That Stolen Spark

by KohKoh

Summary:

The world keeps blurring at its edges, and it’s threatening to take him with it.

Focus.

He feels like a wisp of smoke, at risk of blowing away in the rising wind.

Desperately, he tries to keep hold on the world around him. Keep himself from fading away.

***

He comes to on a wreck of meat and fire with barely a thought in his head. There’s something happening, something urgent. The others are worried, snapping at each other in harsh tones around the edge of the campfire, yet despite their issues, they move forward – if he can’t keep up, he’ll get left behind. Maybe, if he can be useful, they’ll keep him around.

Chapter 1

It’s the sickly smell of smoke that stirs his mind from its stupor. It’s not woodsmoke; rather, it’s the cloying scent of burning flesh with a tang of metal so sharp he could scrape his teeth on it. Something delicious touched with something rancid. The foul scent is unfamiliar, but the smoke clogs his lungs all the same. He shudders, gasps, flips himself on aching arms to his stomach, and coughs violently until his throat rasps and a thin stream of bile spills from his lips. His skull threatens to split open with each beat of his heart. Agony.

Around him, the world burns. Great columns of purple and red muscle-like flesh pulsate and glisten even as they smolder. The skin of the wall, pulled taut like a delicate membrane, has been punched through and great flames crackle and try to escape outside. The wind roars through the opening, and sucks out the air with it – he feels lightheaded, his skull throbs. Robs him of thought. It’s hard to breathe.

Where am I?

“I” is a concept too large for his mind right now, too complicated to grasp the edges. He feels boundless and open, an empty vessel waiting to be filled.

Instead, he forces his hands under him and hoists up, up, teetering on to his feet – the world sways around him, and he stumbles, catching himself on one of the pillars of sticky flesh. It is firm and strong with a touch of give like real muscle; a comfortable heat radiates from it. There’s a subtle urge to sink his teeth into it, taste it and test it. Where his hand touches, it caresses him back, alive. Conscious? Sentient? Has he stumbled into the maw of a giant beast?

Flesh it may be, but as much as it is a creature, it is also a room. The organic matter is covered in slates of chitinous armor, forming stairs, walkways, and some sort of pods. Along the edges are multiple cocoon-shaped structures with a front pane like glass; several of them have cracked fronts and charred bodies within. Behind him is one such pod, complete with a mangled side. Did he fall out? Crawl along the ground to escape the spreading fire?

Gods, his head hurts.

Somewhere, someone is singing. The sound is deep and haunting, echoing against the fleshy walls, echoing in his head. Faint, but it hooks its song with a barb into the forefront of his mind and pulls forward. Without intention, he pitches away from his pillar and tries to find his feet. The siren song calls, distress, and he’s compelled to answer. He’s a drop in a deep ocean and the song is the current underneath.

Distressdutylove.

Time slips through his fingers as his feet find their way toward the song. It resonates from the walls, but the source is ahead. The ground squishes with each step he takes, and the wall peels open before him, allowing him through. It’s like walking through a dream, a passenger in his own flesh.

Help us~

There is a body in a chair laid out before him. Its eyes rove aimlessly. Its fingers twitch as if someone strokes the tendons like the delicate wires of a fine instrument. The body, a man, gasps shallowly; alive?

Not quite.

We are trapped!

Slowly his feet find their way around the specimen. It spasms twice as if the almost corpse attempts to track his movement. The back of its skull has been cut away to reveal a glistening brain that dances with its own life.

The song resonates in the air, filling it with its greater purpose, but the notes he followed have led him here, to this little brain.

Release us…Please!

Without conscious thought, he reaches out his hand and skims fingers along the split of the bone; feeling the raised ridges of wrinkled brain matter and the cooling congeal of slick blood.

Yes! You’ve come to save us from this place – from this place you’ll free us! The brain speaks in two voices in two different tempos. It pauses as if considering, Please, before they return. They return.

“Y-you…” His voice clicks in his dry throat. Rough, unused – it hurts to speak. The words don’t come easy, his brain a mangled mess, “You sound afraid. W-why?”

The enemy. So many enemies. The brain quivers again, as if trying to shake itself free from its bone cage, We are newborn – born new from this husk. Your song is our song. Born new like Us – together, we must escape!

Its urgency is palpable, its fear pungent. It quivers again; weak and helpless it thrashes. He hooks his fingers along the edge of bone and gives a great wrench in opposite directions, and the bone gives a terrible crack as the slip sliding brain squelches out, right into his palms.

Hot brain flesh in his hands. His fingers twitch with the desire to rip its tender, moist meat to shreds. It trembles in his palms but would come apart so easily. Put as many holes into it as his brain has; make them a matching pair. The juice running down his fingers down his wrists - salty drip down the back of his tongue. He could end this little beast, break it as he too has been broken–

In his hesitation, the little brain quivers again and hops out of his hands to the floor, where it quickly spouts a small but sharp row of spines, tentacles, and four gangly, clawed feet. The brain-legged creature sways as if it were dancing, and its song changes tune – Gratitudeaweduty – We are free. Our freedom is ours. Friend. Again, it tilts, as a dog would tilt its head listening to a sound only it can hear. Something seizes deep within his own head, as if in recognition. To him, the distant song seems unchanged. We must go to the helm. At the helm we are needed.

Cold sweat chills his brow – what was that? Why had he wanted to destroy it? Mangle it into blood pulp? The dark, sinuous desire remains and bubbles beneath his skin. He needs a distraction; he doesn’t want to crush the little brain despite this urge that dances in his veins. He shakes his head, tries to focus. His headache doubles.

“What’s… at the helm?”

Again the brain tilts, tensing, as if querying an unseen advisor, Do you not hear it? We will not survive here. We are needed to navigate – we are needed to leave this realm.

“...Your n-name?”

It seems surprised, and takes a long moment to ponder the question. Us. We are us. The beast turns on its heels and scrambles off towards a great hole in the membrane walls, claws click clacking over the chitin plates, To the helm! To the helm we go - we are going to the helm.

Stunned and still reeling from the violent urge that had overtaken him mere moments ago, he follows the creature - Us - towards the flaming gap in the walls, and once again, time seems to stutter and stretch before him. His body moves but his mind falls into a mire, thick and slow and the world passes him by.

 

-x-

 

“Istik.”

His eyes list guilelessly over the tableau before them. Hands hang limp at his sides. He can feel his sweat, sticky, cooling in the breeze.

“Istik.”

The imps are dead (by his hand? He can feel blood on his fingers, is it his own?), and the bodies they were feasting on are spread across the ground in a clear path of violence. Imps, men, a woman, and one of those tentacled creatures. The name escapes him right now, the word floating just beyond the forefront of his mind, and as he reaches for it, it disappears into so much mist. It lays there, tentacles pulled by the vicious wind whipping through the chamber, its skin the same purple and redpinks as the walls pulsating around them.

Their blood is smeared in great arcs across the ground, gleaming in the light of the fire. So many lives ended, melded into one.

His groin gives a tight, fierce throb.

Beautiful.

Beside him, the brain leg quivers. It sing-songs something that resonates in his core. Worrycarecomfort.

A clawed hand on his shoulder, insistent, “Istik!”

His lungs fill with a rough gasp, and awareness returns like a splash of icy water. His hands ache. A yellow, spotted woman stands at his side, her expression fierce. “Has the worm scrambled your brain already, or are all Istik this limited?” Her braids dance as she shakes her head in disgust, “Search the bodies and find yourself some equipment. Adequate as you are at fighting, it will take more than your bare hands to take control of the helm. The ghaik will not fall so easily.”

Equipment? For the first time, he glances down at himself and takes in the full scope of his own body (doesn’t feel like his, feels like he is a thin wisp of smoke caged in bone): the steely gray of his skin, the long stretch of his torso and his legs and … oh yeah he is most definitely naked. Swinging in the breeze even. There’s a brief thought to cover himself and protect his modesty, but it’s a bit late for that. The memories are hazy but he’s pretty sure he’s been traveling with her for at least a few minutes now. Surely she’s seen everything.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, the spotted woman simply sneers at him and stalks off to the far end of the platform.

A quick tour of the room and the bodies doesn’t reveal much. None of the human corpses have any sort of armor in his size, and only one of the men has a pair of pants that fits well, and a belt to match. The man’s shirt is less comfortable; it’s a touch too tight in the shoulders and the sleeves end short of his wrists. Weaponry is scarce, but there is a short sword on the woman that feels right in his hands. It’s got a bad notch to the blade that doesn’t bode well for its longevity.

He’s out of luck on shoes. Luckily, the flesh of the floor is soft enough and the armored plates of the pathway don’t cut into his soles.

Around his feet, Us gives an excited spin. Its song has shifted again – Excitementdutyurgency. He remembers its desire, its concern for what waited there. It seems eager to press forward.

He looks up at Spots, “Are we going to the helm?”

The look she gives him drips disdain, “Yes. We need to get off this vessel and remove the parasites. At the helm we can take control and escape.”

“You… You said… your name was?”

The black spots around her eyes crinkle as her frown deepens, “I am Lae’zel of Creche Kill’ir. Try to keep the thought in your head, Istik.”

He secures the blade in his belt despite the lack of a sheath; it wobbles traitorously. There’s a fleshy mesh wall in front of them they’re going to have to scale, and he hopes desperately that the blade stays put during the way up. The pants should protect from any serious damage (the blade just isn’t that sharp), but the idea of an accidental stab on the climb is unwanted to say the least.

When she sees him ready, Lae’zel begins to climb up the mesh. He moves to keep up but pauses – is Us going to be able to follow? But sure enough, the brain clambers with its four legs ably as it skitters across the ground; it manages the ascent with ease. He grips the flesh mesh with his hands and follows, and once Us has reached the top, it turns to watch him (does it even have eyes? It must see somehow) – Yes yes! Come along friend, we must hurry! As his hands grasp the top, it performs another playful spin, and rushes off ahead yet again.

“There will come a time where it turns on us,” Spots, Lae’zel, mutters as he stands beside her, “In the meantime, allow it to help us. The longer we can keep it believing we are thralls, the better.”

Will Us turn on them? He supposes it is possible – the little brain is so determined, but it was born of this place, and this place has been nothing but bad so far. Still, it stands out from the rest; it has not attacked them, and has helped against the imps they fought. It says nice things, accepts him, calls him beautiful. The song courses through it, courses through this entire structure. Both Lae’zel and Us want to head to the helm, but their reasons are different. Lae’zel wants to escape and remove the parasite. Us wants to serve. At some point, they’ll have to separate.

Falling behind, he jogs ahead to try to catch up with Lae’zel. With each step, his head throbs anew. There’s the roar of a dragon outside, the sound echoing in his skull. How can it hurt this much? It feels like with each step he takes, his tentative grasp on rationality starts slipping away again. Desperately, he steels himself and attempts to hold on.

There’s a long hallway, another sphincter, and then a circular room. Pods line the edges, and in the center there is a circle of chairs complete with human occupants; dead? Alive? He’s not sure. The thought just doesn’t seem important. He wants to investigate, but his grasp on the threads is slipping. His ears start to ring, and time seems to slow.

He moves towards the nearest chair. The body on it is slight, tanned skin with pale golden hair. He runs his fingers along the edge of their jaw. Unconscious. If he covered their nose and mouth, would they even struggle? Would they just lay there as their lungs screamed for air and their brain died of oxygen starvation? Or would their eyes snap open and lock to his as they trashed? It would be simple work to hold them down, hold them still, as they clawed and bucked beneath him. How long would it take until they suffocated and their lips turned blue?

There’s a terrible thudding on one of the pods that chimes in time with the pounding of his skull. The clang clang clang and the shrill voice are so loud that it steals the very thought from his mind before his body can act on it. His muscles untense, and he turns – there. There’s a flash of movement, another obnoxious clang clang clang coming from one of the pods. He moves forward and watches as the woman within struggles, hitting her hands against the panel. She looks at him, her lips move, but he–

She’s screaming at him, he can’t make it out–

Spots is making noise, talking, but the words slur together–

 

-x-

 

His head is swimming. Awareness blooms again and he finds himself waist deep in chilly water, naked. He’s covered in blood - there’s blood coating his hands up to his elbows, and he can feel specks of it drying on his shoulders and face. When did that happen? His ribs ache, and in addition to the headache that seems to be a staple, his temple is killing him. He raises a hand and presses it to the hurt; there’s a hell of a bruise there. His hair feels stiff and tacky with drying blood, and his scalp itches fiercely.

Washing up – he must have been washing the blood off.

He takes a shuddering breath, body shivering with the cold, and continues the task absentmindedly. Something smells… delicious. His stomach rumbles with interest. Behind him, there’s a low murmur of vaguely familiar voices, halfway between talking and arguing with each other. Without much thought, he listens in and tries to track the different tones. Hearing without really understanding.

“And why are we bothering to keep him around?” Even annoyed, the first voice has a theatrical energy to it, a certain pomp.

“The half-drow?” A woman’s voice, but not the spotted woman – Lae’zel, he reminds himself. Lae’zel has a rasp to her voice that this one, Not-Lae’zel, lacks.

“Yes, him. Why is he here? He’s hardly got a thought in his head.” The first voice again. He imagines its owner talks with his whole body.

“Now, that’s uncalled for–” distinguishing them is rapidly becoming difficult; they need to stop all trying to talk at once. It’s another man’s voice, not Pomp. This one sounds more calm and measured, orderly.

“He’s been...helpful, if a little confused–”

“A little confused? The man doesn’t even know his damn name. How is he supposed to be useful helping us get these worms out of our brains?”

Silence, and he turns to watch. Half hidden in the reeds as he is, he doubts the others even notice his sudden attention. There are four people standing there, Lae’zel, another woman, and two men; one is a kind eyed, brown-haired human with a beard and purple robes, and the other a striking elf with white hair and an ornate doublet. They all look a touch familiar, though the only one he can actually remember with any clarity is Lae’zel – she stands proud, her hands clasped casually on the longsword before her. Even at this distance, he can see the cool disdain in her eyes as she stares down her nose at the elf. Impressive, considering she’s the shorter of the two.

“The way I see it, elf, he is more useful than you.”

“What?” It isn’t just the elf’s voice that is theatrical; he does express with his whole body. From here, the strong furrow of his brow is as obvious as the contempt in his words, and his body language is shrunk down, crouched. Not like he’s cowering, however. He looks ready to pounce and go for her throat.

“Addled though he may be, the Istik has proven himself in battle. There is a fire in his belly, and he listens to orders. We would not have been able to bring down the Nautiloid without him. You, however, do not share his aptitude for fighting.”

The other woman stands back, crossing her arms. Black hair done up in a long plait, dressed in all blacks and purples – she seems to have a thing for the colors. The image suits her well, although the fringe of her hair is a bit oppressive. There’s a pleased twist to her lips, “You did hold a knife to his throat and managed to receive a bloody nose for your efforts.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him, I was just looking for information–” the man sighs and raises a hand to his face, possibly pinching the bridge of his nose. Gathering himself, resetting his temper, “Fine. You look after our invalid.” Or maybe not. He turns on his heel and storms off.

“And what are you going to do?” The black-haired woman seems to really be enjoying the spectacle.

“I’m going to go… check the perimeter.”

There is barely a pause before Spots responds; there’s no way Pomp isn’t still in earshot, “He is doing no such thing; he is going off to sulk.”

Robes gives his beard a scratch and sighs, “He’s just offended. Our magistrate seems to be a bit… prideful.”

“Chk. If he wishes to waste his time being offended, better that he does so away from my sight.”

“Still, we can’t afford to alienate anyone currently; we need each other’s help. We are on a strict time limit, and if we have any chance to succeed, we’re going to need everyone on board.” The human spreads his hands, a welcoming gesture, “All five of us.”

As if on cue, Robes looks up, spotting him with a note of surprise, which smooths into a pleased smile. He lowers his head and talks discreetly to the other two, then walks over to him with a brisk pace and something cupped in his hands.

“Hello friend! You seem a bit more with us than before, how are you feeling?” The man’s smile is warm and his expression open. Trustworthy – maybe? There’s a need to not take anything at face value, but his brown eyes betray no deceit. Honesty feels a foreign concept in his destroyed brain.

He pulls himself from the water, mindful of his nudity this time – his clothes are nearby, he must have had enough of a mind to stash them before bathing. Sparing the stranger, he dresses quickly, meeting him half way from the shore to where a large campfire crackles away pleasantly. Even at this distance, the heat radiates; it’s pleasant.

Robes seems to wait for an answer that can’t come. Sometimes, it feels like his mouth has been wired shut. Still, he tries to force the words anyway.

“Still having trouble then, hmm?” Robes asks, looking sympathetic, “That’s alright. Shadowheart has worn herself out for today, but she has promised to take a look at you tomorrow. Maybe she can figure out what ails you, or perhaps she’ll have an idea on how to ease the symptoms of your condition–”

And then Gale hands him a bowl of soup–

Wait. Gale?

“You’re… Gale?” The bowl of soup is hot in his almost numb hands. His fingertips tingle.

“Oh, so you do remember! That is a promising sign,” Gale bows, “I am indeed Gale, Gale of Waterdeep. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Again.”

“Well, yes, again, but it’s an excellent chance for me to practice my introductions.” Gale smiles, waiting, but whatever the deeper meaning of the words, it flies right over his head. Gale’s smile slowly dims, his eyes a touch pained, but the man seems to be nothing if not persistent, “I am a wizard of some acclaim. You helped me out of the sigil stone, we had a conversation about ceremorphosis… Any of this ringing a bell?”

He shakes his head, which only aggravates the mind-crushing headache. His eyes feel like hot marbles in their sockets.

“Have some of the soup. I’m afraid it’s not anything I’d call gourmet, but our supplies are awfully limited – it’ll have to make do until I can find something fresh.”

The soup is warm in his hands, the smell rich. His stomach pangs again, but it’s accompanied by an oily feeling of nausea. The thought of eating is both unappealing and yet a desperate need.

“I made it a bit light, in case…”

“In case?”

“To be honest, you look a bit malnourished, and I was worried anything too heavy might…” Gale pauses, clearly considering his words, “disagree with you. Try some. Please.”

He raises the bowl to his lips and takes a big slurp. It tastes just as good as it smells, and it spreads a gentle warmth through his core and into his limbs. When’s the last time he ate? He doesn’t know, but it feels as though it must have been ages ago. Another slurp, and instantly, the hunger flips to sick. The fluid sits heavy in his stomach; it sloshes around like a ship on a bad sea, and nausea rises up maliciously. Cold sweat prickles on his brow, the back of his neck, followed by a rush of dizziness. Feels like the soup is about to come back up. He presses the back of his hand against his mouth. It’s not doing much.

It’s suddenly imperative that he sit down. Now.

His legs fold under him as he sinks to the ground.

Gale’s just watching. Smile still affixed to his face, even if it’s looking a little false. Worry maybe?

His gut gives another lurch, and for a moment he thinks he’s lost the fight. Instead, the bottom of his stomach gives away to a vast, empty cavern. To an aching, wretched hunger. He goes back to slurping the soup; he can’t get it down fast enough. A little dribbles down the side of his mouth. The spoon is in the way, and he tosses it out the bowl.

He’s three quarters of the way through the bowl by the time his stomach begs him to stop again. This time, it’s actually serious.

The wizard still has that look on his face (worry? Concern? Disgust?), but Gale doesn’t avert his gaze.

“...Any better?”

He gives a nod. Stomach full, he’s suddenly very tired, and the words seem far away again. Grasping the threads is difficult, and they slip from his fingers. Occasionally, he can wrap his fist tight and pull. This is not one of those times. The concept of someone gifting him something, even as basic as food, feels foreign. He’d like to say thank you, if he could.

“Good, good.” The wizard sits down carefully, knees creaking ominously. He spends a long moment folding his robes just right, brushing away stray debris from the grass beneath him. “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered your name?”

He shakes his head again, setting down the bowl.

“Do you remember where you are from?”

Another shake.

“Do you have any memories before the Nautiloid?”

He pauses, considers. Tries to pull the past forward, but there’s nothing there. Nothing but specters and blood.

Another head shake.

“I suppose your eloquence is failing you again? It is perfectly understandable, reasonable even – it’s been one hell of a day, hasn’t it? I imagine exhaustion worsens it.”

He glances up, making sure to catch Gale’s eyes; he hopes his question is clear.

“Alright, I don’t know what ‘it’ is, yet. It could be any number of things. Whether your condition is medical or magical in nature, I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it.” Gale leans forward, claps him on the shoulder. His skin crawls with the contact, “It’s probably best for you to get some rest. No offense, but you’re looking exhausted.”

“If you want more soup, there’s plenty still by the fire. When you’re tired, just take one of the bedrolls. Lae’zel has agreed to take the first watch; although, I think Shadowheart has volunteered to stay up as well. Either way, we should be safe enough tonight.” The wizard stands back up, his right knee popping loudly, and gives a little wave, “Goodnight.”

He watches the wizard go speak to the dark-haired woman. They both glance back his way as they talk, but their voices are low and he can’t make any sense of the conversation over the crackle of the fire. Their body language doesn’t raise any alarms, and he finds himself lacking the concern he probably should have.

He is tired. Exhausted. His ribs ache, his head throbs. His mind feels stretched thin and hollow.

He is still cold from the river and sitting next to the fire would be nice. Curling up in a bedroll doubly so.

The idea of sleeping so close to so many others is a bit overwhelming, so as he draws close, he drags one of the bedrolls to the side, as far away from the others as he can without sacrificing precious warmth. There’s a jutting rock in the center of the camp, and he makes sure to have his back to it. Feels safer, harder for someone to sneak up behind him, and this way he can keep his eyes outward, toward everyone else.

As he settles, he catches sight of the elf again. Standing on the absolute edge of the camp, half hidden in the bushes that surround them. It doesn’t look like his time alone sweetened his mood any; he has his arms crossed and his face is stuck in that same glower from before. His red eyes catch the campfire strangely, and they gleam ominously in the shadows.

That one might be trouble. Eventually.

With both Lae’zel and Not-Lae’zel (Shadowheart?) keeping guard, it’s easy to allow his eyes to shut, and slip into a troubled sleep.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Content Warning for graphic violence and discussions about torture methods and PTSD. Please do not take the advice of any tadfools on treating a brain injury and instead seek a professional; these people definitely do not always know what they are doing.

Apologies in advance for having a nameless character doing stuff – if there’s any confusion, please let me know and I will try to clarify.

It’s a strange experience to watch the sun rise and not have to hide in the shadows. For years, the first light of false dawn was Astarion’s sign to flee back into the dark, but now he opens his eyes and can’t help the flutter of awe that sparks in his chest, where his heart would beat if it still could. The world is awash in such colors; the gentle glow of the sun peeking over the treeline, the sky a pastel blue, the clouds a swirl of pink and purple with a golden lining.

It’s beautiful.

He had forgotten how it could be so beautiful.

A deep instinct still chimes that as the sun begins to move, it will burn him to cinders, but as he lays there, there is no pain. Just the cool crisp air with a touch of growing warmth and the melody of birdsong. The smell of the river and the flowers that grow on its edge. A hint of woodsmoke from where the campfire still smolders.

Last night he was struck by fear. Fear that the Master’s will would again imprint itself upon his brain, and force him to drag himself back to Baldur’s Gate. That the Master would be furious, that he would break Astarion’s legs and make him crawl in the sun until not but a wisp still lived. Flaying was old hat after so many years, but the Master had known how Astarion had both feared and loved the sun. How he could not touch it without being burned, and how grief filled its absence.

More than any of his siblings, Astarion had mourned the warmth, the light. Had lived without it for so long that he could not recall what that gentle heat had felt like, but had longed for it all the same.

It was the perfect torment, to show Astarion that what he loved would burn him to ash should he dare touch it, reach for it.

Last night he had been afraid that he would be called back and he would not be able to refuse. Today, the back of his mind remains quiet – no silent eyes watching every move, no unbreakable command puppeting his limbs. No matter where the Master was, he had always known; a little chain anchored into the fabric of his being that would always point to the one who owned him. A damnable compass.

Now… there’s nothing.

Is he truly free?

A loud SNAP and Astarion’s jolted himself half up to his feet, dagger in hand, chest rising and falling rapidly with air he doesn’t need. It takes far too long for him to realize the source of the sound; not creeping footsteps, no hidden vampire master lurking in the shadows, but rather the death of the fire. He watches as the wood glows red from within, and one of the larger logs crackles, gives a shiver, then crumbles into cinder.

Less than two meters to his right, eyes as dark as the unlit coals are watching him.

The half-drow is a giant of a man. He stands more than a head taller than Astarion, but right now, sitting and watching the fire, he looks oddly small. His shoulders are hunched forward as if curling his body around a wound, a blanket draped over his legs and its edge clenched tight in one fist. In the early morning light the charcoal grey of the skin around his eyes looks blackened and sunken, his eyes themselves red and tired.

The scars that stretch across one cheek, his nose, and the fragile flesh of his neck look rather fresh, a hint of pink purple shining where the new skin is still inflamed. The injuries are highlighted with the light of the rising sun, giving his face a rather weathered look for his otherwise youthful appearance. A plum colored tattoo runs from his bottom lip down to just beneath his chin in a wide, faded stripe.

It’s really not surprising that their tag-along amnesiac is already awake. The half-drow had been the first to curl up by the fire the night before, and surely the entire camp knew just how badly he slept. Poor bastard had been tossing and turning half the night. And if those shadows under his eyes are of any indication, he gave up trying hours ago.

“You’re the one left on watch?” Astarion clicks his tongue, “That doesn’t seem very wise.”

Whether the half-drow catches the insult or not is unclear; instead, his head dips once in a slow nod and his eyes flit back to watching the fire die, “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d might as well make myself useful.”

The deep, steady voice takes him by surprise – that’s easily the most words Astarion has heard him say thus far. Even with a dagger to his neck, the half-drow had not been very talkative. Other than to share that delightful tidbit about how their unwanted passengers would turn them all into mind flayers.

They’re all dealing with a lit smokepowder bomb in their brains; the wizard hadn’t hesitated to lay out their gruesome future, step by step, should the tadpoles remain in their heads for any length of time. They can’t afford to be dragging around dead weight – and that’s assuming that they even bother to stick together at all. Astarion himself has considered going it alone as they’ve already lost a whole day and have no idea where the nearest bit of civilization is; however, the idea of being found by any surviving mind flayers, their pet brains, or something far worse in the woods with no convenient meat shields nearby is equally unappealing.

The others were reluctant to leave the amnesiac to fend for himself. Seemed to think there was a chance the man could recover, however slight. Soft hearted fools, the lot of them (except maybe the gith, yet strangely, she was the one who stuck up for their invalid the night before) – if they insist on dragging this burden along, he could still go his own way. He’s light on his feet, and he doesn’t need to worry about hauling food around.

But…

Vampiric masters, hiding in the dark. Safety in numbers.

Maybe, if nothing else, he can use this as a chance. See for himself if the half-drow is salvageable.

“Well, you’re certainly more coherent than yesterday. Is it going to last?”

The half-drow sighs, cradling his forehead with a palm, as if tending to an aching head. The man doesn’t look at him, but from here, Astarion thinks he can see pain lancing in his eyes, “...I wouldn’t bet on it.” One hand shifts up to idly scratch at short-cropped white hair. A bad cut; looks like it had been hacked down with a rusty knife. Or, perhaps, a shave that had only just been allowed to start growing back out.

At least the blood from last night is gone. It had been an absolute crime for this fool to be allowed to aimlessly wander about the camp covered in blood and so uncaring. Bad enough to be forced into close quarters with the living, to hear their hearts beating, to watch the flutter of their pulse in their necks and wrists, but to be forced to smell fresh blood so close? Astarion had been the one to all but push him into the river on the excuse to clean up. He had half hoped the man would drown.

Typical, really. You’d think by now he’d be used to never getting what he wants.

“I couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams.”

“And you’re already repeating yourself. Shame, I hoped you’d last longer than that.” When the half-drow doesn’t respond to his quip, Astarion continues, his lips twisting into a smirk, “In fact, perhaps it is better that you don’t talk. You don’t seem to have the talent for it.”

“It gets hard to speak. To think. It’s worse when I’m tired.” The man’s hands shake with fine tremors, but there’s no fear in his eyes; they do not stray from the glow in the coals. Around the fire, the others are starting to shift and wake. It will be time to get moving soon.

“Is it? Will you make it to the end of the day then? You don’t exactly look hale and hearty now. ” A long stretch of silence. Astarion’s not sure he’s been heard. The smoldering coals give a sudden pop-crack and a couple of sparks rise and float away on the spring breeze. Is he ignoring him? Or is the man just slowly drifting away again? A sudden rash of irritation floods Astarion, and he loses his patience, reaching for his caustic repertoire, “In fact, you look awful. Rabid, pained, sick. Spasming and twitching, swooning and swaying - the way your jaw is grinding, you look liable to chew off your own tongue.”

He stands up and glances down at the half-drow, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Do take care of yourself.”

 

-x-

 

Time is being kind. He can grasp the threads and hold himself still; he’s a bit more present than earlier.

He watches the elf walk away, and finds himself a bit disappointed. Conversation was hard; often, the words kept slipping away before he could catch them, and any answers he did manage required a lot of concentration. Listening to the elf’s voice had helped cut through the static in his brain. Melodious, had a nice lilt.

The elf had been wearing something more colorful before, hadn’t he? He’s wearing a white shirt now, and that’s different… that’s different because…

He remembers the impact of skull on skull, and the sharp crunch of broken cartilage. Blood flows hot and sweet down pale skin – how would it have tasted?

The thought, the violence of it, is abrupt. Intrusive, yet it feels familiar. Not the subject of the violence but just its existence. Is this normal?

The gentle shift of feet on sandy dirt finally draws his attention out of his mind. Beside him stands the dark-haired woman. She waits patiently for him to acknowledge her, and when he inclines his head, she crouches next to him. Her movements are slow, cautious, as if she’s cornering a startled animal. He expects to see a sourness to her hazel-green eyes, but for the moment she seems more hesitant than annoyed.

”How are you feeling?”

Words are slow, like molasses on his tongue, “Tired. Couldn’t sleep.”

Sour’s eyes scan his face, clinical in her examination. A healer, he thinks. “My name’s Shadowheart. Do you remember rescuing me from the pod?”

“...Pod?”

“I was trapped. The door was stuck and I couldn’t get out. You stopped and helped me; I wanted to thank you.”

It sounds… vaguely familiar? He seems to remember the sound of fists on glass, a shrill voice, begging for help. Pinned like a butterfly to the board, thrashing but powerless. She’ll tear her pretty little wings.

“After all the fighting yesterday, I didn’t have a chance to look you over. Come with me – we’ll go to the edge of the river for some privacy.”

When she stands, he follows. Sour leads him around the rocks towards the gentle lapping edge of the river. At her urging, he turns away and strips. The seams of his shirt give an ominous pop as he shucks it over his shoulders. Once his pants have joined the pile he moves to cover himself, but she taps a hand on his shoulder, “Don’t bother - it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Her touch is gentle as she starts with his back. “Now, easy questions first: what’s your name?”

“I-I don’t remember.” Her long, delicate fingers are tracing the shape of his shoulders, lingering on seemingly random spots. There is a strength to her touch, belying her small size. Charting a map upon his flesh. Wherever she lingers and presses, there is dull, old pain. Like an aged bruise.

She hums, unsurprised, “Do you know my name?”

She just told him, didn’t she? It was a strange name. Two words, put together – “Shadow…heart?”

“So you do have some short term memory at least. That’s a good sign. What about the rest of our names?”

The names slip through his hands like sand, the faces hazy and indistinct.

“...There’s four of us: myself; the wizard, Gale; the gith; and the elf is Astarion,” her fingers trail up the back of his neck and into his hair. Her hands run through, searching, “Calls himself a magistrate but he seems to think he’s a rogue.” Fingers press in at the base of his skull, and the answering lance of pain and weakness almost knocks his feet out from under him, “Sorry. Tender spot?”

“…S’bit sore.”

“You’ve got a lot of scarring – I’ll try to be more gentle,” she shifts to his side, running her hands over his temple. Another ache, “You’ve a bruise here; might be why you’re so confused.”

He watches from the corner of his eyes; a delicate frown folds her brow. She doesn’t look convinced.

“Next: do you know where you are? In general I mean. I don’t think any of us actually know where we are.”

Her fingers, raking through his hair, really are quite soothing against the ache, “...A river? And…and camp?”

“Close enough. Do you remember how we got here? What happened yesterday?”

The memories are lost in a spiral of sticky-wet flesh and fire. Then sand and grass, a hand emerging from stone, and the chill of a river late into the night.

“I remember… fighting. And falling.”

Her lips twist into a light scowl, “I’m still not sure how we survived that.”

“Someone caught me. Stopped me,” her eyes meet his, and doubt flickers across her face, “You don’t believe me.”

“It’s… a little hard to believe. Who could have caught you? We fell from so high up,” as Shadowheart’s hand falls from his hair, she tilts her head, considering, “Magic, I guess. I suppose Gale could have saved us, but I hardly expect someone like him to keep such an achievement to himself.”

“Gale?”

“The wizard.” She taps him on the shoulder again, rotating her hand in a gesture for him to spin around, “I suppose until your memory comes back, you could try–”

She just. Stops.

“Try what?”

She’s staring at his chest. At his voice, her eyes dart up, meet his, and immediately drop again. “This looks…fresh,” her words are calm, measured. Her eyes are not – they’re wide, and there’s tension in her shoulders, like a bowstring drawn taut. She’s startled. “Do you remember how you got these scars?”

One of her hands presses right into the middle of his sternum, where he aches; there’s a hot gnarl of flesh beneath her fingers. Hurts where she presses it, but a good ache, like the stretch of legs in a hard run.

Her fingers, so delicate. He could raise his palm, grasp her hand in his, and snap them with a simple twist of his wrist–

He shakes his head and immediately regrets it – the headache flares in warning. Tight, needling pain, stabbing into the base of his skull.

He must take too long, because she seems to take his silence as his answer, and moves on with her examination. “Come on, head up, look at the light,” a conjured flame dances before his eyes, flickering with the gentle breeze. He feels himself swaying with it, the world starting a slow spin around him, “That’s it, keep your eyes on me.” The little spark moves side to side, up and down.

The flame pops out of existence, and black spots wheel in its wake.

Hazel-green eyes, staring up into his; he focuses on them as the world around him continues to sway, “You…you’re going pale – do you need to sit down?”

Tongue lays thick in his mouth, useless. He wants to nod but the idea of moving at all sends a wave of nausea rippling through his core. The world is starting to t i l t –

“Oh no you don’t – don’t you dare faint on me – I cannot carry you–”

Rude, shoving hands push him to the side, one step, two. The backs of his knees hit something and his strings are cut, and he’s sinking–

Cool, hard stone under his ass. Skin too warm, but the cool breeze over the water feels heavenly. Hands rubbing his, chilly on his overheated skin.

Fingers snapping in front of him, insistent.

“Are you back with me?”

Almost nods, thinks better of it, “...yeah, thin’ so.”

He sounds sick to his own ears.

“Any idea what caused that?” She’s gone back to rubbing his hands. Feels good. A centering force while the world still churns like a ship in a storm.

“Head hurts,” he gasps, bracing himself with a hand across his eyes; the darkness helps. He props his elbows on his legs – if he’s sick, does he have anything in him to come up?

“You are in rough shape.” Sha… Sha… The name slips away. He loses his grip on the thread. The dark-haired woman sounds pensive, “Some food, maybe.” She’s holding a water skin up, pressing it to his palm. Where did she get it from? He can’t bother to care. As the world begins to steady around him, his throat goes dry. Gasping. He drinks greedily, “You could stand to drink more, as well – you’re dehydrated.”

“Mmm.”

“Your blood sugar is probably low; you’re going to need to put on some weight,” she’s continuing his examination, first checking his legs and then feet. He’s too tired to bother figuring out why, “Drink plenty of water. Get lots of rest. You’ve probably have a concussion – you’ve got a bruise on your temple that’s the size of my fist and it’s absolutely black and blue. Try to not take any more head wounds. You’ve enough as it is.”

At last, she sits back on her heels, “When you’re feeling steadier, get dressed and join us by the campfire. Have something to eat. I’ll see if we have any cloth or leather strips to wrap your feet.”

 

-x-

 

About the only thing their motley group has managed to agree upon so far is that somewhere near the river, there must be a settlement. The mangled bodies of all those fishermen strewn about the beach must have lived somewhere nearby, and while it’s unlikely that a simple fishing village would have the level of healing they need, directions would be a good start. Sadly, the further they get from the sandy shore of the crash site, the thicker the brush becomes. The trees crowd closer and closer together, and the trails have all but vanished, shrinking to winding foot paths that are almost indistinguishable from the forest floor.

Where the ground is steep, they sometimes come across planks of wood that have been partially buried into the dirt like a set of rough steps. A promising sign that these trails belong to people and not animals seeking water.

Not for the first time since the crash, Shadowheart wishes she had more training for a forest environment. The area doesn’t seem particularly dangerous, but the enemies of Shar are everywhere, and the mission weighs heavily on her mind. Returning to Baldur’s Gate immediately is all that matters.

All that should matter.

As much as she wants to return now with the artifact in hand, there’s now way they can make it to Baldur’s Gate before the tadpoles turn them. Even if she ditched the rest of them and traveled alone, lighter and faster, it would take too long. They have no way of knowing exactly where the Nautiloid crashed, but even if the river behind them is the Chionthar, it would be just too far.

Too far to haul around an extra burden…

She casts her gaze to the back of the group, where the half-drow trails them by about a dozen meters. Astarion’s fallen back to pester him again, but the man doesn’t seem to mind much. It’s entirely possible that he just doesn’t have the presence of mind to mind.

“So,” hands clap, startling her out of her thoughts; beside her, Gale slides closer. A moment later the gith copies the move on her other side, though far less subtly. The wizard’s eyes shine bright with curiosity, but his voice is pitched low; a conversation just for the three of them. Perhaps unfair to leave the elf out of it, but Shadowheart doesn’t exactly trust him – or value his opinion. “Your examination earlier – what’s the verdict?”

She scoffs.“He’s in awful shape - honestly, I’m surprised he’s alive.”

The wizard gives a start, “It’s that bad?”

The bruises, the scars… She knows the sort of care that causes that kind of damage. “He’s spent time as someone’s… unwilling guest.”

The gith’s eyes narrow, “Unwilling guest… A prisoner?”

Shadowheart shakes her head, her plait catching over her shoulder, “No. More than that. Torture.”

Gale pales considerably, and he looks back at their straggler, trying and failing to be discreet, “How… severe?”

“He’s covered in scars, some worse than others. A lot of them appear to be old battle wounds, but someone cut the tendons in his hands and ankles. Crippling him.”

“So he couldn’t run.”

“I don’t know how he was healed – the scarring implies that the wounds weren’t tended to magically, but I don’t know how else that sort of damage could have been repaired. Someone kept damaging him, and then sewing him back together. There’s a large scar on his front that–”

“He has a scar that carves up his belly like a great serpent.” When she notices their questioning looks, the gith explains, “When I first found the fool he was without weapons or clothing.”

“Well, yes, he has a massive scar on his stomach and chest. A y-shaped one, like you would see on a corpse in a morgue, or an animal dissected.”

“Of which, obviously, he is neither.” Gale tips his head down and strokes his beard, considering, “...A vivisection.”

“And what is that, wizard?”

Shadowheart cuts in, turning towards Lae’zel, “It’s the… practice of cutting a person open while they’re still alive, in a similar way to an autopsy. I’ve heard of it being done, but I’ve never seen… Well, people don’t survive it. I don’t know how he did, but he did, and someone stitched him back up afterward.”

Both Gale and the gith pause, possibly imagining just what such a procedure would entail. Lae’zel looks curious and unsure, but there is a dawning horror in Gale’s eyes. Unsurprising; where the gith might not understand the implications of a vivisection, surely the wizard with his education would. Did they dissect frogs in Blackstaff? Did she ever do the same? Or something… more?

(When her hands touched that scar, the slightest hint of a memory brushed her waking mind – of her hands, splayed, over a gaping wound on a corpse, but then that corpse breathed–)

“His memory loss and cognitive issues likely stem from the wounds to his head. In his hairline, I found many scars – someone stabbed him deep and hard. And a lot. Honestly, I’m amazed that he can think at all.” She pauses, and all three of them go quiet. Behind them Astarion still prods at the half-drow, his tone mocking. Occasionally, the half-drow responds to the stream of questions and comments, his deeper voice slow, unsteady, and quiet, his responses often brief and disjointed.

“Gale? How do you remember Gale but you don’t remember my name?” Astarion sounds outraged, his voice rising and falling with his theatrics.

At this distance, she can’t quite hear the half-drow’s response, but she does catch both Gale and Waterdeep. This sets off the magistrate once more.

“You remember his name and where he came from but you can’t remember mine?” The elf makes a sound of disgust, “Tch. Is it too many letters? Too many syllables?”

“Any ideas on who he was before?” The wizard’s voice is almost a whisper, and the color has fled his face, leaving him almost ashen. Vaguely, Shadowheart wonders if she’s going to have to deal with a second bout of fainting in one day. The gith is still silent, her eyes staring into the middle distance.

“He still has some calluses on his hands. More what I would expect to see on a fighter or a bodyguard than on a craftsman. Perhaps he could have been a mercenary - it would match the pattern of most of his older scars.” She pauses, considering, “...He’s very underweight, dehydrated. Exhausted. However he managed to escape his captivity, it happened only very recently.”

“Can he recover?”

“His body? Definitely. He needs good food, water, and sleep – all of which I told him earlier. It’s his mind I’m concerned with; he has… episodes. When he pulled me from the pod on the Nautiloid, he was barely cognizant. This morning he held a conversation with me while I checked his wounds.”

That spark returns to the wizard’s gaze, and his eyes draw back up off the path to meet with hers, “An actual conversation?”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly well spoken, but he was definitely more aware of what was going on around him.”

“No luck on his name then, I wager?”

“No, but he did remember mine… for a little while at any rate.”

“He did the same with mine last night. And, well,” Gale gestures over his shoulder with his thumb, “I was surprised; he brought it up on his own. I didn’t have to remind him.”

“He seems to have good moments, and bad ones.” The heat blooms under the canopy of the trees; here, the wind cannot break through the leaves and sweat drips down on her forehead, in the small of her back, “Perhaps he just needs to… practice.”

“That’s what I suggested to him at breakfast this morning. I told him to try to memorize our names, and recite them whenever he can. If he can’t remember those, then pick something else and just keep trying. The brain can be exercised just like any other part of the body; I believe it’s possible with repeated use, he may be able to recover his cognitive faculties. But, the brain is also delicate. I suppose it’s possible that he may just never fully recover.”

“It depends on what exactly has caused his issues. People who spend prolonged time in captivity sometimes develop ways to cope – some may have periods of irrational anger, become overly vigilant, have trouble sleeping at night…” Surely she wasn’t the only one who had noticed the man tossing and turning, way into the early hours of the morning, “One of the ways people can cope is by dissociating. It could be that he has memory loss simply because he doesn’t want to remember his time with his captors.”

“And what do you think, cleric?” Lae’zel’s golden brown eyes are staring at her. The gith’s gaze is inherently judgemental, but Shadowheart raises her chin high and refuses to divert her eyes.

“That could be a part of it, but… With the scarring he has, I can’t imagine it not affecting his memory. And, if that’s the case, it’s probable he will never heal.”

“Are you saying we should just leave him? I’m not fond of the idea of abandoning him to become a mind flayer.” The wizard’s color has returned to his face, but the corners of his eyes pinch with worry.

Soft hearted, she thinks of the wizard, He would never last under Lady Shar’s love.

“Neither am I, but we might stand a better chance without him.”

But.

She remembers the half-drow fumbling, managing to open the hatch to her pod and release her, even as the gith demanded that they leave. Would she have survived the crash if he had left her there? Or would she have been one of the many corpses littering the edges of the river? The idea of deserting him when he did not leave her rankles something beneath her skin.

 

-x-

 

The world keeps blurring at its edges, and it’s threatening to take him with it.

Focus.

He feels like a wisp of smoke, at risk of blowing away in the rising wind.

Desperately, he tries to keep hold on the world around him. Keep himself from fading away.

They’re… They’re traveling still. The day has stretched onto evening, and the sun has dipped beyond the horizon. As the light fades, it leaves in its wake dark storm clouds and the ominous rumble of distant thunder. The forest of earlier has begun to thin out, the trees less oppressive, but still no sign of civilization. Robes–

No, not Robes. Gale. He has got to remember; Gale, Shadowheart, Lae…Lae’zel, Ast. Ast…arion.

Gale was… Gale was voicing his concerns about the weather; if the rain hits, they’re going to need shelter. Said he could feel the storm approaching in his bones. They have no tents, only the bedrolls, and he worries they’ll all get sick in the rain. There’s a rocky outcrop on top of a knoll only a few kilometers away that Shadowheart wants to check out – she doesn’t trust camping beneath the trees if lightning were to strike. Lae’zel questioned the wisdom of traveling in the open and risking a strike in the first place–

His head throbs. Burning knives slice into his brain in time with the pulse in his veins.

“You’re falling behind again, Tagalong,” Pomp – Astarion – slides up beside him, watching him obliquely, his eyes glittering and sharp. “Don’t have the stamina?” All pale skin and sinuous lines, Astarion moves with a fluid grace that is envious. Even as the world dims around them, he remains bright; a pale ghost in the fading day.

How beautiful it would be, to caress his hands along those cheekbones. His fingers would cradle the elf’s skull, and his thumbs could just sink into those lovely sockets, gouge out those eyes–

He shakes his head. Focus. His hands tremble.

He keeps slipping.

Astarion takes his silence in stride – perhaps he doesn’t really expect an answer. “Tch, unless you want to be left behind, do keep up. We can’t keep hauling around useless baggage, afterall.”

“Big words for someone… who can barely carry his own… p-pack.”

The elf's smile stretches into a smirk, “Ooh, maybe you can be trained.”

He has to stay present. It feels as though he is perched upon a precipice; if he lets himself fall, he’s afraid he’s not going to be able to find his way back. But. The more he fights to stay aware, the worse it gets. These dark… urges, slithering beneath his skin. Pooling in his veins and joints like treacle. Nausea rises in his belly, thick and viscous. Resisting it is a physical effort that drains his strength as surely as a gushing wound.

Another shudder, another convulsive stab within his skull–

His hands still shake with the urge to gouge out the elf’s eyes. He has such pretty ruby eyes. And he speaks so beautifully! If he removed the elf’s tongue, would it be made of silver? Just a quick slice where the muscle meets bone and he could see it for himself. Lay it flat on his palm, feel its weight. Thick and fat, if he ate it, would he be able to speak again too? Articulate and elegant, could he steal the elf’s voice and make it his own?

There’s red creeping on the edges of his vision and his headache roars. His tongue thickens in his mouth and steals away his words. This dark urge winds its way through his veins and whispers in his ear: blood, blood, blood.

Astarion is looking at him from the corner of his eyes expectantly, but he can’t respond. It takes all his energy to still his hands and hold back the budding violence beneath his skin. Just keep walking. He can manage that, but anything else and he’s not sure what his body will do.

Eventually, the mirth fades from Astarion’s eyes.

“Just as soon as I think you might not be such a bore, you disappoint me yet again,” the elf sighs, “Catch up, or don’t. It’s none of my concern – but if you get lost, don’t expect us to come looking for you.”

With a flourish, Astarion glides off and quickly rejoins the others – from this distance, their words don’t carry, but the wizard casts a quick glance back at him from over his shoulder. He is falling behind, but the idea of pushing his aching legs to action and closing the distance seems impossible.

He’s exhausted.

They have been talking about abandoning him. Huddled together, speaking in low whispers, looking at him when they think he can’t see, but even when his mind is hazy he can still hear them. They speak quietly, some of them wanting to give him time, the others arguing that he’s had enough already. That they need to get moving.

The implications are clear – if he isn’t useful, they’re going to leave him behind.

His mind flows like molasses, thick and sickly. Sweat drips down his brow, his hands clammy. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how tired he is or how he hurts. He needs to hold on to not only his mind, but also his body. There’s a reason they’re in such a rush, he knows that. He just can’t remember. It’s important though. They need to keep moving.

He’s not going to slow them down.

With a grunt, he ignores the tremors in his thighs and calves, and closes the distance.

A cool breeze rises, and brings with it the first droplets of rain; big fat things that strike the skin with unreasonable chill. It’s a welcome reprieve to the heat of the day and blessedly cool against overwarm skin. To the west, the sky splits with a great stroke of lightning; the storm is approaching. Under their feet, the ground rises up and the rocky monolith looms before them like the headstone upon a grave.

Small ridges and dips begin to turn to proper crags as the path winds up and around the outcropping, but it’s different from the slipshod one of the forest; here the trail widens large enough to allow access by cart, and worn stones have been carefully placed into the ground and packed tight with sand and gravel. Any trees that once grew here were cut back to make way, but tall grasses and shrubs have crept back in, sprouting thick in the crevices. Stone balustrading, beautifully carved but crumbling from time, guards against sudden falls over the cliff edges and into the shallow ravines beyond.

Built into the outcropping, curved just around its south side, a temple has been cut into the stone. Aged walls shield the structure from the winds with a set of stone stairs dipping down to a landing, and another set of stairs leading deeper in. Past the railing, the forest below stretches out before them, and just beyond it, the beach and the river.

He turns away from the temple, gripping the bannister with a hand, and stares out towards the forest. Pockets of trees have begun to burn – possible lightning strikes? – and great plumes of smoke have caught in the wind and smear towards the east. Where the sand meets the trees there are immense smoldering structures that are…strange. Large, bulbous shapes covered in enormous plates, and long cylindrical sections that look almost like tentacles. When the lightning flashes, they gleam red as though they bleed.

An acrid smell comes to him on the breeze, coating the back of his throat like oil.

Despite the ferocity of the wind and the rain, Gale moves beside him, leaning his elbows on the railing. His eyes are rapt, his hair, beard, and robes all dancing in the tempest.

“An amazing view, isn’t it?”

How easy it would be to wrap his hand in the back of the wizard’s robes, and give a little shove. Let the wind do the work of pushing him over the railing – the fall isn’t high enough to kill, but bones would shatter upon impact with ground below.

How would the wizard scream? Alone and broken with no one to help?

No, not no one. There would be the others, they would go to help. Focus.

“What is that?” He points towards the smoke; a desperate attempt to distract him from himself, “The structure out there, burning.”

“That, my friend, is the Nautiloid,” Gale’s smiles, “Or, rather, what’s left of it after its rather unceremonious rendezvous with the ground.” A hand claps him on the shoulder, the contact sharp against wet, chilled skin, “I’ll explain more once we find some shelter; we should keep moving before we test the gods’ patience.”

He turns back towards the stone arch, and follows Gale’s lead.

The stone steps have been cut into the rock by the hands of masons and worn down by the steps of thousands of feet. Before them, a great statue built upon a pedestal faces away, watching over a stone mosaic of a star with many points, each burst colored in an alternating pattern of white and red. The statue itself depicts a man standing with hands upraised as though in worship, but it’s missing its head and a large section of its left shoulder.

Beyond that, more steps – two sets leading up on either side of a main walkway that in turn becomes another set leading deeper down. Cracks lance the stone beneath their feet, columns stretch up and compete with encroaching trees, and vines crawl over the walls and stairs like a grasping hand. Several of the damaged walls have been shored up with wooden supports, and a crane holds aloft a block that sways ominously in the gale, but even those structures are aged and rotting.

Someone cared for this place once, but that time has long since passed. This shrine, this temple, has been abandoned for generations.

Still, even in disrepair, with the backdrop of the storm, there is a certain reverence to it. An echo of power lingers here, like the darkness at the bottom of a well.

The rain begins to pelt, and a crack of thunder echoes among the rocks. As it fades, there is a murmur somewhere ahead, almost lost amid the sounds of the storm.

Beside him, Sour – Shadowheart – moves forward, her head tilted, eyes narrowed, “I hear voices.” Her hand hovers over the handle of her mace.

“People! Finally!” Gale grins, robes billowing. The rock walls shelter them somewhat from the wind, but still the wizard needs to raise his voice to be heard, “Surely they must know where the nearest settlement is!” Without hesitation, he walks forward and calls out, “Hello! Is someone there?”

Beside him, Lae’zel, Shadowheart, and Astarion all give a start.

“Istik!”

“Wait, we don’t know who they are–”

“Wizard!”

Coming up the steps leading from the temple is a group of four people; a female elf in a green robe; a male half-elf in a green quilted jupon with a long sword at his hip and a shield hooked on his back; and two gnomes – one with a red face mask covering him nose to chin, the other a fighter in scale mail with a sword far too long for his shorter frame. All of them look just as windswept as their rag tag group. When they spot Gale, the four of them freeze on the spot with almost comical looks of surprise. The gnome fighter’s eyes, in particular, widen so wildly they look ready to pop from his face.

Their gear, the way they seem shocked to see strangers - the gnome with the red face mask seems especially shifty, his eyes keep glancing off to the sections of the broken wall like he’s considering bolting. Suspicion bubbles in his mind - these are no people of worship. There’s no blank reverence in their eyes.

Gale doesn’t seem to notice, walking up to these strangers with confidence, “Well met! I don’t suppose I’d be able to get directions–”

The half-elf is the first to recover, his eyes darting from Gale, to Shadowheart, then to the rest of them. There’s a cunning to his face, scheming, calculating, “Hey, Gimblebock, looks like we have guests.”

The gnome fighter glances at the half-elf, “Looks like we do. Funny, they don’t exactly look like the sort from around here.” ‘Gimblebock’ turns back to them, his surprise fading away into a sort of smug assurance, “Naught but druid types around here, useless twats that they are.”

“Oh, there’s a grove nearby?” Is Gale this naive? He’s the one with holes in his head and yet Gale doesn’t see the way these strangers look at them? Like a meal that has just walked itself to their doorstep? “Do you know if they happen to have a competent healer?”

“Injured, are ya?” The half-elf smiles knowingly at Gimblebock, who meets him with an answering smirk. Behind them, the elf in the green robes taps the end of her staff against the ground impatiently, the hollow clack of wood against stone almost impossible to hear amidst the cracks of thunder.

Finally, Gale’s eyes widen as the severity of the situation seems to set in: four people at a broken down temple up on a hill in the middle of nowhere. Each armed to the teeth, and entirely too shifty to be honest folk. The wizard backpedals immediately, “No, I wouldn’t say we’re injured, we just need directions–”

The gnome turns to the half-elf, “You know Taman, I’ve just had an amazing idea – how ‘bout we sell directions to this, um. Looks like a wizard.”

“We don’t really have a way of paying you.” Gale laughs nervously, his voice going tight as he glances over his shoulder pleadingly, “A little help here. Please.”

“No no,” Astarion breathes, leaning forward, his attention rapt. The elf lifts a hand and presses his knuckles against his lips, but it does nothing to hide his joy, “You got yourself into this, surely you can get yourself out.”

“Well, you’re in luck. We don’t just take gold for payment. I hear wizards have spellbooks, prolly worth some coin I’d wager.”

Shadowheart steps forward with a long suffering sigh. “There will be no payment. You will give us directions, and you will let us pass.” In her hands, she holds her mace and shield at the ready, the threat naked and gleaming in the flashes of lightning, now perilously overhead, “Unless you fancy your odds?”

The one the gnome named Taman looks at him, studying him. “Five against four, but preparation is key, ain’t it,” His arm comes up to wipe away the rain from his face leaving behind a wide grin, entirely ignoring Astarion’s jab of ‘look, this one can count!’ “And you got one in a nightgown and another without boots!” The half-elf gestures to him, “What are you, one of those dullards from the farms?”

“Enough gabbing. Storm’s getting worse and I’m tired of standing in the rain,” the elf in the green robes runs a hand through her hair, pushing back sodden copper locks from her face and rolling her eyes. It’s a futile effort; instantly the wind whips her hair back into a tangle. She stops tapping her staff and readies it in both hands, “Let’s just kill them and take all their stuff already.”

Gimblebock’s head falls back and he releases such a dramatic sigh – like someone stole all the joy from his world, but the gnome is a practiced fighter with skills that bely his short stature – in a smooth motion he goes from theatrics to drawing his longsword; a quick step forward and he’s slicing toward Gale’s unprotected form. A deadly strike, aimed for the fragile flesh of his belly.

Unprotected, if Shadowheart didn’t push the wizard aside and absorb the blow with her shield. Metal collides against the wood with bone-rattling thunk that doesn’t even seem to faze the cleric. Gale stumbles to the ground with a quiet oof; from his other side, Lae’zel steps in front of the wizard, and draws her longsword.

“Can’t we just talk about this? I’m sure you are all aware of the dangers of a thunderstorm, and our likelihood of getting struck is–”

None of the brigands dignifies Gale’s attempt at mediation with a response. The half-elf in front of him dashes forward, sword arm raised.

His mind might be rotted, but his body knows what to do – he greets this ‘Taman’ with his shortsword and lets muscle memory compel his limbs. A quick thrust aimed for his chest is easily thwarted with a roll of the wrist, and the blade deflects harmlessly along the hilt. The sound of metal on metal shrieks discordantly with the roar of thunder. The half-elf is still grinning, shield raised and ready for a quick bash. He gives into instinct, and dips to the side dodging the blow entirely. The half-elf goes sailing past him and almost loses his footing on the slick stone, swearing.

In the sudden rush of the fight, his blood flows and the pain just… fades. The crippling headache, gone. His mind for the first time is somewhat clear, if still empty.

Behind him is the rhythmic twang of a shortbow firing arrows; Pomp is trading shots with Red Mask who’s slunk back up one of the staircases and is using the columns as cover. To his right, Gale has scrambled back up to his feet, the pale blue of a Ray of Frost forming at his fingertips. There’s a colorful curse from Green Robes as she’s forced to take shelter behind a half-broken wall, as the pools of water on the ground around her freeze solid.

An answering firebolt blasts out from behind the rubble. The first shot goes wild, but the next bursts against Shadowheart’s shield with a sputtering hiss. Gale takes shelter behind her, and starts his own volley of magic. Shadowheart joins with a guiding bolt glowing from her fingertips.

“Get the fucking cleric!” Green Robes squawks.

Startled, Gimblebock lunges for Shadowheart and redoubles his efforts. She can’t guard against both his attacks and the magic, but after two strikes against her shield Lae’zel intercepts with a slash. She’s got the better reach with her taller stature, and no matter how the gnome tries to get around her to fight the cleric, he’s forced back lest he wants to lose a hand.

Taman shoots a glance at Shadowheart, but before the brigand can follow the gnome’s lead, he throws himself at the half-elf, slamming into his shield, almost knocking them both off kilter. The half-elf tries to push him away, but he grabs on to the edges of the shield and holds tight, trying to wrest it from his opponent’s grasp – Taman can’t dislodge him with both sword and shield in hand, instead forced to slap at him awkwardly with the longsword.

The blows land, but only with the flat of the blade. He grits his teeth and focuses on his task – the rim of the shield gripped tightly in one hand, he seeks the weak points in Taman’s defense: the wrists and unprotected stretch of the neck. The jupon is overlaid atop leather armor, so if he misses his targets, his blade only bites in shallow slices, causing his opponent to hiss.

“Impero tibi!”

Behind him, someone crashes to the ground. An arrow whizzes past his cheek and clatters hollowly against the stone.

He can’t look; a single glance away would spell death. Adrenaline spikes in his veins and his heart starts galloping wildly in his chest.

To his right, Lae’zel catches the gnome across the cheek with the flat of her blade, staggering him away from Sour.

Taman’s face snags in a snarl and he twists again, raising the longsword in a downward slash. The wind whips his short dark hair in a fury, and drenched from the rain, the feral look in his eyes is caught between rage and fear. He lets go of the shield and grabs the half-elf’s arm, and drives his weapon into his opponent’s ribs.

Another shallow cut, but…He can feel the shortsword dragging along each rib, following each rise over the ridges of bone, and…

The dark, sinuous thing in his veins purrs.

There’s blood dripping down the blade towards his hand. Warm and sticky. Taman’s staring at him, eyes wide. Fear.

It’s suddenly apparent how much taller he is than this half-elf, who cowers before him.

That look, that sense of dawning terror in his opponent’s eyes as he looms over him. It does… something to him. Lights his nervous system aflame even as his awareness begins to wane.

His own heart pounds, loud, heavy beats that seem to rattle in his chest. A phantom sensation spreads – sharp nailed claws in a feather light touch dragging back through his hair, from temple to crown, sending shivers down his spine. Pleasure. The world narrows, stretching long like a tunnel, darkening along its edges.

This time when he grabs the shield, he flits his shortsword in behind its rim and finds his mark. Taman yelps as blade finds tender flesh, and with a wrench of his arm, he tosses the shield aside as he charges forward again. The half-elf tries to dodge but trips over his own feet, and tips over backwards down the stairs.

He pants. Control is slipping away through his fingers. The sounds of the storm and the battle around him fade.

One step after another, slowly, he descends the stairs. Edging closer to his prey.

The half-elf lands in a heap, scrabbling to his feet as he turns to run.

The gnome also moves to flee with Spots hot on his heels, but where he is swift and sure, her feet catch on a tangle of vines on the way down, and she falls on her face.

He doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care – can’t care. His entire world is the two fleeing forms before him, and as soon as they bolt, he chases.

“Let us in!”

Gimblebock hits the front of the door, slamming it with his fists, “Open the fucking door Andorn – we got company!”

They slip in just as he reaches the door – it moves to slam in his face but not before he can jab his blade into the crack, keeping it from closing. He forces his shoulder against the wood and crashes against it, and it shudders as he throws his weight upon the wood. He twists his blade, levering it, and with a great heave, he shoulders his way into the darkened space beyond.

There’s another now, a blond man with a torch in hand – cocky look to his eyes, but the two beside him are afraid. He can hear it in the air. He takes a step forward, and they take a step back, save for Torch who gives his fellows a incredulous frown.

“You can’t be serious? ‘E’s just one man and you’re squalling like you’ve your dicks caught in the door!”

The hinges creak behind him, letting in the wind and the rain and the strides of many more feet.

Torch’s arrogance drains from his face like blood from a wound, “Okay, more than one man.”

He lunges and time seems to fold; a breath, a blur in his mind and then he’s pressed up against Taman, holding the struggling half-elf as his shortsword sinks deep into his guts. He presses harder and the blade slides further, and gore seeps down the sword to coat his hands and the bright green jupon in violent crimson. Taman’s gasping, gaping, his eyes wide and his hands shaking.

Taman doesn’t have the strength left to push him away, to fight. Hands slide uselessly over his shirt, weakly clutching at the collar, leaving bloody fingerprints in their wake.

He holds the half-elf, one arm on his shoulder pulling him closer, the other twisting the blade ever deeper.

How precious to be held in death, tenderly, like a lover.

“Taman!”

He’s panting, but he knows no exhaustion, knows no pain.

“Haseid, help me kill this fucker,” Gimblebock hisses, “Rest of you, gut ‘em and loot ‘em.”

There’s more people in the room now. The sickness in his skin studies them with hunger, a naked want. A tall human barbarian, bare chested with swirling tattoos on his arms, steps forward. This ‘Haseid’ looks like a wild animal, long hair and beard unkempt with a studded greatclub held in a loose grip that speaks of years of experience and confidence.

The urge wants to make him kneel, make him beg for his sorry life.

The greatclub crashes against his sword with a crushing weight that almost knocks him aside. He’s faster than the human, but every time he goes in for a quick stab, the gnome is nipping at his heels again with that longsword. He’s kept on his back foot, dodging and deflecting, the writhing thing within snarling at his impotence.

An overhead strike misses him, but cracks the stone tiling beneath his feet.

They exchange blows, but this time instead of dodging, he slides in closer, weaving his blade in between the barbarian’s hands and wrenching the greatclub from his grasp. As the wooden club rolls away harmlessly on the floor, he’s rewarded with a sharp sting to his leg; Gimblebock has managed to stab the tip of his longsword into the meat of his thigh – the gnome rips the blade through his flesh. It doesn’t hurt, but as he moves, the knee gives out beneath him, and he stumbles with Haseid lunging for his throat.

He lurches backward, crashing into a crate and causing its contents to spill out in a clatter, and together they go down in a heap. Surrounded by the sound of arrows flying and magic sizzling, he catches the barbarian’s hands, but loses his shortsword in the scuffle. Somewhere near, there is the sound of a blade finding its home in the neck of a foe, and of a mace impacting upon a skull, cracking fragile bone.

Strong as the barbarian is, he is taller and broader than his opponent and he’s able to flip Haseid and pin him by his neck, thumbs pressing tight upon the trachea. Hands come up to try to pry his away, but he refuses to budge until one of them hits him square across his face – he opens his mouth, and takes the biggest bite he can.

Haseid bucks and shrieks beneath him as his teeth sink down to bone, the meat of the man’s palm tearing within his maw.

Hot blood seeps into his mouth and he swallows reflexively. It tastes good – it tastes familiar.

There’s a shout, and he releases his tasty morsel in time to see Gimblebock bearing down on him, sword readied and eyes crazed. He raises his hands to catch the blade when an explosive plume of flame detonates between them. Searing heat licks at his skin and nearly knocks him over – he has to steady himself with his palms pressed against the cool ground. The gnome, however, goes flying, and while the predator in him wishes to chase, to hunt, the human beneath him reaches one handed for his neck once more.

He slides his hands along the ground, searching for his blade, but they alight upon something else; the haft of a broken spear. Gripping it tightly, he raises the splintered wood above his head, and stakes it down into the unprotected flesh of the human’s neck with all his strength. There’s a sort of gasping gurgle from his pinned prey’s throat, and the body gives a violent thrash that swiftly fades into smaller spasms. The haft shifts in his grip, and clicks down along the notches of vertebrae.

The grasp on his neck weakens, then falls away entirely.

Nearby, he can hear the soft footfalls of the gnome trying to make a getaway, but there’s a shocked inhale of air and the sound of a blade on flesh that makes escape seem unlikely. The thud of a small body falling to the stone.

He doesn’t look up.

There’s blood on his hands and in his mouth.

He begins to melt back into being, hunched over a corpse. Black spots flicker before his eyes and his gasping lungs can’t hold a breath, but his hands refuse to let go of the weapon even as muscles spasm in cramping pain. He aches terribly; long welts on his back, a burning throb in his thigh, a sharp press against his throat, like the echo of strong hands.

The urge is pleased, if not truly sated. It fades into the back of his mind, watchful but quiet.

Somewhere behind him, he is vaguely aware of movement, but where violence held sway moments ago, fatigue seeps in.

“Well, a battle well fought but perhaps we should be less keen to charge headlong into danger going forward.”

Gale, he thinks, desperately, Gale. Wizard of… of…

He refuses to let go. If forgetting means fading away, he will hold tight until this rot in his heart festers and devours him whole.

“Says the wizard who tried to ask directions from bandits, what were you thinking?” Astarion. The rogue. Sounds incredulous. Sounds as tired as he feels.

“I thought they were attendants of this temple–”

“In armor? Fully armed? When’s the last time you saw a priest wearing a kerchief?”

The tension bleeds from his frame, and he slides off the corpse to the floor. It’s cool to the touch, but somewhere nearby, a fire glows with pleasant heat. He wants to be closer, curl up next to the flames and let it bake the aching chill from his limbs. His clothes are soaked, and his frame shivers uncontrollably.

A pair of feet enter his view – silver greeves, yellow skin with black spots – Lae’zel stands over him, the firelight behind her casting her face into deep shadow. Her eyes are narrowed and unimpressed. With a flick of her hand, she tosses something at him.

His short sword clatters to the ground. It’s shattered; at some point during the battle, the weapon broke, splitting the blade from the notch down to the hilt.

“You go for your foe like a feral beast, Istik, and in the process you let your weapon fall into ruin.” Her voice is cold, judgmental, “However, you are resourceful, despite your terrible choice in weaponry.”

In her other hand, she holds a greatsword by its blade, and after a pause, passes it to him. The hilt almost slips from his numb, blood-wet fingers.

“I…I don’t know how… to fight with this.”

“It is no matter; you show potential as a warrior. I will train you. Tomorrow, when we set camp, I will teach you how to wield a proper blade.”

Without another word, she turns on her heel and stalks off back towards the entrance as the others mill about the room, voices lowered in a quiet murmur, checking corpses and clearing away the mess.

The idea of getting up and joining them, of helping them, seems unfathomable.

He’s exhausted.

He clutches the greatsword to his chest, and drags himself over to the leg of a table closer to that gentle flame. Leaning back against the wood, he lays the flat of the blade across the top of his knees, and his eyes slowly sink shut as he drifts away.

Notes:

Just for the record I don’t think a person just gets to choose how they respond to trauma. Shadowheart may have some ideas that have been warped based on her upbringing.

Writing a nameless character into a combat situation was probably a fool move, but I promise our durge will be getting a name sooner rather than later.

Thank you to everyone for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks!

Chapter 3

Notes:

Content Warning for graphic treatment of wounds.

This is where the chapters start getting stupidly long. I’d suggest grabbing a drink and a snack.

Outside, the weather still rages; the wind squalls like a child in its crib while thunder booms ominously overhead. The structure they find themselves in keeps the worst of it out; although, Gale can feel a draft near the old wooden door, and there are a few spots that glisten in the firelight, wet where the moisture seeps through the stone. A large fireplace burns away happily opposite of the entry, but the heat doesn’t quite reach the edges of the room, leaving a chill that seems to creep up from the floor and into the edges of his robes.

It seems they have found their way into the refectory of this shrine; the entrance sits atop a landing with a set of stairs leading down to a dining area. A sizable, ancient wood table rests close to the crackling flames, lined by many damaged chairs that are just as old. The top of the table is an utter disaster, littered with bags, plates, crates, and various bottles, but he has the feeling the refuse has more to do with the bandits currently using this as a hideout, rather than the remnants of whomever used to worship here. The place looks to have been already ransacked – there are piles of books strewn about the floor, and many of the shelves in the room appear to have been looted and damaged.

Beneath Gale’s boot there is the gentle popping crackle of broken glass; the remains of a destroyed potion flask, perhaps thrown in a fit of pique.

“Well, all things considered, I don’t think we could have asked for better to shelter through the storm.”

Shadowheart looks up from her pack, her glance sharp, “A bit sacrilegious, perhaps, loitering in a strange god’s temple.”

“There’s no one left to care,” crouched over one of the bandits, Astarion doesn’t even bother to make eye contact; his hands rummage through pockets and strip the bodies of their armor and valuables, “This temple is absolutely archaic; likely it’s been abandoned for centuries.” He leaves the piles of loot he finds by the bodies as he moves from one to the next. One of the bodies is not, in fact, a corpse, and it twitches with a terrible stuttering gasp as the rogue settles his weight upon it. Without hesitation, Astarion’s dagger is in hand, and a perfunctory slice to the neck ends the bandit’s struggle, “Forgotten by its god just as much as its clergy.”

Gale’s stomach turns as he watches the easy act of violence, even as he understands its necessity.

To distract himself, he continues to wander through the room – to the west there’s another short set of stairs leading up to a second aged door. The hinges protest with a shriek as he presses against it; the hall beyond is dark and unwelcoming. A breeze comes from deeper within, but the day has been long, and between the fighting and the hiking, his feet are killing him. Firmly deciding that the hallway can be tomorrow’s problem, he pulls the door shut again with a grunt, and continues his tour.

The east side of the room leads to a small alcove with a couple of tables and shelves lined with books. Most of them are damaged beyond repair from both age and moisture. Great cobwebs trail from the ceiling, and there is a plaque in the middle of the wall engraved with an ancient text unfamiliar to his eyes. Mind, the area is dim even with several lit candles flickering atop the table, but as he gets closer and runs his fingers along the lettering, it’s no more recognizable.

“No more prayers, only silence. Must be lonesome to be a forgotten god.” The dust from the plaque is thick on his fingers, and the bronze underneath has oxidized completely to a musty green patina.

“Who were those prayers for? Normally the patron god is obvious – not here.” Shadowheart moves beside him, her footfalls as silent as a wraith. Her hand hovers over the handle of her mace, and she frowns at the plaque like she expects it to attack.

“As a cleric, I’d trust your understanding on the matter more than mine. I don’t recognize this text, and these statues are all unfamiliar to me.”

“Chk, if the two of you are done discussing your Fay-run gods, you could stand to make yourselves useful.” Lae’zel grabs the crate next to them, hoisting it onto one shoulder, and turns back towards the entrance, “If there is any strength to your arms, help me barricade the doors and we can make camp here for the night.”

The cleric turns to look at him, her distaste for the gith clear in her scowl. Gale gives her a soft, apologetic smile.

“Sorry, wizards aren’t much for heavy lifting.”

The look on Shadowheart’s face promises murder, but she grabs one edge of a bench and drags it over towards the stairs all the same. When she gets close enough, Lae’zel snaps something caustic, and Shadowheart responds in a voice just as tense. The two of them manage to lever the bench into position, but simultaneously look about one bad gesture away from a brawl.

It seems prudent to move out of striking distance, and so Gale shifts closer to the fire. There’s shelves here as well, laden with pots, pans, plates, mugs, and ladles as well as a thick coat of dust and more cobwebbing. Much like the rest of this place, anything of value has long since been removed, but on the table there are some more recent additions that might be useful. A large fresh wheel of Waterdhavian cheese rests on a platter, a wedge of it cut out and placed on a nearby plate. A chain of dried sausages sits on another tray, flanked by a carafe of water and a carafe of wine – a bit basic, perhaps, but a fine start for their evening meal.

As he rounds the table, Gale almost trips over their amnesiac. The half-drow sleeps with his back against a table leg, legs crossed and head tipped back against the wood. The man looks exhausted. Has looked so ever since he pulled Gale from the malfunctioning sigil circle. No matter how uncomfortable, whatever rest he can get here can only help his fragile state. The gifted greatsword rests atop his knees, one hand clutching the hilt as if subconsciously he expects it to be stolen away.

Which, considering the sizable pile Astarion has managed to gather thus far from the brigands, could be possible. The man seems to have awfully sticky fingers.

The magistrate is kneeling over the corpse of a tall, shirtless human, apparently frustrated by the lack of valuables. Where he expects the man to be hiding such treasures, Gale can’t possibly fathom – the barbarian is wearing so little as it is. Impossibly quick fingers lift one of the corpse’s hands and undo the clasp of a bracelet, raising it high and giving it a long scrutinizing look. Apparently Astarion deems it valuable enough, and with a quick flick of his wrist, it joins the nearest pile of valuables and the elf returns to his search.

Astarion glances at him from the corner of his eyes, “Not helping with the barricades? It sounds like wizards aren’t very good for much of anything. Except maybe falling asleep during battle.”

“That was not my fault – that sleep spell blindsided me.”

“Blindsided? Admit it wizard, you weren’t paying attention.” The elf lifts the human’s other arm, his eyes flitting about in their search for loot, “Shadowheart tried to wake you, but you couldn’t hear her over your own snoring.”

“I’ll have you know, I am good for something – a great many things in fact. On top of my amazing magical prowess, I will also be the one preparing our dinner for the evening. Again. A little gratitude could go a long way in securing you seconds.”

Gale’s only known the man for going on three days now, but his curiosity is instantly piqued when Astarion doesn't continue the easy banter. Whatever he sees in the palm of this dead human, it’s enough for him to leave Gale with the last word. The elf’s gaze is distant, his nostrils flared, and such a desperate look of want is engraved on his face – it must be something impressive, indeed.

The weight of those ruby eyes is terribly unsettling, even when they’re focused elsewhere.

When the silence drags on a beat too long, he speaks, “...Astarion?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” Astarion’s gaze sharpens again and meets his eyes with a quick smile, but Gale isn’t so easily fooled; he casts a curious look towards the corpse’s hand, still cradled almost tenderly in the rogue’s grasp. Astarion hesitates, but with an easy flourish, he reveals a silver and ruby ring held between his forefinger and thumb. It’s tarnished, and a bit worn – nothing that a bit of time and polish couldn’t fix.

A deception, and a poor attempt at one; there were no rings on the corpse’s hand moments prior. The ring is from somewhere else – a convenient prop, ready at a moment’s notice.

“The doors will hold for the night,” Lae’zel’s voice is as sudden and terse as a bite as she prowls toward him from behind, startling him from his train of thought. Shadowheart follows on the gith’s heels, her expression just as sour as earlier. “Should something attempt to breach the barricades, we shall have enough time to prepare ourselves for battle.”

Gale scoffs at the very notion, “I doubt anyone else will be foolish enough to be out galavanting in that weather.”

Lae’zel’s eyes narrow. She tilts her head back, staring down her nose at him, “Your lack of preparation would be the death of us, wizard.”

Shadowheart makes a show of stepping around the gith, and leans back against the edge of the table, her arms crossed against her chest, “What exactly is our plan? We’re already a full two days into your timeline with no fix in sight.”

“Those brigands mentioned a druid’s grove – I would wager our next step should be to locate it.” Gale pulls out a chair for himself, and he sinks into it with a groan; his knees thank him. “They must have a healer of some repute. Surely better than we could hope to find in a fishing village.”

“Tch, we should be looking for a githyanki creche. Only my people hold the key to removing ghaik worms,” Lae’zel narrows her eyes, surveying the detritus strewn across the room with disdain, “My people have long used abandoned structures such as this as creches on Fay-run, but they would never have allowed bandits to trespass so openly; if my kin were here, they are long gone now.”

“Well, unless you know where we can find a creche, we’re no further ahead.” Shadowheart frowns, considering the option and finding it distasteful.

“Those teef-lings we found in the wilds spoke of seeing other gith. Surely there must be a creche nearby.”

The cleric rolls her eyes, “If you want to go and look for them, be my guest – just don’t expect me to follow.”

It’s a hopeless situation, as far as Gale is concerned. If they can’t manage to find a village on their own, the chances of finding a hidden githyanki creche without directions are abysmal. Still, sometimes certain concessions must be made, “If we can make it to the druid’s grove, and they can’t help us there, we can ask around and see if they know where this creche is. Right now, time isn’t on our side – we cannot afford to be picky when it comes to a cure.”

Studying githyanki culture was never a focus in any of his schooling, but their hostility and distrust towards outsiders is well known – Lae’zel has shown herself to be a prime example of this stereotype. If their situation wasn’t so desperate, Gale knows she would not be here helping them. Best case scenario, she would have abandoned them to manage the climb through the forest on their own; worst case, she would have slain them where they stood.

But, if they can reach the druid’s grove before the effects of ceremorphosis begin to set in, and if there’s no one there who can heal them, there may simply be no other option.

Still, the lack of symptoms bothers Gale more than it comforts.

“True, everything I know about the process dictates that we should be well on our way to transformation; we should already be losing hair, and bleeding from our eyes, nose, mouth.” He pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek as he runs through his lessons in his mind, “However, I never had much reason to study mind flayers. There could be a number of complicating factors–”

“I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Astarion snipes as he moves from one corpse to the next; the compact body of a female duegar. Dead with three arrows sticking from the flesh – in the stomach, the breast, and the neck, “I say all the better that we’re not showing any signs of transforming.”

“It’s no gift, I’m sure. Mind flayers aren’t the sort to be generous. Maybe we’ve got a god watching over us,” Shadowheart sighs, pulling herself forward with effort to stand up, “Where’s the half-drow? I should probably make sure he isn’t injured.”

“Tagalong?” Astarion gestures towards the end of the table with a wave of his hand; he’s distracted, trying to pull free the beads that hold in the braids of the duegar’s hair. How desperate does he think they are? “And for the record, delude yourself all you want, but the gods don’t give us mortals gifts. If this tadpole decides to be a layabout, I will take whatever advantage I can get; you won’t hear me complaining.”

As Shadowheart moves toward their amnesiac, Gale can’t help but ask, “Do you think we’ll really need all those beads?”

“Gale, you’ll thank me when we finally arrive at whatever pitiful bit of civilization we manage to stumble across, and we can afford food for the five of us.” The rogue manages a handful of beads while several more slip through his fingers and bounce with gentle pings across the stone floor, “Maybe we’ll even have enough to afford more reagents for your spells, and then you could simply teleport us to Baldur’s Gate. That’s a thing wizards do, right?–”

“Do you know if he’s injured?” Shadowheart interrupts. Her hands glide over her patient’s form, but at a glance the man just looks exhausted. The heavy bags under his eyes speak of many sleepless nights and give his face an almost haunted look. Still, considering the fierce brawl earlier, it's amazing the man made it through the fight without a scratch, especially without armor.

Astarion pauses, tilting his head back, and for a moment Gale almost thinks he sniffs the air, “Check his leg. I think I saw him take a hit.”

Shadowheart nods to herself, checking one leg before moving over to the next. As she moves forward to touch him again, the half-drow’s hand snaps around hers in a vice-like grip.

“Easy.” Her words are soft, slow. “I just want to check you for any wounds. Does anything hurt?”

The half-drow’s chest heaves with each breath, his eyes empty and guileless. He doesn’t respond – Gale doubts the man even heard her speak.

As the man’s breath begins to even out, Shadowheart reaches out slowly with her other, untrapped hand. Instantly, coal grey eyes snap to the movement like a magnet. There’s still no recognition in that gaze, only a hollow sort of fear, but he seems to allow the motion. Shadowheart must find a wound after all, and with a practiced gesture, the soothing green aura of a healing spell glows in the shadows of the table.

The sight is a bit uncomfortable, a bit too personal, so Gale coughs quietly into his fist to draw the others attention – terrible decision. The orb tightens its fist around his lungs; vindictive, cruel. Much like any other beast, it hates to be ignored. “Lae’zel, have you ever heard of mind flayer tadpoles taking this long to transform their hosts?”

“No. Any githyanki that becomes infected and does not fall in battle is taken to a creche and cured immediately. I do have knowledge of the process, from my studies on Creche K’liir.” She pauses as if chewing on the thought, tasting it, “Such a delay, however. It does seem… unusual. Likely some form of ghaik trickery.”

Slowly, the glowing light fades away, and the half-drow settles, resting his head back against the edge of the table again. Shadowheart raises her hand from his leg to his temple, and once more that little green glimmer flickers to life, soothing the violent purple bruise that blooms there.

Her magic is so different from his own. Soothing healing or burning radiance gifted to her by the divine; whereas, his was the fruit of years of study. Her magic wound its way into existence with the sinuous grace of a shadow fleeing dawn’s fresh light; his burst into being with a twist of the very Weave itself, the fabric of this world uncoiling itself in great lashes of pure power.

And then there had been that feeling from earlier as the weave had not bent into shape, but instead broke.

It had been a sudden flash of force, wild and uncontrollable, but undeniable. The battle with the bandits had been hectic, but Gale clearly remembers the plume of flame that split the dusty air of the shrine. Meters away and he could feel the sudden crackling heat, could hear the explosive snap as the gnome was blasted off his feet. A surprising show of force that, for one brief moment, brought the skirmish to a standstill. Gale hadn’t sensed any magic in the half-drow’s presence the night before; however, the man must be a sorcerer, and they were an eclectic bunch. Had he just not bothered to mention his skills, or was it possible the man couldn’t remember?

Gale can’t imagine a world without his connection to the Weave. For as long as he could remember, he had felt its steady thrum around him, within him. Without it, could he feel whole? Even if he had never felt its latent power crackling unseen in the air around him like a building lightning strike, would he not realize he was missing something? Or would he live his life none the wiser? Missing the Weave would be like missing a limb, and to not even be aware of it?

What would his life have been without the years of study he had put towards his magic?

Does it matter? In the end, the orb has stolen so much from him, has drained his power from his body like a leech, and what little it had left in its wake the tadpole has snapped up eagerly. Even basic cantrips steal the breath from his lungs, and the crushing weight of the orb sits heavy on his shoulders with each cast. He is not bereft of the one thing in his life that he has ever been good at, but it feels like it's threatening to slip from his fingers at every opportunity.

Still, where the first problem may be irreversible, the second may still be resolved.

Not here, and not tonight, but hopefully soon.

He closes the melancholic train of thought with a slap to his knees, instantly drawing three sets of eyes to him, “Well, I’ll get a start on dinner then. Normally I’d take requests but unless it’s sausage or cheese, you’re stuck with soup again I’m afraid.”

Astarion saunters over, his red eyes striking in the flickering firelight, “As much as I’m looking forward to a bite to eat, can’t we at least get rid of the corpses? They’re not exactly helping the… aesthetic.”

“Squeamish, elf?” Lae’zel’s lips split in what must be a… a smile? “You just spent the better part of the last hour crawling all over them.”

Astarion sighs, his nose crinkling in disgust, “There’s a lot I’ll do for gold, and we’ll need the money to fund our little self-rescue, but they’ve since ruined my appetite. Eugh.”

Shadowheart pulls her hand away from the half-drow and stands, brushing the dust from her knees, “I’m not rebuilding those barricades; pile the bodies in the corner. No one’s going anywhere with the storm as it is.”

Astarion glances at the cleric, his gaze sharp, “No funeral rites for the dead then? Not going to try your hand at grave digging?”

“They are no kin of mine – let their gods find them in the dark. This shrine can be their tomb.”

 

-x-

 

The smell. It’s driving him mad.

Astarion sits at the table by the fire, and pretends to eat the bowl of thin porridge that Gale so thoughtfully passed him moments prior. He spent the night surrounded by the slow, rhythmic beats of sleeping heartbeats and the scent of bloody flesh slowly rotting in the corner of the room. With each hour that passes, it becomes more and more repellent as the blood congeals in cold dead veins. His stomach, useless organ that it is, churns with disgust even as his fangs ache in his mouth.

The idea of drinking from those corpses is repulsive, and yet decadent. The Master – Cazador had kept him starved for decades, subsisting on the weeks-old blood of rotten rats; by comparison, this is a veritable feast mere meters away.

The Master was often cruel and capricious; any act of kindness was always just a ruse to mask his casual sadism. To lure his spawn into the trap of believing that blind subservience would be enough. It never was – to win Cazador’s favor for the night was a double edged sword; no matter how much Astarion pleased him, Cazador would always smile, tilt his head in that reptilian way of his, and crush Astarion beneath his boot.

A reminder, he had called it.

As if Astarion needed any reminder. He and Godey were well acquainted, after all.

But, it seems that this blighted tadpole has done something to him. If the Mas– Cazador’s compulsion has truly left him, does it not stand that he should be able to break the taboos placed upon him? If Cazador cannot see through his eyes, cannot control him, could he not just… take what he wants so desperately? He could get up. He could walk over there, in front of all of them, and sink to his knees. Pick his favorite corpse, and just bite–

He’s salivating, he has to stop–

The compulsion may be gone but he can’t be a fool. He can’t just go over there and drink, no matter how much he wants to.

Revealing himself as a vampire in front of these very well-armed strangers would be tantamount to suicide.

Instead, he digs his spoon into the porridge and begs the gods for a distraction.

For perhaps the first time in his unlife, he gets what he asks for; it comes in the form of Gale delivering a bowl of the slop to their amnesiac. The half-drow’s hands shake with fine tremors as he accepts the porridge, and Gale smiles as he hands the food over. That simple joy immediately sours when the half-drow ignores his spoon and starts slurping from the edge of the bowl. Gale’s eye twitches.

“I guess they don’t have table manners in Menzoberranzan.” Astarion chuckles – the discomfort radiating from the wizard is delightful.

“He’s half-drow, it’s far more likely he’s from the surface than the Underdark,” Gale responds absently, looking a touch nauseated. When the wizard’s eyes flit toward him, Astarion makes a point of taking a bite of his own bowl, smiling even as the goop tastes of wet ash in his mouth. Seemingly pleased, Gale turns away, grabbing his own portion, and returns to his seat on the far side of the table.

Shadowheart sits at the middle of the table, her bowl empty but the contents of her pack spread out before her. Across from her is Lae’zel, who is staring at her food with a fierce frown; she stabs at the porridge with her spoon as if she expects it to come alive and attack.

As the others eat (and he pretends to), Astarion considers the situation. The bodies still reek from their spot over in the corner, but the gentle sound of cutlery on hardened clay and the murmur of Gale and Shadowheart speaking in low tones is surprisingly… soothing. Distracting. He’s still starving, still desperately aware of the blood he could have, but it… helps.

It had almost been comforting, trancing with so many other bodies nearby – living, breathing bodies, not vampires. The unliving were so silent and unmoving, like statues, but these mortals made noise with everything they did. From the siren call of their heartbeats to the soft shift of blankets in the night, the room had never really been quiet. Not even once the storm had stopped raging.

The gale outside had faded to the Gale within – the wizard snored loud enough that Astarion, startled out of his trance, had wondered blearily for one moment if somehow the thunder had found its way inside.

Cater-corner to him, the half-drow sets his bowl down, looking more than a little dazed. He managed to eat it all, Astarion notes with vague interest. Good. The wizard seemed concerned that their invalid put on some weight, and had spent every spare moment shoving food in the man’s direction. While the amnesiac is eating more than before, it still seems awfully little for a man of the half-drow’s height. Not to mention how dreadfully skinny he is, all wiry muscle pulled tight on too-large bones with no fat to spare; the light of the fireplace highlights the deep hollows of the man’s collarbone and his sunken cheeks. But then again, what does a vampire know of mortal food requirements? An idea sparks in Astarion’s mind, and he slides over, deftly switching their bowls.

“There you go, have another,” the half-drow blinks at him, his eyes wide and confused, but Astarion puts on his best smile, “No no, I insist! You need to build your strength.”

The amnesiac glances between him and the food before hesitantly lifting it to his mouth, but doesn’t complain. An excellent trait to have in a patsy, Astarion thinks, turning his attention back to the table proper.

Apparently Lae’zel has overcome her distrust of the porridge to finish her breakfast, and has gone off to unbarricade the doors. Unsuccessfully, from the sounds of it, as the gith is quick to return, her face twisted into a scowl, “We’re trapped.”

“What?” Shadowheart’s head snaps up and stares at Lae’zel, “What do you mean ‘we’re trapped’?”

“I took down the barricades, but the doors are blocked from the outside.” The gith crosses her arms over her chest, as if daring Shadowheart to question her further.

“Did we miss some of the bandits? Did they lock us in here?”

“Easy, Shadowheart,” Gale interrupts, “I doubt anyone was out in that storm last night.”

“We were certainly foolish enough to be–”

Gale shoots Astarion a look, “No one with a lick of sense was out there.” The wizard takes a moment, finishing his own breakfast, “I imagine it is possible that wind brought down some of those supports outside.”

“Are you saying we’re stuck here, Istik?”

“It’s possible–”

“A shrine like this will have another exit,” Shadowheart insists, “It would be a death trap otherwise – it may be hidden, but I guarantee there will be another way out.”

“And if there isn’t?” Gale asks.

“Then we dig ourselves out,” she responds, “Remove the hinges from the door, and clear the debris out from this side.”

Lae’zel hums, considering, “...A valid option, if time consuming.”

“Time that we don’t have, but I suppose we don’t have another choice.” Gale sighs, getting to his feet stiffly as he walks towards the fire. As he gets close, he leans over and sees the half-drow’s mostly full bowl, and gives the amnesiac a disapproving frown, “You have to try to eat if you’re ever going to recover.”

The half-drow has the presence of mind to look affronted, looking from Gale to Astarion, but the wizard has already grabbed his bowl and walked away. Dark eyes meet his, accusing, but apparently the man’s voice isn’t working. What an unfortunate time to be struck dumb – Astarion leans back in his chair and smiles, enjoying the show; their amnesiac’s first real sliver of personality.

The half-drow works his throat as though he plans to prove Astarion wrong, but the rest of their little ragtag group is packing supplies and doing a final scavenge of the room. Astarion gets to his feet and moves to join them – his piles of loot from last night have already been gathered and bagged, and now they’re scouring through the last of the crates and grabbing the remaining food.

A few sausages survived the night and about two-thirds of the wheel of cheese. The wizard seems pleased, at least, wrapping the prize up with a smile.

Astarion moves over towards a nearby crate of weapons (the one the gith grabbed the swords from the night before), and starts picking through. He still has a little room in his pack, afterall, and they’ll need anything they can sell for when they do reach a town.

“I think…I think I r-remember my name?”

The deep voice, so different from the rest of the group, instantly catches everyone’s attention, and the room falls to silence. All eyes turn to look at the half-drow who’s staring down at the table, still looking a little lost, but there’s some clarity to his eyes that Astarion cannot remember seeing before.

Both Gale and Shadowheart almost trip over their own feet in their rush to the amnesiac’s side. Gale still holds the sausages, forgotten in his hands from where he was halfway through wrapping them, and Shadowheart has one strap of her pack secured, the other slipping down her arm. Both their eyes are a bit wide, filled with a cautious hope.

“You do?” Gale asks.

The half-drow nods, his movement slow, clumsy, “I think my name is… is Dirge?”

“Dirge?” Astarion repeats, surprised, “Like, of the funerary sort?”

‘Dirge’ pauses, considering, before nodding his head again, “I think I dreamt about it?” His voice is deep and rough from disuse.

“You remembered your name… in a dream?”

The half-drow frowns, his eyes distant as if he’s trying to recall, “I heard someone say it. I think… I think I said it?” Dirge doesn’t look convinced, “I’m not sure. I don’t sleep well.”

“I noticed. Anything you’d like to share with the class?” Astarion sighs.The man had said as much the day before; the repetition is going to kill him. When the half-drow doesn’t respond, Astarion needles him some more, “Did you forget? When we met, I was graced with a glimpse into that head of yours, and it was empty. I’m curious what an empty husk dreams of.”

Steel-grey eyes meet his, and there’s something a touch unnerving about his stare. His eyes are very intense, despite being hollow and glazed over for the last two days. There’s a sharp inquisitive air to him, despite his hesitant cadence, “Did you? I don’t remember seeing into yours?”

“No? Good. There’s nothing for you in there – now answer the question.”

“I-I don’t remember.” Dirge looks away from him again, and a large hand rakes through the stubble of his hair. A nervous gesture, “Blood, gore… It was… violent.”

“You?” Astarion pulls back, considers the man before him again, “Violent?” He remembers the bite in the human’s palm, the large chunk of flesh torn out and likely swallowed – there had been no doubt for him who had been responsible. He could smell the blood from the wound and he could smell it on Dirge’s mouth last night as soon as it occurred. At the time he had thought it was a desperate move, but now, perhaps their half-drow is a bit more…feral than Astarion realized.

Astarion understands feral. He can work with that.

“Dirge is it?” Gale smiles broadly and steps forward, extending his hand. The half-drow glances down at it, bewildered, but clasps it in his own. Gale shakes his hand firmly, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“If you’re finished eating, Dirge, we need to get moving,” Shadowheart says, hooking her hand under his elbow and urging him to stand, “Take one of the packs, and load it with as much as you can manage.”

Astarion takes that cue himself, grabbing his pack from where it leans against the wall. A thorough search of the room reveals a few more useful items; a bag of dried, salted meat and extra water skins, a couple of unopened potion bottles, some books the wizard seems interested in, and most importantly a map of the local area. It was drawn by an unsteady hand, but it has a few locations roughly scribbled in. The river at their back apparently is the Chionthar, but this particular section of it is familiar to no one present. The shrine they’re in has no name; just a large X marks the entrance, and through a field of hastily drawn trees, someone has added a winding arrow leading to the north-northwest where the word ‘grove’ has been circled over and over.

Shadowheart stares down at the map from where they have it laid out on the table – it is old and worn, and has spent enough time rolled up that it keeps trying to curl up at the edges. The mugs they used for the wine last night weigh the argumentative paper down. “At least we know, if this really is the Chionthar, we can’t be that far from Baldur’s Gate.”

Gale shakes his head, “The Chionthar runs for thousands of kilometers. It could take us months to get back to the city.”

Astarion runs his fingers over the paper, looking for any other landmarks that could narrow their location down. The Master hadn’t allowed him out of the city for many years, but during the previous century, there were a few occasions where he was sent out for work abroad. Usually for special clients with eccentric tastes, but while the trips were memorable for all the worst reasons, he does still remember a few of the small hamlets he stayed at along the way.

There’s a smaller, unnamed river that drains into the Chionthar from the north. Someone has taken the time to doodle in where small waterfalls form, as well as a note of places safe to drink from. In the west there’s a large skull symbol complete with angry eyebrows, and another smaller one surrounded by question marks where the edges of the Chionthar turn into what looks like swampland.

Dirge moves beside him, looking down at the paper, but Astarion can already tell by his guileless face that he’ll be of no use.

“Where’s Us?” He rasps.

“You mean ‘where are we?” Shadowheart puts one finger on the large X drawn on the rocky outcrop, “We spent the night in an abandoned temple here–”

“No, I remember that. Probably.” Dirge looks away from the map and meets her eyes, “I mean, where is ‘Us’?” When everyone else stares at him as though he’s sprouted another head, he hesitantly adds, “You know, the… the… brain-leg?”

“Brain-leg?” Gale strokes his beard, considering, “You mean… an intellect devourer?”

Dirge nods.

“I remember now, you had one following you around on the nautiloid,” Shadowheart responds, her brow crinkling as chews at her bottom lip, “Didn’t see it after the crash though.”

Behind them, Lae’zel scoffs as she continues to fill her bag with any weapons in the crate that are still salvageable, “It could have been among the ones we fought in the wreckage. No matter, I told you before; it would have turned on you when it realized you were no thrall.”

The half-drow’s shoulders droop, just a little – does he mourn the death of an intellect devourer of all things? – but he nods regardless. “Come help me fill your pack,” Shadowheart says to him, again taking him by the elbow, “We’ll be leaving soon and I want to make sure we don’t leave any food or gear behind.”

“This here,” Astarion taps his fingers on the parchment, and points at a scrawl of letters that borders illegible, “I think I know this place.” The writing’s on a tilt with the letters packed so tight that they bleed into each other, but eventually the deep plunges of a crude W form before his eyes, “That’s Waukeen's Rest. I’ve never been, but I passed by once, years ago.”

Gale sighs, crossing his arms and balancing his chin on a hand, “I’m not familiar with it. About how far are we from Baldur’s Gate?”

“It’s been ages, but it’s somewhere between the Gate and Elturel.” Astarion pauses, “...Closer to Elturel.”

“So we’re probably a month away at best,” the wizard rubbed at his eyes, pacing away from the table. Astarion pushed the mugs aside and rolled the map back up, tucking it away into his pack before they could be fool enough to forget and leave it behind, “Then there’s nothing for it. We’ll have to search for a healer first.”

“So the plan’s unchanged then,” Astarion replies, hoisting his pack.

“Let’s go see if our cleric is right, and this place has a backdoor.” Gale flips the edge of a rug onto the dying fire to put out the flame.

The door leads to a hallway with several alcoves on either side. It’s as old and broken down as the rest of the shrine, and the bandits were clearly using it as part of their living quarters. There’s nothing of any value left behind, Astarion notes as they walk through, just more old books that were being torn page by page for kindling. At the far end of the hall, two watchful statues stand proud, though one is missing the tip of its spear as well as its head.

One of the first rooms they come across has a massive hole in the ceiling, although it's too high to reach even if they did pile all the furniture together. Again, it is meager pickings; two rotten wardrobes that he doubts could hold anyone’s weight; a wooden crate with a small bundle of candles tucked away inside; a chest with a pair of pants, a bottle of grease, and a couple of bottles of a basic poison; and two beds, rank with mildew.

He makes the mistake of joking that had they gone a bit further last night, they could have gotten something proper to sleep on, to which Lae’zel responds that he’s welcome to share his bed with the roaches if he wishes.

Further down the hall there is a locked door on the right, sealed with a mechanism Astarion can’t see, and just beyond that, a chapel. A beam of golden morning light drifts through a pair of clerestory windows set high into the walls, highlighting the fat motes of dust that slowly wheel in the air. This room shows the least sign of bandit inhabitation so far, but that could be because they would have had little use for it; the walls are lined with bookshelves and desks that were being dismantled for firewood. Four great pillars hold up each corner of the room, and at the far end there is a tall statue of a bearded, hooded man, his hands raised in supplication.

As they walk in, he wanders over to the statue. Just like every other one here, its face is unrecognizable, although he doesn’t think this is supposed to be a representation of the patron deity of the shrine – it looks more like a worshiper than the worshiped.

Built into the base of the statue is a small ledge that acts as a lectern. Resting there is a large, heavy book that’s covered in years worth of dust. When he picks it up and opens it, the spine pulls a bit too far, a bit too easily – the binding is weak from years of moisture and rot. Disappointingly, the inside is just lines of names of people who must have lived in the area once, and how they died; he skims through the pages but it’s more of the same. The last third of the book is blank as if the temple was abandoned abruptly.

Or perhaps there was an outbreak of plague, Astarion muses, reading the last few entries. There’s multiple mentions of fever and internal rot.

A quick investigation of the room reveals little of use. Gale has found another couple of books on the shelves that he deems interesting (and Astarion wonders if his collection will still continue to grow once the wizard learns just whose responsibility it will be to haul around said books), Lae’zel is rooting through the various crates and chests throughout the room, and behind him Shadowheart leads Dirge around as she ‘teaches’ him what is worth grabbing.

When she had first set the half-drow on the task, he had taken everything – rotten food, empty bottles, scraps of cloth – his face addled and dazed. She’s since reopened her pack and redistributed some of her burden to him, pointing out what was worth keeping and what wasn’t. She pushes into his hand some of their spare weapons and armor.

“Dirge, you need to carry more of the supplies – make yourself useful, please.” She sighs in frustration when he hesitates under the new weight of his pack.

Astarion ignores them and moves behind the statue into a little bell shaped alcove that contains little more than a few stone benches and iron candelabras that have twisted horrifically out of shape. The more he thinks about it, the more he believes that just might be the stupidest name he’s ever had the misfortune of hearing. Definitely not a drow name, that’s for sure. At least they found the fool some boots that fit from one of the corpses, so he doesn’t have to listen to the slap-slap of Dirge’s feet on the stone.

There’s two chests behind the statue, one with a single gold coin and the other with another bundle of candles. Pinching the coin between his forefinger and thumb, he absentmindedly spins it as he considers their options. It’s looking more and more likely that they will have to dig their way out, or find some way to climb out that hole in the roof by the beds. Failing that, the windows here are a possibility, but the ceiling is so high that a misstep could easily lead to a death for the more living among them.

But there, half hidden behind one of the stone benches, is a curious shape along the wall. As Astarion creeps closer, it becomes clear: a large, humanoid skull with a scroll clenched in its teeth. The scroll is stone, amazingly well carved, and the skull is entirely real. It’s mounted to the wall on a circular bit of iron.

How had the bandits missed this?

“Found something~!” Astarion exclaims, quickly finding himself surrounded by the others.

“Oh, that’s positively ghastly,” Gale states, moving closer and bending down to get a better look, “Human, if I had to wager.”

Astarion crouches down beside it and looks underneath – there’s a thin bit of metal running from the inside of the jaw back towards the mounting, “There’s a mechanism here.”

“Is it trapped?”

“No, I don’t believe it is. I think if I just…” he cups both hands around the bone and … tugs. In a smooth motion, the skull slides forward a few centimeters before locking into place. Back down the hall, Astarion can hear a loud click resonate through the walls.

“I imagine that unlocks our mystery door then,” Shadowheart smiles, “Good job, ‘magistrate’.”

“The pleasure is all mine. Just be happy it wasn’t trapped. Or that our bandit friends never noticed it, ham-fisted brutes that they were.”

“Why?” the half-drow asks as they return to the hallway, “What would they have…”

Astarion sighs, “They would have broken it, Dirge. Use your head, or whatever’s left of it.”

The open door waits for them, revealing a small hallway that is incredibly different from anywhere else in the shrine. Two tall statues watch over an ancient wooden door, flanked by two gonfalon style flags; the cloth, made of long streamers in colors of silver and purple, displays a heraldic shield with a grinning skull holding a scroll between its teeth. Unlike the one in the chapel, this skull is missing its bone cap and has been hollowed out into an inkwell, one dark feather arched ominously above it with a fat drop of ink dripping down. The statues themselves are also quite unlike their counterparts out in the hall; where those had been armored guards standing tall, these are dressed in robes with lengthy scrolls and feathered quills in hand. Amazingly, both statues are intricately inlaid with gold in both the letters of the scroll and the hands of the figures – each wears a golden gauntlet that ends in wickedly sharp claws.

The centuries have rendered both figures headless and completely unrecognizable, but there is a stylized air to them that is very unique. Astarion has no doubt, this is the figure that the other statues worshiped and guarded.

“Definitely safe to say the brigands never made it in here,” mutters Gale, studying the statues and the banners.

No one has seen the inside of this room for generations. Everything feels darker here than in the rest of the shrine, a pall that hangs in the very air like a heavy, encroaching shadow. The cobwebs are at least as old as Astarion is, and they stretch and weave through the air like snaking roots. The dust sits centimeters thick on the floor, undisturbed.

“This… isn’t what I was expecting,” Shadowheart murmurs, awed.

“What is this place?” Lae’zel questions, her voice oddly loud in the hush that has encircled them.

“It’s an undercroft. A big one,” the cleric walks forward to the opposite door, and pushes it open on rusty hinges. Beyond waits a stone landing and a set of stairs that lead down into an almost impenetrable darkness. To one side of the door, a small metal cage sits laden with unlit torches – Shadowheart steps forward and takes one in hand, holding it out towards their wizard who lights it with a quick Firebolt cantrip.

She turns and steps through the door, sweeping the torch before her; the light seems muted somehow, but the shadows do retract, reluctantly.

An icy bolt of fear shoots through Astarion, haunting his mind with thoughts of a miserable year spent in the dark. The worn stone walls, the dry scent of bone dust, the hollow silence… If he had a working heart, it would be racing, and his useless lungs have locked tight in his chest. He needs to breathe, if only to keep up his facade, but he can’t–

“Are you sure there’s a way through?”

Shadowheart looks at Gale and shrugs, “There should be. We either take a wander through here, or go back and start digging; I know which I’d prefer.”

“We need to move,” Lae’zel crosses her arms over her chest; despite her harsh tone, Astarion can see a flicker of unease in her eyes, “We can afford to waste no more time.” Without further hesitation, she steps forward and roughly grabs the torch from Shadowheart, and descends into the darkness. Shadowheart glares after her, before grabbing another for Gale to light.

Below, far below, Astarion can hear Lae’zel’s footsteps get quieter, quieter, then… Silence.

He manages one stuttering breath – it scrapes into his lungs in a wheeze.

“Astarion?” Gale moves closer, his eyes worried, his smile tentative, “Are you alright?”

Another sliver of air; his chest heaves shallowly. He nods frantically, eyes wide and unfocused.

Shadowheart moves to his other side, flanking him, “Claustrophobic?” He nods again. “Breathe,” she demands. There’s the gentle shift of boots on stone, and he can feel the half-drow looming behind him–

Breathing won’t help him, but he can’t say that. Instead, he presses one hand on his chest and tries to push it into a proper, normal rhythm. Shadowheart clasps a hand tight around his forearm, and he wants to snap at her for it, but he can’t and the touch is grounding, even if it makes his skin crawl.

Eventually he (mostly) regains control of himself. His breath comes slower and slower, if still a bit shaky. Feeling irritable, he snatches his arm back from Shadowheart; she’s got the grace to look a bit surprised, but after a moment she smiles knowingly. He hates it.

“G-give me a torch,” he demands, and when Gale passes one, he snaps again: “Light it.”

The wizard mutters an ‘Ignis’, and Astarion stalks to the edge of the landing, proud, head held high, and not at all afraid, “Come, let’s find the gith before she gets herself lost.”

As he descends down the stairs, he can hear footsteps behind him, and one set that pauses at the top. The half-drow, most likely–

“Careful,” Dirge whispers, “The tombs are watching.”

Astarion turns to glare at him as Gale and Shadowheart urge the half-drow to follow them down the steps. Their invalid is lucky – if he were still on the landing, Astarion would have thrown the man down himself and saved them all the trouble.

By the time they reach the bottom, he feels a little steadier. Even if his hands were to shake, no one would be able to see it through the looming darkness.

Despite their torches, they find Lae’zel by almost stumbling into her; anything beyond the edge of their lights disappears into the gloom. There are no twists or turns, no branching paths; the hall stretches on, seemingly endlessly. The walls are made of tightly packed granite bricks held together with crumbling mortar, and interrupted every few meters by narrow recesses filled with bones and dust. It’s clear that this undercroft is older than any other part of this temple, and far larger too. As they continue to walk and reach no end, Astarion wonders just how far this crypt stretches under the ground.

Does it stretch all the way to the forest? Beyond? It feels like it must.

The walls crowd them in and force them all to walk single file. There’s some discussion – an argument, more like – but eventually Shadowheart takes the lead as their ‘expert in religious architecture’. Astarion follows close behind her, and Gale behind him. They keep Dirge sandwiched between the wizard and Lae’zel, who brings up the rear. Originally the wizard wanted to be last in line, but when he kept falling behind because he was examining some quirk of the stone or the funerary niches themselves, it was decided that they couldn’t risk getting separated.

The gith demanded to take Gale’s place and guard their backline. She walks with dagger in hand, the narrow corridor too cramped for the swing of her new greatsword.

In the dark, four sets of heartbeats echo in his ears. Empty eye sockets stare endlessly from the niches.

Hours must pass, and yet there is nothing other than the endless stretch of tombs. Astarion can’t shake the feeling they are being watched, but from where? If he reaches his arms out, his fingers would press on the walls on each side long before he could straighten his elbows, and even the ceiling is low enough that the half-drow must be walking with a slouch to avoid hitting his head. Yet the feeling of eyes upon him remains; the air is heavy, yet alive. It feels like the shadows are breathing.

Like a ravenous hound, panic nips at his heels.

“…Maybe we should go back,” Astarion mutters, his breath stuttering in his throat, “We could go and clear out the door, and spare ourselves all this… wandering in the dark.”

“We could,” Gale agrees calmly, “it would likely take several days, however, and we do run the risk of collapsing the entrance on ourselves.”

The conversation helps to soothe his jangled nerves, if only just a little. “What about your spells, wizard? Can’t you blast us a way out?”

A negative hum, “Once, I could have. I could have torn a hole clear through this temple, or I could have saved us a lot of trouble and teleported us back to Baldur’s Gate; alas, now I can barely manage more than a cantrip.”

“Is it the tadpole?” Shadowheart asks, her voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve noticed that my own connection to the divine is… weakened. I feel like a novice again.”

“It’s likely. I’ve not heard of this symptom before in my studies, but, to be fair, not many people live long enough to tell of their experiences with mind flayer tadpole infection.” Gale sighs, “Unless… Are the rest of you feeling any weakness as well? Or is it just Shadowheart and myself?”

“I have trained all my life on Creche K’liir, and never before has my body moved so slow, nor my blade felt so heavy.”

Astarion nods, though he doubts anyone else could see it. He too has felt this strange, draining feeling. The Master – Cazador had always kept them weak and crippled (though whether that was through starvation or through compulsion, he had never been sure) but he had still been stronger and faster than the average person. He was deft with his hands and knife when needed, but now he feels slow and stiff. The tiny bit of vampiric strength Cazador allowed was all but gone; a more than fair trade in exchange for losing a master and gaining the sun, he supposed.

The looming threat of becoming a mind flayer was a little concerning, but that would be dealt with in time.

Still, these are things he can’t share, and the rest of the group waits for his response in silence. Astarion forces a smile to his face and a levity to his words that he doesn’t feel, “Well, I can’t say it’s made much of a difference on my end – as a magistrate, I’ve never had much combat experience after all.”

“For a magistrate, you are certainly skilled with that dagger of yours,” Shadowheart cheerfully replies, as though she thinks she’s caught him out, “Not to mention your bow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen civil officers with aim that good before.”

“Simply hobbies, my dear. Spending all day in an office doing paperwork is so boring, and what can I say? I’m very good with my hands.”

They fall into silence again, until at last, they reach a dead end. The corridor just stopped, the brickwork finished; apparently whoever built this crypt had no plans of expanding further. Shadowheart presses her hand against the wall and swings her torch around as she likely searches for some switch or lever, but the stone remains unmoved. She whirls on her heel, shoulders tense and face set in a confused scowl.

“It… It just ends, here? Miles of unmarked crypt and they just capped it off?”

“I thought you said there would be another exit. Did you get us lost, Istik?”

“Lost?” Shadowheart snaps, gesturing back the way they came, “It’s a straight line, I’m sure even a gith could find their way back–” In a moment, her face flickers from anger, to surprise, and then to shock. She pales noticeably, and Astarion can hear the sudden hammer of her heart in her throat.

He turns to look, dread climbing up the tower of his spine; where there was a singular, direct path before, there are now two winding corridors each heading in opposite directions, each identical.

“This… This wasn’t here before?” Shadowheart’s eyes are wide, her expression lost, “This hallway hasn’t curved once–”

Astarion breathes, feeling that tightness slowly build in his chest again. A death trap, she’d said.

“An illusion, perhaps?” Gale strokes his beard, eyes distant, “I can’t sense any magic. So, the question is, which way do we go?”

With a grunt, Shadowheart slips past everyone else until she is once again in the lead. “They both look the same.”

Suddenly Astarion is at the new back of the line, and he can’t help but glance over his shoulder to make sure nothing has suddenly appeared between him and the stone behind him. His skin crawls.

“It’s entirely possible that the path doesn’t actually matter,” the wizard comments, “If it is magic, they could both lead us to an exit, or they could both…not.” Gale raises a hand, running it along the wall beside him, but it’s not apparent whether he is searching for a mechanism or a hint of the arcane, “Touch can often ruin the guise of illusion spells, but this feels very real. If it is magic,” he repeats, “the caster must be a powerful wizard indeed.”

Lae’zel crosses her arms, “And so, your question remains unanswered: which way?”

Dirge steps forward, beside Shadowheart, and gestures to the right hand corridor, “This path.”

“How can you be sure?” Gale asks, curious.

“The breeze.” The half-drow jerks his chin toward the other path, “There’s no air movement on the other side.”

Shadowheart blinks, and stretches an arm into each direction. After a long moment she steps back and shakes her head, “He’s… he’s right. There’s a breeze coming down the right hall, but as soon as it reaches here,” she gestures to where the two paths meet, “it just vanishes.”

“It could be air from the higher levels of the temple – we did leave the door open. Or, it could be coming from our hypothetical secret exit, however, we’ve been walking for hours. That’s an awfully long distance for an air current to travel,” Gale muses, “I suppose we don’t have much of a choice. We should follow it; nothing else has changed so far.”

Some in the group are hesitant, of course, but eventually the desire for a breath of fresh air wins out over their caution. They move through the winding hall, and within a quarter of an hour, the path for the first time not only widens, but splits into other corridors. At each intersection they stop to check, but still the air only ever comes from one hall at a time, and dutifully they follow.

Where before, the darkness had felt oppressing, there is now a feeling of knowing and watchfulness. If this is some sort of puzzle or test, they must be doing something right.

After another half of an hour, the path straightens again, and there are no more side corridors. For a moment Astarion fears they have made a wrong choice, but no, the breeze is still there, as light as a breath, guiding them forward until they reach a large wooden door set into an intricately carved stone arch. There is a large metal ring for the handle, and below it, a metal plate with a keyhole. Astarion’s got his lockpicks in hand as they approach, but as soon as the light of Shadowheart’s torch touches the wood, there is a click, deafeningly loud in the dark.

“It seems we have an invite,” Shadowheart mutters, tentatively reaching her hand out to push.

The door swings open with barely a creak; beyond it, there is a large cross-shaped room with the same sort of mosaic pattern they saw outside the shrine set into the floor. Three thick pillars stand in the inner corners and a fourth pillar has been knocked from its mooring, taking a section of the ceiling with it. From the hole above a cool wind blows, and, sure enough, Astarion can see through to the night sky and the stars overhead. Greenery grows atop the fallen debris, and long tendrils of ivy descend from the ceiling and down the wall. From where they entered, there are two exits, one to their right and one to the left, but opposite the entrance there is another stone arch carved into the wall that, interestingly, lacks a door.

The darkness from the crypt is less present here, and at long last that feeling of watchfulness fades.

The tension creeps out of Astarion’s shoulders, leaving behind only the ache of muscles held tight for too long.

It’s decided that they’ll make camp here. It’s a welcome change from the cramped space of the crypt, but Astarion can’t fathom how they were in those halls for an entire day. As the others set up a fire and Gale begins cooking, he wanders the edges of the room and looks for anything of worth. There are many recesses along the walls (filled with vases and broken pottery) and a few damaged stone benches and iron candelabras, but there are a couple of ornate chests that catch his eye. The contents are a touch better than what they found upstairs; he finds a ring with a dull onyx stone, a small handful of gold coins, and two scrolls of Protection from Evil and Good that Gale readily snatches from him.

Shadowheart built the fire just off center of the mosaic tiling, and the smoke rises conveniently through the collapsed ceiling, making for an excellent impromptu chimney. She and Gale talk as he begins the preparations for dinner, and Astarion finds his way back to his bedroll, already set up against the base of one of the pillars. He leans back and settles in for the evening’s entertainment; Lae’zel has abducted Dirge with the threat of their first training session together.

True to expectations, the gith wastes little time talking and skips almost straight to the violence; despite the long day of walking, the two clash against one another with an impressive display of force. Reluctantly, Astarion admits the man has some skill, though it’s obvious a greatsword isn’t his weapon of choice – he seems to expect something smaller, something he can use in closer quarters. Lae’zel is an efficient fighter, however, and any mistake the half-drow makes she punishes brutally. No less than five times she disarms him handily, and twice she manages to get a leg between his and throws him to the ground.

Dirge though, doesn’t give up. When Lae’zel topples him the second time, he grabs her arm and takes her with him. When she manages to roll away, he grabs his greatsword again and meets her head on, and the training begins anew. It’s a futile effort. He’s outclassed and lacks the experience. Dirge is tiring fast, his breath coming in heavy pants while Lae’zel remains composed and calm, no sign of exertion other than a fine sheen of sweat on her brow.

The next time they cross blades, the half-drow’s greatsword slides along hers, and when she attempts to wrest his weapon from his hands yet again, he twists. Astarion can’t see what happens next but the smell of blood is sudden and thick in the air, and he’s halfway to his feet before he even realizes. Unwillingly, uncontrollably, he takes a shuddering breath. The smell is… it’s incredible. He’s haunted by the terrible desire to go over there and just… take a look (he knows he wouldn’t be satisfied with just a look – why make it worse?).

Forcibly, he sits himself down, and makes an effort to not look towards the commotion.

Shadowheart gets involved, and after some fussing, training is over for the night. Dirge eventually finds his way over to sit on the bedroll next to Astarion’s, and for the first time in their acquaintance, there’s a spark of life to his eyes. For once, Dirge looks alert; the man grins, his chest heaving with every breath. In one hand he has his gifted weapon, the other is clenched into a tight fist. It’s healed now, but Astarion can still smell the blood on it – a lot of blood, in fact, it must have been a deep cut, but a man his size would have blood to spare, he supposes.

It certainly doesn’t seem like the half-drow is any worse for wear. Surely a little missing wouldn’t hurt him?

...Oh.

In Astarion’s mind, the barest bones of an idea start forming, and he spends the rest of the night considering it, planning the foundations. When it’s his turn to watch, he slips away to hunt the rats he hears chittering behind a locked door (big fat things – not near enough blood, but it’s a start), and he thinks that maybe he’s found a use for the half-drow after all.

 

-x-

 

Morning finds the camp in good cheer, and Dirge remarks on a dawn where he wakes not to dreams of blood and violence, but the gentle golden shafts of light that drift through the collapsed ceiling. His body had been restless, jittery, but once he did fall asleep he managed almost two full watch shifts (just short of four hours by his count, but he trusts his numbers about as much as he trusts the rest of his broken brain). His body aches, his head throbs, and he’s still so tired, but there’s such a relief in the clarity he feels. The more rest he gets, it seems, the easier it is to think.

He runs through his mental exercises of listing their names off in his head: Shadowheart, Gale, Astarion, Lae’zel. When he can’t remember, he switches to the nicknames he made for them instead, over and over until something sticks: Sour, Robes, Pomp, Spots. Inevitably, they’ll all slip through his fingers like sand, but each day he holds on to them a little longer, recalls them a little faster.

His own name tends to drift away from him more often than not, but the others repeat it enough that it eventually finds its way back again.

Unfortunately, it seems the clearer his mind is, the louder the urge bubbling under his skin becomes.

It’salways present; it craves bloodshed and violence indiscriminately. When the others talk, he listens to them as this part of him imagines peeling the flesh from their faces. If his mind wanders, his hands seek the hilt of the shortsword he lost, as if the slightest moment of inaction could cause him to do something unthinkable.

He’s not… sure what to do about it.

Distractions and busywork seem to help, he muses, so he picks up his pack as the others finish cleaning up. The embers of the fire are smothered, the bedrolls are gathered, and they seem almost ready to go–

“So, how was it?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, turning to see Pomp walking alongside him. Where the elf materialized from, he has no idea.

“How was what?”

“Fighting our gith of course! I must say, you both put on quite the show last night – I thought she was going to take your head clean off for sure.” The elf looks entirely too amused, like a cat who’s got into the cream.

Dirge remembers the fight– after spending the day in and out of awareness, Spots dragged him off to the side with the promise of training. She had warned him she would not be lenient, and then she immediately went for his head. Strong and fast, it had taken every fiber of his being to meet her strikes, and the moment the adrenaline began to flow was like a sudden shot of clarity, bringing him out of his stupor.

It wasn’t a fight he could keep up for long. When Spots went to disarm him again, he had made a play for her sword that backfired, leaving him with a deep gash across his palm. In the end, Sour came over and he got an earful for getting hurt. On how he should be resting, healing. His tongue had been tied and he couldn’t tell her how that fight was the best he had felt since waking up on that flaming twisting wreck of flesh.

“She is very strong…” Dirge settles on eventually, “And I’m not used to the greatsword.”

Conspiratorially, the elf leans in closer and drops his voice to just above a whisper, “Mmm, well you best learn it. If the others start to transform, we’ll need to take care of them, Lae’zel included.”

“We? Take care of them?” He looks at Pomp, frowning and crossing his arms, “Like… kill them?”

“Well of course. We’re doing well so far – not a tentacle to be seen, but I was thinking: what if it doesn’t stay that way?” Apparently he must look skeptical, because the rogue nudges him with an elbow, one eyebrow arched with disbelief, “What? You wouldn’t want to become a mind flayer, would you? Neither would they! Of course, if you show any signs of transformation, I’d have to kill you too.” He sighs dramatically, “I am, however, a merciful man – and open to suggestions. What would you prefer? Knives, poison, strangulation?”

“If I had to choose… I’d want the knife.” Could take the blade, peel the skin back, layer by layer. Maybe if he dug deep enough, he could find the source of this rot in his body and cut it out–

“A classic! I could make it quick – one good thrust to the heart and you’re gone! We’d need a good blade though, wouldn’t want to waste time hacking and prodding with a dinner knife–”

Pomp’s exuberance is infectious – it’s the happiest Dirge has ever seen him. It’s hard not to smile back, “I think Lae’zel has a whetstone.”

“Perfect!” The rogue pulls back a little, sobering. Behind him, the others have finally managed to push open the large iron doors, and are starting to file into the hall beyond. “Oh, but I am getting ahead of myself. This is all a worst case scenario, obviously.”

“Obviously.” He pauses, tilting his head and considering, “And you? How should I kill you?”

“Haha! I’d love to see you try,” Pomp turns as he walks away with a little mock bow.

On the other side of the door is a great rectangular hall, dim and dank with the rot of centuries. He stands upon a raised U-shape platform, bordered with thick stone pillars, and in the center there is a lower floor that leads to a grand statue bathed in a shaft of light emitted from a broken section of the ceiling. A quick glance doesn’t immediately reveal the purpose of the room – there are stone benches placed like pews, and between that and the statue, it leads him to believe that this was a chamber of worship, but there are numerous sarcophagi lined against the walls, masterfully crafted, opened with their lids smashed upon the ground.

There is another mosaic of that same many-pointed star design Dirge vaguely remembers from outside the temple, and along its edge lies the skeletal remains of a robed person, possibly a scribe? There’s no sign of a struggle, or any damage other than age to the bones – to all appearances, it appears the person just fell over and died, and was never removed. Or, were they one of the occupants of the sarcophagi? Did they wake up and go for a stroll?

From what he can hear of the others’ conversation, there are a few more skeletons lying about the room, all in similar states.

Their sour-faced cleric tells the others to look around for extra supplies and a way out, and the group disperses, some more reluctantly than others. Dirge steps down the stairs towards the statue in the shaft of light, where Gale looks to be distracted by his observations.

As he gets closer, he gets his first good look at the effigy; the tall figure of a hooded, grinning skeleton bears down upon him. It’s clearly the same figure they saw in the other statues from before, but this time it has its head intact; in fact, despite all the ivy and plants that have sprouted down here in the shaft of light, this figure is remarkably undamaged. Its robes are uncracked, the sharp shoulder pads still have their delicate curl, and the pointed chin remains strong and unbroken. In one hand it holds a long, folding scroll and the other carries a twisted quill. Just like the smaller versions, it too has gold inlaid into the lettering of the scroll, the claw tips, and the point of the chin.

Despite a clear intention to make this deity look threatening, it feels more watchful, knowing.

“A visage of death, if I’ve ever seen one,” Gale says as he approaches, “This must be the god they worshiped here. I can’t say I recognize him.”

Suddenly it comes to Dirge – a grinning skeleton, with a scroll and quill?

“That’s Jergal, Scribe of the Dead. I didn’t think anyone still worshiped him.”

“...You didn’t remember your name or where you come from,” Gale looks at him, a little astonished, “but you can recognize the statue of a forgotten god?”

Dirge rubs at his face; his eyes ache. It’s a good question, but there is no answer – whatever well the knowledge flowed from has disappeared back into the depths of his shattered mind, “...I don’t know where that came from. It just suddenly made sense?” The more he chases the thought, the more that familiar ache starts again in the back of his skull. So much for his pleasant morning, “Maybe I was a cleric, or a priest before?”

The wizard hums skeptically, “...I doubt that, but maybe it was an interest of yours?”

He drops his hand and peers into the empty stone sockets. It feels like the statue is staring into him, through him. Perhaps its vacant eyes know just how hollow they both are, “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’ll forget again before we set camp.”

The wizard says nothing, but the corners of his eyes crease gently with concern.

From the back corner of the room, Astarion pops his head out. A large cobweb catches on his hair, and with a curse he swipes at it, his face twisting in a scowl to rival Sour’s, “I found a switch, cleric! Shall I press it?” He sounds annoyed, but Dirge can’t figure out if that's because of the cobwebs, Shadowheart's assumption of authority, or both.

Shadowheart half jogs from the far side of the hall, shouting back once she’s in earshot, “Does it look trapped?”

“No, I think it is just a switch.”

Stopping beside Dirge and Gale, she nods, “Go ahead – it might be our way out of here.”

The click of the button is followed immediately by a wretched grinding of stone, obnoxiously loud in the hush of the crypt. For one brief moment Shadowheart’s face brightens at the prospect of a way out, but falls again as a harrowing, unearthly scream rises and echoes throughout the gloom – all around them the skeletons tremble and shake, old bones filling with a rush of pale green energy as they stumble clumsily to their feet.

As if by some unseen command, five skulls turn their eyeless gaze towards the group, their weapons in hand.

Shadowheart stumbles a step back, nearly tripping over the edges of the cracked stone floor. Over her shoulder, she shoots Astarion a glare that wars with the shock in her eyes, “I thought you said it wasn’t trapped!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know how to check for buttons that summon skeletons!”

Dirge glances about the undead, taking them in. Four skeletons stand along the upper platform; the bodies of the scribes that had lain about the room, but a fifth set of bones shambles forward out of the shadows of a nearby urn. Fully geared in a positively ancient looking set of splint mail with a iron skull cap, it appears far more formidable than its brethren. Scimitar in hand, its bones rattle together in a pale imitation of laughter.

Behind him an arrow whizzes by, bouncing harmlessly off of one of the scribes. A second shot hits its mark, sinking deep into the rib cage of a scribe with a satisfying snap – he turns to see Astarion along the upper platform, dipping in and out of line of sight by using the pillars as cover. Shadowheart has followed him, scrabbling up over a pile of crumbled debris. Just as she reaches the top, there is a whisper of magic, and the entire lower landing is engulfed in a haze of fog. Dirge turns again and through the mists he can just make out the shape of the armored skeleton stalking towards Gale’s unprotected back.

Without thought, he grabs the edges of the wizard’s robes, and pulls the man away just as the slice of the blade would have sunk into fragile flesh. Gale startles, backing up slowly and glancing between him and his would-be attacker. Dirge readies his greatsword, inserting himself between Gale and the undead, deflecting the next swipe of the scimitar harmlessly off of the blade, “Go – I’ll hold it off.”

The wizard mutters his thanks, disappearing into the fog in a swirl behind Dirge. The warrior skeleton tracks Gale’s fleeing form with its empty gaze, side stepping him to follow its target, but a quick, clumsy swing of the greatsword forces it to stumble back and block. Again, it tries to go around him and again he denies it, this time with a much surer slice of his blade, and the skeleton turns to him and hisses with the voice of a dying gasp.

Can skeletons be frustrated? It certainly seems that way.

In the end, the fight doesn’t last long. The scribes fall easily to the magic and arrows of Gale, Shadowheart, and Astarion, and Lae’zel rushes one, separating its head from its spine, before jumping down to join him in his skirmish against the warrior in the mist. In life it must have known battle well, but death has stolen the grace from its limbs and the two of them quickly overpower it. As he blocks yet another swift strike, Lae’zel’s greatsword spears through a gap in its armor, and as she rips the blade back out she takes that green light with it.

“Well that was pathetic – dusty bones guarding sorry old trinkets,” Astarion grumbles petulantly, dropping from the ledge and landing with a grunt, “there wasn’t even anything of value here.”

“Tch,” Lae’zel prods at the remains before her with a boot – without the magic that held it together, the bones simply fall apart, “Would this armor be worth anything to your Fay-run merchants?”

“Unless we can find a collector, it’s dead weight,” Shadowheart replies, sliding down a broken section of stone. Once she gets near, she leans over the pile of bones for a closer inspection, “... It’s not in great shape either – I don’t think anyone would take it much less pay for it.”

“Let him keep it, the miserable old wretch.”

“Have something against the undead do you, Astarion?” Gale says, making his own way down the rubble, but at a much slower pace than the others, “Or have skeletons maligned you somehow?”

“Awful creatures, the lot of them. They have no sense of humor,” the elf snarls from the shadows he’s disappeared into. Dirge can just about hear his eyes roll from here, “Oh, but they did manage to revive themselves when I pressed that button, didn’t they? Perhaps there’s something valuable here after all.”

“Remember, Astarion,” Shadowheart chides, “We’re looking for a way out!”

Turns out the switch opened a panel of the wall right beside it, leading not to an exit but to a small hidden room. On one side there is a semi circle of stone benches, shelves with ornate vases, and an iron chest perched against the wall. On the other, a lone sarcophagus, richly adorned and in pristine condition. At its base is a plaque and many candles – three of which, ominously, are alight.

Centuries of dust coat the entire room; undisturbed, yet those candles flicker and burn. Freshly lit? Or enchanted to never die out?

As Lae’zel and Astarion rifle through the chest, Dirge leans over the plaque (in common, this time) – ’Here lies the Guardian of Tombs. Through knowledge comes atonement.’ The final resting place of some high priest of Jergal, perhaps? He runs a hand over the surface of the sarcophagus, leaving trails in the dust. Curiously, at the slightest touch, the cover seems to be far lighter than it looks. It feels like real stone, yet it moves as though it were as light as air; perhaps it’s resting on some kind of mechanism?

Bracing a palm against the lid, he pushes just a bit harder.

“Hey, don’t touch–”

Shadowheart’s voice cuts off with a gasp as the lid slides across the stone in a smooth rasp, stopping halfway. One by one, the candles all flare to life in a blaze of sickly cool green – the same light that animated those piles of bones outside, and from the depths of the sarcophagus a gnarled hand reaches up and clasps the edge of the lid, casting it aside.

From within, a figure emerges; as if anchored by an invisible cord to its chest, the long dead body of a man is raised upward, out of the shadows of its tomb. Ancient, withered, desiccated, the figure glides through the air and lands before them with a discerning grace. As its leather wrapped feet touch the ground, its eyes snap open - mercury grey irises shine from pitch black sclerae.

Dirge can only stare, eyes wide. Behind him there is a quick gasp, and then the sound of multiple weapons being drawn.

The… being before them looks unimpressed, dismissing their posturing with a wave of its boney hand. The more Dirge stares, the more wizened the wraith appears; its skin is pale and thin, like wrinkled parchment; its hair has pulled away from its skull, leaving it bald; its face gaunt and eyes sunken in the dark hollows of its skull; and its purple and silver robes, once ornate, are rotten and moth eaten. Bandages wrap its arms and chest – remnants from the burial rites, perhaps?

A corpse, come to life.

Perhaps most interesting, he notes with delay, is the gold filigree that wraps about its form, as one would gild a statue.

“So he has spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always.” The being declares, its voice a tired echo that speaks of something otherworldly. One at a time, it stares at them, studying them with a judgemental gaze that feels like a physical weight. At last, it tilts its head, seeming intrigued, “...What a curious way to awaken.”

“‘So he has spoken’?” Gale questions, “Which ‘he’ are you speaking of, precisely?”

The wraith looks briefly towards the wizard, its gaze dismissive, “An arbiter of certain matters, but that is not important. Now I have a question for thee: what is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”

“A peaceful undead?” Dirge mutters, unable to help himself, “Why aren’t you attacking us?”

“Because that would be senseless.” Wearily, it shakes its head, “I am not the same as those thou hast slain, if that is what thou askest. Now, wilt thou answer my question?”

Lae’zel steps forward, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. In her hands she still holds her greatsword, ready to attack at a moment’s notice, “Ask, wraith.”

“And so, I ask again; what is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”

A heavy question, to which there is no real right answer, still, it waits and stares at them each in turn. Dirge considers it – do souls have a value? To what kind of being would they be currency? What worth could there be to his life, if he doesn’t know his past? Could anyone miss him when he doesn’t know how to miss himself?

Or, did this rot in the shell of his heart chase away any good he had known? What worth could he have, if his own body craves the pain of others?

As if hearing his thoughts, those piercing mercury eyes land on him and move no further.

Feeling pinned, Dirge says the first thing that comes to mind, no matter how trite it sounds, “That depends on a person’s deeds.”

That wizened head tilts again, knowingly, “...A life and how it is lived are different equations. I am curious by what standards thou shalt judge. Very well; I am satisfied.” The wraith raises a hand, and with a gentle flick of its wrist there is a rumble, then the distant crash of… something.

It smiles at him, the barest curl of its chapped lips, “Go. Thou shalt find the path open. We have met, and I know thy face. We will see each other at the proper time and place. Farewell.”

As the wraith turns away from him, a hand lands on Dirge’s shoulder – he turns to see Shadowheart staring at him while the rest of the group files out of the room behind her, “Come on, lets go.”

Outside, in the hall, a huge section of the wall has come crumbling down. Past the pile of debris shines the bright light of the mid-morning sun, and it’s an easy task to climb over the broken stone and back to the outside world. They emerge from the broken crypt with a steep rockwall at their backs, and rolling fields of grass that lead into a vast forest ahead.

The sun shines down bright through gaps in the cloud cover, and the air is once again stiflingly hot. Whatever relief the thunderstorm brought has since faded – the damp air feels thick enough to cut with a knife.

Between the heat and the humidity, his headache returns with a vengeance. As the others gather around the map, Dirge can only stand there, fighting the rising sick in his stomach. He feels the desperate need to crouch, press his arms against his legs, and hang his head between his knees until the world stops twisting. There are still large pools of rainwater everywhere, and when the sunlight reflects off their still surface, it hits the back of his eyes like a glinting knife.

He can feel it. With each pound of his pulse, he’s losing his grip and falling away again.

The gentle murmurs of the others talking acts like a balm, something to focus on other than his own sudden misery. They’re talking about the shrine, the wraith within, and what to do next. He lets the words wash over him without absorbing their meaning; the idea of going over there and joining the conversation is more effort than he can muster.

Slowly, he becomes aware of Gale at his side – how long has the man been standing there? Gentle brown eyes seek his, waiting patiently for him to return the eye contact before asking: “How are you feeling?” When Dirge doesn’t respond, the wizard gives a brittle smile, “...That bad, is it? You’re looking a bit pale.”

Words aren’t quite beyond him but he’s still leery of vomiting. He hums in assent, as best he can.

“Can I ask you something? A bit of an unconventional question, if you will?”

He hums again.

“Are you aware you are a sorcerer?” Gale must sense his surprise as he continues, “You used a spell against one of those bandits the other day. A great display of magic if… if a bit… undisciplined.”

He shakes his head, as slowly and as carefully as he can – it doesn’t matter, the pain spikes again, spitefully, “N-no. No, I had no idea.” Him? A sorcerer? The idea of magic in his blood seems unlikely – the only thing in him is that dark, sick desire that pulls at his hands and demands he do terrible things.

“You see, I’ve been thinking – you have a great deal of power, even if you aren’t aware of it, and you seem to have reached for it in a moment of desperation; however, with magic that wild, you’re as liable to hurt yourself as you are your opponent.” Gale studies him for a long moment, perhaps letting the thought sink in, “I could train you, if you like.”

He blinks dumbly, “Train me?”

“Yes, train you – well, train you as a wizard, not a sorcerer. The methods of accessing such power are vastly different, but learning could help you control your magic. There is also a possibility – and I must urge you to understand it is only a slight possibility – that such lessons could also help to improve your cognitive abilities.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“If it doesn’t work then well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?” The wizard grins with put-on exuberance, “So, what do you say?”

He hums again. At this point, what could it hurt?

“Excellent! We shall start as soon as possible – well, perhaps I should say ‘as soon as you are feeling better.’ Best take it easy for today–”

“When will he have time for these lessons, wizard?” Lae’zel breaks away from the remainder of the group (Astarion and Shadowheart; the cleric holds the map clenched tight in her hands, her face twisted into a snarl of irritation. Beside her, the rogue is pointing at something on the paper, his finger tapping hard enough that there’s a good chance he’ll rip right through), “He will have no time for spells when he is learning the blade.”

Gale turns to look at her, a flash of something apologetic flickering over his face, “Oh, I’m certain we will have a chance; we can even take turns. You can train him until he’s too tired to move, and afterward he and I can practice on his spellwork.” Her eyes narrow in an impressive glower, but the wizard doesn’t capitulate.

“Chk. You wish he be taught the ways of a gish, then? Very well.” With one hand, she reaches out and grabs Gale by his robes, startling him, “You, come with me. The cleric and the rogue are arguing and require your input.” She ignores the wizard’s protests as she drags him off, leaving Dirge alone once more.

He watches them and squints in the bright sun. Eventually a cloud passes over, providing brief, blissful relief.

The others are concerned – it seems like the prevailing issue is no one knows the scale of the map, and how long it could take to travel from one place to the next, or if the map is even accurate at all. However, there’s not much choice; eventually, they decide – they’re going to travel northwest towards the area of the map marked Grove. It's the closest marked location and has the best chance of finding a healer, they agree.

He hears this, he knows fundamentally what it means, but the understanding doesn’t sink below the surface level. The others give him pitying looks as he presses the heel of his palm to his eye, and he lets them lead him across the fields.

Time keeps slipping into great whorls, endless and churning like water drawn into a whirlpool, and then the world grinds to a halt – he lives hours in the span of a moment. He blinks, and the sun is setting. Around him, the world flickers and changes. Eventually, the rockwall behind them fades into the distance, and the fields morph into the thick tangle of the forest. Tall proud trees with brush and bramble packed tight in between – then they’re on a winding, muddy path.

Pomp’s complaining about his shoes.

He follows dumbly, barely able to understand what the others are saying, and unable to respond – the words have fled him.

By the time they set camp for the night, he can no longer remember who the temple was dedicated to, or his own name.

 

-x-

 

On the dawn of the third day since they found their way out of the ruined temple and five days since the nautiloid crashed, Gale wakes, cold and stiff in his bedroll. While the weather during the day has been overly warm and humid, a crisp breeze descended from the North last night as the sun had set. At first it had been a welcome change, but soon the wind became a biting force that found its way into his robes and nipped gleefully at his bones. Even the campfire had been unable to provide much comfort; whatever heat it did generate was siphoned away again just as quick.

Not for the first time, he wishes for something a bit plusher to cushion his aching spine. Between the chill and the hard ground, his joints are screaming; what he would do for even just a pillow, or an extra blanket (or two)! Anything just for another layer of padding; alas, they have none to spare. How far away the comforts of his tower seem now, he muses, pushing his body upright with a groan.

Unsurprisingly, he is not the first one awake. On his left Lae’zel is already geared up in her armor and is packing up her bedroll with military efficiency. In the dim half light of dawn she glances up, her strange golden eyes meeting his with her trademark glower. Whatever she’s looking for in him, she doesn’t find, and she goes back to filling her pack with a fervor that borders on anger. Gale wonders, briefly, if she intended to abandon them in the night and strike her own path, but if she really wanted to go, she would have been gone long before he would have ever noticed.

“Morning,” he breathes, mindful of a still sleeping (but slowly stirring) Shadowheart to his right.

“Chk,” Lae’zel all but snarls, tossing her braids with the sudden flick of her head. It’s clear there’s more she wants to say, but she bites back the words with rising frustration.

When she remains silent, Gale resumes surveying the rest of their little camp. On the other side of the campfire, Astarion’s bedroll once again lays empty, its blanket tossed to the side in a messy ball of fabric. Where exactly the elf wanders at night, Gale can’t quite figure, but it doesn’t matter – elves require only half as much rest as everyone else, and it would be unrealistic to expect the sharp-tongued magistrate to just lay around and wait for the rest of them (but there is a little voice in the back of Gale’s mind that questions, wonders if there could be another reason Astarion could be off, prowling in the dark).

One bedroll over, Dirge is hunched by the fire, staring absently into the dying embers; the bags beneath his eyes are the color of blackened plums, bruised with exhaustion. The half-drow doesn’t move to acknowledge him as Gale politely waves and dips his chin in greeting – he takes no offense. Judging by the dead eyed stare, it was another sleepless night of tossing and turning.

Gale wishes he had something that would help the half-drow, but with sleep spells off the table they’d need to rely on alchemical relief. Mentally, he adds the ingredients to the list of things to buy once they reach the grove.

Hopefully, they find this place soon. Supplies are getting low.

Beside him, Lae’zel looms like a bad omen; apparently she’s done being quiet. “Are you just going to lie about all day, wizard?”

Gale tenses at the vitriol in her tone, flabbergasted; did he do something to offend her? “There’s… not much else we can do until the sun clears the horizon.”

“Chk,” she bares her teeth, and it suddenly strikes him – she’s spoiling for a fight, “Is that the plan then? Sleep in until we become ghaik thralls?”

“We don’t have much choice, Lae’zel,” he gestures with a grand sweep of his hand across the little clearing that houses their camp; despite the lightening sky, the shadows still lay thick in the hollows between the trees, “The woods are still dark and the footing will be treacherous; we’ll move a lot slower if one of us suffers a broken leg. Besides, Astarion’s not back yet, and Shadowheart is still asleep.”

Around them, the woods are quiet save for the buzzing of crickets and the first few trills of early morning birdsong. The air feels almost preternaturally still, as if the world itself is suspended, waiting.

It’s Lae’zel who breaks that silence, her anger explosive even as she keeps her voice low in a harsh whisper, “Damn the sun, damn the rogue, and damn you!” She growls, “We are running out of time, k’chakhi – we have tadpoles in our heads and yet we frolic about these woods like istik children!”

They’ve had this discussion before, at least once a day each day since the Nautiloid crashed, but never before has Lae’zel been so angry. Gale fights the instinct to find his feet lest she get violent; calmer heads must prevail. He doesn’t want to come across as confrontational and force a fight, but if the last few days have taught him anything, she responds best when he suffses some steel into his voice.

All the same, it’s only wise to be cautious, Gale tells himself, readying his hands to trace the shapes for Hold Person (if necessary).

“And what would you have us do instead? Wander about blindly in the forest looking for more gith? I’m not sure if you’re aware, Lae’zel, but your kind are not exactly common in Faerûn.” He pauses, gentling his tone. It’s not in his nature to bite back, even when she looks ready to sink her teeth into him. “I know you want to find a creche, but if that map we found is correct, we should be getting close to the grove. We can ask around once we arrive.” He looks up at her, holding her gaze, “Trust me on this. Please.”

Her face is furious, her brow folded in a tight scowl, but she hesitates – there is wisdom to his words, surely she realizes this. At last, she clenches her teeth and sighs, drawing her dagger from her belt and pointing it threateningly in his direction, “Tsk’va! Know this,” she spits her words as though they were venom, “if we do not find your grove, and we begin to change, the last thing you will ever know is my blade coming for your head.”

Gale stares at the tip of the blade that shines as bright as her threat, “...Duly noted.”

To the north of the campfire the bushes rustle, and they both glance over to see Astarion emerging from the treeline. The rogue stops dead in his tracks when he sees the two of them, his attention locking on to the sharp edge of the dagger. Even from here, Gale can see his eyes, wide with surprise.

“We’re starting early today, I see,” Astarion scoffs, as quick-witted as ever, “Lae’zel, dear, if you have to kill one of us, may I suggest starting with our most useless member first?”

Gale frowns; it’s not uncommon for the rogue to make fun of the half-drow, but he still despises the callousness of it, especially when Dirge is around to hear it, “Astarion–”

Gleaming red eyes that shine ominously in the half light, like little flickering beacons, dart to meet his gaze, “Don’t worry, wizard, you’re the next on that list.”

Lae’zel points her dagger towards their wayward magistrate, “You. Pack your things. We’ve delayed long enough.” With an impressive flourish, she resheaths her dagger, and begins to walk back towards her pack. The tension is still tight in her shoulders, Gale notices, but for the moment at least the crisis is averted.

As the gith walks past the still sleeping cleric, she swings down and roughly grabs Shadowheart’s pack in one hand before unceremoniously dropping it straight on her chest. Shadowheart jerks awake with an undignified snort, her eyes wide and reaching for her weapon as she bolts upright.

Lae’zel stops to sneer at her, “Do you plan to sleep until the worm eats your brain? Wake up, kainyank!”

Shadowheart blinks blearily while Lae’zel grabs her own pack and stalks off to the edge of the clearing. The look on her face is a bitter amalgamation of frustration and fury, and she leans sullenly against the trunk of one of the trees. For a moment, Gale considers approaching her, but the look on her face invites no company, so with a sigh, he turns back around.

Shadowheart stares at him, confused and annoyed, “Did you get the same royal treatment, or am I just special?”

He smiles, trying to convey an apology; perhaps if he had been better at handling the situation, Shadowheart wouldn’t have had such a rude awakening, “No, you’re the lucky one, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll consider myself lucky when we ditch both these tadpoles and the gith,” she sighs, pulling herself from her bedroll and gathering her things. It will take her time to wake up proper, pack up her bedroll, and don her armor, Gale knows, so he sets his sights back on the campfire and considers his options.

He could stoke the coals back into a flame, but there’s little point – the last of the oatmeal met its end last night, and the cheese wheel the night before that. All that’s left of their food now is some of the dried, salted meat and a touch of wine. Certainly not enough to feed the five of them breakfast let alone food for an entire day. Is it better to skip a meal and save it for dinner in the evening? Or should he prepare something and hope they find more food before nightfall?

He himself has no interest in eating right now; in his chest, the orb sits heavy like a ball of lead, stealing away his hunger with a thick roil of nausea. It snarls at him, miserable, ravenous, always demanding. It holds his life hostage on a constant hair-trigger threat of detonation, and nothing ever satisfies it.

Less than two days ago, Gale had perused the magical items they had discovered in the temple, and chose the smallest, the easiest to ‘lose’ – a ring with an enchant of Color Spray. Surely no one would miss it, he thought, as he snuck it into his own pack, and later when he stripped the Weave from the ring, he felt the usual short-lived burst of euphoria as he surrendered the magic to the orb.

Relief normally is abrupt, staggering (like dousing a candle with a rainstorm), and it usually lasts a tenday or more; however, he can already feel the yawning emptiness in his chest as the orb reignites and consumes. Sacrificing the Weave within the ring has done little more than buy time, a brief cessation of hostilities, as it were.

It’s… concerning. And it raises questions – was it somehow… not enough Weave? Is the orb requiring more magic, more often? Is this a one-time abnormality, or will this be the new standard from here on out? Will it get worse? If that’s the case, there’s no feasible way to keep it under control without drawing attention to his condition.

If he can’t find some way to suppress it, feed it, the orb might become a bigger threat to them than the tadpoles.

But how do you go telling a group of near strangers that you have a magic explosive orb in your chest that will detonate and kill them and everything else in every direction for kilometers, unless you regularly sacrifice valuable magical items to it?

“Don’t look so dour, wizard,” Astarion quips as he moves closer and begins packing his bedroll, “At least you had a front row seat to this morning’s entertainment.”

“An unwilling participant, more like,” Gale sighs. Nobody else seems particularly interested, and if he’s not going to cook, there’s no reason to delay any longer – he eases his way up to his feet, gathering his own belongings as he goes.

“I do regret missing the beginning,” Astarion muses wistfully – he seems in oddly good spirits, but then again, the elf seemed to enjoy the discomfort of others, “I suppose if we don’t find that grove today, I can catch the repeat performance.”

For a man who smiles so much, it's strange how Astarion never shows his teeth.

As he packs the last of the books he found into his bag, Gale grabs the strap and moves to stand when a sudden inhale catches his attention. Across the fire, Dirge stares back at him, gasping as though he had just surfaced from deep water. A confused crinkle mars his brow, but his eyes are bright and alert where before he had looked barely conscious, hunched over the fire. He rubs at his face with one hand as if chasing away sleep.

“Good morning,” Gale says, which is objectively a stupid thing to say – he’d be astonished if Dirge managed any real sleep last night.

One coal dark eye peeks out from the crack between fingers. “...Is it?” Dirge rasps. He has the appearance of a man who has just woken suddenly from a deep dream.

Shadowheart looks up from where she is securing the last strap of her armor, “It is.” She pauses, slowly softening from her usual surly countenance to something more gentle, “Gather your bedroll and put on your pack; we need to get moving soon.”

The half-drow hesitantly nods, placing one hand on the ground to brace as he clumsily rises to his feet. For a brief moment, he lists dangerously to one side but catches himself with a staggered step, looking around as though he’s never seen the camp before, eyes flitting from one edge of the clearing to the other, then across each of their faces, one at a time, “Where…where are we?”

“Some gods-forsaken backwater woods in the middle of nowhere,” Astarion mutters, gear in hand and impatience radiating off him in waves, “Do get ready, unless you’d like to start your little sparring session with Lae’zel early – she’s in a dreadful mood.”

Dirge blinks, then nods, “Right, of course.”

Once they’re ready, they head to the northern edge of the clearing; there, Lae’zel leans against a tree with her arms crossed, waiting, but pointedly she does not make eye contact as they get near. Her anger from before is gone now, replaced with a stoic resignation; despite all her protests, when they pass by, she joins the line, trusting them for at least one more day.

As the morning sun rises high above the tree canopy, the wind shifts and blows from the south and the last of the chill dissipates into the spring air.

They wind their way through the trees and travel to the northwest still, following the map they found in the temple; if it is to be believed, they have to be getting close to this druid’s grove where hopefully healing (and supplies) await. The main problem is the lack of any path – wandering through the thick of the woods without any sort of trail is slow work at best, but it's also sowing doubt among them. Surely if there was any sort of civilization nearby, there would be some sign of the coming and going of people? Of carts?

The only sign of life thus far has been a few narrow animal trails leading to the nearest river. Water, at least, had not been an issue even as their food stores dwindled. It had been a promising sight when Lae’zel had reported hooved tracks delicately imprinted into the mud of the river bank, but while she and Astarion had made some attempts to hunt in the evenings, game seems scarce in these woods, or at least cautious enough that both had returned empty handed, every time.

Running out of food isn’t an immediate death sentence, Gale knows, but the thought worries him; how long will their tentative alliances last once the claws of hunger sink deep?

And some of us need the food more than others, he thinks, glancing to the back of the group.

After leaving the temple two days prior, Dirge had essentially fallen mute, and the conversation slowly turned once more from treatment plans to leaving him behind. If the half-drow understood what they spoke of, he gave no sign – he fell into a deep stupor, and all of the progress made over the previous days evaporated like so much smoke. By the time they made camp that evening, Dirge had stopped responding even to his own name, curled up next to the fire with the heel of his palm pressed tight against one of his eyes and making those terrible noises, quietly keening in pain.

With little else to talk of (beyond the parasite and Lae’zel’s rising desperation to find a creche, both topics already talked to death), they spoke in turns. Thankfully, the discussion had been rather more half-hearted than before. Shadowheart was the most vocal, complaining first about the strain on their already low rations and then what they would need to do if he didn’t recover, but eventually she conceded; if nothing else, Dirge was carrying his fair share of their equipment, and after all the effort they already sank into him, it didn’t make sense to abandon him as long as he could keep up.

Lae’zel had been stalwart in her ire, flat out refusing to leave Dirge behind to become a mind flayer while the rest of them sought a cure. After an initial outburst, she was silent for the rest of the discussion, her face caught in a rictus of fury. Even as the half-drow sunk deeper into his daze, she refused to waver.

When night came, she pointedly ignored the rest of camp, and resumed Dirge’s training. A futile effort, really – plagued by constant headaches, Dirge had been unable to fight, so instead Lae’zel would walk him through different stances and techniques for their greatswords, teaching him how to use the length of the blade to his advantage. When the half-drow would tire and start to sway on his feet, she would deposit him with Gale by the fire and they would practice their spellwork.

‘Practice’ was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration – mostly, Gale would recite magical theory out loud while Dirge stared unblinkingly into the flames. Sometimes, when the man was a little more present, Gale could open his spellbook and slowly guide the half-drow through its pages; once, Dirge even took an interest in the book, sluggishly running his fingers not over the letters nor diagrams but instead tracing shapes onto the paper. It was unclear if Dirge could read, or if he absorbed any of what was said, but Gale persisted in the hopes that something was retained.

No, if there was any chance Dirge could hear and understand them, Gale would not abandon him. When the discussion arose, Gale vehemently refused – he would not be the one to damn the half-drow to blindly stumble through the woods, alone and confused as the agonizing transformation began. How would it feel, to be lost and in pain and not understand why?

Astarion, for his part, had balked and complained, but it was a mere shadow of his past performances. Eventually he had dropped the charade with a sigh, saying: “Forget it. Isn’t that what you do? Once you name it, you have to keep it?”

What a change one night can bring, Gale thinks – at the back of the group Dirge follows, his eyes watchful and curious, and while he does occasionally stumble, it seems more so from exhaustion than senselessness. Shadowheart had warned them that Dirge’s progress would wax and wane with seemingly little reason, but–

“Is it still bothering you?”

Gale startles from his musings to find Shadowheart walking abreast with him. Her gaze is inquisitive, and in the light that sifts down through the tree canopy, her eyes are devastatingly green.

“Pardon?”

“Your sunburn. It doesn’t look as bad as yesterday, but you’re still a bit pink ‘cross your–” she gestures to the apples of his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, well, it’s definitely better than it was prior,” Gale replies, remembering the bright, tight pain. While the last two days had been hot, there had been plenty of cloud cover, but when the skies finally cleared it did him some damage. He hadn’t noticed until the evening when they gathered around the fire and felt his face aflame. “Burns a bit when we walk into the patches of sunlight, but not as aggressively as yesterday.”

Shadowheart smiles, an easy air about her that normally she seems to suppress, “I must say, you burn pretty easily. Spend too much time in your tower?”

“Oh, you know how it is; when one studies the Weave, there’s little time for such frivolities like sunbathing.”

She takes his answer and doesn’t press further, instead moving forward to resume the lead of their little procession. Or, perhaps, it’s more apt to say that he falls back as the ground beneath their feet begins a slow and steady rise upward – twice they reach short ledges they must climb, and while it's easy for everyone else, it’s hell on his knees.

Within short order he’s at the back of the group where Lae’zel and Dirge speak in low tones with one another, barely audible over the warble of birdsong that drifts down from the trees. Astarion and Shadowheart are not far ahead, looking the part of an opposing pair. Shadowheart, true to her name, glides through the woods like a shade, at home in the shadows between the trees, and Astarion all but glows where the sun touches his skin.

How odd that someone so pallid doesn’t burn, he wonders.

There’s a puzzle before him, Gale knows, but the pieces don’t fit together. Not cleanly, at any rate, but he’s never been one to turn down a challenge.

It’s not quite noon when at last the underbrush parts to reveal a proper dirt path. At first, they almost miss it despite walking directly over it – It’s half washed out and so overgrown with weeds and saplings that it resembles another clearing more than an actual road, but Lae’zel locates a fresh set of shoe prints, then another. A few more sets and the tracks of a horse certainly imply that the road is regularly in use, if only by light foot traffic.

“Well, it’s not a main road,” Gale sighs, feeling a most welcome flutter of relief, “but I think we might have found our way to the grove.”

Shadowheart arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms, making no effort to hide her skepticism, “Or a farmer’s field.”

He keeps smiling, even as it feels a little tight, a little forced, “At this point, I won’t complain – we can ask for directions.”

She snorts, amused, “Like with the bandits?”

He forgets the conversation instantly as Astarion stops dead in his tracks, head tipping to the side the way a dog hears a whistle. “Do you hear that?”

Gale stops, and listens. Nothing seems out of the ordinary - there’s the gentle breeze ruffling the leaves, the melodic trill of bird song, and host of crickets lazily chirping away in the underbrush. Nothing stands out, nothing that could explain the alarm he sees in the tight lines of Astarion’s shoulders, “No, what?”

Behind him, Dirge steps forward. He keeps forgetting just how tall the man is until they stand next to one another, and he’s forced to look up to see the half-drow’s eyes, “Someone’s shouting.”

As luck would have it, they don’t need to go far to reach the source of the noise. Only about a kilometer down the path they emerge from the trees to see a small hill, formed from the crumbling remains of large, moss covered boulders, and behind it stands a much larger stone ridge with steep cliff-like edges. Sprigs of violet balsam sway amongst the tall grasses, and trees and ivy sprout from gaps in the rock like weeds, stubbornly climbing up the cliff face like long, grasping fingers.

He’s the last to catch up to the others, his legs protesting with sharp cramping in his calves, and he arrives just in time to see Lae’zel, Dirge, and Astarion drop to a crouch and press tight against the stone. The three of them peer over the cover towards the cliff (rather, Astarion and Lae’zel peer – Dirge watches them, and belatedly moves to mimic the motion), and from the stern set of their faces, there’s something there.

Upon a second inspection, Gale realizes the ivy isn’t just twisting up the stone, rather, it’s growing up a large wooden gate that’s recessed into the wall. It’s rather astounding just how well the greenery camouflages the structure into the rockface; however, eventually he spots a wooden walkway built along the top of the wall, complete with a railing made of rough-hewn wooden beams lashed together by thick cords of rope.

Movement catches his eye, and he just manages to see three figures at the base of the gate and one more on the top of the wall before Shadowheart grabs one sleeve and pulls him behind a boulder. He lands with a quiet “Oof!” beside her and she glares hotly, pressing a finger against her lips. Gale takes the hint, slowly working his way back up to his feet, but ensuring he remains well hidden – unfortunately, this puts him in a position where he cannot see beyond the stone and his fellow infected.

“They’re shouting,” he whispers, dropping his voice even lower when Shadowheart again looks over her shoulder with a scowl, “Why are they shouting?”

“I think they want to be let in,” Dirge responds without averting his attention; his dark eyes keenly watch the strangers, his body tensed like a coil ready to spring. There’s something a bit unsettling about the intensity of his gaze, how razor sharp his focus is. Like a young hawk in its mews, Gale thinks, bright and interested and yet a predator still, waiting for the hunt.

Lae’zel also looks ready to lunge, her blade propped on her shoulder, “Chk. Are they enemies?”

“They’re armed, and dressed similar to that band we dispatched in the temple.” Astarion mutters, his eyebrows set in a heavy frown, but after a moment’s pause he turns to Lae’zel, brightening with a false levity, “Go ahead, say hello! I’m sure they’ll be glad to make your acquaintance.”

“The one up top, he’s got–” Dirge reaches above his head with a shaky hand, miming a curved, cylindrical shape, “He’s got horns–”

“A tiefling?” Gale supplies.

“Yes, that – he doesn’t seem to be with the other three. They’re begging him to open the gate.”

Abruptly, the yelling intensifies, followed swiftly by a ragged snarling. Forsaking subtlety, Gale leans out from their stone shelter just in time to see a large, slavering beast burst forth from the brush – a worg, and a large one at that. Gnashing its teeth, it leaps upon a stone, cornering the three people in the natural bay formed in the cliffside as a whole pack of goblins emerge from the trees and join by its flank, bows in hand and ready to fire.

The tiefling on the wall moves to open the gate as a comrade joins him, but already it’s too late – several arrows fly through the air and the man falls with a cry, shutting the gate on the people below.

Gale’s barely able to perceive the scampering of feet before someone wraps the back of his robes in their hands, again hauling him behind cover. This time it's Dirge who leans over him, shielding him from sight as several goblins clamber up the very boulders they hide behind, hooting and cheering as yet more arrows fly.

“Thank you,” he says dumbly, and the half-drow meets his eyes for a moment, nodding.

“What do we do?” Dirge asks, staring up at the ledge above them. Gale too can hear the goblins moving around, but luckily they seem to have avoided detection, for now. There’s a hot crackle of magic in the air, and his nose catches a whiff of sulfur as a goblin screams in pain – likely the Tieflings fighting back. All the noise is distracting, to say the least.

“Who would you rather side with? Some humans, or a pack of feral goblins?” Shadowheart snaps sarcastically, drawing her mace and shield.

Dirge blinks back at her, confused, “...Side with?”

“Move,” snarls Lae’zel, “before we lose our advantage!”

Suddenly, a green head capped in rough strips of leather armor peers over the edge of the rock above them. The goblin’s smile twists in glee upon spotting them, and she cackles as she says, “Oh, look wat we got ‘ere – more for the roast!” She stands up and knocks back an arrow.

She never gets the chance to sound the alarm, however, as Dirge suddenly lunges – for his size, the man is shockingly nimble. The arrow goes wild as he snaps one hand tight around the goblin’s throat and drags her down with him as they both fall. They hit the ground with a grunt and the goblin is immediately squirming, trying to slip Dirge’s hold, but she stands no chance; the much larger man pins her down and easily snaps her spine with his bare hands.

Beside him, Lae’zel nods, “Effective.” She readies her greatsword, and darts toward the gate with uncanny speed, shouting: “Htak’a!”

The rest of them follow suit. Shadowheart chases after Lae’zel, grumbling about ‘ruining their advantage’, and Dirge trails shortly thereafter, greatsword in hand. Astarion scrambles up the side of the rocky hill, leaving Gale alone and unsure exactly who to pursue. There’s a temptation to head towards the gate itself; in a pinch, he could probably use the stones here for cover, but the idea of putting himself in reach of goblin blades is not exactly ideal.

He could also climb up next to their rogue – the higher vantage point would make it easier to guide his spells, but it would also make him a much easier target. As well–

White curls and vibrant red eyes appear over the edge of the stone; a strange parody of the dead goblin from moments before, “Move it, wizard!” Astarion snarls.

Up it is then – Gale moves to join their magistrate, albeit at a much slower, careful pace. The rocks are large and moss worn, but the tops are flat enough that he doesn’t have much fear of falling. Where the footing is not as good, he’s able to snag his fingers into the tangles of ivy and hoist himself up to the top.

He arrives just in time to see Astarion skirmishing with a hooded male goblin who holds the elf’s hands tight by the wrists, his own crude bow abandoned to the side from where Astarion must have got the jump on him. They struggle, but within moments Astarion slams the heel of his boot down on a set of bare, clawed toes and the goblin grunts in pain, releasing the elf’s hands.

It’s quick work for the rogue to stab the goblin in his gut, sinking the blade of his dagger deep, all the way to its hilt, before casually shoving the body backward off the ledge. He’s still alive as he pitches back, but it doesn’t take a vast well of medical knowledge for Gale to know that the goblin won’t live for much longer, assuming he survives the drop itself.

Astarion looks at him, uncaring of the blood that stains his hands, his shoulders relaxed and eyes satisfied with the casual act of cruelty.

‘Magistrate’ indeed. Where perhaps did he hold court? In the narrow alleys of the Lower City?

“You took your dear sweet time,” Astarion complains, flinching as a loud warhorn sounds; despite its deep pitch it must be painful to sensitive elf ears, but to Gale there is something about the sound that is emboldening. “Help me provide cover fire.”

Cover fire? Gale turns towards the battlefield proper to see what they’re up against – the three people are still pinned against the gate, but the goblins and worg have descended on them turning the scene into a bloody fight. A young, dark skinned man with tight curly brown hair is trying to fend the worg off with his studded greatclub, but the beast has caught the weapon in its jaws and refuses to let go.

At the man’s side is another, lighter skinned with dirty blond hair, wearing the same green quilted armor, who swats at the worg with his shield and shortsword, but a particularly nasty looking goblin wielding a spiked wooden shield and scimitar keeps dogging at him. Every time the lighter haired man goes for a swing, the goblin aims for any openings – under the man’s armpit, into the waistline, at the back of the knee, and while the goblin doesn’t seem to land a hit there’s a few close enough calls that the man stumbles back, losing his footing.

Near the right side of the stone cliff there’s an auburn-haired woman perched high up on a ledge, bow in hand as a bugbear swings at her – her footwork and dexterity are all that saves her from the bite of his morning star. The tiefling, high on the walls above, tries to aid her with bolts from his crossbow, but even at this distance, Gale can see the hesitation on his face – every shot he takes risks hitting the woman and making the bugbear’s fight so much easier.

Interestingly, there’s a man with dark skin and hair sliding down the rocks on the left most side of the bay, a thin rapier in hand as he duels with a goblin; it’s easy to tell by the way he handles his sword that the man is no stranger to combat, and when the man casts Arms of Hadar, Gale recognizes the source of that magic he felt before – the same smell of sulfur lances through the air, foul. A clear sign of fiendish warlock magic.

The rest of the goblins – two with scimitars, one with a large wooden staff decorated with the skull and ribcage of some unfortunate animal – must have been trying to pen in the group, but were taken by surprise when Dirge and Lae’zel charged into their rear with Shadowheart at their backs. The goblins are skilled fighters that try to shield their mage (a booyahg, if he has the terminology correct), but they’re forced to dodge lest they be crushed under the swings of the twin greatswords.

“Scouts! Get to the high ground! Raiders, charge the bastards!” The goblin with the spiked shield cries, raising his weapon high into the air, “For the Absolute!”

…’The Absolute’?

An arrow whizzes past his head and nearly nicks his ear; belatedly, Gale casts Mage Armor before ducking beside Astarion – the broken trunk of a tree hangs out over the edge of the rock outcropping, and while it’s not much, it provides a bit of cover. A cast of Ray of Sickness hits the trunk next to him, and the tree absorbs the damage with a sizzle and a hiss as the spell greedily eats into the bark.

“Don’t they teach you wizards how to fight?” Astarion gripes, leaning out from cover to fire a couple of arrows before he’s again forced to retreat – another spell slams harmlessly into the rock beside them, the Firebolt blackening the surface of the stone.

“At Blackstaff?” An opening presents itself, and he chances a Firebolt/ of his own, scalding the rump of the worg and causing the beast to yelp, “Sorry, I must have missed the lessons on participating in active warfare.”

Grumbling, Astarion slings his pack off his back and starts rifling through it, heedless of the three arrows that thunk into the tree and the ground around them, one after another. Even with the cover the trunk provides, it would be all too easy for an arrow to get the right angle and find its way into one of them instead.

Gale risks another shot over the ledge, this time narrowly missing the booyahg below – miserable little creature has set its sights on them, pointing fiercely as it prepares another spell. He ducks back down as it sails harmlessly through the sky, and Gale looks to Astarion, who is still searching.

“What are you doing?”

Astarion smiles, pulling out his hand and holding up a large, brown glass bottle, giving it a playful wiggle, “Grease, wizard.”

“Grease?”

“Be a dear and ready a Firebolt for me, would you?” Astarion leans over and just hurls the bottle, almost carelessly.

Gale watches the bottle as it flies in a most graceful arc; the sun catches its surface, glinting beautifully in the afternoon light until it smashes crudely into one of the raider’s cheekbones. The goblin gives a howl as the glass explodes into shards and an eruption of grease bursts forth – the original goblin keeps his feet even as he grapples his head, but another one of the raiders and the booyahg both slide and crash into the ground as their feet go out from under them.

There’s a narrow moment of opportunity where he can cast and not catch any of his allies with the flame, so Gale risks it, standing up and unleashing a hasty Firebolt into the grease. The instant the spell touches the liquid, it explodes in an impressive plume of flame. The blaze doesn’t last long, leaving just a smoldering patch of ground within moments. Intuitively, he’s aware it won’t be enough to kill the goblins, but as he watches them writhe in pain, it is enough for both Dirge and Lae’zel to get the upper hand on their targets, killing first the two raider goblins before turning their attention on the booyahg.

And just like that, the battle is already coming to an end. The bugbear falls after an arrow to the head courtesy of Astarion, and the worg finds itself the last alive with everyone else surrounding it. It yips and howls at them, snapping at any who come too close, but it will only be a matter of time – he hesitates to cast on it himself, lest he catch one of the others in the attempt, but–

Suddenly, there’s a bright, stabbing pain in his left leg, and it feels as though it’s on fire – quite possibly the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life, maybe even worse than the orb. Eyes wide, he looks down to grasp at the shaft of an arrow, sunk deep into the flesh halfway between knee and hip. As his fingers touch the shaft, the pain doubles and he feels sick to his stomach. A sharp, whistling sound, and then another arrow strikes him with a heavy thwuck, just centimeters below the first.

The strength floods out of his leg and he hits the ground, striking it hard as he topples over. The wound is a molten lake of agony, but he can’t seem to do anything – his body refuses to cooperate. Gale just lays there on his back and tries to breathe through the pain, staring up into the blue blue sky.

He’d be screaming, if he could. If he could get some air into his lungs, but each breath is a hollow gasp.

Time seems to…pass. Gale’s not sure how long he’s laying there, but eventually he becomes aware of hands pressing urgently at his thigh, and a dark shape above him. It isn’t until the figure moves and something soft tickles his hand does Gale realize that it’s Shadowheart leaning over him, backlit by the sun; her plait has fallen over one shoulder and brushes over his skin, over and over as she does her work.

There are others nearby too, but in the moment he’s unable to care enough to make them out. They come and go, and he’s got the faintest impression that at least one or two of them are lending Shadowheart a hand. At one point, he thinks someone is holding him down as a new sharp line of pain cuts through his flesh, leaving it hollow, empty.

Around him, the world sways slowly, like a spinning top that is about to fall.

Eventually there is the harsh touch of a strong hand on his shoulder, and a familiar, stern voice, “Come on, snap out of it.”

He blinks, dumbly, three or four more times before the thought sinks in. Shadowheart has a hand in his and another cupping his elbow, and with a grunt, she eases him up until he’s sitting again. The world spins a bit more, a token protest, but in time it steadies around him as he breathes deep and takes in his surroundings. The sun has shifted in the sky, just a bit, so some time has passed, though he feels too distant to really figure out how much or care.

His legs are laid out before him, and someone has pushed aside his robes and cut away at his pants; where the arrows must have struck there are thick swaths of blood stained bandages, wrapped tight around his thigh. Tight enough, in fact, that Gale realizes he can’t quite feel much of the leg and that’s probably a good thing.

The others are talking amongst one another. Well, Lae’zel and Astarion are – a cursory glance shows them to be looting the corpses nearby, bickering back and forth about the value of goblin weaponry in a typical market. Dirge looms, just a little to his left, and Shadowheart waits beside him, snapping her fingers until his eyes glance her way, nodding and whispering a gentle: “Te curo.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dirge asks, his arms crossed and face concerned.

“Shock, mostly,” Shadowheart responds, matter of factly, “Help me get him to his feet – if we can get him inside the gate and set him down, I’ll be able to close the wound properly.”

Dirge moves around to his injured side, taking Shadowheart’s place as he slowly helps Gale to his feet; the leg can take no weight, and when his foot touches the ground, he releases a tight wheeze of pain. The half-drow’s frown deepens, and he looks to Shadowheart for advice, “Should I carry him?”

The cleric pauses, then shakes her head, “Just take it slow and easy coming down the rocks – you’re still recovering yourself, and I doubt you have the strength you think you do just yet.”

The slow walk down the ledge is hell, and the trek to the gate itself is only slightly less so; he’s forced to hobble along, trusting Dirge to support his weight. As they pass by, Astarion and Lae’zel move to follow, and the rogue makes sure to walk step in step with him for a moment, just long enough to impart the knowledge that after one shoots, they’re supposed to dart back into cover. Truthfully, his tone has that disaffected air of haughtiness that Gale is coming to understand reads more of as an expression of concern rather than insult or criticism.

Lae’zel, on the other hand, shows no such consideration when she loudly denounces his reaction time, aim, and general strategy for battle.

After that, his perception of time gets… muddled a bit; one moment they’re waiting an age for the gate to rise, the next he finds himself sitting on top of a large fallen stone, his injured leg resting up with him. It throbs something fierce, the pain sharp, exquisite.

Somebody nearby is shouting.

Beside him, Shadowheart kneels, her fingers prodding deep into his seeping wounds, her hands slick with blood. Gale’s head lolls to the side, almost completely involuntarily, and he watches in sick horror as her fingers tug at the flesh, manipulate it, and spread the hole wide.

The pain spikes and his stomach roils in protest, and he forces himself to breath through it in too fast panting gasps, lest he vomit all over the cleric.

At long last (too long), she pulls her hand free from the wound to reveal a long, slender black shard.

Gale swallows, his throat desperately parched; it takes him three attempts to manage to speak, “What…”

“You took two arrows to your leg – luckily, they both missed your femoral artery, but they were barbed, and close to the bone.” Shadowheart places her hands on his trembling thigh, directly channeling her healing magic into the wound. The touch is cool, almost uncomfortably so; however, it pales in comparison to the alien feeling of his own flesh stitching itself back together and drawing the wound shut, “Turns out our amnesiac makes for a good assistant – he was able to hold you down while I broke the shafts and removed the arrowheads.” Once the skin again looks unmarred, Shadowheart looks up and passes him the black shard – a long splinter, about six centimeters long, possibly from the shaft of an arrow, “Obviously, the breaks weren’t clean enough.”

He holds the bit of wood in his hand, analyzing it with a sense of morbid curiosity; its edges are rough and catch on the pads of his fingers, and it's still tacky with his blood. What terrible things this little splinter could do had it remained lodged in his leg, “Thank you, Shadowheart.”

Slowly, the pain begins to fade into a dull throb, and finally Gale feels enough awareness come back to him to take better stock of his surroundings. He’s perched upon a rock on the very edge of a dirt path, with what appears to be the reverse side of that wooden gate and stone wall behind him. The path itself is rough and travels up a bit of an incline towards a cave-like structure – though there appears to be some sort of giant stone pillar holding up the natural roof.

The place doesn’t show any signs of civilization; if it wasn’t for the gate itself and a few tree trunks lashed together as a crude bridge to his right, it would look almost like any other part of the forest they spent the last few days traveling through.

Then again, what else would a druid’s grove look like?

“Is this... Is this the grove?”

She nods, “Yes, we think it is – haven’t had much of a chance to talk to anyone, other than shouting back and forth with the tiefling on the wall. I sent the others ahead to scout the area.”

“Hopefully in addition to a healer, we can also get some supplies here.” As Shadowheart moves to stand, he takes a quick look at his pants – there’s a large gash cut almost from hip to knee. Nothing that a quick mending spell can’t fix; it’s an easy cantrip to cast, even feeling as drained as he is.

Once the fabric has stitched itself back together, Shadowheart moves to help him to his feet, bracing his weight against her, “Feeling any better?”

“Much – it's still a bit tender, but–” he hisses as his foot touches the ground. Before, the pain was fierce, a bright stabbing pain lancing through the muscle like a strike of lightning. Now it feels more beaten, like the entire side of his leg is a large, aching bruise.

“It will likely take the rest of the afternoon for it to finish healing – skin reforms fast, but deep muscle tends to need more time. Take it easy.” Once he manages to find his feet, she slides her arm out from around his waist and gestures for him to follow her down the path, “We’re due some good luck; hopefully the others found a healer, and we can resupply before making our way back to Baldur’s Gate.”

Good luck has been in awfully short supply for them, Gale admits.

Which is why he is not nearly as shocked as he should be when they both crest the hill in time to see Dirge knock a man out.

Notes:

Please forgive Dirge, his healing brain sometimes gets stuck in a bit of a spiral, and he repeats himself.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Content Warning for more graphic description of wounds, and almost violence against kids.

I meant to mention this last chapter, but some of the liberties I will be taking with this game is the distance between certain locations – I refuse to believe that despite being a stone’s throw away from the grove, the goblins just couldn’t manage to find it again.

It’s amazing how quick a pleasant afternoon can be soured – one moment, Dirge is slaughtering goblin raiders, and the next he’s forced to stand here and listen to two adult men bark at each other like feral dogs. The tiefling from the top of the wall (an older creature with a heavily weathered face, dressed in worn but well-maintained scale mail, back straight and proud; military service, most likely) argues with one of the people who had been trapped against the gate; the young human male with the curly hair (dark-skinned and dark brown hair, breast plate over a green quilted gambeson that looks vaguely familiar). The man is flanked by his companions from before, but while they make no attempt to join or defuse the squabble, both stand with their arms crossed and shoulders tensed, ready to start trouble at a moment’s notice.

Cute. Curly-hair seems to fancy himself a leader, and these are his loyal body-guards. Leader of what though? Dirge idly considers them and their garb. Going by the mismatched assortment of their gear and the lack of any sort of emblem or badge, it’s likely their calling themselves either bandits or mercenaries. Probably the latter – mercenaries just sounds so much more romantic, after all.

Behind him, Dirge can almost hear Lae’zel’s cold disinterest and Pomp’s sharp amusement at the fresh entertainment. For his own part, he just wishes the bickering fools would get over it; his head is starting to pound again, and listening to the two of them squabble with one another like children is doing the lancing pain through the back of his skull no favors.

That prickling thing beneath his skin wishes to flay them both alive, and see what the idiots complain about then.

“There are children here, you fool!” Old Man tiefling exclaims, wildly gesturing behind himself towards the caves – Curly’s minions tense up, likely assuming the man had been reaching for a weapon or preparing to strike.

Curly takes a step forward, smiling contemptuously – despite being much shorter than the tiefling, he’s more menacing, “We was running for our lives.”

“You’ve led them straight to us – and you let them take the druid too? Unbelievable!”

“Druid?” Dirge can’t help but ask, casting his mind back to the battle; it’s a bit fuzzy like all of his memories, but there was nothing left alive that didn’t come back in through the gate. He made sure of it himself. “No goblins survived – they didn’t take any prisoners.”

The human doesn’t bother to look at him as he responds, “We lost him back at the ruins – whole place is crawling with gobbos.”

“He trusted you!” Old Man snaps, tail lashing about furiously.

Curly’s eyes narrow a bit further, his voice drops a bit deeper; he takes a step closer to the tiefling, “Nobody forced him to go with us – he insisted. And when things got tough, he couldn’t keep up. Simple as that.”

Dirge steps closer, crowding into the human’s space, and when Curly turns to look at him, Dirge takes stock of the man; there’s something about the set of this one’s eyes, the scar that bisects an eyebrow, the sneer on his face… all arrogance without real ability, but the kind who would gut you in the alley given the chance, all the same.

“More like you pissed yourself at the first signs of a real fight.” Dirge can’t help the too-wide smile that splits his lips, and he leans in a bit closer, crossing his arms and looming over the human, “Little scarier when you’re not just gutting some poor sap on the side of the road, isn’t it?”

Curls’ smug self-assurance drops with a flicker of anger in his dark brown eyes, and behind him, Dirge can hear Pomp snickering. The human looks towards the elf and then back to him, sizing him up, perhaps realizing that it’s not just not just three on one after all, and he hisses, “Pull your claws in, under-elf.”

“Show some respect!” the tiefling exclaims, “This man saved your pathetic life.”

The human draws up his shoulders, baring his teeth – he looks a moment away from striking, “Well, I didn’t ask for any godsdamned help.”

Old Man rolls his eyes, “Please. You were begging me to open the gate. Anything to save yourself, you coward.”

“I don’t need any help! Not from you,” Curls snarls, glancing from Old Man to him, “and not from some disgusting half-breed–”

The strike of Dirge’s fist against Curl’s face is perhaps the most satisfying moment he has ever felt in his (admittedly short) memory; he hits the blowhard square in the cheek and the human just topples over with a thud, all resistance gone in a moment as his slack body hits the ground, eyes rolling into the back of his head. It’s disappointing that he did not feel the give of bone beneath his fist; if he had aimed a bit lower, at least he could have had the joy of breaking the man’s teeth.

“--Dirge!”

Behind him, Sour moves swiftly with a slowly hobbling Gale in tow; the cleric shoots both Pomp and Lae’zel fierce glares, but mostly goes ignored – Lae’zel refuses to acknowledge her, and Pomp is smiling like a loon, his bright red eyes sparkling with mirth. He himself feels a touch contrite when she refocuses on him, but it does nothing to dull that contented rush of adrenaline in his blood.

Sour looks angry at his lack of remorse, “Dirge–”

Beside her Gale finally catches up, leaning heavily on his staff, one arm pressed tightly to where blood stains the purple of his robes. The wizard’s face is still waxy, and there’s a light sheen of sweat across his brow; it looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over. Gale briefly studies Curls’ crumpled form before approaching the tiefling apologetically, “I am so sorry, our companion is a bit–”

The old tiefling dismissively waves a hand, not out of callousness. The anger has faded and left him tired, and worn – he suddenly looks years older than even before. An old soldier undoubtedly frustrated with his own lack of discipline. A long-suffering sigh escapes his nose, “It’s alright. Arrogant sod had it coming.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Shadowheart hisses at Pomp, who shrugs, still smiling.

“Why would I? He was doing so well on his own.”

Old Man’s eyes are distant as he watches Curly’s two minions haul the unresponsive man away.

“Well, that’s… that I suppose.” Again the tiefling sighs, as though the weight of the entire world rests on his shoulders, but Old Man’s worn face lifts into a semblance of a smile when he looks back to them, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have looked to a drow for help, but I’m grateful all the same. I’m Zevlor.”

“Dirge,” he replies, but the one comment makes him hesitate, “...Drow?” There’s not much that he remembers, but something in his mangled brain signals ‘trouble’.

Zevlor raises a placating hand, “I meant no insult – it’s simply that yours are a people at war with themselves – I’ve never known them to care for outsiders.” The tiefling looks back towards the caves behind him, the turn of his face achingly sad. “...Whatever your business here, I’d see to it quickly. The druids are forcing everyone out.”

“Forcing everyone out?” Gale breathes, “Why?”

“The goblins have been combing the forest around here for weeks, attacking and killing anyone they can find on the roads – or worse, take them captive.” The tiefling’s voice is hollow with grief, and it’s clear his thoughts on the matter – those caught would be better off dead. “Between them and the gnolls, the area has become treacherous. The druids blame us outsiders for drawing them here. Nobody’s welcome anymore.”

As the wind shifts, the distant sound of melodic voices rises in the air. Zevlor looks towards the ledge alongside the road – it leads to an impressive cliff face over a small hollow filled with trees. From here, there’s not much to make out other than the tops of carved stone pillars that peek through the canopy. Below, the swell of voices chant words thrumming with an ancient power. “They’ve started a ritual to cut the grove off from the world outside. We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave – we’re no fighters.”

“This ritual, is there no way to convince the druids to stop it?”

Dirge glances toward Gale, surprised, but no, the man appears earnest. Why would they help these strangers, especially when they’re in need themselves? He can’t quite remember why, but the others had been in such a rush to get here, hadn’t they? “You want to waste time playing diplomat? I thought we needed a healer.”

The wizard’s sharp brown eyes cut into him reproachfully, steady despite his wounded state, “...We’ve got our problems, granted, but there might be some merit in shutting down a local conflict, no?”

Zevlor’s expression shifts to something concerned, “Goblin got you?” He seems to properly take in Gale’s weary form, perhaps noticing for the first time the blood staining the wizard’s robes, and he nods solemnly, “Nettie down in the grove is tending to the injured now that their leader has been captured. You’ll have to get past the druids to see her, but they’ll owe you for defending the gate.”

Zevlor takes a step back, bowing gratefully, “Thank you for all the help you’ve already given us – forgive me, I’ll have to go and warn the others; they’ll finish the ritual soon.” Without another word, he turns heel and half jogs down to the caves nearby, leaving the five of them in silence.

“Chk,” Lae’zel watches the tiefling disappear into the dark, her lip raised in a sneer. She stands ramrod straight, her arms crossed, her eyes fierce in their glower, “We cannot be wasting time, running around and helping these teeth-lings.”

“Tieflings.” Sour corrects absently. “And no, we don’t have time to appease some irate druids.”

“We’ll have to deal with the issue one way or another eventually,” Gale reasons, leaning against his staff with a white knuckled grip, “Zevlor was adamant that the goblins and the gnolls are controlling the roads and killing travelers – the very roads we’ll need to get back to Baldur’s Gate. We’ll need a place to shelter and resupply, at the very least.”

“And that is on the assumption that we can even get the tadpoles removed here.” Sour sighs, her eyes distant as she considers their options, “This ‘Nettie’ sounds more like a healer-in-training than anyone I’d trust to remove a parasite from my eye.”

Parasite? In their eyes? Dirge vaguely remembers something, of a damp red heat trapping him all around, and a shadowed figure leaning over him, something pale and twitching held between two taloned fingers. The sensation of defeat and fear and the stab of bright light on gleaming razor teeth. The thick smell of rot meat. The hazy vision flickers like a mirage, half real before his eyes, and the stabbing in the base of his skull worsens.

Faraway, he hears Pomp’s tone; incredulous, rising in pitch with his displeasure as his face twists with disgust. It’s so at odds with the illusion that reality sparks swiftly back into focus. “So we’ll have to help these sorry creatures either way? Eurgh.”

Lae’zel gazes imperiously down her stub of a nose at the elf, “You said you are a magistrate, did you not? Perhaps you can talk to these druids and convince them to cease this ritual nonsense.”

“You want me to negotiate with them? Druids? Some of the most miserable, close-minded people on all of Toril?”

Gale’s eyes spark with interest, “You have experience dealing with druids?”

Pomp clicks his tongue, “No, I’ve never had the displeasure, but I think it’s safe to say that anyone who voluntarily lives in communes in the middle of the woods must be mad.”

“Enough.” Shadowheart snaps, turning to leave, “We’ll deal with that if we need to, when we need to. For now, let’s see about buying some supplies.”

‘Cave’, as it turns out, is a terrible descriptor for the sprawling hollow into the rocky hillside. The ceilings reach so high that they disappear into the shadows overhead, almost cathedral-like in their vaulting, and are supported by great pillars carved from the stone itself. In the pockets of the rock, people have constructed wooden walkways and platforms, sheltered with vibrant blue cloth – the fabric is rough and torn, crudely patched in places, and clearly all from the same stock. Bulk supplies, he supposes, given to people in a time of need. Despite being temporary housing to refugees, these tents clearly have become a home for some; several bedrolls lay unfurled across the slats; crates are strewn about filled with clothes, tools, and a few children’s toys; and on a rope strung from one walkway to a pole to a tent, someone has hung up the day’s laundry.

Winding dirt pathways meander through the stone halls, solemnly guarded by tall, intricate statues of animals, one of which watches with glowing deep blue eyes. The light that emanates from it bleeds down the stone face and neck, pulsing with the slow beat of a magic that he can feel even at a great distance; a heavy vibration in the air, like the measured strum of a lute string.

In the distance he can see the other entrances to this cavern are framed with massive carved wheels, crafted of several tiers of stone and inlaid with delicate woven engravings. It seems time has eaten away at many of the structures and even the natural rock walls, revealing a smaller, secondary cave system that disappears into the dark below with several waterfalls that follow down to rejoin into an unseen river, roaring in the depths.

Along the many walkways and paths, several tieflings bustle back and forth with an air of worry hovering over them. Some of them seem to be packing up supplies for their eviction, while one watches high atop a walkway, armored and with a greataxe in hand. The tiefling’s face is reticent, alert, and protective, and he eyes their group with little more than passing curiosity.

Beside him, Lae’zel’s golden gaze is not at all subtle as she scans over stone walls and wooden platforms, marking exits and studying each tiefling that they pass. She stares at their hands, their belts, their backs, and for each weapon she doesn’t see, her scowl sets deeper; by the time they begin descending a set of stone steps to the lower level of the cavern, her teeth are bared and her eyes are frigid.

He follows, despite each step down causing the ache in his skull to intensify.

“These… ‘tief-lings’,” Lae’zel pauses, her slow enunciation at odds with the simmering annoyance in her eyes, “they outnumber their foes; why do they not arm themselves and fight?”

Gale sighs, radiating pain and exasperation as he shuffles along with his staff – it feels strange. For the first time in Dirge’s memory, the wizard seems too tired to put on a smile, “They’re not fighters, Lae’zel, they are refugees.” The stairs seem especially hard on his leg; he places the staff down first on each step before him, and slowly eases himself lower, “If Astarion’s read of the map is correct, they’re likely fleeing from Elturel.”

She watches Gale descend, and makes no offer to help, “Does it matter where they are from? How do they not know how to wield a blade?”

As Dirge’s foot touches the last step, the pain in his head shrieks without warning, and for a heartbeat, his knees go weak – blindly, he stumbles to the side, thankfully catching himself against one of the wooden pillars. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin, and his hands tremble, almost violently. Even his vision seems to pulsate with the beat of his heart.

There’s a small hand on his shoulder; small, but terribly strong. His skin prickles at the contact. He keeps his eyes shut tight in a wince. “Dirge? Are you okay?”

Shadowheart.

He aims for a reassuring smile, but it feels more like a grimace, “I’m fine. Just a headache.”

“Still?”

“Mhmm.” He’d nod, but his head feels so heavy and his neck is like rubber, “...It’s bad right now.”

“Do you ever not have one?” She sighs, but while her voice sounds cold, her touch remains surprisingly gentle, “I suppose I can’t say I’m surprised. Wait here, maybe we can find you a place to sit.” She pauses, “Gale, how’s your leg?”

Gale speaks lightly, but his gentle baritone is tight with pain, “I won’t lie, it’s been better, but it’s not as… excruciating as it was prior. I’ll be alright for a moment yet – I’d like to look into buying us some supplies first–”

They leave him there, with promises of finding a place to sit. So, he waits, moving from the pillar to the wall, relishing the cool press of the rock against his back. It takes time, but eventually both the stabbing and the shaking lessens, though it leaves him feeling weary and a slight bit nauseous. There’s a high-pitched whine in his ears that he didn’t notice before, and while it is irritating, the otherwise relative quiet around him is soothing enough that he soon forgets it; in the distance he can hear the gentle murmur of voices and closer, the rumbling of a torch aflame.

There’s the sound of feet approaching, and voices raised, half shouting–

“–We don’t even know these people!” A masculine voice snarls. Getting louder, getting closer.

“That doesn’t matter!” A feminine voice replies, just as incensed.

“Of course it does! You would choose strangers over us!”

“Can we stop shouting? No?” A third voice, masculine but deeper than the first, but this one doesn’t shout – it pleads, exasperated; likely, this argument has been going on for a while. When the sound of footsteps stop just in front of him, Dirge opens his eyes, squinting in the torchlight.

Nearby, three tieflings stand – two male and a female. The female (short, but with a fiery expression and a proud tilt to her head) has her fist clenched tight in the robes of one male (blue and red robes with bright silver embellishment, finery that is replicated in his belt and on the silver inlay of his leather bracers. Pompous and haughty, going by the curl in his lip. Thinks he’s smarter than most, and is ready to shove it in their face; a wizard’s arrogance) as she bares her teeth in an infuriated snarl. They look moments away from breaking into a fistfight, and the second male nervously stands off to the side, hands raised placatingly, the draw of his brows marred with worry.

The three of them look like they could be siblings, though Hubris is overall a lighter color; Fiery and Timid have dark, cool brown hair and flaming red-orange eyes similar to their skin tone, and they both wear a set of simple leather armor. The wizard, on the other hand, has dark black horns a shade deeper than the others, ginger hair pulled back into a loose bun, and his skin is more the color of an aggrieved pumpkin.

All three are armed, Dirge notes with slight interest.

Fiery tightens her grip, pulling Hubris down towards her, “Hells, we can’t just leave – they’re kin!”

Hubris rolls his eyes, grabbing her hand in his, “I’ll not gamble our lives, our futures, on people who are as good as dead.” He stares down his long nose at her as he roughly frees himself of her grip, “We must leave for Baldur’s Gate – at once.”

“Can’t we all just take a moment? Please?” Timid begs.

Fiery takes another aggressive step forward, the determination in her eyes fierce enough to melt steel,“What’s the point of blades and spells if we don’t bloody use them? We should stay. These people aren’t fighters. We can help.”

Timid’s shoulders droop as the other two talk over him, “Or yell louder. That’s fine too.”

Dirge presses a hand tight over his eyes; their arguing isn’t helping his headache, “...Stay or leave, can you just shut up?”

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” Hubris replies, his tone frigid. Dirge peers through a crack in his fingers so he can return the petulant tiefling’s glare.

“An annoyed bystander. Go take your bickering elsewhere.”

The wizard pulls back, crossing his arms, “There won’t be any more bickering, because we are going to Baldur’s Gate–”

“–Rolan!” Fiery’s brow crumples, caught between her anger and disappointment.

Dirge drops his hand from his face, shrugging with one shoulder, “Go get yourselves killed on the road then, and do us all a favor.”

The three tieflings glance briefly between each other; Hubris/Rolan’s lips twist as though he has tasted something bitter, while the other two have an ‘I-told-you-so’ look to them, although Timid looks like he might fold if he so much as got wet.

“And what would you do, stranger?” Rolan questions at length, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Stay and fight. Defend this place until your people are ready to leave.” Dirge replies. This grove is defensible – the gate is an amazing advantage and could be easily held, and as long as any other entrances are collapsed, these tieflings could hold their position for months, if need be. Far longer than a pack of goblins would care to lay siege; miserable little creatures would move along pretty quickly once it became obvious their prey was out of reach. “Stop being such a spineless coward.”

“Coward?” Rolan reels, insulted, “I am no such thing – I am an apprentice to–”

“And what a wonderful apprentice a corpse makes.” He interrupts, “Do it, or don’t, I don’t care.”

Fiery turns to the wizard, her eyes beseeching, “Rolan… We have to stay, you know it's the right thing to do. We’ve come this far with them, we can’t leave them now, when it matters most.”

Timid nods, “She’s right, Rolan. We’re better than this.”

Rolan sighs theatrically, “Zurgan. Fine. I’ll stay too, lest you both end up with your throats slit by a goblin blade.” As they walk away, the tiefling wizard flicks him one last condescending glare before they disappear around the bend.

At the same time, Gale reappears from where Dirge last saw him vanish around a corner. As he approaches, the wizard casts a cautious eye towards the three tieflings who, while they are no longer openly arguing, bicker amongst one another like siblings as they walk. The tip of Timid’s tail swings with contentment, as their discussion moves away from making a wild dash through the woods to plans on defending the gate.

As Gale gets closer, his eyes move back to Dirge, giving him a quick once over. “Trouble?” he asks, though his voice is merely curious, not concerned.

“No, just loud.”

The wizard nods, “I found a place you can sit, if you like. I might even join you in a bit, once I’ve finished with the merchants.” Gale places a hand on his shoulder, gently gesturing to a bit further down the path where upon a small stone platform, someone has set up a table with chairs. Nearby, an older tiefling woman with short grey hair leans over a large pot, stirring a simmering, bubbling mass of… something. Unlike Gale’s cooking, it doesn’t smell particularly appetizing, but Dirge’s stomach rumbles all the same.

As Gale leaves to return to the merchants, Dirge rests his greatsword against the table and sits down heavily in one of the wooden seats – a rough piece of workmanship, it creaks ominously underneath his weight, but it holds. It, like the table and many of the other structures around, are of a haphazard design, the crude but effective work of a people in need; although, there are hints of something here, deeper and older. Some of the walkways and platforms are painted and carved with designs of stars, antlers, waves, and a complex design of many layers of simple shapes that must have some greater meaning to the druids.

That same pattern is recreated in carvings in several of the stone walls and around the great sculpted arches by the cave entrances, but while these constructions must have taken great time and care, most are rotting and crumbling with age and neglect. In fact, it seems only these refugee tieflings truly care for this space – crude though it may be, there are obvious attempts to shore up collapsing rock with scaffolding and braces.

What was the reason for this place? It’s large enough that with some clever planning, it could shelter as many as a hundred people at a stretch, but other than the tents and one decaying shack there’s no sign of long term housing. There’s nothing that indicates military or ritual significance, either – for all the work someone once put into this place, it seems devoid of an original purpose.

Is it really so surprising that something useless was left to rot?

With a deep sigh, Dirge lays his head down into the cradle of his arms, and closes his eyes; distantly, some deep instinct screams at him, that it’s not safe to sleep out in the open, but the worn table beneath him feels like a relief for his weary head, and the heat from the nearby torches and cooking fire seeps into his bones, a balm against the chill of the shadows and the waterfalls.

It’s… surprisingly comfortable.

Unintentionally, he dozes. The usual grim feast of gore fades instead to a spiral of slowly shifting colors that’s strangely soothing, a hypnotic, dreamless sleep.

A loud thunk wakes him all too soon, and Dirge bolts upright, one hand reaching for the handle of his weapon – a bowl sits on the table before him, and a grey haired lady smiles back apologetically. Not the older tiefling toiling over the boiling pot, this one is a human woman with her hair twisted back into twin curled braided buns. She wears the simple clothing of a peasant worker, but her attire is without rip or tear, and her face is smudged with the dirt of hard work.

“Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to wake you,” her eyebrows are drawn high, her face caught in a rueful grimace, “I saw you sitting there, and thought to myself ‘why, that young man could use a good meal!’ – I’ve seen skeletons with more meat on their bones than you!”

Heart beating still a bit too fast, Dirge nods his head and runs a hand through the stubble of his hair – there’s a warm laziness to his limbs; just how long was he sitting here, asleep? “S’alright,” he mutters, “Just startled me.” He eyes the steaming hot bowl in front of him; gruel, thin and not near as appealing as the oatmeal Gale had cooked for them before.

Absent-mindedly, he wishes for something meatier, and fresh, something he could really sink his teeth into and chew. Something a bit…bloody.

Her eyes are still pinched with worry, and with a quick glance about, she sits down in the chair across from him, pulling it close to the table with a creaking groan, “Here I was, going to thank you for what you did at the gate; you’re the talk of the camp, sweetie, but…I have to ask: are you alright? You’re looking awfully peaky.”

There’s a kindness to her bright green eyes, and the way she rests her chin on her cupped hands somehow looks so sincere. It would feel so easy to tell her, if only he had the words to describe it, “I’m fine, just…tired.”

She reaches across the table and gently places her hand over his, and takes no offense when he reflexively flinches away, “You’re more than just tired, love, you’re twitching something fierce. And your eyes! You look like you don’t know the meaning of the word sleep.”

His eyes ache at the mere thought of closing, of resting. Sleep has been elusive, coming in fits and starts, allowing him a few interrupted hours at best. And the worse each night is, the rougher the following day promises to be; still, awareness slowly creeps in like a persistent weed.

Over the last few days, even when speech seemed impossible, small realizations would manage to crack through his thick skull. Things like how he’s taller than the others, by far, and when he stands close to them he looms in a way that often makes them feel uneasy. Shadowheart is a bit sour, but when she looks at him sometimes her face softens in a way that speaks of guilt. Spots is a githyanki, and she’s desperate to get to this ‘crèche’ she keeps speaking of. She keeps looking at him like she expects Dirge to do better, but he doesn’t understand how. Gale feigns cheer but there’s a sadness in his eyes that runs soul deep. Astarion seems flighty when he thinks no one is looking; his words are sharp and brazen but sometimes there’s fear etched deep into his face.

Still, even as his mind slowly comes back to him, it only exposes just how large the holes are that remain. He sighs, and meets her eyes – the others said they were looking for a healer, right? Unlikely though it may be, perhaps this elderly lady can help; if only he knew the words to say, “I… I don’t really know what’s wrong with me. That’s the problem.”

“Then let old Auntie Ethel have a look at you,” she raises her voice with steadying cheer, almost jovial, “First thing’s first – eat your food and tell me what’s at you.” Dirge risks a sip of the gruel as he chews on his words, trying to find something that works, that makes sense. Nothing comes, so he takes another gulp of the bland slurry before him and hopes she sees the regret in his eyes. Ethel sighs, her willowy lips pulled into a thin smile, “...I’m a healer, love. You can tell me; I promise to help. I’ve got lotions and potions galore, enough to cure almost any malady!”

“It’s… My head is full of holes. I can’t remember my past or even much of what’s going on, most of the time. My head feels like it’s in a fog.” The gruel in his mouth tastes of warm, wet sawdust, but it’s easier to concentrate on that then meet her in the eye when he can’t figure out what to say. How do you tell someone that not only is your head empty, but you desire to strip the tendons from their body, just to watch them struggle haplessly as you end the very suffering you forced upon them?

“Now that’s as serious as serious gets.” For one stark moment, he thinks he said that thought out loud, but no, his secrets remain his (for now), “Our past defines who we are, petal. Without it, why, we could be anyone!” Ethel leans in closer, “Your… ‘friends’, do they know who you are?”

He casts his mind back to those first few days, and sees nothing but a confusing haze of disconnected images, “No, I-I don’t think so… they happened to find me.”

“Well that’s a good spot o’ luck there, petal. Whatever would you have done if they left you behind?”

The thought sinks its claws deep into his flesh – would he still be wandering that beach, lost and alone? Or would he be deep in that forest, dead from thirst?

(Vaguely, he remembers a dim, dark tomb that stretched forever. What would it be like, stumbling blindly through its haunted halls? When he’d die there, he’d need no grave.)

“But there must be a reason – were you hurt recently? An accident of sorts?” She peers closer at him, “You’ve some very particular scarring–”

“There was some sort of parasite. Put into my eye, but… my symptoms don’t seem to match the others?”

“A parasite? You poor pet!” Auntie Ethel pulls back, horrified, “But I confess, that doesn’t explain all your symptoms. The things you told me, why, I’ve never heard of a parasite doing that!” She stands abruptly out of her chair, her already pale skin blanching as white as a sheet. Nervously, she begins pacing the side of the table, back and forth, tapping an index finger against her lips.

After a long moment, she turns to him, jubilant, “You just wait here.”

Auntie Ethel turns on her heel and scurries over to another wooden table that previously escaped his attention – just as worn and beaten as the one he sits at, but shorter and covered with candles, a few potion bottles, bundles of flowers and grasses, and a… teapot that looks like a frog? Blinking with confusion, Dirge asks, “What are you doing?”

She leans over her table and doesn’t bother looking behind her as she responds, “Just grabbing a map, love, be but a moment!”

True to her word, she’s back at the table in no time at all, unfurling a great roll of yellowed paper; as she flattens it against the wood, she reaches into her pockets beneath her tunic, pulling out rocks to weigh down the corners. It is indeed a map, and a bit of a familiar one at that; he watches as she drags one finger searchingly down the meticulously sketched lines.

“I have ne’er a potion or lotion here that could help, but I may just have something back at home that could do the trick!” She taps insistently near a stretch of the northern bank of a river labeled ‘the Chionthar’, “I have my teahouse out here, in the wetlands, where I run my shop you see. Let me grab a quill, and I’ll mark the spot for you.”

“You live that far away?” Dirge asks as Auntie Ethel returns to her workspace.

Beside him, Gale reappears, pulling one of the chairs away from the table with a clatter as the legs drag on stone. The wizard sets himself down in the seat with a sigh, stretching his wounded leg out before him. Once settled, Gale glances in his direction with a polite smile and nod, before turning his attention toward studying the area around them.

“Yes petal,” Auntie Ethel replies, not looking up from where she searches her desk, “I find that the solitude does wonders for my craft.”

Gale leans closer, his voice pitched low and discrete, “Who’s your friend?”

“Auntie Ethel,” Dirge responds, just as quietly, sipping another mouthful of the gruel while being mindful of the map, “Says she might have a solution for our problem.”

That piques the wizard’s interest – he observes the elderly woman intently, seeming a bit incredulous, “Oh does she now? She doesn’t quite look like the magical sort – what does she dabble in?”

“What she dabbles in, wizard,” Ethel turns around, quill in hand, her voice cross, “is lotions and potions.”

Gale isn’t deterred at all, though his brows curl ever so slightly upward as he keeps his face polite, “For our problem, I doubt a potion or a lotion would suffice. Especially the latter. Ours is a problem that calls for serious magic.”

Moving swiftly, she stands over Gale, expression set tight in a disapproving frown, hands at her hips, “Wizard, the things I’ve collected would blow your pretty little mind. Bracelets that hold the power of ten men, mirrors that capture the soul…” She tuts, shaking her head as she leans over the table. With a steady hand she circles a spot on the map in thick, black ink, “...I’ll be heading back soon; come find me if you decide you want your little wriggling friend gone.” Ethel looks up at Dirge again, gentling her eyes, “Goodbye for now, petal.”

They both watch in silence as the elderly woman moves back to her desk and pointedly resumes her work; she’s brewing potions, sorting her ingredients, and adjusting her curios. Originally Dirge thought she came here to help these tieflings and provide aid, but she doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush to help anyone. Perhaps she followed the same call so many others do – where there is a crisis, people will gladly spend their last coin to survive.

He takes another sip of his meal, looking towards Gale, “I was starting to wonder if you’d come back.”

“Of course I would. I seem to have left you with scintillating company” the wizard muses, “and a meal to boot.”

Dirge shrugs a shoulder, fixing his eyes on the unappealing slop, “Trust me, you’re not missing much. It’s a far cry from the food you make.”

Gale beams at the praise, and Dirge takes a moment to study him. When he held down Gale for Shadowheart to work her magic, the wizard had been weak and ashen pale, trashing against his hold with no more strength than a child. Unsurprising, really, for the amount of blood he lost – the arrows had sunk deep into his leg and their barbed tips snared fast. Shadowheart had cursed their luck; the easiest way to deal with a barbed tip was to break the shaft and push the head through, but one of the arrows lay too close to the bone and the femoral artery. One small slip could have been crippling, or fatal.

In the end, Shadowheart had snapped the shafts on both, pushing one clean through to the other side of Gale’s thigh, and cut out the other with surgical precision. Both wounds seeped blood in thick streams down pale skin, and it had taken everything in his power to not widen them and revel in the gore spilled fresh on the dusty road. Luckily, the cleric didn’t notice his struggle, too focused on magically stitching the split flesh back together.

Now, while Gale looks far better than before, he is still a shell of himself. He may no longer be giving Astarion a run for his money when it comes to that deathlike pallor, but there’s a waxy quality to his skin that’s only broken up by the shadows under his eyes and his sunburn – even that looks sickly, as without the natural pinks of his skin beneath, the burn itself looks washed out.

The wizard still watches Ethel, his eyes bright and curious in a way that belies the exhaustion he must feel, “She’s an unusual one, isn’t she? Very… cheerful.”

“A bit,” he admits, pushing the bowl carefully aside, pointing to the map, “but she did offer me this. And from what I remember, everyone seems desperate to get these parasites out – what can it hurt, if we can’t find a cure here?”

“Well, as mind flayer tadpoles don’t require long term humanoid hosts, there is some urgency to our condition; however, we’re well on our way to succeeding our life expectancies exponentially as is.” Gale chuckles, shifting to better scrutinize the paper on the table, “No, I think the true prize you found here is this map – it’s vastly more detailed than the one we found in that temple.”

Dirge settles himself down comfortably into his seat, his head propped up by his arm on the table, and watches as Gale pours animatedly over the map, his eyes bright stars of interest and wonder. There’s a simple, pleasant feeling that wells within him as he plays the role of sounding board for the wizard’s excited observations; even when the thoughts inevitably slip away again, maybe some faint echo of this will remain, hidden away.

 

-x-

 

“So, Astarion,” Shadowheart asks, unable to hide the smile that splits her lips, “was it worth the effort?”

The elf frowns at her from the corner of his eyes; in his hands, he precariously holds a pile of beads taken from one of the dead bandits at the temple. A few of them slip traitorously between his fingers to roll away into the dirt, and as he raises his hands further from his pack, more follow. “What? We need all the coin we can get.”

“But did you get as much as you were hoping for?” A few more beads escape as the elf passes his bundle over to the blonde tiefling, “I’m not sure what used hair beads go for on the market these days. Does being oily make them worth more, or less–”

The tiefling blacksmith, who had introduced himself as Dammon, attempts to hide his grimace behind a strained smile. As he takes the handful away from Astarion, the tiefling is quick to turn back around and deposit the beads into a large box at the side of his table; from the way he drops them with a shake of his hands and immediately moves to wipe his fingers on his leather apron, Shadowheart rather has the impression that Dammon is as disgusted as she is. From the way the beads ping and bounce around inside, she doubts they’ll ever be seen again.

“Don’t give me that. I did my part, and got us some money,” Astarion snarls as he turns to face her, hands on his hips; he looks more petulant than honestly angry, “Maybe if you sold that trinket of yours we’d be in better shape–”

Trinket? The realization strikes and chills her to her bones. He knows about the artifact.

It was only a matter of time, really. She’s tried to keep it hidden, tucked away carefully in the folds of her pack, but it's almost as though the damned thing has a will of its own; every chance it gets, it's rolling out of her bag and slipping from her fingers to bounce along the ground. She’d tried to study it, late at night when the others were asleep, and it was almost as though it recoiled from her, cutting her fingers with the sharp spikes protruding from the black iron.

This artifact is the thing that her team died for, and yet when she looks at it, it means nothing to her. Nothing more than the knowledge that its cost was paid for in the blood of those she trained with. The memory of who they were may be dim in her mind, but there was some degree of comradery all the same.

The artifact is her mission, and as long as she still has it, her team hasn’t failed. Not completely.

“You want me to sell my spell focus?” The lie is quick to form on Shadowheart’s tongue, and her years of training do not fail her; her voice does not waver, does not falter – she’s calm, steady, and a touch incredulous as she laughs, “Not a chance. My spell focus goes, and my powers go with it.” She pauses, feigning consideration, “...Wasn’t there another ring you found? Why haven’t you sold it?”

“It must have gotten lost.” Astarion sighs, tapping a foot impatiently as the tiefling counts up the money for the beads, “I swear I packed it up.” The frown on the magistrate’s face deepens two-fold when Dammon turns back around and presents him a measly five coins in return.

“Probably a hole in one of the packs – likely it wouldn’t have made much of a difference anyway.” she replies; in truth, they’re doing better than Shadowheart thought they would – between the pieces of armor, the various trinkets and gems, and the duplicate books they found, they’ve managed to net themselves around five hundred gold. It’s more than she expected and less than she hoped for; enough to get them a solid food supply, but it remains to be seen if they’re going to have enough to buy the potions and equipment they’ll need.

New armor would have been nice as well - after the fight at the temple, the wood of her shield has developed a split running from its center to one side of the rim, and while it holds steady for now, it's only a matter of time until it cracks in two. Likely, under the blade of one of these goblins they seem so destined to fight.

From around the corner, Gale comes back bearing a full pack in his arms, looking delighted; Shadowheart had left the purchasing of their food to him, since he’s become the de facto chef of the camp. And for good reason; both Lae’zel and herself had tried their hands at cooking, to varying levels of success – the gith seemed to only have a basic grasp of grilling food, and often managed to overcook even the most simple of meals, and Shadowheart seemed better at helping than leading the meal preparation; for all his other eccentricities, the wizard has a solid grasp on seasoning and flavors.

Even now as he brings his pack to them, Gale beams with joy at his findings, as a child would show off to a prideful parent, “Success! I’ve managed to secure us approximately two tendays worth of food.” The wizard places the pack down at his feet, straightening back up with a groan. From the hearty little thwump it made on impact, it seems like it’s a sizable haul indeed, “Now it must be said, we won’t be making any grand meals with this, but none of us should go hungry.”

She nods, “Sounds like that should do us until we get to Waukeen’s Rest at the very least – I don’t think it was that far away, was it?”

“Direct path, assuming all the roads and bridges are intact?” Gale crosses his arms, head tipped ever so slightly back as he considers the question, “If our map is to scale, I’d wager it would be a five day walk, give or take.”

Beside them, Astarion snorts disbelievingly, “Twenty days food for five days of travel? That’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?”

The wizard is quick to shake his head, “Wiser to take a bit of caution, don’t you think? Everything I purchased is well preserved – even if we reach Waukeen’s Rest early, it won’t go to waste. It will take us longer than that to get to Baldur’s Gate.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the blond tiefling states, his voice gentle and just this side of pleading, “but I wanted to thank you for what you did at the gate.”

Shadowheart sighs, “We didn’t do it for you.”

“I know, but still, I want you to know we appreciate it.” Dammon’s eyes, a glowing ring of gold bound by a shade of blue like a clear sky, are almost painfully earnest. He turns around and fetches an item off of his display, placing in her hands a folded parcel of metal and cloth, “Please, take this – I made it myself, with wooden tools, if you’ll believe it.”

Shadowheart unfolds the bundle with careful fingers, revealing a roughly crafted chainmail hauberk, complete with a muddy red tabard and matching quilted gambeson. The craftsmanship is solid, if utilitarian; each ring firmly riveted yet replete with many tiny dings that catch the light. The gambeson itself is rather thin, but the fabric is soft to the touch, and the stitches on both it and the tabard are crooked, yet hold strong when Shadowheart gives the material a tug.

“I saw that one of your members was in plainclothes,” Dammon explains, taking a step back as she admires his handiwork, “It’s a gift from all of us here, for what you have done. If the fit needs adjusting, bring it back and I can make the necessary changes and have it ready for you by the morning.”

If Lae’zel were here, she would probably have a list of complaints about the chainmail – all stemming from the fact it wasn’t githyanki made, probably – but as she’s run off to interrogate the local tieflings, the tirade will just have to wait. Maybe, with some luck, the gith will find the information she’s looking for, and set off to find that crèche all on her own.

As they thank Dammon and move towards the next stall, Shadowheart notices Gale leaning heavily on his staff; with each step he takes, the wizard limps awkwardly and obviously favors his good leg. While the color has mostly come back to his face, there is a sheen of sweat to his brow and a tightness to his eyes that speaks of pain.

“Your leg is bothering you,” she states, drawing the three of them to a stop. He has the grace to look away, but the hand he drops to massage the injured thigh is telling enough. After a long moment, he meets her eyes and nods.

“It is. A little. I’m considering finding Dirge and having a sit.”

“You might as well,” Shadowheart replies, “There’s still another stall or two to check; I’d like to look into getting us some potions, and maybe some camping supplies.” He pauses, considering, so she continues adamantly, “You’ll do us no good if you don’t let your leg heal. Go, we won’t be long.”

Gale hands her the remainder of his share of the gold before hobbling off in the direction they left their amnesiac, and Astarion sidles up next to her, his face stretched into a delighted smile; his eyes are trained on Lae’zel, stalking from one tiefling to the next. From here they can’t pick up what she says, but it's obvious from how she holds herself as she talks to each tiefling – arms crossed, staring down her nose – and the way her victims are trembling that she’s threatening them for information. Unsuccessfully from the looks of it; she wheels away from each tiefling with a snarl, stalking across to the next one unfortunate enough to catch her eye.

“Any chance we manage to lose her here?” Shadowheart asks, tipping her head closer to Astarion’s and keeping her voice low, “Maybe we can lure her into that shack and lock her in.” Idle fantasies at best, but it's somewhat cathartic to think of the gith trapped inside, snarling curses at an unmoving door.

Astarion, despite himself, snorts at the image, but he’s shaking his head regardless, “And have an angry gith stalk us through the woods? You and I both know that rotting hovel wouldn’t hold her long.” His red eyes are calm and steady as they continue walking towards the next stall, “Besides, I’d prefer we have more swords on our side than less.”

He’s right, of course – Lae’zel is indeed a competent fighter, but that thought doesn’t do much to cull the irritation Shadowheart feels at the sight of her, “She’s wasting our time – even if she does manage to find this ‘Zorru’, going to a gith crèche is a terrible idea.”

“One more in a sea of them then,” Astarion replies, his voice falsely jovial, “Look, I’ve got as much desire to go visit the gith as any sane person, but if our options here don’t pan out, do you have a better plan?”

She doesn’t – that’s the problem. They do need to speak to this Nettie, but the way Zevlor spoke of her did not inspire much faith; trusting an inexperienced healer with a problem so delicate would be no better than taking Gale up on his suggestion of knitting needles. But, failing her, what other option did they have?

They move on to the next stall, run by a halfling druid with a solemn, reserved face, and she sighs, lost in thought. The druid leader must be a healer, if Nettie took over the role in their absence, but are they even still alive? Everywhere they go in this grove, there’s another sad story about exile and dangers on the roads and pleas for help, almost as though someone somewhere is trying to tell her that it's up to them to fix it. Is infiltrating a nest of goblins any wiser than paying a githyanki crèche a visit?

The artifact weighs heavily in both her bag and in her mind – Shadowheart remembers the efforts her team made to infiltrate a gith stronghold, and the sacrifices it took for her alone to escape it again.

 

-x-

 

Dirge follows the group cautiously as they travel up a steep set of stone stairs towards the higher level of the cave, but thankfully the headache does not flare; he’s not sure whether it was the rest or food that helped to subdue the pain, but at this point he doesn’t much care – he’s thankful for a bit of respite. The heavy weight of the armor Sour has given him is an unfamiliar burden across the width of his shoulders, but the chainmail is flexible and doesn’t impede his movement.

If anything, Gale seems to be the one suffering most from the climb; he’s not hobbling as badly as earlier, but his movements are slow and stiff. Astarion, stuck behind the wizard on the narrow path, makes a production of rolling his eyes and sighing loudly, but Sour silences him with a stern glance from where she waits at the top of the stairs.

Lae’zel is nowhere to be seen; still on her hunt for this ‘Zorru’, apparently.

At the top they reach a flat plateau that must receive sun for at least a portion of the day; right now it’s shaded by the stone roof above, but grass grows thick along the edges of the path and there are even ferns and flowers growing, as well as one gnarled tree reaching up from a crack between two boulders. Three thick stone pillars stand proud alongside the cliff’s edge, as intricately carved as the rest of the stonework here, and just as old - bright green ivy claws up their lengths, and in the crevices along the base, moss grows in abundance.

Near the ledge a crude wooden fence has been constructed, and a tiefling in a bright blue tunic complains loudly while tending to a small group of oxen. The pending eviction must be weighing heavily on him; Dirge can see how he trembles from here as he pitches more hay into an already tall pile, and the animals themselves watch the man with a vague sort of interest as they lazily chew their cud.

Closer yet a wooden platform seems to have been turned into a small training ground, and a rough one at that; the floor planks are wildly uneven and in spots outright trip hazards, and a few lengths of rope tied from pole to pole are all that protect from a potentially unpleasant fall onto Auntie Ethel’s workstation meters below.

Here, two adults watch over a group of three tiefling children who hack and scratch at the training dummies like wild little beasts – two of them repeatedly rush in to slice at the wood performatively with their claws, while the third seems to prefer biting at his dummy’s waist. One of the adults, a dark-skinned human, stands behind them, encouraging their useless flailing – the second, a tiefling in simple blue and brown robes, crosses his arms and smiles appraisingly at the uncoordinated brats.

The human looks up to see them and waves, gesturing for their group to come closer. Dirge, admittedly curious, does just that – walking past the training dummies as he moves; they’re as crude as the rest of the set up, made of wooden poles bound upright with an additional beam across each of their ‘shoulders’ for arms. Two have cracked wagon wheels for chests, but all three have a cloth sack tied about their middles as a stomach as well as a proper metal helmet atop their heads, complete with a curtain of straw for hair.

As he walks by, Dirge reaches out one hand and runs it along the cool metal of a helmet, watching as straw comes loose and flutters gently to the ground. The helmet itself is old, but of good craftsmanship – deep gouges rend the metal by the top of the visor and down one cheek, and on the top left of the crown there is a particularly large dent. The hit was strong enough to crumple both the metal and likely the bone beneath; shattering the skull within. A killing blow.

The child closest to him, a small creature with deep orange-red skin and a cool grey shirt and cap, watches warily as Dirge approaches. Worrying at a lip with small fangs, they look torn between cowering and bolting, little fire-red eyes wide with a look that sounds like fear.

Beside him, Gale comes to a stop, lighting up at the sight of the human, “You, I remember you. The warlock from the gate?”

The human steps closer, hands outstretched welcomingly; his face – marred with rows of scars from the left ear down to his chin, and from his right eye down around his jaw all the way to his nape – splits into a wide, earnest grin, “Aye, that I am.” The warlock’s gaze is as serious as his eyes, one a deep rich brown, the other a pale grey (stone, fake), turn to take in Gale properly, noticeably lingering on the deep bloodstain soiling the wizard’s robes, “I’m glad to see you’ve recovered from your injuries; a goblin’s arrow is a cruel weapon, and there are few who would dare ambush a goblin raiding party, especially for strangers. I’m in your debt.”

Shadowheart crosses her arms, making no effort to hide the way she too examines this stranger. She looks unimpressed, but perhaps mindly curious. One dark brow lifts ever so slightly as she cocks her head, “...Consider it an act of mutual interest; we’re in need of a healer.”

Something flickers in the warlock’s real eye, almost a hint of suspicion that smoothes too swiftly back to a more cordial gleam, “Then you’ll be looking for Nettie, further down in the grove.” He gestures with a sweep of his hand toward the path ahead, a winding slope that disappears around a bend, “Ever since their leader, the Archdruid Halsin, left with a group of mercenaries a few days ago, she’s been left in charge of tending to the sick and wounded.”

Who is this warlock? He’s certainly not one of those mercenaries – where their equipment was an awkward mess of mismatched pieces, this man is dressed in a fine set of padded armor; a the thick gambeson in stripes of black and red trimmed with leather that’s aged but intricately cared for. And while he helps them train their children, the warlock is clearly not with the tiefling refugees either. Where they wring their hands over the goblin threat, this human remains calm and steady. Prepared. Well experienced too, judging from his grip on his rapier.

A traveling adventurer, perhaps?

Beside Dirge, the little brat is shaking so hard that their entirely real shortsword slips from trembling fingers, hitting the ground with a gentle thud. The child flinches wildly, tiny hands flying up to cover their face with but a single glowing eye peeking out from between their fingers.

The ineptitude rankles him somehow, a flash fire of fury so strange it borders on anxiety. Impulsively, he demands of the warlock, “Why are you wasting your time?”

Mismatched eyes dart to meet his, confused and a touch affronted, “Pardon?”

“The children,” Dirge gestures harshly towards the trembling tiefling brat, “why sink time into training the whelps? They’re useless.”

The child sobs, eyes welling with tears as they run – they’re intercepted swiftly by the adult tiefling who pulls them close, crouching down with a hand pressed tight against the back of their cap. Whatever soothing nothings the man whispers to the child do not quell the burning ire of his eyes, lips tighten into a snarl as he rests his chin protectively atop the whelp’s head.

In fact, they’re all looking at Dirge strangely; the other children have pulled back, swords held limply in their clawed hands like forgotten toys, their expressions despondent. The warlock’s glare is stern, his face cold as if cut from marble – the curl of his lip promises a few choice words, were it not for their audience. From the other side of the training area, a lower section, a second adult tiefling head pops up over the ledge; light orange skin, blond hair, and glowing lemon yellow eyes as wide as saucers.

Gale looks an odd mixture of shocked and reproachful, his eyes boring a hole into Dirge’s side, radiating disappointment. Shadowheart flits a nervous look at him, but says nothing as she crosses her arms defensively and injects a bit of steel into her spine.

Behind him, Astarion desperately tries to stifle his laughter, the sound coming out instead as a series of wheezing giggles.

“They’re not useless,” the warlock snaps in a low tone; the human shutters his face in an attempt to contain his expression, forcing a more affable smile upon his lips before turning towards the children and loudly exclaiming, “They’re all heroes, every one of them.” This seems to do little for the kids, who look nervously amongst one another before sidling closer to the two other adults. As the human turns back towards Dirge, his face sours as though he’s bitten straight into a lemon, “How dare you speak of them that way?” he demands, his voice low and threatening.

It’s Gale, of course, who steps forward, kind hearted creature that he is, hands raised placatingly, “Excuse our friend, he’s a bit confused–”

“Honestly, sometimes I wonder if he has the most sense among you lot,” Astarion mutters through his snickering.

“–I am.” Dirge replies, “I don’t understand why you would spend the time training them if you plan on sacrificing them to the goblins.”

“Sacrificing them?” The warlock’s gaze softens, eyebrows knitting in confusion, “It would be a cold day in Avernus before I would ever–”

“You’re not leaving them behind to cover your escape?” Dirge pauses, frowning, “Why else would you give them swords?”

The warlock’s expression gentles a little, and his eye glints with a curious gleam, “None of the people here would ever do such a thing.” As the indignation seeps out of the human’s form, his voice swells with a note of pride, “These children are their future. We give them the swords and train them in the hopes that when the time comes, if something does go wrong, they stand a fighting chance.”

A fighting chance? Dirge turns once more to study the children – three small creatures, only a scant bit taller than the goblins they’d face. The one with the cap still hides in the robes of the adult tiefling, small hands clenching the fabric in tight fists, and the other two watch Dirge warily by their training dummies; one, with a roiling mass of brown curls and pale purple skin, swings his arms carelessly despite the sharp blade in his hands; the third stands shirtless with his arms crossed, a dark strip of cloth wrapped over one eye, chest puffed out as if ready to take on the world.

Unarmored and clumsy with their swords, they simply are too small, too weak, and too inexperienced. If goblins found them, it would be but a moment’s work to slice them from groin to gullet – these children would be no match for trained fighters of any size.

Somewhere, deep down, there’s this terrible understanding that he knows this not from speculation but experience.

Sighing, the remaining tension drains from the warlock’s shoulders, and those mismatched eyes meet his again with a hint of contrition, “...Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.” The human smiles gently and steps forward, one hand extended, “My name is Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers, at your service–”

‘Wyll’s’ smile tips then falls away entirely as the reality around them suddenly splits, rippling and peeling away like the petals of a great flower in bloom. Images flash before Dirge’s eyes, too quick to comprehend – a cold, dark night around a roaring campfire, the long stretch of road beneath arching boughs of wizened trees, and then hell. In this vision, he is not himself, he is the Blade of Frontiers, racing through the wastes of the Hells, of Avernus. Just ahead (always just one step away, pronged crimson tail disappearing into the smoke before him) a diabolical figure – deep red skin, single curled obsidian horn – blazes with a song of fury, with an internal flame as hot as the lakes of lava that bubble and roil around them. Clawed hands raise a bloodied greataxe high–

The sound of a strangled voice pulls Dirge back from the vision, and for a moment he is himself again, “Hell’s great fires – you were on the ship.”

The warlock sways in front of him, eyes clenched shut and hand held tight in a gnarled fist against his forehead, his pose almost mirroring Dirge’s perfectly. Understanding floods through him like the surge of a tidal wave; he was in the warlock’s mind, seeing his memories, hearing his thoughts. He can still sense it; the man’s mind is open at the edge of his fingertips like a book, and Dirge reaches out, forcing his way back in–

The fiend again; Dirge feels the Blade’s thoughts as though they were his own. The warlock’s rancor is like a bitter lament, fueled with an iron determination – she is an infernal wardevil, a threat to the living. Evil incarnate. Where she walks, the ground bleeds, and the innocent perish.

Again, the warlock’s voice drags him free of the illusion, and Dirge reemerges to see Wyll shaking his head, face pained, “I see these worms have given us…gifts. I would… appreciate it if you keep your mind to yourself.”

So there was a connection – did it go both ways? Did Wyll see into his mind and find it as hollow as it feels?

“I… saw into your mind,” Dirge states, dumbly, “How?”

“The tadpoles seem to greet one another when they first meet.” Despite answering him, Shadowheart’s eyes remain on the warlock, her gaze cold and calculating, “...Lae’zel even spoke to us through them, when she was imprisoned, remember?”

Imprisoned? Dirge racks his memory; he remembers seeing the gith on the ship of flesh, around a dark campfire, under a thick canopy of trees, and a duel in the depths of a tomb… But nothing of Spots being imprisoned.

His silence must give his answer, as Shadowheart presses on, “I see the nautiloid picked you up in the Hells. You were chasing someone?”

“Shit – you saw her: advocatus diaboli.” A long, slow breath slips from the warlock’s nose, his eyes shuttering, “...I tracked her through Avernus to the mind flayer ship, but the damned illithids infected me before I could end her.”

Advocatus diaboli – a devil’s advocate. Even his broken brain can figure that out. Dirge crosses his arms and considers the visions that still dance in the corners of his eyes – just echoes of what he had experienced, but the imagery is potent. If the vision could be trusted, the emotions this Blade of Frontiers felt were fervent; clearly, the warlock believed that chasing down this devil was of the utmost importance, even over the concernworryfear of the thing squirming behind his eye.

Gale moves a step closer, leaning on his staff a little less than before, “You also have a mind flayer tadpole in your head. Doesn’t that worry you?”

Wyll chuckles, a solemn sound, “I’d be a fool if it didn’t. I know the stories – doomed to shed my skin, become illithid.” He hazards a quick glance over his shoulder towards their tiefling crowd, and with a quick wave of his hand, Wyll gestures for them to follow him further down the path, where curious ears are less likely to overhear, “It’s a terrible fate, and there’s no coming back from it. But I haven’t sprouted any tentacles – at least not yet, thank Balduran. Good luck, perhaps, but sooner or later, it’s bound to run out.”

The path winds slowly downward into a gentle slope, leading deeper into the grove. The further they go, the louder the enigmatic chanting that drifts on the breeze, but a nearby waterfall roars almost loud enough to drown out even that. It’s unlikely that anyone would be able to overhear them here, not that there is much traffic this far down – near the edge of the cliff face a pair of adult tieflings fret by an old wagon; one wrings her hands as she paces back and forth and hastily loads crates on to the back of the cart, while the other rests atop the seat, his head hung low, his fingers raking through the short strands of his hair.

The warlock’s good eye is crestfallen as he watches the anguish radiating from the pair, but as Wyll turns back to face Dirge, there is a grim determination in the set of his face, “But, as you saw, I am… in pursuit of Karlach, an archdevil’s soldier. I swore on my good eye I’d be the one to kill her.” In the shadows of the cave, the harsh lines of his scars appear all the more prominent. A peculiar pattern; two sets of three slashes, like ragged claws, raking down his left cheek from his ear, across his chin and up the length of his right cheek in haggard strokes. One edge of the scar reaches all the way up to his stone eye; the reason he lost it, perhaps? “She’s out there now, preying on the innocent. If left to her own devices, she’ll leave nothing behind but a trail of corpses.”

“You’re planning on pursuing this devil, and then having your parasite removed?” Gale’s eyebrows raise dramatically, his voice incredulous, “A noble goal, perhaps, but the tadpole will get you first.”

“Be that as it may, I cannot just abandon these people.”

A self-righteous sentiment, and terribly short sighted. Dirge cannot help but snort derisively, “Yet you’re here, in the grove, training children. Surely you could spare some time to go see this Nettie? If you could get the parasite removed, you could hunt your devil freely.”

Wyll’s expression tightens, “...In truth, I was hoping to run into your party. The druids are reluctant to let any outsiders down into their inner circle; however, I was hoping the battle at the gate would change their minds.” He looks amongst their group, curiously, “...Didn’t you have one more to your number?”

Shadowheart’s lips twist into a slow, pleased smile, “We had a githyanki, but thankfully, she’s off terrorizing the local populace.”

The warlock does not seem much comforted by the thought, “Let us search for a cure; perhaps she’ll return before causing too much havoc.”

As they move further down the path and draw closer to the waterfall, Dirge sees yet another area seemingly relegated to the children. Ahead, two of them play at running a shop atop some old crates, while nearby a third tiefling sits, pressed tight against the stone wall. Dressed in a ragged tunic made of poorly tanned buckskin and with a tight nest of black curls on his head that’s just shy of becoming a matted mess, the child seems despondent – pale orange eyes stare lifelessly into the distance, unseeing.

Orphan, Dirge realizes belatedly. Grieving.

The child does not so much as look up as they pass by, their tail pressed stiff against their leg, as if seeking comfort.

“Do you really think this Nettie can help us?” So close to the roar of the waterfall, Shadowheart’s voice is almost lost beneath the noise.

The Blade of Frontiers, at the lead, hums thoughtfully, “...Perhaps, perhaps not. But until their leader Halsin returns, we are short on options.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?” Dirge asks, mindful of his steps – here, the spray from the waterfall has turned the dirt of the path to a soft mud that gives easily beneath the feet. A deep set of wagon tracks weaves drunkenly through the mud, deep gouges in the earth where it inevitably got stuck and had to be hauled out of the mire, likely by those oxen atop the hill.

“I can only hope that he is,” Wyll replies, though his voice sounds less than confident, “And that he returns soon. These people do not deserve to be expelled like this.”

“The druids, from all accounts, seem quite adamant,” Gale’s face is pinched as he speaks, but whether that’s from the pain of his wound, or the plight of these tieflings, Dirge isn’t sure.

“Indeed,” the Blade nods, “but I’m hoping that if I can talk to their second in command, Kagha, I could convince her otherwise.”

A new sound rises above even the din of the water; voices, shouting. It’s difficult to make out any words over the noise, but there’s a sense of panic and anger in the air. At the bottom of a set of aged, mossy stairs, a group of people has gathered beneath a massive stone gate. On one side, a half a dozen tieflings in plain clothes snarl and shake their fists in rage above their heads; on the other, three leather-clad figures with intricate antler headdresses stand posed, weapons in hand.

Noticeably, none of the armed figures are tieflings.

“It seems word of the eviction has spread already.” Wyll remarks, already breaking into a run. Shadowheart is close behind him, her shield and mace already drawn.

Dirge is about to follow when one of the children waves him over. Inquisitively, he looks from the whelp, down to the bottom of the stairs, and back again. The sight of fresh weaponry seems to have startled both sides to a standstill, and tempers are dying even as faces remain grim. Beside him, Gale warily eyes the descent, clinging tightly to his staff-turned-walking-cane. At the rear, Astarion hangs back and makes no sign of rushing to join the others. His arms are crossed, and he eyes the scene warily.

The child waves again, more wildly this time, calling him over.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and Dirge walks over to the makeshift shop.

A deep orange-red tiefling child with matted dusky lavender hair stands beside a table made of a board laid atop three stacks of lopsided crates. There’s not much of note on display – an old broken lantern, a cracked clay pot, an impressively large conical shell, a rusted pair of tongs, and a rotted fish – but the child beams with pride, the bright white of his teeth almost gleaming in the shadows as he again calls them closer.

Just down the slope and near the water’s edge, another face peeks out from behind a stack of crates – the second child, with baleful red eyes and a face as pale as a ghost.

“Whoa,” The boy remarks as Dirge draws near, staring up at him with a look of childlike wonder, “Hey. Can’t say I’ve ever seen someone like you before.”

Behind him, Astarion sneers, “Wonderful, more children.”

With a flourish, the tiefling draws a ring out of his pocket, displaying his treasure proudly, “Go on, take this ring. It’s magic.” He passes it over to Dirge. It seems so small in his massive hand as he holds it aloft between his forefinger and thumb, staring intently at it – sure enough there seems to be a line of marks etched into the inside of the silver band – and the child grins, “Call it: heads or tails?”

Idly, Dirge spins the ring between his fingers as he looks back to the child, “...Tails.”

The boy makes a show of pulling a single gold coin piece out of his pocket, and flicking it high into the air. With impressive dexterity, the child reaches out and grabs it as it falls, slapping one hand on top of the other dramatically. Sure enough, the revealed coin faces tail side up, and the child beams, “Tails it is! See, that’s the kind of luck you can expect from one of my lucky rings!”

The ring feels too light to be real silver. Probably nickel. Deftly, Dirge flips the ring towards Gale, who catches it with a bit of awkward fumbling.

“Fifty-fifty odds at best,” he explains as the boy’s look slides to something a bit more wondering, a bit more nervous, “And there are many ways to cheat that. What’s your opinion, Gale?”

The wizard frowns, shaking his head as he studies the ring closely, “This is no magic ring. The runes are gibberish.”

At the accusation, the child flinches, eyeing both the top and the bottom path as though they’ll be overheard, “Hey, not so loud!” After a moment, the boy deflates with a sigh, shoulders hanging low; he becomes the perfect image of dejection, “...You caught me, alright? They’re… They’re not magic rings. I’m just… trying to earn money for my family.” The boy’s voice catches, just a little, and one small hand reaches up to rub at a teary eye.

He says nothing as the child meets his eyes again, looking so terribly ashamed of his actions, “My father left, and my mother… She's so sick. This is all that I have, saer. This is the only way I can try to support her!”

Something about this is tickling the back of Dirge’s brain – something familiar. He’s seen this before, even if he can’t quite recall... It’s on the tip of his tongue. “This sounds like a scam.”

The embarrassment, the shame, drops off the tiefling’s face in a smooth motion as if wiped away by a cloth. In its place is a hesitant confusion that feels so false, “I, uh, I don’t know what you mean–”

“War widow scam.”

“What?” The child frowns, eyes narrowing incredulously, “The hell it is! You can’t do that one with rings, it has to be bracelets because–”

Dirge says nothing, instead slowly crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh. Damn.” The tiefling’s face crumples with his mistake.

“No, please. Go on.”

After a long pause, the child deflates again and smiles at Dirge – more authentically this time; the knowing look of someone who’s been caught in the act, “Alright, alright, can’t pull one over on you. Last chance, you want to look at my stuff or not?”

There’s damn all on the table that inspires any interest, but if nothing else the child has a gumption that’s sort of enviable – a far cry from the other whelps they’ve seen running around. Humoring the boy, Dirge steps closer, leaning over to examine the crate that the child gestures to. It’s of better quality than the trash on the table shop, but not much more than he expected - a few small pieces of fruit and vegetables, a chipped dagger, a few threadbare bits of clothing, and a couple of cracked plates.

Suddenly : “Just what in the Hells do you think you are doing?!”

Astarion’s voice – Dirge spins around to see that other tiefling child hand deep in Gale’s money purse. Under the attention, her face drains of color, and with a yelp she manages to drop to her knees just as Astarion lunges for her. He’s not so easily thwarted, but she slides in the slippery mud and dodges him yet again, hitting her feet in a run, sobbing, dashing towards the waterfall–

She doesn’t make it. With a swift step forward Dirge has the back of her shirt clenched tight in his fist, and she weighs nothing as he hauls her up, up until her face is level with his. He’s shifted his hand to hold her by the front of her collar now, and she fights in his grip, kicking and crying and clawing at his hands, desperate to escape. Tears stream from her eyes, as she begs, pleads for him to let her go.

The world around him is oddly still, oddly quiet. He’s seen this before, but from… from the other end? It’s a blurry mass of shifting images, but for the moment nothing else exists beyond him, and this fragile creature in his grasp.

It would be so easy to shift his grip again, until his fingers wrap tight around her skinny little throat.

He remembers the goblin, from just that morning. The look of surprise on her face as he leapt up into the air, and grabbed her neck with his hands – hadn’t even needed to choke the life out of that one. Had pulled her down with him, to the ground. Held her down, felt the vertebrae between his fingers. Such shockingly weak bone – one good wrench of his arms was all it took to break it, the snap sounding like the splintering of an old gnarled branch.

His hands… are so large. Larger than her whole face – it would take nothing to smother this child, wrap his other hand tight over her nose and mouth, and hold it steady until she stops breathing.

A phantom sensation, like, like – hands with skin cool and smooth like scales wrap lovingly around his throat. Remember what happens when you make a mistake. When you get caught. The most cruel lesson taught is the lesson of failure. Would they have spared you, small and simpering like a wounded beast?

His head is hazy, and… and it feels like… like someone else’s arms are overlapping his, pushing down, down into the skin. Urging him forward into dark, dark acts. Every muscle in his body is rigid as he wars against himself and this need to hurt.

The little girl in his hands stares wide-eyed, tears streaming down her face. Her skin is ashen pale, broken only by pink splotches in her cheeks and her red rimmed eyes. Tiny hands rest atop his, sharp claws biting into his skin as she tries desperately to wrest herself free.

His teeth hurt from how hard he’s clenching them.

It’s an immense physical effort to lower the girl down, to the ground. To loosen his grip, and let her go – his hand spasms from how tight the muscles were locked – it wants to grab her again. It takes every fiber in his being to not lunge forward at her, and Dirge breathes a shaky breath from the bottom of his lungs as she stumbles back, away from him. To safety. One step. Two.

The boy shopkeep is staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.

It takes three attempts to remember words, to get his mouth to cooperate – he has to wet his lips to let the sound out, “...I-if you are going to be a thief, you best not get caught.”

The tiefling girl paws at her eyes with shaking fingers, her breath hiccuping in her throat as she stares at him warily. Trembling wildly, she turns to the other child and sobs, “I can’t do this any more, Mattis!” She dashes past her partner in crime, past the table and the crates, all the way down to a pile of rock by the waterfall, from where she quickly disappears from sight.

His legs quiver with the need to give chase. Distantly, Dirge can still hear the gentle sound of her cries echoing off the walls around them.

Around him, Gale and Astarion step closer, and the other child – ‘Mattis’ – shoots them a worried look, before rushing off to presumably comfort his partner.

“Impressive,” Astarion mutters beside him, sounding a touch awed, “Honestly, I thought you were about to take that child’s head.”

Dirge thought the same.

Gale’s voice is harrowed, anxiety pulling harshly at the lines of his face, “I’m glad you spared them, but did you have to traumatize the poor thing?”

That sickly thing still pulses, still rages in Dirge’s veins. It’s furious at being denied, thrashing – he tries to hide the tremor in his limbs, crossing his arms before his chest, “Good. Maybe they’ll not be so quick to do it again.” His headache slinks back into his skull, the pulsing rhythmic stabbing almost like a punishment, a lesson.

This sickness, this rot within him writhes like a beast, growling and snarling. Demanding. He needs to get it under control. He needs a distraction.

He gets what he wants when a sudden, animalistic roar draws their attention away, back to the bottom of the stairs; one of the druids has been replaced with the shape of a large, ferocious bear, snapping and snarling at both Wyll and Sour. Gale and Astarion are quick to find their feet and race on down to the action, and Dirge follows a moment later, the adrenaline lancing through his veins, the small child soon forgotten behind other more immediate matters.

 

-x-

 

As the last golden rays of sunset slip languidly beyond the horizon, Wyll finds himself confronted with something he believed long lost – good company around a warm campfire. In his youth, he had the opportunity to travel in the presence of his father’s men on multiple occasions; however, the Fist rarely traveled far beyond the edges of the outermost districts of Baldur’s Gate without good reason, such as escorting envoys on important diplomatic missions. Hardly an excursion that would allow for the young son of the Grand Duke to tag along, but there are fond memories of smiling faces around a crackling flame as they hunted errant vagabonds or troublesome creatures instead.

These faces may not be as friendly as those Fists he had grown up with, so long ago, but for a group of apparent strangers, the bonds growing between them are obvious even to an outsider such as himself. They crowd close and talk freely amongst one another as the tantalizing smells of the stew waft welcomingly from the pot, relaxed in the way that only comes when you begin to trust those around you.

Their unusual choice of campsite doesn’t seem to concern any of them either – after meeting with the druids, they had returned to the outer reaches of the grove and found Zevlor’s makeshift office, deep in a cave behind a runed door. From there, they had followed a ladder up to a hidden hatch that led to a natural hollow in the tall stone cliffs that surrounded the grove – not an overly large area, but the group made no complaints about having to set their tents so close together.

Several of them had needed help setting up their tents, and Wyll had leant a helping hand as best he could, passing on his knowledge from years on the road. In exchange, they offered him a place at their fire and a portion of their food, and now he sits among their number, basking in the companionship and thieving away these moments of company for the colder, quieter days that surely wait ahead.

Gale, the wizard, toils over the cooking pot with a tender smile, dishing out large bowls to each member of the group. He clearly takes great pride in the task, as his eyes light up with each appreciative noise. He definitely has a talent for the craft to which Wyll can attest – many years spent on the road means he’s made his own fair share of soups and stews, but Wyll’s unsure if he’s tasted anything this good in years. Simple fare with simple ingredients, but there’s a sense of patience and knowing that’s gone into the making that handsomely flavors every bite.

To Gale’s immediate right sits the gith of which Wyll was warned; ‘Lae’zel’, if he’s not mistaken. When she had first appeared at the edges of the camp just before the sun had begun to set, she looked every part of the proud, cold, and callous stereotype of which her people were known for, trudging up the steep cliffside towards the glow of the fire with her face set into a disapproving scowl, her blade thankfully unsullied by any blood or viscera despite the warnings of the cleric earlier. Now, that harsh edge has faded, if just a little – there’s still a seriousness to her eyes, but she sits close to the half-drow beside her, insisting that he finish his meal with something dangerously close to concern in her tone.

Shadowheart, the cleric of the group, sits to Gale’s left, leaning into the heat of the fire with a cup of wine in hand and a bowl of stew resting on one thigh. The pinched expression she carried through the grove earlier in the day made no reappearance now; instead, her eyes have softened and her lips twist into a half smirk as she joins in the easy banter. The relaxed way she holds herself and enjoys the company around her goes against everything he knows of Sharrans (which, admittedly, is relatively little), but there’s no mistaking the symbol on her armor or the emblem on her circlet, and she wears both items with far too much familiarity for them to be recent acquisitions.

Curious to see someone such as herself working so closely with people not of her own ilk, but perhaps that was the doing of the tadpoles; dire circumstances could make allies of even the most unlikely strangers.

Despite his duplicitous charm and clever mouth, it seems that Astarion, the pale elf magistrate, is the most reclusive of the group. He’s perched himself upon a rock at the base of the rickety remains of an old watchtower, near the walls of their hideaway, half hidden in the shadows of the wooden pillar he’s leaning against. With his own bowl of food resting forgotten in his lap, the elf stares out into the darkness beyond the edges of the wall with unblinking eyes. There’s a hint of wonder to his gaze as he stares skyward, one heel tucked beneath him and the other bouncing childishly against his rocky perch.

Astarion’s absence from the campfire leaves a space atop one of the logs they dragged close, and, feeling like an imposter, Wyll steels his nerves and sits next to the cleric. Within a moment, Gale’s ladled full another serving, and he hands it to Shadowheart, who puts her wine down for but a moment to pass it over to him. The clay is warm in his hands, a comforting boon to ward away the slight chill of the early spring night.

The stew is aromatic, and delicious – a far cry from the hardtack he had been living on for the last few months. It takes him but a few moments to finish his bowl entirely, and he hands it back to the wizard with a smile.

“Thank you Gale, that was wonderful.”

Gale inclines his head and chuckles lightly, “It is my pleasure – it’s rare that I have a chance to cook for anyone, well,” he pauses, halfway through preparing another bowl, “it was rare, before our little misadventure here.”

Wyll accepts the second bowl as readily as the first, but takes his time to savor it now that his hunger does not bite so fiercely.

Shadowheart’s cheeks pinken as she finishes her wine, the delicate flush bridging over her sparse freckles and faint scars, and she leans closer, studying him with her sharp, hazel-green eyes, “So, you are truly the famous ‘Blade of Frontiers’ then?” Wyll is unsure if she sees what she’s looking for, but after a moment Shadowheart pulls back, and pours herself another cup, “Clever, this hero act you’ve got going.”

He smiles, “‘Hero’, ‘Blade’ – these are names strangers gave me. My friends call me ‘Wyll’.”

“Excellent,” she smirks, her eyes sly, “If we ever become friends, I’ll know what to call you.”

From the edges of the shadows, Wyll can hear Astarion’s snort of laughter. He surprises himself as well, chuckling at her sharp wit.

The heat of the fire licks at his skin, no match for the warmth he feels within, and for a long moment Wyll lets himself just enjoy. The night air is crisp but not unpleasant, and their space here is well sheltered from the moderate breeze blowing over the canopy of the forest, the ancient stone cliffs letting in only the occasional gust, easily thwarted by the thick fabric of the tents.

On one side of the cliffs, the world falls away into the deep shadows of the night, silhouetted by the pale gleam of the moonlight and the sea of stars in the sky; on the other, the rocky crags of the grove glow with the homely flicker of the countless torches – from here, Wyll can see the occasional pass of one of the tiefling guards. Few in number they may be, but diligently through the night they wander the paths, watching over their sleeping kin. Tonight, likely, there will be little rest for the refugees – the word of Kagha’s decree will spread, and panic will flow in its wake.

Eventually his second helping is finished, and Wyll sets the bowl aside, once more taking in his fellow infected – several of them seem to be preparing to sleep, and they’re currently discussing who gets to take first watch. Wyll is about to offer his services here as well, feeling it only fair considering he’s eaten their food and drank in their company, but Astarion is firm that he himself goes first – it’s only sensible, the magistrate argues, as elves require less rest.

Wyll can’t dispute that, but the guilt still weighs on him – surely he can take a shift after that?

The only one who doesn’t offer, is the half-drow, Dirge; in fact, the man has been absolutely silent since they left the presence of the druids. Dirge stares absently into the fire, his second bowl of stew held thoughtlessly in one hand (only half eaten, despite the urgings of the githyanki), his other pressed tight against his brow as if nursing a pain.

“What about yourself?” Wyll asks the half-drow, “...Dirge, was it?”

Coal dark eyes flick up to meet his over the campfire, and pale grey lips twitch, but do not reply. When the silence stretches on too long, Wyll tries again.

“Did the nautiloid pick you up in Baldur’s Gate as well?”

At last, it’s Shadowheart who replies, slowly releasing a breath out her nose, “He can’t answer you.”

“Can’t?” Surprised, Wyll looks back to the half-drow; his gaze is inquisitive and he’s surely aware, yet indeed he does not respond, “He was speaking earlier – what ails him?”

“Head trauma, most likely,” Gale replies, his voice somber, his eyes lowered as he works on cleaning up, “We’re… not sure what caused it, but his symptoms are worse in the evenings.”

Wyll’s father was quick to teach him as a child that it was impolite to speak of others in front of them, but it seems there’s no other choice if the man cannot currently speak for himself, “...Does he not know what happened? Could he not tell you in the daytime when he’s more… able?”

Distantly, Wyll remembers Fist Saren – a man who had worked for his father when Wyll himself was yet a boy. He bore a hammer blow to the head while taking some Guild members into custody, and had never been the same again. Wyll wasn’t there for the injury, but in the months following Saren had tried to return to work, but was unable – the man slurred his words, suffered from intense headaches, and struggled to concentrate. When frustrated, he grew aggressive – a trait that seemed so out of character for the man he knew Saren to be. Wyll did not see him much after that, but remembered being disappointed when his father had to fire the man.

“Amnesia,” Shadowheart explains, “not uncommon with head wounds.”

On the other side of the fire, Dirge’s lips twitch once, twice, as though he wants to speak, but he seems unable to produce any sounds. After a long moment, his eyes drift back down to the fire, defeated.

Wyll feels a pang of sympathy for this man, despite the irritation he felt at their initial meeting; he knows all too well what it's like for others to see you, to see your flaws, and find you wanting, “...It can’t be healed?”

Shadowheart shakes her head as she stands up, brushing the dust off of her legs, “Brain tissue is delicate, and healing it is currently beyond my capabilities. Even before the tadpole, I would have preferred to leave such matters to someone more experienced than myself.”

The sour note more or less ends their conversation, and Wyll watches as all but Astarion move to clean up, before heading to their respective tents. As Gale walks away from the campfire, he escorts Dirge as though the man were an invalid, the wizard’s kind brown eyes subdued as he helps the half-drow to his tent. Dirge himself says nothing as he is half led, his expression hollow and unseeing.

It’s a sad sight, and one that hits a little too close to home. Wyll still can’t help but reminded of Saren, though he was an older human man, short but stocky with a large, barreled chest; the other Fists always joked that Saren must have been born half-dwarf on his father’s side, but Saren always took the humor well, joining in more often than not. When Wyll’s father had been too busy with meetings and appearances, it had been Saren who would spend time with him, taking him aside and entertaining him with stories of adventures in bygone days, of the feats of greater men in times long past.

Admittedly, when Wyll first spoke with the half-drow, the allegations left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach – how could anyone think that he was training those children to die? But, if Dirge indeed had suffered similar to Saren, that could account for some of the quirks in his behavior; when they went to speak with Kagha, it was clear that the half-drow was suffering from head pain, his hand clutched tight to his forehead much as it had been around the campfire; and when the group finally managed to meet Nettie, he had stumbled over his words as though his tongue were too thick in his mouth. Thinking back, Dirge had seemed almost confused, repeating questions over and over numbly, as though he himself had forgotten asking them.

But there was a spark of something else, something unusual – despite the pain and confusion in the man’s eyes, Wyll had seen something… strange. Almost malicious – when they convinced Kagha to let the child Arabella go, there was something in the half-drow’s eyes that was more akin to a wild beast, like he was tensed and ready to strike. Just like the viper – Wyll had half expected Dirge to do something sudden, something catastrophic, and thankfully, he had been wrong. They managed to escort Arabella out safely, and had denied Kagha’s requests that they be the ones to force the tieflings out. When they reached Nettie within the inner sanctum, Dirge was the one to tell her about their parasites and their ability to connect their minds (even though he seemed to get stuck on the concept of the poison; he held the vial in one hand, staring at it as though he couldn’t remember how it got there).

At first, Wyll assumed that the strange, callous nature of Dirge had something to do with his upbringing – it was no secret that most half-drow were raised Seldarine and on the surface, as drow did not think much of either men or half breeds, but that didn’t mean it was impossible for him to have been raised in the Underdark. A life hard lived in a society of Lolth could explain away that diamond edge of ruthlessness he saw in the gleam of Dirge’s eyes; he’s seen the terror that those in the culture could wage, and more than once he’s happened along villages just in time to help the survivors recover from such vicious attacks. Once, he even had the pleasure of joining in the defense, and repelling the raiders.

…It's difficult, reconciling his comfort this evening and his plans to go rescue the druid Halsin, when he knows that somewhere, out there, Karlach is doing the same thing those drow raiders did. Perhaps worse – a soldier of an archdevil steeped deep in the horrors of the Blood War would have no match in the common hamlets and villages that dotted the countryside. Letting her roam free, unchallenged, bit deep at his conscience, but in truth… Gale was right.

They had discussed it earlier in the evening, while Wyll helped the wizard set up his tent, and Gale made fine points; first, Wyll had lost Karlach’s trail to the west of the grove, and no amount of wandering blindly in the forest would find her; and second, while the tadpoles thus far seemed to be more of a nuisance than a threat, if they did trigger his transformation, Wyll would be of no help to anyone as a mind flayer. In truth, continuing to hunt Karlach while he himself was poised to become a danger to the innocents was not only ignorant, but selfish in its own right.

As Wyll eases himself into his tent and down into his bedroll, he takes comfort in the sounds of life around him; the gentle murmur of others breathing, talking, living, and in his mind he crafts a plan. Until he can find the trail of Karlach again, he owes these tieflings whatever meager sense of safety he can manage – rescuing Halsin (if, by the grace of Helm, the man still lives) will at least buy them time, and, hopefully, allow him to pursue his quarry un-tadpoled.

How difficult can attacking one goblin camp be?

 

-x-

 

Astarion does not regret offering to take the first watch; the shadow of Cazador has loomed close over his shoulders all day, like a waking nightmare, and the idea of trancing was both far fetched and unwelcome – instead, he takes comfort in the crisp evening breeze and the fresh air, so irreconcilable with the eternal breathlessness of the master’s palace and the fetid aroma of Lower City stink.

In the summers, the lower floors of the Szarr property grew rank with the humidity, the scent of mold the thickest in the spawn’s quarters and in the kennels. There, Godey kept the lodgings particularly rancid, miserable sack of bones that he is, the damp and the bloodstains merging to grow a strain of odor so foul that even now, half a tenday freed, the memory of it still clogs Astarion’s throat.

The memories still hover close, fresh, like a wound, so he attempts to anchor himself in the present. Their choice of camp is particularly scenic tonight, the rocky ridge softened by a thick carpet of long grasses and wildflowers, and close to the cliff side facing the forest, a single small, twisted tree winds its way up to the sky amongst a pile of crumbling boulders. A large stone eagle statue keeps an eye, watching in through the narrow opening to the grove on the other side.

Despite the presence of the aged watchtower he leans against, neither the tieflings nor the druids have any sort of guard posted here; though, perhaps for good reason – when they first chose this spot, the ‘Blade of Frontiers’ and the cleric had walked the ledges and scouted the cliffs for any easy points of access and found nothing. Whatever paths may once have led up here, had long since tumbled down, leaving a punishing climb for any who dared to try.

While the others have deemed it safe enough, for Astarion, nothing could be further from the truth – not now that they’ve invited a monster hunter into their fold. While it wasn’t official yet, Astarion was no fool – the warlock would be joining them on their ridiculous quest to save the druid come the morning. The man was obviously desperate for company, following them throughout the grove like a lost puppy, and undoubtedly someone would ask him to tag along.

Maybe luck would favor Astarion, and once they found the druid, the monster hunter would toddle back to hunting his escaped devil, and what a waste for that poor creature. It finally escapes from the Hells just to have some two bit warlock with a hero complex hunt it down?

Better it than him, he supposed.

But if Astarion wants to make good on his own escape, accidental as it may be, he needs a plan.

“…Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

Over the course of his entire unlife, Astarion had only known two occasions where Cazador had bothered to peel himself from the comforts of his palace – excuses to parade his opulent wealth to those in powerful positions and grease some palms where others were looking maybe too close. But, would he deign to come all this way, if he knew the location of his missing spawn?

It feels unlikely – surely Cazador would send one of the many mercenaries at his beck and call to do his dirty work, but still–

Astarion can’t dispel the shades he sees, dancing in the corners of his vision; he swears he can see glowing red eyes watching from the shadows, can hear the cold cackle of his Mast– of Cazador’s laughter on the breeze.

Whether it’s his men or the monster himself who comes looking, Astarion must be prepared. Firstly, he needs information. As much as he can get.

Astarion subtly watches as on the far side of camp, their wizard drops off their amnesiac at his tent. This seems to devolve into an impromptu magic lesson, where Gale casts a quiet Ray of Frost into a torn bit of cloth and hands it to the half-drow.

The distraction is perfect, and Astarion moves quickly to the other side of the campfire, where Gale’s tent rests, tucked against a deep crevice in the rocks. He needs just a moment – only just this afternoon he recalled the volumes of books the wizard insisted on taking from that sorry excuse of a temple they visited, and if his memory serves, there had been one about vampires.

It’s unlikely that the book knows anything that he doesn’t, but if there’s even the slightest chance that it holds something he could use against Cazador–

Within moments, he finds Gale’s pack, and deftly, he undoes the clasp and silently begins rooting through. The fabric of the bag is torn in places, and several of the seams are on the verge of giving away entirely – one long string has come loose and tickles incessantly at his hands as he searches, but he ignores it. He must be the very image of caution, and leave no sign of his presence.

The bag is filled with an absolutely useless assortment of knick knacks; spell scrolls rolled and tucked hastily into a deep side pocket; a collection of potions, gleaming in the firelight prettily from the folds of the torn shirt tucked tightly around them, an attempt to keep them from shattering; and a large swath of fabric that seems to take up too much room.

It’s not until Astarion pulls the cloth out and balls it in his hands does he realize that it’s the wizard’s battle robes, which were neatly tucked near the bottom of the bag. Delicately, he folds again as fast as he can, trying to remember exactly how it had looked–

“Did you need some assistance, Astarion?”

Gale’s voice, behind him – a bolt of panic rips through Astarion, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, twisting around to face the wizard and barely holding back the urge to hiss like a feral cat. Gale looks almost as surprised as he feels, eyes wide as saucers, hands held up in surrender – trembling like a leaf, Astarion swallows back a tight bubble of anxiety, and tries to regain his composure.

“No, I was, um, just looking for some… entertainment.”

Gale arches an eyebrow, the edges of his lips twitching upward ever so slightly, both confused and amused, “In my robes?”

Astarion looks down, and sure enough, he still holds the mess of fabric in a white knuckled grip, all of his careful folding work gone to waste. Breathing out deep from the bottom of his useless lungs, he drops the bundle to the ground and rubs roughly at his face, “...Don’t be vulgar, I was trying to find where you hid your books.”

“Oh, of course – I keep those at the bottom of the bag. I was hoping the cloth would help to protect them; some of those books are very old.” Gale chuckles lightly, kneeling next to him and reaching toward the bag, “Here, let me.”

The wizard pulls out four books, each in various states of decay; while they had sold the more damaged copies in the grove, none of the texts they found were in any kind of redeemable condition, having spent the better part of several centuries moldering in that miserable temple. Astarion watches as Gale carefully lays out each book, one at a time; The Unclaimed, The Mortal View: Eyewitness Accounts, a third book that he can’t quite make out the title of, and The Curse of the Vampyr, placed right on the very top of the pile.

He’s halfway to reaching for it when his skin prickles; despite the wizard’s easygoing smile, relaxed shoulders, and apparent distraction with something else in his pack, he’s watching Astarion’s hand from the corner of his eyes like a hawk.

Astarion draws up short, and suspicion bubbles up in his chest. This feels like a test.

“You’re… alright with me taking one? Did you want… something in return?”

“Not at all!” the corner of Gale’s eyes crease with his smile, but he pointedly does not turn towards Astarion, even as his eyes still watch so close, “You’re free to borrow any one you like. Oh, but do bring them back eventually. Preferably undamaged – I better not see any dog eared pages!”

Astarion’s hand is still hovering in the air over the pile, the book he wants, right there – would it really be that suspicious, if he reached out and picked that one?

He lets his fingers press feather light on the soft leather cover, tracing the embossed title, and hesitates. At the last moment, as his fingers are about to wrap around its spine, he diverts his hand instead – picking another book out of the pile at random. There’s a sinking sense of disappointment in himself, even as that faint flutter of worry still wraps its icy fingers around his heart, and he glances at the cover, pretending to be interested.

Jake’s Encyclopedia of Eels.

Gale’s eyebrows shoot up, almost into his hairline, “Interesting choice.”

“My interests are a bit eclectic,” Astarion replies, flipping open the cover as his curiosity manages to get the better of him.

‘Foreword: ‘No one wants to read about eels’, eh? You stuck-up Candlekeep gits can keep your books on ‘magic’ and ‘demons’ and ‘celestial bodies’. People are practical folk and they want to read practical things. Can’t make a pie out of stars, can you? No. Eels is important.’

“...What is this?” He flips to the next page, then the next – the book continues on in the same fashion, one long irritated rant, for many pages, “This is supposed to be an encyclopedia? This is shit! Pure, wretched, doggerel!”

“Thank you!” That watchfulness fades from the wizard’s face as he grins, glad to have found a kindred spirit, “You would not believe the amount of trite drivel I have read that claims to be academic!”

Astarion frowns, flipping to yet another page, “This is a regular occurrence?”

“Well, not all of it it is as bad as–” Gale gestures to the atrocity in question, “--but a great number of books are written by people who claim an expertise in the field, but are actually–”

“Frauds? Charlatans?”

“I was going to say imposters, but yes.”

Astarion snaps the book shut before tucking it under his arm, briefly considering tossing it into the fire. He’d be doing the world at large a favor. “Why bother keeping it then?”

“Despite its… limitations, near the end of the book it has some promising recipes that I would love to try.”

Typical mortals, always thinking with their stomachs – Astarion nods, and tries to look interested, slowly edging away from Gale’s tent and back to his side of the campfire. “Oh… good. I’ll… have to check those out.”

The wizard waves him away with a hand, amused, “Go ahead. I’d say ‘enjoy the book’, but I’d wager its more akin to a method of torture than leisure.”

Astarion takes the opportunity and rushes back to his boulder, again perching himself on top, cross legged. He rests the book open on his lap, and considers his options – all in all, that was a failure; this book is of no use to him, and the one he wants will once again be wrapped up in the bottom of the wizard’s pack, watched by an even warier eye than before.

Is it possible the wizard suspects him? The pile of books had felt like a test, and more than once he’s caught Gale staring at him strangely, but he had always chalked that up to simple desire – he’s batted his eyelashes and lowered his voice in that perfected purr more than once since the nautiloid crashed, after all. Why would the wizard suspect him of anything, anyway? He’s been so careful, his execution of a mortal disguise faultless; more likely that he’s seeing his worries and doubts playing out on the faces of those around him.

He’s dithered long enough – he needs a plan.

First, Cazador: does his master even know where he is? If Astarion stays away from Baldur’s Gate, will that keep him safe? He’s almost positive it's the tadpole keeping him free from Cazador’s influence; even when sent on those oh so special trips in the past, the weight of his Master’s compulsion was heavy on him, his arms bound with an invisible puppeteer’s string that could be yanked at a moment’s notice. Now, thankfully, the back of his mind has stayed gloriously empty, his thoughts his own – but would that change if he returns to the Gate? Or, would the tadpole continue to provide blanket protection against foul vampiric masters and the sun?

Not that he’s terribly keen on keeping his passenger either – so far it’s been a most agreeable worm, but the thought of transforming into a mind flayer makes his skin crawl.

Perhaps there’s a way to keep this parasite happy, prevent him from transforming but continue to reap the benefits, but that’s not a question he can answer on his own. He needs more time.

Maybe, if he sticks with the group long enough, he’ll get another chance at the wizard’s collection, and get his hands on the proper book without rousing suspicion. It’s unlikely to tell him anything new about his own condition, but if there’s even a hint of anything in there that can be of use, then it’s well worth the risk.

Second, blood: Astarion can only remember a few times in the entirety of his unlife when his thirst has felt as bad as it does now. He’s had minor successes hunting animals during his shifts in the night, but while it's a world above the clotted sludge he’s been forced to drink for centuries, it’s not enough. It’s been a trial to hunt animals in this state – small critters are fast and hard to catch, but he doesn’t have the strength yet to take a larger beast down on his own.

He’d managed a whole boar on that first day in the sun, before the half-drow and the cleric wandered into him, but since then his diet has consisted mostly of squirrels, a few rats, and one sickly doe – his thirst lashes at him like a snarling beast. If he were still wandering around the Gate, seducing hapless victims for his master, it would be a different matter, but all this traveling and hiking has been difficult. The fighting even more so; he’s barely able to wield a dagger like this, let alone be expected to take on a camp of goblins.

Flipping through the book without even bothering to look at the pages, he surreptitiously studies his companions each in turn. He’s run through the options in his head so many times – Lae’zel, too dangerous, she’d gut him on the spot with no questions asked. Shadowheart, being a cleric, is more likely to burn him with her god’s fire than to listen to his plight. Gale is soft hearted enough that it’s almost worth the risk, but his blood smells so foul as to be repulsive – better the rats than that rancid slurry. And of course, their newest addition, Wyll, is a literal monster hunter.

This leaves just the half-drow.

As much as he hates to admit it, there are advantages to be considered there. Dirge’s blood smells amazing – whenever the half-drow suffers any sort of scrape or cut, it’s all Astarion can do to not wander over and take a big bite, audience be damned. The man is also a literal amnesiac; even if he was caught taking a sip, would Dirge remember come morning? Or maybe the dumb fool would just stare at him blankly, and let him take his fill. It’s no secret that the half-drow doesn’t sleep well, and could easily wake up halfway through his meal – it would be a risk, for sure; despite the man’s gaunt frame, there’s a strength hidden there that could be problematic for Astarion, should it turn against him.

The incident with the sticky-fingered child in the grove still weighs heavy on his mind, however. The brat may have had it coming, but the look in Dirge’s eyes had been… troubling. Astarion truly thought that the man was going to murder the kid, and while he personally held no interest in the continued existence and well being of the creature, it didn’t bode well for his own safety, if caught. People in general went out of their way to protect the idiots and the pitiable among them, and if Dirge was so ready to slay a child for some petty theft…

Perhaps he’s just worrying too much – the kid remains alive and well, presumably, hidden away in some dank corner of this grotto, and honestly, there’s a part of him that’s becoming so desperate that the risk seems worth it. Spending so much time around living, bleeding mortals is slowly driving him mad in a way that forced abstinence under Cazador could never compare. It’s made so much worse by the knowledge that now there’s nothing holding him back; no longer compelled, his actions are his own, for the first time in centuries.

He won’t act – not tonight. This campsite is too small, too cramped – the others may notice if he tried anything here, but some night, soon, maybe the conditions will be just right to try a little taste of what Cazador’s been denying him for so long.

Notes:

Is it too unbelievable to have someone suffering from terrible brain injuries show such exaggerated improvement in five days? Maybe, but I’m just gonna blame magical brain worms.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Content Warning : Mentions of torture and abuse, gruesome injuries (mentioned but not described in detail). Mild sexual innuendo. Typical violence.

Okay, so I originally estimated that this fic was going to be eight chapters long, but the more I write, the more that number seems like a pipe dream. Consider it an approximation for now, I suppose. This fic has always been meant to be a part of a larger series, I’m just shit at naming things (which I’m sure by now is evident) so I apologize that it took me so long to set that up.

I'm aware that Astarion has a weird wooden plank bed inside his tent, but it seems more believable to me that he’d just have a bedroll (I understand that it's like a metaphor for outward appearances vs how we feel inside) at this point in the story. Between his plank bed and table, and Lae’zel’s grindstone (never mind the other ridiculous things the others apparently haul around), I can’t imagine them moving camp every night without someone breaking a spine. Maybe they’ll find a way later to haul around heavy shit so they can all embrace their inner hoarder/interior decorator gremlins, idk.

 

-x-

 

The first rays of false dawn creep slowly across the sky like outstretched, golden ribbons, bringing light to the dark crevices of the Grove. Tucked in amongst the stones near the gate, Dirge watches as the tiefling refugees slowly begin to stir. Yesterday’s sharp panic has faded to a dull murmur, a tense malaise that hangs over the settlement like a pall. The few sets of glowing eyes that were awake to meet his were strained with harsh lines of worry – mostly their sorry excuse of a guard force; haphazardly geared creatures that looked as tired as he felt.

(From one particularly dark shadow, familiar red eyes gleamed back – Astarion, on one of his usual pre-dawn prowls. Dirge wasn’t quite sure what he got up to so early in the mornings, but there was a thrum of familiarity there, so Dirge politely averted his eyes and left the elf to skulk in peace.)

Sleep was again elusive; the dreams (nightmares?) tonight had been particularly vicious, sinking their hooks deep into his subconscious like the claws of a monstrous beast, and Dirge woke in a sweat, muscles locked tight and skin jumping. The gore-slicked images had lingered, taunting him – eyeless, faceless heads with broken jaws hanging agape; corpses stripped clean of flesh with tendons and veins laid out lovingly beside, a map of what lay beneath the skin – and he waited for reality to ease back in, his eyes staring listlessly at the fire.

In the past, in that hazy fog of his mind, that was familiar – what he had done before. Shook and shivered his way back into awareness around the tempting heat of the flame, but now it seemed a terrible waste of time. His legs were restless, his nerves jangling, he needed to move – that had been well before dawn, hours before the others would wake.

It had been child’s play to sneak past Gale, distracted with one of his books, and slip down the rocky slopes into the lower paths of the Grove. The sky was still dark, the shadows deep, but the glow of the torches kept the gloom at bay, bright baubles of orange and gold shimmering in the purples of the twilight.

He moved slowly, feet whisper quiet on the dirt and stone, as he passed the ramshackle hovels and shelters; there, tucked away into every available space were the refugee tieflings, sleeping. Rows upon rows of them on ragged, threadbare bedrolls, not with blankets but swaths of the same fabric they used for their tents. They did not rest easily, tossing and turning in their sleep with their tails twitching. Faces creased in subconscious frowns with whimpers of unhappy dreams on their lips.

The few guards he came across watched him warily as they patrolled, but despite the weapons they openly carried in their hands, they too smelled of fear-sweat.

As always, that disease in his flesh watched too closely, with too much interest. It whispered in his ears the promise of violence, its claws needling at his skin like pricks of a pin.

The memory of that child and what almost happened, what he almost did, still lingers at the forefront of his mind like a foul taste. A sickness had flooded his stomach, and Dirge slunk away from the tieflings, making his way over to the gate – here, with the open sky above and not a soul in sight, that twisted thing fades to a low drone, an itch beneath his skin.

It never really leaves, though – sometimes, it feels almost as if it… gets distracted, as if its attention just… wanders elsewhere.

Is this thing… normal? Do the others have this odd slithering feeling in their limbs? These violent fantasies? If they do, they certainly don’t act like it – Dirge has seen no hungering malice in Gale’s eyes, no shaking tremors in Shadowheart’s hands. Lae’zel stands tall and proud, unbroken by any hidden force within. The others don’t seem to share his struggle with sleep either (though, Astarion might – the elf rests almost as little as he does, and spends most of his nights outside the camp in the shadows).

Is there something wrong with Dirge himself? There must be, if he’s the only one who feels this – at times he’s convinced that he is this wretched thing, and at others it feels more like something else, pressing into him; hands laying firmly over his, guiding his actions. Someone else’s will overwriting his own.

It was the same when they met with the leader of the druids, the day before. Descending deeper into the grove, they came across the source of the commotion – two druids stood with weapons drawn and a bear in tow, snarling at a cluster of unarmed tieflings. Dressed in ritualistic leathers and bone antler headdresses, and equipped with a wooden quarterstaff and a shortbow, they would have been useful on the gate against the goblins were they not hiding down here, chanting that wretched sound. Clapping his hands over his ears, Dirge had been the first to move deeper, past the runed door and into the inner sanctum.

A dank place nestled deep into the earth; a place of ancient stone with the roots of great trees twisting down, digging ever further – water dripped from the ceilings, down the muraled walls, into a large pool that circled the center platform almost like a moat. There stood a wood elf woman with red braided hair that glinted in the light of the torches like fire, arms crossed with one hip cocked. She was unassuming in her garb if not her demeanor – her back was ramrod straight, her face tight in a bitter scowl; she wore leadership on her head like a crown. Before her cowered a tiefling child with skin the color of balsam flowers, shielded from the elf’s wroth by another druid, a human male.

The urge had eyes for naught but the child, delighting in each flinch, every tremble – it was with great effort that he forced himself forward, past her and to the wood elf. Kagha was her name, and she looked down on him like the scum on the underside of her boot.

Drow. She had not said it, but he knew the thought had crossed her mind as surely as if he had heard it spoken.

At her feet circled three large grey rats, noses twitching and chittering, oddly unafraid of the snake that coiled at her side, flicking its black tongue. A fierce looking creature with long, thin horns set atop green eyes as piercing as a cat’s, its scales the same ruddy hue as its master’s hair – a death viper. Somewhere, deep down, he knew of them, of their venom… had gathered it before, himself. A single drop would be more than enough to kill the child, in an instant–

The child had looked to him, frightened, her hands clasped before her chest, pleading. She had bounced from one foot to the other, as if she was tempted to bolt–

Flick your eyes to the entrance. The child will run.

It was as though someone else’s voice whispered into his ears. His heart was beating so hard in his chest.

She will die. A cold shudder had run through him, like the shock of icy water, The death of a child… a timeless tragedy that never grows old–

Denying that voice had taken the last scraps of everything he had, splitting his mind with a headache like a red hot iron poker – Dirge had demanded the child be taken into his custody, that he would ensure she caused no harm. Something in his voice made the shard of ice crack in the druid’s eyes, and as Wyll took the child back to her parents, Kagha turned him, and studied him earnestly.

She insisted that he be the one to force the tieflings out onto the roads, to let them know that the moment the rite was done, their welcome was rescinded.

Irritated and in pain, he refused, telling her to do her own dirty work. Congratulated her on her fear of a child, and wished her well, lording over her kingdom of rats.

Tucking himself deeper into the crevice between the boulders, Dirge shivers as the wind gusts over the top of the gate and down into the hollow of the grove itself – a chill breeze that makes him regret leaving the comfort of the campfire, though by now it would be little more than embers. Soon, Gale would be stirring it again, poking at the coals and placing a pan amongst the heat to cook breakfast.

Idly, Dirge muses, watching as an exhausted tiefling guard passes him by with a curt nod and a tightened grip on his greataxe. Have the others noticed him missing yet? Would they be concerned? He hopes not, that was never his intention. The idea of just sitting around and waiting for thought to leech back into his skull was just so repulsive that he couldn’t stand it. Falling into the fugue, aware and yet unable to escape it, made his skin crawl with equal measures irritation and disgust.

At least in that state, the urge was just as subdued as he was, though still it itched.

This… madness in his head, the desire that compels to hurt and destroy, is it related to the long spans of time he loses? Is it to do with the tadpole that the others seem to fear so keenly? He’s heard them complain of the ‘wiggling’ behind their eyes, but as far as Dirge can remember, he’s not felt so much as a twitch. If he indeed has one of these unwelcome passengers lodged in his own skull, it’s been awfully quiet, other than that one flash of memory that wasn’t his own.

If it is the tadpole, why does no one else seem affected the way he is? Do they just hide it better?

Or, if it’s not the tadpole… then is it him?

“No!”

Dirge startles away from the wall as a feminine voice wails; a terrible, anguished sound that catches on the wind and drifts down to him from atop the gate.

Then, as the first voice weeps, a second, more masculine voice speaks slowly, softly: “...He’s gone, Arka.”

“Kanon…” Another series of wracking sobs, “Why…”

Kanon? The name’s not familiar – Dirge scavenges through the memories of the day before, but nothing comes to mind… except… Wasn’t there a tiefling who was shot while trying to hoist the gate?

The first voice hiccups twice before screaming, the sound quickly stifled by fabric or flesh. It doesn’t seem like they’re being attacked, though – is the owner of the second voice trying to keep them quiet? Or, trying to comfort them?

Should he feel like that too? That raw, wretched torment at the loss of a life?

He doesn’t – his heart beats slowly, unmoved. There are no tears pricking at his eyes, no heavy weight on his chest.

This squalling woman is but one of thousands; there will always be another.

“No! It’s enough, Memnos!” The woman shouts, her sorrow souring to a smouldering fury, “...I’m putting an end to this, once and for all.”

“Arka! What are you–”

Laughter, as cold and brittle as cracks creeping across a river of ice. “They’ll all die, I’ll make sure of it. Every. Last. One.”

A shiver runs down his spine, a lance of ecstasy through his veins – pleasure, distilled. Genocide, mutual slaughter; the urge purrs at the thought, the sole point of warmth in his otherwise cold chest.

There’s the sounds of boots on stone overhead; someone running off in a hurry, followed shortly by that second voice shouting: “Arka!”

Dirge tucks himself deeper into the crevice between the stones as the two tieflings descend the nearby ladder and rush further into the grove. The first, a feminine tiefling with olive skin, dark curly hair just slightly longer than her ears, and a face like a storm cloud, marches forward with a heavy crossbow in hand like a soldier off to war. Behind her follows a bare chested tiefling in a tattered duster jacket the color of ash, begging and pleading for her to see reason.

Neither notices Dirge, hidden in the shadows, as they race past, and he has to suppress the desire to follow, to make the situation worse.

He needs to keep this… thing in his head under control. These urges… whatever the source of the problem, they must be contained – his mind may be a mangled mess, but it's clear that if the others were ever to find out about this rot that festers within him, they would never let him stay with the group. Banishment would be the best he could hope for.

Maybe if he could talk to them and learn what a good, normal person should think and want, he could smother this sickness that blooms in the cradle of his chest.

 

-x-

 

Midmorning catches them leaving the grove to a chorus of well wishes from the refugees. While no one was quite sure where the goblins were holed up, Zevlor reported that his scouts had seen them frequenting a small, abandoned village about a day’s march to the west. Dirge had watched, curious, as the old tiefling wore his sorrow upon himself like a heavy cloak – this knowledge had not come cheap, he confided. In addition to the tieflings lost in their initial flight from Elturel, Zevlor lost three scouts to the forces within the village, and another five in the surrounding forest.

Still, the old paladin (a former Hellrider, he told Dirge, as if that was supposed to mean something to him) was convinced the goblins made their actual camp elsewhere.

“The village, it's a staging post for a larger operation, I’m sure of it,” Zevlor’s eyes had narrowed as he and Gale leaned over the map from Auntie Ethel. Between the two of them, they had narrowed several potential locations down, but none seemed to fit the pattern of the goblin patrols, or were too small to support such large numbers of the creatures.

“I wasn’t aware that goblins were so… organized,” the wizard muttered, chewing at his bottom lip.

“Neither was I,” Zevlor replied, his glowing eyes flickering like burning embers, “I must admit, I’ve never seen them act this way before – they’re looking for something, but for the life of me I don’t know what.”

Outside the gate, the ground is still soured with the bloodstains of the day before with all but the deepest pools mostly dry and slowly browning under the growing heat of the sun. Someone at least had bothered to cart away the bodies before they began smelling ripe, but other signs of the conflict remained; weapons left behind that Astarion and Lae’zel had deemed too worthless to bother trying to sell, various scorch marks from all the spells flung around, goblin sized footprints along the softer edges of the path, and a few smears and globs of grease that the fire did not catch.

Nature itself seems uncaring of the memory. A few steps away from the gate and the odors fade away – it’s a bright day, fresh and new, and each breath Dirge draws is crisp and bracing, filled with the scent of the balsam and the purple and blue wildflowers growing thick out of every crag. The tall grasses bow in the gentle wind, green with the fresh growth of spring and the tender morning sun.

Beneath their feet, the path winds its way down to the west, steep in its slope as it descends from the hills that surround the grove down into the valley of the forest below. It is an ancient path made of old, worn stones that have likely seen hundreds of years of travel across their backs.

Gale, Shadowheart, and the warlock from the night before lead their group by a handful of paces – Gale has the map open in his hands, studying it as he walks, nearly tripping over his own feet on the uneven stone. Shadowheart leans over his shoulder, poking at the paper with insistent jabs of her finger; the wind steals away her words before Dirge can hear them, but she seems to counter the wizard’s ideas, one by one, with her signature cold pragmatism. The warlock follows close behind them both with a spring to his step that speaks both of nervous and eager.

At Dirge’s side is the soft scuff of shoes on stone, quiet yet deliberate, and he tilts his head to see Astarion walking beside him; in step, almost shoulder to shoulder.

The pale elf leans closer, almost conspiratorially, his eyes alight with a mischievous glimmer, “So. What do you make of our monster hunter?”

Dirge blinks, feeling his forehead pleat in a gentle frown. He tries again to remember, but the man’s name slips through his fingers like so many grains of sand. “The warlock?” He asks.

The elf arches an eyebrow, a touch incredulous, and after a brief pause, his voice rises theatrically with his annoyance, “Yes. Wyll. The famous ‘Blade of Frontiers’. Do try to keep up.” Astarion rolls his eyes, his sarcasm fierce in its bite, “Any thoughts? There must be something rattling around in that head of yours?”

Dirge’s eyes flick back towards the warlock. He vaguely remembers taking measure of the man the day before, but if it will humor Astarion, he’ll do so again. ‘Wyll’ walks with his back ramrod straight, each step an easy, fluid movement, akin to a dance. Still, there’s an unusual tightness in his shoulders that goes against that poise, a … nervousness, perhaps?

From here, Dirge can only see one half of his face, but as the warlock listens to Gale and Shadowheart, Dirge can see the bright interest in his eye that wars with a strange unease – an anxious, tenseness in his brow and a slackness about his mouth – like he’s wanting to speak but unsure of his welcome.

“So?” Astarion asks again from his side. There is something unsettling about his unblinking stare. Something a bit false, a bit theatrical. “Is he as trustworthy as he pretends?”

“Hmm, he’s quite earnest.”

Astarion’s eyes dart towards Wyll, his gaze scrutinizing. “What makes you so sure?”

Dirge shrugs, “Look at him; that armor is bespoke, and while it's old, it's well tended to.” From behind, he can’t see the bold stripes that mark the front of the warlock’s armor, but he can see where they come together as a thick band wrapping over the man’s shoulders. When it was new, the color must have been a bright crimson, but now the hue has faded into a deep cardinal red. The leather itself is thick and supple, well oiled and maintained by a loving hand. A cherished keepsake, perhaps?

Astarion reluctantly hums an acknowledgement, “...It is a beautiful piece. The dye alone would have cost a small fortune, and that stitching? Definitely not amateur.”

He nods, “Then there’s the way he holds himself, and his rapier… he’s had lessons. A tutor. He’s well bathed, tends his hair, keeps himself clean shaven – he’s an Upper City noble, or gentry at least.” Ahead, Wyll gestures grandly, his face splitting into a wide smile. “If there’s any part he’s playing, it’s the dashing rogue, standing up for the lesser folk.”

The elf scoffs, face pinching into a scowl, “You’re a bigger fool than I realized if you think that class makes the man. I’d trust a bandit before I’d trust a patriar – at least they’re honest as they slit your throat. We’d be better off without him.”

“The drow is correct, Istik.” From behind, Lae’zel’s voice sounds without warning, and for but a moment, Astarion visibly startles, that old hollow fear flashing through his eyes. The emotion, more terror than startled, is sharp enough to snag Dirge’s attention, but it’s gone just as quick as it came. Instead, the elf collects himself as Lae’zel steps closer, her alien gaze dragging first over Dirge and then to Astarion, whom she pins with an imperious stare. Her slitted eyes catch the midmorning light, glowing as bright and strong as molten iron, “The warlock does not have the guile for treachery. A shame.”

She snorts derisively as she continues, “The githyanki people have a word for men like the Blade of Frontiers: She’lak. Roughly translated: ‘idealist do-gooder’, or, better yet, ‘benevolent burden.’” Lae’zel looks towards Wyll, and how he does not feel the weight of that heavy gaze on his back, Dirge will never understand; the warlock remains oblivious, “His confidence is an asset. His pursuit of valor? Not so much.”

“So we’re in agreement then?” All signs of the previous upset gone, Astarion looks his usual self – aloof, uncaring. A man of higher breeding forced to wade through the mire of the unclean masses and hating every moment of it.

“No. Your endeavors to cull the group are a waste of energy; the Blade of Frontiers will serve a purpose.” Lae’zel’s lips stretch slowly into a smile, revealing the razor sharp teeth within, “If nothing else, the warlock will make a wonderful distraction as the goblins sink their blades into his belly.”

Astarion’s eyes widen and he laughs; a single, short bark, “...I suppose that would be a use for him. And here I was worried about the burden on our supplies.” The elf presses a hand to his mouth, his long, delicate fingers curling around his lips as if to hide the smirk growing there. His gaze remains distant as Lae’zel’s face folds back into a scowl, and she moves quickly to the front of the group. Her expression catches into a glower that’s aimed firmly at Shadowheart’s back.

As the old, broken stones crunch beneath his feet, Dirge finds himself glad not to be the source of her ire. Lae’zel and Shadowheart are often at one another’s throats, and it only seems to be getting worse with each passing day. If they don’t find this druid and a cure soon, it’s hard to imagine the two won’t soon come to blows. Instead, Dirge muses on Astarion’s words, running them through his mind again and again. Something about them niggles at him, he tells himself, though if he were to be honest, perhaps he just enjoys the elf’s lyrical cadence, the melodical lilt of his voice. “...Astarion.”

“Hmm?” He hums, disinterested. Astarion’s tone warns that he’s just as likely to be ignored than receive further response.

“Gale seemed to think we had plenty of supplies, even if the warlock were to join us.” Dirge keeps his head facing forward, toward the path before them, but he can’t help but watch the elf closely from the corner of his eye. In the sunlight, his pale hair almost glows, like a halo set about his head. “...And you don’t seem to eat very much.”

“What can I say, I need to keep my figure,” Astarion drops his hand, and slowly his smile fades. His eyes are still unfocused, looking out into the distance, and a long moment passes before he speaks again, his voice strangely hesitant, “...I suppose I just don’t find myself very hungry.”

“Really?” Dirge asks, “Sometimes you almost look…” The memories flicker back to the forefront of his mind; faint, half-shrouded in shadow. That lean face, wide eyes, staring from the darkness. The light of the campfire highlighting the crest of those cheekbones, muddying the color of those strange, carmine eyes. When that hollow look on the elf’s face isn’t fear, it’s… something else. “...starving.”

Astarion’s smile returns, slowly. Coy. “Well. Maybe I hunger for…” Dark lashes flutter low over piercing eyes, ”Other things.”

That look, that expression, is so alien to anything else Dirge has seen on Astarion, that it draws him up short, as forcibly as though he walked face first into a wall. The elf takes a few more steps before stopping and turning back to look at him, over his shoulder. Where Astarion’s face usually wars between that razor sharp mischievous glint and the strange, sudden flashes of bone-deep fear, this is something new. The smile still pulls at the edges of Astarion’s lips, but there’s a tightness to it, almost halfway to a grimace, and it doesn’t reach his eyes – there is no light there, no gleam. His gaze is hollow and empty, and while his eyes watch Dirge closely, it’s almost as though the man himself is miles away.

Dirge opens his mouth with no idea what to say, but several paces ahead, Lae’zel suddenly hisses, the sound cutting through his line of thought like a knife through flesh.

“Have you lost your senses!” The gith snarls, baring her teeth, bright and gleaming in the sunlight, “Tch, we are heading in the wrong direction, Istik!”

Both Gale and Wyll startle at the outburst, turning around, their eyebrows crinkled with their confusion, but Shadowheart pays Lae’zel no mind. She moves swiftly, reaching over and grabbing the map right out of the wizard’s hands, and just continues walking. Her stride proud and confident, as if daring someone to stop her.

“If you were paying attention, gith,” Shadowheart sneers, the contempt in her voice thick and oily, “you would surely have noticed both the ravine and the river. Unless you fancy going for a swim, we’re following the road.”

Ravine? Feeling slow and stupid, Dirge ignores the back and forth, heated bickering, and properly takes in the world around him. The road has curved swiftly from west to south, and it has since leveled out from its slow decline. They’ve descended enough that some of the tall, stalwart trees he had spied from a distance now tower close, the gnarled, ancient trunks creaking and shuddering in the breeze.

Nearby, there is the deep rumble of water, and Dirge only needs to walk a couple of meters to the edge of the road to see the drop off. At the bottom of a nearly ten meter cliff, a river winds its way through a narrow canyon of granite. In places, the water swirls and eddies, forming small pools where tall stalks of cattails bob and twist with the current and a smattering of small lily pads dot the surface, and elsewhere the water races, forming white, frothing rapids.

The rocks that line the ravine walls are sharp and unforgiving; treacherous footholds at best, but the spray from the river below reaches surprisingly high, making any attempt at descent all the more dangerous. There is a footpath nestled amongst the twists and turns of the ledges, but it is steep and awkwardly narrow in places, and seemingly missing entirely in others – near the bottom, Dirge fancies that he can see a sphere of off white half buried in the mud, the shape darkened by two sunken eye holes and the cavity that likely once was a nose.

A hand suddenly claps hard against his back, and the surprise nearly startles him forward and down the cliff. Beside him, Gale looks apologetic, fingers clutching on the ridge of his shoulder as if to keep him from falling; not that it would be of much use – he’s tall enough that if he did tumble, he’d easily drag the wizard down with him. Still, once his footing is secure, they both stand side by side, staring silently down at the river below. Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s constant, petulant bickering is such a familiar noise that it has almost faded into an atmospheric nattering, as much a part of the landscape as the distant warble of competing birdsong, barely audible over the roar of the water below.

Or, Dirge thinks, wincing as Shadowheart hits a particularly high pitch with an indignant squawk, perhaps they sound more akin to two feuding crows, quarreling over some half-chewed carcass.

With Gale at his side, once more Dirge feels the compulsion to fist his hand in the back of the wizard’s robes, and teach him how to fly. It’s a terrible, trembling feeling, a jittering in his elbows that causes his hands to shake. Drawing a deep breath, he steels himself, and clenches his hands at his sides, resolutely demanding their obedience – best not to focus on it.

“Is there no way across?” He asks instead, eyes picking out the shape of an old dock, tucked in amongst the reeds and the rocks. It’s almost invisible within the shadows cast from the cliff, but the items left almost carelessly atop the worn wood give it away – a few baskets, a crate, and a fishing rod resting against one of the pilings. It looks in relatively good shape; perhaps the footpaths are still in use, by some.

Wyll joins them along the ridge, “Not here; it would be too dangerous.” He points towards a ledge, just a short drop below them. Droplets of the spray coat the edges of the stone, leaving them ominously slick. Someone agile like Astarion could probably manage the descent and the climb again on the other side, but someone like Gale, who complains regularly about his knees? It’s a hazard, waiting to happen. “A fall from those rocks, well, you would be lucky to just break a leg. According to the map, there’s a bridge, further to the south.” The warlock turns to meet his gaze, his expression open and honest with the touch of an apologetic smile, “It’s a long detour, but we’d be much safer.”

“...At the peak of my power, I could have easily conjured us a way across,” Gale muses, his wistful sigh nearly lost amongst the noise around them. The pain on his face is an old one, an aged sorrow that has scarred into a deep well of disappointment. A wound far older than the start of their adventures, Dirge thinks, “Alas, our little squirming friend seems to have decided that such magic should be beyond me. For now, at least.”

Wyll hums, “Was a time I tussled with hill giants without breaking a sweat, now, a mere werebear could swat me halfway to Amn.”

The wizard’s eyes remain distant, staring out over the cliffs and the river below. He looks worlds away. “...Strange things are happening to us. What festers in our minds may well impel our bodies.”

“With any luck, we’ll find Halsin, and that will be the end of one problem.” Wyll smiles, gently clapping the wizard on his back.

The smile that pulls at Gale’s lips is a touch doubtful, a little false, “Our biggest problem, I daresay. Come, we should catch up, or they’ll leave us behind.”

True enough, Shadowheart and Lae’zel are still visible but only just. As they disappear around the bend, Dirge can see them fighting over the map; Lae’zel has it firmly in her hands now, twisting it each way as if to make sense of it, while Shadowheart’s anger and frustration twists her face into a scowl. If she lunges for it, hopefully she maintains enough presence of mind to keep from ripping it.

He, Gale, and Wyll all pull away from the edge and continue down the path, towards a bank of trees. Against one of them waits Astarion, his back leaning against the dark grey crackle of the trunk, his arms folded across his front. From the shadow of the boughs, his pale face is cast in shades of ash, his piercing eyes the deep color of fresh blood. Astarion glances only briefly as Gale and Wyll pass him by, waving at him as they go, but as Dirge draws near, the elf pushes away from the aged tree and falls in step beside him once more.

“I must say, you’re more observant than I thought.” Astarion’s voice is pitched low, for his ears only, “Impressive. Maybe you can be trained.”

“Trained?” Dirge can’t help the deep chuckle that rumbles from his chest, “You haven’t taught me anything. You’ve barely spoken to me.”

“And why would I? You’ve not exactly been scintillating company,” he snipes, “but keep this up, and you might just change my mind.”

As ever, the sharp bite of the elf’s humor forces a huff of laughter out of Dirge. His tone may be snide, but there’s a crook to his lips that seems more genuine. Astarion is brutal in his honesty and makes no secret of his opinions, unafraid to laugh while the others hesitate and placate. In many ways, Dirge muses, Astarion is similar to Lae’zel, though, it is unclear whether she actually has a sense of humor or not. He can’t ever recall seeing her laugh, and her rare ‘smiles’ could just as easily be grimaces.

Astarion again falls quiet, but his smile does not fade, even as they catch up to the cleric and the gith. In fact, he seems to take great joy in the scene before them; Lae’zel walks with her head held high, proud, her shoulders square and her back as rigid as a slab of adamantine. Several paces behind, with the map once again tightly rolled up in her fist, Shadowheart follows, looking as smug as he has ever seen her.

There can be no doubt who won this latest skirmish, but Dirge does not fool himself – it won’t be their last. Neither of them will ever admit defeat, and so instead that simmering anger continues to roil beneath the surface. It feels like a billowing cloud that hangs above them both like a dark shroud, a miasma. A tempest slowly brewing.

How long until the two of them come to blows? He’s not sure what causes them to hate one another so deeply, but both seem committed to the role. The cleric makes a show of biting back at everything thing Lae’zel says, her voice as sharp and cutting as the razor-edged dagger she keeps latched to her belt, and the gith doesn’t even attempt to hide the way she rolls her eyes everytime Shadowheart so much as opens her mouth.

Honestly, it makes no sense to him. Dirge cannot understand where this anger, this hatred wells from, or why they both seem to egg one another on. As exhausted as he feels, the very thought of the effort it must take to stay so furious with one another all the time seems so draining.

But, perhaps this is as good a time as any to ask his questions, to learn how to be ‘normal’.

“Why are we helping the tieflings?” Dirge asks, apropos of nothing.

Wyll blinks, surprised, his good eye tracking Dirge obliquely, “Pardon?”

“The tieflings in the grove… Why are we helping them?”

Wyll turns to look at him properly, that surprise slowly darkening into cold disapproval. “Because they need our help.” The scars that wrap around his face warp with the frown that furrows over his features, “I’ll not just idly stand by while these people are persecuted further–”

“Can’t they help themselves?” This draws the warlock up short, and now Gale’s looking askance at him too. Dirge raises a hand, placatingly, silently asking for a moment to continue, “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t, I just…” He sighs, feeling like the words are so terribly far out of reach. Ahead, Shadowheart and Lae’zel show no signs that they’re listening, but both are slowing their paces until they are only a few steps ahead, well within earshot. “...I don’t understand. Why are they here? Can the druids really force them out of the grove?”

For a long moment, there’s no response, just the sound of six sets of boots travelling on the dusty, cobblestone road. Even the constant companion of birdsong has faded into an almost ominous quiet, but the distant rumble of the river still bubbles and churns its way around rocks and through rapids.

While the others no longer look at him, Dirge can feel it – that silence feels like a thick band of tension, slowly winding its way around him, tightening achingly slowly and forcing the breath from his lungs.

At last, Wyll answers. “...These people have been driven from the city they once knew as home, forced into the wilderness with naught but the clothes on their backs and the few supplies they could grab before the mobs drove them out of Elturel.” His voice is soft, almost dream-like, yet monumentally loud in the hush that has fallen over the group. “They’re civilians. Workers and housekeepers. With so few fighters amongst them, they lost many on the road here, and a great many more to the gnolls. When they were attacked, most scattered into the woods.”

“Zevlor and his Hellriders found them, and brought them back together. Everyone they could find. With his leadership, the survivors were able to safely make it to the grove.” Wyll sighs, his face troubled by a plight that wasn’t even his own. “Now it's too dangerous for them to travel, even with the Hellriders to escort them – they are few in number, and the roads are thick with goblins and wargs.”

Astarion huffs a quiet laugh to his left – of all them, the elf is the one who’s smile has not waivered this whole while. “‘Thick with goblins and wargs’? We’ve been traveling for hours now, and I’ve yet to see one.” His voice drops, a whisper that feels almost meant for him alone, “More’s the pity.”

(When did he get so close? If Dirge were to swing his arm out just a little further, his elbow would surely brush Astarion’s–)

“The stone path hides their footprints.” Wyll points to the edges of the road, where the rocks have crumbled more into a mix of dirt and dust. From where he walks, Dirge cannot make out any distinct shapes, but the more he looks, the more a subtle pattern in the dirt seems to become visible. “A group has been through here, and recently too. Possibly as recent as yesterday, if I had to take a guess.”

“You have experience tracking?” Shadowheart’s eye, as green as the vibrant forest around them, peeks back over her shoulder, intrigued.

The warlock nods, a sheepish smile slowly dragging across his lips, “A little; I often have to catch game when I’m traveling along the Sword Coast, and it helps to know the basics. Trapping, tracking, which berries and mushrooms are edible.” The slight flutter of growing pride in Wyll’s eyes swiftly fades away, replaced again by that uneasy frown. “As a small group, we’ll slip past the patrols and any scouts the goblins have easily. The tieflings won’t have that luxury. They would be safer in the grove, but the druids won’t let them stay for much longer.”

He looks to Dirge again, his expression caught somewhere between approval, uncertainty, and worry, “...Your conversation with Kagha may have bought them a little time, at least. They’re doing everything they can do to protect their families, their children.”

“Why? Can’t they just make more?”

The silence all around is sudden and thick, a smothering cloud – save for Astarion, who has a hand pressed tight against his lips as he tries to hold in his laughter.
The elf’s eyes are clenched tight, and for but a moment Dirge sees him actually grin. Why does he try so hard to hide it? It’s a wonderful expression, amused and just a bit impish.

(A quick glint, a flash of Astarion’s teeth, and oh, don’t they look so terribly sharp–?)

On his right, Wyll very pointedly clears his throat, again drawing Dirge’s attention. Any approval he might have seen from the warlock moments ago has vanished, supplanted once more by that cold disdain. “No. They cannot be ‘replaced.’” With his stone eye and his ragged scars, he looks so untouchable, judgemental, imperious. “Every child is precious. They are these people’s futures, their families, their legacies.”

“Parents often risk life and limb for their children,” Gale adds, his tone decidedly more chipper than that of Wyll’s, “My own mother spent many a day of my youth getting me out of troubles, often of my own making!” The wizard’s eyes are miles away, lost in the echoes of happy memories of days long past. “Mind you, my perils were more of the scholarly sort, that of a young mage playing with the tumultuous strands of the Weave, and less–”

Wyll’s stern frown meets his gaze again, catching his eyes and refusing to let go, “Do you remember how worried Arabella’s parents were?”

Vaguely. It’s hazy now, more like the gossamer wisps of a fading dream than a memory, but after almost snapping the spine of that child, there was something about a gathering of tieflings shouting at some druids, wasn’t there? Was there a bear? He seems to remember brown fur and sharp, snarling teeth.

There were two faces that stood out from the rest – pale blue and lavender like the gentle pastels of the wildflowers crowding the edges of the road. Wide, frightened eyes flickering in a manic dance of shock and fury.

Gale nods, his eyes still lost in the middle distance, but the fond smile of moments before has faded into a look more morose, “...They were ready to confront a bear. Most inadvisable, but I suppose love does not bow to reason.”

It's a strange thought – those frail bodied tieflings would have stood no chance against such an animal, be it real or a druid in wild shape. But they had tried, hadn’t they? They had lashed and railed and threatened to force their way in, unarmed, undefended. The bear itself would have crushed them before they could move. It would have torn them in half with a mere swipe of its claws. What chance did they have against a beast like that, when they didn’t even know how to raise a sword to defend themselves?

“Hmm.” No matter how he presses his mind to the matter, it doesn’t become any clearer. Eventually he shrugs one shoulder, and admits as much. “I can’t say that it makes much sense to me. They struggle and they die, and then they’re sad about it.”

The wizard’s weary eyes again meet his, filled with that old, unfathomable sorrow, “No one truly enjoys death, friend. Especially not the prospect of their own.”

Wyll nods once in acknowledgement, solemn. “But some things are worth dying for.”

Are they? If the parent’s had died there, would it have accomplished anything? Kagha would still have had Arabella locked firmly in her clutches, or worse – pinned beneath the fangs of that pet snake of hers. Either way, the child would not have lasted long there, not without intervention. Dirge has little doubt that Kagha was hoping that the child would try to run. A convenient solution for the bitter old bat – no need to babysit her prisoner, and the rash actions of the parents would be the perfect excuse to skip the preamble and evict the tieflings immediately.

The other druids wouldn’t have cared – they were all chomping at the bit to banish the ‘hellspawn’ as it were, and they would gleefully use any excuse, any slight, to cast Zevlor and his hapless refugees back into the wilderness that had almost devoured them whole the first time.

And yet still, they tried. Why?

Is he supposed to want to jump in front of every dagger, every arrow, destined for some defenseless passerby? The thought feels foreign. Outlandish. Is this another one of those things that makes him wrong? Not normal?

“...How do they know?” he asks, voice as unsure as the sea of thoughts within his mind, “What makes dying ‘worth it’?”

At last, Wyll’s face softens to something more uncertain himself, but there’s still an air of determination about him, “That’s… not an easy question to answer. It differs for everyone.” He licks his lips, pensive. “...Picture something that matters to you, more than anything else…”

Dirge tries, he really does, but what is there for him to imagine? He knows nothing, but this – travelling through the wilds with this small group. A group only together because they share these parasites and a need to remove them. Dirge holds no delusions; if it was not for this shared affliction, the others would have had nothing to do with him – they would have left him, dazed and wandering on that beach.

“...Is it irreplaceable?”

It isn’t, is it? Not but an hour ago, Astarion was looking for a reason to dump the warlock, and it's not the first time – the elf is always looking for a way to cull their numbers. And it's not just him – a foggy memory billows, slowly, thickly to the surface, of sitting hunched around the campfire, hollow and hurting, and of Shadowheart staring at him. Biting her lip, considering: ‘...I think it’s time we forget about him.’

Gale’s voice – disembodied, surprised. As ghostly as the tendrils of fog rolling over the harbor in the morning: ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘...No time… Heavy burdens…. Dead weight.’

“...How would you feel, losing it?”

Yet, he wants to hold on tight. Why? What difference does it make? He knows nothing else, anyway – what are but a handful of half-forgotten days when he’s already lost what must have been a lifetime of memories?

Gale’s friendly warmth, passing him yet another bowl of food. Made with such tender care for all of them. Astarion’s razor humor and caustic barbs. That feeling of like-mindedness when he says something inappropriate and the elf is the only one to smile. Shadowheart’s sour face but gentle hands, healing wounds he doesn’t ever remember receiving. Lae’zel, rigid, taciturn, yet so expressive with her eyes as she hands him his sword. Try again. Again.

It's so little, but the thought of losing it?

To have absolutely nothing? To have the very last dregs stolen away?

At the lead, Shadowheart scoffs, shaking her head defiantly and sending her long plait up and over her shoulder. “We lose everything in the end, anyway.” Despite the bright light of the day, she appears like a veiled shadow gliding through the woods – a dark shroud, absorbing the sun. Even the glint of her armor seems duller than it should, like light cannot escape her orbit. “There’s no reason to hold on so tight – you’d be wise to let go, and cast it all off into the darkness.”

 

-x-

 

As the others speak on worthless istik values, Lae’zel keeps her eyes firmly locked onto the back of the pathetic cleric. Surely even one so useless, so oblivious, as Shadowheart must feel the burning presence of her gaze, feel the crushing weight of her judgement? If so, Shadowheart shows no contrition for her foolishness. As blind as she is stupid, clearly. K'chakhi.

“Hmm… I’ll admit it doesn’t make much sense to me. They struggle and they die, and then they’re sad about it.”

At last. For the first time since she’s come to this dreadful plane, someone speaks sense; of course, it is the drow. Addled and damaged as he is, his questions are not so dissimilar to the very children he speaks of, but the very purpose of the young is to be molded, shaped into dauntless warriors, and survive long enough to prove themselves in battle. The other istiks, particularly the wizard and the warlock, were already spoiled by the luxury of their soft, undemanding lives.

“No one truly enjoys death, friend. Especially not the prospect of their own.”

“But some things are worth dying for.”

More meaningless drivel. The only things worth fighting for were survival and the completion of her mission, and the only thing worth death was fulfilling the eternal will of her queen. To do any less was to shame her people, to sully their glory with her failure. Even in her final moments, she would remain dauntless, unbreakable, and bow to no other. Not to any parasite burrowing in her skull, nor some ghaik plot. When at last she fell, the astral would crack with her wrath, and all would know the name Lae’zel of Creche K’liir.

“...How do they know?” The drow asks, and the uncertainty in his tone displeases Lae’zel. The next time they cross blades, she shall have to dissuade him of these useless notions, before the terrible istik logic takes root in his skull. “What makes dying ‘worth it’?”

When she had hunted the grove for the tiefling ‘Zorru’, several of the druids had approached her. Where the tiefling cattle knew their place, bowing and scraping to avoid her gaze, the druids attempted theatre. They approached her with weapons drawn and stern faces, but she saw how their hands shook and their eyes darted like the nervous birds that roosted in the trees. She met their demands with silence, unbroachable, and under her gaze their spines wilted like the frail stems of the flowers that grew along the edges of the cobbled path.

This very world is weakness incarnate. Each creature on Faerûn trembles with every feeble breath, and then had the gall to be proud of it. Proud of surviving even the most basic of hardships. The burning sun only seemed to highlight this failure, dispelling the shadows and putting the farce of this existence on full display. Was this world proud of its ineptitude?

There was no sun on Creche K’liir. The astral was a deep, cosmic sea of darkness filled only with the distant pinpricks of light. In a world cast in shadows, there was only one light in which the githyanki people could trust – the unwavering brilliance of Vlaakith. Whose word was truth and whose gaze was a beacon that would see through falsehoods and failure. Imperfections would be revealed and appropriately culled, and from such fatal flaws instead flowed strength. Unity. Perfection.

Behind her, the warlock speaks. His voice is a quiet murmur, and sickeningly earnest, “That’s… not an easy question to answer. It differs for everyone. Picture something that matters to you, more than anything else. Is it irreplaceable? ...How would you feel, losing it?”

The slow meander of his words only vexes her further. Her answer, were she to be asked, is simple; she will slay the ghaik and ascend to the astral to further serve her queen, where doubtlessly her loyalty would be recognized. As long as she served and served well, her position would be secured, her valor unquestioned. There was no ‘loss’ to endure.

But perhaps the istiks were used to such failure, to feeling success slip through their fingers and lacking the strength to grasp it tight.

Ahead of her, Shadowheart scoffs and shakes her head, causing her plait to squirm like a treacherous snake, “We lose everything in the end, anyway. There’s no reason to hold on so tight – you’d be wise to let go, and cast it all off into the darkness.”

Lae’zel feels her lips pull back into a sneer. “Bah.” There’s a brief surge of satisfaction as Shadowheart startles at the the sound of her voice. “Is it common for istiks to lay on their bellies and writhe in fear at any sign of danger? A fine match for the worms in our skulls. Pathetic.”

Shadowheart does not deign to look over her shoulder as she responds, “No one here is afraid, gith, except perhaps you.” In any other circumstance, Lae’zel would not bide the disrespect nor the smugness of her tone, as slimy as a neogi’s eye sliced from the socket and left out to rot. “Have you found your creche yet? I know you’re keen to run back to it. Feel safer among the children?”

Her words, sharpened into barbs, find no purchase in Lae’zel’s skin – strengthened from years of training to be as solid as her heart of stone. “You claim bravery yet you cast aside anything that dares to slip from your fingers. You should savor every moment, clutch it tight, and claim it for yourself. Grasp it until the very last. Githyanki live by this creed – to do any less would bring shame to Vlaakith.”

“Vlaakith?” The drow asks. Lae’zel looks over her shoulder to see him looking back, eyes bright and interested. Good. Clearly his head had yet to be ruined by the nonsense of the rest of his kind.

“I’m amazed you haven’t heard the gith speak of her lich before, Dirge.” Shadowheart baits, fruitlessly. “Seems to be all she can think of–”

“Vlaakith, my Undying Queen, ruler of all githyanki. Her word is law, a sacred decree.” Lae’zel lets her voice resonate with an awe worthy of her queen, as strong and unwavering as the silver swords of the kith'rak who serve at her side in Tu'narath. “Every githyanki lives and dies in her service. It is an honor.”

Silence sweeps over the others like a heavy, awkward veil. It is no matter; ones such as they could never hope to understand a devotion such as hers to a queen so beyond their comprehension. The long hush that overcomes them is respect enough.

At last, it is the wizard who dares to speak up, but his voice is as feeble as the man himself is of body. “...I may not know a great deal about githyanki culture, but I have read that life in servitude of Vlaakith can be very harsh. Apparently most gith children do not reach adulthood.”

“They do not. The weak are culled from our ranks. If not by our enemies, then by our people. There is no place for the frail and the sickly among our numbers.”

“Would you die for her? Your queen?” The drow asks, curious but uncowed.

If he remains aware during their training sessions, then perhaps it is time she teaches him what it truly means to be a warrior. Any true fighter must be as sharp of mind as they are of arm.

“Without hesitation. When I breathe my last, it shall be at my queen’s behest.”

Again the group fades into quiet, but Lae’zel welcomes the peace. She’s had enough of their useless prattling for the time being.

The morning has long since passed and so has the afternoon, and the sun is beginning its slow descent back down to the horizon. It will be hours before sunset yet, but unless the wizard and the cleric are as incapable of deciphering a map as they are most other things, they must be nearing the bridge soon if they are to reach the abandoned village by nightfall.

Beneath her feet, the road at last splits in two – the larger cobblestone path they follow begins a slow hook back to the west, closer to the ravine and towards a dense thicket near its edge, perhaps a half kilometer ahead. The other route, a loose sandy trail, continues southerly, over a small ridge before descending down a slow slope. According to the gifted map, that way lay a marshy wetland along the shores of the river known as the ‘Chionthar’.

It had taken little for the group to come to a consensus – it was unlikely that even creatures so reprehensible as the goblins would choose to roost in such a miserable place. More to her concern, there was no reason her kin would develop a creche there, else she would have demanded that they search it regardless– the brine pools that housed githyanki eggs required close attention and careful maintenance. Such excessive moisture, uncontrolled, would surely mold and rot the eggs.

No, if those tieflings truly did see another gith, then it would not be to the south. It was more likely that her kin would choose the more rocky lands to the west and to the north, where the air was cooler and drier. The mountains held great promise, especially if they were full of caves and caverns, or better yet, abandoned temples or shrines. Such fortified locations made for excellent places to hide a creche, safe from prying eyes.

Still, she remembered her discussion with Gale from a couple days prior, and it still burned her to admit that he was right. Searching a mountain range for a hidden creche with no idea where to begin her search would be a waste of valuable time. While the effects of ceremorphosis were long overdue, Lae’zel was unwilling to completely throw caution to the wind – while the missing druid would not be able to remove the parasites, perhaps he would be more useful than the other druids of his grove. If this Halsin was truly their leader, then certainly he would have some knowledge of where she could begin her search.

As they approach the thicket, the road cuts a path through the trees, revealing a welcome sight – the bridge, as promised. It is an old, weathered thing, clearly as ancient as the road they have travelled to get here. Made with two great arches to cross the span of the ravine, it seems to be of serviceable shape to get them across, but its years are certainly numbered; the haunch on the northern side has partially collapsed, crumbling down into a great pile of debris in the river below.

Immense blankets of ivy cascade down its edges to bask in the gentle shafts of sunlight that filter through the trees, and their roots have dug into the architecture and burrowed deep. Where they burst through they have dislodged sections of the parapet leaving large, open gaps against the skyline beyond, like a broken set of jagged teeth. Someone has clearly attempted to cover the damage; there are a few planks placed over uneven gaps in the roadway and covering the missing edges of the parapet, but it seems the efforts were abandoned before they ever amounted to much.

The river below flows fast and strong, creating enough of a spray to maintain not only the ivy, but a thick carpet of moss that climbs up from the base of the arches to near the very top of the abutment.

The roadway itself seems to have seen frequent use, at least until recently – the path is clear of any growth except for a bit of decaying leaf litter caught between the stones, and near the peak of the arch there is the wreck of a wagon that looks quite fresh. Brown but with several of its supporting beams painted a blue like oxidizing copper, the paint is beginning to chip and wear away, but as a whole it is too complete to have spent any real time out in the elements. One wheel lays on the ground amidst piles of rotting produce and swaths of filthy, rank linen.

“Seems recent,” Shadowheart notes as they draw closer, “Abandoned in a hurry from the looks of it – they left their cargo.”

“What made them leave it, I wonder?” Gale ponders, running his eyes over the traveller’s chests nestled in the back of the wagon, their gleaming metal clasps still firmly secured. “Surely fixing a broken wheel wasn’t an insurmountable task.”

With sure strides, Lae’zel walks around to the far side of the wagon, where a few chests had slipped out the back and broken open on the stone below. There, the answer is plain for all to see – sunk deep into the wood of the cart are a dozen roughly hewn arrow shafts, each tipped with small brown feathers and secured with an oily, tar-like substance.

“Arrows. Likely the goblins used them for target practice.” She wraps her hand around one of the shafts and attempts to dislodge it, but the thing – for all its rough craftsmanship – holds fast into the wood.

Wyll is quick to her side, watching as she tries once more and fails again. “The barbs on those arrows are wicked, designed to easily slice deep into flesh and difficult to remove, as I’m sure Gale can attest. Hopefully whoever owned the cart got away unharmed.” His whole face softens as he gestures to the debris around them, “Items can be replaced, lives can’t. If it bought them time to escape, it was a fine trade.”

A cursory look through the chests reveals little of value; plates, spoons, a ladle, a hammer, a fork. Astarion slips his hand along the inner seams to find a small tear in the lining that hides a handful of coins and a book that seems to pique the wizard’s interest. Some of the produce in one of the sacks is salvageable, but the piles of clothes lying about have been exposed to the rain and have begun to rot with the wet.

The find is as disappointing as much of everything on Faerûn seems to be, but then Lae’zel feels a gentle pressure on her shoulder. Dirge stands next to her, gently tapping, his eyes narrowed and focused on a gap through the trees. She looks to where he points, further down the road to the west. There, half obscured by the growing shadows of the distant mountain ridges, rest the faint silhouettes of tall walls and the peaked roofs of buildings.

The abandoned village, surely.

“Well,” Shadowheart acknowledges, laying a hand over her eyes as she squints in their direction, “It seems the map is accurate after all.”

“Tch. Gawk less, and we may still arrive before sun down.”

In truth, they reach the abandoned town in less than an hour. The tumbledown stone walls have seen better days, but are well made, likely by the same hands that crafted the bridge and the road itself. The same stone too: a dusty grey granite with flecks of sun-warmed brown, a similar shade to the terracotta shingle tiles that cap the tops of the wall and the roofs of the houses beyond.

The gate itself is a masterful display of expert masonry, but stands completely defenseless. Two thick columns rise up into an impeccable stone arch that crests over the width of the road, and the wall itself rises up into three draped peaks that form an almost crown-like embellishment over the entryway. There are no doors to speak of, no portcullis to close against invaders – it does not strike Lae’zel as surprising then, that this place has been abandoned. For all the beauty of their craftsmanship, an open wall is as useful as no wall at all.

At the base of the gate, half obscured amongst a patch of tall, swaying grasses and fresh, young trees, lies the wreck of another wagon, but this one is ancient. Time and the elements have eaten away at its structure, leaving it little more than a moss covered, rotting husk.

High upon the wall is a large stone crest, smooth and intricately cut compared to the rough hewn rock slabs that make up the rest of the defenses. The details are fine, and hard to make out from a distance, but there seems to be a carving of a tower, far taller than anything in this small town, with a kingly crown floating above its spire. Two grand beasts stand guard on either side, massive, strange creatures that could be either bipedal, or perhaps trying to climb the tower? Possibly some very beastly humanoid, for their feet are paws and their tails are long and curling, their heads large and angular with sharp, dagger-like teeth. Both have tongues lashing wildly out of their jaws, caught in an eternal rictus of a snarl.

A strange creature to depict upon a wall designed to keep out man and monster, but perhaps such a carving was supposed to inspire fear into their foes. Or perhaps a ward to keep away such a disaster?

As they draw nearer, into the shade cast by the arch, Lae’zel leans closer to the wizard and points upward. “What is that beast? There, on the crest? I have never seen such an animal.”

“That appears to be a lion. Or well, a stylized representation of one.” Gale cheerfully replies, leaning heavily on his staff as he peers closer, “They’re often used to inspire feelings of royalty and strength. Majestic creatures, though the carved images are often made to look a bit more monstrous than reality.”

“Do they often grow as large as dragons?”

He laughs heartily, “No, another exaggeration I’m afraid. They are large beasts, and certainly not a creature to be underestimated, but in truth, they are far smaller.” The wizard gestures with a wave of his hand over towards the drow, who walks to her right, quiet but listening to the conversation intently, “About as long as Dirge is tall, and their shoulders would likely reach up to your hip, perhaps your lower rib cage. Large enough to be dangerous, and they hunt in packs.”

Dirge crosses his arms, studying the crest with a skeptical eye. After a long pause he asks, “...Should we be keeping an eye out for them?”

Gale shakes his head, “I doubt we’ll run into any lions in our time around here – while there are some large cats we could encounter, lions are native to–”

“I hate to interrupt your lesson, wizard, but eyes up.” As swift as an arrow in flight, Astarion hits the ground in a crouch and presses his body tight against one of the stone pillars of the gate. When no one else immediately moves to follow him, the elf rolls his eyes, his usual frown furrowing into exasperation. “Goblins. On the rooftops.”

That gets the group moving, but as a whole they are clumsy and unsure; Shadowheart roughly pushes her way past Lae’zel, hitting her arm in the process, and Wyll and Gale both move towards the wreck of the old wagon, with the wizard nearly tripping over the warlock as they both try to hide in the same spot. Luckily the wizard is out of sight when he loses his balance and falls with a quiet ‘oof’. Lae’zel herself (after sparing a quick moment to glare at the cleric and feeling a brief twist of vicious joy as Shadowheart’s shoulders flinch under the scrutiny) follows Astarion’s example, with one hand grabbing Dirge’s arms and leading him over to the same pillar that the elf rests against.

Lae’zel slides closer, pressing her ribs flat against the edge of the stone, her eyes quickly scanning the rooftops. The angle is poor – the road itself meanders up a hill towards the center of town, and the two buildings closest to the gate loom high overhead, obscuring their rooftops from view. It makes for an excellent vantage point for any goblins that may be hiding – each building is made up of large, rough-hewn stone foundations, their higher floors smoothed by stucco or crafted of wood, but as with everything else, time has taken its toll here. Walls have fallen down, sections of roofs have collapsed, curtains of ivy drape from the rooftops and cover windows and openings like a cloak. Trees grow thick and wild here, twisted, spindly things that wind their way out of crevices along the edges of buildings and from under the great boulders that line the street, providing even more cover.

The place looks thoroughly abandoned – signs of a life long lost still linger, but they remain lost under the same thick blanket of moss and ivy as everything else they’ve seen on this road thus far. To the left of the gate is a wooden platform, but the planks have greyed from years under the sun and thick black rot grows between the boards. It looks likely to crumble the moment someone puts any real weight on it. A pile of overturned buckets rests at the base of a water pump in the center of the road, the iron of the spigot a dusky orange from decades of rust. Upon a railing, someone wrapped a thick cord of rope that has turned green with age, and now the slack loops sway in the slow breeze.

Further up the path, Lae’zel can see the tips of a few more buildings, covered by the same terracotta shingles, but the rise of the hill obscures much. There’s a shape cast in shadow that might be the top of a well, and in the distance, the large sails of a windmill still twist in the breeze, the fabric split with great tears and ragged holes.

There is the softest touch of a hand on her arm – Astarion. Discreetly, he points to a collapsed section of the wall of a house. There, in the gloom of the shadows, there is a shade of a deeper black. A silhouette. Movement. A short figure, pacing slowly, back and forth; when the shape stops to turn, the light of the evening sun subtly gleams off of the edges of steel.

The shape, a goblin surely, slips further back into the hollows of the house, and another steps forward to the edge of the roof. Crouched low and dressed in leathers, they blend almost seamlessly to the color of the rooftop. In fact, were it not for the towering shape of their staff, Lae’zel might not have noticed them at all – topped with a gleaming skull and a thick plume of feathers, it casts a brief, dancing shadow on the path below as the goblin straightens and stretches their shoulders.

“Well,” behind her, Shadowheart whispers, voice as low as the rustling of the leaves in the wind, “I suppose we found one of Zevlor’s missing scouts.”

Lae’zel turns to see the twisted corpse of a tiefling that lies half hidden in the rotted out shell of an old log. It’s fresh enough that it only has the faintest whiff of decay about it, but it’s impossible to say what killed it; scavengers have mangled the carcass, and possibly made off with an arm and the tail. Its eyes are sunken hollows, its mouth agape and tongue missing – a few more days under a hot sun, and there’ll be no hiding its stench.

With slow, careful movements, Astarion sticks to the shadows as he pulls away from the stone pillar to straddle the corpse. While his deft hands check pockets and seams with a startling alacrity, he seems to find little to his liking, cursing low under his breath as each spot searched reveals nothing worthwhile. Frustrated though he may be, he still seems oddly at ease crawling over a carcass that’s soon to begin to bloat, its red skin already beginning to sweat and grow slick with the rot building inside.

There is no doubt that the elf feels the iron brand of her gaze – it is a subtle motion, but Lae’zel sees the way his shoulders tighten under her scrutiny, the sudden tenseness to his hands where moments before his movements were languid and fluid.

“I have studied istik society back during my training, though, admittedly, in no great detail.” While she keeps her voice quiet, Lae’zel makes sure to sharpen the suspicion in her tone, “Remind me, Astarion, what exactly is it a ‘magistrate’ does?”

For someone in love with the sound of his own voice, the silence is telling. The elf takes another full ten seconds to check the dead tiefling’s belt for a second time before sitting back on his haunches and making a show of wiping his hands off on the cleaner part of the body’s shirt. Astarion pointedly doesn’t turn to look at her as he glibly replies, “...I was a judge overseeing minor court cases back in Baldur’s Gate. I assure you, it was all very boring,” he rocks back on to his heels, standing slowly with an ease that can only be false, “but you pick up some tricks, dealing with criminals and the unfortunates.”

As he stands, he moves swiftly back to his position against the gate, as though their conversation never happened. Undoubtedly, he wishes it didn’t. Lae’zel remains unconvinced – the githyanki do not have magistrates, instead relying on inquisitors to enforce Vlaakith’s laws – but whatever lie the elf is telling is unimportant now. His skills are an asset, wherever he may have learned them.

Astarion looks briefly to her, before looking back towards the house where the goblins patrolled, his red eyes as sharp and uninviting as a razor, “But surely we have bigger concerns. What’s the plan?”

The house the goblins were in looks empty now, but there’s little doubt they’re still there; likely, the whole town is crawling in the creatures, hidden in the shadows and on the rooftops. To walk through the gate would be akin to walking into the hunter’s trap.

“Over there,” Wyll whispers, crouched next to one of the intact wheels of the wrecked wagon, pointing to the north, “It looks like the wall has collapsed. Maybe there’s a way past?”

It seems as though the village was built on top of a high bluff with the wall built around its base, but time and age have eaten away at the workmanship and brough the rockwork tumbling down into a large pile of rubble. What remains would indeed be a challenging climb, but from here Lae’zel can see a long trail of roots exposed to the air, and possibly a way up.

Astarion clicks his tongue, “Simple enough; I’ll go around the back, and slit a few throats. They’ll be dead before they know it.”

Lae’zel frowns, “You’ll not go alone. Take the warlock and the wizard with you.”

That red glare slices her way, annoyed and defiant, “I don’t need–”

She will not be cowed, and meets his gaze, unmoving, “There will be more goblins on the other roof. We will need to split up. You three take care of the ones in that building. The drow, the cleric, and I will walk through the gate.”

“Dirge, you should go first.” Shadowheart walks up to the drow, placing a hand on his shoulder. Lae’zel does not miss the subtle way he flinches under her touch. “Goblins and drow will sometimes work together; you might be able to buy the others time to get closer.”

“You trust him to speak for us?” Astarion hisses, livid.

The cleric shrugs, equally unfazed by their rogue’s temper, “He did well enough in the druid’s grove. Surely it won’t take you long to get into position?”

“I don’t like this,” Gale’s face folds into a worried frown, “He’s a half-drow. No drow is that tall, they’ll never fall for it – what’s to stop them from simply shooting him on sight?”

The warlock smiles at him placatingly, “Hopefully he looks close enough to buy some time. If they attack then we’ll just have to rush through – unless you can cast Invisibility on all of us, we’ll have to take a risk. If we all try to climb those roots, they’ll see us for sure.”

The wizard sighs, his shoulders drooping, “...And afterward?”

Lae’zel stares at him until Gale turns to look at her. She can see the doubt growing in his eyes, the sharp fissures of concern that have begun to dig in. They cannot afford cowardice. If he needs to take strength from her steel, then so be it. “Once inside, Dirge and I will go up to the other roof – you must draw their fire until we can get up that ladder. Cleric, you can follow if you choose, or cower down here behind the gate.”

“Excuse me?” Shadowheart’s voice gets dangerously loud with her surprise, “You’ll sing a different tune when those goblins–”

“Please.” Wyll implores, “Now’s not the time for bickering – the longer we sit here, the more likely we’ll be discovered. Come on, let's move.”

Without further complaint, Astarion, Gale, and Wyll all share one long look amongst each other, before crouching down and moving silently, carefully to the side of the wall. Lae’zel watches with a keen eye as they pick their way through the shrubs and fallen trees, pleased to see that despite their obvious shortcomings, all three of them have the sense to stick to cover and move slowly. The rogue takes the lead, with the slower, less able wizard following in the rear.

Would Gale even be able to scale the rubble? She is not so sure, but having him walk through the front gate would be foolish. Yesterday had proved just how well his robes withstood goblin arrows, and putting him at the front line would do little more than make him a prime target. A waste of a wizard. If Astarion led the others true, there was a chance at least that Gale would be able to get a better vantage point, and actually be of use.

Once the three of them disappear from view, she waits another full minute before turning to Dirge and giving him the signal. The drow nods once before moving into position.

With the greatsword in a relaxed grip, resting casually against his shoulder, he strides forward with confidence, to all appearances unaware of the trap waiting to spring around him. There is a strange duality to his form; simultaneously, he cuts both an imposing figure and yet is obviously vulnerable. Crude though it may be, his chainmail would withstand scrutiny from a distance, and between that, his massive height, and the length of steel he carries in his hands, it feels that only a fool would dare approach him. Yet, to anyone past those walls, Dirge is alone. An irresistible target.

Are the others in position? She doesn’t have long to wonder – Dirge manages to get almost as far as the water pump when someone calls out to him, calling him to a stop next to a stack of old barrels.

“Well well boys.” A distant voice calls out with an unmistakably goblin accent. “Looks like we got ourselves a trespasser.”

A figure appears along the edge of the building to the north, the same direction the others went. Once more, there is little to see from her position – the silhouette of a squat shape with a tall staff, adorned with a skull – but there’s movement beside them? Another goblin? The one from inside the building, or a third?

Unconcerned, Dirge stands boldly, one hand on his hip, the other still leaning the greatsword across his shoulder. He almost seems to invite the challenge.

From its perch, the goblin sounds terribly smug. “Don’t bother runnin’. My archers got decent aim, and plenty of arrows.”

And then, something changes. Dirge tilts his head, and his entire demeanor shifts. Gone is his usual wide-eyed look, leaving in its wake an expression altogether more… unnerving. Despite years of training, her heart picks up its beat, and her mind senses danger. “I’m not running,” he shouts back, voice louder than ever she’s heard it, and yet he’s calm. Almost unnaturally so. Slowly, his face splits into a baleful, manic grin, “And their aim won’t save you.”

It seems the goblin senses this too. Their voice changes immediately to something more wary, and Lae’zel can see the shadow of hands raised, appeasingly. “Hold up lads! This one might be more’n we bargained for.” There’s a long moment of near silence, save for the breath of the wind over the aging stones, and a murmur that can only be the other goblins discussing among one another.

On the road below, Dirge’s smile has not faded. If anything, it's deepened into a snarl.

“Go on then,” at last, the goblin calls out once more, “just keep your nose clean, yah? We wouldn’t want to have any trou–”

A loud clatter destroys the quiet; the sound of something crashing violently down to the ground below.

There, on the side of the building, Lae’zel can see them – Gale, Astarion, and Wyll – and the goblins can see them too. Wyll’s crouched at the edge of the roof, his hands wrapped around Gale’s as he tries to help the wizard up from the boxes haphazardly stacked against the old house. Beneath the warlock’s feet, a whole section of the shingles are missing. Less than three meters away from the goblins, Lae’zel can see Astarion’s white curls, and the gleam of his daggers.

“What’s this? Ya trying to be sneaky? Get ’em, boys!”

In a heartbeat, Lae’zel’s running forward through the gate, sword at the ready. Behind her, she can hear Shadowheart moving swiftly to follow.

From the rooftops, a flaming arrow blazes a glowing comet trail through the air, and the barrel beside Dirge erupts.

The blast hits her with a concussive roar, the force enough to throw Lae’zel off her feet and sideways into a pile of old, rotting lumber. For a long moment, she is unaware of anything but the spinning sky overhead, a loud, persistent ringing in her ears, and a raging, molten agony. The pain seems to come from everywhere, all at once, and then cool hands, grabbing her by her elbow. Pulling her up out of the pile of rubble, back to her feet.

It’s the cleric, of course, and for once she lacks her typical glower; instead, Shadowheart’s green eyes stare hollowly at the great plume of smoke that coils upward from where Dirge stood, mere moments ago.

“Tsk’va!” Lae’zel hisses. When she sees no movement from the blaze, she grabs the cleric’s shoulders, forcing eye contact. “If there’s anything left of him, you will put it back together!”

Shadowheart’s head bobbles twice as she nods, dumbly, but as Lae’zel reaches for her greatsword and drops it again with a hiss of pain, the cleric’s eyes refocus. The elf gives her head a shake as if to clear it, then grasps Lae’zel’s hand in hers, running two fingers wreathed in the blues and teals of her divine magic over the smoldering flesh; the touch is cold, almost unnaturally so, leaving an uncomfortable icy pins and needles feeling in its wake. Thankfully, the discomfort doesn’t last long as the Healing Touch does its work.

“Just a moment,” Shadowheart mumbles, her eyebrows furrowing with concentration. Despite her efforts, Lae’zel can still see the way her eyes occasionally dart off to the billowing bonfire just meters away from them. As if by an inescapable gravity, Lae’zel’s eyes are drawn there too.

Instinctually, she knows there is no way Dirge could have avoided the blast, and with no signs of him, she must assume the worst. She has a scroll of revivify in her pack, but while time is of the essence, the blaze is simply too hot. Meters away and yet the heat still threatens to burn her to cinders long before she would get close enough to revive the drow.

It leaves a slick feeling in Lae’zel’s stomach, an uncomfortable pit of disappointment that she can’t quite identify. It is… unpleasant.

Forcibly, she redirects her attention. Above them rises a cacophony as spells and arrows alike are slung in each direction; Lae’zel watches as Astarion’s dagger slashes deep into the shoulder of a goblin booyahg. The creature writhes and drops its staff, and with his other hand, the rogue pushes the goblin backwards, off the roof and to the broken cobblestone far below. Behind him, she can hear the warlock’s striking voice, and the thunderous crack of an Eldritch Blast.

Nearby, the burning rubble shifts, slowly collapsing inwards. It seems increasingly unlikely that Shadowheart will find anything to revive within the debris.

One less worm, she thinks, suffusing the thought with steel, yet the disappointment remains. It is a bitter feeling she is unfamiliar with. One less istik.

Then, the smoldering debris begins to… move. Strangely, it seems to be pushing upward and outward instead of crumbling, shivering in tiny increments. The top of the pile, the burnt out husk of half a barrel, shudders, and then rises up, up, wrapped in a dancing curtain of flame as it begins to fall away—

And from underneath, the drow emerges, alive – moving, crawling, getting to his feet, greatsword in hand. Shockingly, the man looks no worse for wear. Black patches of soot stain the padding of his chainmail and pants, and bright red blood cuts a vivid swath through his white hair, yet his face is still caught in its wicked grin.

She’s not the only one to notice – Shadowheart gasps, staring, her mouth agape. From high upon the rooftop, the warlock swears beneath his breath, astonished.

Though he staggers once he reaches his feet, the drow keeps moving forward – with dogged persistence, Dirge lopes toward the ladder, beginning his ascent.

The plan.

Up to the roof above, where two goblins and a summoned warg still await. Impatiently, Lae’zel moves to stand, but her hand is caught in Shadowheart’s iron grip – she attempts to wrench herself free, but to no avail – the cleric glares back at her, the glow of the healing spell still winding its way through her fingers and into the split, blistered flesh of Lae’zel’s right hand.

“Release me,” she demands.

“No,” Shadowheart’s glare is as cold as the ice of her magic, “I need just a moment more.”

“Kainyank,” as the final tendril finishes its work, Lae’zel yanks her hand free, “I care not for scars.”

As she dips low and picks up her greatsword, the cleric chuckles darkly behind her, “You say that now, but if you get any more, I imagine not even the toads would approach you.”

“Go heal the others. Make sure our wizard hasn’t expired.” Lae’zel snarls, dashing for the ladder, “Perhaps by the time you’ve done healing his slivers, the battle will be over.”

Across the street, the fight still rages; two goblins down, one still alive, and another has joined the fight from the ground below. The survivor lurks inside the shadows of the house the men stand on, shooting its bow up at them through holes in the ceiling. Astarion seems to take personal offense with that one, and he skulks around the gaps in the roof, exchanging shots. Gale and Wyll have moved to the western side of the roof, casting down at the booyahg on the street. The goblin seems to possess some modicum of cunning, however, using the moss-slicked boulders as cover from the barrage.

Surely, the fools can handle themselves. Lae’zel focuses instead on climbing, taking the ladder two rungs at a time, and reaching the rooftop in seconds. As she pulls herself over the edge, there is a hot snarling breath in her ear, and a quick dodge is all that saves her from the ravenous fangs of the warg.

The beast gives her no reprieve as it lunges forward, its fearsome jaws gnashing again and again. As long as she is tall, and many times heavier, the beast is relentless as it chases her, the terracotta shingles cracking and splintering under its weight. For once, she curses the length of her blade – could she properly stand, she could use it to deny her enemy ground, but for now it’s just getting in her way as she evades that hungering maw. At last, she lands a sharp kick from her heel to the warg’s nose, and as the beast squeals in pain she regains her feet and raises her sword.

The warg growls as it reels, shaking its head as if to banish the pain, but its advantage is well and lost. The creature prowls around her, snarling, but each feint forward is met with a swift slice of her greatsword – fast though it may be, it is of no match for her swordsmanship, and for each misstep it takes she takes a strip of its flesh in exchange.

The creature pants, seemingly understanding the standstill, and Lae’zel watches as its bulging acidic yellow eyes begin to wander – off to her right, over her shoulder. Predatory, opportunistic. Seeking easier prey. Lae’zel is no fool; she shifts her stance and puts her blade between herself and the warg, tilting her shoulders to watch both it and the fight beside her.

It seems the fire has taken a toll after all; Dirge stands tall, swinging his sword in vicious arcs, but while his face is still strung in that manic grin, he’s panting, his movements unusually slow, and the goblins are able to evade the worst of his strikes. Every time the booyahg attempts to cast a spell, the drow lunges for it, but as it scrambles away, Dirge is forced to hold and cover his flank as the other goblin moves in with its wickedly curved scimitar. While the blade is painted red with his blood, Dirge seems unaware of the wound – a ragged gash along the back of his hand, bleeding, but not serious. The goblins themselves sport a variety of knicks and cuts, and the booyahg’s left arm clutches at its staff with a white knuckled grip, soaked from shoulder to elbow in blood.

One wrong move on either side could turn this battle, and it seems the warg has a similar thought. The beast readies itself, preparing to lunge–

She won’t allow it. Lae’zel dashes forward, bringing her sword down in a great arc as the beast leaps through the air – it's a glancing blow, but enough to force the warg to the ground with a whine. It snarls again as it attempts to find its feet, but she is quicker, aiming for a quick slice to the fragile meat of its jugular. As blade meets flesh and blood spurts in a thick gush, the spell that summoned the beast tears itself asunder in an explosion of light – tiny sparks, not unlike those from a forge, burst free to float upon the breeze for but a moment before disappearing into ash.

Beside her, the goblin scout gives a joyous cry as its blade slices once more along the drow’s flesh when he lunges for the booyahg – a glancing blow, but certainly the drow is running out of blood to spill. Distracted by its success, the goblin fails to notice Lae’zel’s swiftly approaching presence.

As Dirge spins to face the goblin, she’s beaten him to it; one strike to its back knocks it off balance, and it twists as it falls, its face contorting into a mask of surprise and anguish. The goblin has no chance to regain its feet before another swing slices her blade deep into the meat of its belly, unprotected by its ragged set of leathers. From the wound, a font of blood pools between the shingles, the bright crimson garish against the dusty orange of the terracotta, and slowly the gore weeps, dripping to the ground below.

The booyahg seems to realize it’s time is limited, and it attempts to run, but the drow is swift to follow. Without the scout to dog at his heels, Dirge keeps up and brings his sword down on the back of the goblin’s legs with a wicked swing. The goblin falls to its knees with a shriek, rolling as it tries to avoid another slice, but its legs won’t hold it – as it tries to stand back up, it crumples again, its eyes wide with fear, begging uselessly for its worthless life.

Dirge chuckles, a low, deep rumble, and drops his blood-slicked sword as he circles around the booyahg. The thing continues to plead and simper as he moves his hands in a complicated series of gestures. Languidly, a bright mist forms, coiling up his arms like a flickering serpent; white tendrils dance from the spell's edges like lashing tongues, and the air sizzles with the promise of thunder.

Chest heaving, Dirge mutters a quick word under his breath and thrusts his arms outward – the magical energy bursts forth with a roar and a rush of air like a raging windstorm, throwing the goblin high into to the air and then soaring down on to the cobblestones below.

It doesn’t survive the drop – the goblin falls and hits its head on a boulder with a sickening wet snap that leaves no doubt.

Seemingly pleased with his kill, the drow bends to retrieve his weapon, and Lae’zel turns to survey the battle – or what’s left of it. It seems at last the others have finished the goblins across the way; Shadowheart has done what the men could not, chasing the last remaining goblin down and striking it with a strong blow of her mace to its skull. It folds to the ground with a dull thud, and the cleric gives it a dismissive kick with her foot. Possibly to check for signs of life, or perhaps merely out of frustration.

“It seems the wizard teaches you well,” Lae’zel remarks as Dirge stands by her side, his blade once more resting against his shoulder. The left one this time – his right arm hangs by his side, mostly limp, painted red with his own blood. As he nods, he drags the palm of his injured hand across his face, and Lae’zel sees the fire’s mark; a large swath of bubbling blisters run from his ring finger to his elbow, and another, smaller burn near his neck that curls up behind his ear. The skin is a mottled shade of pink and slick with a clear fluid that weeps from the wound, but in truth the damage is not near what Lae’zel would have expected after such an explosion.

The moment passes, long and silent, and while the drow watches her closely, he does not speak. Has he once again lost the ability? It’s no secret that normally as the day wanes, his faculties fade with it, but for now he seems aware. His eyes are clear and bright, calculating. Whatever ailment cripples him, it does not yet have him in its claws for the night.

A promising sign – it is unlikely that these were the only goblins in the ruins of this village. Undoubtedly, there will be more fighting yet before the sun sets.

“Dirge! Are you alright?” Across the street, Gale stands on the edge of the roof, exuberantly waving a hand in their direction. When Dirge turns to look his way, the wizard’s face brightens with a glad smile; despite numerous scorch marks and acid stains (and interestingly, one large pool of grease that slowly drips down the tiles) surrounding him, the wizard seems more or less unharmed. Blessed with the luck of fools, she supposes. “I must admit, when that whole debacle took such a disastrous turn for the worse, I thought our adventure to be doomed before it even begun–”

Crouched next to one of the massive holes in the roof, Astarion sighs loudly, the sound as pointed as his daggers. “A debacle of your own making, might I add – I’ll take no responsibility for your failures,” he snipes, far less amused. The rogue casts a scalding look over his shoulder at Gale and Wyll, the latter of which has the sense to look embarrassed, “Honestly, you couldn’t manage to climb up a few crates?”

“I’ll admit, the err was mine.” Wyll shrugs, his voice nauseatingly apologetic as he eases his way to the eaves, searching for a lower ledge from which to safely jump, “I tried to help, and when I went to brace myself, the wall began to give way beneath me.”

Astarion rolls his eyes as he slips down through the hole, into the ruin of the house below. Lae’zel can’t see where he lands, but the elf makes sure to raise his voice so all can hear his displeasure, “Next time stealth is required, I go in alone… Amateurs, eugh.”

While the warlock may look appropriately cowed, the wizard is altogether more indignant, shifting his shoulders in his irritation, “I assure you, I am no amateur; though, admittedly, my field of expertise is more the intellectual than the athletic.” Despite using his staff as a walking stick, Gale hobbles slowly down the slope with hesitant, stumbling steps – beneath him, the old wood groans and complains treacherously. “I’m a scholar, not a cat burglar.”

“Case in point,” he continues, one shaky hand reaching out to hover cautiously over Wyll’s shoulder, “I feel it prudent to correct myself on a matter of our earlier conversation. It came to me during the fight that calling a group of lions a ‘pack’ is incorrect. In fact, the proper nomenclature is a pride–”

Suddenly, the wizard slips – as his boot touches the grease, Gale slides forward and begins to fall. Arms pinwheeling wildly, he drops his staff and desperately tries to regain his balance, but it’s a fruitless effort – teetering, one hand grabs Wyll’s arm just as his feet go out from under him, clumsily dragging them both off the roof and into the overgrown shrubbery below.

The pair of fools land with a miserable groan, slick with grease and covered in leaves and debris. Shadowheart is quick to reach them, crouching and checking for broken bones. Regrettably, beyond some bruising, it seems the only real damage done is to their dignity.

Lae’zel rolls her eyes, “Chk. I find myself less concerned about this ‘pride of lions’, and more disappointed with the pride of wizards.”

Shoulders slumped, Gale meets her gaze, sheepish and pitiful. Lae’zel blows a harsh breath out of her nose, and gestures for Dirge to follow her down the ladder – as much as it burns her to admit, her irritation serves no one. Someone has to stand guard while the istiks are put back together, and she harbors no delusions of subtlety – after that ruckus, any goblin still alive in the town surely knows of their presence.

 

-x-

 

By some blessing of Vlaakith, the other goblins remained completely unaware of their arrival, and by the time the sun set two hours later, another thirteen goblins lay dead, killed by their hands.

While the village was indeed infested, as the tiefling paladin had predicted, the goblins had put up only the most meagre of resistance. The group had taken turns spotting the creatures in amongst the wreckage of aged istik buildings – some scouts they found were patrolling the other entrances of the town; one had had been skulking about the rooftops; another had fallen asleep in the sunlight, leaning against an old, crumbling chimney; and yet another they found had wandered up and down the streets, stumbling about in a blind, drunken stupor.

Unsatisfying kills, all of them – most of the goblins were on their own, or in pairs, and without the benefit of numbers, they were weak and easy to defeat. Once flushed out of the brickwork, the scouts died swiftly, unable to raise either defense or alarm.

How the goblins had missed the commotion they made upon entering the village remained a mystery, at least until they drew near the old windmill to the north west. There, a small horde of goblins had gathered around a dark-skinned gnome that they had caught, and tied to the sails. The goblins took great pleasure in taunting and throwing sharp rocks at their captive, loudly laughing and jeering as the gnome whirled helplessly through the air.

That had been a far worthier fight, but still the goblins were cowardly creatures – once their leader fell, the survivors were effectively routed, and dropped their weapons as they fled. Lae’zel and Dirge had followed swiftly on their heels, cutting the goblins down as they ran for the trees. Astarion in particular took great pleasure in this sport; laughing as he shot any who managed to escape their blades.

Unsurprisingly, the wizard proved himself again their greatest fool by trying to plead the goblins’ case. Face tight with worry, Gale claimed the goblins were of no threat now that they had surrendered, and that they had dropped their weapons and were running away. That it was unnecessarily cruel to hunt the creatures down as they ran screaming into the woods. A ridiculous, predictable notion for the soft-hearted and the witless; what had been less expected, was the warlock’s vehement response.

Where Gale had balked and hesitated, Wyll was firm – he shook his head and bit back that goblins could not be trusted, that they were foul creatures. That, left alive and given half the chance, they would regroup in the dead of night and return in larger numbers. That now that the scouts knew of their existence, they could not be allowed to live.

It was the first time Lae’zel found herself agreeing with the Blade of Frontiers. Regrettably, it would also likely be the last.

Now, while the others clear out the basement of the old alchemist’s shop, Lae’zel finds herself walking along the streets above, lighting a few of the lanterns and torches she finds hidden amongst the rubble. At first, it seemed a terrible risk to take, but she changed her mind the more she thought on the matter; if any goblins were out in the woods with plans to return to the village for the night, then the lack of lights would cause them suspicion enough.

Nearby, Dirge lingers, using his newfound magic to help light the torches. The drow’s hands move with a subconscious ease as he performs the somatic gestures, but he remains silent, his voice absent since the explosion.

Any other person, any other time, it would be a more troubling concern.

But tonight, Dirge may be mute, but he is abnormally aware, his eyes bright and curious. It seemed a waste to cram herself down in the cellar with the rest of them, and ignore such an opportunity–

(--And as much as she loathes to admit it, her legs are restless and her mind troubled. The worm weighs on her still, and the only cures she has ever known to doubt were the strengths of her blade.)

Once they have the street lit well enough that neither of them are liable to trip and fall on their own swords, Lae’zel gathers her weapon and assumes a fighting stance. Dirge moves to mimic her, and soon they stand in the center square of the town with the tips of their blades crossed, muscles tight, ready to spring.

He won’t move first, Lae’zel knows. He will wait for her, and she will make him wait. Make him feel the burden of holding the sword aloft, ready to strike – a well-made greatsword weighs deceptively little for its massive size, and a man of his stature should have no problems wielding one, but the drow’s arms still remain weak from whatever captivity he endured before the Nautiloid. While he was capable of impressive ferocity during a skirmish, a longer battle would quickly wear down his energy, leaving him slow and vulnerable. A liability.

Lae’zel draws in a slow breath, tilting her head as she studies his form; perhaps that thought is unfair. Six days out from ghaik infection, and the difference in the drow is readily apparent – with every day that passes, Dirge speaks clearer, moves faster, is more aware. So thin that his flesh appears stretched over his bones, like the sharp juts of his hip and collar could tear through his skin at a moment’s notice, but there’s a thin layer of fat and muscle beginning to develop on his frame. A slight rounding to his gaunt cheeks that makes him look more man than skeleton.

In this short time, even his stance has improved. He still seems to subconsciously expect a smaller blade, such as a shortsword or a dagger, but he’s learning to relax his shoulders, to trust the length of his sword. That he no longer needs to close the distance to be effective – perhaps the greatest boon of the greatsword was its reach, and its ability to deny an enemy ground. For someone as tall as he is, that strength is doubled.

With no warning, she pulls back her sword and strikes, aiming first for his shoulder – his reflexes do not disappoint, and he meets her blow for blow. Despite the drow’s amnesia, the man’s muscles remember their lessons of the past; she has seen the way he flinches at an unexpected touch, his surprise when he gets offered food or healing. The open hunger in his eyes when death is close.

Three more quick strikes, and three more parries, though, concerningly, he flinches on the third. Very unusual for the drow, but a glance reveals the issue – Shadowheart had used her magic to heal Dirge’s burns, but she had been unwilling to use all her strength until they were sure the village was safe; by the time they had set camp, her reserves were low and there was little more she could do but tightly wrap the wounds with promises that they wouldn’t scar. Now, fluid has begun to seep through the bandages, spotting the fabric a pale, milky yellow.

Each time their blades collide, the force must travel down his sword, and agitate the wound. It must hurt fiercely.

Clenching her teeth, she whirls her blade, aiming for his right hip – once, twice – ensuring that every parry is painful. Good.

She will offer him no quarter, for neither will the enemy.

There was still the mystery of how Dirge had been able to survive not only the explosive blast of the barrels, but being trapped underneath the burning debris. The wizard in particular was vexed by it, circling through numerous underdeveloped theories and hypotheses, to no avail, and while Dirge himself could nod or shake his head to the countless questions Gale and Shadowheart posed, the drow seemed to not properly remember what happened himself. His brow had crinkled with its usual look of confusion when they pressed him for answers, and when his coal dark eyes had glanced to her, looking for a reprieve, she agreed – it had been enough.

In the end, what did it matter? He had survived a blow that would fell most others, then rose to fight again. Alone she could not have easily taken the goblins on that roof, and with the others so busy giving their position away to the enemy and falling from roof tops, she knew no help would come from them.

A flourish of her blade, a wide, forceful slash, and this time Dirge shudders with a painful grunt, his greatsword dropping from his hands. With a tender touch and shaking fingers, his left hand hovers cautiously over the bandages that wrap his arm, his shoulders slumped with defeat. His eyes are apologetic, and chagrin wars with the pain that lances across his brow. As though it were a physical force, Lae’zel swears she could feel his frustration swirling in the air around them.

Disappointment coils tight around her heart, clashing with her other feelings, too turbulent to name. Harshly, she wedges her foot beneath his weapon, kicking it closer.

“Retrieve your blade,” her voice is as the Astral Sea, endless and cold, yet there is a brittleness to it that is unbecoming, that she would deny to her last breath. When Dirge’s wide-eyed regret crumples ever so slightly further, she sighs and attempts to soften her tone. Useful though he may be, he seemed to still suffer that same soft, istik underbelly; a weakness to be cut out. “You must not falter; your enemy will give you no mercy. Fail, and your body will be left in the woods to rot. No one will remember you.”

With a slow, stiff motion, the drow dips to gather his sword in his left hand, his right still pressed awkwardly against his ribcage. Fine tremors wrack the limb, climbing up his arm and into his shoulder. He breathes heavy and fast, and a curtain of exhaustion weighs him down.

The bandage is stained. Damp.

Perhaps it has been enough for the night. A wound pushed too far becomes permanent.

“Tell the cleric I will hold her to her word – if that wound scars,” Lae’zel rests her greatsword against her shoulder, relaxing her stance even as her face tightens with irritation, “then I shall inflict the same on her, twofold. I will not tolerate her inadequacy.”

He dips his head, and she gestures to him to help put out the torches, “Come, let us put these out, and I shall deliver you to the wizard – he’ll be eager to resume your lessons.”

 

-x-

 

In the safe confines of his tent, Astarion holds aloft a small, red vial by the light of a candle, and wonders if his plans have changed.

It was Shadowheart who stumbled over the hatch for the apothecary’s cellar, and a search for supplies quickly turned into a discussion on where to camp for the night. Previously, the old blacksmith’s basement held the most promise; most of the buildings above ground in the town were in shambles with whole sections of walls collapsed, ceilings caved in, and floors rotted clear through. The streets themselves reeked of something foul as the goblins apparently relieved themselves wherever they pleased; the old well in the center of the village seemed to be a particularly popular spot, and the smell there was strong enough to make even Astarion’s eyes water.

Where the blacksmith’s basement was too large, drafty, and wretchedly damp, this place seemed to fit all of their needs. Well hidden and relatively intact, the cellar walls held in the heat of Gale’s campfire without the risk of suffocating them, and the large piles of old record books and ledgers made for ample kindling. The floor plan consisted of two rooms joined together, separated only by a single raised step that ran the length of the floor. On the far side from the ladder from which they descended were some old wooden room dividers and a massive desk covered in sheafs of paper and a few old quills. Across its surface spread the large black stain of an inkwell upended years ago.

Astarion, surely chosen for his sharp eye and discerning taste, had been assigned to looting the place. While the others broke down the old furniture and set up tents, he dug through the old barrels and crates and sorted through the many shelves lining the walls. Obviously the goblins had never found their way down here, as there was a veritable treasure trove of supplies to be discovered; dried herbs that the wizard deemed still useful, a collection of potions (mostly small little vials of a potent healing mixture, old but still good, but there was also an elixir of poison resistance, only slightly discolored), and one other vial.

At first glance, Astarion had thought it to be just another healing potion, but there was something… unusual about it. Something about its weight, the way it swirled thick in its glass – just a little too viscous to be the potion he thought it was. With a careful hand, he discreetly pulled the cork free, and gave it a whiff. It was faint, barely perceptible, but sour notes not entirely unlike spoiled milk met his nose. A familiar smell, so similar to the simple toxins he used to coat his daggers, but this was certainly bullywug trumpet, but distilled to be far more potent.

Whoever crafted the thing certainly had no honest use for it; it shared both the color and vial design of the many healing potions that surrounded it, yet if it was anywhere near as potent as it smelled, then this was something far more deadly.

Instinctively, Astarion discreetly slipped the small bottle into one of his pouches, cautiously watching the others from the corners of his eye; luckily, they were all too wrapped up in their own tasks to notice his distraction or his sleight of hand.

Now, nestled in his own tent, he rolls the vial back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, pondering his options. As much as he wishes it were otherwise, he’s well and truly out of time – he needs blood, and the half-drow remains his best candidate. With each day that passes, Dirge grows in strength and becomes more and more aware while Astarion himself grows weaker. Exhaustion drags at his limbs, weighs on his mind – it's been two whole days since he’s been able to catch anything to bleed except for one measly squirrel, and that was little more than a mouthful. Where the others stride easily through the forest, Astarion finds himself struggling to keep up – it's only a matter of time before the others choose to abandon him.

It has to be tonight, or never.

With a deft hand, Astarion reaches out and pulls open his tent flap – just a crack. Over the last few days he’s become a keen eye at observing the others, and it brings him a small measure of comfort against the bubbling anxiety rising in his sternum that tonight seems the same as any other. With dinner still on the fire, each one of the fools falls into familiar habits to pass the time, though, perhaps, with a few quirks.

The cleric has retreated to her tent for her nightly prayers, and from here Astarion can just pick up the low whisper of her voice speaking of absence and loss. A grim subject for a woman of the cloth, for sure, but any further prying is quickly dissuaded as the gith begins to sharpen her sword on a whetstone; while not overly loud, the sliding hiss grates on Astarion’s ears in a way Godey’s voice could only dream of.

Over by the campfire, Gale trains their amnesiac in the ways of magic – now that the lessons have begun to bear fruit, it seems the wizard is trying a new tactic; he has Dirge place a hand against his chest, palm over his heart, and a gentle purple spark dances along the connection. Whatever the lesson is meant to teach, Astarion has no idea, nor does he care – he’s heard the wizard prattle on about his precious ‘Weave’ enough times to simply tune the man out entirely.

With a wary eye, the monster hunter stands over the cooking pot, stirring distractedly – he seems particularly perturbed at the sight of their group’s newest acquisition. Without herald or fanfare, that moldering corpse from the musty old temple has managed, somehow, to shamble its way to the edges of their camp, entirely unnoticed. How the damned thing found them, Astarion will never know, but the look on Wyll’s face as he first spotted the wraith and raised the alarm was priceless – rushing off to his pack to draw his rapier, he nearly dropped it again in shock as he realized he was alone in his charge.

Gale had taken pity on the man, surely, miraculously keeping his face to a genial smile as Astarion cackled in his tent. Wyll seemed dumbfounded as the wizard spun his tale, as he explained that they had met this particular cadaver before, and no, no one really knew what it wanted. That it was sentient and seemed to be harmless, as fond of riddles and inane questions as though it had stumbled straight from some fairytale book and into their lives. This didn’t seem to relax the warlock any, and still Wyll continues to stare at the wraith, one hand still hovering over the hilt of his weapon.

Astarion clicks his tongue with disdain; likely, the man was warring with his instinctive need to destroy anything his righteous morals deemed ‘aberrant’.

To its credit, the corpse seems utterly disinterested in all of them; an utter farce as it must have made great efforts to follow them all this way. While it drags its mercury dark eyes over the shambles of their campsite, it seems indifferent, almost annoyed, though it seems that its gaze often rests by the fire. Fear of the blaze, perhaps? Or a cold body craving warmth?

Astarion supposed he could sympathize with that, though he’d never admit it. Cazador could strap him again to the breaking wheel, and that secret would follow him to his second death.

But, despite the oddities of the night, the others seem none the wiser for his designs. Design, he thinks, may be an auspicious word. Plan, maybe, but thought may fit better – he’s been wracking his mind for days, but has little to show for it.

The first order of business is to get the half-drow away from the rest of the group. Days of observation has shown him that Dirge consistently likes to sleep as far away from the others as possible, but still close enough to feel the warmth of the campfire, so tonight Astarion had moved first, and staked his claim on the most likely of spots. Sure enough, Dirge took one look at his half built tent and instead hauled his armful of fabric deeper into the cellar, into the darkest corner next to a crumbling old wardrobe. Still not ideal, of course, as the cellar is too small to make much of a difference, but at this point Astarion will take any advantages he can get.

The next step in his plan was to grab some sort of aid – be it spell or potion – that would help keep the amnesiac unconscious while he drank his fill, but… well, nothing is ever so simple, now is it? Astarion had scoured every last nook and cranny of that damned druid’s grove, but to no avail; was it really too much to ask for a Scroll of Sleep or of Silence? It didn’t need to be anything fancy, just something to keep the man asleep, or, if necessary, keep him quiet while Astarion ensured his secret was kept.

(Admittedly, he wasn’t sure how well some of these things would even work on a half-drow; elves, he knew, by their very nature, were immune to forced sleep, but half-elves? That was more of a mystery, and one he could ill afford.)

Astarion also didn’t relish the idea of Dirge waking while he still had his fangs in the man’s throat, but surely he would come out on top – the half-drow was larger and stronger than him, even as emaciated as he was, but Astarion surely was faster and certainly knew his way around a blade better. Perhaps he could turn Dirge’s confusion against him? Whisper assurances and sweet nothings as he covered that stupid mouth and slit his throat–

The idea of that much blood so close sends a cold shiver through Astarion’s limbs, but such an ending would come with its own perils. One shout would be all it took to bring the whole camp down on his head – and even if he escaped immediate detection, what then? The bite of a vampire is not exactly subtle, and it would take no genius to suss him out. No, if he is forced to kill the man, there may be merit in purposely savaging the corpse, and making up a story about some rogue animal that found its way in?

Astarion breaths a harsh sigh through his teeth – no. It sounds far-fetched even to his own ears; it’s unlikely the others would believe him, unless of course wargs have learned to climb ladders and maul people silently in the middle of the night. It would call into question his perception, letting such a beast wander freely into the camp unnoticed – at best, the others would drive him into the woods to fend for himself until ceremorphosis took him, and… Well, at worst, undoubtedly the cleric would know just how to handle a vampire, and with all the furniture they’ve broken down to feed the fire, the more zealous among them are in no shortage of stakes.

Briefly, Astarion considers simply hiding away Dirge’s body, should the man happen to perish, but there’s no way he could get someone so large up a ladder like that by himself without waking their entire party anyway. And what excuse would he use even if he did manage it? The half-wit got up and wandered himself out of camp in the middle of the night, never to return? Idly, Astarion frowns and bites at his lip, letting one fang worry at the skin. No, the others would never buy it, and likely the wizard would demand that they do some fool thing like form a search party.

But. In his palm rests that vial, its thick liquid swirling. The light from the nearby candle glows through the edges of the glass, painting his hand in swathes of brilliant crimson, What if Dirge were to get up, in the middle of the night, complaining of his burns? A simple healing potion would do wonders to relieve such pain, and he would only need to–

“Istik.”

Bright golden eyes gleam at him from the shadows just outside his tent. Astarion startles so violently that he nearly drops the vial and chokes inelegantly on his spit – the vial, he saves, catching it by its cork just before it can hit the ground and shatter. His dignity, he thinks, coughing brokenly, he cannot, “B-by the fucking gods, Lae’zel, don’t sneak up on me like that.” One hand covers his cough as the other deftly slips the vial back into his pouch, where no prying eyes can find it.

The gith looms over him, the sharp lines of her face callous, disapproving. “You are our rogue. I should not be able to ‘sneak up’ on you.”

A litany of witty replies come to mind, but all Astarion can focus on is the sharp fluttering in his chest. Nervousness. An anxiety he would hate to call fear. Instead, he draws in another harsh breath and forces himself to be calm; the best lies are told with the straightest face – perhaps he can take inspiration from their stone-faced gith. “What do you want?”

Lae’zel presents the dish in her hands – having long ago forgotten what food tastes like, Astarion can’t say exactly what it is. Meat, of some sort. Possibly with vegetables? It’s covered with a thick brown sauce, and steams invitingly in the air. For a brief moment, he forgets his irritation, feeling instead only a vast emptiness in the cold shell of his flesh; how wonderful it must be, to take that warmth, and pull it inside our deepest self?

“The wizard tasked me with bringing you food.” She sighs, her eyes narrowing. He doesn’t need a psychic brain worm to sense the waves of exasperation that roll off her, “I do not understand why. You rarely eat.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t fault him for trying.” He definitely can – while he envies the heat, he does not care at all for the smell of that dish. It’s mostly heavy, somehow, but there’s a pungent, caustic smell that’s making his stomach roil – could that be garlic? Fighting to keep his face from folding into a grimace, Astarion takes the dish and puts it down on the ground, as far away as he can manage without getting up. “His cooking rarely sits well with me, but… let's keep that a secret. Wouldn’t want to go about hurting his feelings.”

Lae’zel, of course, does not catch his hints for her to leave, instead shifting her weight onto one hip, crossing her arms. “Tch, yes, I suppose. Lest he begins to cry. A tragedy.”

“Oh, sarcasm. I wasn’t aware you were capable.” Lae’zel takes no offense, simply arching one of her eyebrows. A surprisingly elegant look for a warrior so crass; Astarion knows a great many people in Baldurs’ Gate would pay for brows as fine as hers. With a deep, unnecessary breath, Astarion forces his face into a rictus of a smile, but cannot help the condescension in his tone. “But yes, I fear it would break his heart to hear the truth.”

“Break his heart? …Is that a common affliction, for istiks?”

“What? No, I mean… It’s just an expression, Lae’zel.” Scowling, he raises a hand and waves her away dismissively, “Go back to your whetstone, I’m going to rest before my shift.”

“Tch, make sure that you are more aware during your watch. I would not have any of our number die for your ineptitude.”

“Good night, Lae’zel.” With a dramatic flick of his wrist, Astarion grabs the edge of his tent flap, and pointedly pulls it shut again with a snap.

She lingers for another moment or two, and through the gap at the bottom of the fabric, Astarion watches as she stalks away, back in the direction of her tent. Sure enough, the obnoxious sound of the whetstone grinding quickly reaches his ears, but as awful as it is, it's far less annoying than her company – any other time, he could put on a charming smile and lie his way through it, but anticipation bites fiercely at his nerves the same way Godey’s hot pokers would once burn at his flesh. He feels no physical pain now, of course, but even in the kennels there was the knowledge that the worst was always still to come – Godey did so like his toys, and his routines. Burning flesh was like foreplay for the sick son of a bitch; the opening act to a true theater of pain.

Is he being melodramatic? Possibly. Likely. From the depths of his skull, unbidden, comes the tinny voice of Cazador, chiding him for his histrionics. Cease your fidgeting, it’s unbecoming. The sharp prick of clawed fingers, digging into the meat of his cheek. The burning crimson eclipse of his gaze, boring into Astarion’s very core. Repulsive little wretch. The memories ghost his skin like the press of phantom fingerprints, the touch a brand it seems he will never be able to forget.

For now, Astarion settles himself into his bedroll, and attempts to trance. Tonight has to be perfect, and he needs the rest to ensure he’s at his best. The thoughts in his mind are uncontrollable, a whirlwind that circles madly between fear and desire, but he tries to crush the feelings in a cold grip – would Cazador balk at taking what was his?

For the first time in centuries, he is his own man – free of all bonds and chains; fretting over shades of the past would do him no favors. Trembling over memories is what slaves do, and he is a slave no more.

 

-x-

 

The hours had passed, long and miserable, and as the blinding pain in his arms finally began to fade into a blessed numbness, Astarion found himself slipping in and out of a delirious half-sleep where dreams crawled across the walls like waking nightmares; from every shadow, a set of cold, hollow eyes would watch with an empty gaze. Accusing. Betrayed. ‘Why would you do this to me?’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he would mumble back, mouth clumsy and aching from where Godey stole his teeth, ‘I didn’t have a choice.’

The denials did nothing to dismiss the sorrow in the eyes of those shades, the anger, the anguish. They hid in the shadows of the kennels, waiting, arms outstretched every time the lights began to flicker–

A new sound, an unusual one – footsteps down the hall, hands on the door. A step firmer and surer than Godey’s shuffling gait – one of his siblings? Unlikely. They would never admit it, but each and every one of them was just as afraid of this glorified torture chamber as he is. Perhaps Petras had come here to taunt him? The overbearing fool was an unassailable coward, always the first to bend the knee and lick the master’s boots, but Petras could never resist an opportunity to pour salt in Astarion’s wounds, and with Godey having just stepped out and the master preoccupied–

The door opens, not to Petras’ pale, weaselley face, but instead to a figure slighter in frame, yet far more opposing – twin blazing irises, the color of blood, glow back at him from the shadows. That iron pull in his core, yanking him forward, demanding that he obey.

The master.

A sudden wave of fear washes over him, an icy ache in Astarion’s chest – reflexively, he squirms in his bindings, desperate. Behind him, his broken arms have been lashed to an iron bar just above his shoulders, and the stretch and strain sends a renewed shower of burning shards of fire down his triceps, his trapezius, along his ribcage. The pain is immense – he would scream if he had the breath in his lungs, if terror had not stolen his voice.

All the better he does not; the master enjoys his screaming, loves it when he ‘sings’ – better to not encourage another session so soon.

“After all these years you still find new ways to disappoint me”, the master sighs, though for all the annoyance and disgust he radiates, a smile pulls at his thin lips – he is merely waiting for another slip up, another excuse to punish him further. In the oppressive silence of the kennels, the master’s footsteps echo so loudly, “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I, who sees everything?”

“Mu…muh…” Pain lights through his core, and Astarion fights the agony in his jaw, trying to force his words clear, “Mah-sturr…”

“Do not mumble, boy,” Cazador snarls, face twisting with fury, “...What an abhorrent brat you are. Nearly a century and a half, and yet you still seem to not recognize your place in our family.” Swiftly, the master’s hand reaches out, twisting his fingers into Astarion’s hair, tugging him closer – unable to help himself, Astarion moans brokenly as shards of bone grind together deep beneath his skin, “I decide if you have earned blood to slake your thirst. I decide if you are allowed to continue your miserable existence.”

“...Pl…pluhease–”

That hand tightens, pulling him closer still. Astarion can’t help the whimper that comes from his throat as he wishes, prays, that his arms would rip off entirely, and spare him this torment. The master’s gaze burns mere centimeters from his own, and those terrible irises fill his vision.

“I alone decide your fate, Astarion.”

“Astarion?”

“Stupid, bastard child. Have you ever wondered why your family never came looking for you?” The master’s voice chuckles, high and tinny; once, in life, he would have mocked such a sound, but time and pain have retrained him into associating it with dread, with agony. The pit of his stomach drops further as an ancient question finally gets its answer, “They were glad to be rid of you. Glad to be rid of an unwanted wretch who did not know his place.”

At last, the master releases his hair, and Astarion sags without the support – each moment is a starburst of agony that leaves him gasping.

“But I saw through your failures, your inadequacies. I took you in, when no other could ever want you, and yet this is how you repay me? My kindness, my benevolence?”

“I… I di’n’ meen–”

“Silence, you sniveling brat. You will listen to your betters when they speak. When will you learn that you are mine, forever–”

“Astarion–!”

He wakes with a start, eyes wide and arms trembling, hands reaching for his daggers. He’s halfway to sitting, his chest pounding as if he had a heart that could still beat, and he can do no more than blindly stare at the wall of darkness that encircles him until at last the shadows begin to shift. Slowly, the musty echoes of Cazador’s palace begin to ripple and part, revealing instead the soft touch of his bedroll beneath his fingers and the uneven drape of his tent overhead. A place slowly becoming familiar to him in this strange new world, free from sadistic vampire masters and their malevolent skeletal minions.

It takes a long moment for him to realize that the flap of his tent has been pulled open, and a recognizable silhouette peers in. Shadowheart. Behind her, the campfire has died down to embers, and a dull orange glow fills the room with a warm, flickering haze, a strange half place between dusk and memory.

“Bad dreams?” Shadowheart asks, the fading light casting her face into thick shadow. Her voice seems caught between its usual stoicism and vague amusement. The sound makes him bristle.

“Elves don’t dream!” Astarion hisses, indignation bubbling hotly beneath his sternum. Uselessly, he wishes he could just bite her and spare himself all this humiliation, “Is it really that impossible to expect some modicum of privacy around here–”

“It’s your turn to watch,” Shadowheart replies simply, the long scar across her cheek stretching as her lips pull into a smile. It makes him want to claw at her eyes, “If you regret taking the middle shift, you’ve no one but yourself to blame.” Smoothly, she stands, one hand still holding the tent flap wide open. “I’m going to sleep.”

Briefly, Astarion considers snarling something about ‘returning to her nightly prayers lest her gods yank her leash,’ but the prickly irritation that fueled him swiftly fades, leaving him empty, deflated. Drained. Sighing, he instead waves her off with a huff. He’s tired, his mind still cartwheeling with his dreams (his memories), and the clever words crumble to dust on his tongue faster than he can think them. For the second time tonight, he watches one of their number stalk swiftly away from his tent, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He’s exhausted, more than he can ever recall being throughout his entire unlife. Vampires had no need for sleep and certainly couldn’t trance, instead, they spent every moment at their master’s beck and call. During the long day hours when the world outside was too dangerous to transverse, Astarion and his siblings would hole up in the spawn quarters (if they were in the palace – any who had the misfortune of being caught outside when the sun rose would have to find some other place to roost, and pray that the master didn’t call for them and note their absence) and while away the time until Cazador summoned them again.

On the days that they were ignored, most of the spawn slipped in and out of a thin facsimile of sleep, an uneasy doze. Astarion took great pains to avoid it when he could, as the nightmares that would leach into his mind were ever eager to latch on to him in any way possible, and even once he woke the phantoms would continue to haunt him well into his waking hours.

Now, of all the gifts the tadpole has bestowed, the ability to trance again is perhaps his least favorite. On one hand, the reprieve is nice, the ability to pass the night while the living must rest, but on the other, now he gets to revisit the events of the last two hundred years in excruciating detail. It’s been an… enlightening reminder of just what joy he can expect to return to if the claws of Cazador’s compulsion manage to clutch him again.

Stifling a groan, Astarion presses his hands flat against the ground and moves to stand, trying (and failing) to ignore the deep ache in his back and legs. All this hiking has been surprisingly hard on his blood-starved body, and while it's a mere twenty steps from his tent to the campfire, it feels so much further; the muscles in his thighs tremble in protest at the very idea.

As an afterthought, he dips down and grabs the uneaten plate of food before beginning his embarrassing shuffle step toward the campfire. Thankfully, the cleric was quick to return to her tent, so there is no one around to witness his pathetic display; no one but that strange wraith who still insists on loitering about the edges of the cellar. Settling himself down into a worn old chair next to the embers, Astarion reunites his food with the rest of the leftovers and hazards another discreet glance at the corpse.

The creature pays him no mind as it scribbles something onto a sheet of paper with an old dusty quill. The paper it may have stolen from the top of that ancient wooden desk, but Astarion has no clue where it found that quill; all the others he found in the basement were a plain white with a black tip, perhaps from a gull’s flight feathers, but this one is long, curved, and the color of soot.

As amusing as it is to watch the wraith play at being a scribe, eventually Astarion’s attention wanders. A chill wracks through his dead flesh, and he turns to add more wood to the embers; admittedly, he has no idea how much wood is enough to last until morning, so with a shrug, he simply stacks another four logs on top with the thought that he could always add more if needed. A fresh plume of smoke, dark and acrid, sizzles up from the new wood, but it does not catch fire immediately, so Astarion picks up a long stick near his seat and begins to mindlessly jab at the wood until a flame begins to flicker.

At first, he does honestly attempt to encourage the blaze, but eventually he simply lets the pretense drop and merely enjoys his act of casual destruction. The fire itself doesn’t seem to care about his inexperience, instead growing and snapping happily as it consumes the wood with a toasty flame that sinks warmth deep into Astarion’s skin – a pleasant balm against the ever present undead chill.

The night passes, slow and steady, but once two of the logs have been completely consumed, he decides it's time. Astarion adds two more before glancing to the dark shadows of the half-drow’s tent – there’s no sign of motion, or wakefulness, and after a long moment of listening, Astarion can pick out the quiet whisper of deep breaths, the gentle shift of a blanket. A far cry from the usual tossing and turning and gasping awake.

Perfect.

On feet as silent as a prowling cat’s, Astarion stands, swiftly making his way towards his target; a quick look about the room reveals that everyone is in a similar state of rest. All is still and quiet save for the low drone of Gale’s snoring – not loud enough to wake the others, but perhaps enough to cover his tracks in case something goes wrong?

Subconsciously, his hand dips back down into his pouch, seeking the cool glass of the vial and twisting it between his fingers. It won’t be his first resort, no, but a back up. A just in case.

The tent is but steps away, but instead it stretches before him like miles – his earlier exhaustion is gone, replaced by sharp bolts of adrenaline that shoot through his frame, leaving his fingertips tingling and hands shaking.

The black fabric, cut from the same swath as Lae’zel’s, looms before him like a dark omen. While none of their accommodations could be considered luxurious, Dirge’s is the plainest by far – everyone else has slowly been collecting knicknacks (the wizard with his books and extra cookware, the gith with her whetstone and a crude training dummy she insisted on remaking from sticks every night, and the cleric with her incense and that odd trinket of hers – night after night he has seen her study that blasted thing, spell focus his ass–) but the half-drow’s tent lacks… just about anything, really. Even Astarion’s own tent has a few pillows he’s managed to pilfer for his own purposes, but Dirge’s area is barren. Devoid of personality.

Much like its owner.

The thought brings a vicious smile to Astarion’s lips which he covers with a hand – like it could somehow possibly give him away – but this close to his goal he can take no chances, and gives himself a shake; every step must be perfect, every move must be silent. There is no room for error here. From within the confines of the tent, Astarion can hear Dirge’s slow breaths and the steady beat of his heart, marching on relentlessly; like a siren, these sounds of life call to Astarion.

The promise of blood fills his mouth with saliva, and he aches to bite deep with his fangs, down to the bone–

The tent flap hangs loose, not even tied by string, and Astarion slowly draws his hand across it, tugging it gently to the side.

There, resting atop his bedroll, Dirge sleeps, seeming dead to the world around him. Even as Astarion kneels and slides his way further into the tightly enclosed space, the man shows no sign of waking. Perhaps that should be unsurprising, Astarion muses; the half-drow had notoriously bad nightmares, and while the man never woke up screaming, that hollow look of fear in his eyes was proof enough that whatever he saw when he slept must have been unpleasant, to say the least. Considering the sort of day that they’ve had – between the hiking, the fighting, and undoubtedly vigorous training – he must be too tired to even dream.

If Astarion believed that any gods were worth the worship, he would offer them a quick word of thanks for his good luck, but they’ve never answered his prayers before; without a doubt, if he is to succeed tonight, it will be of his own merit.

With a soft sigh, Dirge shifts ever so slightly, his head slowly tipping to the left and bearing his neck perfectly to Astarion’s hungry eyes.

In truth, the man still looks much like the hapless wreck that they rescued from that beach. The hollows of his collarbone and eyes are stark, especially pronounced in the deep shadows of the tent, and while the blanket rests up against his chest, Astarion can see the shape of his ribs where his shirt presses tight to his skin. But, it seems so many days of good food and fierce training are having an effect as well – his previously thin arms, wrapped only with a stretched cord of wiry muscle, are noticeably thicker now, and fat has begun to fill him in, lessening the harsh lines of where his bones and tendons meet beneath this skin.

He still looks like a strong touch could break his bones, but Astarion supposes that if he’s survived Lae’zel this long, then there’s hope for him yet. For a brief moment Astarion mourns that he can’t have a healthier target to drink from, but he’s gone long past the point of truly caring – beggars can’t be choosers, and all that trite nonsense.

At last, satisfied that Dirge is truly asleep, Astarion leans into position – a position he’s never taken before, but his body seems to have an instinct for it. Pressing one hand feather light against the man’s shoulder, he moves closer until his breath kisses the man’s skin – he shouldn’t but he can’t help himself, it’s like all the thirst, the hunger, of the last two hundred years is hitting him again, all at once – suddenly he realizes he’s kneeling right over the half-drow, panting, his hands planted on either side of his face as he leans in–

Coal black eyes crack open, glazed and confused but sharpening frighteningly quick, and Astarion doesn’t even have a chance to be surprised before Dirge snaps his head up, crashing his forehead against Astarion’s nose with brutal force.

“Ow! For the love of–!” A explosion of pain lances across Astarion’s face, leaving the skin tingling in its wake, and Astarion forcefully crushes his voice down to a whisper lest the others hear, “By the nine fucking hells – why is it always my nose?!” With a grunt, clutching his face, he stumbles back, and peers at the half-drow through the gaps between his fingers.

Dirge stares back, surprised, baffled, but not angry – he’s risen up to rest on his elbows, his eyebrows folding into a questioning frown, “...Always your nose?” He blinks thrice in quick succession, “What do you mean? Better yet, what were you doing?”

Fantastic, Astarion grumbles internally, sarcasm thick enough he could choke on it, He’s lucid. Even a little sleep was too much it seems. With a sigh, Astarion slides himself off of Dirge and sits just a step away, legs folded beneath himself and hands raised in surrender – Dirge only watches him closely, that look of confusion never fading; in fact, if anything, he only looks more flummoxed than before.

At least there’s no anger in those eyes, at least… not yet – perhaps this can still be salvaged.

Any plans to act cool and casual crumble instantly as the panic of being caught rises and floods his veins in a sudden, terrifying wave. “Now, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion babbles, unable to reign his voice back in and stop his rambling, “I mean, okay, yes, maybe it is what it looks like – I wasn’t going to hurt you, I promise!” He’s panting, pulling stupid, useless air into his long dead lungs, and still the amnesiac just stares at him, “I-I just… I… well, I needed… blood.” He shrugs helplessly.

As Astarion talked, Dirge must have noticed his sharp teeth – his eyes are focused on Astarion’s mouth. “Vampire… You’re a vampire?”

“Shh!” He hisses, gesturing for the fool to be quiet, “Keep your voice down!” Hopelessness settles in, sinking slowly into his mind like a weight, and the sheer ridiculousness of his failure falls over him like an funerary shroud; Astarion’s shoulders slump, and he sighs, desperately fighting to keep down the hysterical giggle that wishes to bubble up from his throat, “Of fucking course – you don’t know what a fucking lion is, but you know of vampires.”

“Of course I know of vampires – who doesn’t know what a vampire is?” Dirge responds, distracted. His eyes are wide, still confused, but very much aware – briefly, Astarion’s thoughts flit back down to that vial, still hidden away in his pouch. Slowly he lowers one shaking hand, slipping deft fingers in through its opening. “And your nose is fine, it’s not even bleeding.” Dirge sits up, and interestingly, moves closer to Astarion, not farther away. A brief flicker of something like hope traitorously twists in Astarion’s chest. “...How long has it been since you killed someone? Hours? Days?”

Hours? Hah. What a joke. Astarion would sigh again, but at some point he stopped breathing, and his lungs are empty of air, and instead he makes a dreadful wheeze as he tries to refill them. “I’ve never killed anyone!” The lie strikes him swiftly, a blow to the chest, and a whirling carousel of haunted, betrayed faces twirl behind his eyes – while Cazador had killed those poor fools, Astarion had been the one to grasp them by the hand, and lead them willingly to their graves. And, truth be told, there had been a couple of skirmishes in the back alleys where his dagger had saved his miserable hide and left blood on his hands, “...Well, okay, I have killed before, but never for food.”

Dirge’s eyes narrow ever so slightly with a hint of suspicion, so Astarion does what he must – he keeps his head low, submissive. It isn’t a lie, but still he must sell it, it seems, “I feed on animals – boars, deer, kobolds – whatever I can get.”

“Then why try to bite me?”

Because he’s a fool who’s made perhaps the stupidest decision he could possibly manage. Astarion runs a trembling hand across his face, pinching the corners of his eyes, mindful of his aching nose, “...It’s not enough. It was different, lurking on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, but out here? Fighting literal goblin hordes?” His face softens, and he stares Dirge in the eyes, as earnestly as he can. He’s still telling the truth – mostly – but he needs to pull out every stop to make sure this moron falls for it and feels sorry for him, “I feel so… so weak. I can’t even catch any animals any more, they move too fast and I’m… I’m just so tired.”

With a subtle tilt of his head, he’s looking up at the half-drow through his eyelashes; long, beautiful, he’s been told before they’re one of his finer features. Something in the amnesiac’s gaze gentles, just a little. “If I had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

There’s a ghost of a sensation, a whisper that tickles at the edges of Astarion’s mind – for one moment he thinks Dirge is about to use the tadpole to peer in, test his honesty, but the feeling swiftly fades, and Dirge’s shoulders dip slightly.

Astarion bites back his smile as a slow curl of satisfaction warms his dead core. Success.

Still, he can’t stop shaking.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“You think me an idiot? People don’t trust vampires. They just grab their stakes and their pitchforks, and, well…” Halfway through miming a forceful stabbing motion, Astarion cuts himself off before he can make a mess of things. Again. “I’m sure you get the picture. But, I promise – I do… I do trust you. And you can trust me.” He cups his hands before himself, palms upward, begging, “Please.”

Silently, Dirge watches him for a moment that stretches far too long, and the hooks of panic start their slow slide back into Astarion’s flesh. Gone is that addled stupor Astarion was so used too, replaced instead by a thoughtful, calculating gaze, and his black eyes seem so unfathomably deep – like a dark well, where secrets better left forgotten lay hidden underneath.

Briefly, Astarion remembers their conversation so many hours ago, when he asked Dirge’s opinion of Wyll. The half-drow spoke with surprising insight into the warlock’s background, even calling him ‘Upper City gentry’ – a fellow Baldurian perhaps? Was Dirge trawling through whatever scraps were left of his memory, trying to remember if they ever crossed paths before?

It seems unlikely – Astarion’s never seen a drow of any type as tall as Dirge. It's beyond unusual, to say the least, even for a halfbreed. He would certainly recall meeting someone so… bizarre.

At last, Dirge nods his head, once, a stilted motion, “Y-yes. I trust you.”

Relief and shock ripple through Astarion, as strong and sudden as a blow from a warhammer. Hands shaking slightly and joints as loose and uncooperative as ochre jelly, he mumbles, “Thank you…” It feels sudden, almost too bold, but he can’t not ask, “Do you think you… can trust me just a little further?” He tilts his head, pleading. Desperate. “I just need a taste – I swear.”

Another long silence, long enough that Astarion thinks he’s pressed his luck too far, but at last Dirge nods again. “Okay, yes. As much as you need.”

“Really?” A whirlwind of emotions swirls through Astarion, shock and disbelief caught in a tangled dance, “I – thank you. Of course, I won’t take too much – I promise.”

Dirge watches him with wide eyes and a touch of hesitance, of anticipation. He seems so much smaller like this somehow, aware but uncertain, his shoulders pulled back in a pose that's entirely too trusting. His neck on display as if he’s not offering it up to a vampire for a feast. Briefly, Astarion is reminded of previous conquests, of young boys he convinced to trust him, to come home with him, of promises of a first time to remember. He would treat them right, he lied, filling their ears with sweet nothings as he walked them right into Cazador’s den. He would teach them how to love.

What fools they were.

“...How do you want to go about…?”

“Oh, I, I’ll admit… I-I’ve never done this before,” The nervous titter that escapes his mouth makes Astarion want to slice off his own ears out of sheer embarrassment – the humiliation! He feels such a fool – but that flicker of hope burns ever brighter, lending a frail touch of strength to his quaking arms, “...Lying down may be best? Make yourself comfortable.”

As Dirge eases himself back down onto his bedroll, Astarion feels himself sway forward, as if there’s an invisible cord connecting the two of them, and where one goes, the other must follow.

Unable to help himself, Astarion smooths a hand along the man’s shoulder, his eyes caught on the long stretch of his neck. In the dim light, Dirge’s dark skin almost blends into the shadows, the gentle flutter of his pulse almost invisible, but it calls to Astarion like the song of a siren. With each steady beat of the man’s heart, the anticipation and need within Astarion blooms, ever brighter. Ever hungrier.

There is… something about the position that doesn’t feel quite right, however – a niggling sensation beneath Astarion’s skin that pulls at him. He bites at his lip, staring at the offered feast before him, trying to figure out just what it is – the man’s shoulders, perhaps? For being so thin, Dirge’s shoulders are very broad, and leaning so far over him seems–

Instinctually, he slides even closer, over Dirge, straddling the man’s thin waist. The half-drow jolts in surprise, his face so young, so innocent beneath him. It’s his color, Astarion decides, glancing over Dirge’s features; the whites of his eyes are so much more prominent against the deep tones of his skin and the coal black of his irises, so dark he can barely make out the even deeper hue of his pupils.

This close, he can feel the heat of the man’s skin, a firm press down the length of his body; hottest where the edge of the half-drow’s shirt rises up and rests against his knee – even through his clothing, that warmth almost burns as it seeps down into his dead flesh. The touch, the very signs of life beneath him are intoxicating, and slowly, Astarion leans down further, nearly laying himself atop the man.

So close, his nose nearly touches the curve of the man’s throat, and Astarion can distantly feel the stirrings of Dirge’s breath whisper against his skin, his hair. The gentle flutter of that pulse seems so much faster now, and for a moment he denies himself that overwhelming need, delaying centuries worth of desperation for just a moment longer to watch it beat in time with the steady thrum he can hear beneath himself, deep in the man’s broad chest.

Astarion breathes in once more, one last stuttering gasp before surrendering himself to ancient instincts long denied – he opens his mouth and bites deep, aiming for the large artery that stretches up through the column of Dirge’s neck; shockingly, his teeth slice through the skin as easily as a blade through water, and as the body beneath him bucks once at the pain, Astarion grabs one shoulder and clenches his hand tight, holding it still–

Blood, thick, rich, floods across his tongue, one luxurious mouthful after the other. He groans, leaning closer, pressing tighter, as he drinks greedily at the open font beneath him; hunger opens its yawning jaws, insatiable. The taste, it’s – it’s indescribable – hot fresh blood, so sweet and yet so heavy as he drags it across his tongue, and yet as he swallows it trails down his throat with a burning tingle that doesn’t hurt but makes his fangs ache with the need to bite deeper. It is divine.

Down, down, deeper into the flesh, catch the cord of his artery with a fang and slice it wide open, and pull more blood from the wound; glut himself on the flood that would flow.

How much time passes, he does not know. He exists solely to devour, a vessel to be filled with stolen life, resting a hand against the chest of the trembling body beneath him. Thoughts of promises and stopping are long since driven from his mind, replaced only by thoughtless, wanton need. Is this how the rabid dog feels as the fever sets in? For centuries, he has been the starving hound, feral from hunger, and at last he’s free from his chains–

A large hand presses against his shoulder, fingers curling tight to clutch at his shirt. The fabric bunches and slides, the ruffles pulling awkwardly against Astarion’s neck, at last pulling his focus away from the trembling skin beneath his fangs. Again, there’s that touch, a shuddering whisper through the air that caresses against his mind for but a moment before withdrawing like a wisp of smoke.

Gasping, he withdraws his fangs, and watches as blood wells from the wound, dripping slowly down the curve of a neck. He blinks, his mind lethargic, heavy like the pour of thick syrup. The skin beneath him is an unusual color, a faded grey the color of soot. Unfamiliar. He frowns, confused, but chases the thought no further.

The hand on his shoulder tugs again, and Astarion blinks and comes back to himself at last.

It’s like stepping back into a shell that he slipped away from without even realizing. The smell of blood hangs thick in the air, a terrible temptation, were he not already so full. For the first time he can ever remember, his skin is warm to the touch, almost burning hot. His chest heaves with heavy gasps, and his hands are steady and strong – one clasps tightly at a fabric clad shoulder, the other presses against the opposite side of a neck, holding it still, for him –

Dirge. It’s Dirge beneath him – the half-drow is ghastly pale, with one hand clutching at Astarion’s shoulder, the fabric bunched tight between his fingers. Was he shaking that much before?

Forcefully, with a gasp, Astarion pulls himself back, “Oh, yes, yes – of course,” he breathes as his mind swims around him.

Under his hands, Dirge’s skin grows cold, but still trembles with life. He’s still straddling the half-drow, but where before Astarion felt naught but bliss, reality comes crashing back like a reckless tide; he can feel the bony press of the man’s sharp hip bones digging into his calves, his muscles cramping with how tightly he must have held on. Dirge’s lips slip open as he pulls in a shuddering breath, the skin a pale lavender hue.

The oozing wound stares back at him, the skin angry and inflamed. It’s an ugly mark, a testament to his guilt; two separate bites one lain atop the other – the first shallow, a lighter touch, the second, a deeper goring of the skin as he must have mangled the flesh beneath his lips. A warg could have done no worse, he thinks, unsure if he’s proud of the thought. A thick trail of blood, mostly dried, winds its way down dusky skin, disappearing into the collar of Dirge’s white shirt. He fights the urge to reach out and lick it from his flesh – a gift most certainly wasted.

But gods, he almost feels alive–

Leaning back on his heels, Astarion quickly realizes that he wasn’t the only one that enjoyed that. “Hmm, seems like I left you with some blood after all,” he winks with a grin, rocking back just a little bit further.

Dirge quickly raises a hand to cover his face, but he cannot hide the delicate rose flush that creeps across the ashen crest of his cheekbones.

Unable to help himself, Astarion chuckles, his voice a low rumble with the overwhelming satisfaction that sits warm in the pit of his belly.

Another fat drop of blood seeps from the bite, and Astarion is tempted to lap it up like some smug cat; he doesn’t, obviously, he has an image to maintain. Honestly, the wound looks a mess – he didn’t bite through the man’s artery, but he came close.

It’s of no matter. As ugly as the wound is, it weeps only sluggishly. He grabs the edge of Dirge’s blanket and swipes it up over the worst of the damage, sopping up the remaining blood – it does little more than smear the mess about his throat, but after a minute of firm pressure, the wound stops leaking.

It will still need to be healed, however, lest the others see it. Sliding off of the man, Astarion reaches down for his pouch – briefly, he casts his mind again to the poisoned vial, so perfectly disguised as a healing potion, it almost seems made for this. The perfect cover to the perfect crime; their hapless amnesiac felled by an ancient trap set by some deranged alchemist.

The thought doesn’t linger. A warm lassitude has sunk into his bones, and Astarion can’t stop the small smile that seems impossible to subdue. How could he possibly consider killing this fool who was so eager to share his blood with a vampire? And, honestly, the very idea of cleaning up a body seems absurd; all he wants to do now is to wander back to his tent, and enjoy the warmth in his limbs. To trance, and rest deep.

Instead, Astarion pulls from his pouch a regular healing potion, obvious by its lighter weight, and places it gently on the ground next to the half-drow’s shoulder. Dirge says nothing, laying still on his bedroll, his bandaged hand resting across his chest, rising with the swell of every breath. He seems calm, but only vaguely present; the hollows around his eyes are sunken and bruised, the color of overripe plums. He looks utterly exhausted.

“Make sure you put that on the wound, wouldn’t want to waste that precious blood, now would we?”

Dirge makes no move for the potion, instead blinking slowly. “Did…Did that help?” he asks; gone is the man’s earlier eloquence – whatever degree of self he gained from his rest, it seems to be slipping through his fingers once more.

“Oh yes,” Astarion replies, smiling like a fool, “That was amazing!” He laughs again, another nervous titter, but he doesn’t care – his heart would be racing if it could.

In truth, while he wants to trance, an unbound energy floods Astarion’s limbs. No longer is he simply dragging himself along, a step behind everyone else, no, he is strong; he feels as though he could outrun a deer and bound across mountains if he so pleased. For the first time in centuries, that wretched twist of hunger in his gut has faded instead to a pleasant glow, a weight lifted from his shoulders that had been there so long he didn’t even know it existed.

“And you?” he asks, without really thinking, “How did… How do you feel?”

For a long moment, Dirge is quiet. Distant. Eventually he shrugs one shoulder, wincing as it pulls at the bite wound – a new drop of blood wells up, shining ruby bright in the dim light of his tent, “Feels… Alright? Good?” The man opens his mouth with a jaw cracking yawn, “...I’m tired.”

“Blood loss will do that, but with some rest I’m sure you’ll be as right as rain in the morning. Can you go back to sleep?”

Dirge hums. His eyes are slowly slipping shut, each blink coming further and further apart from the last. “...What about you?”

“Me?” Astarion is surprised, but he disguises it with a laugh, his tone turning coy, “I certainly hope you don’t expect me to sleep here, we’ve only just shared one bite.” He pauses, his humor fading as he sees nothing more than an earnest curiosity in Dirge’s eyes, “...I suppose I will finish my watch, then trance until morning.” He dips his voice low, into little more than a whisper, “...You’ll keep my secret, won’t you?”

The half-drow doesn’t respond; his eyes close, and his breath deepens into the rhythmic pattern of sleep.

The camp goes silent once more, save for those small sounds of the living – the gentle beating of mortal hearts, the restful breathing, the ridiculous rattle of Gale’s snores.

Astarion, despite himself, spends a moment longer just sitting there. Staring at the man before him. He feels, well… astonished. Almost shell shocked.

There was a small part of him that never did die, the small child that Cazador stole when he commanded him to rise from the grave, and it trembles. That bit of him that remembers every aching torture, every betrayal. In a halting voice it whispers in his ears harsh reminders of the consequences should Cazador ever learn of his disobedience. Frantic memories of his time in the kennels, endless hours spent under Godey’s malicious hands. That quiet sound, the withering death of hope as year after year, eternity only ever got worse.

Somehow, these fears now all ring hollow. Cazador’s compulsions seem unable to reach him, be it by distance or by the worm wriggling in his skull. Does his former master even know where he is? Perhaps he’s managed to just… vanish, without a trace.

He shudders as adrenaline washes over him, as deep and strong as an ocean’s wave.

Could it be that he truly is free? Lost in the wilds, beyond even Cazador’s ability to find him, and surrounded by a group of well-armed (if bumbling) mortals, one of which is stupid enough to offer himself up as vampire fodder?

Of course, it could all still fall to pieces – while Dirge may be willing to share his camp with a vampire, the others most certainly would not. His secret must remain hidden, and if they are to head closer to the gate, he’ll need safety. Protection. A shield willing to take his blows, and fight in his name.

Perhaps it's time he crafts a new plan… From sharing the man’s blood to sharing his bed.

 

-x-

 

Notes:

Astarion : They’ll never accept me! Not if they knew what I truly am! I must resort to subterfuge in the night~

Withers : …Thou art a fool.

 

I also apologize, Astarion uses italics like he owns stock in them or something.

Thanks to silverkleptofox for thinking of ochre jelly in my time of need (to come up with a replacement for rubber, as I doubt rubber is readily available).

Chapter 6

Notes:

I told myself that I'd keep the chapters to sub 30K and then instantly broke that promise with myself. So, um, sorry about that. I'll likely be tweaking the tags a bit with the next chapter, but just to specify on some of the more specific types of durge-esque behavior we'll be seeing in this fic.

I also apologize for any mistakes or general janky-ness -- I'm sick once again so I couldn't read the fic out loud, which is my usual go to for editing, so if you see any errors or just stuff that doesn't sound good in general, do let me know and I'll fix it asap!

 

-x-

 

Whether or not morning has come is anyone’s guess; hidden here, in the bowels of this ancient apothecary, the world seems to hold its breath, time meaningless. Thick motes of dust hang suspended in the stale air, and the spiders spin their cobwebs into thick, creeping curtains that claim the darkest corners of the room. Someone worked here once, conducting their research and experiments, evidence of their lives left behind in the sprawl of broken furniture and abandoned notes strewn across the desk.

They’ve certainly made camp in worse places, Gale decides, easing himself from his tent with a deep yawn and a good stretch. He’s known wizards with towers worse off than this little hideaway; for all its years abandoned, it’s almost sort of…quaint. A veritable haven compared to the disaster the goblins left above ground, that’s for sure.

Rising to his feet, Gale slowly prods over to the center of the room where Wyll’s silhouette slouches deep in his chair. In the circle of stones next to him, the burning coals glimmer like distant stars, and it's of little wonder why the warlock did not bother to add more fuel to the flame; the lingering warmth hangs heavy in the air and seeps into Gale’s bones, leaving him in a pleasant state of langour.

Approaching proves Wyll is not asleep; the warlock’s good eye opens as he nears, and Wyll greets him with a nod and a lazy smile as he takes a seat.

“Morning,” Wyll mumbles, halfway between a greeting and a question. Across the top of his thighs, his rapier rests, one hand clutched loosely about its grip.

“Uneventful night?” Gale smiles; Wyll may be awake, but he looks moments from slipping back into slumber.

Wyll shrugs a shoulder, letting his eyes drift shut, “...I didn’t expect any surprises, but one can never be too careful.”

A surprise, perhaps, like that peculiar figure who followed them all this way from that ruined old temple? What it wants, Gale cannot possibly fathom; he clearly remembers the undead telling them that they would again meet, but he thought that was merely the ramblings of a corpse that somehow still held a fragment of its former purpose.

After the near spectacle the night before (Wyll’s zeal had calmed when he realized that the undead was not a monster to be slain, though the suspicion had never quite left his eyes), Gale had taken the time to talk to it again, but it had not been particularly forthcoming. It seemed to figure itself a scribe of sorts – unsurprising for an undead from an abandoned temple of Jergal – and it talked at length about balancing the scales. It offered no name by which to call it, so when Shadowheart suggested they dub it ‘Withers’, it stuck; the scribe, for all its reticence, seemed to find the name more amusing than insulting, watching their group with that wry twist of its lips that was so faint Gale wasn’t sure if he was simply imagining things.

Now, ‘Withers’ surveys their camp silently from the deep, lingering shadows along the edges of the cellar, its wants no clearer for a full night in their company. As much as he wracks his brain, Gale can’t ever recall hearing of a sentient undead of this sort; necromancers raising unwilling servants, certainly, but no stories ever of corpses raising themselves from their tombs to peaceably follow around adventurers. Perhaps lonely and bewildered in its undeath, it simply sought warmth and fellowship?

But those eyes, its wry humor… it certainly didn’t seem confused.

As pleasing a puzzle may be to while away the time, it is far too early in the morning to contemplate the intricacies of death, undeath, and the lingering wants of the soul, at least, not until he’s had some tea to clear his head. Were they better supplied, Gale would prefer coffee to start the day, but it seems that the druids of the Grove didn’t have much belief in it, or perhaps it was simply hard to source this far out into the wilds; instead, he leans over and collects the kettle from his pack and fills it with the water that Shadowheart was kind enough to summon before she turned in last night.

Kettle full, he turns back to Wyll, who has slipped ever so further into his slouch on the chair, eyes gently shuttering as sleep threatens to take him. “Go back to your bedroll,” Gale suggests, gently shaking one of Wyll’s shoulders with his free hand, “I’ll wake you when breakfast is ready.”

It seems the Blade is as selfless as his name implies; at his touch, Wyll startles back upright, rubbing at swollen eyelids, “...I-I could help you cook…?”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll manage – no grand feasts this morning, I’m afraid.” When the stubborn warlock still hesitates, Gale prods him again, “Get some rest, truly. We’ll likely have another long day ahead of us, and from what I gather, hiking is better experienced well rested.”

Those mismatched eyes watch his for a long moment, and Gale thinks the man will put up further protest, but at last, Wyll nods his head once, “...Alright. But if you need anything, do wake me up.”

“Will do, though I daresay I can manage breakfast,” he smiles, watching as the warlock pushes himself unsteadily to his feet with a wide stretch that cracks his shoulders, and Gale winces in sympathy.

Shortly after Wyll retires, the kettle boils and a worse-for-wear Shadowheart slips next to him, forgoing the chair entirely to sit, legs folded beneath her, beside the fire.
While she escaped yesterday’s fighting relatively unharmed, the strain on her magic had been immense, and the echoes of it still show – her hair falls in a messy wave down her shoulders, free of its usual braid, her shoulders tense and expression distant, bleary. Stress pinches tight at the edges of her lips, and the dark bags of too little sleep rest heavy beneath her eyes.

She, of course, notices his attention, inclining her head in greeting, “Morning, Gale.”

“Good morning,” he replies, politely pouring them both a cup of tea before pulling his gaze back to the pan he’s preparing, considering his options. Sausage and eggs, he thinks; a good, hearty meal to help everyone recover from the day before, and perhaps steel themselves for the challenges yet to come, “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all,” she replies with a smile as she accepts her cup. With a clumsy stretch, she leans towards her pack, grabbing it by one strap and dragging it back into her lap. “I’m not used to sleeping and getting up so early,” She states. Rummaging through the pockets and flaps, she produces an old, worn hairbrush, which she wastes no time putting to good use, running it through the surprisingly long, thick length of her hair. “I’ve always been more of a night person myself.”

The obvious question weighs heavy on his lips, his curiosity a bright, gnawing hunger, but Gale bites his tongue and tries to let it die. He’s relatively sure he knows just what she is, and Sharrans did not have the best reputations for honesty and openness (or for their opinions on people prying into their personal matters), and what reaction could he possibly hope for? For her to get angry? Defensive? Would she lie, and laugh away his questions?

Would she feel cornered? Like she had to safeguard her secrets, no matter the cost?

Wisdom had never been his forte; he had always relied on Tara to steer him straight, and now, he can’t help but wonder what would Tara think?

Truthfully, she’d call me a fool, he thinks fondly, adding a dash of oil to the pan before placing it down on the hot coals, and likely, she’d be right. Sticking his nose where it didn’t belong had always been one of his worst habits, yet one he could never quite shake. How could he when the entire world seemed to hold its mysteries tight like the tangled strands of the Weave itself, forever taunting him with the thought that if he could just pull the right thread, he’d discover them all; have more knowledge than all of Candlekeep in his grasp–

Yet, how many more times can he risk prying into the matters of others before meeting a permanent end? His curiosity, his greatest asset, had already betrayed him once; by striving to overcome Mystra’s boundaries and return that missing shard of the Weave to her, he had sealed his fate. That particular mistake still bore its weight on his chest like a slick, writhing cancer. Sated, for the moment, by yet another magical artifact consumed the night before, but already Gale can feel its cold claws pricking – it won’t be long before it requires another sacrifice as its ravenous hunger only grows.

A rising feeling of hopelessness climbs his throat as Gale considers just what that might mean. For some time now, he’s kept the orb within him under control. He fed its unending appetite every magical item he could get his hands on – first, simple, useless trinkets that crowded his study, collected over the years, but as time had passed and with no cure in sight, he began to surrender things far more precious: powerful artifacts, ancient relics, gifts and mementoes close to his heart… anything with even the barest hint of the Weave, anything that could possibly quell that cold fire within.

Mere weeks before his abduction, Gale remembers standing in his sitting room, unraveling the magic from his most valuable (and his very last) staff, only to look around and realize just how hollow his home had become. The walls were bare, the shelves empty, his chests positively ransacked. The tower had never been more free of clutter, more barren now than when he first claimed the place for himself. The orb had stripped everything of value from his life, even the bonds of friends and family as he forcibly secluded himself in his home with the intention to keep everyone else safe.

The one who would not let herself be abandoned was Tara, his beloved tressym. How he missed her, for she had wisdom where he had none, and when he fell into the deepest, darkest mires of his despair, she cleaved herself ever tighter to him. Where he lost hope, she gave him hers. When he ran out of ideas on how to treat his malaise, she was the one who suggested feeding the orb fragments of the Weave. When he could no longer bear to see his mother lest the curse in his chest detonate and take her from this world, it was Tara who offered to ferry his messages to her over a lengthy cup of tea.

The pan sizzles hot, snapping him from his ruminations, and carefully he adds the sausages, minding the crackle of the oil. Beside him, Shadowheart lifts her arms above her head and deftly braids her hair with a practiced hand. An impressive feat truly, how she manages to corral the sheer volume of hair into such a tidy plait – was she used to doing these things alone? Did she have anyone to confide in? Or was she alone in the dark, worshiping her goddess?

Gale can’t help but remember how Tara had kept his secrets even as she pleaded for him to seek outside help. Perhaps he should afford the same grace to Shadowheart, but he hopes that in time she will feel comfortable enough to speak on whatever it is that troubles her face so deeply. After his own confession the night prior, Gale has never felt lighter, freer – a small cinder of hope now burns fierce and hot in his chest, at last a counter to the winter’s chill of the orb.

Cracking the eggs to join the sausages, Gale drifts back into his thoughts – he wasn’t sure what made him so bold as to admit his ailment last night, but halfway through his lesson with Dirge, the words bubbled to his lips, unbidden. He spilled his secret for all to hear even as his heart pounded with fearful warnings, and yet the faces around him had not been frightened or angry. There had been curiosity and surprise and perhaps even a touch of concern, but no disgust, no scorn.

Well, perhaps a little bit of scorn; Lae’zel had been the only one who seemed displeased to hear about his condition. She called him a bastard, said that he ‘was the greatest threat to their lives’ – which, in his opinion, seemed a bit harsh, considering how githyanki viewed mind flayers and the threat of infection – but before she could draw her blade and demand him cast out from their camp, Dirge had stepped between the two of them. Having spent the better part of the night mute, he was silent, but he stood firm as he stared at Lae’zel, his eyes imploring her to stay her hand. It had been faint, but through the nebulous connection the tadpole provided, Gale could sense the edge of the half-drow’s mind, swirling feelings of trust, patience, and concern.

From the look on her face, Lae’zel heard those thoughts as well. Her frown deepened, and ultimately she withdrew with a snarl, displeased but reluctant to go against the will of the group. As she stalked back to her whetstone, Gale found himself overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude that still warms him even now.

It’s… an unfamiliar feeling, having someone support him in such a way. Other than Tara, or his mother, of course. Any of the acquaintances he made during his time at Blackstaff had been ultimately of a rather opportunistic sort, quick to turn their backs on anyone should it benefit them or their ambitions.

A thought strikes him suddenly, and Gale turns towards Shadowheart with a start, “Where is Dirge? Have you seen him?”

She shrugs, “He’s probably still resting – he looked rather worn out when he went to his tent last night.” With a subtle sniff, her back straightens, and discreet though she may be, Gale can see the way she eyes the pan with interest.

It brings a smile to his lips. “I hope so. More sleep would do him a world of good, I’d wager.” The portion he plates and hands to Shadowheart is smaller than he would like, but she seems pleased with the offering. Shortly thereafter, Lae’zel pushes aside the flap of her tent as she makes an appearance; in her eyes, Gale can see the echoes of her fury from last night, but it seems that, for the moment at least, her stomach overrules her caution – there’s nothing subtle about the way she tips her head back and huffs greedily at the smell in the air.

After he’s handed Lae’zel a plateful (which she roughly tears from his hands as she stalks over to the other side of the fire – it’s honestly rather impressive how her face wars with itself; Gale can see the enjoyment flickering over her features as she tears into the eggs even as she maintains her burning glare), Gale considers his next steps. It seems a shame to wake Wyll less than a half an hour after sending him back to his bedroll, and it's so rare for Dirge to sleep at all that Gale finds himself hesitant. Astarion then? The rogue rarely seems interested in his culinary offerings, but after the day they had yesterday, even he must be feeling hungry.

With a satisfied sigh, Shadowheart finishes her breakfast, pours herself another mug of tea, and from her pack produces a handful of objects that Gale can’t quite recognize at a glance – components for some sort of spell, perhaps? Relics for some ritual of Shar? Neither of these, it seems; with one hand, Shadowheart dips a slim brush into a flask of kohl, and in the other she cradles a small, worn hand mirror.

“A mirror?” He asks, genuinely surprised – such things were often very valuable, and very rare, “Where did you manage to find that?”

With a steady hand, Shadowheart shrugs while maintaining the knife’s edge sharpness of her eyeliner, “I found it in one of the desk drawers.”

“I’m amazed Astarion missed that, vain creature that he is.”

“What a shame,” she replies, her voice tipping into a sardonic tone, “I guess that means that I’ll just have to put it to good use.”

Gale can’t help but chuckle – a sound he nearly chokes on as a sharp sting lances through his finger. With wide eyes, he pulls his hand back with a flinch from where he had inadvertently let it press against the hot side of the iron pan, “Ow!”

“Try not to maim yourself,” Shadowheart’s humor is decidedly less amusing when its edge is aimed at himself, “I’d rather not waste any more spells on bumps and bruises.”

“Everything alright?” Wyll asks with a yawn, approaching the fire – he still looks tired, but better. There’s a spark to his eyes that was absent before, and Gale has a feeling that some tea and food might be very welcome indeed.

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” Gale assures him, briskly waving his hand back and forth to help alleviate the sting, though it does nothing for the sharp ache of embarrassment that lances through him, “I should have been paying attention.”

Wyll smiles with a sympathetic wince, “...I don’t suppose I could ask you to brave the pan again to put on more? I’m starving.”

“Of course,” he replies, gingerly adding yet more oil and food to the pan. For a moment, he deliberates just adding the rest to get a headstart on cooking for the others, but then he realizes they’re all awake, save for the two who historically never sleep in.

A strange feeling begins to wind its way into his gut, an unusual sensation that is some terrible tangle of concern and foreboding, and he looks up to meet Wyll’s gaze, his forehead pulling together into a frown.

“Have you seen Dirge this morning? This is very unusual – he’s always the first one awake, and Astarion’s never far behind.”

A shadow of worry crosses Wyll’s face, but he smiles, aiming for a lighter tone, “Yesterday was a trying day – I would say to let him rest for a little longer, Gale; if what I’ve heard is true, he could use the sleep.”

It doesn’t settle the anxiety prickling along his spine. “I simply want to check, make sure they’re alright – I’ll be but a moment. Watch the pan for me, will you, Wyll?” Without waiting for the warlock to respond, Gale pushes himself upright, brushing off his robe as he moves briskly towards the furthest corner of the cellar.

As the elf’s tent is the closest, Gale checks on him first – he pulls aside the flap and peers in as silently as he can, anxious at just what he might see inside. There, as he should be, Astarion rests atop his bedroll, seemingly fine – Gale can even hear the faint whisper of his breaths, see his chest rising and falling without aid. One by one, his worst fears begin to slip away; there is no drying pool of blood, no feverish sweats, no signs of distress. Just an elf trancing with a smile on his lips, something larger and more genuine than Gale had ever seen on him in his waking hours.

Maybe I was wrong, he thinks, watching Astarion breathe within the gloom of the man’s tent. He did take middle watch last night. It would be completely reasonable for his rest to have been delayed. Perhaps I am just paranoid. A powerful wave of relief washes over Gale, and his shoulders slump as the tension ebbs away like the tide.

Gale decides against waking him just yet – the others will want to get moving soon, but it will likely be another hour before everything is packed and ready. Twenty minutes should be plenty for Astarion and Dirge to devour some food and grab their packs, surely. Still, while his fears have been alleviated, he should check on Dirge as well, just in case – it would be foolish to abandon caution completely, but the larger picture begins to paint itself in his mind; Astarion’s trance is delayed by his watch shift halfway through the night, and after a day’s worth of fighting, sparring, and then magical training, Dirge finally managed a proper night’s rest through sheer exhaustion.

Really, I shouldn’t have been so worried, Gale smiles, letting the flap of Astarion’s tent fall shut as he quietly moves to check on Dirge. Yet, as he opens the flap, it’s clear that all is, in fact, not well.

Gale’s heart jumps suddenly in his chest, the sensation so jarring, so erratic that he nearly chokes – just like Astarion, Dirge lays on his bedroll, but it’s obvious something is amiss. The man’s skin is the color of ash, shockingly pale, and his lips are as blue-grey as the harbor of the Dock Ward on an overcast day. He seems almost… drained, drained of life and color, lying motionless on his bedroll, his head tipped toward Gale; thankfully, he can see a stuttering rise to the half-drow’s chest, but he looks strangely unnatural, as if felled by some unseen blow and left for dead.

But on the monochromatic canvas of Dirge’s body, a flash of color catches Gale’s eye – a violent gleam of crimson cuts around the half-drow’s neck.

Blood. Blood! “Shadowheart!” Gale calls, leaning outside the tent just long enough to catch the cleric’s eye – she glances up curiously at his shout, and something of the cocktail of shock and fear must show on his face, for she bolts to her feet, eyes widening as her eyebrows furrow in confusion. Gale pays her no more attention, dropping to his knees at Dirge’s side, unaware of the shock of pain that lances through his legs as he makes contact with the stone.

“Dirge?” Gale calls, his voice half a whisper; with one hand he cups the curve of the man’s jaw, gently tilting his head up towards his own, his other hand splaying wide across the span of the half-drow’s chest. No response; “Dirge!” he calls again, louder, cautiously shaking him – even through the fabric, Gale can feel that the man’s skin is far too cold, almost icy.

Blood loss, it must be, but other than a thick, dried smear of red staining the skin of Dirge’s neck, there’s no blood to be seen. Where’s the blood–?

Suddenly, there’s someone beside him, someone kneeling, another pair of hands – Shadowheart. He chances a glance at her; the cleric’s face is a cold, clinical mask as she elbows Gale out of the way and begins her examination. Her hands linger over Dirge’s neck, searching for a pulse, her fingers pry one eye open as she calls out to him: “Dirge, can you hear me?”

His eye is unfocused, glazed. As Shadowheart presses her hand near his wound, Dirge grunts low in the back of his throat, and ever so slightly pulls away from her.

“Dirge?” Gale asks, watching as the man’s brow pleats with a twist of confusion, “What happened?”

He seems on the verge of a consciousness that continuously slips through his fingers; with another grunt that fades into a low moan, Dirge again pulls away from Shadowheart’s insistent touch, his eyelids fluttering weakly. As he moves, a new gleam catches Gale’s eye – the shine of something altogether more artificial than blood: a potion vial resting precariously near the man’s head. In the deep shadows of the tent, its contents glimmer like the facets of a garnet.

A potion? Gale pulls back, surprised, Did he somehow hurt himself, and try to heal the damage? But if that were the case, why didn’t he take the potion? Where is the blood?

As Dirge’s eyes crack open, bleary and confused, Gale finally gets a good look at the injury – it is a savage thing, about half the size of his palm, and deep enough that Gale finds himself thanking Mystra that the man’s carotid artery is intact. What could have made such a wound? It looks too organic to be the work of a blade, and when could it have even happened? When Dirge had retired to his bed the night before, there was certainly no hole in his neck. And the shape–

At last, Gale understands exactly what he is looking at – this is no gash from a blade, it is a bite. Two bites, in fact, one laid atop the other… In each wound there is a set of two deeper punctures.

A bite. A vampire bite.

The breath rushes out from his lungs in a great whoosh, and a cold rage swells in to fill the gap, “...Astarion did this, didn’t he?”

“What?” Shadowheart snaps, frowning as wreathes of healing magic coil around her fingers; beneath her touch, Dirge’s eyes slide to meet his with an expression oddly similar to… guilt? “What are you talking about?”

The mirror. Gale doesn’t bother to answer, standing and briskly walking back toward the fire. As he approaches, both Wyll and Lae’zel are watching curiously. Gale thinks that Wyll might even have said something, but he can’t hear the warlock’s voice over the pounding of the blood in his ears – he steps over to where Shadowheart had been seated only moments prior, and grabs the hand mirror from where it rests next to her pack before twisting about and storming his way back to rogue’s tent.

He makes no attempt to be silent this time, snapping the fabric open so loud that Astarion bolts upright, eyes wide. Good. Gale feels a spiteful surge of joy, and completely ignores Astarion’s demands to know what’s going on.

Mirror firmly in hand, Gale turns his back on the elf – a magistrate? What a farce! – and stares into the looking glass.

Sure enough, the bedroll is empty, the blanket raised around the shape of a humanoid form as if floating, or draped over a ghost. A tumultuous wave of emotions crests over Gale – satisfaction, excitement, worry, betrayal, anger – “AHA!” he shouts, turning around and tossing the hand mirror at a confused Astarion who dodges the improvised weapon with a wince, “I knew it!”

Astarion meets him with a wide-eyed look of confusion that swiftly fades into an icy fear as he realizes just what was thrown, “I-it’s not what it looks like, I swear–”

“You’re a vampire!” Gale exclaims, eyes looking skyward as he rues his own stupidity, his own willful ignorance, “You bit Dirge! I knew you’d try something like this eventually, though, I do wish you had done it with a bit less enthusiasm…”

“I swear, I never–” Huddled against the back of the tent, curled in on himself, Astarion appears more akin to a frightened animal than the imperious magistrate he pretends to be. Distantly, Gale hears his own thoughts warning him – this is a vampire who could very well lash out and bite when cornered; caution is needed lest more damage be done.

He promptly ignores that voice, incredulous – the sheer audacity of it all is just astounding! Gale cannot help himself as he rants further, stepping closer to the cowering elf, “Were you ever planning on telling anyone you were a vampire? Or were you going to just leave us all in the dark? That does seem to be your preferred time to feed on us–”

“Gale,” a voice rasps from behind, startling him into silence, “Leave him be.”

Unsurprisingly, it's Dirge, looking for all the world as though a stiff breeze would blow him over, but Gale can’t help but be stunned at the sight of him. One hand presses a rag tight against the bite wound, his other clasping the tent flap in a white knuckled grip; he stands, for now, but if he sways any more to the side, he’s likely to pull the whole tent down with him.

“You idiot,” Shadowheart barks, moving next to Dirge, her face tumbling between concerned and annoyed, as she attempts to steady him by the shoulders, “Sit down, let me heal you–”

“It’s not his fault,” Dirge insists, his gaze boring into Gale’s, steadfast, unflinching, “He asked me, and I agreed – it was consensual–”

“Consensual?” Gale scoffs; for a moment the thrill of discovery loses its war against the anger, the frustration bubbling inside, and he snaps his eyes back to Astarion – the threat in their camp! The danger that walks amongst them! Of course, he had his suspicions before, and at the time it had felt like such a fun little game, a brilliant mental exercise, but that was before one of their number was attacked – now all he feels is a betrayal that cuts deep, “Consensual? Having a vampire bleed you dry?”

He pins Astarion with a smouldering glare, and feels a vicious twist of satisfaction as the vampire flinches, raising his hands slowly as if in surrender.

“A vampire?” Shadowheart echoes, “...Well, I suppose that explains the pallor.”

Gale frowns, unable to believe his ears – she sounds surprised, as one would reasonably expect, but where is her upset? Her anger? He blinks, and turns to face her; a wry smirk twists her lips, and when at last her eyes meet his she simply shrugs her shoulders, far more amused than she has any right to be.

There’s the sound of footsteps on the old stone, and swiftly, Wyll and Lae’zel slot into position beside Shadowheart – Wyll looks worried, his rapier strapped into his belt as though he expected trouble, and as he nears he gives Dirge a concerned once over, eying the blood-spotted rag with an empathetic wince. Lae’zel, on the other hand, wears her usual scowl – her arms crossed, she stands in the narrow space with all the rigidity of a statue. Is she furious to see her pupil so damaged? Or is she merely angered at being disturbed? The furrow to her brow is as thunderous and foreboding as a stormcloud.

Or, perhaps, this is just the natural set of her face – six days in each other's presence, and Gale can’t recall ever witnessing her smile.

“What’s wrong?” Wyll asks, looking between everyone in the small space of the tent, “We heard shouting.”

“What’s wrong?” Gale frowns, gesturing wildly behind himself to where Astarion sits, “We have a vampire on our hands!”

At the word, Wyll startles, “Astarion? A vampire?” Realization seeps in, and in its wake, worry, “...Of course. I should have known.” The warlock’s hand drops to the rapier’s hilt, ready to draw his weapon as worry hardens into a grim determination.

A ruthless wave of vindication grows in Gale’s chest, a momentary burst almost bright enough to rival the caged wrath of the orb.

“D-don’t be like that!” Astarion’s voice pitches up with what can only be panic, “I didn’t hurt anyone!”

“You bit Dirge!” Gale snaps.

“He asked! I agreed!” Dirge retorts, his voice snaring somewhere between a plea and a demand.

“Bah, it matters little to me,” with a fierce roll of her eyes, Lae’zel is the one to break their standstill, “What’s one more danger? As long as his fangs stay clear from my neck, I have no qualms with him.”

Gale cannot believe his ears – disbelief wells within him, a deep, dark expanse that rises, twisting and churning into a powerful wave of fury that leaves his hands shaking, his heart racing, “You suggest that we trust him? Someone that goes around biting our necks without a word of warning in the night?!”

“He stopped when I asked, and he even gave me a potion,” Dirge replies, his frown tightening with a thread of iron determination, “...I must have fallen asleep before I could take it.”

“He savaged your neck! He was feeding off of you! How could we possibly–”

“And you have a bomb in your chest, but we feed that, don’t we?” Those dark eyes sharpen with warning; his words cut through Gale, as swift and deadly as his sword.

In a heartbeat, the turbulent storm of emotion bleeds from Gale, leaving him cold and drained, fingers trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline. A terrible blow, cruel, to bring up so easily the secret he trusted to Dirge and the others just last night, but even through the lance of shame lodged into his chest, Gale can recognize his own hypocrisy.

If what Dirge says is true, and Astarion did ask, how can he begrudge the man sustenance when he himself has special ‘dietary’ needs that must be met?

Acknowledging it, however, does not lessen the sheer mortification that has stolen his words straight from his mouth.

Astarion, on the other hand, is anything but speechless; his head whips towards Dirge so fast that Gale swears he can hear his bones crack, “Excuse me, he has a WHAT?”

Dirge flicks his eyes briefly in the vampire’s direction, his frown tightening ever so slightly, “I’ll explain later.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I agree with Lae’zel,” Shadowheart concedes, enjoying the show, “I say we keep him – we’re all monsters in the making, after all.” Her lips pull into a grin as she tilts her head, considering, “Maybe we could make him wear a bell? Dissuade any nighttime prowling.”

How can he forgive someone who attacked one of their own in the night, in a place that was meant to be safe? A sanctuary for their party against this strange new reality they found themselves in? Perhaps the resentment he feels stems more so from the act of secrecy itself, he muses. With a deep sigh, Gale attempts to tamp down on any of this lingering, wayward sentiment, to collect himself once more. He is a wizard of great renown; he must be reasonable.

Still, the words burn as he forces them out; a concession, the best he can do at a moment such as this, “Very well, Astarion, but a quick word of warning – I taste absolutely awful.” He makes sure to catch the elf’s eye, some part of himself inwardly wishing for him to just try it – if the orb has fouled his blood like it has the rest of his existence, certainly the vampire would regret taking a taste of him. “Keep your distance.”

Wyll hums, cautious, but seemingly in agreement; after a moment longer, he at last pulls his hand off the hilt of his blade with a sigh, “Alright, but I’m keeping an eye on you – no wisecracks about having us for supper.”

Dirge hisses a sharp breath, pulling Gale’s attention – at last, Shadowheart’s healing magic takes effect; new threads of skin sprout from damaged tissue, and under her practiced hand, weave themselves together to restore his savaged neck. The new flesh is a soft grey-purple, delicate in a way not entirely unlike the stretch of his half-healed scars, and Gale watches the process with an idle sense of fascination. After the incident with the arrows only two days prior, there is something deeply satisfying to see the process as a bystander, and watch another school of magic in action.

With another, shuddering breath, Dirge drags his fingertips over fresh, new skin – any deeper damage to the muscle will take longer to heal, Gale knows now with experience; likely Dirge will suffer from an aching neck for the rest of the day. Gale’s leg had throbbed as though he had hiked on it for days straight, the muscles of his thigh twitching and spasming uncontrollably, weak and protesting carrying his weight. Uncomfortable, for sure, but a delight compared to the alternative.

“I trust him,” the half-drow asserts with a groan as his attempts to stretch his neck end with a pained grimace, “...he won’t hurt us.”

“Quite the opposite!” Astarion perks up, looking for all the world an innocent school boy caught in a harmless blunder, and not the monster he could be, if he so chose, “I’m here in the spirit of… openness and, um, honesty, to… work together as a team.” He smiles, a placid thing that does not reach his eyes.

Gale finds himself utterly unimpressed by the farce, by this sham – only hours ago, he likely would have fallen for this genial act. “You say all the right words, but I’m not so sure you mean the right things. Still… I will… respect the decision that was made.”

Lae’zel’s glare narrows as she moves to leave the tent, “One condition, vampire – if you leave my sparring partner unable to train due to your hungers, then I shall carve a new set of armors from your hide, understand?”

“Of course! Duly noted!” With a nervous titter of a laugh, Astarion watches her make her way back to her tent, that fake smile once more plastered to his face – now that his guise has fallen, Gale notes that Astarion makes no attempt to hide his teeth as he smiles; his fangs, long and terribly sharp, gleam ominously in the dim light. The elf notices his gaze, and makes a point of meeting his eyes, softening the sharp lines of his expression into something altogether more harmless, all the more fake. “See? We’re all friends again.”

Friends? Not a half an hour ago, Gale might have chanced using that word to describe those he travelled with – some, he thinks, the word might suit more than others – but for now, he’s had enough. He swiftly turns on his heel and stalks back towards the fire. They’ve not even departed yet, and already Gale feels himself descending into an unpleasant, unpredictable mood – made all the worse when he realizes that in his haste, Wyll forgot about the pan, and the remainder of breakfast has burned.

It's going to be a long day.

 

-x-

 

The mirror.

The mirror had flown through the air, landing just shy of Astarion’s leg, and his eyes had watched, helpless, as it hit the ground handle first. Fine cracks like an arc of lightning had spread out across the polished silver, shattering his empty reflection as completely as it destroyed his facade of mortality.

The wizard knew.

The sick realization made his stomach drop; Astarion’s vision had swam, and his hands had begun to shake – there were no words on his lips, no thought in his mind – nothing other than a deep, primal fear and an overpowering instinct to run. Grab his dagger, find his moment, and escape. If they’d try to stop him, he’d kill them.

Survival, at any cost.

That was an hour ago, and yet Astarion cannot get the memory of it out of his head. Breathing deep, he tries to center himself, but his fingertips still tremble, and his knees feel weak. Terror clutches tight at his heart, and dread’s fingers crawl across his spine.

For the life of him, he cannot seem to focus.

And now, Astarion finds himself placidly following the others as they amble their way up a set of ancient wooden stairs, and apparently, all is just forgiven.

It can’t be that simple–?

He had been the one to find the lever, hidden behind a stack of crates in the darkest shadows of the room – clearly, whoever this cellar once belonged to had wanted to keep it a secret. This had only increased his own interest in whatever was concealed beyond the wall, but the others were cautious, demanding to talk it over lest they all walk into a trap.

Which was foolish, of course. You don’t hide a trap where only the keenest eyes could find it. No, this was something worthwhile, something valuable.

Eventually the others conceded that it was worth at least a gander, and past the hidden door, they entered a narrow tunnel roughly hewn through the rock; a dark, winding space that only caused the ember of panic in his chest to grow, like a wildfire finding new timber – thankfully, after just a few twists and turns it opened suddenly into a much larger cave, filled with golden shafts of sunlight that filtered through great fissures in the ceiling. Where the light touched, thin patches of grass and wildflowers struggled for life, desperately digging their roots deep into unforgiving rock, only to flower all the brighter in the gloom.

And in the shadows of the twisting, natural stone pillars lay half a dozen rotting coffins.

Somehow, the sight sent a shiver down his spine, though he couldn’t reason why.

When the warlock made the mistake of wandering too close to one of the ancient caskets, a terrible shriek rang out through the cavern; one by one, gnarled, desiccated skeletons rose from the dead, their boney hands smashing straight through the wood of the coffins to defend their strange graveyard.

They were simple enough foes, easily felled – armed only with short swords and bows, they were remarkably similar to the corpses they found lingering in that abandoned temple. They seemed to lack the cunning and malice of a creature like Godey; mindless wretches left behind to guard something even after their masters had long since fled or perished.

What a miserable unlife, Astarion had thought as he pushed one down into a pit deep in the stone floor and narrowly avoided the skeletal hand that tried to pull him in after it, forever a puppet, till the very last.

The thought had bit and gnawed at him, and echoes of their shrieks rang in his ears. He refused to believe he could relate.

On the far side of the cave was a wooden platform, and now that they’ve climbed the steps to its top, Astarion finds himself rather disappointed – there seems to be little of value here. A few empty crates and barrels, and a couple of old glass bottles left strewn about the place. Even the large wine casks at the end are bone dry with thick tangles of spider webs weaving from one spigot to the next.

It isn’t until he places one hand against the stone to lean in for a better look that Astarion realizes – this isn’t the edge of the cave, but rather, a man made wall; great stone columns rise to brace a wall too straight to be anything natural. Large bricks, each about the size of his head, have all been tightly fit together in an impressive feat of masonry. There’s even a corroded iron sconce with a delicate filigree set into the stone, and as Astarion lights it with a wave of his hand and a gently whispered Ignis, a shape looms next to him.

A massive ornate mirror, its surface as dark and foreboding as a vast lake in the night.

Astarion frowns as he studies his find – it really is quite overlarge. At its peak, it’s at least twice his height, and about two meters wide at its thickest; its edges are made of a swirling metal design, likely brass, overlaid in delicate patterns atop ruddy hardened clay dimpled like rounded scales. It isn’t until he spots the eyes that he understands the motif – the brass loops and swirls like windblown grasses by a lake or a river, and near its crest, twin snakes watch over the water with a wary eye.

The deeper meaning of the serpents, if there is any, quite thoroughly escapes him. It seems a travesty to waste a mirror such as this by leaving it down here, sinking it into a wall in some underground crypt – a mirror this size would be horrendously heavy and extremely fragile, not to mention extraordinarily valuable. Who would hide something like this down here?

Perhaps someone with buyer’s remorse, he muses. And here he thought Cazador had a lurid taste.

The mirror’s blank surface seems to mock him; while it is dim and covered with the dust of decades, Astarion can still make out the hazy shadows of his companions moving across its polished silver. Of course, where he stands there is no shadow, simply the dull smear of other colors; the browns of the platform and the golden orange of the torchlight. His own reflection is as always eternally absent.

If he could see himself, would he see the way his hands still tremble where he clutches them to his sides? Would he see the way his chest still stutters with breaths unnecessary? Have the others noticed? Can they sense the panic he tries so hard to suppress? Pain clamps tight in his torso like a vice, and he cannot draw his eyes away.

The mirror. The mirror.

It seems he’s not the only one to notice the strange fixture – with the gentle hush of chainmail, Dirge soon looms beside him.

The mirror dwarfs even their giant half-drow. Dirge studies its surface with a keen eye, his arms crossed as he hums a low note in his throat. While he seems mildly interested in the find, likely even Dirge can see that it means nothing to the likes of them – a pretty bauble with no practical use. Even without the threat of the tadpoles and the insurmountable task of removing it from this cellar, the mirror would never survive a trip back to Baldur’s Gate.

With a thoughtful gleam, Dirge’s gaze tracks the arch of the filigree, and with one massive hand, he reaches out and gently runs his fingertips over the darkened silver.

Shockingly, the surface is not hard and smooth, but instead it ripples in gentle wavelets at the touch. From its depths, a cool blue light flickers and rises forward; the enlarged face of a ghastly figure appears, hazy beyond the faintest hint of features.

The half-drow gives a start at the apparition's sudden arrival, but before its shape can even finish forming, he’s leaning closer, eyes bright with curiosity. “What is it?” He asks with open wonder.

It is a bit unsurprising that it is the wizard who choses to answer. “It’s a magic mirror,” Gale states; Astarion does not miss the way the wizard glares at him as the man moves next to Dirge, “I’ve read of them, but I must admit I’ve never had the chance to encounter one in person.”

“Spea-k your name.” The apparition commands, its voice just as ghostly as its eyeless face.

Is it aware? Astarion wonders absently, or is some wizard’s simple plaything?

“Seems a waste to leave such a thing down here,” Dirge comments, “What is it for?”

“Vanity, I suppose,” Astarion replies, clicking his tongue and crossing his arms – hopefully that hides the wretched tremor that insists on running through his shoulders. He prays that Dirge cannot see the way his hands continue to shake.

“It is not mere vanity!” Gale barks, his frown deeping ever further, “This magic is old and faltering, but a mirror such as this is akin to a thinking lock. They’re used to hide great secrets.”

“What kind of secrets?” Dirge presses, either unaware of the rising ire in the wizard’s voice or seeking a distraction.

“That I cannot say. Anything too valuable to risk guarding by more conventional means, I suppose.”

“Whose face is it reflecting?” Dirge asks, blinking thrice in quick succession before frowning, bewildered. “That’s not what I look like, is it?”

“Oh no – the face is crafted to be pleasing,” Gale replies, his eyes widening as he realizes his misstep. Astarion finds himself smiling as the wizard continues to insert foot into mouth. “Um, that is to say, not to say that you aren’t. You’re not ugly, that is. That’s not what I meant to imply!” Gale insists, one finger raised as if to press the point of the matter. With Dirge simply staring at him, one eyebrow arched and not at all offended, the wizard lets out a great gust of a sigh, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he continues, “...As I was saying, it’s simply a construct. Its personality, however, will be a reflection of the wizard who created it.”

“Speak your n-ame,” the face demands again, its voice an emotionless echo.

“Dirge,” the half-drow replies, his forehead pleating with confusion, “...I think.”

“I do no-t know this name.”

“The name will be like a passcode,” Gale advises, looking thoughtful. He ponders it further with an inquisitive tilt of his head, tucking his hands behind his back, “Without knowing specifically what it is looking for, we’ll have no luck here.”

Behind him, the warlock’s voice is suddenly too close – for all his talk of heroics and morals, Wyll is surprisingly heedless of those around him, otherwise surely he would notice how Astarion’s skin crawls at the unwelcome proximity, “Perhaps it's worth investigating?” Wyll asks, his voice all boyish charm. “Surely it must be hiding something valuable.”

“I’ll admit I’m curious,” Shadowheart agrees, shifting her weight to one hip as she eyes the mirror closer, “Is there no spell you can cast to convince it, wizard?”

Gale’s incredulity, his indignation, billows about him like a stormcloud, “This isn’t some simple locked door I can cast Knock upon! This is a precise, magical contraption–”

“If you are known to my mas-ter, step forward and de-clare yourself an ally.”

Without warning, Dirge locks ‘eyes’ with the apparition, his lips pulling back to bare his teeth in a vicious snarl, “Open up, or I’ll smash you to pieces – bad luck be damned.”

The entire room falls silent, utterly shocked; Gale twists to stare wide-eyed at Dirge, clearly startled. The other two seem to be in a similar state, their hearts beating rabbit fast in their chests. Even the mirror seems stupefied at the ultimatum, its eyeless gaze seeming to take measure of the half-drow, and then–

There is a deep, resonating click that echoes in his bones, and in an instant, the ghostly visage vanishes like so much mist caught in a breeze. The darkened silver of the mirror’s surface soon follows suit, fading into a thin, transparent shadow that hints at something further beyond. A hidden room.

“There,” Dirge slips back into an easy grin, any signs of his anger washing away as quick as the tides, “found the password.”

The half-drow’s attempt at humor is almost worth it, if only for the sheer exasperation it puts on Gale’s face. Astarion finds himself unable to keep from poking the bear, just a little, “Well, someone just got betrayed by their own fancy lock – honestly, I don’t know why you wizards bother.”

He knows the hit landed when Gale, of all of them, is the first one through the looking glass – and good that he volunteered, as Astarion certainly wouldn’t be first in line to trust the strange mirror-turned-door – with his face twisting into something somehow more sullen as he ducks through. It seems the passage is indeed safe enough, as the wizard walks through the hazy shadow just as easily as he would the shade under a tree, slipping quietly into whatever room lays beyond.

Whatever is on the other side seems to be of no danger; Astarion can easily track the telltale patter of the wizard’s heart, and it neither picks up in speed or stops entirely. Still, as Dirge makes his own way into the passage, Astarion finds himself hesitating, cautiously pressing his fingers to the nebulous shade before him.

It’s surprisingly cool to the touch, like running his fingers through chilled water (another novelty with which he’s only recently reacquainted himself), yet without any of the drag or physical sensation. It's perhaps a bit… otherworldly, the same feeling one may ascribe to having someone walk over their grave – a senseless saying, he knows from experience.

Or, perhaps, no one’s ever bothered to visit mine.

The thought catches, snags on the jagged edges of his mind, right alongside the still lingering echoes of terror from earlier this morning, and if he trembles as he follows Wyll through, well, no one can see it for the shadows.

The room beyond is absolutely cavernous. It shares the same meticulous craftsmanship as the masonry on the other side, but not one bit of it has been merely carved from the stone. Thick wooden beams support each edge and the high, domed ceiling, and it, the walls, and the floor are all made of the same bricks, carefully placed by an expert. Despite this, time still shows its hand; through the cast of deep shadows, a golden shaft of light peters down – one section of the roof has collapsed, leaving behind a mound of rubble.

Disappointingly, it seems as though they’ve managed to stumble their way into some sort of laboratory instead of a hidden treasure vault, but not all hope is yet lost. The edges of the room have raised platforms, each richly decorated with all sorts of oddities; from where he stands, Astarion can make out the outline of a stuffed cave bear, a crystal ball, tables surrounded by all sorts of eccentric equipment, and many ornate wooden cabinets that are just begging to be looked into.

Suspended by thick chains from the ceiling, a partial skeleton of some massive creature looms like a terrible omen. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before; with vertebrae the size of cart wheels and its skull as big as the wagon to match, whatever it was likely could have swallowed their party whole and then some.

All the better that it's dead then, he muses, moving down the steps into the room proper, though the skeleton hangs from its mount askew. Several of the moorings have given way, causing one section to hang ominously and another to crash to the ground entirely – the rest looks to be secure, for the moment, but it seems like a push of luck to risk stepping directly beneath its shadow, so instead Astarion gently skirts along its edge, and ponders his next move.

Without a word, the rest of the group splits and begins checking each of the various sections – unsurprisingly, Gale heads straight across the room towards an area partitioned off by dusty curtains in a shade of royal blue, from behind which mounds of books lie in waiting. Wyll and Shadowheart both wind their way towards an alcove where a table sits bracketed by a human skeleton and the cave bear. Lae’zel wanders about with a disapproving scowl, eventually making her way over toward the fireplace. There seems to be not much of interest there, the shelves on either side adorned with little more than some rotting red fabric that hangs down in torn swaths, but from the depths of the ashes, she kneels and pulls free a charred skull.

In the end, is it even really a choice? With a quick step, Astarion finds himself shadowing Dirge as the half-drow ambles about. He seems particularly interested in the massive stone table at the room’s center, and the humanoid skeleton that rests atop it. Across the granite, a dried splash of blood has long since turned to dust, and a wide array of old metal tools gleam ominously in the torchlight; scalpels, calipers, an amputation knife, and a bone saw… it seems clear that the poor fool expired on this very table in some gruesome ritual. The sight is, for a lack of a better word, interesting, at least.

Dirge seems to think the same thing, slowly dragging one hand across the bloodstain with a naught but the gentle rasp of skin on stone.

Suddenly, the absurdity of it all hits Astarion; him, following around the half-drow like some lost puppy. A powerful urge washes over him, and he has to bite down on it before he does something foolish like walk away – he very much still has a plan, and if the events of this morning are anything to go by, he had better start acting on it, and soon. Sucking in an awkward, shaky breath, he searches for a start, “...So.”

Briefly, Dirge’s eyes flick to meet his, before resuming their examination of the table. “So?”

“I believe you promised to tell me something?” Astarion makes sure to lean just a bit closer, just beyond the bounds of personal space, “Something about Gale and a bomb?”

“Oh.” Dirge hums, “Apparently, some time ago, Gale opened a book and a strange orb of hungry magic sunk into his chest. If he doesn’t feed it strands of the Weave, it can detonate and kill us all.” The matter of fact delivery of such a preposterous statement has Astarion rocking back on his heels.

“He has a bomb? In his chest? …I’ll admit I heard you the first time, but I thought you were surely joking.” Astarion gingerly places a hand tight against his lips as his tone pitches upward into something just this side of hysterical, “An exploding wizard – who’d keep a secret like that from his friends? You can’t trust anyone these days.”

Obliquely, Dirge’s eyes again meet his, but if the half-drow has indeed noticed Astarion’s hypocrisy, then he’s wise enough not to make a spectacle of it.

Best not to linger – Astarion presses forward, “So, what did you say? When does he leave?

“He doesn’t.”

“He could explode and kill us at a moment’s notice, and we’re just going to keep him around?” Had he known the fool was this soft-hearted, Astarion wouldn’t have worried about revealing his true nature earlier. He clicks his tongue with a touch of disdain, “...Is this because he reads to you every night?”

He doesn’t get the rise that he hoped for – Dirge ignores him almost completely, seemingly engrossed with a sheaf of papers near the desk’s edge. He draws them into his hands, and begins sorting through them with a touch more delicate than Astarion would have expected for someone so overlarge, “...From what I understand, we’re all as good as dead if we don’t remove these parasites.”

“You know, I find myself doubting that more and more each day.” Astarion crosses his arms, feeling a lash of irritation coil tight about his core. He refuses to acknowledge the still prickling worry and fear that simmer right beneath it, “The wizard himself told everyone in a grand speech that we wouldn’t survive seven days with the tadpoles lodged in our skulls, and yet here we are, unchanged. Well, beyond the occasional stroll into each other’s minds.”

“Hmm,” Dirge shrugs, flipping through the pages with a focused eye; Astarion finds he doesn’t much like being ignored at all, “ …We’re not getting rid of Gale, Astarion – I know you might not need to eat, but the rest of us do, and Wyll’s attempt at cooking this morning was, well…” Finally something other than that studious look cracks the half-drow’s expression, something awfully close to a wince, “...An exercise best not repeated.” Then, as suddenly as flipping a switch, Dirge’s eyes widen, and he turns his whole attention to Astarion, “What about you?”

Astarion can’t help the way his shoulders pull in, just a little, as the conversation takes such a sudden turn, “What do you mean, what about me?”

“You need blood.”

“...Yes, we established that.” Has it suddenly sunk into that thick skull just what it means to have a vampire around? Is it his turn to prove his worth? Ignoring the twist of panic buried deep in his ribs, Astarion leans closer, and puts on his best predator’s grin – a sly smile that shows off the power of his bite, “But now that I don’t need to hide what I am, I can use all my talents in battle, fangs included.”

Dirge looks skeptical. “Is it going to be enough? I can’t imagine you’re that keen to drink from goblins?”

Admittedly, the thought does not inspire him – grubbly little creatures – but after centuries of starvation, he’s not going to turn down any meal he can just take – but then a second thought crosses his mind; he has a new plan to work on, after all. He lets his smile shift to something more coy, something a bit… playful. It’s time to properly lay the foundations of seduction. “Why? Are you offering another nibble?” The waggle of his eyebrows is anything but subtle.

Is it possible to fall out of practice in his life’s work so soon? It’s not even been a tenday, and his best sultry voice seems to have no effect on the half-drow, who simply shrugs; a well-thumbed leather bound notebook has caught Dirge’s attention, and he cracks it open with a sharp gleam in his eye, their conversation apparently all but forgotten.

“I don’t see why not,” Dirge mumbles at last, engrossed in whatever this new find contains.

“...Well now, don’t sound so eager,” he bites back sarcastically – his irritation has bubbled up into a tiny pinpoint of rage that wars within himself, churning from anger to suspicion to an almost nauseous anticipation, but he shutters his eyes and attempts to regain control of himself – he won’t be so easily bested. “If I may be so bold, what do you get out of it?”

Dirge continues flipping through the pages, distracted, “You deserve a chance to eat and be strong, same as anyone. And, well, I’ve never slept that well before – seems advantageous for the both of us.”

“It helped you to sleep?” For the first time today, Astarion takes a step back and really takes a good look at their amnesiac – he cuts a striking image, really, his broad frame leaning with one hand pressed against the table as he pours over the contents of some long-forgotten journal. Truth be told, the half-drow does seem especially present today, aware in a way that Astarion can’t remember ever seeing before, except in faint glimpses.

Over one shoulder, Dirge again casts him a glance – his coal-dark eyes shine knife sharp in the light of the torches, surprisingly so for someone who just days ago could barely speak, who had nary a thought in his head. Standing this close, Astarion is again reminded just how outrageously large the half-drow is, and how useful it could be to have that kind of strength at his beck and call.

Now is the time to cast my hooks, he thinks, letting his lips again twist into that sly smile, looking up at Dirge through the arch of his lashes. Vulnerable, concerned. One of many roles he’s learned to play over the years. “That reminds me, I meant to ask – how are you feeling?”

“A bit woozy, but fine. Shadowheart healed the bite, and casted something on me for the blood loss.”

“Convenient.” Astarion finds himself suddenly viscerally glad that the cleric decided to heal the wound – the very idea of seeing a bite mark on someone and knowing that he had been the one to put it there? It fills him with a sickening twist of fierce pride and an aching self loathing. For a long, harrowing moment, the world around him fades away, and all he’s aware of is the arch of his own neck, his body strewn across the cobblestones as he bled out into the streets. The shadow that loomed over him, and the ghostly fingerprints that trailed across his skin. A touch that almost felt loving. An utter facade broken as Cazador leaned in to sink his teeth into Astarion’s neck –

One of his last memories of being alive, and one of the very few still remaining; it turns out that two centuries spent under his master’s rule had stripped him of almost everything but pitiful obedience.

Like a beacon, his own bite scar throbs with a phantom pain. Thoughtlessly, he raises one hand and presses it tight against the old wound.

“Astarion?” A low voice rasps, bringing him out from the strange sense memory that holds him captive; at his side, Dirge is watching him intently, “Are you alright?”

“Y-yes,” he stutters, dropping his hand as fast as if he had been burnt. Stupid, stupid to get lost in his own head like that – forcibly, he takes the thoughts, the feelings, the memories, and shoves them down, down deep where they cannot reach him. “I was just… Thinking. About… how you should be glad that I’m not a true vampire. A bite from one of them, and you could wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self. All a vampire’s hunger, but few of their powers.”

“Is that how you can stand in the sun? Because you are not a ‘true’ vampire?”

That he bothers to ask honestly comes as a surprise to Astarion, and the truth tumbles to his lips unbidden, “Oh no, I should be cinders in this light. I… I hadn’t seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed on that beach.”

There’s the echoes of something that could be concern in Dirge’s steely gaze, and Astarion presses forward – it's that, or he’ll claw those eyes right out of the man’s head, “Someone – or something – wants me alive. They’ve changed the rules. Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation… they’re all… perfectly mundane activities now.” His voice ends with a touch of wonder that he can no more control than he could force his useless heart back to life.

But he needs to regain control, feels it desperately down in his marrow; as easily as one would slip on a pair of gloves, he returns to his role. His lips pull into an alluring smile, and moves just a bit closer. “As for my other quirks, well, we can figure those out later.” He winks.

Again, he casts the invitation out, so brazen even a blushing virgin would notice, like a sparking lure. Bait, floating in the waters between them, that remains untaken. Is the half-drow really so unaware? Instead, Dirge sighs and leans back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. In the dim light of the nearby candles, the hollows of his cheeks seem less apparent, almost healthy. “...Do you really normally have all those limitations?”

“Yes – I thought you knew of vampires.”

“I do,” Dirge replies, his words brief, without pretense, “But I suppose just a concept of them. I don’t think I’ve ever met one before.”

“I suppose most have not, or if they have, they did not live to tell the tale.” Somehow, it feels as though he’s scrabbling at the edges of a plan so swiftly turning to dust beneath his fingers; desperately, he continues with his charms, “But you needn’t fear that. I promise no more surprise visits – I’ll keep my fangs to myself, and if you need a…’good night’s sleep’--” another wink, about as pointed as he can get, “-- then we can arrange something, I’m sure.”

Still no bite. Feeling unmoored, Astarion seethes – does he need to go slower, and ease the fool into the very concept of flirting, or should he be more blunt? Is it possible for him to even do so? He’s leaning so close into the man’s personal space, there’s barely a palm’s width of space between them.

“What’s causing this?”

For a moment, the anger turns again to icy fear in his chest, fear of being caught out, “What’s causing what?” Astarion snaps back, his words far less sturdy than he would like.

“You being able to stand in the sunlight, and enter people’s homes – you said you couldn’t before. Is it the parasite?”

The paranoia in Astarion’s veins whispers distrust; is this a trap? Is Dirge looking for leverage? But no, those eyes hold no guile, only honest curiosity, “That’s my theory, but who knows?” Feeling off kilter, his voice fades to quiet as his words fail him – what more can he say? Each time the very notion has entered his mind, it has been followed by thoughts of Cazador and compulsion, and just how the worm might be affecting those; how can he possibly hope for protection were the group to find out he might just return to being a mind slave of his former master?

Be it distance, or be it the parasite, something is protecting him, and when that ends…

What is he to do then?

He shrugs a shoulder, subdued, “...I just wish I could have avoided the inquisition this morning.” It feels a bit apropos of nothing, but it’s all he can manage.

Dirge tilts his head, brow furrowing, just a little, “Gale meant well, he was just worried.”

Subtly, he gestures over his shoulder to the alcove behind him; he knows what the half-drow will see there. From near a bookshelf, the wizard has been watching them over the edge of a book like a hawk. Astarion hasn’t heard a page turn from that direction in over ten minutes.

Still, the way Dirge casually casts his gaze in that direction, discreetly, lights a small spark of hope in Astarion’s core – he’s pleased to see the man isn’t as hopeless as some in their group.

“I think if he hadn’t found me as he did, he would have been more open to realizing what you are,” Dirge replies, returning to the notebook, though with less enthusiasm than before.

“You do? People don’t normally take well to the idea of vampires around them.”

“He seemed to already suspect you, honestly.”

Feeling a sharp ache begin to form behind his eyes, Astarion groans and runs a hand over them, replaying the wizard’s harsh words over again in his mind. “Yes, I suppose he must have.” Somehow, the thought does little to calm the worry that prickles at his skin.

There again is that flutter against the very edges of his thoughts; a ghostly touch, feather light, like fingers skimming through his hair, yet so, so distant – Dirge’s mind, reaching out with his tadpole to brush his own. Is he aware that he does that? Astarion rather thinks not, but Dirge seems to at least subconsciously pick up on his concerns, his face gentling as though he senses the utter turmoil that broils within Astarion, that he tries so desperately to bury — despite himself, Astarion flinches violently at the unwelcome mental contact, so soft it could almost be called a caress.

Whether or not Dirge feels that recoil, he’s unsure, but the half-drow startles back, just a bit, and his presence fades from the edges of Astarion’s awareness. He looks a bit chastised, which satisfies Astarion just enough to soothe his pride.

“Give him time to realize you’re not going to kill anyone, and he’ll come around. I bet he’ll even be interested in what it’s like to be a vampire.”

He doesn’t quite feel convinced, but the slow, even tempo of Dirge’s voice does ease his fears, perhaps just a bit, “...What makes you so sure?”

“He’s the curious sort.”

From there, the conversation feels good and dead, but Astarion isn’t so easily dissuaded. Casually, he moves in closer, next to Dirge, pressing the small of his back against the desk as though he were also interested in reading the notebook. This close, he can feel the heat radiating from Dirge, even through the layers of gambeson and chainmail, and for a brief moment, it feels almost pleasant. A subtle shift is the only sign that the half-drow is aware of his proximity, but there’s no doubt in his mind that the amnesiac knows just how close he is as he peers around the man’s shoulder.

“Find anything interesting?”

“Not particularly,” Dirge shrugs, but doesn’t pull away. Good. “At least, nothing that will help with the parasite. Whoever worked here was less interested in healing people than raising them from the dead.”

“I must say, I enjoy a practical man,” Astarion comments blithely, taking a moment to properly glance over the notebook himself. Across the page an elegant scrawl details what does indeed seem to be a very dry account of necromantic experiments. For all the effort the deranged alchemist put into this secret practice, they seemed to care only abstractly about it; Astarion finds his own attention quickly waning as he skims entry after entry – how could someone involved in such taboo arts be this dull?

But then, the final entry catches his eye – a hastily scribbled sentence, where all previous entries were written with a practiced, careful hand. It reads : ‘...the book offers help. Dare I accept?’, but before he can truly stop to ponder just what that means, the notebook snaps shut, and with a start, Astarion glances upward to see Dirge staring right back at him.

“Practical?” he asks, with a slight tilt of his head. His confusion is almost palpable.

It takes a moment to cast his mind back, remember the last words out of his mouth – at last the context returns to him, and Astarion can’t help but roll his eyes, “Necromancy. Most people are as wary of necromancers as they are of vampires.”

“Oh,” Dirge replies, his brow furrowing as though he considers it. A moment later, he sighs, disheartened. In a voice much meeker than Astarion expects, he mutters, “...Guess that’s just one more thing wrong with me.”

Now that is interesting. While Dirge has become more animated over the last few days, he mostly reacts to the world around him with little more than mild curiosity; to hear him sound so dejected? That’s new, and Astarion can’t help but press the matter – his curiosity needles at him. “And what could you possibly mean by that?”

The set of the man’s face is subtle, but annoyed. Frustrated, perhaps. “I may not know much, but I’m aware I’m not exactly… normal.”

In two hundred years of trawling through the seedest dregs of the Lower City, Astarion has learned more than his fair share of tricks. People are inextricably drawn to certain gestures – a charming smile, a gentle touch, a sympathetic ear. Difficult as it is, he bites back on the sarcasm that rises to his lips, and leans into the very first rule he ever learned as a vampire spawn – get your target to talk about themselves. “Oh? Good. ‘Normal’ is boring, and you’re anything but,” Astarion smiles, even as the lie leaves his lips, “...Tell me what you do know.”

Dirge’s lips thin in an expression that is more a grimace than a smile. For someone who regularly stares, unabashed, the way his eyes dart away to the far side of the room, pretending to watch the others as they search and most certainly eavesdrop, is very telling. Is he nervous? Astarion isn’t certain, but it’s clear he wants to avoid the conversation. “You said you saw inside my head, yeah? Then you’d know about as much as I do.”

“I saw scraps, at best.” With a hum, Astarion casts his mind back. On that beach with his knife to the other man’s throat, he could only remember hazy, disjointed images; a kaleidoscope of blood, shadows, and pain, each image too fractured to comprehend. “Fleeting fragments, sensations; surely there’s something more in there?”

Dirge’s face tightens as though he’s bitten into something sour. “No, there really isn’t.”

“I thought amnesiacs don’t really lose all their memory? Isn’t that a myth?”

One of Dirge’s shoulders bobs in a half-hearted shrug; not a promising sign, when he’s trying to worm his way into the man’s good graces, but the half-drow doesn’t move away, doesn’t create space between them. After another sigh, those steely eyes again meet his – reluctant, yet steadfast. “...Perhaps it's rare? I don’t know, but I promise, I truly don’t remember anything. Even my memory of the last few days is… tentative, at best.”

In hindsight, spending those first few days goading and mocking the half-drow might have been a waste. It’s certainly made the mantle of concern and interest he wears now feel all the more awkward for how it weighs across his shoulders, but Astarion can’t quite bring himself to feel regret. It had been immensely entertaining to mock the fool who hobbled behind them like a corpse freshly risen from its grave; a bright spark of humor in their trek through the wilderness. He had even tried to lay bets amongst the others on how long it would take for them to lose their amnesiac along some bend in the road (that was, of course, before he realized the others were more or less intent on keeping him, useless baggage or not).

Still, an effort must be made, he supposes. “Tell me what you do remember.”

Dirge closes his eyes, concentrating. Hesitantly, he speaks, his words slow as though he dredges them from great depths. “I remember a structure made of meat. The… nautiloid, I suppose. I remember falling, being caught. I…I remember… bathing in a river? Nights around a campfire. Lots of walking… There was… a crypt?”

Astarion hums a note of agreement, and watches the gentle pleat that wrinkles the half-drow’s forehead.

“Everything is very hazy until… until we got to the grove.” His coal-dark eyes blink open again, but his gaze remains distant, unfocused. “Just before, actually – I remember that fight at the gate fairly clearly. It’s still not perfect, I-I still lose time, but it’s… it’s better.” His voice is steadying, certain, like the balm of a fire against night’s chill, but it's unclear whom he’s trying to convince – Astarion, or himself?

“What do you mean, ‘lose time?’” Now that sounds interesting – a weakness he could possibly exploit?

Dirge scowls, visibly frustrated at the quirks of his own faulty memory, “One moment, I’ll be talking with someone, the next, hours have passed and I’m sitting at the campfire, and Gale will have shoved food in my hands, and I have no idea how I got there. Sometimes I’m aware of it, like the world around me is Hastened, and I’m just too slow to keep up...Other times… it’s like I blink, and everything has shifted around me.” Dirge’s eyes meet his, as if to downplay the severity of his symptoms; if anything, it's bravado in his voice. “It happens less now.”

Oh, what a boon that would be, if Astarion could only manage that trick for himself. His time under Cazador’s thumb had been an utterly miserable eternity, but reliving it each and every time he closes his eyes is a special type of torment. Even now, the memory of it makes him sick; the hooks of his former master’s compulsions plucking at all the nerves along his spine like the legs of a spider dancing along its web; his body, little more than a vessel for someone else’s will.

Though Cazador fancied himself a great deal more creative than that; the best punishments, he believed, were those chosen rather than compelled.

Apparently, Astarion loses himself for too long in his own thoughts as Dirge pushes away from the table, but it seems not all is lost; the half-drow turns and gestures with a tilt of his head: an invitation to follow. For a brief, spiteful moment, Astarion considers refusing simply to assert that he can, but once again the thought of the plan looms heavily in his mind. As annoying as it is, he first must ingratiate himself with the fool, and let his barbs set deep.

Across the floor they move to one edge of the circular room; quite possibly the least interesting side, but as the others have already spent a great deal of time combing their respective sections, it's really the only place left to look. At a glance, the area seems quite out of place compared to the rest of the room – there are no ornate decorations, no extravagant machinery, just two old braziers resting, one on either side of an old metal gate that seems more at home in a dungeon than a laboratory. High upon the walls are two large ram skulls watching their every move with an eyeless gaze.

The light from the various candelabras about the room do not reach this dark corner, and as they draw near, Astarion’s eyes peer through the dark iron bars for any sign of movement beyond. Nothing so much as twitches, and he hears no heartbeats beyond; thick cobwebs spiral from every available surface, and the dust here is especially thick. While this hidden lair seems to have been abandoned for at least a few decades, it seems this particular hole in the wall has been left untouched for far longer.

He notices the pressure plate a moment too late to actually do anything about it – before he can hiss more than a word, Dirge’s foot has depressed the tile with an ominous click, and they both brace for impact. Expecting an explosion, or perhaps some poison gas, Astarion finds himself almost disappointed when the two braziers spark to life – certainly a neat parlour trick, but with the sudden jolt of adrenaline, he’s feeling more insulted than impressed.

“First a button that revives skeletons, and now a trap that lights a few braziers for us?” Astarion rolls his eyes, carefully edging his way closer to the door; there seems to be no other mechanism here, but he’s not so foolish to take a chance, “At least someone’s being creative.”

Through the bars of the door, there’s not much of interest to see – a table, or a desk perhaps, with something on top of it, but the shadows are too dark to make out much more than the barest of details. There seem to be large, rounded shapes lining the edges of the walls, but they’re too irregular to be barrels or shelves; unlike the rest of this place, the room beyond is little more than a simple nook carved out from the rock, and it seems to be more a hasty addition than part of a greater design.

The door itself is not trapped, but it is locked, and Astarion lays a hand on Dirge’s arm, trying to ignore the way his skin crawls at the contact, “Allow me.”

It's a mere matter of moments for him to pull out his picks and pop open the lock, and with a groan, the door swings open reluctantly.

A thick wall of cobwebs greets them, and no amount of arm waving seems to completely dissuade the silken strands from trying to adhere to his face and hair. The object in the center of the room is not so much a desk or a table but rather some sort of stone altar, carved, if somewhat plainly, with naught but what seems to be a single book resting upon its top. It looks rather plain, though there’s something a bit off about its cover, but before he can consider that further, the shapes along the walls again catch his attention.

Here, in the dark, it's a bit easier to see them for what they are – two carved stone gargoyles; crouched, wings outstretched and faces caught in a terrible twisted snarl. They look like some macabre amalgamation of hounds and bats with the face of men, and are just about as hideous as can be. Old statues placed in storage? Something about it seems a bit… off. It doesn’t sit well with him, and even less so when he notices that the statues have been set into very specific indents along the floor, one on each side of the door.

Both with maws wide, facing the exact spot where someone would be standing were they to be looking at a certain book.

With a start, he spins about on his heel, hissing, “Don’t touch–!”

“I see it,” Dirge replies, his hands hovering near, but very much not touching the book – beneath the leather bound cover, Astarion can now see that the tome sits upon what appears to be a pressure plate, almost invisible save for the edge of the seam with the altar itself. While he cannot see exactly what it connects to, Astarion has no doubt that the mechanism within leads directly to those two repugnant gargoyles. What exactly the trap does is impossible to say, but after having a tour of this hidden lair, Astarion feels he understands the taste of this deranged alchemist well enough to know that it would have been something as terribly ostentatious and garish as everything everything else around them.

“Can you disarm it?” Dirge asks, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Should be easy,” he responds, stepping into the space that Dirge makes beside the altar, “but I’ll need a closer look.”

The book itself is a ghastly thing, a grim visage of metal, flesh, and bone. A human skull strains against the leather in sharp relief, its face caught in an eternal anguished scream; a damned soul trying to escape its fate, bound in place by thick patches of skin that bind the book from cover to cover. From its hollowed eye sockets, twin amethysts stare with a haunting gaze that catches the light too well to be anything but magic, and in the book’s spine someone has sewn in the very real vertebrae of likely the same unfortunate victim.

It is a dreadful thing, and disgusting to behold, but he can feel the power radiating off it; it calls to that undead part of him, like a beacon. Like the pull of the tides, drawing him ever further out to sea.

“Well, it seems you were right,” Astarion mutters, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. Carefully, so carefully, he shimmies the pick between the plate and the altar. With just the right angle, he may be able to slide it underneath, and undo the mechanism from within. “Someone certainly had a penchant for necromancy.”

“Whoever they were, they must have been killed,” Dirge replies, “no one in their right minds would have left something like this here just to rot.” There’s a keen interest in his eyes, and he seems unable to pull his gaze away from the leatherbound visage – is it possible he feels that same pull, too?

Something like this, he thinks, feeling the certainty settle into his bones – like calling unto like, can never just rot away. The words try to rise to his lips, but Astarion refuses to say them, instead barking a sharp curse as something ghosts over the skin of his hands, his face. “Damned spiderwebs!” he hisses, risking pulling a hand away from the delicate mechanism at his fingertips to swipe a palm across his eyes, “...if it weren’t liable to set off the trap, I’d recommend a quick Firebolt to clear this space of the blasted things…”

Dirge doesn’t respond, doesn’t so much as move – instead, he stares, that same mindless interest in his eyes. In the shadows, the whites of his eyes catch the slightest hint of that amethyst light and almost seem to glow with it.

In the end, the trap itself is deceptively simple. With a flick of his pick, he’s able to disconnect the spring upon which the whole foundation lay, and within moments, the mechanism is effectively disarmed. Such a waste to set up something so elaborate as this where something far simpler would likely have been more effective – a few smokepowder bombs and a spark would have done the trick at killing any unwanted trespassers.

For one brief moment, he feels a bright ember of satisfaction and pride which fades startlingly fast to a stomach churning distress as Dirge swipes the book before he can do so much as take it for himself. As the man takes his time, studying its cover, Astarion bites back the flow of words that threaten to tumble out of his mouth until at last he can hold it in no longer, “That looks terribly heavy. Why don’t you let me carry it for you?”

Stupid, stupid! Even he can hear the naked want in his voice, but it seems that the words manage to seep into that dense skull; with a startle, Dirge looks up from where he was just studying the entrenched fragments of a spine, and he straightens as though he were the one overstepping. “Oh,” he says, voice soft, “Of course.” And just like that, he turns and plonks the book down into Astarion’s hands with no complaints, no hesitation, like it's not some valuable artifact but instead something much more mundane.

Nerves alight, fingers trembling, Astarion pulls the book against his chest and finds himself fretting, feeling… uncertain.

It’s an ugly feeling, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the fool to want something in return, for this or for the blood. It’s a feeling he’s too familiar with. One he never wants to feel again.

“It’s all yours,” Dirge replies, lips twisting with something that could be annoyance, but shockingly, it's not directed at him, “though, I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have until we figure out how to open it.” Sure enough, while there’s no visible lock, the book refuses to open, and its gaping maw looms, wide. Expectant. The recess of the screaming mouth seems to not only be an aesthetic choice after all.

Still. Still, it feels too easy – for a too-long moment, Astarion finds himself just standing there, staring at the half-drow, waiting, and yet… nothing happens. Dirge, in return, simply watches him back, his eyes soft, his face at ease. Whatever thoughts may or may not be working their way through that thick skull, none of them seem to pertain to any ideas about exchanges of favors or debts.

Astarion can’t understand it; it feels as though one of the very foundations of his world has been knocked askew; a cardinal rule, old as time, broken as though it were nothing. No one in this world ever does anything without expecting something in return, and the cost for any favor is always more–

And yet. And yet.

For the first time since the wizard so rudely woke him and sent him into a continuous spiral of panic and doubt, the feeling of fear finally truly begins to fade into something smaller, more manageable. A mere shadow of what it had even been moments prior when he refused to let himself acknowledge its existence – it’s not dead, of course it’s not; that terror lives eternally, trapped within the cage of his ribs like the frantic fluttering wings of a bird, desperate to escape, but it’s… its better than it was, if only just a little.

Perhaps… Perhaps this isn’t such a bad idea at all, endearing himself to this fool, gaining his favor, his protection, if the man’s too stupid to demand things in return.

Slowly, carefully, with the book still pressed tight to his chest, Astarion steps forward, and lets a bit of heat smoulder in his eyes. It seems like Dirge’s darkvision is more like that of his drow kin than that of human’s, as even in the gloom, his eyes find Astarion’s, and a gentle blush pinkens the crest of his cheeks. Once he knows he has the man’s attention, Astarion takes another step closer, too close for propriety, and gently lays one hand on the warm skin of Dirge’s wrist.

“Thank you… For the book, and for the blood. This is a gift, I won’t forget it.”

 

-x-

 

Six days out from their stay in the abandoned village and the weather takes a turn for the worse. After nearly a tenday of solid sunshine, dark thunder clouds billow ominously in the east, and the wind rises as though the storm itself wishes to race the fading light. The rain will likely hit just as the sun sets beyond the horizon, which gives them another hour or two yet – the timing could be worse, Wyll supposes; spring it may be still, but the weather has been unseasonably warm, and he knows for a fact that there are more than a few fires that could benefit from a proper rainfall.

That being said, the rocky path they’ve decided to make camp along offers little in the way of cover, and he’s not keen to lose his tent to a temperamental wind.

In this land of steep, sandstone cliffs, cut through only by narrow, winding paths, there’s little space to spare, but they’ve managed to find a spot less than a stone’s throw away from the river’s edge that may just make due. It’s not ideal, of course, as the wind shrieks across the water, but a nearby embankment of boulders does much to divert the gale, sheltering the fire and making the spot almost pleasant.

Still, Wyll finds it hard to drag his eyes away from the slate-grey clouds and the bright flashes of lightning that pierce them. That alone is dangerous enough, but in a valley this narrow, he’s keenly aware of the risks of mudslides and flooding – if the rainfall proves excessive, there is nowhere for the water to go, but with the higher cliffs buffeted by the wind and crawling with gnolls, they’re at a bit of an impasse.

The river runs high from the spring melt, so if things should turn dire, there won’t be much time for them to notice and escape. They will have to be vigilant, he supposes, feeling discomfort crawl up his throat; he knows just how quickly a mudslide can form, and just how deadly they can be.

Were circumstances different, they could take shelter inside the old toll house that rests upon the hill, but until Karlach is finished tearing the place apart, it’s really no safer than the alternative. When Wyll suggested they leave her to vent in peace, there were already a few fires started by her incredible inferno. While she seemed content to mostly break a few crates and smash the furniture, if the place is naught but cinders by daylight, he won’t be surprised.

At least the rainfall will prevent any errant embers from turning into a proper wildfire; Waukeen’s Rest too would welcome a moderate shower. While the town itself still stands, it is a shadow of its former glory, and when they left there the day prior, the ruins still smoldered with the heat of the fire. Perhaps, for a change, luck could favor the town – the last thing the people there needed now was either a mudslide or a brushfire.

It seems he’s not the only one worried – as a particularly cold gust winds its way through the valley and past the boulders, Gale drops his knife to the top of the log that he’s using as a makeshift cutting board, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, shivering. His eyes look to the east, lingering long on the roiling wave of thunderclouds looming ever closer.

“What a dreadful wind,” Gale comments, his brow creasing deep with concern, before glancing Wyll’s way, his hand retrieving his knife once more, “are you sure we’re safe here? Those storm clouds look most minacious. Could we not have made camp beneath the wooden walkways around the toll house? Would have kept the rain out at least.”

Regretfully, Wyll shakes his head, “I don’t trust them to remain standing, especially in this weather. The wood was rotten through – at least here, we’re close to the path in case we need to seek higher ground.” With a sigh, he moves himself closer to Gale – behind the shelter of the boulders, closer to the fire and the food the wizard so carefully prepares – and takes a moment admire the man’s handiwork; a true feast in the making, as best as one could hope for out in the wilds such as this. Still, while Gale seems to have it all well in hand, it only feels polite to offer his own, though he’s sure he knows what the answer will be. “...Are you sure I can’t help you with that?”

Gale turns to him fully, for a moment considering, before pulling the knife well out of reach – as though he expected Wyll to lunge for the blade. “I rather think not,” he replies, his eyes narrowing, “we all saw what happened the last time I left you in charge of the food.”

“That was days ago!” Wyll replies, that small, crushing shard of shame, everpresent, burrowing deeper into his chest. “You must admit the circumstances were unusual.”

If anything, Gale’s eyes only narrow further, his gaze cold and calculating. At his side, Shadowheart watches on, legs crossed and goblet in hand, but when Wyll glances her way, she offers nothing but a small, wry smile and a shrug of her shoulders. Any sting he may feel at being the entertainment means little; for just a moment, her amusement lessens the dark shadows under her eyes, the weariness in her shoulders – the last few nights had been rough on her, he knew. Something kept her up at night, though whether it was to do with the goddess that he believes she worships or the tadpole that swims in her brain was anyone’s guess.

It's another long moment before Gale deems him trustworthy enough, and passes him a knife, gingerly.

“Chop the carrots and the potatoes,” Gale directs, moving aside just enough to give Wyll room, “I’ve already seared the venison, but the onions still need time to caramelize, and we’ll want to roast them all together.”

Wyll nods, and gets to work.

In truth, things have been going auspiciously well for them, lack of a cure aside. Not only have they been thus far spared ceremorphosis, but they’ve been comfortable, and thanks to Gale’s delicious cooking, well fed. Ever since Astarion’s true nature had been so dramatically revealed, there’s been an excess of food available in camp. A well-fed vampire apparently makes for a sufficient hunter, and with no need to keep his secrets any longer, he made a habit of bringing back the drained carcasses with him. While he wasn’t always successful, Lae’zel, with a bit of training on how to track the animals of Faerûn, had helped Wyll snare a handful of hares to make up for any shortcomings.

There was enough meat, in fact, that the food that Gale had purchased back in the grove was able to be kept aside in case of emergencies. Today’s kill, a deer, was the first of its kind, and there was enough meat on it that Wyll planned to properly see to it after they were finished eating; it alone could keep them fed for the better part of a tenday, as long as he made sure to preserve the meat properly.

Astarion, when he wasn’t off prowling about gods knew where, took to milling about the camp with a smile on his face like the cat who got the cream – he had his very own fresh font of blood available to him every other day, and he made no secret of it. Not that he ever fed on Dirge in front of Wyll or any of the others, but Astarion would make a point of slipping in and out of the half-drow’s tent, grinning ear to ear with his fangs on full display.

Most of the camp tolerated the theatre with naught more than an awkward air, but Shadowheart was less keen to let the matter go; she certainly didn’t enjoy needing to restore Dirge’s missing blood so often, but even she couldn’t complain that loudly with how effective their rogue had suddenly become in combat.

Speak of the devil – Astarion appears along the edge of the campfire, giving a great stretch and yawning before staring at them each in turn. The weight of his gaze is heavy, but after a moment of hesitation, he moves to sit on the log, next to Dirge.

“Why, hello,” the vampire says, looking up at the half-drow through fluttering eyelashes, and the smile on his lips rings false to Wyll’s eyes.

Dirge, who has spent most of the day fighting for his words, looks up and greets the elf with a slow nod, and tilts his head closer to listen as Astarion leans in and whispers something to his ears. What he says to Dirge now, Wyll cannot hear, but he can see the blush that rises so gently to the man’s cheeks – from the heat of the fire, or from Astarion’s words?

When the vampire leans back again with a coquettish grin, Wyll doesn’t miss the way Dirge’s eyes flick down and linger for a moment too long on the elf’s lips.

At his side, Shadowheart sighs and drains her goblet before filling it again. “Wonderful. Astarion’s certainly feeling glutinous, isn’t he.” She takes a long dreg of her drink, “We made a deal – every other day. That’s it.”

“Maybe they’re just talking,” Wyll tries, feeling uncertain, “I doubt they would be so foolish as to risk your wrath.”

“Hmm.” Shadowheart doesn’t sound convinced. She watches the pair, swirling the wine in her goblet, “You think they are that clever? Most days, I have my doubts.”

Her wry smile has returned, and Wyll relaxes his shoulders a little. Looming storm aside, there’s a feeling of good cheer in the air, and it feels a shame to waste it. “Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far,” he chuckles. His amusement swiftly turns sour and he curses low under his breath as the blade slips along the edge of a particularly difficult carrot and almost takes his finger with it. “Ah!” Crisis averted, he loses only a sliver of skin, and he brings the wound to his mouth to suck at the blood, “...damned knife.”

“More like an inept handler,” Shadowheart rolls her eyes, but without hesitation, she puts her drink down, leans over, and quickly seals the cut with the barest touch of her healing magic, “I should start charging rates; I’d never want for work again.”

Her jab is as gentle as her touch, belying her usual sharp humor. Wyll smiles softly, and nods his head, his eyes watching closely the elegant movements of her hands; once again he notices that unusual starburst scar, cast in sharp shadows by the light of the campfire. A patch of necrotic flesh, perhaps? The color is akin to frostbitten skin, but not only is the location strange, it seems to show no signs of rotting away. Whatever the cause, there is a story to be told there, he’s certain, though whether their tight-lipped cleric would ever see fit to share it is another matter.

“They do seem to be getting along, don’t they?”

Her words startle him from his reverie, “Who? Astarion and Dirge?” Wyll chances another quick glance at them – they still sit on the log, next to one another, but the set of Astarion’s face is decidedly unhappy; before, he had the half-drow’s undivided attention, but the dog they found just outside the abandoned village has inserted itself into the situation, thrusting its head atop Dirge’s lap, and the man’s smiling, his fingers sunk deep into the thick fur of Scratch’s scruff, scratching vigorously.

At his side, Astarion’s head is tipped back and he’s pointedly not staring at the pair; he has the air of an impending tantrum about himself.

“They do seem to… be tolerating each other a bit better now,” Wyll concedes, “though, I haven’t spent as much time with them as you have.”

“Astarion couldn’t stand to be anywhere near Dirge before, except to mock him,” Shadowheart sighs, pulling back and retrieving her wine, “I don’t think Dirge minded him one way or another, but now… well…” She takes another sip, slow, considering, “Astarion’s not exactly being subtle, now is he?”

He’s really not – whether the man has taken a genuine interest in the half-drow or is simply looking to secure his next meal, the only one that doesn’t seem to really notice just how forward the vampire is being is Dirge himself. Not entirely unreasonable; the man spends his evenings nursing fierce headaches, and while he definitely seems to be on the mend, there are still days where Dirge seems barely present.

Is Astarion trying to seduce the half-drow? Is Dirge capable of consenting to a relationship? Wyll has an uneasy feeling settling into his gut at the mere thought of questioning the man’s abilities, but Shadowheart had taken the time some days ago to explain to Wyll – in great detail – the severity of Dirge’s wounds, specifically of the trauma to his head. While Dirge did seem to be healing rather swiftly, it was impossible to know just what sort of damage had been done, and some wounds just do not heal.

Apparently, Astarion’s had enough of Dirge fawning over the dog – the vampire sends Scratch away with a rude wave of his hand before crossing his arms and playing the part of a petulant child, “Egh. I can smell the garlic from here. Must you cook with it?”

Gale looks up from where he kneels, crushing the cloves with the flat of his blade, “How could I not? No meal is complete without garlic!” The wizard smiles, returning to his work with a vigor that feels almost spiteful, “And as you are not the one eating it, I imagine it will have no adverse effects on you, unless the very smell will make you wilt.”

Ever since Astarion’s vampire nature came to light, Gale has been a bit cross with him, and any conversation between the two often dissolves into petty bickering. Now is no different; Astarion’s eyes narrow as he picks up on the barbs hidden within Gale’s words, “Surely a man of your education is capable of some empathy. And who knows what effect it has on the blood?” His gaze softens again as he turns his full attention towards Dirge, “You wouldn’t force me to suffer through that, would you?”

There’s a flicker of something in the air; a sudden, fluttering sense of emotion, as faint as a touch ghosting over skin. The echoes of confusion and curiosity, brief like sparks that break free from the campfire, little glowing embers floating away on the wind to disappear into the gloom. It seems when he lacks his words, Dirge turns to the tadpole to express himself, though perhaps unknowingly; the sensation is muddied, and fleeting, leaving Wyll with little but an annoying tingling sensation; a buzz in his ears like they need to pop. Static in the air, like that feeling just before a storm, before the lightning strikes.

Dirge blinks, looking confused, and with a great effort, gets his mouth to cooperate, though his words come out falteringly, “I’d… I’d l-like to try. Garlic.” He swallows, roughly, running a hand through his hair and pressing it tight against his forehead. “Not sure I’ve had.”

Astarion heaves a dramatic sigh, leaning back and away from Dirge, crossing his arms. He paints the very picture of hard put upon, but that insincere smile is quick to return to his lips, “Well then, if needs must, I suppose an experiment is in order. I must warn you, dear, if it tastes anything like it smells, you will be disappointed.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve had garlic before, Dirge – it’s a readily available herb that provides great flavour,” Gale smiles, eyes bright as he takes the chopped vegetables away from Wyll to add to the pan, “It’s honestly quite the travesty that we had to go without for so long, but I’d dare say that from here on out, dinner will undergo a vast improvement. Or, well, so I hope,” Gale’s smile turns into something more akin to a wince, “I must admit, I’ve never had much chance to cook with venison before, but no dish was ever ruined by roasting it alongside fresh vegetables.”

“It has a strong smell,” Lae’zel agrees, looking uncertain. Off to the side of the fire, she attempts for a third time to secure her tent to the ground, and keep it from flying away with the rising wind, “But I cannot say that is necessarily a bad one.”

Gale looks intrigued, “You’ve never had garlic either?”

“No, unless it goes by a different name in the Astral, but I do not think I could forget that odor.”

“What about you, Astarion?” Wyll asks, “I know you are a vampire, but surely you must have had garlic before you were turned.”

Astarion’s face tightens to something just short of a scowl, his false cheer disappearing swiftly, “I… wouldn’t remember.” He sniffs, tilting his head back as if to avoid eye contact, “When you’ve been a vampire as long as I have, some of the finer details fade away. Eventually.”

His words are unusually tense, and Wyll finds himself even more curious than before – despite his secret being revealed, Astarion has remained frustratingly tight-lipped, and Wyll finds he can’t temper the suspicion that churns in his gut. It’s clear the vampire isn’t telling them everything, and that feeling of something more lingering in the darkness, hidden, discomforts him greatly.

With barely a sound, Karlach emerges from the bush, glowing like a lantern in the dead of night. Her chest pulses with golden light in time with her panting breaths, and the grin on her face is wide and exhilarated. As she steps past Wyll, she gives him a wide berth, ducking her head in a friendly nod as she takes a seat on the dirt before turning to face Astarion, “Just how long you been a vamp for anyway?”

At his side, Gale startles as if struck, yelping as the knife slips from his hands to fall traitorously to his lap. Karlach winces, “Sorry! I should have warned you. Never quite thought of myself as ‘stealthy.’”

Gale’s alright, thankfully – his robes caught the knife and the blade did him no harm. Shadowheart rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath, taking another gratuitous swig of her wine. Across the fire, Dirge stares towards Gale, his face creased with concern, and again there’s a hint of that feeling in the air, that sensation that makes Wyll’s tadpole squirm.

Astarion, however, only glances Karlach’s way, either oblivious or uncaring to the wizard’s plight; he looks vaguely intrigued – because he wishes to talk about himself after all? Or, because Karlach is bothering to ask? “Hmm. Two hundred years. Give or take.”

Karlach whistles, “Damn, that’s a long time.” Of all of them, she sits farthest away from the blaze, seeming to enjoy instead the chill of the wind. Wyll can’t say he’s surprised – even a good four meters away, and he can feel the heat that absolutely pours off of her, like a roaring blacksmith’s forge. “Say, aren’t vampires supposed to be, you know, unable to walk in the sunlight?” She asks, earnestly curious, “You seem to be handling it just fine.”

Wyll finds himself clutching at the information, eager for any knowledge that could make him feel safer about his choice, allowing a vampire to stay in the camp. Astarion’s done them no (lingering) harm thus far, but he’s hunted many monsters in the past who set their traps and wait. “I’ve been wondering about that myself, Astarion. Are you a daywalker, by chance?”

“Egh, I wish.” He seems earnestly disgusted, folding his arms in front of him, “No, I have a feeling the tadpole is responsible. I suppose I have to thank those tentacled freaks for that.”

Gale perks up, setting the knife carefully back to the center of the log, where no more accidents can happen, “So you were lying about being a magistrate. I knew it!”

Astarion’s frown deepens, and his words come slow and careful. “I wasn’t lying, not… not exactly. I was a magistrate, back before I was turned.” Where normally he speaks so vibrantly, with a tone that is almost musical as it dances across octaves, now he sounds small. His words tucked away, as though he wishes no one would ever find them.

Then, as smoothly as flicking a switch, his voice begins to steadily rise again; an obvious attempt at distraction, “It was all so very tedious, but I must say, I find myself rather more interested in just how you saw through those paladins.”

Dirge looks up, and once more, that buzzing mental connection – confusion. Wyll hates the feeling – it's like his inner ear won’t stop vibrating, “Used.. used the thought spell.”

“You mean Detect Thoughts?” Gale supplies, his eyes flicking toward the half-drow.

“Yes.” Dirge nods, as slow as molasses, “That one.”

Astarion makes a sound of approval, low in his throat, “That’s awfully clever of you.”

The way he nearly purrs that is so false, so awkward that Wyll only barely keeps from flinching, and obviously, he’s not the only one – Karlach’s face twists to something between a wince and a tense smile, and Shadowheart pauses with the rim of her goblet to her lips, her eyes first widening with disbelief then rapidly narrowing into perhaps the most confused scowl he’s ever seen her make. Gale may be facing the pan, carefully stirring the venison and vegetables, but he watches the pair from the corner of his eyes, glaring daggers.

Besides Dirge himself, the only one who doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss is Lae’zel; though, whether that stems from a lack of understanding or a lack of caring, he cannot be certain. As with any of the other githyanki he had met throughout his lifetime, few as those may be, anything she deemed to be ‘istik’ custom was openly scorned. Her faith seemed to rest only in her blade, and in Vlaakith, to whom she swore her life to.

Was it truly so surprising that an outsider such as she would bind herself so tightly to the half-drow? In the beginning, Wyll wasn’t sure what drove her to take him under her wing, train him in the ways of battle, but each day, he felt that he understood better; while Dirge was certainly of this world, unlike her, with his amnesia he was just as much an outsider as Lae’zel. She, on the other hand, seemed drawn to his tenacity, to his strength of arm.

Yet the githyanki did not tolerate weakness, and on the days where Dirge could barely speak, let alone fight, she still did not cast him aside.

And Dirge himself was a puzzle that Wyll still struggled to understand, even now. Accepting a cup of wine from a slightly tipsy Shadowheart, Wyll watches the half-drow from the corner of his eyes. When it came to the others in the group, Dirge seemed genuine; he listened to each of them earnestly, and attempted to help or offer suggestions wherever he could, but when it came to others throughout the world, Wyll often found himself… disappointed in the man.

Accepting a cup of wine from a tipsy Shadowheart, Wyll finds himself considering a question he’s asked himself many times over the years: just what makes a monster?

Most would think of the githyanki as such. Famed for their cold, brutal practicality, they enacted savage raids on the people of Faerûn often enough that even the sight of one could be deemed a bad omen. They stole food, valuables, and lives alike from their victims, and not even their own kind were safe from their atrocities. Lae’zel said as much herself days ago; the weak were to be culled, and even the children were not spared.

And yet, she spoke of honor, and by no one’s definition could she be called a coward. Her words were harsh, yet she refused to soften them with falsehoods. She fought beside them, fiercely, and protected them each in turn, often putting herself in great danger to do so.

What about Astarion? Where Lae’zel was proud and brave, he only hid his snivelling cowardice behind a thin veneer of arrogance. He became irate at even the smallest mention of helping others or risking his own neck, no matter how righteous the situation. For someone who called himself a former magistrate, he seemed to have no interest in justice or equality.

He is an actual monster, and that part of Wyll which has been honed to a razor’s edge by years spent alone on the frontiers still cries foul at the very thought of a vampire sharing camp with them. Of course, he’s heard tales in the past of people meeting peacefully with vampires, but in his experience, that has never been true to life. Every encounter inevitably ends in tragedy – either the vampire slips unseen into someone’s quarters to feast, or begs for a sip, only to drain them dry.

But when he looks at Astarion, he sees not a vampire, but an elf, cunning in a way that speaks of years of hardship and survival. A cruelty that seems learned through necessity, not pleasure.

Wyll liked to think he knew something of monsters. Not only had he been hunting them now for nearly a third of his life, but many of the patriars who ‘graced’ his father’s court were monsters in disguise; for all their facades of civility and nobility, most of them had connections to the shady acts that happened around Baldur’s Gate, and many who were not directly involved in wrongdoing helped facilitate the crimes of the others, often greasing the hands of corrupt Fists or purposefully turning a blind eye to heinous acts.

His father often would overlook their natures, telling Wyll that there is evil throughout the world, and one must often act around it rather than try to confront every villain head on, yet to Wyll it felt hypocritical. How could his father claim to stand up for the innocent, the victimized, and the oppressed, yet openly mingle with the aggressors?

And while Wyll had spent more of his childhood with tutors or watching the Fists, he had whiled away enough hours in the court that he felt he had developed something of a nose for evil. Not perhaps a precise science, but he trusted the feeling in his gut and more often than not was proven right when a person’s darker nature would come to light.

Which is perhaps why when he can’t stop staring at Dirge from the corner of his eyes, Wyll asks himself again: what makes a monster?

Upon their arrival to Waukeen’s Rest, there had been a Fist who knelt before the body of a fallen comrade, reciting for him a prayer. Amidst the ash-laden air, Wyll had felt his heart shudder with the weight of her sombre tone. A mournful moment, a final sending of one who had mattered so much to this woman. Someone she would never get to see again.

When she noticed she had an audience, the Fist had simply cast a look back at them, over her shoulder. Her eyes were hollow with a cold grief.

Wyll had offered her his condolences. Dirge had crossed his arms and muttered how it was clear the man hadn’t been cut out for his work.

It had been a day of mindless bloodshed and destruction. From the very moment they first found those ransacked carts on the sides of the road, the bodies left strewn across the rocks in piles of gore and meat, and no one could bear to witness such horrors and not feel something. Even Astarion could not quite maintain his facade, though, perhaps he was only worried for his own skin.

But Dirge had been so cavalier about it all. Amidst the blood and the screams and the flames, he had been entirely unphased. He made no complaints about saving Councillor Florrick – had been the one, in fact, to kick the door down – but there had been no fear in his eyes, no horror, no despair. If anything, he seemed almost at home in the chaos.

Sometimes, in Dirge’s eyes, Wyll sees something darker lurking. Something as keen as a predator’s gaze; the wolf watching the hapless lamb, waiting for its moment.

Simply put, the man seems to lack empathy. When it came to the others of the group, Dirge did seem to care for them, but to what extent? Was he truly able?

Indeed, maybe we do have a monster walking amongst us, Wyll thinks, watching as Scratch wanders over again and Dirge once more rakes a hand through the dog’s scruff. Neither Gale nor Shadowheart seemed to have much to say on the matter, one way or another. Gale was staunch in his belief of Dirge, and Shadowheart seemed more or less resigned. Head trauma, she reminded him, could do many odd things to a person.

Wyll draws in a breath, and tries to quell the doubt that brews steadily behind his sternum. If he’s willing to give Karlach a chance, then surely he needs to be patient here too.

It isn’t long before Gale hands out bowls heaped with food, and Wyll accepts his gratefully, his mouth watering. It smells amazing, as does most anything that Gale cooks. The man truly has an eye for the culinary arts, and Wyll would love to see what the wizard could accomplish with the proper supplies and equipment.

It seems he’s not the only one; everyone (save Astarion) tucks in eagerly, all smiles and pleased noises. Compliments to the chef, as his father used to say.

The wizard absolutely glows under the praise, proud of his work, and rightfully so – but suddenly, his expression swiftly wilts. His smile grows tight, conflicted, and quite honestly he looks a bit green about the gills, so to speak. Curious, Wyll casts his gaze about for the culprit, and is not surprised. He frowns, and feels a spark of ire glow in his chest.

“Dirge,” he says, keeping his voice just shy of scolding, “it would be considered only polite to respect Gale’s effort in putting together dinner by using utensils.”

Gale frowns, looking his way, “Really, Wyll, it’s alright–”

Dirge matches the expression, looking up from his food, though he looks more confused than angry. Perhaps etiquette is not the best lesson to teach when the man’s head is clearly troubling him, but Wyll has watched this for long enough. Dirge swallows roughly, and puts down the chunk of venison he held back down into the bowl.

“What.” Dirge pauses, breathing deep. The words seem to struggle just at the edge of his reach, “What, do you–”

“He means for you to use a fork and a knife, dear,” Astarion chimes, smiling over the edge of his goblet – wine, or blood? Wyll wonders absently. The latter seemed more likely, as Wyll didn’t think a vampire could stomach anything else. “I could give you pointers, you know. I’ve been invited to more than my share of patriar galas. Personally, I find their obsession with utensils to be a bit excessive; who needs six sets of spoons?”

“I could also teach you, if you’d like,” Wyll adds, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Tch,” Astarion clicks his tongue, his expression turning sour, “I nearly forgot, we’re in the esteemed presence of the son of the Grand Duke. My apologies, your lordship. Of course, I could never hope to know as much as yourself. Please, do continue.” Those piercing red eyes watch him over the rim of his goblet, as hard and cold as ice. Yet, there is something deeper there, something a bit… teasing, perhaps?

Whatever it is, Wyll refuses to rise to the bait – Astarion often arms himself with sharp little barbs such as these. Little jabs that dig deep at the skin, but it feels rather akin to a defensive mechanism than anything real.

“Oh, you’re the Duke’s son? Ravengard’s kid?” Karlach grins, her eyes bright with excitement. Flames lick the clay where Karlach holds her bowl, full with its second helping, “I didn’t know the Blade of Frontiers was nobility!”

“No, I’m not nobility,” Wyll replies, feeling a touch of a blush rise to his cheeks – just as it did yesterday, when the others first realized exactly who he was. While he was happy to have seen Councillor Florrick once more, he did rather prefer the anonymity; though, to be fair, he had never meant to hide his identity. As far as he was concerned, he had stopped being Wyll Ravengard the moment he had been exiled from the city. “My father was born a common man, and worked his way up through the ranks.”

“Hmm, yes,” Astarion replies, handing a fork to Dirge, “a heroic tale, if I remember the story correctly. Like father like son, I suppose.”

What he would have sacrificed, once, to hear a certain someone say the same thing.

“Still,” Karlach whistles, “I can’t believe I had the son of the Grand Duke hunting me down! You’ll have to catch me up on these stories one day.”

Her grin is infectious, her eyes open and honest. A thought strikes him hard against his breastbone, knocking a gust of air from his lungs.

Mizora lied. I almost killed this woman.

It's not the first time today that he’s had this realization, but that doesn’t lessen its bite; a shock of shame wells into the wound within, a cold fire that burns at all the vulnerable parts of him.

Mizora lying, of course, did not come as much of a surprise, though Wyll had always believed that the contract would hold the worst parts of her devilish nature at bay, but now he sees that he was being naive. How she had managed to weasel her way around their binding agreement, Wyll had no idea, but there was no doubt in his mind that Karlach was not the monster he had been led to believe.

Deep down, he suspected that something was amiss when they confronted her on the river’s edge, but to his shame, he held Mizora’s falsehoods tight in his hands, and refused to let go. He tried to ignore that niggling squirm of doubt that swirled around his heart because the truth of it was terrifying – Mizora only rarely ordered him after particular targets, and she always came well prepared with some heartbreaking tale of the crimes they had wrought. If he was being lied to, if Karlach wasn’t the fearsome devil he had been led to believe, then what about the other targets his patron had sicced him on over the years?

His hands tremble at the thought. He sets the bowl aside, his second helping left half uneaten as his appetite abandons him. There will be hell to pay, of course, when Mizora realizes that he has disobeyed a direct order. Never before has he failed a task set before him, and he is not keen to learn the price of disobedience.

Thankfully, for all the turmoil he feels within, the sights and sounds of the camp do something to soothe the worry in his soul. Most have finished their meals and have sat back, or are slowly picking at their plates as their hunger has been sated and now they can simply enjoy. Gale has another bowl ready in his hands, and as he sits down next to Dirge, he hands the bowl over. Dirge accepts the offering hesitantly, more out of frustration than anything – to his credit he is using a fork, but his large hands fumble with it as though he’s never had the practice.

At his side, Astarion at last drains his goblet and leans closer to Shadowheart, who refills it from the bottle; wine, after all. “Shadowheart, would you be a dear and lend me that mirror you found?”

The cleric pulls back, wine bottle in hand, arching her eyebrows at him, “What makes you think I still have it?”

Astarion smiles coyly, “Resourceful thing like yourself? You’d never throw something like that away.”

“Fair enough,” she leans forward, reaching for her pack behind her, “You could do with some practice on your flattery though.”

“I will when you earn it,” Astarion replies smugly. As she hands him the mirror, the vampire gives it an appraising once over, twisting it about as he checks it over; from here, the polished silver catches Wyll’s eye, reflecting the light of the fire, and even he can see the large crack that cleaves its surface, from corner to corner, arcing like the branches of a great tree, “Where did you find this old thing, anyway? I thought I searched that basement thoroughly.”

“The desk had a false bottom to the drawer.”

“A false– drat.” Astarion frowns, annoyed. “Somehow I never remember to check.”

Closer, the sound of a throat clearing gently garners his attention. “Dirge,” Gale hedges hesitantly once the half-drow has finished his bowl, and declines a third, “do you remember that barrel in the abandoned village? The one that exploded?”

Dirge frowns, clearly considering, but after a long moment, he shakes his head. A clear ‘no’.

“Well,” Gale continues, undeterred, “I’ve been giving it some thought – how you survived that blast intact. More or less,” he says, gesturing to Dirge’s once-bandaged arm; true to Shadowheart’s word, the wound healed perfectly, leaving not even a scar to marr its surface. “An experiment, if you’ll permit? I promise you’ll come to no harm.”

Dirge hums, considering, and then nods once.

Gale smiles, carefully taking one of Dirge’s hands in his. In his other, he gathers the beginnings of a Ray of Frost, a glimmering gasp of winter incarnate. He holds the spell in his hand like an orb, gently cupping it as he drags it through the air but a few centimeters from Dirge’s skin.

Where the spell moves, in its wake it leaves a wave of gooseflesh, but something else sparks behind – a shimmering light, translucent, almost like a soap bubble. Where it touches the Ray of Frost, there is a crackle of energy and the faintest smell of ozone, fresh and sharp as the dawn after a storm.

“A protective ward,” Gale hums, sounding pleased, “impressive.”

“Pretty.” Karlach whistles. “...What is it, exactly?”

“Dirge is by blood a sorcerer, even if he’s forgotten how to access his magic.” With a wave of his fingers, Gale wills the spell away, and as it fades, so too does the ward, invisible once more. “But that connection remains. I imagine, subconsciously, your mind is pulling at the Weave, and in turn it is drawn to you. Likely, your innate talent is responding to my excellent tutelage, forming this instinctual shell; it will help to shield you from spell and sword alike, however…” the wizard pauses, his eyes apologetic, “I cannot say just how effective it will be. Likely, as you continue to regain your strength and further your lessons, your mastery over it will grow as well.”

“Certainly a useful trick,” Astarion notes, watching the pair hawkishly.

Shadowheart sighs, “Anything that reduces the amount of healing I have to do. Shame it doesn’t seem to work when you decide to have a snack.”

The vampire rolls his eyes, “Curing a little blood loss is certainly within your capabilities, is it not?”

Karlach chuckles, her eyes gleaming in the firelight, “Hey, I saw the way Fangs here handled that prick, Anders–”

“Fangs? Really?”

“–And anything that keeps you fighting like that is a yes in my book.”

Astarion’s face tightens into a moue of annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest, “Wyll, is it too late for you to kill her? Preferably before she spreads that around. I have a reputation to uphold.”

It’s clear from his tone that Astarion’s only kidding, but that doesn’t stop the panic that threatens to crawl up Wyll’s throat once more. It squeezes his chest as tight as a vice, stealing his words away. His breath shudders in his chest as the words return to him once more; what makes a monster, indeed. Slowly, he raises a hand and presses it against his lips, trying to center himself. Wishing that he had half the strength a hero should have.

None the wiser to his inner turmoil, Karlach laughs, the inferno of her mechanical heart dancing upon her shoulders and like a river of fire through the strands of her hair, “‘Sides, it wouldn’t really be fair for the rest of us to be chowing down while he went hungry, would it?”

That seems to stop the vampire’s griping well enough; with a huff he drops his arms and takes up his goblet once more. The entire camp falls into a comfortable quiet.

At last, the pressure in his chest begins to ease as a certainty seeps into him; Wyll may have done terrible things unknowingly. The victim of ignorance, of a want to believe in promised words and high ideas, but no matter what happens, he can keep pushing forward and do better. Become a better man, the kind his father would have been proud to know, were they ever to meet again.

Distantly, he can feel the crackle of hellfire. The faintest whiff of sulphur floats in on the gale. The storm clouds are almost upon them, and Mizora won’t be far behind.

A reckoning, and one he deserves. He will face his punishment with steel in his spine – whatever the cost of failure, it is not worth taking an innocent life.

“Isn’t it interesting…” he says, his voice low. Almost a whisper. The others all lean just a little closer to try to pick up his words over the rising wind. “No matter who we are, or where we are from, we’re all drawn to the flickering flame of a warm campfire.”

Astarion snorts, “Men, maybe, but not monsters.”

Wyll smiles, feeling a certainty build in his chest, “You’re here, aren’t you? I’d hazard a guess, actually, that you’re drawn to that spark more than most.”

Astarion frowns, but doesn’t contest the truth of his words.

“...Trolls,” says Shadowheart, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

She turns to him, “Trolls aren’t drawn to fire, they fear it.”

Wyll frowns, “Well, of course not everything is drawn to fire; I was talking about our camp here. I think it has something to do with the humanity in all of us.”

Karlach chuckles, and shakes her head when he turns to look at her; now that the little magic show is over, she again sits farthest away, out of the shelter of the boulders, the wind buffeting her flaimes and hair, “Oh no, I know what you mean mate – I like fire, I do, I just wish it wasn’t so damned hot. You know, infernal engine for a heart and all.” She pounds a fist against her chest and the golden glow that surrounds her swirls ever higher. Shadowheart, who sits closest, scoots well back, trying to avoid the blaze, her eyes wide in surprise. “Sorry! I can’t help it – you don’t understand just how fucking happy am to be here! To be free of Avernus!”

Wyll finds himself smiling alongside her, her joy contagious – he’s powerless to stop it. If he has to pay a price for experiencing this, then so be it. He would rather damn himself a thousand times over than risk hurting another innocent. If he cannot stand for what is right, then how could he ever dare dream of calling himself the Blade of Frontiers?

As that little ember of rebellion simmers within him, he feels her draw near, as if summoned by his very thoughts. An electric chill slithers down his spine, and Wyll bolts unsteadily to his feet, pulling the eyes of all the others to him, but he barely notices – on the ground, mere meters away, twin points of light appear, and the smell of sulfur becomes overwhelming. A sickening cloud that lingers over their camp like a miasma.

Each light flares before arcing toward each other, pulling together in a slow, swaying dance, leaving in their wake a trail of fire that forms into a great burning circle, its innards as black and oily as pitch.

“Wyll? Fuck–” Karlach hisses. In a moment, she’s by his side, axe in hand, and for the first time in their short acquaintance, she looks worried. Of course she would be, she knows devils better than even he, and there’s no mistaking what this is; a portal cut straight through their plane and down, down into Avernus.

He licks his lips, the words struggling to form, but if anyone deserves the truth of it all, it’s her. As the first drops of rain begin to fall, they land and sizzle against her skin, evaporating instantly. The blaze that surrounds her is like a great halo, a piece of the very dawn that wards against the coming of the night. He steels his heart, and asks again for courage, “I… I do not regret it, Karlach, but I did disobey orders.”

“What are you talking about?” Shadowheart demands, mace in hand and eying the fire with clear distrust; in its center, an inky form begins to rise from the depths. A familiar one – those horns are unmistakable. “--Wyll?!”

He sighs, and turns to face his judgement, “And now I have a price to pay.”

 

-x-

 

Dirge blinks, squinting against the light.

It’s so…bright.

Thought bubbles up, slow and heavy, from deep within, but it feels strangely… distant. Like he’s underwater, or. Or sleeping. Somewhere, someone is singing.

Where…?

He’s… staring out over water. The edge of a river. The sun has not quite reached its zenith, hanging high in a shockingly blue sky. Its light reflects sharply across the water like a thousand shining knives. A warm wind winds its way between sand colored boulders and cliffs, and bright green reeds sway gently along the shore in a lazy dance.

Something’s…wrong. He thinks languidly. A frisson of terror churns threateningly in his gut. A strangely familiar feeling, but it feels muted somehow. Buried deep.

To his left there is a small tiefling kid with fiery red skin and a riot of curls that nearly hide his curled black horns. They’re both standing in the water – him up to his shins, the child to his knees – and as a shiver wracks its way up Dirge’s spine, another thought finally trickles forward: What am I doing here?

He doesn’t know.

“It’s so pretty,” the child looks at him with a dumb, giddy smile. There’s not a single thought behind those eyes.

Almost drunkenly, the kid takes another step deeper into the water, and that sickly thing in Dirge’s chest purrs with delight. How delicious would it be, it whispers silkenly into his ear, to slice those tendons and push that small face down. All the best drownings happen in shallow water – so close to safety, and yet too far to matter.

Unbidden, Dirge’s hand finds its way down to the dagger on his belt – a relatively new addition; Lae’zel insisted that he carry one, for when swinging a greatsword just wasn’t possible. It’s halfway out of the sheath before he catches himself, and with a rough, shuddering breath, he forces that dark urge away, but this hazy, dreamlike state remains. What is he doing?

Why am I in water?

A sudden movement, and a shadow falls from the sky to eclipse the sun. A figure has landed on the rock ahead, and with a graceful roll of its shoulders, it steps forward. Closer. It’s… vaguely feminine? There’s an impression of feathers, but no matter how hard he stares, Dirge can’t quite make it out. The fog that wraps around his mind holds tight and pushes every other thought away. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does, except for that song.

Without thought, Dirge finds himself taking a staggering step forward, deeper into the water, but… why? Did he mean to do that?

No, he didn’t. There’s a feeling in the air, something soft and vibrating, rising and swelling with that lovely song – it tickles his senses, buried deep beneath that artificial haze that blankets his every motion, smothers his every thought – and desperately, he struggles, reaching out for it with his mind. It’s elusive, flitting about like the wings of a hummingbird, but Dirge centers himself just as Gale taught him, and–

It’s magic, and it’s familiar – a sickly sweet melody that enshrouds him, wrapping around him as soothingly as loving arms and as tightly as a noose – and at its touch, his stomach rebels; it's a charm spell, of sorts, and a powerful one. A lure that’s dragging him against his will, ever closer to its core. A harpy’s charm.

The spell already has its claws sunk deep into him, and it takes everything Dirge has to shake himself free with a choked gasp. The world around him suddenly falls back into place; his boots are soaked through because he’s wading into a river, halfway across and already thigh deep into the icy water with no recollection whatsoever of entering in the first place. Terror screams a dreadful hymn along the cage of his heart, and his hands shake with fine tremors.

He’s got no memory of how he got here; one moment they were all in the Grove, and the next… It’s a blank, but a quick glance around proves he’s not alone – Astarion, too, seems caught in the grips of the magic, leaning precariously close to the edge of the cliff upon which he stands, and on the shore a few meters behind Dirge, Shadowheart stands half curled in upon herself, one hand clutching her head, the other wrapped around the handle of her mace.

Thankfully, both Gale and Lae’zel remain free from the charm – on the cliffs above him, Dirge spies Gale standing next to Astarion, protecting the rogue from the two monsters that circle them. The harpies are not much larger than a human, but they lash out with both wing and claw as they strike. It is a fierce fight, but Gale seems to be holding his own; he twists himself in front of a reeling Astarion just in time to cast Shield on himself and absorb the blow, and a moment later casts a powerful Thunderwave that knocks one harpy down to a lower ledge.

The creature lands on its wing, bruised, but not broken. The spell may have bought Gale time, but his enemy is far from defeated.

On the shore closer to him, Lae’zel brandishes her greatsword with savage swings, protecting an incapacitated Shadowheart at her back. The harpy is swift and dodges the strikes with cawing laughter so shrill that Dirge can’t help but wince as the sound pierces deep into his head, but try as it might, the monster can’t quite get past the gith to its target.

A particularly wicked slash swings Lae’zel around to face his direction, and when she notices that he’s regained his wits, her snarl sharpens and her eyes narrow. “Grab your blade!” she commands, “Make yourself useful! Kill the one across the water!”

Sure enough, there is a fourth harpy sitting high atop a rocky butte, her head cast back and her wings spread wide. Another wave of that song crashes into Dirge, rolling over him like an ocean swell and attempting to pull him under, down down back to that state of mindless complacency, but even as he reels, Dirge is able to keep both his mind and his footing. As he stands, Dirge grabs his greatsword from where it rests, abandoned on the sand, and pushes deeper into the water, toward the singing harpy. He has to dodge the child as he does so, who remains caught in the song and compelled to push forward.

Likely, the child will drown before they make it across – he swims clumsily, his curly hair flattened by the wavelets that wash up and over his head, but even swallowing mouthfulls of water doesn’t manage to wash that empty smile off his face.

Dirge pays him no mind – perhaps the kid will suffice as a distraction – and swiftly makes it to the ledges, clawing his way up the rock. Reaching the top, he slams into the harpy with all his weight, stopping its wretched song with an awkward, choked off squawk, and sending them both sprawling.

It fights fiercely, bucking and twisting against him, buffeting his head and shoulders with its wings, and clawing at his arms and legs with his talons. Thankfully, his arcane ward takes the brunt of the damage, sparking in faint flashes of opalescent purple along the periphery of his vision. He’s too close to use his greatsword, so instead Dirge drops it and opts instead for the dagger, hacking and slashing wherever he can make blade meet flesh.

This harpy seems different from the others. While it shares the same brown and white plumage and warm, tanned skin of its kin, this one wears an elaborate headdress of feather and bone with a half mask made from human skull. The leader of this little flock? Perhaps whatever passes for one amongst harpies, Dirge muses as he lands a particularly satisfying hit. As his dagger sinks deep into the harpy’s shoulder, the creature shrieks at him and manages to squirm out of his grip, taking the dagger with it as it pulls away, clutching its bleeding shoulder and chattering at him.

Stooping to gather his sword, Dirge takes quick stock of the others; it seems that interrupting the song managed to pull both Astarion and Shadowheart from their stupor, and now they both fight, cursing the monsters as they strike at them. Astarion seems especially surly, his face twisted into a snarl, his fangs on full display.

He doesn’t get long to watch; a flash of movement in the corner of his eyes and the harpy’s at him again, claws aimed for his face. He’s fast enough to bring up his sword and block them, but they’re followed swiftly by those powerful wings, crashing against head and neck with surprising force. Enough to throw him off center and allow the harpy to fly back up to the higher ledges and escape his grasp, his dagger still lodged in its shoulder.

The creature watches him, tilting its head with a quick, bird-like movement before once more casting its head back, and then that song–

Control is wrenched away in a heartbeat, and Dirge feels himself begin to slip – that heavy, dreamlike state spreads across him like a shroud, weighing down his shoulders and pushing him forward. Against his will, his body takes stumbling steps toward – if he can just get there, to the ledge, he can sit, and sleep. Everything will be perfect if he can–

“Tormentum!”

The magic rumbles through the air, three loud peals like the coming of thunder, and with a pained squawk, the spell reluctantly lets Dirge go. As it leaves, it pulls his strength away with it, leaving him weak and sagging against the boulder beside him. His breath comes in stuttering, gasping pants, and even as he lets his eyes close, the world spins around him, sickeningly fast; objectively, he knows that he needs to get up and move, but his body rebels at the very thought.

He doesn’t get much choice in the matter – the harpy is back, again cackling in its strange gull-like language, claws raised and ready, and this time he barely manages to get his sword up fast enough to catch the blow.

Where his flesh may falter, his mind rises to meet the challenge. With a flick of his wrist, he manages a passable Shield spell to help reinforce his failing ward, and a point-blank Firebolt pushes the harpy back onto the back foot, and gives him enough space to truly swing his sword. It’s not enough to kill the monster, but he manages to land a few solid blows, cutting deep into muscle and sinew when it fails to dodge fast enough.

(Worryingly, that sickening thing that blooms in the hollows of his breastbone sighs at the violence, the blood; he can feel its invisible hands pushing against his own, yet another master attempting to wrest control from him. He will not let it.)

On the shore, Lae’zel manages a vicious slash to her target’s leg, before turning the tip of her blade and implanting it deep into the harpy’s innards. It’s a slow (beautiful) death as the monster writhes and gasps at the end of sword as tall as she is, and she shows the harpy no mercy, watching every moment of its demise with her amber eyes caught in a fierce glare.

What he’d give to have even an echo of her strength; where she grins as her harpy twitches its last, Dirge is struggling with his. No matter how hard he pushes, the tremors in his arms weaken his swings, and the nausea that roils in his gut keeps his feet unsteady. When he misses a parry, the harpy slams into his body and throws him backward, sailing through the air–

As he falls, his eyes remained trained on to that masked face, and once more that fucking song–

He hurts, but soon his body is held high in a cradle of gentle caressing hands, holding him aloft and keeping him safe. Safe and warm as something pulls at him; to and fro, like the gentle pull of the tide as it begins to pull him under – down, down, where the water turns from blue to black and then to red.

Where he waits.

White hot panic bursts behind his ribs – he can’t go back, he can never go back –

Suddenly, the spell snaps like a frayed string, releasing Dirge so suddenly that his head swims – he hurts, his chest absolutely aches. His head’s half submerged and as he gasps, he pulls another mouthful of water deep down into his lungs. Coughing, gasping and retching, he looks up just in time to see the harpy that held him in thrall fall sideways, dead, with one of Astarion’s arrows lodged deep in its throat.

The elf turns to him, his face a furious stormcloud, his teeth bared as he shouts, “Fucking get up–!”

The final harpy looms over him, straddling his waist as it croons, lowly. With the sun at its back, the feathers of its headdress cast a veil of shadow across his face, and the small skulls across its head and neck clack against one another softly with every heave of its chest. It raises one taloned hand, high into the air, ready to swipe at his eyes –

With one hand he grabs the dagger still lodged in its shoulder, and manages to hook a leg around its own, rolling them both until he’s the one on top. Rage thunders in his veins, interspersed with bright pinpoint flares of panic, terror, and pain, and Dirge hastily stands, nearly toppling right back over into the water. One hand catches one of its flailing wings, and he pushes his foot down square between its shoulder blades, and he pulls–

Bitter river water streams from his lips and nose as he gives a great heave, tearing one of the monster’s wings straight from its back – a deep sense of satisfaction dances against his spine; surely the creature would scream were he still not holding its body beneath the water. It’s not enough, he needs to make sure its dead, its destroyed –

Dirge falls to his knees, dagger in hand, and grips the harpy by the hair. He pulls just enough for the tip of his blade to find the arch of the creature’s neck, and taking a brief moment to savour the way it struggles beneath him, he slits its throat with a deep, savage slash.

For a long moment, all is silent. Dirge still kneels on the harpy’s back, and idly his eyes watch as the blue green water swiftly bleeds to a murky crimson. In the distance, there is birdsong amongst the trees, and the gentle whisper of the river’s water pushed against the shore–

His chest spasms with a great, hacking cough that's impossible to hold back, and a moment later Dirge finds himself crawling up on to the shore, body trembling as he nearly retches. He feels awful; he feels absolutely battered from the shoulders down, his ribs throb and his lungs are screaming with each wheezing breath he takes, his stomach churns wildly, and his head feels like its about to split into two – one headache forming sharply behind his eyes, and another at the base of his skull, an iron grip that tightens with every beat of his heart.

“Wretched creatures,” Lae’zel snarls, her silver armor drenched in gore, “Was that the last of them?”

“I think so,” Shadoheart replies, her voice lacking its usual bite, “is everyone okay? Come on, sound off.”

Somewhere high above where Dirge rests, coughing as he kneels and presses his head against the sand, Astarion sighs. He sounds unfathomably tired. “We’re all alive, but Dirge’s drunk half the river and the wizard will likely bleed out if he isn’t seen to soon.”

Up on those same cliffs, Dirge can hear Gale’s distant groan. The sound of chain mail clinking as Shadowheart rushes up the rocks.

Another aggrieved sigh from Astarion.

“Are you alright?” Shadowheart asks the vampire, distracted.

Dirge closes his eyes for a moment, resting his forehead on his fist and just letting his chest heave. He’s soaked through from the river water, and the extra weight makes his chainmail feel like it hopes to crush him on the spot, and the wind, which felt so warm when they first arrived, blows through with an icy bite that leaves him shivering. More coughing, and while he’s sure he got all the river water out from his lungs, he swears he can still feel the trickle of it crawling down the back of his throat, and snot streams from his nose.

He’ll clean himself up. In just a moment. As soon as his head stops swimming, as soon as he aches just a bit less.

“Tch, I suppose I’m fine. Mostly. A few scratches, but my doublet took the worst of it,” Astarion complains, his voice wavering between petulant and irritated.

Their voices fade into a low murmur, and Dirge lets himself just drift for a moment or two longer, until he feels the press of a hand against his shoulder. It’s Lae’zel, who wears a dark bruise by her left eye and the right corner of her mouth, and a thin trickle of blood oozes from her temple. She looks upon him, displeased, but says nothing, instead lending him her arm so he can sit up right, and a cloth in hand.

Thankful, he nods, dragging the rag across his face. Once he’s managed a rudimentary clean up, he leans back against the cliffs, and lets his gaze wander over the water. His eyes land on the rocky outcrop, and after a beat too long, Dirge realizes he must have fallen. From the higher ledges to the large rocks below, it's at least a four meter drop, and right now his body feels every centimeter of that fall – there’s not one bit of him that doesn’t hurt.

Nothing broken though, as far as he can tell. Just bruised and half drowned.

Could be worse. Could be worse.

Sometime later (could be minutes, could be an hour, he’s not sure), Dirge snaps awake to the feeling of hands on his arm – apparently he was dozing, and as he startles, he sets all his bruises to twinging in symphony once more.

It’s Shadowheart leaning over him, and with the sun at her back, she casts a long shadow over his face. Lovely shadow, he thinks, wincing as the cleric insists on poking and prodding at him, don’t take it away.

Sadly, he doesn’t get what he wants; she doesn’t move, but Shadowheart insists on him keeping his eyes open and then she moves a small summoned flame back and forth until she’s seemingly satisfied. It all feels a little bit familiar, but before he can place it in that nebulous haze of those early days after the Nautiloid, Shadowheart pulls back and casts a quick Healing Touch. It eases the aches, if only a little.

“That’s all I’ve got,” she sighs, rocking back on to her heels and offering him a hand up, “wasted most of my magic on the wizard. Oof, you’re getting heavier.”

“G-glad to know that… that keeping me among the living is a ‘waste’,” Gale replies, his voice little more than a rasp. Slowly, he hobbles his way down the path towards the shore, one hand clutching at his staff with a white knuckled grip, the other pressing at the stone walls as he goes. While, thankfully, he looks to be more or less in one piece, it’s clear that was nearly not the case; his robes flutter about him in the light breeze, great claw marks rending the fabric nearly to tatters.

Lae’zel rolls her eyes, crossing her arms, “You are a waste, as long as you refuse to properly armor yourself. Count yourself fortunate that the cleric continues to take pity on you. I would not.”

“You’re sore now, but in an hour or two, you’ll be fine,” Shadowheart replies, talking to Gale but shooting a look at Lae’zel that could sour milk. They both hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, and just as Dirge figures they’ll come to blows, they turn away from one another with a huff, and Shadowheart glances at him, “As for you, well, you should be alright by morning. If not, I can cast another spell on you then.”

“If healing him is beyond your capabilities, why not offer a potion?” Lae’zel growls, her voice low. Dangerous.

Gale shakes his head, his eyes regretful, “We’ve used the last of them, sadly. I suppose this is the best time for us to acquire more.” The wizard’s eyes meet his, and a gentle smile pulls at his lips, “When we get back to the Grove proper, I’ll approach the druids, see if they have any to spare.”

Dirge shakes his head, “I’m.” Another rough, shuddering cough that hurts his lungs on the way out. “I’m fine. Where,” he swallows roughly, trying to chase the frog from his throat, “where’s the kid?”

“Kid?” Gale blinks, “Oh, by Mystra, I nearly forgot! Are they alright?”

Over by the stone, Lae’zel snarls, “Here.” Sure enough, as Dirge works his way closer, he can see twin glowing eyes wide with terror glinting back at him from a crevice within the rock. How the kid managed to wedge himself into a spot so small, he’s not sure, but it would have hid him well, were it not for the chattering of his tiny teeth.

Lae’zel seems less amused, looming over him with her arms crossed, her greatsword pressed point down into the ground between them. She looks but a moment from cleaving the brat’s head from his body, “How unfortunate he survived. I detest useless children.”

“Lae’zel!”

“Tch,” she ignores Gale’s reprimand, but says no more.

Dirge bites his own tongue, and forces his limbs to remain still. Despite the pain and the exhaustion that bleeds through him, as thick as treacle, that dark thing still shivers beneath his skin. It’s…. There’s something about the helplessness of the child that calls to it, he realizes. It watches every little shiver and sob with delight, with the eyes of a predator stalking its prey. A wolf amongst the lambs, though somehow, far worse.

His hands tremble, his mouth runs dry – it wishes to lunge forward, to feast. Certainly he couldn’t deny it that, could he? He’s ever so hungry–

No. Focus.

The dark desire seethes beneath his skin, a squirming, living thing. He breathes deep. Ignoring it, holding it in check, takes everything he has. His headache blooms with the strain, a white hot pain that stabs deep.

The brat’s eyes flick to his, and that alone is almost enough to make him lose control and pounce.

Stop. What would the others think? What would Wyll think? Focus.

Shuttering his eyes, Dirge grits his teeth and tries to ignore the urge that roils in his belly. “Run back to your parents, kid, before more harpies find you.”

The child is snivelling, “M-my parents are… are gone… There’s only Mol now…”

Gale, ever the soft heart, sighs beside him, “What’s your name, lad?”

“Ew, no.” Astarion balks, and Dirge opens his eyes to see the elf crouched, looking down upon them from a higher bit of the cliff. Arms crossed and his face twisted with irritation, he somehow manages to maintain that air of vexed nobility even as his doublet hangs about his shoulders in pretty tatters, “Don’t talk to it lest it follow us home. We’ve enough stragglers as it is.”

“I’m… I’m Mirkon,” the child replies, slipping out of the crevice; either he didn’t hear Astarion, or he didn’t understand him. Probably for the best, if the vampire wishes to avoid yet another lecture from their resident wizard. Mirkon leans closer to Gale, raising a hand by his mouth as he whispers loudly, “Thank you for saving me.”

Gale smiles and his eyes light up, chuffed, “It was truly the very least we could do, right Lae’zel? Astarion?”

Shadowheart seems less amused; exhaustion hangs dark bags about her eyes, and a trickle of blood has dried beneath her nose. She seems to have little stomach for the quarrels of the others right now, “Run along then. You’d do best to avoid this beach in the future.”

Mirkon bobs his little head, and turns to run back up the hill toward the grove. How the little brat managed to avoid more than a bruise during that fight, Dirge will never know, but the sooner he’s gone, the better. So of course it comes as no surprise as the tiefling turns back to look at them one more time, all fear fled from his bright eyes, “Oh! You should go meet Mol! She’ll be so happy you saved me!”

As Mirkon turns to leave, his smile immediately falls as he lays eyes on Lae’zel. She watches him with her arms crossed, her face as cold and distant as a marble statue, and as he nears, the child tries to slink past her and not make eye contact. When Mirkon chances a glance from the corner of his eyes, she does not move, but she hisses loudly, as fiercely as any dragon, causing the brat to immediately stumble and dash the remaining way up the hill, toward the Grove.

The sight causes a curl of amusement to wrap around Dirge’s heart; Astarion too, if his chuckle is anything to go by.

Gale, obviously, is less amused. He turns to Lae’zel with a cold fire in his eyes, “You’re in a foul mood.”

“These tieflings try my patience. I will not tolerate them nor their fool children. Are we nearly done here?”

“Nearly,” the wizard sighs, leaning heavily on his staff as they begin the long trek back up the hill. What had seemed so trivial before now feels almost insurmountable; Dirge’s legs ache something fierce, and he almost wishes for a staff of his own. “There’s still the matter of what to do about Kagha.”

“Have we decided then?” Shadowheart asks, pushing a branch that overhangs the path out of her way.

When she moves through and releases it, the branch snaps back with a force and nearly clips him about the nose. Attempting to dodge it makes his head reel, and the nausea crawls up his throat once more. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time, before the fight with the harpies. The day started off so well; for the first time in nearly a week he woke to a clear mind and no headache.

“We should just kill the wretch and be done with it,” Lae’zel suggests, “I tire of listening to these tieflings whine.”

Shadowheart hums, seemingly unconvinced. For once she seems more genuinely uncertain, and not just being stubborn for the sake of it, “We did tell Zevlor that we would try to convince her to let them stay.”

“Tch. A foolish idea.”

The cleric shrugs, “Blame Wyll, not me. I still say we have more important matters than dealing with… all of this.”

“We need more allies, not less,” Gale chides, his voice rising as he balances somewhere between pleading and distraught, “Surely murder is a step too far?”

Dirge lets out a great gust of air, coughing a bit at the tail end of it, but while uncommonly gravelly, his voice at least is steady, “If it comes d-down to killing Kagha, then so be it; however, I’m loathe to confront her in that sanctum. We’d be quickly outnumbered, and they could easily trap us within.” His voice sticks in his throat, and he has to clear it to continue. In the back of his throat, he can still taste the bitter green of the river water, can smell it with every breath he takes, “I’d prefer to lure her out, somehow.”

The others are silent, but he can feel the confusion, the surprise whispering around them almost as though it were a tangible thing. In fact, it feels less of a metaphor and more of an observation, as though if he were to simply just reach out he could touch–

Without warning, his knees go weak, and Dirge manages to stumble to the side of the path just in time for his stomach to rebel. On his hands and knees with one hand braced against a boulder, breakfast decides to come up for a second appearance. It, and half the river, it would seem – his body doesn’t stop heaving until there’s absolutely nothing left in his system; as he sits back on his heels, his head splitting with fresh pain, it’s to Shadowheart crouched beside him, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, perhaps subconsciously.

There is a worry on her face like a static in the air; he can feel it on all of them, a buzzing, prickling sensation.

Another cramp in his stomach, and a sharp twisting stab in his head. Is this what the others mean when they say their tadpoles are squirming? Not quite what he’d equate it to, it feels like something deeper, something bigger. Whatever it is, with each contraction it makes, his fingers tingle and go cold, and his skin itches.

The feeling of eyes on him does nothing to help that crawling feeling. He moves to stand–

Shadowheart’s eyes narrow, “Are you…? No, sit, I want to take another look at you.”

If they didn’t feel like they may pop out of his skull, he might roll his eyes at her, for show if nothing else, “I’ve… I’ve just got a headache.” He winces as of course Shadowheart turns him toward the light that knifes at the back of his eyes, like he’s personally offended the sun somehow, “I’m fine.”

Apparently his words fall on deaf ears; she doesn’t bother to acknowledge him, instead just muttering for him to hold still. Over her shoulder, the others just watch on silently, their faces oddly… subdued. Even the immutable Lae’zel seems withdrawn, the irritability she’s spent the better part of the morning warring with seemingly, for the moment at least, finally snuffed.

“How do you feel?” Shadowheart asks, drawing his attention back to her once more, “Still nauseous?” He hums an affirmative, and she immediately continues her examination, “...You don’t seem to have hit your head, at least, and your pupils are even… I don’t think you have a concussion, which is good. The last thing you need are more head injuries.” She pulls back, chewing on her lip, “We’ll get you a potion, maybe that will help.”

“Shadowheart,” Dirge smiles even as he lies; while he doesn’t feel its influence at this moment, that urge still sits in his chest, watching and waiting. “I’m fine, really. It truly is just a headache, I swear.”

“Oh, do be a dear and just let her take a look at you.” As always, Astarion’s voice is a hair’s breadth from being a gibe, and yet there’s something more… sincere, hovering just beneath. If Dirge didn’t know better, he’d almost think him genuine. “You are looking terribly pale.”

Thankfully, he’s saved from further prodding as a slightly out of breath Wyll crests the hill. Even with so many tieflings about, his curled horns are very distinctive. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you – Karlach’s still talking to Dammon about her engine. Sounds like he’ll need infernal iron too–” Wyll blinks, his expression falling as he at last gets a good look at them, “--what’s happened? Is everyone alright? Was there trouble?”

Shadowheart pulls away, moving to stand, but she doesn’t go far. “We’re fine,” she says, with a little more than a pointed look in his direction, “just ran into some harpies.”

“Harpies? Here?”

“Well, they were.” Shadowheart shrugs, the slightest curl of a smile on her lips. “They’re dead now.”

“We even saved a child,” Astarion says, ”you ought to be proud of us.”

Wyll smiles, and for the first time since his transformation, the man looks earnestly happy, though… it’s not that? It. It sounds more like relief? Sounds? Dirge blinks, confused; his skull keeps buzzing, something flexing deep within – maybe he did hit his head after all. His senses must be addled.

“The lot of you look done in – perhaps when we’re done here, we should head back to camp and call it an early day?”

Gale nods, “Probably for the best – we were just ruminating what should be done with our whole Kagha problem.”

Wyll frowns, “...I thought we agreed we were going to talk to her.”

“Why waste time with words when a blade will suffice.” Lae’zel counters, her irritation clearly returning in full force, “We kill Kagha, and put an end to the ritual.”

As the others seem content to talk themselves in circles, Dirge ignores them. He rests his arms across his knees and his forehead in the crook of his elbow; the position isn’t helping his headache any, but it’s also not actively making it worse, and that seems to be the best he can hope for right now. The very thought of standing sends his stomach into yet another perilous spin.

What is wrong with him? Even his worst headaches don’t feel quite as full-bodied as this one is. It’s not just his stomach or the ache in his muscles either; a ghostly touch drags itself slowly across his skin, making his hair stand on end and leaving all his nerves alight with an almost quivering energy. Like a Shocking Grasp that’s yet to touch his flesh, yet he can feel its charge in the very air around him.

And yet. And yet there’s something familiar about it, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Part of it feels akin to the moment before casting a spell, when he reaches out to the Weave and it reaches back, but it’s more than that. He’s felt this before, but where?

Does it have something to do with the urge that prowls behind the cage of his heart? It has been especially… difficult lately, its dark desires haunting every corner of its soul, and today has been no different – it's been aware. Eager.

He’s tried approaching Gale and Lae’zel on the issue, during their nightly training sessions, but their advice had been… less than useful.

Dirge winces as an incredulous Astarion hits a particularly high note in his indignation. Hells, the man has an exquisite voice, but at the moment the very sound of it is no better than driving an ice pick into his eyes. The others seem to be arguing now about what to do next, whether to spare Kagha or kill her, their voices rising ever higher as tempers begin to fray–

There. One of those ghostly, wisping tendrils beckons closer; invisible to his eyes yet he can feel it (hear it?) with his mind – it's so close. Surely, were he to reach out to it, think towards it, he could touch–

And suddenly, he’s somewhere else. Is someone else? A swirl of darkness dances around his vision, thick and inky. Magical, not natural. Images flash by, almost too quick to comprehend – faces he doesn’t recognize, every last one of them tense with a cold fire in their eyes. Words – a terse, solemn vow – and then more faces. Gith, but multiple, and clearly not Lae’zel.

A fight, and it goes badly. Fewer and fewer of that original number, and more and more furious gith, but, success – a strange artifact, many sided with many sharp points, held tightly in a hand with a very familiar scar.

A ripple of feeling, of dutysuccessloss, but where the others fell, she will succeed, she must escape–

And then, just as suddenly as he was pulled into the vision, he’s wrenched right back out. Dirge blinks, finding himself toppled over in the dirt, a furious Shadowheart standing over him. Her chest heaves with each panting breath, her hands clenched in tight fists by her sides.

Dirge can do little but stare right back, his eyes wide, confused and rather at a loss for words.

“I don’t recall inviting you in,” Shadowheart sneers, her voice sheer ice with a bite that could chew through iron.

“In?” he asks, “I don’t… What happened?” Realization chills the blood in his veins – it's not his first time seeing into the minds of others, though it may very well be his first time initiating the process; he had done the same to Wyll over a tenday ago, and just like before Dirge can feel the edges of her mind brushing gently against his. If he wanted to (if he were a fool) he could just as easily reach out once more, and force his way right back in.

“Yes, the tadpole,” Shadowheart snipes, “I’ll tell you this once only – stay out of my head.”

And with that, she spins on her heel and steps away to stand over with the others. It’s clear he’s made something of spectacle, one that they have all watched raptly.

After a long moment of consideration (that likely falls better into the realm of an ‘awkward silence’), Astarion, who stands closest, tilts his head with a soft tutting noise, “You really didn’t realize, did you?” He hums, his voice dancing across an octave, “It’s not the first time you’ve used the tadpole, you know.”

It’s true, isn’t it? Understanding strikes him as suddenly as the thunderous crack of Wyll’s Eldritch Blast. Gently, so gently, he reaches back out to those tendrils, those ghostly whispers that dance along the edge of his skin, and instantly a dozen sensations sing in his ears.

No… Sing isn’t quite the right word. It’s more a noise that drags across his skin, almost like a physical touch. He closes his eyes and tries to parse through the swell of feeling enveloping him – the nervous buzz of agitation, prickling in his ears. The metronome of anxiety, clicking ever louder, ever faster – the wary curl of suspicion, a wavering knife’s edge aimed for one’s heart. A thrum of worry, like the rabbit fast beat of a heart overlaid with a plaintive whine. The whirling dance of curiosity and amusement, spinning ever higher, ever brighter.

And betrayal. Sharp and sour, a screaming trill – as his mind caresses that one, even more carefully than the rest, he can see Shadowheart shiver violently in the corner of his eye. Another harsh glare, and he instantly retreats – pulling his mind away from it all, his hands raised in surrender.

“Stop that.”

Dirge swallows, his throat parched, “I’m… I didn’t even realize what I was…”

She sighs, crossing her arms. For a long moment, she says nothing. “Listen. Perhaps this will come as a surprise, but I enjoy my privacy.” Her eyes brooker no argument, “However, as much as I absolutely despise these parasites, I can’t deny that the ability to communicate through them could come in handy. Just.” She pauses, “Unless it's an emergency, keep your brain to yourself. Are we clear?”

He dips his head in a nod, “Yes. Of course.”

Shadowheart nods, and then lends him a hand, helping to heft him back onto his feet. Ignoring the slight spin and sway behind his eyes as he rises, Dirge spends a moment brushing the dirt from his legs, watching her obliquely – she’d turned her back to him, motioning to the others that they should continue forward, but there’s a flicker of something that crosses her face, he’s just not sure what.

That tendril, that… whatever it is, dances at the edge of his mind, inviting him to brush against it and find out for himself, but, well… One more misstep could be one too many; he’s pushing his luck as it is.

That being said, now that he’s aware, now that he can feel… this, it’s hard to ignore. The moment he lets his attention wander, and his mind reaches out to brush the others – usually gently enough to avoid detection, only enough to get the faintest whisper of these sensations (thoughts? Emotions?), but when he fails, it’s more akin to a knock against his skull and a sharp look for his trouble.

And reining it in doesn’t seem quite possible? It seems to act on its own volition, almost as though it were an act as instinctual as breathing, or perhaps something more like owning an extra limb – is this how it feels for tieflings with their tails? Do they whip to and fro, with minds of their own?

If nothing else, it's a thought he muses on until they return to the Grove’s inner sanctum, where sight of a cluster of druids pulls the others up short. It’s decided quite quickly that a more subtle approach may be needed, since they’re still mostly undecided on what to do about the druid leader. The conversation eventually boils down to ‘look for anything of interest, whether it be a bargaining chip or potential blackmail, confront Kagha, and go from there’, and these are all activities best done unseen.

Still feeling miserable, Dirge hangs at the back of the pack, and offers no opinion. Even the very idea of talking right now splits his head apart.

Eventually, Gale tries to suggest that Astarion simply sneak into the inner sanctum on his own, but the vampire is less than keen.

“Absolutely not. Blasted druids and their pets will likely smell me the instant I step foot past the door. Let’s wait, I’m sure not even they can be so obsessed with nature to just stand – wait, what’s that sound?”

Dirge turns to see Astarion standing with his head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. Obviously his hearing is not as good as the elf’s, but if he focuses, he can just pick up… “Sound? What sound? That… singing?”

Astarion sneers, fangs on full display. “Yes. That. Oh, that’s gods awful.”

It’s decided that they might as well check out the singing while waiting on the druids to do… whatever it is druids do when they’re not chanting around an idol. They climb a ridge that overlooks the lower levels of the grove, where it meets the river’s edge below (and guarded by another bear. They seem popular here), when they see the source; atop an old stone stair, a tiefling with blueberry skin and lilac hair sits upon a rock, strumming at her lute.

“Dance upon the stars tonight. Smile and pain will fade away–”

It’s rather a scenic spot the bard (and she could only be a bard – no one else would dress in garb of blues, purples, pinks, and greens, complete with bells as though she were a jester) has chosen to set up shop; surrounded by columns of painted wood, sheets of blue fabric wrapped up like sails, and two great stone pillars, the view of the river is lovely; here she has the solitude to practice her music, high above even the obnoxious chanting of the druids in the Grove below. Around her feet, a pair of squirrels chitter at one another, but even they are seemingly drawn to the music.

“Words of mine will change – no. Become – ugh.”

It’s Wyll, of course, who takes the lead. He steps forward, apparently unable to tolerate anyone in the world being sad, “Beautiful song, though, I can’t say I’ve heard that one before–”

The bard sighs, dropping her head. The lute is held limply in her hands. “I’m sure you haven’t. It’s… It’s supposed to be a tribute to – to the ones we lost on the way here.”

Astarion’s face splits into a wry smirk, “How can I say… that sounds a bit… unpolished. Quite frankly, I’ve heard better voices on the tomcats of Baldur’s Gate. Are you sure you’ve picked the right profession?”

He doesn’t say as much, but Dirge finds himself agreeing – something about the bard sends the urge to squirming, and each note she sings rings in his head like the tolling of a massive bell.

“You might as well say it plainly. It sounds like a cat being strangled, I know,” she rolls her eyes. “...No matter what I do, I somehow just keep butchering it. I don’t know why I bother.”

“Tch. You waste your time, what little you have left.” Lae’zel’s tone is as flat and as humorless as a wall. “Trade that lute for a proper weapon, and prepare yourself for battle. You’ll need to, soon enough.”

The bard has a surprising amount of bite; with a wicked scowl, she bares her teeth and snarls back, “Violence doesn’t fix everything, you know. Music can help in ways a silly blade can’t. This is… this is important.”

The look in Lae’zel’s eyes turns dangerous as she tilts her head, like she can’t believe what she just heard, “‘Silly blade’?” Like a fuse lit, her anger sparks into something far sharper – Dirge, despite himself, can’t help but reach out; it takes a long moment to find her thread, but when he does it’s unmistakable. The maelstrom of pure fury that rages around her could belong to no one else, terrifying in its ferocity, “Our weapons were all that kept you and your kin from being butchered by the goblins at the gates, and more are coming, little tiefling. Your silly little song will not save you, nor your people.”

Wyll steps forward, between the gith and the bard, a braver man than most, “Lae’zel, please.”

Lae’zel stares back at the warlock, her arms crossed, but eventually she does stand down with an angry huff. While her fury still sings in his ears, fever hot, she does take a step back, and in her place Wyll moves forward, his kind eyes looking back to the bard. “I’m Wyll.” he says, his voice low and ever so gentle.

“Alfira,” says the bard, her tone a sour mix of irritation and self-loathing. Instinctively, Dirge finds himself reaching out to her too, and scowling when he comes up short; tadpole-less, there’s simply nothing there, at least, nothing that he can hear.

“May I?” Wyll asks, smiling as she passes him – of all things – a spare lute, “First things first, what’s the song about.”

Alfira closes her eyes, her expression crestfallen, “My… My teacher, Lihala. She loved dancing. Had two left feet, mind.” The memories must be pleasant, for the bard opens her eyes again, her lips twitching into a weak but genuine smile, “...I remember waking up one night on the road and seeing her, dancing beneath the stars… A huge smile on her face.”

Next to him, Lae’zel snarls an irritated, “Tch,” but neither Wyll nor Alfira so much as glance her direction. For better or for worse, Dirge cannot decide – either option seems just as likely to set her back on the warpath.

“Thinking of it now,” Alfira continues, sombre, “my heart hurts and my words just seem to… to crumble, like ash.” Her eyes widen, “Ash! Wait. Words of mine will turn to ash…That’s perfect!”

She turns to Wyll, beaming, her grin stretching ever further at the warlock’s nod of encouragement, “Yes! I think I have it!” Hastily, she moves to stand, her claws falling to the strings of her lute:

“Dance upon the stars tonight.

Smile and pain will fade away.

Words of mine will turn to ash,

When you call the last light down.

Moon reminds me of your grace,

All the love I can’t repay.

Rest and know that I will pray–”

With an abrupt twang, the music comes to a halt – Lae’zel storms forward, grabbing the lute by its neck in one clawed hand, and with a mighty swing, she twists and smashes it against the ground, shattering the instrument into a dozen pieces.

Alfira presses a hand against her mouth with a strangled squeak. Her eyes are as wide as saucers.

“This,” Lae’zel snarls, throwing the mangled remains of the lute off the ledge down to the river below, “This is the value of your music. This is all it’s worth. Sing your last words, coward, as the wargs devour you – it’s more than you deserve.” Chest heaving, Lae’zel pulls back with an imperious glare, “Your teacher lays dead because she did not fight. You will follow in her footsteps, right into your grave.”

The bard looks up at her, her fiery eyes streaming with tears, “B-but life without music isn’t living–”

“Lae’zel! Enough!” Wyll moves to intercept, but without so much as a glance, the gith pushes him aside.

“Tch. Make merry once your foes lay dead at your feet. That is the only thing worth celebrating.”

Shakily, Alfira pulls in a wet breath, her lip quivering. At her feet, a few remnants of the lute lay strewn about; the pieces that shattered and broke away before the throw. In but a moment, she pulls them to her, cradling what’s left of her lute against her chest like a child, before casting one last, horrified look at Lae’zel and taking off in a run down towards the Grove. As she disappears down the steps, Dirge can hear her, sobbing quietly, her voice nearly lost on the wind.

The thing in his chest stretches, and flexes its claws, sinking them deep. She cries more beautifully than she sings, it purrs, silence that voice forever.

“Alfira!” Wyll shouts, taking two steps towards the grove, but he’s too late – she’s gone. He whirls around to face the rest of them, his expression crumpling, “I’m. I’m going after her. Shadowheart, come with me?”

She startles, indignant, “Why me?”

“Shadowheart, please?”

She rolls her eyes, a hand on her hip, “Fine, but make it quick. We’ve got a lot more to do today than coddle some heartbroken bard.” Together, they move back down the steps, in the direction Alfira ran, “Seriously Wyll, we can’t stop to comfort every person who couldn’t handle an opinion, even if it came from a gith.”

Gale ducks his head, regret and pain fresh on his features, “...I’m going to follow. We need more potions, and I’ll be useless sneaking around like this.”

As Dirge, Astarion, and Lae’zel watch the three of them disappear down the hill, the vampire clicks his tongue; for all the irritation in his tone, there’s a smile in his eyes that spreads slowly across his lips. “Now what?” he says.

Lae’zel huffs. Her expression may be dour, but there’s an air of satisfaction about her – perhaps the best mood she’s been in all day, “Our plan remains unchanged; we find a way past the druids. Come. There must be another path.”

Dirge is about to follow them when one of the squirrels bounds over by his foot. The thing seems to think it's some fierce beast, for the way it chitters at him, it’s fluffy tail lashing about itself like an angry cat. Is it mad that they chased off the bard? Or–

Oh, isn’t it sweet? A saccharine voice whispers into his mind, its voice like warm syrup. The urge, he realizes, but before he can think any more about it, a heavy weight settles into his limbs, thick, unnatural. Smothering. Overwriting him completely. The cutest thing you ever did see. Wouldn’t be so twee, if it were climbing a tree–

And then–

A surge of motion, a heavy breath, and a heartbeat later, Dirge finds himself suddenly aware again. He’s… standing over the corpse of the squirrel, panting, his head swimming and his stomach churning like a ship in a storm. Black spots wheel before his eyes, like a thousand flies spiraling, ever upward–

The squirrel lies in a pool of its own blood at the base of a column, folded in half where its spine shattered against the wood.

Fuck, his head hurts. Dirge raises a hand to clutch at the base of his skull, where the pressure is the worst.

“Was that creature… dangerous?” Lae’zel asks, one eyebrow arched. Skeptical.

His heart pounds so loud in his chest, he can barely hear her. Dirge blinks, and tries to swallow around his too dry throat.

It’s the sound of Astarion’s voice that pulls him out of the spiral of panic and confusion that threatens to drown him – so often he has heard that voice being snide, mischievous, even coy, but never before has he heard such blatant suspicion in his tone; it cuts through the static in his head, as efficiently as one of the elf’s knives, “...Dirge?”

Still, he can’t seem to find a drop of saliva to moisten his mouth – his words come out a raspy whisper, “I… I don’t know… what? I didn’t mean–”

Astarion rolls his eyes, and while he’s donned his haughty armor once more, Dirge can see in the creases of his eyes the sharp bloom of uncertainty that he tries so hard to hide, “My dear, brave protector. How fierce you are.” His lips split in a fanged smile, “I’d keep the tales of your chivalry out of earshot of Shadowheart, though. Loves all the little woodland creatures, you’d think she were the druid around here.”

Dirge can recognize an attempt to change the subject when he sees it. With panic still beating a wardrum in his breast, he pulls in a long breath to try to calm his nerves, “Let’s get moving. There’s no point hanging around.”

No matter how he tries to lie to himself, he does not miss the way both of them watch him closely for the rest of the afternoon, like there’s something wrong with him.

 

-x-

 

By the time evening proper comes, Dirge is feeling marginally better. His hands still shake and his head still pounds, but he hasn’t lost himself again, like he did with that squirrel; he does not mourn the creature's death, but the thought has been planted, and from it a fissure has opened wide. What, exactly, happened? Was this a one off, or is this a sign of things to come?

This darkness in him, is it a monster? Is it a part of him?

Is there anything he can do to keep it from happening again?

There’s something he needs to do.

Slowly, carefully, he walks his way over to the campfire, ignoring the strange dizziness that rolls over him in waves – just this one thing, and he’ll go to sleep. He needs to sleep, perhaps for the first time, desperately. Even more so than the nights where Astarion bites him.

A quick rummage through Gale’s bag reveals what he needs – a Potion of Animal Speaking.

The others don’t even notice him, too busy talking amongst themselves about their newest addition; apparently Wyll was successful in his attempts to calm the bard because not an hour after they got the camp set up for the night, she showed up along the edges of the forest, shaking and shivering along the shadows of the trees. A warm evening, he could only assume she was trembling because she was afraid to be out alone, out from the safety of the Grove.

He pays Alfira no attention – there’s a building sense of dread, a tightness in his shoulders that feels like a warning. It feels like he shouldn’t be anywhere near her.

He swallows the potion, a bitter thing that tastes like pond scum, and he moves towards the edge of camp. Beyond the strange skeletal figure who watches him too closely with too few words, and up the top of the hill where Shadowheart’s tent waits.

There, curled up on the bedroll, rests Scratch, sound asleep.

He hopes this works.

 

-x-

 

“Scratch? Hey. Wake up.”

At the sound of his name, Scratch’s head comes up. A large shadow looms over him, but there is no reason to fear. He recognizes that smell, that large hand that rakes through his fur, giving it a thorough scritch. He can’t help it – his tail wags, and his tongue lolls out of his mouth, happily.

“Hello friend! It is a nice evening, isn’t it?”

The big man with the gentle hands keeps petting him, and isn’t that nice? “...It is. Scratch, I need you to do me a favour.”

“Anything, friend.” His tail thuds loudly against the ground with every pass of the hand through his fur.

But… there’s something wrong, isn’t there? Scratch’s tail stops, and he pulls his tongue back in – a sniff reveals no danger, but then why is his friend acting so strange? There’s a sadness about him, a worry, that Scratch has never smelled before – it sets his hackles on edge.

“I need you to promise me that… if. If you see me acting strange, you must stay away, Scratch.”

“Stay away?” Scratch tilts his head, confused.

The big man nods, “Something is wrong with me, Scratch. I… I killed a squirrel today.”

“A squirrel?!” The very word makes his tail wag again – he’s so excited! He can’t help himself, he’s tapping his feet on the ground with the need to run and play, “I’ve always wanted to catch one! Tell me, friend, was it fun? Maybe we can hunt for squirrels together!”

The man’s eyes are large and round. He smells of worry, of fear, “Please, Scratch, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Confused, he tilts his head again, and whines, his voice high and sad.

“Promise me, if you see me acting strange, if you… feel anything… off about me, at all, I want you to go find the others, and let them know. Don’t approach me. Please.”

Scratch doesn’t understand, but he is a good boy, a dog of his word, “Yes, I… I promise.”

“Good boy, Scratch.” That hand runs through his fur a few more times, before withdrawing with a loving pat, “Thank you.”

It is a strange feeling, to watch one of his new friends leave, so worried, and not go to comfort them. It’s a big wide world, they need to stick together, to stay safe, but he promised, didn’t he? And if there’s anything he is, it's a good boy – the big man even said so! So, he must keep his word, and stay vigilant.

Which is why, many hours later when his other friends have gone to sleep, he wakes up when a smell fills his nose. For a moment, he almost didn’t smell it, curled around his new friend who smells of those smoky sticks that humans burn and that glass bottle drink, but the smell is very strong, and unmistakable; blood.

Lots of blood.

Carefully, Scratch pulls himself away from his friend, and makes his way deeper into the camp – everyone seems to be sleeping, but something feels wrong. His fur stands on end, and his tail hides firmly between his legs. There is evil in the air tonight.

One by one, he checks on them all – the man who smells of books and food and something strangely sour sleeps soundly in his tent, snoring softly. Scratch approves – it's a good sound, a safe sound. The danger isn’t here. That is wonderful – if it was, who would feed him?

The next tent is the man with two different smells, before and after he got horns. Now he smells mostly of leather and bad eggs, but he’s a nice man who’s always kind to Scratch. He too sleeps soundly, on his stomach. It must be hard to sleep like the others with those horns of his. Again satisfied that the danger isn’t here, Scratch moves on to the next tent.

It’s the strange green woman with a fierce bite who smells like metal, sweat, and a little bit like the smelly dried green stuff the humans cooked with. She’s curled up on her side with her sword in hand, safe and sound asleep. His tail wags; she’s mean when she’s awake, but only when the others are watching. When they’re alone, her words soften into gentle shapes, and she even pet him once. He’s happy she’s okay.

The next tent has the tall woman who is so warm. Her heart is warm too, but she’s too hot to touch. She coos and smiles at him from a distance, waving, her hands pulled tight against her chest. He so wants to be pet by her, to get close, but it’s not safe, and that makes him sad. One day, she told him, she would be able to pet him and run her hands through his fur and that sounds like the best thing! Thankfully, she too is safe, breathing softly, her furless tail twitching in her sleep.

As he leaves her tent, however, the wind shifts and Scratch picks up that blood smell again. More, stronger – and another scent, overlaid on top. Clean human skin yet with hints of dried, stale blood, and something different. Something not human. Something like that long, twisting creature he and his master met on the road once – the thing with no legs, and scales. Something that made his tail hide, even tighter between his legs.

There, on the far side of camp, by the river’s edge – it’s the tall man with the gentle hands. He’s crouched over something, something that smells like a lot of fresh blood, and his body is moving strangely.

The tall man doesn’t notice him, and for the first time since they met, Scratch is happy that he doesn’t have his attention.

Something is wrong, Scratch can feel it, and it worries him so – but what to do? He’s scared, but he wants to go over and make sure friend is safe. That’s what friends do, right? Protect each other?

But he made a promise.

And good boys keep their promises, and Scratch has been reliably told that he is the goodest boy.

So, instead of going to see the tall man, Scratch turns around, and heads to the one who is still awake – the slender man who smells of fancy man stink and fresh decay – he’ll know what to do, for sure.

Notes:

I promise no puppers will be hurt in the course of this fic. You have my word.

Chapter 7

Notes:

Content Warning: (Spoilered for well, slight spoilers.)

Click to show

Murder and cannibalism. If you really squint, there are some possible hints of either necrophilia or sexual assualt that may have been about to occur.

If you are concerned about any upcoming content warnings not explicitly stated in the tags, feel free to message me on tumblr. My name on there is kohofdiscord.

Huge thanks goes to Ohh_Deer for some grammatical help, Wolf2407 for helping me spitball some things, as well as some awesome plant ids, and of course to m3rcurylanding for helping me sort more than a few problems! Please go out and check all of their works, it's all amazing!

 

-x-

 

With a hiss, Astarion stares at the absolute wreck that is his doublet, and considers just casting the whole thing into the fire and being done with it.

It’s a lost cause, certainly – the harpy’s claws had caught him by surprise and shredded it from shoulder to elbow, leaving naught but thin, ragged strips that hung about his arms like limp ribbons. A terrible waste of the fine material that took him years to find and hoard (having anything of his own was nigh impossible without his siblings knowing and tattling on him, and Cazador did not approve of hobbies), but a small part of him feels a twist of pride – the stitch held on remarkably well, where it avoided the direct swath of those talons.

If he cocks his head and squints, it almost looks like an artistic piece. Impractical. Experimental.

Perhaps I could start a new trend, he muses sardonically, should we ever make it back to Baldur’s Gate. The patriars, and those who wished to weasel their way into high society, were often easy dupes for even the most ridiculous of fads. Many a merchant made their fortunes with little more than silver tongues and whispered ‘advice’ into the ears of nobles, who had little else to do but scheme and plot and try to outdo one another.

There had been more than a few scandals throughout Astarion’s two hundred years, and while he missed many, locked away in the depths of the kennels (or worse, that tomb—), even he had heard tales of some and had the pleasure to witness others directly. It was only last year that Lady Janneth had tried to revive the hoop skirt fad with a crinoline as wide around as he was tall. Apparently, having her servants stop and help tilt her skirt above her head so she could fit through each and every door of the Linnacker manor was just too much for her; from his recollection, she made a swift return to fashion that was more form fitting.

There were other notable attempts, of course, the most outlandish of which did not tend to last very long, thankfully. One of the younger Caldwell brats had taken to wearing a hat with taxidermied squirrels, dancing hand in hand around its crown, for a number of years. The style never seemed to catch on, but whether that was because of the general distaste towards the stuffed vermin themselves, or the one time at a very public evening wine tasting, an owl swooped down, grabbed a squirrel, and subsequently shat on the fool’s shoulder, Astarion was never quite certain.

Fine entertainment for a night otherwise most boring.

From time to time, someone would take it amongst themselves to reign in the more eccentric designs; idle hands, they said, did long so for treachery, but the rules were regularly flaunted and rarely lasted long. Better to let the nobles bicker amongst one another over clothing and status then challenge each other to things far more dangerous, such as duels or coups. And really, what harm could a few years here and there of trends like blackened teeth or wigs styled like rats nests, sewn with feathers and animal fur layered in, really cause?

By comparison, his ripped half-sleeve design would be positively tame, yet just as useless.

Astarion breathes a harsh sigh out his nose, balling up the doublet and holding it tight before he can act on the urge to use it as kindling. He’s spent the better part of the last three hours attempting some sort of repair, but dawn’s swiftly approaching, and grudgingly he has to admit he’s made absolutely zero progress. The limited amount of thread he has on his person is not enough; he needs fresh materials, but the druids of the Grove had little to offer – some rough rawhide and a buckskin so mangy it felt it would tear in his hands like so much wet paper. A far cry from the fine Cormyr goatskin he used to make the piece in the first place.

At least his linens and shirtwaist survived, but neither would do much to stop a blade aimed at his person. The doublet itself had not been much better, but it had protected him from scrapes and bruises as he twisted and tumbled in the heat of battle, and now it’s not good for even that.

He frowns, his fingers tightening around the bundle of shredded leather.

Now, it’s worthless – nothing more than useless baggage. He should get rid of it.

And yet.

And yet–

He made this, himself. Astarion spent years slowly stealing all the pieces he needed, and where he could not take, he bartered – he made deals with the other spawn, traded his meagre possessions and reluctant favors for necessities, like needles and thread. He designed it carefully – bright hues to draw the eye of would be amours and distract from the pallor of his skin, a collar that accentuated his neck while hiding any bruises that may lay underneath, and a flair more becoming of the upper echelons of society than the slave he is. Was.

Astarion still remembers that bright starburst of terror the first time Cazador caught him wearing it. The serpentine tilt of his head, the unnatural pause of his false breaths, the long moment of silence that bled into that hollow, dead chuckle. An admiring eye and cold claws dragging over his shoulders, so sharp Astarion had feared that the plum-colored suede would rend beneath them.

Oh, how he had been ready. Ready for Cazador to command him to take it off, to cast it into the fire. To destroy it. Worse, perhaps, to give it away; how it would ache to see one of the others wearing it. What would be the price for his audacity? Another night in the kennels? Another week? Or would Cazador handle him directly, and teach him his place?

And yet, his master had smiled that grave rot smile, a thin, dangerous thing, and told him to keep it.

Now it’s ruined, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t just throw it away.

…Because it’s his; one of the few things he could ever call his own.

Once more, Astarion sighs, and his fingers loosen, if just a little. The tightness in his chest eases until it feels like he can breathe again. Surely… he can hold on to it for a while longer – perhaps the next place they travel to will have a better market than some backwater druid’s grove. Maybe once they’ve cleared out this goblin camp (if they can ever manage to find the bloody thing) he’ll have some spare time, and he can keep his hands busy during his watch.

Carefully, he stows the doublet into his pack, and turns his eyes to the sky, seeking a distraction.

The weather is unseasonably warm, like the blanket of heat that hangs over Baldur’s Gate in midsummer, but mercifully lacks the rancid, stagnant air that haunts the twisting alleys of the Lower City. The wind might be to thank; a gentle breeze whose soothing hand does little to cool the air but instead simply allows it to flow. On it rides smells swiftly becoming familiar – the fresh scent of trees and the sap that drips along their trunks. Flowers growing amongst the grasses. The unique bouquet of decay that hovers over the river’s edge.

Warm as it has been, the others have sought the comfort of their tents for the night, rather than sleep right next to the fire; even Dirge, who seems ever fond of nearly baking himself before the flame, has made himself scarce for the evening. All the better – Astarion finds himself soaking in the heat, deep into his bones. A wondrous feeling; after but a couple of hours in front of its glow, he feels almost alive again.

It’s not quite the same, he muses, but it's close enough for a man who has long since forgotten the intricacies.

Though it is only a couple of hours till the dawn, the sky is as dark as pitch. Overhead, thousands of stars hang as if placed by a delicate hand, burning the very heavens with their radiance. In the city, they could never dare dream to be so bright. For decades now, he spent every spare moment he could safely avoid his master’s notice hiding out on the rooftops and terraces of Baldur’s Gate. An observer perched above it all, where he could pretend he had escaped the mire and the misery of it.

Often there was not much to watch, sitting so high with only the moon for company. Some days he was treated to the local dramas – explosive arguments as a spouse was caught cheating and forced out onto the streets. Drunks wandering home, completely unaware of the thieves following close behind, picking their pockets. On several occasions he was witness to bloody murders, seemingly committed for no other purpose than the sheer violence of it all.

And yet, those few stolen hours were precious – brief points of solace amongst centuries of misery.

The thought is unbearably maudlin, but he cannot stop the way it resonates in his chest. A sharp pang that cannot be ignored.

He breathes: a sharp, shuddering thing.

…It really is a beautiful night.

Beautiful, and yet it’s completely gone to waste – Astarion had thoughts of a rather more carnal nature for this evening, and those damned harpies managed to ruin both those and his doublet all in one foul swoop. After all the mess of the fighting and the near drowning, some small, stupid part of him had held tight to the thin hope that it could all be salvaged somehow. Surely, if he were to simply wait, an opportunity would avail itself?

Astarion was certain that tonight would be the night. His plan was simple, easy even – he would wait until just after dinner, as the others were readying themselves to sleep. A coy look; a lingering touch; his voice, low and soft; and he’d have the half-drow begging to follow him off into the woods, panting after him like some lustful dog. Centuries of training had honed Astarion for this very purpose – he’d have Dirge seeing stars and swearing fealty to him within the hour.

Of course, it all fell apart in spectacular fashion as soon as they reached the clearing; Dirge pitched his tent, refused dinner despite the wizard’s repeated insistence, and promptly retired for the night.

Astarion finds himself of two minds on the matter, even so many hours later; firstly, he’s irritated, disappointed – he’s been planning this evening for the better part of a tenday, and for what? Ire swarms beneath his skin like a thousand stinging flies, his teeth ache with the want to bite – distantly, a part of him knows that today, tomorrow, three days from now, it doesn’t matter; even if they were to pick up camp this instant and head straight for Baldur’s Gate, it would take the better part of a month; there’s time.

Secondly… he’s… relieved. One more night that he doesn’t have to put on the act, one more night that he doesn’t have to touch– At the very thought, his chest tightens, and his useless breaths come fast between clenched teeth. How pointless. How stupid– What’s one more night among thousands? What’s one more body pressed against his?

He’s let himself be used like this countless times, how could it possibly still hurt–

The ire, the shockingly deep well of inexplicable anger that opens up beneath his ribcage, mixes with the shivery relief to form a confusing ball of nausea that sits sharp in his throat – the feeling is surprising, unsettling, and completely useless. He sucks in another breath and holds on tight, tries to master it, the swirl of emotions within his breast–

He’s overreacting. He knows it. This… This delay means nothing. He has time. There will be another night, a better night, to seduce the half-drow.

And for all Astarion’s mind rebels at the thought of playing the rake once more, the fault lies solely with him. Dirge has been… tolerable. For a target. For all the man’s faults, he’s never been handsy – in fact, Dirge has only recently stopped startling at any touch he doesn’t see coming, and for all the times Astarion has touched him (a gentle hand to his arm, to the small of his back…), he has yet to initiate. With his wide eyes and his uncertain glances, their giant half-drow rather gives off the impression of inexperience; he blushes at the slightest suggestion, and his gaze oft lingers on Astarion’s eyes, his hands, his lips.

It’s been some time since Astarion’s last had the pleasure of unfledged prey.

But his enjoyment goes beyond that, doesn’t it? Dirge is stupefyingly free with his blood, and rather…thoughtful. The night after they visited that burning wreck of a town, he gifted Astarion a set of drow armor he found on one of the corpses in the town square; disappointingly bleached from the sun, but he considers that in light of current events, it may make for a suitable replacement. Until he can find something less drab, at the very least.

Still, a subtle curl of pleasure wraps around his dead heart. For as much as he hates the game, there’s something enjoyable about being able to play it on his own terms, for his own benefit. Is this how Cazador feels, commanding his army of thralls? Or those mortals who bow and scrape, begging for his ‘eternal gift?’ In possession of their own minds if not any sense, and yet they placed themselves in the very jaws of the wolf, at the mercy of its whims. Fools.

But as for the role of ‘master’... Perhaps… Perhaps he can see the appeal.

A sudden sound drags him from his thoughts; the soft press of a padded foot on grass, a quick, anxious heartbeat–

–The dreadful smell of dog, still slightly damp from its earlier romp in the river.

His eyes narrow into a scowl; the ridiculous creature had been making the rounds, now apparently it's his turn to suffer its company. “Not now, mutt. I’m busy.”

Regrettably, the dog does not take the hint; there’s a long pause, and then Scratch whines, most pitifully. Despite the fleeting thought of just ignoring it until it goes away, Astarion can’t help but discreetly glance upward – for all his guile, apparently there’s no fooling the dog; at the edge of his vision, a white, long, and fluffy tail begins a slow wag.

But, strangely, the animal is surprisingly subdued. Even the wag barely amounts to a swish of the tail, and a pale comparison of its usual exuberance.

For no reason at all, the first cold tendrils of dread begin to slowly trickle down his spine.

Another low whine, almost as though the beast is trying to be stealthy.

Astarion finds his interest piqued; he looks up, giving the dog his full attention. “And what do you want?” he asks, feeling mildly irritated.

A third whine. The dog casts a quick look behind itself, beyond the fire, and then back to Astarion.

Its tail has stopped wagging, and now rests lightly tucked between its legs.

Interesting.

The dog is afraid, but of what?

Before Astarion has a chance to consider this further, the wind shifts, and with it comes the smell of blood.

Fresh blood, and an awful lot of it.

Hunger sharpening in the pit of his stomach, Astarion can’t help but sit at attention; the smell is overpowering, but of an unfamiliar vintage. By now, he’s had a chance to sample the aroma of everyone’s bouquet, but this smells wholly new – not animal blood, surely, but that of a thinking creature–

The bard. It must be.

Growling low in its throat, the mutt looks away once more. Towards the edge of the river.

Where the smell of the blood is the sharpest.

Come to think of it, she had wandered by the campfire earlier, claiming that she couldn’t sleep, what with all the ‘excitement of joining their merry troupe.’ She needed some air, she had said – that must have been close to an hour ago. Apparently, despite her insistence, she wasn’t careful enough, and ran afoul of something lurking in the trees at night.

Astarion has no love for the bard, but he supposes it behooves him (as the one currently on watch) to go see what sort of mess she’s gotten herself into. Perhaps if he gets there fast enough, there will even be something of her left for the cleric to heal.

And yet, he can’t quite dispel that dread that sits deep in the pit of his useless stomach like a cold stone.

The dog looks to him with pleading eyes, and whines once more.

“Alright, fine,” he says, slapping his knees with an irritation which is only partially feigned, “I’ll go look.”

Astarion stands and makes sure to grab his daggers and bow, just in case; should there be trouble, he should still be within shouting distance, but he’ll be damned if he walks himself into danger without a weapon in hand. With a swift but quiet step, he makes his way over to the river’s edge, the dog following close at his heels.

Strangely, whatever fate has befallen the bard, her attacker is very quiet. A predatory animal perhaps? Astarion muses the thought as he slips ever closer, through the tall grasses. Or, maybe a patrol of goblins saw the smoke from their campfire and happened upon her first? While either option seems possible, neither seems likely – it’s too quiet. Goblins are anything but subtle, and he neither smells nor hears any sort of creature; in fact, other than the scent of blood, nothing seems out of the ordinary–

No, wait.

Astarion stops himself in his tracks, and inhales deeply.

There’s another smell. A familiar smell–

There, not far from the water’s edge. A strange, misshapen figure. In the dark, even his sharp eyes struggle to make out its features.

It’s large, whatever it is, much longer than it is tall. It moves and bobs strangely, and there’s a sound, a wet sound like tearing flesh–

One more step forward, and this thing, this creature, turns to face him–

But it’s not a creature at all.

The bard lays dead, her broken form sprawled across the soft, muddy earth. A frankly absurd amount of blood spills out from her corpse, pooling in a great circle that slowly seeps into the ground. One hand, its bones shattered, has its claws dug deep into the earth; her innards have been pulled outward, her intestines hanging limp outside her body like the winding carcass of a long, pale snake; and the long stretch of her neck lays unnaturally twisted, the muscle and sinew torn away to expose naught but bone.

Above her crouches a large, dark figure. A deep rumble echoes through its chest; a growl and a gasp that sounds like ecstasy. With a thoughtful noise, it leans forward and takes her throat between its jaws, cracking her vertebra with a sickening snap, splintering the bone.

Dark eyes flick in his direction and catch in the starlight, glowing like a cat’s.

It’s Dirge.

The realization strikes Astarion like a dagger to the chest, and an icy anxiety spreads through his veins with a cold fear. At his side, the dog cowers in the grass, hidden, its ears pressed flat against its skull, its eyes wide, and its tail tucked tight between its legs, brushing along its belly.

Regardless of whoever the half-drow had been before, it’s suddenly clear that Astarion is in the presence of a predator now; even the way the way Dirge moves is somehow strange, alien. He moves more like a beast than a man, crouching over the dead bard on all fours, like a wolf pinning its kill, one hand clawed tight against her shoulder, as though some part of him expects her to try to escape.

Somehow, he’s not been noticed by Dirge, not yet; if he believed in miracles, surely this would be one, but the gods are too uncaring for that – just as quickly as luck favored him, it turns – the wind shifts suddenly, and the half-drow’s nostrils flare. He huffs two great lungfuls of air, mouth open and dragging the scent over his tongue, before snapping his head towards Astarion, the intensity of his stare heavy, like a physical weight.

Astarion’s dead heart stutters in his chest. Every instinct screams that running isn’t an option; whatever’s got the half-drow in its grip will see him as nothing more than prey, and pursue – could he outrun Dirge? Normally, yes, without question, but Dirge is currently unburdened by sword or armor and clearly possessed by something, and it’s swiftly becoming a gamble Astarion is unwilling to take.

Instead, he eases his hands down to the hilts of his daggers – his bow would be preferable; if the half-drow’s gone mad, he’d rather not be in arms reach, but it's slung over his back, and there’s no way he can grab it discreetly – and keeps his voice even as he calls out, “...Dirge?”

Dirge – or this stranger who wears his face – says nothing. With a slow, almost dreamlike sway, he stands tall, looming, a dark shadow silhouetted against the night sky. Blood soaks him from mouth to groin, his hands absolutely dripping with gore. There’s no recognition in his eyes, only a cold, empty glee, and a toothy grin splits his face like a ragged wound – it’s so unlike anything Astarion has seen on him before, it’s surreal. Almost like he’s staring at an entirely different person.

One unsteady step forward, then another – for each he takes, Astarion matches him with another, backward, in the direction of the camp. The half-drow smiles as though this were a game, his muscles tensing as he readies to spring forward–

By some stroke of luck, Astarion’s got his daggers out of their sheaths just in time, even though Dirge lunges forward with all the speed of a lightning strike – one blade manages to rake along a long, slate-colored arm as Astarion manages to dodge to the side. Well, it’s less of a dodge and more of a dive, as his feet tangle on a tuft of tall grasses; he hits the ground with an ungraceful “Oof!”

Dirge’s hands, aimed for his head, go sailing past, but those eyes follow his every move like a hawk. With Astarion on the ground, the half-drow has the advantage, and he bares his teeth and lunges again–

There’s nothing for it – Astarion draws a quick breath and shouts as loud as he can: “WAKE UP!”

Disconcertingly, he hears no responses back from the camp (must be just too far away for them to hear, damned mortals sleep too soundly) but Dirge, oddly, stumbles where he stands. For the first time since Astarion spotted him over the corpse, that deadened smile falls away to a muddled confusion; Dirge blinks once, twice, that familiar crease pleating the space between his eyebrows as they pull together into a frown.

Astarion, despite himself, blinks back. That alien feeling, that predatory air that makes the slave in Astarion cringe in fear, has… well, it’s not quite disappeared, but it’s definitely faded.

Then, as quick as it left, it comes roaring back. With a sudden, ragged snarl, Dirge shakes his head violently, and the grin returns – those eyes, flat like glass, stare longingly at him like a starving hound chained just short from a carcass.

“Oh, fuck,” Astarion breathes.

He’s only halfway to his feet when Dirge tries again, only to be thwarted by the dog of all things – Scratch growls fiercely, teeth sunk into Dirge’s pants just behind the knee, and the stupid mutt has dug his paws into the dirt and tugs backward; it fails to topple the half-drow, but it does buy Astarion the time he needs to retrieve a dagger he dropped and get some distance, but it’s not enough.

One giant hand grabs him by the shoulder, yanking the fabric of his shirt roughly to the side until the neckline pulls painfully against the skin of his throat, and Astarion does the only thing that seems reasonable. He twists with the motion, wrenching his shoulder to the side and buries one dagger deep into Dirge’s flank, to the hilt.

The man doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even so much as flinch – doesn’t seem to even feel it.

Astarion’s eyes go wide.

Well. Alright then. Time for plan b – without a real thought in his head beyond the swiftly escalating panic, Astarion reaches outward, with his mind. With that wriggling tadpole in his brain.

Time for the despicable thing to earn its keep.

If the others are too far away to hear his voice, maybe he can project it through the tadpole. He’s never purposefully tried to use the damned thing, but now’s not the time to be fussy, yet, he’s not quite sure what to do with it. It balks at his command, squirming. No longer does it sit behind his eye, but instead he can feel its ire along the top of his skull, a deep, convulsing feeling, annoying and just this side of painful, but he gives it no choice.

Listen, worm, unless you want your host dead, you will listen to me–

 

-x-

 

–Fucking…

The voice, the command, ripples forth in a powerful psionic wave. His mind cringes and recoils at the very touch.

Wake…fuck up!

 

-x-

 

From the depths of an unfathomably deep sleep, Dirge begins to rouse. One by one, sensations slowly filter through to his muddled brain like shafts of sunlight through murky water; the sharp prickle of blades of grass under his hands; a cool breeze that blows gently across his skin; the tired, yet satisfied ache of his jaw, of his arms; a comfortable weight that rests heavy on his chest; and the way his head shrieks and pounds, absolutely splitting at the seams.

Inertia pulls inexorably at his bones, a desperate plea from his body for more sleep. For once, he did not dream, cannot even remember ever stirring, but confusion plucks at the edges of his dreamy haze.

Confusion, and… something else, something familiar… like the ghost of worry, half remembered.

I’m not in my tent? Why am I not in my tent?

It seems a feat near insurmountable to blink his eyes open. A dark canvas wheels before him, speckled with the glow of thousands of stars, bright embers against an infinite night. To the east, the first whispers of dawn light the horizon, the barest of promises of the morning yet to come.

Something shifts, and Dirge pulls his eyes away from the sky – his breath catches in his throat as he realizes that the weight is Astarion, sitting atop his chest. A pleasant frisson rushes down his arms; instinctually, he reaches up to grasp those firm thighs only to find that he can’t – Astarion’s knees are near his elbows, pinning his arms down, to the ground, his face an inscrutable mask crowned by his white-silver curls. Those red eyes stare down at him, mirthless and cold.

Dirge’s confusion has not abated, if anything, it no longer plucks, it screams. Delicately, tentatively, he reaches out with the tadpole, directing it clumsily towards Astarion’s mind – he gets the barest whispers of uncertainty, distrust, and fear before his attention is drawn away yet again, this time by a faint pressure along the column of his neck.

Astarion’s dagger, pressed tight to his throat.

He sucks in a quick breath, surprised – Astarion keeps his daggers as sharp as his tongue, it seems.

Forcibly, Dirge breathes out and tries to quell the panic that brews in his heart. He lifts his hands up, just enough to raise his palms in an offer of submission.

Astarion’s expression does not change, does not waiver. He does not even breathe.

They are not alone.

The others, all of them, tower ominously overhead. They have drawn in close around both Dirge and Astarion in a circle, yet remain just out of arm’s reach. Every face stares back, a gallery of disgust, shock, and horror, their eyes sharp and accusing. He doesn’t even bother reaching out with the tadpole; their emotions lay over them like a thick shroud, heavy and suffocating.

His heart beats hard and fast in his chest, painfully, as none of them move, none of them speak. Dread skates down his spine like a cold hand pulling forth a melody from a favored instrument.

Words don’t come easily – Dirge has to swallow harshly, twice, to find the moisture to speak, “Wha–what’s going on?”

At his voice, Astarion’s razor focus sharpens further, and that blade presses tighter to his throat in warning. Dirge, despite himself, flinches away from the cold metal, only to hiss and gasp as a lance of molten pain carves deep into his left side.

Breath coming in harsh pants, his hand reaches instinctively for the culprit – a dagger, hilt deep into his flesh, just above the pelvis. At his touch, the pain doubles, and Dirge’s eyes roll backward in his head as the sky sways treacherously above.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, trying to stay present.

Astarion shifts, shins pressing painfully into the flesh of Dirge’s biceps. “Don’t move,” he states, his voice low and dangerous like a promise.

But for all the threat in his words, they’re an anchor in the storm; with sweat gathering at his temples, Dirge grits his teeth and draws in several ragged gulps of air, just enough for the world to stop spinning. Black spots bloom at the edges of his eyes, but the pain recedes, somewhat, so long as the dagger remains untouched.

The silence around him is deafening. Six sets of eyes watch him, balefully.

Skin crawling with the scrutiny, Dirge rests his head against the ground and tries again, “What’s going on?”

“I would like to know that as well,” Wyll replies; from where, Dirge cannot see, but the man’s voice sounds cold, judgemental. “From the look of things, you… murdered Alfira.”

“Alfira?” He blinks. The name sounds familiar, but from amnesia or pain, he cannot place it.

“The bard,” Shadowheart answers, somewhere to his left. He can’t see her for the shadows.

“The bard? I didn’t kill the bard – I didn’t kill anyone.”

Somewhere, to his right, Gale breathes an uneasy sigh, “...And yet, the evidence contradicts your claim.” A long pause, as if the wizard is weighing his words, “You’re… covered in her blood. Dirge, you were eating her!”

Eating?! The thought draws him up short, panic pricking at his nerves like icy needles into his fingertips. Guiltily, he remembers some of those first sensations upon waking; the ache of his jaw, of his arms. The heavy weight of his contented stomach, comfortably full despite going to bed without dinner.

For the first time he can remember, that dark urge rests easy within his flesh. Satisfied.

Confused, he snaps back, “I-I, I was sleeping!”

“People don’t just kill others in their sleep!” Wyll barks, his voice a blend of chiding and distraught.

To that, he has no answer. He is indeed covered in blood, seemingly not his own; he can feel it drying on his chin, his neck, down the front of his shirt. When he licks his lips, he can taste blood on his teeth.

The evidence is damning.

Dirge lets his eyes shutter closed, for just a moment. Considers his options.

What will the others do? If he cannot control these urges, even in his sleep, then what hope is there for him?

On his chest, Astarion shifts again; the elf pushes his weight back to sit more on his heels, just enough to take some of the pressure off of Dirge’s arms. Immediately, the blood begins to flow to his fingertips once more, steadily banishing the pins and needles he didn’t even notice creeping into his hands.

It’s a bright moment of relief in a mire of misery; a considerate gesture that was likely no more than an accident. No matter, it’s the best he can hope for. He takes a moment to shake his hands, low and close to the ground where they could not possibly be perceived as a threat, until they stop tingling.

One knee digs suddenly, pointedly, into his ribs, drawing him away from the deepening spiral of his thoughts.

Dirge blinks his eyes open to see Astarion looking right back; unlike before, his gaze has thawed somewhat, and yet there is an air of… cunning about him. Subtly, his eyes flick swiftly to the side, and then back to him with a look that says ’trust me.’

Can he? Despite Astarion warming up to him since he agreed to share his blood, the man still greets him with a barb more often than not, but it’s not like he has much choice here. Carefully, Dirge lets his mind brush the elf’s once more – the faintest touch, but if Astarion’s lying, he hides it well. Dirge can sense nothing his face does not already say.

He holds Astarion’s gaze, and gives the tiniest of nods. Barely perceptible.

For a long moment, Astarion does nothing, says nothing, but then like a switch flipped, the elf suddenly leans back a little further, humming thoughtfully. He draws the dagger away from the delicate skin of Dirge’s throat, admiring it in the starlight; a smear of blood decorates the blade’s edge, and Astarion drags one thumb through it.

“...I think he’s telling the truth,” the elf states as he licks the blood from the pad of his thumb. He pauses again, tilting his head, before turning to face – someone to Dirge’s right. “I didn’t see the murder, she was dead when I got here, but…” He shakes his head with a sigh, “Something wasn’t right. He… Dirge wasn’t himself.”

“...In what way?” Wyll asks, skeptical, unsure.

“Do you have to ask? Some strange shit happened here.” Karlach’s voice vibrates with a nervous energy; Dirge can imagine her tail thrashing to and fro as it often does when she’s restless or agitated. “Come on, I haven’t known him as long as the rest of you, but I know there’s no way Soldier did this… for what? The thrill? I’m with Fangs on this one.”

“In any case, we have a dead bard. Something happened tonight, and whatever it was, we cannot allow it to happen again.” Shadowheart replies. “Astarion, how was Dirge ‘not himself?’”

Above him, the vampire shifts gently. There’s more honesty to his expression now, his eyes going distant with the memory. “He… He moved different. Like – well, like he wasn’t used to his body. He didn’t speak, but when I called out to him, there was a moment where he faltered.” Astarion frowns, his lips twisting with… with what? Distaste? Annoyance? Dirge isn’t quite sure.

Eventually, Astarion shrugs, “I thought he was going to snap out of it. He didn’t, not until I used the tadpole.”

“What are you saying then?” Gale presses, sounding concerned, “He’s possessed?”

Astarion shrugs again, sheathing his dagger with a flourish, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Slowly, Shadowheart moves closer, kneeling at his side. As she nears, she tilts her head, the long twist of her braid slipping over one shoulder, “...I don’t sense any sort of curse on him.”

Gale doesn’t sound convinced. “There’s a wide array of spells that can alter emotions or behavior, and a number of more physiological causes as well. Without more evidence, it’s all simply conjecture.”

Shadowheart’s eyes watch the wizard, before flicking down to meet his again. “Easy,” she mutters, her smile faintly apologetic, “I’m going to pull this out. Just breathe deep.” At her touch, the dagger shivers in his skin, his stomach twists, and the sky spins once more.

Dirge closes his eyes, his chest heaving, and tries not to be sick.

The blade slips easily from his fresh, and his blood with it – as he gasps, a small, trembling sound, Shadowheart’s hand presses swiftly against the wound, and while his ears ring, Dirge can feel the icy chill of her healing magic, slipping into the wound like tiny needles to suture the flesh back together.

The pain slowly recedes, but only somewhat – it seems all too quickly, Shadowheart is pulling her hand away again, even as he can feel the blood seep into his clothing. The worst edges of the injury have been stitched back together, and actively continue to do so, but it still aches and throbs, left open to the world and largely unhealed. He blinks, curious, “...Aren’t you going to heal it fully?”

“No,” Shadowheart smiles, “consider it an incentive to talk. Tell me, what do you remember?”

An easy question for which he has no answer – Dirge casts his mind back, finding little but darkness. “I, um.” The holes in his memory yawn back at him, and the dark urge smiles smugly beneath his skin, contented. He swallows, and tries to find the moisture to speak. “We set up camp. I was feeling tired, so I went to sleep early.”

Gale crosses his arms, resting his chin on one hand; now that he’s been presented with a puzzle, the horror and disgust in his eyes fades, replaced with intrigue, “You skipped dinner too, as I recall. Were you feeling unusual in any way? Unnaturally drowsy, sick? Fever? Chills?”

Tired? Yes, extremely, but not unnaturally so – or not in any way that felt forced or artificial. Not in the way that harpy’s song had bound his body and stuffed his mind full of hazy cotton, stealing away his thoughts. His head had throbbed after the fight, but it still shrieks now, and yesterday’s bruises still whine and complain just as hotly.

Exhaustion licks at his limbs, like he hadn’t slept at all.

“No,” he replies, “I was just tired, and a bit sore.”

Shadowheart leans over him, lifting his eyelids, one at a time, “Nothing else? No strange compulsions? Unusual hungers?”

Dirge’s breath catches in his throat as guilt slithers low in his belly. He should tell her, shouldn’t he? He should be truthful, honest – but no matter how hard he tries, the words sit unmoving behind his lips, heavy, like iron.

He’s tried telling the others in the past, multiple times – he’s approached both Gale and Lae’zel during their nightly training sessions, but neither seemed to take him seriously, or understand the severity of the issue. Admitting them now seems impossible. Foolish.

“No. Nothing,” he lies through gritted teeth. “Just a headache.”

“Hmm,” Shadowheart hums, unsatisfied, but not unconvinced. She looks at Astarion, “Did you see him leave his tent?”

The vampire shakes his head, looking amazingly imperious for the way he still straddles Dirge’s chest; Astarion seems to realize this at the same time Dirge does, and hastily, he scrabbles up to his feet. “No, I didn’t. I, however, did see the bard leave.” Astarion briskly brushes his hands across his legs, whisking away any bits of grass or dirt, his face twisting with his usual brand of annoyance, “She said she was too ‘excited’ to sleep.”

With Astarion off his chest, Dirge plants an arm against the ground and shakily pushes himself up into a sitting position. The others, thankfully, seem distracted amongst themselves and do not protest, but his wound absolutely sings as he attempts to bend – Shadowheart, still kneeling at his side, is quick to notice and press a hand against his back, helping to ease him the rest of the way. Pointedly, she does nothing to heal him further, and when his eyes meet hers, she stares back, unflinching, a not-quite smile resting tight on her lips.

Around him, the others still hover, but their earlier disgust and anger has cooled somewhat, fading into something more curious, if just as anxious. At his side, Gale thoughtfully strokes his beard, his eyes lost in the middle distance as he ponders. Astarion scowls at the wizard, his sharp eyebrows furrowing dramatically above his piercing eyes. By Dirge’s feet, Karlach and Lae’zel stand – Karlach looks worried, her tail flicking too and fro anxiously, while Lae’zel stands with her arms crossed, her glare fierce.

Off to his left, Wyll stands apart from the rest. He’s got his back to them, and Dirge strains to see what’s caught his eyes – there, further down by the shore, a body rests by the reeds along the river’s edge, left laying in a careless slump.

“Did you notice anything else?” Gale asks Astarion, pulling Dirge’s eyes back to him. “Was Alfira moving strangely? Making abnormal vocalizations? Were her eyes clear, or–”

Astarion scoffs, his irritation so sharp that Dirge doesn’t even need to use the tadpole to feel it in the air. “She looked perfectly fine, wizard. As normal as a bard can be.”

Gale sighs, disappointed, “Well, that tells us little. I wonder–”

“We could use the tadpole.” Shadowheart offers abruptly, blithely.

This pulls Gale up short from where he just began to pace, “...Pardon?”

The cleric shrugs one shoulder, staring up at the wizard. “The tadpole,” she elaborates, and with each word she says, anxiety blooms cold in Dirge’s stomach, its twisting roots burrowing ever deeper, “we should be able to use it to look into look into Dirge’s memory – maybe there will be some sort of clue as to what could have caused this?”

“Absolutely not.” Lae’zel sneers, “To use the parasites is to invite madness.”

Gale hums, “...While I’m inclined to agree, we may not have much choice in the matter–”

“--Sacrifice your minds to the worm, and you will have no choice,” she snarls.

The wizard’s brows knit together in a measured frown, ire bubbling hotly behind his usually calm countenance, “It’s imperative that we know the truth, Lae’zel – either Dirge is some sort of rabid murderer, a madman, or… Perhaps there’s something more sinister at work here. Who’s to say that it won’t happen to the rest of us, as well?”

Lae’zel stands as still as a statue, her arms crossed, her gaze as unwavering as her steel. “I never took you for a fool, wizard, but you’ve proven me wrong,” she hisses, unconvinced, but she does not argue the matter any further, instead whirling on her heel to walk away.

Dirge watches her leave with a sinking feeling settling deep into his gut – he very much wants to argue; the thought of the others in his mind is terrifying. What could they see there? He’s never lied to them about not remembering his past, but the urge has entwined itself around his very marrow, eternally present in the back of his mind, in his thoughts. Would they be able to hear its oily whispers in his ears? Feel the way it presses itself into his limbs and demands his attention? His obedience?

And yet.

He doesn’t have a choice, does he?

“Do it.”

Gale startles, his eyes blinking as he looks to Dirge, “Do what?”

For good or for ill, conviction begins to burn in his chest; Dirge holds his head high, proud, and begs his voice not to waver, “Look into my mind. Use the tadpole.”

The wizard exchanges a quick look with Shadowheart, who’s eyes narrow with suspicion as she replies, “...And here I’d thought you need some… convincing. You won’t try to resist, or hide the truth?”

It’s not a lie, he tells himself, if he doesn’t state it out right. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“Our options certainly are limited, and far from ideal. It appears we must simply make do.” Gale sighs. “Lae’zel,” he begins, raising his voice as he casts a look back in the direction she stalked off to, “you have experience in using the tadpole, if I’m not mistaken. Would you be so kind as to–”

“No,” she snaps back, loudly. She’s already halfway back to their campfire, “I refuse.”

The wizard’s lips pull tight; annoyed, perhaps, as he watches her walk away., “...I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose we’ll just have to figure this out as we go. Shadowheart, as our resident expert in afflictions both medical and divine in nature–”

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses the question without so much as looking at Gale proper, “Of course. It was my idea, after all.” For a moment, Dirge thinks she’ll leave it at that, however, for all the ease in her shoulders and the casual indifference in her voice, her tone suddenly pitches a bit deeper as she leans closer to him, her smile thin and venomous, “Consider this…payback for so eagerly jumping into my head.

Dirge swallows around the lump in his throat, “...Duly noted.”

“Astarion, will you be joining us?”

Shadowheart’s voice really is far too cheerful for having just threatened him, Dirge muses, but Astarion seems to neither notice or care. Absent-mindedly, the vampire rubs the pad of his thumb slowly across his bottom lip as he considers, tugging at the skin just enough to reveal the hint of a fang beneath.

Dirge misses the weight of him. The firm touch, the contact that had pressed him down and helped to quell the worst of the screaming and writhing of the nerves beneath his skin, had eased the anxious fluttering of his heart that wished to spiral and fight its way free. That weight had held him down, had felt akin to a shield, a bulwark against the judgement and scorn of the others.

Trust me, his eyes had said, and damn it if Dirge doesn’t do just that, despite that deeper, animal instinct that snaps and snarls at him for his vulnerability, his stupidity.

After a moment that feels like an hour, Astarion responds, his voice its usual bright, melodical lilt. A charming sound very much at odds with the events of the evening, with the dead bard that Dirge had apparently eaten laying just meters away. “Yes, of course. How could I say no?”

Gale nods. “And you, Karlach?”

“Nah, count me out.” She shakes her head, her fire dancing low along her shoulders, the tamest he’s ever seen it. It wreathes itself close along her skin, as anxious as the quick sway of her tail. “Doesn’t feel right.”

The wizard nods again, seemingly unsurprised by her answer. “That’s alright, three pairs of eyes should be more than sufficient. Now,” he claps, his eyes lighting up with the promise of a puzzle to be solved, and he moves to sit beside them, “how do we begin?”

An interesting question, and one Dirge isn’t quite sure how to answer. He casts his mind back to the previous day, when he’d made accidental contact with Shadowheart’s mind; the gesture had been more instinctual than purposeful, but how does one explain something so unusual? The gentle touch of those tendrils, more sound than feeling? The way that he feels them now almost constantly?

Though, there are some limits, as far as he can tell. There is no sound, no connection with minds lacking a tadpole; where the air around his campmates is absolutely abuzz with half-formed thoughts and feelings, the tieflings and druids of the Grove were ominously silent, as quiet and unmoving as stone (unless, of course, he were to cast Detect Thoughts, but that was an easy trick for anyone with even the barest touch of the Weave, and nowhere near as interesting as this strange anomaly he was experiencing).

Maybe, if he were to describe it as such but with a little twist, but before he can do so much as open his mouth to begin, a cold lance of pain jabs vindictively at his mind, a sudden barb of bitterreproachfulannoyed that drives into his head with a bite that feels like the sting of nettles. Shadowheart. There is no doubt; for all her irritation, the cool touch of her mind is swiftly becoming familiar. Distant, guarded. A touch sour.

(In those early days of his confusion, had he nicknamed her after the brush of her thoughts, subconsciously? Or were his observations of a more physical nature? The way she often held herself separate from the rest of the group? The pinched expressions of her face, so rarely interrupted by her genuine, wry smiles?)

Next to him, her green eyes glint almost gold in the light of the rising sun, her stare almost painful in its focus. A flicker of an emotion, not his own, percolates in his mind – like a distant, thoughtful hum, not entirely disapproving; it seems Shadowheart had no trouble finding her own way in. The realization sits heavy in his mind, her presence almost a physical weight, just at the edge of his reach. With a deep breath, Dirge closes his eyes, layering his thoughts and trying to open the way for her–

(Gently, carefully, he takes those unwanted thoughts, the disgusting and the deranged, and hides them deeper down, where no one could ever hope to hear them. How he knows to do that, he’s not sure, but the instinct feels familiar enough to trust.)

–But his mind recoils against the intrusion, a violent shudder that rattles through his shoulders and down his arms. Still, it must be done, so Dirge grits his teeth and tries to temper the bile that threatens to rise in his gorge. One then the other, their minds reach out and join his; Gale, bright and buzzing, a thousand thoughts all running together, a vibrant curiosity that swirls over an undercurrent of horror – a low, distant wail at the events of the evening, momentarily forgotten in his excitement; and Astarion, sly and cunning, a keen interest wrapped tight around a barbed tangle of nerves that sing like the warnings of a thousand lessons learned. Low, and wary. The hand that remembers the burn of the fire, the kiss of seared flesh.

One by one, the edges of their minds reach out, and slot into place beside Shadowheart, those tendrils of thought twining around his. Briefly, they jostle against one another, like too many people crammed too close together, jabbing one another with sharp elbows and knees. It feels crowded, his head feels claustrophobic, but then at last they settle, their eyes watching from the back of his mind.

He can sense their thoughts like this, rather clearly; though, they’re more akin to emotions than coherent words – Shadowheart’s mind bites along the edge of his, demanding his attention, impatencewarinessireHurry up, we don’t have all morning.

Gale’s mind swiftly swims to the forefront, its touch far gentler than hers, but with it a wave of wonder floods through the connection, as vast as the ocean and just as powerful, aweexcitementTruly marvelous! Clearly, I was aware that a sustained connection must be possible after our own little forays into one another’s minds, but to maintain the link? So effortlessly?

But perhaps it is not so effortless for all; where Gale’s thoughts ring through crystal clear and Shadowheart’s echo like voices at the end of a long hallway, Astarion’s are a tumult – hesitationuncertaintydoubt. Confidence… confusion? Annoyanceirritation, frustrationFRUSTRATION–

Inside his head, Dirge feels both Gale and Shadowheart reel under the onslaught of emotion; the wizard, in particular, flinches so hard he nearly drops the connection entirely.

Astarion? Gale tries, his voice wavering as his grasp on the link holds, tentatively, You’re not… coming through very clearly. Try enunciating–

MirthsarcasmHow does one enunciate their thoughts, praytell? With his eyes shut, Dirge cannot see Shadowheart’s smile, but he has no doubt that it's there, the gentle hitch of one side of her lips, as though that’s all the happiness she can ever afford to show.

Another jumble of emotions, rapid fire, clumsily filter through the connection including a bright bloom of embarrassment, swiftly smothered, and then – --vexationBlasted worm!... Can hear?

It’s Shadowheart’s turn to wince, and Dirge can feel the phantom press of her fingers against her temple as she responds, surly, Barely.

Frustrationire and a sliver of shame, swiftly muted as Astarion tries (and fails) to hide his pique behind a haughty veneer, Focus, wizard!

Gale’s pride bristles slightly under Astarion’s acerbic tone, followed closely by a subtle sigh of disappointment. Alright, I suppose I simply must try to restrain myself; I imagine I will have ample opportunity to ask questions at a more convenient time. He turns his mind towards Dirge’s own, prodding at its edges with a slow swirl of curiosity and genuine concern, Dirge, what about yourself? Can you hear us? Can you respond?

A flicker of fascination, his own this time. With their very minds entwined, Dirge had simply assumed they could hear his every thought just as clearly as he could hear theirs; Apparently not. With casual ease, he sends a sense of assuranceaffirmation in their direction, pressing the emotion into their minds, gently yet firmly.

Strangely, even that doesn’t seem to be enough.

Dirge? Shadowheart asks, This would be so much easier if you could–

“Is it working?” Karlach’s voice, her actual, physical voice, sounds beside him, making Dirge jump in his skin, and the other three to startle almost violently, “You all just… stopped speaking, and now you’ve all got these looks on your faces–”

There’s a nauseating moment where one of the others opens their eyes to glare at her – Astarion, he senses, watching the scene from the elf’s eyes. It’s almost as clear as watching through his own, with just a hazy little wave over his vision like someone has drawn a shallow veil of water across his face. Impressive, really, though he quickly becomes distracted by something else; sight of himself from the edge of Astarion’s view.

The details are a bit hard to make out, like trying to study someone through the smoke and shimmering heat of a campfire, and Dirge has to bite back the urge to tell Astarion to look at him directly. He’s taller than the others by far, his skin nearly the color of the wet shale by the river’s edge. The details of his face are too difficult to make out from here, but the shock of short, white fuzz atop his head is just starting to grow long enough to look unkempt–

One of Astarion’s hands reaches out to wave Karlach off impatiently, and Dirge can feel the curl of the elf’s lips in a half snarl. Karlach rolls her eyes, palms coming up placatingly.

“Fine, fine,” she sighs, “I guess I’ll just stand around here, making sure nothing comes to eat the lot of ya.”

–Dirge? Impatientannoyed.

Yes, he thinks slowly, making sure his words are as clear as possible, I can hear you.

Good, Shadowheart replies. Respond with words. I, I can understand what you’re thinking, somewhat, but it’s… it’s something of a blur.

The words feel something of a reprimand. Understood, he thinks, reeling in the flyaway wisps of his emotions and holding them tight to his chest.

Eternally surly, Astarion closes his eyes and his mind rejoins theirs. Gale seems to take this as a cue.

Best we get started then. Focus. Show us what you remember?

Where should I start?

Their voices bleed together, making them almost impossible to distinguish–

Show us last night–

–Show us–

–Everything–

 

-x-

 

He shows them. He opens his mind, and lets them sort through its carcass as he parades the memories past them, one by one. Waking up under Astarion’s daggers, going to bed the night before, his head pounding. He shows them nearly drowning in the river while the harpies cackled overhead. He shows them the fight against those fake paladins of Tyr and listening to Karlach tell her tale while the very air crackled and smoldered around her.

He shows them waking up to Astarion, desperate for blood. The fight against the goblins in the village, meeting Wyll, the crypt beneath the temple. Wandering through the forest, slowly falling behind but pushing his burning legs to keep going. Sitting around in the camp without a thought to call his own, surrounded by people he only vaguely recognized, and falling through the sky only to be caught at the last moment, suspended in midair.

Waking up on a wreck of meat and fire, smoke filling his lungs, his head completely devoid of purpose or being.

(And yet, through it all, that dark urge continues to chew at him from the depths of his mind, hidden from view. That he does not show them – he buries it deep, where the others could not possibly hear its beguiling whispers, and hopes it drowns in his blood.)

(If only he couldn’t hear it either.)

 

-x-

 

“Well,” Astarion hums as the awkward tangles of their minds begin to unwind and separate back into their own once more, “That was certainly…enlightening.”

It seems the wizard disagrees; as Gale blinks himself from his stupor, he shoots a look at Astarion that would be absolutely caustic if there was any bark to his bite. “Hardly,” Gale gripes, his voice as sour as the wine that Astarion occasionally avails himself to, “while the process itself is fascinating, it’s left us with more questions than answers.”

For all of the wizard’s cotton-swaddled arrogance, the man is most assuredly wrong, and were this any other circumstance, Astarion would gleefully hold this over him. While the others had been content to merely watch and wait as the half-drow marched his sparse memories by for their inspection, one by one, Astarion took a more hands on approach.

In his earliest years as Cazador’s property, the master had made use of Astarion’s prior experience as a magistrate, using him as a tool to further his own ambitions. It was often tedious work, but far superior to spending his life on his back, so he tried to treasure it when he could. The master’s demands were heavy handed, in the way a fool would swing a mallet in an attempt to fix his problems, as opposed to the delicate touch of the surgeon’s scalpel the situation required. More often than not, Astarion stayed up long into the afternoon hours, reading through troves of antiquated case files, looking for some loophole that would suit the master’s purposes–

(This of course, all lasted only until Astarion made the foolish decision to reach out to some of the members of the judiciary for help. He should have known that they were all in Cazador’s pockets, and this whole paperwork nightmare was just to appease those not yet under his sway. The master had been furious, stripping him of the few privileges he had, and demoted him strictly to whore.)

–While his law lessons themselves are long forgotten, the muscle memory remains. As the others were distracted, Astarion slunk himself deeper into the shadows of the half-drow’s head, and sifted through the man’s memories like files in a folder. Operating in one another’s minds was both dizzying and a touch nauseating, an effort made even more difficult by his need to remain discreet, but focusing on the matter like a physical task seemed to make it a touch simpler. The worm itself was less than helpful, and his attempts at commanding it with an iron fist had done little more than make the slippery parasite squirm out of his metaphorical grasp like the spiteful little wretch it was.

Beside him, Shadowheart stirs, pulling him from his thoughts. Her eyes distant as she watches the morning fog rise over the river, “...Are your headaches always that… intense?”

“Not always,” Dirge replies, his voice low, almost cautious, “but at its worst…”

Upon hearing his answer, Shadowheart’s frown doesn’t lessen one bit. “Hmm.”

With little warning, a sudden, flickering heat crackles by his side – Astarion glances over to see Karlach squatting next to him, her clawed hands clasped atop her knees, her eyes bright with a curiosity that can’t quite hide her sorrow, her worry, “Back in the world of the living, yeah? How was it?”

Behind her, at about arm’s length, Wyll stands guard, his face as cold as stone. At some point he must have gone back to grab his rapier, for while he stands still garbed in his camp attire, his hand rests lightly on the hilt of his blade, like a threat. “Did you see what happened?”

With a groan, the wizard pushes himself back up to his feet, his knees popping ominously as he rises, “Dirge is telling the truth – he has no memories of the events last night.”

Or, Astarion muses, hardly any memories at all. The man’s head had been nearly as vacant as Petras’ entire personality.

He had delved deep into Dirge’s mind, and had been well rewarded – it seems that Dirge had been telling the truth all along when he said he was having trouble remembering things; the further Astarion searched, the less there was there to see. Working his way backward, Astarion watched as coherent thoughts and memories swiftly dissolved into little more than vague emotions and animal needs, and yet, under it all, a subtle thread of guilt twitches, like the proverbial heart beating beneath the floorboards.

Astarion has to bite his lip to hold back his smile; he smelled an opportunity, and he would be a fool not to chase it.

“So, nothing’s changed. We have no idea what caused… this.” Karlach says, disappointed, her forehead knitting into a complicated frown. With one hand, she gestures carelessly over her shoulder in the general direction of the eviscerated bard.

“And yet, something must have.” Wyll sighs, crossing his arms. His devilish eye sharpens with a potent mixture of anger and shame – there’s no doubt who the anger is directed at, but the shame…? Does the famous monster hunter feel bad that he couldn’t protect the helpless, out here in the wilds? It should come as no surprise, Astarion muses, Wyll is a master of self flagellation.

“...Could it be the tadpole?”

Karlach is next, pushing herself to her feet with a hand against the singed grass beneath her, and then Dirge, wide-eyed and guileless as always.

“If it were the tadpole, wouldn’t it affect us all?” Gale asks. With one arm folded across his chest and the other supporting his chin, he looks miles away. Does the wizard miss his tower and the library he undoubtedly has? Does he mentally peruse the shelves, or revisit the lessons of the past? “Why just Dirge? Surely, it’s more likely to be a curse, isn’t it?”

“As I’ve said before,” Shadowheart replies, “I can’t sense any sort of curse on him, but that doesn’t mean it's entirely out of the question.”

“Curses,” Gale muses, half under his breath, “...or charms.” The wizard looks up, snapping his fingers, his eyes wide as some realization clearly sparks to life in that head of his, “I recall hearing that some people can react very… negatively to charm spells.”

Shadowheart’s eyes narrow, her expression a touch incredulous, a touch unsure, “You mean the harpy’s charm? But it would have worn off by now, and even if it hadn’t, the damned thing’s dead.”

The look Gale gives the cleric is knowing, charged with an undercurrent of words unspoken. “It’s… rare, an idiosyncrasy; a condition generally seen only in those who have spent… a long time under the effect of such spells,” he hedges, cautiously, ignoring the way Astarion’s eyes bore into his side and blatantly refusing to make eye contact.

Honestly, the wizard isn’t half as discreet as he thinks he is, and Astarion can’t help but feel a white hot burst of frustration that he doesn’t know exactly what Gale means by that. Perhaps what’s worse is that it’s clear that Shadowheart understands his deeper meaning, whatever that may be, and her look turns grave as she considers his words.

Slowly, both of their eyes drag almost inconspicuously towards Dirge, who of course doesn’t seem to notice at all.

Unsurprisingly, the fool seems just as much in the dark as he is, perhaps even more so. Dirge looks ridiculous, standing there with that gentle crease in his brow as he watches the others talk. He’s wounded, his camp clothes torn and absolutely soaked through with blood, and his normally steady heart beat flutters rabbit fast in his chest with what can only be fear.

Perfect.

With but a moment of hesitation, Astarion steels himself and strides forward, grabbing the half-drow by the fabric of his sleeve; the others startle, and he meets their looks of surprise with something more barbed, a bit derisive. “Discuss it amongst yourselves – you, follow me,” he says, intentionally softening his gaze as he meets Dirge’s eyes. “You’re absolutely drenched in blood, dear, and it's positively distracting.”

He manages less than two strides, Dirge in tow, before Wyll steps in front of him, blinking with confusion and yet stern, unyielding. “You… You’re just going to go off with him, alone? That’s not–”

Astarion smiles, making sure that his fangs show, just a little, in the early sunlight, “We’re just going to the river’s edge. Well within earshot, I assure you.”

The warlock looks unconvinced; he stands his ground for a long moment, solemn, his eyes wandering from Astarion’s face, to where he clutches Dirge’s shirt, and back again, but before Astarion can sharpen his tongue, Wyll’s throat bobs once, and he steps aside without another word. It doesn’t stop him from staring as they pass by, his eyes cold and judgemental, but Astarion pays him little mind – he’s got a role to play, and a little skepticism only makes the performance all the more believable.

The others say nothing as they leave, but he knows they’ll talk as soon as they think they’re out of earshot; in fact, he’s counting on it – while the particular bend in the river he steers the half-drow toward is a hundred meters away and tucked in behind a rocky outcropping, they’re heading downwind and his ears will pick up their words with it, no matter how discrete they try to be. If the conversation turns against them, he’ll know with time enough to adjust.

As they near the water’s edge, dirt turns to loose grey stones that shift and crunch beneath their feet, and just ahead lay a curtain of tall green reeds that sway and bob with the breeze. Astarion chances a quick glance back – Dirge looks a bit dazed, the skin around his eyes drawn tight with stress, but he doesn’t resist Astarion’s grip that drags him in tow, sleeve still caught between his fingers. That steely gaze meets his, soft, lost, perhaps seeking reassurance, and Astarion quickly gentles his hand, taking Dirge instead by his wrist, feeling the firm strength of him, the heat that radiates from his skin.

Despite himself, he doesn’t hate it – the warmth is oddly… comforting in the chill morning air.

Eventually, he deems them sufficiently out of sight; they find a spot where the walls of reeds part, letting them slip in, closer to the water. The perfect shield from prying eyes, he thinks, loosening his grip and turning to face Dirge. The man looks entirely too innocent for someone who just murdered and ate a woman mere hours ago; his hands hang limply by his sides, the tension has bled from his shoulders, and the bags beneath his eyes are as large as he’s ever seen them. He looks exhausted.

The fool looks pathetic. Almost pitiful, he’d say, if pity was an emotion Astarion was familiar with.

“...You helped me,” Dirge says, finally, shattering the quiet with his low, rasping voice, “Why did you help me?”

A fine question, and one he won’t be answering directly; instead, Astarion pastes on his finest smile, something a touch cunning and a lot alluring, stepping closer until he is nearly chest to chest with the man. Dirge fidgets, clearly uncomfortable, but Astarion gives him no out, maintaining eye contact. “One good turn deserves another,” he replies, his voice nearly a purr, “and I abhor a debt. Now, do hurry up; I wasn’t lying when I said it was distracting.” With a hand, he gestures pointedly to the mess splattered across the man’s front.

Startled, Dirge blinks, and glances down at the whole of himself, at the blood that coats his hands and soaked through his shirt, so thick he looks dipped in paint. By now, the blood has thoroughly dried, stiffening the man’s clothes with a heavy crust and flaking off his skin in large patches. It looks immensely uncomfortable; as if he’s just noticed it for himself, Dirge takes a step back and raises one giant hand up to scratch at his face and neck, shaking free a fine cloud of red dust into the air.

While the worst of the mess mars him from his mouth down to his groin, a not insignificant amount has dripped down to his legs and feet. He looks confused, at a loss for what to do, but after a moment’s hesitation, he seems to come to a decision; with an aborted half shrug, Dirge clumsily kicks off his stained shoes and steps into the water, breathing a sharp gasp as it laps against his skin.

“Cold?”

Dirge nods, “Very.” He frowns, and stares down at its surface as he takes another step deeper, as if he’s unsure of his footing, “Slippery, too.”

Oh, what a wonderful sight that’d be, for the man to fall right in. Surely, after the panic of having this fool out of his mind, bearing down on him, it’s the least he deserves? It seems, however, luck’s not on Astarion’s side; while there’s a few close calls where Dirge wobbles treacherously, he manages to keep his feet, stopping just as the water reaches halfway up his calves.

Of course, his pants wick up the water, turning the cloth dark with the moisture in seconds. Astarion’s own shoes stop just a handspan away from the river’s edge – he won’t make the same mistake. While his own vulnerability to running water is a thing of the past, the idea of trekking across the countryside in sodden clothing under a hot sun sounds just as enjoyable as whiling away an afternoon in the kennels.

But, maybe he won’t have a choice – while he’s no longer at risk of slipping, Dirge has started shivering, fine little shakes that are barely perceptible, but there nonetheless. How does cold affect mortals, anyway? Differently than it affects him for sure– Astarion is always freezing, and yet, he knows instinctively he is at no risk of dying from it; at its worst, the eternal chill is just one more uncomfortable fact of his unlife, but it’s another matter for the living, isn’t it? The details evade him, but Astarion’s certain that at least a couple of the books he managed to smuggle into the palace for his own entertainment featured it. Is a quick dip in a chilled river enough to be dangerous?

“Can you swim?”

Dirge blinks, staring down at the water as if he’s asking himself that very question, “...I don’t think so?”

Not very promising, but the water seems to be quite shallow. Halfheartedly, Astarion scoffs, “Try not to drown then.”

click of the door handle as he approached–

“Don’t bother,” Astarion says, hastily, clenching his hands and forcing the memories back down, into the depths where they belong. Dirge stops, eyes watching him curiously, the edge of his shirt still held tight in his fingers. “I-if we take too long, the others might come looking. Just wash your face and hands for now, and use that spell for the rest.”

“Spell?” Dirge asks, “You mean Prestidigitation?”

Astarion waves his hand dismissively, pulling breaths he doesn’t need too quick through his nose, “Whatever it's called. I don’t keep track.”

To his surprise, a small smile pulls at Dirge’s lips; a weak, frail thing. The first he’s seen on the man today, he thinks, “I don’t know that one yet.”

He would never admit it aloud, but the gentle banter is helping to distract Astarion from his thoughts, and he is grateful. Instead, he gives an exaggerated sigh, and rolls his eyes. “Then get your wizard friend to teach you how,” he says, his words coming slowly, as if for a child. “Honestly, you’d think something that useful would be a priority.”

Dirge’s expression is soft, unguarded. “I’ll ask him to show me,” Dirge agrees, but as he stoops, he gasps, one hand clutching tight at his injured side.

Astarion’s eyes narrow, “What’s wrong?”

The half-drow frowns down at his hand, as he slowly pulls it away from his wound; his palm is spotted with fresh blood, “...Just pulled it a bit.”

Admittedly, it is a distracting sight, and as the wind shifts once more, Astarion’s hunger purrs as his nose picks up the lingering scent of the bard’s gore. Bright and vibrant, it has not yet had the chance to start souring in the growing heat. Such a shame then that it is wasted; precious lifeblood trickling away into the river and dripping down into the ever thirsty earth both.

Maybe that’s the problem with having regular meals, he muses. He’s swiftly becoming accustomed to having blood available, on tap. The Astarion of mere tendays ago would be appalled at his current nonchalance on the matter. Still, the sight of it, gleaming on Dirge’s palm irks him, somehow. “Talk to Shadowheart again about healing that, when we get back,” he insists, ignoring the urge to rub at his breastbone and quell the strange emotion that squirms beneath.

The fool nods, his eyes solemn and wary, and after a long pause, he returns to his task. The blood has long dried against his skin, and it takes some scrubbing to get himself clean again. Again and again, he raises his cupped hands up to his face, and lets the water roll down his features. Idly, Astarion watches as the blood and water sluice down through his hair, across the crest of his cheek, forming fat, ruddy droplets that drip slowly from the edge of his nose and chin.

Amusingly, Dirge seems surprised to discover the slash to his arm; truthfully, Astarion had forgotten about that one as well, a quick strike delivered in the heat of the moment. The torn edge of his shirt hides it well, the fabric spotted only lightly with blood. Surely, it's not a serious wound if this is the first time Dirge is noticing it, but a note of humor enters his breath as he watches Dirge press his fingers along the edges of the cut and hiss through his teeth.

One particularly rebellious droplet catches his eye; small and gleaming with the rising sun, it winds down in a serpent’s trail, cut across his jugular, down darkened skin to disappear into the neck of his shirt.

He’s letting himself get distracted. As suddenly as if stung, Astarion draws his eyes away from that faint fluttering along the strong column of Dirge’s throat, and reminds himself of what truly matters; Dirge is the one who owes him a debt now, and it’s time to remind him. He still has a plan to enact, and while, admittedly, this whole ‘stumbling across the bard’s murder at the hands of their amnesiac’ runs a bit counter to his plotting, it presents an even greater opportunity, and Astarion is nothing if not adaptable.

Astarion forces away any remaining errant emotions still hiding in the shadows of his ribcage, and lets his lips split again into a knowing smile, something just a touch menacing. The way he cocks his hip and folds his arms over his chest would better help his image if Dirge wasn’t so big – looming over his target for a touch of that dangerous air was always so effective, and even crouched the man is offensively tall. No matter, time is of the essence, and he’ll let his greater personality cow the man as much as needed. “So. We’re more alike than I realized.”

Dirge doesn’t look at him, makes a point of it, in fact. He’s still fiddling with the gash in his shirt, but there’s suddenly a barely there tension that tightens the line of his shoulders, made all the more obvious by how abruptly it is released – forcibly, like a heavy sigh from the bottom of his lungs. It’s not a bad attempt at looking dumb really, but the illusion is ruined by the way he watches Astarion so intently from the corners of his eyes. “...What do you mean?”

“Come now, I saw what you did to that bard.” Astarion clicks his tongue. “Messy, but impressive.” He pauses for effect, and it seems to work – Dirge’s eyes dart away from his, suddenly and nervously. His dark skin pales rapidly, like he’s ashamed, or about to be sick. Either one works, really – he presses harder. “You were eating her,” he continues slowly, as if speaking to a child, “and you weren’t that upset when you found out.”

The half-drow’s silence is just as damning as any confession.

“I didn’t,” Dirge finally whispers, his breath coming in shallow gasps. There’s a wan look about his face as he stares down unblinking at the water lapping at his feet. “I don’t–”

“Admit it, where I want the blood, you want the flesh. There’s no shame in that.”

After another long pause, Dirge sucks in a quick breath. His eyes meet Astarion’s once more, resigned and pained, “I… There’s… There’s something wrong with me.”

A true master of the obvious – that much is clear, but the little jaunt they all took through the half-drow’s mind did nothing if not prove that whatever it may be that’s off about the man, he himself is not aware of it. That, of course, doesn’t make any of this any less dangerous – it’s hard to trust someone who blacks out and stabs your fellow campmates to death in the middle of the night, but at least even in his mindless, murderous rage, Dirge was clever enough to prey upon the weakest and most annoying of their company – perhaps endearing himself to Dirge will help spare him from the man’s wroth in the future.

But, risky though it may be, the man’s ignorance is also appealing; the less the fool knows about himself, the easier he’ll be to manipulate.

Astarion softens his smile to something a bit more sympathetic. Drive home the image of himself as an ally. “Oh, obviously. You can’t help what you are.” He chuckles, the sound low in his throat. “Monsters like us, we have to stick together.”

At the word ‘monsters’, Dirge flinches, but otherwise, his head hangs low and he says no more. Astarion counts many long heartbeats, standing on the edge of the bank, and simply watches the man. Watches the blood drip down his arms and slowly disperse into the sluggish waters, watches the droplets drip from his freshly washed hair. Watches the heavy set of despair that sinks deep into those eyes and takes root.

Eventually, the silence gets to him; it's too quiet here. At the first signs of false dawn, the rancorous calls of the birds had begun their racket, and the insects began their incessant buzzing, but all that has faded into a hush that leaves him uneasy. There is nothing now but the sigh of the wind over the water, like the whole world is watching and waiting. It sets his nerves on edge, and Astarion finds himself anxious to get back to the scene of the crime – the seeds of his plan have been sown, and the less time the others have to stew, the better.

“Come,” he urges, “best we get back, lest they become suspicious.”

Dirge doesn’t answer. His head still hangs low, eyes staring unblinkingly at the water.

“Never fear, your secret is safe with me,” he coaxes, before reaching out a hand. It hovers in the air, waiting, but Dirge does little more than watch it with those coal-black eyes, his face emotionless. Time is precious, but Astarion grants him more – he wants this moment, this offering to linger. He wants Dirge to remember this, if nothing else. He waits, ever the patient hunter, his trap the hand he holds aloft, a snare disguised as a gift.

And still Dirge simply watches. He looks sunken, defeated, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, like a puppet with its strings cut. At some point, he slid down to his knees, and the water licks at his thighs, leaving him soaked and shivering. Pathetic, and miserable, and exactly where Astarion wants him.

But still, he needs to be the one to make the next move, to accept Astarion’s magnanimous gesture.

Finally, Dirge sighs – a long, tortured thing, and reaches out, accepting his hand. He clasps his together with Astarion’s, and together, they pull him to his feet.

The look on his face is grim and resigned, but delightfully determined.

Astarion smiles, “After you.”

Silently, he falls in step behind the half-drow as they make their way back through the curtains of reeds. It doesn’t take long to retrace their path; they’ve not gone far, but even if they had, Astarion has no doubt he’d be able to find his way back by scent of bard alone. The day bodes to be another hot one, and the smell of her blood sits heavy on the breeze, the sharp tang of copper browning in the sun.

It seems he’s not the only one to notice, either; as they crest the gentle hill leading away from the river, his sharp ears catch the wretched buzzing of flies. The first of them begin to swarm around her corpse, across the stretch of black fabric laid over her still form; a section torn from the side of Dirge’s tent, from the look of it. The cloth does little to stop annoying insects – within moments, they find their way under to the prize hidden beneath.

Crouched by her body, Wyll’s face pulls into a disturbed grimace, but he makes no move to chase the flies away.

Subtly, Astarion studies him as they draw closer. If there were anyone to turn against Dirge and ruin his carefully laid plans, it would be him, but the signs look promising; the warlock still has his rapier at hand, but it rests in its sheath at his feet, as if forgotten about on the dusty ground. His face is not the fire of self righteous indignation that Astarion half expected, but rather a grim resignation, as though he were the one to be sent to the gallows. A curious look on a man that neither did the slaying nor was the slain – he stated his opinion and was outvoted, perhaps?

On the opposite side of the bard’s shroud, Gale and Shadowheart stand together, almost shoulder to shoulder. Their heads are bowed low as they speak quietly amongst themselves, but Shadowheart watches their approach with a keen gleam to her eye and a barely perceptible nod. The wizard, he thinks, hasn’t noticed their return just yet. Too lost in his own head, clearly. With one hand, he cradles his elbow, the other stroking his beard, and his eyes are a million miles away.

Karlach is the most animated of the bunch; she paces in tight circles behind them, vibrating with a nervous energy. As she moves, her tail lashes furiously back and forth, her face twisted as though she’s bitten into something sour.

Of Lae’zel, there is no sign.

Beside him, Dirge radiates a cold anxiety. Hollow fear has settled into his eyes, and he stares at the others like he is headed for the headsman; a tension leaches across his broad shoulders, his muscles wound tight, as though someone had strapped him to the rack and drove a steel bar clean through his flesh, pinning him in place.

Dirge’s throat bobs as he swallows, roughly. “Have you… come to a decision, then?” he asks, his voice low and almost breathless. Astarion has to drag his eyes away from the arch of his throat. Focus.

“We have, I think.” Wyll replies. He sighs, a deep, slow breath out his nose, before pushing himself stiffly to his feet. “...Sun’s getting high. We’ll set out once I’ve dug a grave for Alfira.”

A flicker of surprise ripples through Astarion; his, and not his own. The feeling, oddly twinned, is baffling, until he feels the half-drow startle beside him.

“I’ll lend you a hand, yeah?” Karlach offers, her face grim, “It will go faster with the two of us.”

Dirge glances at him, from the corner of his eyes, his confusion almost palpable in the air. As Dirge’s tadpole brushes across his, seemingly subconsciously, he can feel the myriad of emotions swirling just beneath the surface; a bewildering tangle of confusion, hesitation, and wariness that shifts and changes like dappled shafts of light drifting through the trees.

Reaching out and touching those feelings seems just as impossible as catching a current in his hands. As appealing as diving into the ocean’s raging torrent.

But.

Perhaps he should try?

As much as the thought of someone else in his mind makes his skin crawl, perhaps it would ingratiate him to the fool. Foster a feeling of… solidarity.

But again he hesitates, his breath catching between his teeth. The idea, the feeling of allowing more than just a brief, passing touch between minds feels too akin to what Cazador would once do; the heavy weight of the Master’s presence, sitting in the back of his thoughts, measuring his each and every action. The burning press of a command, compelling his limbs–

He had hated it. He had always hated the feeling. The others had never been quite so affected as he, though they were none too keen either, but–

Petras had been particularly vitriolic when he realized just how much Astarion despised the oily feeling of the master slithering through his thoughts. Chin up, he said, annoyingly glib and wretchedly cocksure for someone whose boots still reeked of piss (whether from the rancid alleys of the Lower City or from a tromp through the sewers themselves, Astarion was not certain). His smile had twisted, sickeningly lecherous, “Just… grin and bear it.”

He didn’t have a choice then, and he doesn’t really now. Just as Dirge’s mind begins to pull away, he lets his own reach out; gently, ever so faintly. An embarrassment not his own blooms in his head as their tadpoles meet; a nervous, trembling feeling, like a summer flower withering from winter’s frost. It steadies, though, at his touch – a whisper of warm surprise curls around his spine, a flutter of curious.

Distantly, he’s aware that during this distraction, Karlach and Wyll have stepped away, and they’ve taken the bard with them. Later, he’ll wonder what rites they thought she was worthy of, to spend so much time digging her a grave when she’s just another body to rot in the ground. He’ll wonder if they just dropped her in, or if they might have said a word, left a token, or done something else equally sentimental. He’ll wonder did anyone do that for me, when I died? Did anyone even notice my absence?

But for now, all he notices is those dark eyes, watching him solemnly, so very stoic for the well of emotion that churns beneath.

Dirge’s tadpole presses his, just a touch harder, with a buzz that could be a gentle …Astarion?

It’s a struggle, made no easier by the vague instructions the others gave him earlier, but Astarion makes an effort to think as loudly and as clearly as he can in Dirge’s general direction. The worm is no more pleased than it was earlier, balking at his touch like a squalling child, but with great effort and an iron grip, Astarion forces his thoughts through, a message that’s supposed to mean See? You can trust me. We’re in this together.

Though, it seems he doesn’t succeed; as a concerned looking Gale steps closer, Astarion can’t help but notice Dirge’s frown, fluttering and a touch confused.

Before he can clarify, however, the wizard so rudely interrupts; with his shoulders pulled back and his hands clasped against his spine, he has all the bearing of a teacher beginning a lesson, “I spoke it over with the others, and as it’s evident from your memories that you know the events of last night about as well as the rest of us, it would be a move most foolish to divide our numbers and fight amongst ourselves, especially when we cannot even be certain of what it is we face. Be it the tadpole, or a curse, or some other such ailment, we’ll be stronger confronting it together,” Gale pauses, “...However.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow, suspicious of the hesitation that suddenly pinches at the wizard’s features, “However?”

Gale smiles, empty and conciliatory. “Precautions, of course, must still be taken.”

 

-x-

 

Precautions, Dirge has learned, means a lot of things.

Over the last two days, they have travelled first west of the Grove then south, to where the Chionthar meets the forest’s edge. There, according to the druids, the land transforms from dense brush to a vast swamp; a miserable, inhospitable place where few dare to travel.

The others did not want to go. Still, they do not want to. No one seemed keen on the idea of mucking around in some mire. Already, the way forward has become difficult. Once, the road beyond the southern gate of the abandoned village must have been a grand thing, built of modest cobblestone along the high banks that overlooked the water, but time had worn down even the stone, until it had all crumbled down into the wetland and fallen into ruin.

Now, the path was little more than a jagged thing that limped gamely on its way toward the river. Broken steps of rocks surrounded with loose gravel made for treacherous footing and slow going; leaving most of the group sore and in a sour mood.

They were all reluctant, but Wyll was the most vocal. He was convinced they would find nothing – he said that not even goblins, who loved living in squalor, would willingly live in a swamp. It was too far away to explain the patrols, too far south to explain the attacks that stretched all the way up to Waukeen’s rest, but even he had to acquiesce that they were running out of options. During their last visit, the tensions in the Grove had been growing ever higher, and time was running out if they were to save this missing druid and the tieflings both.

But, despite all of that, Dirge can’t seem to find it in himself to care. He’s too distracted.

It’s been two days since he awoke to a dead bard, and the others looming over him.

Precautions. Rules.

There are rules now. One by one, he recites them again in his mind, and commits them to memory.

First, all watch shifts are to be done in pairs, no exception; second, I am no longer allowed to keep watch. Carefully, Dirge eases himself down to the next ledge of the broken road, a drop almost as tall as he is. Next to him, a gnarled tree shines bone white in the sun. Time has stripped away its bark and bleached its core, its roots laid bare where the force of the collapsing road pulled clear from the ground. Now, laid sideways, he uses it like a banister, steadying himself as the smaller stones beneath his feet threaten to give way. Those who are allowed are each to be equipped with a scroll of Hold Person.

Third, I no longer get a tent – I am to remain in full view, near the campfire, at all times. My weapons are to be stored in Lae’zel’s tent, and returned to me each morning, under supervision. That thought bites a little – it makes sense, of course it does, but he feels… defanged. Muzzled, Untrusted, unwanted, a mad dog cast aside.

But, you don’t just cast aside a rabid beast; you put it down.

They should have, he realizes. And yet, they didn’t.

(Do they wish they did? Do they regret that decision?)

Fourth, Astarion is to take as much of my blood, every night, as is safe. Fifth, I am to sleep with my hands and feet bound. No exceptions.

The words play on repeat in his mind, and the memory sits in his chest like a cold stone.

Distrust hangs heavy in the air. The others, while loosely spread, surround him, ensuring that he can neither slip away nor draw a weapon.

Things have changed.

“Ah!” Wyll exclaims, with the sound of a slap on skin that makes Dirge startle out of his thoughts, “Blasted midges!” The warlock rubs at the back of his neck with a wince, “Damned things are biters. We must be getting close.”

“Ooh, can’t say I miss midges,” Karlach says cheerfully. Of all the group, she never seems to let her mood lay her low, and her good humor often seems infectious, and yet even she seems unable to cheer up the others. “One benefit of being in the hells for ten years, I guess. I’d take an aboleth over a midge, any day.”

Shadowheart scowls, slapping at another insect that buzzes about her ears, and misses. “And why aren’t they biting at you? Surely I can’t taste that good.” A few more swipes and still the bug evades her, but the realization does not; she pauses, and rolls her eyes, “Of course, what am I saying? Your heart – they’d burn before they could even get close.”

“Trust me,” Karlach chuckles, shimmering waves of heat dancing above her shoulders – even at this distance, Dirge can feel the warmth rolling off of her, “this is the one time I’m not complaining.”

Astarion barks a short laugh, ”Me neither. I must admit, I can’t say I ever remember being bitten by one, but I’m sure it’s not an enjoyable – ow!”

“What’s wrong?” Dirge asks, concern pricking at his chest.

“Little bastard bit me!”

Gale chuckles, and yet his tone is oddly devoid of humor. “And how’s it feel, Astarion? Being on the other side of the bloodletting?”

“Why would it even–” Astarion groans, a sound of frustration and anguish, as he sweeps his gloved hands up and down his arms to chase away the midges who have descended upon them like a cloud. How they’re getting through the layers of cloth and leather, Dirge is unsure, but they seem adept at finding their way into any little crevice or gap. “I’m undead, I don’t even produce blood!”

“Not your own,” Wyll replies, casting a meaningful glance back over his shoulder at Dirge. “It must have known you have extra to spare.”

Dirge meets his eyes for but a moment, before the warlock swiftly looks away. While it’s clear no one in the group trusts him, Wyll is the worst at hiding his disdain; it sits there in the crease of his brow, the tight pull of his lips. When their minds do brush, Dirge can feel the heavy press of his emotions, looming, beating in staccato like a war drum – the sharp sizzle-crack of indignation, the heartbeat of a barely smothered rage, and the quiet wail of a distant regret.

The contact does not go unnoticed; Wyll’s mind bristles like a wall of thorns, swiftly severing the connection. Chastisement.

Dirge breathes a deep sigh out his nose.

The lecture is unnecessary. He’s been making an effort to keep his mind to himself, even if he’s not always successful. Still, he best keep himself in line – the ice is already thin and it will do him no good to be testing the limits. Reluctantly, he envisions reaching out and grasping the wandering tendrils of his mind in an iron fist, drawing them back and locking them away.

A high-pitched buzz whines in his ear, as sharp as the squeal of a pull of the bow across a violin by an amateur hand. The sting that follows is vicious, and Dirge slaps his neck more out of reflex than anything. When he draws his hand away, the bright smear of blood across his palm brings a vindictive curl of satisfaction, to him and that rot in his chest both.

The thought, the realization, quickly steals away the ghost of a smile from his lips; Dirge drops his hand again, and looks away.

“That shouldn’t matter,” Astarion snipes, swatting at another midge. “Surely there must be something we can do to keep them at bay?”

Gale hums thoughtfully. “Well, there are potions and elixirs designed to make a body rather unpalatable for insects and other pests, but I have neither the equipment nor the ingredients required. Nor do I know the recipes offhand. I suppose with a bit of experimentation–”

“We need do nothing so complicated,” Wyll responds. For the first time today, an echo of a smile flits across his lips; a small, fond thing. “There are certain plants that can act as natural remedies. Yarrow, for one – crushed into a paste, it both repels insects and soothes their bites.”

Shadowheart scowls, her nose crinkling with her ire. “Well? Have you seen any?”

The warlock doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to – the apologetic look in his eyes gives him away. Whether he hasn’t seen any, or just hasn’t thought to look, it isn’t certain, but it’s clearly neither answer would appease her; Shadowheart clambers down from the ledge she was scaling to walk over and thwap Wyll soundly across the bicep. Not enough to truly hurt him, of course, but he rubs at it as though it did, his lips twisting into something of a rueful grimace.

Shadowheart huffs, and does her utmost to look dignified as she storms to the front of their group with an air of righteous indignation – an image slightly tarnished by the cloud of midges that breaks off to follow her, and her attempts to swat them into submission.

It doesn’t work. For every one she swats another three buzz about her head, but perhaps she had another plan in mind all along – Dirge watches as she slides in step next to Lae’zel, and the midges follow. The gith turns to glare at her approach, but startles as the swarm moves on to her. With a hissed Tsk’va! the two quickly resume their earlier bickering, though for the life of him, Dirge can’t quite make out the particulars over the sounds of swatting.

He’s not the only one to notice; Gale watches the pair keenly until a midge lands squarely between his eyes. With a swift hand, the pest is dead but leaves a thick, black smear behind beneath the wizard’s fingertips. “Misery loves company, I suppose.” He remarks, brow furrowing as his attempts to rub away the stain from the pads of his fingers only spreads and worsens the mess.

“Egh, misery is putting it lightly,” Astarion sighs, moving closer, falling in step beside Dirge, who can’t help but blink, surprised.

Unbidden, a little ember of warmth begins to burn in Dirge’s chest. The thought, the sight of him so near is comforting. Close enough to touch, should he dare try to reach out. For the last two days, the others have treated him as a pariah – allowing him only near enough to keep an eye on, yet keeping him well out of arms reach. Wary of him, as though he would strike, as though he’s simply waiting for his chance, scheming. As though he’s a danger to all of them.

They’re right of course. It’s obvious now – who can trust the dog who bites?

Clad in the new drow leathers they found in Waukeen’s Rest, Astarion cuts a striking image, even as he takes to waving his arms about wildly at the swarm. Something warm twists in his chest, and Dirge embraces the distraction from his thoughts.

With a fond smile, Dirge gestures to the elf’s attempts at pest control. “Wouldn’t it be more effective to swat them than…”

Astarion’s scowl is immediate, and fierce, “If I catch them, I’m ripping off their wings.”

It’s said with such seriousness that a bubble of mirth catches Dirge by surprise. He–

He stops, hearing something – a faint sound, a strange voice carried on the breeze. A low shout from somewhere up ahead. Dirge would be half convinced he’s imagining things were it not for how Astarion has frozen at his side, his eyes narrowed and hands still suspended, mid swing.

Their distraction does not go unnoticed; Wyll’s eyes sharpen. “What are you–”

Astarion silences the warlock with a look and a raised hand. “Shh. There’s someone, up ahead.” With a jerk of his chin, the elf gestures where the bones of the road trail down and disappear behind a wall of thick, gnarled bush. Visually, there’s not much to of interest – it’s the same sloped ledges and jutting boulder steps they’ve been navigating for the last while – but Dirge’s ears can catch the gentle splash of water and the chime of birdsong. The croak of frogs.

And the low murmur of voices, barely audible.

Wyll raises a hand to shield his eyes, just beneath the burr of his horns, and casts his gaze further down the crumbling path. Curiosity wars with wariness in the furrow of his brow. “...I don’t hear anything – is it far?”

“Not very, now, quiet,” Astarion chides. “Let’s go see who’s making such a fuss – perhaps we’ve found our goblins at last.”

Carefully, they begin a slow and steady descent down toward the brushline. The path itself is treacherous, and they avoid it where they can – whole sections of cobblestone have crumbled into loose piles strewn about the ledges; the smaller stones try to slip and cascade down the hill while the larger rocks threaten to roll beneath their feet. Instead, where the slopes are manageable, they keep to the edges of the clearing, trusting the short, browning grasses and fallen pine needles to cushion their steps.

As they come around the final bend, Dirge finds himself in awe as the very land seems to shift before his eyes. The twisted pine trees and spidery ferns that hid within their shadows give way to sprawling, lush oaks, young ash, and delicate willow trees. The sparse ground cover transforms into flowing, waist-high grasses, woven through by opulent wildflowers of all colors – the bright blues and royal purples of balsam, small but cheerful white daisies, and golden lilies with large flowers like proud trumpets that peek out from along the water’s edge.

Down, where the river babbles, they find the source of their sound; two men linger by an old, fallen oak, their arms crossed and their faces dour. They stand in the shade of a larger, older tree, so it’s difficult for Dirge to make out the details, but the smaller of the two, a fiery redhead, seems furious. Livid. He snarls at the other, a brunet, his words sharp and ragged, any thoughts about keeping his voice down clearly an afterthought.

The other, the elder, says nothing. He keeps his head bowed as he steps back to settle himself gingerly on an old tree stump, heavily favoring his right leg.

Clear of the treeline, there’s no cover for their group to hide behind, but no one bothers; at the sight of the two men, armed only with a cleaver in one’s belt and a crude wooden pitchfork left forgotten in the dirt, any pretense for stealth is quickly abandoned. Next to him, Wyll relaxes, tension slipping from his shoulders as he moves to the front of the group, hands extended and ready to greet the strangers; Gale lets go a heavy breath, a smile flitting across his lips; and Shadowheart rolls her eyes, stowing her mace back into her belt with a jab that seems more annoyed than relieved.

Astarion, however, stands stock still at his side, uncertain. His eyes remain narrowed, suspicious, watching the strangers closely, and he makes no effort to hide the way he holds his bow, ready to fire. At his elbow, Lae’zel stands still like a sentinel, her eyes calm yet cold as steel. Her greatsword rests across her shoulder, but her body is tensed, and prepared to strike.

Upon realizing that they’ve stumbled not across goblins but two new people to meet, Karlach barks a joyous laugh that draws the strangers attention, and they do not take well to the startle – the redhead nearly chokes on his tongue as he whirls about, hands fumbling for the cleaver caught in his beltloop. The brunet’s eyes go wide and he falls to his knees, reaching the pitchfork, picking it up only to fumble it right back down into the mud.

Wyll’s hands quickly raise into a gesture altogether more pacifying. “Easy,” he says, his smile ever so gentle, his voice measured. “We’re no threat to you.”

The redhead does not seem appeased. His glare burns ember hot as he takes a look at their warlock, eyes lingering long on the curved horns atop Wyll’s head; while they are normally a source of shame for Wyll, he stands strong and does not let the stranger’s gaze cow him.

“Great,” the redhead spits. A blood stain mars his face, from nostril down to his dirty white shirt, leaving a thick crust across his beard and mustache. His eyes glance pointedly from Wyll, to Karlach, and back again. “More bloody devilspawn.”

Karlach makes an affronted noise, but stops short. To his credit, Wyll doesn’t respond, nor does that genial expression leave his face, but Dirge can see the subtle way his shoulderblades draw close together, like he’s pulling back into himself.

Since his unwilling transformation at the whims of his patron, the horns have been a sore spot for the man. Dirge was not blind to the change; where once Wyll walked proudly through the Grove, head held high and a pleasant smile on his face, their last visit had been starkly different. The warlock had been unwilling to speak unless a diplomatic touch had been required, instead preferring to haunt the back of their group, lingering in the shadows where curious eyes would struggle to notice him.

But where Wyll secretly wilts, Karlach bristles. She glares down her nose at the strangers.

“Bit rude, mate.”

The other, the brunet, interjects himself between the two, drawing the redhead’s attention yet again. “We’ve no time to be bickering,” he says, his voice much meeker than the other. Head low, almost pleading, it seems he’s experienced in talking down his friend, and with the mud caked across his cheeks and the twin blooming black eyes, he looks wretchedly pathetic. “We ought to get going.”

The redhead spins to look toward the other, his eyes wild, his voice petulant in a way that’s oddly familiar. “Well don’t look at me! You’re the one who wanted to ‘talk things over’.”

And suddenly, it makes perfect sense. Redhead, the Shit Disturber, is not just friends with the brunet, they’re likely family – brothers, perhaps?

Dirge leans back on his heel as he takes a closer look at the two. At a glance, they don’t look much alike; Shit Disturber’s hair, held back in a basic ponytail, has a curl to it that’s entirely missing from Muck’s swept back knot. He’s also nearly half a hand shorter, and slender in the shoulders, but there is a similarity about their faces, in the stretch of their lips, and the turn of their brow that leaves them both almost looking surprised even in anger.

Muck sighs, pressing his index and thumb to either side of the bridge of his nose before recoiling with a slight hiss. “I wasn’t the one to–”

“You’re injured.”

Both brothers turn to face Gale before sharing a long look amongst themselves. Eventually, it’s Muck who responds, hesitant and wary. “...Aye, what of it?”

Gale keeps his smile level as he takes a step closer, slowly, as though he’s approaching a wild animal. “We have a healer, she could see to you.”

The glare on Shadowheart’s face seems to disagree, but she says nothing, simply crossing her arms over her chest as if daring anyone to ask.

After a moment’s hesitation, Shit Disturber leans to the side and spits. Where it hits the ground, the saliva is streaked through with blood. “...Nothing’s hurt but our pride,” he replies. With his ire at last reigned in, the redhead sounds gruff, almost dangerously close to a sulk.

Wyll, with his keen eye for character, seems to notice. “What happened?”

Muck sighs, laying his pitchfork across his thighs. With the exhale, his shoulders droop, defeated. “We was looking for our sister.”

“Your sister?” Wyll presses, firm and yet gentle. “Is she lost?”

Shit Disturber scowls. “Lost? T’was the hag. She took our Mayrina.”

“A hag?” Gale asks, exchanging a long look with Wyll. Along the edges of their minds, Dirge can sense the sharp twin peals of caution. Worry. “Are you sure?”

“Aye.” Muck nods, solemn. “When we found the hag, we told her to give back Mayrina. She hurt us. Told us it was a warning, that’d we’d do well to leave before her ‘friends’ found us.” Slowly, the brunet casts a meaningful look at their group, a study of each and every one of them, taken in turn. There’s a question in his eyes, and he looks afraid of the answer.

Gale is the one to assuage that fear. “Well, we are certainly no friends of a hag. In fact, we are in search of a camp of goblins. Have you seen any?”

“Goblins?” Shit Disturber blinks, confused. “Ain’t no goblins ‘ere. They avoid the swamp like a plague.”

Shadowheart taps her fingers along the head of her mace, chewing thoughtfully at her bottom lip. “What would a hag want with your sister?”

Muck plays with his pitchfork, callused fingers tracing the lines of twine that hold the wood together. “Mayrina is… well, she was in a bad way after her husband died. Then, she started saying weird things, like how she was going to bring him back.” The brunet brushes the heel of his palm across his eye, smearing a stripe of mud thick across his cheek. “She was mad, I thought. Mad with grief. Only the hag can do something like that, and Mayrina’s too smart to trust the likes of her. Or, so I believed.”

fast.”

“You’re going to find her?” he asks. When Shit Disturber puts a hand against Wyll’s shoulder and begins to push past, Wyll grabs it with his own, holding his gaze. “Hags are incredibly powerful creatures – the fey should not be trifled with.”

“So what? You saying we should just leave our Rina to that monster?!”

“Hold on, Johl,” Demir implores, “let him talk. What would you suggest?”

There’s a fire to Wyll’s eyes, a resolve that feels so at odds with the barely hidden shame of earlier. “I’ve spent years travelling the whole of the Sword Coast, facing both foul men and beasts alike. Trust a more experienced soul. They call me the Blade of Frontiers; I will find your sister.”

Shit Disturber, Johl, scoffs, “Are you joking?” He crosses his arms and leans closer to Wyll; despite being shorter, he almost seems to loom over the man. “I’ve never heard of you. No way I’m leaving Rina to you.” With a firm hand, he pushes the warlock aside, and moves to continue deeper into the wetlands.

Muck balks, his eyes wide. “But Johl–”

“Not a chance! We’re getting her back on our own, now come on!”

"Hey, wait–!”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. “Let them be, wizard. They are of no use to us. Let them chase their deaths.”

Gale startles at her sharp tone, sending a look her way that is borderline venomous, but after a moment he sighs and drops his outstretched hand. With an air of defeat, he merely watches as the brothers disappear around the bend.

Dirge watches him, silently. The last few days seem to have been hard on Gale as well. There’s an exhaustion about him that Dirge has never noticed before, as though a heavy weight has made its perch atop his head. The lines on his face are deeper, almost haggard, and his skin is paper pale save for where the amethyst tendrils of his tattoo crawl across his cheek, but in this light they look darker. Dark and heavy, like blood pooled beneath the skin in a plum black bruise.

Is it the orb, perhaps? Dirge mulls the thought over in his head – Gale hadn’t specified how often he needed to consume threads of the Weave, but surely he’s due?

Gale’s brow folds into something complicated, a twist of annoyance and surprise and perhaps a slight touch of relief. As they too head down, deeper into the wetlands, he glances back over his shoulder, at Karlach. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to stop them.”

“Are you kidding?” Karlach’s not looking at him; the haft of her greataxe rests on her shoulder as her eyes peer into the thicket that surrounds them. “I get that they’re worried, and yeah, it sucks that their sister is missing, but I’m not fond of assholes.”

At her side, Wyll’s head bobs in solemn agreement. “It’s clear they wouldn’t listen to reason – the best we can hope for is to find the hag before they do.”

”Excuse me? Now we’re looking for the hag?” Astarion makes a sound of utter disgust. “I don’t see why it's our concern; we’re here for the goblins, nothing more.”

“Hags don’t just keep to their own, Astarion,” Wyll chides. “They take victims; men, women, and children. They prey on the weak and the weary, those in need of a helping hand.” Wyll speaks slowly, picking his words as carefully as they pick their way across the path; here the ground is beginning to grow sodden, and it squelches beneath their boots. Oddly, there is a chill in the air, and a foul odor has worked its way thick into Dirge’s nose. “Hags make bargains, but they are the only ones who ever win. Can you rest easy with that on your conscience, Astarion? A monster like that, so close to the Grove?”

“Of course I can. The tieflings, and those druids especially, are very much not my problem. Am I to hold their hands? Let them come here and bargain their lives away.”

It’s clearly not the answer Wyll expected; disgruntled, hel lapses into silence, and so too does a hush fall over the rest of the group. Heavy and oppressive, like the heat trapped under the bows of the trees. Unwelcome and uncomfortable, like the bead of sweat that drips down along the length of Dirge’s spine.

Astarion has the right of it, he thinks. Is it their duty to help every stranger they stumble across along the road? Surely, they’ve already done their part, helping the people trapped in the burning inn in Waukeen’s Rest and promising to sort the problems of the tieflings in the Grove; at the old man tiefling’s insistence, they’d found an incriminating letter between Kagha and someone named Olodan, hinting at secret rendezvous here in the swamp. Why should this hag also be their problem?

The brothers got themselves this far, and clearly didn’t want their assistance – was that what it meant to be ‘good’? To force your ‘benevolent’ whims on everyone and anyone, regardless of their wishes?

A shiver races down his arms, leaving a rash of goosebumps in its wake. How is it so bloody hot, and yet I still feel a chill?

All around him, the swamp itself is oddly… quiet, like a breath held in waiting. Beyond the low buzz of insect wings and the creak of the trees that loom overhead, there is simply… nothing.

Where is the bird song? he wonders. The chirp of crickets? The croak of frogs?

The silence around him offers no answers, only a feeling of foreboding.

Beneath their feet, the path finally breathes its last, dissolving from moist yet packed dirt into a viscous muck that threatens to swallow their boots whole. Thankfully, someone has thought to build a wooden boardwalk across both mud and water, though it is an aged thing that has sunk in more than a few spots. The wood has greyed over the years with exposure to both sun and moisture, and grows slick with moss in some spots and rotten through in others, but after a bit of careful testing, it's deemed solid enough to transverse with a bit of caution.

As Dirge steps foot onto the boardwalk, an awful smell assaults his nose. The odor of dead fish and rot lingers heavy in the air, and slimy foam bubbles thick along the water’s edge, clinging to the edges of the waterlogged plants and the walkway both.

Beside him, Astarion swiftly pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and covers his nose, face tight with disgust. “Eugh, that’s rancid.”

“Even clean streams can smell foul if you disturb the riverbed,” Wyll remarks. “Stagnant water like this is worse. Be happy we don’t have to wade through.”

The response doesn’t appease Astarion, who grumbles into his handkerchief with a glare in his eyes, but Dirge pays him only passing attention – there’s something… Strange, yet familiar. Akin to the chill he felt before, but more; a faint feeling, almost tickling, making its steady march across his flesh. Like a breath against his hair.

They’re being watched.

As they come across a fork in the walkway, someone else takes note.

Gale approaches the water’s edge, his expression inscrutable. With each step he takes, the butt of his staff taps a hollow twuck against the planks, the sound somehow both grounding and yet so foreign here; there is a weight to the air, as stagnant as the water that hardly stirs beneath the boardwalk, that seems to swallow both sound and light whole. Overhead, the sky is clear, and yet it feels as though they’re suffocating in the dark.

Which objectively doesn’t make sense – they’re not standing in any shadow, and the sky overhead is clear. The trees around them grow thick and lush, and reeds spring from every available surface. Entwined with them are wildflowers, as many as there are stars in the sky, and yet…

And yet all he can smell is rot and a smothering heat.

“What is it, wizard?” Lae’zel’s voice seems so quiet, as if the swamp is swallowing it too.

“There’s something… It’s an illusion,” Gale announces, his eyes trained upon the vista. It’s a gorgeous view, but the longer Dirge stares, the faker it feels. “...We have an audience.”

Gale raises a hand, and with a quick somatic gesture, the light seems to bend around him, like heat shimmering over water on a hot day. The landscape suddenly begins to tear itself asunder, ripping at its seams and rotting before their eyes; the water, once a pleasant blue, darkens to a grey the color of ash and mud. Trees that stood tall twist and wither, sagging toward the water as a black sludge chokes out their roots. The flowers wilt beneath the fog in the air, thick like the smoke from that burning village, thick enough to blot out the sun.

Karlach gasps, an unpleasant sound. “Oh wow,” she states, but with the illusion gone, the smell of decay is immense; she covers her nose with a hand. “But damn, that’s stinky.”

“How is this possible?” Shadowheart asks, her eyes tearing at the wretched stench.

Wyll’s hand falls to the hilt of his rapier, and caution flickers in his eyes. “It seems Johl and Demir’s story of a hag may be true after all.” He hums thoughtfully. “...We should be cautious; I have fought several hags, and I have never known one to maintain an illusion of this size. We best be prepared for anything.”

The others agree to continue forward, but cautiously; while there’s still a disagreement whether the hag is their problem to deal with, they did come here looking for Kagha’s mysterious contact. The deeper they go, the more dangerous the swamp becomes – there’s a distinct lack of wildlife in the area, but the pressure plate traps Astarion spots among the reeds might be responsible for that. Rusty though they may be, they seem to be packed with enough smokepowder to take a leg.

Eventually the midges are joined by small, black flies that bite as though they plan to take a chunk of your skin with them, but amongst the rot Wyll has managed to find some yarrow. Using Gale’s pestle, he makes a watery green paste that does the trick; the insects still buzz about their ears, but seem a lot less inclined to land.

As the day stretches on to an afternoon hidden beneath this thick fog, Dirge finds the silence oppressive. It seems rather a long shot, but he steps closer, and dips his head as he speaks, “...Gale?”

Lost in thought, the sound of his name startles the wizard back to reality. For a brief moment, confusion and hesitation war across his face until he seems to realize just who is speaking to him; Dirge watches with a pang in his heart as Gale pulls away from him, suddenly and roughly – as far as he possibly can. The walkway can only really allow for three of them to walk abreast, but Gale makes use of every centimetre of that space; if he were to take even one more step to the side, he’d be in the water.

“Go on,” he says at length, warily. “State your business – from a safe distance, if it’s all the same to you.”

Dirge can’t help but breath a little sigh; truly, he should have expected nothing else. Gale’s eyes watch him closely, and slowly the man’s expression softens, just slightly.

“How did you know about the spell?” Dirge asks. It feels like a struggle to raise his voice above even a whisper. “The illusion, I mean. What gave it away?”

For a long moment, Gale is silent, dragging his eyes away from Dirge to instead watch the water as they walk. Before the spell had given way, it had looked like a languid brook, twisting and spinning back onto itself a hundred times to create a maze of crisscrossed waterways. Now, it sits as unmoving as a treacle.

“Illusion spells, even the more powerful variants,” Gale begins, “usually have some way to distinguish their falsehood from reality; touch is one way to dispel them. You can make a bramble appear as a lily, but you cannot hide the prick of its thorns.” His voice is unusually solemn, even as they pick their way carefully over a row of crumbling boards sunken halfway into the mud. “Alternatively, you can make a swamp look like a meadow, but apparently you cannot hide the stench of its decay.”

His eyes seem almost unnaturally dark in the thick shadows that hang in the air. The fog seems to have leeched all the color from him, dulling even the grand purples of his robes and that wispy tattoo. “Did you not feel the spell in the air?”

“I did. I think.” He had felt something, that was for certain, but as to what it was, exactly, he is less sure. “...I felt a chill, like holding a Frostbolt just above my skin.”

Gale nods. “You were, or are, a sorcerer. You have an innate connection to the Weave that many could only dream of. You’d do well to trust your senses.” Ahead of them, Wyll clears his throat apropos of nothing, and so Gale hastily adds: “Yet I feel as though I must amend that – trust your senses, of course, but if you do feel unusual, do not hesitate to apprise us of the situation... We wouldn’t want another incident.”

“Gale. A word. What do you make of–” Shadowheart calls Gale over, and Dirge watches him walk away. Once more the gap between him and the others widens, feeling impassable.

And yet, that distance is swiftly filled; as soon as there is space, Karlach steps forward, nearly shoulder to shoulder with him.

“Hey Soldier. How you holding up?”

Dirge doesn’t meet her eyes. Somehow it's easier that way; instead, he enjoys the gentle balm of her heat. Too hot for the humid fog that surrounds them, but it helps to ease the persistent bite of self loathing and worry that gnaws at his heart. “I’m… Fine.”

“Are you?” she asks, her voice low, just for the two of them. He can’t help but meet her eyes; in the low light, her slit pupils are almost completely rounded, lending her a very intense stare, an earnestness that cannot be shaken. “You’ve been very quiet.”

Has he? It feels as though he has. Unable to find any words, he just shrugs.

Karlach’s lips twitch in what is probably meant to be a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze turns away from him, back to the path, and Dirge follows her lead – it seems simpler that way, if he tells himself to pretend that she isn’t there, beside him. It should be even easier with the knowledge that were he to reach out, she would burn him involuntarily, and yet, that contact almost seems worth the pain.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?”

Dirge blinks, surprised. Involuntarily, he looks back to her. “What?”

“What happened with Alfira. And… everything that’s happened since.”

“Oh.” The words catch in his throat.

There’s compassion on her face, but it hurts Dirge to see it. He doesn’t deserve it, and yet she offers it anyway. “It sucks, I know.”

“I…” Dirge frowns, trying to force words past his stubborn tongue. A feeling of indignation brews beneath his breastbone, but he shoves it down and buries it deep. “I understand, and I. I agree. I deserve–”

"No,” she insists, adamant. “You don’t have to talk like that around me, Soldier. Shit’s unfair, and it's not your fault; I know that.”

“You can’t know.”

“Of course I do,” she says, adamant. “Whatever happened that night, I know you didn’t mean to do it.”

Again, the words do not come. How can he respond? No matter how hard he tries, the memories of that night do not return to him – did he mean to kill the bard? Something about her had turned his stomach from the moment he met her. How is he to say that he did not stumble across her in the middle of the night and choose to tear her apart?

Perhaps that’s all he is, that sick thing that blooms in his chest like a cancer. Perhaps he cannot escape it.

A low branch, nearly torn clean from its tree, lays across their path. With a hand to brace herself, Karlach ducks underneath it, searing an impression of her palm onto the bark with a sharp sizzle-crack. “The others know it too, yeah? They don’t blame you, not really – they’re just scared.”

“That I’ll hurt them–”

“They’re scared that it can happen to them too,” she sighs. “Give them time. When it doesn’t happen again, they’ll begin to relax.”

Worry cinches noose-tight about his heart. “And if it does?”

“Well, that’s why we have all those precautions in place, right?” As if that settles the matter, her eyes brighten and her smile pulls wider. A spring settles into her step as though she’s just shed a heavy weight off of her shoulders. “But it’s not going to happen again. I know it.”

He wishes he could believe her, he really does, but where her hope seems to rally her, to him it is little more than a cold comfort.

Still, it’s all he has, and it will just have to do.

The thought at least keeps him company until an hour or so later, when they come across something, half submerged in the muck.

A body – the brunet, Demir, most likely, though it’s hard to tell at a glance. There’s no obvious sign of blood, but with the mess it’s hard to be certain. Laying face first in the mud, he could have just as easily been drowned, Dirge notes.

Shit Disturber is nowhere to be seen, either; Demir’s footprints are alone where they disappear at the edge of the water, and there’s no clear evidence of a struggle. Did the brothers become separated? Did they fight and go their own ways? Possible, but unlikely – for as agitated as they had been, they were united in their search for their sister. More likely the brothers had suffered a similar fate to the inhabitants of that camp they found. Bloody, the tents torn, the bags ransacked – it was clear that something dangerous stalked this swamp.

Nearby, half hidden against a root, lies that wooden pitchfork, cracked in two.

At the edge of the water, Wyll takes to one knee. As he studies the corpse with a sorrowful eye, the warlock’s lips move soundlessly, but to what end, Dirge cannot say – a prayer, perhaps? Wyll never struck him as the godly sort, but maybe he does it because no one else bothers; at his side, Gale, the former Chosen of Mystra, merely watches in silence; leaning against an old stump with her arms folded, Shadowheart, their cleric, scoffs derisively.

Astarion is the first to speak. “No burials for this one, then?”

Wyll looks up just long enough to glare, his expression disdainful.

Astarion shrugs, clearly pleased. “Stupid of me, I shouldn’t tempt you, lest we spend the next tenday trudging through this wretched place.”

“...Digging would be difficult here,” Wyll says at length, standing upright and brushing the dirt off of his knees. Despite his calm tone, it’s obvious that Astarion’s words bit at him, deeply. “With the ground so saturated, it could take us days to dig a proper grave.” Walking further down the boardwalk, Wyll gestures for them to follow with a wave of his hand. “We should keep moving; whatever killed him could be watching, waiting to ambush us.”

 

-x-

 

The low laying fog casts a pall over the land, and thus time passes strangely in the swamp.

It must be nearly dusk when the discussion among the others shifts from finding the hag to finding a place to make camp for the night. The land here is still very marshy, and so it is decided that they will press forward until they can find something suitable; more than once now Dirge has watched a ledge crumble into the water when even the slightest bit of weight was placed upon it, and no one seems very keen to try a swim.

So, reluctantly, they continue to follow the boardwalk as it meanders through the swamp, each one of them sore and tired, and yet the swamp gives them no respite. The deeper they go, the more twisted the landscape around them; great trees, decades or perhaps even centuries old, are all either rotten or clinging to the last gasps of life, their twisting roots erupting from every nook and cranny in search of healthy soil. What grass still lives has turned a spidery grey-green shade, bleached by the lack of sun, and the only bushes that grow are all barbed with terrible, grasping hooks. There is no sign here of any living animal, but they come across more than one pile of bones – deer, boar, and human, left strewn across the path, all marred by the pockmarks of small, needle-like teeth.

Concern bubbles up amongst the others; the boardwalk is neither wide enough to set camp upon, nor stable enough to risk much of a fight, but it’s too late to turn back and make for the slopes of the forest they left that morning. Wyll believes that if they can find a place to rest, fire will help to protect them from anything that lurks among the trees at night, but the others seem uneasy – even Astarion, a literal creature of the night, seems wary of the shadows that prowl along the edges of their vision.

The one who is the least bothered, of all people, is Shadowheart. She boldly marches into the dark, and shows no fear.

But even she has her limits – as the group rounds yet another bend, the boardwalk finally reconnects with solid ground, and she breathes a deep sigh of relief. While the wooden planks still lead the way forward, sunk into the ground in place of a proper road, everyone suddenly has some space to spread out, and no need to worry about the walkways collapsing beneath them. The ground under their feet now only slightly squelches under their weight, and is far less likely to attempt to swallow them whole if they misstep.

This area looks much the same as the rest of the swamp, with one key difference – a glow, hidden deep amongst the trees.

There, just up ahead, where the path rises up into the fog. It’s difficult to make out just what it is; at first Dirge thinks it to be two old trees, stooped towards each other in their old age, but it's something more; a gate, of some sort. Twin wooden beams, each as wide as a person, have been driven deep into the ground, and near their top, a single large branch has been lashed to form the top of the archway.

The gate is covered by long stretches of twine, limp like locks of unkempt hair, and all manner of trinkets have been woven into the strands; old feathers, scraps of cloth, and bits of antler and bone. From each beam, rows of skulls have been braided together, all of various sizes – they stare out into the dark, watching the trails with unseeing, hollow eyes.

A grim warning.

At the base of the gate, with one on either side, are two standing torches, crackling happily away into the musty air. They are the only source of light in this darkness, and the only source of color, too. It feels as though the world has fallen into greyscale around them.

Both are covered with the same sorts of curios as the gate itself, but what is their purpose? Dirge finds himself studying them intently, but to no avail – they could be wards, of a sort, or warnings. Or, perhaps simply a landmark to show the path.

Overhead, the strung up bones clack against one another in the stale air; a haunting sound.

Karlach whistles. “Now that’s unusual. Think we found our hag?”

“It would seem so,” Astarion replies, his voice unusually quiet as they press on.

At the top of the rise, something looms in the dark.

It’s a house, ancient, decrepit, or perhaps it would be better to call it a mansion. It’s absolutely massive, made of planks of sun-bleached wood and moss-slicked shingles, it’s two stories high with enough space to fit several families comfortably. A large balcony overlooks the swamp, and would make for a beautiful view if this place ever got to see the light of day.

Tall trees sprout clear through its roof, seemingly growing throughout the very house itself. Their branches and roots wind their way out the windows and through gaps in the walls, like grasping hands seeking freedom.

Gale eyes the structure, warily. “It looks abandoned…?”

Wyll pushes past him, heading to the door. “Only one way to find out, but be careful. Hags are treacherous.”

Theatrically, Astarion sighs. “So you keep saying,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms about his chest as if to ward off the chill. “But if one does live out here, I’d wager her more stupid than clever.

Together, they all crowd the step, standing atop a moth-eaten, mud caked rug. Wyll is the one to step forward, leaning close to the door and raising a hand to knock, a polite rap of his knuckles against the lichen-laden wood.

Nothing.

Not so much as a rustle from the other side.

Wyll frowns, laying an ear flat against the wood, shutting his eyes to listen. After a long moment of silence, he pulls back and shakes his head. “Nothing. Perhaps it's been deserted.”

“Try again. Louder this time,” Shadowheart insists. “There’s a light – see? There, just through the crack in the door frame.”

Another knock, and this time Dirge’s ears can pick up the sounds of muffled speaking and footsteps. They seem neither hurried nor secretive, neither loping nor lumbering – they sound rather… normal. Shockingly so – who could live in a place like this, and not be wary of guests in the night?

With a tortured creak, the door swings open to reveal a familiar, stooped frame; an older human woman with grey, braided hair and dressed in an earthy green tunic, worn and dusty with years of hard work.

Dirge blinks, surprised – he’d forgotten all about her.

“Auntie Ethel–?”

“Ethel–?”

“Petal!” Auntie Ethel’s face splits into a wide, welcoming smile, which only sours slightly when she turns to look at Gale. “I see you brought this eejit with you,” she leans in close, hand against her mouth as she whispers conspiratorily, yet she doesn’t bother to lower her voice one bit. “I’d rather hoped you’d have left this stick in the mud where you found ‘im, but let it never be said that ole Auntie Ethel was inhospitable to her guests!”

With a sparkle to her eye, she leans in closer to Gale. “That is Auntie to you, wizard.”

Astarion looks at Dirge, then to Ethel, and back again, a smile slowly pulling at his lips. “Petal,” he says, a touch incredulous, and very amused indeed. ”Petal.”

The confusion of the others is palpable; Karlach in particular makes no attempt to hide her surprise, looking back and forth between the three of them, blinking. “You know each other?”

“Petal, did you not tell your friends about me?” Ethel clicks her tongue, her tone fondly teasing. “Why, I’m hurt!”

Dirge looks to Karlach and nods. “Yeah, we met her at the Grove. The first time we were there.”

“And here I was, thinking you had gone and forgotten all about me.” Auntie Ethel turns, and with a sweeping gesture, beckons them all inside. “Come on in, loves, I’ll put on some tea.”

The inside of the house is every bit as expansive as its exterior; there are no walls inside the structure, no beams to support its ceiling. Instead, the whole house consists of a series of spiraling platforms built around the trunk of a massive oak tree – by far the largest he’s ever seen; even if they all stood around its base, linked hand in hand, it would be impossible for them to circle it entirely.

It is the branches that hold up the building’s vaulted roof, grown into the space like natural, living rafters. The tree is as much a part of the building as the walls built around it, leading inevitably to the question: what came first? The house, or the tree? Or did they both come into being at time?

The tree must be centuries old, certainly, but the rest of the house looks positively ancient. On the lower end of the room, a large clay oven smokes happily away in front of a brick wall so aged that it’s becoming one with the dirt once more. The floorboards and wooden walls look just as worn as the boardwalk outside, but here, with a few lit candles and torches, the space is almost… cozy. Warm. Ivy grows in curtains through the windows and down the walls, and a push carpet of moss grows thick along the banisters and up the trunk of the tree.

The whole house feels like the only living thing in this wretched place; alive, if a little worse for wear.

For the first time in hours, Dirge feels some of the tension slip from his frame; surely whatever prowled about them out in the woods would never dare to barge in here, in this light, in this warmth? And yet, something still feels a bit… off.

He’s not the only one who feels it; Gale gives the home a cursory glance, but his eyes never stray far from Auntie Ethel. “I don’t suppose you’ve met some young men today?” he asks, his voice unusually cold. “They told us they were looking for their sister. Said a hag had stolen her.”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Auntie Ethel rolls her eyes. “Oh, those fools. Don’t mind them – people are always calling me all sorts of names.” Almost nervously, she reaches up to tuck a wayward strand of her greying hair behind her ear; her eyes are just a touch wide, a little wary. “I moved out into the wilderness to escape the likes of them; so many cannot look at a woman who knows a spot of alchemy without thinking she’s some sort of witch.”

When she looks at Gale again, her humor from earlier has fled, and left in its stead is a sincerity that speaks of hard times and harder people. “I, in fact, have seen their sister – dear Mayrina. After her poor husband died, well, she came and asked to stay with me. Her brothers had taken to hitting her.”

Even Shadowheart, ever stone faced, nearly grimaces. “They didn’t seem like that to me,” she says, her voice wondering, “they seemed very worried for her.”

“Worried mayhap she would go and tell others what rotten people they were.”

At his side, Wyll seems uncertain, but Gale’s eyes remain narrowed with the fluttering gasp of suspicion twisting about his mind. “We found one of them in the swamp, deceased,” he continues, unwavering.

Auntie Ethel shrugs half-heartedly. “‘Tis a dangerous place, with more than a few monsters lurking about. Creatures that do not much like being disturbed,” she continues, her voice heavy with implications, “especially not by rude, nosy men.”

But just as suddenly as her expression darkened, Auntie Ethel beams, and turns towards Shadowheart, her hazel eyes warm and friendly. “It’s not the first time in all my years I’ve helped a woman in need, love. Sometimes the greatest danger in our lives are those we call our family.” Again, she waves them closer, leading them down a set of creaky stairs, towards the hearth.

There, at a small wooden table, sits a young woman in a vibrant green dress. Head bowed, she stares at her hands, tracks of kohl smudged down her cheeks from tears. At first, Dirge can’t see the resemblance, but then, when she raises her head and meets his gaze, it’s obvious – her straw colored hair looks nothing like her brothers’, but there’s a curl to it, and in the firelight it gleams with hints of copper red.

Her eyes are a clear, steady green, shining like emeralds in the dark.

“Mayrina?” Wyll asks, and the girl nods. Despite her crying, her eyes are calm, watchful. Neither expectant, nor fearful, she appears only curious at the sight of strangers.

“See, here she is, safe and sound. Go ahead and talk to her if you like – see if you can’t convince her to finish her dinner; she is eating for two, after all.”

As the others move down the steps towards Mayrina, Auntie Ethel catches Dirge’s hand, holding him back from the rest of the group. The touch makes him startle, but she merely waits, patiently, hand still in his. “Sit with me, petal,” she says, “I think it’s time we shared a word. I’ll make you that tea I promised.”

Ethel leads him up and away from the others, back up the stairs and then even higher, up a ladder to a ledge that overlooks the lower area of the house. The tree blocks much of the view, but as he sits in one of the squat wooden chairs (too short for him, really; his knees are hitting the sides of the table, he can’t even get his legs underneath–) he can just see the others, asking their questions, and enjoying the heat of the fire.

Mayrina, herself, is out of sight, but if he dips his head and concentrates, he can just pick up the ghost of their words, over the hungry, snapping hearth.

Naught a moment later, Auntie Ethel seats herself down in the chair across from him with a groan, pouring them each a cup of tea from a surprisingly charming pot; a kettle shaped like a portly green frog. It is a cantankerous looking creature, its beady eyes angled in a sort of eternal glower, steam rising up from its nose, and the wooden shoot in its mouth.

He accepts the cup with a dip of his head; it feels so tiny in his hands, as though he could break the clay if he only held it too tightly. “You live here?”

“Aye.” Auntie Ethel takes a long sip of her tea before continuing. “It’s a glum, dour place, but you know what, lad? It’s home.”

Home, he thinks. Did he ever have one? Is there someone, even now, searching for him? Did he disappear without a trace, leaving loved ones behind? Somehow, he doesn’t think so – the word ‘home’ seems just that; a word.

“You know, petal, I’ll admit I was surprised to see you wandering the marsh with your friends.”

“Oh?” he asks, raising the cup to his mouth for a sip, but something seems off. Dirge frowns, and takes a sniff. There’s something familiar–

“I rather thought that would have all come to an end,” Ethel sighs, running her finger about the rim of her own cup. The skies must have cleared at last – pale moonlight shines down through the windows and the holes in the ceiling, washing the upper floors in a haunting light. One such beam touches Ethel’s face, and with it, it seems to take the very life out of her, leaving her drawn and grey.

A slow creeping feeling begins to climb its way up his throat. “What do you mean?”

She smiles, leaning in closer, resting an elbow on the table. “I know what you are. You and I, we’re not like the others, petal.” She speaks slowly but surely, her voice barely above a whisper. In the moonlight, her eyes are fever bright. “Wolves among the sheep we be.”

He can only stare back as his words fail him, his eyes wide.

Ethel chuckles, lowly. “Your pale friend, aye, he pretends to be like us, yet no one has much to fear of him. Save perhaps the rats. His master kept him on a short leash, that one.”

“M-master?” Dirge asks, dumbfounded. Of course, in hindsight it makes sense that Astarion had a master; he had admitted to being a vampire spawn, but before now, the thought had never really entered his head.

But how would she know–?

Ethel reaches out and takes his hand again, but this time her grip is different, as hard as adamantine. She holds him, her tiny hand on his wrist, and it would look almost comical if there wasn’t a strength to her, if her nails didn’t dig into his skin and threaten to make him bleed. “Aye, a master not entirely unlike yours,” she says, grinning wide, her teeth gleaming. “But you, my dear sweet petal, you are something different.”

“I wonder what the others would think. Your ‘friends’. We could ask them, if you like? Tell them all those dark, pretty secrets in your heart. Would you like to know?”

Fear lances through Dirge, as sudden as a bolt of lightning, but before he can open his mouth to respond, Mayrina suddenly shrieks, “My brothers? Dead?!”

 

-x-

 

“I can’t believe you ate her scalp, mate.”

Dirge sighs, exasperated. Not this again. “We talked about this already.”

“That we did,” Karlach nods, but the look on her face is part incredulous, part disgust, “but that doesn’t mean I’m over it yet. Like, ew, what were you thinking?”

Many things, but none he could ever share with the group. After a heated argument and a brief skirmish, Ethel had retreated to the bowls of her lair, cackling all the way. She was sure of her victory, and mocked them ruthlessly for it, all the while that useless girl, Mayrina, had swung above their heads, trapped in an elaborate wooden cage. When the battle had turned in their favor, Ethel lit the cage on fire, and left the girl to her screaming.

Her tune changed when she realized that they were not so easily bested; as the others tried desperately to put out the fire, Dirge held Ethel back, meeting her jagged claws with the blade of his greatsword. There was something in her eyes then, not quite fear – but perhaps something close – and with oily breath that smell of dead fish, the hag leaned in, and whispered in his ear.

Her and the girl, for power. A boon, she breathed, the strength to defy one’s master, one’s… urges. Consider it a gift from your favorite auntie.

She was a hag, and had proved herself a creature to lie as easily as she breathed, and yet… he couldn’t quite turn the offer down.

Though, he was able to amend the terms of their agreement, just a little.

In return for letting Ethel go (she’s fleeing! he had exclaimed, entangled within a snarl of magical roots. The others, horrified, had to make a choice – chase the hag, or save the girl?), she had thrown a bit of meat his way; her slimy, warty scalp, ripped clean off her head – a matted coil of hair, as green as her hide, still attached.

For all his body seemed to crave humanoid meat, swallowing that rancid bit of flesh had made his stomach churn violently.

At the head of the group, hidden deepest in the shadows, Wyll hisses. “Enough. We’ve talked this to death.” With a groan, the warlock settles himself deeper into his nook in the stone, crossing his arms. The hollows around his eyes are especially pronounced as sleep has been elusive. “We have other matters to deal with.”

Karlach sighs, but acquiesces, leaning back against the stone. It’s harder for her to remain hidden with the glow of her infernal heart shining under her skin, like a beacon, but tucked around the corner, she’s able to keep mostly out of sight.

For a while, everything is silent again, until her eyes slide back to his.

“...What did it taste like?”

”Karlach,” Gale chides, looking distinctly green around the gills at the thought.

“Fine, fine.” She grumbles a bit beneath her breath. “So, what’s the plan then? We just going to sit around here forever?”

They’ve spent the better part of the last hour just waiting here, beyond the door that leads into the druid’s inner sanctum; there, amidst the natural stone steps leading down, they’ve managed to find themselves an alcove in the rock, just big enough to fit everyone into, and far enough away from the main path that it's unlikely they’ll be noticed.

Sadly, it is a tight fit, and Dirge finds himself fidgeting uneasily against the stone – his shoulders are butting up against both Shadowheart and Lae’zel, and overhead the ceiling looms high above them like a maw filled with twisted, dagger-like teeth; Dirge tells himself it’s very unlikely for it to just crumble upon them, but that ever cautious part of his mind whispers that if the druids turn against them, this place may just be their tomb.

“We’re going to go down and have a little discussion with Kagha,” Shadowheart replies. Is it her smaller stature that helps her stay so calm? He feels as though he could get wedged at any moment. “Mention what we found in the swamp, see what she has to say about it.”

“And if she doesn’t care about being blackmailed?” Karlach asks, fingers tapping idly along the haft of her greataxe – of their entire group, she’s the only one with her own bit of space, just enough to not burn anyone. If Astarion hadn’t snuck off ahead, it’s unlikely they’d all be able to fit.

“We’ll deal with it,” Wyll replies, “as we need to. I’d prefer to avoid bloodshed if possible, but we’re out of time. If we can’t convince her, all the refugees will die.”

“Good riddance.”

”Lae’zel!” Wyll blinks at her, surprised and reproachful.

Dirge nods, finding himself in agreement with her yet again. Each time they return to the grove, the situation has become ever more dire; the druids glare openly at their ‘guests’, the refugees, and the tieflings whisper harsh words and glare behind their ‘hosts’ backs. At least now, one way or another, it will be dealt with – cast out, or allowed to stay, the tieflings will no longer be their problem, and they can continue their search for the goblin camp and this missing druid in (relative) peace.

Still, he can’t pull his mind away from the thought that weighs so heavily upon it. “I still say we lure her out,” Dirge states, keeping his voice low, wary of how easily it can bounce off all the rock around them. “If we get into a fight here, and it turns against us, we may never make it out.”

“You’d prefer to fight her outside, and let everyone see?” Shadowheart blinks. “You’re not a fool, Dirge, don’t act like one. We could have the whole grove turn against us.”

Wyll hisses at them both. “Enough! Astarion’s back!”

The way forward is clear, Astarion reports, or well enough. Wyll’s initial suspicions seem to be correct – the majority of the druids are topside in the grove, working on the final preparations for their ritual; only Kagha, Rath, and two other druids remain in the lower chambers, along with a few animals.

It’s decided that this is the perfect opportunity to strike, and so they descend. Step by step, Dirge eases his way down the stairs, careful to keep his footsteps light, but the worn soles of his leather boots do most of the job for him. As the room opens up, Dirge takes note of the place he only barely remembers from their first visit.

It is a cavernous space, though in a state of disrepair; just shy of a shaft of sunlight, drifting lazily through a gap in the roof, a large, circular dais takes up much of the center of the chamber, engraved with many swirling runes. On it rests a stone table, well carved if a bit plain, surrounded by several stools of a similar make. The walls of the chamber are all painted with colorful, elaborate murals, each with its own obelisk and plaque. Time has worn down even the stone, and several of the pillars have collapsed into the deep pool of water that rings the edge of the room, far below.

As Dirge reaches the bottom of the stairs, only the silver wolf seems to take note of their presence, raising its large head to watch them with golden eyes. It seems unamused but unthreatened, and gives a great yawn before laying its head down once more – back into the lap of the dark skinned human, Rath.

Rath sits on one of the broken bits of stone, hand raking through the wolf’s thick fur, but his face is pinched into a permanent sort of half frown as he watches Kagha on the other side of the room. When he does notice them, he nods in acknowledgement, but ultimately, his eyes shift back to her. At his knee rests a studded wooden club, as though he’s expecting trouble.

A worrisome sign, or a promising one, it’s hard to be certain – would Rath side with Kagha? It seemed unlikely, but not impossible.

Also at the table sits a dark haired halfling, reading a book and occasionally looking up to snipe questions at a blond half-elf who paces about the edges of the room, muttering in a tone that sounds much like a complaint. Both have wooden clubs of their own strapped to their waists, but lack armor entirely.

When Kagha does finally notice them, she rolls her eyes, lips pulling back into a sneer.

“Did the guard let you in?” she sighs, arms crossed, drumming her fingers on the leather of her armor. She holds herself like a queen lording over her court – her eyes are distant, imperious as she stares down her nose at them. “Fools. Away; if you will not remove the devils, I have no further use for you.”

Wyll, ever valiant, ever the hero, is the first to step forward, head held high. Challenging. “I know the truth, Kagha. You plan to turn over the grove to Shadow Druids.”

The words, so abruptly delivered, wipes the smug look from her eyes in an instant. “What? How did you–”

A sound, a chitter, interrupts her, and out from the rocks by her feet emerge three rats. At first, Dirge simply stares at them, surprised and unamused. What are three rats going to do? But then, of course, the realization hits – as their forms begin to glow gold and twist larger, wider, and distinctly humanoid, the three rats instead transform into more druids.

But, interestingly, these are three druids that he’s never seen in the grove before – they do not even look much like the others; three halfings stand before him, each with pale skin and dark, angular tattoos across their arms, chest, and face. Their leather armor seems more something designed for use in the bedroom instead of the battlefield; made of many straps that stretch across their torsos but do little to actually protect anything.

The oldest of the three, an absolute crone of a halfing with lank, tangled white hair, speaks. ”Tsk. That damned nose of yours has gone poking in our business.”

Surprisingly, Kagha cowers at the sight of the elder halfing, her eyes wide, fearful. “Mistress Olodan, I can explain–”

Olodan, Dirge wonders, wasn’t that the name on the missive? But before he can ponder the matter further, the crone shushes Kagha, her tone sickeningly sweet. “Shh-shh. No need. It couldn’t be helped.”

Somehow, her voice sounds anything but reassuring, and Kagha seems well aware of it – she looks almost ready to flee.

“Kagha! What’s the meaning of this!” Rath exclaims, jumping to his feet, greatclub in hand. At his side, the wolf snarls and bares its teeth.

Olodan smiles and gestures towards Wyll. “You think yourselves quite the spies, don’t you? Go on, tell him.”

“Kagha’s a Shadow Druid. She means to convert the circle.”

Rath looks back in abject horror. “A Shadow Druid? Kagha, have you lost your mind?!”

“You and Halsin welcomed untouchables into your midst,” Oolodan croons, “You defile this sacred grove for the sake of ‘harmony.’”

Kagha nods. Seemingly emboldened by the crone’s favor, she puffs out her chest, proudly. “Olodan speaks truth.” With a sweeping hand, she gestures to the other druids in the chamber – the dark haired halfling, and the blond half-elf. “Who among you would see this grove in ruin? All at the hands of strangers who bring us naught but danger? Who threaten our very way of life?”

Dirge risks a glance at the others; Rath still stands, greatclub in hand, looking as defiant as a mountain in a storm, but the other two exchange a nervous glance amongst themselves. It's obvious they hear truth in her words, and there’s no doubt with whom they will side.

And there goes our advantage of numbers, he thinks, but the Urge merely grins. It hasn’t had a proper fight in days, and it hungers – the tussle with Ethel had done little to appease the beast, and now it prowls the edges of its cage, eager and waiting.

Olodan’s smile twists into a wicked grin. “I should thank you, stranger,” she says to Wyll. “We weren’t ready to reveal ourselves, not yet, but it seems you’ve paved the way for us perfectly.” She cackles, and with a flourish of her hand, gestures to them all. “Kagha, burn the taint away. Start with the snitch.”

Kagha bows. “As you say, Mistress Olodan.”

Lae’zel readies her greatsword, and gives the most exaggerated eyeroll Dirge has ever seen. “Enough of this farce – if you desire death so, come and get it!” She sweeps her sword back, and charges into the fray, ”Htak’a!”

From there, things quickly descend into chaos – the wolf leaps straight for Kagha, pinning her down to the ground under its snarling muzzle. Rath tries to join, but he’s held back by the other two – the half-elf and the halfling – who, while both unarmored, keep the man pinned down with the constant swing of their clubs.

Lae’zel and Karlach charge Olodan, but they’re stopped by another one of the shadow druids – male, with a dark leather hood and black greasepaint across his forehead and around his eyes. The matchup seems almost comical, but then the halfing shifts form to that of a bear, and meets them both with paws swinging and teeth gnashing.

With Gale and Astarion flinging arrows and spells from the backline and the sounds of Wyll casting Eldritch Blast, Dirge focuses and searches for a target of his own.

Olodan seems the obvious choice; if Kagha so views herself as a serpent, why not cut off its true head?

But the halfing, old though she may be, is a challenging opponent. For each swing of his sword she dances deftly around the blade and punishes him with her magic, tangling his feet with roots and thorns and grazing him with her arrows.

Still, one can only dodge for so long – it’s a tiring game, and while swinging his greatsword is no easy task, it’s only a matter of time before she misses a step. When she does, he makes sure to catch her with his blade, though, disappointingly, it’s only a fleshwound; Olodan manages to spin away from him yet again, but when Gale casts a Hold Person their way, she can go no further.

She looks up at him, eyes wide, afraid – heart racing, blood pounding, Dirge stares back, and can only feel a slick satisfaction. He raises his sword, and–

Something slams into him, hard, taking the breath from his lungs and sending him flying, sliding across the stone.

It’s Kagha.

She snarls at him, baring her teeth, the very sight of fury.

Clearly, her scuffle with the wolf wasn’t a clean one; there’s no sign of the beast, but her hair is a disheveled mess, pulled partially from its braid, and she’s bleeding from a bite to the shoulder. It’s not enough to drop her, but it must be slowing her down – a bright streak of blood paints her from her collar down to her breast. Against the greens and browns of her leathers, the blood calls to him like a siren’s song.

The Urge purrs at the sight – why not rend her with his teeth? Drop his sword, and lunge for her throat? Tear the cartilage with his jaws–

Dirge’s breath stutters, and he shakes his head. He can’t risk listening to that desire; already his hands are shaking, his mouth salivating. If the others were to see–

Kagha leaps for him, slamming into him again with her scimitar – he’s able to bring up his greatsword quick enough to parry the blow, but the exchange is not without bloodshed. She catches him across the cheek with her dagger; luckily, it’s another grazing hit. Had he been a moment slower or her aim a bit truer, the blade would have taken his eye with it.

They clash again, and again, and while he manages to land a few good hits, she keeps fighting. Keeps snarling, as though she’s possessed by a demon. She’s stunningly quick with her scimitar, and gives him no quarter.

An arrow suddenly flies through the air, and hits her square in the thigh; with a gasp, she drops to her knees, and Dirge sees his chance – he races forward, blade swinging–

Kagha looks up into his eyes, and shouts: ”Detono!”

The Thunderwave hits Dirge square on, and takes his feet out from under him, but as he’s sent flying backward, he’s just able to wrap his fingers in her armor, pulling her down with him.

Down, down, down into the water below–

He hits the surface.

And.

For a long moment, there is no thought. The shock of the cold water is bitter, bracing, and it leaves him suspended. Reeling.

The need for air bites at his lungs, and awareness returns. The water is deep, but his feet find the bottom and he pushes himself upward, clumsily, desperate for a gasp of air – with a splash, he breaks the surface, and breathes, his chest heaving.

He finds himself in the lower crevice of the room. It’s a dark place, almost featureless, save for the gleaming reflections of the water upon the stone walls. High above, he just make out the distant sound of fighting.

A splash, and someone is swimming away from him.

Kagha.

He follows, and as he hits shallow water, he reaches out and grabs her ankle. Kagha yelps, and comes tumbling down onto the uneven stone beneath her.

Miraculously, he still has his sword tight in hand, and he lunges again, only to miss; she rolls to the side and elbows him hard in the gut, scrambling to her feet.

Dirge can’t think. Can’t see – his vision tunnels as the Urge wraps its claws around his heart. When Kagha lashes out with her dagger, he catches her wrist and gives it a hard twist; at the delicate sound of bones breaking, both the druid and the sickness sing.

“I never should have involved you!” Kagha shouts, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She tries desperately to pull away, but he won’t let go of her wrist. “Don’t you understand? I did this, all of this, just to keep my people safe!” She struggles, trying to squirm away, but it’s futile – he twists the bones yet again, and she screams so lovely.

Kagha lashes out with her other hand, hitting him square in the eye, but it’s not enough. He barely feels it – he grabs her arm, and twists it behind her back.

She howls in rage, struggling against him, but when his grip will not give, she looks over her shoulder and spits at him. “Halsin was a fool, and now he’s a dead one. These hellspawn, they stole our idol, and if we let them, they’ll steal our way of life! We will become overrun, and it will be all their fault!”

The Urge doesn’t care. He hears nothing of what she says. With her back against his, her head tilted as she rants, the long line of her neck is exposed.

He leans down to bite.

Kagha slams her head into his, hitting him square across the nose, and the sudden bright peal of pain is enough to make him let go. She stumbles away, scrambling for the rough pile of rocks, her dagger laying on the ground where she dropped it.

His own sword follows suit – it’s as though he’s forgotten what it is, or how to use it. No longer useful, it clangs to the stone beside him, and he races after her, his fingers reaching out and tangling in the fiery strands of hair that hang loose about her head. With a wrench of his arms, he throws her back down the slope and into the pool. She rolls down, landing on her back, gasping for breath.

In his hands, a wad of red hair remains.

He follows, back down to the water.

She looks up at him with pure hatred in her eyes. “You son of a–”

He straddles her chest, hands reaching for her throat.

(It feels like a dream, like he’s watching it all through someone else’s eyes – he can’t feel his hands–)

She’s not going down without a fight; she’s kicking, clawing at his face until he gets his knees atop her arms, and then she’s hissing and spitting at him, fury and fear coalescing into a heady cocktail. He can smell it, taste it with each breath he draws across his tongue.

He puts his hands atop her throat, and presses down. Down until her lips, her nose, disappears beneath the surface.

All her hatred, all her rage, swiftly turns to terror. Eyes wide, she struggles beneath him, bucking like a wild horse, kicking her feet and twisting. Desperately, she seeks leverage, pushing up with her legs, trying to dislodge him. It’s of no use – he’s larger, heavier. Stronger.

Fight as she may, she’s at his mercy.

He could take her neck in his hands, thumbs in the hollows under her jaw, and break her spine. He could press down on her throat and crush it beneath his fingers.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he picks the slow death. He holds her head underwater, his touch as gentle as a lover’s. He watches, waiting until she can hold her breath no more; she gasps, dragging lungful after lungful of liquid into her body. Coughing, heaving, retching, and yet she’s so close to air, mere centimeters away–

When Dirge comes back to himself, Kagha is dead beneath him. He’s still crouched on top of her, holding down a corpse.

She’s staring at him, dead eyed, her lips turning blue. Her hair billows freely about her head, like a plume of flame.

Above, it sounds as though the fighting has stopped. Someone calls out his name, their voice echoing on the stone. Worried, maybe? Or afraid?

It takes a long moment to get his hands to release her throat. His fingers are stiff and sore, nearly locked into place.

Shame burns like bitter bile down the back of his throat.

There is no Urge, is there? No secondary force controlling his body, puppeting his limbs.

It’s all just… him.

 

-x-

 

Notes:

Sometimes I feel like BG3 is a giant cat that just keeps trying to push all my characters into the void; please don’t, game, I beg.

Also, Ao3's formatting somehow manages to expand itself every time I open the preview; if the italics or something goes weird, please let me know so I can try to reign it back in. I. I don't know why it's like this ;;

Notes:

I was going to post this work when it was complete, but I type so slow that the plan went out the window, so here you go, the first chapter. The next will be up in a couple of days, but updates will be a lot slower after that – I write at the speed of snail.

In the future, the PoVs of segments within chapters will be marked by having the character's name in the first sentence or two; our durge in this story doesn't remember having a name, so this may be a little confusing at first, but I ask that you bear with me. This is also un-beta’d, so please point out anything you see that’s wrong or that you don’t like.

Big thanks to m3rcurylanding for the help with the description :D

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of And in Those Hollow Depths I Met Truth