Crystals in the Starlight - SoulFearer (Soul_The_Mediocre) (2024)

Chapter 1: Tadpoled Adventurer

Chapter Text

Baldurs Gate. Upper City. Nighttime. The silence on the street was interrupted by footsteps. Fleet-footed, running, yet barely noticed by the patrolling guards. A tiefling – a rare sight in this part of the city – dashed as if his life depended on it. One could not help but be drawn in by his appearance: Ashen skin with a blue tint, the mark of Mephistopheles’ cursed bloodline. Black hair with two white streaks on the sides, perfectly tied together into a half-updo. His eyes black sclerae with turquoise pupils, piercing through the darkness strong as the stars in the sky. But oddest of all: his horns resembled crystals, matching the color of his eyes that were looking around with a distinct expression of anxiety. The figure disappeared into the shadows of an alleyway.

Panting, he covered his mouth and pressed his side against the wall, careful not to scratch the violin on his back. Only the clanking of heavy boots on the street could be heard – Flaming Fists. The bridge to the Lower City was not far from here. He needed make his way through, then downwards to the docks, past the fishermen ready to set sail by the break of dawn, up the fourth flight of stairs and then… home. How long had it been since he last heard from his family? Five years? Gods, how he longed to see them again. Nothing else mattered. Nothing in Toril could stop him now.

The patrol passed and all was quiet again. Time to move. With an almost cat-like grace, the tiefling climbed over patios and porches, onto rafters and rooftops until finally reaching the wall overlooking the bridge that divided nobility from laborers. A familiar view stretched on before him at last: stars reflecting over the Chionthar in the distance. The most beautiful sight. Freedom was but a hum away now, so close he could hear it, feel its vibrations in the air, sense its warm embrace, one that he promised to himself to never let go of again.

One last breath of Upper City air, he winded up for a running start and jumped off the rooftop. Incantations whispered, he started floating through the air like a feather, safely landing on his feet by the other side of the bridge, undetected. I did it, he thought, making a run for it only to bump into something. Or perhaps someone. In that moment, the world faded to black for the first time.

The next time his eyes opened, he found himself in a disgusting room with walls of flesh. Barely conscious, he could make out a mind flayer reaching his hand into a pool of unidentifiable liquid. Was he grabbing a… parasite? The tiefling tried to pinch himself, attempting to make this fever dream stop. But to no avail. Something was restraining him. Something he did not wish to think about.

His gaze followed the mind flayer, levitating towards a pod holding another adventurer. A woman with green skin and distinct black markings on her face. Gith? Surely, this strange dream was induced by reading too many books about the Astral Plane.

Her expression of rage turned into disgust and horror as the mind flayer planted the tadpole on her cheek. It crawled upwards into her eye, entering it. The tiefling held back a retch before realizing the illithid was about to offer him the very same body horror treatment next. He blinked, turned his head, squeezed his eyes shut. But resistance was futile when dealing with extraplanar visitors. Not even a scream could leave his mouth as the abomination entered his eye and made its way to his brain. And then, blackness again.

It felt like an eternity passed in a state of half-consciousness. Awake yet unaware. Unable to move, think, feel. No way to tell how many hours or even days the tiefling spent restrained on the alien ship. Other than the occasional visit from the mind flayer, there was a deafening silence and a never changing scenery of flesh walls and tadpoles swimming in front of him. Pods just like his lined the walls of the room, with humanoids of all shapes and sizes inside. The only solace the bard could find was in the music playing in his mind between spells of passing out. The only constant in this insane reality. The only thing to cling to in his desperation.

That was, until the day the ship started shaking. Turbulences? On an illithid ship? Then, muffled noises of flesh being violently torn apart. The bard’s mind was reeling as he looked towards the gith. She knew something. Was there a way out? Just in that moment, a large tear formed in one of the walls of the room.

The light was almost blinding after the time spent in limbo. But it was more than just daylight that had entered the ship: A majestic red dragon squeezed its head through. An incredible sight, akin to the depictions in books about the war between illithids and githyanki.

Unfortunately for the tiefling, the dragon opened his mouth, setting the room ablaze. Whatever liquid the tadpoles were swimming in appeared to be especially flammable, nearly exploding the pods around it. While the bard struggled to stay conscious amidst the fire and smoke, the gith was set free. She stumbled as she made her way towards the hole in the wall. An army of imps were on their way towards the ship.

A realization overcame the bard: It was not the sun casting its light through the walls – it was the fire of the hells. Dizziness set in as he coughed, barely able to breathe through the smoke and sulfur smell. One last time, blackness overtook his vision.

The pod opened with a loud mechanical noise, waking up its inhabitant. He finally felt… awake. Enough to take in his surroundings: Foul stenches of sulfur, smoke and rotten meat, crackling noises of fire and mechanical whirring, a dark room with walls of flesh… It was beginning to dawn on him that this was not merely a nightmare. Something squirmed behind his eye, the same one that the tadpole was inserted into. He did not want to consider the implications of this any more than necessary.

Tiefling Bard: “Mind flayers, dragons, Avernus, what in the hells is happening to me…?”

With a hop he got out of the pod and rummaged through his belongings. His trusty violin was still intact, but his survival gear had been reduced to a single crossbow, one day’s worth of food, two health potions and a single scroll of revivify. A disheartening lack of anything that could help in this situation. But no matter, he had to make it out.

The instant any weight was put on his legs, he noticed how much weaker he felt than before the abduction. He was by no means an adventurer that could take down a mind flayer on his own, but at least he would have put up a fight. In his current form, he felt tired just thinking about casting anything more than a cantrip. This would have to be a stealth mission if he wanted to make it out alive. Good thing he had some experience sneaking around.

Corpses both humanoid and illithid in nature littered the ground of the room. Carefully investigating further, the tiefling managed to find a few items to be pocketed and a strange, tentacled healing device next to a sphincter door.

Tiefling Bard: “Of course, why wouldn’t it be a sphincter? And I thought nobles had tacky décor…”

He sighed, not even his own quips brought him joy in this moment. The last years had not been kind to him. Then again, had life ever been kind to him? It hardly mattered now. There was no point dwelling on the past, he had to push through and escape. An alien abduction was not the time to rest and reflect.

Expectedly, the next room was made of the same meat-like structures. This may have been their ‘canteen’. Brains as far as the eye could see. Runic slates laid on a table, in a language too foreign to decipher. His mind began to stir again. Words and memories flashed in front of his inner eye, as if the tadpole projected them into his very thoughts. History. Caution. Grand Design.

It was impossible to make sense of it, with his mind already feeling fuzzy without the additional burden of translating alien texts. And another sensation was hampering his ability to focus. Almost as if a childlike voice echoed a call for help through the room. Free us. We’re here. Please, help us be free. Ominous, but the bard knew he would suffer nightmares for eternity if he left an actual child to die. Against his better judgement, he reached out to a platform that ascended like an elevator.

There was no child or sign of life to be found in the upper area. Merely a human corpse, strapped on a chair for a brain extraction. One could only hope his death was swift and painless, but the tear stains on his cheek and cleanly cut open cranial bones told a different story. Just as the bard was about to speak a prayer for this poor soul, the corpse’s brain started moving.

Brain: “Yes! You’ve come to save us from this place, from this place you’ll free us!”

Tiefling Bard: “Oh gods, oh no. What in the hells is this?”

In a short moment of clarity, the tiefling recognized this creature as an intellect devourer. The tomes described them as walking brains with tentacles and lethal claw attacks. As they developed further, they were to gain psionic powers like their mind flayer masters. Including the ability to reduce their opponent’s intelligence, hence their name.

Brain: “Please, before they return. They return.”

Tiefling Bard: “No, no, no. You are beyond saving. There is no way I could free something like you.”

Intellect Devourer: “Please, remove us from this body. From this case, free us, please!”

The childlike voice and insistent pleas were not falling on deaf ears. There was a sense of… empathy. After all, the tiefling himself had been stuck in a flesh prison mere moments ago. Looking over at the skull, the predicament was obvious: brain too large, skull too small. But this bard was known for his dexterous fingers, perhaps arrangements could be made.

He slid into the sides of the skull, attempting to use the leverage effect to free the brain from its prison. With a satisfying - and horrifying - pop, the intellect devourer landed in his arms, followed by a gush of blood shooting up from the skull, right onto the fancy noble clothes he had escaped with. On the bright side, no one would recognize the rose crest on his chest, now that gore covered it.

Tiefling Bard: “Well, I sure hope this brain worm makes me unable to sleep, because I never want to process anything that just happened.”

For a moment he considered performing a quick lobotomy on the sentient brain. To ensure no intellect devouring would happen in the next few minutes. On the other hand, maybe losing a few points of intelligence was not a bad idea after what he had just done. He placed the intellect devourer on the ground, where it sprouted tentacles and four dangerously clawed legs. Disgusting. But also fascinating. Mostly disgusting.

Intellect Devourer: “We are free. Freedom is ours. Friend.”

The tiefling’s mind stirred yet again. Stronger, this time. Responding to the words of his newfound friend. It explained needing to go to the helm – whatever that meant – and possibly navigating the ship to leave this realm and return to a safer location. Further questions on the how and why of this situation led nowhere, as the newborn intellect devourer gleefully jumped up and down, clawed feet pitter-pattering on the floor. Cute? Gross. But also cute? No, certainly gross.

The tiefling was starting to question his sanity, attempting to imagine this walking hive-mind brain with a human voice as a strange, sticky hairless cat. Desperate times called for very desperate companionship. And this was certainly the quickest the bard’s hands had ever found themselves inside another person. Impressive, given his former record was not too far off. He named his new friend Nugget and the two of them made their way towards their new objective: the helm.

Further turbulences of the ship interrupted the tiefling’s racing thoughts and they came upon a large tear in one of the walls, the blazing skies of Avernus coming into full view. War was waging outside, dragons flew by so closely that a single flap of their wings could send out a gust of wind strong enough to stagger the bard. It all felt unreal. So unnervingly, horrifyingly, impossibly unreal. And yet, strangely mesmerizing, as if the tomes about the hells had come to life right in front of him.

This momentary stop was just long enough for a skilled Githyanki to sneak up on him, jumping over his head at the same time as a red dragon flew over. She raised her sword against him.

Githyanki: “Abomination! This is your end.”

Before the bard could say anything, both of their heads started throbbing, minds melting together, connecting. Visions of red dragons and silver swords began flashing before the tiefling’s eyes. And a vision of himself, as if he was in the githyanki’s body at this very moment.

Githyanki: “Ngh… My head… What is this? Tsk’va! You are no thrall – Vlaakith blesses me this day! Together we might survive.”

She lowered her sword, stance relaxing. Finally, there was a moment to talk.

Tiefling Bard: “You’re the Gith I saw in the pod! My name is Irory. And this is… uh… Nugget. They’re friendly?”

The Githyanki did not seem in the mood for elaborate introductions. Or maybe it was Nugget’s presence in particular that displeased her.

Githyanki: “I am Lae’zel of crèche K’liir and I am your only chance of survival. We carry mind flayer parasites. We must make haste to the helm and take control of this ship. Unless we are cleansed, our bodies and minds will be twisted. We will become Ghaik. Mind flayers. Escape is our priority, your friend might be useful for the time being. We will dispose of it when that use runs out.”

Irory was speechless. An alien abduction AND the threat of turning into a mind flayer? How long would he have before sprouting tentacles? Months? Days? HOURS? Before he could ask, the Gith spotted some imps feasting on remains of unidentifiable origins. She let out a war cry and charged to battle, Nugget following closely behind.

Within seconds her sword had slashed cleanly through one of the imps, tearing it in half. Irory was counting his blessings to be on the same side as her. Nugget, too, was dealing substantial damage to the lesser devils and Irory finished them off with his crossbow.

Irory: “Good job, Nugget!”

The bard shouted his praise. The little one looked… inspired? Irory did not even consider the possibility of a brain benefitting from Bardic Inspiration, but perhaps Nugget was a special little thing. Not paying attention to the battlefield, Irory took a hit to the arm from the last remaining imp, but the Githyanki leaped over to his side and cleaved it in half.

Lae’zel: “You prove surprisingly adequate in battle. Now, to the helm.”

Nugget: “Yes! We must navigate at the helm! At the helm we must take control!”

Irory picked up any gear around the room with his nimble fingers, as the three of them made their way through the rest of the ship. A console with three buttons stood in the center of the next room and several people had been strapped to chairs, just like the owner of Nugget. At least two of them looked alive still. Other Intellect Devourers were running around the room, neither friendly nor hostile towards the group. Irory tried deciphering the words above the console’s buttons. Release, Annihilate and…

Lae’zel: “Hurry up, the helm is close. We must get out of here, unless you wish to die.”

Without looking at the words, she pressed the annihilate button, dooming all survivors on the chairs. The tiefling was about to scold her for murdering potential allies in cold blood, but decided to swallow his words in order to stay on her good side. Until he noticed another pod, containing a girl desperately trying to make her way out.

Half-Elf: “What are you waiting for? Get this blasted tube open!”

Not the friendliest introduction, but fair given the circ*mstances. Irory quickly looked around for a way to release her. But his limited knowledge on mind flayer technology brought no results.

Lae’zel: “There is no time. Do not risk our lives for this.”

Half-Elf: “The device next to the pod, they did something to it when they sealed me in! Do something!”

Irory looked back and forth between the two women. There may not be enough time for everyone to survive. But he could not leave anyone behind. If he was still stuck in that pod, he would hope for a savior to come along as well. He quickly studied the alien device next to the pod, but there were no instructions. Only a socket with odd symbols on it. No amount of touching or hitting got any response from the machine, clearly something was missing.

He rushed to the nearest door, finding another room with a pod in the middle – this time the survivor was a human woman. Finding the missing key to freeing the half-elf, Irory decided to push his luck and press the button that was likely to free the last prisoner. Only for her to twist and contort violently, smoke covering the inside of the pod until mere seconds later, a mind flayer took her place.

Irory: “Oh gods, what have I done?”

Lae’zel: “Wasted our time. Tsk. At least the ghaik remains trapped in his prison. Let’s move.”

Following the gith’s advice, they left the mind flayer pod untouched and turned back to the room of the yelling half-elf. Inserting the rune into the slot that connected to her pod made the fleshy machinery hum in response. Would she turn illithid as well? There was no time to investigate the device any further, two extraplanar visitors were yelling at the bard to hurry up and get to the helm, willing to leave him behind if he stalled even a minute longer.

Irory threw all caution to the wind. Worst case scenario another mind flayer would be stuck in a pod and seek out his brain for a snack later. Best case scenario this console would work better than the last. He placed his hand on it, feeling waves of strange thoughts washing over his mind as his brain established a direct connection to the machine. A single feeling stood out from the rest, dominating the very essence of his being: Authority.

Focused, he leaned into the feeling, attempting to take control not only of his mind, but of the machinery as well. Open. Open. Open. Open. Thoughts creating a crescendo, electricity surging noticeably through every nerve from his brain to his fingertips, the pod opened with a loud mechanical whirr. The half-elven girl fell to the ground and Irory rushed over to lend her a hand. His companions, ready to leave him behind just moments ago, came to investigate the new addition to the team.

As the tiefling looked into the green eyes of the half-elf, their minds connected. Just like with the Githyanki, he could see himself through her eyes, feel her emotions. Gratitude. Wariness. The will to survive. There was little time left for introductions, merely names were exchanged and the cleric named Shadowheart grabbed a small artifact from her former prison. There were moments of racially charged bickering between her and Lae’zel before they all ran to the helm. This was it.

They were greeted by demons and mind flayers, fighting each other to the death in a large fleshy hall. One of the last remaining mind flayers pointed at a device: Thrall. Connect the nerves of the transponder. We must escape. Now.

Before receiving an answer, a cambion started attacking him with an impressive burning sword. The Githyanki agreed to follow these orders, urging Irory of all people to take control of the ship. She immediately charged into battle, targeting the demons ahead. Nugget and Shadowheart took the sides, clearing the bard’s way.

Irory made haste towards the front of the ship – another extraplanar structure made of flesh and tentacles. And a large wall, almost entirely torn apart by the dragons. Giving way to a nearly full panoramic view of the hells. But as urgent as the situation was, Irory did pick up more than a few shiny items from corpses along the way. Bad habits died hard.

The others were making short work of the lesser demons and catching up. Meanwhile the mind flayer and cambion were duking it out, with Irory far too close for comfort. There was no way the mind flayer would survive long enough to fend off a cambion on its own. If Nugget responded to bardic inspiration, maybe so would their bigger illithid counterpart? The bard took out his violin, casting any helpful spell he could remember. Was there a sense of… gratitude in response?

Lae’zel: “Stop wasting our time healing the ghaik! Get us out of here, NOW.”

She joined the fight against the cambion, followed by Shadowheart and Nugget. More imps appeared before the control panel. Irory barely managed to fend them off with spells and crossbow. Finally reaching his goal – the machine made of nerve-like tentacles – another obstacle came into view: A red dragon. He connected two of the nerves with each other, just as a fire breath knocked him back. And in that very moment, he could hear the Cambion fall behind him.

Space itself distorted around the ship, enemies disappeared, gravity shifted. And the bard was sent flying. First backwards against the wall of the ship, then launched forward again. With the last of his strength, he grabbed one of the tentacles and held onto it for dear life. The ship traveled across the planes, the mind flayer came into view again. He was injured, barely managing to withstand the teleport himself.

For a moment, they looked at each other. Black sclerae surrounding purple eyes. Were they really so different? Did illithids truly possess no soul? Just as Irory was pondering this question, a large piece of debris hit his head. This time knocking him off the ship for good. The night sky, mountains, beach, everything passed by in a flash as he fell. I will die. I will die. I don’t want to die… please.

The tiefling squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the lethal impact. One that never came.

Chapter 2: Stranded

Chapter Text

Something had caught Irory right before impact. Something magical. It certainly was not the only wizard he was currently ‘acquainted’ with – Lady Rosedew. Doubtlessly, she would have loved to see his brains splattered across the beach at this very moment, only to heal him back up and repeat it a few times. How could she resist such a fun little experiment?

The tiefling was not in a state of mind to consider who his new magical benefactor may be. The spell waned and he slumped to the ground, exhausted. He could hardly form a coherent thought in his mind, let alone move his body. He closed his eyes, grateful to be alive at all…

Until the first rays of sunlight hit his face. A disgusting squirm could be felt in his skull.

Irory: “It was not a dream? But… I’m alive. Urgh, hells.”

He looked around. A rather unremarkable coast, save for the dead bodies and nautiloid ship parts. And a particularly fiery sword, which quickly found its way into the tiefling’s pocket. He would have to find a landmark – or better yet, a settlement – to gain any sense of where he was. For all he knew this could be another plane entirely, merely resembling the prime material one. No, he had to stay positive. If the steering the device of the ship responded to his mind, they must have crashed somewhere in the vicinity of his home, Baldur’s Gate.

Getting up, he stretched his limbs and checked for injuries. Nothing. Strange, but a welcome kind of strange. His inventory was intact as well, filled to the brim with equipment. Irory took a moment to change out of his blood-splattered noble outfit, putting on a padded armor that would not immediately make him identifiable as the pet of his former mistress. He fixed up the rest of his appearance and made his way forward.

Securing survival was next on the agenda. He would need food and shelter, at least for a tenday. And a healer. Urgently. The Githyanki made it rather clear that he was racing against the clock. The turning-into-a-horrible-abomination-with-no-soul clock. People were already not kind to tieflings, but a mind flayer? Even his family would shun him for that.

A familiar face laid in the sand: Shadowheart. Her odd trinket was on full display now. A metallic geometrical object with strange runes carved on it. Did she survive the crash unscathed as well? Irory checked if she was breathing. Yes. Thank the gods. He knelt and gave her a little shake on the shoulder. Slightly dizzy, she realized who was in front of her and spoke up.

Shadowheart: “You’re… alive? I’m alive… How is this possible? I remember the ship. I remember falling… Then nothing.”

The bard tried to reassure her, softly nodding at her questions and listening intently.

Irory: “Sounds like we have had much the same experience. Any chance you recognize where we are?”

She slowly got up, immediately hiding the artefact in her pocket. After a quick inspection of her surroundings, she could only shake her head and brush off sand from her finely crafted plate armor.

Shadowheart: “No. But anything is better than where we just came from. First things first, we need supplies, shelter…”

Irory: “… And a healer, unless we want to become tentacled menaces ourselves. I’ve been thinking about that, too. Perhaps it would be wise to stick together for now. Walk along the coast, see what we can find.”

Shadowheart: “We know each other’s situation and we’re in the same tadpole-infested boat, so to speak. You seem like good company for the road ahead.”

Despite her disdain for gith, she was remarkably tolerant towards tieflings. Or perhaps merely reasonable enough to understand that teaming up would increase their odds of survival – Irory certainly did. Any vaguely friendly face was a blessing in these trying times. Better company would be hard to come by for two people with limited time left.

Shadowheart: “Just one more thing before we go: thank you for freeing me. It would have been all too easy to leave me behind in that pod. But you didn’t. I’ll remember that.”

The genuine gratitude in her voice made Irory feel a little better about himself. At least he had made the correct choice back there. Saving someone was never a waste of time.

Irory: “It was the right thing to do. Surely you would have done the same if the roles were reversed.”

Shadowheart: “Hm… Let’s just say I would have and leave it at that. We should make haste on our mission. Lead the way.”

Irory’s habits of sticking his fingers into stranger’s pockets were finally paying off. Scavenging for supplies was easier than expected, with fish and various amount of gold in reach. They would not manage to survive for a tenday, but perhaps just long enough to find a settlement. As they explored the beach covered in blood, metal and flesh, the bard mapped out the area in his journal, marking locations and hints that may be of use later. An impressive act of foresight that even Shadowheart took notice of. Surprisingly, bards did not make for terrible allies on the road.

Occasionally, he would attempt to strike up conversation with her, but her unwillingness to share anything about herself at all cost turned small talk into a complicated endeavor. Shadowheart was not subtle about her little act either, pouting and acting like a teenager trying to keep up an air of mystery. Irory could tell he would tire of this childish act rather quickly. But once again, better companionship was not on the horizon anytime soon.

Further up towards the mainland, they began walking through the crash site. Intellect Devourers were crawling through the ship’s remains – larger and certainly less friendly looking than Nugget. Combat was unavoidable. Neither Shadowheart nor Irory were particularly gifted frontline fighters and they quickly found themselves surrounded with the cleric unable to land a single hit.

The bard tried to focus, tried to remember his knowledge before being inserted with a tadpole. Cantrips, spells, anything. What did he know? And why did the knowledge elude him now? Any time he felt close to recalling the incantation of a high-level spell, his mind began stirring painfully, the parasite twisting and turning behind his left eye. He heard another ignis hit the ground instead of the enemy and his desperation to get out of this situation grew.

He raised his violin rather than his crossbow and closed his eyes. Mere fractions of a second passed, yet a million thoughts raced through his mind. Not everything was suppressed by the tadpole just yet. Amidst all the chaos he could find melodies. Order. Magic. Perhaps even the pathetic bard spells he knew how to cast were enough for once. Just enough to blast these brains to bits.

His bow hit the strings with a strong vibration, his fingers expertly moved across the strings as a beautiful tremolo filled the air with crackles and sizzles of electricity. In one fell swoop, a thunderwave erupted from him, smashing intellect devourers against the walls of a wrecked ship around them. They stopped moving. Shadowheart looked over at Irory, impressed.

Shadowheart: “You can handle yourself quite well in battle, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Had Lae’zel not told him the same thing after their first battle on the nautiloid? These two were more similar than their initial bickering on the ship had suggested. Curious as to why, he inquired further.

Irory: “Is that so? What makes you think I wouldn’t be able to fight?”

Shadowheart: “Well, your built certainly doesn’t suggest that you fight at the frontlines, if I may state the obvious. Perhaps with daggers, but you don’t look like you could wield a great axe. Not that you have to, of course. Magic will suffice for now.”

He couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at this rude response. Obviously, the bard was not one to use heavy weaponry, some of the more elaborate swords he had seen at the Gate surpassed him in height and width. But being slim and a little shorter had its advantages, too. At least when a stealthy approach was called for. And he was still taller than Shadowheart, only making her remark sillier.

Irory: “Ha, you may be right about that. We should stay on the lookout for other survivors. I doubt we will make it far with both of us being incapable of lifting more than a broadsword.”

Surprised by how well Irory took the insult to his stature, the cleric responded carefully.

Shadowheart: “Perhaps that is not a terrible idea. Although we should choose our company wisely. Who knows what kind of damage these worms inflict on less resistant brains than ours?”

Irory: “I’ll make sure you get to look between their ears whenever we meet a fighter next.”

She rolled her eyes at the joke and the two continued onwards through the shipwreck, finding themselves at another section of the beach. While taking notes and rummaging through chests and barrels, they noticed a figure in the distance: Pale skin, piercing red eyes, curly white hair, sharp pointy ears, exceptionally beautiful clothing. A high elf. Maybe a moon elf? Or perhaps an albino drow? His features were too unusual to tell. He looked over, spotting the two adventurers.

High Elf: “Hey, you! I need some help over here. Lend me a hand, will you?”

Shadowheart eyed the man with suspicion, while Irory quickly stepped up to help.

High Elf: “I got one of those brain things cornered. There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others?”

Just as the cleric was about to tell him to take care of it himself, the bard opened his mouth, sounding a little too excited about the news of meeting an intellect devourer.

Irory: “Oh, maybe it’s Nugget! Did it look friendly? If it didn’t attack you yet, it may very well be them.”

There was confusion and concern on the stranger’s face. Not an unusual reaction to anything Irory said on any given day. Although this was an odd line even for him. Nevertheless, he let his guard down as he looked around for his cerebral friend. Instead of a talking brain, a boar jumped out of the bushes. Relieved, but slightly disappointed, the tiefling was about to turn around as he felt a hand wrap around him and a knife against his throat.

The elf pulled him to the ground, crimson eyes fixated on Irory. Cold steel pressed further against his neck, so close any movement could cut him. The tiefling froze. This situation was too familiar. Memories came flooding in, serving as a cruel reminder of his past life.

A beautiful woman with curled black hair was looming above him, intricately decorated robes sliding down her perfect body. Magic daggers pressed against Irory’s throat, another concentrated spell restrained his every limb. Don’t move, my beauty. You don’t want to get hurt, do you? She whispered, leaning in further, every breath pressing the blades further into his skin. The faintest hint of blood dripped down the edge of her weapons. A twisted smile. A held breath. Darkness.

He could almost hear her words from the elf’s mouth. A different cadence, altered expressions, yet terrifying all the same. There was no life in the tiefling’s eyes, no attempt to get away from the elf, he simply laid there without a struggle. The stranger was asking questions. Something about mind flayers. Shadowheart ushered a few words in a slightly threatening tone. Incomprehensible. Focus was fading fast. Suddenly, a sharp pain behind Irory’s eye made different memories take over.

Dark, busy streets. Familiar ones: The lower city? Someone was prowling, on the hunt for something. Or someone. The memory got cut off. New ones took its place. The nautiloid – from a different pod, a different room. Glimpses of people walking freely. A sudden crash. Sunlight. The coast. Fear.

As the pictures flashed ever faster before their eyes, the elf recoiled. He had received a rather unwelcome vision as well. Snapping out of his trance, Irory jumped to his feet, pulling out his crossbow and aiming it at the stranger.

High Elf: “Argh, what was that? What’s going on?!”

Irory: “Lower your weapon. Talk. Now.”

His deep voice had shifted to a different tone. Compared to the soft and inviting way he used to speak to Shadowheart previously, this new demeanor was colder than ice. Befitting of a man that had the blood of Cania running through his veins. Weapon held high and piercing blue eyes glaring at the rogue in front of him, he could see the gears turning in the stranger’s head.

High Elf: “Those tentacled freaks, they took you too. I saw it during… whatever just happened.”

He lowered his knife and softened his expression, showing he was no longer a threat to Irory.

High Elf: “Apologies. I saw you walking freely on the ship and thought you were one of them. Ah, here I was ready to decorate the grounds with your innards.”

There was a moment of uncertainty. The sincerity of this apology remained to be seen and it was hard to get a read on this strange elf, no less due to the tadpole and flashbacks taking a toll on Irory’s ability to focus. With a moment to calm himself, he took a deep breath and shifted to a more neutral tone for his next answer.

Irory: “I… Apology accepted. Given your situation, I may have done the same. Well, day’s not over yet. Perhaps I’ll put my knife through some heads next, gods know I need a break right now.”

At least this quip was received well by his target audience, the stranger looked delighted at the thought of piercing a brain or two. He introduced himself with a theatrical bow.

High Elf: “Ah, a kindred spirit. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

Irory: “You’re from the lower city, aren’t you? As am I. I saw it when our tadpoles connected. My name is Irory. And this is Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart introduced herself… reluctantly. All of them decided to stash their weapons away, a compromise to create a more peaceful talking atmosphere.

Astarion: “How curious. I thought we moved in… different circles. So, anything you can share with me about these worms? It appears you are rather knowledgeable on the subject.”

Irory: “Knowledgeable in the worst way possible, I’m afraid. We’ll need a healer. Urgently. Or we’ll turn into mind flayers as well.”

Astarion: “Turn us into - ha! Hahahaha!”

Seeing the high elf laugh maniacally at receiving horrible news, Irory kept a firm draw on a dagger that was concealed by his side. He was not about to gamble with this crazy guy again. But perhaps coping with all the stress by acting insane was just what he needed to do as well. Whatever the bard was currently doing was not working out very well for him.

Astarion: “Of course it will turn me into a monster. What did I expect? Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert – someone who can control these things – there might still be time.”

The elf took it as well as one would expect: Insane laughter, denial, bargaining. At least some of those reactions were stages of grief? What was that about controlling the tadpoles? Maybe the bard had misheard.

Irory: “We’re trying to find a healer to get rid of them. And quickly.”

Astarion: “Well, you seem like a useful person to know. Maybe sticking to the herd is not such a bad idea. How about I join your little adventuring group, improve our odds of survival?”

Irory looked over to Shadowheart. He was unsure on how to proceed. On one hand, this was another mouth to feed. An insane one that held a knife to his throat, at that. On the other hand, a cleric and a bard were not an optimal party for illithid destruction. This guy knew his way around murder, one way or another. As long as the weapons stayed pointed at the enemies, this could be a beneficial alliance.

Shadowheart: “Do we have enough supplies? As useful as a knife hand would be, we cannot afford to die of starvation just to feed another.”

Astarion: “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I will catch my own prey, so to speak.”

One problem taken care of. Only his stab-happy tendencies would be reason for doubt now.

Irory: “Fine. I suppose you may join us. For the time being. But I’ll be keeping my eyes on you. Keep those daggers at our enemies’ throats and we will get along.”

Astarion: “Delightful.”

The road continued through another section of the crashed nautiloid. Astarion was trying to inquire about the origin of Shadowheart’s name, but she was unwilling to reveal anything more than the fact that she chose it herself. Irory was eerily quiet – for a bard, no less. Neither of his companions were particularly trustworthy and his worries grew with every passing minute. Was he going to make it out alive? Would he ever see his family again? It felt like a coin toss between turning illithid or getting stabbed in his sleep. At least dying in his sleep would make for a merciful end.

Speaking of the dead, a surprise awaited in the middle of the broken ship: An injured mind flayer, barely holding on to life. Was it the same one that fought the cambion? A familiar sense of empathy overcame Irory. Just as it did on the ship. Were mind flayers truly soulless, evil creatures?

Something was not right. This beast had enslaved and killed hundreds. And it would do it again. Where was its sense of compassion when it put a tadpole into Irory’s head? When it doomed everyone to lose everything? The tadpole squirmed. Guilt overcame Irory. He should be punished for feeling this vile sense of hatred. He should be healing his master, bowing before it. Loving it.

The onslaught of mixed feelings faded. Just for a moment, the mind flayer’s attention had shifted. Irory quickly pulled out his dagger and stabbed the creature into its head. Over and over and over again. The screams of pain were short-lived as white blood decorated his new armor.

Irory: “Don’t f*ck with my emotions, you f*cking freak!!!”

Screaming and stabbing his illithid captor felt almost cathartic. It did not help with his tadpole situation, but at least for a moment Irory let himself feel something other than fear. Anger.

Astarion jumped in excitement, clapping his hands: “Oh, fun! May I go next?”

The tiefling looked at the mangled remains of the mind flayer and then at himself. Why? This was not like him. Why were his emotions so completely and utterly messed up since the crash? He needed a break. And quickly. With the parasite in his head, these monsters had the power to manipulate his feelings and it seemed he was barely hanging on to control. Wiping off blood, he stood up and apologized.

Irory: “I’m sorry. This won’t happen again. Let’s just… move on.”

Astarion: “Don’t hold back for our sake, we quite enjoyed this little performance of yours.”

Shadowheart: “As long as we get rid of these monsters, I don’t care how you do it.”

Words of… encouragement? Although not the type of encouragement the bard needed at this moment. Night could not fall soon enough, Irory was questioning his safety around his companions more than his odds of survival without.

They left the shipwreck behind, no closer to finding an answer to their problem than before. The sun would set in about an hour and supplies were looking good enough for about three days. Searching for a place to set up camp, they came across goblin corpses surrounding a strange portal.

Shadowheart: “That looks dangerous, we should be cautious.”

Irory: “Perhaps we can stabilize it. Wherever it leads might be better than the wilderness.”

Astarion: “I’m sure they will welcome us with open arms - just like everyone else has so far.”

Between the sarcastic remarks of one companion and the warnings of another, there was hardly a good reason to interact with the burst of wild magic in front of them. But quite frankly, Irory did not care for the risks anymore. They could die any minute, one option more painful than the next. This portal was their only shot at finding civilization, a healer, anything or anyone willing to help. Or perhaps they would find a quick and easy death. What did it matter anymore anyway?

Irory: “Well, if I die at the hand of this portal, at least I won’t turn into a mind flayer.”

Astarion: “How grim, where is your annoyingly upbeat bardic spirit? A little song and dance in the face of danger and you’ll be good as new.”

Shadowheart: “Don’t provoke him too much, you might just end up like the mind flayer over there. My healing words will not be favoring you, Astarion.”

Astarion: “Ha! Let him try.”

Irory stepped forward, ignoring the bickering behind as he investigated the erratically swirling pattern of Weave. Even before the abduction, he was not exactly gifted in the arcane arts aside from what he had learned during his college years. And in his current condition, even those spells were proving difficult to recall. Unsure about his ability to handle potentially wild magic, he carefully reached out his hand and felt a zap of electricity coursing through him. Painful. But not the worst he had felt today. Taking a step back, the tiefling witnessed an arm reaching out from the portal.

???: “A hand? Anyone?”

The voice was surprisingly calm for a man stuck in another dimension. Polite, even. Irory played with the thought of giving it a high five, just to see the reaction. But he was not in the right headspace for silly jokes, still weighing in his mind whether dying was a better future than turning illithid or not. Instead, he focused what little magic he could muster on the portal. A quiet hum, a soothing whisper from his lips. Something was changing in the vortex.

???: “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working! Just a little pull…”

The bard was not exactly the strongest, but neither were his companions. Somehow this whole situation reminded him of how he freed Nugget from his skull prison. Maybe once all of this was over, he could make a business out of rescuing stuck strangers. Shadowheart cast a spell, guiding the movements of the tiefling. He grabbed the arm with both of his hands and pulled as much as he could. Despite Astarion being more than free to help, he merely watched in amusem*nt.

Akin to extracting an overly large brain from a skull, there was a lot of resistance… until there was not. This time there was no satisfying pop or gush of blood to ruin his clothes; only a man flying out of a portal, knocking his savior on the ground underneath him.

Irory let out a pained groan as he fell to his back, contemplating for a moment to simply play dead. The owner of the hand was a human. Brown hair messily falling on his face, purple robes brushing against the bard’s arm and his face framed by a short beard. He looked… normal, even as he laid on top of the bard. Moreso when the days had been filled with strange elves, mind flayers and gith. Planetouched were more in line with Irory’s expectations. Not that he could pass judgement on other’s appearances, himself being hellstouched and having a body altered by magical experiments. Yet a regular human was almost more surprising than a genie at this point.

Without hesitation, the man got up and offered a hand to the tiefling. It was his turn to get pulled to his feet now. This little aid smoothly turned into a handshake, with beautiful brown eyes politely smiling at him. Eerily cheerful for a man that came out of a dangerous portal. Was he a wild magic sorcerer? They had a tendency to be used to their own magic-induced failures.

Gale: “Greetings! I’m Gale of Waterdeep. Have my apologies. I’m usually better at this.”

Irory: “Better at what…? Introductions? Landing on top of strangers?”

He brushed off some dirt from his pants and raised an eyebrow at the stranger. Not even a hint of suspicion on the human’s face or in the tone of his voice, he was simply… friendly. Too much so.

Gale: “At magic! Say, but I know you, don’t I? In a manner of speaking. You were on the nautiloid as well.”

Another tadpoled adventurer. ‘Gale of Waterdeep’ – that sounded like a noble’s title. Or a wizard. No, a wizard of grand esteem would not fail so spectacularly at a simple spell, there must have been more to it. And how was he able to smile and make witty quips after the horrors they had witnessed on the ship? It was baffling to the bard. Was he even infected, given their minds had yet to connect and share visions like the others? Was he disguised illithid, trying to appeal to Irory’s emotions again? Careful not to say too much, the bard continued the conversation with a neutral tone.

Irory: “I’m certainly trying to forget that I was. What happened to you, to be stuck in a portal?”

Gale: “I don’t know what transpired exactly, but the ship broke into pieces and I suddenly found myself in freefall. As I was plummeting into certain death, I spied a glimmer quite near where I estimated my body to impact with less-than-savoury propulsion. Recognizing this glimmer to be magical in nature, I reached out to it with a weaving of words and found myself on the other side as it were. How about you? How did you survive the fall?”

The other two were whispering behind the bard’s back, unwilling to speak directly to the strangely chatty man he freed from an unstable portal spell.

Astarion (whispering): “Oh dear, he talks just like a bard. Or worse yet: A wizard. Can we please leave him behind?”

Shadowheart (whispering): “I’m afraid that will depend on our leader.”

Every eloquent word from the human’s mouth only made Irory more wary of him.

Irory: “Honestly… Urgh, I don’t know how we survived. I should count my blessings to be alive at all.”

Gale: “I quite agree, although I have the unfortunate suspicion that our survival is still very much in jeopardy. Back on the ship, you too were on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region, were you not?”

Irory: “Thank you for the most repulsive reminder. Yes, I was. We all were.”

Gale: “This insertee we speak of, this parasite – are you aware that after a period of excruciating gestation it will turn us into mind flayers? It’s a process known as ceremorphosis and let me assure you: it is to be avoided. You don’t happen to be a cleric, by any chance, do you? A doctor? A surgeon? Uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?”

He knew about the fate awaiting them. How? So far only the gith had any knowledge on the matter, given her kin were former slaves to illithids and dedicated their lives to the art of their destruction. Yet this man talked about it with jovial little motions of his hands, as if discussing plans for his weekday stitchery club. Irory was more suspicious of the educated man making adorable gestures when talking about macabre situations than the elf who laughed maniacally after holding a knife to his throat. Perhaps rightfully so.

Shadowheart: “You seem to know enough about our condition to realize it is beyond most cleric’s skills.”

Gale: “Most, no doubt. But I find myself hoping to be in the presence of the few. You don’t happen to be one of them?”

Astarion: “I would describe myself as proficient with sharp, pointy objects. How about I give it a shot? Any volunteers? Maybe our new long-winded friend over here?”

The snarky high elf was playing around with the knives in his hand, twisting and turning them as he held prolonged eye contact with Gale. Much to the dismay of the spellcaster.

Irory: “Unfortunately, I am only a very averagely gifted bard. But if the solution to our brain parasite problem is a dramatic performance of your favorite theater play, do let me know. Otherwise, I’ll keep a soliloquy prepared for our funerals.”

Gale: “No reason for such pessimism! It may not exactly be a common affliction, but maybe we can lend each other a helping hand as we look for a healer together?”

Irory did a few calculations in his mind. One extra person would not be the end of the world, they still had a surplus of supplies and scavenging for more was proving to be easier than expected. Despite all the talk of death, this man had been the friendliest stranger yet. At least outwardly. His education could prove rather useful in the search of a healer and truly, if all else failed, perhaps Astarion would stab the new talkative guy instead of the quiet bard. Recruiting him would improve their odds of survival, one way or another. Seeing the leader’s hesitation, Gale added some persuasion.

Gale: “Ah, but of course I will make myself useful as well. I am a capable wizard and an exquisite cook, if I may say so myself. Given the impending sunset, we can set up camp immediately and I will prepare a succulent meal from our supplies. I happen to have a day’s worth of rations left in my backpack.”

Irory: “A wizard…?”

His eyes shifted nervously. Not again. Despite all the hints pointing towards it, the bard had hoped to not find himself in the presence of another wizard again. He grinded his teeth as Gale reiterated on the advantages recruiting him would have.

Gale: “And a great cook! If you let me join you, I will tell you all about it. I’ve been studying the Weave for many years. As a spellweaver yourself, perhaps I can take the opportunity to teach you a thing or two as well. What say you?”

There were many reasons one would dislike wizards: from the arrogant way they looked down on other casters to their complete lack of common sense in decision making. The power to level cities in the hands of adult children that thought too highly of themselves. A horrific mixture. If that was not enough, Irory’s personal experience with the last person that wanted to teach him ‘proper’ magic made him wish to never find himself in the presence of another of her kind again.

Was it not enough that he was actively running from a wizard of unspeakable charm and intellect, power over transmutation magic and a way to twist love into unimaginable pain over the course of a decade? Now he had to consider the possibility of traveling with what appeared to be a teleporting disaster of a mage? Recruiting Gale would be most beneficial for the team. He held knowledge about tadpoles and was likely a great asset in battle. But what were the odds of receiving more scars from this alliance in the long run? More than those of the elf stabbing him or turning illithid?

Perhaps Irory was simply desperate and tired enough to value the short-term benefits higher than the long-term harm. A few more scars were hardly going to make him look worse than he already did. And his mistress likely awaited the bard’s return in Baldur’s Gate regardless of his companionship now. Being faced with wizards was unavoidable, it seemed. So far, Irory could detect no signs of malice from the stranger. Quite the opposite, in fact. And they were all in the same tadpole-infested boat, as Shadowheart pointed out. A fireball or two could do wonders against the enemies ahead.

Irory: “I… Fine. You’re in. Let’s set up camp and rest for the day.”

Chapter 3: First Impressions

Chapter Text

The four of them set up camp close by. They had scouted out the area and detected no more dangers – illithid or otherwise. The coast was clear, quite literally. Irory and Shadowheart propped up the tents before changing into more comfortable clothing, with the bard showing great experience when it came to camping out in the open field. Gale was preparing the food as promised – fresh fish and whatever else the group had gotten their hands on during the day. Astarion left for a while, claiming he was hunting. Animals, hopefully. But knowing him for half a day, likely robbing people.

With preparations done, Irory took a moment to reflect on his new allies. A few new details stood out to him. Apart from another cozy purple outfit, Gale wore an earring displaying the symbol of Mystra. Not uncommon for a wizard, and a more fashionable accessory than a pointy hat. Probably not a 1000-year-old man, given he had at least a semblance of taste remaining.

A tattoo extended from his left eye down his neck – difficult to tell where it led or what it displayed with most of it being covered by both his adventuring gear as well as his more comfortable camp clothing. He did not wish to change out of his robes in front of others. Suspiciously prude for a man in the wilderness. Yet he continued being friendly with no sign of deceit. Was he genuinely nice or a better actor than Irory could tell in his current state? The bard could not let his guard down.

Shadowheart continued being secretive, but it appeared she was truly hiding something in her past, rather than simply acting aloof for the sake of invoking interest. As Irory paid more attention to her appearance, the moon symbols on her armor and tent caught his eye. Black circles surrounded by purple. Markings of a major god… but which one? Every time the bard tried to recall this knowledge, he could feel a sharp pain behind his eye, as if the parasite did not wish for him to remember. Tomorrow was another day, perhaps one that brought on more mental clarity.

Lastly, just like Shadowheart, Astarion proved quite mysterious. His way of carrying himself seemed… performative. A bard would know. He had two pointy canines – odd for an elf – and strange bite marks on his neck. If he was not walking around freely in the sun, one might mistake him for a vampire. He was the most dangerous of the bunch and Irory could only hope to stay on his good side. With company like this, sending a few prayers to Ilmater would become a nightly necessity.

As the tiefling looked into a small hand mirror, he realized that he himself was not the spitting image of trustworthiness: A Mephistopheles tiefling – or hellspawn, as others would refer to him – with bodily modifications that would have made him an outcast even among his ashen-skinned kin. His formerly ivory white horns – a source of pride and attachment to his family – now looked turquoise and crystalline. They were a beautiful, terrifying reminder of the power wizards held in their hands.

Even his handsome face and cute freckles now had to compete with scars for how much attention they drew. Countless tiny, unhealed wounds on his necks formed a rose pattern and another, far larger scar spanned across the entirety of his right cheek. They certainly did not help with first impressions. It was almost unpleasant to look at himself without an armor to cover up the things he did not wish to see. Who knew a thousand small cuts were just as lethal as one devastating blow?

There was little left of the tiefling child with big dreams and even bigger resolve. But this was no time to reminisce about the past, Irory had much bigger worries than his looks. His allies could make up for that flaw, considering they were all blessed by Sune, the goddess of beauty herself. Maybe mind flayers had a knack for scouting Faerûn’s most attractive strangers. From the charms of a young mysterious half-elf over to the more openly desirable allure of Astarion, the company he kept was sure to receive unsavory stares from all directions. Not that the bard minded, given he used to turn many heads in his college days as well.

Astarion popped up from behind the mirror, looking rather clean for a man that just went hunting. His stare was hungry, uncomfortably fixated on the bard’s neck before making eye contact.

Astarion: “Is the face of our group engaging in a display of vanity this fine evening?”

Irory: “Hardly. I’m the only one in this group that looks the part of a man abducted by illithids.”

The bard placed the mirror on his bedroll, face down. He shifted his stance and forced out a less tired voice, attempting to keep up the façade of not being close to a mental breakdown any moment. A difficult task in the face of an elf that had nothing better to do than inquire about his past with a devious smile on his face.

Astarion: “I’ve been meaning to ask about those little imperfections of yours. You must have a few stories to share with all these scars around your pretty little neck.”

Irory: “Well, it turns out people really love holding knives to my throat. Just today I got jumped by a high elf of all people. Curious guy with bite marks on his neck, too. Must be some kind of odd fetish of his.”

He squinted his eyes while answering and for a moment, he could see the expression on Astarion’s face shift. The rogue covered the bite marks with his hand almost nervously before going back to his performative demeanor. Something was dawning on Irory: had Astarion not seen his memories when their tadpoles connected? Asking about his neck scars was no coincidence, he knew where they came from. Was this conversation an attempt at getting something out of him?

Astarion: “What a terrible affliction, indeed. While some of us spent their nights getting stabbed in the neck, others spent them in bustling streets and bursting taverns. Cutting open the dirt and resting is… a little novel.”

A change of topic. Good. Irory was surprised about the revelation that Astarion had never camped outside before. Judging by his memories, he was spending his nights in Rivington pre-abduction. Not exactly known for riches and stable housing situations. Then again, the high elf’s clothing suggested a better upbringing than sleeping on the street like the bard did a long time ago.

If anything, the embroidery and coloration of Astarion’s travel gear was reminiscent of nobility. Why would he spend any amount of time in the outer city, prowling the streets in the dark? And why was the tadpole gleefully squirming behind Irory’s eye every time he tried to recall which house used dark colors and that particular emblem as their identifier? Hells, trying to remember anything of note today was a hopeless endeavor. Perhaps talking was all he could do.

Irory: “You’ve never slept outside before? Not even once?”

Astarion: “Elves don’t sleep, we meditate - trance as you may call it. But since you’re asking: no, I have not spent my nights meditating in the dregs of Faerun.”

Irory: “Lucky you. Well, now is as good a time as any. Watch the stars in the sky as you meditate next to the fire, maybe you’ll enjoy it.”

Astarion: “I don’t think I’ll rest just yet. Today has been… a lot. I need some time to think things through, to process this. You should get some food and rest, I’ll keep watch.”

Oddly, the high elf almost sounded sincere in his response. Today truly had been a lot for all of them, even the elf that was slightly too enthusiastic about murder. And given their circ*mstances, tomorrow was going to be no different. If they could build some rapport, some trust, Astarion could be one of the most valuable assets to their team. Somehow Irory wanted to trust him, knowing it was foolish.

Irory: “I’ll make sure to keep my neck covered, then. But thank you. It feels a little safer knowing someone is staying on guard.”

Astarion: “My pleasure. Sweet dreams.”

Irory followed Astarion’s advice and decided to grab some food before bedtime. Of course, not without getting pulled aside by another companion first.

Shadowheart: “What were you two talking about?”

He sighed. Secretive and nosy? What a great combination of personality traits. Certainly not exhausting to deal with at all after a long day. His response was nonchalant, but his eyes were cold, urging his companion to back off a little.

Irory: “Nothing much. Just stabbing necks and camping in the dirt. Not the most riveting conversation, as you can see.”

Shadowheart: “If I were you, I would be careful who you confide in. Trust is a rare currency. Not sure I’d spend it on someone who drew a knife on me moments after I met them.”

Irory: “Hence our conversation about neck stabbing. Let’s say we’re… settling our differences. But if you insist, I’ll bring all my conversations and concerns to you from now on. Since you’re the embodiment of trustworthiness.”

The annoyance in his voice was not even veiled anymore. Shadowheart crossed her arms, displeased at the sarcastic remark. She could not hold herself back from justifying her actions.

Shadowheart: “I have my reasons – they’re nothing for you to be concerned about. But either way, be careful. You never know what lengths someone might take to solve this little problem of ours. Let’s hope we rapidly find a healer.”

Irory: “Agreed. We’ll make haste when dawn breaks and split up once we’ve removed our problem. Then we’ll be free to spend our rare currencies however we wish.”

Perhaps her commentary came from a place of concern, but her attitude was childish at best or purposely aiming at causing friction between the group at worst. Whatever her intention was, Irory did not wish to engage with her any further tonight. A few more cold words were exchanged before she headed back to her own tent.

Shadowheart: “Good. We might even get lucky and find one right away. As I see it, we’re overdue for some good fortune. Rest well.”

Irory: “Same to you. Good night.”

Quietly, hoping to not get involved in another conversation, Irory sat down by the campfire. There was only one ally left that he had not spoken to, the one that the bard wished to avoid the most. Apparently, the newly appointed camp cook had been waiting for him, immediately taking notice of the group leader resting by the fire and walking over to him with skewered fish in his hands. He handed one to the tiefling as he sat down across from him.

Gale: “There you are. I was keeping these warm for you. I heard tieflings enjoy their meats on the rarer side. I presume the same goes for delights of the maritime variety?”

Blue irises with a slight glow in the dark were eyeing up the wizard suspiciously.

Irory: “You made these specifically for me? Why?”

The bard carefully examined the fish. It did not look poisonous. But monarchs would not need taste testers, if they could tell by mere appearance. He smelled the food. Nothing was off about it. His stomach was rumbling. When was the last time he ate a proper meal? Days ago? No, it was better to decline. This was a trap easily discovered from miles away.

Gale: “A more pleasant meal makes for a swifter mind, doesn’t it? We’ll need to keep our wits about, if we want to get the wee ones out of our heads. Might as well adjust to your culinary preferences as we are stuck together for now.”

Irory: “Awfully nice for a man that could disintegrate me with a single spell.”

His tone was still cold, contrasting the warm and inviting tenor of the wizard. It was difficult to project a neutral expression and cadence after everything that had happened. Worse yet, between emotional distress, hunger and exhaustion, it was hard to fully keep up with the conversation without letting his mind wander to all the horrors of Irory’s past, present and future.

Gale: “Ha, I’d rather appreciate having allies than acquaintances for the road ahead. Fortunately for you, the tadpole has sizably hampered my magical abilities, therefore a disintegration is off the table for the time being. Say, did you notice any difference in your connection to the Weave after our unwelcome visitors got deposited?”

Allies instead of acquaintances? How agreeable. But Irory would be lucky to even trust any of these strangers by the end of their misadventure, as much as he wished for friendly company.

Irory: “You too, hm? It’s hard to remember things. Spells, songs, even my literary knowledge is hard to access. Like a fog is covering part of my memories. Or a tadpole, in our case. I can feel it squirming behind my eye, as if it’s purposely hiding what I’m trying to recall. I suppose the equivalent for a wizard would be feeling separated from the Weave. Not that I would know, my connection to it isn’t as direct – even when I tried.”

He had said a little too much. Too casually, too. Gods, Irory felt so tired he could close his eyes and pass out any moment. His whole body felt heavy, still pushing himself to keep his posture sharp, even when his mouth had acted before his brain. No use. Even the best performers had their limits.

Gale: “You have expressed it quite aptly, my experience appears to align with yours. Although I still have much of my knowledge left to offer, seeing that I had much expertise in all manners of subjects before our spontaneous foray into the wilderness. Not that you didn’t, but a wizard’s education is simply on another level, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

With a short sigh, Irory looked into the wizard’s eyes, trying to gauge his intentions in this conversation. But the only thing he could find was a sense of empathy. There was no ill-will to be detected, as if this man was genuinely seeking companionship. Hard to believe, especially from some famous spellcaster that couldn’t help but show off and put down the education of others right after meeting them. Exhaustion, hunger and illithid parasites must have been clouding Irory’s judgement. The bard knew better than to trust someone with a kind smile and a well-practiced manner of speech. Eloquent wizards were a nightmare better left in his past.

Gale: “Before I forget, I don’t want you to think you’re embarking on a journey with most ill-mannered a man. Thank you for pulling me out of that stone. It was an act of foresighted kindness, I assure you. I have the feeling ample opportunities will present themselves for me to return the favor.”

What did he stand to gain from this, harping on and on about his strengths? Unlike Astarion, he did not seem particularly interested in the scars on the tiefling’s face or the crystal horns on his head. Why iterate on all his wizarding prowess, if not to gain insight on the experiments done to him? What was his intention, his motivation in this talk?

A loud grumble from his stomach cut through the bard’s speculations and he clutched his abdomen in pain. In response, there was a convincing act of concern on Gale’s face. He leaned forward, once again offering the skewered fish to the group leader. Hells, the smell alone could make his mouth water. How much poison could a starving tiefling endure before dying? And would that even be in the top three worst things that had happened to him lately? Perhaps he was desperate enough to accept the food from the wizard and risk a single bite.

… It was delicious. Smoky and salty with just a hint of sweetness. The natural flavors came through flawlessly, it was perfectly prepared to be something a tiefling would enjoy. If poison tasted this good, Irory could probably train himself to build an immunity. His tail raised ever so slightly as he ate his fill. It did not clear his mind, but for a moment, perhaps he did look less on edge than before.

Irory: “Did you use prestidigitation on this?”

Even as he tried to hide his delight at good food, the genuine curiosity came through in his voice. Not that his enjoyment was a secret when he looked like a baby rothé discovering the taste of fresh grass for the first time. Gale sounded proud at his accomplishment, eagerly explaining his cooking process.

Gale: “A great question! I distilled a fair amount of sea water to obtain the fresh water you’re drinking, then extracted salt from the remains. A well-placed fire bolt and a few apples roasted alongside the main dish for sweetness created a balanced flavor profile with very few supplies. Considering the enthusiastic response, I will make sure future dishes are of equivalent quality.”

Between the two of them, it was the wizard who sounded far more enthusiastic. Even when babbling on about preparing dinner, he was making big, dorky gestures with his hands to emphasize his points. Much like the quiet kids in school when they got a chance to freely talk about their hobbies. The kind of people Irory loved reaching out to, asking about their opinions, inviting them to open up more.

Irory: “Magic and cooking… anything else you’re willing to share about yourself?”

Biting into another serving of fish, the bard had inquired further about Gale without thinking. Gods, why was the food so good? Was it really not enchanted, poisoned or otherwise altered to harm him? And did it matter if it was, knowing every bite could be his last? At least a pleasant voice could accompany his early death.

Gale: “Let’s see. I hail from Waterdeep, City of Splendours. I have a cat, a library and a weakness for a good glass of wine. And if the mood takes me, I’m known to try my hand at poetry.”

Just as before, the wizard responded excitedly. For wizardly standards, he was almost charming. Most of them sported long beards, greasy hair, questionable fashion choices and a severe lack of decorum. Unlike the more charismatic spellcasters that were sorcerers and bards. Even warlocks knew how to dress with infernal flair. By wizardly measures, Gale was exceeding expectations.

Then again, so did Irory’s ex-girlfriend Lady Rosedew and he certainly did not wish to have a fireside chat with her. Perhaps the bard was too tired and easily swayed by good food. Or by a companion not immediately hostile towards him. Did he say cats and poetry? Hells, those topics alone could have sparked endless conversations between them. But not with a wizard. Not even friendship. Never again. Irory would have to stop himself from making bad decisions from now on.

Irory: “Doesn’t that sound too good to be true? Where is the catch? Anger management issues? Dwarven levels of alcoholism? Dubious evening rituals? Secretly a lich, fey, lycanthrope or incubus? Former member of a murder cult that wants to take revenge?”

Gale: “Ha! No such thing, I’m afraid. Ah, but I do talk in my sleep on occasion, if that is a sufficient enough flaw to balance out the ample talents I possess. What about you? Any strange pastimes or murderous intentions that one needs to keep their eyes on?”

The wizard chuckled about the questions. It was impressive how he kept up this friendly act despite everything. At least a proper introduction could be offered to him. To repay him for the cooking, of course. With their adventure hopefully coming to an end as quickly as it started, it would not cause too much harm to offer a modicum of politeness to a temporary ally. The bard used the last of his remaining energy to project some confidence in his voice.

Irory: “I’ll try to respond in kind. As you are aware, my name is Irory and I’m an averagely gifted bard from Baldur’s Gate. I’m known to read a book or a hundred when something catches my interest and depending on who you ask, I may be the most handsome devil or annoying know-it-all you will have the pleasure of speaking with. I have no dark secrets, but I have many reasons to stay cautious with strangers of the wizarding variety. So do excuse my less friendly attitude towards you in particular.”

Little did the tiefling know, this had been one of the most pleasant conversations Gale had with another person in some time. Other than his tired tone, it was hardly noticeable on the outside that he was at enmity with wizards. Almost sweet of him to apologize for so very little.

Gale: “Pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, Irory of Baldur’s Gate. May we find a healer expeditiously, so the both of us can return to stuffing our noses in books. And perhaps our makeshift alliance will erase all shadows that cloud your mind when it comes to esteemed and erudite spellcasters such as myself.”

A hand reached out, waiting to be shaken. There was a short moment of hesitation before Irory took it, begrudgingly accepting the friendly gesture. Gale’s smile widened a little.

Irory: “Unlikely. But I know better than to tell a wizard that he can’t accomplish something. Only ever makes them try harder. If pondering how to befriend me is how you wish to spend your time, so be it. If you need a reference to start with, I’m not opposed to cats and poetry.”

He stood up and stretched, watching friendly brown eyes follow his movements. Turning around to leave for his bedroll, Irory glanced back one last time and said his parting words for the night.

Irory: “Thank you for the food and slightly-less-unpleasant conversation than with the other two. Make sure you rest up. We can’t afford to travel with a sleepy wizard.”

Gale: “I shall. May you find ample amounts of rest, too.”

Hours passed in silence. The bonfire crackled weakly and wind was rustling through patches of grass and leaves, noticed only by a trained ear. The night was quiet, yet spells of exhausted sleep were interrupted by the itching and twitching of the parasite. Irory awoke, tossing and turning until finally giving up and opening his eyes to stare at the sky.

He had laid beneath the stars many times. Whether it was out of necessity or by the side of a friend or lover, those times felt like a long bygone memory now. Every time he closed his eyes he could feel the tadpole squirm, reminding him of a reality he wished he could forget. Dragons, illithids and the hells themselves – creatures and places of books and fairytales. Until today.

Home, Baldur’s Gate, felt like another faraway dream. Only the gods knew how far away the tiefling was from seeing his family again. Irory took a few deep breaths. Against all odds, he had survived the worst day of his life thus far. There was no giving up now. He would find a healer and make his way home. He had to. No mere tadpole could stop him now that he was free. All he had to do was get rid of this parasite and find his footing. Easy. In theory. But where to start?

Irory rolled over to the side, closing his eyes again. The movement behind his eye was of no concern now. Just one more night, one more day. Then it would all fall into place. He tried to tune out the distracting sensations in his skull the only way he knew how: music. All day he had heard this one melody, a leitmotif repeated by different instruments in different intensities. Repeating again and again, forming into jumbled words and occasionally the phrase ‘down by the river’.

Not a song he knew before, but pleasant all the same. Perhaps it was time for a different song to occupy his mind, one to calm his mind, the tadpole and anything else that stopped him from sleeping. He truly needed it, exhausted as he was. More than anything, he needed to find some rest among all this chaos. To be prepared for the day to come, for the adventure ahead, for the allies by his side, for everything until he would hopefully find himself home again.

Who shall praise thee

Fear and hate thee

Save thy story

From the shifting sand?

Chapter 4: Let the dead gods rest

Chapter Text

The first lights of dawn hit Irory’s face. He woke up, a night’s rest sharpening his mind and senses. Apart from the gleeful squirms behind his eye, he felt less disconnected from the world than the previous night – fortunately so. And perhaps more surprisingly, he was unharmed. No stabbing wounds, no tentacles, no poison, nothing at all. Perhaps his situation was going to improve from now on. Or perhaps it simply couldn’t be much worse than stranding in the wilderness with only alien parasites and three suspicious strangers for company.

The cleric of their adventuring party, Shadowheart, had already risen and was gearing up for the day, her armor shined and hair braided. Astarion and Gale were sleeping and trancing, receiving gentle taps on their shoulders until they, too, opened their eyes.

Astarion: “Don’t. Touch me.”

Duly noted – the murder elf did not enjoy physical contact. It appeared he had kept his promise of staying on guard duty, given the tired look he had. For a man that required merely four hours of meditation per night and clearly had no interest in keeping anyone but himself safe, it was a rather upstanding gesture to sacrifice his own rest for the group.

Irory: “Apologies. Thank you for keeping watch last night. Were you alright?”

Astarion: “Of course I was. As alright as one can be surrounded by dirt and snoring wizards.”

Irory looked over to the snoring wizard in question, now awake enough to examine not only himself, but to sneak the occasional glance towards his newfound acquaintances. He looked more on edge than the night before, perhaps forgetting to keep up the friendly act when not spoken to. An amateur mistake for someone with such polished performance? Odd.

Not exactly in the most cheerful of moods himself, the bard decided to gear up and simply find gratitude in being alive at all. To feel the warmth of the sun caress his chilly skin again, to have another chance of removing the parasites and returning to the Gate, to his family. It was going to be a long and arduous road ahead, but at least there was hope. If nothing else, that was more than he had had in years. Enough for him to cling onto it with everything he had.

Heading out, they quickly came across a group of bandits at the entrance of an ancient temple. Few words were exchanged, Astarion and Irory spoke the same language when it came to dealing with crypt raiders: Sneak, surround, surprise. Using the same motion that the elf had executed flawlessly yesterday, the tiefling held a knife to the throat of a lone archer atop of an overhang, his other arm restraining the man.

Irory: “Speak or your companion dies.”

He addressed the leader of the raiding group, a halfling that was caught off-guard in the middle of screaming at two of his allies. It would be four against four, if confrontation was unavoidable.

Halfling: “What’s this then? Trying to creep around and loot the crypt? Or is it the ship you’re after? Don’t matter, it’s ours. All of it. Go on, foulblood. Kill him. You won’t survive a minute longer.”

Starting off negotiation with a slur? How infinitely charming. The odds of a peaceful resolution were dwindling with every sentence out of the bandit’s mouth.

Irory: “You can keep your loot. I’m searching for a healer. Tell me where to find the nearest settlement and no one has to die today.”

Halfling: “I haven’t seen no damn healers ‘round here. Back to the hells with you ---”

His cussing was interrupted by the blood-curdling screams of a woman. Someone had gotten impatient. Only a hungry grin could be seen on Astarion’s face as his knife pushed through the abdomen of a human spellcaster. She slowly sank to the ground in front of him, lifeless. A quick death, although certainly not painless. Without hesitation, the halfling readied his bow to shoot and both Shadowheart and Gale joined the fight from their position.

Halfling: “He’s not alone, get them!”

An Ignis was uttered by the wizard and a firebolt flew across the air. What appeared to be a miss at first turned into a construction block crushing and shattering the ground underneath, including the bones of a poor fighter that should have considered his positioning more carefully. Four against two now. Even if they did not get along personally, the pure combat prowess of this party was more than palpable.

Mere seconds later, another bandit found his end at the hand of Irory, who made short work of the archer he had ambushed. A stab and a push later, the man landed in a trapped pile of supplies. How convenient, the bard would have doubtlessly fallen victim to it himself otherwise. Seeing as his entire squad faced a devastating defeat within moments, the leader of the crypt raiders surrendered.

Halfling: “I yield, I yield! You can have the loot, devilspawn. Have the whole damned temple and the ship too, whole mission was a bust anyway. f*cking thing is trapped to the hells and back. Ain’t got enough tools to disarm ‘em all.”

Whatever he was babbling on about was of no concern to Irory. He only needed information, the abandoned ruins were a bonus.

Irory: “Healer or settlement. Mark it on your map.”

He pointed at a map that could be seen among their supply pile. Instead of following orders, the bandit faced the bard and attempted to explain himself.

Halfling: “I don’t know no settlement around here. We’re brigands, not some fancy city folk. Heard this place was abandoned, came to loot it and heard the crash. ‘s all we got.”

Just as Irory was about to let him go, Astarion decided it was time for another jab or a few. With combat over, he began rummaging through the pockets of every bandit’s corpse as he complained.

Astarion: “How utterly worthless. Next time we should start with the killing and skip all the merry chit-chat.”

Joining up again with the rest of the group, the bard took a look at the leftover supplies and inspected the map. At least they had a vague sense of where they were now, even if the where to go next was still a mystery. Arguing ensued behind his back with Shadowheart insisting on skipping the temple and Gale making a point about investigating it. Astarion was indifferent about it, bemoaning every plan as too much work.

Shadowheart: “We could turn any moment now, we don’t have time to explore every temple we come across. What if this is a Selûnite enclave? Pointless. We won’t find anything of use there. I see only one way left for us to go: north.”

Astarion: “And climb those dastardly mountains? What if I break a nail?”

Mildly irritated by the sarcastic remarks and sudden change of plans, Gale calmly presented his own point with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Gale: “The leader of the brigands spoke of hidden treasure in this temple. I say we take our chances and locate any such artifact that may have been left behind. Given that we have no further leads on the whereabouts of a healer or settlement, perhaps this crypt is the key to our continued survival.”

Astarion: “Yes, let’s crawl through a dusty old tomb and hope the gods will wish away the pesky friends in our heads. What a grand idea. How about we hold hands and pray the worms away next?”

More sarcasm did not help diffuse the situation. How very surprising. With rising tension and pointed tones, the three of them were gesturing wildly at each other as they argued.

Shadowheart: “You are wasting our time! I’m will not turn into a mind flayer because you decided to go sight-seeing!”

Gale: “I would hardly describe what we’re about to do as ‘sight-seeing’. A potent magic item could mean the difference between life and death in many occasions we will find ourselves in and …”

The bickering continued as Irory scouted the area. It appeared the tomb had multiple exits, one of which potentially led further north. There was also a small chance that other survivors from the crash had taken shelter in the tomb. Reuniting with the githyanki from the ship would drastically improve their chance for a cure, knowing her kin must have a way of fighting illithid parasites.

Of course, this entire operation could waste hours of their time and lead nowhere, but so far this was the only landmark that had any significance. And Irory couldn’t help but feel curious about what lied beyond. Drawing him in like a call to adventure, an inquisitiveness beyond treasure and ancient murals, as if something in his mind whispered of a prophecy to be fulfilled. Or perhaps he was merely losing his mind with every passing second, it likely was one or the other.

Irory: “We should investigate this tomb, for all we know the treasure they sought could be the key to our problem. And if we don’t find anything, at least there may be an underground road leading northward.”

Reluctantly, Shadowheart agreed and the wizard looked relieved about his plan being the chosen one. Astarion had sauntered over to the door, apparently making enemies with whoever was talking to him from the inside. They locked the entrance and the rogue shrugged at the group with a mischievous grin.

Astarion: “What a pity, looks like the temple is not open for visitors today.”

Someone was keen on causing trouble today. Rolling his eyes, Irory made his way over to the hole in the ground left behind by the construction block. Good enough. He fastened a rope at the top and gracefully climbed down into the dusty temple.

His companions followed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Astarion nimbly made his way down with theatrical jumps, contrasted by Shadowheart whose armor clinked and clanked with every movement. Their attempt at stealth was not left unnoticed by whoever was left exploring the tomb. They could hear footsteps approaching on the corridor.

Irory was still helping the wizard climb down the rope when a crossbow bolt grazed his arm, succeeded by another directly hitting his leg. Despite feeling the pain creeping up his limb, he did not let go until Gale was safely on his feet. Behind them, Astarion and Shadowheart found themselves at a disadvantage against five enemies with little to take cover behind.

Ranged attacks kept piercing the bard who remained positioned in front of the wizard almost protectively. It was obvious to him that they had taken aim at the largest threat – and Irory knew it was not him. One well-placed firebolt hit a barrel of wine hidden behind the swarm of enemies and flames began engulfing the hallways, smoke causing the bandits to caugh. Impressive foresight and aim. The wizard did make due on his promise of being an asset in battle.

Mere moments later, the last of the crypt raiders had taken a final breath and the group of tadpoled adventurers had made it. Unscathed, for the most part. Irory looked down on himself, bolts piercing leather armor and skin. Shadowheart took to closing his wounds, while Astarion opened a few more by pulling the projectiles right out of him. There was much enjoyment to be had for him, berating the bard after every painful movement.

Astarion: “A little tip for you, darling: When someone aims at you with a weapon, do try to get out of their line of fire.”

Perhaps his gaze had lingered a little too long on the drips of blood staining Irory’s armor. Subtle smirks and gleeful grins marked his face every time another arrow was pulled out of him. He was a sinister elf, doubtlessly. Although far from normal company, at least Shadowheart and Gale appeared less deranged in comparison. A group of weirdos they were, all the same.

Irory: “Very funny. Do consider a career as a bard, you clearly have the makings of one.”

Astarion: “And do every job on our little squad? Oh no, I’d rather leave the tomfoolery to you, my dear. You look like an expert.”

The crypt smelled of dust and decay. Cracked and destroyed pillars lined marble hallways. Hardly a few rays of light illuminated the way through rifts in the ceiling. Yet despite the desolate interior, a fair amount of loot awaited the four of them in nearby rooms. Tomes about vampires, ancient deities, tales of the Dead Three and all manners of long-forgotten knowledge were laying about, far too clean to be part of this crypt for aeons. One tome in particular stood out from the others, an arcane lock sealing its pages together. Book of the Dead Gods. Ominous. Whoever was worshipped in these halls may have left a hint through the scattered books.

Irory: “Hey, wizard. Do you know how to open this?”

Setting aside their spellcaster animosities, the bard decided to ask the right man for the job. Gale proudly moved his shoulders back and performed a little warm-up stretch for his fingers before taking the book into his hands.

Gale: “Ah, but of course! You have come to a man most proficient in the art of arcane unsealings. Only a knock spell could provide better results in lesser time.”

Irory raised an eyebrow at the bragging, but it only took a few seconds before the tome was back in his hands, fully readable. At least one had the talents to back it up. Relishing in his little success, the wizard proudly tapped his own shoulders and encouraged taking a peek into ancient knowledge together. Pages upon pages of names, between the unfamiliar and unpronouncable... until some were not. At least not for the bard. “Pehla” and “Pyasa” for one. Followed by one very intriguing name: “Master of Masters - Irori”.

Quickly turning over the page, a scroll fell out of the book. Fortunately, it appeared as if Gale had not read the group leader's name in this strange work of literature about dead gods. Instead, he picked up the scroll and smiled. The only correct reaction to finding valuable resources in forbidden tomes.

Gale: “Is it not one of the greatest pleasures, uncovering ancient secrets that have been lost for eons? This book held only one such mystery. Lost in the mists of time, to be found by those lucky enough to stumble upon it on accident.”

Shadowheart: “You have uncovered magic rubbish, congratulations. Now, can we move on? We’ve wasted enough time as is.”

A little helplessly, Gale’s eyes sought out those of the group leader. Was he a lost puppy begging to keep digging for bones? They would not have stopped their exploration either way, as far as Irory was concerned. There was more. He could feel the lingering presence of danger, the call to adventure, the beguiling whispers of secrets left unexplored.

Irory: “Let’s keep going, there isn’t much left.”

Groans came from Astarion and Shadowheart, but at least the puppy-eyed man looked excited to continue. He would be wagging his tail, if he had one. Perhaps other arcane casters had just as much of a strong sense of curiosity as wizards did, Gale thought to himself. Perhaps bards were just a little less talented in magic and a little more easily distracted by earthly pleasures, like a hormone-driven younger sibling. But the Weave did connect them all.

They continued walking and exploring the last few stretches of the crypt, coming across a room that held a myriad of traps. Dancer-like, Irory easily made his way around all of them, stepping and swinging expertly around every vent on the floor, fingers nimbly disarming traps with a few clicks of a thief's tool. One mechanical noise defused a final snare. A sacrophagus was now waiting to be opened in the middle of the room. As it turned out, grave-robbing was not beneath bards. And was this one not a little too good at it? They certainly did not teach this skillset at colleges.

Astarion commented on how he could have done better, changing his demeanor as a new dagger made its way into his hand. He stabbed the air a few times, content with the spoils. Shadowheart was less happy to receive a new spear, still bemoaning their lack of tadpole-related progress. She was right, but unbeknownst to her, they would have been no step closer on the surface.

Only one last room laid at the center of the crypt: the main hall. Likely the room where worship was held, a single intact statue was perfectly engulfed by a beam of light. Was that... Jergal? Former god of death, the one who gave up his position centuries ago. His domain split to ascend three foolish mortals: Bane, Bhaal and Myrkul. Tyranny, Murder and Necromancy. Any Baldurian could retell the legacy of horror they had left behind before receiving punishment from Ao.

Shadowheart: “This crypt must have been abandoned over 50 years ago. Hardly anyone worships Jergal outside of Thay. Certainly not in our current year.”

With how secretive she was being about her own deity of worship, the group had almost forgotten that Shadowheart was a cleric. A good grasp on religion and temples would have come in most handy on their exploration, if only she had spoken up sooner. Finding a button at the end of the corridor, she managed to unveil a secret chamber. The rattling of bones could be heard behind them as a green glow emanated from skeletons that had formerly decorated the floor.

Irory pulled the others into the tiny room, targeting the undead one by one from around the corner to ensure their survival. A wise choice, seeing as the enemies had spellcasters of their own. He directed each party member on what to do like the conductor of an orchestra. Listening to the rhythmic movement of bones on the floor, vibrations in the air from somatic components, the whistling sound of arrows shooting through the air. Only at the right time, he gave the command to fire everything they had against the enemies, then fall back into cover. Undead were far more formidable opponents than appearances let on. Only few made their way to the secret chamber, yet it took every spell to fight them back once they had arrived. A last cast of thunderwave ground bones into dust, green smoke evaporating. The group was out of breath, powers dwindling with every battle fought.

Irory: “Is everyone doing alright? That was a close one.”

Shadowheart shook her head: “I won’t be able to mend any more wounds today unless we rest up at camp.”

Gale: “I must admit, I feel much the same. Let’s tread carefully from now on, another battle would be unwise.”

Irory: “Let’s finish this up and head out, it should still be a few hours until eventide.”

Another large sarcophagus stood before them, a final point of interest in a crypt full of secrets. They examined it carefully, unsure of its contents.

Astarion: “Well? Let’s crack it open. Maybe it contains a scroll to wish our little friends away.”

He pushed against the lid. Stuck. Further investigation revealed no opening mechanism and even Gale could not find any trace of arcana holding it in place. Was it simply a decoy to distract from the trapped room? It hardly made sense, given this one had been hidden away.

Shadowheart: “Maybe it’s just not meant to be. What if this is the tomb of a monster? We couldn’t possibly defend ourselves against a lich, vampire or other undead creature.”

Someone looked nervous at the mention of vampires, taking a few quiet steps back towards the door.

Astarion: “On second thought, perhaps leaving is a better idea. I’m tired of the foul stench in this place. Let’s get some fresh air, shall we?”

For just a moment, Irory ran his fingertips across the lid, in one last attempt at finding a hidden switch, indentation or clue of any sort on possible incantations that must be spoken for this tomb to reveal its contents. Candelabras around them lit up with green flames all at once, illuminating the room as the coffin burst open. A single, bony hand reached out.

Shadowheart: “What have you done?!”

Irory: “I- I don’t know?!”

A withering dead body arose from its final resting place, its head covered in intricate golden ornaments. Underneath its black robe one could see bandages wrapping around its torso and arms. It levitated right in front of the group, no emotion to be discerned on its face.

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

The bard was dumbfounded. This was simultaneously one of the scariest and most incredible things to have ever happened to him. What was this creature? It spoke in a tongue reminiscent of the oldest tomes he had immersed himself in during his college days. And strangely, it sounded like it gave him a riddle.

Irory: “How many questions do we have to answer before you spare us? Er… you are going to spare us, aren’t you?”

Withers: “I am not the same as those thou hast slain, if that is what thou askest. Wilt thou answer my question?”

Did that mean the monster was not hostile? Fascinating. The idea of answering riddles for an ancient deity was intriguing, something Irory would have never thought possible in his life. As terrifying as all the new experiences had been thus far, somehow this felt right for him. Rescuing strangers, strategizing in the heat of battle, unveiling secrets unknown to mortalkind – perhaps this was his calling. Perhaps this was the future waiting for him all this time. If only he was not racing against the clock of losing his soul.

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

The bard pondered for a moment. No philosopher, god nor devil could agree on an answer to this question. The value of a life was in the eye of the one taking or giving it. To a mother, the life of a newborn held infinite value, yet it was in its most fragile state then. Given with hardship and taken with ease. To a god, a chosen – the peak a mortal could accomplish – possessed more value than any other, but did that mean unchosen mortals were inherently less worthy? To a devil, all souls held the same value, coins as currency to be sacrificed equally. There was no correct answer. Only an answer that aligned with one’s own beliefs.

Irory: “Each life is of infinite value and merits sacrificing everything for.”

Withers: “And thus, balance is achieved. Very well. I am satisfied. We have met and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.”

The undead creature placed a necklace in the bard’s hand before simply... walking away. Silence. No one dared to say anything after what they had witnessed. It will come back. Was that a threat? Or an invitation for more philosophical questions? Regardless, Irory was pleased with himself. A few more moments passed in a state of confusion before the group decided to leave the crypt behind for good. Fresh, non-mossy air sounded good right about now.

The twilight hours were upon them, pink clouds covering a darkening blue sky. Barely enough time to scout ahead a little more, the mood turned sour at the lack of progress today. What had they accomplished? Raiding books and reanimating liches? Shadowheart was not hiding her discontent at the situation and naturally, Astarion took any opportunity to add his two coppers. Until they overheard two voices speaking in the distance. About ugly creatures. Leave it for the goblins to kill.

Goblins? Those were bad news. A large settlement of them could make short work of four cerbrally impaired adventurers and likely cut off all roads leading back to civilization. This could prove to be a large obstacle soon. Irory snuck closer to the voices, realizing they belonged to tieflings. Kin. Even the monster they had caught was a familiar face, an extremely displeased githyanki that had found herself behind wooden bars. The two tieflings must know the area well to have a grasp on nearby goblin encampments. Confident in his ability to talk with them, the bard told the others to stay behind and approached on his own.

Tiefling A: “And what if it escapes? How will you – Oh, a guest.”

Irory could feel the tadpole move behind his eye, connecting with Lae’zel. Her voice could be heard, yet her lips were unmoving. Get rid of them. Could they communicate telepathically? He focused on a thought, looking at her.

Irory: I’ll get you out, but I won’t harm them.

Lae’zel: I know what grows inside you. And I know of a cure.

A light on the horizon. Just as he thought, if anyone knew of a cure, it would be the gith. They had been battling against illithids for thousands of years on the astral plane. They had to know a way. Compared to how Lae'zel had acted on the nautiloid, she seemed far less friendly in the current situation. Irory would have freed her regardless of the promised cure, but a little gratitude would have been appreciated.

Irory: “Apologies for interrupting, kin. I’ve overheard your predicament from afar. Perhaps we can help each other out? I'll deal with the gith, but I’m in dire need of healing.”

Both of his kin inspected Irory cautiously, perhaps wondering what ailment he may have that was in need of curing. He could feel their gazes linger on his scars and most of all: his horns. One of them spoke up again, concern in his voice.

Tiefling A: “Whatever you have isn’t contagious, is it?”

It hurt. Even if unintentional, the question cut like a sharpened blade through thin skin. Of course, everyone would notice those giant turquoise crystals on the bard’s head. He couldn’t possibly hope that no one would comment on them. But for tieflings to be the first ones to point them out stung more than Irory would have liked to admit.

Irory: “No, I assure you my affliction won’t spread to anyone else. And it’s unrelated to my appearance, so you have nothing to fear when bringing me to a healer.”

The other tieflings breathed a sigh of relief at hearing the bard’s honest words. Their stances relaxed and they took a look at the crash site before giving him the answer he was looking for.

Tiefling A: “We need to check out that blast anyway. Come on, let him take care of the toad. We won’t make it far if we reject someone that could help us.”

Tiefling B: ”Fine. You look capable enough and our camp could use a helping hand. Do you have a map? I’ll mark the entrance for you. Make sure no one is following you.”

Progress. Thank the gods. Just further north was an entire refugee camp of tieflings from Elturel, plagued by goblin raids and uncharacteristically unwelcoming druids that would rather see them dead than letting them stay. A precarious situation, although his kin were used to hostility no matter where they went. Irory thanked them and bade them farewell before turning his attention to the gith.

Lae’zel: “Enough gawking – get me down.”

Her tone was commanding and aggressive, as was her body language.

Irory: “You’re much less… cordial than when we first met.”

Lae’zel: “There is no point in idle chatter. Release me or become ghaik.”

Irory: “And you know a cure to our problem?”

Lae’zel: “Yes. I will share it, if you get me down. You are trying my patience.”

The bard readied his crossbow to release her, but not without attempting to lighten the mood with a little joke.

Irory: “I was taught to say please and thank you when others are kind to me. How about we follow Faerûn customs and try that?”

Lae’zel: “Never.”

Well, at least he tried. Irory pierced the brittle part of her cage and the gith found herself on solid ground again. She revealed that she had no cure on hand, but her people would cleanse the group of their parasites, if they were to follow her to a so-called crèche. Every question towards her only lead to more words in a tongue that none but her understood. And before any common ground was reached, the sun had set.

Irory: “Let’s set up camp and rest for the night. We’re overdue some respite and… friendlier introductions. Tomorrow we’ll head to the crèche. Where is it located?”

Lae’zel: “The horned ones mentioned a camp. One there – Zorru – has seen githyanki. A crèche must be near. We will ask this Zorru where he has seen my kin.”

Irory: “Sounds like a plan. The ‘horned ones’ are called tieflings. You may have noticed that I am one as well. Let’s try not to get on their bad side by calling them names.”

Lae’zel: “Chk. That won’t be necessary, teeth-ling.”

Irory: “…Tiefling.”

Chapter 5: Untrustworthy

Chapter Text

Just like the previous eventide, Irory helped Shadowheart setting up everyone’s tents while Gale was on cooking duty and Astarion went foraging for his own supplies. Their new companion, Lae’zel, mostly kept her distance. Her tent was decorated with hunting trophies. Fake hunting trophies. Taxidermized heads of mind flayers and other monsters, most of which did not look real upon closer inspection.

Shadowheart: “Are you sure you want to trust her? Her kind are not known for their great company or compassion.”

There she was again, sowing seeds of doubt about the companionship they kept. Who could blame her, seeing as the others were shady at best and murder enthusiasts at worst? Yet she fit right in with them. Despite being the newest addition to the team and having spoken only a few sentences, it was obvious that the githyanki drew Shadowheart’s ire more than others.

Irory: “She’s the only lead we have, isn’t she? We’ll keep asking around at the refugee camp tomorrow. If the tieflings have a better solution, we can always reconsider her offer.”

Shadowheart: “A reasonable approach. Maybe you’re not as naïve as you seem.”

Her compliments could use some work. Alas, beggars could not be choosers in the wilderness. The bard had to accept any crumbs he could get with her, whether it was a small nod of approval or simply a lack of hostility in her tone towards him. In turn, he tried to show her a friendlier side as well. Trust was a rare currency, as she had so eloquently stated during the previous night. Earning hers was an endeavor worth taking on.

Irory: “It’s better to be underestimated, isn’t it? I’d rather people think me naïve than plotting against me for being cunning.”

Shadowheart: “Is that so? You play your role quite well, then. Running around like a headless chicken, making friends with people that try to kill you, exploring crypts instead of seeking for a cure. You almost had me convinced.”

He laughed, at least she had a sense of humor beneath all the secrecy.

Irory: “What can I say? I’m a bard of many talents, acting being one of my more honed crafts. But now I must ask for your silence, the others can’t find out about my secret just yet.”

Shadowheart: “As you can see, I’m good at keeping secrets. Consider my lips sealed.”

Their chat continued for a while longer, until they both decided to move on to other tasks. Surprisingly, this was the most pleasant talk they had had thus far. The jabs towards Irory were well-deserved and he managed to keep the tone light-hearted. Despite their day nearly being a disaster, finally having a hope for a cure had improved the mood substantially. Their burden had lessened, even if only slightly.

Irory moved on to their new companion, who was standing at her tent by herself. She was inspecting and shining her equipment. Gale had tried to introduce himself to her earlier, but her hostile tone and reclusive attitude had earned her a quiet spot far away from the others. Seeing the leader approach, she eyed him up carefully Her words were commands, as if spoken by a soldier on the battlefield.

Lae’zel: “Speak.”

Irory: “I thought we could do with some friendlier introductions than what we shared on the nautiloid. I’m Irory, bard and seemingly leader of this crew. It’s a pleasure to have you on our side.”

He bowed gracefully, an act of respect that was hopefully understood among cultures outside of the prime material plane. Her answer? Merely a nod. Neither her stance nor her facial expression had softened in the slightest.

Lae’zel: “Eye-roar-ee. I will remember it. You will remember my name as Lae’zel of crèche K’liir. What else do you need?”

Possibly the worst pronunciation the bard had ever heard of his name. But they would get there. Eventually. Another attempt at making friendly conversation was made by him, still aiming to build rapport with her.

Irory: “Is there anything you can share with me? About yourself or your kin?”

Lae’zel: “Why would an istik be curious about the githyanki?”

Irory: “Oh, I always enjoyed reading about history. It’s incredibly inspiring hearing the tales of other places and times. Unfortunately, there are few books about the astral plane and they’re all centered around your escape from the mind flayers. I’m sure there is more to your kin than that.”

He spoke with genuine curiosity. The githyanki could at least share the bare minimum with him, all he needed to know to be a sufficient ally to her cause.

Lae’zel: “Chk. It is foolish to assume your people would understand us. The githyanki are warriors, trained from birth to fight against ghaik. There is no place for weaklings amongst our ranks. We serve Vlaakith, our true queen. The greatest honor for a githyanki is to wield a silver sword, riding on the back of a red dragon to join the fight against the abominations that held us captive for millennia. Ch'mar, zal'a Vlaakith! That is all you must know.”

The bard understood… some of those words. Hopefully context clues would make further talks easier or he may have to invest into a dictionary. For the time being, he made mental notes on what Lae’zel had said and continued.

Irory: “Fascinating, a very militaristic culture. But that is to be expected, knowing your kin have to fight every day against their former captors. May I ask, what happens to githyanki who don’t become warriors?”

Lae’zel: “Death.”

Not even a moment of hesitation from her. Likely many of Irory’s questions would lead to the same answer.

Irory: “… Ah. Of course.”

Small-talk was not her strong suit. A culture that revolved entirely around becoming strong and fighting was certainly intriguing to an outsider, but not something this poor bard could have imagined growing up in. Irory rather enjoyed the freedom life had given him on the prime material plane and the upbringing in a family that truly appreciated him as a person and not his skills at swordsmanship.

Lae’zel: “Is that all? You should rest. We must rise early and find this Zorru. Do not keep me waiting.”

Irory: “I will. Thank you for the talk.”

That concluded their unsatisfying conversation. Perhaps talk was unnecessary with a stoic githyanki. She was a force to be reckoned with in battle – Irory had witnessed her power first-hand on the nautiloid. And she was going to lead them to a cure. What more could one hope for? What a shame it was that the bard would likely never find out more about the astral plane at this rate.

Grabbing a delicious serving of food from the campfire, Irory decided to check in on the chef who had taken position by his own tent. Not that he was particularly fond of Gale, but against all odds, the wizard had been the least terrible ally on this short journey. A spot easily earned by being the least likely to murder Irory in his sleep. Rather something to be depressed about than to be celebrated. The bar for companionship was very low, if even a hellsdamned wizard could jump it. Then again, perhaps the bard was too harsh on him. He provided delicious food and carried his weight in battle, not to mention his encyclopedic knowledge that had proven more than useful in their crypt exploration. Disregarding his profession, he was rather pleasant company to keep.

As Irory munched on sausages and cheese, his quiet steps lead towards the wizard's tent. From a distance, he noticed a humming noise. Not of one voice, but two. Identical. Synchronized. The source of it came into view: a mirror image of the Gale and his real self, looking at each other intensely. How peculiar.

Deciding to sneak up on him, the bard thought about sleight-of-hand-ing a small trinket into the wizard’s pocket – one of his favorite tricks. But on second thought, it was hardly the right time for small bouts of mischief. Not with a group of potentially murderous weirdos that traveled together exclusively due to their shared affliction. Perhaps with a future adventuring party, the bard thought. He imagined how much fun he could be having with a more tight-knit group of adventurers that voluntarily staid together. How close one could have grown with better company.

Instead, he was stuck with a wizard and his far too polished act of being a decent person. Whatever he was plotting, he was hiding it quite well. His back was turned to Irory the whole time and he did not seem to hear the quiet footsteps approaching. Could he be caught off-guard for once?

Irory: “Looking for some back-up vocals for your song? Or perhaps an instrumental accompaniment?”

Gale: “Ah, what a surprise! If only your attempt at stealth was not thwarted by your reflection in this well-crafted and rather dashing magic mirror.”

Not even a flinch. The Gale-reflection waved at Irory while the real version turned to face him. It was to be expected that the wizard would not leave himself wide open. It would take more effort to surprise him, a more cunning ploy than a simple sneak. Irory looked back and forth between both versions of Gale, one eyebrow raised.

Irory: “How eerie.”

Gale: “Eerie?! But look at him! How could this little display of weave make you uncomfortable?”

Pointing at each other, Gale and his projection made a surprised and slightly wounded face. An expression powerful enough to invoke a slight feeling of guilt in Irory, perhaps. So far neither the wizard nor his magical shenanigans had done anything to harm him. But he knew this was a state that could be changed at any point in time. What would happen it they rid themselves of the parasite? What if Gale regained his full magical prowess? Once his use for the bard was to run out, there would be little holding him back from revealing his true nature.

Irory: “I’d rather keep my eyes on one wizard than two, I’m sure you understand that. And his voice sounds off. Too mechanical. Not a good fit for the melody you were humming. Nonetheless, a great display of unintentional horror on a peaceful autumn’s evening.”

Gale: “So much for my little spot of vanity… Your criticism is duly noted. When next you hear of him, only the finest and most accurate harmonies will leave his lips. I will ensure his every Étude is well-practiced.”

A sighed comment and a wave of his hand later, the spell vanished. Irory was left wondering why he had summoned it at all. Mirrors were readily available at camp, were they not? But such magic held great potential for a bard, now that he came to think of it. Could they play different instruments, effectively creating a one-tiefling band? Were they corporeal enough for other bardic purposes? Endless possibilities.

Gale: “There is much competition for the most handsome devil in this camp, but catching up shall not be accomplished in a night, it seems. Be that as it may, would you be willing to answer a question?”

No.

… Is what the bard wanted to say. But he was raised right. Being moderately polite to the least murderously inclined ally was the bare minimum he had to offer. He adjusted his stance to appear friendlier than before, yet keeping an air of distantness about him. ‘Approach with caution’ was perhaps the best way to read his body language.

Irory: “That would depend on the question. But I’m in a slightly better mood tonight, so ask and you may receive a favorable answer.”

Gale: “Ceremorphosis. What does it make you think of?”

Not exactly an easy conversation starter. But life or death situations were never easy.

Irory: “A tenday ago? Nothing. Now? Impending doom, lest we find a healer soon.”

Gale: “Ah, yes. The good old days. Day one: Fever and memory loss. Day two: hallucinations and greying skin. Day three: Hair loss and blood leaking from all orifices. Need I go on?”

Looking at the last slices of meat in his hand before looking back at the wizard, Irory answered with a mild amount of disgust in his voice.

Irory: “I’d rather you didn’t. Is there a point to your inquiry?”

Gale: “My point is this: our orifices remain blissfully unbloodied, our heads remain clear and our blood temperature normal. Any expert will agree: This is… abnormal.”

He was right. It had been two days, possibly more if their symptoms were supposed to start setting in on the nautiloid. Yet other than their weakened powers, their newly gained ability to link tadpoles and the gleeful twitches behind their eyes, they did not show any signs of infection. Raising his empty hand as if to toast, Irory gave a nod to Gale. The wizard responded in kind.

Irory: “Thank the gods for the abnormal, then.”

Gale: “I’ll toast to that. The pragmatic in me, however, sees only the silence before the storm.”

Unlike the previous day, Gale's tone was somber and serious. Was it not part of his act to make jokes in the face of danger? Was this a new way to gain sympathy from the bard, seeing as his last performance had been unfruitful? Strangely enough, Irory had not felt a hint of deceit from him. Neither during their past conversations, nor their current one. Was he being genuine after all? This entire time? No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Almost getting lost in thought again, he sat on a nearby crate and asked another question to gauge the wizard’s reaction.

Irory: “Do you have any theories on why we’ve been spared the illithid fate so far? You’re more knowledgeable on the subject. Any recorded cases that were similar to ours?”

Gale: “Maybe we are particularly animated adventurers. Or our tadpoles are distinctive in some way. Either way, a case like ours is unheard of. Even our new astral-planar friend Lae’zel could not recall a condition that would delay the inevitable end we are destined to face. Whatever the cause of our delayed transformation may be, we should continue observing our symptoms and keep our wits about. The sooner we reach the promised cure from the githyanki, the better.”

Their lack of knowledge was a curse. If their symptoms had set in already, they would have had undeniable confirmation that their end was near. If they knew why they were spared of their fate, they could work towards maintaining this status. But they had nothing to go on. Nothing at all. It all made sense now: why Gale had summoned a mirror image to study his symptoms, why he spoke to Lae’zel, why he looked so much more on edge since this morning.

Irory: “Are you scared?”

A pause. They looked at each other, the anxiety in Gale’s eyes serving as answer enough. Of course he feared the end to come. Worse than death, it meant losing his soul and becoming a twisted abomination from the Far Realms. Not even a famous wizard could keep these thoughts at bay when the great unknown surrounded them every day. Maybe it did not matter what type of life they had before, seeing how they were both drowning in uncharted waters at this very moment. Was it alright to think aloud for a little longer? Irory sighed, turning his gaze upwards at an overcast sky.

Irory: “Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve never left the city before this? I read tales of the Astral Sea, studied the history of the planes beyond and acted as various archdevils in all manner of plays and yet… none of these fairytales ever felt like something I would witness with my own eyes. Now it’s… real. In a sick and twisted way, we’re living in this nightmare of a story. And there are no heroes around to save us.”

He was rambling, sorting his thoughts in a reflective tone without even considering who he was speaking to. Strangely, it helped. Simply having someone, anyone that was willing to listen in a much-needed moment to process it all. And then, there was more. A glimmer of hope in his voice, a single bright star peeking through between the clouds.

Irory: “Whatever the reason we’re still alive, I’m rather grateful for it. Let’s make use of all the blessings we’ve been given. No matter what, I won’t give up. Not when we finally have a lead. We will get rid of these parasites. We will make it out alive.”

Those words carried more than merely the meaning on the surface. Magic laid within. Inspiration. A promise that would be fulfilled against all odds. Gale could feel the smallest spark of emotion course through him, inviting optimism where there was only hopelessness before. And as quickly as it came, it faded again. The wizard directed his attention towards the campfire, answering with nothing but seriousness in his voice.

Gale: “Camping by the fireside invites reflective thoughts, doesn’t it? I’ve considered much the same yesterday. Expressions so trivial they became almost meaningless – like ‘go to hell’ – have become a reality beyond our wildest imagination. We have seen devils, dragons and mind flayers. Formally abstracts on a piece of paper, now forever burned into our memories. And directly inserted into them, in the case of our unwelcome visitors. To find hope in our dire situation is… truly an admirable trait.”

An actual compliment without any backhandedness? What a first. It was a sick twist of fate that these two had so much in common, even their thoughts on the situation had aligned for a single, melancholic moment. It was hard to admit, but they would have been fast friends were it not for Gale being what he was. Were it not for the damage done by another wizard standing in the way of putting any amount of trust into people like him. If only he could be an ally rather than an acquaintance, as he had put it.

How idiotic. Irory needed to remind himself that he was not a naïve child anymore. Don’t trust so easily, you don’t know anything about him.

Irory: “Admirable – or perhaps foolish, who is to tell? All I know is that we could use some hope right now. And if no one else is willing to keep our spirits high, then perhaps I’m the one who has to be strong for the rest of us.”

He stood up, any remaining trace of congeniality disappearing in the dark of the night. A mirage, surely. Gale must have imagined that small moment of connection, of feeling like this bard could make anything happen that he put his mind to. What a welcome change of pace it would have been, to have any hope for a future at all.

Irory: “It’s late. And I’ve said quite enough to the man who might be poisoning my food.”

Gale: “Poison…? Whyever would I maliciously tamper with your food when I could receive a lauding hymn to my culinary abilities instead?”

Despite the sudden wariness, his tone was still less cold than the previous day. Perhaps breaking the ice of Cania was not as much of an impossible undertaking as Irory had claimed. He was far more amicable than he gave himself credit for, even towards a wizard he did not trust in the slightest. And was he not a little too casual about possibly getting poisoned? Perhaps a talk for another day.

Irory: “Are you aiming for a free song now? Hrmm. If that’s all it takes to prevent a painful magical demise at your hand, I’ll make sure to draft a ditty for the camp cook for the sake of my health.”

Gale: “Much appreciated. Although you may rest easy knowing I wouldn’t have poisoned your food regardless of your willingness to sing canticles for me.”

The bard turned away, saying only a few final words before heading towards his own tent.

Irory: “I’ll pretend to believe that. Rest well, wizard.”

He did not wait for a reply. Nor did he grace Gale with a final look. Whatever had happened in his past must have been far more sinister than ingesting toxins. A large scar across his face, hundreds of small unhealed incisions on his neck… Some fresh, only closing now that he was on the receiving end of potions and clerical healings.

What manner of beast could cause such wounds? And why were they left uncured when he knew how to cast Healing Word? All these mysteries sparked a sense of curiosity within Gale. Perhaps this was the key to gaining his trust? The wizard traced the tattoo line on his own neck. Time was of the essence.

After much conversation and little new insight, Irory decided it was time to head to his own bedroll, placed far on the other side of camp. As he passed by the fireside, he noticed Astarion laying beside it, eyes facing the sky. The elf tilted his head towards Irory, propped himself up on his arms and put on his usual charming smirk.

Astarion: “Quite the sight. The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin.”

For a moment, the bard faced upwards to make out where Astarion was looking before. Nothing but clouds. The elf either knew hidden secrets of meteorology or he had the strangest way of naming his habits. Irory raised an eyebrow.

Irory: “An interesting definition you have of stargazing. But I will admit, the sky is quite beautiful out here. Another day perhaps you could see the current constellations rising and fading, like the Selkie on the eastern part of the horizon.”

With a rough estimation of where the stars would be, he pointed towards possible constellations and their formation. Astarion followed with his eyes at first, but his attention diverted towards the bard’s neck again rather quickly. He let out an exaggerated yawn and stood up.

Astarion: “I expected the wizard to ramble on about mundane topics, but you as well? Oh dear, will we ever get a moment of quiet? I’m only stargazing because you suggested it.”

Irory: “And you’re doing a terrible job at pretending to follow my advice, but I still commend the effort. Given you look more relaxed than yesterday, perhaps it’s not such a waste of time after all.”

There was almost a sense of enjoyment on Astarion’s face at hearing a snarkier response. This was the type of conversation Irory had had with a few other bards back in college: sass, thirsty stares and a constant feeling like the other person was putting on an act. Familiar. Not in a comforting way.

Astarion: “How observant of you, darling. Perhaps I am more relaxed. I’ve been thinking, reflecting on what tomorrow might bring when we find this promised cure. Will we find out how to bring this worm under control? Will this little adventure of ours be over?”

He leaned in while talking, to the point where one could smell his perfume of rosemary and bergamot from up close. His charms were elevated to another level tonight. For what reason? Those striking red eyes looked dangerous in the firelight and every time they fell back on Irory’s neck, the atmosphere became more unnerving. The bard decided to tread lightly around him.

Irory: “What, are you saying you’ll miss me now? Let me guess: all those snarky quips you throw around are just your way to express affection?”

Astarion: “Ha! Why not? You’ve been to the hells and back. Survived the crash. Survived everything that’s followed. I’m not easily impressed by people, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”

Apparently tonight was compliment night in the wilderness. First the wizard and now the murder elf. One more suspicious than the last. What could they possibly want from Irory?

Irory: “Strange how everyone keeps pointing that out. Well, you’re not so bad yourself. Not that I had any doubts about your killing abilities after our less than steallar introduction.”

Astarion: “We’d make a good team, you and I. And we’re headed the same way. The road to Baldur’s Gate is a long one, maybe we don’t have to part just yet?”

Ruffling his own hair, swaying back and forth with subtle movements, putting on a smile that was far too composed, too perfect. Astarion did not mean a word he said, did he?

Irory: “I wouldn’t mind the extra company, but I’d rather share my camp with someone who isn’t trying to deceive me at every turn. Good night, Astarion.”

He saw genuine surprise in those red pupils. Pale lips formed the word ‘What?’. But Irory was too tired to give another minute of his day to a foolish elf that had messed with the wrong actor. Instead, he simply left and laid down by his own tent for an unpleasant night of rest.

Eyes closed, Irory went through everything in his mind again. The nautiloid. Mind Flayers. Avernus. The crash. His new allies. Their conversations. The crypt… But one phrase kept repeating in his mind more than anything else. Whatever you have isn’t contagious, is it?

The way those tieflings looked at his horns, it was all too obvious. Of course his kin would react this way. He was a freak now, even to them. What would his family think once he returned to Baldur’s Gate? Would they look at Irory the same way those two tieflings looked at him? Scared? Disgusted? Would they even recognize him beneath the scars, beneath the cracks that showed just how much the past decade had truly broken him?

He did not wish to think about it. About the possibility of going through all this suffering only to be met with more. But even worse was the thought of never returning home at all. No, this had to lead somewhere. He would be cured. He would return home. He would see his family smile at him, hug him, tell him they missed him. He would see his mother make her special blend of tea, his father show off a new piece of jewelry he bought, his sister proudly showing off a divine smite blessed by Ilmater and his brother, oh his darling brother that would finally have the body he always desired.

No matter how much he had to fight, he would make it. Even if he had to kill hundreds of Mind Flayers, devils and his noble ex-girlfriend along the way. This was not the time to doubt his abilities. Or to wallow in misery over his new appearance. Perhaps one day he could become strong enough to change it on his own. Or perhaps he could gain the favor of another powerful wizard.

Irory turned on his side, opening his eyes to a clear view across the entire campsite. Wizard of Waterdeep. What a strange one. Was he truly genuine this whole time? The bard managed to see through Astarion’s deceit, why not through Gale’s? Why did it seem like everyone needed something from this poor tiefling? And really, of all things, why were they all so good-looking? Even Lae’zel was a beauty and she was missing a nose.

Gods, maybe Irory was truly going insane to even think about appearances in the middle of potentially turning illithid. Time for a distraction. Time for sleep. He should stop trying to think with a tired mind, it was not leading anywhere fruitful. This bard needed music. One thing he was good at, at least.

Chapter 6: Kin

Chapter Text

Everyone rose with the morning sun, no tentacles to be seen. It was quiet, but they all had the same unspoken resolve: removing their tadpoles once and for all. Today may just be the last day of traveling together. Thankfully, most of them thought. Although friendship potential existed for some of them and perhaps they were beginning to grow closer, none of Irory’s allies had left an all too positive impression on him. The road to Baldur’s Gate would be a lonely one. Or refreshingly void of manipulation from all sides. A matter of perspective.

They left camp and followed the tiefling’s instructions: northwards, up the road until they came upon a large, mossy gate sealed within a mountain range. A waypoint sigil was hidden to the east. Shouting could be heard from afar, a band of human mercenaries arguing with a small group of tieflings guarding the entrance. Worst of all, they were followed by goblins that had approached too quickly for the gate to be drawn open in time. Battle was unavoidable.

Before the leader of the tieflings – a paladin going by the name of Zevlor – could usher his first command, an arrow hit one of his allies, fatally wounding him. These tieflings were neither trained nor armed to fight by the looks of it. Few had combat experience, the others were likely civilians attempting to keep their losses to a minimum.

Irory rushed up a hill, followed closely by Gale. The other three of their companions made their way around the sides, jumping into the fray in melee-range. As the bard lifted his violin to cast a spell and direct his group, he saw another surprise sliding down the mountain range: a handsome young man, rapier in hand. His steps were graceful and agile, Irory could not help but admire the dancerly footwork on display.

Human: “Damnable roach. Provoke The Blade… and suffer its sting.”

He smiled like a prince saving a damsel in distress. One goblin in front of him was quickly impaled and strangely colored magic emanated from him, pushing another foe off the trail. Eldritch Blast? A warlock? With a dramatic catchphrase? This man certainly knew how to make a first impression.

Meanwhile in the center stage were mercenaries, goblins and Irory’s allies fighting each other – and fighting among themselves, too. Shadowheart was shoved into Lae’zel by the enemy, causing an argument to break out between them. The githyanki swung her sword a little too close to the cleric’s hair as she defended herself from attacks, retaliated by a cantrip or two that missed suspiciously near Lae’zel’s feet. This was ridiculous.

Irory: “Stop fighting each other, you hellsdamned idiots! Lae’zel take the left, Shadowheart stay back and heal the others.”

He shouted over them and with a grumble the two women followed his orders. Seeing that Irory was the commander of his small army, the goblin archers took aim at him. One arrow was incinerated mid-air by a masterfully crafted firebolt, another hit one of his horns with a loud clinking noise. A flinch. No damage. Those giant crystals on his head were rather sturdy, it would seem.

Ever more irritated by the arguing and sudden high-pitched noise, the bard fired off a stronger damage spell than what he had managed to cast on previous days. Their powers were returning, little by little. Enemies were left at mercy of every improved arcane ability.

Goblin forces diminished slowly but surely, sword and dagger strikes were guided by the sound of a violin, each swing now connecting to melodies rather than spoken words. Silent understanding. Bow strike. To your right. Back, a lower note. Flank them. Vibrato. Focus your spells.

The last enemy fell, covering a gleefully grinning Astarion in blood. Was he trying to lick his lips? Disgusting. Bickering between Lae’zel and Shadowheart escalated into an argument as Zevlor called everyone into the grove. Mercenaries shouted back at him, yet scuttled beneath the lifted gate regardless of their angry outbursts. Too many loud voices all at once. Chaos. And the day had only just begun. Irory caught his breath and made his way down the hill in quick steps, noticing the wizard struggle to keep up with him. He lent a hand to the unathletic spellcaster and the group entered the refugee camp together.

A loud thud interrupted the constant petty back and forth between the cleric and the githyanki as the gate slammed into the ground behind them. Perhaps it was better if one of them stayed behind for the time being. And as much as she disagreed with it, the choice fell on Lae’zel. The tieflings likely did not have the best impression of her and neither did she care about changing that. She rolled her eyes and decided to return to camp until Zorru was located. Finally, a chance at seeking another cure.

Taking a moment to look around, it became immediately obvious that the situation was not looking good for Irory’s kin. Mourning and scared tieflings were guarding the entrance, another almost found herself ambushed by a bugbear. Red dragons flew overhead towards the nautiloid’s crash site, rumors were murmured everywhere about the druids trying to cast the tieflings out through the use of dark rituals and worst of all: many of them knew that goblins never hunted in small groups.

If their position was compromised, this would be the end for them. And looking at his companions, none of them had a reason to care about protecting refugees from Elturel on their way to Baldur’s Gate. How likely was it that Irory could defeat an entire horde of goblins with only a single paladin and a handful of civilians by his side? Dire odds, he reckoned. Something was off about those goblins. They were far too organized for a tribe in the wilderness.

Zevlor: “There are children here, you fool!”

Aradin: “We was running for our lives!”

Zevlor: “You led them straight to us. And you let them take the druid, too, unbelievable!”

Yelling continued between the mercenary and Zevlor, loud enough to draw attention from afar. Both were losing their composure and any further escalation could end in another casualty. Neither side could afford these losses right now.

Irory: “Calm down, both of you. What’s the situation?”

Aradin: “The druid. We lost him back in the ruins – whole place is crawling with gobbos.”

Druid. Goblin Camp. Ruins. Time for precise notetaking. Between helpful explanations were childish insults and all the derogatory words ignorant humans loved to use against tieflings. Although more mature, Zevlor was not defusing the situation in the slightest, both close to a boiling point now. Aradin’s eye was twitching, fist trembling, reading himself to throw a punch against Zevlor. And the tiefling returned the same anger, calling the mercenary a coward as he took a battle stance.

Irory: “Enough. We can’t afford to fight amongst ourselves right now. More than anyone, my kin, you know that violence against humans will only lead to violence against us.”

Zevlor: “You… are right. There’s too much at stake.”

Coming to his senses, the paladin immediately backed down. Of course, the human was not as quick at regaining his composure.

Aradin: “Worry about your precious eyes, you two. You foulblood are all the same, aren’t you? This one got some fancy horns and suddenly all the devils hafta listen.”

Typical. The ignorant ones never did learn when to look pretty and keep their mouths shut. Irory stepped in front of Aradin, leaning in close with a polite smile before switching to a glare that would put a true devil to shame. The sellsword could feel a shiver run down his spine as the bard’s soft and deep voice turned into an intimidating growl.

Irory: “I’m so glad you noticed my beautiful eyes. But perhaps you should worry about your own. Would be a shame if some fancy horns got stuck in them, don’t you think? Call us foulbloods again and my stance on violence might just change for you.”

Aradin: “What?! You lot come from the devils, why ---”

Irory: “And you come from years of inbreeding, by the looks of it. Piss off. I’m an outsider in your little squabble, I don’t care if you live or die. Be grateful I saved your hind at the gate. Now repay me by being less of an insufferable twat.”

The three of his companions were looking at Irory with surprise and amusem*nt. Unexpected for him to be so provocative towards this stranger when he had been mostly polite to everyone they met. Aradin’s rage turned into fear at the thought of this outsider and his capable company decimating him right where he stood. Even attempting to throw a punch at Irory now was a death sentence for this mercenary and his diminishing crew. Groaning in frustration, Aradin made an attempt at staying neutral with Zevlor before heading further into the camp.

Zevlor laid a hand on Irory’s shoulder and sighed. His striking red eyes were framed by noticeable shadows. This man had escaped the fires of Avernus only to find himself stuck in another hell. Perhaps not dissimilar to Irory’s situation.

Zevlor: “Forgive me, kin, for that display. Aradin is a blowhard, but that’s no cause for us to join. Thank you for your help out there, I’m Zevlor.”

Irory: “Don’t mention it, I haven’t exactly improved the situation either. I’m Irory, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Inquiring further on the ongoings in these lands, there was only confirmation that their circ*mstances were dire. Goblins and other monsters that hunted in small, coordinated groups. Druids were hostile to outsiders to the point they were starting a ritual that would lock them away forever. Their leader had gone to investigate a new cult, only to be left behind by Aradin. It was all… bizarre.

They were more than a tenday’s march away from Baldur’s Gate with few fighters and fewer resources. ‘We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave’, Zevlor had summarized their predicament. Hells, the mediocre bard and his gang could hardly be considered warriors in their current state either and convincing them to stay and defend his kin seemed nigh impossible. But there was no way Irory would leave them behind. Not innocent refugees and not his kin. He had to fix his tadpole problem and get to planning. Quickly.

Irory: “I promise, I’ll do anything in my power to help you. But first, I am in urgent need of a healer. A very experienced one. You don’t happen to have someone with you, by chance? I’ll be a far greater asset to your cause after getting rid of my… ailment.”

Without taking even a second look at Irory and his altered appearance, Zevlor simply answered. Instructions as well as another plea for help.

Zevlor: “The druid Halsin is a renowned healer, but he didn’t make it back from Aradin’s expedition. If it’s not too serious, you could try his apprentice Nettie, she’s with the other druids in the inner grove. They’ve withdrawn to prepare this damn ritual of theirs. They won’t even see me, but you might be able to talk to them and their new leader Kagha. Perhaps you could persuade her. For more time to prepare, if nothing else.”

Irory: “I thank you, Zevlor. I promise, once my illness is cured, I will aid you in any way I can.”

Zevlor: “We owe you a great debt. Please – make them see sense, before more lives are lost.”

They bowed to each other respectfully and the leader of the refugees made his way towards the inner sections of the grove, down a path into an almost cave-like structure where the others resided. Irory’s allies decided to voice their opinions on this matter.

Shadowheart: “Let’s not forget why we’re here. No point in wasting precious time on a lost cause.”

Astarion: “Shadowheart is right. If they can’t defend themselves, why bother playing the hero for them? We have our own problems to take care of.”

The bard was noticeably irked by these comments. At least the wizard had kept quiet, who knows how much more his response would have irritated Irory now? He kept his composure for the most part, but his answer was doubtlessly more sullen than before.

Irory: “Are you two joking? We are the lost causes – infected by illithid parasites and bickering amongst ourselves like children. You don’t want to trust the githyanki? Then the druids are the only other option we have. An option provided to us by the tieflings, mind you.”

Shadowheart: “I see no need to help them, then. They’ve already provided all their use for us.”

Irory grinded his teeth. No one had to provide a use to live. Certainly not his kin.

Astarion: “So our options are bloodthirsty aliens and reclusive tree-huggers? Maybe we should reconsider our stance on getting cured and find a way to control the tadpoles instead. They have proven rather beneficial so far, haven’t they? All the gossiping we can do without anyone knowing, haha!”

He did his usual little fake laugh and clap, as if their situation was nothing but a jolly misadventure for him. Not the first time he brought up keeping their parasites, either. There was little question about the fact that something was very wrong with this elf. Irory only responded with more sarcasm, hoping to shut the conversation down eventually.

Irory: “What a wonderful idea. Let’s follow your advice and have our brains eaten by worms while we stab my kin in the back for helping us as best as they can. Any other smart plans?”

Astarion: “Darling, aren’t you supposed to be a bard? Why do you insist on spoiling the fun? Look at the big picture: We control the tadpoles, go to Baldur’s Gate together and leave behind your little friends. They would die on the road the moment we take our eyes off them. It’s easier alone.”

Irory: “Is that so? Alright, if you insist. Go on your merry way, then. I see no point fighting by the side of an elf that would die on the road if he were alone. It’s easier alone.”

No answer. How unsurprising. Astarion and Shadowheart looked at each other, expressing their disapproval at their leader’s choice. But inevitably, they had to accept it. They knew Irory was right when he said that none of them could make this journey on their own, least of all now with a goblin encampment standing between them and Baldur’s Gate.

Between all the words and looks exchanged, only one person had been silent this entire time: Gale. Perhaps it was for the better. If another person decided to voice their unwanted opinions, Irory would likely cast a vicious mockery on them that would cut deeper than the tadpoles digging through their skulls. It was a wise choice to not anger him any further at this point.

Straightening his posture again, the bard made sure to put his acting skills to good use. Any encounter at the grove could lead to more conflict, meaning there was little room for emotional outbursts. Even those directed at his companions. Further down the road, they ran into one such conflict. Well, after Irory swiped a few items off a complacent druid vendor, that was. A little five-finger discount to obtain magic items and steal back his own gold after trading was never a wasted effort. And theft had a way of improving his mood like few other activities did.

Lia: “Hells, we can’t just leave! They’re kin.”

Rolan: “I will not gamble our lives, our futures, on people who are as good as dead. We must leave for Baldur’s Gate – at once.”

Cal: “Can we all just take a moment? Please.”

Three tieflings stood by a fork in the road, arguing about whether or not to stay and defend their kin or leave for The Gate on their own. Clearly, Irory had some opinions on the matter. But more than anything, this little group reminded him of his own family. His sister Pyasa would have argued with much the same passion over smaller disagreements and his brother would find himself in the middle of fights between Irory and her all the time. What were they doing now, he wondered?

Lia: “What’s the point of blades and spells if we don’t bloody use them? We should stay. These people aren’t fighters. We can help.”

Joining the conversation, the bard tried to gauge whether these three were related in some way. There was a loyalty beyond their heritage between them, a sense of familiarity beyond mere friendship. As rare as it was for tiefling to stay together, a select few did have bonds that would lead them to never abandon each other. Irory’s family was one such case. And perhaps this small group of tieflings felt the same.

Irory: “A single blade could turn the tides in the battle ahead. Imagine if this was you or your family out there, fighting for your life. They need us. All of us. Don’t turn your back on them.”

Lia: “Thank you! It’s the right thing to do and you know it.”

Cal: “She’s right, Rolan. We’re better than this.”

The one called Rolan wore a spellcaster’s robe, unlike the other two that were clad in leather armor. A mage really could be the difference between life and death in battle. After a moment of hesitation and looking into the eyes of three tieflings convincing him to stay, he changed his resolve begrudgingly.

Rolan: “Zurgan. Fine, I’ll stay too. Lest you both end up with your throats slit by a goblin blade.”

Lia: “Thank you Rolan. And thank you, stranger. You’re the one who defeated the goblins at the gate too, aren’t you? I am Lia. This is Cal. And Rolan.”

She was genuinely grateful for the help. Irory gave her a smile, the first heartfelt one in a long time.

Irory: “I’m Irory. Just doing what I can to help. I have family too, in Baldur’s Gate. A lot like the three of you. I’d never forgive myself if any harm befell them, especially if I could have prevented it. We need to have each other’s backs in times like this. Hells, just look at the druids in this place. If we don’t stand up for each other, no one else will.”

Lia: “Nice to meet you, Irory! And well said. We cannot change the world outside, but we can do our best to save the ones closest to us. Let’s go, guys. I need to sharpen my weapons at the smithy.”

They excitedly shook hands before Cal and Lia went on ahead. Their hands were warm, a little more than those of regular humans. A nice feeling against the bard’s colder skin from his Canian lineage. None of them had remarked on his horns or his different appearance. Almost as if those differences hardly mattered at all. Rolan stayed behind, glaring at Irory as he complained.

Rolan: “We should have left by now. Damnation! Instead, we’ll sit here, practically begging to be attacked. Staying is a mistake. Why did you have to interfere?”

Irory: “You’re doing the right thing and you know it. And the road ahead is too dangerous for three stray tieflings. What makes you so confident that you would make it to The Gate at all?”

Rolan: “You don’t understand. We’re not helpless like the others. My apprenticeship with Lorroakan begins shortly. I cannot be late. Yes, that Lorroakan - the greatest wizard in Baldur’s Gate.”

Lorroakan? There was a faint sense of familiarity with that name. If he was truly as powerful a man as Rolan claimed, then doubtlessly this bard would know of him. He had studied and even met many of the Baldurian Upper Class. ‘Greatest wizard in Baldur’s Gate’, whoever he was would have to be careful to not speak those words too loudly on the streets. Lady Luscinia Rosedew – former mistress, wizard of incredible renown and ex-girlfriend of Irory – would not take kindly to such claims.

Images of the bard’s own ‘apprenticeship’ flashed before his eyes. Cold nights in an empty library. Soft hands with long red nails hands tracing his naked body. A magical grip restraining him. Sharp pain that threatened to split his skull apart. When the bard caught himself in reality again, he noticed that Gale had enthusiastically taken over the conversation in his stead.

Gale: “I’ve heard that name before. A young man, yes? Recent acquirer of Ramazith’s Tower?”

Rolan: “The very same!”

Gale: “Word in Waterdeep has it he’s a bit of a cad. But you say he’s an accomplished wizard?”

Rolan: “Of course he is! The greatest spellcaster along the Sword Coast! As if I’d settle for a lesser mentor.”

Gale: “In that case I’d very much appreciate if you could arrange an introduction - should we reach the city.”

Ramazith’s Tower. That did trigger a memory between the haze of the tadpole. Words of Lady Rosedew about a talentless bastard undeservingly receiving the rights to the Upper City tower. And did he not decline one of her invitations to a ball? What was it that she had called him back then? Worth less than the smile of a whor*? As gifted as the dirt she stepped on? A man so full of himself, yet so unremarkable that one questioned whether he owned a mirror? If not her striking appearance, her way with words had always made her stand out among the rest of the nobles.

Irory: “Hate to agree with the wizard, but I heard similar words about him from a very accomplished Baldurian spellcaster. She has an eye for fools and Lorroakan was certainly on the list of people she considered such. Perhaps you should reserve words like ‘greatest spellcaster along the Sword Coast’ for those who deserve it. Unless your mentor can beat Elminster, I wouldn’t stroke his wizardly ego too much. Gods know their hubris is big enough already.”

Gale eyed Irory in surprise. This must be a piece in the puzzle of why he disliked wizards. An accomplished spellcaster in Baldur’s Gate? A woman that was well-networked? Not many names came to mind. Even less that would give their time of day to a tiefling bard. But Gale could not hold back a chuckle at the comment about Elminster. Was Irory a fan of the realms most famous hero? It would not be impossible to arrange for a metting down the line. Rolan was irked by the slander of his role model. He raised his voice.

Rolan: “Pah! Common gossip! The by-product of ignorance and jealousy! I’ve admired Lorroakan for years. Never dreamt he’d answer my letter. But I’ve worked myself to the bone for this. Few can match me, in either magic or talent. The names ‘Rolan’ and ‘Lorroakan’ will be known far and wide. You’ll see.”

This exchange sent a shiver down Irory’s spine. Ardent admiration and a hint of arrogance about his own abilities – that could have easily come out of his own mouth ten years ago. A young, hopeful tiefling wishing to study under a noble wizard for a chance of being more than just a pretty boy singing sweet songs on the streets. And an opportunity to make it all happen, if only he had been ‘worthy’. All too easy to abuse, he knew too much to stay quiet.

Irory: “I don’t wish to lecture you, but do be careful when it comes to your apprenticeship. Make sure you have a way out, in case things turn out to be… not as promised. Understood?”

Rolan: “And what would you know about such matters? You’re no more than a bard, from the looks of it. And not even a famous one, unlike master Lorroakan that you have so foolishly insulted with your insolent gossip. You could never understand his brilliance or the opportunity I’ve been granted.”

At least Irory was considerably humbler before his own attempt at becoming a wizard. Perhaps the hubris was a prerequisite, not the consequence of being a studied caster. What made a man a wizard, if not unrelenting overestimation of their own abilities? Under those circ*mstances, Rolan had a better shot than the bard at fulfilling his dream. So long as he avoided falling into the same traps. With all the seriousness in the world, Irory looked into Rolan’s eyes and tapped against the large scar across his cheek.

Irory: “I know enough to give you a warning before it’s too late. You may admire him, but behind closed doors many saints turn into monsters. Stay on your guard. Do it for your family.”

He only received a ‘hmpf’ in response before Rolan turned to leave. It was unlikely that the warning got through to him. If his apprenticeship was in Baldur’s Gate, there was the possibility of keeping an eye on him and his mentor for the time being. To offer him a way out, if things really did turn south. It was the least Irory could do to prevent someone from suffering the same fate as him.

Gale: “Say, you were mentored by a wizard? And yet you decided to become a bard – not the most common career path, if I may so plainly state the obvious.”

The wizard of Waterdeep asked his question curiously. Unbeknownst to Irory, he was beginning to figure out exactly what had happened to the bard. Irory only sighed and attempted to shrug it off.

Irory: “Does it matter if I was? I’ve been told I’m incapable of learning, which makes for a lousy wizarding student. Easier to stay a bard. Less expensive, too.”

Gale: “Ha, that is most certainly true. Never a piece of gold in our pockets that isn’t reserved for the next component or scroll. Or cat food.”

Seeing the discomfort at his question, Gale decided to keep it light-hearted and not let his curiosity get the best of him. Some topics were best discussed by the campfire over a good meal, not in the middle of a refugee camp with their onlooking companions around.

Shadowheart: “I heard bards rarely own pets, but their homes are open to multiple lovers. Are you wasting time mingling with everyone here for any particular reason? The love-related kind, perhaps?”

An off-handed comment by Shadowheart kept this uncomfortable conversation going much longer than it needed to. Without missing a beat, Astarion joined in as well.

Astarion: “Oh! Finally, an interesting topic. Do tell. How many lovers await you at Baldur’s Gate? Ten? Twenty? More?”

There was a hint of uneasiness at others prying into Irory’s love life, which only further fueled the fire for speculations of all kinds.

Shadowheart: “Maybe rather than being many, they’re unconventional instead? Nymphs, werecreatures, dragons, merfolk – anything the heart desires?”

Astarion: “Orcs, Goliaths, Titans, the opportunity for depravity is truly endless. Or is it the undead that have the bard’s attention? He insisted on exploring the crypt yesterday, didn’t he?”

With a shrug and a nonchalant voice, the bard turned around and only added one comment to the discussion.

Irory: “Undead? How grotesque, even us bards have boundaries.”

Did that mean what they thought it meant? None of the other finely selected creatures were off-limits? Shadowheart and Astarion excitedly continued their speculations over the lineup and variety of lovers that were awaiting Irory at The Gate. Only Gale snuck the occasional apologetic glance towards him, regretful that he had somehow brought on this conversation. How fortunate for him that no one was inquiring about his own past relationships. Alas, neither Shadowheart nor Astarion wanted to invite the wizard to talk at all, knowing it would result in endless ramblings about the Weave.

The bulk of the refugee camp finally came into view: Tents and crates as far as the eyes could see, covered by a rocky overhang that let few beams of light shine through the entrance. A handful of shops lined the walls and an elderly tiefling handed out free soup to the starving. Unsurprisingly, there was little to smile about and between angered arguments with mercenaries, one could hear quiet weeps of desperate refugees. Irory could feel his heart sink with every child asking when they will finally be home again, at every adult explaining that another person had been lost to the dangers of the wilderness, at every tiefling losing hope for a future ahead. Gods, he had to remove this tadpole and regain his powers. Quickly.

Looking around more, he noticed a training ground with one person that stood out among the rest: the handsome warlock they had met during their battle. Surrounded by kids with varying degrees of excitement, it appeared he was teaching them how to fight. One of the adults addressed him as The Blade of Frontiers. That certainly explained the catchphrase before. A local hero.

With the others begging for a demonstration, the warlock smiled and readied himself. Two kids pushed a young boy named Umi forward, the one child who looked the most reluctant to get involved. He hardly had the strength to wield the training sword they handed him, nearly losing his balance with every swing. Disarming him was easily done, leaving enough opportunity to add needless flourish by the warlock. Irory watched the spectacle from afar, curious about this heroic warlock and his nimble technique.

Blade of Frontiers: “Not bad. Again.”

The kid changed up his technique, this time using a stab-movement instead of a swing. Once again, the weight of the weapon dragged him down too far and he was at a disadvantage. The warlock fluidly positioned himself behind the child and hit his back with the hilt of his sword. Frustrated about the two consecutive losses, Umi dropped his sword with tears in his eyes.

Umi: “I can’t do it. I’m not like you…”

Blade of Frontiers: “Umi, I don’t need you to be like me. You just have to buy enough time to run. Come on. I believe in you. You can do that.”

His voice was gentle as he lowered himself to one knee, talking at eye-level with Umi. This hero was handsome and good with children? How dreamy. Perhaps prince charming could help Irory defend the grove once he got the tadpole out of his head. Taking a shorter goblin sword from his pocket, the bard handed it to the kid and softly reassured him.

Irory: “No one is born a perfect fighter. Here, your old sword is too heavy. This one will help you move faster. Being quick is the greatest advantage you can get in a fight.”

Umi was eyeing the bard carefully before accepting the sword. A few light swings later, newfound inspiration struck the young one. It truly was easier handle than the bulky weapon before. One of the adults stepped up from the side, doubtlessly one of the only experienced warriors in this camp. He looked at Irory and the warlock, inviting a little show-fight for the kids.

Asharak: “Care for a demonstration? We haven’t had the chance to watch a quick fighter go toe to toe with our fabled hero.”

Looking over to The Blade of Frontiers, Irory gave him a small nod and stretched out his hand as if inviting him for a dance. Wearing a most elegant smile, the warlock obliged.

Irory: “Everything for the kids.”

The two of them took position across from each other, all eyes focused on them. Soft light shone on the two of them from above, akin to a stage play. This was what Irory excelled at – giving a show. He pulled a knife with a curved edge from his pocket, one that resembled the shortsword that Umi clutched in his arms. Most kids cheered for the handsome hero, joined by a mischievously grinning Astarion that only wanted to see the bard fail. Shadowheart rolled her eyes, complaining about the waste of time.

Umi: “You can do it, mister pretty horns!”

Of all the comments that were spoken today, this was the one that flustered Irory. Mister pretty horns?, how adorable. For once the reminder about his altered appearance was not one of disgust, but of pure-hearted admiration. And with similarly childish enthusiasm, Gale spoke a cheer or two for the bard as well. To even the playing field, of course.

Confidently, Irory invited the warlock to do the first strike and barely managed to dodge the quick thrust of his rapier. The hero was not only a better fighter, his weapon allowed for wider swings as well. But that was precisely the lesson the kids needed to learn: How to outplay a superior opponent with strategy. A few more strikes later, Irory found a weak spot to take advantage of. The warlock had a stone eye, decreasing his field of vision just enough to allow for a careful maneuver to disarm him.

Using the curve of his dagger, Irory hooked into the warlock’s rapier to lower it to the ground. Kicking it off with his leg, both men found themselves disarmed in an instant. Even at the loss of his weapon, this would have bought him enough time to flee if it were a real battle. The hero was surprised at first, then began applauding slowly. Impressed at the display, some of the kids clapped as well.

Blade of Frontiers: “A-ha! A clever use of your weaponry. Curved blades offer quite the advantage in disarming those who use thinner weapons. You see that, kids? You don’t need to win, simply create an opportunity for others to get away…”

The hero picked up the two weapons. Just as he was about to hand Irory his blade back, their eyes met and a strong psychic connection was established between them. Tadpoles. A buzzing feeling in his head, the bard could see the stranger’s memories. He was in Avernus, chasing a devil with blazing skin and a single curled horn. She was about to bring down her greataxe… The vision cut off.

Blade of Frontiers: “Hells great fires – you were on the ship…”

Irory: “And you were in Avernus. Who was your target?”

Blade of Frontiers: “You saw her, then. Advocatus diaboli.”

A devil’s advocate, infernal champion in the Blood War between demons and devils. Irory knew enough about the hells, despite never having been there himself until the start of this journey. The only thing keeping the forces of the Blood Wars from destroying the world was the war they waged against each other. The moment one side were to win, the other would wreak havoc on mortalkind. Demons through pure chaos and devils through their cunning.

Blade of Frontiers: “Her name is Karlach. An archdevil’s soldier I swore on my good eye to kill. I tracked her through the hells to the mind flayer ship. But the damned illithids infected me before I could end her. She’s out there now, preying on the innocent. If I don’t kill her, she will leave behind nothing but a trail of corpses.”

Irory: “I’d love to help, but I have more… pressing issues to take care of first.”

The bard gestured to his head, immediately understood by the hero.

Blade of Frontiers: “I understand. We may join forces, both against our parasites and Karlach. I will pledge my talents and you will pledge yours.”

Shadowheart: “The famous Blade of Frontiers, in the flesh. Hmpf. Clever, this hero act you’ve got going.”

Blade of Frontiers: “’Hero’, ‘Blade’ – names strangers gave me. My friends call me ‘Wyll’.”

With the same princely charm, Wyll smiled and reached out his hand to Shadowheart. She refused.

Shadowheart: “Excellent. If we ever become friends, I’ll know what to call you.”

Astarion: “Oh my, this is going to be a fun journey.”

Irory: “I apologize, please ignore Shadowheart. And Astarion. And Lae’zel, the githyanki in our camp, too. Actually, maybe just stick to me, since everyone else is a little more... on edge since we arrived here. I’m Irory. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Wyll.”

Blade of Frontiers: “I understand, Irory. No harm done.”

Seeing how the group already failed to get along, Irory decided to continue sticking with four members – it was the optimal adventuring party size, after all. He would have loved to dismiss Shadowheart, but leaving her alone with Lae’zel was not a good idea. Instead, Astarion could bond with her over their mutual interest in killing things.

With introductions and their small combat lesson concluded, Asharak had one last request for the bard. There was no doubt that Irory had left the greatest impression on him, both for his wits in battle and his kindness towards the children.

Asharak: “I’ve seen your prowess in battle at the gate and now you’ve demonstrated your teaching talents as well. You’re a kind soul, my kin. May I ask you to share a few words for the kids? A story or two to lift their spirits?”

Irory: “How could a humble bard say no to such an opportunity?”

He sat down and shared a story from his childhood. A grand tale of overcoming adversity, of his family never giving up no matter how many hardships they had to face. One about standing up for your kin, about helping each other succeed, about trust being the greatest asset in times of need. And of course, there was a little embellishment. How could one fail to mention his sisters incredible ‘divine smite’? In truth, there was nothing divine about his sister chasing a rat that had stolen her food with a hammer, but it made for a great story.The kids smiled brightly, cheering at the thought of a tiefling destroying her opponents with the wrath of the gods.

Asharak: “Thank you. I prefer when they smile.”

Irory: “So do I. Heh. So do I…”

Almost a whisper under his breath, but the spark in the bard’s eyes were telling enough that this had been a big moment for him just as much as it had been for the kids. He missed his family so terribly. But seeing the kids with big, happy grins on their face, yelling ‘divine smite’ at each other almost felt like he had returned home for a single, beautiful moment.

And perhaps some of his companions had felt the same sense of hope course through them after witnessing Irory’s tale. As the bard was about to notice those affectionate stares in his direction, Shadowheart urged him to press on. To the inner sanctum. To a healer. It was about time.

Chapter 7: Groovin' at the Grove

Chapter Text

Heading eastwards from the training camp, Irory noticed two children that had not been part of the training lesson. An anxiously pacing young girl and a confident boy that had opened his own merchant stand. What an interesting pair. The young girl was circling around the adventurers, coming a little closer to the group each time. Her constant fidgeting made it all too obvious. Once the bard’s gaze fell on her, she raised her hands defensively and explained.

Nervous child: “I- I don’t have any money or anything to sell! M- My partner does that.”

Irory: “Then what’s your side of the business?”

Nervous child: “What? Um… I’m the guard? So… don’t steal anything! I’m… watching you!”

She reinforced her words with the universally understood ‘I’m watching you’-gesture before her business partner smoothly took over. Naturally, he would be interested in adventurers: they were the best opportunity to further one’s riches.

Confident child: “Hold out your hand, mister. Let me show you something.”

He performed a delightful little sleight of hand trick, one that Irory could see through from miles away. The child made a ring appear from his hand and held it out towards the bard. There was definitely a trap to this. But Irory saw no harm in helping a kid feel better with a little prank. He accepted the ring.

Confident child: “This ring will change your fortune! Call it. Heads or tails?”

How precious. Sneaky little deception with fake coins to make the customer believe the ring was enchanted? Irory himself had pulled this one on unsuspecting classmates willing to gamble their lunch money away back in his youth. That was, until his parents put a stop to it. Playing along, the mood for mischief struck and he could not help but annoy the kid.

After a few correct guesses, the bard pointed out how so far it may have simply been a coincidence. Then it was luck. Was the ring truly magical or was Irory blessed by Tymora today? No, this was no proof of enchantment at all. Many coin flips later, the young boy was starting to get irritated.

Confident child: “Urgh, you’re killing me, mister, you really are! How many trials will be enough to prove the effect of the magic ring?”

Irory: “Hm… mathematically speaking at least a few dozen more, to ensure the results were truly magically influenced. And then we need to repeat the same number of trials without the ring to test the Tymora hypothesis. It’s science, really.”

Gale could not hold back a laugh in the background. As it turned out, even the greatest wizards were not above playing tricks on children under the guise of doing an experiment. The kid was less pleased about it, but quickly went back to his professional attitude.

Confident child: “Fine, I’ll let you keep the ring – a free sample. But have a look at my other wares at least!”

He went through great lengths explaining the magic abilities of each item in his stock. Quite obviously, none of them were, but Irory found the entrepreneurship of this scammer commendable. This boy had a great future ahead of him, as a smooth talker or rogue. But as the bard leaned over to buy a few items and give the children enough money for a meal or two, he noticed the girl from the corner of his eye, slipping her hand into his pocket. In broad daylight? With everyone watching?

Irory did a half-turn, quickly grabbing her wrist. Gentle enough as to not hurt her, but firmly enough as to keep her in her place. Before he could scold her, she began crying loudly.

Nervous child: “I don’t want to do this anymore, Mattis! I can’t!”

Letting go of her, one could watch her make a run for it, leaving her perplexed partner behind. She disappeared into a hideout that was hidden below a rocky crevice. Everyone’s attention returned to the other kid, Mattis. Irory folded his arms across his chest and looked at him like a disappointed father of an unruly tiefling child.

Mattis: “So… anything you want to buy or…?”

Irory: “You are thieves. And bad ones, at that.”

Mattis: “The only thing I’m sorry about is that we’re still talking about this. You caught her, good for you. You aren’t a chump like everybody else around here. So do me a favor and make space for the chumps. We need to eat too, you know.”

The bard sighed and shook his head. It was time for another lesson, this time in the art of shady business rather than fighting.

Irory: “From one troubled kid to another: You’re not going to make it far like this. Trying to pickpocket an adventurer in broad daylight? While their companions are watching? You’re asking to lose a finger or worse in Baldur’s Gate.”

Mattis: “What’s it to you? Another adult lecturing us about how we shouldn’t steal? We don’t have much of a choice, as you can see.”

Irory: “I know you won’t stop stealing. I didn’t either, no matter how much I got lectured. But you’ll have to be smarter about it. First of all, don’t rope others into your scams against their will. Your partner was too nervous from the start. Made it obvious that something was up.”

Mattis was bewildered by the bard’s answer. Was an adult giving him tips on how to become a better thief? An adventurer, no less. And not even a rogue. Still, he decided to listen.

Irory: “Secondly, shady business is best done at night. Low visibility is your friend. Always keep in mind that if one person sees you, it’s over. And make sure you know your exit strategy before you apply the five-finger discount. And lastly…”

The bard handed Mattis the ‘Spoon of Saltiness’ – a ‘magical’ item he was attempting to sell before.

Irory (in infernal): “… never con a better artist.”

Mattis was speechless. Not even from the pure cheesiness of Irory’s lecture, but from the impressive display of theft of someone who had looked so unsuspecting before. Who would have known the bard was a street urchin like him? Someone who had made it, despite having the same background as him? Finally, an adult who truly understood and did not try to change his ways. Still, Irory warned him to be careful before heading down towards the heart of the grove. And in his mind, he ushered a prayer to the gods that this advice would not get the kid in more trouble. Disapprovingly drumming on his arm with his fingers, Wyll had an opinion to share on the ethicality of teaching children how to conduct illegal business.

Wyll: “I appreciate you helping out the kids, but teaching them how to steal? Don’t you see any problem with that?”

Irory: “Better they know how to do it well than letting them fail at it and get in trouble. Some of us have to make do with what life has given us. And for these kids, that isn’t much.”

Wyll: “I—As much as I would like to agree with you, would it not be better to guide them to a more noble path in life? They have a choice to avoid worse outcomes.”

Irory was about to explain how the noble path in life was not open to those of his kind, but someone else answered first. The one he had least expected to understand.

Gale: “I do not wish to overstep my boundaries here, but perhaps you should think back on your own youth, Wyll. Remember when you were a little rascal and set your mind to something. Us old geezers could never discourage that scamp from going through with his ill-fated plans. Avoiding the worst of it is the only approach he may listen to. I remember when I was his age, always getting into trouble. Good old times.”

Stopping for a moment, Irory turned around to look at Gale. Did he hear that right? The grand wizard with a title of his own was a troublesome kid? Well, perhaps the definition of ‘getting into trouble’ differed between street urchins and those who grew up with a silver spoon.

Irory: “You were a troublemaker? The talented little wizard? What did you do, cast prestidigitation in class to make it smell like a bog hag’s lair?”

He got a laugh in response, followed by a lot of bragging. Shouldn’t Irory know better than to encourage the wizard to go off on a tangent about magic?

Gale: “A classic, that one! But no, I did worse. One time my parents denied me a kitten, so I summoned myself a tressym. Dear old Tara. Beautiful creature. Benefits of a wizard’s education, you see. Of course, my considerable talent didn’t hurt either…”

Irory crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Gale. Typical wizard behavior. The other two companions were rolling their eyes and groaning in annoyance already. It got increasingly worse the more he spoke.

Gale: “Well, it depends on who you ask, I suppose. I may have summoned things a tad more exotic than a winged cat.”

Wyll: “Are you always such a braggart? You may have considerable talent, but one can almost witness your head swell with every word you speak.”

Gale: “Only when the occasion suits. That’s mostly a synonym for ‘yes’, by the by.”

What a self-aware answer for a wizard, Irory thought. Somehow, he found himself amused by how different Gale was from his other companions. Whereas Astarion and Shadowheart would rather die than give an honest answer, this man was almost begging for anyone to talk to him and let him go off on long-winded speeches about his talents. Summoning winged cats was nearly compliment-worthy. All the havoc this bard would have wreaked upon Baldur’s Gate with merely a fraction of such powers, it was almost unimaginable. Perhaps the ridiculous wizard deserved a small amount of indulgence. A harmless act of kindness towards a man that had decided not to judge those tiefling kids for their upbringing.

Irory: “You’ll get used to it, Wyll. They’re all like this, trust me. At least this one has a modicum of self-awareness. Let’s throw him a bone, just this once: What else did you summon, oh great wizard of Waterdeep? Enlighten us.”

The wizard’s smile increased tenfold at the opportunity to share more stories. He was practically beaming with joy, especially since the friendly gesture came from the one person who claimed to dislike him the most. Would the bard ever realize that he was the one who treated Gale with the most amount of kindness, regardless of all the talk about not trusting him?

Gale: “Oh, am I ever so glad you asked. There was that magma mephit once. Nice fellow – we keep in touch. Of course, in walked the housekeeper. Screaming, yelling, panic, and before you knew it: fire everywhere! Another time at Blackstaff…”

Chuckling at the enthusiastic stories accompanied by grand gestures with his hands, Irory covered his mouth and pretended to clear his throat. He certainly should not laugh at a pompous tale from a wizard. But the man in front of him was nothing but a silly human dork in this very moment. And so very mischievous in his youth, despite the prestigious upbringing. All this friendly banter almost made Irory forget about the grim situation they were in.

Wyll: “Please, Irory, did you do this to punish our troupe? I have learned my lesson – one cannot change the nature of a devilish child. Now put a stop to all this boasting, please.”

Irory: “Hm, I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson quite yet. How about this? A story from my own youth to make sure you really understand.”

Shadowheart: “It couldn’t possibly be worse than Gale’s. Make it quick, at least.”

He did make it quick, but effective. Every word was enthusiastically received by Gale. Less excitedly by the other two, but he could tell they enjoyed the distraction from the doom and gloom of ceremorphosis.

Irory: “Now, I didn’t summon any tressyms or stole grand artifacts, but I did perform many tricks to line my pockets with food and gold. Feeding the street cats of The Gate, I ended up with a rather effective team of fluffy distractions that were delighted to help my cause. Eventually, they followed me home and meowed at my doorsteps or left me gifts in the form of mice and birds. My mother was furious when she found out. You wouldn’t believe the scolding I received when I came home, pockets still filled with stolen sausages for them. But despite it all, I never stopped feeding them. I simply stopped getting caught.”

Wyll sighed deeply, raising his arms in defeat. The one who grew up in poverty did not change his ways after his own family gave him a scolding. And the one who attended the most esteemed wizarding academy on the Sword Coast kept getting himself in trouble even after it nearly killed him. What a pair these two made.

Wyll: “I suppose I should be glad you made it this far in spite of your misadventures. Mattis may have a rosy future ahead of him with all the tricks he could learn from you.”

Irory: “Ha, that is very true. Hopefully he won’t find himself infected with alien parasites. No amount of cat familiars could help us out now.”

Gale: “And yet, stories of our feline companions can lighten the burden we carry, even if just for a moment. Not to mention how an army of alley cats would be most helpful against the goblin plague we are to face in the near future.”

We? It almost sounded like Gale was willing to stay and defend the refugees. No, he must have spoken about the road to Baldur’s Gate and beyond being occupied by the same green menaces. Fighting goblins was unavoidable, regardless of saving the tieflings.

Irory: “Talking about cats certainly beats thinking about ceremorphosis all day. Or feeding into the wizard’s hubris.”

Gale: “If it evens out the tales of my grand accomplishments, I could be persuaded into sharing some less favorable stories from my youth, too. They are not many, of course. But if it keeps your attention better, I will do my utmost to recall such anecdotes.”

Finding themselves at the entrance of the grove’s inner sanctum, the group fell witness to an argument between a family of tieflings and three druids. One of the refugees, the mother, cried about her daughter being under arrest. She had stolen a holy idol – quite impressive – and was to be judged by a woman named Kagha. Implying the parents would never see their child again, the situation nearly escalated into a fight. Between more derogatory language directed towards the tieflings, a druid wildshaped into a bear with a threatening roar. The tieflings were forced to retreat, the child's mother crying at the thought of losing her only daughter.

How pathetic of the druids to waste such spells on threatening civilians and children. This grove was stranger and stranger still. Since when did Silvanus worshippers behave this way? Irory comforted the parents and promised to get their daughter Arabella back at any cost. Not even Shadowheart protested this choice, although Wyll kept throwing looks towards the bard that could only be described as ‘I told you so’.

Irory approached with a serious look on his face. Without hesitation, the druids raised their weapons and the bear roared at him as a warning. He rolled his eyes and did a mocking little ‘rawr’ back at the animal, entirely unimpressed by his attempt at sounding menacing.

Irory: “Is this how we greet people that defend this place from being overrun by goblins?”

Their attitudes changed rather quickly, whispering to each other before making the decision to let the group pass. With his keen ears, Irory overheard the word ‘hellspawn’ several times in their exchange.

Druid: “You – Kagha wants to see you. You may go ahead. But your welcome can be easily withdrawn. Respect our grove or face our claws.”

Irory walked past them, only giving them a contemptuous look and a wave of his hand that displayed his own claws. He was not in the mood to waste his time on racists and child murderers. Compared to the excessively peaceful druids he had met in the past, the ones in this region were trained by the hells themselves, it seemed. What happened to being open to ‘all the gifts nature provides’? Was that not their favorite phrase anymore?

Passing through the heart of the grove, there was only ritual chanting and the occasional animal noise to be heard. Mossy ruins lined the walls of the mountain range and the center held the fabled idol that Arabella had laid her hands upon. Vines sprouted from the ground to encase it, the flow of magic emanating from it engulfing everything and everyone in its vicinity. A powerful aura that strengthened their connection to nature. Doubtlessly a most powerful idol.

Arriving just in time at the inner chambers, Irory saw the leader of the druids passing her judgement on the child – by which she clearly meant threatening her with a snake. Arabella pleaded for forgiveness, eyes widening as the snake hissed right by her ear. Another druid kept warning Kagha to stop, ushering her to cease this madness, only to be interrupted over and over again by the current leader of this circle. This was going to be unpleasant, the bard could already tell.

Irory: “I don’t recall Silvanus teaching his worshippers to murder children.”

His steps echoed through the room as he walked down the stairs, making his presence known. Every druid in the inner chambers faced the group, scowling, sneering and growling at the outsiders.

Kagha: “You call her a child, but this devil is nothing but a parasite. She eats our food, drinks our water. Then steals our most holy idol in thanks! Rath, lock her up. She remains here until the rite is complete. And keep still, devil. Teela is restless.”

Irory: “The oakfather does not look kindly upon those who would imprison someone for their wild disposition. Even parasites are part of nature’s balance, are they not? Or should we cut out the snake’s tongue for feasting on its prey? Kill her and face the consequences set by your own god.”

Hesitation. Glares turning into curious looks of surprise. How did this foulblood know so much about the words of Silvanus?

Kagha: “Ssifivs. Teela, to me. And out with the thief, my grace has its limits.”

Rath: “Thank you, Kagha. Master Halsin would ---”

Kagha: “Halsin isn’t here! Keep his name off your tongue, lest Teela pierce it. Now, you. Stranger. I hear the Treefather’s spirit in your words, but I see it in your eyes. You think I’m a monster.”

Perhaps not a monster, but most certainly ill-fitted to be a druid and a leader. Attempted murder rarely made for good first impressions, adding the constant slurs towards Irory and his kin only further cemented it.

Irory: “For the sake of peace, I will keep my judgement to myself. I’m defending my kin. Presumably you are doing the same, regardless of success and methods used.”

Kagha: “You urge grace and speak the truth? You’ve surprised me twice over. A shame the grace period must end. The viper’s fangs have been bared. She must guard her brood. The rite will resume and we will seal the grove. Free from harm. Free from intruders.”

This woman could not go two sentences without snake metaphors and further insanity, could she? And by the gods, her habit of interrupting others was irritating Irory in ways he thought only wizards were capable of.

Irory: “The refugees will perish, if you cast them out---”

Kagha: “And my people will perish if they stay. You showed great mettle at the gate – the mettle of a skilled sword for hire. I want you to provide your services to Zevlor. Offer to guide the outlanders out of the grove. I’m sure they’ll reward you well. They’re to be gone before final prayer. If they are not… the viper must strike.”

Inquiring further on the ritual revealed that it was not dissimilar to the spell Sanctuary. Everyone would stay unharmed and unable to inflict harm on others. The only difference being that the druids were not going to be magically cloaked, but physically engulfed by vines that none could get into or break out of. What manner of dark ritual was this? Irory looked at Gale from the corner of his eye, but even the wizard did not seem to know the Rite of Thorns from his studies. Ominous.

Irory: “Fine. I shall speak to Zevlor and help the refugees leave. But only if your healers will aid me and my companions with an ailment we have been afflicted with. Once it’s gone, we’ll be on our way.”

Kagha: “You may seek out Nettie. If your treatment outlasts the rite, you will be cleansed with the rest. Now find Zevlor and rid us of the outlander rot. This tale ends but one way: with the grove forever shrouded.”

Before Irory could turn around and complain about the lack of tact and negotiation skills from the druid leader, Shadowheart cried out in pain. She was clutching her hand, a purple glow radiating from it. Just as quickly as it had begun, it faded again.

Shadowheart: “I know that look – you’re wondering why I’m in pain. Let’s just clear the air about that now. It’s just an old wound that hurts from time to time. Nothing to be concerned about. It’s nothing to do with the tadpoles at least, I case your imagination is in danger of getting away from you. It’s just something I have to live with.”

Irory: “How badly does it hurt? Do you need some healing?”

Shadowheart: “Quite a lot, if I’m being honest. But it always passes quickly, so I can manage. Healing won’t be required.”

He tried to be reassuring about her condition without prying too much. Irory knew better by now than to push Shadowheart on her mysterious past. Strangely, there was even more going on inside her since entering this chamber. Nervousness. Prolonged stares at the wolves roaming the area. Was this connected to the pain? A bite mark from a wolf, perhaps?

Irory: “Are you certain that you’re alright? Do you need to rest at camp?”

Shadowheart: “Yes, I’m… fine. I’m not terribly fond of wolves. We can talk about it another time. Let’s press on, we’ve wasted enough time here already.”

How much more difficult could it be to build rapport with her? If he kept pushing, she would pull back more. But all the mysteries surrounding her were hindering their cause. No matter the cause of pain in her hand, she would have to speak plainly about it soon or risk exacerbating her wounds.

As they looked around in search of Nettie, murals in the inner chambers caught the attention of both Irory and Shadowheart. She pointed out the depictions of Dark Justiciars. Something about that title sounded familiar, but the bard still had a hard time getting his memories in order. The tadpole kept wriggling behind his eye every time he was close to a breakthrough. Cursed this damned parasite and its ability to cast a fog over Irory’s knowledge.

The group made their way towards what appeared to be a place for healing. With the only druid busy tending to a bird, Irory decided to wait and take a peek around the room – books as far as the eye could see. If they went through with the ritual, all this knowledge would be lost. Do not steal. Do not steal. Maybe steal later? No. Maybe? No, self-control was in order!

The druid woman spoke an incantation to heal the animal companion and turned her attention to the bard. It was too late for stealing now. Revealing everything about the tadpole condition to her, Irory narrowly avoided being on the receiving end of lethal poison. Truly, all druids in this grove had gone insane. Despite omitting a few details on Irory's side, she was satisfied enough with the responses to speak of the research Halsin was doing prior to his disappearance.

Nettie: “This is a vial of wyvern poison. Swear to me you’ll swallow it, if you feel any symptoms. I’m sorry for misleading you - I don’t have a cure. Only a way out.”

He took the vial, looking Nettie deeply in the eyes. With a most convincing tone, he promised to keep his end of the deal. As if. This vial of poison would coat a blade and pierce through an enemy. Only a lunatic would end their life for the sake of fulfulling promises made to deranged druids.

Nettie: “Thank you. I… I don’t understand this at all. Years of treating others and I’ve never seen a mind flayer infection. Then suddenly there is dozens of you. And you should all be changing – a small army of mind flayers roaming outside. But you’re not. You seem perfectly normal.”

From the sounds of it, several infected had been sighted throughout the past few tendays. All of them spared from ceremorphosis, walking around without so much as a fever. Relieved that they won’t turn anytime soon, yet unsettled at the implication that this parasite held had been altered somehow – Irory was unsure how to feel about these new revelations. And looking at his companions, so were they. No one knew what they were up against.

Nettie: “Infected – folks like you – have been converging in an old temple of Selûne, and I’ve no idea why. When master Halsin heard the adventurers were heading that way, he saw a chance to get answers. Joined on the spot. Whatever he found there, he didn’t make it back.”

She described the way to the temple and suggested another deal: If Irory and his companions could find Halsin and bring him back alive, he would likely be able to cure them. A superior option compared to wyvern poisoning and, once again, their only path ahead without relying on the generosity of a githyanki crèche.

Irory agreed, although doubtful of this mission. Infiltrating a camp of potentially dozens of mind flayers did not spark confidence in him. Especially not after getting his emotions manipulated by the last illithids he had met. If nothing else, at least they had gained time. Time to think, to strategize, to breathe for a moment. He needed some fresh air just about now.

The bright glare of the afternoon sun was almost too much for the bard’s fiendish eyes. He squinted, using one hand as a shield from the sun's warm rays. Large concentrations of Weave still lingered in the air, creating green swirls guided by the wind and druidic chants. Even if it felt like they were no step closer to being parasite-free, this was progress. And Irory had a hunch that perhaps he could find more in those inner chambers guarded by Kagha’s entourage, if he were to return with a particularly dexterous elven companion. Planning out the intricacies of this heist in his mind, he noticed the wizard stepping in front of him.

Gale: “Could we pause for a moment and talk about the new developments we witnessed? Astarion and Lae’zel would surely be interested in our findings relating to the tadpoles. We could head back to camp and ---”

???: “Ah, hello friend! You were at the gates before, no? When the goblins came? You saw them up close? A few questions, if you please. There is no overstating my interest!”

A man with a striking resemblance to Volothamp Geddarm approached, interrupting the starting conversation. What a nuisance. Not only did Irory have a strong dislike for the most overrated 'bard' of the lands, this impersonator had the same ability to instantaneously invoke ire in those around him. With a hint of irritation in his voice, he replied with a question of his own.

Irory: “And you are? Some Volo impersonator?”

Volo: “Volothamp Geddarm in the flesh. Are you a fan? I cannot blame you for having impeccable taste. To recognize me so openly? I may give you an autograph in exchange for your answers.”

Irory’s eye twitched – and not from the tadpole. Wyll on the other hand was over the moon, enthusiastically answering all questions of the oh-so-brilliant luminary in front of him. Even as the warlock repeated the truthful accounts of what had transpired at the grove's entrance multiple times, Volo continued scribbling down made-up retellings of their fight against the goblins. Still, Wyll hardly looked disappointed. No, he almost looked proud to be described as such an accomplished adventurer. So much for local legends.

Amusingly, neither Wyll's name nor his title as The Blade of Frontiers were mentioned even once. Instead, Volo’s attention kept coming back to Irory, asking him questions despite his disgruntled responses.

Volo: “Just one last question: Did the attackers rally to ‘the Absolute’ when they fell upon the gate?”

Of all the inquiries, this one sounded genuine. The actual bard that had a degree and talent in his profession, answered truthfully.

Irory: “That does sound familiar. I suppose they did?”

Volo went on to describe how the goblins in the area have recently abandoned their god Maglubyiet and started worshipping a new deity called The Absolute. This would explain their strange behavior and ability to strategize beyond normal goblin means. What could cause such a shift in belief? And who was this Absolue they spoke of? Without a moment to waste, the fake bard scampered off, deciding to investigate the goblin camp for his own research. Wyll waved after him before turning around in shock.

Wyll: “Hold on! He forgot our autograph!!! By the gods, this was our only chance of obtaining a signed print of ‘Wyrms of the North’ from Volo – a truly classic for young lads aspiring to become heroes. Ah, I should keep a copy of my favorite work on hand, in case we meet again.”

Irory: “I didn’t expect you to be into shoddy fiction, Wyll. Not a man of taste, are you?”

Wyll: “But how could you say such a thing! You share the same profession as him, can’t you tell when exceptional talent is in front of your very eyes? You even recognized him before his introduction - a testament to his fame. Volo is simply magnificent. Ah, I must ask for a signed copy for you as well! Perhaps it will inspire you to read his works.”

The bard could almost feel his breakfast coming back up after hearing those words. Gods, had this young man never read a decent book in his life? Yarns woven by a real writer, not a poor excuse of a traveler? Perhaps the Baldurian public education system was not as good as people had claimed. If Volo was all they had taught, it was of no surprise cults were rising in popularity every other year.

Irory: “Clearly, I do know talent when it stands in front of me. Hence my disdain for Volo. Hells, he isn’t even a real bard. That’s how little you know about our profession, Wyll. I’m sure there is use for Volo’s signed works. I’ll keep them in the outhouse where they will come in most handy.”

If Volo was still in earshot, he would have fallen over from all the psychic damage Irory was dealing with his vicious comments. None of them wrong in the slightest: Simply true observations from a bard that was not mincing his words. Wyll felt defeated. Was his favorite author truly that terrible? Did The Blade have inferior taste?

Shadowheart: “I for one enjoy Volo’s books. Some of his tomes are quite inspirational. I bought this one from one of the refugees. It will make for fine evening literature. I may be inclined to share with you, Wyll. Depending on what you can offer me in return.”

The warlock’s good eye lit up and he looked like a child receiving a new toy to play with. As the two of them enthusiastically talked about Nymph-related ‘evening literature’, Irory only rolled his eyes.

Shadowheart: “Hard to believe that you find Volo insufferable, yet you let Gale travel with us. How curious. Are you jealous of the greater bard?”

Yesterday Irory had laughed off all insulting comments towards him, but this one was inacceptable. Taking it with all the offense it was meant to be taken, he responded appropriately.

Irory: “The greater bard? How odd that you would say that, given you didn’t even recognize that Volo is merely another f*cking wizard. At least the one traveling with us isn’t playing pretend.”

Gale: “And may I add that all tales of my grandeur have been true thus far? The inaccuracies of Volo’s ditties have caused various disputes in the scholarly circles already. Many a treatise has been published on the topic of how much truth a tome must contain to be considered useable in research...”

Shadowheart: “There he goes, proving my point by opening his mouth. Perhaps all wizards would be better off with their mouths busy doing more useful activities until a spell is required.”

Gale looked wounded at her remarks, his eyebrows furrowing. He regarded Irory with the face of a lost puppy, hoping his strategy of seeing him on his side would work again. He received a sigh in return. For once, the bard could see himself defending the childish wizard. There were greater evils to be discussed in the grand scheme of things. Namely, horrible pretend bards that were far more famous than those who put real effort into their work.

Irory: “You should probably apologize, Shadowheart. Remember who prepares your food.”

Wyll: “I would consider myself rather adept at cooking, too. And that will fill Gale’s mouth, too, based on Shadowheart’s suggestion. Two birds with one stone. The Blade’s efficiency is unparalleled!”

Irory: “I doubt she was talking about food, but perhaps Volo’s tomes will provide proper explanation for that, Wyll.”

As friendly banter continued, they paced around the grove seeking information on Halsin and his disappearance. They had a few more hours until dusk. Irory could hear faint singing and lute playing in the distance, turning his head towards the source. A break of song and dance would be a welcome change from the druids uttering insults beneath their breath. The one playing music was none other than a tiefling girl, a little younger than Irory. Her voice was shaking, as did her fingers with every strum.

Tiefling Girl: “Dance among the stars tonight... Smile and pain will fade away... Words of mine will... change… no. Ugh.”

Broken up words from a woman holding back tears. It was not hard to think of reasons for why she was composing sad melodies by her lonesome. Irory listened for a little while, taking in the feelings the song was meant to convey. Love. Loss. Grief. Whispering words flowed from him, reaching her, repeated as inspiration struck. Every finished line brought back the faintest light to her eyes. She wiped off her tears and turned to the group, putting it all together into one final, emotional performance.

It was powerful, to watch a real bard play and enrapture the audience with her song. To immerse those around her in her world, in the love she held for the one she lost. A dedication stronger than any love letter could have conveyed. Her whole world had shattered. And she was still here, left behind in a cruel world that required her to pick herself up again. To find the spirit to keep fighting, to recover, to regain her footing. Not even Shadowheart could uphold her aloof act, a smile gracing her face for the first time.

Alfira: “Thank you. I was having trouble… finding the right words.”

After some applause from the group, she explained how she had lost her former mentor to a gnoll attack. It was an ambush, one that went unnoticed due to the lute playing of both Alfira and her teacher. A horrifying death that repeated in her mind every time she picked up her instrument. But there was hope, even just a sliver of it, as she thanked Irory.

Alfira: “I’d forgotten what it was like: that itch in my fingers to perfect a song. Weeping Dawn will be my gift to her. Thank you. I… I needed this.”

Irory: “It was all your doing. I’m sure she would be proud.”

Alfira: “We should play together again one of those days. A more peaceful day, hopefully.”

He smiled at her, nodding at her request.

Irory: “I would be honored. I’ll pray to any god I can for those peaceful days to come.”

Wyll and Shadowheart enthused about her performance and Gale suggested to finally reconvene at camp. And strangely… there was another voice. Singing. No, multiple voices in perfect harmony. For a moment, Irory considered it to be the tadpole’s doing, but he noticed a path heading downwards to the coast. And the closer they came towards it, the more the others, too, began feeling drawn in by this mysterious siren song

The sun was setting over the Chionthar, draping the world in hues of orange and gold. A breathtaking sight accompanied the most beautiful of melodies. What a way to end the day – a spectacle for all their senses. Irory noticed a tiefling child standing by the shore, admiring the same sights and sounds as the group did. He was so taken by them, not even the group of adventurers could get his attention.

As if pulled by a string, he took a step forward into the water. It splashed against his legs, yet the grip of the song was stronger. And it beckoned the others to come closer, to follow it, to ignore anything and everything else in this world. Plunge into the water, lose all your senses…

Irory snapped out of it, realizing that a spell had been cast on them. Before he could save the others from making a fatal mistake, the singers flew into view: Harpies. One after the other, they landed on the ledges of the nearby mountain range. The main singer took position further down the river’s mouth, increasing the volume of her aria. The bard knelt down quickly, covering the ears of the child. He screamed loud enough to overshadow the harpies' chant for just a moment.

Irory: “COVER YOUR EARS AND RUN, I’LL PROTECT YOU!”

The boy returned to his senses, following Irory’s command. Unfortunately, the others remained compromised, making their way into the water as if possessed. It hardly mattered to the harpies. Their meal was getting away and only one obstacle stood in their way: Irory. Three of them flew over, clawing and scratching at the bard that shielded the child with his body until escape was possible. The second he thought the boy was safe, one monster rushed past his side and lunged the child. Irory cast a Thunderwave to push her off, leaving himself wide open to lacerations to his other side.

A claw ripped into him, piercing through his armor and leaving a large gash on his right. Another followed, grasping at his chest. From the corner of his eye, he saw the boy slip into a cavity in the mountain range. Safe. Good. But he was fading fast, seeing no way out without the others joining the fight. Two options presented itself: Silence the singer or drown out the noise.

Irory pushed through the pain, swinging his bow across the strings in the most obnoxiously catchy tune he knew. Interrupted only by ghastly screeches whenever he slipped onto the fingerboard. Somehow, the mixture of abominable sounds and repetitive music brought his allies back to their senses one by one. Wyll snapped out of it first, rushing to aid the bard who was barely holding on. Gale followed, taking on the main singer with expertly cast spells that broke her concentration. Lastly, Shadowheart mended wounds as best as she could, focusing most of her healing on Irory.

It was brutal. In spite of all they gave, the harpies knew how to navigate the area and had the advantage of switching up singers to enthrall the adventurers again and again. One could barely focus on dodging attacks while breaking their trance. A final attack targeted the bard, a slash of claws that dug deep right below his shoulder. Wyll had enough time for a strike that ended the monster’s life, yet the only thing he saw was Irory collapsing on the ground alongside the monster.

Ears ringing, clothes and leather torn up and stained with blood, Irory’s vision slowly turned to black. Thoughts raced by, impossible to keep up with. Was the child safe? Noises, footsteps, so barely audible beneath the high-pitched echo inside his mind, approached. Hands touched him. Painfully, yet he could not muster the energy to protest. It was cold. Strangely cold.

His eyes opened again, heart racing as if a scream had jolted him awake all at once. The taste of health potions lingered in his mouth and Shadowheart leaned over him, a soft golden glow surrounding her.

Shadowheart: “… I think he’s back. Can you hear me? You’re not doing well on the survival part of this adventure. Need we be worried?”

He looked around, only concerned faces staring back at him. Trying to talk, the bard felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, taking his breath away. Perhaps he could articulate his answer very slowly.

Irory: “Kid… safe… doing… alright…”

With the last of her spells, Shadowheart helped Irory back to his feet while Wyll talked to the boy. Apparently, he was sent by another tiefling child called Mol to steal from the Harpies’ nest. Something to bring their attention to another day, seeing the leader wince in pain and struggle to set one foot in front of the other.

Shadowheart: “You two should carry him back to camp. Make sure he doesn’t fall or we’ll need to use our potions to bring him back.”

Wyll: “Yes, let’s rest. It’s getting late.”

Chapter 8: An appetite for magic

Chapter Text

Night had fallen far before their slow steps carried them back to camp. The group was greeted by a githyanki impatiently tapping her foot and an elf with a fresh bruise on his face. It was only a matter of minutes before bickering picked up again between Lae’zel and Shadowheart. Wyll attempted to diffuse the situation, knowing Irory had been compromised, but any explanation of what happened during the day was met with angered responses from both women. A single warlock was not enough to bear the burden of leadership.

In the meanwhile, Astarion’s gaze lingered on all the exciting new lacerations on the bard’s body. It truly begged the question: what in the hells was wrong with him? Irory tried to avoid him by sitting down alone next to the fire. The elf did not take the hint, following closely behind.

Astarion: “Oh darling, did you let someone else cut you wide open? I thought I would be your first.”

Irory: “And you? Got acquainted with Lae’zel?”

He pointed at the bruise on Astarion’s cheek, but the elf was only confused. Realization hit only as Astarion touched the it directly. Unconvincing explanations were in order.

Astarion: “You see, it’s the gith’s love language. A little sword-against-dagger sparing match, a few Chks and Tsk’vas, a sprinkle of bandit murder. Now we’re the best of friends.”

A likely story. Irory went on to explain the new developments on their tadpole to Astarion, getting the occasional sarcastic remark about how they would have made more progress if he were present.

Irory: “Well, if you’re so keen on adventuring again, I do need your help for some rogue business.”

Astarion: “I thought you would never ask! Who are we cutting open?”

Time passed in idle conversation with Astarion, about murder and his preferred way to die: Beheading. Macabre, as expected. But much to the elf’s delight, Irory made sure to explain the most dramatic ways he wanted to go as well, speaking of defenestration through stained glass windows and prolonged monologues like a villain on his final arc. This was all hypothetical, of course. What manner of malicious creature would ever think to distrust a man with a fondness for stabbing and death-talk by the bonfire?

The bard’s eyes wandered over to the others in camp: Lae’zel loudly sharpened her sword in her own corner, staring daggers at anyone daring to come close to her. Wyll had managed to introduce himself to everyone and was engaged in a particularly long and enthusiastic talk with Shadowheart.

It did not take a sharp mind to imagine what they had to say to each other after witnessing their response to Volo’s smutty Nymph book. Misguided in their taste as they were, at least they would get along. A welcome change of pace between the doom and gloom that had overtaken the camp atmosphere every eventide thus far. They were stuck together for much longer than they had anticipated, whether they liked it or not. More than ever, turning acquaintances into allies had become a worthwhile endeavor. Doubtlessly, most of them had shared that thought by now.

Astarion: “Admiring Wyll from afar? I can’t blame you, he’s like a prince straight out of a fairytale. The kind you wish for when you need saving.”

As surprising as the blossoming friendship between Wyll and Shadowheart, it appeared the prickly elf was capable of friendly conversation when occasion suited. A little chat about handsome men was only one such occasion. He was correct in his assessment: Wyll was dashing, good with children, a skilled monster hunter and he had a sound moral compass. An absolute dream. The fact that he had made a pact with a devil to receive powers invoked further curiosity. Not a topic to inquire about on their first night, but perhaps once they had gotten more personally acquainted?

Irory: “You must be in a good mood today to be so affable. Complimenting someone else? I didn’t think you were capable.”

Perhaps the best approach to conversing with Astarion was to respond with a hint of sarcasm and a few witty quips. At least it kept the flirtatious comments at bay. Or so Irory came to think, at least.

Astarion: “You wound me, darling. I have been nothing but nice to you so far, haven’t I? Initial threats to your life excluded, of course.”

Irory: “Right. Of course.”

He shook his head at the elf’s comment. They must have different definitions of the word ‘nice’. Astarion smoothly repositioned himself in a way that would make him look more appealing, putting on a charming smirk.

Astarion: “So, who is the most attractive person in our merry little group? I must advise you: there is one correct answer and…”

The elf pointed at the others roaming about camp, counting them one by one until arriving at the final number.

Astarion: “… Four wrong ones.”

Irory: “Gale, obviously. He has a beard.”

No hesitation. The bard answered with a most convincing poker face and a tone so serious that Astarion could only respond with an exaggerated gasp.

Astarion: “Gale?! Of all the people in this camp – Gale? I would have forgiven you if you said Shadowheart or Wyll. By the gods, even Lae’zel I would understand, she has a ‘look at me twice and I will dismember you’ kind of charm to her. But Gale? He doesn’t even own a comb! Or clothing that fits him better than that burlap sack he calls a robe. The best part about him is a dashing pair of boots. One that would look far better on a more handsome man.”

Irory laughed, quickly clutching his side as the pain from last battle shot through his body. But the huffy, offended tone from Astarion was more than worth it. The elf only rolled his eyes at this terrible setup, annoyed he fell for it to begin with.

Astarion: “And here I thought you had taste. That woman from your memories was a lot more pleasing to the eyes than the bedheaded wizard.”

Irory: “What did you just say?”

The bard was surprised, hoping he had misheard Astarion along the way.

Astarion: “Oh, darling, your tadpole was rather keen on showing me visions of the things you used to enjoy. Quite amusing, it seems as if someone else has a fondness for a little death in his bedroom. In more ways than one.”

Of course he had seen her. In their memories, when tadpoles connected. It begged the question: had they all seen her? Had they all received the same vision of Lady Rosedew when their memories were exchanged? Perhaps not speaking on it was a matter of politeness for them. An act of kindness that was foreign to the likes of Astarion. Within moments, the mood had turned grim and serious.

Irory: “Forget about what you saw. Not everything that happens in the bedroom is enjoyable for both. Rest assured, she’s my problem to deal with. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

Carefully eyeing up the bard, Astarion’s gaze lingered on all his scars yet again. Were the wheels in his head finally turning? He let out a few playful ‘hmm’-sounds and eventually came to a realization. With the same kittenish tone he always used, he whispered a quiet offer of mutual benefit.

Astarion: “Perhaps I have a problem waiting for me back in Baldur’s Gate as well. How about we have ourselves a little deal? I won’t bring up your delightful lover and in turn we will travel together until we find a solution to our predicaments? Mine first, naturally.”

A problem he himself could not deal with? Did he not realize he was a far better assassin than the bard would ever be? Yet… a tempting offer. Astarion’s predicament was unlikely to surpass the threat that Lady Rosedew posed to Irory. And any knife pointed against her was a chance to be free, once and for all. Thoughts circled in his mind and this temporary alliance became an ever more acceptable proposal.

Irory: “Let’s say I’m willing to help you. You’ll need to tell me more about this problem of yours.”

Meticulous footsteps were heading towards the two men and their attention shifted to a certain wizard, carefully balancing two bowls in his hand. The smell of fresh stew filled the air, one of the two dishes nearly overflowed with every step Gale took. He looked… concerned? Astarion saw his opportunity to slip away into the night, conveniently avoiding to share more about his past than necessary.

Astarion: “Another day, my dear. Enjoy your evening with the bearded wizard. I have my own hunt to get to. And get some rest tonight, we wouldn’t want the next group of monsters to turn you into minced meat, would we?”

He sauntered off, unable to hide his delighted grin at how this talk had played out. Really, truly, what in the hells was wrong with him? Was he a devil in disguise, seeking out a new contract? If so, he was doing a terrible job at getting signatures. Irory kept a mental note of leaving the Wyvern Poison in his pocket at all times. It may just come in handy one night with company like this.

Turning his head, the bard was suddenly face to face with a bowl of stew. Taken aback by how close Gale was, he jerked backwards, once again being met with stinging pain extending from his side to his shoulder. Irory inhaled sharply through his teeth.

Gale: “Apologies, did I startle you? I reckoned a good meal by the fireside would aid your recovery process, so I have taken to delivering it myself. I certainly didn’t mean to cause you any further pain.”

There was so much care in his voice, in gentle brown eyes that looked down upon the bard as if he was an ailing pet. Even looking at the food he had brought over, it was clear he put particular care into the bard’s serving. It nearly spilled over again as he placed it on the ground, flawlessly sliced chunks of meat coming into view. Was this how he took care of his tressym when she was sick? A sweet thought for the wrong person. Irory only shook his head and straightened his posture, not a hint of his inner agony showing on his face.

Irory: “It’s alright, I’ve been worse. This won’t impact our adventuring, so I’ll be spritely as ever tomorrow. Besides… I’m not that hungry tonight.”

He was no pet. And he did not need caring for. This was nothing more than a scratch compared to the hells he had borne for the past few years. The Mistress had ensured Irory knew how to act like her perfect consort, even when tightly-bound collars burned against a bloodstained neck. Nobility had no place for feelings they deemed worthless.

Yet when he looked at the wizard, only compassion came looking back at him. Disappointment perhaps at the declined meal, at the lack of trust still. Or was it pity, hearing the words ‘I’ve been worse’ by someone so desperately hiding his injuries from someone that cared for him?

Gale: “Is that so? Well, do let me know if you need a hand with anything for the time being. And perhaps we could be more careful in the future, avoiding unnecessary lacerations by harpy claws, hm?”

This was likely supposed to be a sympathetic statement, condescending as it sounded. At least his expressions and tone of voice would suggest that his words were meant to be helpful.

Irory: “Why? Would you conjure up a mage hand if I said I needed it? I can do that too, you know.”

There was a short pause. And behind his back, Gale clearly made a gesture to dismiss a summon. Caught red-handed. Or rather, mage-handed. Irory stared at him blanky, which only served to make the wizard more nervous about his blunder. It was a little amusing to watch him fidget and stumble through an explanation of the metaphorical nature of the phrase ‘lending a hand’, but the bard was in too much pain to let out even a chuckle at these antics. Not that he should be laughing in the first place, knowing even this clumsy display of socialization could be an act to gain sympathy. But… was it? Perhaps all this time Gale had been genuine with him. What a strange thought that a wizard of high esteem was nothing but a maladroit fool now.

Clearing his throat and sitting down, Gale attempted to change topics. His eyes wandered around camp, ensuring none of the other adventurers were in hearing range. He sounded strangely serious.

Gale: “If you are available for a fireside chat, I have a, well, rather important matter that needs discussing. One that is not for the ears of others to overhear.”

An eerily vague request after the light-hearted tone before? Suspicious. Was it finally time to reveal his true colors? Irory was unsure on what to expect. This may be pertinent information about their condition from a well-studied scholar. Or a final goodbye to search for a cure on his own terms. No, he did not look as if he was about to leave. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Irory: “With me? What about?”

Gale: “Let me preface this request by stating that I know you have your reasons not to trust me fully, you have made that clear. But that doesn’t mean I have to hold the same misgivings about you. Through your actions, I’ve grown to trust you. Enough that I’m about to tell you something that I have yet to tell another living soul. Except for my tressym, that is.”

The bard’s confusion was written all over his face. Of all the things to expect, these were not the words he thought would come out of Gale’s mouth.

Irory: “I don’t think I’m following. Why would you trust me of all people with an important secret?”

Gale: “Are you being facetious? You are the leader of this group, shepherding a most unruly group of adventurers while demonstrating remarkable guile and courage. Just today you defused the tension between Aradin and Zevlor, got Kagha to release the girl and shielded a young boy from harpies – risking your own life to protect him. It does not take a sage to recognize you as a dependable ally on this perilous journey.”

He sounded earnest. Again. Not that any of it was incorrect, but was it not too soon to put his faith into a man that barely trusted him? Irory pondered for a moment, his gaze falling onto the other adventurers at camp. Who would he confide in, if he were Gale?

Not Astarion, Lae’zel or Shadowheart, that much was a given. Wyll had only joined them today and… that was it. Perhaps Gale was the most reasonable companion by virtue of not being a complete lunatic and the bard had fulfilled much the same role for him. Or perhaps Irory was simply the only one even attempting to make conversation with this idiot wizard.

Irory: “What if I’m merely saving my kin? Do you truly think I’d treat you with the same benevolence?”

Those crystal blue eyes of his fixated on Gale again, wondering how he would respond to the notion of not receiving what he wanted. The wizard looked as if he had not considered this answer. Of course, those who came from wealth never knew what it was like to be rejected. They knew how to get what they wanted whenever they needed. Even going so far as to compliment Irory, he was likely going to ask for an impossible favor first before switching to the one he really needed. If a book of manipulation strategies had been published, this would have been the first lesson.

And yet, why did it never feel like a lie? Why did this man have the same enthusiasm when speaking of his cat as when he spoke of the feats they had accomplished today? How did he manage to never slip up in his act, to never show what he was aiming for underneath? Hells, was he being truthful after all? Was it insanity to consider that of all the wizards in the world, this one could be kind?

Gale: “Have you not done so already? Unless my eyes deceive me, not one ally in our infected circle is a tiefling. Yet you’ve extended your helping hands to all of us. In some cases, rather literally. If you wish, I could regale you with more tales of your boundless kindness. But I assumed you would prefer to rest and recuperate after my request, wouldn’t you?”

Tiefling. Not hellspawn, devil or foulblood. Almost a pleasant change of wording after a day of hearing despicable whispers behind his back. To the druids Irory was a monster for merely existing. And to Gale? A dependable ally, judging by his words. Gods, perhaps the flattery was working. It was the oldest trick in the book for good reason, especially when executed so flawlessly. This tiefling could only sigh in defeat.

Irory: “Alright, you got me. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve even provided cover to a vainglorious wizard to prevent him from getting shot by crossbows and goblin arrows. Can’t hide this bleeding heart of mine. Go on, I’ll hear you out.”

Gale’s eyes widened just a little at this revelation. He looked relieved, too much so to be a performance. Even the way he explained his predicament sounded unpracticed, taking breaks to gather his thoughts, regaining courage for what was to come. The usual smile on his face gave way to a concerned frown.

Gale: “You see, I have this… condition. Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly. The specifics are rather personal, but suffice it to say it’s a malady I have learned to live with – though not without some effort.”

Irory nodded in response, listening intently. He could see the wizard’s hands fidgeting instead of making grand gestures, his eyes wander nervously between the bard and the fire, his tone become somber. How unlike him to display a lack of confidence.

Gale: “What it comes down to is this: every so often I have to get my hands on a powerful magic item and absorb the Weave inside.”

That… was not a common affliction. In fact, it was unheard of in the circles the bard had frequented, both in the streets and among nobility. He waited for Gale to elaborate further, but was met with a more evasive attitude than before. Was it only the bare minimum for today?

Gale: “I can say no more on the matter – not now anyway. Just trust me when I say that it’s all of vital importance. It’s been days since I last consumed an artefact – since before we were abducted. It’s only a matter of time before my craving returns. That is why I turn to you. I need you to help me find magic items to consume. It’s vital. Dare I say it, critical.”

The bard was at a loss. Infinite possibilities on how this conversation could played out, yet this is what it had amounted to. He recollected his thoughts, sorting them aloud.

Irory: “Do I have this right: You have an unknown disease of unspeakable origins that will make you crave magic items. And if you don’t get them, ‘bad’ things will happen?”

So far so good. He received a reluctant nod in response.

Irory: “I won’t question where you got such an affliction, but are there no details you can spare? How often will you need them? What happens if you don’t receive them?”

Gale: “Rest assured, it won’t be often. And I will let you know in advance when the cravings return. Faerûn is practically brimming with magical artifacts, I’m sure it will be easy for a talented adventurer like you to find an item or two to spare. As for the consequences… It begins with biological deterioration. Muscle spasms, disorientation, a slight ringing in the ears. If left untreated for too long… catastrophe. One that is not limited to my body alone.”

Catastrophe. Irory repeated the word in his mind a few times. The broad picture was more than clear, this was not a simple request for an item hunt. It was a burden placed on him as a leader. A decision for him to make. What reason did he have to keep Gale around when he was not only a wizard, but now a liability as well? What made him think to confide in Irory now, to reveal this critical condition? Why would he not choose the path of least resistance and let him go?

Silence fell between them. One could hear Gale’s breath become uneasy at the realization that he may have made a mistake. The anxiety on his face was palpable. A far cry from the caring gaze he had cast upon Irory before. Every second felt like an eternity. Until finally, the tiefling’s deep voice cut through it.

Irory: “Are you telling me this because you need an item right now?”

Hesitation, as if Gale had already prepared himself for a final answer instead of another question. Was this a chance? The slightest hope to not face the end alone? He answered earnestly once more.

Gale: “Not in this very moment, no. But… soon, I can feel it. I know you must be apprehensive of such a request, made by a wizard and one you’ve only known for a few days at that. I can only affirm you that nothing I said has been a lie. I do trust you. You deserve to be made aware of my afflictions before consequences are imminent. If you wish to send me away over this burden I carry, I understand and… will not stand in your way. Just say the word and…”

Irory: “Catch.”

As the wizard was speaking, the bard had rummaged through his bag with subtle movements. A ring was thrown towards Gale, barely missing his hands due to his slow reflexes. It fell into his lap. The nervousness on his face turned into confusion and then… realization. Upon touching the ring, he could feel the Weave swirling inside, so deliciously dancing and twirling, wrapping around his fingertips, beckoning to be absorbed. Pulse quickened, he almost consumed the item instantly.

He looked up instead, right at Irory. At cold turquoise pupils surrounded by black sclerae, at a cautious expression, at crystalline horns reflecting the warm light of the fire, at the large scar across his cheek. He truly had a kind heart underneath the devilish appearance. Before Gale could express his gratitude over the ring, the bard opened his mouth again.

Irory: “Take it as a sign of goodwill. I’ll choose to believe that you’re not lying to me for now. Don’t misplace my trust, I’ve had enough grievances with wizards for a lifetime.”

Gale: “I won’t. I promise, you will not regret helping out a man in need. Twice, at that. On gods, you have my utmost gratitude. For as long as we travel together, my full arsenal of spells will be yours to command.”

As if Gale’s spells were not already at every beck and call of Irory. The bard only shook his head. What a lousy deal. It would take more than a few useless trinkets to get the help he needed, to reverse the damage done. But perhaps, this was a start. Someone needed wizardly favors more than him, anyway.

Irory: “Help me save the refugees and we’re even.”

The wizard looked confused, although his usual smile was returning slowly.

Gale: “Pardon me, but were we not planning on helping them reach Baldur’s Gate? Hold on… You didn’t think you were facing the goblin plight alone, did you?”

Irory: “Huh?”

Gale: “I can’t speak on the behalf of our companions, but I was certain our decision had been made in regards to the refugees? We couldn’t possibly turn our backs on innocents. Gods, I couldn’t live with myself if we left the little rascals behind to become senseless victims of a goblin attack.”

The bard blinked a few times in complete disbelief. Had he fallen asleep somewhere in the past few minutes? Was this a strange tadpole-induced illusion? There was simply no conceivable world in which the wizard had spoken the words he had just heard. Gods, had Irory been this distrustful for no reason at all? Did he owe an apology to this idiot wizard for misjudging him? No, not a chance that he would admit being wrong so easily. There must have been more to it.

He stood up carefully, clutching his side. Irory needed rest, those wounds would not heal without recovering his spells first. At least they would not leave another scar, knowing he could cure them all in time. The fire cast a beautiful warm light on his skin and horns as he turned towards Gale. And with the faintest of smiles, he proposed another method of payment.

Irory: “Well, if you’re saving the refugees anyway, you’ll have to repay me by letting me pet your tressym instead.”

Was that a… joke? Gale looked almost more surprised at hearing a friendly tone from Irory than he was at the fact that he had earned enough trust to receive a magic item for his condition.

Gale: “Ha! I suppose asking Tara to let you pet her is the least I could do. Although I can’t guarantee that her response to this request will be a fond one. She is rather strong-willed. Even more so than the street cats you have befriended in your youth, I’d wager.”

There was a hint of disappointment on Irory’s face. He really wanted to pet the flying cat. Theatrically, he held his shoulder and groaned in pain, exclaiming:

Irory: “Argh, a devious wizard has stolen my ring of pain resistance! Now I must die, lest I am promised to give little squishes to the paws of his pet!”

The wizard laughed, was this how the bard acted when he was less on edge? More than amusing, it was downright delightful how a few phrases from him could sway one’s mood so easily.

Gale: “I yield, I yield. Do not try to touch her paws or her belly! She will cast fireballs on you that would rival some of Blackstaff’s greatest alumni. She will grant you a few pets or I will teach you the spell to summon your own familiar. Is that a sufficient agreement?”

Irory: “You have yourself a deal, wizard of Waterdeep. I will have you know that us tieflings are rather resistant to fire, so I will keep a few healing potions at hand for when the day comes where you make due on your promise.”

A content chuckle from the bard turned into another wince of pain, this time not playfully exaggerated. Irory shook Gale’s hand to cement their deal and made his way towards his own tent. His steps were uneven, if one looked closely. Hard to tell how much pain he was in, but seeing him perish on the battlefield today was reason for concern. It was fortunate that they had resuscitated him in time. And yet he claimed he had been worse in the past? What could possibly be worse than death?

Gale was left to ponder his own thoughts, moving the ring between his fingers. It had been a long day and an even longer evening. He could feel the tightness in his chest building, sooner than he had anticipated. Days too soon. A fortunate turn of events that Irory had already obtained a magic item and shared it with him when he certainly did not have many reasons to do so.

The wizard thought he had taken a calculated risk. Thought from the bard’s responses at the crypt and grove that he would be willing to help regardless of his apprehensions. And he was right. But by Mystra’s grace, Gale’s heart had nearly stopped when it seemed as if he would be cast out from this group. To be abandoned again. Hopeless. All he could do now was build on the small amount of trust he had been granted, show himself from his most magnificent side and pray to his goddess to not find his end soon. What really were the odds of living to see Waterdeep again?

On the other side of camp, Irory had sat down inside his tent, spreading ointment on his fresh wounds before applying clean gauze. Every movement was followed by stinging sensations, but at least this pain had been for a good cause. The price to pay for helping others, perhaps. In time, these wounds would heal and the smile of these children would return once they were to settle in Baldur’s Gate. An image to look forward to in a world that had held no pleasant surprises for him before.

He looked in the mirror, realizing the healing spells of recent days had closed the wounds on his neck as well. Was there a chance for these scars to fade still? His eyes wandered up, lingering on his crystalline horns. Without a doubt, these would never return to normal. Irory sighed, moving his hands across his face before laying down.

Somehow, he had imagined freedom to feel much sweeter. Less… squirmy behind his eye. The tadpole truly loved the attention it got, winding and wriggling every quiet moment. But he was learning to ignore it. At least at night. He closed his eyes, humming a few calm melodies as he drifted off to dream…

(TW: Depictions of heavy domestic abuse until the end of the chapter)

Heavy footsteps passed by the alleyway Irory was hiding in. Panting, his eyes sought for a way up towards the rooftops. If he could reach the bridge, take a leap and land in the Lower City, it would only take another sprint to return home. Yes. Freedom was his. With cat-like grace, he jumped, fingers holding on to the fence of an elevated porch. He tried to pull himself up, but a hand had tightly gripped his foot. A Flaming Fist with vague, indiscernible features. No, it couldn’t be… the patrol had passed, he had timed their routes so perfectly…?

More came over, quickly slamming the bard to the ground. It took only a single look at the red embroidery over the finest white fabrics to know where he belonged: the Rosedew estate. Irory tried to talk his way out of it, begged, pleaded to not return to where he came from. But it was of no use.

A familiar marble hallway greeted him, lustre lights reflected by the most pristinely shined ground money could afford. And down she came, a woman so beautiful not even the gods could rival her. Black waves framing one side of her face, red lips formed into a perfect smile, a white dress revealing crimson fabric underneath a ruffled mermaid cut. One look from her would make every Flaming Fist fall to their knees. One sentence spoken in an alluring voice and all sins could be forgiven. The doors shut behind them.

Lady Rosedew: “Where did you think you were going, my little ram? Left your room without permission? Who allowed you to do so?”

Her voice sweet as honey, waiting to switch to a burning hot flame in an instant. Irory was silent. His eyes darted to the side. Could he sprint past her? Up the stairs, over the balcony…

Lady Rosedew: “Answer. Me.”

She raised her hand and cast a spell, restraining the bard before he could even attempt to execute his plan. He should have known. Escape was impossible. And worse than trying to run was the punishment for even thinking about it to begin with.

Lady Rosedew: “I was so worried about you, you know? You had disappeared all of a sudden. I had to wake up all alone, without my beloved in my arms. I thought you had gone to the library, I even came to check on you. But no. No, I received word from the Flaming Fists that they had found you in the streets. How unbefitting of a noble, don’t you think? You should know where you belong. Do I need to remind you?”

Leather cuffs restrained the hands and feet of Irory in a room he had last seen when his horns were turned. The “salon”. Her workplace. She paced up and down the room, her heels clacking on the floor the way they always did when she was stressed.

Lady Rosedew: “To think you would do such a thing to me on our anniversary. And here I was, planning a gift for you. I thought, what would make my sweet little ram happy? Make your ears less pointy? Replace those ghastly nails of yours? Don’t you find them a little too sharp? I certainly do.”

All talk so far. What was she going to do? The bard’s eyes followed her steps. She stopped.

Lady Rosedew: “But now I think: you owe me for your little escapade. Wouldn’t you agree? Who would be so cruel as to gift me all these worries as an anniversary gift. A woman of my standing deserves a more generous fiancé. How about a new piece of jewelry? Black and crystal blue.”

One hand slammed next to Irory’s face. Long fingernails scratched against the chair he was tied to as she formed a fist. The corners of her mouth lifted into a sad*stic grin as she looked deeply into the bard’s eyes.

Lady Rosedew: “How often do you think they will grow back with magic? Enough for a necklace? Or will it only be a ring? I don’t want you to lose your sight just yet. After all, you still haven’t learned that your place is by my side. Forever.”

A sharp pain pierced through his skull, he clenched his jaw to stop himself from screaming. Vision turned from black to red and then black again. Cutting wounds went down his neck, needle-like sensations making their way from his shoulder down to his side…

Irory woke up drenched in sweat. His hands were trembling. Looking around he felt panicked, dizzy. Where was he? A tent? Behind his eye, a small itch could be felt. Wait. Was this a dream? Or had he woken up from one? He lifted his shirt, revealing gauze over recent wounds. Thank the gods.

No, he was free now. Even with a parasite in his head, at least he had avoided… that nightmare. His heart was still racing. Would he be able to sleep again? Likely not. He was scared of finding out how those visions could continue if he closed his eyes again. The hells be damned. Why of all things did resting have to become a task of its own now? Before he could have another round of frustrated thoughts circling his mind, he heard the faintest hint of a voice projected into his mind. Calm, slightly masculine, warm and loving. It only whispered once.

???: “You can sleep now. I’ll protect you.”