Chapter Text
The colony pulsed with strange life, fungal spires exhaling spores, the air thick with the musk of rot and damp stone, a low thrumming song vibrating through the cavern walls. It was a world meant to overwhelm the senses. Yet Eirwen hardly noticed. Her skull still rang too loudly for anything else to matter.
Omeluum’s voice had been calm, almost kind in its strange cadence, but its words still reverberated inside her skull: “Your flesh has been burrowed into. Your flesh has been excavated. A tadpole need not tunnel when they greet their host.”
The words had struck harder than any blade. She’d known something was wrong—the intense headaches, the strange emptiness in her memories— but the confirmation of hearing it confirmed made her stomach twist with dread. Someone, something, had already carved into her before the parasite ever came. She tried to piece together flashes, scraps of thought, but her mind rebelled. Only pain answered. It shouldn’t be like this. She should remember something: a face, a reason, anything beyond the pulsing ache. But the harder she reached, the more it slipped away, and the emptiness mocked her.
So many questions beat through her. Was she simply the victim of circumstance? Had some villain plucked her from the street and carved her up for their twisted amusement? Or worse, had she earned it? Was this retribution for sins her broken mind refused to recall? Her slaughter of Alfira was proof enough of what she was capable of.
Gods below, who am I?
Her vision swam. It was only when the hum of the colony pressed suddenly back into her awareness with the rhythmic hum of the fungal creatures, the shuffle of boots, the faint hiss of spores, that she realized how far inside she’d fallen. Too far. She blinked hard, forcing herself upright, rolling her shoulders back as though poise alone might wipe the tremor from her hands. She prayed none of her companions had noticed. She did a quick sweep of her vision to confirm the others were all consumed with the sights and sounds of this strange world they’d found themselves in.
Thank the Gods—
Then her gaze snagged on a pair of crimson eyes across the cavern. Watching her. Noticing. Astarion was half-turned toward some grotesque bulk of fungus shaped into something like a man, and despite the oddity of his company, the pale elf’s attention was directed onto her. His lips curved in that amused little smile that said he’d noticed more than he should. Heat rushed unbidden into her chest, sharp as panic, warm as fire. Gods, of all people to catch her cracking!
She forced a smile, quick and meaningless, a wordless plea: I’m fine. Go back to your new friend.
But he didn’t.
He was already moving toward her, deliberate as a cat closing in on prey, and her stomach dropped with shame at being seen, yet twisted at the same time with something dangerously like relief. Something strange. Something she didn’t have the words for. He slid to her side with that infuriating grace that stirred her, his lips curved in a sly smile that told her he’d seen every emotion on her face.
“Darling,” he purred, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you look positively dreary. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our resident brain squid hurt your feelings.”
Eirwen’s jaw tightened. She let out a soft scoff, trying to wave him off. “I’m fine. Really. Just a bit tired.” The words came too fast, too practiced.
He tilted his head, crimson eyes gleaming, the picture of amusement. “Mm, yes. Fine. And that trembling in your hands? Absolutely a sign of confidence.”
Heat prickled at her ears. She wanted to snap, to tell him to leave her be. And yet… the part of her that had been drowning minutes ago clung to his presence like driftwood. Against her better judgment, the words slipped out quieter, rawer.
“It told me what I already knew,” she muttered. “That something tore into me before the tadpole. That my head is…” She trailed off, biting down hard on the rest.
Astarion’s smile sharpened, swift and merciful. “Oh, darling, don’t tell me you’re about to say broken. How dreary. You’re far too lovely to sulk about skulls and the worms inside them.”
Her lips twitched, a startled laugh almost breaking through the dread.
He leaned in just a fraction closer, lowering his voice until it was silk meant for her alone. “Fortunately for you, I have the perfect cure for such moods.”
Eirwen arched a brow. “If it’s sex, I’ll have to pass this time.”
Astarion’s grin widened, wicked as ever. “Tempting as always, my sweet, but no. Believe it or not, I have other hobbies. This particular one,” His voice dropped into a playful, mock whisper, watching for her reaction, “involves corpses.”
Eirwen’s eyes lit, interest immediate and unguarded.
Astarion laughed, the sound chipper and triumphant. “Ha! I knew that would get your attention.” He leaned in, voice dropping into conspiratorial silk. “Come along, my dear. We’re going to play with fungal necromancy.”
Before she could press, he placed his hand on her lower back and swept her toward the squat bulbous myconid hovering at the cavern’s edge, its massive cap sloughing spores with every shuddering step. Eirwen looked upon the swollen blob of a creature for a moment, waiting for it to do anything of interest, but it just slouched.
Seeing her incredulous expression, Astarion stepped into her view, and took her hand to lead her even closer, as if introducing the sagging bulk of a creature as a fellow guest at a dinner table. “This is Glut. Poor thing’s entire colony was slaughtered by duergar. Tragic, really. Understandably, it is rather eager to get some revenge.”
Eirwen shrugged, “Ok, sure, we’re already planning to kill them for Sovereign Spaw. Does it just want to tag along?”
Glut rumbled slightly, but before it began its psychic words, Astarion interjected. His tone was light, but there was an edge of dark amusement as he went on.
“Well yes. It wants to help us clean up this duergar mess. But that’s not the exciting part. You see, as luck would have it, Glut has a rather useful skill. It can turn corpses into these delightful little mushroom puppets. A touch grotesque, yes, but undeniably practical.”
Astarion tilted his head toward her, his eyes glinting. “It has offered to share that talent with me. And because I’m feeling generous, I’m extending its offer to you.”
Her stomach gave a wicked twist of intrigued excitement. The ache in her skull dulled as something sharper took its place. “You’re saying we could…raise an army of undead spores?”
Astarion’s brows arched, his grin widening like a blade unsheathed. “Gods, listen to you. Straight to conquest, as though we’re about to march an entire army across the Underdark.” His laugh was low and rich, curling around her like smoke.
He closed the gap, his hand holding her elbow, the touch was feather-light, yet possessive in its intent. His voice dipped, silk threaded with something darker. “I adore the ambition, but perhaps we start small, hm? One corpse. A test run. A taste of what it could be, before we raise legions.”
The ache in her skull ebbed, dulled beneath the thrum that ran through her at his touch. She shivered, not from the chill of the Underdark but from him, and found herself nodding.
“I’d like that.”
They didn’t have to search long. Just a short walk from the myconid colony brought them to a lower platform, its surface choked with bibberbang mushrooms that glowed a harsh, neon yellow. Amid the pulsing caps wandered a lone dwarven man, pacing in loose, unsteady circles. He swayed like a drunkard, muttering nonsense, his words lost beneath the faint hiss of spores. At times, he seemed almost aware of the danger, hesitating at the edge of a cluster, edging back with clumsy care, only to forget himself a moment later and stumble forward again, jolting at the mushrooms’ angry hiss as though surprised all over.
“Oh, perfect,” Astarion drawled. “Practically compost already.”
Eirwen’s daggers itched in her hands. “How do we even get to him? The fool is surrounded by exploding mushrooms.”
Undeterred, Astarion tipped his chin toward their slovenly fungal companion. “We send in the shroom.” Glut seemed to nod, then lumbered forward, its pulpy feet squelching against the stone, each step leaving a smear of wet rot. The bibberbang spores stirred only in recognition of their kin, knowing it as part of the greater colony. Despite its grotesque bulk, Glut moved silently, and the dwarf never saw death coming.
There was only a startled gasp before Glut’s hulking limbs struck. Bone gave way with a wet crunch. The man’s body crumpled into the mushrooms, vanishing beneath their pulsing glow.
For a moment, there was stillness. Only the eerie swaying of the caps, as though the colony itself leaned in to feed. Then came the twitch. A single jerk. Another. Limbs spasmed against the stone as though pulled by invisible strings. His spine arched at an impossible angle, the sound of it cracking like firewood. Eirwen leaned in to see the horrors, forgetting her own for one blissful moment.
Her eyes widened as she watched the skin at his neck bulge, split, and then something pale and fibrous threaded outward, curling over flesh like roots through broken earth. Filaments webbed across his chest, pushing upward until grotesque fungal blooms split through the skin, fleshy and slick with ichor. His jaw twitched, jawline rupturing as spores took root there too.
When the dwarf’s eyes snapped open, they were no longer his own. The milky orbs stared without recognition, soulless and empty. His head lolled, then twitched upright in a jerky, insectile motion.
Whoever he had been was gone. This thing lurched to its feet on stiffened limbs, a grotesque puppet bound by rot. It shuffled toward them, obedient to its new masters, nothing left of the man but a hollow husk, animated and enslaved by fungus.
Looking upon their creation, Eirwen’s stomach flipped with a visceral thrill. Gods, it was horrid, but it was also magnificent. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling, wide and sharp, as her mind raced with the possibilities.
When she glanced at Astarion, though, his expression was one of elegant revulsion—nose wrinkled, lip curled, crimson eyes narrowed as if the sight offended him.
“Wasn’t this your idea?” she teased, laughing at his expression. “You look like you’re going to vomit.”
He scoffed, waving a hand dismissively, though his nose was still wrinkled. “Darling, I said it would be entertaining. Not pleasant. Fungus is innately grotesque. This is like watching a meal rot into mold.”
Upon its return, Glut handed Eirwen a glowing blue mushroom, more flower than fungus. “Noblestalk,” it rumbled. “Rare. Useful.”
Eirwen plucked the fungus from its hands and tossed it into her pack without thought. “Neat.”
They returned to the colony arm in arm, still laughing about their “experiment.” Eirwen’s cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, feeling lighter than she had in hours. Spotting Gale near the fungal lanterns, fussing over an enchanted necklace he’d just procured from Blurg, she called out, “Oh, Gale, you’re going to love this! You should have seen the magic Glut shared with us. Necromancy—by mushroom!”
His brow lifted, curiosity sparking across his face. “Fungal necromancy?” he echoed, both intrigued and faintly horrified. But then his gaze slid past her shoulder, and the color drained from his cheeks. “Oh… oh dear.”
Before she could ask, Karlach bounded over, wiping some goo off her gauntlets. “Hey, did you two see a bald dwarf out there? Goes by Baelen. Derryth’s been—” She cut herself off, eyes snagging on the fungal husk trudging obediently behind them. Her jaw dropped. “Oh shit.”
“Baelen? What’s happened to ye…?”
The voice came from behind.
Eirwen froze, heat crawling up her neck. She and Astarion shared a guilty glance before turning to face Derryth Bonecloak. The dwarven woman’s sharp eyes traveled slowly over her husband’s twisted husk. She didn’t scream. Didn’t even blink. For a long, dreadful moment, she simply looked.
At last, she asked, flat and cutting, “Was this yer doin’? Thought you’d have a laugh playin’ with fungus, did ye?”
Astarion’s lips parted in a careless drawl. “Honestly, you should blame the Underdark, not us. We simply tidied up—.”
“It was us,” Eirwen cut in. Her voice shook but she forced the words out. “I thought… I thought he was just another victim of the Underdark. Lost and stumbling. We didn’t know who he was.”
Gale shifted uncomfortably, murmuring, “I… should check the necklace’s resonance,” and slipped away. Karlach muttered a curse under her breath, gave Eirwen a sympathetic look, then followed after him, leaving the weight of the exchange squarely between the three of them.
The silence cracked with Derryth’s scoff. “Figures. Shoulda known he’d end up like this.” Her arms folded, shoulders squared. “The bumblin’ fool. Always stumblin’ about, useless as a lump, gettin’ himself in trouble. S’pose if ye hadn’t taken him, the Underdark woulda finished the job.”
Her lips twisted, something sour between bitterness and grief. “Truth is, he weren’t much better before the accident. Good-for-nothin’ drunk. A mean bastard, when the bottle was close.” She looked back at the husk, eyes hard. “Never thought I’d be rid of him down here. But I s’pose the dark finds its own way.”
Her words were flippant, but the sadness beneath them was unmistakable.
Astarion’s grin sharpened. “Well, then! Seems like we’ve all done each other a favor. No harm, no foul.” He dusted his hands as though the matter were neatly solved.
Eirwen, though, couldn’t shake the weight in Derryth’s eyes. Piece of shit or not, that shambling husk had once been her companion, her whole world. And now he was nothing but rot and fungus.
Derryth gave a final sigh, weary and resigned. “I’ll just hafta head back without the noblestalk, then. The whole trip wasted.”
Eirwen blinked, then fumbled with her pack. “You mean… this thing?” She pulled free the blue-glowing bloom Glut had given her earlier, and held it out for Derryth to take.
The woman’s eyes widened faintly at the sight, then snapped into a glare. “So that’s it, then? Ya murder my fool husband and toss me a prize mushroom to soothe yer guilty conscience, is that it?”
Eirwen held her gaze, unbothered. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Take it or don’t.”
Derryth snatched the stalk from her hands. “Hells, at least yer honest. But don’t think for one moment this makes ya noble.”
Astarion’s lip curled. “Well, isn’t that delightful. We part with a rare mushroom that might be worth a king’s ransom, and in return we get scorn. Honestly, darling, if you’re so keen on rewarding cruelty, I’d prefer you limit it to mine.”
Derryth muttered something under her breath and stalked off, clutching the stalk like it was hers by right.
Astarion turned back to Eirwen, arms crossed, crimson eyes flashing. “Do you make a habit of giving gifts to people who sneer in your face, or is this a special occasion?”
Eirwen’s lips curved into a faint smirk, though her voice was steady.
“We didn’t walk away empty-handed, Astarion. We got a fungal minion out of it, didn’t we?”
He sneered as he watched Derryth stalk away with the mushroom clutched tight in her fist. “After hearing what Baelen was like in life, I doubt he was worth the trade.”
Eirwen shook her head, her voice softer than she meant it to be. “It wasn’t about worth. She just needed something to soothe a pain she can't name…same as me.”
The words hung there between them, heavier than she intended.
For once, Astarion had no quick retort. His mouth parted, then closed again, a flicker of something unguarded passing across his face before he covered it with a sharp laugh. “Gods, You really are far too sentimental for someone so good at casual murder.”
He swept ahead with practiced ease, hips swaying as though the conversation hadn’t touched him at all, but Eirwen lingered for a moment longer, her gaze following Derryth’s retreating figure until it vanished around the bend. Her skull throbbed again, pulsing sharp and insistent. She pressed her palm to her temple, willing the ache to fade, and forced herself to move.
By the time she caught up with him, her smirk was back in place. Astarion cut her a sidelong glance, crimson eyes glinting. “You know, perhaps I should have suggested sex after all. Less mold, more moaning.”
She huffed a laugh, brushing her shoulder against his as they walked. “The night is young,” she murmured, her tone sly.
His answering grin was wicked, sharp as a blade, and just as promising.