial tattoos are an echo to your own– golden lines where yours are dots. Marks of a master, and marks of an aspirant. The tattoo traces between his brows, down his nose, then beneath his eyes. The same golden shimmer to his lips– a stark contrast to the berry-pink hue of his skin. Your skin. The tattoo continues below his lips, down his chin, and stops at its point.

Dark teal-black hair, though his is sprinkled with silver, and horns. Horns that begin as midnight blue, rise gracefully to a teal from the crown of his head– and end quickly in gilded tips.

‘Where do I know him from,’ you wonder, ‘a parent? Master? Teacher?’ The answer eludes you, hovering somewhere beyond the thick fog that is your memory.

“And I’m here to save you again,” his eyes flare silver, and you see yourself falling, tumbling through the sky from the nautiloid. The same transparent outline of this man from the previous vision appears before your unconscious body, moments before your head collides with the beach. You watch yourself halt midair– suspended and protected from a fall that should have killed you.

The vision fades, “Don’t worry, you will not become a mind-flayer. Not while I’m around, I’ll protect you.”

He stands and offers you a gloved hand. You take it, allowing yourself to be pulled to your feet– inexplicably comfortable in his presence. He strolls away from your bedroll towards a cliff. Now that you’re standing, you can see that you and this stranger are in a dream-like realm. Asteroids and chunks of rock hover weightlessly in the sky. 

“There is great potential within you. It comes from that parasite. Your instinct is to resist the power it gives, but you must accept it– nurture it.”

His expression hardens, “I will keep it from consuming you, but for the sake of both of us, you must learn to wield it.” 

He turns and motions to the emptiness beyond you. In the distance, you see a humanoid skull– larger than a chapel– hovering leagues away. The chamber where a brain might have once sat is enclosed in a prismatic force field. Blue and pink wisps of people dash here and there– a battle in midair.

“A fight for the fate of Faerȗn. A fight we are losing– for now. You can change that, Kalliope. But only if you embrace your potential, as you were taught before. You will hone a new set of skills.”

The prismatic battle rages in the background, pink figures shattering blue ones– and vice versa. The sphere in the skull rattles and swells, “I have to go. The enemy is closing in, I will be back.”

A terrible humming fills the space around you, as the sphere continues to swell and bulge. Larger and brighter– an impending explosion builds. Just before the explosion reaches its climax– the stranger thrusts a hand in your direction. A vacuum of air sucks you backwards, away from the familiar-looking-man– and all goes white.

All that remains is his final command, “Wake now, you’ll feel better. I promise.” 

 

---

 

You awaken– confused. That dream felt awfully real. Yet as the peace of the dreamscape fades, reality comes slipping back in. Again, self-loathing and hopelessness fill your gut with dread. You move to pull your blankets more tightly around you– but they don’t budge. A weight keeps them from sliding closer to you.

You crane your neck forward to find Scratch curled at your ankles. The dog opens his eyes in a sleepy daze, and thumps his tail at you, Hello, friend, he seems to say. Then with a sigh and a huff, the dog falls asleep once more. 

This time, sleep comes easily.

 

---

 

The next morning, you make your way to the river earlier than usual, and find Astarion propped up against a stone that overlooks the water. That same large tome resting against the thigh of his bent leg.

“Good morning, darling,” he says as you approach. “How did you rest? Are you feeling better today?”

You stretch and yawn, then make your way to sit beside him on his perch. He pats the stone beside him, a too-sweet smile ghosting across his lips. “I slept– okay. Eventually,” your hand finds a pebble beside you and you run it through your fingers, twisting and flipping it.

“And my second question?”

“I– uh– better than yesterday, at least?” Your attempt at a reassuring smile is unconfident. “Thank you,” you say weakly, “for having my back. And I guess for pulling me back from–,”

“The edge?” He finishes. “Don’t even think of it, I owed you for protecting me from the village mob,” he laughs half-heartedly, then his face goes slack again. “You know–,” he begins, and then pauses. Either at a loss for words, or a loss for choice. “It was a guess. That feeding on you would get through to you. I uh–,” the usually confident flirt isn’t present this morning. “Pain is a strange thing.”

You nod silently.

“It can ruin us, of course, but sometimes– it’s the only way to know for sure you’re still here– alive. Well,” he sighs, “you know what I mean.”

You do.

“When I fed on you– I could taste it. Your terror, madness– desperation,” his next words come as more of a snarl than speech, “I hated it. It reminded me of Cazador and all of his sick games. The terror and base fear he loved to inspire in us.”

You freeze at the admission, fingers halting around the pebble.

“A vampire spawn is less than a slave. They’re a puppet. We have no choice but to obey our masters’ commands. They speak, and our bodies react – it’s all part of the deal. I felt that again– from you. But, for you ,” he laughs, a cruel harsh bark. “Those voices…they’re persistent aren’t they?”

You nod again, a knot forming in your gullet. “Too persistent.”

“Hmm,” he says softly. Then his gaze darkens again, “Sometimes he’d order us to submit to torture. Sometimes he’d have us torture ourselves. Whatever his weathervane mood settled on. I imagine yesterday was rather like that for you– trapped in your own body, forced to endure whatever sick pleasures those voices desired.”

You meet his gaze, and the storm clouds there part for a moment. You can see the terrified young elf deep within– powerless. Desperate to survive. Resolved to do so if only out of spite. 

Still terrified despite the miles and miles between his Master and here. Your heart pinches, and your hand crawls its way to his, then stops– just as your pinky makes contact with his cool, delicate one.

“Sometimes, on my worst days,” his voice drops to a whisper, “I’d hurt myself before he could bid it. I knew he’d order it soon enough anyhow, and somehow that pain– the self-inflicted pain felt powerful. It was a choice , in those moments. No matter how twisted. It would scratch the surface of my near-mindless servitude and remind me— that I was still in there. That I still had some sort of control. I could outpace him– if even for a moment.” 

His hand drifts atop yours and settles, not closing around it, but just– there.

You give him a weak smile, “That’s why you knew it would work.” Now it’s his turn to nod silently. “That– and the chill being fed upon brings. I vaguely remember Shadowheart concerned about my temperature.”

“Yes,” is all he says.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, catching his eyes with yours. “I’m glad that you got out– even if it was mindflayers— and not heroes— that freed you. And I swear, I will fight to my dying breath to keep you from returning to that hell-hole against your will.”

“Thank you,” he says. And your gut twists at the hint of doubt in his voice. 

---

 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 20: Whispering Depths

Summary:

"A phase spider was a magical beast akin to a predacious version of the ethereal filcher. Phase spiders were monstrous arachnid-kin that dwelt within the Ethereal Plane. They made quick forays into the natural world to snatch an unlucky creature to feed upon. Those stolen by phase spiders were never seen again and were regarded as unsolved disappearances."

— Volo’s Guide to Monsters

Notes:

43 kudos?! Darlings, *pinkening ear tips*, I’m flattered.

The two of you return to the center of camp sometime later, Astarion has pulled his mask of confidence and bravado back into place, moving ahead of you as if the world belongs to him. Though he’d never admit it, he’s summoned up enough swagger for the both of you and trailing along meekly behind him, you’re grateful for his attempts to draw attention away from you. You don’t feel like interacting with anyone else while you grapple with the doubts consuming you.

This time yesterday, you were confident that the group trusted you, respected you even. Somehow you had managed to trick them well enough that they hadn’t even thought to look more closely. Hadn’t thought to look for the shadows in your bright, infernal eyes. The dark urges that haunt you. That shadowy, sultry whisper always prowling just at the edge of your mind. Even now, with its feathers smoothed – bloodlust sated – you can feel it preening. Observing. Preparing.  

Waiting patiently for the next chance to make me do Gods-knows-what.

“Well if it isn’t the little mice hard at work while the cat’s away,” Astarion notes with a sniffy tone.

Shadowheart crouches near Gale, smiling and complimenting the wizard’s cooking skills but pauses to retort, “More like the cat was away sunning himself instead of watching the storehouse.” 

You watch as Gale pulls a pot of steaming apple chunks and spices from the fire. The smell brings a wave of hunger forth. Nearby, Lae’zel and Wyll carve roasted squirrel into equal portions – removing charred bits and any bones small enough to choke on. Scratch happily crunches away on the scraps.

Karlach has taken Lae’zel’s typical morning duty of sharpening everyone’s blades. Expertly moving the various weapons across the githyanki-made-grindstone that is so dear to the Fighter.

“Good morning, soldier!” Karlach beams at your approach, tearing right through the cloak of ego Astarion had thought to shield you with.

“Morning,” you reply weakly. Worry gnaws at you, nipping at the feeble security the past tenday has fostered. 

It’s just a front, says your inner critic, they’ll turn on me once I’ve served my purpose.

“Mind giving me a hand over here?” The other tiefling calls, beckoning you over.

“I– uh. If you’re sure,” you redirect your steps from the fallen log furthest from everyone to the front of Lae’zel’s tent. You stop just short of the grinding wheel, then fidget awkwardly with a stray thread on your wrist wraps.

“How’re you feeling,” Karlach asks.

“Fine– I guess.”

“Hm,” she hums in response, “you’re a shite liar. Know that?”

“I– what?” You startle and tear the thread from the wraps– worsening the frayed edge.

The tiefling pitches her voice lower, in an attempt to whisper. The intended effect is not met– instead making the attempt at discretion more obvious. “I said, you’re. A. Shite. Liar.”

You can practically feel everyone’s attention on the two of you now, despite their excuse of diligently working towards breakfast. Your heart stutters and heat rises up your throat to your ears.

“...and you’re a shite whisperer ,” you hiss back.

Wyll chuckles from his perch next to Lae’zel but keeps his eyes on his task. So very invested in carving the backstrap meat from the squirrel in his hands.

An awkward heartbeat passes. 

Then a second one. Karlach sighs and moves away from the grindstone to hand you Lae’zel’s freshly worked greatsword.

“Right–” she finally says, ending the deafening silence. “No use beating around the bush then.”

Here it comes, you bristle, readying for the damning words that are sure to follow.

“We’re sorry for making you feel the need to hide from us,” she says. Her eyes smoldering with a warm sort of regret. “As much as some of us may hate to admit it— our pointy-faced vampling has a point. We’re in no position to judge you.” 

You stand stock still, mouth agape. 

“I’m sorry ,” calls Astarion from across the camp, “come again?” His eyes flash with surprise before alighting with a hesitant mischief. 

Did you hear that, Darling? Did she just say that I was right?

You’re insufferable, you shoot back, and yes– I think she did.

“I said,” Karlach sighs, “that you. Were. Right, Fangs.”

“Fangs,” Astarion says, no doubt rolling the nickname around in his mind, “very cute, ” he says. “You see, that’s what I thought I heard you say.” His tone reaches towards one of gloating as he puts his own whetstone away and moves toward you and Karlach. “But I just needed to hear it again. For posterity’s sake, of course.”

“Do you need it written in ink and notarized, your Honor ” Gale teases.

“And dated as well, as long as you’re offering, dear wizard.”

Karlach snorts and then continues, “You’ve definitely got something extra creepy going on in your noggin’” Karlach says motioning to her own. “But so long as you’re loyal to us— we’ll do the same for you. We’re in this together.”

You’re speechless. You fully expected to be kicked from camp, left to find your own cure. Or at the very least– ostracized aside from necessity. 

“Just don’t—“ the Tiefling pulls a face, “ ever… eat like that again, a’right?”

“I can’t make any promises,” you admit, “but– I’ll do my best.”

“Good, that’s all we can hope for.” Karlach is beaming at you again, then reaches for another of your companions’ weapons to sharpen. “Oh, and go talk to the bone-man,” the barbarian adds. “He wants to talk to you about your specific… affliction .”

 

---

 

You find Withers standing peacefully under the shade of a great oak, bony fingers turning the pages of that same, decrepit tome. Without turning to face you, the being says, “Thy wheel of fate turns ever to the dark.”

“I– uh. Karlach said that you wished to speak to me. So– well, here I am,” your tail flicks nervously.

“Thou hast an affliction that differs from thy companions’. Thoust sleep is plagued by nightmares. In the light, a precariously shadowed path is where thoust tread.”

It doesn’t surprise you that Withers already seems to have an idea about your unwanted muse, yet worry tugs at your innards. What all do they know? Can they explain what it is that causes the intrusions?

“At first, I thought it might be the tadpole. A side effect somehow– but no one else seems to struggle quite like this.”

Withers regards you quietly for a moment, expression unchanging, while they weave their next riddle. “Regrettably, thou art alone in this regard. There would be none amongst your present companions to share this burden with, but thou hast confided in them nonetheless. This is honorable.”

“I’m not so certain that that word applies to me,” you fidget nervously with the loose string on your wrist wraps once more. “I don’t remember anything before the nautiloid, and if recent history is anything like my past–”

“The bard’s death is regrettable, a weight for thine own conscience to bear– one of many it would seem.”

Your blood turns to freezing acid in your veins, your gut curdling with regret and anxiety. “How– how do you know?”

“I am the Final Scribe, much within my purview thine mind could scarcely fathom. Much of the fate of the realms is familiar to me. As familiar as thine own hands are to thee.”

“Then you have to know that I didn’t intend to do that to Quil. She didn’t deserve what happened to her–” guilt gnaws at your gut once more. Bile rises in your throat at the memory of how utterly destroyed her body was. I did that to her.  

“Can’t you bring her back?”

“ No,” says the lich. “She will be left to the peace of eternity, where the Urge shall seek her no more.”

You’d never considered that this thing squatting in the dark corners of your mind may have a name. May be something powerful enough to garner the attention of an entity such as Withers. “The ‘Urge’? You say it as if you’re familiar with it.”

“In the eternities I have existed, much is familiar to me; as thou hast heard already.”

“Right,” you say, mind wandering. Suddenly less insistent on pushing the whisper away– and more curious about what it may be. Who it may be that sees themselves a worthy puppeteer. What sort of foul magic would one need to have such control over another? Is it magic? Is it a curse– or are you just an amnesiac sadist with a fucked up lust for gore?

“In this familiarity of yours,” you ask, “have you– do you know if it’s fixable? Curable?”

“Afflictions of the soul mayst never be fully cured– yet they can be abated.”

“Abated? How?”

“If thou wish to see thyself healed of thine Urge, thoust must resist. I may speak no further on this matter, I aim only to counsel thee in ways He allows.”

Resist, you think. Is that not what I’ve been doing this last tenday? Allowing it loose only in dire situations? Reigning it in in favor of diplomacy? 

Then again, resisting and allowing room for mercy is what spurred the outburst of the dark whisper yesterday. If whatever that voice says can be believed, anyhow. You conclude, that the very same way to help yourself– may just cause the Urge to act out and pitch its sadistic fits all the more often.

“Well,” you sigh, “Thank you, Withers, for the advice. If whoever ‘He’ is comes up with any other solutions or insights– please feel free to share.”

“In due time, thoust will understand thyself. I will be here.”

 

---

 

“What did the bone man have to say?” Asks Karlach immediately upon your return to your camp’s common area.

“Not much, honestly. Mostly more riddles,” you shrug and take the plate she offers you.

“Hmph,” the large tiefling groans, “well, that’s annoying. I’d have thought the mummy would have more to offer. I mean– they’ve gotta be ancient. What haven’t they seen?”

You would think. Too bad whoever Withers answers to isn’t more of a gossip.

Your disappointment in a lack of answers is soon shoved aside as the warm cinnamon-sugariness of the apples washes across your tongue. It’s the first truly delectable thing you’ve tasted in ages, at least as far as you remember. “Gale, these apples are phenomenal. You’ve certainly got the magic touch in the kitchen.”

The wizards blushes and beams at the compliment, “I aim to please. Shadowheart was a great help in peeling them – her skills with a paring knife are impressive, to say the least.”

“ Probably all those methods of torture the Sharrans teach ,” mutters Astarion. Shadowheart merely responds with a withering glare in the elf’s direction.

“What,” he chuckles derisively, “it’s no secret that your Lady of Darkness applauds manipulation and a dark means to an end.”

“And just how would you know what our Lady of Loss teaches, Astarion ?”

“Oh please, my dear. I was around when Sharrans marched on Moonrise, there was a perfectly lovely tavern I used to frequent– until– well, nevermind that. My point is, darling cleric, that you may be hiding well enough from the rest of us– but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Astarion, maybe let’s not antagonize our friends and allies?” You say, there’s been enough awkward conflict as of yet.

The elf clicks his tongue and looks disappointed, “Fine, fine. I’ll leave her to her– secrets.”

“Thank you, how very kind of you, ” Shadowheart sneers. Then she catches your eye and sends you a barely perceptible grin of appreciation.

You catch Astarion’s eye and send a thought in his direction. She can share her thoughts with us when she’s ready, Astarion. You of all people should understand wanting to guard your darker secrets.

A mental sigh is the only response you get.

      

---

 

“Wyll, do you think you’ll be joining us today, or will you be staying behind to– well. Think?” You ask as you tighten the straps down on your pack.

“I think one day of self-flagellation is enough for now,” says the young man. “Besides, I can’t leave all the loot and excitement to everyone else.”

“Well, technically you could ,” you tease with a wink.

“Where would the fun in that be,” he asks. “So, where did you all leave off yesterday?”

“Somewhere between cowardly goblins and overly witty ogres,” Karlach responds. “But I’m more than ready to snag this infernal iron and my tune-up. I’m ready for it to not be so damn hot in here.”

 

---

 

Today, there’s no cabal of goblins guarding the entrance to the blighted village. It’s quiet and almost peaceful. You and your allies retrace your steps to the foot of the windmill, near the shack where the ogres had been holed up yesterday. You give the building one more once-over before concluding that you’ve not overlooked any hidden cellars.

Nearby, a well catches your attention. Flowering vines creep up the structure and weave together between the winch and the roof. The fact that the plants have managed to zig and zag between the winch and the struts of the roof is hint enough that this well hasn’t been used in a very long time. 

If you had any remaining doubts, the shingles would corroborate the plants’ story. They’re tattered with some of them threatening to slide completely off of the structure come the next intense wind.

You approach and peer down into the well, it smells dry - and despite the still air of the day, the leaves of the vining plants flutter in a breeze. “I think the well leads somewhere aside from an aquifer,” you say. Pulling a stone loose from the ground beneath your boots, you drop it into the well. Instead of a splash, a faint thud echoes back up the well-trunk. \

You reach out a hand and tentatively pull on the rope securing the bucket. It doesn’t fray, and the mechanism controlling the winch moves smoothly despite its disuse. You flip the stop off of the winch and allow the bucket to fall slowly down into the depths below. 

“Darling, I hope you’re not considering doing what I think you are,” warns Astarion through a hesitant grimace. 

You sit on the stones that make up the wall around the well and swing your legs over. “And what would that be - do you think?” You send a mischievous grin in his direction as you hook your booted ankle around the rope and begin climbing down.

“... That…exactly that… ” you hear him sigh as you disappear from view.

 

---

 

A few minutes later and Gale, the last to slip down the rope into the well, lands with a softened scatter of stones amongst long-dry gravel. The day above echoes down the long, cobblestone column of the well – birdsong muted and faint. 

“And just why, exactly, did you think a field-trip down a well would be appropriate for today?” Shadowheart asks.

“Dammon said infernal iron is uncommon, right? This well has clearly been long out of commission – maybe there’s a secret horde of goods down here. A hidden or long-forgotten laboratory of sorts,” you shrug.

“Or, maybe our charismatic and fearless leader has just led us into the lair of man-eating beasts,” Astarion says as he brushes some limestone dust from his tunic. “No offense of course, darling.”

“Oh come on, where’s your sense of daring, fangs?” Karlach teases. “You’ve gotta be the most fearsome man-eating beast down here.”

“Karlach, I’m not certain if I should be offended or flattered.”

“Whichever you intend to feel,” Lae’zel snips, “decide along the way. I do not intend to wait to find out.”

“After you, brave warrior, but you’d better not touch the webs. I’d hate to distrub the locals,” Astarion warns. He quickly drops to a crouch and pulls a dagger from the sheath just above his shapely rear. 

You make to head along the path leading from where you descended. Though it’s already dark down here, you once again call upon the shadowy energy within you and coax a cloak of shadows forth. You’ll need all the help you can get if these blanket-sized webs really do trigger the inhabitants.

Not far ahead, the tunnel opens up into a massive cavern. Rock formations are scattered throughout the area, and webs as wide as hanging bridges are strewn between them. With your hellish eyes and the darkvision they grant you, you can just make out the outline of a hulking bipedal arachnid horror of some sort. 

From behind, its reminiscent of Lump and his crew. As it turns, however, you can see that what would be a jaw on a humanoid is instead a collection of chelicerae. The chittering appendages drip with phosphorescent venom. You hold your breath and will it to wander off.

A beat passes, and the creature turns in your direction – taking a few steps your way. Your heart shudders in your chest and you go stock still. It peers into the darkness, chortles in a series of hideous notes, and stares your way.

Shitshitshit. Don’t see me, I’m not here.

Just as your concern shifts to whether or not you may have to change your underclothes in the near future, the large arachnid lumbers back into the depths from whence it came. 

“We are definitely, not alone,” you hiss into the darkness behind you.

“Wonderful,” Shadowheart hisses back.

Carefully, you pick your way forward. A skeleton lies at the base of the first rocky column that you encounter. Meticulously, you rifle through the cracked ribbones and flaking remains of a tunic to find a handful of gold covered in dust, and a velvety, red journal. Glancing around to make sure no other monsters have crept upon your position, you crack open the book. 

It’s musty and the edges of the pages are crumbling. A few of them seem to have been burned away on purpose – the only sign of the removed pages having ever existed a thin streak of ash along the inner bindings. The first entry reads:

3 Uhtar, 1371 DR

Let it be known that I left my homeland because I was bound to my master, and not because I chose to. Were it not for the oath I swore, I would still be home, serving the zulkirs, and not tending to hog pox in this crude hamlet. However, an oath is an oath, and I will serve him, as is my duty, until I am released.

The entry is penned in immaculate hand, in a script that loops intricately. As you continue to page through the journal, you notice that each entry becomes less careful. The script  roughens and takes on a frenzied tone as you near the back cover. This apprentice was clearly at their wits end by the time the final entry was penned. It reads:

They did it! The Dark Justiciars got the old bastard before the zulks could. Now he's bleeding out and once he's gone, I'll be free of this oath. I can go back. I'll return the tome of necromancy he stole. They'll forgive me then. They'll know I'm loyal.

The Keygem's secure in the tunnels. Once I have it, I'll slip into the cellar, take what I can carry, and then home.

The smell of rosemary and bergamot fills your senses before you feel cool lips just behind the shell of your ear. “What have you got there, a diary?” Astarion is quiet for a moment as he no doubt scans the last entry.

“A tome of Necromancy? How very interesting…” he purrs. “I certainly wouldn’t be upset if we happened to stumble upon said keygem and book.”

You resist the urge to lean back into him, to brush the sensitive tip of your ear against his soft, velvety lips. Your cheeks heat, and for a fraction of a moment, you almost forget that there are arachnid beasts stalking mere feet ahead of you.

Why is it always in dark, musty places that this man gets me riled up.

If Astarion hears your thought, there’s no response.

“It could definitely be useful,” you agree, clearing the thickness from your throat. “But I think we have a few… obstacles to handle before we can decide that,” you point ahead to the creature that’s turned once more to stalk down the hallway you’re crouched in.

Astarion spins a dagger in his hand and whispers, “I think we can handle an ettercap or two, darling.” Then, just as subtly as he appeared behind you, the temptation of his form slinks backwards. Blending amongst the rest of your party.

You turn to tuck the journal into your pack and catch Lae’zel and Karlach studying you from behind. With a ‘come hither’ motion, you wave them forward. “Any thoughts?” You ask the pair of warriors.

“Let’s fuck ‘em up,” says Karlach as she removes her greataxe from the hook at her back.

“As the fiery one suggests,” Lae’zel nods in approval at Karlach’s straightforwardness. 

“If I rush in and draw their attention, Lae, you think you could flank from behind,” Karlach whispers.

“I do not think so– I know so,” replies the githyanki stoically. 

“Gotta love a woman with confidence. See ya in a bit, soldiers.” With that, Karlach stalks off ahead, mumbling something about ‘stealth mode’ to herself while Lae’zel uses an alternate path to sneak up above, and eventually behind the chittering beast.

Next thing you know, Karlach is roaring and rushing at the creature– battleaxe arced behind her head. You can’t help but smirk a little at her enthusiasm for a bloody fight. 

Definitely someone to have at your side rather than against you.  

“I guess we’ve foregone the idea of stealth,” Astarion mumbles. Then, softer than a whisper, he slinks off into the darkness ahead.

 

---

 

One by one you and your companions charge, slink, and strategize your way into position.

The first ettercap takes one hit, two, then three from Karlach and Lae’zel before you watch Astarion leap from a ledge to burrow his daggers like claws into the beast’s back. It falls with a satisfying thud .

A second ettercap roars and charges from behind another stone pillar opposite the one Astarion leapt from. Karlach ducks as it slashes out towards her with a pair of gnarly, curved talons. The giant woman merely laughs and charges at the beast, shouldering it in the gut and knocking it off balance. 

Lae’zel steps out from the corpse of the first and lands a nasty blow at the crux of the second monster’s neck and shoulder. It screeches and chortles, enraged.

Just then, a column of radiant light engulfs the ettercap. Before the light has faded, one of Gale’s ‘magic missile’ spells careens into the arachnid. The force of the blow wrenching one of its shoulders from the socket. 

Reliably deadly, Astarion leaps from yet another vantage point you hadn’t seen him find. His dagger releasing spurts of blackish-purple blood from the creature.

Karlach howls with glee as the second joins its kin, ruined, on the stone floor. But there’s no time for gloating as the largest spider you’ve ever seen appears on a ledge above the five of them. It chitters angrily at them before disappearing in a haze of soft-blue light. Only to reappear behind Karlach in an instant.

“Shit,” you hear Wyll curse, he’s the only one to have stayed back with you. With the appearance of the spider, the young noble rushes forward, hand outstretched, and chants a series of words in infernal. A torrent of force explodes from his palm, pushing the spider away from Karlach and out of sight.

Mizora may be a wretched bitch, but her powers are quite useful. 

Feet light as the wind, you dash ahead to join the fray. Weaving and bobbing through the mess of legs and venomous mouths your blood thrums. The synchrony of you and your allies’ attacks is a sight to behold. 

Casters support from afar while you, Lae’zel, and Karlach disadvantage the spiders with your blades and fists. As the arachnids are weakened, Astarion rips them open. Gutting and carving away at them with his daggers. When Astarion’s blades are occupied, Wyll summons more thunderous waves of force. Each one sending the creatures careening from their perches. 

One such blast of the warlock’s knocks a smaller spider into an eerily glowing chasm nestled between two stone columns. You don’t stop to think what would happen should you or one of your companions suffer the same fate.

Blessedly, the cluster of spiders begins to thin. You feel as if the upper hand is yours at last, just in time, as you and your allies are beginning to look a bit worse for wear. 

Then, several more uncomfortably-large spiders phase into view.

“Where are all these fucks coming from?!” Karlach roars. 

“I warned you not to disturb the webs,” Astarion echoes in reply. “But no–,” his quip is cut short as one last spider phases into view just behind him. The absolutely colossal arachnid makes the others seem almost normal in comparison. It stands at least five ells tall, with a thorax the size of a large horse, and an abdomen the size of two horses at least. 

The behemoth’s chelicerae wrap around Astarion’s delicate neck mid-sentence and lift him, thrashing, into the air.

“ ASTARION!” You scream, heart thundering. No, no, nonono! Hold on! I’m coming!

He rips at the spider’s mouthparts, desperately clawing for air as they cinch further closed. “Darl–,” he croaks.

You dash forward, only to be cut off as one of the slightly smaller spiders phases into your path. Seething, vision reddening, your fist careens into one of the spider’s many eyes. 

“ Shadowheart ,” you bellow, in a voice that isn’t quite yours. Your thoughts are racing; hoping beyond hope that she can muster some sort of radiant protection for him in the meantime.

“Soldier,” Karlach bellows in between attacks, “the horn! The ogres!”

You sling your pack off of one shoulder and let the momentum flow through your body and into the force of the kick you aim at a second of the spider’s many eyes. When the beast rears back in pain, you use the moment to reach around your pack for the bonehorn. Your nails scrape across its smooth surface, but don’t find purchase.

Darling, if you could move a little more quickly– even Astarion’s mental voice is weakening. Your eyes flicker to him across the cavern, his wine-red eyes are barely open. His gloved fingers paw meekly at the arachnid jaws crushing his windpipe.

He’s going to die, you idiot, you chide yourself. 

The spider in front of you opens its maw and hucks an orb of venom directly at your face. At the last possible moment, you duck out of the way. Droplets of the toxin separate from the main orb and splash onto your arm. It stings as it mixes with your sweat. You bite back a grimace and reach again for the horn. This time, you find purchase.

You bring it to your lips and blow as hard as you can. A deep bellowing sound reverberates about the cavern. As you catch your breath, a stream of arcane force knocks into the spider harassing you– blasting it off of the stone column and into the yawning green void below. You turn to see Wyll smiling your way, and dip your head in thanks.

“ Macte metu te!”  Shadowheart’s voice echos throughout the chamber and a shimmering cocoon envelops Astarion before fading to a gentle glow. “That should keep him alive at the very least,” the cleric calls across the chasm.

As the echoes of Lump’s bonehorn fades, the cavern begins to shudder. From somewhere out of sight, a collection of thunderous footfalls joins the cacophony of shrieking arachnids and howling allies.

“Behold, brothers, and take your fill!” Lump and his seconds plod into view. One of them swats at a nearby spider and sends it careening into the air. The beast is dead on impact. A wet, crinkling death knell of a spider being smashed into a wall has never felt so relieving. 

“Hup, hup, there goes another one,” Karlach cheers. “Nice swing, soldier.” 

The ogre bares its teeth in what must be a smile.

 

---

 

The nearest spiders dealt with, you sling your pack back into place and leap from your pillar to the next. Almost there, you think– willing yourself along. Blessedly, Lump’s arrival has drawn the ire of all but the largest spider. 

The behemoth still clutches Astarion– its mouthparts a sickening sort of noose. It seems to be growing more and more frustrated, the meal it saw in Astarion being no closer to death. You make a mental note to repay Shadowheart later for the Sanctuary spell, and brush aside any deeper meanings of your concern for the elf.

One more web hangs between you and Astarion’s captor. You debate the risk of simply dashing across it versus attempting to land on the sliver of stone not occupied by the spider. A failure in either would result in a one-way ticket to a four-story-fall.

The lip of the far column seems unstable. Pebbles rain down with each jittery movement of the beast. Fuck it, you decide and will your steps along the web to be light and quick. 

Moments later, and Astarion is within reach. You yank a rusted handaxe from your pack and hurl it at the spider’s eyes. It bounces off, but not before cracking one of the protective lenses of the exoskeleton. Angrily, the spider chitters and waves its pedipalps your way. 

More blind fumbling in your pack produces a rusted hammer, and once more, you hurl the worthless tool towards the many-eyed-entity. The hammer’s claw lodges into the same lense as before and the beast shrieks in agony as its eye is burst. The spider matron rears back in pain, and Astarion’s nearly unconscious form swings too closely to the edge of that yawning pit for your liking.

You use the moment to throw a dull kitchen knife at the thing’s knee, and it swings back the other way– positioning Astarion once more over solid stone. With one last plunge into your pack, you produce a set of barber’s’ shears and barely suppress a laugh at the increasing ridiculousness of the junk you haul about.

Stealing a manouvre from Astarion’s own playbook, you leap at the beast and plunge the dull instrument into the center of the thing’s head. Simultaneously the arachnid screeches in anger, drops Astarion, and phases out of your reach. With any luck, right into the path of Lump and his mates.

“I can’t take much more…” groans the prone elf. You crawl on hands and knees to his side and pull his elegantly-curled head into your lap. Your heart is pounding in your chest. Fear for your– whatever-he-is to you sluicing through your guts. 

“If I didn’t know any better,” he pauses to wheeze and cough, “I’d almost think you were worried for me.” The smirk he pulls is much closer to a grimace. This close, you inspect him for any severe damage and note that his once porcelain neck is beginning to bruise a dark plum.

The dimples of the scars on his neck stand out – nearly pearlescent in comparison. You’re no healer, but you hate to imagine the kind of negligence that would leave such large marks behind.

“Don’t waste your breath,” you murmur while you rifle through your pack once more. A high clink sounds as you move your waterskin away from a healing potion. With your other hand, you reach gingerly in, and pull. The red liquid inside of the bottle is pleasantly warm, with a slight glimmer to it.

“May I touch you?” You ask, moving to part his mouth manually. He nods faintly, and with one hand– gracefully– you pull his plump lips back. Multitasking with your other hand, the cork pops free of the bottle and you tip it into his mouth. He drinks. 

The red of the potion against his fangs, combined with the movement of his throat as he swallows, has you wishing he were prone in front of you for entirely different reasons.

You scoundrel, comes his mental voice. It’s weak and haggard. At death’s door and you’re imagining something so crude? Tsk, tsk.

Your cheeks heat, but you send no apologies or excuses his way. I don’t see a problem, you respond coquetishly.

A breathy chuckle escapes his lips.

“I like it when you laugh,” you say, opting for audible communication this time, if for no other reason than to hear his velveteen voice.

“You flatterer,” he purrs. Color slowly returns to his features, and his eyes drift closed in relief. 

“Now, much as I’d like to lay here all day and let you brush my curls with those delicious nails of yours – I think it’s time I got up.”

“Ohh– uh. Right, of course.” You watch him pull himself to a kneeling position and then stand– ready to catch him should he have misjudged the efficacy of the potion. Glad as you are that he’s better– you lament the loss of connection. 

And again, you shove aside any deeper meanings the sadness may carry.

“Oi, lovebirds–” Karlach calls. “We’re done exterminating the creepy-crawlies if it’s all the same to you.” You gut knots at the insinuation and you push away the blush crawling up your neck.

You rejoin your group and Lump approaches you. “Well then, tasty kibble, this was no more than a few pecks. I’m afrad the spread is most inadequate.” The ogre huffs in disappointment before continuing. “Our bargain is at an end. Unless– perhaps you’ve a spicier deal?” 

Given the situation these hulking individuals just pulled you from, you’re hesitant to let them go so easly. 

“You know, this is only the first of many hordes we might encounter here. Why don’t you stick around for another fight? I’ll double your pay.”

The ogre hums in thought, the sound more like a growl than anything. The other two tend to itches of various corners of their bodies, and the silence drags on.

Just as you’re afraid that Lump may decide you yourself are payment enough– and eat you– he says, “A fine offer. We are back in business.”

You heave a sigh of relief. “You know my terms, kibble, sound the horn when you’re ready.” With a huff and a nod, the ogres stumble off into the darkness.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 21: Gifts of Dark Gods

Summary:

"Szass Tam's dreams are finally coming true. He has walked the Paths of the Doomed and gone unscathed past the Devouring Portal. His destiny lies beneath the Thaymount, and when he looks to the future he sees all of Faerûn turned into a great charnel house, full of undead creatures which do his bidding. The other zulkirs have only one choice—follow him, willingly or unwillingly. Those who do so willingly are to be rewarded. Those who do not, lose both life and soul, and become Szass Tam's slaves. He means to do this, believe me. Seek the Paths of the Doomed, and you will see what I speak of."
— Lhaeo, Elminster's scribe

Notes:

Sorry for such a long time in between the last chapter and this chapter- my new job doesn't leave as much time for breaks (and therefore writing) during the day as my last. I haven't abandoned this work, I promise <3

P.S. Thanks for reading, I love you all -- especially if you've made it this far.

“We should check the caverns for anything else of value,” you suggest. 

“Yes, especially now that you’ve convinced the brutes that we will double their pay. Just where do you plan to find 1,000 gold?” Astarion teases. 

“Please, darling,” you say, voice thick with sarcasm, “you really think I’m going to let them get away with pay? We’ll kill them once they’re no longer useful – I think Lump is withholding a valuable beyond that of his services. No ogroid is that eloquent without some sort of external help.”

“Killing useful allies, how honorable,” Gale scoffs while rifling through a long-discarded pack nearby.

“What, you want to adopt them along with Scratch?” Shadowheart asks. “Because I’m absolutely not taking a turn in cleaning up their messes.” The grimace on the cleric’s face is severe.

“No,” Gale protests, “I just find it unwise to make enemies out of allies. Especially when they’re so– particularly large. And hungry.” Karlach coughs in the background – a poor attempt at disguising her amusement.

Wyll approaches Gale and claps a friendly hand on the mage’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry yourself, those three will be nothing more than target practice. Right, Karlach? Lae’zel?” He sends a charming wink in each of the warriors’ directions.

“Your need for confirmation of the notion is insulting, and your assumptive glances may land your head beside theirs in the pile,” Lae’zel threatens. 

Karlach laughs again, her near-endless amusement extending to the jab. You catch her eye and smile at her infectious humor. When Lae’zel notices the moment of shared joy, you swear that there’s a glint of pride in her cat-like eyes.  

Though you’d like to assume the githyanki’s sense of humor is growing, you’re not certain you’d test the theory on this. Wyll’s widened eyes mirror your sentiment. He clears his throat and sweeps a low bow. “Apologies, Lae’zel. I meant no offense.”

Seems our little Warlock has been charmed by our Astral friend. How sweet, Astarion’s mental tone lies somewhere between disgust and amusement. 

Are you jealous? You poke back.

Well, Wyll is the sort of handsome ‘Prince Charming’ I’d always dreamed of courting in my younger, more naive days, comes his reply.

And now? Your heart warms at the idea of a younger, happier Astarion. Someone who still had pleasant dreams and an active imagination. Someone who dared to look at life and think of all of the possibilities it could bring. Perhaps your own lack of childhood memories – happy or otherwise – leads you to dwell on the thought, but it is a nice thought nonetheless.

You hope that one day he can find that part of himself again. That you all can if you survive the parasites tunneling about in your heads.

Now– I’m not sure such a man would look my way twice. 

The thought is wistful with a touch of something else. Sadness? Regret? Only a moment passes before he’s quick to correct himself.  

By that I mean, because they’d be infatuated at first glance, naturally. Who could resist?

You push past the momentary slip in his confidence, refraining from comment. You give your best effort to hold back even a thought of a thought. Nothing helpful comes from picking at another’s wounds.

Someone stronger-willed than I, you send a flirtatious wink in his direction. Once more refusing to acknowledge why you feel the need to protect his feelings. Why you feel obligated to help him bolster his emotional shields against the world?

               

---

 

Your group splits up, each taking a section of the caverns to sweep. Minds set on finding that infernal iron, or anything else of value.

Wyll discovers a workstation in the back, and excitedly beckons Gale over. Within the dust-covered desk and crates, they discover long-abandoned works of an Arachnomancer. An elven mage with a fanatic admiration for Lolth, the Spider Queen and a patron deity to many Drow. 

As you approach the workstation, the pair have laid a series of four journals in various states of decay across the desk. One speaks of the regrets of the writer’s life on the surface. A life prior to their first encounter with Lolth during their time as an unwilling guest amongst the Drow. Another, resembles that of a field journal, with sketches describing a wide array of spider species and their anatomy. The sketches are accompanied by an old runic language. Feverish praise for the goddess is sprinkled throughout both. 

They can sense my devotion. It draws them, I hear them in the shadows, whispers from the dark mother. [...] I woke to a gift wrapped in spider’s silk: a pair of boots, taken from a heretic’s corpse. Lolth sends her daughters to reward my faith, to let me know I am on the right path. 

Another gift: the corpse of a drow, sigils scarred upon his face. An arachnomancer – one with the power to inhabit the spider’s form. It is a message, a calling. My blood already dries upon the dagger, her blessed image carved into my skin.

“Well, that’s– horrifying,” Wyll cringes as he reads the last bit aloud. 

“The zeal of a devoted student and admirer,” Gale muses. “I cannot fault them for these traits, I once held a very similar passion for Mystra.”

“Less self-destructive though, I’d hope?” You’ve no room to judge anyone for their deeds in the name of some other power– but you really hope Gale is wiser than you in these aspects.

“Well, that’s a subject for another time,” The wizard pauses. “Less gruesome, that’s for sure.”

The third and fourth journals are no less chilling. The third, a moth-eaten tome with a rough sketch of a spider in her web gouged into the leather cover. Flipping through the journal, it’s mostly falling apart, given the large majority of missing pages. Any remaining entries are smudged with ash, and a line of the substance trails the crease between each page.

In Her form I find ecstasy. The spell is not enough.

The phrase is repeated over, and over again. Later renditions scratched deeply into the parchment as if the scribe was both hurried and frustrated. Hells-bent on a discovery eluding them by an infuriatingly small margin. 

Obsessed.

The final journal barely sits open on the desk. Pages throughout are stuck together with thick, gauzy webbing. The once-transparent material is stained here and there with what at one time, must have been the ink of the author’s quill. Now, only the final entry is decipherable.

It is time. I will forever transcend this blasphemous flesh and refashion myself in the Queen’s image. No longer will I be bound to this lowly form, this base shape of organ and bone. Even the arachnomancers of Menzoberranzan shall weep at my feet, their little spells so feeble and fleeting. 

Today, I found the house of Lolth, and I shall be its Matriarch.

“Um, guys–” you clear a thickness from your throat, “does this mean what I think it means?”

Gale and Wyll each take turns reading and re-reading the last two journals. With an austere furrow to his brow, Gale parses over a ritual diagram on the wall behind the desk. Then, his eyes jump back to the final journal entry.

“If you have an assumption that this fanatic managed to transform themselves into that monstrous arachnid that nearly ended Astarion earlier – then yes. I’m inclined to say that your assumptions seem to be on the mark.”

“Freaky,” Karlach says from the opposite side of the cavern. You turn to see her bent double, rummaging deep within a web-strewn chest. Some of the webs spark and hiss as her infernally warm skin brushes against them.

“Aw, hells yea!” she exclaims. “Kalliope, check out these babies.” Like an angler with a prized catch, she extends a pair of boots your way. Though aged, they’re supple and soft. The soles of the boots are somewhat sticky, but not grotesquely. Upon closer investigation, the soles are made of thousands of tiny hairlike structures. Like the pads of a gecko’s foot. 

Curious.

“Any idea what these are, bookworm,” Karlach asks Gale. He tucks the journals into his pack and then approaches to extend a hand. A faint bluish glow shimmers across the boots as he does so. 

“Ahh, what a welcome sight these would have been before that encounter,” he says. “Spiderstep Boots – they give the wearer immunity to being enwebbed and mitigate any hindrance webs might impose on one’s movement. It seems they also neutralize the negative vibrations that accompany a humanoid traipsing through the substance. Thereby annulling an arachnid’s Web-Sense.”

Karlach’s face is one of someone trying to avoid looking completely stumped. “Sooo…” she asks hesitantly, brows quirked.

Gale sighs and chuckles, “They would’ve prevented the wearer from triggering the ‘alarm bells’ of the webs strewn about.”

“Damn,” she says. “Well, they’re up for grabs if anyone wants them. If not– I’m keepin’ ‘em.”

“How about we save all the loot for back at camp, then we can decide what makes the most sense for each of us,” Wyll suggests. 

“Such a politician’s son,” you tease.

 

---

 

Having exhausted that particular nook of the caverns, you wander back to the main gallery. Shadowheart is once more fussing over that strange artifact, cursing all the while. Lae’zel stands nearby, eyes narrowed menacingly upon the cleric’s hands. You take note of the silent interaction but say nothing for now. 

Beyond, Astarion is picking through rubble along the edge of the glowing, green shaft at the cavern’s center. A strange, slow breeze wafts up from below – confirming any fears that falling in, would end in a long and unpleasant journey downwards. 

“Find anything yet,” you ask. You’ve got a hunch as to what it is he’s searching for. The keygem mentioned in the apprentice’s journal, most likely.

Astarion scoffs and stands to clean his gloves against his trousers. His fingers leave messy, pale streaks of cave dust behind. He rolls his eyes upon noticing, but then pulls his suave, charming smirk into place. “Not yet, why? Would you care to help me find the mystical doodad?”

“I can’t take you seriously when you say things like ‘doodad’, it’s too disarming,” you giggle.

Astarion groans outwardly, “Well, forgive me for having a well and varied vocabulary. Are you more inclined to help if I say it this way: ‘Could you help me locate the artifact of interest?’” He smoothes his tone and adds a flair of ‘Waterdavian scholar’. The imitation of Gale makes you chuckle harder, and a satisfied, playful glint shines in his eyes.

“It doesn’t actually matter how you ask me, I’m here to help either way.” If he’s still shocked by your voluntary magnanimity, he masks it well. 

“Anyhow, I’m just as curious about this mysterious tome.” You squat and begin shuffling through the rubble where he stopped. Astarion assumes a mirrored pose and heads in the opposite direction.

Numerous chips of bone, shed exoskeleton, and chalky cave rock surround the chasm. It makes for a strange sort of sand along a bottomless beach. Now and again your fingers brush against intact spider bits — perhaps useful for potion or poison craft, so you pocket them away. 

You locate a few of the rusted tools you’d chucked at the matriarch earlier and almost brush them aside. 

I suppose they were useful. The thought gives you pause, and into your satchel they go.

Collecting junk again, darling? Astarion wonders in your direction. 

Some of that junk saved your skin about an hour ago. You pick through more rubble — nothing still. 

I think it was more the ingenuity of the wielder than those scraps, he huffs. 

Or desperation, you think, hoping it’s only to yourself, then you add, Can you hear all of my thoughts? Should we practice funneling thoughts outward or inward?

A long pause follows, and you wonder if this time you did manage to keep your thoughts within your own skull.

We could– though I think that it’s you who needs the practice. You don’t seem to hear all of mine, another pause. Pity– I’d like to think of my internal dialogue as entertaining.

Conferencing with yourself? Maybe I’m not the only one with brain damage–

A mental tsk of his tongue echoes around you. We are in fact all infected with tadpoles. Aside from that particular ‘brain damage’, speak for yourself. Or rather, think for yourself. A bark of laughter follows his thought.

Are you telling jokes now? That parasite must really be doing a number on you. You smirk to yourself as the jab lands. Astarion must decide that your quip doesn’t dignify a response. His silence telling enough.

You cast a look over your shoulder in his direction, but he’s oblivious to anything aside from searching. Nearby, a glint of something catches your eye. A momentary sparkle at the base of one of the rocky columns. Your feet navigate carefully around the opening to the yawning chasm. 

I think I’ve found something, you direct the thought towards Astarion. A giddiness derived from curiosity bubbles up within you. The surge of emotion stirs the darkened whisper preening at the back of your mind. You feel it stretch and yawn as if sliding from slumber.

If a mental presence could do such a thing.

Well then, I’ll be right over.

Whatever is nestled amongst the fallen stone before you, it calls to you. Beckons you forward. The velvety shadows within your mind reach forward in turn, and an eerie sense of comfort and familiarity creeps up your spine.

“What’s that I spy?” he purrs and cocks a grin your way, crouching just before you. A devious thrill tickles up your back in response.

“Perhaps your quarry,” you smirk back at him.

“Let’s have a look.” His crimson gaze locks with yours as he deftly reaches forward to brush debris away. A moment later, he’s cradling a sizable egg-shaped gem. Lustrous and deep purple. Enchanting.

What’s this power we sense, child? The deep rasping whisper wonders from the edges of your mind. It calls to us.

Dark shadows creep forward to brush your mind's eye, and a sudden need to touch the stone — its bearer — overwhelms you. Delicately, you brush the stone in between Astarion’s fingers — a rush of power dances up your arms.

Ahh, a kernel of our once-kin’s essence echoes within. The voice huffs in recognition. Mages have fought and died to obtain this item. Died in such horrid beauty. Such delectable agony.

Kin’s essence? You wonder what the dark entity is on about now.

“It’s— beautiful,” you breathe. 

“Clearly very powerful,” agrees Astarion. “We should stow it away— another of our little secrets,” he purrs. 

“Yes,” you say, still transfixed. Astarion pulls the gem from your reach and slips it into a newly stitched pocket within the lining of his pack. You make note of the addition and wonder what else the pale elf has crafted for himself. 

At the loss of contact, the whisper's presence fades back to the recesses of your mind. Clarity returns— and something like unease along with it.

That stone— you think, keep it away from me. It awakened when I touched it.

Astarion’s brows arch with intrigue. Really? Are you certain?

You nod pensively. 

Well then, he responds, consider it guarded.

From across the way, you hear Karlach’s voice echo out. “Oy, mates! We’ve got some sorta passageway I think. Mind givin’ me a hand?”

“Be right there!” You call.

 

---

 

Karlach has found what appears to be a weakened spot within the wall of the cavern that houses the spider’s den. Drifts of air waft through the stone, though it looks solid enough. You close your eyes and place a palm flat against the wall.  You focus on the rough, cool smoothness of it. The shadow ki within you trails along the wall — inquisitive. Every so often, a slight hitch in the flow you ki echoes back to you. 

You recognize the feeling from finding weak points in the joints or bodies of opponents. Fissures, then. A mental map of them forms in your mind. 

You take a deep breath and step back – warning your companions to do the same. Looking inward, you locate the orb of energy within your core where your ki hums peacefully. Then will it outward into your limbs. 

A feeling similar to that of a killing calm sinks into your bones – although this one is less gluttonous. More focused. An absence of chaos. You pull forth the mental image of the fissures within the wall and strike at each nexus in a flurrying succession. Cracks replace fissures, and you strike again – hitting each nexus once more.

A shuddering echo moves through the wall before you, a brief warning. Dodging backward – and pulling an entranced Gale with you. 

“I said to step back,” you call over the crash of stone. His silent reply is a glance both apologetic and uncertain. 

“Holy–,” Karlach scoffs. “That was amazing! I’m gonna need you to teach me how to do that!”

As the dust settles, you can see that the stone walls continue for a bit. But eventually, wooden struts appear against the stone— it looks like the inside of a shed – though long abandoned.

“After you,” you motion to Karlach.

“Thanks, Soldier,” she beams before jogging forward into the building. Her energetic tone reverberates back to you, “Lookit' this place! It’s an old smithy. Oooo! Do ya think my infernal iron is here?!” She’s stopped ahead — giddy, and beside herself. Tip-toe marching in place.

“Only one way to find out,” you say, striding past. To the left, there’s a rickety ladder that leads downward to a long-cooled forge. Many chests, crates, and barrels line the walls of the room below. You jog to the nearest one and pry it open with a hammer left discarded nearby.

Some old blacksmith’s tools and iron ingots lay within amidst stale hay. The footsteps of your friends echo behind you as they clamber down the ladder one by one. Lae’zel and Wyll crack open crates of their own while Astarion and Shadowheart lean over into various barrels.

The clanging of metal tools and other useless goods scattering across the stone floor soon fills the room. Amidst the shuffle, Gale stands in the middle of the room. His eyes glow a faint blue.

Divination magic.

“See anything useful,” you ask as you come to stand beside him. Bumping gently into his shoulder — in a manner that could be considered more than friendly.

He hums in thought, a subtle smile curving his lips. A moment or two pass before he gestures with his staff to a ledge at the back of the workshop. “Maybe up there, I’m sensing a faint magical aura from above. A chest of valuables mayhaps?”

“Hey Karlach, up there–” you gesture towards the ledge Gale divined. Giddily, the large woman trots over before taking a giant leap upwards, landing just out of sight. 

Shuffling noises ensue. “...aw bollocks…locked,” you hear her hiss. Her round, friendly face appears briefly above the ledge, “Hey, fangs. Can I get your help?”

Astarion is across the room disinterestedly sorting through more mundanities. At Karlach’s request, he perks up, tucks a paper into his jerkin, and sets a barrel lid back into place. 

“Of course, my dear giantess. Be right ov– GODS!” he shrieks, stopping short. “Are you trying to crush me?” 

You glance over to see that he’s just barely managed to dodge backward out of the way of a chest Karlach hurled from above. 

Patience is clearly not one of the woman’s virtues.

“Sorry, fangs!” She smiles guiltily from above, running a hand through her half-shaven locks. Astarion clenches his fists, sighs, and pulls a saccharine smile over his features. 

“It’s forgiven, darling,” he says. Biting back whatever nasty quip he surely would’ve delivered to Wyll or Gale had they made the same folly.

You swallow a laugh and any snarky comments that would make light of the vampire’s not-so-subtle favoritism.

The rogue crouches and cracks his knuckles before pulling his trusty thieves’ tools from a boot. Astarion makes quick work of it, the picks clinking faintly as his fingers flit across the latch. 

A moment later, a satisfied look replaces his too-sweet smile, and he hums lightly with satisfaction. “Easily done.”

“Aw, sweet! ” Karlach calls from above. A thud follows as she lands beside Astarion and the now-unlocked chest. Karlach pulls a hunk of ebony metal from the trunk. It pulses faintly – a soft red similar to the tiefling’s chest. 

“Yes! Yesyesyes! Ah, fangs I could kiss you! This is it!” She beams, voice cracking slightly as she fist pumps the metal in the air.           

The room is quiet, almost reverent as the tiefling celebrates. “I’m so close, we’ve just gotta get this to Dammon, and then I’ll–” she clears her throat, “well, I’m not sure what exactly– but it’s gotta be good!” Her golden eyes shift your way, “Right?!”

“It’ll definitely be better than having not found it,” you grin at your friend, keeping any doubtful thoughts to yourself. 

“And look at this,” Astarion murmurs, “it even comes with instructions.” He waves an aged piece of parchment before Karlach, keeping it safely away from the inferno that is her skin.

“Nice find, Gale,” you turn to smile at the wizard who looks nothing but hopeful at the discovery of the infernal iron.

Just one more miraculous find to make before we can leave this blasted village behind, Astarion grins conspiratorially at you.

You grin back.

 

---

 

Trying to keep Karlach from running full speed back to the Grove for Dammon is arguably more difficult than getting children to bed near Yuletide. 

The Tiefling is ancy, practically vibrating in place once you find your way out of the blacksmith’s and into the village proper. 

“We’ll go soon,” you say, almost putting a hand on her shoulder before the intense heat reminds you of her predicament. “There’s one more building we’ve yet to check. Just think of what else we might find?”

Karlach worries her lower lip, scrunches up her face, and then sighs heavily. “Oh, okay, okay, ” She concedes. “But only because of the utterly badass way you handled that wall back there.”

You roll your eyes, knowing the fiery woman better than that. She can’t resist helping an ally. 

No — a friend, you remind yourself.

 

---

 

You pass by a group of goblins still arguing over the meager ‘goods’ they’ve discovered in the other abandoned buildings. One of them catches your eye and snarls at you, you merely wink and feign a salute in their direction. Then continue jogging to the last, unexplored building in the village.

A crumbling office lined with slumping bookshelves welcomes you into its musty abode. Roughly searching the room, you find nothing of true interest. A handful of recipes for various concoctions, but not much else. 

In the next room, the salon of an apothecary stands, mostly intact. Shadowheart busies herself shuffling through the drawers of an herb cabinet and the drying racks above while Gale peruses the books and tomes scattered around. Wyll and Karlach stand in the office chatting about something patriar-related, while Lae’zel stands guard idly by the door.

Astarion seems to have found something of interest and beckons you over silently. A hatch disguised amongst the crumbling floorboards sits just behind the main counter.

How likely do you think it is that we could slip away undetected before the others notice? A devilish smirk on his lips. 

I think it’s fairly possible, you return the conspiratorial look. Glancing briefly behind you, your companions seem distracted enough. 

Astarion fumbles with the latch to the hatch – unlocked. Pressing a gloved finger to his lips, he lifts the hatch just high enough for you to slip inside, then follows in after you.

 

---

 

Sweetened darkness greets you below. Cool and undisturbed. Though neither of you particularly needs the torches to see – thanks to your infernal dark vision and his nocturnal senses – you take a moment to light a few here and there to simplify your snooping. 

A fairly standard office and store room greets you amidst the flickering firelight. Barrels of herbs that you stash away for later, and a handful of semi-interesting documents shoved aside by Astarion are all that catch your interest within the first chamber. Aside from the pale elf himself. 

Focus, you chide yourself. Your throat warms at the question of whether that thought remained private, or trickled outward to his mind as well.

Down a half-set of stairs, another mundane storage chamber appears. You follow Astarion to a desk littered with more documents. Always after private information, you tease him.

“Well, of course, darling. What other information could be more delectable,” he purrs.

You hop up onto the desk, and finger through a dusty journal to your left. Astarion sorts through the papers to your right fairly quickly – his trained eyes picking out all that he needs to see in a handful of moments. Having finished those, he moves closer to your right thigh and clears his throat to get your attention. 

Arms crossed, and a silver eyebrow arched at you, he stares silently your way. “Now, just how am I supposed to gather any sort of sumptuous intel when you’re here sat upon the notes?” 

Playful potential warms your neck once more, and the vampire’s eyes flit there momentarily, before darting away again. You shrug, feigning uninterest, and continue paging through the journal in your hands. Nothing of interest hides amongst the hastily scrawled notes within, but you pretend to be intrigued anyhow. 

Bergamot fills your senses as a cool gloved hand plants itself on either side of you. “You know,” Astarion pitches his voice lower, “I’ve known people who were hungry for power, but Gale takes it a bit too literally for my liking.” A pause, “I wonder how he does it. Why he does it?”

“Is your, dear wizard, really what you want to be discussing now of all times,” you tease. “Alone, in a cellar full of surprises, untold powerful artifacts, and me of all things– and you’re wondering about Gale ?”

A breath passes, one Astarion fails to fill with clever words. A small victory, but it emboldens you further. Your tail flicks, seemingly idly, against the rogue’s taut thigh. His gaze flickers once more to your throat, where your pulse has picked up a bit. He swallows thickly, before continuing. 

“I’m sure all will be revealed in time– but I don’t like it.” He trails, off, “a waste of perfectly good treasure.”

“You know what I think,” you muse, dropping your voice to a whisper, and leaning forward. 

“What do you think, darling.” Astarion joins your game. 

“I think–” your tail trails idly up his thigh, “that you just don’t enjoy the idea of sharing your treasures.”

“Oh?” He leans forward, ruby gaze pinning you in place. It’s hungry, and your throat tightens. “Why should he get all of the nice things, why shouldn’t I like to keep some of them for myself?”

“I– uh.” Now it’s you who’s at a loss for words. You hold his gaze, and your hands – still clutching that damned journal – lower to rest in your lap.

“No answer, darling?”  He purrs and the palms he leans against slide closer to your sides.

Playing with your food– is all you can think. Another heartbeat of this damned stalemate passes. Your tail flicks in agitation, and your claw-like nails dig into the mouldering spine of the journal– impatience.

Who said I was hungry? He ripostes. You narrow your gaze, mock annoyance. 

Darling, you mockingly return, when aren’t you? His lip turns upwards in a snarl, revealing a fang – glistening and wet. 

Too far. Says a thought at the back of your mind. Your own? His? Your insecurity? His lips and fangs are on you before you have another moment to think. Covering your own lips in hungry nips and kisses. Salty iron coats your tongue.

 

---

 

When aren’t you? She mocks. Damn her. Damn this incessant vampiric hunger. Damn, this distance between you – because you are hungry. Always so gods-damned hungry. 

I’ll show her hunger – you think and your lips curl into a fanged snarl that matches the neverending one within your gut. A moment of hesitation – her obstinate, infernal gaze flickers unblinkingly at you. And either her lack of fear in the face of what anyone else would deem monstrous or your accursed hunger snaps the leash on your patience.

 

---

 

Astarion’s cool, smooth lips crash into yours. Any pretense of control dissolving in an instant. You run your tongue against your own infernally sharp canines roughly. Purposefully. 

Blood – the blood you know he can’t resist – floods your mouth, mixing with your twining saliva. He groans and takes your tongue into his mouth, suckling hungrily. You flick the stupid journal that had been your anchor to control aside– and rake your nails down the embroidered tunic at his back.

You both groan as the kiss deepens again and you feel your cheeks and throat heat. Pulse heightening, more of your life force leaking from your tongue onto his.

You bite the inside of your cheek, roughly, and more of the briny fluid gushes forth from the fresh wound. He growls, and pulls you against his chest– peaked breasts crushing into the silken fabric of your robes and his padded armor beyond.

Your nails arch further into his tunic, nearly breaching the fabric. He hisses and pulls away momentarily – something in his gaze warning you from doing that again. Your chest constricts with guilt, and you nod subtly before you smirk and once more bite your tongue purposefully. 

“You little– “ he groans, taking your mouth anew.

 

---

 

The taste of Kalliope, a taste both warm and metallic, floods your senses. As intensely as the night she first let you feed on her. That burning sweetness of hers fills your mouth. A perfect complement to the gelid-harshness that fills your half-dead heart.

As that silken ambrosia flows into your mouth, a memory pulls at the edge of your mind. Not yours– but hers. Something she wants you to see? Something she unknowingly shows you? 

Your tongue moves in concert with hers, suckling against the pulsing organ oozing her essence. You draw that first, full mouthful, and once more, like that first feeding against the rough ground of your campsite – the warm liquid flowing down your throat pulls a rumbling moan up and out.

You see her kneeling in gore, cool moonlight turning the color of it to deepest black. Her eyes are alight with something between zeal and arousal. Whimpering echoes around you, not the delicious sound she makes as you feed on her, but a mewling, pathetic version. 

Pleading and fearful. 

Kalliope is senseless to it, the cries for mercy fall on deaf ears. She continues ardently – tearing and ripping – infernal eyes alight with maddening desire. Disarming smile morphing into something deranged. 

As the memory of her crime plays out before your eyes, her scent around you strengthens. Her pulse beneath your tongue quickens and a whimper of pleasure escapes her. Despite the frightening images playing out before you, you drink more deeply. Shared desire flowing between you.

 

---

 

The need within you grows, his fangs scraping against your tongue, your lips, your teeth. Each collision and new wound sends a pulsing wave of desperation to your core. You grind into his hips, scooting ever closer to the edge of the desk beneath you. 

His beautiful, dextrous hands cradle your chin. Tilting it upwards as he drinks, and drinks from you. The novelty of this feeding – fangs sunken into your tongue rather than your neck – maddeningly erotic.

Your tail curls and uncurls around his calf, then his thigh – needily. Fussily. Finally, it settles just above his hips, pulling and begging him closer to you. Your pulsing core needs him nearer. Your hands pull at the fabric of his leathers. Then that brief look of his flashes across your mind’s eye again. 

The look of, panic? Fear? As you clawed at his back clangs through you, and you calm a bit – not wanting to push at any unknown boundaries.

  

---

 

Beneath her gore-splattered knees, you see the mangled corpse of the dragonborn bard, Quil. Gods, you hiss internally, in all my years–  

You’d certainly carried out horrible deeds at Cazador’s behest. Kidnappings, not-so-subtle messages to competing factions– jilted partners or lovers. Targets tricked, and lured back to the palace with empty promises– but at least those messages had left the targets mostly intact.

The image shifts before you again, and instead of the bard, you see a vivisection in process. A harper by the looks of it, bound, gagged, and being slowly unzipped from the navel up by a laser-focused Kalliope holding a scalpel. 

Impish snickering floats from across the body, and a disgusting, disfigured, goblin? Imp? Stands across the wood-slab table from your darling, monk.

About the height of a halfling, gauntly built with hands and feet that end in curling talons. The imp’s facial skin is pulled taut, and thin. Living death. This creature – this being – sends every hair of yours screaming to attention.

Your undead gut twists as it speaks. Their tiny luminous eyes regard your dearest with a familiarity you wish to snuff out. Personally.

 

---

 

Astarion’s feeding slows, and the mind-numbing ecstasy that accompanies it fades. The vampire smoothes a few unruly hairs behind your pointed, ridged ears and pulls away from the kiss. 

Concern colors his features. “Is something the matter,” you ask him, “did I go too far? I–I’m sor–.”

“No, darling. No, of course not–” he cuts you off. “It’s just– I saw– I think– I, erm–” he’s found himself at an unnatural loss for words.

“What,” you ask, eyes searching his for an answer. “What did you see?”

He avoids your gaze, almost bashful or guilty. “I saw– well, her,” regret laces his tone and you know instantly who he means. “Then, them, or rather it –” he adds with a sickening look. 

Only one fetid creature could turn Astarion’s gut in such a way– Sceleritas. You ball your fists in fury and hiss.

His hands settle atop your furiously curled ones, pushing them to the solidity of the desk beneath you. He holds your gaze, apologetic. “I– I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to– I–,” he fumbles over an apology. An excuse. “I didn’t mean to pry or to see anything you didn’t want to share,” he says finally.

You consider him for a moment. His admission, the premature end to his feeding. You squeeze his hands, threading your fingers between his. Staring at your entwined fingers you say, “It’s not your fault. This– these tadpoles must weaken my already ruined mind.” You pause, considering silently. “You’re sure you don’t hear anyone else’s thoughts? See anyone else’s memories?”

“No. Not a one. Aside from when we first encountered our companions. But no, not since then. You’re the only one whose thoughts or memories I see or hear.” He hums in thought and rests his chin atop your head. “Maybe we should practice funneling our thoughts inward or outward.”

“That bad?” You ask. 

“No– no of course not. I’ve seen – and done – far worse. I just–,” he pauses in thought. “As out-of-character for me, as this may sound, I don’t want to know anything about you that you don’t wish for me to know. It feels– impolite .”

“Impolite?!” You start to laugh, then catch yourself. “Sorry— I know you’re being sincere. I appreciate it. Really,” you lean into his throat and breathe in the sharp, floral muskiness of his scent. “Maybe we can practice tonight,” you say. Pulling away to smile up at Astarion. 

He returns the sentiment with a rare, genuine smile of his own. 

“But first,” you say “don’t we have that forbidden tome to find? We might want to move along before the others catch onto us.”  He nods, then backs up a step, offering his hand to help you off of the desk, and you return to your search.

 

---

 

A half-hour or so later, the two of you have found yourselves stood before an imposing mirror hidden behind a series of secret levers and doors, and past a small horde of undead. Nothing the two of you couldn’t punch and sneak-attack your way through. 

A small collection of goods – including a scroll you think Gale will quite enjoy – stowed away into your packs.

The mirror shimmers to life, well, arcane life. “ Spea-k your n-ame–” it demands.

You glance between Astarion and the mirror. He shrugs, then crosses his arms over his chest, a curious grin paints his features. 

“Kalliope,” you say confidently. 

The mirror hums in consideration, “ I do no-t know this name.” You tense momentarily, expecting something horrible to spew forth from the clearly cursed mirror. “ If you are known to my mas-ter, step forward and de-clare yourself an ally.”

“I, Kalliope, am an ally to your Master.”

“Only a t-rue ally of Ilyn Toth may pass. What th-ink you of the zulkir Szass Tam?”

You wrack your ruined mind for any memory of this ‘Szass Tam’. Your own memories prove to be unhelpful, but the accursed, darkened whisper yawns from the back of your mind. A memory slips past your mind’s eye, one that hints this ‘Tam’ was in league with this same ’once-kin’ that the whisper mentioned when you touched the dark amethyst before in the caves. 

The association of the whisper’s memory with such a figure as ‘Szass Tam’ doesn’t inspire trust or admiration within you. “Szass Tam is a foul, wretched creature if what I remember is true,” you say.

The ghostly visage in the mirror hums, pleased with your answer. Astarion gives you an approving smirk and a nod, whispering, “I’ll ask you how you knew that later on.”

“You are no zulkir,” the mirror continues, “b-ut, are you wise? T-tell me, why might one use balsam ointment?”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” Astarion whispers into the shell of your ear. Clearly, as unable to stay away from you, as you are him. He continues, leaning further into your backside, and your focus falters for a moment. “Any apprentice herbalist or poisoner knows that one. Do you, darling ?”

Your breath hitches, as you whisper back to the rogue, “My memory fails me right now, unfortunately.”

“Hmm,” he purrs into your ear again, “ maybe, I should let the mirror have at you and watch you flounder – but then I wouldn’t get to have you later… ” your core clenches and stirs. 

“Astarion–,” you breathe, a haze settling over your mind as his smell fills your senses once more.  

He chuckles and answers for you, “To clean a wound.”

“Acceptable,” the mirror drones, “f-inally, if you could see an-ything in me, what would it be?”

“ Well,” he breathes into your ear, sliding his hands around the sides of your hips, and pulling you into him. “What would you see?”

If you don’t stop distracting me– you’re going to get us both cursed. A chuckle rumbles out of his chest, and you push aside the arousal distracting you from the task at hand. 

You say the first logical thing that crosses your mind, “I’d look for whatever spell or cure that will rid me of this worm in my head.”

“You seek to sur-vive. You seek power. Be wel-come,” the mirror drones one last time. Then the spectre of a face disappears, and a dark opening replaces it.

“Very good, darling. Very good, indeed.” Astarion nips at your ear, and pushes you forward into the opening behind the mirror. Once inside, however, he slides from behind you and strides off to inspect the room within.

Frustrating tease, you hiss mentally. He merely smirks at you over his shoulder.

Within the room, a sort of natural history museum awaits you. The ribs of a leviathan hang from a display above you. A young cave bear, stuffed and taxidermied roars silently in the corner. Other specimens of the natural world sleep open-eyed, forever, in various jars of liquid.  

A messy, stained table at the center is covered in dried gore and bones. Various notes are pinned to the table with old surgeon’s tools. That now-familiar, macabre curiosity of yours draws you forward. Inspecting the notes, it seems that whatever sorcerer owned this cellar and these notes had attempted– and failed – to find a way to return the empty bones before you to life.

“Tragic,” you click your tongue mockingly, “another failed attempt of a mage to bring back a fallen lover.”

“Don’t tell me you of all people find love to be a farce?” Astarion teases.

“Oh, of course not,” you blurt, “I just think that– magic like that is–”

“–Incredibly rare?” Astarion finishes your thought, just as you look up to see him gazing past a rusted set of prison doors. 

“Is that– is that it?!” You gasp in admiration.

“It appears so, but it also appears that there are plenty of traps around it. Whoever lived here was not a fan of visitors.”

“So,” you grin at him, “how do you want to get to it?”

He taps a finger to his lips, “I have a few ideas. Watch a master at work, will you?”

“Oh-ho! A master now, are you?” 

Astarion scowls at you playfully, “Just keep those pretty lips sealed, then watch and learn.”

You hum in agreement and stand back. Astarion glances around the room, pointing out a number of pressure plates in front of the locked gate. Gracefully, he leaps over them before crouching at the keyhole to the gate. 

He slips the same set of lockpicks from his boot once more and makes quick work of the lock. Casting a flirtatious wink over his shoulder at you when a satisfying click sounds. You nod and wave him on. 

Past the gate, there sits a stone table. Astarion glances left and then right, “Of course, more traps. Right then.” He creeps forward and inspects the table beneath the book. Slipping one of the mouldering journals found in the spiders’ cave from his pack– he prepares to set it in place of the necromantic tome. 

Your breath hitches– both in fear and anticipation. He rolls his shoulders, stretches an empty hand forward, and then simultaneously nicks the desired book from the plate while discarding the fake in its place.

Nothing happens. 

You both hold in place for what seems like an eternity, certain something world-ending is going to leap forward from the shadows and consume you both. 

When a minute or so passes, and nothing happens, Astarion tucks the prize into his pack and then creeps back out of the cell, locking it once more. He leaps over the pressure plates before the door and lands silently beside you.

You ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh’ dramatically as he sketches a dramatic bow. “Now what?”

“Now,” he says,  “we see if this works.” Gracefully he slips his pack from his shoulders and retrieves the dark amethyst from the hidden pouch within its lining. Holding it within an inch or so of the tome’s gaping mouth, the amethyst sucks forward. Then clicks into place. 

A pulse of magic tickles through you as an invisible barrier dissolves from around the book. 

You grin at one another, successful. Too soon, your celebration ends as you hear a loud ‘Ahem’ from the direction of the once-cursed mirror door. 

“Really, Kalliope, sneaking off with him to find a cursed artifact? Just when did you two plan on sharing this with us? Before or after you became ridden with yet another magickal ailment?” Gale looks like any number of ‘disappointed teachers’ from the City as he stands in the doorway, arms crossed, tapping his foot. 

The other four flank him, each looking anywhere from equally displeased to apathetic. Lae’zel, predictably, is the resident example of apathy.

“Ahh, come on, Gale,” you say, “it could be useful!”

“Or, it could be incredibly dangerous. You should let Shadowheart or I have it.”

Astarion’s glance at you is both pleading and severe. Darling, for once, please ignore this puffed-up academic. It’s a tome of Necromancy for Hells’ sake. The answer to finally ending Cazador’s reign of terror upon my– uh, me I mean – could be within these pages.

You can’t blame him. If a tome potentially held the answer to banishing the darkened muse from your mind once and for all– you’d be just as determined to learn its secrets as Astarion is at this moment.

“Gale, I think that we were meant to find this. It could have any number of helpful solutions to Astarion’s condition. C’mon Karlach,” you plead, “What would you do if you found a tome that could cure your engine issues?”

“Ahh, shit, soldier. C’mon now, tha’s not fightin’ fair,” she mopes. “How am I s’posed to say ‘No’ to fangs?” 

Shadowheart and Wyll glance at one another behind Gale, Shadowheart shrugs and shakes her head. Wyll sighs and wipes a hand down his face, muttering “‘ Sure, sure, let the monster keep the cursed book,’ said the monster hunter…”

“Really?” Gale says to the group, “You’re all fine with this?”

No one says anything. “Unghh,” groans the wizard, “fine, who am I to tell Astarion no? It’s not like you’re going to refuse him Kalliope…”

Karlach elbows Gale at that, “Hey, man, not cool– ”

“What?” He scoffs, “We’re all thinking it.”

“Perhaps,” says Shadowheart, “but you’re the only one foolish enough to Say. It. Aloud. Funny, I thought the title of ‘wizard’ implied wisdom.” 

Lae’zel remains silent, but a flicker of approval flashes through her eyes at Shadowheart’s quip.

Damn.

You share a concerned look with Astarion, what in the sweet hells?

Never mind him, darling, he’s just jealous. Everyone knows it.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 22: Forging Forgiveness

Summary:

"Balance is a myth.
Where any clan treads, nature struggles.
Unity is a fiction.
Men of mere flesh seek only to tame beast and raze flora.
We are thunder, and we are rain.
We shatter mankind, and grow new life in its place."

-Excerpt from Faldorn's Canticle

Notes:

Hi everyone, I'm trying to post more regularly. Thank you to all of you who are still following along. I'm writing this mostly for myself, but I hope you all are enjoying it too.

Love to you all

Hiking back to the Grove, you feel slightly awkward. Astarion seems lighter on his feet behind you, clutching the straps of his pack like a first-year student. 

Clearly, someone is eager to study their new forbidden tome. 

No response. 

Ahead of you, however, Gale walks stiffly and silently. Feeling betrayed or trivial after your party’s disagreement in the necromancer’s basement. If only you could have a moment alone with the wizard, to speak with him and check in. Your goal was never to leave him feeling expendable or to disregard his advice. 

There simply wasn’t a compromise for that particular situation and well— 

Maybe I am playing favorites…

Astarion’s words play back in your mind, an echo of Shadowheart’s— Nevermind him, darling, he’s just jealous. Everyone knows it.

Jealous of— surely not— 

Oh. 

Oh.

The realization hits you— a jab of guilt straight to the gut as sure as any pugilist.

No one— not even you— fully understands the true nature of your bond with Astarion, but your newfound friends are far from dense. 

Late-night feedings. His knowledge of my urges before anyone else. Our bantering, flirtatious conversations. 

And then there was the matter of how feral and terrified you had felt upon seeing his near-death via phase spiders. That dark voice in your mind’s momentary surfacing– demanding Shadowheart protect him– while you desperately fought to his side. 

You two haven’t exactly been subtle.

What had Gale called you back in Ethel’s teahouse? ‘A cherished ally’? Then down by the river on your second morning as a true party, ‘Have to leave something to be desired.’

Your mind drifts back to the brief flash of his chest upon his reveal and request for extra magical objects. Smooth skin despite that dark marking– pert musculature. A prickling sensation dances up your spine with the thought, and your cheeks heat. 

How is a practitioner of magic and a man with possibly the creakiest knees I’ve yet to encounter so inexplicably fit? Books can’t be all that heavy.

You push the curiosity aside, fretful that the thoughts may trickle outside the bounds of your mind. Shove the confounding emotions to that corner of your mind where anything too complex to deal with has gone recently. 

A steadily growing list of emotions at that.

Gods above, could nothing be simple anymore?

You’ll have to untangle it all at some point, says a voice in your head. Your higher self again. A welcome visitor in comparison to the other— thing residing in the dark crevasse of your broken mind. You consent to the truth of it, but feel exhausted at the thought of doing so.

Too focused on your inner environment, you fail to perceive the gnarled roots of a tree sprawling across the path. The toe of your left boot catches on the thing for only a moment— but suddenly you’re careening forward. 

“Shit!” The word rushes past your lips as the ground rises uncomfortably fast towards you. You throw your arms out– ready to brace.

“Kalliope!” Shadowheart gasps, shock coloring her hazel eyes. 

Gale whips around, brown eyes wide, and mutters a quick phrase. Your tumbling slows to a near-instant halt, and you feel light as air. As soon as the incantation leaves his lips, he’s rushing forward to catch you. Placing him in the closest proximity he’s been to you thus far. 

Nearly nose to nose. 

You can feel his breath on your lips. Catch a hint of his scent– incense and parchment. Adrenaline is followed quickly by confusion, relief, and then a knotted stomach as you process the last handful of seconds. 

Gale’s warm gaze holds yours for a long moment before bashfully darting away. Your heart flutters abruptly before he gently steadies you, and you find your footing. The wizard then backs up and grasps his forearm awkwardly– as if his hands are suddenly foreign instruments, with no known purpose.

“So sorry,” you blurt, cursing yourself internally.

The wizard clears his throat and smiles that warm, charming smile– not quite meeting your eyes. “Think nothing of it. Can’t have you injuring yourself in the dirt, can we?”

“Oh— uh, of course not,” you reply gracelessly with a laugh.

An uncomfortable beat of silence passes while the rest of your companions take in the scene. Too long.  

Sensing this, Gale clears his throat and bends to pick up his staff— which he’d apparently dropped or cast aside in the moments before. “Well— shall we?” He says, voice wobbling a bit.

You nod and move back amongst the party, carefully avoiding the roots underfoot. Behind you, Astarion hasn’t said a word. No doubt appraising the situation with a smug sort of disdain. Ahead of you, Gale’s steps are too even. As if he’s trying too hard to appear normal. Your neck is hot, and your heart nearly somersaults in your chest. 

You swallow dryly. Slow your breath in an attempt to calm your now-racing heart.

Shadowheart eyes you curiously before primly tossing her braid behind her and returning attention to the trail. You cull your reaction to respond defensively– claim there’s nothing to be curious about. Redirect her suspicions. But you know that’s not true, and according to Karlach, you’re a shit liar– so there’d be no point. Especially because you’re now more curious about the wizard than ever. 

You resist the urge to worry your fingernails against one another or pull at the tips of your hair— not wanting to be such an open book— before continuing on.

Adorable, hums Astarion’s voice in your head.

Great. You roll your eyes and suppress a sigh of frustration, tail flicking absent-mindedly.

  

---

 

Before long, the great, vine-covered gate of the Druid’s Grove is within sight. Karlach practically rushes the thing on approach, banging on the ancient planks of wood. “Hurry it up!” She shouts impatiently at the tiefling manning the crank above. 

“Karlach, keep your cool. We’re nearly there,” Wyll says.

A bark of a laugh escapes her forever-smiling mouth, “‘Keep my cool’? I wish! It’s so damned hot in here. All of the time! ”

You pass by the tiefling siblings: Cal, Lia, and Rolan– who for now have stopped arguing. Well- almost. You wonder what it would be like to have siblings–if you do have siblings that you can’t remember. Would you be friendly, with one another? Supportive and kind? Or resentful and at one another’s throats? 

Aradin glares at you from the edge of the trail as you pass, and you glare right back– clenching your fists in an effort to avoid pummeling the look clear off of his face.

Damned prick. Someday I'll fix that attitude of his. 

Further along, the tiefling children scurry about– chasing one another under and around some very bored-looking oxen. You’re pleased to see that Mirkon is among them, recovered and seemingly unbothered by his near-death at the talons of the harpies. Hopefully, his lesson was learned.

Two of the beasts are busy nosing their way through hay dropped into their manger by an exhausted tiefling. The third stands off to the side, restless. 

“Did that cow just give me the side eye,” Astarion says as you pass one of the oxen. “Is that…normal?”

“I’m no druid,” you say, “but I certainly doubt it.”

“Doubt what– the side eyeing bovine or the normalcy of it?” He asks with a pout.

“Both, really. But I meant that I doubted the bit about it ‘being normal’,” You shrug and continue after Karlach, who’s now loping the last stretch toward Dammon’s forge.

“Darling,” Astarion says, fake hurt lacing his words, “I can’t believe you’d accuse me of lying to you.”

Externally, you scoff. Internally you think towards him, I would never accuse you of such things. Though I might accuse you of exaggerating from time to time.

A mental hmph comes your way. Exaggeration is simply the mark of a skilled storyteller, my dear. But in this case– I was very much not doing so. The cow definitely gave me a look.

You roll your eyes and suppress a smile. 

Before you, Dammon sets aside a hunk of blistering metal along with a hammer– before descending the steps of his ‘forge’ to greet you. He wipes a smear of sweat from his brow with a sleeve then beams at you all, “Hello again! How fares the search?”

“WEFOUNDIT– ” Karlach blurts out, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Oops, sorry. I’m just so excited! Here you are,” she says, handing over the oddly glowing metal. “Please let this work…” she mumbles.

The smith hums as he takes the infernal iron in hand. “The weight of it– and that blaze of chaos. Can’t imagine this where my heart should be. Must be quite the experience,” he laughs awkwardly.

“If that isn’t the understatement of the century,” Karlach groans. 

Dammon laughs again, eyes twinkling, “Well then, give me just a moment. I think…” As the smith turns back to his forge and lifts his hammer, Karlach does a little dance– crossing her fingers. Behind her, you can see Wyll smiling gently.

I bet he finds his horns and ridges worth this.  

Dammon’s hammer rings out through the Hollow, each ping of the tool against the metal a hopeful note to Karlach’s jig. Moving the metal back and forth between the fires of the forge, and the sturdy anvil before him, he slowly begins to form a pair of objects. Each one a curved plate, roughly the shape of a heart. Though larger and cruder.

The heart, such a gorgeous collection of tissues. You, child, would know that shape anywhere, growls the dark whisper out of nowhere. A pity it's formed of iron and not beating, pulsing flesh. Isn’t it? The voice is almost hungry in tone and draws your thoughts elsewhere. Somewhere darker and morbid. 

Somewhere sweeter.

You’re drawn from your sensual nightmares as Dammon pulls away from the forge, breathless. 

His smile stretches from ear to ear, “There. You’ll have to install it– I don’t think there are thick enough gloves in all the realms to protect from that kind of heat.”

Karlach takes the pair gently in her hands as if it were a mewling newborn or a glass falcon. Tears shine in her eyes, and she moves to wipe them away– probably nothing more than habit now– because they gently turn to steam and disappear before she can do so.

A noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh escapes her as she turns away from the group to finagle the device into wherever it needs to go. 

Your heart aches for her. You genuinely cannot fathom what she must be feeling or thinking in this moment. Years of anguish and strife and anger and frustration– the relief of which all relies on these next few moments. 

A hiss like that of a release valve on a liquor still. The deep rumbling and clanking of gears echo after. A ticking sound, similar to a clock’s. A final click. Then, silence and a sigh of relief from your fiery friend. 

Your party remains silent– frozen with apprehension. 

“That feels…good,” she says finally, and Shadowheart sighs behind you, echoing your relief. “I’m still burning hot as Hell’s hole, but I feel less… changeable. Ohh, thank you Dammon!”   

“The pleasure was all mine, Karlach. I’ve missed working on the more challenging machinery of the Hells, believe it or not. As for the heat, I haven’t got any solutions now, but I’m not giving up. Could be if the combustion chamber had its own insulation, o-or if we had some kind of enchanted coolant–” Dammon begins rattling off possible mechanical solutions, nearly oblivious to his audience.  

You didn’t think Karlach’s smile could grow larger, but it seems it has. The urge to pull your giant friend into a hug has never been stronger– but you resist.

“Find me again in Baldur’s Gate,” the handsome smith continues. “If I’m worth my salt, I’ll have figured something out by then. Take care, Karlach. Hopefully, the next time I see you, I’ll have something promising to report.”

“Thanks again, Dammon. Really– this means the worlds to me.” The air around Karlach is noticeably cooler. Though it's still far from ‘cold’. The vents in her shoulder still pulse with light and heat, but the effect resembles a flickering candle now. As opposed to the roaring bonfire from before. 

Truly, you can’t imagine the pain and discomfort she feels on the daily.

“Well then,” Wyll says, “shall we move to our next order of business?”

“Hells yea,” Karlach beams. You wave goodbye to Dammon and turn on your heels to head towards Khaga and her treachery. As you go, you hear Dammon shout something about ‘pocketing any more of that iron’.

 

---

 

“Why are you here?!” Growls the horrible woman, “I sent you to Zevlor!”

“Because,” you snarl back, “there’s been a change of plans.” A small jolt of satisfaction runs through you as the woman startles. 

“That’s right,” Astarion attests from behind, “We found some rather titillating information in the swamps just south of here, didn’t we?” The elf smirks conspiratorily at the Druid and whispers, “ ...would you like to hear it? ”

The woman snarls again, “What? Get on with it before I decide to set Teela on you.” The viper in question eyes you from the woman’s shoulders, tongue scenting the tension in the air.

“We know the truth. You’re angling to take the Grove for the Shadow Druids– not protect it,” Wyll says. “And to think– you were ready to kill a child to succeed. We know you couldn’t have completed the ritual without your ‘Idol of Silvanus’.” Rath, the other, much kinder Druid, gasps behind you all. 

“That’s preposterous. You’ve no proof of these outlandish accusations,” Kahga grinds out.

“Don’t we?” Shadowheart sneers. “It’s one thing to selfishly protect yourself. But another entirely to wipe out an entire group of refugees and children in the process.” Lae’zel merely spits on the ground in agreement.

“Khaga, what are they saying? Is this true?!” Rath sputters.

A faint glow rises from the stones behind Khaga– a glow filled with fluttering leaves and vines. You recognize it from the first time you witnessed a Druid take Wild Shape. Before your eyes, three rats who you’d paid little mind to shift into grimy, ragged Druids with tattoos of swirling darkness across their bare skin.

The not-rats glare at you with nothing but contempt in their expressions. A halfling woman with a face both unconventionally beautiful and severe, framed in thick silver locks clicks her tongue at you. Her face is lined with decades of life, black paint around her eyes and cheekbones.

“Tha’ damned nose ‘o yours has gone pokin’ in our business. You shoulda left well ‘nough alone.”

“And you shoulda thought better than to leave your business lyin’ about like a days-old buffet,” Karlach retorts. The halfling snarls at Karlach.

Khaga looks anxious now, and her viper, Teela suddenly much less frightening. “Mistress Olodan,” she sputters, “I-I can explain.”

“Oh, this’ll be good,” you say, crossing your arms and raising a brow.

The halfling, Olodan, gives you a nasty look before turning to Khaga. Her gaze softens a bit as it lands on the red-haired Druid. “Shh, shh. No need, it couldn’t be helped.”

“Khaga,” Rath barks, “ what is the meaning of this?!”

“You think yourselves quite the spies, don’t you? Sneakin’ about, readin’ things that don’t belong to you,” Olodan sneers. “Well then, go on, tell the man. ”

“Well it’s simple really,” begins Gale, “in short, you’ve had a rat in your midst all this time. Though– that comparison is probably insulting to the rats– Khaga seems to have found a new direction for this Druidic circle of yours. And I don’t think it’s quite as enlightening as Silvanus’ teachings.”

“A Shadow Druid?!” Rath hisses, “Khaga, have you lost your mind ?!”

“I know,” Astarion croons, “I thought those brave heroes of old had wiped them all out,” he motions dramatically to the murals wrapping around the walls of the cavern. “It’s a pity when stains won’t come out of a good cloth.”

“That’s rich, callin’ us the stain,” Olodan barks. She returns her focus to Rath, but not before looking you in particular up and down in disgust. “You and Halsin welcome these untouchables, these hellspawn into your midst. You defile the Grove, for the sake of ‘Harmony’.”

Your throat burns and that darkened muse within you jumps to life at the word. Hellspawn. We’ll show you the Hells. It hisses. Your tail lashes in furious anticipation.

“Olodan speaks the truth, Rath. Who among you disagrees? Who would see this Grove in ruin.” Khaga’s words are more confident than her expression. Rath merely stares at her in disappointment. A handful of other druids, who were somewhere within the library or common areas of the sanctum have joined to witness the scene. They too look on with varying degrees of despair.

“The choice is made,” says the halfling. “Khaga, cleanse the tainted, and start with that hellspawn there.” She jerks her head in your direction and your blood heats further.

Khaga stares you down and nods in agreement. But there’s still that tinge of uncertainty in her stance. She doubts her path.

Gale must notice this too, because he says, “The shadows won’t save you or your Grove. They’ll corrupt you all. Don’t ignore that feeling in your gut, that intuition.”

You waste time, child. Maim them. Kill them! Bathe in their blood, and relish in the wreckage of those who speak poorly of your kind. Who speak ill of you. You can feel your hold on the leash slipping, the killing calm rising up within you.

“No,” says Khaga, “You– you don’t know what you say. In shadow, we are purified. ”

“Believe me, Khaga, I’ve studied the annals of history and the follies of old. I know these Druids’ ways. In their hands, this Grove will suffer the fate you fear now.” Gale’s voice is steady, calm– persuasive. Like a parent trying to soothe the fit of a child. The Druid hesitates for just a moment, and you see her doubt as plain as the nose on her face. 

Her anger melts into shame as she rounds on Olodan. “You’re wrong, I was wrong! I can’t believe it took the observations of outsiders for me to see that. ‘When the darkness fell, it was us that brought light’. ” She glances at the murals Astarion had pointed out earlier, “ ‘Silvanus demands we illuminate the shadow– not hide within it,’ ” Khaga recites the Druidic teaching aloud.

Enough talk! Kill! Feast on their failures– bathe in their blood! The mental leash slips further from your grasp, and your fingers curl into fists– nails biting into your palms. 

“Careful Khaga,” Olodan warns, “the shadows don’t forgive–”

Khaga silences the halfling with a hand in the air, “ No. I belong to the shadows no longer. You’ve no power over me!”

“You would question my power?” growls the halfling, “ Mother Earth, hear me. Grant me your wrath!” The small woman begins chanting in a guttural language and summons a pack of shadowy wolves to her side. Beside you, Shadowheart jolts at their appearance.

Flanking Olodan, the not-rats transform once more. But this time, into a ferocious bear and a gnarl-tusked boar.

Finally! The shadow bellows from within, Rip them! Tear them piece by piece! Their insides a bouquet of reddest blooms!

And so you do. 

You relinquish the last, quavering hold on the leash that binds your monstrous bloodlust, and scream in rage. Your infernal legacy heightens the volume of your voice and shifts the flames of the room to a blue so dark, it’s nearly black.

Shadows fill the room, and you smile a twisted smile– for the shadows are where you belong. Darkness is your element. You imagine yourself behind the halfling woman, and then you’re there. Stepping through the shadows like the predator that you are.

You lash out and clutch a fistful of her hair– nails carving beautiful rubies from her scalp. Her shriek of rage and pain sends a shiver through you. The dark presence stretches in response– shaking itself from torpor– then moves deliciously quickly. Enveloping your mind in a red haze of violence.

With one fluid movement, using her hair as a handle, you thrust the halfling druid to the stones below you. Pleasure flowing through you as a great crack sounds upon impact. Then, you kick at her skull with a boot-clad foot. Your lips curl further, revealing your hellish teeth– infernal eyes ablaze. 

Terror and fury flash through the druid’s eyes. You make to land another blow to her stomach, but her shadow-wrought wolves leap at you – teeth gnashing. You howl in pain as one of them sets their jaws around your forearm, and redirect the blow meant for Olodan to the summoning’s temple. 

The hold on your arm loosens just long enough for you to slide it free, but not without consequence. Your blood now flows freely, dripping from your fist. The sight stirs that darkness inside of you– only serving to egg you on.

Across the room, your companions have taken their usual battle positions. Lae’zel and Karlach up close and personal, Wyll honing in on an enemy with pact magic, Gale and Shadowheart slinging spells from positions of support. Astarion, no surprise, is nowhere to be seen. 

That is until he lunges from the shadows you summoned and slashes Olodon across the chest. “Stop bleeding,” he says to you cheekily, “it’s distracting.” 

Your smile is more of a snarl, and the rush of battling side-by-side with the rogue riles you further.

 

---

 

All too quickly, the chaos within the sanctum is banished. Your bloodlust still howling for more – unsated.

Olodan and her ilk lie motionless upon the stones, bodies sufficiently broken. 

Loic, another druid, lies beside them – clutching a vicious bite wound. Blood slowly pools beneath him while Marcoryl, yet another druid, fervently works to calm and heal his blood-stained friend. 

Panting, Khaga turns to you and bows her head in thanks. “I– apologize for what I’ve said and done, I judged you too harshly.”

“A foolish decision,” you say, restraining the malice of the darkened muse within. “Siding with them I mean. I appreciate the apology.”

It is not enough! Let her pay with death! You clutch your head, the warring voices within bringing about another migraine.

“My fate lies with Silvanus now, may he have mercy,” Khaga continues. 

“And the refugees– you’ll let them stay?” Wyll asks.

“Yes,” replies the Druid flatly. “We will grant them safe harbour until they depart. Meanwhile, help us contend with the goblins. Perhaps we can dissuade and prevent further attacks.”

“Another task for the list,” Gale says.

“Yes, how wonderful, ” groans Astarion. You prod his side with an elbow and glance his way. He sighs.

 

---

 

Outside of the sanctum, the Druids have ceased their chanting. News travels fast, it seems.

Maggran, Jeorna, and Mino have stepped down– no longer intent on mauling anyone daring to approach the inner sanctum, which explains Zevlor’s presence. “Whatever you did to convince the Druids to stop their ritual– thank you. How did you convince Khaga?”

“It turns out, we can be quite persuasive when we want to be,” Gale says with a wink.

“Ilmater’s ashes, I never thought she would actually see reason. Thank you, we still have those damned goblins to contend with, but you’ve given us time to prepare. I need to ensure my people make the most of this gift,” the commander smiles and shakes his head in disbelief.

“See that you do,” replies Wyll.

“Before you go– here,” Zevlor produces a pair of metal-banded gloves. “Left over from my soldiering days…sparse thanks for what you’ve done for us. Perhaps your healer could benefit from them?”

“Shadowheart?” You say.

“Thank you, Zevlor,” nods the cleric as she inspects the gift.

Turning to leave, something nags at you. “There’s something I need to do before we head to camp. Wait here.”

You turn on your heels and gracefully jog further down the path to the hill that overlooks the druidic ritual circle. There, right where you last saw her, sits Alfira– whole and alive, and musical as ever.

Thank the Gods. You release a breath you forgot you were holding at the sight of her.

She glares distrustingly at your approach but doesn’t flinch or move to leave. “What do you want?”

“I–I’m here to apologize,” you say meekly. “There’s no excuse for the way that I behaved the other day. I’m sorry. I hope we can move past it and perhaps still be friends. You’re incredibly talented.”

Friends.

“Hmm,” says the bard, looking you over– possibly searching for any hint of treachery or ulterior motives. “I don’t understand why you behaved in such a way– but I suppose…I suppose I forgive you,” she sighs and smiles sweetly. “After all, I hear you’re the reason we’ve been allowed to stay within the safety of the Grove.”

“I’m only part of the reason– my friends and I were just doing what was right.” Friends, the word still rolls awkwardly off your tongue. Skepticism flavoring the thought. “Oh– and here,” you say producing an amethyst from your pack, along with Quil’s songbook. 

“I thought the purple would compliment your style– and the book–” you pause, unsure of how to explain the means by which you came upon it. “The book was left behind in our camp by another bard– she stayed the night with us, but was gone by morning.”

It’s not technically a lie… you think to yourself. “I was hoping you would know of– an honorable use for it?” 

Alfira takes the gemstone and marvels at it, then thumbs primly through the songbook. “I may need to brush up on my draconic– but yes. Thank you, I’ll do it justice.” Without warning, the bard stands to embrace you. “You’ve done wonderful things here, I know you’ll continue to do more.”

At her words, guilt twists your stomach. Guilt and determination– to prove her right.

 

---

 

“That was quite sweet of you, Darling,” says Astarion stepping from behind the shadow of a towering rock.

“Well, you know me– nothing but sweet.” Sardonicism laces through the words.

“Your blood? Absolutely. Your personality and deeds…” he pauses and grins slyly at you, “that’s up for debate.”

You stick out your tongue at the impish comment, then grin and take off jogging to meet the rest of your party.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 23: Poetic Irony

Summary:

"[Midnight Tears] is a colourless, odorless, and tasteless liquid distilled from the extract of several hundred species of poisonous plants, fungi, and animals. Exposed creatures suffer no effect until the stroke of midnight if it has not been neutralized before then."

-Jerome Diloontier, Waterdhavian apothecary

Notes:

In lieu of celebrating a bunch of old, dead, white guys and a nation built on hypocrisy -- enjoy a chapter containing a younger, dead, pale elf...who...may also be a hypocrite.

The river burbles and gushes around the rocks, the spray casting prisms of colorful light about as you sit and meditate on the banks later that evening. The last few rays of sunlight are beginning to fall behind the trees– casting them in a dark, almost-black, green. You focus on the smells around you, damp moss– the petrichor-like scent of the earth along the bank. Above you, birdsong slows as the sunlight of the day fades. Everything is winding down. 

Everything, except for your thoughts. 

The events of the day float through your mind, across your eyelids as you will yourself into a state of mindfulness rather than overthinking. You slow your breathing, begin to scan your body from toe-tips to horns– but those pesky feelings keep prickling at your peace. 

Astarion and his irresistible charm, your pleasant banter, and little adventure-for-two below the Apothecary shop. Those few, stolen moments on the mage’s abandoned desk. The way he stood behind you– supportively but also temptingly as you faced the mirror and its questions. 

Then Gale, and his disappointment at your ‘siding’ with Astarion over the ‘Necromancy of Thay’. If there were a contest for mimicking kicked, baby animals– Gale would be in the top three. You’re certain of it. Then later, when he’d caught you as you foolishly tripped on the path. Those heart-racing few seconds as you hung there in his arms– his nose and lips mere inches from yours. Deep brown eyes warm and welcoming.

Ugh, stop it. This is not how you learned to meditate, and you know it. You scold yourself.

Footsteps sound behind you, crunching over pebbles and twigs. Too loud to be Astarion.

“Good evening,” says Gale as he stops beside you. “What a charming little spot you’ve found for yourself. Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not, mind the damp sand though,” you reply. A handful of moments pass before either of you speak again. A comfortable, shared silence.

“It’s good to take a break now and again– allow ourselves a few moments of respite. Selfishly, it gives me a chance to talk to you about something, well– rather important.”

You take a breath and clear your throat, steadying yourself. “Of course, how can I help?” You ask, turning to face him. The light catches in the waves of his hair and glints off of his eyes– casting them in a warm mahogany. How did I never notice how handsome he is?

“We’ve been on the road together for a while now, haven’t we? Survived some perils, overcame some obstacles. Ever since you were kind enough to free me from that stone, I’ve seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage.” He pauses and holds your gaze– searching for his next words. 

“The way you leapt into battle– no hesitation– to fight off that band of goblins outside of the Grove. How you convinced Kahga to release that girl, Arabella. Even– disturbingly– how you managed to convince those ogres to fight at our side.”

I’m not sure you’d feel the same way if you knew how often I’m so close to giving in to those things. What I’d done after dark to the traveling bard, you want to say. But you keep those things close to your chest. For all you’ve grown to see this group of people as potential friends– you’re still not confident that they would understand the darkness within you with quite the same grace as Astarion had.

Especially one so seemingly put-together as Gale.

“Thank you, Gale. That means a lot– truly,” your smile is warm and genuine. 

“I’m glad you feel that way. The reason for this lengthy prelude is because it’s made me confident enough to share something with you– something I’ve yet to tell another living soul. Well– except for my ca– tressym , Tara,” he catches himself and smiles cheesily.

“Okay,” you smile back and realize just how unsure you are of where this might be going.

“Do you remember, the other day in the woods– when I showed you this?” He pulls the collar of his robes down again, this time for longer, and you fight the heat rising in your cheeks. 

The same smooth, pert musculature is there. Along with the darkened mark, but as you peer more closely– it seems less like a bruise and more like a sigil of some sort. What before seemed only roughly circular – you realize is an orb. Still just above where his heart sits. The dark lines leading away from it – that before seemed akin to darkened veins – are actually twining tails.

Definitely some sort of sigil.  

“Yes,” you say quietly, tracing the markings slowly with your gaze. “I do– I’m guessing that’s not a tattoo then?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. A strand or two of hair falling from behind his ear. “No, no unfortunately not. You see, I have this…condition. Very different from the parasite that we share, but just as deadly.”

You nod and think for a moment. “Is this…is this what you meant by ‘Karlach not being the only one with a problematic core’ ?”

He nods. “The other day I mentioned it having something to do with a failed experiment of mine. The specifics of it are rather personal – hence why I didn’t want to tell all casually along the road. But suffice it to say that it is a malady that I have learned to live with. Though– not without some effort.”

“The magical artefacts you mentioned– absorbing them or something along those lines?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Every so often, I have to absorb the Weave within a magical item. Think of it as– a tribute. The kind a King might pay in order to prevent an invasion by a more powerful neighbor.”

You pull a face– not quite connecting the dots on your own. “Who– what are you paying tribute to?”

He hesitates– smile dampening. “To explain that, I’d have to go further into my past. It’s quite a long story– are, are you sure you’d like to hear it?”

Your insides twist a little at the sadness dancing in his eyes. Seems we all have some sort of darkness within us. Your nerves jolt at the thought of what might be so severe, it could bring Gale to such a melancholy mood so quickly. 

You reach a hand to the sand between you, something like pity– no– empathy driving you. “If it will help you to feel more at ease, then yes. I’d be honored to hear what you have to say.”

His eyes sparkle and brighten a bit as he nods, “Very well then.”

Gale tells you of his childhood in Waterdeep, of how from a young age other mages regarded him as a ‘Wizard prodigy’. Of how he was not only able to perform spells after just one or two tries– but how he was able to begin creating his own incantations. As a composer might lead an orchestra. 

He speaks with pride about how his talents attracted the attention of other, much older and much more skilled, mages. One such mage being Elminster – the aforementioned millennials-old Wizard of Legend. 

Apparently, Gale was such a natural practitioner, and so skilled– that it eventually attracted the attention of Mystra– Lady of Mysteries and goddess of magic– herself. He conjures an image of her. 

The woman in the illusion is beautiful– young-looking. With full, round cheeks set upon delicate cheekbones. Her nose is straight, smooth. Ending in a charming little button of sorts. Mystra’s eyes are wide, round, clever– such a light blue that they’re nearly silver. A thick curtain of lashes bordering the top and bottom lids. Her earrings - you realize - are of the same design as Gale’s solitary one.

Interesting.  

Her lips are plump and supple– with a delicate cupid’s bow. What makes you most envious though– is the lack of marred flesh across her face. The antithesis of that thin, jagged scar that starts at the bridge of your nose and travels down, diagonally to the center of your right cheek. Effectively splitting your face in half. 

You swallow the unbidden tightness in your throat, “She’s stunning, Gale.”

His face falls subtly, eyes taking on a nostalgic shine– still pining. “She is, isn’t she?”

His tale continues. After Mystra noticed Gale, she became his teacher. Then later, a role model and friend. Eventually– his lover. 

If you had a drink– you would be choking on it right now. “I’m sorry– you– what? You’re telling me, that you were in a relationship with the literal goddess of Magic? Are you positive that you’re feeling alright?” You ask incredulously.

Gale looks shocked at your reaction, this perhaps being the first time he’s realized how truly exceptional such a claim is. To be the lover of a goddess– of any sort of divinity. As his initial jolt of shock fades, he shyly replies with a nod. “Oh yes, we enjoyed each other’s company – body, mind, and soul. But even so, I desired more.”

Foolish though it was, you understand. Of course, he would want more. “You wanted to be her equal– her true partner.”

Gale nods solemnly, “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.”

“What happened then,” you ask, attention rapt.

“I was a fool– I sought to cross her boundaries,” his face falls, grief coloring his features. Your hand finds his in the sand, and you hesitantly place yours atop it. Trying to comfort him in the simplest way you can think of.

Cautiously you ask, “How… exactly did you try to cross those boundaries?” 

His expression is pained as he responds, hindsight of course always being sharper than foresight. “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.”

“But you weren’t were you? Not truly– not without feeling that you were her equal?” Some part of you understands on a base level. Even if you can’t remember a time or place where you might have felt the same. 

To truly be someone’s partner– their equal– feels more validating than simply sharing their bed. After all, isn’t that part of the draw to your connection with Astarion? That feeling of sameness? 

He sighs and laughs derisively as he continues, “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. 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?”

“I’m intrigued, but share only as much as you want to. I can tell already that this is difficult enough.” You offer what you hope comes across as a look of understanding– rather than pity.

“Thank you, Kalliope. That’s very kind.” He sighs and grimaces, before clearing his throat and continuing. “Very well, here goes. Once upon a very long time ago, a mighty lord lived in a tower. A flying tower to be precise. 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.”

“Famous last words, right?” You smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

Gale returns the look with raised eyebrows, “ Ohh yes . He almost managed, but not quite, and his entire empire – Netheril – came crashing down around him as he turned to stone. The magic that was unleashed that day was– phenomenal . Roiling like the prime chaos that outdates creation.”

“I can’t even imagine–” you say. 

Gale continues, nodding, “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. ‘What if’, I thought, ‘What if after all this time, I could return this lost part of herself to the goddess?’”

“Ruling out flowers and sweets is where your folly began,” you joke, smirking.

He chuckles, wrapping his warm fingers around yours. “You know me. My gestures can never be grand enough.” His warm gaze holds yours, and for just a moment, you feel content. Calm . 

“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. I was mistaken. With great effort, I obtained the fabled book and took it into my study. As for what happened next…”

Gale gently takes the hand you’d placed over his, and leads it to his chest– just beneath the collar of his robes. His skin is as soft as you’d expected and warm. His heart flutters underneath your palm, and your cheeks heat again.

The tadpole quivers excitedly. A peaceful, warm tingling sensation wraps around your mind. You realize with a spark of excitement, that Gale is letting you in. Your excitement is premature, however. For when he lets you in– it’s into the dark. 

You see through Gale’s eyes, staring down the corridors of a dreaded memory. A younger Gale sits hunched over a desk, mage lights circling about. Before him, sits an impressive book, bound– not entirely unlike the one today in the Necromancer’s lair. A whisper of arcane words leaves your lips. Then suddenly– the tome is opened. 

To your horror, you realize that inside there are no pages, only a furious, swirling mass of blackest Weave. As realization clangs through you, you fight to shut the book and leave the mass trapped. Too late. It pounces. Its razor-sharp teeth– jagged claws– unstoppable and ravenous as it digs and digs through your core. 

Agonizingly, it settles into you. Becomes part of you. Gods, is it ever-hungry.

Abruptly, you’re shunted from the memory and back into the present. Your pulse is racing, as is his. “Gods below, Gale…how are you still alive!?”

His features turn severe, and he stares down at his lap. “Thankfully, the moment I absorbed the fragment wasn’t enough to kill me outright. It was only the beginning. This Netherese blight…this ‘orb’, for lack of a better term, 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…”

Seems Astarion isn’t the only one in camp with an unconventional hunger. “You’ll die– but there’s something else isn’t there? Something you’re not saying.”

“Yes.” He hesitates, grimacing. “If it comes to that– I will erupt. 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– could level a city the size of Waterdeep.”

“Holy Hells, Gale! That’s no small thing!” The shock of the admission causes you to jump backward, yanking your hand from his chest and scooting a few inches away from him in the sand. Gale immediately looks wounded– any semblance of intimacy or comfort evaporating in an instant. 

“You should’ve told us sooner…” you whisper.

“I know,” he mutters. “All of this…it must feel like a betrayal. I’m so sorry, Kalliope,” his gaze is tortured, and you can see him retreating into himself once more. “Just say the word, and we’ll part ways.”

A long moment passes as your thoughts scramble to create some sort of conclusion. A coherent response. The man in front of you is nothing short of an arcane bomb given the right– or rather– very wrong situation. Finally, you say, “I–I’d like to know what the others say first. We’re all…dangerous in our own ways after all.”

Gale smiles sadly, and nods, “Of course.”

Not wanting to leave the conversation on such a dire note, you nudge his shoulder with your own. “Hey,” you say, “I didn’t mean to make you feel insignificant today. What with the book and all that. I like you– I really do. What’s more, I value you and your wisdom. It’s just– if there’s a possibility that something in that book could help Astarion– I don’t think it’s right for us to deprive him of that based on doubt or assumptions.”

Gale smiles, “Thank you for that. I like you too. And, I suppose I understand. Were a book to hold the cure to my orb situation– even the slightest hint of a possibility of one– I’d be just as eager.”

“Thank you for understanding, Gale.” Then, before your better judgment can tell you otherwise, you lean over place a gentle kiss on his cheek, and head back into camp.

 

---

 

When you return to the center of camp, Karlach and Wyll are having a drinking contest. Several bottles of piss-water-ale are empty and strewn between them. Astarion lounges, book in lap, against a log looking on in part-horror-part-amusement.

Lae’zel– in her own reserved way– cheers them on. Toasting to them with each successful round. Shadowheart primly sips her wine from a stump placed directly across the circle from Lae’zel, eyeing the gith curiously. Occasionally the cleric laughs when Karlach releases a massive belch. That tiefling woman could make anything humorous.

“What’re we drinking to?” you ask. 

“Because we can–” Karlach boasts. “And because I’m one step closer to fixing my engine. Also, kicking Khaga’s ass back into place was pretty fun.”

“In that case, Shadowheart, could you spare a glass? It’s been a long fucking day.” You approach her stump and sit with your back to it, using the thing as a backrest. From over your shoulder, Shadowheart hands you a too-full glass of Ithbank and grins.

“So,” asks the Cleric, “where were you just now?”

“Oh, just trying to meditate by the river. Unsuccessfully,” you screw up your nose and take a sip. The wine is dry but sweet. Not terrible.

“Hmm,” she says thoughtfully, with a knowing look, “I wonder if your lack of success had anything to do with the Wizard hovering nearby.” She motions towards the break in the brush from where moments ago, you’d emerged. Gale is shaking the trim of his robe, trying to dislodge a rim of wet sand.

“Not really– but he and I did have a nice chat,” you say casually.

“Ohhh, do tell–” she grins. “Did you finally resolve the ‘conflict’ from earlier today? He’s been all stuffy about it since.”

You run a hand down one of your long, teal-black braids, and down your chest. “Oh– uh. I think so?” 

Your tone is far from certain. For one, what conflict? There’s no conflict– everything is fine. Absolutely, perfectly fine and normal between you two. Secondly, you apologized and he seemed to take it well enough. Bonus points, he finally shared his mysterious past with you. Only Shadowheart remains a mystery now.

You say none of this aloud, of course.

“ Very believable,” she says, rolling her eyes. Astarion eyes you suspiciously from his log, garnet eyes thin and fixed on you. His preternatural hearing no doubt allowing for eavesdropping, even over the raucous atmosphere. He sends no thoughts your way, however.

Odd.

“Good, because it’s true,” you say swallowing a large gulp of wine. There’s a pause of silence before the cleric comments again– whispering.

“You’ve got all the men in camp wrapped around your finger it seems–” Shadowheart pauses, then corrects herself. “Aside from Wyll– I think his sights are set on Karlach. Another sort of target altogether now.”

“ Please,” you snort– nearly choking. “They just trust me is all.”

“Sure, sure. No, that perfectly explains Gale’s mantrum in the village earlier. They’re just both vying for your allegiance .” She gently tugs on one of your braids and waggles a brow.

Your throat tightens and neck heats. Gods below, you do not want to be having this conversation. Not in the center of camp, and certainly not with both men mere strides away. 

So you change the subject. “Well, with Khaga stood down, the village and ruins cleared, Ethel handled, and Karlach’s engine on the mend– what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Well, to start,” says Karlach, “not sprouting tentacles.”

“Agreed,” says Lae’zel. “We should head for the crèche immediately.”

“What about the Druid they keep talking about,” Shadowheart offers, “Halsin, was it?”

“The Druid will offer no true cure– the only cure is to be purified at a crèche,” Lae’zel bristles.

“Shouldn’t we at least try?” Shadowheart counters. “Gods only know how far this crèche truly is– and there’s a camp full of goblins and other beasts wandering about. The trek itself could be more dangerous.”

“More dangerous than wasting precious days infected with the ghaik parasite?!” Lae’zel is standing now, glaring down her pricked nose at Shadowheart. “I think not, istik .”

“Watch your tone– gith,” Shadowheart snips, abruptly handing you her glass and standing to stare down the warrior with equal disdain. “You may hold authority in your ranks - but here ? Decisions are made communally.”

“ Chk,” Lae’zel spits, “The worshippers of false Gods never cease to amaze me with their foolishness.” Your companions are deathly silent, gazes bouncing back and forth between the two women as the argument intensifies. 

“Hold your tempers, friends,” says Wyll. Ever the diplomat. “We can find a compromise that won’t result in us sprouting tentacles. How about we look at a map to decide? Calculate which potential solution is closer, or if there’s a route between them that allows us to hit both?”

“A most decisive call, Wyll,” says Gale as he joins the circle at last. 

Wyll pulls a map from his pack, one with all the scribblings and notes of advice you’ve been given since the nautiloid crashed. Many of the locations have inked checkmarks or slashes through them, differentiating between areas you’ve cleared with no results– and those where any investigations were resolved.

Other areas of interest have small question marks or circles around them.

You all deliberate and discuss as calmly as possible, all-too-aware of the molten tension strung between the cleric and fighter. The women take turns eyeing one other when they believe it to be safe. Avarice and bile abound in their expressions.

If I were a gambling elf, I’d say those two are going to be at each other’s throats before the tenday is over, Astarion says into your mind.

Unfortunately, I think you’re right, you agree. 

Unfortunate? My dear, this camp is practically weeping for more excitement. Who do you think would win? His tone is giddy with curiosity.

Hand-to-hand – Lae’zel no doubt. With guile and subterfuge? Shadowheart. It’s in her name. 

That’s no clear answer, darling, he replies. You can feel the frown in his voice.

You want to bet on which of our companions would kill the other first? What happened to ‘working together as a team’? You counter.

Oh come now, I know you have an opinion. So, let’s hear it. He goads you on. That dark curiosity within you stirring as you contemplate the possibilities. 

Why not slaughter them both before they can even begin? Says the darkened whisper. How glorious it would be to snuff two flames with one blow? Then you and the sanguine one could relish the time it took to decide whose blood was more delectable. To relish in one another’s horrors.

It’s appalling how easily one corner of your mouth turns up as the image fills your mind. 

Puddles of blood so vast, that they cover the entirety of camp’s center. Drowning the campfire. The warm, silken slickness of it coating your limbs. Sliding in sheets from their corpses. Astarion beside you, grinning like a fiend. Both of your chins dripping with gore. A kiss, shared betwixt you– blood-tinted and famished. His head, dipping to lick one particularly thick smear of the red ambrosia from your–

The thought fizzles and vanishes like a fog in sunlight. Another voice speaks, No, Kalliope. You will not shrink your pool of allies. You need allies if you’re to survive. The voice is familiar and comforting. 

How many of you fuckers live in my head?! You demand, rubbing a pulsing temple. The voice declines an answer but continues on.

You must fight this foolishness within your mind– keep your allies close. Resist this evil– I will protect you. The dream guardian. A wave of realization crashes upon you. Refuse the darkness and embrace your potential. You’ve yet to master the powers of your parasite. You must wield it– use it to your advantage. Your opponents may think it a weakness– disprove them. Embrace it…

The voice disappears and clarity returns. A migraine builds as the dark whisper shrieks in fury from far away. Cleary unappreciative of being shoved to the side in favor of whatever— whoever has come to your rescue once more. You glance around camp, wondering how much time passed when you went to— wherever you went. 

Wyll and the others are bringing their discussion to a close. The tension has faded somewhat and an agreement seems to have been reached. Shadowheart and Lae’zel appear less bent on killing one another and have resolved to glare menacingly at one another from their spots across the campfire.

Astarion’s rose-red irises are pinned on you. One gracefully arched, silver brow cocked questioningly. Where did you go, darling? He asks. One moment we were gleefully discussing cleric-against-gith, and the next, you were far away. Eyes glazed– smiling darkly. Unfocused.

You squeeze your eyes shut in discomfort. The impending headache less sharp, but still pounding dully in the background. 

I– I’m not honestly sure. That voice– the unpleasant one– started talking, trying to seduce me to murder again. And then– and then– you pause. Unsure he would recognize what the hells you were talking about if you tried to describe the dream guardian.

Have you– you hesitate, exhale through your nose, and then plunge ahead. Have you had any strange dreams since the crash? Any…where you’re in space– I think? With someone oddly familiar promising to ‘protect you’ from transformation? If you didn’t seem demented before, you’re positive that you do now.

His eyes narrow– your heart stutters with insecurity. Then his reply, I– I have actually. The sky was colorful, with a giant floating skull in the background? An impossibly grand, prismatic orb around it?

You suck in a breath and sigh with relief, Oh thank the Gods, I was so sure I was finally cracking. Shattering into lunacy. You smile and laugh– relieved. 

Your companions remain blissfully engrossed in planning– failing to notice your mental back-and-forth with the rogue. Your odd, shared silence and staring.

You may yet be– but you’d certainly not be the only one along for that particular descent, he shoots a fanged grin your way. What does that have to do with where you were just now?

Well, you continue, that darkened muse was whispering to me– suggesting some truly foul things– things that you’d honestly probably enjoy– and then it was shoved aside. The voice of that dream guardian, for lack of a better term, was there. Urging me to resist the darkness and embrace the powers of our parasites.

Hmm, he hums inwardly. Well, I think this sort of communication should fall within that category. But– what other powers could they mean? Telekinesis? Mind-control? He grins wickedly, if so, I wholeheartedly agree with this ‘dream guardian’ of ours. We should find and use every advantage at our disposal. 

You nod. Good luck convincing the rest of the camp.

Well, he smirks at you, maybe this guardian of ours can work their suggestive-magic on them as well.

I guess we can only hope, you agree.     

 

---

 

“You’d have us debate,” guffaws Astarion. Gale stands hesitantly in front of his tent. Seems he wasn’t looking to hide from your companions any longer. His secret has been shared with everyone now. “That Netherese jack-in-the-box should be a blip on the horizon by now.” He gestures wildly towards Gale. Distaste coloring those crimson eyes.

Karlach pulls a face, a comical show of disapproval. “He should stay, absolutely he should. We’re all risky in our own ways. We stick together anyway, right?”

“You thrice-damned rotten bastard! ” Lae’zel hisses, “You’ve been the greatest threat to our lives all this time!”

Wyll scowls at the fighter, “Gale is one of us, Lae’zel. We should stand by his side.”

Shadowheart is quiet, the last one to speak her mind. You’re certain she’s soaking it all in, analyzing it from both ends– as fervently religious as she may be– she’s also one of the more pragmatic of your allies. Surpassed, ironically, by only Gale and Lae’zel themselves. 

“Shadowheart?” You ask.

“I’m of two minds– and frankly don’t care a great deal. Either decision is fine by me,” she shrugs.

“If we were to part ways,” you ask, “where would you even go?”

Gale sighs, “I would consume some Midnight Tears and venture as far into the Underdark as possible before they clouded my eyes forever. I’d get as far as physically possible from another living soul before I subjected anyone else to this fate. With any luck, I’d stumble upon a mindflayer colony, so that when the orb erupts, one loud, last song of vengeance would reverberate through the dark.”

“Well it certainly may not be the most comfortable end,” Astarion scoffs, “but it would be a rather poetic and ironic one, don’t you agree?”

Lae’zel grins darkly and says, “I think I rather like that idea, Astarion. Once more I am baffled by our kindred spirits. Two problems erased in one swing.”

Two for his departure, two for his staying, one indifferent– that leaves me as the tie-breaker. Fantastic. You sigh heavily and run a hand down your face. What am I to do?

Unbidden, the dream guardian speaks up once more. It is true that the eruption would certainly wipe out any nearby city or colony– but again, Kalliope. I urge you to collect allies– not forsake them.

Gods, I’m so tired of all of these mental trespassers. “We’ve been together this long, and as Karlach says, we’re all deadly somehow. I’d be a hypocrite to send you away when you all were graceful towards me. Stay.” A few of your companions sigh– relenting. Yet no one argues. Gale’s face brightens further than you’ve seen yet.

“You truly are a soul that steels my own. That is– a great relief ,” he beams, “A great relief indeed. I understand if you stand against me. I’m humbled if you stand with me. Either way, I’ll do my best not to let you down.”

“You’d better not,” Shadowheart scowls sardonically. “We’ll hold you to that.” 

Gale chuckles, hand over heart “From all my newly-rallied heart, I thank you. I thank you all. I stand at a precipice, but if you do not give up, then neither shall I. I’ll fight, I’ll resist– as long as I can.”

 

---

 

Gale and Wyll work together to cook up a dinner befitting a King– or at the very least– a local lord. Once the tension of earlier discussions had dissipated, you’d all decided it was indeed a night worth celebrating. 

You, Astarion, and Lae’zel have just returned from a much-needed woodland respite– a hunt. Together, your trio brought down a well-muscled buck and a half-dozen rabbits. Now, you crouch beside the warlock and wizard dressing the kills. Charitably, Astarion has already drained them of blood. 

“I mourn all of my hunts prior to our meeting, Astarion. I am fairly certain that my crèche would deem your condition an asset. Both in battle– and self-sufficience.”

“How very gracious of you, my dear Githyanki,” he bows dramatically in the foreground as you expertly disassemble your quarry. Tossing any leavings to a gleeful Scratch.

“I apologize for any prior disservice our words or attitudes have done you. We were mistaken.” Shockingly, Lae’zel returns Astarion’s gesture with a bow of her head.

You smile as you watch the pair banter. The buck’s head shifting limply against the ground with each cut of your knife.

“Now that you know what I am,” the elf replies, “I can fight with all of my weapons. Teeth included. And if I happen to drain the occasional bandit during a fight – what’s the harm? They’re just as dead.”

“Agreed,” Lae’zel says. It seems you’re not the only individual in this group beginning to see one another as friends.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 24: Whispers in the Dark

Notes:

Sorry for the delay in posting. I've been uncertain as to whether I should post some sort of 'WIP' note, because I wasn't sure if my Kalliope x Astarion artwork that I'm working on would be done first, or if the next chunk of story would be done first.

I was also away in Costa Rica for a tenday on my honeymoon with my irl husband (heh). So, for now, enjoy this little tease while I work on some eye-candy and some brain-candy for chapters 25/26.

Astarion’s tent is elegant. Made of soft - if threadbare - silk and velvet in shades of hearts-blood and faded carnations. In hindsight, the color palette alone screams of his vampiric nature. 

Absolutely the opposite of ‘inconspicuous’. You stifle a giggle. 

Fringes and frills line the seams of the structure; an awning hangs just above a travel-salon of sorts. His antique table, looted from the abandoned apothecary’s home, is already thoroughly wine-stained and scratched. 

Or is that blood? You wonder, noting the half-empty, somewhat coagulated jar of ruby liquid below the table. 

Atop it, a slightly fogged mirror is propped against the tent’s exterior wall. You recognize the mirror from the mostly-ignored storehouse in the Druid’s grove. 

‘ Some mild larceny,’ indeed. You smirk to yourself. 

An equally aged, cushioned stool– one you don’t recognize as proffered from anywhere specific– sits just beside the vanity table. Rarely have you seen him sit, instead, opting to stand while he reads or preens. You’d wager the stool to be a far more comfortable choice— especially when the reading material is as large as his tomes of poetry and classic literature.

Likely too vulnerable a position for his taste. 

The slowly growing collection of items lets on more about the elf than he’s expressed voluntarily. 

Tonight, he stands once more, flipping through bound velum. Though his usual reading material is gone– replaced instead by ‘The Necromancy of Thay’ . 

An opaque, purple mist emanates from the amethyst keygem and eyes on the front, lending the book’s leather-wrought face the air of a sinister, silent scream. On your approach, dissonant whispers in a language you’ve long since forgotten, tug at the edge of your conscious mind. You flinch subtly when the dark thing within you stirs in curiosity. 

In kinship.   

It wants whatever hides within those accursed pages. You clench a mental fist around that shadowy pest and shove– hard– toward the recesses where it belongs. You ignore the trickle of nausea that accompanies the effort.

Back in the corporeal world before you, the vampire studies the pages intently. Muttering under his breath. A scowl pulls his silver brows toward one another as the muttering increases in volume– quickly becoming a grumbled argument.

“Come on, come on. What’re you hiding,” he asks frustratedly. “Can you summon the dead? Bring them back?! Can you– urgh – can you shut up and let me read?! ” The book jerks and pulls away from the elf. Astarion’s forearms are tense— fighting to keep the tome in place. His rolled-up sleeves accentuate the effort beautifully. 

Your head aches as you watch the struggle, and part of you wants to back away from the pair. To run far away, but you’re no coward. This affliction won’t win. You raise a hand to your left temple and grit your teeth. Those dark, seductive whispers are back— toying with you, and the fight you raise against them threatens to split your skull. This time, however, you’re not their only victim. It seems Astarion can hear them too. 

“No,” he yells, over the roaring, foreign hissing in your heads. “No— ugh shut up,” he growls. “I won’t kill them– well— maybe Wyll.”

The roaring becomes a drone, a nightmarish tinnitus. The chorus of foreign voices echoing in your broken mind. Your skull pounds while a rush of euphoria swims up your spine. The darkened muse purrs with bloodthirsty joy. Whatever— entity possesses the Thayan book, energizes the thing possessing you. 

“I can’t– I won’t—,” his voice is strained, frustrated. An eerie tendril of purple energy reaches from the pages towards the planes of his delicate face. “No— stop! Let. Me. Go! ” 

The elf roars in frustration and slams the volume shut. An angry, fanged glare aimed at the thing. As soon as the loud whoomph of the book closing reaches your ears— the whispers are shunted from your mind. 

Silence returns. 

You breathe a heavy sigh of relief and straighten to your full height— not remembering when you bent double in agony. 

An awkward beat of silence passes before Astarion acknowledges your presence. He grins sheepishly, tight-lipped— fang-tips pulling gently at his bottom lip. 

“Ah…oh— hello,” he says with a stilted wave. It’s the most awkwardly you’ve seen him behave. 

Embarrassment is adorable on you, you think towards the elf. He scowls. 

You snort a laugh in response to the absurdity of what’s just happened. “Enjoying your new book?” You ask, crossing your arms and quirking a brow.

“Yes, well— mostly ,” he frowns and runs a hand through his hair. “It reads you more than you read it .”

“Curious…” you hum. 

“It plays with your mind— there are secrets here. But the book has spirits— they fight you every step of the way,” he glowers.

“I heard them too,” you say, pausing briefly as another wave of nauseating euphoria rushes your spine.

“How unpleasant—“ he mutters. “I’d barely opened it when they started— whispering from the shadows,” he pauses and peers curiously in your direction. “Probably not unlike your own voices .”

“From what I just experienced— they’re very similar. Eerily so. On top of that— your book’s foul voices called to my own.” Your tail swishes in agitation behind you. 

Astarion continues, “Every time I’ve opened the damned thing, the voices surge greedily back into my mind. I can’t reason with them, they exist to protect that book. It’s horrible. I can’t believe you’ve even a grain of your sanity left if that’s what your— what is it anyway?”

“If only I knew,” you shrug. “At least then I’d have a clue of how to handle them,” you plonk gracelessly onto the stool by his tent, sighing with resignation. “So far the only clue I’ve gotten was from Withers. They just told me: ‘ you must resist the affliction.’”

“How very— vague of them,” Astarion frowns. 

You toe the rug beneath his tent with your boot, and an impish thought crosses your mind. “You know,” you say with a smirk, “I’m sure Gale would be happy to take that book off of your plate for you.”

Astarion scowls harmlessly, “Oh, you think so? You know,” he clicks his tongue in thought, “I’m certain he would. But much like your nifty little ‘Amulet of Silvanus’, he cannot eat this one. It’s too valuable. Someone – or a few someones – went through a lot of trouble to protect this tome. It has to be something more than a book of cantrips.” 

Astarion regards the now-closed tome thoughtfully, and a guarded expression flickers through his eyes. “Though, I doubt this will help us with our parasites. Maybe it’s best to put it aside for now.”

“I thought you were hoping to find aid for your— other condition in there,” you mime fangs and hiss playfully. Astarion rolls his eyes and sighs. 

“Cute,” he says, “ someone’s cheeky tonight. But yes— it is a book of necromancy, after all. Full of secrets about controlling the dead or returning them to life— and who knows what else. Whatever’s in here,” his voice pitches lower, more sinister, “it might give me an edge over Cazador. Or free me from him entirely.”

“One can only hope,” you say, smiling warmly at the vampire.

“Although I can’t make any progress as long as those— spirits remember their mission. It seems to be all they know.”

“I have an idea,” you say impishly. 

“What?” He sighs and crosses his arms around the book expectantly. 

“You could— beat him to death with it.” You beam at the sheer ludicrousy of the suggestion, tail twisting and turning like a cat’s, then shrug playfully. 

A bark of laughter rushes past his lips. The sound is lovely, rich with genuine surprise. “You know, I had the very same thought. Careful now, I might actually start to enjoy your company.”

You gasp playfully batting your lashes, then quirk an eyebrow at him. “Oh dear me, how utterly terrible. Whatever shall I do?” 

Smug. So wholly smug. 

I could think of a few things, he purrs into your thoughts. 

Oh, and what would those be? You reply. 

A gentleman never spoils his secrets. His tone is gravelly, taunting. 

You, you think sarcastically, a gentleman? I’d see Karlach freeze to death before I called you that.

“Darling, I’m hurt,” he pouts aloud. “Tell you what— why don’t you clean up and then come find me once the others are asleep? I’ll share my thoughts on the matter then. I did agree to help you practice keeping your wonderings inside your own pretty head, after all.”

“How sweet , you think I’m pretty?” 

“Well, nowhere near as pretty as me,” he runs a delicate hand through his curls and chuckles, the sound more alluring than the dark whisper in your mind could ever hope to be. “But yes, I’d place your looks somewhere in that neighborhood.” A flirtatious smirk settles onto his lips as he looks you up and down. 

Outwardly, your flattery is feigned. Mocking. 

Inwardly, however, your throat heats, and your core clenches at the implications. The saliva in your mouth is suddenly all too thick. You hate the way your voice squeaks out the word, ‘deal.’

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 25: Kindred Spirits

Summary:

Here is the eye-candy that I promised you all.

Enjoy, darlings.

"But I know that this...this is nice."

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 26: Release

Summary:

"They say that the only thing a vampire can feel is hunger. Nothing else touches them. Not grief or mercy, or any sense of what is just. Who knows, there is often more ignorance than insight in what 'they' say."

-High Harper, Jaheira

Notes:

.

Enjoy, darlings ;)

“So,” you say later, just inside the forest behind Astarion’s tent, “how do you propose I— we do this?” 

He leans with crossed arms against a tree, ankles primly crossed. 

“Shielding? Hmm…well, I have a few theories. But, of course, all of this mind-melding business is fairly new to me. Aside from when Cazador would force his commands into our minds. I’ve never actually been able to— you know— hear thoughts.”

He touches his chin thoughtfully. 

“Tell me— when you hear those voices of yours, and you resist— or at least attempt to — what’s your tact?”

“Unfortunately, I only have the past eight days or so to recall experiences from,” you sigh, worrying the tip of one of your braids. “My mind seems more ruined than any of yours. But, usually, I imagine a mental fist of sorts— grasping and shoving the presence.”

Astarion hums pensively. “And, how does that usually work out for you?”

“It depends, really. On how determined the damn thing is to wrest control. Earlier— with the book— it wasn’t too difficult. Perhaps it’s still somewhat sated from yesterday...” 

You shudder at the memory of that sadistic whisper forcing the flesh of that long-dead Tiefling past your lips. The reluctant chewing. The difficulty of swallowing past your revulsion. 

Most horrifyingly, how a very small part of you — not the whisper — enjoyed it. 

Disgusting, you think, shaking the imagery from your mind. 

“Yes— that. I am certainly the last one to mock one for uncontrollable hunger or a less-than-conventional diet. But that was something I’d not soon partake in.” He barks a derisive laugh. “No offense intended, darling.”

“No, no I understand,” you assure him. 

“Although,” he says the word slowly— cautiously. His mouth opens and shuts once or twice, hesitating to voice his next thought. “I do wonder what it tasted like,” he says finally. 

“I would assume somewhat similar to what I taste like to you— my blood I mean,” you say.

That’s not a comforting thought…

“Darling, if there’s one aspect of that whole situation I’m certain of— is that it most certainly did not taste anything like your blood. The smell alone told me that much,” he pulls a face, laugh lines deepening around his lips. 

“That seems like the most enviable symptom of your— condition,” you say. “Your sense of smell has to be incredible.”

“It’s not always the blessing you’d expect,” he says, somewhat displeased. “More often than not— it’s just another of its accursed presentations. But, we’re here for other reasons— not to discuss this particular subject.” 

He says the word as if the shape of it on his tongue tastes foul. 

“Right,” you say, “though I do have more questions. Each time I learn of another detail— I’m only more curious.”

“In due time perhaps,” he says, before tactfully shifting focus away from himself. “Do you think resisting has become— easier the more you try?”

“I wouldn’t say easier. But the practice certainly helps,” you admit. 

“Well, what if you tried keeping a tighter grip on your thoughts? Imagined a sort of— protective cloak— around your mind. If force gets unwanted voices out, perhaps it will keep desirable things in too,” he grins slyly.

“Worth a go,” you shrug. “But how will you know if it’s helping?”

“How about— I think something in your direction— and you imagine a response. If I hear nothing back, perhaps you’ve managed it. Or, perhaps I’ve just left you speechless.”

You nod, willing yet hesitant. Perhaps learning to strengthen your willpower is the first step towards resisting whatever the darkened muse is. 

I’m going to think of a number, you hear his velvety tone brush your psyche. 

If you say one through ten, I’m going to tell Mattis you’re using his cheap cons.

“Oh please, as if I wasn’t conning people of their jewelry and coin long before he even hatched,” the rogue scoffs. 

“Tieflings don’t hatch Astarion. We aren’t gith or dragonborn,” you roll your eyes. 

“Oh, whatever. Figure of speech. Clearly, you need to try harder this time.”

You close your eyes and breathe deeply, centering yourself. You focus on the slight bounce of your heels on the moss-strewn forest floor. 

The chill of the night air on your bare shoulders. The swish and snag of your hair against cloth.

Finally, you imagine pulling one of your blankets around you. Wrapping yourself in the soft, warm embrace. 

I’m thinking of the number seven, comes the delicate echo of his voice. 

A tiny crack forms in the protective shell you've imagined around yourself. 

Gods, his voice is like velvet and shadows, a blush creeps up your cheeks, you wonder what the skin of his chest feels like— can almost feel it beneath your fingertips. The way his smooth tone reverberates beneath it.

Astarion clears his throat loudly and you open your eyes. He’s appraising you with a mixture of amusement and disappointment. 

“I’m flattered at how easily I draw your thoughts,” he purrs, “but the goal is to keep them to yourself.”

You bite your lip and the blush deepens, “Right— let’s try again.” You shake your limbs loose, close your eyes, and breathe in. 

Slowly, your thoughts settle. Like silt in a pond.

What number was I thinking of, he says again. 

You clench your fists at your side and squeeze your eyes more tightly closed. As if the physical effort will somehow keep the mental barrier in place. Your thoughts rush behind your eyes, like a stream around driftwood. You hold tight, and do your best to acknowledge their presence without engaging them. 

I mustn't fight the thoughts, the knowledge comes from somewhere deep within you. A lesson long-forgotten. Fighting them will only distract me. I’ve got to notice them— wish them on their way. 

You breathe shakily, relax your hands, and the image of the blanket around you transforms— thick felt thinning to loosely woven wool. The thoughts drift through, and your mind quietens.

An answer to his question forms in your mind, flitting somewhat erratically in the stream of other thoughts. It catches and snags on the weave of your mental cloak— threatening to pull it astray.

No, I can do this. 

You fill your lungs with cool, night air— and let the answer take shape. You’re thinking of the number seven, but you won’t hear me acknowledge that. Not in here.

A breath passes silently between you before you hear an approving hum from the rogue. “I didn’t hear your answer— care to share it aloud?”

“Seven,” you say confidently. A small smile creeping across your lips.

“My, my. Look who figured it out,” he applauds half-heartedly and then steps closer to you, pitching his voice low. “Although, that was an easy one. I wonder how you might fare with more of a challenge?”

Your pulse speeds a bit at the possible implications, but you won’t appear naive or desperate twice in one day. “What do you have in mind,” you ask. Daring him to follow through— or call his own bluff. 

We could get to know one another a bit more. Get a little closer, so to speak. He takes a step towards you and runs the backs of his fingers down your exposed arm. His touch featherlight. 

I certainly wouldn’t mind learning more about you, you think back in his direction. 

As the thought leaves your mind, he steps back abruptly and clicks his tongue at you. 

“There’s a catch, darling. I want to hear your responses. Not up here,” he gently taps your right temple, “but from here,” he glides his thumb over your bottom lip, and your stomach clenches. 

I want to hear you cry my name aloud, there’ll be time enough later for our special conversations. After all, I do so love our banter, but right now there’s no one around to keep quiet from. Understood?

“Yes,” you breathe, suddenly all too desperate for the return of that connection. That delicate, measured hand.

Yes, what? He asks you, that sly, knowing grin creeping across his lips. 

“I’ll make sure you hear me, Astarion. Out. Loud,” you return his cocky grin, tail flicking. “But rest assured, I won’t be the only one crying aloud come morning.”

His grin is wicked, “Good. We’ve been waiting long enough.” He closes the distance between you once more, and gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Holding your gaze while he does. 

The tickle of his fingertips against the delicate, pointed shell of flesh and cartilage sends shivers down your spine. “Kiss me,” you breathe, “like you did earlier in the cellar.”

Of course, comes his reply. Then he’s leaning into you, lips gentle and cautious against your own. They’re cool and tender, just as you remember. 

Just as you’ve craved since the moment he held that damned dagger to your neck. 

His lips part slightly, and he runs the tip of his tongue along the groove between yours. “I’ve been waiting,” he breathes, “waiting since the moment I set eyes on you.”

“Would you believe me if I said the same?” You whisper the question, pulling away just enough to draw an infuriatingly small distance between you. 

He chuckles, the noise deep and rich. Rumbling and sensual. “Perhaps, although your scent and unruly thoughts gave you away long ago. Never have I been with someone so… aroused by violence.”

You start to make an excuse, but he catches your lip with his fangs before it can part from the other. Before you can form a word. 

I didn’t say I didn’t like it, darling. 

Well, that’s reassuring, you think before you can catch yourself. He pulls away again, but not nearly as far as he did the first time. 

“Yes, yes,” you say with a pout, “I remember the rule. Now please, stop teasing me.” Your tail wraps lightly around his calf. As if to keep him from retreating further. 

Stop teasing you? What would be the fun in that?

“I could think of a few things,” you say. A mockery of his earlier words to you. 

Before he can respond with another quip, you bite your cheek and lip. Pointed teeth piercing flesh. Rich, metallic blood leaks from the wound. You catch a stray drop with your tongue before it can get too far, then smear the liquid languidly along the roof of your mouth. 

Astarion groans and hisses under his breath, any hint of coy temptation draining from his face. Lust and hunger flare to life in their place.

You pitch your voice low and gaze at him with heavy eyes — the air of a temptress. 

“New rules,” you breathe, stepping forward. “There are no rules. Now, take what you want from me.”

The vampire groans, catching your lips once more— and suckles. He drinks deeply, swallowing your blood-tainted saliva with savor. Something within you releases at that. The crudeness of it.  

Astarion suddenly lifts and carries you to the nearest tree, pinning you in place with his chest and hips. Grinding against you. 

Heat and pressure build in your core. Your ears and throat grow hot with adrenaline.

A feral sort of noise escapes your lips as the kiss deepens. You open for him— your tail tightens around his calf, an anchor. A lifeline. 

Astarion pulls away from you too soon, chest heaving. You have half a mind to pull his face hungrily back to your own. To bite his lip and drink his blood. But the expression he wears— the hazy, desperate one that means he’s asking for permission to feed— clouds his ruby eyes.

You smirk at him and shake your head. “No,” you say. He glares at you— taken aback, frustrated. 

Needy. 

You raise a hand as if to say, ‘just a moment’, and with your other, claw the buttons of your high-necked robes open. Your nails scrape and trace along the fabric until your entire sternum is bare, breasts loosely contained behind the flaps of unmoored fabric.

“Tonight, you won’t feed from my neck .”

 

---

 

“… stop teasing me,” she demands, sharp teeth exposed in a grimace, followed quickly by a half-pout. Her tail begins snaking around your leg. You’ve never been with someone as damned predatory as she— and it excites you.

Stop teasing you? You quip back, What would be the fun in that? The question is a jest— a dare. You’ve no doubt that her dark, delicious mind could dream up plenty of ways to pass the evening.

With her next breath— she claims just that. A redress of your earlier words. The last syllable hardly passes her supple, gold-painted lips before she bites into them. The fragrance hits you like a breath of fresh air— blood. 

Sustenance. 

Life. 

Her life. 

That cavernous hunger roars within you, and you’re dumbstruck as a thin trickle runs down her lips. They part, revealing her sharp, hellish grin. Her eyes grow heavy as she languidly catches the trail and smears it along the roof of her glorious mouth. 

The things I would do with that gorgeous orifice, you think. 

Her voice pitches low— sultry, as the mask of a temptress replaces her dismay.

“New rules,” she hums, “there are no rules. Now, take what you want from me.”

With that command, you do. Her gilded lips become yours as you suckle them betwixt fang and tongue. Wary of even a single spilled droplet. The taste— hot and smooth and sweet. Intoxicating and refreshing in such a grand way.

The first draw, muddled by the taste of her tongue elicits a rumbling groan from deep within you. 

It’s so easy to forget your hunger. Its hideous, bottomless nature. 

Two centuries of disregarding the gnawing abyss within you— in favor of your sanity— have nearly dulled that ache. Replaced the sharp, predatory instinct in favor of base survival. But now— with her— these last few days of blissful satiation shatter the illusion you’d tricked yourself into believing. 

You’d never known such fullness. That your fingertips could feel anything but frigid and dull. That your gullet could do anything but cramp. That your tongue would savor anything again. 

This is a gift, you know, you’d said. You’d meant it— felt it so strongly— that the prospect of remaining in her presence a moment longer became terrifying.

So you turned on your heels— as graceful and poised as possible— and fled into the night.

For two hundred years all you’d known was cold, empty starvation, and its equally appalling opposite— absolute refuse for ‘food’. The cold, coagulated, and fetid rodent slop that he had offered. Or worse, insects. Creatures nearly devoid of a single drop of ‘blood’.

No, not offered— forced you to eat. Any reservation culled by the flail.  

“Do not disobey me, boy,” he’d sneer in that acetic tone. 

No, you growl at yourself, no— he will not have this from me too. 

With gusto you hoist Kalliope onto your hips, hands gripping tight around the pert musculature of her bottom half. 

More. You’re too far from her, you begin to heat and stir in ways that are still so frighteningly new. Desire drives you to the nearest surface— a tree. You press greedily into her— her hips locked between you and the towering pine. 

Her pulse picks up and you press nearer, leaning into the kiss. Lulled by the deep, resounding thump a living heartbeat offers. Her scent changes and she growls, lips opening with all the ardor you feel and more. That tail of hers grips your calf like a python locked onto its prey.

Gods dammit, you want to howl. You damned near can’t take it anymore. You need. More. 

You want to feel the rouge of her lifeblood gushing onto your palette. 

You pull away from her— the intention to ask permission at the tip of your tongue. But gods above and below, the sight of her— heavy-lidded, feral, hot with desire— steals the words from you. You plead silently that she will speak for you both.

“No,” she says, with a shake of her head. The word cracks at your core— stinging like a cat-o-nine-tails against ruined flesh.

No?! You want to bark at her, NO?! What do you mean ‘No’? Anger and hurt flare momentarily in your undead heart. But she raises a hand, delicate and rosy. Her infernal gaze holds yours, a sly grin crawling over her lips. 

You realize in that moment that she’s relinquished hold of your shoulder. 

Her other hand moves quickly— deftly— popping the buttons of her robe open one by one. Her talon-like nails rake gently down her sternum, tracing the glorious valley between her breasts. So temptingly, subtly obfuscated. 

“Tonight,” she breathes, “you won’t feed from my neck .”

 

---

 

Momentary anger and desperation flicker through his ruby eyes— before a different sort of intensity overtakes them. 

Depraved, carnal lust. 

He leans into you, kissing the area freshly healed by your amulet. Where his delicious fangs pierced the day before. His tongue flicks and lingers on the skin before he moves his lips to your earlobe. The lightest of kisses sends chills through to your core, and he growls into it, “Cheeky little pup.”

Tracing your neck and collarbone with featherlight kisses— he slowly, agonizingly makes his way to your chest. A kiss— lazy, with tongue— in the center of your sternum. 

Your hands clench the fabric of his shirt and you arch into his lips, “…please…” you breathe.

“Please, what,” he asks, punctuating the words with more light, toothy kisses. One of them manages to scratch just deep enough for a tiny well of blood to appear. He glances up at you without moving his mouth and kisses the spot deeply— groaning dramatically. Vibrations dance outward across your chest.

Pressure builds in your core, and that tender bundle of nerves begins to flutter— just barely. 

Fuck, you think. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides, “use that pretty. Little. Mouth. of yours.” Astarion slides a hand from your hips up to your chest— making to pull at the fabric of your robes. His thumb— cool and light— grazes the skin just shy of your nipple. 

“Please,” you try again, the word tangles on a moan on the way out. “ Feed on me,” you say and buck your hips into his. 

It’s his turn to moan now— you can feel the slightly raised fabric of his trousers pressing into your thighs. You grin and buck your hips again, more slowly this time— drawing out the motion. 

He hisses, “ Darling. ” The pet name is goading— a warning. 

“Feed. On. Me,” you repeat, and tangle one hand in those alabaster curls pulling his gaze into yours. The silken strands catch on your nails, while the other set lazily traces circles outside of the hem at his lower abdomen. 

He hesitates— temptation designed for you or himself— you’re uncertain. 

Then, with a roll of his hips— a whisper of the delicious friction to come— he sinks his fangs into the top of your breast. Just above your thundering heart. The cool, sharp prick of his fangs in contrast to the flush of your skin rips a gasp from your throat.

There we are, his silken commentary flits across your mind. 

He drinks, deeply— slowly. You feel your blood rushing into his mouth— more with each forceful pulse of your heart. That delicious, eerie feeling of connection as your lifeblood begins to fill him comes over you again. You welcome the bond— the closeness— with a hiss. 

“Astarion,” you moan, his name so smooth in your throat. He responds with a decisive, slow squeeze of your breast. More heat rushes to your core— and the fluttering of nerves begins to build into pressure between your folds. 

“Can I— can I touch you?” You ask him. 

He pauses, then takes an especially long, slow draw from the punctures above your heart. “ How could I say no,” he purrs. 

You roll your hips slowly against his— that once subtle bulge at his groin growing steadily thicker. Then, daintily, you slide a hand past the hem. 

The back of your fingers lightly brush the tip of him— he twitches in response. You groan and push on, letting the ridges of your hands graze the buttery soft skin of his length. 

“Gods, Astarion,” you groan dramatically, and nip at his delicate ear tip. “I can’t wait to wrap my hand around your cock.” The vampire pulls briefly from his meal and stares at you— lids heavy.

“And I can’t wait to test your other pulse points.” He releases your breast and runs a hand down along your abdomen— stopping pointedly at the thick fabric mere inches from your core, “I have a hunch which will be my favorite.”

The hand buried in his hair guides his lips back to your skin, and he bites lower. Just below your other breast. When his fangs are buried in you again, you run your thumb against his tip once more before gripping and lightly squeezing his member. 

You swear you can feel him tremble. 

 

---

 

“Please what,” you ask, voice low and gravelly. 

That hunger within you growls again. You busy your lips planting short, delicate kisses along the arch of her breast. Your fang catches along one of the raised bits of her skin— releasing the smallest amount of her blood. 

All the same, the fresh smell of it is unbearably alluring. You press your lips to the spot, savoring the droplets. You drag your gaze up, up, up until you catch hers— glowing with teal-gold fire. 

So deliciously keen, you think. Intoxicated by the look in her eyes, with the aim of luring her further, you moan— long and drawn out against the skin of her breastbone. It echoes slightly in her chest as it vibrates outward. 

Her scent— arousal— picks up once more as her breath comes unevenly. 

You’ve never used such restraint with a mark before, comes that small voice. The voice that gives life to your habits— your methods. 

No, you chide yourself, this is different. She is different. 

You want so badly for it to be true— to believe it— but that self-loathing sows doubt all the same.

Fuck, comes one of her thoughts. 

Internally, you think you couldn’t have said it better yourself. Fuck, indeed. Outwardly, however, you stick to the game of cat and mouse stewing between you. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” you say and drag your hand painfully slowly up the edge of fabric draping across her breasts. You dare a graze of your thumb— just shy of the peaked bud of her nipple— and feel it pebble further.

“Please,” she begs again. Gods, you love the sound of her pleading— not for mercy. No. Not like he would crave— but pleading for you. 

To be wanted— truly wanted. The novelty is intoxicating. 

That small hateful voice within you dares to contradict— but her pulse thundering beneath her skin. That warm, heady scent of her arousal— those are real. Untainted by shallow greed— the greed to use and be used — that accompanied so many of your… lovers before.

Marks, not lovers, you correct yourself.

“Feed on me, ” she says and bucks into your slowly tightening trousers. A growl escapes your lips and she smiles— beautiful, deadly, and full of dark promises. She thrusts forward again— slowly this time. Sliding her robed upper thighs along your entire length.

Blood— your blood— her blood. No, you think, our blood, pulses into your cock. The sensation tears at your patience. 

“ Darling,” you hiss. A warning— a goading prayer. 

“ Feed. On. Me, ” she demands, using your hair as a handle— guiding your gaze to hers. Her other hand traces lazy circles on the fabric against your thigh. Trailing closer and closer to the part of you that aches for her.

You hesitate— fighting back the sneer of doubt— the concern of what he would think. What he would say if he could see you now? You shove the pestering voice aside. 

You roll your hips, the fabric sliding over your aching member. I will have my pleasure with her, and return the favor tenfold. 

The sensation is maddening. She’s so close yet so far from you. You long for the release you’re certain she will provide— and do as she asks. 

Her breast is supple and soft. So damned close to her heart— the fount of this scarlet ambrosia.  As your fangs pierce her flesh, a feral gasp— one of delight— rips from her throat.

There we are, you think her way. 

The first true mouthful of her is hot— literally and figuratively. That spice you’re starting to connect with her arousal is heavy. 

Thrilling. 

Her blood pools in your mouth— and you revel once more in the elation of fullness. As you begin to take a second mouthful, that subtle feeling of peace ripples through you. Starting in your throat and stomach— radiating all the way to your toes and your ear tips. You bask in the connection— and she hisses in ecstasy. 

“Astarion,” she moans. Your cock shudders in response. Your name on her tongue is the most beautiful word in any language. You chuckle and squeeze her breast. Still unconvinced that any of this is real. But then another wave of her floods your taste and smell.

“Can I— can I touch you,” she breathes. 

Your undead heart shudders in your ribs. You pause— taken aback. No one ever asks what I want. Shit. What do I want?

You pull another mouthful from her generous, gracious form as your mind and heart scramble for an appropriate answer. A genuine answer. The taste of her— unchanged and full of honest desire steadies you.  

You swallow then pitch your voice low, “ How could I say no? ”

She sighs and rolls those glorious hips lazily into your own. Your trousers have become uncomfortably tight— you ache for her. Once more you silently plead with no one in particular— for her to touch you. 

Before you can finish the thought, her hand slides gracefully past the hem of your leather trousers. She disregards the lacing entirely— you swallow your dismay. 

The back of her fingers brush the tip of your swollen cock— you bite back a groan. Transfixed— terrified. Utterly enthralled. 

She moans and pushes on, the ridges of those deadly hands graze your length. 

“Gods, Astarion,” she moans into your ear before nipping its warming, sensitive point. “I can’t wait to wrap my hand around your cock.” 

Once again you’re taken aback— you pull away from her skin— her blood— and stare in awe at this confusing, stunning predator of a woman. The initial shock passes quickly— and your eyes remain steady. 

Clumsily you tease her in turn. “And I can’t wait to test your other pulse points.” 

You pull your hand from her succulently warm, plump breast and instead trace an invisible course down her abdomen. Only pausing once you’re right above the fabric separating you from what you know is her equally aching core.  

“I have a hunch which will be my favorite,” you tease. 

The hand buried amongst your curls pulls your lips and fangs back to the exposed skin of her chest— you bite lower this time. Just below her other breast. 

Unconcerned. 

Greedy. 

Territorial. 

You saw the way the wizard gazed at her earlier. You’ll feed from her where you please– unless she intervenes. 

She does not. 

Once more, you bury your fangs into her. As you make to swallow, she runs her thumb teasingly across your tip again. Then, to your surprise and delight, she wraps her fingers around you. All of them— gripping your cock confidently— before lightly squeezing the aching length.

You suppress a tremble of ecstasy.

 

---

 

Slow, taunting strokes. You pump your fist up and down. Up and down— along the smooth length of him. His breath hitches and his hand clenches around your hip. You worry you’ve done something wrong— when he growls and thrusts into your hand. 

Please, darling— don’t stop, his eyes flutter closed. 

You stroke twice more— quick and measured. 

He pulls away from the twin punctures left by those disgustingly beautiful fangs, mouth slightly agape. Dangerous, this man is utterly dangerous— but that only stokes the fire of your attraction.

He thrusts again— deeper and more slowly— until the base of his cock presses into the heel of your hand. 

“Kalliope,” he moans— barely more than a whisper. When he looks at you, your heart both melts and stutters. 

Those gorgeous crimson eyes of his are round and soft in expression— pupils blown wide with desire. With wanting. It almost makes your darkened heart ache. You’d never expected this damned, desirable elf to have such— innocent-looking eyes. 

Your gaze softens for a moment, and something inside of you threatens to crack. 

He straightens and dips his head to yours. You lean into him, covering his lips— lips that taste of iron and heat— with your own. 

He groans again, thrusting once more into your hand— before opening for you. Your tongue twists with his— languid, sensuous strokes. Before plunging into the back of his cool mouth. 

He presses his chest further into you— flattening your back against tough bark. The moment drags on— your heart shudders, core tightening— the grip of your fingers around his cock along with it. You nip playfully at his lip, and growl.  

He pulls away— and that heartrending innocence vanishes from his eyes. Something in him shifts. 

Wicked delight and hunger return, and he cups the back of your head with one hand— staring into your eyes. With the other, he deftly unlaces his trousers. Then he’s moving to loosen and undo the ties and buttons remaining on your robes.

You hurriedly help him to shuck his ruffled linen shirt, revealing his honed torso. You stop to marvel at the sight of him— muscular and lean as your own body. 

But where yours is soft and curved, his is sculpted of deliciously accurate angles and planes. 

“You-you're beautiful,” you say, nearly stumbling over the words. You catch and hold his gaze. 

He hesitates again— before smoothly replying, “Thank you. People don’t mention that often enough.” 

The tone is haughty and confident, but his eyes betray him. 

The mask slips just long enough for you to see that there is something soft and vulnerable within.

Your robes hang limply between the pine and your back, leaving you exposed from neck to hip bones. His trousers are loose around his own hips and your hand around him has stilled. 

He regards your form, devouring and undressing you with his eyes. You’re afraid to speak— to break the spell of the moment. But then he’s lifting you again, and when your back loses contact with the tree— your robes fall away completely.

 

---

 

Her gods-damned hands— how long has it been since someone’s hands around you felt like a boon and not a curse? How long since someone took care in your pleasure? They’re sure and strong— yet still soft in all of the right ways.

She glides her hand down your length once more, then back up. A shiver runs through you and your breath catches— her hand stills— and momentary concern flashes through her eyes. 

Fuck, you think and thrust up into her warm grasp— moaning. Please, darling— don’t stop, you allow your eyes to close as the thought floats her way. Focusing on the new, delicious sensation of a hand without ulterior motives. 

You lean away from her breast— not wanting anything— even the gift that is her blood— to distract from this. You relax slightly and thrust again. 

Deeper. 

Harder. 

When the pulsing base of your member pushes into the heel of her hand— her name is all you can think. 

“Kalliope,” you breathe.

Your eyes open to her beautiful face, staring at you with a softness you’ve yet to see. The blue of her eyes, deep like the sea. Gold simmering around the pupils— two coals on a comforting hearth. 

You stand to your full height before dipping your head— intending to rest your forehead upon her brow. But she catches your lips with her own— gently. 

Almost lo—

No, you pull your thoughts back from that treacherous edge. No matter how safe you feel with her— you will not be foolish. 

Your hips move on their own— and you welcome her warm, succulent tongue into your mouth. They swirl together— she swipes the roof of your mouth hungrily. You lean into the kiss.

In this moment, the world around you could burn and you wouldn’t care. The taste of arousal floods your senses and her hand pulses around your swollen cock. 

No more waiting, you think. You need to be nearer. You fist one hand into her hair and pull away— glaring hungrily into her eyes. Your other hand pulls quickly at the lacing of your trousers— the relief is instantaneous. But it’s not enough. You have to be inside of her— now. Those accursed robes are in the way. 

As her robes fall away, your breath hitches. You’d seen her bathing the night she’d murdered Quil– but in this moment. Legs wrapped around you, moonlight highlighting her curves— you’re pulled from your reverie as she claws at your shirt, peeling it from your chest and back. And then she’s staring— at you. 

“You— you’re beautiful,” she says, eyes roving across your pale skin. 

Unused to genuine compliments, the words stick in your throat for a moment longer than you’d like. “Thank you,” you say finally, “People don’t mention that often enough.” 

Her bare chest and breasts heave as you hold one another’s focus. Her robes dangle above the ground, so close to falling. Her hand no longer moves— and you almost forget. Almost. 

You lift Kalliope again, and her robes fall away completely. Only your pants and underclothes remain between her warm core and your needy member. 

You spin on your heels and bend gracefully towards the ground, depositing her gently on a patch of soft moss. Once your hands are free, you tug the last of your clothes off and kick your boots away. 

When you turn back to Kalliope she’s dipping two of her fingers between her folds— brows arched in your direction. Your cock twitches at the sight. 

She notices and grins, before tossing her head back and plunging them inside herself. Moaning your name aloud, “ Astarion,” she cries. She pumps them in and out of her core, and the smell of her arousal is intoxicating. 

You fall to your knees before her and stroke your cock hungrily. The rough movement sends your balls swinging lightly and you groan as you watch her, watching you. 

Her tail— you’d forgotten the damn thing for a moment— snakes toward your thigh and pulls you gently forward. She cries out again as her knuckles press into that tender bundle of nerves. 

“Shit— “ you curse, “darling, please allow me.”

That impish grin claims her face again as she shakes her head at you. “No, darling,” she breathes heavily as she pleasures herself before you. “Not just yet, you’re going to watch me fuck myself until you can’t stand it any longer.”

Gods, you groan internally, fisting your twitching cock, it’s already too much to bear. 

Well, that’s too damned bad, she replies.

 

---

 

Your core is slick and hot. You’d had just about enough waiting when Astarion finally, blessedly carried you to the ground. When he turned to free himself of his pants and embroidered shoes, you couldn’t help yourself. 

That bundle of nerves was aching to be touched. You needed the feeling of him inside of you now— and seeing as he was still otherwise engaged— you took the opportunity to tease the vampire further. 

The look on his face when he turned back your way— regarding the way your fingers pumped in and out of your folds— Gods. The way that delicious extension of him jumped in surprise — your core and every other muscle in your body shuddered.

“Astarion,” you moan, half-imagining the friction inside of you is his cock rather than your fingers. 

His mouth agape— he falls to his knees before you— fucking himself— fist pumping desperately while you tease him with your show. 

You almost resisted the need to reach out and pull him to you— almost. But your tail seemed to have other ideas. It wraps around his thigh and tugs gently. You watch as the motion of his hand sends his balls swinging gently— the sight makes you want to choke on them.

Instead, you fuck yourself harder— knuckles ramming into your swollen clit. 

“ Shit,” he hisses, “darling, please allow me.”

You want nothing more than to oblige him— but the sight of this dangerous man trembling, begging on his knees before you? No chance. Not so soon anyhow. 

“Not just yet,” you pant, “you’re going to watch me fuck myself until you can’t stand it any longer.” 

Gods, he groans into your mind, it’s already too much to bear.  

Well, that’s too damned bad, you reply. A horribly delicious thought crosses your mind. You picture him fucking you— taking you roughly from behind— and let the image float his way. 

“ Fuck,” he growls and shuffles forward a few inches. His eyes are barely open, and he’s fucking himself so thoroughly, that you can see a drip begin to gather at his tip. Your mouth waters. 

You return to the mental image, and picture yourself sliding off of him, before turning head first his way— and swallowing his member. 

You groan aloud as you imagine the taste of you twining together. 

“Darling, I must have you,” he cries as a shudder wracks his frame. 

Quickly, smoothly, you roll onto your knees and knock his hand aside. You slide your lips where his fist had just been and take him hungrily into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around him as your head bobs forward. You retreat, keeping only the tip between your lips— pause— and then rock forward again. 

He hits the back of your throat and you claw the moss beneath you, groaning in ecstasy. You repeat the movement again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Until it’s all you know. 

At some point, you realize he’s braced himself by holding your gilded horns. His breaths are shaky— uneven— and his swollen cock jumps within your throat. 

I’m close, he moans into your mind. 

Are you? You purr in response. 

Y— yes. Gods, darling. Let me take you, he pleads. 

Come for me, and then you can bury yourself within me. I need you. 

He pants and thrusts roughly into your throat— you stop moving and let him take his pleasure in you. Let your lips and tongue coax forth his release. 

He trembles again and grips your horns harder. The pain as he slams hungrily— repeatedly—  into your throat is sublime. You suppress a gag as he hits that sensitive spot at the back of your mouth. 

“Kalliope— “ he groans, “ now you— drink me.” The ridge along the length of his cock quivers and the taste of him is thick and heady— astonishing and addicting. You savor the taste on your tongue, swallowing slowly, and continue to suck and pump your head gently until he pulls from your lips, cock glistening. 

You stare up at him and kiss his length gently— careful of its sensitivity following his spend. 

“Now,” he growls, “ my turn.”

 

---

 

The back of her throat is deliciously, sinfully, warm— and soft. So soft. She moans and the vibration of her mouth around you makes you hiss.

You can feel yourself nearing the edge with each bob of that head and those gorgeous lips. Your breath hitches as a shudder runs from your throbbing cock up your spine. You reach out and steady yourself— wrapping a hand around each of her horns. 

The leverage they grant is perfection. You grit your teeth and thrust forward again— and again. Chasing that slick, wet, sensation. 

I’m close, the thought trickles her way. 

Are you? She purrs in response, tongue swirling around your sensitive head. Her tone is pleading and somewhat mocking. 

Godsdammit. 

The feeling of her voice in your mind urges your hips forward. Y— yes. Gods, darling. Let me take you. 

You loathe that this woman has reduced you to such a pleading, trembling mess. You hate how such a base need for release has stripped you of all composure. 

Come for me, and then you can bury yourself within me. I need you.

She stops moving her head and increases the suction around your shaft. Gracing the base with quick, wet flicks of her tongue. Your body trembles again, and your fingers bite into the smooth ore and rough bone of her horns. 

Her throat flutters briefly when you press your cock into the flesh at the back of her mouth. 

Shit. 

“Kalliope— “ you groan, “ now you— drink me.” 

Your release crashes through you, stronger than you can remember, and you bite back a yell. Emotions you don’t want to acknowledge shake loose within you— a crack in the facade you’ve spent centuries perfecting. 

She swallows your spend slowly. When you pull from her lips, the cool night air is almost too much sensation. She gently kisses down your shaft and smirks up at you.  

“Now,” you growl, “ my turn.” 

You shove her roughly by the shoulder and snarl predatorily at her. She falls into the soft earth— eyes wide with anticipation. As her mouth was on you, you could smell her desire. Practically hear the blood rushing through her body.  

Her tail flicks at her side— drawing your attention and an idea strikes you. You pull it teasingly, stroke it gently, and bring it to your lips— awaiting her response. Her brows knit together, and she bites her lip. 

You plant slow, wet kisses up the appendage until you reach the section where it grows thick and muscled. You graze a fang over the scales— and she shudders. You smirk impishly and bite down— hard. Hot blood spatters your lips.

She shrieks and claws the dirt beneath her hands— head lolling backward. The blood flow is surprisingly strong, and you drink greedily. 

Kalliope groans and mumbles your name— nearly incoherent. She reaches for herself once more, and you playfully bat her hand away. You draw one more, blissful mouthful— letting it reinvigorate you and then release her tail. 

 

---

 

His fangs are like shards of ice as he bites into the ridged flesh of your tail. You shriek in delight as your lifeblood flows into him again. When you try to reach for yourself— overcome by the sheer pleasure the sensation brings— Astarion bats your hand away and releases your tail. 

Your blood coats his lips and drips down his chin. The sight makes you feral, you feel the urge to climb atop his length, lick your essence from him, and fuck him senseless. He drops to his hands and knees and crawls toward you, using his knee to spread your right leg away from your core. 

He hangs above you, pinning you in place with the gaze of a honed predator. Your breath hitches— awaiting his next move. He dips his lips to yours and kisses you gently— sweetly. When you try to deepen the kiss he pulls away. 

He grins and pitches his voice low. “Darling, I’m going to absolutely ravage you until you’re senseless. But promise me this,” he purrs. 

You nod, chest heaving. 

“If at any point, something I’ve done or something I’m doing to you is too much— say it. Aloud,” his expression is grim— almost haunted. 

You swallow and nod again, fear mixing with arousal— and it excites you.

“Say it,” he demands. 

“I will,” you breathe. 

“Good,” he smirks and dips his lips to yours once more. His tongue forces past your lips and into your throat. With one hand he grips just below your jaw— choking you lightly. 

When a moan escapes your throat he plunges two fingers into your sensitive core, pumping them in and out. You arch into his hand and he pumps faster, gently raking his fingertips along your wall. 

You wail— delirious— clench your thighs and buck into his hand. 

Do you like that, darling, he asks. 

“Yes,” you breathe past his kiss. As the word leaves your lips he pulls away. Then removes his fingers from your slick, hot core— and suckles at the taste of you. You pull a face, resisting the urge to cry out in dismay.

He bares his fangs in a cruel smile, then firmly grips each of your thighs— spreading you wide before him. 

You arch your back— a silent plea for mercy. For him. He regards you and then dips to place a sensuous kiss on your ear. “Remember our deal,” he whispers. 

Astarion pulls away slowly, then bends and runs his tongue between your folds— growling. You moan and he chuckles, then flicks that sensitive bud with his tongue. 

“Please, Astarion,” you moan again. He kisses your swollen clit lightly, and then glides one finger inside of you. He pumps in and out twice, stroking your walls, before adding another. He repeats this again— 

Again.

And again.

Until your core is tight around all but his thumb. 

You squirm, and he tightens his lips around that swollen bud. You buck wildly, desperate for more friction. For him. He flicks your clit with his tongue. You so badly want him deep within you. You send the image his way— a silent plea. 

Darling, are you certain? He purrs into your mind. 

You nod and whine. He pulls his fingers and lips from you, before fisting himself and calling your name. He sends an image back to you— you sprawled before him. Mewling and desperate with desire. In the image, he grants your desire, and you call each other’s names in ecstasy.

You arch your back— breasts heaving— towards his cock as he continues fucking himself with his hand. With his other hand, he pulls on his balls, then glances down at you, hungrily. 

You nod again, biting your lip. “Astarion,” you beg, holding his gaze. 

“My name on your lips is so sweet. Ahhh, I could listen to you pleading all night.” You groan in frustration, watching his hand pump up and down his length while he thrusts. Your hips move in tandem with his hand– hypnotized and desperate with desire. 

He continues, voice light and breathy, “but you’ve been such a sweet — generous thing — letting me sate myself on your blood. I think—“ he gasps, drawing out the motion of his hand— clearly enjoying the torment he’s putting you through, “I think you deserve a treat. Yes?”

 

---

 

Gods, her desire for you— the power it gives you over her— is intoxicating. Almost as addicting as the thought of her hot, wet core around your throbbing cock. The blood you drank from her tail seemed to go straight there— and as much as you’re delighting in her pent-up frustration— you’re craving her release around your own. 

The taste of her is pungent, thick, delicious. The way she squirms beneath your hands as you pump in and out of her. The force with which she bucks into your fingers— chasing her pleasure. 

Fuck.

The silken velvet of her walls, tight around your fingers. 

Fuck. 

She moans again— breathless— and then another lurid image graces your mind. It’s her beneath you, hands fisted in your hair, as you fuck her senseless. Your balls tighten and you suppress a groan. 

Darling, are you certain? You tease. Even if she somehow isn’t— gods below— you are. You’d never expected playing the rake to be so godsdamned difficult. But this woman— this hungry, carnal creature before you—

Fuck. 

You feel her nod, hear your name on her lips. Somewhat regretfully, you slide your lips and hands from her again. 

Her pupils are blown wide with lust. You smile, and stroke your length languidly— calling her name as you share the delicious sight before you with her. You add what you imagine finally plunging into her will feel like. 

She bends her spine, lifting her hips toward your cock while you continue stroking yourself. With your free hand, you pull gently downward on your balls, desperate to relieve some of the ache growing within them. 

She nods again, biting her lip. Then she calls your name— staring into your eyes. 

This game is growing tiresome— but that hateful voice within you promises it’s necessary. Promises it’s the only way you can guarantee your own safety. 

You hate yourself for the thoughts and hear your voice say something charming. She groans in frustration, and your cold heart sinks with the knowledge that you’re the cause. 

Your hand continues moving as you try to push that small, hateful voice away. You hear yourself call her such a ‘sweet, generous thing’, and more of those frustrating, dangerous emotions shake loose. 

More bricks tumbling from your sadistic wall of armor. 

She catches your gaze, and you’re hauled back into the present. You feel the soft moss beneath your knees, hear the river burbling nearby, and smell the sweet sun melon and chili pepper that is Kalliope. The taste of her lingers on your tongue, and you ground yourself in it. 

Finally, you crawl towards her and allow yourself the comfort of her around you.

 

---

 

Astarion crawls toward you, lowering himself inches above you. You lift your head from the ground, wrap a hand around the back of his neck, and kiss him deeply. He returns the kiss— and you pour all of the desire, frustration, gratitude, and safety he makes you feel— into it.

He relaxes— that odd tension that overcame him a moment ago dissolving. You pull away from the kiss, and hold his gaze— “I want you, Astarion.”

You’re not certain what makes you say the words— but something deep within your twisted heart and broken mind tells you that you must. That you need to hear them. 

That he does too.

That crack you felt earlier widens as his gaze softens again. Gone are the sly, narrow eyes of a hunter— those impossibly round, soft crimson ones take their place. 

“I— want you too,” he says, his breath hitching. 

“Well, I’m here— and I think it’s fairly clear I’m not here to talk,” you jest and nip playfully at his lips. 

He growls and sinks into you. You gasp as he slides into you— inch by inch, and both you and he groan when the base of his member is flush with your entrance. Your core pulses around him, and his cock twitches in response. 

You arch into him, reveling in the feel of him within you as you trace a slow circle with your hips. His lids grow heavy, and you repeat the motion— once.

Twice. 

On the third, he pulls slowly out and then plunges back in. You claw at his neck and buck into his hips. He does it again. 

And again. 

And, fucking hells, you think— 

Again.  

You shudder and throw your legs around his hips, grinding into him. He moans and takes your mouth with his. You thrust into him with little bursts— the friction of his base against your clit is maddening. 

He rocks in time with you, and your core begins to clench and pulse around him. 

You pull your lips from his and throw your head back— exposing the bite marks from previous nights. “Astarion,” you breathe, “I want to feel my blood rushing into you.”

“Not yet,” he whispers, as he thrusts into you. “You’ve given me so much already— let me repay the favor.”

You groan but nod, and he kisses you again. 

He rolls his hips into you and you gasp. He smiles against your kiss and does it again. You arch further into him and he quickens his thrusts, swapping the slick sensation of his full length within you for the delicious friction you crave. 

You can feel yourself nearing the edge. Your breasts heave as he continues fucking you. 

“A— Astarion,” you pant. He purrs against your lips and thrusts deeper. 

Faster. 

The pressure between your folds builds to a steady pulse— he doesn’t stop. You moan again and he fucks you deeper. Your core flutters as that edge rushes nearer and nearer. 

“Come for me,” he purrs into your ear. “Darling, please come for me.”

You shake and tremble as your inevitable climax rushes nearer. Just as that wave crests and threatens to crash over you— his fangs slide into your neck. You cry out as he drinks from you and then follows you over the edge. 

His cock pulses within you, and you feel the wet rush of his spend fill you. You clutch at his back, gasping for breath as he continues fucking you— through his orgasm and yours. 

Your sensitive clit flutters again as he makes you come a second time. 

His cock is still thick and throbbing as you push him off of you, promptly crawl atop him, and rabidly ride out your third orgasm. His hips buck beneath you as your fingers twine together. Astarion cries out— ruby eyes rolled back, fangs on full display— and fills you a second time. 

You shudder with ecstasy and caress the planes of his beautiful face as he finishes pulsing within you. When his cock finally stills, and his eyes slide open— you’ve never seen a more dashing smile.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 27: Gifted with Eternity

Summary:

Eternity /ɪˈtɜː.nə.ti/

"Time that never ends, or that has no limits."

Related - idiom: 'to send someone to eternity.'

Notes:

Another incredibly, self-indulgent chapter. Enjoy, Darlings.

You dip and plant a slow, sweet kiss on his forehead, savoring the warm smell of his skin and hair. Rosemary and bergamot mixed with sweat and earth. “Thank you,” you whisper before pulling away. 

The moon rays shining through the trees cast his face in an ethereal light— normally white-grey curls glowing alabaster and silver. Some curls are plastered to his forehead with trails of perspiration— you smirk with satisfaction knowing you were partially responsible. He remains silent for a breath or two longer, dazed— ruby eyes skimming your face. As your words sink in, he rouses from his reverie and reaches up to tuck a clump of tangled hair behind your ear. 

“You’re welcome,” he breathes in response.

“Would you like to sit up now? Lying in the dirt like that can’t be very comfortable,” you say, a smile on your lips. 

“Darling, don’t tell me you’re in a rush to climb off of me? After all, isn’t this what you’ve fantasized about since our first meeting?”

“Oh,” you say eyebrows raised, “you mean when you held that dull dagger to my throat and pinned me to the sand like a back alley thug?”

“Well— yes. Not my finest introduction,” he sighs and runs a hand through his curls. “But, it hasn’t kept you from my bed.” His smile is all fang. 

“Quite the opposite,” you say, helping him into a sitting position. “It may be exactly what drew me to your—” you gesture broadly at the forest floor around you, “— bed. ”

“Dear, I don’t think you realize quite how odd a statement that is,” Astarion chuckles and settles his arms over your shoulders, fingertips grazing your back. 

“And yet here you are, fooling around in the darkness with me.”

“ ‘Fooling around’? Is that all you think of this?” Astarion pulls a face, pouting momentarily. “I suppose I’ve been accused of worse.”

“Words aren’t my strong suit—“ you say quickly, not wanting to spoil the mood. “That’s far from what I think of this,” you waggle your brow and run a hand up his chest.

“Well, then, what do you think of this,” he asks, voice low— eyes heavy-lidded.

“I think—,” you begin and then hesitate. 

How could you describe this evening? Divine, certainly. Satisfying— absolutely. But there’s more to it— something deeper and not so simply explained. Not love , exactly— far from it. 

You may have amnesia, but you’re no fool. It would be a lie to claim that— however pleasant a lie it may be.

“This evening was wonderful, I very much enjoyed it,” you kiss the laugh lines beside his mouth, tempted to claim his with your own again. His skin is warmer than usual, you want to savor it, yet the desire to finish this thought— to attempt a phrase of fitting appreciation— wins out.  

“I feel like we understand one another, well I’ve always felt that way. But now it’s...deeper than before? I— I’m not doing it justice, but I feel like I can be myself around you, Astarion. Trust you with me— whoever that might be.”

He holds your gaze briefly, considering your words. A flash of discomfort— then he averts his eyes— watching the moonlight play on the bark of the tree nearest you.

“You can trust me,” he says barely a whisper, “and I’m glad I can trust you too. Can’t I?”

Something heavy hangs in his eyes. A shadow not quite manifest. Something akin to doubt or sorrow, perhaps both. 

“Absolutely, you watch my back— and I’ll watch yours. I meant it the first time I said it, and I mean it now too,” you say. His expression lightens with something like approval at your response.

“Good, I’m glad we’re agreed on that front.” The vampire smiles at you, nearly as genuine as you could imagine given his beautifully-severe disposition.

 

---

 

Eventually, the two of you decide it might be prudent to clean yourselves up. Astarion makes a run back to camp for some of your blankets and soap while you carry yourself and your clothes to a secluded bend in the river — far from your companions’ typical bathing area. 

He returns to find you wading in the shallows, running long nails through your freshly unbraided hair- untangling knots, and snares. 

“Thank you, for sneaking back to camp,” you say behind a sheet of wet locks.

“My pleasure, bathing around here doesn’t happen nearly enough. And no offense to you darling, but I don’t fancy sharing my bathing chamber with a gaggle of weirdos,” he barks a laugh.

“Is that the excuse you’re using, for not bathing with us,” you smirk at him through a window of clumped strands. 

Gracefully he unlaces his shirt and trousers once more, dropping them soundlessly, and pads across the sand. Your previous satiation disappears at the fresh sight of his lean legs, sculpted chest, and lower abdomen. You don’t bother keeping the amorous thoughts from your mind. 

“My, my,” he says, wading towards you. “Hungry again so soon?”

“Is that a problem?” You ask, voice suddenly hoarse. 

“Of course not, though, perhaps we should bathe first,” he waggles the bar of soap wrapped in his grasp where you can see it. “It wouldn’t do to risk our good health.”

You nod, a warm flush creeping up your neck. “I’ll never say no to a relaxing bath— especially not around such tasteful company.” He passes you the bar, and you rub it briefly against your scalp, beginning to add a lather to your damp hair. 

Your fingers work in slow circles through the strands before Astarion gently tugs your wrists away. “Darling, let me,” close enough now for his breath to tickle your ear. You silently nod and oblige him. His hands are gentle– careful not to tug through snags– and full of purpose as the pads of his fingers massage from your horns to the base of your skull.

You release a breath and sink to your knees in the water, letting your head fall back limply. You can’t remember ever being touched like this– cared for. You allow the thought to slip his way. 

He chuckles lightly, his voice brushing your mind.

Yes, I suppose being honed for murder doesn’t leave much room for tenderness.

You shake your head slightly, No. No, it doesn’t. His hands trail to the taught muscles of your shoulders and neck, squeezing and releasing the tension from the bundles of nerves and tissue. What about you, were you ever allowed to be– pampered – like this?

He falters briefly, pausing in thought. 

In the beginning, yes. Yes, Cazador was big on reinforcing desirable behaviors. In the early days, before– he pauses again, perhaps choosing his words carefully, before I’d failed to please him he’d reward me with simple luxuries. Fragrant soaps, the occasional warm bath. If I was extremely well-behaved he might even offer a goblet of fresh blood.

How long did that last? The question is a bit insensitive, but you think he wants to open up, gone is the usual smarm and prickle. 

If only just temporarily.

Oh, his tone shifts slightly, who knows. When you’ve been gifted with eternity, time begins to blur together.

Is that how he phrased it to you? ‘Gifted with eternity’? Astarion finishes massaging the lather through your hair. You dunk yourself once, twice. Feeling the suds disappear. You stand again, turning to face him.

His gaze bores right through yours– focus a thousand miles away.

Yes, the thought comes finally. He stood there, as I bled out into the street, a false mask of pity and concern coloring his features. Not that I recognized the lie at the time, Astarion grimaces and you take a step towards him, wrapping a hand gently around his hip. It was only afterward I realized just how long ‘eternity’ could be.

He glances down at you, present once more. You motion for him to turn and kneel so that you can return the favor. He obliges, knees settling in the silt of the river bottom. 

Not a good master, I presume, you ask as you coax a lather from the bar of soap between your hands.

His shoulders stiffen in the water, No. No, I would not say that. You spread the lather between his curls, cupping water onto his scalp, and begin working. He relaxes somewhat. Wet, his hair falls back in long waves– longer than you might’ve guessed before.

Beautiful, it never ceases to amaze me, you think. Not caring whether or not he hears you.

He’d have me go out into Baldur’s Gate to fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find, his hands fist in the water beside him. It was a fun little ritual of his – I’d bring them back and he’d ask if I wanted to dine with him. 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.

That rankling sense of protectiveness brings new heat to your throat and chest as you imagine Astarion being offered two equally horrid ‘choices’. One requiring reluctant graciousness in place of a more appropriate revulsion. The other, successfully avoiding one distasteful experience for a far more somatic one.

You’ve no idea what Cazador looks like, but you and the darkened muse share a rare moment of understanding as you revel in the image of his face bloodied, rended, and torn apart. It occurs to you that his cruel fangs might make for novel earrings. 

A growl rumbles in your throat and your tail swishes in the water– splashing lightly– catching you off-guard, “I can’t wait to kill him with you,” you say lending the dark whisper a voice. “And then kill him again for good measure.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Astarion chuckles darkly. “But this isn’t about sympathy. It’s about knowing what we might be up against. The mindflayers 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.” His tone warbles slightly– a rare hint of fear leaking through.

“Anything but you, you mean?” You say, hoping to lighten the mood again.

Blissfully, Astarion plays along. “I’m not the only one with a preclusion for the shadows, Darling. I’ve seen you dashing in and out of them during combat– crossing entire rooms in one go. Clever little trick,” he tilts his head back and raises an inquisitive brow.

“Ahh,” you say grinning, “yes, that. Shadow-stepping is what it’s called. It’s why members of my order are sometimes referred to as ‘Shadowdancers’.” You cup a handful of cool water, and pour it over his brows and forehead, careful to direct the bubbles away from his eyes.

“Sounds intriguing,” he blinks up at you, moonlight casting his irises a bright rose-red.

Gods, your eyes are beautiful. The compliment trickles between you silently.

As are yours– if not slightly terrifying, he counters.

Says the vampire with blood-red eyes, you flick his nose playfully. 

Astarion spins in the water, entirely too graceful, and catches your wrist in his grasp– tugging you forward. “Darling,” he says voice low, “yours are quite literally of the hells. Did you know, they glow a little more menacingly when you’re killing someone?” His other hand floats through the water, coming to rest at the small of your back. “It’s delightful.”

“They– what? They do?” You lean into his hand, sparks jumping up your spine with the contact.

“Ohh, yes. They do. Do you want to guess when else they flare up like that?” His voice is low, suggestive– your chest tightens in response. He bends to graze your neck with a single fang, and you tremble.

“When?” you breathe.

“When your delectable body is shuddering around my cock,” his grip tightens tugging you closer still, and the bareness of his length presses into your hip.

Oh.

Oh.

“Do you want to see them do it again,” you breathe into the shell of his ear, and his fingers curl into your skin.

What do you think, his tone grazes your consciousness, and his cock twitches– hardening against you further.

You press your hips to his and use a hand to coax his fangs back to that tender pulse point just above your collarbone.

“Fuck,” he hisses. You dip a hand below the waterline to stroke him and he groans. The sound reverberates through you– straight to your core. You moan as his fangs puncture your skin– and squeeze his member in response. He drinks greedily, and that wonderful tingling sensation spreads through your body once more.

 

---

 

Gods, your eyes are beautiful, her words float across your mind, as sweet and genuine as her grin. It’s a new compliment, one you’d never heard from any previous dalliance. Then again, you’d rarely given them the chance to see the true color of your accursed gaze. A rare benefit of your relegation to moonlit shadows.

As are yours– you respond. Somewhat unexpectedly, you add, if not slightly terrifying.

Her gaze is beautiful. Unsettling as the idea of the nine hells themselves at times, but beautiful nonetheless. Especially when that murderous glow brightens and overtakes them. The teal ethereal against the heat of the gold burning within. 

Her brows furrow above you, and she flicks your nose blithely. Says the vampire with blood-red eyes.  

You sit up once more and turn to face her, catching that traitorous wrist in your grasp. Desire floods through you suddenly, and you tug her forward– needing her to be closer. 

“Darling,” you say with a sensuous purr, “yours are quite literally of the hells.”

A rakish thought flits across your mind, “Did you know, they glow a little more menacingly when you’re killing someone?” You gently caress the small of her back, right above her enticing backside. “It’s delightful.”

“They– what? They do?” She says, pressing further into your palm.

“Ohh, yes. They do,” you say. “Do you want to guess when else they flare up like that?” Your pulse speeds– undead heart thrilled by the memory of the only other time her eyes have glowed that brightly. You bend to her neck, and the sweet smell of sunmelon and chili pepper wraps around you invitingly. You graze a fang against her neck– accursed hunger flaring.

“When?” she breathes against the shell of your stiletto-sharp ear.

“When your delectable body is shuddering around my cock,” you growl, tugging her closer still. You nearly groan at the sensation of your quickly hardening length against her ridged hip.

She trembles, arousal spiking in her scent. “Do you want to see them do it again,” she teases.

You want to howl your agreement, but settle for a response in the form of tightening your grip on her ass, What do you think? Avoiding the risk of seeming too desperate, you resist the urge to press your cock harder against her side.

You’re certain you sent no thoughts her way, but miraculously, she fulfills your silent plea by shifting her hips. They settle perfectly against your own as she uses two fingers to guide your chin - and face - back to the tender, thrumming crux of her neck and shoulders. 

“Fuck,” you hiss as her scent fills your senses. Then she’s dipping a dextrous hand below the waterline. Her fingers wrap around you as your curse echoes across the surface of the river. Unable to hold back a moment more, you slide your fangs into berry-pink skin and groan as the taste of her wells up in your mouth.

She keens and squeezes your cock in response. 

 

---

 

With your spare hand, you tease yourself between your folds, then angle your hips so that with every stroke of pleasure you feel, your knuckles graze Astarion’s tightening balls. 

He moans again, and you quicken the pace. Pumping him harder, dipping further into your core. Your breath turns shaky as the overwhelming sensation of your blood flowing into him mingles with the thrumming of that bundle of nerves between your thighs.

Astarion’s fingers dig into the curves of your rear, and he thrusts up into your fist. You gasp at the sharp feeling of his nails molding tiny crescents into your skin. 

“Kalliope,” he breathes between mouthfuls and swipes of his tongue. With every gulp he takes of you, you feel him hardening further in your grasp– the knowledge turning you feral. You add a finger to your ministrations and groan at the increase in pressure– edging ever closer to ravenous bliss.

“Fuck me while you feed,” you gasp. As soon as the words pass your lips, Astarion hauls you up by your ass. You quickly shift your hands to his waist just before he plunges deep inside of you. You’re still tender from before, but the feel of him within you is delectable.

He thrusts up into you, pulling your hips downward towards his own.

Again.

Again.

And again.

---

 

As her blood thrums into your mouth– into your body– you feel the final threads of tension from prior conversation slip away. Warmth blooms within you, heightening your senses again. Your ears and neck flush– an amorous fever spreading to your extremities. 

With her spare hand, Kalliope begins to stroke between her own legs. Ever so slightly, she leans into you, spread legs settling between yours. With every flex of her fingers, her knuckles graze your balls. The subtle sensation paired with the rapid pumping of her hand around your shaft pulls a moan up and out of your throat. 

Encouraged, she hastens the pace– rubbing and squeezing your member with one hand, the other disappearing further within herself. Her breath grows unsteady and a wave of lust floods your next mouthful. Your shared blood twines and mixes with each pull of your throat, dulling that ceaseless hunger within you. The pleasure of satiation tangles in your mind with the need for her. 

Another wave of her desire crashes through you, your fingers curl and flex involuntarily against the warm flesh of her ass. She gasps, and you drive your pulsating cock further within her fist. You can feel your imminent release building low in your abdomen, it’s intoxicating. The raw, untainted pleasure of being with someone you truly desire is still so frighteningly fresh. 

“Kalliope.” Her name slips from your lips as that wave builds steadily stronger. 

Another gulp of the rich ambrosia makes your cock twitch again. Gods, this strange, murderous woman makes you so deliciously hard. 

Fuck, you could exist in the warm folds of her hands and blood forever if she’d let you. 

She adds a finger, groaning, and pumps them both deeper still. Her body begins to shudder– such savory vibrations of pleasure coursing through you both. 

“Fuck me while you feed,” she pants. The final syllable of that request spills from her and you oblige. Happily so.

Your hands slide down to the soft, round arc of her ass– and squeeze greedily– then you’re hoisting her upwards. Her hands cling to your waist, abandoning their tasks below, just as you plunge deep within her. She’s impossibly wet. Disgustingly, deliciously warm– her core flutters around your cock with each thrust.

The divine slip of her around you drives you mad. You feel yourself tugging her hips downward against your own, fucking her desperately. All pretense of cool composure flung aside.

You sink to the hilt.

She gasps.

You withdraw and drive up into her again.

She claws your shoulders.

The head of your cock collides with that silken bud deep within her.

She keens and tightens her legs around you.

---

 

Your panting, rasping breaths turn to a keening, needy squeal. You wrap your legs around his pert ass and use the leverage to match his rhythm, greedily bouncing against him. Ferocious in your pursuit of release. Your nails dig into his shoulders– almost drawing blood.

Choke me, you beg into his mind– speechless with desire. 

His fangs slide from your neck as one hand moves from your behind to your breast. He palms and sucks it into his mouth, nibbling lightly on the hardening bud of your nipple.

Are you certain, comes his reply.

You nod feverishly, drunk on the feeling of him within you. Then his cool, delicate hand wraps around your windpipe– gently. His pace slows only briefly as he moves the two of you closer to shore. Your back settles into the soft silt of the bank as your face sinks just below the waterline.

You must tell me if it’s too much, alright?

You nod again, gasp one last lungful of air, and then he’s driving his cock back inside of you. Stroking and fucking and ravaging your core– hungrily chasing his own climax. The cool water laps across your cheeks, lips, and nostrils. The bloodlessness mixes with the asphyxiation – a delicious, dangerous cocktail that sends your entire body trembling.

Your eyelids begin to flutter as the first wave of your orgasm crashes through you. Remembering Astarion’s comment about your eyes, you force them open and lock your gaze with his. Willing him to fuck you still. To not stop. To never. stop.

I want you to scream for me as we come, you snarl into his mind. Ferocious with desire. With the need for his cock to keep pounding into you. The yearning for his balls to continue rocking against your ass.

Gods, yes. I’ll wake camp if that’s what you desire, lover, comes his equally rabid response.  

 

---

 

Kalliope, the fiend, is grinding and bouncing greedily against you– bless her tenacity. Inner thighs sending lewd echoes across your otherwise peaceful glade. Her fingers tighten on your shoulders– nearly breaking skin– and you groan as you swallow another mouthful of her lifeblood.

Choke me, she whines mentally– eyes rolled back, mouth gaping with desperation. 

You pull your lips from her neck and release one side of her bottom to cup a breast. Its gentle weight in your palm is sublime, and you dip to suck it between tongue and teeth. Are you certain, you ask her.

She nods wildly, tipsy on the sensation of your feral thrusting.

Gently, you slide your hand from her breast. Dragging the pads of your fingers up her collarbone, up the warm column of her neck. The fire in her eyes brightens as the scent of her arousal fills your nostrils. Finally, you take her windpipe in your grasp– applying delicate pressure against those thrumming pulse points.

Your hips slow momentarily as you gingerly shuffle closer to the bank. You kneel, laying her down in the water. Silt blooms from the bottom as her weight comes to rest there. The water covers her from hips to breasts. Her hot core and your throbbing member still coupling below the clear water make it hard to form words, but you manage.

You must tell me if it’s too much, alright, you say into her mind.

She nods again, swallows a large gulp of air, and then moves to relax her head so her face sinks just shy of the surface. She bucks up into you, permission and plea to fuck her again at that maddening pace. You grin dangerously, tighten your grip on her throat and drive your cock deep within her silken folds. 

You stroke and fuck and ravage her hot, wet core– feverishly chasing that inevitable tumble into bliss. The river water shifts around Kalliope’s features, highlighting those sharp cheekbones, full lips, and delicate nostrils. The moonlight glitters on her golden lipstick and dances around gilded horns. 

Kalliope begins to flutter deliciously around your cock, and you know she’s close. Her eyelids drift slowly closed as the first wave of her climax clenches around you. Then, they fly open– her infernal gaze pinning your crimson one in place. 

She smiles beneath the water– vicious and victorious– eyes flaring with hellish inferno. She arches into you through her orgasm. Daring you to keep fucking her. To revel in this moment. To prolong it for as long as you can handle. Her eyes roll back momentarily as the final waves of her climax clench and release your cock.

Her hands find yours in the water and clasp them. I want you to scream for me as we come, she snarls into your thoughts. Ferocious with desire. 

Images of you above her– hips rocking into hers, cock burying itself between her folds, balls swinging against her ass– flash across your mind. You swallow and shiver with delight– mouth watering– as the final image fades.

Gods, yes, you think her way, I’ll wake camp if that’s what you desire, lover.

 

---

 

Astarion growls with pleasure when you send the images of him above you floating into his mind. Your blood, thoughts, and body mixing with his are enough to bring your release a second time. Moments after your core begins to settle from the first, you feel another wave rush over you.

Let me up, you say into his mind, and he does. 

You crash up into him, silencing your wails of desire by biting down on his shoulder. Hands and legs clinging to his warm, moist skin. He hisses and groans as you feel his cock begin pulsing within you. His warm, satiny spill fills you and you squirm with pleasure when your second release accompanies his. 

With a final throb of him within you, he howls into the clear night air. Your nickname a lyric on his tongue.

Your mouth finds his again– the want and gratefulness fueling you. Your lips press into his and his tongue slips past yours. The kiss is hot, passionate– a praise all its own. Finally, you pull from his lips and rest your forehead against him.

“Gods below,” he breathes into your hair, “that was– incredible.”

“Agreed,” you whisper into his chest. You both take a few moments to find your breath, relishing in your connection. When your heartbeat slows to a steadier pace, you find you don’t want to let go of him. This close to someone, to him specifically– that whisper is all but gone. 

The earth feels solid beneath you, and you don’t feel as if you’re floating aimlessly through life.

It’s a revelation.

It’s fucking terrifying.

Vulnerability is not something you’re used to feeling. It’s something you relish bringing about in others– something you exploit to your twisted heart’s desires.

It’s everything your twisted mind rages against. At least– usually it is. Perhaps it’s the bloodlessness clouding your senses, the elation of your body singing with his. Whatever it is, it’s a problem for tomorrow’s Kalliope. 

Or maybe, a Kalliope much further in the future. You yawn, and find Astarion chuckling, stroking your hair.

“Perhaps, my dear bloodthirsty lover, it’s time we settle in for the night,” he purrs into the crown of your head.

“I think you’re right, but we never washed anything but our hair.”

“Mmph,” he groans, “I hate that you’ve reminded me. Come along then, let’s clean ourselves up.”

The bar of soap you discarded at some point during your– recreation– has floated a little ways downstream. It’s resting between some reeds, buffeted gently by the current. You wade towards it, retrieve it, and return to Astarion. 

This time as you stroke one another’s flesh, it’s to scrub the day’s filth, sweat, and grime away.

Nearly nodding off, you finish bathing one another and trudge to shore. Thank the Gods it’s not too cold out– the loss of contact, missing blood, and exhaustion hits you like a deep rothé. You yawn again, and Astarion chuckles behind you before handing you your fresh robes and gathering your ridiculous collection of furs and blankets in his arms. He scouts ahead just a bit, then finds a clearing he deems suitable for a long, safe rest.

You shrug into your robes, and smile sleepily as he beckons you forward. “Hear you are, darling,” he says as he arranges your bedding into the messy nest you favor. “Now then, let’s get some rest.”

“Aren’t you going to rest too?” You ask, somewhat disappointed at the idea of sleeping alone.

He steps toward you and tucks a drying strand of hair behind your ear, “Of course. I’m just used to only needing a few hours is all.”

“Oh,” you say, stifling another yawn. “Right, elves.”

“Yes,” he grins, “elves. Well, go on, get settled in– I’ll be right back.”

You frown, but slump to your knees and finish arranging your messy collection of bedclothes. Wrapping your tail around your waist, you settle in and pull a particularly soft fur up to your chin. You watch the stars for a bit, fighting impending slumber. Before long, you hear the soft padding of leather on moss and Astarion has returned with a pair of throw pillows that usually decorate his tent. 

“I forgot these the first go around,” he says softly and tosses one your way. You’re so tired you hadn’t even missed the idea of a pillow, but the gesture is thoughtful and adorable.

“I won’t tell the others, but you’re just a softie inside, aren’t you,” you tease.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, “I’m only looking out for my best interests. You need your rest to replenish that delicious blood of yours.”

Sure, sure. Liar, you think his way. He smiles somewhat sardonically and then settles in behind you, lying on his back preparing to trance. You wriggle your way closer to him and he stiffens, clearly unused to cuddling.

He’ll get over it, is the last thing you think before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

 

---

 

At some point in the night, you make to stretch and turn over, surprised to feel a gentle weight atop you. It seems in his trance, Astarion has snuggled closer to you. His arm is cast lightly across your shoulder– nose buried in your hair. 

You smile sleepily and thread your fingers through his before falling into another deep slumber.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 28: Gith and Gin

Summary:

"Infernal was the language of the baatezu, a subtype of devils, and of the Nine Hells. Infernal was brought to Toril through contact with evil beings from other planes. It was described as harsh and alien in nature, since it developed among beings with thought patterns very unlike those of humanity. [...] Apart from being used for communication between the devils, in its written form it was also used to pen down infernal contracts."

— Elminster Aumar, 'A Treatise on the Forgotten Realms'

You mumble, and turn over amidst the tangle of blankets and furs wrapped around you, the woven yarn of a particularly chunky quilt snagging on the ridges of your tail. Mindlessly, you yank it free and relax back into the warm nest of bedclothes. The movement pulls the covers down just enough that warm, morning sunlight kisses your eyelids.

You sigh and hold yourself in that drowsy, restful state– breath even— hoping to return to deep slumber.

A moment passes. Then another, and frustratingly– you’re unable to sink back to sleep. 

Suppressing a groan, you sit up and rub your eyes open. 

Before you is a scene you’d not expected. An endearing sight you find yourself tucking into the back of your mind, cradled as if the slightest ripple of thought could shatter it. Astarion– lean form exposed from the waist up– stands arms outstretched, chest open, and face upturned. 

Basking in the sunlight. 

The soft, yellow corona lends him the ethereal air of a Fae Lord. He looks– serene. Joyous even. 

You catch a glimpse of his profile as he sways gently, back and forth in the warmth and light. A gentle, subtle smile is upon his lips. The lines around his eyes and mouth are smooth and relaxed. Not a trace of a scowl, nor hint of a smirk to be found.

You breathe in and out as quietly as you can, willing the air immovable. Silently reveling with him– not daring to break the spell of the moment. Unable to look away.

How long has it been since he could last enjoy the soothing, gentle rays of dawn upon his skin? How many decades ago did he last feel that delicious, celestial light without fear of pain or ruin? How many mornings in those same decades have you strolled down a street without a second thought? While he was relegated to the shadows? 

Your heart tightens at the thought– and the ones that follow. 

Images of happy memories played out beneath the warm, bright sky. The slight inconvenience of a midday rainstorm. Warming yourself mid-errand in a patch of winter sunlight. A painful, yet curable sunburn after a day by the harbor. 

Astarion stretches, sighs— returns to his languid worship.

Wordlessly beckoning you back to the euphoria of this moment. 

Your eyes rove across his form, admiring the lines of taut muscle strung from his calves, up his thighs– and across his hips. The immaculate form of arms and shoulders honed in combat, glowing in the light. The sculpted form of his back–

His back?!

Your gaze comes to a halt as you try to puzzle out what you’re seeing. Try to understand what – why– such a canvas of beautiful, unmarred skin could shift into such jagged, angry white lines. The drowsy fog blanketing your mind dissipates in an instant– replaced by hot, furious, mournful clarity. You study the raised markings a moment more– mind blank— thoughtless with heartache and fury.

Before you slip into hopeful musings involving Cazador and many, many fatal wounds.

We’re going to relish ruining Cazador with him, that dark presence growls deep in your mind. When we finish, his scars will have scars. Wounds will weep. Traitorous, wasteful hands will be stumps.

Reticent as you are to agree with that seductive tormentor— you find that your feelings are much the same. 

You shake yourself free of the dark musings, yawn dramatically, and pretend as if you’ve just woken. A smile blooms across your lips— thoughts of your bodies intertwined resurfacing. 

Astarion casts a glance over his shoulder, and croons, “You sleep light. I thought you’d be exhausted after last night”

“What? Worried you didn’t measure up, ” you tease, “You shouldn’t, parts of me will feel that for days yet. But what about you? Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Darling, I think that’s the most marvelous evening I’ve had in years. I won’t soon forget it,” he sighs and his smile shifts into something more practiced. 

“Are you sure? There were— a few moments when it seemed you weren’t— fully there .” You hate the pinch of doubt roiling in your gut. 

His shoulders stiffen, “I was holding back a little, it’s true—,” he says finally. “I didn’t want to lose control. Delicious as you were, I didn’t want to go too far— ” The implications speak for themselves.

No, you say into his mind, I suppose you waking with a full stomach only to find me dead beside you wouldn’t be a pleasant way to end such an evening.

A laugh rumbles deep in his chest as he turns to soak in the morning light once more. 

“Astarion,” you whisper. 

“Hmm,” comes his reply. 

“Did he…do that to you?” Guilt swims in your mind in the following silence, you shouldn’t have asked. But— maybe there’s another reason for his shirtlessness. Is this his subtle way of opening up— laying another layer of his history bare before you?

Astarion sighs.  

“It’s a poem, a gift from Cazador,” spits the rogue. “He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas. That one— that one he composed and carved over the course of a single night.”

Astarion’s proud shoulders slump— his voice becoming a whisper along with them, “If I moved any more than he liked— or screamed in a way that offended him— he’d start over. He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

That blazing, mournful fury crawls up your neck again. Cheeks and throat heating as the imagery sets in. This elf— this proud, incredible, deadly elf before you— reduced to an object for someone’s sick entertainment.

Oh, self-righteous child— chuckles the dark whisper— as if you have never beamed ear-to-ear while the terrified screams of one at your mercy drowned out all thought. 

No! You argue, No. It’s not true. No one undeserving— never purely for entertainment. 

Truly can you be so foolish, growls the voice. Perhaps you need reminding…

Your gut twists and the world spins momentarily. Flashes of a memory— no— a hallucination surely — blur and twist behind your eyes. 

You see that horrid little beast, Sceleritas Fel, at your side— chittering with glee while a moaning, bleeding form writhes beneath your hands. Blood coats your nails— infernal claws packed with gore. Crude, deadly instruments glitter on a shelf beside you accompanied by bloodied jars and platters bearing viscera. 

You fight the images, clenching your jaw and pulling the hair at your temples— scrambling for control, but the visions continue. 

“Yes, milady,” croons the foul imp, “yes— Our Lord will be so ecstatic— no! Overflowing with terrible pride at your latest cruelties. Your deftness with a surgeon’s toolset is indeed impressive. ”

Dark crimson floods the edges of your vision as you sink further into the pit of filth conjured by the whisper.

No. No, no, nonono! I can do better— I must! This is not me!

Numbly in the background, you sense pressure against your shoulders, something cool on your forehead.

Another vision overcomes you, a small crumpled body— limbs broken and jarred in all the wrong ways. A marionette discarded. Then the form is pulling itself back into place— joints snapping and popping obnoxiously. Hands crack back into place finger-bone by finger-bone, before they rise to wrench a backwards head around to face forward once more.

“Milady,” the fiend chitters, “each time you butcher me— it leaves such a craving for more of your slaughterous talent, mmmhoho!”

Don’t you see child— purrs the whisper, you’re even more savage than these imaginary pretenders you rage at in your mind. 

The ground feels unsteady as you scramble– blinded by the visions— and fail to keep your feet beneath you. Clawing at the air, at something you can use as purchase. 

“Kalliope? Darling,” warbles a voice in the background. “–dearest— wake up!” 

Slowly, your mind registers soothing, soft pressure against your lips. The crisp clean scent of herbs envelops you while spongy, wet moss pillows your knees. Coming back to yourself, you find Astarion crouched nose-to-nose before you. His crimson eyes wide with fear. As he registers your lucidity, his face pulls back from yours– hands falling to rest in his lap.

“What did you see?” His voice is measured and quiet.

You shake your head and rise from the ground, disgusted with yourself. Irate with your ability to rattle those around you. The inability to supplicate those damned voices.

“Nothing–,” you insist, “it’s not important. We were talking about you.”

The vampire scoffs and pushes to his feet, “It’s not nothing, you were howling and shaking! Gods, you looked like someone mid-aneurysm.”

You don’t appreciate the amount of attention brought to your– issues right now. Not when there’s something more important to discuss. Not now that you’ve seen his back. Irksome sentiments better aimed at yourself or Cazador bleed together, pouring over into a feeling of misdirected retaliation.

“Be that as it may–,” you say a bit too harshly, “we were discussing you. Talking about what I just saw won’t change anything…” You clutch an arm sheepishly and stare at your toes. Frustrated by the reappearance of your tormentor. 

Eager to change the subject.

Astarion casts a disapproving glance down the length of your frame and sighs again. Blessedly resolving to leave the issue alone for now. “Fine, fine,” he says. “What else did you want to know?”

“Could you– turn around again? I think I recognized some of the markings.”

He starts momentarily, caught off-guard before revealing his back to you once more.

“May I touch you,” you ask. 

“Will that help,” the vampire bites out.

“I– no. Not necessarily,” you admit.

“Then, no. Don’t. I– I hate that you noticed them at all,” he grinds out.

You nod to yourself more than him and begin studying the marks once more. Three concentric rings of infernal runes joined loosely by wavering lengths of scar tissue surround one central symbol. A symbol you don’t recognize as any one word or phrase you can recollect.

The meaning of the infernal script seems to be somewhat broken– as if portions are missing– yet none of the runes appear incomplete. If it is indeed a poem– Cazador was certainly not the artist he imagined himself to be.

“And,” Astarion snaps impatiently. “What does it say?”

You push past the instinctual sting his tone brings on, you’d thought the two of you were– growing closer somehow. “I– I’m not sure. The phrases are incomplete, but it’s infernal. Did Cazador make a habit of communing with the hells?”

“Infernal?! Are you sure?” He spins on his heels to glower down his nose– you suppress a flinch at the sudden aggression. This is not the same Astarion who cried your name through his release just hours ago. You haven’t seen this sourness since the day you first encountered him in the woods. 

His sudden prickliness smarts.

Don’t get sentimental, you chide yourself. You know this is a game to him– a distraction from the horrible situation the mindflayers have forced us all into.

The rogue seems to notice your skittish reaction and tempers his tone a bit. “I– who knows. The bastard was insane,” he mutters, averting his gaze. “At any rate,” he says clearing his throat, “enough pillow talk. We should get moving before any of our companions decide to kill one another. I’d hate to miss it.”

You nod reluctantly, gather your things, and follow him back to camp.

 

---

 

Gradually, the woods and underbrush begin to thin. Yet the stilted silence strung between you does not. The transition from forest to open riverbank grows closer, and before either of you break through the foliage and into camp– the sound of raised voices floats your way. You can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but you can hear Karlach’s raised voice and what sounds like Shadowheart and Lae’zel quarreling in the background.

Astarion turns to you, silver brows knit together and eyes wide, “What in the Hells ?!”

“If I didn’t know any better, Astarion, I’d wonder if you might be an oracle.” You drop your bedclothes and begin running towards the voices.

Bedrolls and tents are still laid open or tied shut– you get the sense that everyone else was taking their time this morning too. Karlach stands a few paces away from Lae’zel’s bedroll– agitated flames jumping from her clothes and skin. “Will you two cut i’ out? This is madness!”

Lae’zel, still in her bedroll, is pinned to the ground. Shadowheart hovers above her, one foot on the githyanki’s left arm, a hand on her right– and a dagger poised mere inches above the fighter’s throat.

“You had every chance to look the other way,” the cleric whispers, “but here we are. You chose this.” 

Karlach registers your approach, and whirls around– sparks scattering this way and that. “Soldier! You’ve got to break them up. I’ve tried, but they won’t listen to me.” As if emphasizing her point, Scratch cowers and growls by her side– nervously glancing between you and the two women on the ground.

Lae’zel growls and thrashes beneath the cleric, “Spare me the justifications, is’tark. You have something precious to my kin– an heirloom. I will have it back!”

“Funny of you to demand anything in this position,” Shadowheart snarls and lowers the weapon a touch. “Much less a supposed ‘heirloom’. I bet it’s nothing more than plunder from some conquered realm.”

“Your sour face is tiring, Shadowheart,” Lae’zel taunts from her spot beneath the cleric. “By all means leave, if I am so distasteful.”

“I'd rather not turn my back on you, I feel it’s wiser of me to keep an eye on you,” Shadowheart sneers in reply, “if it's all the same.”

“If I’d chosen to kill you,” growls the fighter, “you would not have even seen it coming. Only a coward takes this much time to dispatch a foe.”

Gods, can we never just have a smooth morning around here, you grumble internally.

You make to approach the pair, but Shadowheart whips her head towards you, fury alighting in her eyes. “Another step closer, and I’ll kill her.”

“Kill her?!” Astarion snaps, “ Why? Because she keeps asking you about that puzzle-toy you carry?”

“It’s not a toy!” The women bark in unison. 

Astarion flinches back slightly, mumbling under his breath. “ Well, excuse me. Last time I try to help– .”

The cleric bares her teeth in a grimace. “This artefact is the only thing keeping us from becoming slaves to our parasites. You should all be glad that I carry it,” retorts Shadowheart.

You grind your teeth, mind whirling– thoughts jumping from idea to idea of how to resolve this bloodlessly. 

“I do not wish to spill blood here,” Lae’zel spits. “Remove yourself from my person, and we will find somewhere else to settle this.”

“Fine,” the cleric glares, “Have it your way. You can accept that you’re wrong, or we’ll be rid of you permanently. Either way– I win. ”

Your patience is beyond thin at this point. What with you and Astarion’s brief quarrel earlier, the dark whisper returning to meddle in your psyche, and Karlach’s fiery desperation– 

“This is horse cack –” you thunder, “ No one wins if any of us die . Have you two forgotten that?! ” With a quick whirl of your arms, you summon an inky cloud of darkness around the two quarreling women and yourself. With the sunlight momentarily banished, you focus on the shadow magic twining with your ki– and will yourself to appear just behind the cleric. 

“I’m sorry for this,” you whisper, before cracking her across the temple– stunning her momentarily. You twine your grasp through her armpits and around her chest, then will yourself back to where you once stood– dragging the cleric with you. “Gale,” you holler, “I could use some help restraining these two!”

“Right,” he splutters and dashes from his tent. “Erm– uh– just a moment…” says the wizard, struggling to button his robe together. A flash of his chest and netherese marking draws your eye for the briefest of moments. You avert your gaze, forcing your attention to the gin unfolding in camp.

“Gale!” You and Karlach bellow in unison. You can sense Lae’zel’s ki struggling within the magical darkness you’ve summoned.

“Yes, um, of course,” he says straightening. “But could you– I– I need to be able to see my target,” he hisses, still flustered.

You sigh and release your hold on the shadows. The darkness blinks away to reveal a glowering Lae’zel clambering to her feet. 

Gale traces a set of sigils in the air before him, and a plum-hued set of symbols bound by a square appears in the soil beneath the fighter. The wizard’s hands drop as he finishes the incantation for Hold Person. Lae’zel’s form halts awkwardly, held midway between a crouch and a standing position.

“Now what,” you ask the group. Shadowheart is still dazed in your grasp, but you know she won’t remain that way for long.

“I have an idea,” Astarion grins, producing two sets of manacles from somewhere on his person.

“Where did you– never mind…” you say, brows quirked. “Let’s just get them to opposite sides of the camp, so that we can work this out with some semblance of maturity.”

“Of course, Darling,” the rogue says, dashing forward to clasp a set around the githyanki’s wrists. With a jingle and clank, the irons snap closed on Lae’zels forearms– now twisted gently behind her back.

He then struts your way with a grin, and motions for you to turn Shadowheart around– positioning her forearms within reach. As the metal jingles and clanks for a second time, the rogue bends to whisper something in your ear.

“Impressively handled, my dear. By the way– I– I don’t want our conversation this morning to leave the wrong impression with you. We should speak later.”

Your insides knot – fluttering somewhere between reluctance and hope. A brief flush warms your cheeks. “I think that would be wise,” you whisper back.

“Wyll! Oh , Blade of Frontiers ,” calls Astarion mockingly. With no immediate response, the rogue scoffs and quirks a brow at you. See? Heroes are never helpful when you need one.

You roll your eyes and cast a glance around the perimeter.

“Wyll! Oi!” Karlach bellows, “Where in The Hells are you?” Scratch howls ardently beside her.

A luminous, gauzy mist apparates by the log bridging the stream between camp and the ruined chapel. Wyll’s silhouette warbles as a Dimension Door spits the warlock forward. “By Balduran’s bones,” he exclaims, “what is going on here? I was gone for but a moment!”

“Oh, you know us,” Gale cringes, “never a dull moment in our camp. A hand, if you please?” Gale tilts his head in Lae’zel’s direction as the spell dissolves. Wyll dashes forward, steadying her before she collapses back to her bedroll. 

“Tsk’va, ” she curses. “Unhand me, zoth .” Wyll obliges and the fighter stubbornly stumbles forward to sit on a rock.

Shadowheart stirs in your grasp, and you lower her to a sitting position. “Well, that was bracing,” she scoffs. You step back, still close enough to both of the women should anyone try anything untoward.

“Alright,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “What the fuck, was all of this about, then? Barely a tenday together before we’re already trying to kill one another? I honestly expected better of you,” you say, glancing between them. They scowl at one another, and then at your companions. “Better from both of you,” you add.

“That hshar’lak has something valuable that doesn’t belong to her. A relic of my people’s. Chk, I knew you were hiding something, istik!”

“Shadowheart,” you prompt. The cleric remains tight-lipped, looking for all the world as if she’d rather eat more brain-worms than have this conversation. 

A breath or two pass, and neither of the women offer anything to the conversation. You cock a brow at the willful pair– still nothing. You glance Astarion’s way, he looks tickled pink. Enjoying yourself, are you?

Oh, yes, he chuckles internally. Very much so.

Well, you sigh, you’re no help.

We could always just take the thing from her– suggests the rogue, make the Sharran finally talk to us.

Honestly, if that gets her tongue moving– all the better. Help yourself, you think, glancing meaningfully at her pockets and bound hands.  

Astarion strides forward, a feral grin plastered from ear to ear, and roughly shuffles through the cleric’s pockets.

“ASTARION,” the cleric growls, squirming away from him to no avail. “Get your hands out of my pockets this instant! I’ll Turn Undead – I will! ”

The vampire chuckles and grins, “Oh, I’m positively quaking in my boots, dear Sharran.” Then, having found his quarry, he chucks the object your way. “Here you are, Darling.”

You fumble the catch, and the item careens toward the ground. Shadowheart and Lae’zel both gasp in horror, but moments before colliding with the soil, the artefact veers abruptly back into your grasp. “What in the–” you mutter.

Turning the item in your hands, you finally have a chance to inspect it fully. You remember seeing Shadowheart fidgeting with it in the Grove, and then occasionally after dinner or before bathing- stashing it away abruptly whenever she noticed anyone's attention on it. Polyhedral in shape, and sharp at each corner– the object is covered in what you’ve learned from Lae’zel is called Tir’su script. Each face bears a unique character, and it hums and pulses with warmth in your grasp. 

A single syllable in a familiar tenor brushes at the edge of your mind before vanishing. So quick– you question if you even heard it to begin with.

“Lae’zel, you were right,” you breathe. “This thing is covered in githyanki script– what is it?”

“As I said, it is an heirloom of my people. A relic of great import. My kin were chasing the nautiloid through the Hells– if any of you remember– their goal must have been to recover that,” she says nodding in the direction of your hands. “And to slay the ghaik trespassing through our corner of the Realmspace,” she growls.

“Right,” you say, “though that still doesn’t answer my question exactly. What is it?”

The githyanki pauses, pursing her lips in thought, “To be honest, I am not completely sure. But I know that my people will kill to have it returned. Vlaakith demands it. Vlaakith'ka sivim hrath krash'ht– only in Her will we find light.”

“I told you already,” Shadowheart cuts in, “that thing is the only reason we’ve yet to transform. Something inside of it is protecting us. We cannot go about parading it in front of people– much less hand it over to anyone. Unless you’ve decided you want tentacles and a beak.”

Karlach groans in disgust, “No, thank you. I’d rather not go all ‘squiddy’ just yet– imagine finally being able to touch people- just in time to grow tentacles. N’thanks mate.”

“Shadowheart, are you certain,” presses Wyll. The cleric groans and rolls her eyes. 

“As certain as I can be. All I know is–,” she hesitates, still hiding something.

“What, dear cleric, what do you know?” Astarion exclaims. “Because you seem awfully hypocritical when anyone else deigns to keep their secrets. But when it comes to you and yours– well,” he laughs, “I think I’ve met mutes with better conversational skills .”

Shadowheart glowers at Astarion, a radiant promise of death glimmering behind her eyes.

“Hey,” you say, drawing her ire away from him, “he’s not wrong. I don’t expect you to spill your guts, figuratively– of course– but everyone else has shared their hand.” You take a cautious step her way and drop to a crouch beside her, voice still loud enough for everyone to hear.

“How do you expect us to trust you if you not only go about attacking companions behind our backs but also refuse to open up to us?” Lae’zel curses in gith in the background. You cut a look her way as if to say, not helping.

The cleric stares ahead, expression stony. Silent. You remain at her side, patience thinning, and inspect your nails. Your companions shuffle awkwardly in place– uncertain whether to goad her any further, or remain patient.

Finally, she sighs– a heavy, wearied sound. “I suppose– I suppose it’s time I share,” she turns to face you, hazel eyes sorrowful. “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.”

Any witty response or frustrated quip you’d readied, dissolves on your tongue. 

Another companion with memory loss, perhaps you’re not the only one struggling with more… severe side effects from the tadpole. 

A flicker of hope blooms in your chest. 

“As long as I’ve prayed to Lady Shar, I’ve wished to serve her as a Dark Justiciar. There’s scarcely a greater way to fully dedicate yourself to Lady Shar, save perhaps if you become the head of her church. 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.”

You hazard a glance at Astarion, he raises his brows slightly and averts his gaze. What did I say, he hums your way, a walking dark omen. You stifle a laugh and return your attention to your friend.

“It’s all I ever wanted,” her voice lowers as she glances at the ground below her. “I prayed it was my calling– but ‘Mother’ forbid me from seeking to prove myself worthy of the rank. She said I was ‘not ready’.” 

Shadowheart pauses, and takes a long, steadying breath, “Not my mother -mother, I should add. 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.”

“Do you think she would ever change her mind–” you ask, “would you want her to?” 

“I’m not sure that she would– Shar willing perhaps. That’s where this artefact comes into play. At least where it did before we were all infected. I’m still not exactly sure why– but I was sent with a small group from our enclave to retrieve this artefact,” the cleric pulls a face as if trying to dredge forth more details. 

“I’m the only one who’s managed to make it this far– if becoming infected with our parasites still constitutes as ‘making it’,” she laughs wryly. “The others all died before or during our captivity on the ship.”

“No doubt you’d hoped that both living to tell the tale and returning the item successfully would sway your Superior’s mind,” Gale chimes in.

“Exactly that, Gale,” she nods. “But that was before– before all of this .” She motions loosely with her head around the circle of gathered companions– braid swinging lightly.

Astarion clicks his tongue and adopts a bittersweet tone, “Aww, and now that you’re part of our big happy family, you’re having second thoughts?”

Shadowheart scoffs and glares at the vampire, “Anything but . Grateful as I am to this little menagerie– I still have a mission to complete. It seems we can all benefit in our own ways from this little item,” she nods in the direction of the object now clutched in your hands. “Should we find a cure, the rest of you won’t need it anymore. Then, I can return to Baldur’s Gate, present the artefact–”

“And be rewarded with your Mother Superior’s approval- finally allowed to join the ranks of the Justiciars?” Wyll finishes. 

“Exactly,” nods the cleric. 

“Well,” Lae’zel interjects, “that seems perfectly simple when you say it that way. But the fact remains– that artefact belongs to my people. You stole it from us.”

Any peace in the cleric’s expression evaporates with the gith’s accusation.

“I will have it back,” the fighter continues. 

“Be my guest,” you say, playfully chucking the item Lae’zel’s way. Shadowheart’s hazel eyes widen in disbelief– betrayal tightening her jaw. To everyone’s surprise but your own, the artefact makes it only half the distance before zipping back into your grasp. 

“Except,” you smirk, suddenly gleeful, “it seems this little object has chosen me as its new bearer. I suppose we will all just have to play along nicely for the foreseeable future.” You click your tongue at the group, “What a pity .” 

“Now,” You tilt your head curiously and glance between the two women. Your companions follow your gaze back and forth as they would a birdie in a badminton match. “Do the two of you wish to undo your own shackles, or can we trust you not to try and murder one another again?”

Both women grimace but eventually nod in agreement. Motioning to Wyll to assist Lae’zel, you do the same for Shadowheart.

As your fingers work the locking mechanism, you catch Astarion grinning at you like a fox from the sideline. A glimmer of admiration shines in his ruby irises. You hold his gaze and beam back at him, the small victory sweetening your previously foul mood.  

Well played, darling, he purrs into your mind, well played indeed.

Notes:

The title of this chapter is a play on the phrase 'Kith and Kin'. According to 'phrases.org':

"‘Kin’ is well known to mean family and has been used as such in English since at least the 9th century. ‘Kith’ however is a less familiar word, in fact we don’t really use it anymore except in this phrase. Kith means ‘the things well known’, like one’s surroundings, one’s country. This also is a very old English word and has been used, initially to mean ‘the things one is acquainted with’, since around 900AD. [...] The earliest used of ‘kith and kin’ in print is found in William Langland’s Middle English narrative poem The vision of William concerning Piers Plowman, 1370-90:

'Fer fro kitth and fro kynne yuel yclothed ȝeden.'

[Far from kith and from kin they evil-clothed went.]"

To my surprise and delight- 'gin' as well as rhyming with 'kin'- is a synonym for 'bickering', 'brawl', or 'dispute'. What a happy accident that this phrase was on my mind while trying to scheme up a name for this chapter.

Take care of yourselves, drink some water, and thanks for reading :)

 

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 29: Broken Things

Summary:

"How the Owlbear came to be was a long-running argument among scholars. The most widely held theory was that the first owlbear was the product of a demented mage crossing a bear and a giant owl. The goal was likely to combine the bear's strength, stamina, and claws with the owl's keen senses; but the experiment was likely a failure, given how poorly-tempered and untrainable it would've been.

[...] The oldest Elves recalled that Owlbears had been around for millennia, while few Fey claimed owlbears had always been found in the Feywild. If correct, Owlbears had originated as Feywild predators before migrating onto the Material Plane."

— Jon Winter, ‘The Ecology of the Owlbear’

Notes:

Um, you lovelies are all so kind and thoughtful. I appreciate every one of you readers and the indirect encouragement this gives me to indulge in my creative side.

Being an adult and having a boring-arse 8-6 job can be so draining on the soul and mind. I revisit your little notes here and my favorite comments whenever I need a pick-me-up or encouragement. Anywho, I love you guys, thanks for reading.

Take care of yourselves. Drink some water, take a lap around your living room, stretch, pet an animal/plant, and have you eaten today?

Having narrowly avoided carnage between Lae’zel and Shadowheart, your party ventures from camp to a glade just outside the Druids’ Grove. Further along the dirt path wending its way between the hills, you can see the runic portal from which you rescued Gale. 

Calm. Stabilized.

Understanding now the feral nature of the Netherese blight Gale carries– and a bit more about magic thanks to his incessant trivia– it’s easier to understand why he’d been trapped at all. 

You feel a twinge of guilt for mocking him with Astarion that first day. Only a small one though— he did lie— no— hide the danger within him from you all. 

But we are all ticking time bombs of sorts. Who am I to talk? Eviscerating a bard in camp before dragging her sullied remains to the bushes like a— a disconsolate house cat. 

Wyll pulls a map from his pack and smoothes it onto a rock beside the path. Karlach stretches languidly beside him.

Yes, you continue berating yourself, you’re leagues better than your companions. A pinnacle of honesty and forthright behavior.

“What should our goal be today?” Wyll asks cheerfully. “We could head towards the Goblin Camp now that the Abandoned Village has been handled,” he says, tapping a finger on the roughly drawn ruins to the far west.

“We should head for the Crèche in the mountains,” Lae’zel offers. “We could, I suppose, partake in some reconnaissance along the way in this village here,” she says, pointing at the yet unexplored Waukeen’s Rest. “Perhaps they have more information as to where my kin would be.”

“I can’t help but wonder how Mayrina is faring,” Gale ponders aloud. “Now that Ethel has been… sorted. ”

“Yes,” you say, smiling at the Wizard, “we never did learn what exactly she was doing there with the Hag in the first place. There’s also the matter of those siblings we sent after the owlbear,” you smirk. “It’s of low priority– but I am curious to see if they fulfilled their assignment. Seeing as how they were so bent on impressing us True Souls.”

Shadowheart and Astarion snicker under their breaths.

“I heard a bit of a ruckus in that area when I was cornered by the tollhouse. Ya know, hiding from Zariel’s fuckin’ dogs, ” Karlach says, indicating the cliffs and hillsides between the Tollhouse and Waukeen’s Rest. “Seeing as how there was a whole lotta them gobbos in the abandoned village, there might be some up thataway too. I’m always down for a bit o’ pest control, ” the larger tiefling laughs and cracks her elbows above her head– fingers latticed.

“Oooh, yes. What fun!” Astarion’s eyes light up at the suggestion of more bloodshed. “Settlements also mean plenty of pockets to pick and trinkets to be discovered,” he purrs.

“Shadowheart,” you say, canting your head towards the cleric. “What do you think?”

The cleric sighs and says, “Tie-breaker again, am I? Hells, let’s check in on those sorry cultists you sent after the beast as a warm-up, then make our way towards Waukeen’s Rest. For once,” she pinches the bridge of her nose and scowls— eyes closed. “For once, I think I’m of a mind to agree with Lae’zel.”

You hazard a glance at the gith warrior just in time to see a flicker of surprise flash through her amber eyes. You look away before the woman notices you noticing her.

Shadowheart continues, “We will eventually need to deal with the Goblin Camp,” she says, nodding at Wyll, “and I’m sure we’ll have time to check in on Mayrina too– but information comes first.”

“After a bit of sordid recreation, you mean?” You say teasingly to the cleric. She smirks wickedly back.

 

---

 

Searching along the rocky roadside where Edowin and his siblings had been mere days ago, it doesn’t take long before you all pick up a trail. Edowin’s corpse is nowhere to be found. The only sign he’d ever lain dying on the path a bit of rust colored soil and disturbed vegetation.

You do notice the haft of a spear cast off into the bushes– it’s not elegant by any means– but there is some gilding and embossing along where you’d guess the head should connect. A closer inspection reveals the markings to be runes.

If nothing else, you consider the haft— twirling it around your hand once- it would function just fine as a quarterstaff.

Astarion’s voice winds into your awareness, The siblings or someone must’ve come back to retrieve the body. Quite a bit of effort for one dead dwarf.

At the notion of a corpse, you feel the shadow within your mind stir and stretch. Peckish. A quiet bloodthirst begins to bloom within you. A waste of a delicacy… laments the muse.

“Which way do we think the den is,” The question slips out as you work to soothe the whisper within back to sleep.

“Gale, what do you know about owlbears?” Shadowheart asks. “Or Wyll, any of your ‘monster hunting’ experiences to share?”

“Technically speaking,” the wizard croons, “Owlbears aren’t monsters— well. Not exclusively. Some schools of thought see them as magickal beasts— descendants of long-ago arcane hybridization experiments in the Fey realm. Others might still call them monstrosities— but as a colloquial term rather than a credible categorization of their ecology.”

You find yourself nodding along– genuinely impressed with the knowledge. “Wyll,” you say, turning to face the horned, former noble.

“They usually select for dense woodland as hunting grounds and surface-level caves as dens. Given the surroundings–” he casts a wary eye around the clearing, “we’re in as prime a spot as any. Check for scratches in trees or rocks– mated pairs or mothers will mark up the edges of their territory.”

The group begins searching the stone cliffs and towering pines for said markings. “Oh,” Wyll adds, “Astarion– if you happen to catch a whiff of strong musk and a hint of– old pillows– you’re probably smelling the beast.”

“...pillows?” The rogue mutters, pulling a face. 

You sidle up beside him and knock your shoulder into his. “Probably the best way he could think to describe the smell of feathers.”

“And another sign we’re travelling with a son of nobility,” he sneers. You arch a brow and roll your eyes before moving along to continue searching.

 

---

 

“I think I found it,” Karlach hisses from a handful of paces away. You stand from your current inspection of a rock scarred by very large talons to see the woman pointing at a break in the stone wall. Obscured by hanging vines and broken tree branches stands a large, yawning darkness.

Astarion comes to join you and wrinkles his nose as you catch a hint of soured ammonia and– truly– what could only be described as old, warmed pillows. “I’ll be damned,” the rogue hisses, “the boy was right. I do smell pillows– if they’d first been cast into a damp alley and pissed on by every passing tenant of the flophouse.”

You snort and then stifle a retch as you inhale more than you’d have wished.

An aching pop of joints sounds behind you as Gale comes to stand on your other side. “Ah yes, see– old growth forest, scarred substratum, and a heavy helping of unpalatable aromas. Karlach, I do believe you’ve found it. Good work.”

The barbarian grins– all pointed teeth and crinkled eyes. “Thanks, magic man.”

“Time to see what’s left of those siblings.” Shadowheart winks as she passes by. “Shall we?”

“After you,” you return the wink, then pluck lightly at the shadow magic in your soul. A warm sensation floods your ki as you tug a finely woven cloak of shadow over yourself and your companions. “Stay close,” you whisper, “Pass without Trace is up.”

 

---

 

Within the den, the musk is even stronger– though a bit stale. You notice a few goblin corpses– what’s left of them anyhow– flung here and there around the chamber. Viscera and entrails dried and clinging to stone.

Your stomach growls. No, you tell that damned muse within your mind.

Ahead and to the left, there’s a drop in elevation. You can see the upper half of what appears to be a statue, though you can’t tell who of. To the right, a path slopes down gently. Well-worn by the pads and talons of giant, feathered feet. Ahead, a precarious set of handholds jut from a sandstone pillar.

“Should we send a scout ahead,” you ask the group with a whisper. 

“Seems a prudent choice,” Gale smiles beside you. 

Since breaking your fall yesterday, you’ve noticed the wizard hovering nearer than days past. Beside you during group deliberations, bumping into you along the path as your party travelled back from the Grove after dealing with Khaga. Seeking you out last night by the river. Grinning and waving from his tent hours later as you went to ‘rest’ in your own– passing the time before meeting Astarion in the woods.

You don’t mind the attention, Gale is pleasant company more often than not. And he is much more handsome than you’d noted initially. Usually smelling of ozone, incense, and soap—  he takes care of himself. Not to mention, if he didn’t volunteer to cook most nights, you’dve broken a tooth on long-stale bread days ago.

Thinking about the wizard, are we, darling? Astarion’s voice cuts into your wandering thoughts.

Shit– I need to get a better hold on this telepathy thing. You respond, embarrassed. 

Kalliope, little treat, you’re free to think of whoever you wish to think about. I’m not a jealous lover, he croons in return. 

His tone is smooth and sweet enough, but you swear you see a grimace grace his features briefly. You decide that this particular topic is best saved for a later time– when you’re not about to explore the cave of a massive, carnivorous beast.

“Any volunteers?” you ask the group. Lae’zel, always the soldier, nods and slinks ahead to scale the column. The rest of the group waits patiently for her return, adjusting armor and readying weapons to keep hands busy. 

Maybe it’s the whisper’s impatience egging you on, or maybe you’re just enjoying the warring attentions of Gale and Astarion– either way, you decide to push the envelope.

“Gale,” you whisper, producing the scavenged haft from outside, “Can you read these runes?”

“I’d be happy to,” he whispers eagerly. “Where did you find this?” You can practically feel Astarion rolling his eyes beside you.

“Just outside,” you reply, ignoring the rogue’s bristly attitude.

Gale whispers a phrase and passes a hand gracefully over the script. His eyes flare a faint indigo, and his features fall slack momentarily. “It seems it’s missing its head. The runes speak of ‘blinding those who see, but do not observe’. Likely, finding the rest of the weapon would re-energize the enchantment. For now, it’s just a pretty piece of wood.”

You nod, considering the information, and take the proferred item back from the mage. “Thank you, Gale,” you say, patting his shoulder lightly. At the touch, the wizard’s cheeks flush slightly, and he smiles in answer. 

It’s at this moment that Lae’zel hops down from the base of the column and crouch-walks back to your party. “Ahead to the left is a shrine to some giant ‘Fey Run’ woman. To the right, I could make out the edge of a nest and a large sleeping creature. Probably your Owl-Beast,” she nods to Wyll.

“Great, thank you, Lae’zel.” You dip your head at the Gith.

After a quick, hushed discussion, your party heads swiftly down the slope to the right. Just past the sandstone column Lae’zel had climbed, propped in an awkward angle against another boulder is the corpse of the woman– the sister. Angry, red tears in her torso leak a congealed mixture of blood and pus. A hand– now the color of old bruises and bloated with decay is pressed against the worst of them. 

A failed attempt at staunching the wound.

Ahead to the right, another goblin corpse lays crumpled at the base of a cavern wall. Appearing to have been flung into the stone and breaking against it before sliding to the floor in a heap.

You and the others continue forward, passing another group of broken bodies, before rounding the final bend and seeing what Lae’zel called the ‘sleeping Owl Beast’. The creature is massive. At least four ells long and two tall. Large enough to eat a horse the same way a hawk would a rat. Behind her, a nest with a single bone-white egg lays abandoned. 

Beneath one of her forelegs, a decapitated man– the brother– leaks crimson into the sandy floor. No breath stirs the beast, as she too has succumbed to her wounds. A broken spearhead pierces her flank, and arrows pepper her shoulders and back. The murder weapon, however, a now-ruined greatsword, protrudes at a ghastly angle from her throat. The brother’s last successful attack ending her as she ended him. 

“Poor creature,” you whisper, “she deserved better than to die fighting these– these fleas. ”

“She put up a fight, at least. A brave effort,” Gale sympathizes with the defeated creature.

The whisper within curls in anger— recognition of another predator— and their too-soon death. Your nails dig into your palms. 

“Indeed,” Wyll says, walking an appraising circle around the scene. “She was old, many battle scars healed over along her sides and other limbs. Feathers frayed at the edges but well established. Must’ve been one hell of a mother,” he whistles.

“She died protecting her nest– an honorable way to go,” Lae’zel says, taking a knee and bowing her head in reverence before the fallen Owlbear.

“Well,” Astarion hums, “seems the siblings fared even less successfully than their ‘True Soul’ brother. Two fewer idiots to fight in this church of the ‘Absolute’”.

“Should we take the egg?” you ask, pity twisting your insides. “I doubt it’ll hatch…but—”

“You want to hatch a beast? At camp? Darling, I don’t think traveling through the wilds is the best time or place to try and incubate an egg. And I really don’t want to clean up after whatever mess one of those —” he waves a hand at the Owlbear, “makes. What would you even feed it?” He asks, face pinched in annoyance. 

“Don’t we make plenty of corpses in our wake,” you reply, brow raised. 

“Sounds to me as if Astarion just doesn’t want to share– food or attention,” Shadowheart smirks as she runs a hand gently over the eggshell. “Maybe I can get it to hatch eventually,” she hums. “Imagine its size and personality,” says the cleric with a grin. “I always did admire the beasts.”

Astarion sighs dramatically, “Fine. If you all want to try domesticating a monster— be my guest.”

“We keep you around, don’t we fangs?” Karlach chuckles loudly and slaps a hand on the vampire’s shoulder pauldron. He scoffs and crosses his arms in a huff. 

“I’m sure we can figure something out. If it goes poorly— it might make one hell of an omelet,” Wyll says placativly. 

“We’re not going to eat it,” you and Shadowheart guffaw in tandem. 

“What? Protein is protein,” shrugs the warlock.

“Chk. While you all argue over the fate of its progeny, I’m going to put her to rest honorably.” Lae’zel stands to dust off her knees before leaping onto the creature's back. She begins pulling arrows from the Owlbear’s hide one by one. 

You nod to Shadowheart as she slips the egg gingerly into the party’s enchanted knapsack— a highly coveted Bag of Holding. You all traded Aaron a set of enchanted armor for it. With some work on Gale’s part, the bag now has a link directly to your camp chest. 

It’s incredibly useful.

Karlach has joined Lae’zel in removing weapons from the mother Owlbear. Discarding them in a haphazard heap below. Gale carefully collects any feathers shed alongside them, packing them between handkerchiefs for later use. 

Do you think it’d be disrespectful to collect a talon or two? You let the thoughts float toward Astarion. As a reminder?

Feeling sentimental, are we? He purrs into your mind. 

I have a soft spot for predators, you quip back. Is that such a bad thing?

Astarion hums aloud, I’d say it’s good luck on my part, wouldn’t you agree?

You’re impossible, you groan internally.

Flattery aside, dear, he continues, I think it would be alright. She’s unfortunately just going to rot down here. Plenty of elven cultures make use of every part of fallen beasts— giving them a second life or further purpose is seen as a final honor to the animal. He pauses, pulling a speck of dirt from his armor and shrugs, If you subscribe to that sort of thinking.

Now, who’s getting sentimental? You raise a brow at the elf before moving toward the fallen creature’s front feet. 

Reverently, you cut the ligament between her talon and knuckle bone— then do it a second time. Each one of them spans the width of your palm— longer even. A part of you wonders what it would be like to have such deadly instruments on each of your digits. 

Flesh would peel so delightfully with weapons like these. The whisper chitters at you excitedly as you watch the light play along the curves of the talons. Rip-Rending, True-Tearing— PIERCINGSLICINGMAIMING. Ohhh, how lovely it would be. 

You tuck your mementos away for now— promising to find a use for them later— and hush the whisper. Shoving it back into that shadowy corner of your mind. 

As a last sign of respect, you take her giant, feathered foot into your hands and then bend– pressing your forehead to it. Thanking her silently— wishing her peace in her journey ahead. You remain there— reverent— for a breath or two. Then, think to apologize for sending the siblings in here after her. 

Something echoes back into your spirit— if it hadn’t been this lot, then another would’ve befallen us.

The question of fate is never an if – but a when or a how . You sigh and step back from the beast; sooner or later, we all meet our ends.  

The thought is solemn but true.

Wiping the loamy soil from your palms, you turn to see Gale approaching you— beaming. 

“Look at this,” he says and presents you with a spearhead. “It’s the other half of that weapon you had me examine earlier.”

“What a lucky find,” you say, pulling the haft from your back. “Do they really match?”

You extend the filigreed end of the haft towards Gale as he rotates the bladed head to fit. A gentle pulling sensation crawls up your arms as the pieces draw together. In a moment, there’s a satisfying clink as the metal fitting of the weapon’s tip settles into place around the haft. 

“Would you look at that,” the Wizard exclaims, still beaming, “we fixed it! My goodness, take a look at that fearsome edge there. Oh— and the runes are glowing now— the enchantment must once again be whole!”

His enthusiasm is infectious, and soon you’re smiling too. You catch his gaze, and something like innocent awe twinkles there. A moment passes, and when he doesn’t break eye contact, you turn to the group and present your success. Needing something else to focus on. 

Astarion snorts in amusement behind you. Anymore pining, and Gale is going to start leaking turpentine.

You suppress a laugh. 

“Looks like something you could use, Lae’zel, or maybe you, Wyll. Anyone want it?”

“What is it?” Wyll asks, coming closer to inspect. 

“I believe— if I translated correctly— that it blinds your enemies. The more eyes, the better. Beholders and Spiders, beware,” Gale says, arching a hand through the air for dramatic flair. 

“I think I’ll hang on to it for now,” says Wyll. “Thanks, Gale— Kalliope.” You nod and watch as the warlock twirls the partisan once, twice, and then clips it to his back.

“Gale,” you whisper, turning back to the wizard, “did you ever get the magickal item you needed to uh— absorb?”

The wizard blushes and rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t yet, no. Kind of you to ask.”

“Maybe we’ll find something in here,” you wink and turn to explore the rest of the Owlbear’s den only to find that the other members of your party have already moved on.

You jog to catch up, clamber past a wall of rocks, and then shimmy down a thick root towards whatever statue you’d seen earlier. 

“Hey, Lae’zel, it's your ‘Fey Run’ woman,” Karlach chuckles, exaggerating the mispronunciation. Lae’zel rolls her eyes and scoffs. “What’s she doing hiding away in a cave, though?” 

“That’s no woman,” Shadowheart hisses, “That’s the Goddess– or rather moon-witch Selûne. Shar’s eternal enemy.”

“...and sister,” Gale supplies from behind you. He hits the ground with a heavy ooft, clumsily hopping from the root you’ve just slid down.

“More of an unfortunate circumstance of fate than anything, really,” Shadowheart scowls, crossing her arms. You watch the exchange, curious but unmoved. The conversation tickles something at the back of your mind– a memory perhaps? Yet nothing of note swims to the surface of your awareness. 

Had you ever really known about the Gods? Any of them? Were you a devotee, a follower? 

Your broken mind can’t recall. 

“We should leave it– or even destroy it, if possible,” the Sharran says spitefully.

“And add the wrath of a Goddess to our already-brimming list of problems?” Astarion winces. “ No, thank you. The Gods and I have had a blissfully neutral opinion of one another in my two centuries of existence. I’m not about to tarnish that history for one petty act of obeisance.”

“I’m surprised, Astarion,” Lae’zel says. “I believed pettiness to be one of life’s great joys in your opinion.”

“Oh,” the vampire cocks a brow, lowering his voice, “it is. But only when I come out on top. As much as I enjoy a good lark now and again– I’m not stupid.”

As the rogue banters with Shadowheart and Lae’zel, you notice Gale inspecting the statue closely. His eyes flash indigo again as he glances at the gilded chest lain at the foot of the shrine, then cocks his head in interest.

“What is it,” you ask, coming to stand beside him.

“A wizard sealed this chest– and no amateur, either. There’s mighty strong protective magic there,” he murmurs, impressed. “Whatever could require such a measure?"

“Probably something magickal, ” you tap your chin– a playful smirk on your lips. “Maybe worth consuming, even?”

“I like the way you think, Kalliope. Just a moment, let me try something.” He gestures for you to stand back and then draws a sigil loosely resembling a lock in the air. The chest flashes– a near-blinding light enveloping you both. When the stars fade from behind your eyes, you watch as it creaks open, revealing a folded page of parchment and a handful of trinkets. 

You crouch to rifle through the items when Shadowheart clears her throat loudly behind you. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” She asks, disappointment lacing her tone.

“Finding treasure,” you quip back.

“You really should let it lie– you’re liable to end up cursing yourself with this rubbish.” Disregarding the cleric, you hazard a reach within the chest.

Under the parchment, you see a statuette of Selûne, a moonstone, some coin, and an amulet that feels warm to the touch. You pluck the jewelry with one hand and pass it to Gale over your shoulder, unfolding the parchment with the other. 

Scrawled in faded ink, you read of an ancient initiation rite observed by followers of the moon goddess, Selûne: 

‘When a Selûnite child came of age, they would be left to fend for themselves, deep in the wilds. There, they would show their skills of navigation and self-reliance, as well as their determination to return to the Moonmaiden's silvery glow. Once they found their way to their people, their faith and standing as a follower of Selûne would be beyond any doubt.’

Seems a little intense, you think absently. 

What ‘seems a little intense’? Astarion replies mentally, catching you off guard. 

O-oh. This note describes some fanatical coming-of-age-ritual for Selûnite children.

Are you truly surprised, Darling, he purrs, those amongst the godly are typically…a bit over the top. I think the three devotees amongst us are proof enough of that.

He clearly means Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and Gale. 

You tuck the note and other trinkets away. Imagine Shadowheart’s reaction if we snuck these things into her pack, you snigger inwardly toward Astarion.

A bit of reverse-pickpocketing could be easily arranged, he chuckles. For a price.

How about I make you dinner again tonight? 

Oh darling, how could I say no to that? His thoughts caress your own. Warmth crawls up your neck, into your cheeks.

I bet you two gold she has mouse-traps set around her tent at night– probably with you in mind.  

“Oh, this will do nicely, ” Gale says as he finishes inspecting the amulet. The quip pulls you from your internal scheming with Astarion. “That is– if you don’t mind, Shadowheart.”

“I hope that was sarcasm, Gale. Dispose of it however you’d like, I won’t mourn its loss.”

“Any objections?” he asks the group. 

When no one responds, he sighs with relief, wraps the amulet in his hands, and presses them to his chest. Another flash of indigo light– a whoosh of mysterious wind– and any hint of exhaustion is wiped from Gale’s person. His brown eyes glimmer with a lightness you’ve not seen in days, and the bruise-like-markings left by the netherese magic have faded a bit. 

Even his hair looks smoother. “Oh, that hit the spot,” he groans. At the noise, some of your hairs stand on end, and your throat warms.

What in the hells? If Astarion heard the thought or noticed your reaction, he makes no comment. 

“Well then, shall we get a move on?” Karlach asks. 

“Yes, let’s,” Lae’zel says, eager to get on the road. Your companions gather themselves for the next leg of the journey. “The sooner we reach the crèche, the better.”

You and Astarion share a wary look that says, ‘That’s not exactly our destination.’ 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 30: Waukeen's Rest

Summary:

Stolen Property - Reward Offered!

"In an act of craven vandalism that has not been diminished by the intervening years, the statue of the Beloved Ranger was callously torn from the central marketplace in Baldur's Gate - and is still yet to be found.

Though it has been some time since a replica was erected in its place, the Collective of Concerned Citizens of the Wide remains convinced that the original statue is still out there somewhere, and is willing to bestow a hefty sum upon whomever might assist with its retrieval, no questions asked.

We urge the thieves in question to consider: this art piece was commissioned not to offend, but to inspire. Indeed, the bold adventurer depicted is no real person living or dead, but a metaphor for the city itself; standing solid and stern upon his foundations, gazing outward but still clutching tight to his heart the warmth of hope: represented here as a small and furry hamster.

Please: find the hope in your own heart, and return to a blighted city its Beloved Ranger. Raise a hand in help, and we shall fill it with gold."

-A poster found in Waukeen's Rest; printed on fine paper, clearly produced by a publisher of some means

Notes:

Thank you to LulaMillay and TopoftheLighthouse for your suggestions and help brainstorming the end puns. As Lia would say, my terrible-pile-of-electric-jelly (aka brain) just didn't want to brain in the moment.

The mingling scents of melting hair, burned flesh, and charred oak beams assault your nose. That whisper within you growls— pleasure blooming amidst the perfume of death and destruction. 

The wooden double-gate of the village hangs haphazardly— one half already fallen— while the other precariously swings from its last, intact hinge. Shingles clatter to the ground from the burned husk of an inn. Sharp and hateful against the blood-stained, cobblestone plaza. 

Drow and goblin corpses litter the edges of the courtyard. All bearing armor decorated with the symbol you’ve learned belongs to “The Absolute.” 

Strange, you think, drow aren’t usually spotted outside of the Underdark in such large numbers, are they? Or am I misremembering?

No, Astarion replies, you’re not incorrect. It is a bit unusual, but not unheard of, to see Drow on the surface. Of course, they’d join some sort of cult– they’re quite zealous as a people.  

Making broad accusations, darling– next you’re going to assume I have devil-magic in my blood, you quip back internally. 

Well, he laughs into your mind, don’t you? You’re far from the only tiefling I’ve…known. The others could simply glare at an enemy who’d injured them and set them aflame.

Passing by one such corpse, you admire the delicate construction of their armor. Wide, smooth strips of leather, overlaid upon one another, form a soft, lightweight webbed layer of protection. Astarion clicks his tongue, “Ugh, I should’ve been a drow…they have such stylish armor.”

A young Flaming Fist prays urgently over the body of another soldier, voice breaking with grief. Her too-still comrade no longer exists on this plane. 

“What in the Hells happened here?” you mutter— mostly to yourself. 

“Seems the village was raided,” Wyll says, toeing the limp frame of another corpse. “More of those damnable goblins and drow. We’ve got to see to that horde as soon as possible.”

“Just our luck to finally come across an inn, only as it’s burning to the ground,” Shadowheart laments. 

Frenzied voices echo from the far end of the courtyard. More armored soldiers— “Look. More Fists,” Shadowheart observes. “Someone must be trapped in there.”

“There’s another above in that one, too,” Astarion says, gesturing to a separate building belching smoke.

“How did you—,” Karlach starts, “Oh. Right. Vampire senses.” Astarion merely nods. 

The smouldering frame of the inn groans and shifts, eliciting more screams within and without the structure. You watch as the collection of Fists outside of the larger structure scrabble to break down the door. “Harder, soldiers,” one bellows, above the groaning of the others.

Crack. A plank of the door comes loose, as another breaks in half, but the way remains blocked. “Oi, Kalli,” Karlach hollers, “with me, right?” 

The larger woman slams her fists together and roars, flames in her chest brightening and intensifying as she enters a rage. You yank on the leash tethering that dark whisper— demanding its presence, NOW. Your tail whips, and a maliciously saccharine smile settles over your lips.

Finally, the muse purrs before filling you with that killing calm. A different sort of rage from the unhinged fury Karlach commands. 

The two of you bound over to the crowd, nod to one another, and join the heaving soldiers in their task. Karlach shoulders her heft against the door— straining against the steel latch bar. The whining of metal bending past its limits joins the steady pop, pop, pop of more wood cracking. 

You take a deep breath, focusing yourself— then hone in on the weak points where nails strain and fissures grow. One after the other, a flurry of precise, crippling blows. 

Karlach and the team of Flaming Fists push once more, and the door crashes to the ashen floor within. Finally open, revealing the smoke-filled interior. 

“Find the Councillor!” One wearing the symbol of an officer howls above the blaze. 

“The Councillor?” Wyll questions from behind. They couldn’t mean—” he surveys the regiment around him once more, and the horror of recognition flashes across his face. “Oh, Oh no! Karlach, Gale— with me, quickly! Kalliope, gather the others and see if you can find the trapped soul Astarion heard before.”

Your hackles raise a bit at being ordered about, but you shiver with pleasure at the fraught necessity of the situation. Nodding instead. 

You spin on your heels and dash back outside to the courtyard. “Well, then,” you say, “you heard the hero. Let’s see who else is trapped.”

Shadowheart and Lae’zel nod. Astarion rolls his eyes but joins without much fuss.

“You know, normally I’d balk at the idea of saving someone unbidden,” the rogue quips. “But I don’t fancy the idea of perishing in the sun— I suppose burning alive in a building can’t be any better.”

“Surely it’d befit you-know-who?” You smirk knowingly as you jog up the steps of the other smouldering structure.

“Honestly, that kind of death would be too clean for him. No, he deserves something much more agonizing and bloodied.”

“I can hardly wait to assist you in that,” you wink. “I wonder how many of the old bastard’s joints I could separate without breaking skin?” You shiver with a pleasure that’s not quite yours. 

“Darling, I’d relish in watching that,” Astarion purrs. 

Your group easily clears the first floor, liberating some more bar soap and a few towels from their incendiary doom along the way. 

On the second floor, you skirt by the fallen form of a woman. Too young and too blistered— sprawled unmoving between hostel-style beds. 

Shadowheart drops beside the woman and begins inspecting. “Go on ahead,” the cleric waves you along, “I’ll catch up.”

Astarion and Lae’zel charge ahead, hot on your heels. The three of you skid to an abrupt halt just before another charred door. Between the cracks in the frame, you can see a form trapped under a heavy beam. 

“He- help!” A masculine voice cracks and coughs around his pleas. “Anybody, I beg you!”

“Stand back, istik — I’ll handle the door.” Lae’zel raises her greatsword high above her head, howls, then brings it crashing down on the weakened hinges. 

With a sharp clang and a reluctant groan of metal, the door tumbles inward. Your breath catches in your throat, and tears sting your eyes when impossibly thick smoke rushes towards you. Now, you can more clearly see the man trapped under the beam. 

“Chk, ” Lae’zel curses, “which one of you desires to lift alongside me?” 

Astarion raises a silver brow, “Don’t look at me, darling gith, I’d just get in the way.”

“Fine, Kalliope. Assist me. Astarion— make yourself useful some other way.” 

“Easy,” he purrs and begins rummaging through his pack. 

Lae’zel moves first, stepping cautiously around and over glowing, burning beams. You follow suit— skipping and hopping from safe spot to safe spot.

“Hurry, please,” the trapped man wails. 

Lae’zel positions herself on one side of the beam and motions for you to take the other. You crouch, then slide your hands underneath, careful to avoid splinters or smouldering sections. Lae’zel moves to do the same. 

“On the count of three,” you say, nodding to the gith. She purses her lips and dips her chin in agreement. 

“One, two—,” 

Crash. 

A bottle shatters just behind you, steam hissing angrily. As you whip your head to inspect what’s happening, another explodes beside Lae’zel. 

She curses and spits loudly, whirling around at the affront— a house cat soaked with water. It dawns on you what’s happening. Behind the cloud of steam rising beside her, you can see Astarion grinning like a fiend.

“Astarion,” the gith growls, “do that again and you’ll not make it back to camp with both arms.”

“Darling ,” he croons, “you said to make myself useful . Those flames were licking dangerously close to the two of you— I’m just doing what I can to make your job less perilous.”

Lae’zel merely growls and returns to the task at hand, “Let’s try that again.”

Straining, you put your all into hauling the beam off of the choking, coughing man. The moment the weight is lifted from his sternum, he wriggles fiercely away from the death trap. Finally free, he scrambles out of the room. Just in time to avoid another flaming piece of lumber as it falls from the ceiling. 

Right between you and Lae’zel. The wood pops and hisses, as sap within catches and explodes. 

“Kalliope!” The gith bellows, “Are you injured?” 

“N—no,” you choke out, suddenly engulfed in acrid, belching smoke. “I’m alright.”

“Can you find your way through somehow?” She shouts over the inferno. 

“I-I don’t know. I don’t think I can make it past that newest beam,” you whirl on your heels, shielding your face with one hand as you peer through the flickering flames consuming the room around you. The other side of the room is blocked by another burning door. 

Neither option looks ideal. And it’s far too bright to wrap yourself in the shadows necessary to shunt yourself out of here.

Fuck. 

Your brain whirs chaotically, calculating and considering the options available. Another groan sounds from above, as a third beam threatens to fall on top of the first two.

Darling, get out of there! Astarion screams into your mind. 

I know, I know I’m trying. Do you have any more of that water? Sparks burst into your face, and you duck just in time to avoid a small explosion as more resin and pith combust.

A pause— no response. You dart backwards when the third beam creaks and lowers a measure, barely held aloft. 

Shit, shit, shit. Astarion?

I’m out. There aren’t any more. He responds, panic lacing his tone. 

Fuck. I’m going to have to go around. Take Lae’zel— get back to Shadowheart and wait for me— I’ll be fine. 

Kalliope— 

Go. Don’t get yourself killed. I’m resistant to fire, remember?

“Istik! Can you hear me?” Lae’zel bellows, unaware of the conversation you and the rogue just shared.

“Yes,” you respond, throat burning as the smoke thickens. You choke— and nearly retch with the force of it. You’ve got to get moving. Now. “I-I’ll have to go— around. Get-get out of here.”

Your eyes blur with the tears they produce en masse, and a coughing fit wracks your frame. You stumble forward in the direction you think leads to the other side of this burning chamber.

What seems like an eternity later, your palms make contact with something firm and too-hot. 

A door. 

You grit your teeth against the anticipation of burning flesh and lean into it. Pushing with what little strength your body can summon as you drown in flames and smoke. 

What I wouldn’t do for some magic right now— 

Astarion’s earlier quips float back to you. Wait— I do have some magic— 

You delve into yourself, searching, scrabbling for that kernel of Infernal Weave in your blood. Weakly, faintly — you can feel it thrumming along with your pulse. 

If I could just— shove the door—  

You will the door to move. To open. To shift at all. 

It rattles on its hinges. 

You try again, pushing at the burning planks with your physical and mental strength. 

It merely rattles again. 

Fuck!

The fear and anger in your gut swell as drawing breath becomes more and more difficult. The dark, seductive whisper in your mind begins railing. It’s furious. 

Fight, child. We were made for pain— MADE FOR IT. We WILL live. 

The world teeters a bit as the lack of oxygen begins to intensify. You pound on the door and summon that kernel of power again. This time, focusing on getting anyone to hear you. 

“He— help!” You wheeze out. You try again, inhaling an acrid breath. “ Help!” 

Your voice comes out louder, but not by much. The furious, murderous muse in your mind shrieks in frustration. 

LIVE! FIGHT!

You inhale one more fiery gulp of air, shove with all your might against the door, and hold on tight to that kernel of infernal power. “OPEN THE DOOR— PLEASE!”  

Your voice booms, catching you off guard, and the door shudders. But it still doesn’t open.

This is it, you think, a mindflayer parasite tunneling through my mind, but I’m going to die in a burning building instead. 

A bitter laugh escapes as a cough, and you slump to your knees, your body losing strength. 

As darkness swallows the edges of your vision, the door rocks on its hinges, then falls from the frame. You tumble forward, shrieking as you catch yourself, palms first, on its red-orange surface. 

Skin sizzles and flesh bubbles. Blisters bloom along the inside surface of your hands. You blink upward, to see kind, brown eyes widened in horror. 

Gale? The wizard peers down at you, mouth moving incoherently, gaze full of concern. Then he’s reaching down for you, pulling your wrists upward. You try to stand with his help, but your knees buckle. 

His mouth moves again, still incoherent. 

Your vision narrows further, then your eyelids flutter closed as your body begins to shut down. What little strength remains in your system is sent elsewhere. 

The last thing you see is Gale bending over you, straining to scoop you from the kneeling position he pulled you into previously. 

 

---

 

Your feet fly down the stairs, yanking Shadowheart behind you, cursing that useless human lout of a man who dared to find himself trapped under that stupid beam in the first place. 

She should have let him die. 

But no, your Kalliope just must insist on playing the hero at every turn. 

So she killed a bard in cold blood, to the amusement of her— whatever lives in that dark mind of hers. Doesn’t mean she needs to go about saving every pathetic worm we cross paths with. 

You shake your head, frustrated—furious at your uselessness. 

What good is it to secure an ally if I can’t protect them when it matters most? Why would she hold up her end of the bargain? Gods damn it all—

You leap and clear the last few stairs, then swing around the banister towards the door to the courtyard. 

“Slow down, Astarion!” Shadowheart and her armor sound behind you. 

You dash again, feet flying over hardwood, leap, and skid to a halt in front of the larger building where Wyll, Karlach, and Gale had headed mere minutes ago.

Pairs of Flaming Fists exit the building, supporting comrades who’d become trapped in the inferno. Karlach exits after a bit, carrying a soldier wrapped in a rug. 

Woman can’t touch anyone without burning them, but still insists on carrying victims out of a burning building. You scoff, asinine heroes.

More Fists filter out, followed by Wyll supporting a well-dressed, elven woman as she finds her footing. 

So, Wyll was able to rescue his dear councillor.  

The thought amuses you, but you’ve yet to glimpse who you’re so desperately dissecting the crowd to see. 

There. You catch sight of her berry-pink skin, sunlight glinting off the gold grafting in her tiny horns. 

But she’s not walking. 

No. 

She’s not even awake. 

She’s curled in the insufferable Wizard’s arms. Pressed to his chest as he limps from the burning inn out into the sunlight. 

A pang that isn’t hunger flares in your gut. 

You scan her face for any hint of life. Her eyes are closed, face slack, one arm slung around Gale’s shoulder. No doubt to assist him with the feat of strength. 

You’ve had the pleasure of feeling her entire weight atop you, and you know firsthand that all those tightly coiled muscles are far from light.  

You wipe the involuntary sneer from your face and replace it with a pleasantly neutral mask. The one that’s become a second skin in your decades under Cazador. 

You can smell her blood from here. Burned. Flesh too. 

Damn it all. Why do these fools insist on being heroic to their detriment?

But more importantly, why do you care? Revolting, dangerous things these feelings.

Foolish boy, sneers the imaginary bastard in your mind. 

Gale limps down the stairs and beckons Shadowheart over. It takes every ounce of self-control not to dash over there before the cleric. You walk as smoothly and as nonchalantly as possible behind Shadowheart. Thankfully, when she registers the state of your companion, she begins to jog. 

You follow suit. 

“What happened in there?” The cleric gasps. Kalliope’s skin is blistered all over. Ears burned at the tips, hair curled unnaturally and singed in places. 

Her robes are riddled with holes where stray cinders must’ve landed and burned through the material. The exposed skin is puckered and red. Angry. 

As Shadowheart helps Gale ease her unconscious form to the ground, you crouch beside them, resisting the urge to inspect her yourself.

No, let the healer do her work. Don’t play your hand so easily.

Shadowheart begins a thorough inspection of Kalliope’s burns and wounds, starting with the confirmation of a pulse. The woman catalogues each injury in her mind, muttering under her breath all the while. 

You examine alongside her. Guessing which ones might scar as opposed to the ones that shouldn’t. You, after all, have plenty of experience with scarring and all that it entails.

You can see the wheels turning in Shadowheart's head; what spell should she use? How powerful should it be? Should she worry about cleansing everything before healing them completely? Which burns are the worst?

“Lae’zel, Astarion, you still haven’t answered me. What. Happened,” the cleric repeats herself, flustered. 

You clear your throat and begin to explain. “She and Lae’zel rescued that man— then as soon as he was free, another set of flaming beams fell between them,” you offer. “She said—“ you catch yourself before revealing your shared mental connection with Kalliope. “I overheard her tell the gith that she’d go around. Find another way out. Claiming something about being fire resistant.”

Lae’zel casts a curious look your way, and too late, you realize that Kalliope hadn’t said the last bit aloud. 

Shit.

Shadowheart scoffs and frowns, “Fire resistance granted from infernal blood doesn’t mean she’s immune to it, dammit.” A blue glow spreads from the cleric's fingers as she gently sees to the worst of the burned flesh.  

You’re preaching to the choir, Sharran. 

“I think she was trying to thaumaturge the door open,” Gale adds. “Unfortunately, smaller magicks like that don’t quite work when the way is barred. However, fortunately for her, our group happened to run by that very door with Florrick. I sensed weak arcana and opened the door from my side.”

“That’s when you found her, then?” Shadowheart responds without breaking concentration. 

Gale nods. “I tried to ask her how badly she was injured, but I don’t think she understood anything I was saying.” He worries the hem of his robe, recounting the state in which he found the monk. 

You can hear her heartbeat. Slow—weak. But still thrumming along. 

At least you’re still with us, darling. You shuffle forward a bit on the cobbles and inspect her unconscious form, frustrated with the plodding pace of Shadowheart’s magic. 

Frustrated with your lack of healing magic. 

You bite back yet another comment— something shaming Shadowheart for taking so long. Part of you thinks that you should be searching the party’s satchels for healing potions or salves. Part of you can’t bear to look away. 

The latter urge wins out. 

Kalliope’s exposed skin has taken on an almost orange hue, less vibrant than usual. At least where it hasn’t morphed into that horrid, overripe shade of red. Like a plum weeping syrup.

Gale takes a step forward to crouch at the monk’s side, opposite you. His knees pop obnoxiously, and you almost hiss territorially. 

“Is there anything we can do to aid you, Shadowheart?” The wizard’s tone is calm, but you can sense the worry in the way his pulse stutters. 

“Do you have any healing spells in that tome of yours?” She asks. 

Gale pulls his spell book from a holster at his hip and flips through the pages. He stops to squint at a page when you realize you’re boring holes into his forehead with your stare. 

You glance away, instead focusing on the magic ebbing and flowing between Shadowheart’s palms and fingers.

“Aha, it’s nothing to write home about— but a touch of this evocation magic should help.” Gale takes one of Kalliope’s hands in his, and your nails bite into the leather of your gloves. 

Jealousy? Jealousy?

No, you tell yourself. Concern. That’s all. Concern for my strongest ally and meal ticket. Nothing more.

The imaginary bastard in your mind laughs at that. 

 

---

 

Air. Cool, clean air squalls down your throat.

Then pain. Stinging, awful pain. Everywhere. All over. 

Every span of your flesh feels tight. Ready to pop, threatening to tear. 

You groan and drag your eyes open. Immediate regret. The light sears an afterimage into your eyelids. Three shapes. Vaguely familiar. Indistinctly humanoid. 

One above you, and one on each side. 

You crack an eyelid open again, and faces manifest where the shapes had been. It hurts less— the light— but still burns. 

“Easy there,” a feminine timbre warns, “you’re very... fragile at the moment.”

This time, you take a chance opening both eyes and look up. 

Shadowheart. 

Your gaze drags to the left. 

Gale.

Finally, to the right. 

Astarion. 

“What happened,” you ask in reflex. “The man— the flames,” a cough sputters out of you. 

“Yes, yes. Your charge is being seen to as we speak,” Shadowheart supplies.

Another cough wracks your frame, a feeling like sand in your lungs comes with it.

“Councillor?” You croak, head spinning. 

“Alive as well,” this time it’s Astarion’s voice. 

I’d scold you for being so recklessly heroic— he says inwardly, but you’re alive and probably feel punished enough about now.

Good to see you too, you respond. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, lolling your eyes in Gale’s direction. “You— the door.”

He pats your hand gingerly. “Think nothing of it. Are you well enough to carry on?”

You take another slow, deep breath, and your vision clarifies a bit more. The pain lessens.

Help me up, the thought floats to its intended target. 

Cool, leather gloves and a waft of rosemary slip around you. You find your footing and stand, faltering just a bit. Lissom arms brace your weight, and you lean into their newly familiar contact. Gravity, once more at the correct angle, your head clears further. Reality makes a little more sense now. 

Shadowheart bathes you in more ticklish blue light; spirit and awareness fill you again. Ki balancing. “Alright,” she says, “That’s all I can spare for now. I need to save some of my reserves for the rest of the day.”

You stretch— truly expecting some of your skin to burst or tear. It doesn’t. It moves with you— feeling less like a rind or cocoon. “Well, that thoroughly sucked,” you chuckle. 

Glancing around, you see Wyll and Karlach deeply involved in a conversation with a gaggle of Flaming Fist and a shapely elven woman wrapped in violet. You make to step their way and realize Astarion’s hand is still wrapped around your forearm— his other arm bracing the small of your back. 

You hesitate to leave his grasp— but only momentarily. 

No rest for the depraved, you sigh. 

“…A story best left for calmer days,” Wyll casually brushes off a question from the Councillor about his new accessories. “Now breathe deeply— are you in pain?” His once-brown, now carmine iris can only look so gentle, but he masters a look of care.

The woman coughs and clears her throat. “Scorched vocal cords, a few hairs singed off— nothing a bit of time and fresh air can’t cure.” Florrick motions to a slowly growing row of deceased Fists. “I was lucky.”

Karlach nods solemnly. “I wish I could say burned corpses were a novelty for me– I’m sorry, Councillor. It’s a crummy situation.”

“Right,” the woman dips her chin and sizes Karlach up quickly. “Well, it’s a great boon you all passed through when you did. Thank you for the rescue.”

“Of course,” Wyll bows.  

“Now, onto more unpleasant matters,” Florrick’s tone grows stately and commanding. “Gauntlet,” she says, turning to the nearest Fist, “a new duty calls. Drow have taken Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard westward…if my eyes and ears can be believed. Report to the manip at once and send for reinforcements. We must find the Duke. The rest of you, count the dead and take word of their sacrifice to the city.”

“On your command, Councillor.” The soldier bows and turns on her heels to relay the orders to the other gathered Fists.

Wyll’s eyes flare wide, panic coloring them. “No, it can’t be. You mean they’ve taken my—“ 

“Yes, Wyll, the drow have your father.” Florrick’s tone is grave. 

A memory shoots through you, “I was seventeen, my Father, Duke Ulder Ravengard, had just been called away to Elturel…”. You must’ve been too irritated with him at the time of his first confession to really register the words. Their gravity.

“Holy Hells, Wyll,” you exclaim, “you really weren’t kidding before.”

“Of course not, Kalliope. Why would I?” The warlock looks wounded. Confused. 

Used to being trusted implicitly, I guess. Nobility’s privilege and all that. Astarion’s thoughts. 

“A brazen move to steal away Grand Duke Ravengard,” the vampire sounds almost impressed. “He’s one of— if not the most influential of the Council of Four. He’s in charge of your little Or—“

Karlach shoots him a look. Astarion demures and corrects himself. “—I mean the Flaming Fist.”

“Yes,” Florrick nods solemnly. “He is instrumental in the balance that holds Baldur’s Gate together. Without him, the city faces collapse. In fact,” she pauses, thinking aloud. “I fear that may have been the intention of those who abducted him.”

Florrick’s gaze softens and settles on Wyll, “You must hold little love for him, Wyll. But please find him and return him to the city.”

“Trust us to see it through, Councillor,” Wyll bows again. 

“When the Grand Duke returns to the City, he’ll hail his only son a hero,” Florrick smiles. “Go, quickly. You should pick up the drow’s trail with ease— head west towards Moonrise Towers.”

“Moonrise Towers,” Astarion hums, “why does that sound so familiar?”

Ahead on the ground, you can see the man you’d rescued earlier choking back tears of grief and gratitude. “Miri’s still in the,e in’t she? We have to— I need to—.”

“Benryn, you need to stay where you are, let one of us retrieve her,” says a Flaming Fist cleric. He sniffles but nods after a moment. The healer turns and walks away. 

Benryn, you now notice, has ears that are pointed yet blunt like Shadowheart’s. Marking him as a half-elf. 

“Who is Miri?” you ask, curious. 

“My—my fiancée— we had been arguin’ over…somethin’ unimportant now when flames started lickin’ up tha build’n. There were screams from below n’ around, so many screams.” He shakes as he recounts the memory. “I dunna ken if she’s alive.”

Shadowheart and Lae’zel share a look. “Your Mi-ri is dead,” Lae’zel says bluntly. “Our cleric,” she motions to Shadowheart, “was attempting to heal her as we rescued you.”

“She-she wha— No! It canna be, oh no, muh poor beau’iful Miri!” The man begins wailing again, his soggy eyes and leaky nose pressed into his hands. 

Did you notice how the gith referred to Shadowheart as ‘our’ cleric, Astarion muses into your mind.

I did, you smirk his way, that was a fast change of heart.

 

---

 

Your party wanders around the remains of Waukeen’s Rest. Inspecting each burned building for clues. Dragging corpses into an interrogation circle for Shadowheart to question. A half-dozen drow corpses in total, and at least as many Goblins. 

Though the cleric wished to ask a few of the dead Fists about the attack, you’re unable to. Even approaching any of the dead Fists laid out has one of the nearby soldiers shooting you a foul look. Another loudly clears their throat, drawing your attention to a not-so-subtle hand drumming along the cross guard of their long sword. 

You suppress a growl of annoyance and move away, hands up.

They’re lucky all we wish to do is speak to their fallen, the whisper growls into your mind. 

Shadowheart devises a clever plan to wring more information from the gathered dead. Using a combination of Disguise Self and Speak with Dead, she begins her questioning . As she recites the incantation, a sickly green energy washes across her eyes. The spell takes hold, and the light flares out to fill the cold, empty eyes of the nearest drow. 

A dark shiver of pleasure runs through you as you watch the limp form of the elf rise slightly into the air. Goose-pimples cover your arms as their mouth begins to move. A dark hunger twists in your gut when the light of un-life fades once more from their eyes.

You’re fascinated, attention rapt while the cleric prods each corpse with similar questions. She seems disturbingly practiced with it, leaving you to wonder more about her background.

What were your motives?

Did you see the Duke captured?

How long have you served the Absolute?

What are the names of the superiors who gave the orders?

Where would they take such a valuable prisoner?

Some respond, while others remain still—the necromantic energy finding nothing to hold onto. When the spell does animate someone, the information is practically identical to previous answers. 

“Took him— for the Absolute—” or, “Weren’t told the details, only to bring him back.” One goblin corpse admits, “The blaze– a distraction.” In the end, none of the husks are particularly helpful. Eventually, you grow bored of the repetitive call and response of it all, moving to join your other companions in their investigations. 

By the time you’ve sifted through nearly every barrel, checked behind most burlap sacks, and cracked open the umpteenth wooden crate, a team of Fists has retrieved Miri’s body from the second floor. You recognize her as the young woman you passed on the way to free Benryn. 

He sobs prayers over her body. Inconsolable.

Bored of the unhelpful dead, Shadowheart peppers Benryn with questions instead. She’s nearly spent magick-wise, turning her irritable and short-tempered. 

“Why were you arguing?” demands the Sharran, “Do you know anything about who took the Duke?”

“We was arguin’ over a keepsake. A keepsake she hid ‘way from me.” He blubbers each answer, and you’re surprised Shadowheart can even understand him at times. 

“What keepsake? Was it useful?” Shadowheart prods again. Benryn’s eyes grow hard, frustrated.

Your impatience swells alongside hers, egged on by the dark whisper begging you to dissect the answers from him. To skillfully slice lips and vocal cords, extracting information rather than asking for it. Your tail twitches and swishes as you watch, arms crossed, from the far side of the courtyard.

“What is she hoping to gain?” you growl. “He’s just whinging on about his dead wife. How is this supposed to help us find the Duke? The goblins who ransacked the place?”

Wyll sighs beside you and wipes a hand down his face. “As much as I’d like to believe he could be helpful, I’m starting to think this is a waste of our time. Every moment we spend here, is a moment those nutters have my father.”

Gale reaches out a hand to the warlock, patting him gently on the shoulder. “I’m sure she’s almost done, we will find him. Don’t fret,” the wizard’s smile is bright and optimistic. 

Half of you wants to smile and melt at the kindness. The darker half threatens to reintroduce your breakfast to the group.  

Promptly.

Another moment or two pass while everyone but the cleric waits on the sidelines. Eager for your next hint or direction.

“Well, he’s useless,” the cleric groans as she finally trudges back to your group. “Though he did mention a hidden chest with a dowry in it. Said if we bring it back to him, he’ll let us keep everything but the ring inside.”

“So another treasure hunt, then?” Karlach quirks a brow. Shadowheart shrugs and turns her attention to you.

“Well, fearless leader,” the cleric quips.

You glance around the group, taking in the various expressions ranging from bored to impassive. “Did he say where the chest was tucked away?”

Shadowheart hums, pensive. “Nothing more specific than ‘around the inn’. He said they were travelling, just passing through on the way to Miri’s sister’s wedding.”

“How dreadfully mundane,” Astarion pouts derisively. “Well, I’ll never be the first to refuse a bit of larceny– no matter how paltry. It’s better than standing around here, anyhow,” he shrugs and turns soundlessly on his heels. Padding to the only corner of the settlement you’ve yet to toss thoroughly. 

Hearing no other opinions, you shrug and follow suit.

 

---

 

Around the backside of the inn are a pair of stables and a shack with crates piled high before its boarded-up doors. A single ox in the furthest of the stables lows and bows its head at you all threateningly. 

“Sublime. An enraged cow,” Lae’zel groans. “We should put it out of its misery; it would serve a better use as rations.”

Shadowheart gasps, looking offended. “You will do no such thing, Lae’zel.”

“What? Are you going to interrogate the livestock too ?” Astarion scoffs.

“Why, dear vampire, yes. I intend to do just that,” Shadowheart needles back. The cleric crouches low and pulls a stoppered bottle from her pack, quickly downing the contents. Hands spread and head bowed, she continues her approach, making ssssh-ing and cooing noises at the beast. The ox settles a bit, eyes no longer rolling in panic. 

Shadowheart continues the strange conversation. 

The ox waves its horns at the other stable, then the goblin bodies nearby, and finally its dead companion. Shadowheart hums and nods, then directs a final collection of moans and chuffs to the beast. With a shit eating grin, she turns back to your group.

“They told me a bit more about what happened here. The arson, the goblins and drow, et cetera,” the cleric looks smugly in Lae’zel and Astarion’s direction. “ And, they told me where to find the chest. They saw Miri stow it away recently.”

“Well,” Astarion sighs, “I suppose I take back that one jab, Shadowheart. But only that one.”

“How incredibly gracious of you, Astarion. I’m aghast at your character growth,” the cleric drawls. 

Wyll hesitates a moment before bashfully asking, “Did the beast happen to see who took my father?” A blush colors the warlock’s cheeks as he runs a hand down his neck. 

Shadowheart turns back to the animal, grunts a bit, and then returns her focus to your party. “They did see a human with ‘fur’ your color. Though they say that human didn’t have horns,” the cleric suppresses a laugh. 

“Anything more?” Wyll prods, hopeful. 

Shadowheart consults the beast once more, “The blue and green monsters carried the brown one away. The brown one was struggling and shouting.”

“Well then,” Wyll grins, “I’ve interacted with my fair share of witnesses. Though never one of such a bovine nature. I should expand my methods, I think.” 

You and Karlach share a look and then snort in amusement. “When in doubt, ask the cow,” the larger woman whoops and cackles.

Shadowheart rolls her eyes, a light smile playing at her lips. The brunette motions for you all to follow and strides confidently to the other stable. She rummages in a haystack for only a moment and then presents her prize to the group. 

A small, gilded chest. 

It’s clearly an heirloom– old, dinged up, scratched, and chipped– the chest has seen better tendays. Nonetheless, it is beautiful. Wrought from precious stone and covered in gold banding, it’s both sturdy and pleasing to the eye. 

The cleric smiles as she examines her find, “hidden away, but not hidden well enough.”

“Is it locked?” you ask. 

The cleric pulls gently at the latch, and nothing happens. “Apparently so.”

“We could…crack it open? Take a peek,” Astarion suggests. 

“I thought the goal was to return it to Benryn, Astarion,” Wyll huffs. 

“You’re not even a little curious?” The vampire purrs. 

Wyll merely cocks a disapproving brow at the elf. 

“Oh, fine. Fine, we’ll return it to that sniveling half-elf. Without a peek inside,” the rogue rolls his eyes, sighing.

Too bad you didn’t find it first, you think in his direction.

Unfortunate indeed, he responds.

“Hey, uh—“ Karlach says to no one in particular, “I’m no detective, but what’s with the crates and the boarded door, ya think?” The barbarian crouches and inspects the crates more closely. “Seems a little much, yea?” 

Your group shuffles towards the barbarian, curiosity piqued. 

“Hey, Lae’zel,” Karlach grins at the gith, “how many in this stack d’ya think I can lift without knocking them over? Oh! How many could you lift?” Her eyes take on an impish glimmer.

Lae’zel strides purposefully to the barbarian’s side and remains silent for a moment. Finally, she says, “Lifting this ‘stack’ as you say would be no issue.”

Karlach laughs heartily, “Confident. I like it. Shall we make a wager of it?” The tiefling enunciates each word, mimicking Lae’zel’s clipped, formal tone.

Lae’zel looks the woman up and down. Stern. Appraising. “Yes. Whoever is successful lays claim to the next great weapon we find.”

“You got it, Soldier. Hey Gale, who goes first?”

The wizard clears his throat, attention returning from somewhere far away. “Ahem, apologies. Goes first for what?”

“They want to see who can lift more crates in that stack without dropping them,” you clarify.

“Ah, a strongwoman’s game. Well then, let’s see. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten,” the wizard’s eyes sparkle, and he taps his chin. “Whoever is closest goes first. Lae’zel, what’s your guess?”

“One,” she replies flatly. No hesitation whatsoever.

“Karlach?” Asks Gale. 

“Hmm, uh. Hold on a second— Lae’zel answered faster than I was ready for,” Karlach purses her lips and appears to count randomly on her fingers a few times. “Alright, got it,” she smiles triumphantly. 

One moment. Two moments— you all stand in silence, awaiting her response. 

Astarion glances back and forth between the wizard and the two women, then clears his throat, “Erm, Karlach. Your number?”

“My wha— OH! Right! Nine,” the woman chuckles and answers. “Thanks, Fangs.”

“My number was eight,” Gale says, then chuckles like he’s sharing an inside joke with someone. “Anyone have a guess as to why I chose eight?”

Another silent beat passes between you all. A few shrugs back and forth, but no one speaks. 

Not wanting Gale to feel jilted, you play along.“Why did you choose eight, Gale? Is that how many books you carry around?”

“It’s simple, really,” he beams. “Magick is broken into schools of thought— based on their general purpose, an— oh. I’m rambling again. Well, there are eight official schools of magick. Hence, eight.”

“Oooh, clever Magic Man. I chose nine because there are nine hells,” Karlach says. “More importantly— that means I go first!”

For the next few minutes, Karlach attempts to lift all three crates without jostling them. It occurs to you, you’ve no idea why you’re all standing around and watching. Other than to humor Karlach. 

I guess it makes sense to take a short rest and collect ourselves.

Eventually, the barbarian grins below her stack of crates. Somehow, she’s managed to lift all three above her head, and is presently— from the looks of it— trying to balance them on her horns. 

“Alright, I did it!” She crows. “Now what?”

“Put them back, I guess,” Shadowheart giggles with a shrug.

With a groan and a huff, Karlach settles the crates back in front of the door. As she does, the top one shifts a bit. “Aww, hells. Does that count? I lifted them all without that happening.”

Gale hums, “Technically, you’re correct. Let’s see how Lae’zel does before we decide.”

“Okay!” Karlach does a little dance of glee. “It’s been too long since I played a game,” she sighs. “Well, a game that mortals enjoy…”

Lae’zel stalks forward and glares at the stack. 

What is she doing? Astarion’s tone is curious in your mind. 

Maybe she’s trying to scare them into submission, you jest. 

The gith raises her hand, and the stack lifts into the air on its own. Lae’zel turns to look at you all, raises a single brow, and then flicks her wrist. The crates are tossed through the air before crashing into a heap behind the nearest stable. The ox starts, head whipping up from its trough. 

“That was incredible!” You gasp.

“Well, ” Gale clicks his tongue, “that’s certainly a way to do it. Githyanki Psionics— a handy trick. Or maybe I should say ‘you took the hands-off approach.’”

“Hey Lae,” Karlach’s brows knit together, “does that count? You picked ‘em up with magic, not your strength.”

“And?” the gith quips. “You asked how many I could lift. I lifted all of them. The mental strength it requires to harness Vlaakith’s gifts is no small feat.” Lae’zel levels a look in her direction. “Per our terms, I claim victory.”

Karlach narrows her eyes and sucks her teeth, then releases a loud huff of air from her chest— “Alright, alright. Can’t argue with that, I guess.”

“For your sake, Karlach,” Lae’zel’s expression lightens, “I do hope that the next weapon we find is a sword and not an axe.”

“Oh?” The tiefling’s eyes widen, “Why’s that?”

“I would not take the weapon you’d prefer, and it just so happens that I’ve been searching for a great sword.”

“HA!” Karlach cackles and doubles over, “Good one, Lae’zel!”

“That’s fortunate for us all,” Gale chirps. “Otherwise, our little cabal would have an axe to grind .” 

You snort, caught off guard by the sudden humor amongst the group. Gale meets your gaze, eyes twinkling with something like hope. 

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Chapter 31: Beneath the Surface

Summary:

The Zhentarim is an unscrupulous shadow network that seeks to expand its influence and power throughout Faerûn. The organization is ambitious, opportunistic, and meritocratic. Rogues and warlocks of neutral and/or evil alignments are commonly drawn to the Zhentarim.

Beliefs:
-The Zhentarim is your family. You watch out for it, and it watches out for you.
-You are the master of your own destiny. Never be less than what you deserve to be.
-Everything—and everyone—has a price.

-Travelogue of Carovar Silvertongue

Notes:

Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter! I wanted to cover this bit of the adventure because it is an important tie-in for things later on. But gods above and below did the idea of it give me some serious writer's block at first.

Enjoy!

“For someone who claims not to be a detective, Karlach,” Wyll chirps, “you were right on the money with the suspiciously boarded door.”

“Thanks, mate.” She beams at the warlock.

Somewhat stealthily, your group navigates a series of storage rooms piled high with armaments, foodstuffs, and rare art pieces.

“What a cache we’ve stumbled upon,” Gale marvels, glancing about. “And the spectacle with which they attempted to hide it– incredible.”

“Yes,” Shadowheart agrees, “though I’ve seen better. Done better.”

“A woman of mystery, there’s no doubt about that,” quips the wizard warmly. “Perhaps someday we’ll learn what lies behind the shadows with which you guard your heart.”

The cleric scoffs, “Honestly, Gale. I’d expect you to come up with a jest more clever than that.”

Gale just shrugs, “One can’t win every battle, it seems.”

To make it this far, Wyll had charmed - quite literally - the Zhentarim guard, Salazon, into standing down and sharing the password. Wyll believes that the Black Network knows more about why his father was taken captive.

The Zhentarim would gladly be rid of the Fist’s leader, he’d claimed. 

You’d first attempted niceties yourself, but the guard must’ve glimpsed the darkness skulking behind your deceptively bright gaze. 

Almost immediately, Salazon had threatened to blow the barn sky high. A glance around the room had told you enough– barrels of Firewine lined the walls. Stacked two high across the floor, shoved into corners, and packed along the shelves surrounding the trapdoor, being babysat.

No, he wasn’t bluffing in the least, you reflect inwardly.

Rare to come across one actually willing to die in the name of secrecy, Astarion counters. Most take the coward's way out— begging for leniency— when it’s down to the wire. 

Three rooms in, you find the wardrobe previously described to you by the jumpy redhead. With a moment’s search, Astarion locates the button designed to lift the piece away. “Excellent,” he purrs, “so good to see a secret passage with some flair.”

“Nicely designed,” echoes Shadowheart, “Secrecy always inspires ingenuity.”

Oaken boards glide up to reveal a hallway and yet another ladder descending into the bowels of the earth. You’re beginning to wonder how much further underground you’ll have to trek. 

“Glorious, another ladder,” you sigh begrudgingly before swinging your leg over and down to the first rung.

We were not made to tunnel in the earth as worms do, comes the lurid shadow.

Since falling to the flames in the inn earlier, you’ve been unable to shoo it away to the recesses of your mind. Seemingly, whatever it is does not trust you not to founder a second time.

Holding you hostage– blooming migraine as a bargaining chip.   

We rend, it growls. Deliver corpses to the earth! Then we waltz above. Stalk-stomp-striding our way to more prey. We do not belong here, child. We do not belong beneath the dirt.

The foul presence hums with sing-songy glee, then sours with distaste. Every step further underground emboldens its warnings.

Your soft-soled boots hit the dirt at the base of the ladder. A soft whoomph. 

You crouch and turn to find yourself facing another of those violet, thrumming teleportation sigils. “This must be more than a temporary foxhole, a permanent sigil?”

“Indeed,” Gale says. “You don’t enchant one of those quickly. Requires daily dedication before the magic takes hold.”

“All the more reason to meet these Zhentarim,” Wyll hisses. “If a permanent warehouse is here, they’ve got ears and eyes on Waukeen’s Rest and the surrounding area.”

“So, then,” Astarion whispers, “have we got an angle for this ‘meeting’, dear Wyll?”

“I was actually anticipating you be the face, Astarion.” Wyll gives the rogue a fraternizing grin.

“Flatterer, flatterer,” preens the vampire. “You think I’m pretty?”

Wyll’s eyes go wide, “Er, well, actually— you seem the type to know your way around such— company.”

The vampire frowns, “Oh, you just see me as a criminal. Charming.”

“I think you’re pretty,” you wink playfully. 

“Thank you, Darling,” he purrs. “Fine. Yes, I’ll be the face.”

“Wonderful,” Wyll smiles.

Astarion presses a finger to his lips and motions forward before bending into a crouch. You follow, attempting to distract yourself from thoughts of being buried alive by counting the buckles on the rogue’s boots.

The whisper gnaws at your mind. Feverish. Malcontent.

Reaching the end of the craggy face to your left, Astarion motions behind him to ‘Wait.’ 

Once he’s certain you’ve all halted, he stands, brushes unspied filth from his jerkin, and strides forward. All confidence and tact.

A husky, feminine voice thick with a low-class Baldurian accent echoes around the cavern. “Tha’s far enough. What’s yer business down ‘ere? Answer ‘onestly, and maybe we’ll kill ya clean.”

Astarion rolls his shoulders back, and that sly mask of deception slides into place over his features. Having seen behind it now, it’s uncanny how easily it’s donned. A second skin. Invisible armor.

Masterfully crafted to deflect any doubts or suspicion.

“Your guard at the door, Salazon, charming lad,” Astarion says. But while his lips move, his hands speak an entirely different language. Shifting. Contorting themselves dextrously– so quickly you’d miss it if you looked away.

You shift your weight cautiously, reaching out with one foot. Then the other. Willing the shadows to weave into the fabric of your being, allowing you to pass without trace. 

You move slowly and deliberately until you’re past the end of the wall blocking your view. You want to lay eyes on the one whose hands hold your immediate fate.

The woman, petite with ashen hair, speaks again. Hands moving just as quickly as Astarion’s had before. “Then yer answer decides ‘is fate as well as yer own - so make i’ good. Be a shame to waste a good agent.”

You glance curiously between the two of them as the conversations continue. 

Astarion smirks, “We’re here to trade. No more. No less. Goods, coin, information. A little bit of all of it.” More hands flashing, some gestures similar to previous ones.

“Why risk tradin’ with us?” She cocks her head to the side, “I’m sure you lot could find better, more reliable merchants aboveground.” Her hands still and fall casually to her sides, eyes narrowed. Cold. 

Calculating. 

Waiting for something specific.

“You see, dear Zhentarim,” the rogue drawls, “I see myself as the master of my own destiny. I aim to never accept less than what I deserve.” His hands sign more slowly and deliberately than before. Excentuating certain words as he responds.

The woman cocks a brow, a sly grin creeping over her features. “A client of standards, then. Excellent. Come on down, we’ve disarmed th’ traps.”

“Many thanks, we look forward to doing business with you,” Astarion bows and winks at the woman. She nods in turn before descending the scouting platform across the gorge. A moment passes, and she disappears from view.

You stand to meet him when he returns to your group. “What was all that? With the signing,” you breathe into the rogue’s ear as he moves past. 

“Business talk— Thievescant.” He smirks, “Just one more language I know how to speak with my hands.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Rogue.”

“Yes,” he says frankly. “I am. Quite literally.”

A moment passes, and the rest of your party moves to join you. “We’re set then?” Wyll asks. Astarion nods curtly in confirmation. 

I simply told her the truth, Astarion continues his answer inwardly. That my associates and I had business to attend to. That we might be in the market for information. She named her price— a job she needs doing— and I agreed. 

Wyll moves to the head of the group, holding open an iron gate for the rest of you. Wholly unaware of your silent discussion with the vampire.  

You didn’t feel the need to okay this with everyone? Make sure that the Blade of Frontiers would support your scheme. You know the answer before he responds. Why waste the energy discussing it? A means to an end is a means to an end.

Astarion chuckles outwardly— disguising it poorly with a cough. Lae’zel hums suspiciously behind the two of you. 

Yes, I’m sure our resident hero would have jumped at an opportunity to partner with The Black Network. He pauses briefly before his thoughts continue your way. Did you know, the Zhentarim and I share a birth year?

You spend half a second pondering what this means, before remembering that your personal chronicle of events barely extends past the last tenday. Anything you once knew of current events or history outside of that window is spotty at best.

Completely absent at worst.

I have to be honest, Astarion, you think as you step over a tripwire, I haven’t the slightest idea how old that makes you. My memory of anything but the last tenday or so is…

Murky? Absent? He completes the admission for you, skirting around an alchemist’s fire mine out of habit. Well, all I meant for it to be in this scenario was a curious tidbit about your favorite vampire. There’s a pause before he adds, Don’t spend too much time on it.

Afraid I’ll catch ‘the ick’ if I realize how old you truly are, you jest. And who said you were my favorite vampire?

Nonsense, I look excellent for my age. Undeath aside, of course, comes his retort. I thought it rather obvious that I was your favorite. I don’t see any other fanged individuals vying for that neck. 

You sigh and roll your eyes. 

About this moment, you all reach the bottom of a winding path. The Zhent’s trap-infested entryway comes to an end at one final iron gate. 

“Astarion,” Gale pipes up, “what exactly did you tell the crime boss? If we’re going to spin tales– I’d prefer that we all knew which particular tale to spin.”

“Nothing untrue, really, that we had business and trade to attend to. That we might be willing to offer a favor if they have information worth sharing.” The rogue makes pointed eye contact with Wyll as he shares the last bit.

“Fangs, ‘ave you gone completely nutters?” Karlach grimaces, “I absolutely do not want t’ help the Zhent. They’re nearly as bad as Mizora. For fucks sake, they’ve had dealings with Gortash of all bastards. And take i’ from me,” the tiefling aims a thumb at herself, “anyone who knows any better, and still willingly works with him? Sucks. Sucks a whole lot.”

“Karlach,” Wyll says gently, leveling a soft look at her, “believe me, I don’t relish the idea of working with them either. Even under pretenses to find my father. But if they know anything– if they can give us more than a hint– we have to try.”

Karlach groans and huffs loudly, tail swishing as she ponders Wyll’s point. 

“Fine, fine,” she taps her foot and sighs.   “You’re right. But I’m not doing this for a single other reason– got it?” She glances between the two men, brow furrowed.

“Got it,” Wyll smiles warmly at Karlach. 

“Clear as the Styx, my dear barbarian,” Astarion sketches a dramatic bow at the larger woman.

Passing through the second iron gate, the cave structure begins funneling you towards an earthen bridge. A fragile-looking arch carved by ages and ages of water trickling through the limestone. 

A glance above reveals sentries crouched on various crags and outcroppings — eyes sharp. Hands grazing the hilts of their blades. 

Whatever trust Astarion has bargained for you all, it doesn’t extend far.

The darkened muse in your mind prickles— keeping you alert and overly observant. 

You pass a pair of men shuffling through and inventorying the contents of crates stacked three or four high. Muttering to one another as they take stock. Behind them, another man— all dirt-smeared cheeks, tangled blonde hair, and rumpled noble’s clothes— kneels amidst a collection of stretched canvases and artwork. 

Your gaze tangles with his for a moment, and his hazel eyes light up with hope. Gladdened by fresh faces where others here remain cruel and sharp-eyed. Including the two men lurking nearby. 

You tear your eyes away, quickly. His undue optimism jarring in such a den of wary suspicion. 

“Let’s speak up ‘ere,” calls the ashen-haired Zhent from before. She motions to a series of ladders anchored into the limestone before you.

Your insides twist and untwist— nails biting into your palms. Something about this woman eats away at you. A taste like curdled familiarity coating your throat.

You grimace and motion for the others to go ahead while you wrack your ruined mind for clues.

Gale, ever observant, pauses on his way to the ladder. He places a cautious hand on your upper arm and gives you a warm look. “Are you alright?” He whispers. 

Your eyes dart to his, and you swallow down a growl, eyes softening— muscles uncoiling just a touch. “Y-yes. I think so— just not a fan of being underground is all.” 

A half-truth. Something else feels off here. Even if you’re having trouble identifying what.

The wizard nods and smiles, “We’ll be out of here soon, I think.” He pats your arm quickly in reassurance. You wave for him to take his turn on the rungs, then scale quickly behind him.

“I’m impressed,” the woman says, “not many can talk their way ‘nto a Zhentarim outpost. May have use for you lo’ after all. Name’s Zarys.”

“A pleasure, truly,” Astarion places a hand over his heart. “So then, what do you need from us?” The rogue asks coyly.

“I’m lookin’ for a group o’ professionals. Someone who can locate a few of my crew. Wen’ out scoutin’ after a delivery never showed up. Now they’re missin’. More importantly, so is their cargo.”

“Search and rescue,” Astarion hums. “With a reclamation task all in one? Not a simple job given the pests running about lately.” He casts a sly look over the woman, then across your group. “We’ll have to be well paid.”

She scowls at the rogue, “Part o’ your payment is bein’ allowed to leave ‘ere alive, pretty boy.” A pause, mental calculations. “But, seein’ as our timetable jus’ moved up, I’m of a more negotiable mind than usual.”

“Ohh,” purrs the rogue, “do tell? The more context we have, the better.”

“Someone kidnapped a Duke— right on our bloody doorstep. The Flaming Fist’ll need someone to blame. I don’t plan on i’ bein’ us.”

Wyll’s brows raise a hair, pleasantly surprised to be right. At least partially. The hero looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it— swallowing thickly. 

Your best guess is that he’s avoiding drawing attention to himself or his identity. Though you’re not sure, the woman could tell him from a run-of-the-mill tiefling in this light.

“Now, who in their twisted little minds would be brazen enough to do that, do you suppose?” Astarion’s voice is all disbelief and curiosity— not a hint of foreknowledge or a loaded question shining through his facade.

“Hells if I know,” she throws her hands up. “Probably someone thinkin’ they’ll get a duke’s ransom for their stunt.”

Shadowheart cuts you a look— eyes narrowed. You notice magic dancing there, and she gives a faint shake of her head. 

They’re lying, her expression seems to say. 

Astarion, you prod subtly. Is she lying? Do you smell fear or doubt?

The vampire breathes deeply and then huffs as he scents the air. “Hm. Shame,” he pouts. “I’ve been dying for some gossip that didn’t have to do with weather patterns or trade routes.”

There is something she’s not saying; his thoughts in your direction punctuate his banter with the Zhentarim. She’s nervous, but— I’m not certain. Can’t tell if she’s withholding information or simply unsure of us.

“This is a place of business, no’ your local shit’hole bar. Locate my people, bring them back. Failing tha’ just bring back my shipment. Unopened,” Zarys reiterates.

“What’s in this shipment?” Gale pipes up. 

“Something for a very wealthy, very important client,” Zarys grumbles. “Something tha’s worth more than any of us standin’ here now.”

“Anything…dangerous or precarious? Any specific advice aside from ‘bring it back unopened, ’” presses the wizard. 

The woman narrows her eyes further, nothing but menace simmering behind them. “If I tol’ you tha’ it might kill the cat. Curiosity an’ all.”

“Ahh, a noble endeavor,” Gale smiles, attempting to lay the charm on thick. “But it is quite dangerous out there on the roads— goblin attacks. Dukes being kidnapped, inns burned down. Just trying to ensure your cargo’s safety.”

Zarys’s tone escapes as a near growl when she pushes into Gale’s space. Your throat heats— malice building toward an equally animalistic demeanor. 

“I know you think yer clever, sage. But this ain’t some research ‘cademy or Sorcerous Whatsits. Do the job,” she pokes his chest. 

You stiffen.

“Bring the cargo back,” Another poke. 

You shift forward. 

“Locked. Unopened. And undamaged.” Poke-poke-poke. 

Your head throbs in reaction to the fragile restraint you wield.

Zarys’ voice drops to a venomous whisper, “Prove yerself, wizard— and maybe then we’ll talk more specifics.” 

Gale’s eyes widen– startled. Insulted even. He clears his throat, and they round out again. “Understood,” is all he says.

We will make her understand, hisses the malevolent shadow within. We are not to be commanded or threatened. Not us, and not. Our. Pets.

Your tail twists and untwists in irritation, nails biting further into your palms. You force a steadying breath down your windpipe. 

We will teach her subservience. The darkened voice in your mind builds. Practically pacing from one side of your skull to the other. You can feel yourself shaking with the effort of not gutting this woman. Head pounding with every moment of non-violence. 

With every imaginary step of that other within. 

The woman’s gaze catches yours, and her lips quirk as if to say something. You force your own into a smile. The result is closer to that of a wolf baring its teeth than a reassuring expression. 

We need. To leave. You think towards Astarion. Now. Or this will get ugly.

“Well then, that’s sorted,” Astarion purrs at the Zhent woman as he steps closer to you. Cool leather brushes the back of your hand. “Unopened, undamaged. One last detail, if I may. Whereabouts did your agents go missing?”

“Risen road,” snips the woman. “Look for a merchant’s wagon. Probably bloodshed or gore about too.”

Astarion nods in recognition before spinning you alongside him and practically forcing your retreat down the ladder. 

Away from Zarys.

Away from a violent explosion.

 

---

 

Finally back above ground, you breathe a heavy sigh of relief. Then a second for good measure. You slump down, cross-legged onto the ground. Although the whisper has calmed a bit for now, your headache has grown. Flaring to life behind your eyes. 

It’s almost more than you can take standing.

Shadowheart confirms your suspicions regarding her activities while negotiating with Zarys. 

The cleric had used Detect Thoughts to try and get a ping on anything the guild boss was holding back. No startling revelations had come from it, but the woman was definitely withholding something when she’d mentioned the Duke’s kidnapping.

“She— or at least someone she knows— is tied to the Duke’s disappearance. Her thoughts grew incredibly loud and scattered in that moment,” Shadowheart divulges.

“I knew it!” Wyll grinds out. “Of course, the Zhentarim are involved somehow.”

“Did it seem like Zarys was purposefully pulling your attention away from that chain of thought?” Gale asks. “Redirecting you with the ‘static’ so to speak?”

The cleric takes a moment to reflect before replying, nodding slowly. Her hazel eyes slide to the wizard’s browns. “Yes, I suppose that that would make sense.” She hums pensively. “Now that I think of it, I feel like someone once taught me a similar tactic for bearing with interrogations.”

Your brows knit with concern. “What exactly were you practicing as a Cleric of Shar, Shadowheart?”

She bites her lip, and hesitation flickers across her features. “Lady Shar has many enemies. Our order protects her followers while coaxing more into her embrace. I don’t remember many of my past assignments– but exposing plots against our cloister was a common one.”

“So?” You question her again. “You interrogated Baldurians?”

“When she called us to do so…” the cleric avoids your attention. “I’m bothered by how little I can recall.” Shadowheart glances downward suddenly, hissing violently, as a mark on her right hand flares violet.

Not the first time you’ve seen this happen. “Why does that happen to you, Shadowheart?”

“I-I’m not sure,” she grimaces and flicks her wrist a couple of times; then she massages the wound. “I’m used to it, though.”

Wyll’s head snaps up; he glares piercingly at Astarion. “Astarion, how do we trick the Zhentarim into showing their hand?”

The rogue hums and looks skyward. “In my experience, we make them believe we know something already. Present them with false evidence– see how committed they are to denying it. Perhaps if we find these missing agents, we can learn something from them.”

“If all else fails,” you snarl, “we kill them slowly and force it from their bloodied lips.”

Your companions turn towards you– varying shades of revulsion, shock, or pleasant surprise coloring their features.

“A mite dark, Kalliope,” Gale says quietly. 

“The fuckers prob’ly deserve it anyhow,” Karlach echoes your vitriol. “Slavers, traffickers, and vile scum, the lo’ o’ them.”

“We could go back now. Press things forward,” malice dances in your eyes. The gold around your pupils flares slightly.

Astarion moves to your side, cool leather on your shoulder once more. “Darling, while that may be the most expeditious course, I don’t think it’s the most fruitful– intelligence-wise.”

Who gives a shit, you want to bark. Or is it that dark, skittering thing within you?

“Let’s go find these missing fools, and maybe we’ll find a few skulls for you to crack along the way. Hmm?” Astarion’s voice is playful yet cautious.

You grumble, disappointed yet cooperative.

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Notes:

!!Not authorized for AI training or reposting without consent!!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Futures Bound