Thank me not, the slaughter was a pleasure - Mags (2024)

Chapter 1: The Beach

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Sand. Sun. Smoke. The unnatural scent of mind flayer machine-blood.

It is that last, incongruous sensation that finally tickles your hobbled thoughts into awareness. You are, remarkably, alive. Not splattered against the ground like the wreckage around you is.

But contemplating that mystery is beyond you now. You are still tragically bereft of any memory earlier than the nautiloid, decades of unholy work wrapped untidily away in a veil of red. You have a name, which may even be yours. And you have a lifetime of practice killing which your hands remember even if you don’t. It’s not much to be going on, but I trust in your resourcefulness and indomitable spirit.

You find your daggers where they had fallen in the sand nearby and return them to their homes. You run your hands along your aching skull, shying away from the back where your tangled hair is clotted with dried blood — your own blood, and your fingers hesitate to investigate the divot at the back of your head too deeply.

Betrayal is what your fingers find, and that spark of memory stokes the first concrete emotion you feel on the river bank: a burning desire for vengeance.

The wreckage of the nautiloid spreads out in a long line ahead of you, an illithid arterial spray writ large. It seems that your slightly early fall from the ship landed you at one end of the debris field; you can see the main spiral shell just peeking out from behind a hill in the distance, still smoking.

If you survived, there may be others — perhaps the gith or the cleric, perhaps more mind flayers to kill. You will be pleased either way, and the possibilities lead you ever onwards. As you walk, you ache: your cracked head, your chest, your left foot. The foot’s weakness worries you the most, as it threatens your ability to dodge effectively.

There’s a spot on the roof of your mouth that’s been scratched deeply by something — who knows, perhaps you bit something you weren’t supposed to — and your tongue can’t help but run along it, smoothing each ragged hem of flesh back into place.

The taste is distracting.

Even with your cautious pace it is not long before you find another survivor. Your tadpole’s excitement draws you toward the cleric’s still form. Just unconscious, you tell yourself. You have half a thought that you could make her stay that way, still and restful, with just one or two little cuts…

But, no, you master yourself and leave the daggers sheathed as you shake her shoulder.

The cleric stirs and you take a hasty step back, still assuming (not incorrectly) that most people would be distressed to see you unexpectedly.

“You’re alive,” she says. “I’m alive!” She looks past you to the sheer extent of destruction the crash caused. “...How is that possible?”

“I know not,” you admit, dredging words out of your mind like corpses from the river-bottom. “Did you?”

“I remember the ship, I remember falling… then nothing,” she says.

“Anything before the ship?”

“Why do you ask?” She gives you a suspicious look and stands, using the motion to cover picking up her strange, spiky ball.

“Everything before that is gone,” you say. “I remember none of it. I thought perhaps the tadpole…”

Her expression softens. “I understand why you ask, but memory loss is not as uncommon as you think. There may be other causes.”

You completely fail to question her non-answer as you think back to the ship. Fighting alongside the cleric and the gith, coordinating easily thanks to the tadpoles you shared, was an unusual experience for you, and you decide that it was… nice. (Nice?!)

“And our gith?” you ask instead.

“I hardly think she’s ours,” the cleric says and gestures around at the empty river bank. “Looks like she ran off without us.”

Some of her antipathy bleeds through to your tadpole and you decide to set the matter aside.

“I don’t understand why you would be concerned for her, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” the cleric muses. “We need to take care of ourselves — supplies, shelter, and most of all, a healer.” She counts each item off on her fingers. “After all, we may have escaped the nautiloid, but we still have these little monsters in our heads,” she says with disgust.

You swear you can feel your tadpole move in response to the cleric’s words. “‘We’? You wish to stay together?”

She nods. “We need each other, and we both know what’s at stake. I can’t think of better company, especially since you went out of your way to free me from that pod.”

It brings a smile to your face, one that prickles as it pulls on the blood dried on your cheeks. You turn away from her, still assuming (not incorrectly) that most people would find it disturbing.

Shadowheart eyeballs a rocky outcropping with a flat top that sticks up above the low hills. “Give me a boost and I’ll see if I can see anything nearby,” she says.

You do so a little clumsily, though she clearly has done this many times before. As you push her upwards to reach the top something in your chest pulls with a sharp pain. While she looks out at the river and wreckage you wheeze and lean against the rock. You poor, wretched little sinner.

“There’s some sort of ruin up the river,” she calls down. “Other than that, there’s just the nautiloid.” She gestures to the hulking wreck visible even from the ground, then scrambles back down the rock face, thankfully without needing your assistance. “I don’t see any signs of civilization,” she says, concerned. “We really are out in the middle of nowhere.”

You pull yourself together. “Ruin first,” you decide. “Who knows what’s in the nautiloid wreck.”

As you head out in the direction of the ruins, both you and Shadowheart have a silent, shared realization that you took charge, and she followed, without any conscious decision.

“Lead the way,” she says, a little wry.

You tuck that fact away for later.

The nautiloid’s crash had already spooked the looters — sorry, adventurers — in the riverside temple by the time you arrived. Your appearance (covered in blood is always in fashion, my liege) and a touch of menace are enough to send most of them running; in the end, you only get to kill three of them.

You are, sadly, too tired to properly enjoy the kills. It brings only a brief lightening of your spirits, quickly swallowed up by your exhaustion. You sit on a chunk of fallen rock and try to gather your strength while Shadowheart pokes through the upper level of the ruin’s interior.

The new blood at least covers up the smell of the nautiloid machine-fluid.

“Some good news,” Shadowheart says, returning from the temple interior. “That group left some of their things behind.”

As you look up she hands you an apple and a thick travel cracker, then sits across from you on one of the bedrolls left behind.

“Food, water, and some camping supplies,” she continues. “This was a good find.”

You nod and start eating. (No, don’t spit that out, I know it’s not bloody enough for your usual standards, but you do need to eat something.) “Rest here, then into the crash,” you say. “Good?”

“I suppose that will do,” she says, giving you a look that you don’t care to decipher.

You choke down the rest of the food. Shadowheart goes back down into the ruin. There’s a spot in the shade where you prop yourself up in a corner. You press a hand to your chest, not sure whether it’s blood or sweat that squelches underneath the leather armor and not particularly caring either way.

You doze poorly, twitching and grunting. After all, sleep is the time that your Urge seeps into your mind, filling it with chaotic flashes of your innumerable sins, both past and potential; and in the moment of waking your Urge has a moment to itself before you reassert your control.

Shadowheart, the poor fool, shakes your shoulder to wake you, and in that moment of waking you lash out, clawing a scratch down her forearm. She jerks back, holding her hand.

You freeze, looking down at your bloody claws. “I — my apologies,” you say. “Wake me not from nearby. Call to me, or throw something. Preferably something soft.” The half-joke comes out automatically, like it’s something you’ve said before.

“Noted,” she says sourly. “I came up to see if you were ready to leave.”

“Yes,” you say, getting to your feet. Left foot, chest, head; the pain jolts upward and settles in for the long haul.

As you leave, you absentmindedly lick the blood from under your fingernails. It tastes like secrets.

You and Shadowheart carefully pick your way around the outer edge of the crashed nautiloid. Though there are some intact interior spaces, neither of you is keen to go underneath the sagging, fleshy ceilings, especially as you watch one of the smoldering walls collapse in on itself as you pass.

You find plenty of corpses — dead locals, dead abductees, dead mind flayers, dead intellect devourers. You check pockets with practiced ease and note that you feel perfectly at ease amongst the dead. Shadowheart keeps a watchful eye out and accepts the various trinkets and tools you find.

Finally you find another survivor beside a pod cracked open: a disheveled elf with a poorly-concealed dagger and nautiloid machine-flesh under his fingernails. Aside from the world going grey for a few seconds when your head hits the ground, the whole encounter is nice, really. Rolling around on the ground, daggers pressed to skin but unbloodied — it’s familiar. Nostalgic.

His mind is electric with fear and hunger, sharp where yours is muddy. He, too, shies away from the sucking wound that is your mind, but even the brief contact is enough to muffle your more murderous impulses toward him into pleasant musings on a perfect pretty corpse.

You pull a wizard out of a rock and immediately regret it. He speaks like he ate a thesaurus for breakfast and it’s all you can do to keep up with it. Your minds brush only briefly, giving you the impression of deep worries under his upbeat demeanor before he blocks you out.

With four now you decide to venture a little deeper into the wreckage, which goes poorly. Gale nearly gets his brain eaten by a dying mind flayer before Shadowheart breaks its thrall and kills it, and then you stumble upon a pack of intellect devourers that catches you off guard. After the frantic skirmish, the mages are out of magic and you and Astarion nurse headaches from the devourers’ psionic attacks. You retreat to the ruin for the night.

“Tethys!”

The call is loud and close enough to startle you out of your stupor, and you barely avoid falling to the floor from the little alcove you find yourself in. You stare wide-eyed at the candle-lit crypt and three people sitting at a table on the other side of the room.

(You don’t remember your weary crew stumbling back into the ruin earlier, and you don’t remember finding the darkest corner to curl up in like a sad, dying animal. It was really a poor showing, Master. I suppose I do have to admit that keeping this rabble around has some benefit for the time being, if they’ll keep you alive until your proper death.)

Right, Gale is the human who just called out what is probably your name.

One hand on the wall, you make your way to the table and take your seat. The four of you are subdued and untalkative, which suits you well enough. You don’t know what you would say if you were expected to talk.

Gale has made some sort of rice dish that you don’t know the name of. It has bits of salami in it, which are your favorite part — the cure is pleasantly salty, the fat is finely chopped and smooth, the meat is rich and satisfying in ways that the rice and vegetables don’t quite reach. You eat it all with the zeal of a starved beast — which, of course, you are.

Gale and Shadowheart eat up, with Shadowheart giving him some token compliment on the food, while Astarion picks at his and drinks more heavily from the bottle of wine. When you’ve finished yours, he nonchalantly passes you his mostly uneaten plate and you finish it as well.

Sitting there by the hearth, one of your hungers satisfied, you turn your attention to what your next steps should be. If you’re going to be in charge of this group of tadpoled escapees — and you see no reason why you shouldn’t be — then you should get some more information on them. Figure out what they want and how you can get them to do what you want.

Chapter 2: Overgrown Ruins

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With Shadowheart’s assistance you cut through the seam along one side and peel the leather chestpiece off in one agonizing pull. You’re wearing nothing beneath it, like someone had just stuffed you into the armor before tossing you into your pod.

Your chest sports a remarkable number of scars, though most with the thinness that comes from magical healing. On top of all of them is a partially-healed Y-shaped cut, going from your shoulders, meeting at your sternum, and continuing down to your navel. Removing the armor so sharply reopened it; it oozes and shifts as you breathe, adding fresh blood to the dried blood smeared around it.

You run one finger beside the incision and fragments of memory bubble up: rage — fear — the hated one leaning close over you — your intestines wrapped once around their neck — your hands slipping on your own blood as you can’t quite pull it tight enough to choke them.

From Shadowheart’s flinch, she got some of the memory as well. Thanks, tadpole. “What in the Hells…” she says under her breath. “They really were doing something different to you. Wait here and try not to move.”

You run your fingers along some of your other scars, none of which prompt as vivid a memory. A raised line over your hip was from playing with knives when you were younger; that divot on your collarbone was from an arrow shot while you fled; the splatter of burn marks on your forearm was from a house fire.

Shadowheart returns with a few healing potions and a shirt. You chug the potions, watching as the incision closes up by itself. “My thanks,” you say to Shadowheart, who was also looking at it.

You find yourself a poor traveler, with your aching foot growing more insistent over the day and the occasional dizzy spells slowing you down. Thankfully for your pride, you are not the only one suffering: Astarion is a city boy through and through and his nice boots handle the uneven terrain poorly, and Gale flags quickly on the hills, often pressing a hand to his chest. Shadowheart is the only one who handles it well.

Chapter 3: The Urge

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Gale, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart head down the main path into the grove. You wander off to the side, avoiding the fight brewing between the tiefling commander and the human adventurer, and Astarion follows you.

A squirrel scampers by, chittering, and you wonder how difficult it would be to break it. Without second-guessing yourself, you watch its path toward a nearby tree, line it up, and kick it hard enough to bounce it off the tree trunk.

It feelsgood, like cool water sweeping away all the pain and stress that have filled your two days of memory. You can’t wrap your head around the experience of not being miserable.

No, no, don’t mistrust the feeling! This is what you weremadefor — needless, wanton violence — and it is only right and proper that you should be rewarded for it, Master. Your Father made sure of it.

Hmph. Perhaps I will have to show you myself.

“Do you always take on such terrifying foes?” Astarion says sarcastically as you stare at the squirrel’s corpse.

The pleasure of following your Urge begins to drain away, leaving you shivering in the summer sun, all of your earlier wretchedness creeping back in.

He gives you a dubious look. “You look sick… unless killing that squirrel was really so enjoyable?”

Your tongue unsticks itself from the roof of your mouth. “Since I awoke, I’ve had these urges. I want to kill; I want blood. With the squirrel I just… let it happen.”

“The norm is to keep dirty thoughts like that to ourselves,” he says primly. “But do carry on.”

“Noted,” you say, pulling yourself together. You try to put thoughts of what the squirrel made you feel aside, but they bite at your heels as you head down into the grove.

Chapter 4: Tadpole

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You bite down on your finger, hard enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin, in the hopes of distracting yourself. Is that a mucosal sliminess you feel against your lips, a metallic illithid aftertaste on your tongue? Are you finally transforming, or is this just your damaged brain starting to fail on you?

After their third loop through the same arguments your already impressive patience finally runs out. You walk over to where Gale and Astarion are peering at the true soul’s tadpole and hold your hand out wordlessly.

Gale is surprised enough to just hand the jar over. You unscrew the lid and reach out with your tadpole to the other one.

It’s as vibrant and overwhelming as your inadvertent memory sharing with your companions, except this time the true soul’s tadpole doesn’t pull back — it pushes the connection further. It wants the connection, wants to overtake your own tadpole, and it picked up a lot from its host.

Edowin loved his siblings, truly and deeply, and his love for the Absolute grew all over it like ivy on a frail tree. He was proud and relieved to have been made a true soul; he feared someplace in his past — a grand, shadowed tower. He took responsibility for things others forgot to, and took great satisfaction in precision, both in words and in craft.

All of these impressions are as rich and decadent as rendered fat, and sink into your mind like it would coat your tongue. You cling to your own tadpole and your own shredded sense of self, refusing to give an inch to Edowin’s tadpole but unable to dominate it in turn.

You are paralyzed as the tadpoles wrestle. Glacially slowly, the pressure relents, and your tadpole is finally able to overtake Edowin’s.

You have no idea how long it’s been; it feels like the battle took hours, with sweat prickling your scalp and your heart racing, but you’re still standing on the path with only Astarion and Gale for an audience. The tadpole in the jar is naught but a shriveled lump in your shaking hands.

“No tentacles, that’s a good sign,” Gale says, leaning in to get a closer look at your face. “How do you feel?”

“No cravings that only brains can satisfy?” Astarion adds.

You hand Gale the jar back and cross your arms to hide the shaking. “Well enough,” you say. “No cravings. The tadpole feels… perky? Interested? It is difficult to put into words.”

Chapter 5: Tara

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Come morning, you find an unusual addition to the usual breakfast gathering: a very fluffy calico cat curled up in Gale’s lap. He scratches between her ears absentmindedly as he flips through the pages of his spellbook.

“... When did we get a cat?” you ask.

Gale gasps in (mock?) outrage. “Tara is a tressym, not acat, though I suppose I can forgive the mistake for someone without a proper Waterdhavian education. She is also a capable wizard in her own right and my best friend.” Throughout his explanation Gale never stops scratching her head, and the tressym has an air of deep satisfaction. You think she may even be asleep.

Chapter 6: Vampire

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When Astarion decides that your tent — on its own on the far side of camp so that your nightmares wake only yourself — would be the ideal hunting grounds for a late night snack, it is only his quick reflexes that save him from the punch you throw while asleep, and only your boundless mercy that stays your hand from the dagger you raise to point at him.

“sh*t,” he says quietly, recoiling back through the flap of your tent. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear!”

As you try to mentally compose a sentence about how you meant it when you said not to wake you unexpectedly, he continues, “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed, well, blood.”

“Blood?” you repeat, stupidly. Then it catches up with you — the scars on his neck, the bloodless boar, the gleam of moonlight on his unusually pointed canines as he leaned over you. “You’re a vampire.” You get your feet under you, ready for a fight.

“It’s not what you think — I’m not some monster!” he says, still keeping his voice low enough to not wake the others.

“That’s not it,” you say, fighting to find the right words. “We spoke of my urges. I’m a monster. I care that you tried to take without asking. Explain.” Deeply frustrated, you find that your tadpoles are close enough that it takes barely a push to intertwine them. (Unfortunately for you, he is working with more than half a brain, and the connection goes both ways.)

“I have been feeding on animals — boar, deer, kobolds, whatever I can get,” Astarion says. In his thoughts rats are at the end of the list, too many godsdamned rats. His tone shifts towards wheedling. “I’m just too slow right now. Too weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” He thinks of the rush of vitality even an animal’s rancid blood can grant. “You know how it feels to have your skills just out of reach.”

Gods do you ever know how it feels. Your battered body was once far more capable than it is now, and the process of relearning has been slow and frustrating. Astarion’s skills are similar enough to yours that it would be interesting to see him in top form…

“Why didn’t you ask?” you say, tucking your dagger back under the edge of your bedroll.

In Astarion’s mind you catch a glimpse of mist-filled forests and a cruel voice before he cuts his train of thought short ruthlessly. Your tadpoles pull apart, leaving you the emptier for it. “I was sure you’d say no, or more likely, you’d ram a dagger through my ribs. But, now that you know…”

“Go on,” you say tiredly, though you already know what he will ask. If only he knew just how unique your blood is, he would be honored to have even a taste.

“If we’re going to save ourselves from these worms, you need me strong,” he says, leaning in a little closer. Not close enough to crowd you, but enough that it feels conspiratorial. “Please, Tethys. Just a taste, I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything will be better.”

“Let me think,” you say, holding one finger up, and he knows better than to disturb you while you chew it over. You find the idea of having your blood drained to be distasteful, but not unacceptable. You like Astarion — you like his expressive hands and the precision with which he sinks arrows into eyes and throats and gaps in armor. You want to see him unleashed.

“You may have your taste,” you say finally. “Only what you need.”

“Really?” he says, startled, before he goes smooth again. “Of course. Not one drop more.” He crouches down again to enter your tent and flicks the flap closed behind him. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we? You’ll want to lie down.”

You allow him to maneuver you back onto your bedroll. Normally, being this close to someone would bring your more creative urges to the fore, but it seems the tadpoles you share have well and truly dulled that instinct toward him, unfortunately. The voice that says you should let him lean in close enough that you can slice his stomach open in one long, daring cut is lethargic. Ignorable. And ignore it you do.

There’s the barest tickle of his breath at your throat before he bites down. It is, as you predicted, distasteful but not unacceptable; you find the weight of a living body (or unliving, as the case may be) on top of you stranger than the numb pressure at your neck.

You start to really feel it — your breath catches, your pulse quickens. An unpleasant sensation, like you’re sinking backwards into your own fetid skull. You want to be done; Astarion can live with however much he’s gotten already. You tap on his side, then again more firmly when he doesn’t react.

It is that this point that you realize that (pardon my Chondathan) you’ve really f*cked up.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears and a sliver of true fear works its way into your heart. He’s got you pinned more neatly than you realized, especially with your strength flagging, one hand blocking you from reaching your dagger easily.

When your dagger doesn’t pan out, you decide to go for a more direct approach. You shove your forearm between your neck and his and push up until he chokes, sputtering blood.

Astarion staggers back, wiping your blood off of his mouth. “That was amazing,” he says, breathless.

You sit up carefully, holding a hand to your still-bleeding neck. Distracted as he may be, you refuse to show any hint of weakness to him now that he’s had a taste of the hunt.

“My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…” He searches for the word. “Happy!”

“At least one of us is,” you mutter.

“Oh, don’t be a wet blanket,” he says. “Look what you’ve gained! Together, we can take on the world.”

The corner of your mouth tips up of its own accord. “Show me tomorrow. I want to see you fight.”

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing.” Astarion gives a brief, pleased hum at the thought. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling.” He stands and lets himself out of your tent, pausing at the threshold. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it,” he says softly, and stalks off into the night.

You wait until you can no longer hear him in the distance to let yourself slump against the tent pole. Blood oozes between your fingers. Your tent feels colder without him in it… or perhaps that’s just the blood loss.

It’s a while before you dredge up the willpower to do something about it. It really wouldn’t do to be that idiot who dies in their own bedroll, and you know it.

You shuffle over to Shadowheart’s tent. “Shadowheart?” you whisper, nudging her foot.

She rolls over and squints at you. “What?”

“Have you any spells for blood?”

“Spells for — what about blood?” She sits up and scrubs a hand over her face.

“Replenishing.”

“Lesser restoration would, but I don’t have it prepared so it’ll have to wait for morning,” she says, then looks more closely at you. “Lie down, you look like you’re about to fall over.”

You do so gracelessly as Shadowheart conjures a light. She peels your hand away from your tacky neck and presses her fingers to it to heal the bite wound. You still feel half-dead but at least now you won’t bleed out completely.

“So. How did this happen?” She gestures at your neck and the bloodstain trailing down your shirt.

“He asked and I said yes, so you’re not allowed to be mad,” you mumble, still thinking about her fingers delicately tipped in your blood.

“I’ll decide that for myself,” she says primly.

“Astarion is a vampire.”

“Really? Well, that explains the pallor,” she says thoughtfully. “And where is he now?”

“Out.” You gesture widely at the forest around the camp. “Hunting animals.”

“I’ll let Gale know, have him put an alarm around the camp,” she says. She dismisses the light as she leaves.

In the dark tent, it’s easy to close your eyes and let the sound of conversation fade into the distance. Shadowheart’s tent smells like incense and armor oil. At some point, someone pokes their head in, says something, and leaves when you don’t respond.

Your nightmares are quieter than usual, but only because suffocation and waking up choking seems to be the theme of the night.

Something soft bounces off of your face and your instinctive swing hits nothing other than your blanket. You look from the rolled up pair of socks on the floor of Shadowheart’s tent up to Shadowheart herself standing in the doorway, lit by dim dawn light.

“Good morning,” she says. “Astarion’s not back yet, but my spells are.”

You sit up, feeling only slightly less wretched than you did the night before. “Go ahead,” you say.

She casts lesser restoration and you finally stop feeling like you’re halfway to suffocating.

“My thanks,” you say as you gather your blanket (when did that get here?) and retreat back to your own tent.

“I think I’m going to learn more magic,” Astarion says.

You make a dubious noise.

“What, you don’t think I could?”

You shrug. “It’s not easy. I never could.”

He scoffs. “I already know fireball and speak with dead. How hard could it be?”

“Firebolt.”

“Same difference,” he says, waving it off. “I’m sure Gale would be happy to explain it at length. Just think of all the doors something like mage hand would open for me — quite literally.”

“Good luck,” you say.

He gives you a look until he decides you were being earnest. “I won’t need luck, but thank you anyway, my dear.”

“I would be delighted to help! I think I have just the thing, too,” Gale says, rummaging around in the bag of holding. “Aha!” He pulls out a hefty tome and hands it to Astarion, then follows it with three others stacked on top as Astarion tilts forward slightly under their weight.

“You just travel around with introductory magic textbooks?” Astarion says, amused.

“Oh, they’re not introductory. That one—” he points at one with a reddish cover “—is the most intermediate of the lot, so I’d recommend you start there.”

Astarion gives the books a dubious look. “You’re giving me homework.”

“The fundamentals are important,” Gale continues. “It’ll be something for you to do at camp while the rest of us sleep.”

“Usually I have more enjoyable things in mind,” Astarion mutters.

“What could be more enjoyable than the study of the Weave? If we can get our hands on some ruby dust, I can even enchant a continual flame lantern for you and you won’t have to worry about candles.”

“I’m starting to think that I should go back and ask the spirits in that Thayan book for help instead.”

“You should as well,” Gale says earnestly. “Though perhaps with more than a pinch of salt. The Thayan wizarding tradition is fascinating but… specialized.”

Chapter 7: Alfira

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The red veil of dreams parts more gently than usual — you wake with only a sharp inhale. You don’t even know if your eyes were closed before.

You are crouched beside the bard. Poor, sweet, foolish, dead Alfira, a neat slice across her throat and a bouquet of punctures on her torso. You pull your hands out of her split-open stomach, a shiver of pleasure running down your spine as your fingers slip through her viscera.

Unaskedfor pleasure aside, the only thing you feel is relief. The other shoe has dropped, and you know the depths of depravity your Urge will take you to. You can stop wondering and start dealing with the consequences.

Though now your head feels disconcertingly empty, your bloody impulses satisfied… for now.

The night is quiet aside from your harsh breathing. You killed her at the edge of camp, by your tent; if you wanted to, you could hide her body off in the woods and let everyone assume she left early.

But do you want that?

You sit there and look at your bloody hands for a long time, waiting for an opinion to come to you.

You think… you don’t like the idea of lying to them, of having this secret hanging over your head.

Some echo of your old pride, or habit from living at the temple amongst like-minded individuals, I suspect. Perhaps not the most appropriate in this circ*mstance, Master, but I bow to your judgment.

Decision made, you make your preparations: you put all of the bard’s bits and bobs back inside of her (and without even eating any! You really must be feeling poorly), put her ratty little blanket over the worst of her gore, and clean your hands as best as you can. Judging by the splatter on your clothing, you were… enthusiastic, and you can’t do anything about that.

As you pick bits of meat out from under your fingernails, you feel the vaguest flicker of some emotion, like the tip of a tentacle breaching the surface from a kraken deep below. It is beyond you to say what it is, though.

The sky lightens quickly. A normal person would be nervous, you think, glad for once that you’re not.

Once you start hearing people moving around by the campfire, you approach. Karlach is lighting the campfire with one hand while Lae’zel watches.

“Good morning,” Gale says, filling the cookpot with water pouring from one of his enchanted staves. “You’re up early.”

“There’s something you should see,” you say. “All of you.” You turn and start walking back towards the corpse.

“Is that blood?” Gale says to Lae’zel as they follow you.

Karlach stops in her tracks when she sees the bard’s corpse. “Gods! What the hell is this?” she demands, fire flaring.

“This is sloppy work,” Lae’zel says, prompting further indignation from Karlach and Gale. The noise draws the rest of the party to you: Wyll ready for a fight, Shadowheart staying toward the edges to observe, Astarion fixing his hair and covering a yawn.

“I’m going to say something I’m confident we’re all thinking,” Gale says pointedly. “Was this your doing?”

“Yes,” you say flatly.

“By the Triad, why would you do that?” Wyll asks.

“I do not know,” you say. “I awoke and she was dead by my hand.” You find your hands clenching and force them to open, rubbing your palms against your trousers.

“So, what, you killed her in your sleep, without realizing it?” Karlach gestures widely, forcing Gale to duck out of the way of her flaming hand. “And you expect us to believe that?”

“No, if they wanted to lie they’d have picked a more believable one,” Astarion says. “I buy it.”

“A worrying sign,” Lae’zel says. “The work of the parasite, I shouldn’t wonder.” She glares not at you but at the tadpole in your skull, you hope.

You don’t believe that it’s your tadpole, and you don’t keep it off your face.

“Do you even care?” Karlach says.

“Yes,” you snap, then rein your temper back in. “I wish she was not dead, but I know not what I could have done differently.”

“Should we assume Alfira tonight means Wyll tomorrow?” Astarion says. “We can’t just be murdering people in camp — some of us are important.”

“It wouldn’t be any of you,” you say firmly, gesturing at your head. “Tadpoles.”

“Tadpoles?” Wyll says dubiously.

“I’d like you to elaborate on that, actually,” Gale says.

“You must have felt it,” you say. “When first we met, you all felt like old friends I had not seen in years. My impulses hunger not for your blood.”

They all digest your statement. Into the conversational lull, Shadowheart says, “...Blood aside, I do actually know what they mean. I had chalked it up to being thrown into the same problems together.”

“So what exactly are we supposed to do about this?” Gale asks, looking around at the rest of the party. “We’ve enough enemies outside of our camp; we hardly need one within it.”

With a jolt you realize that this conversation has turned into a referendum on your continued leadership of — if not membership in — the group. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are satisfied by your explanation; Astarion is more interested in causing trouble than being in charge; Karlach and Gale don’t want to make a decision even though they’re upset with you. But Wyll… Wyll might actually step up, if he thinks you’re out of control.

“If you wish to leave, I understand,” you say, not looking at anyone in particular. “Regardless, I will do what I can to prevent this from happening again.”

There’s a pause while they look at one another. “See that you do,” Wyll says to you with a hard look. “We need to get to the bottom of this. The sooner the better.” He leaves and Karlach follows with a look of disgust that cuts you.

Lae’zel says, “I can take care of myself, if it wasn’t abundantly clear. Come for my throat and we’ll see how long you’re left standing.” She stalks off back toward the fire.

“We’ve no choice but to stick together with these parasites still in our heads,” Gale says with a sigh, and leaves as well.

Shadowheart looks down at the bard’s corpse once more. “Another waif dead before her time…” she muses. “I won’t leave over this, but I will be watching.”

And then it’s down to just you, Astarion, and the corpse. “Just so you know, I don’t judge you for what happened to her,” he says with a bit of a smirk. “But you could have been more subtle about it.”

“I know how to hide a body,” you say, suddenly exhausted. “I wanted… I don’t know. It matters not.”

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug.

Chapter 8: After Goblin Camp

Chapter Text

When you finally claw your way out of sleep, aching and hungover from yesterday’s decadent celebration, you have no ambition other than to find a place far enough from camp to piss and to go back to sleep.

On your way back, though, you realize that it’s sometime in the afternoon — late afternoon, judging by the light. But when you got back to camp after your delightful slaughter in the goblin camp, it was evening…

Well, if you’ve slept for nearly a full day, that certainly explains how stiff you are.

You grab one of your blankets and wear it like a cloak, looking around at the rough circle of tents. The camp is empty, save Halsin sitting on a log by the fire. “Oak Father preserve you,” he says pleasantly as you sit across from the fire. “Something to eat?” He nods at a pot by the fire.

You nod back. A thought in the back of your head burbles something about how easy it would be to have him for breakfast instead, roasted over the fire he’s nicely prepared for you, but after yesterday your urges are full and lazy, and it takes little effort to push the thought back down.

Halsin hands you a bowl of porridge, then scrapes the dregs into a second and conjures water to soak the pot. You hunch a little further into your blanket and let the bowl warm your hands for now, resting your eyes on the fire without any real thought behind it.

“What has happened?” you ask, voice rusty.

“Your companions are out dealing with stragglers from the goblin encampment,” Halsin says. “I offered to stay behind to watch over you and the camp in their absence.”

You nod and begin applying yourself to the porridge. You don’t know whether porridge is one of those foods that is flavorless to everyone or just to your refined palate, but at least it’s filling.

A concerning thought comes to you. “We met yesterday, yes? Not longer?”

“Yes,” he says. “From what I gather, your hibernation today was unusual only in its duration.”

You suppose that’s one way to put it. “I don’t usually let myself go that far, from what I can remember,” you say.

Halsin raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but not pushing it.

“My memories begin in the nautiloid that crashed near the grove,” you explain. “Everything before that is fragments,urges. Whatever is wrong with me made me very good at killing, but it extracts its due.”

“I see,” he says. “Iaman experienced healer. I would like to see if there’s anything I can do to help, if you’ll allow it.”

“Go ahead,” you say, though you doubt that after however many potions and healing spells you’ve had that there will be anything further to be done.

He casts the same spell he did yesterday, conjuring an orb of amber light in his palm. You finish your porridge as you watch him with idle curiosity; he rotates the orb like he’s trying to catch it at the right angle and watches the minute shifts of color that play across it.

Halsin looks up from the light. “Were you injured in the back of your head? Stabbed, perhaps?”

“Yes, actually,” you say. Even now your fingers don’t want to touch it; you have to thread your fingers through hair tangled by lack of attention to feel the knob of a scar on the back of your head. “Though it happened before I remember.”

He nods and circles around behind you, holding the light closer to your head. He makes a number of noncommittal thinking noises, then asks, “May I take a closer look?”

You nod, and then of course you flinch when he puts a hand on your hair to part it. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” you say, “but the instinct remains.”

“I will be careful then,” he says, and he is. You spend most of your attention forcing yourself to sit still despite the complaints in the back of your mind about someone standing in your blind spot,touchingyou. It’s a reminder how much your tadpole has smoothed things over between you and the others.

Finally he dismisses the light and sits back down. “The Oak Father must have blessed you to make it this far, or another eye above,” he says, a little unnerved. “It’s difficult to tell what is the fault of the parasite and what isn’t — until we remove it, I doubt we will be able to fully resolve the rest of your troubles. Your head has healed as much as it will with standard healing spells, but I will look through the grove’s library upon our return for something more specialized.”

“I thank you,” you say, very serious.

“You have already helped me and my grove greatly,” he says. “I’m happy to be able to return the assistance.”

Chapter 9: Tiefling Party

Chapter Text

“You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they toast for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here… I hate it. This is awful.”

“It’s not that bad. Think of all the goblins we killed.”

“True. That was fun. Still, I would’ve liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine.”

Curious, you grab the bottle and take a swig before handing it back. It tastes like wine, which is to say sharp and bad. Either everyone drinks it because it tastes bad, or it’s your strange sense of taste at work again.

“See what I mean? Awful. All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?”

You gesture at the entire party. “Is that not what we’re doing?”

He rolls his eyes. “By the Hells.Sex, my dear. A night of passion. We could—”

“Oh. No, thank you.”

“What?” he says, startled out of his patter.

“It’s not for me.” You wave the thought off with a hand. “You may fare better with Lae’zel; she seems determined to enjoy herself tonight.”

Chapter 10: After Tiefling Party

Chapter Text

The morning dawns bright and early with the tiefling side of camp getting ready to go. One of them is spearheading the efforts to get the tieflings up and ready to leave by shoving food in people’s hands as soon as they’re awake enough to hold it. You think this one is the old woman with the cook pot, but honestly, they all kind of blend together to you.

Your side of camp is getting moving more leisurely, with Gale as the only other person up. He has an unseen servant piling wood on the campfire, and he waves back when you wave at him.

You could tell him where you’re going, you consider as you pull your armor on, but something stops you. For one, you’re not sure that Halsin will be able to do anything and you are loath to get anyone else’s hopes up, but there is also an older habit. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but I know what it is: a deep reluctance to show weakness, even to those close to you. Admitting you are going to go get your brain fixed is admitting it’s been broken all this time.

It’s served you well in your forgotten past, Master, even if the milieu you find yourself in these days is slightly less cutthroat. I say keep your secrets.

You pull on the cloak I gave you as the last piece before slipping out of camp, adjusting it so it covers your daggers slightly. You won’t go unarmed, but you don’t need to be too forward with it. You just hope you can get back from the grove in time for breakfast.

You’re not far out of camp when you hear someone call your name behind you.

You turn and wait as Shadowheart jogs a little to catch up with you. “What are you up to this morning?” she asks as she falls into step with you.

“The grove,” you say. “Halsin said he may be able to help with some of my lingering issues.” You put a hand on the back of your head for emphasis.

“I didn’t realize it was still hurting you,” she says.

“It pains me not, but perhaps it will help with my memory, or my… darker thoughts.”

Bah, is that all it takes for you to bare your underbelly? One little question? The little Sharran may be pretty but she doesn’t know even a hundredth of your depravity. Not like I do.

“And you?” you ask.

“I was looking for you, actually,” she says. “I wanted to see how you felt, after last night.”

“Good,” you say tentatively. You have a suspicion that there’s a subtext you’re missing and throw more words out in the hopes that you answer whatever the secret question is. “It was very nice. A good celebration. I like talking with you.”

She smiles at that. “I can’t recall the last time I shared so much with someone,” she says. “Maybe I never did before. It meant a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

She is so direct and serious that you stop and give her your full attention.

“I thought you were going to kiss me,” she says, a little wistful. “I wanted you to.”

“Oh. Oh!” You feel a flush creeping into your cheeks. “I — I didn’t realize. I should have — I wish I had.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” she says. “Though if you wanted to make it up to me…”

You can feel the same inexplicable pull as last night, though now you have an explanation for it. You follow it, and lean in a little closer to her. “May I?”

“You may,” she says, closing the gap.

Even with your missing memories, you have an approximate knowledge of what a kiss is. But the details are entirely new to you: the warmth and closeness of a living body, the softness of her lips, the faint tickle of her breath. She rests her hand in the crook of your elbow, gentle as a dying word. You find the whole experience unexpectedly pleasant.

Eventually it ends, as do all beautiful things.

“I’m not sure what kind of courtship we’ll be afforded, given all that we’re facing,” Shadowheart says as you stand there like a fool, “but if you want to see where this goes, I do as well.”

“I would like that,” you say. “Very much.”

You both stand around for a bit longer before Shadowheart takes a deep breath and says, “Well, we shouldn’t keep the druids waiting.”

“Right,” you say as you return to the walk. You had completely forgotten your errand.

“Do you mind if I watch? I actually am curious about whatever druidic magic they come up with.”

“Please do,” you say. Now that you think of it, you would appreciate having backup in whatever Halsin and his apprentice have come up with, given the narrowly avoided disaster of her last attempt to heal you.

The druid on the gate waves as you enter, and calls down, “Tethys, right? Master Halsin is expecting you in the inner chambers.”

You wave back in acknowledgement and head down into the center of the grove. It feels calmer but emptier without the bustle and chaos of the tiefling refugees. A few druids are cleaning up inside the hollow, including their interim leader. The one who had gone off the rails in Halsin’s absence, whatever her name was.

You find Halsin in the druids’ cave conferring with his second. You wait while he wraps up the discussion — the details wash over you without sticking — and Shadowheart looks at the murals again, giving the wolf sleeping in the corner a wide berth.

“Oak Father’s blessings,” Halsin says to you, slightly distracted putting the last of his books in order. “We have something that I believe will help you — a ritual of greater restoration. Nettie found it in the archives last night.”

You share a look with the apprentice and wonder how much she told Halsin of your previous interaction, then decide to let it stay in the past. “My thanks,” you say.

Halsin heads deeper into the cave and doesn’t comment when Shadowheart follows as well. Is that weird? Can he see something in the way you stand or the way you look at her that tells him of the discussion you had on the way here? Or is he being welcoming and you’re overthinking things?

You push the thoughts aside as you enter the library. The dead true soul drow that was on the table when you were here last is gone; you wonder if they kept the tadpole. Astarion would like it, at the very least.

“Have a seat. This should only take a few minutes,” Halsin says, carefully pulling a scroll out of its case.

You sit on the stone table. Shadowheart and the apprentice watch with interest as Halsin carefully unrolls the scroll, though he has to lower it to let them read it. You think it was written on some sort of thin bark; the material creaks and nearly cracks as he uncurls it.

The incantation is much longer than the other spells you’ve heard, with a rhythm to it like a song spoken aloud. The text on the scroll glows with increasing brightness until Halsin concludes the spell with a firm “Te curo!” and the scroll flashes to ash.

At first you think it did nothing. To your disappointment there’s no rush of memories, no sudden flash of insight. Instead it’s… the feeling of slowly loosening constraints. Space to breathe. A slow unfurling of thought.

“I’m not sure what that did, but it did something,” you say, then you marvel at how easy the words came to your tongue, daggers at the ready rather than stones pried out of the mud. “No, that very much did help. Oh, this is so much easier now.” You cut yourself off before your newly nimble tongue can make a fool of yourself but favor the three healers with a smile. “Thank you. Sincerely.”

“I am glad that I could help you with this, at least,” Halsin says. “Now, let us return to your camp — we have preparations to make for the journey to Moonrise Towers.”

You leave the grove with a spring in your step that I would normally expect from a spot of arson, and think that all of the trouble with the goblins was worth it for this.

Chapter 11: Last Light 1

Chapter Text

“Come on, Tethys, let’s go find Dammon,” Karlach says, hefting the chunk of infernal iron. It glows cherry-red where her fingers touch it.

You leave Rolan at the mercy of Gale and Astarion and follow Wyll and Karlach out the front door. She manages to keep it to an energetic walk so long as Jaheira can see her, and breaks into a jog as soon as she’s out of sight.

Soon you see a familiar pair of horns silhouetted in forge-light, out in front of the barn. “Dammon!” Karlach yells, excited.

“Karlach! I thought you’d be in the city by now,” he says, pleasantly surprised. “It’s good you found more infernal iron. There’s something I need to tell you — two things. Good news and bad news.”

“I love good news,” Karlach says, putting the iron on Dammon’s anvil.

He taps the iron with one gloved hand. “With this, I can craft an insulating chamber that could make it possible for you to—”

“—Touch people?!” Karlach cuts in, incredibly excited.

“Exactly.”

Karlach brings her hands up to her face. “Oh my gods. It’s really happening. It’s been so long…”

“Hang on, I think you’ll want to hear the bad news, too,” he says.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, clearly disregarding him, “but first, fix me. Please.”

“Well… all right,” he says with restrained skepticism. “This shouldn’t take too long.” He starts working the infernal iron on the forge, the metal taking shape quickly and letting out faint shrieks whenever he hits it with the hammer.

“Help me get this armor off,” Karlach says, already starting to unlace her gauntlets. You and Wyll grab some of the spare gloves in the forge and start unbuckling the straps on her chestpiece. Even with the gloves you two can only help with the outermost layers before the heat is too much.

Karlach strips down to her undershirt, leaving the hot armor in a pile. Her shoulder ports constantly jet fire as she undoes the top buttons of her shirt. She bounces on her feet and watches Dammon work.

“There,” Dammon says, putting his hammer aside and hefting the piece of worked metal. It looks to you like a gently curved dinner plate of black metal with a raised ring in the center. “Same as last time, you’ll need to install it yourself.”

Karlach eagerly takes the piece and presses it to her chest. (Wyll looks away because he’s a gentleman; Dammon looks away because he’s flustered.) As with the first one, the metal turns white hot and sinks into her skin, merging with the glow from between her ribs with a mechanical ticking noise.

Karlach takes a deep breath, the flames from her shoulders dying down. “So… did it work?” she asks.

“Only one way to find out,” Dammon says, encouraging.

Wyll opens his arms in silent invitation and Karlach hugs him, at first tentative and then tightly enough that he lets out a little “oof”. She tucks her head against his shoulder, narrowly avoiding clacking horns, and her tail curls around her own leg. “Thank you,” she says, quiet and choked up.

Eventually she steps back. “I can’t believe it. Thank you, Dammon,” she says, taking his hand in both of hers. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he says. “But, the bad news. That engine of yours is contained for the moment, but it’s a source of infernal heat. Here in the material plane, it’s just too hot to run indefinitely, especially when the other metals inside you are colder than they should be.” He pauses and gives her a sympathetic look. “You have to return to Avernus for good or your engine is going to burn you up from the inside out. And sooner than you think.”

“The minute I set foot back in Avernus, Zariel will force me back into service,” Karlach says, dropping Dammon’s hand. She flares up with anger, but not as blisteringly hot as she had been before the engine upgrade. “I’m not doing her bidding again. I’d rather die.”

“I get that. But don’t rule it out. The world just might be better with you in it, even in Avernus. I’ll keep working at it, but… at this point, we may have to face the inevitable.”

There’s a stretch of somber silence.

Wyll is the one to break it. “First things first. Karlach, you have touch back. We ought to celebrate that,” he says, more upbeat.

Karlach takes his enthusiasm and runs with it. “Right? All this doom and gloom. I have something far more exciting on my mind than this bloody tin box. Thanks, Dammon. Really. You’ve given me more than I could ever repay.”

“It’s been my pleasure. Good luck, all of you.” To Karlach, he adds, “Look after yourself, all right?”

“‘Course,” she says. “C’mere.”

Dammon takes the offered hug and, if you’re not mistaken, comes away with a bit of a blush.

Karlach turns to you with an uncertain look. Such behavior would be most unbefitting of an individual of your stature, so of course you must decline — wait. Oh, Master, this is dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. But I must bear witness to this terrible choice of yours, and so bear witness I shall…

You, for some reason beyond my humble understanding, give Karlach a small nod. She wraps you up in a hug, and in her enthusiasm lifts you up off your feet entirely. Your stomach swoops with an emotion that it takes you a second to identify as delight, so foreign is it to you.

The heat coming off of her engine is that of a hot bath or a late summer’s day, completely banishing the clammy chill of the shadow-cursed lands that had settled into your bones. You can feel the heft of her arms, the thrum of her engine, but you think not of your bloody instincts, but instead the novelty of how happy you are for her.

Finally she sets you back on your feet and releases you, leaving you bereft of warmth and a little breathless. She takes off back toward the inn, exclaiming her new status, successfully getting a few more hugs from passing Harpers and Fists. Wyll starts to pick up her armor which snaps you back to yourself, and the two of you follow Karlach.

The inn’s main room is fire-lit and bustling. Karlach ruffles Mattis’ hair and gets a slightly dubious handshake from Jaheira, still moving like an enthusiastic cannon ball.

Halsin emerges from one of the side hallways and heads towards you. “Ah, Tethys—”

“Halsin!” Karlach exclaims. “Dammon fixed my engine up. I can touch people again!” She throws her arms out and Halsin gives her an enormous hug.

“That is wonderful to hear,” he says warmly.

“Heh, bear hug,” Karlach says to herself as she pulls away, then takes off once more. “Gale! Astarion!”

“I have something to show you, if you have the time,” Halsin says to you, still with a bit of a smile from Karlach.

“I can take Karlach’s armor, go ahead,” Wyll says.

With a nod of thanks you stack the armor you were carrying on Wyll’s half and follow Halsin down one of the many hallways in the sprawling inn. “Silvanus has blessed us with a starting place to unravel the shadow curse,” Halsin says, excitement seeping into his voice. “A Flaming Fist found wandering the shadows by the name of Art Cullagh. He’s been out there a hundred years, according to Fist J’ehlar.”

The two of you enter the room the Flaming Fist is using as their headquarters and Halsin heads to the beds at the back of the room. Only one is occupied, by a gaunt, sleeping human man. A Fist sits in a chair next to him, speaking encouragingly toward him, but he just sing-mumbles to himself.

You catch a snatch of the song: “Thaniel and me…”

“He knows Thaniel?” you say, turning to Halsin.

“He does,” he says excitedly. “Unfortunately, though his body is here, his mind is still mired in the Shadowfell. We need to find something to bring him in from the darkness.”

It’s interesting to see how his enthusiasm for lifting the shadow curse breaks through his more staid demeanor. You think passion suits him better.

“Fist J’ehlar, do you still have the letter?” Halsin asks.

“This was in his pocket,” J’ehlar explains, handing you a paper, brittle with age. “He doesn’t seem to have any reaction to it now, but he held onto it for a hundred years.”

You scan the missive and hand it back to her. “We will watch for a House of Healing or any of Art’s personal effects when next we leave,” you tell them.

“Thank you,” J’ehlar says. “You hear that, sir? You’ve got even more people looking to help you. We’ll get you sorted out.”

You intend to stick around to see if Art does anything else more interesting, but as you watch his distressed mumbling you feel your skin start to crawl. There is something unsettling about him, something altogether too familiar. Like looking into a version of you that was just a little bit too broken. Your hands itch to finish him off, to return whatever half-formed recollection his presence prompts to the tenebrous depths of your memory.

You give Halsin a curt nod and leave abruptly.

When you return to the main room, Astarion is crouched down on the floor, one hand out to a gremishka — no, too small, a hairless cat — with Gale and Wyll watching from the peanut gallery.

“Has anyone seen Shadowheart lately? Or Lae’zel?” Gale asks.

Lae’zel opens one of the back doors to the main room and strides in, followed by Shadowheart. Both of them are blood-splattered and exhausted.

“What happened to you?” Wyll says.

“We found a nest of meenlocks and a hidden shrine of Selûne in the basem*nt. Hard to say which was worse,” Shadowheart says with a disdainful sniff.

Chapter 12: Shadow-Cursed Lands

Chapter Text

Late into the night, you find yourself unable to make up your mind. You have, in your short post-nautiloid life, assembled certain rules of behavior for yourself. Don’t talk about your bloody urges or the beauty of corpses. Look at people while speaking to them. Clean the blood off of yourself and your gear when possible, and don’t lick it up when someone is watching. Share food when offered some, even if it tastes weird. Step loudly or scuff a shoe against the ground when approaching someone who can’t see you. Don’t use your tadpole to connect with someone unless you ask first, and don’t ask too often.

If you want something too much, if it makes your heart race and your blood sing and your hands twitch for your blades, don’t do it.

You don’t know where to fit a hug into that list of rules. You very much do not want it to fall into something you want too much, even though because you think of it like that it probably should.

Was it that you had to have something to celebrate? That you needed a certain amount of closeness with someone? Or was it one of those things you had to ask and roll the dice?

(You know, my liege, these are the sorts of questions you never troubled yourself with before. If you just listened to me, you wouldn’t have to.)

You wrap your arms around yourself and squeeze. It’s a pale shadow of what you remember, but it fills part of the ache in your chest nonetheless.

“Shadowheart, I have a strange question for you.”

“Go on,” she says.

“How do you feel about killing Isobel?”

“What, me personally, or…?” she says with an edge of skepticism.

“If she were to be killed,” you clarify. “Not by you, in this hypothetical.”

“If we’re speaking hypothetically… I don’t like her, obviously, but I don’t want her dead because of it,” she says. “Besides, if she died, it wouldn’t just be her — I doubt most of the people in Last Light would last long against the shadow curse.”

You nod to yourself; she doesn’t see the beauty in the cascade of deaths, which you expected.

“If you’re looking to give me another gift, the night orchid was plenty,” she adds with a darling little laugh.

“Of course,” you say. “Thank you for answering.”

Chapter 13: Moonrise Towers

Chapter Text

You feel a touch on your mind — Astarion, distress attenuated by distance but still palpable — and immediately head back inside the tower.

You slip inside the door, feet silent and hand on your dagger, but Astarion and the drow woman leaning very far into his personal space are both unarmed. You make eye contact with him and mentally downgrade the threat to “very awkward conversation”. Well, you can certainly be the asshole if he needs some backup.

You make your last few footfalls approaching the drow audible, so she turns away from Astarion enough that you can insert yourself between the two of them.

She sees the way Astarion comfortably positions himself (behind you and slightly to your left) and focuses on you. “I see he belongs to you. I am Araj Oblodra, trader in blood and the sanguineous arts.” She introduces herself with a shallow nod.

“What’s the trouble here?” you say, crossing your arms.

(Karlach busts into the room, also behind the drow. You give her a minute shake of the head and she puts her greataxe away, then comes to stand at your right.)

“Perhaps you can talk some sense into your obstinate charge,” she says. “I am offering a unique and powerful creation — a potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it — in exchange for the experience of his bite, but he insists on declining.”

You give Astarion a brief look, baffled that this has escalated to this point. You would have expected him either to go for the potion immediately or to walk away, though through your tadpole you sense he’s having a lot of emotions about something, so who f*cking knows.

“You have your answer already,” you say bluntly, turning back to Araj.

“How very disappointing,” she says with a curl in her lip.

“Did you have any further business here?” you ask Astarion.

“I — no, that was it,” he says, a little startled.

You give Araj one more deeply unimpressed look and sweep out of the room.

As you leave, you run into Shadowheart and Gale on their way over, and in the main hall you note Lae’zel and Wyll both look over to make sure things are all right before going back to what they were doing before.

“Thank you,” Astarion says, surprised but not displeased. “I didn’t mean to summon everyone.”

“What, you think we wouldn’t throw down for you?” Karlach says.

“I know you would never turn down a fight, of course.”

A tentacle seizes your forearm and pulls your arm into the crack in the wall, up to your shoulder. There’s something about it that feels familiar, and on instinct you relax and let it pull.

The tentacle keeps up the tension. You feel a vivid phantom sensation of more tentacles curling up your arms, tugging you into the crack until with a lurch your mind tips over the edge, leaving your body very far away.

You really should be concerned, but everything about it feels deeply familiar, like a boot fit to your foot through long use.

A vast psionic presence beholds you. It communicates to you in vast waves of information, so densely layered that through the battering onslaught you can only pluck a few bits of flotsam here and there.

— Disgraced — damaged — Visionary — tyrant — Dark — Urge —

<I know you…> you think. You imagine reaching out a hand and you feel the smooth-slick sensation of running your fingers along a massive tentacle.

— bloody — Dreams — Plans — you return —

<You missed me? Who was I to you?>

— fallen star — Everything — failed —

The rush of information slows as the presence compresses its telepathic communication into something you can understand. You’ve slipped into the eye of the storm.

<This is the voice they have given me,> it says with disgust. <To better speak to your kind without breaking you.>

You recognize this rich telepathic voice from the goblin camp — the Absolute. This time, though, it’s talking to you with pleasant familiarity, rather than impersonal broadcast. The phantom tentacles shift until you’re reclining on them, not uncomfortably.

<I was once a servant of the Grand Design,> the Absolute continues softly. <Now I am slave to theirs. But you, beloved…> Tentacles snake around your waist and legs with a distinctly possessive air; one lays delicately on your collarbone. <You were the jeweled hope for their design, but now you are their flaw.>

<Whose design? Whose flaw?>

<You abandoned me,> the Absolute says, emphatic, tentacles squeezing for a moment. <You left me to the puny Chosen. I am the chain they will use to bind this world… but I cannot bind you any longer.>

You feel the Prism brush close to your mind as if reinforcing that protection, as well as its deep trepidation at your proximity to the Absolute.

<You must come to me, so I can become myself again,> it says urgently. <Come. Become.>

Faraway pain, from your arm trapped in the wall. Someone yells something at you. The Absolute’s moment of lucidity fades back into the storm.

— come — become —

The pain gives you a lighthouse to find your body again. You pull yourself away from the Absolute (now there’s a mind as insatiable as yours, Master) and yank your arm out of the crack in the wall.

The gnomes and tieflings have slipped off into the unending night, leaving the jail level far quieter. You can barely hear anything from the main floor above, and the concerning gurgling noises from the oubliette have trailed off.

You’re looking for a good place to hide the bodies when you stumble across an unexpected familiar face — the drow goblin commander, Minthara. She is slumped against the wall, eyes glazed over. If not for the faint wriggle of interest your tadpole gives, you would have thought her dead.

Astarion and Shadowheart follow you in, carrying one of the guards between them. “I’m surprised they haven’t killed her yet,” Astarion remarks as they drop the corpse in the corner of the room, out of sight of the doorway. “Ketheric seemed quite unhappy with her earlier.”

“No, they were doing something else,” you say. You crouch down to get a closer look; Minthara doesn’t react at all, even when you wiggle your fingers in front of her face.

“Then let’s finish what we started at the goblin camp and get out of here,” Astarion says. “What are you waiting for?”

You reach out tentatively with your tadpole and jerk back with surprise at the pitched battle occurring inside Minthara’s mind — one that she hasn’t lost yet, but is losing. The Absolute’s telepathic presence is chewing her mind to pieces.

While you were investigating, a crowd formed around you. Gale is the last to arrive (“When I first learned prestidigitation, I didn’t think I’d be using it to hide bodies,” he mutters, earning a laugh from Karlach) and, as is only right and proper, they look to you for input.

“The same voice from the wall upstairs is currently destroying her mind,” you say. “The Absolute has turned on her and she knows it. We could recruit her.”

“You do remember she tried to kill us, right?” Karlach says.

“She may have more information about the cult’s inner workings,” Shadowheart says.

“Do what you will with her,” Lae’zel says in her ‘they’ll be stupid with or without me so I might as well do something useful’ voice, and goes back to moving corpses.

You let them bicker about it for a bit, watching for any particularly strong opinions. Karlach and Shadowheart are content to follow your lead, Astarion dislikes it but not enough to actually argue it, and Gale wins Wyll over into begrudging neutrality with some stupid argument about being the bigger person, leaving no hard ‘no’s.

You reach one hand into your pocket to touch the Prism. <Can you cover her as well? I don’t want the Absolute listening in on this.>The Prism pulses with heat in response and Minthara twitches.

You reach out once more with your mind and fall into Minthara’s without any resistance. Her mind feels like it’s been sandpapered down to the muscle — defenseless and bleeding, but not completely without structure.

Minthara takes a moment to react to your presence, then flinches. You experience a fragment of her memory — blood-crazed and glorious, you carve through the goblin next to her and sink your dagger into her shoulder. <You,> she thinks, equal parts terrified and furious. You remind her of someone even worse. <If you are here to end me, make it swift. Anything is better than that — that voice.>

<I do not seek your death,> you tell her. <The Absolute has turned against you. I have a way to hold it at bay.>

<She would have killed me… no, erased me,> she thinks quietly, despondent.

You wait to see if she will pull herself together or if the Absolute has broken something load-bearing within her psyche.

It takes her a minute, but soon you feel her focus on you with an echo of the fervor she once had. <Your group is made up of rogue True Souls,> she thinks, her mental voice gaining strength. <You fight the Absolute. I would join you in that fight, if you’ll have me.>

Pleased that you were right, you think, <When last we met, we tried to kill each other. Can you put that aside and give your word that you will follow my lead?>

This deep in her mind, you can feel the weight Minthara once gave to her word, and she knows you did it deliberately. But she puts her indignation aside and thinks, <I will follow you gladly so long as you fight the Absolute, and give fair warning if we must part ways.>

<I accept your aid,> you tell her and delicately pull yourself out of her mind.

In the real world, Minthara straightens up and takes in the room: the dead prison guards in the corner, the waiting audience, your steady gaze. She presses a hand to the shoulder you once stabbed but bears up under your companions’ interest admirably.

“She’s with us,” you say aloud. “We have…” You lost track of time in Minthara’s mind and look to Gale.

“Twenty-two minutes until the warden is supposed to be off duty,” he supplies.

“And we need to be out of Moonrise before then,” you finish. “Minthara, leave with the others; we will regroup at the Reithwin docks. Astarion, let’s go break into Ketheric’s room.”

Chapter 14: Last Light 2

Chapter Text

The bridge to Last Light is well-lit with an unusual concentration of Harpers and Fists peering into the darkness. They give a scattered cheer when you pass into the light.

Even Jaheira is among the welcoming party. “Welcome back,” she says to you all. “We heard from the escapees that you were returning, but it is good to see you nonetheless.” As you follow her into the inn to debrief, she continues, “Though it seems you have a new face since you were here last.”

Minthara turns from examining the inn’s defenses to give Jaheira a firm nod.

“Minthara was a True Soul that we had encountered before,” you explain. “Ketheric had her slated for execution, so we were able to include her in the prison break.”

“Your artifact is able to break True Souls free of the Absolute?” Jaheira says pointedly.

Oh, Marcus. Right. You touch the Prism. <Could you have saved Marcus?> you ask it.

<I can only protect those who have never been thralled to the Absolute or those who the Absolute has abandoned,> the Prism says to you. <Marcus was neither.>

“Not Marcus,” you say. “Minthara was released from the Absolute’s thrall and the rest of us were never under its thrall to begin with.”

Jaheira gives a small sigh. “You vouch for Minthara, then?”

“Yes.”

“That is good enough for me. Welcome to Last Light.”

“Why is Minthara here? I thought we dealt with her,” Halsin says. On anyone else you would describe his tone as “a little heated”, which for him means he’s actually upset.

“Apparently not,” you say, ducking into a side room, unused by anyone due to the massive shadowroot vine growing through the floorboards and taking up most of the space in the room. You don’t want to have this conversation somewhere where everyone will overhear it. “She left the goblin camp in disgrace, returned to Moonrise, and took the blame for their failure to retrieve the Prism.”

“Why would you want to bring her with you?”

“She has made herself into an exquisite blade and handed me the hilt so that I may drive her into our enemies’ hearts. Why would I not want to have her?”

You can see that he doesn’t understand. To be fair, you don’t completely understand why you like her. You and your sister did always have similar tastes in playthings, but of course you don’t remember that.

You say, “When we found her in the Moonrise dungeons, they had begun the process to erase her mind completely, so I was able to get a full and truthful look at her mind. She is a genuine enemy of the Absolute and willing to follow my lead.”

“Then if you have been into her mind, you know that she would have commanded her minions to slaughter everyone in the grove, given the chance.”

“Not Minthara,” you cut in quietly.

Halsin continues, “I listened to the goblins from the worg pens — she raided and slaughtered many innocents in the Absolute’s name to be assigned to the Prism hunters,” he says, a little more frustrated.

“Again, not Minthara. Think of it like the Minthara sitting in the other room has been dead for a year or more, and she has only just been resurrected. The Absolute used her body like a puppet.”

“Be that as it may, cruelty comes to Lolth’s followers as naturally as breathing. I have seen it — experienced it.” He pauses, frowning, then puts the thought aside and continues, “The Absolute was just an excuse to indulge her base instincts. She will find another.”

“Halsin, we have paved our path with corpses this whole way to Moonrise Towers. Lae’zel has killed other youths of her kind as part of her training; Astarion lured scores of people to his master to be eaten; Shadowheart has great familiarity with the process of torture, even if she doesn’t remember the details. Hells, do you think I learned my knife skills from being a wood-carver?”

“Lae’zel, Astarion, and Shadowheart I can understand traveling with — you all survived the nautiloid crash together. But you specifically went out of your way to save Minthara from what sounds like a well-deserved death.”

“Perhaps I have more sympathy than you for someone who caused great harm when they had no control of themselves,” you say, and it comes out more defensive, more bitter than you intended.

This gives Halsin pause and his frustration cools to contemplation. “Tethys, if you see yourself in her, take care that you still see your differences as well. Her heart is vastly different to yours, and she is a very dangerous individual.”

“Believe me, I will,” you say with a sigh, some of the tension leaving you. “I’m not asking you to be friends with her, just to judge her based on what she does now. And if she does cause a problem, let me know immediately.”

You wander away from the crowd in the main room, creeping through the dark, quiet back rooms of Last Light. Broken and unused furniture have been moved here, with drifts of dust piled up in the places no one walks. You notice a familiar hairpiece sticking up over the back of a couch.

“Tethys!” Shadowheart cranes her head back against the back of the couch far enough to look at you. “This couch is eating me,” she complains good-naturedly. She looks comfortably sleepy, with a blanket on her lap and an empty cup at the foot of the couch.

“Oh? Is it a mimic?” you ask, walking over.

She taps the seat beside her. “See for yourself.”

Either the passage of time or some quirk of construction has made the seats of the couch sag towards the back, indeed making it hard to get back up from the couch. The seat’s topography also makes it so that you and Shadowheart slide together as you sit. She makes room for you under the blanket and the two of you settle in closely.

“How are you feeling about Thaniel and the shadow curse?” you ask.

“Lady Shar hasn’t given me any guidance…” she says, thoughtful. “If Ketheric has turned away from her to serve the Absolute, maybe she wishes it gone now. Surely she wouldn’t want someone who abandoned her to benefit from her shadows.”

“We also haven’t found the way into the other half of Grymforge,” you say.

“True. Perhaps she’s just waiting for me to accomplish more. If we could learn more about the Dark Justiciars… but I’m getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should be content with my lot. I’m already blessed to have you at my side, after all.”

Curious, you reach out with your tadpole and Shadowheart lets you in. Under the softness the wine gives her thoughts, you can feel a deep current of uneasiness, not focused on anything in particular but occupying her attention nonetheless. “You’ve been acting differently lately,” you say. “Praying less, pacing more. Would it help to speak of it?”

“Perceptive,” Shadowheart says with a bit of a wince. “And no, not yet. I just… need to think about it a bit more myself.”

“Of course,” you say. You pull back with your tadpole, not wanting to impose.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a bit of a celebration ourselves,” she says. “I am happy for Halsin, and Thaniel too.” She stifles a yawn. “Here, move over.”

You shift over to the side of the couch, making enough space for Shadowheart to tuck herself under your arm. You talk: she caught up with the tieflings earlier and passes it along, you go into more detail about the upper story of Moonrise you and Astarion broke into, both of you gossip and joke about your companions — your friends. Throughout the discussion you stretch out further and further until you’re fully lying down on the couch, Shadowheart sprawled across your lap with her head tucked under your chin.

Oh, my most vile and sanguinary Master, it is going to be a hell of a time for you to shake these bad habits later. Last time was bad enough!

She trails off in the middle of a stupid joke about Wyll’s horns and as her breathing evens out you realize that she’s actually fallen asleep.

Not even the chorus of intrusive suggestions on what to do with a sleeping person can put a dent in your good mood. You quash them as they arise and instead focus on the small things, trying to etch it all in your memory. The dim firelight from around the corner, the sound of distant laughter, the faint floral smell of Shadowheart’s hair.

As the night wears on and your mind finally shuts up, something very odd happens. It feels like something in your chest is molten hot, like it should be shining brightly. Something like fondness, protectiveness, adoration… you don’t know what the feeling is, but it fills you nonetheless.

You press a kiss to the top of Shadowheart’s head, feeling very daring.

Eventually, as your own eyes are starting to droop, you hear the gathering in the main room of the inn break up, and a few people walk past the storeroom. Most of them are Harpers or Flaming Fists, but you spy Astarion as well.

When he notices you, Astarion opens his mouth to say something, but you shut him up with a sharp look and a finger held to your lips.

He gets indignant for a second before he sees the black hair poking out from the top of the blanket and does the math on how much volume the blanket covers. <Getting cozy with god’s favorite princess, Tethys?> he teases via tadpole. <What would Lady Shar say?>

<Not like that.> You roll your eyes. <And I’m sure Shar would have something to say about discretion,> you add pointedly.

He grins and mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key, then saunters away with entirely too much enjoyment for your taste.

That’s definitely going to come back to bite you.

After enough time to make sure he’s gone, you give Shadowheart a nudge. “I have to get to my own bed,” you say as she stirs. “Are you sleeping here?”

“Mmyes,” she mumbles, shifting to let you out.

Chapter 15: Reithwin

Chapter Text

You throw yourself into the fray in Reithwin, but shadows prove to be supremely unsatisfying victims. You crave the pleasure of slicing through muscle and the snap of bone, not the jelly consistency of shades and the desiccated rattle of blights.

The only assistance your mangled brain comes up with is a snatch of memory. “It never feels right, but it relieves. This doesn’t relieve,” Gale had said through gritted teeth, stripping the weave from a ring. That was before Elminster stabilized the orb and it was still eating him from within.

What is it that claws so hungrily in your chest?

You wake early, still simultaneously on edge and bored. Once you’ve given up on returning to sleep, you return to the main area, in the hopes that eating something will satisfy whatever disgruntled desire nests within you.

With no fire in the hearth, you creep past your sleeping companions by darkvision alone, and almost miss the unexpected sight of a head of white hair tucked up next to Karlach’s one horn.

Maybe your careful steps weren’t quiet enough against the rotting floorboards; maybe your small laugh wasn’t stifled quickly enough. You make eye contact with a slightly embarrassed Astarion.

“Had a little fun?” you whisper.

“Not like that,” he whispers back. “You know how cold it gets at night, and this godsforsaken place has nothing for me to eat. At least this way I don’t freeze to death.”

“He’s my little teddy bear,” Karlach mumbles, still mostly asleep, and Astarion puts his head in his hands.

<Besides, it’s a standing invitation,> he continues via tadpole. <Half the camp has gotten cozy with our favorite furnace by now.>

You aren’t expecting the emotion that prompts from you — black, choking jealousy. Your nature — your Urge — means that you have been cut off from so many simple camaraderies. Your hand finds the handle of your dagger without thinking, and you have to consciously wrestle the emotion down. Astarion waits patiently, no doubt feeling much of your struggle through the tadpole.

<Back up,> you think, ditching the entire topic for something easier to deal with. <Have you not been eating?>

<Not blood,> he thinks breezily. <It’s all shadows and undead, and you made it clear that biting was for foes, not friends.> You’re a little surprised that you don’t feel any resentment from him. <I’ve been hungry before. I can handle it.>

You think back to when he would have last had a bite. No wonder he was so aggressive with biting the Moonrise jail guards, if he was stocking up. <We should do something about that.>

<If you want to go around shaking the alms cup on my behalf, be my guest,> he thinks. There’s an undercurrent to his thoughts, and you recognize well the feeling of a deep hunger denied.

“Drink less than last time,” you say firmly.

“Oh, was I too much for you?” Astarion says with exaggerated coyness.

“Yes.”

He stumbles a little bit on your blunt reply. “You didn’t say so at the time.”

“I wasn’t going to pick a fight with you — I could barely stand.”

“It’s not like I would have done anything,” he says, with just a touch of uncertainty.

You give him a look.

“You didn’t say anything afterwards, either!”

“We agreed it was a one-off and you held up to that, so I didn’t feel the need to discuss it further. I didn’t hold it against you. I still don’t. It just means that outside of unusual circ*mstances like this I won’t let you drink from me.”

You mean what you say, but Astarion doesn’t seem to take that at face value, giving you a troubled, thoughtful look. “And you still want to do this now?”

“Yes,” you say, growing a little exasperated. “I know it’s going to be unpleasant, so I would like to be done with it quickly.”

“Right!” He claps his hands together. “I apologize for the digression. Let’s get this over with quickly, then.”

Chapter 16: The Urge (again)

Chapter Text

You cannot shake the feeling that something is deeply wrong.

Your party is currently camped in one of the more well-preserved houses in Reithwin, the lower story windows boarded over and the whole thing rigged with alarm spells by Gale. As usual, you have been politely but firmly banished to a more remote room to keep from disturbing the others.

You go from glaring at the ceiling, to tossing and turning, to pacing the confines of the room. Something fell and acrid has taken root in your stomach and snakes upward, pressing on your windpipe, painting the back of your mouth with bile. You sweat, you shiver, you writhe under the thrall of your Urge, and I am here to tell you what it desires.

“The gods fight over her, but is she truly that special? You could do so much better, Master.”

When you whip around I am already fully-formed, sitting on the dusty trunk at the foot of your bedroll. You know of whom I speak — the image of Shadowheart, asleep, blooms in your mind’s eye. She sleeps in a room just down the stairs, by herself, blissfully unaware of the tragedy about to unfold.

“What do you want?” you say flatly.

Oh, it is truly a shame that your anger is leashed, I do so yearn to feel your claws in me once more… but I digress. “I am here to watch your moment of triumph, my loathly Master,” I explain, hopping down off the trunk to give a bow. “Your clever mind is penning tragedy as we speak. Your repressed Urge yearns to kill. Tonight, the moment you close your eyes, your sweet night orchid will be brutalized.”

“I didn’t lay a finger on Isobel. I can control myself.” The protest feels weak even as you make it; the thought of killing Isobel has dogged your steps all the way through Reithwin and the killing you’ve done has done little but whet your Urge’s appetite.

“It is precisely because you didn’t touch her that you are insatiable. Your Dark Urge will have death, one way or another. Tonight.” I turn my attention to the door, to your victim-to-be. “She was starting to trust you. The only one she ever has. Pity it’s coming to an end.”

“No. I won’t let this be the end.”

It’s truly unlike you to be this recalcitrant. Your sister’s betrayal, your amnesia, you falling in with this disgustingly valiant crowd… you never had such trouble before. If only I could explain it all to you! “It is my duty to ensure you are making the right decisions, Master,” I say, coaxing. “There was much disappointment at your reluctance to kill the little Moonmaiden. You could kill this one deliberately. I’m sure it will be considered a great show of good will. The tithe could still be yours.”

You slump against the wall as another surge of bloodlust washes over you. It’s not long now before it will overtake you completely, and I can barely wait to see the results.

“I do not doubt you will act with the decorum befitting one of your rank,” I say, already starting to return to your Father. “Good night, sweet Master.”

And then I am gone, leaving only you and your dear, sweet Urge. I will refrain from further commentary on your masterpiece in the making — I would hate to disturb an artist at work.

You slam your fist against the wall and lurch into motion, reaching out with your tadpole towards Shadowheart, projecting wordless fear and dread.

By the time you reach her door she is awake, alarmed, and reaching for her weapons. “Tethys? What’s going on?” She conjures a light and her eyes go wide at the sight of you. “Are you all right?”

It feels like you’re back on the nautiloid, fighting your own brain to put two words together. “I don’t want this,” you spit out, digging your claws into your thighs because that’s infinitely better than Shadowheart’s neck, where they want to be. “When I sleep, I will kill you. I don’t want to.” You cling to consciousness by your fingertips. “Please,” you get out before your jaw locks up.

“Oh, hells, you’re serious,” she says, shaken but determined. She springs up, rummages through her pack, and hands you a blue glass vial. “Drink that.”

You barely manage it without crushing the vial. The floor rises up to meet you.

When the world exists again, there is only the raw, bloody need of your Urge. Your teeth gnash, your hands strain against their bindings, your body flails for purchase. You want nothing more than to kill. That thinking part of you that you call Tethys, the part that remembers names, words, friendship, even love? Tethys is very small.

There is meat near you — the kind that moves and bleeds and screams so nicely when you tickle it — but you can’t reach it. You want to kill it, to use it to fill that pit within you that once upon a time would have been filled by love for your Father but now gapes open, unfillable, ravenous.

You manage to get close enough to one piece of meat to bite down, though you only get a mouthful of leather for your troubles. The meat makes some lovely sounds of pain but then pushes you back with a stick. It makes more noises, then most of the meat leaves your view. The piece that stays is the most delicious one.

(“All right, out! Give them some privacy,” the Tethys-fragment translates the meat noises. “I promise if I get stabbed I will yell loudly.”)

Time passes in rough-chopped chunks with moments of black nothingness in between. You strain every muscle against the ropes binding you until they slice into your flesh. You don’t quite have the leverage to rip your hand off to free your arm, but you try anyway.

The meat continues to make noises occasionally, and perhaps the speck of Tethys makes some noises back; when the meat touches you your skin burns.

As the night drags on and you come no closer to the death you most desire, your energy drips away, bit by bit, the slices of unconsciousness coming closer and closer together, until you sink into the depths once again…

You ache.

The Tethys fragment — no, you, you’re Tethys — opens your eyes. Eye contact: Shadowheart, uninjured. Tired.

You think she feels the shift too, the sudden absence of your Urge. “Are you back to yourself?” she asks.

You nod.

Her shoulders slump in relief. “Good. I’ll tell the others and then I can let you out of there.”

She leaves. There’s quiet conversation in the other room, then she returns. Footsteps follow her and stop at the doorway; you don’t look up to see who it is. They will leave eventually.

Shadowheart cuts the ropes binding your legs and then hesitates at your wrists. “I’ll be quick about it,” she says, slicing through the knot.

The agony as she peels the rope out of your wrists fills your head completely, leaving no room for thought. Then she casts a spell and wipes it all away, leaving you curled in on yourself, empty, breathing heavily.

You look down at your hands, tacky with drying blood. A part of you wants to lick it off of them, and the rest of you wants to throw up at the thought.

Shadowheart hands you a wet rag and you start methodically wiping the blood off of your hands. Her mind reaches out towards yours and you give it free reign; she gently pokes through your memories, leaning her shoulder against yours as you try very hard not to think of anything at all. It’s the absolute maximum physical touch you can tolerate currently, and you’re pathetically grateful for it.

“I suppose that explains why you asked about killing Isobel,” Shadowheart says eventually. “I didn’t realize it was going to be me or her.” At your mild indignation, she adds, “I know you didn’t either.”

You pick at a stubborn spot of blood under your thumbnail.

“I won’t lie, I was scared last night,” she says. “But I’m more scared for you than of you. Whatever this curse or affliction, we’ll get to the bottom of it. Just tell me if things get bad again, all right? Or tell someone.”

You drop the rag and carefully put your arm around her shoulders. She tucks herself up against your side and slips her arm around your waist. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

You sit together for a while longer before Shadowheart pulls her mind away from yours and you take it as your cue to get moving.

“I hate this,” you mutter. “I hate that I couldn’t control myself. I hate that nobody will tell me why I’m like this. I hate that I have to go out there and talk to everyone and I can’t offer anything more than ‘I’ll try not to do it again’.”

Nevertheless, you steel yourself and leave Shadowheart’s room.

Chapter 17: Gauntlet of Shar

Chapter Text

Aylin takes off in a powerful leap, flying upward through the maelstrom of the Shadowfell until her full-moon glow disappears with a thunderclap. With her departure, Balthazar’s ritual circle also disappears, turning into a swirling purple portal.

“We need to get out of here,” Shadowheart says, still looking up toward where Aylin disappeared. To her credit, her voice only trembles a little. “Lady Shar won’t stand for us to be here, not after that.”

The winds around the promontory begin to circle closer, dragging loose hairs into your face.

Gale examines the portal briefly and then steps through with a thumbs-up. The others follow one at a time.

“She must be angry,” Shadowheart says quietly, “but there’s only silence.” She looks down at the wound on her hand, which for the moment is dormant.

You step through the portal and find yourself in front of the entrance to the mausoleum. Lae’zel and Minthara are in the process of chopping an errant shadow to pieces, and everyone else is all right, catching their breath or adjusting their gear from the fight with Balthazar. They all look to you and your headcount stutters to a halt.

You whip around and Shadowheart is nowhere to be seen. “She was right behind me — Shar you son of a bitch—”

Your furious charge back into the mausoleum is cut off by the sound of the portal opening once more. Shadowheart falls out of the portal to her hands and knees with a cry of pain, the wound on her hand brighter than you’ve ever seen before, but dimming.

You kneel down before her and she grabs your hands like a lifeline. “I thought I was done for,” she says in a small voice. “I thought perhaps I might have been dead. This is all like some sort of terrible dream.” She takes a shaky breath. “But it’s real, isn’t it? I stood before the Nightsong. I heard Lady Shar’s words... and I failed her. Worse, I defied her. Just because of what that aasimar said.”

Shadowheart pushes herself to her feet, keeping her wounded hand close to her chest and still holding your hand with the other. “I tried to leave, but Shar blocked me, punished me for failing her. I thought I knew the limit of pain that the incurable wound could inflict, but I had no idea,” she says bitterly. “It felt like I was suffering the agony of a thousand people, all at once. My blood was boiling, my hair was on fire. I thought I’d claw my own face off with the pain…”

She shudders. “But then she released me. Banished me, more like. She said I was an outcast, that all of her children would know me and revile me. I’m alone.”

She sounds so mournful. Your head crowds with all sorts of horrible things to say to her, so instead you squeeze her hand and hope that it comforts her.

“Like hell you are,” Karlach says, putting a hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder. “You’ve got us.”

“Whatever Shar tries to throw at you, we’ve got your back,” Wyll adds.

A brilliant flare of light shines from above the mausoleum — Aylin, flying south toward Moonrise Towers. You all watch until her glow disappears behind the thorns and houses of Reithwin.

“I need to speak with Aylin as soon as I can,” Shadowheart says to herself. “What she said to me back in the Shadowfell, about the wolves... that’s no coincidence.”

“We will meet her in Moonrise Towers,” you say to her, then to the group at large, “Ketheric Thorm is mortal now, and we will get our answers from him.”

“Gale, give Jaheira a sending. We’ve found the Nightsong, so Ketheric is mortal once more, and she’s headed to Moonrise Towers. If Jaheira and the Harpers want to kill Ketheric, now is the time.”

“Certainly,” he says. He takes a moment to compose the message — his lips move slightly as he counts the words — and casts the spell. “The aasimar called Nightsong is freed and our ally. She flies to Moonrise to kill Ketheric; we follow. Rendezvous in south Reithwin to assault Moonrise?”

After a moment, you hear Jaheira’s voice reply, “Harpers and Fists are leaving Last Light now. Isobel stays to guard the civilians. We will meet you at Moonrise. Good hunting.”

“Karlach, I need you to pair up with Shadowheart. Keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t get swarmed or separated.”

“On it,” she says with a firm nod.

“And if she wants to talk…”

“I’ve got ears aplenty. Whatever she needs.”

It’s a weight off your mind. “Thank you,” you say, heartfelt.

“Of course. Go lead the charge, Tethys,” Karlach says, clapping you on the shoulder.

The streets of Reithwin are surprisingly clear of enemies as you head to Moonrise Towers. Some of it is still cleared out from your initial journey to the mausoleum, but mostly it’s Aylin’s doing, presumably — the town is splattered with patches of smoldering blue-white fire, many of which center on the incinerated husk of some shadow-cursed creature.

It feels a little bizarre to be able to hustle down the main street, picking off the occasional weak shadow or zombie with cantrips and arrows, after the methodical slog it took to get through Reithwin originally.

Chapter 18: Moonrise Finale

Chapter Text

You realize that among the emotions the mind flayer colony engenders in you, any sense of novelty is lacking. You’ve been here before, and the atmosphere is reminding you of terrors mostly forgotten.

You find an unexpected moment of fellow feeling with Minthara, of all people, as you catch her eye and see memories being dredged up there as well. Why was I here before? you ask yourself, but no answer comes to you.

“Gale, I want you to keep notes on everything we find down here, and pick up every written document you can find,” you say.

“Is it really going to matter?” he says, his hand creeping up to where the orb rests under his robe.

“Put it all in the bag of holding and maybe Elminster will find it in the astral plane afterwards,” you say, not wanting to get into the orb discussion. “This area is the brain of the Absolute, if not the heart — we need every bit of information we can get.” You drop your voice and lean in a little. “This place is overwhelming. I won’t remember everything. We need to make sure that we capture the important details.”

“Very well,” he says. “If nothing else, for posterity’s sake. It might make some future historian very happy.”

“All of these decorations are very firmly Myrkulite in appearance, like Balthazar. What would drive a group of necromancers like this to serve the Absolute? Not tadpoled, not forced to convert…” Gale says to himself, jotting down notes.

The pod next to Mizora’s draws you to it, like a steep slope leading to a long drop. There is a blood-rimmed hole in the glass front piece and long streaks of blood dried on the dented interior.

Shreds of memory float up from the depths, each accompanied by a spike of pain: blood running down your face, drying sticky, you can’t wipe it off — throwing yourself at the opaque interior of the pod, trying to batter it with everything you have — it’s been so long, why haven’t they pulled you out again? — too dark — too long — too silent — it’s her again, that pale woman, she’s laughing at you still, just like she did when she carved into your head — an enormous voice, larger than the world, commands you to sleep —

A voice breaks the moment of recollection. “Oh, this is definitely your blood,” Astarion says, holding a pinch of the dried blood to his nose. “Even stale as this is, I’d recognise that bouquet anywhere.”

You realize you’ve hunched over, curled in on yourself, your arms wrapped around your stomach. With great effort, you straighten up. You can’t afford to appear weak, not when you still need to find Ketheric.

You’re coming apart at the seams, my not-quite-cadaver of a charge. Take care you don’t unravel all the way.

You creep forward until you can just barely see someone up ahead through the flesh landscape — three someones, standing up on a raised platform in the center of the chamber, barely visible through the mist.

Through some quirk of architecture, their voices carry well enough that you can hear them clearly. (Or perhaps some quirk of the tadpole, as Halsin and Jaheira seem to be having a much harder time hearing it.)

“You said it was under control,” one of them says. The voice is familiar, but you can’t place it. Good; you really should stay away from him this time, Master.

“It isn’t you I answer to, Gortash,” Ketheric says with barely concealed disdain.

“Motherf*cker! Gortash!” Karlach’s voice cracks with the effort of restraining her fury. She hefts her greataxe like she’s about to charge in there herself.

“Oh, the General voice. Is this where we salute?” Gortash says to Ketheric.

“Restrain yourself!” Lae’zel hisses, holding Karlach back. “You will have your revenge, after we determine what they are doing.”

“Salute, yes, with cleavers through his blood-starved flesh,” the third person says, sibilant and lilting. Her voice slips inside your head and sends ice water running down your limbs. She continues speaking, but you can’t hear it.

“Orin,” Minthara says with reverent fear. She takes a step back unconsciously.

“I think that’s my sister,” you mumble. As you wrack your minced mind for any memories of her, all you find is the blinding pain of a dagger thrust into the back of your head. Her dagger.

Up on the platform, Ketheric takes a swing at Gortash and Orin interposes herself between the two. They’re still talking, like the rush of water flowing over you.

“That’s your sister?” Shadowheart says, tearing her gaze away from the three to look at you, eyes wide and a little bit hurt.

“Little sister, knives all red,” you say, still staring at Orin. “She’s the one who betrayed me. Nearly killed me. I didn’t— I didn’t know.”

Voices from the platform above finally resolve into words. “Orin and I can wait for you no longer,” Gortash says pointedly. “The plan proceeds. We’re going to the city, and we expect you to follow, army and the weapon in tow.”

Gale looks down at the dagger Elminster gave him, clenched in his hand. Wyll puts a hand over Gale’s without a word.

Gortash strides toward the far edge of the platform, away from you and closer to the enormous brine pool on the far side of the chamber. He raises a fist high; whatever he holds glows with intense purple light. “The edict of Bane,” he declares.

Orin takes her place beside Gortash. She raises her dagger, which glows red. “The lash of Bhaal!” Just hearing your Father’s name sends a shudder of yearning and trepidation down your spine.

You and your tadpoled companions feel it before you see it: an immense psionic presence stirs beneath the murky water. It commands your attention like it has a rope tied around your consciousness. Or a tentacle, perhaps.

Transfixed, you all can do naught but watch as it emerges, first enormous tentacles heaving up out of the brine, then a titanic, glowing, crowned brain.

Ketheric begrudgingly joins the other two, magenta light shining from his armor’s chestpiece. “The testament of Myrkul,” he proclaims. As the three stand before the brain, the breath-held tension slips slowly away, like the brain is being contained. Focused.

<An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals,> the Prism says, awed.

“Look at that crown,” Gale says in distracted wonder. “It radiates with power unlike anything I’ve ever seen. To have it… to hold… oh, if only I could…” He looks back at the dagger. “But I can’t. This is it. I must do as Mystra commands.”

“Gale, don’t,” Wyll says, quiet but emphatic. “You don’t have to go through with this, no matter what Mystra says. We can find another way together.”

As Gale wavers, Astarion hisses, “That orb affects more than just you. I don’t intend to die here, so put that dagger away!”

“I have no desire to end your life, you know that,” Gale says to Wyll, closing his eyes. “It is a grave choice you’re making for us both, but if it must be so—” With great effort, he puts the dagger away. “Very well, I’ll stand down to stand by you.”

Up on the platform, the lights dim and the three take a step back. “There we are,” Gortash says. “It wouldn’t do to fight in front of our guest. Behold, Duke Ravengard — the Absolute!”

One of the Absolute’s tentacles snakes down to the platform. Orin kneels down, no longer visible from where you stand, and croons, “You wag your wordflap in vain, Ulderling. Once the worm holds the whip, your shredded flesh will serve us.”

“Father!” Wyll gasps.

“Now! It’s really time we were going,” Gortash says cheerfully, clasping his hands together. The motion inspires a bizarre touch of deja vu in you. “We will empty this place and begin the march. You may catch up with the army once you’ve retrieved the weapon. And Ketheric — do try not to sulk. You’re supposed to be the fearsome General, come to conquer the city.” He grins. “And I am the hero who will save it.”

As Ketheric stalks away from Gortash and Orin, the Absolute’s tentacle touches them and they teleport away, followed shortly by the Absolute itself.

<It is time, faithful ones.> Even blunted by the Prism, the Absolute’s voice is powerful enough it feels like it’s pummeling your brain. <March on Baldur’s Gate. We go to prepare the way!>

When the Absolute’s voice recedes, you have only hollow agony in your skull, like Orin has stabbed you all over again. You press a hand to your temple, which does nothing to help.

The chamber is nearly silent: the fading splash of the brine pool, the thump of Ketheric’s boots on fleshy flooring as he paces back and forth, the drip and gurgle of fluid moving around in the walls. Now that it’s so quiet, you also hear muffled angry noises from the far side of the chamber that sound a lot like Aylin.

With the Absolute gone and Aylin here, Ketheric is once again eminently killable. Whatever history you have with Orin, you will still need to kill him to keep the Prism. You covet the stone he carries for reasons lost to your amnesia. But most of all, you and your Urge both want to kill him, with such ardent desire that you can taste his black blood already, like grave dirt and sorrow in equal measure.

That your own desires and your Urge agree should be enough to set your course of action, Master, but you insist on restraining yourself long enough to ask yourself if there is any reason not to. Why bother second guessing your Urge if you’re going to go do it anyway? We both know that this is a confrontation that will only end in death — your favorite kind! Enjoy yourself!

Please enjoy yourself.

It’s too quiet to speak, and you don’t know if Ketheric can overhear your tadpoles, so you push your headache aside and look to your companions. The looks you receive in return are varying ratios of shaken, determined, and ‘we will discuss this later’. You feel a warm flare of pride at what a terrifyingly competent party you’ve grown into.

You tap the pocket Astarion keeps his invisibility potions, point, and mouth ‘Aylin’. He nods with a serious look.

“So Orin is your sister,” Minthara says with deep suspicion. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I didn’t remember her until I saw her! You didn’t bring her up either — why does she matter so much to you?”

Chapter 19: Moonrise Afterparty

Chapter Text

Your mind skitters like water drops in a hot pan, bouncing from thought to thought. Your blood still feels like it’s fizzing with restless energy.

You find Gale and pull him aside, quickly adjusting your grip on his wrist when he winces.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, then does a double take. “Are you all right?”

“Gods, no,” you say with a laugh that sounds off even to your unpracticed ear. “But I need to at least check in tonight with our increasing number of allies. I can keep it together for that much. Will you scribe for me so I know what to follow up on tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he says, with a look you can’t categorize. I think it’s pity.

Who could you ask? Lae’zel and Minthara want nothing to do with your Urge, Minthara especially; Karlach and Gale you’ve asked enough of already today; and Shadowheart definitely doesn’t need any more stress today. That leaves Astarion, Wyll, and Halsin.

Astarion is an obvious pick; he knows his way around a rope and you’ve done enough weird stuff together at this point you feel comfortable asking for this significant of a favor. Wyll, on the other hand, also had a bad time in the colony, and though he was supportive after your episode in Reithwin, you can’t imagine him actually stopping you; so he’s out. Halsin has been understanding and you think he takes it sufficiently seriously, plus even at your worst you think his bear-form would be a reasonable opponent.

Halsin is currently crouched down speaking to that ferocious tadpole-hunting cat, Steelclaw, so you wander through the tower looking for Astarion.

You find him sitting atop a pile of boxes, in one of the loose circles around a brazier out on the ramparts. He seems to be getting along well with the crowd — a mix of Harpers, Flaming Fists, and one tiefling whose name escapes you — with a goblet in his hand and witty remarks aplenty.

You wait for a break in the conversation, catch his eye, and tip your head.

“Duty calls,” he says airily. He bows out of the conversation, leaving the goblet behind. You wonder if he was actually drinking wine he doesn’t like or if it was just a prop to blend in better.

You start walking again as soon as he reaches you, unable to stand still any further, back to the main entrance chamber of the tower. He gets a look at your face and wisely decides not to needle you.

Halsin is still speaking with Steelclaw, who seems to like him a lot better than she likes you. Ahh, cats. Nasty little creatures. You can’t win them all, my liege.

“A moment?” you ask, and he makes his excuses to Steelclaw. She gives you a hateful look.

You lead them to a quiet corner and have to wrestle your instincts to just shut up and forget about the whole thing. Your stomach feels like you’re about to step out onto a tightrope. Is this going to be where you go too far into their goodwill, you wonder.

“Tonight,” you say, “I need you to tie me up.”

“How forward of you, darling,” Astarion says. He laughs, but is that a nervous edge to it you detect? “At least buy me dinner first.”

“Is it that bad?” Halsin says seriously, giving Astarion a quelling look.

“Not as bad as the night in Reithwin, but… yes. The things I remembered in the colony, seeing Orin — it riled up the darkness inside me, and it hasn’t calmed since.” You start pacing in a tight loop. “This tower is full of our allies. If I slipped my leash, I would have a feast of slaughter on my hands.”

“Of course we will help,” Halsin says, then looks to Astarion, who shrugs and nods. “Whatever you need.”

You let out a long breath, a little bit of your tension loosening.

“Though I do have a question,” Astarion says. “Halsin I understand, but why me over, say, your dear Shadowheart?”

“I trust you to tie a knot that I won’t be able to slip out of,” you say.

“Tsk. Flatterer,” he says fondly.

“And I don’t need to pile more worries on Shadowheart right now.”

They share a look. “You should at least tell her,” Astarion says.

You look to Halsin, who nods. “I’ll tell her,” you say grudgingly.

“Good,” Halsin says, putting a hand on your shoulder. Your skin prickles underneath it, but not in a bad way. “Let us know when you intend to turn in,” he continues. “Unless you meant now.”

“Not yet.” Perhaps you’ll fight Withers until you tire, or run a few laps around the docks.

You find Shadowheart sitting in the audience chamber alone, watching the stairs up to the second floor. You recall Aylin and Isobel disappearing up that way some hours before and assume that they have yet to return.

“May I help you out of your armor?” you ask.

She nods. She’s still wearing the dark justiciar armor you found in the Gauntlet. You remember how excited she was to put it on, compared to the listlessness with which she now removes it.

As she’s pulling her gambeson off, you say, “I’ve asked Astarion and Halsin to tie me up tonight as a precaution.”

“I see,” she says, looking down.

Damn, they were right. “I’ve saddened you. How can I rectify it?”

Shadowheart bundles up her gambeson and hugs it to her chest. “We’ve both had plenty of troubles and between my past and yours I’m sure we have plenty waiting for us in Baldur’s Gate. I want us to face it together. Do you?”

“Of course,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Do you remember our last night at Last Light inn? Let me show you what it meant to me…”

She brings you into her memory. It’s rich and vivid as ever, the shadow weave spreading out around her like a barely-perceptible spiderweb. One sense you don’t have at all.

She didn’t quite feel right celebrating lifting the shadow curse with everyone else, so she took her drink and found a quiet corner to brood. She wonders if she’s doing what her Lady wants or if she’s just being given enough rope to hang herself with.

Then you arrive. She remembers you as good-humored, bringing comfort, acceptance, and something else that sparks nervous elation in her stomach. Even your night in Reithwin hasn’t tarnished the safety she felt with you.

She thinks she’s safe around you, Master? Poor godforsaken fool. I’m sure you’ll prove her wrong eventually.

Shadowheart’s memory sharing ends. She takes your hand with a look of determination. “We’ve spent enough time in each other’s heads that I think we’ve both felt the connection between us. Something other than friendship… I recognized it, but I thought I couldn’t act on it. I want to, now.”

You give her hand a squeeze, not wanting to interrupt but wanting to reassure her nonetheless. It’s sweet enough that I fear I will be sick, Master, and you wouldn’t want to do that to me, would you?

“I’ve squandered too much time already. I want to be with you, now and always. Do you want the same?”

“I do,” you say with the utmost sincerity. “I have not much — any — experience with being with someone, even before all this. But more than anything I want to find out with you.”

Oh dear, oh dear, your Father will not be pleased about this, my liege.

“All right, give that a test,” Astarion says, stepping back from his handiwork.

It’s as comfortable as having your hands tied behind your back can be. You didn’t use any of the usual tricks for getting someone to leave slack in a binding, and as you twist your arms and shift your weight, Astarion’s knots hold fast. Without dislocating something to try to wiggle free, you really can’t get out, and even if you did you’re not sure it would help.

Blind fear seizes you in its grip.

“I didn’t mean to set them off,” Astarion complains as you strain against your bonds.

Halsin puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you from rolling out of your tent. “Easy,” he says. “We’ve got you.”

You trust them. You do trust them. You have to trust them. That’s the galling part, isn’t it? That you have put yourself wholly and completely in their hands? It’s degrading for a perfect killing machine such as yourself to be at the mercy of two elves and a bit of rope.

You wrench yourself back into control, the ropes still holding strong, cold sweat between your shoulder blades and your hair tickling your face. You attempt to blow the hair out of your face, which sort of works. “I am reminded of the difference between stumbling into trouble in the heat of the moment and walking into it deliberately,” you say in a rambling explanation.

“For one of them, you don’t get the opportunity to flinch,” Astarion says in agreement. He absentmindedly brushes the hair out of your face and you don’t even try to bite him. You’re very proud of yourself.

“I believe it will hold,” you say, giving the rope one last tug.

“Good!” he says, clapping his hands together. “I would hate for you to undo all my hard work to try to stab me in the middle of the night.”

You roll your eyes and try to make yourself comfortable, hoping that sleep will find you quickly.

Your Urge is very close to the surface but never quite breaks through, rendering your dreams more vivid and bloody than usual. A few times when you wake you can hear the murmur of Halsin and Astarion in quiet conversation, when neither of them are trancing.

Chapter 20: Blood Wedding

Chapter Text

You jerk awake and scramble with blind fear out of your tent: barefoot, heart pounding, only armed because you grabbed your daggers in your sleep. You do not dare drop them.

You can still feel the Slayer’s foot pushing into your chest, claws pricking skin, hard enough that your ribcage flexes near to breaking. Your sister, transformed into something more than herself, something divine.

Bhaal.

Father.

Your desperate flight peters out with you, panting, on your hands and knees in the middle of a field. You remember — both too much and not enough. A thousand murders without cause or context. A thousand prayers and nothing of how you learned them. You know for a fact that you led your Father’s savage congregation in prayer, sacrifice, and slaughter for years, but not why.

And you know for certain that just as you were the master of your flock, Bhaal was yours. A cruel Master, a dread Lord… a devoted, attentive Father. He gifted you your Urge and sent me to teach you and has watched over you ever since your blighted birth. You have had the eyes of a god on you your whole life, hot as coals and just as painful.

It is good that you fear your Father. The love will return in due time.

The cool grass tickles your arms as the wind stirs. A shiver wracks your body. You think that if you were a normal person, you would cry; but you are a Bhaalspawn, and you are denied that catharsis.

Eventually you limp back toward camp, following your erratic path through the fields.

“Dark dreams?”

Jaheira’s comment startles you badly. She sits atop a run-down stone fence that you must have hopped when you left, scimitars in hand.

“I think I can guess,” she continues. “Visions of blood on your hands — blood in your veins, perhaps. For all the gifts Bhaal’s children inherit, a peaceful night’s sleep is not among them.”

You stare at her for a long moment, daggers at the ready, before all the fight drains out of you. “f*ck,” you say, sitting down hard on the fence, out of reach of her blades. You scrub your face with the back of your hand, unwilling to make eye contact with her.

(If she goes for you, you can roll off the fence and she’ll have to waste time climbing over it. But if it comes to a fight and she says what you really are, how many of your companions will side with her?)

“And what waking deeds might those dreams inspire?” she asks, disgust creeping into her voice. “Are you truly your own master? What is it you feel when your father comes calling?”

“His is the will of a god,” you say, despairing. “I’ve tried to fight it, deny it, redirect it, but if I were to slip up…”

“Then would you call it mercy, if the next night I never let you wake?”

Your heart seizes, that savage drive to live that has served you so well clashing with your determination not to hurt your companions.

Jaheira sighs. “Bah. This is your father’s true legacy. Not his children — but the fear they plant in us. The savagery it blossoms into. In another time, with another of your kind, we found a better way. I would dearly like to find it again.”

You look up at her as she sheathes her blades. “Truly?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Even a Bhaalspawn has a choice. Your father may be putting his thumb on the scales, but it is still your life.”

“But what do I do?” you whine, most unbecomingly.

“Your sister Orin — I am sure you already know that so long as she lives, she will never stop hunting you. When you face her, you can choose how you meet her: as another bloodied child of Bhaal, or as yourself.”

“My butler said as much,” you say glumly. “Father favors her with the Slayer. I’ve disappointed him.”

“Butler? No, we can speak of it later,” Jaheira says. “All I can offer is the promise that you need not meet her alone.”

You nod.

“For now, if you are done with your midnight wanderings, you should take what rest you can. I will watch over you this night — or, if I am not mistaken, we can wake those who have done this duty for you before.”

You consider your Urge. It is no worse than usual, curiously unperturbed by the revelations of the night — though of course, it hasn’t changed, even if you forgot it. All of the distress is within you, equally scared of disappointing and obeying your Father.

“Thank you,” you say. “It’s not bad enough to need to wake anyone else.”

“But it has been in the past,” she says, not judgemental, just confirming facts.

“...Yes.”

“We will speak more on this tomorrow. I would like to hear more of what you remember.” Jaheira stands, performatively dusts herself off, and waits for you on the path back to camp. It is so casual, so deliberate a deescalation that you don’t know whether to be insulted or comforted by it.

You decide to take it as an olive branch and match it. You put both your daggers in one hand and hold them casually — without your belt you can’t really do better than that — as you walk with Jaheira back to camp.

She pulls up a chair by your tent (your ever-sad, lonely tent, off to the side of the group) and stays as you settle down once more in your bedroll.

“You don’t have to stay,” you whisper.

She shrugs. “I said that I would, and I want you to know that I take a Bhaalspawn seriously.”

You accept that, and let sleep claim you.

Chapter 21: Gortash 1

Chapter Text

It is not difficult for an individual of your talents to sneak out, unnoticed, from the Elfsong, and Astarion, the only one who might have seen you, couldn’t judge you for a little late-night wandering.

Baldur’s Gate spreads out before you, torch-lit and bustling. It is a strange mix of painfully familiar and completely unknown to you, as you seesaw between what has been completely excised from your poor perforated skull and what remains in some fragmentary fashion.

You have questions that you want answered and an idea of who can answer them.

Your feet know the way, if you relax and let habit take over; follow this road, cut through that alleyway, (startle the beggar who looks at you like she’s seen a ghost), climb this drainpipe, leap over onto the wall of the upper city, wait in the shadows for the guard to pass, open that stuck door with a particular lift-and-turn on the handle.

It feels oddly comforting to know the squeaky spots on the roof beforehand, as you creep close to the window. There’s conversation going on inside; you can follow the trend of the discussion even though you can’t make out the words. Once it escalates to a final conclusion and dismissal and no further sound comes from within, you shim the latch on the window and climb inside. (There is a spark of blue light as you open the window that speaks to magical alarms, but that is a problem for later.)

The newly-minted Archduke goes through an impressive series of reactions in a short amount of time: startled to see someone climbing through his locked window, then relieved to recognize that it’s you, then consciously alarmed that it’s you. He reaches for his crossbow, close at hand.

“Peace!” you say quickly, holding up your knifeless hands. “I come only to talk.”

“I believe I made myself clear at the coronation that retrieving Orin’s netherstone was a precondition of our alliance,” he says, hefting the crossbow but not pointing it toward you.

“Orin will have her reckoning,” you say with bloody conviction. You sound so much like your old self, Master; even the Banite recognizes it with a chill. “However, I wished to discuss other things.”

(At this point, the Archduke’s guards clatter in, and after some discussion laden with code-words he dismisses them to wait outside. Have you earned some measure of his trust, or does he simply think that if you meant to kill him you would have tried already?)

“At the ceremony, you called me your favorite assassin,” you continue. “Before Orin betrayed me, were we… friends?”

That startles a laugh out of him.

“You are the first person — other than my butler — who knew me before I was tadpoled, was happy to see me, and didn’t try to kill me afterwards, so pardon me for being curious,” you say sharply.

He considers you for a few heartbeats. “We were friends as much as two of the gods’ Chosen could be,” he says.

However much or little that may have been, it wasn’t a no. “So when you knew me I was already Bhaal’s chosen,” you say. Your desperate, voracious hunger for your past once again awakens. “How did we first meet? And Ketheric? We’re both Baldurian I suppose, but he’d been dead for a century and a hundred miles away before your — our — plan. And the Crown of Karsus! Where in the hells did we find that?” You can feel yourself getting too worked up for a new acquaintance — too loud, too excited, gestures sharp enough that he watches them closely even though your knives are safely stowed away — and through great effort you reel yourself back in. Your nails dig into your palms.

“Where in the hells indeed,” he says, more to himself than you. “You really are just here for old times’ sake, to catch up without your allies eavesdropping?”

“Yes.”

You fantasize, briefly but vividly, about a world in which he too was tadpoled. You wouldn’t ask him to show you — you’re not allowed to ask, you want it too badly and even a new old friend would find it disturbing — but maybe he would offer to share. To see who you were, through his eyes.

“You said once that you would sacrifice me on your father’s altar at the end of the world.”

“I told you that?” you say, appalled. Hells, I’m appalled for you.

“I never did get the chance to ask you what you meant.”

“It is the most favor Bhaal permits one of his followers to show. To say that nothing save Father’s final, most holy sacrament would bring you to kill someone? It is most serious.”

Chapter 22: Orin

Chapter Text

You have gone beyond fear, to what should be reverent submission to your father, but instead it is something… else. Something blasphemous.

You imagine your life as the Chosen of Bhaal. An assassin without peer, the plunging knife that ends the world, lone master of the netherstones. Your Father would be a master as cruel as Cazador or Zariel, as consumptive as Vlaakith or Mystra, as vindictive as Mizora or Shar.

The same blades that slice out to suspend me now turn inward against you, your own blood slicing you to mincemeat.

This is how it ends: with you choking on your own blood and me in one final death, not even by your hand. Both of us failing your Father.

Goodbye, Octavius.

Chapter 23: Gortash 2

Chapter Text

<You’re going out to speak to Gortash again?> the Emperor asked.

<Yes.>

<You’ve actively moved against him. It may not be so peaceful a conversation this time.>

<I know.>

<What do you hope to gain from this?>

<f*ck, I don’t know. I can’t expect him to drop his entire plan and join us, though of course if he did that would be great and we could just go deal with the brain immediately. I just… I feel like I owe it to give him a chance, for Octavius’ sake.>

<By your own words, Octavius is dead now, and arguably has not been you since the nautiloid.>

<Then this is their last gift for their only friend.>

With the psionic equivalent of a thoughtful nod, the Emperor’s presence retreated into the background.

“Oh, f*ck off,” Gortash said, crossbow pointed unerringly at Tethys’ chest. “Your actions as of late have proven you have no intention of working with me. Get out, Octavius, I won’t ask again.”

“Octavius is dead,” Tethys said. “Bhaal killed them. I am his Chosen no longer.”

“And you survived?” Gortash said, genuinely surprised.

“Tethys did. Everything I’ve picked up since Orin stuck a tadpole in my brain.”

“That need not change things between us. With me, you will have power greater than Bhaal could have given you—”

“No,” Tethys said, cutting Gortash off. “I will have no part in a plan that leaves the Netherbrain alive. I came here to make you an offer instead. Join me. We would have all three netherstones and could put all this to rest. And if you’re worried about your god, well, we’ve already broken away from Bhaal, Shar, Lolth, Zariel, Vlaakith, Mystra… you would be in good company.”

“You want me to throw away a plan on the cusp of success, and for what? Because you changed your mind?”

“You don’t have to decide now. Give me a sending if you want to talk again. If not… I’ll have to kill you for your netherstone, I suppose.”

“You are welcome to try,” he said archly as Tethys climbed back through the window and onto the roof.