Chapter Text
Every so often, Tav gets into something new, which he can be expected to hold a fervent interest in for several years.
"I'm not 'getting into' wizardry," he says defensively, "I'm only copying some things down in a book to reference. Reading and writing are, in fact, not exclusive to wizards."
I see, the Emperor remarks. In that case, I am also not getting into wizardry.
Tav laughs. “Even if you procured a spellbook and a spectacular disguise, they probably wouldn’t let you in without wringing you for gold. The system is awfully rigid, apprenticeships are expensive, and it's quite contingent on where you get educated as much as how well. Naturally, the privileged get one over those with more talent. Gale could make fireballs at eight years old, but even he required Elminster's patronage to get him started."
Is your sister not a wizard?
"I never said she was talented," replies Tav, with the unique savagery of centuries of siblinghood.
The book Tav writes in, which he insists is not a spellbook, contains a few rituals he’s learning because he is "tired of borrowing horses instead of just conjuring one". The bard is currently stalled in this process because he says that he requires more seashells.
"This is relevant," Tav insists, ignoring the Emperor’s looks at the shells they already have on the nearby shelf. "I have to translate these spells into something for me to…listen to. Then I can transcribe them into a manner for me to cast. Yes, I was inspired by our collection."
Because the ones we have do not suffice.
"I need more well-shaped ones, with good variety in the sound when you hold it up to your ear," Tav explains. "And of course, they must be pretty, and be differently colored so that they look good arranged with all the others."
Are you crafting a book or an art installation? the Emperor says.
"The very act of making is the foundation of my channeling!" proclaims Tav. "Clerics seek favor from the gods and paladins seek permission, but we bards command the Weave by simply emulating the hands that which shape creation. And unlike wizards, we don't even blow ourselves up in the process, because making art is humbling."
Is it now.
Tav rolls his eyes and makes a shooing motion. "It doesn't have to make sense to you. Go on. Don’t you have taxes to do?"
It does make sense to the Emperor, because he has connected to Tav’s mind and directly experienced the elf’s navigation of the Weave, so different to his own. And the bard does study magic, though of course he’ll grin and insist he’s never had a single academic thought cross his pretty head.
The long and short of it is it seems their seashell collection will be expanding. The Emperor makes a note to set aside another shelf.
On a foggy night, a group of ragged urchins file into the Elfsong Tavern, and glue themselves to the wall. They dodge the annoyed bouncer attempting to shoo off loiterers, and ask after the hero of Baldur’s Gate, known for frequenting the establishment.
Tav, who indeed frequents the Elfsong so thoroughly it is said he lives there, pokes his head out from the kitchen. He claims a table and a round of soup for the group, and a mug of ale for himself. He listens as the children explain why they have hidden within haybales and barrels, and huddled in darkness passing around a half loaf of bread, in order to be smuggled into the city.
After half an hour, Tav orders some dessert, and summons the Emperor from the Elfsong basement to verify this group is telling the truth. They are.
Tav puts the children up in three rooms, and goes with the Emperor back downstairs. He walks over to the weapon racks, their grand collection on display, hands on hips in contemplation.
Meanwhile, the Emperor gathers a supply pack. With the type of brief excursions that Tav undergoes these days, there is far less need for him to bring so many supplies on the road, and he may forget otherwise.
“You won’t believe this fellow they are talking about,” Tav says, screwing the lid onto an empty brain storage container and slipping it into his bag. “He is unreal. A playwright couldn’t conjure such a villain.”
The Emperor, of course, can believe it, because he has just seen the man in question and his deeds across the minds of eleven terrified children. You are going to march up to his doorstep and murder him?
Tav’s grins sharpens. “Well, I could.”
And what of the letter you received yesterday? The Emperor pauses. I see. You want me to go in your stead, while you handle this new matter.
“I think it would be fun for you,” Tav says, smiling. “You should get out there.”
Blurg and Omeluum’s request was not so urgent that it could not wait until your return.
“Well, the way they talked about it, it seems like they are about to wander off by themselves. You can predict how that’s going to end, since you are very clever.”
The Emperor sighs. It's a waste of time to go with Tav to kill some petty slum lord anyways; the elf is taking his second-favorite longsword instead of his enchanted rapier, because while the latter is his most powerful weapon, he is not expecting an honorable duel on equal footing.
The Emperor says, Making an example is an effective way to discourage anyone from taking his place immediately. But eventually someone will.
"You're right, we need systematic change. Someone should do something about that!" Tav replies lightly. "You are making it seem like I intend to tie him to a chair and carve off limbs. I plan to simply ask very nicely for him to give his ill-gotten fortune to his victims and then depart. There may be no violence involved at all."
The people in that area have refused your aid before, the Emperor notes. A close-knit but myopic community—that is why they are in this situation.
Tav shrugs. "People are reactionary."
They supported the rise of this man in order to resist the Guild’s incursion, and arguably brought his reign upon themselves.
"Let us all aspire to be a little like Wyll Ravengard today, then.” Tav crosses back to the weapons rack, where the Emperor’s recently acquired golden shield shines, freshly polished. “Ah, how did that verse end?”
The Emperor follows the bard’s sudden thought-trail to the pages of an old playbook. A lonely tower, a thread of nostalgia. He answers, “Come out of love for me, not love for blood and steel.”
His mind entwines with Tav’s, for a moment. The elf has that play memorized. The question is redundant. Tav smiles, giving the shield a little knock, as if pretending there is an occupant within.
Omeluum and Blurg plan to travel to a part of the Underdark that Tav is familiar with, and are requesting an escort. There is, the Emperor recalls, a beach in the area, near the foot of Lenore De Hurst’s arcane tower.
There’s a scrape of wood against stone. Tav is surreptitiously kicking a footstool closer and closer.
Do you need help? the Emperor says.
"I am not short by any measure," Tav replies, trying to hide his smile, and hopping atop the stool with the fullest brunt of elven grace. "You are just freakishly tall. Wipe that smirk off," he adds, as the Emperor stops floating and bends his head down for a kiss.
Your aid in this endeavor is highly appreciated, says Omeluum. This area has only become more hazardous since the threat of the duergar were removed; now, the drow have taken the opportunity to encroach farther.
The other illithid remains at healthy arm’s length distance, literally and figuratively. Despite his scholarly profession, Omeluum’s instincts are not entirely dulled. While the Emperor is always careful to avoid being intimidating unless warranted, he has also not taken Tav’s suggestions to “maybe open with a joke”.
The ruins of Lenore’s tower were thoroughly searched, the Emperor says. What makes you wish to go back?
“We know that Tav and his companions have been there once before,” Blurg interjects. “But during your first visit, he was searching for alchemical ingredients, not for hints to Lenore’s ultimate whereabouts.”
Your colleague is likely long dead. Her trail went cold at Baldur’s Gate, and Tav has in fact already made an effort to search for her there.
“We hope that new information will arise when we return to the source of the matter,” the hobgoblin says delicately. “Lenore could be eccentric—as the types who live alone in towers often are. Perhaps new clues will emerge, ones initially missed by a stranger.”
Tav spent nearly twenty minutes divining how to enter a secret door, where he proceeded to entirely empty the hidden room of its magical and non-magical items, including private journal entries, and would have taken the chairs if he could, the Emperor says. But if you are sure he missed something essential.
Omeluum and Blurg exchange uncertain glances. They have stopped walking. The wind whistles along the dark cliffs of the Underdark.
Sorry, the Emperor drawls. Was it something I said? Never mind.
As he takes point again, he overhears Blurg say, “Perhaps I should not have worded it so…”
It would not do to imply that the hero of Baldur’s Gate is incompetent, Omeluum agrees.
“Especially not in front of…” Blurg trails off meaningfully.
If the Emperor were not psionic, he might conclude that they are being passive-aggressive. It does not occur to either of them to hold their conversation privately, whether through magical or psychic means.
Then again, perhaps they lack the means. The Emperor assumed that they were closer, but he could be mistaken.
He can find out, of course. Instead of doing that, he puts his focus on scanning the road ahead for traps. Baldur's Gate has many flaws, but despite all of its muggings and murders, those things are still technically illegal and everyone will agree on that if not on enforcement of law. Here in the Underdark, slavery via drow (or mind flayer) is a daily hazard of life.
Because his attention must remain on his two charges, including their thoughts in case they see something behind that he doesn’t, he’s unfortunately still overhearing their conversation.
“Has it truly been so long since we’d spoken in person to Lenore?”
We meant to visit that one time, but our experiments with wispweed took priority.
“Right. Perhaps that one could have waited.”
It could not have. If you don’t recall, pushing back the timeline even by a tenday would have resulted in major downstream delays for Halax and Lorlarrio.
“I am sure they would have understood.”
Doubtful.
“Then I am sure they could have worked around it,” Blurg mutters, and there is a sudden undercurrent of tension, left over from some previous conversation about the same topic. Omeluum most certainly senses this as well, though it says nothing to continue the conversation thread.
Instead, it drifts forward, closer to the Emperor, and suddenly says:
I have been meaning to ask you something. How did you achieve romantic and sexual compatibility with a non-illithid?
The Emperor gives Omeluum an incredulous stare, followed by Tav’s favorite answer: Hard work and honesty.
Unperturbed, Omeluum replies, I can see how those would aid in developing sufficient trust, a rare commodity afforded to our kind. But even afterwards, are you not constantly worried about…You appear offended by this question. Curious.
It’s a non-relevant topic, and we approach enemy territory. We would do well to focus.
Blurg is looking off in the distance, very pointedly trying not to notice Omeluum talking to the Emperor. Omeluum outwardly exhibits no sign of noticing this.
The Emperor feels a sudden and deep longing for Tav’s presence.
I can understand why you might respond defensively to the topic. Some may even say that in helping you establish power and influence in your city and ardently protecting from its threats, Tav plays a role similar to that of a favored personal thrall.
Does he now? the Emperor says sardonically. I find myself doing a great deal of dish-washing for my favored personal thrall. Life in the colonies must have improved.
Curious, Omeluum repeats.
Incredibly, no greater than forty-three minutes later, Omeluum says, Such is the extent of your partialism, would it cause you to describe your previous existence as your "self" rather than your "host"?
The Emperor wonders if his exasperation, psionically obvious if nothing else, is being misinterpreted somehow. I am not here to play questions games with you.
Ah, of course. But you must forgive my curiosity, as you are an enormous outlier in many respects. There is a great deal of good our people could do for the world at large, if they were inclined to share their vast knowledge instead of hoarding it in the name of survival.
Then perhaps I should have seized the Netherbrain for that purpose, the Emperor replies. I will reevaluate during my next opportunity.
…Oh! That was a joke, Omeluum says. You have an excellent grasp on humor. After a moment, it adds, You seem to dislike me.
There is no need or reason for us to like each other, says the Emperor. We lack affinity in all respects except for two coincidental similarities. Nonetheless, personal feelings will not impact the outcome of this journey.
This is logical, and I will respect what it is you say, of course. But you are reaching out to me.
Realizing it’s true, the Emperor withdraws his mind at once. He can go tendays without indulging in a psychic connection, but it seems that without it, he is easily drawn to the nearest friendly psionic presence.
Tav likes Omeluum a great deal. He still has the researcher's gift of the thoroughly counterfeit mind-protecting ring in his collection. Yet, to the bard, that exchange they made of trinket for song is as precious as trading gold for a vorpal blade.
The Emperor redirects the parts of his attention not on alert to thinking about Tav instead. The prospect of re-visiting Lenore’s tower alone had almost gotten the elf to change his mind and come along, after all. Tav is very fond of the poetry discovered there, and has kept each page, even after all this time.
To the Emperor’s surprise, as he psychically retreats, he feels the other illithid follow. Omeluum's mind is like an archive nobody visits, quiet, compact, and filled with a truly tremendous amount of information about fungi. But from that dry catalogue, there is a sudden spark of wonder.
Is that poetry? I was not aware that Lenore wrote such verse.
She was quite prolific, the Emperor answers.
"Lenore liked poetry?" Blurg interjects, his brow furrowing.
She wrote regularly, judging by the volumes of her work we found, says the Emperor.
"Ten years. And we never even knew that," Blurg says to Omeluum flatly. The illithid's tentacles twitch, and then droop, and its projected wonder turns to trepidation.
Years passing without correspondence is a common phenomenon among our colleagues. There was no reason for us to suspect there was anything wrong.
Blurg frowns.
The Emperor recalls a great number of unsent letters scattered in a pile around a torn-out sheet containing a verse that stuck out to Tav:
“The silence stretches on—I’m all alone.
Please, can I hold your hands, for just a while?”
Omeluum’s tentacles twitch again.
“What is it?” Blurg says.
Nothing, his research partner replies quickly, glancing away from the Emperor.
“Right. I’m sure if it were important, you would tell me,” the hobgoblin says stiffly.
At least this brings a period of quiet.
We are not “fighting”, Omeluum says while they make camp for a brief rest.
The Emperor says nothing.
Blurg…feels strongly about following up on a friend we had known for a long time. He took the news of her disappearance poorly.
The news that she has been missing for over a decade without anyone noticing? the Emperor says.
The other illithid’s brow ridges draw together. Yes. He believes if he’d pressed harder on the matter of her joining the Society, she would have felt more supported, socially. Of course it is hard to say if her disappearance had anything to do with this. And there is little realistic chance to pick up her trail at this point. I hoped indulging Blurg by coming here would cheer him, but instead, he seems…well, the navigation of social norms with humanoids still does not come naturally to me. Just as, it seems, the navigation of illithid norms does not come naturally to you. I mean no offense by this, of course. It seems you left your colony when you were still immature.
The Emperor has three ways he could respond.
The first, which Tav would find funny, is, I don’t recall small talk being the social norm of the colonies.
The second is, Again, if you do not wish to be caught in ambush, I suggest you pay attention to our surroundings.
And the third, You should go and speak with your companion instead of with me.
Since it is Omeluum, all three of these responses are concurrently submitted, in addition to a few more sentiments that are not full-sentence thoughts.
Rather than respond to any of these individually or all at once in a projection-of-psionic-idea, Omeluum projects neutral acknowledgement and then says, I hear you are striving to improve your own spellcasting, and have even achieved great progress. Would you count yourself as an arcanist now?
The Emperor accepts Omeluum’s desire to deescalate. Not so much. Magic is a useful tool, but it is not my primary object of study.
Ah, I see.
Despite appreciating the utility of magic open to him, the Emperor feels little draw towards the ultimate ends of its obsessive training—ostentatious conjurations or lichdom or other such ends. At a certain point on the bell curve, the risks of great power outstrip the efforts of clawing for it.
Besides, it is Tav who loves magic as naturally as song. Whenever the bard weaves his spell to create a psychic bond between them, the Emperor tastes such joy from the act of casting. The great mythal ward of Evereska, Tav once said, was the result of many spellcasters infusing their magic together, interwoven as one, in perfect connection.
The Emperor glances at Omeluum askance. I am not averse to advice.
The other illithid brightens with an audible chirrup. There are certainly unique challenges in the approach of the Weave as an illithid, and I would be most pleased to discuss.
Perhaps Blurg would be able to offer some insights as well.
An excellent idea. Blurg! Perhaps you can share some of your own experiences with beginning to practice arcane magic at what would be considered a later time than those who are usually inclined.
The hobgoblin comes over and begins expositing. His mood, in contrast to before, is suddenly bright as the sun.
The Weave is the lifeblood of Toril as much as its oceans and its soil; not merely a source to make fireballs out of, but sustenance for every magical creature, as necessary as oxygen. The Emperor has wondered why and how Mystra’s gift manifests in illithids, who are designed to reject it. Then again, grass keeps growing between cobblestones, even when the path is repaved.
After a one-hour, lively discussion, Blurg grins broadly at Omeluum, projecting what can only be described as sheer affection. The arcanist acknowledges this emotion with, You are a greatly valued friend to me, Blurg.
Then, the two of them walk off in opposite directions of the campsite, nodding to themselves.
Remarkable. Truly.
Eventually, they come upon a trio of drow huddled at the top of a cliff, pinned by an entire pack of hook horrors.
The obvious course of action, of course, is clear. The Emperor can see that fine and brilliant line, brighter than all the lives of three drow who are all ardent Lolth-followers. Well, one of them visits a shrine to Eilistraee in secret. But while she assuages her guilt during the quiet hours of morning, at night she conducts raids to the surface for slaves. It is actions that count, after all.
“We should help them,” Blurg murmurs.
Tav would probably save them as well, if only because he could. And the Emperor would point out the traveling delay involved, and the Lolth worship. And Tav would point his finger at the shield strapped to the Emperor’s back and waggle his eyebrows. And while this hypothetical argument is going on, Wyll Ravengard would shove past and taking a running leap.
The Emperor taps his staff against the ground, and, as sparks of electricity crawl up his arm, he takes flight. It’s simple. By the time Omeluum and Blurg catch up, the Emperor is floating down among the hook horrors’ smoking carcasses.
In thanks, one of the drow lunges with a dagger. That’s a shame. The Emperor eats her brain.
At least after that, the remaining pair reluctantly offer information about the route ahead.
When he listens to their thoughts, still steeped in hostility, the Emperor briefly considers eating these two after all, but Blurg seems especially delighted by the show of heroics.
Omeluum’s tentacles twist with excitement as well. You say you are not an arcanist, and yet that was quite a display of magical prowess!
The Emperor answers slowly. I did not study that spell so much that it was taught to me.
Omeluum cocks its head. A moment passes. The other illithid looks at him hopefully. And so the Emperor reaches out with a memory he’s only shared before with Tav: Of the great beat of draconic wings, the glitter of bronze scales, the rolling thunder in the sky above the ocean.
Oh, Omeluum says, afterwards.
It doesn’t know how to respond, even though full context behind the memory and its weight and emotion is wordlessly conveyed via superiorly efficient psionic link. For some reason, this strikes the Emperor as humorous.
Omeluum bravely attempts to summarize, It seems, in the past…
Let’s move on, says the Emperor.
Omeluum says, What a fascinating decision you have made to spare the remaining drow. Allowing them to die would be the solution of greatest good arguably.
There is no greater calculus of good or evil in this situation, the Emperor replies. It would be inconsequential either way, to society at large, for three drow to live or die.
You risked your life.
I did not. It was not that difficult, and we gained valuable information in exchange that will allow us to avoid future patrols.
I apologize. I did not mean to offend your pride in your abilities.
You could likely have done the same, if you were not so overtly concerned with Blurg.
Overtly?
He was not even within range to be attacked, the Emperor says, pointing out Omeluum’s positioning.
The scholar wiggles its tentacles sheepishly. I suppose it is true that I was concerned, perhaps prematurely. I find that I do tend to…fret about the dangers to him.
The Emperor starts to answer, and then catches the thought behind the thought. From yourself?
It is a natural concern for our kind, is it not? the other mind flayer says.
Perhaps, the Emperor says mildly. Though if you ask for my assessment, I think Blurg outstrips you as a battlemage, which is why I requested his input earlier.
I agree! He has quite an impressive flame spell that I have not been able to quite… Omeluum pauses. Did you never have such fears? If not for your partner’s physical safety, then for that of his mind?
Tav would give a glib response to this along the lines of “The Greater Restoration spell fixes everything!” Of course, not everyone is as durable as a career adventurer, or has a great hoard of magical items.
The Emperor simply says, I do not let fear drive my actions.
Omeluum projects an affirmative. I see. When I am with Blurg, the world seems subjectively less frightening as well.
You feel affection for him, says the Emperor.
Yes, I suppose so. The other illithid gives this a long think. Are you implying…
Perhaps it is of the romantic kind, says the Emperor, since he tires of this.
Oh!
The Emperor leaves Omeluum to grapple with this monumental revelation, and goes to scout the pass ahead and verify the information given by the drow.
Though the cool blue lights throughout Lenore’s arcane tower are still active, there's evidence of break-ins since Tav's initial visit. On the top floor, the animated armor guards are scattered into pieces and the automaton servant, whose head had been found in the Steel Foundry, is missing.
It is completely silent, save for the wind blowing forth at the top of the tower. The three of them conclude their search on that top floor. There was a poem left up here as well:
“These empty sheets are all that’s left of you.
The last of all the thoughtless gifts you gave.
I will hold onto them; it’s all that I can do.
I can’t throw them away; I’ve never been that brave.”
They search the tower for a while, and then come to the same conclusion as before: Lenore De Hurst departed her tower about a decade ago for a summit in Baldur’s Gate, and that was her last known location.
Blurg sighs, crestfallen. “There is a chance she lives still, somewhere. Perhaps if we can locate an object that…”
It has been ten years. If that is the case, and she wished to return, she would have, the Emperor says. If she cannot be scryed upon, the options are limited.
We could return to our lead in Baldur’s Gate, Omeluum suggests. We still don’t know if…
Not everything has a neat resolution. Sometimes, you never learn the truth.
You are correct, of course, Omeluum finally says. It's a shame. I had hoped that new evidence would emerge. There was a chance, based on things she implied in her final letters to me, that she had perhaps made a detour instead of going directly to Baldur’s Gate, but perhaps I was reading into them too much.
Blurg nods glumly and then declares he will do a final pass downstairs. Omeluum watches the hobgoblin go, clasping his hands together anxiously.
The Emperor sighs. What is the matter?
The other illithid turns to stare at him. Indeed, the Emperor is in the habit of posing such questions even when he knows the answer. It is a necessary skill for proper communication with non-illithids.
Omeluum can’t argue with that.
Lenore wrote me, Omeluum repeats. Before she vanished, her letters increased in frequency by forty-five percent. Her final three letters were sent within a tenday. I failed to respond to all of them. Blurg’s recent...criticism of me is warranted. I plainly saw Lenore’s loneliness, and did nothing about it. Instead, I prioritized my work.
Both of you did so. And it seems unlikely that you will emotionally neglect Blurg due to preoccupation with your research, seeing as he is your research partner.
It has already happened. Omeluum projects the scenario: Blurg drooping somewhat as Omeluum announces to him that a particular kind of research will take it away somewhere for a tenday. The most prominent instance of this, of course, is when the former was captured by the Absolute, leaving the latter to worry.
You have alluded that you fear harming him and now you fear forgetting about him, the Emperor says. You should choose one of these.
I cannot predict which is more likely to occur, Omeluum says. But ultimately, the simple fact remains that our kind is simply not biologically or psychologically designed for…romance.
Is that what you think?
Of course, there are deviants in every population, Omeluum says hastily. And in your case, the extent of your partialism suggests it would actually be more likely for you to overcome your nature in some respects than to not.
You believe you can’t do it?
I do not know. You think I am…romantically inclined? For Blurg?
You are already an arcanist. Clearly your own deviancy knows no bounds, the Emperor says dryly. He shuts a nearby drawer. If you wish to avoid past mistakes, then make a concerted effort. The past is beyond our influence. The closest thing you can do is to carry it with you.
Our kind does not hold well with the past, Omeluum says. Record-keeping is the role of the elder brain. There is only the present, and the concerns of the now.
Yes, I used to think that way.
Omeluum watches the Emperor adjust the golden shield he has been carrying. An interesting choice.
I am still “breaking it in”.
That looks much too heavy for you to wield.
It is, the Emperor replies. For now.
When Blurg returns, he holds a tome bound with black leather. There is a rather prominent illithid symbol on its cover, but the pages are blank—save for poems hidden cleverly in section dividers throughout.
Ah, that. Lenore intended a new spellbook as a gift for me, Omeluum says. I never got around to picking it up. I hope you can find a use for it.
It does not mean you have lost the right to it, the Emperor points out.
No. But now, I have no need for another one. The only reasonable action is to give it to you, and it is only natural to reward the adventurer who has aided in our expenditure.
And so the Emperor takes the spellbook.
Herein lies the risk of excessive do-gooding: Upon exiting the tower, as they pass below a rocky arch, a half dozen explosive charges go off. No doubt a parting gift from the two drow the Emperor allowed to live.
Omeluum and the Emperor both float upwards, though the former’s reaction is slow; a rock clips it in the side of the head. The Emperor feels a bolt of distress that is not his own.
Blurg…! We must reach him.
Stay here, the Emperor says. And then repeats himself, when Omeluum struggles to get up. I will retrieve him.
He shuts Omeluum's anxiety out, and readies himself. Waits for two jagged chunks of rock to fall, and darts through. He reaches the unconscious hobgoblin’s position, and holds his shield over them while he calculates.
Attempting to float Blurg back the way he came will only result in the hobgoblin getting skewered by falling rocks. They could go the opposite way—which is blocked by thick, hanging roots of a nearby sussur tree.
The Emperor lifts his shield telekinetically and then launches it. The spiked edges of it, set with a vigorous backspin, are able to slice through the roots. While this occurs, he carries Blurg across the distance to reach cover.
When they regroup, the two scholars seem badly shaken. To alleviate emotions before they venture back into dangerous regions again, the Emperor announces that he would like to make a stop at the nearby beach.
The waters of the Underdark are nearly black. They roar against distant, dark cliffs.
And beyond, there is still light—some kind of glowing algae floating upon the surface of a vast underground sea. Opening his illithid senses, the Emperor feels the slippery presence of swift-swimming animal minds, winking playfully past. The thought patterns are similar to that of dolphins. He holds the memory, to show to Tav later.
Are you seeking a particular type of shell? Omeluum asks him.
I would like to find a nautilus.
I see, the other illithid says, charmed, and goes over to the other side of the shore to look.
It is Blurg, who has familiarity with some of the Underdark’s gastropods, who digs out a smooth, impressively violet-striped spiral. It’s an extraordinarily large specimen, nearly the size of the hobgoblin’s palm.
This will do, the Emperor says, examining it. And then, since they are already here, he suggests that Blurg find Omeluum a shell as well.
“I like your shield-throwing move. You should make that one a regular attack.”
Tiredly, Tav draws out a full brain jar from his bag, setting it on the table.
“I honestly thought Omeluum and Blurg were together, already,” Tav continues, as he unpacks. “It always seemed rude to ask, though, for some reason.” He starts laughing again. “I can’t believe you…”
A child could have pointed it out.
“I don’t know. Love can be strange.” Tav holds his hand up, palm out, and the Emperor threads their fingers. “That’s a beautiful spellbook. Lenore did wonderful work. It’s a shame, isn’t it? I would have liked to meet her.”
With his other hand, he holds out his own book and bumps the two together, like in toast.
“It’s a shame,” Tav repeats. “Some of her verse is quite good, and certainly doesn’t deserve to be forgotten in that lonely tower.”
On the contrary, it is committed to our memories now. And those will endure for a long while yet.
The elf smiles. “So they will.”
He reaches back out and turns the newly acquired nautilus shell back and forth in the torchlight, flashing its pearly insides. Then offers it back. The Emperor holds the open end of the shell up to the side of his head, and sorts through his mind's library. He does not remember if Balduran had any musical talent—it's one of those details that have dissolved—and so it seems unlikely; such a skill's existence would likely be recalled if considerable time was devoted to its practice.
Now, his auditory organs are no longer external, making his hearing considerably worse compared to that of an elven bard with perfect pitch who describes the tone of this shell as “brassy”. But he can pick out the low roar, which still sounds like waves.