Chapter Text
Eleint 1, 1492 – (Day 12)
|| Gale ||
Seven was too many to feasibly try to sneak through the gates, even with a drow at the head of the party.
Karlach, Wyll, and Lae’zel stayed behind, ready to act as back-up if things went wrong. A tiefling, devil, and githyanki were hardly low-key options for infiltration, after all. Astarion and Shadowheart were assigned to accompany Tav, due to their talents at subterfuge.
Gale is also assigned to the party, despite his lack of subtlety. When asked why, Tav gave only vague excuses about his spells—such as the ability to read thoughts—but refused to elaborate. He has not yet decided if he should be flattered or worried over her cryptic insistence.
While in my presence, do not speak unless I ask something of you. Which I likely won’t do. She’d instructed them before they headed in. Follow my orders without question and without hesitation.
That’s a steep request, Shadowheart had countered. Your role as leader is purely performative.
Yes…and if you question my orders, that will be a detriment to the performance, now won’t it?
Tav had donned her drow armor, her most intimidating visage, and her most menacing stride. She marches forward with shoulders squared and countenance frigid, the bridge to the goblin camp creaking under their boots. Gale sticks close by, a step behind to her left. He isn’t worried about getting in, but his jaw remains tense as he silently calculates everything that could go wrong once inside.
Dead ahead, at least half a dozen goblins guard the entry. The leader’s attention flares at their arrival, but shrinks back when his eyes fall on Tav. Nerves twisting his hesitant expression, he urges his worg aside and steps off the path.
“Shove over, Klaw! Drow comin’ through!”
They pass by the initial guard without so much as a question. Over the main bridge, through the drunken crowd of partying cultists celebrating the very raid where Wyll’s father had been abducted. The odor of rancid booze and excrement permeates the air, cut through by the aroma of roasting meat—exotic and wildly unfamiliar to him. Certainly not your standard beef or pork.
The goblins pretend to continue about their party, but they all watch Tav with a conflicted sense of fear and reverence, hoping she does not address them. Fearing that if she does, it will not be amicably.
Off to the side, one of them comments to her companion, intoxication rendering her oblivious to her own volume.
“Must be nice bein’ a drow, struttin’ around like your arse is made of diamonds.”
Tav stops. Gale and her companions stop. Likely, the heart of the loud-mouthed goblin also stops. Tav stares her down, the goblin's face blanching under Tav’s menacing countenance. One step closer. Two. Three. As the goblin’s knees begin to tremble, Tav halts. She does not lean down, but rather lifts her chin with a grin that reeks of threat and a voice dripping with predatory malice.
“It is~”
The goblin woman sputters an apology, suddenly uninterested in whether or not she has a gemstone rear and far more concerned about whether she's about to take her final breath. Tav ignores her, glancing back over her shoulder.
“Star. Shadow. You know why we're here. Execute your orders.”
They do know the plan: split the party and cover more ground…Though the biting choice of words no doubt leaves the goblins eager to fall in line and not ask questions. When Astarion and Shadowheart head off to explore the camp, Tav lifts her hand and beckons Gale to follow.
“You come with me, wizard.”
Wizard. Gale exhales a quiet sigh. He supposes there isn’t much one can do to shorten his name easily, and he’d rather she call him ‘wizard’ than Dale again.
Tav passes every checkpoint with little resistance. Her answers and demands are just enough to be convincing, her very aura more than enough to keep the upper hand. As he walks silent in her shadow, Gale busies himself examining the architecture. The stone is as grand as it is ruinous, still structurally sound despite the worn moulding and crumbling pillars. Chipped paint with lunar patterns edges the top of the walls. In the hall niche, the broken statue of a goddess lingers in the flickering torchlight. Her left hand is shattered, her face half eroded. But the emblem of Selune is unmistakable.
He opens his mouth, but recalls Tav’s very specific instructions. Gale at least waits until they are past the inner guards. “…Permission to speak?”
Gods, that’s a phrase he’s never uttered in his life. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
Rather than scolding, she emits a low chuckle. “You may speak so long as I am not engaged with anyone else.” Her lip curls up with impish intent. “I didn’t need the other two quipping me at every unorthodox decision they’ll witness.”
Last tenday, the stroke to his ego would have been quickly tempered by the mention of impending ‘unorthodox decisions’. After seeing how her questionable methods panned out in the hag’s lair, however, Gale sees little reason to worry.
Mostly.
“Ah, is that why you were so quick to send them off?”
“Maybe,” she admits with a cheeky cadence. “But I couldn’t pass up that timing, either. They’ll be free to move about without me after that display. No one will question them.” A beat. “No one they can’t handle, anyway.”
That familiar ease in her demeanor is comforting; he hasn’t seen it since their reunion with the others. Confidence restored, he livens his tone without raising his volume. “Well then, now that we’re in their walls, have you determined which spells in particular you need use of?”
Tav quirks a brow, pondering the question for a moment. Realization dawns on her face, followed by quick amusement. “I don’t need your spells, Gale. I need someone I can trust to watch my back and not throw me to the wolves if it proves convenient.”
His footfall pauses midstep; Gale falls a pace behind. The blip in his thought process causes a similar failure in his motor skills. It is brief, only a breath, but tangible. He resumes before she notices, but there is much to process in that statement.
For one, she trusts him. And has blatantly told him so, for that matter.
For two, she does not believe herself invincible in this scenario, despite how she carries herself. A relief, to be frank.
For three…she did not need him for his magic? That point rattles in his ears, like wind through a hollow. He hears it, but cannot grasp it. His magic is his greatest asset, the one thing he really has to offer in this situation (or most situations, really). It was what had impressed Blackstaff Academy’s greatest minds, what had drawn the attention of Mystra herself, what had been the only potential his own father had seen in him.
It does not add up.
“So your reason for selecting me to ‘watch your back’ has nothing to do with the fact I could incinerate a dozen goblins with a single spell should things go south?” He tries to play it off as a light-hearted jab, but the surprise in his voice still seeps through.
“Hah.” Sharp humor, sardonic in taste and breathy in timbre as the laugh rolls against her throat. “The goal is to get what we need without incident. But if incident occurs, knock yourself out.”
As they near the main hall, there is no room for further conversation. She lifts her hand subtly at her side in a gesture for him not to speak again. They descend the final stairs towards an open chamber. A dais of rotted wood and tattered crimson cloth looms ahead, a great beast’s skull and tusks decorating its posts. A goblin woman in a priestess’s mantle stands atop it, arms raised as she praises the Absolute’s name.
As he and Tav approach, the priestess pulls a branding iron from the brazier—an emblem of a skull-faced handprint in a down-pointed triangle—and presses it to the face of another goblin. The man screams through grit teeth, hands curled into claws and arms shaking as he endures the burning pain. Gale winces, jaw clenched as he tries to ignore the agonized groans that endure even when she pulls the brand away. The newly marked goblin spins on his heel, fists raised in victory as he bellows a prideful laugh. Gale squints, eyeing the man’s face.
There’s not a mark on him. No trace of the brand. He glances at Tav, who wears a face of equal scrutiny. She’s noticed it too.
Tav approaches, posture rigid and chin high to assert her perceived status. Unlike the other goblins, however, this one is not intimidated.
“Now, here’s somebody special. The Absolute has touched you, hasn’t She?” Her yellowed smile rings sinister despite the genuine admiration. “Priestess Gut needs to touch you, too.” Her attention flits to Gale. “The both of you—”
“You have some gall making such a demand,” Tav interrupts, tone as severe as her expression. “Why?”
Still, the priestess does not shrink under Tav’s gaze. Which can only mean she’s a figure of authority here. Judging by the tingle in his head that resonates with her own…he can guess as to why. “Lets the faithful recognize one another quick-sharp. That way, nobody’ll mess with you.” Every word carries a casual reassurance, as if this is just a simple procedure undergone by all the Absolute’s cultists. Perhaps it is. “An’ it’s charged with magic. Ordinary slobs can’t see it; only us that follow the Absolute.”
Charged with magic. His focus turns to the brand in the priestess’s hand. Traces of the Weave eddy around the red-hot iron, flowing heavy despite the small area of effect. It explains why there’d been no visible scarring on her last supplicant, but there may be more to it than that…
“And all carry this brand, regardless of rank?” Tav weaves vicious skepticism into her tone to mask the prying nature of her question.
“Whole camp’ll be branded soon,” Gut replies with amused finality. “If you’re worried about your hide, maybe your little friend here will volunteer to go first.”
Gale swallows, mouth parted automatically by the usual need to defend himself, but falling short when he recalls Tav’s orders to say nothing when she’s engaged in conversation. She does not let him stew long. Tav’s hand snaps up, a wordless order to stop. Not at him, he realizes, but at the priestess.
“You presume much, priestess,” she spits back, the threat so palpable even Gale cannot tell if it is genuine or a facade. “But he belongs to me before he belongs to the Absolute. The only mark my slaves will bear is mine.”
Although Gut shows no fear, she does not press either. The pressure may not break or crack her, but she will still bend under Tav’s iron will. “My mistake,” she apologizes (somewhat; it sounds more sarcastic than genuine), “Didn’t see any marks on ‘im.”
“It’s not in a place for others to see.”
Gale makes considerable effort not to think too long on the implications of that statement. He’s only half successful.
“You’re one of those private types, then.” A very sanitized explanation for the dynamic Tav has laid at her feet. “I’m under orders to brand everyone. ‘Sides, he’s got that same spark of the Absolute about ‘im. The three of us are True Souls. In Her eyes, we are—”
“Equal?” Tav challenges, voice gone dark in a way that finally gives the priestess pause. “Either you are ignorant…or your taste of authority has made you forget your place.” She leans down, closer to the goblin’s stature, without ever surrendering her position above. “You will brand my arm, not my face. If he proves himself, then I will brand him myself. But he is not my equal.” Tav lifts one foot, stomping it onto the first step of the dais with just enough force to make it shake. “Nor are you. And if you question me again, you can kiss what little power you have goodbye.”
The priestess’s hands go up in defense, finally backing down. “Alright, no need to get your knickers in a twist. If I’m gonna brand your arm, you’ll ‘ave to roll up your sleeve.”
As Tav pulls off her glove and begins to loosen the laces of her armor’s sleeve, Gale’s mind is reeling. What in the nine hells is she doing? He understands the lie she’d chosen to get him out of it, but he cannot fathom a reason why she wouldn’t extend that lie to get herself out of it. He knows she has the capacity. Intimidation alone could let her walk away unscathed. Her name almost leaves his lips, but he catches himself. The explanation she’d given that he was her slave would be entirely compromised if he interrupts her on a first-name basis.
But there is a risk here that worries him…One he cannot in good conscience keep quiet about while she puts herself in danger. Tav’s exposed forearm extends towards Gut. There is no time left to question.
“Mistress,” he interjects, attempting to hide how uncomfortably the word flounders off his tongue. “If I may—”
Both women snap their attention to him: the priestess with surprise, Tav with pinprick pupils and a poisonous, deep-set scowl. He does not get another word out before she shuts him down. “Speak out of turn again, and I will brand your tongue.”
Gale clamps his mouth shut. This is not the time to argue with her, particularly not over pure speculation. All he can do is trust that she knows what she’s doing…
Hopefully.
He bows his head slightly. Takes one step back. Whatever feels like the appropriate response for his designated “role”. It seems to work. Tav presents her forearm to the goblin priestess.
Gut pulls the branding iron from the burning coals, radiant heat distorting the very air around it like warped glass. Gale’s throat goes dry, and he clasps his hands behind his back just to keep them from fidgeting. Tav stands steady, ready, undaunted. The glowing metal hovers centimeters from her flesh, yet she does not flinch. Not until it presses against her grey, tattooed skin.
Burning flesh assaults his nose, pungent and repulsive. Tav’s fingers and lips curl, her muscles and jaw tighten, she hisses through her teeth, but endures the pain. Gale’s fingers dig into his own hand as he clenches them, sympathy pain wracking his own nerves in a way he can’t describe. When Gut pulls the brand away, the emblem is seared into her forearm for only a breath, then the scarring dissipates like dust in a cross breeze.
Tav flexes her fingers. Stares at her arm. Looks to the priestess. The corner of her lip twitches upward in a small victory that Gale can’t identify.
Then her face drops…as if she’s seen a ghost. And a rather terrifying one at that. Just as Gale’s anxiety begins to climb, her expression reverts to its harsh placidity.
“Don’t want to get intimate in front of the novices?” Gut teases, as if they shared a secret between them that Gale is not privy to. “You’ve got some weird shadows in your head. I could fix that, you know. We True Souls got to look out for one another.”
“I’m not here for personal assistance,” Tav replies as she refastens her sleeve. If the pain lingers, she shows no sign of it. “I’m here on business.”
“Ah, then you’ll be wanting to see Minthara. Could be her blood, by the looks of you.” Gut nudges her head to their right, indicating the alcoves at the top of the steps’ landing. Pained screams echo from one of them. “Got a raid comin’ up. Soon as we can get the prisoner to talk, that is. No luck so far. I’m guessin’ that’s what they called the likes of you in for. You’ll have him squealin’ with a look, I think.”
Tav lifts her hand, snaps her fingers, and follows the given direction. Gale quickly falls in step behind. Subconsciously, his hand lingers on his forearm, grateful that he won’t be enduring the branding iron…nor bearing its ominous symbol.
At the top of the steps, Tav detours to a quiet dark corner rather than one of the alcoves. She grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside, grip firm enough to look commanding without overdoing it. For a moment, he expects she’s about to ream him for disobeying her orders.
“What were you going to tell me?” Firm. Urgent. But calm.
A bit late now. Gale glances about, ensuring there is no one around to hear, even if she’s likely already done the same. “I wanted to warn you about the brand,” he sighs. “That priestess said it was charged with magic, but she did not clarify the how of it. I can’t say for sure without studying the branding iron itself, but I wonder…if that mark is precisely what allows True Souls to manipulate the goblins so easily.”
Her eyes narrow with only a hint of concern. “And you worry that now they can manipulate me with it?”
Gale cocks his head to the side in a half-shrug. “As of now, it's only speculation; but if my theory holds water, then…yes. I worry exactly that.”
There’s a pause. Her gaze loses its focus in favor of her thoughts as she calculates her own predicament. Moments later, it clears. “If your theory proves true, I’ll have to trust that this alleged ‘guardian’ of ours will block any external influence. Or that you will help me spot it.”
He smiles. Impressed by her rational response. Flattered by her request for his help (though he doubts she’d appreciate him phrasing it in such a way). “I suppose I’ll need to stick close by then.”
Sudden air puffs from her nose, bemused. “You’re already supposed to. That’s how I keep you alive, remember?”
Oh. Right. He’d forgotten for a moment, but he recalls it now: His death and resurrection when she’d promised to protect him. At the time, he hadn’t been certain how far that promise went; if he could even trust it at all. Until moments ago, when he’d watched her willingly endure an agonizing burn with unknown implications…and ensured that he would not have to.
“Indeed,” he agrees with a graceful calm, but his gaze falls to her arm as she pulls her glove back on. Worry tugs at his lips, knowing there could well be consequences to her rather reckless choice, no matter how she plays it off. “Though I might suggest that before you undergo any other questionable decisions…consult with me first. Frame it as orders or berating if you must, to maintain appearances.” He pauses as the screams of a man just around the corner echo through the chamber. Gale shudders, trying to shut it out. “I am grateful to you, truly. But I would feel more at ease if you at least had more context before you offer yourself up again.”
“No promises,” she’s quick to reply. “But if possible…I’ll consider it.”
It’s better than nothing, but his relief quickly gives way to curiosity. “Why did you do it, anyway? I’m certain you could have manipulated your way out of it.”
“We couldn’t see the mark on the goblin she branded, despite being ‘True Souls’," she explains. "Which means only those with the brand can see it. Not all our enemies here…or beyond…will be as easily cowed as goblins. Having the mark will let me identify them, and hopefully slip through them easily.” Gale notes she still tugs idly at the cuff of her glove, as if she can’t get it on tight enough. “Once I had it, I could see hers.”
He nods. It seems an extreme measure for a tactical advantage…but what’s done is done. His lips press into a thin line, gaze finally lifting from her arm to her face. “Does it hurt?” Or did the magic erase the pain as quickly as the mark?
She knocks her head to the side dismissively, then steps past him. Towards the screams.
“Like hell.”
|| Tav ||
Fragmented memories plague her. It’s difficult to keep her demeanor so controlled, but this is not the time nor place to be divulging her state of mind. Gale is already worried about her decision to let the priestess brand her. He does not need to know about the excitement that sparked in her mind when she smelled her own flesh burning.
Nor does he need to know what she saw after.
The vision still haunts her. After iron-seared skin, her tadpole had tangled with the one in the priestess’s head. Gut had tried to prod, and while Tav (and perhaps the guardian) had obscured anything of note from being gleaned, Tav had also seen dark obscurities in the goblin’s head. Notably, the familiar silhouette of a man. He was too cloaked in shadow to make out his features, but she's sure it was the same man she’d seen days ago at Waukeen’s Rest—when the Absolute had invaded their minds. One of the Absolute’s Chosen. She does not know his name or who he is.
But she knows him. Of that she is sure. She just doesn’t know how.
And she needs to. Whoever he is, he's a key to her past. Or at least has a few answers to send her in the right direction. Tav could give two shits about this Cult of the Absolute, but if that man is this new god’s Chosen…perhaps it’s a path worth pursuing.
After she gets rid of this damn tadpole. Any regrets she might have had about the brand are quickly overwritten by the promise of how she can leverage it to find him later.
Her thoughts are interrupted by the smell of fresh blood nearby, something sturdy pounds against flesh and bone. As they pass an alcove, a man groans with pain and pleasure alike. Tav stops in her tracks, Gale nearly bumping into her. She turns to the source.
On his knees in a pool of blood is a human man in tattered black robes. He wears a leather harness in place of any shirt, exhibiting bloody scars and purple bruises across the canvas of his torso. He flagellates himself with a mace of all things, grunting with every self-inflicted blow as new contusions bloom under the impact. Every grunt he emits rattles in her skull, pained moans laced with something akin to adoration. It tastes familiar in her mind in a way she can’t explain.
She cannot ignore it.
Tav approaches, purposely changing her stride so each footstep can be heard rather than fading silently into the cobblestone. The man hears her, glancing over his battered shoulder. Then rises.
“Greetings, child.” His voice is slow, deliberate, rough like gravel under your boots. His smile holds a naturally sinister cadence, even without the aid of the deep scars and fresh cuts that frame it. “I’ve met few aside from goblins here. Are you also here to assist with the prisoner?”
Prisoner. It could be Halsin. “Depends on what you mean by assistance.”
A dark chuckle rumbles in the man’s throat, eerie and eager. “Methods of…persuasion. I was invited here to help extract information from this prisoner. It was thrilling at first…” His eagerness fades, tainted by disappointment. “Though I have come to find these…goblins and their methods quite crude and primitive. They lack the proper finesse; they cannot inflict pain in accordance with their intent. And pain without purpose is a terrible thing…wouldn’t you agree?”
“Pain always has a purpose,” she fires back, the words almost instinctual as they tumble from her tongue. “Even if you can’t see what it is.”
The challenge elates him, his grey eyes alight. Just as suddenly, they fall. A great sadness reflects back, as if he’s seen it and couldn’t look away. “Forgive me, but that look in your eyes—something terrible has happened to you.”
Her body tenses under his scrutiny, as terrified by the prospect of being seen through as much as the idea of what that terrible thing might be. Normally, she would dismiss this as some ploy to sell her something, but the sincerity in his gaze, in his voice…it rattles her. Tav crosses her arms, clenches her jaw. “You seem sure of that.”
“I see those same eyes when I look in the mirror, dear one.” He nods once in unspoken solidarity. “I will not pry, but if you allow me, I can help alleviate this pain.”
“Why are you so interested?” Sincere though he may be, there’s an intent underneath. This is not a fleeting offer grounded in altruism or sympathy. He's too eager; he has another reason.
“My name is Abdirak,” he finally introduces himself with a gentle bow of his head. “I am a priest of the goddess Loviatar—the Maiden of Pain. She teaches us that pain is a most powerful and sacred sensation. And should our pain delight her—should we embrace her gift—she will grant her most sacred of blessings. If you permit it, I could show you firsthand.”
Tav squints. She glances over the man, searching for a brand. Unlike Gut, there is no glowing red emblem anywhere on his person. It seems the Absolute is willing to contract out Her work to followers of other gods…
Interesting.
“You’re offering to beat me so you can offer up my pain to your goddess?”
“No, dear one,” he smiles. “I am offering to scourge you, so that you may offer up your pain to my goddess. Not only might you receive her blessing, but you may also find clarity. A weight lifted from your shoulders. A catharsis that cannot be drawn by any other method.”
Tav genuinely considers it. Some reasons are clear to her; others are still muddled by the fog of amnesia. She almost turns to Gale, but hesitates. It cannot seem like she’s consulting with him, even if this man isn’t affiliated with the cult. He’s still working for them, and wagging tongues could spell a premature end to their mission if she's inconsistent.
“Continue your ritual,” she says with a casual nod. “I need a few minutes to prepare.”
His lean smile widens, pleased beyond measure. “Of course, dear one.”
She turns away and walks to the alcove entry, motioning for Gale to follow. Abdirak faces the wall again and resumes his masochism. She whispers to her companion.
“I need to do this.”
He pauses, brow furrowed. “Your hide, your choice. Though I hesitate to believe any goddess offers up a blessing so easily, least of all Loviatar. Not without grievous injury, anyway.”
“I don’t care about that.” Tav shakes her head. How in the hells is she supposed to explain why she needs to do this without admitting the rest? A beat passes before she speaks again. “Gale…do I have scars on my back?” She can feel them, she thinks. But she’s never seen them.
His mouth opens, eyebrows still knit in concern. “Quite a collection of them.”
“Describe them to me. If you remember.”
He purses his lips, contemplating not the question, but his memory. “They vary. The most prominent are quite jagged, likely battle scars. Two are…strangely precise. Almost surgical. The rest are rather faded and shallow, smoother lines.”
Like an intentional impact from a specialized instrument.
Even without her explanation, calculations flicker in his eyes. He’s already guessed at where her mind has gone. “You suspect this could be a link to your lost memory?”
Tav’s index finger taps against her folded arm. If he’s already onto it, there’s little use in denying it. Not when she doesn’t have a good lie to offer in its place. “Something about this is familiar. I need to see if it triggers anything.” She glances away. “But this stays between us.”
“Of course,” he nods. “Though if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stay close for the ordeal. Ensure that whatever implements he’s using won’t cause undo harm beyond what you expect…and that he does not overstep.” His voice hardens near the end, barely perceptible.
She can’t help but find his concern amusing. “Do I need to give you a safe word?”
An indignant crease ghosts across his forehead, but quickly passes when he realizes her question is not purely mockery. “I believe that only works if I’m the one doling it out…Not quite my cup of tea, though.”
——
A few minutes later, Gale waits in the back corner of the alcove with her leather hauberk in his hands. Tav stands at a stone table in her bra, looking over a variety of implements on offer: A mace, a dagger, an axe, a tailed whip…each is specked with blood and worn from excessive use. Abdirak waits patiently, excitement and anticipation lighting his features as he awaits her decision.
Her eyes settle on one in particular. A flat strap of leather—about the width of her forearm—lined with metal studs. Her hand hovers over its surface, fingertip gently brushing over its rugged design. Familiarity prickles at her mind, but nothing triggers memory.
It’s also the least likely to kill or maim her if Abdirak gets overzealous.
She taps it with her index. “This one.”
“An excellent choice,” the priest lauds. “Exquisite, even. Simply face the wall, and we may begin.”
Tav turns towards the wall, hands braced against the stone and stance wide. In her peripherals, Gale stands stoic. When she turns her eyes to him, she can see his nerves in the lines around his mouth.
“The pain you suffer will cleanse you,” Abdirak instructs. “Do not fight it.”
There is barely a moment of preparation between. The slap of leather on skin cracks through the air as pain erupts across her back. Tav cries out, elbows trembling on impact. A flicker of recollection sparks in her mind.
Youth. Fear. Pain. Resentment. Anger.
Nothing clear, only vague notions writhing in her skull like tangled limbs in the dark.
Tav breathes out, the pain already numbing to a dull ache. “You can do better than that…” she taunts. Hit harder. Maybe it’ll knock something loose from the shadows.
“Hah! You want more?” The man’s excitement flares, the timbre of his voice bordering on a shout. “As you wish, dear one~”
Again, the strap strikes her flesh. Harder, louder. Tav screams, brief but harsh. Her arms shake. Another flicker. The phantom pain of shackles ghosts around her wrists.
Arrogance. Wounded pride. Agitation. Amusement. Defiance.
A different time, not the same memory as before. Even in such a vague void of detail, she knows it's another time in her life entirely. Later.
“My wizard hits harder,” she growls back at the priest. Out of her sight, Gale makes a slightly strangled noise. “Again.”
Abdirak’s laugh shifts to deranged, delighting in her performance. “Again, you say? Wonderful!” He is far past professional and diving straight into indulgent. Bordering on intimate in a way that sets Tav’s teeth on edge, but she can almost taste how close she is to remembering something.
Her fingertips press hard into the wall, white-knuckled pressure bracing herself for a harder blow. The strap strikes her with enough force that her elbows buckle. Agony shoots through her nerves with another sensation that hits her even harder. Her scream this time is not one of pain…
But pleasure.
The cry devolves into a lurid moan. Memory flickers again; still shrouded in darkness, but fresher, recent…
Restraint. Trust. Desire. Control. Arousal.
Tav gasps, eyes snapping open once she realizes what happened. Heat has pooled in her core, and seeped lower still. The echo of her own debauched cries is haunting as she recalls where she is. Tav shoves off the wall, reeling from the unexpected detour in her shattered memory. Gale stands frozen in the corner, red-faced and wide-eyed. Her breaths come shallow; she has to force them to slow. She can’t afford to lose face here.
She chased memory knowing she might not like what she found, but what in the hells is she supposed to do with that?
“Sweet child, you bore the pain like a true believer~” Abdirak’s rugged voice drags her back to the present. Tav composes herself, forcing rigidity back into her face and shoulders before she turns to face him. His wide grin is dark and blissful, pride flowing from his silver eyes. “I could feel Loviatar’s pleasure with every sting of my scourge…As could you.”
She swallows, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to know what her pleasure came from. Tav doesn’t know herself, but it certainly wasn’t Loviatar.
“I am proud to have served you this penance,” the priest announces reverently. “Loviatar herself found your performance…inspiring. She has deemed you worthy of her blessing.” He lifts his hand, a blood-red glow illuminating his skin and shifting like an aurora around his fingers. A subtle chill rolls through her extremities, so gentle it could have been dismissed as a draft. Despite her battered body, a spark of clarity pricks in her mind and limbs. The smell of blood has always triggered her attention; the feel of her own pooling warm under her skin and trickling down her spine now brushes a fond sensation along her nerves.
Tav isn’t sure what to make of it. The feeling is so unknown, she cannot say if this is a change or a reawakening. Either way…she’s left with more questions than answers. “You could have hit me harder.”
As if that would have made a difference…
Abdirak chuckles, low and languid along the back of his throat, his crooked grin ever-pleased. “You’re starting to sound like the goddess herself, dear one.”
A shiver runs up her spine for reasons she can’t grasp. Something deeply unsettling in her gut.
Abdirak leans in closer. Gale shifts in his corner, as if catching himself before he steps in. “And on a personal note…” The lowered timbre of his voice is almost sensuous. “Thank you. That was positively divine.”
Tav lifts her chin and squares her jaw, struggling to uphold her facade in light of what’s happened. She needs space to breathe, and she won’t get it here. “Cathartic as that was, I have work to do. Where is the prisoner?”
Abdirak inclines his head, arms gesturing towards her left. “You will find him in the room next door, my child.” He lifts his head with a devious smirk. “Do make Loviatar proud~”
——
The bad news is that the prisoner next door is already dead. The crude methods employed by the goblins proved too careless; the man had bled to death not long ago. That explains why the screams had stopped. The goblins had already left—either unaware, or in an attempt to avoid any retribution for their heavy-handed technique.
The good news is that it’s not Halsin. The scrawny human man looks nothing like the towering, musclebound elf they’d been told to look for. Possibly the mercenary from Aradin’s band they’d claimed to have lost. It doesn’t matter.
At least she has a moment’s respite, enough to don her armor and compose herself without witnesses. Until Gale opens his mouth.
“…So…did it help?”
Tav breathes in deep, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Then exhales slow, steady. The effects of her…reaction have dissipated from her body, but are clearly still affecting his awkward tone. “If my primary question had been about my kinks, it might have…” Her voice has gone desert dry, though from frustration rather than embarrassment. “Unfortunately, no. All it did was raise more questions. I could remember…concepts, but not a single memory.”
Gale nods in sympathy, a strained smile not quite reaching his eyes. “A shame. I wish it were otherwise for your sake, but nevertheless. We will keep an eye out for opportunities.”
“Right now we need to keep an eye out for the druid.” She sighs as she tugs her gloves back on with more force than necessary. “We’ve wasted enough time already.” And by we, she means I.
His hand finds her forearm—the one that isn't branded—and holds it steady. Not to guide or restrict, just enough to ground her. She stops pulling uselessly at the leather and lifts her glare to meet his gaze. He shouldn’t make such a gesture here, not when anyone could walk by and blow their cover, but the warning in her eyes does nothing to deter him. His focus holds hers just as steady.
“Not a waste,” he assures her, his deep voice quiet, yet powerful all the same. Tav blinks, glare softening to uncertainty. “Better to have made the attempt and found nothing, than to forego the opportunity and be left wondering what could have been.”
She wants to believe he’s right…but cynicism wins out. “That kind of outlook is how you ended up with a bomb in your chest.”
His brows raise, the line of his mouth tightening for a breath. Then that breath escapes in a bemused huff. “Fair point. Some might say that is indeed worse than forever poring over the ‘what ifs’ of life’s decisions.”
Tav squints. “And where do you land on that?”
Gale’s smile remains, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m of two minds on that front.”
She scoffs a half-laugh, pulling her arm from his hand. “In that case, let’s keep moving. And keep an eye out for anything to feed that blight of yours before it starts gnawing at you again.”
They leave the alcove, heading deeper into the temple-turned-fortress. Chanting echoes from the next chamber beyond. Through the broken wall, they view a hobgoblin performing a ritual spell among a crowd of cultists. Tav opts not to interrupt, and they turn right through an open archway. Crumbling stone shelves loom ahead, holding nothing more than dust and cobwebs. A wooden bridge lies just ahead, leading to a makeshift office. Behind the sturdy stone desk, a pale-haired woman with violet skin berates a goblin warrior.
A drow. Likely this Minthara that the priestess mentioned.
Tav hesitates. There is no elf druid here. Tricking a goblin into revealing Halsin’s location was one thing; deceiving a drow was another. Particularly if this is the leader the priestess mentioned; it's risky at best.
But she is kin…Another drow driven to the surface, for one reason or another. Would she hold answers to Tav’s past? Or would it prove to be another fruitless endeavor?
A strange humming noise resonates in her ears. Tav turns to the source as a floating orb rounds the corner of the shelves and hovers into view. Its abyssal violet is broken by a dark, gaping pupil. Tendrils of wispy white billow from its edges, like a storm trapped within a tiny atmosphere. Tav stares, and it seems to stare right back.
“A scrying eye, mistress.” Gale advises, his act more practiced this time around. “Used to observe locations from a great distance.”
In other words…they’re being watched. And if she turns back now, it will ring suspicious. They have no choice but to continue forward and pretend she has business with Minthara.
But the eye holds her attention. That familiar static prickles at her skin; her reflection stares back from the abyss. Tav’s teeth click together, her gut turning as it draws her in. The sensation is almost like that which she felt in free fall when the nautiloid crashed, as if the presence behind it is dragging her down into a black chasm.
The eye shudders, the pupil shrinks to a dot. Tav lurches back, withdrawing from the unseen presence beyond. A beat passes, her breath held in anticipation. The pupil widens to the large cat’s eye from before, and the magic steadies. The hum resumes its steady timbre. It reverts to a dull, black mirror; empty gaze reflecting her visage back in the glass.
If these roam the area, they will need to be exceedingly cautious.
Tav turns away, beckoning Gale to follow with a flick of her fingers. His interjection with Gut was remedied easily enough. In the presence of another drow woman, it would not be allowed to slide. As they approach the bridge, she leans in. Tav whispers a final warning in his ear while she still has the chance.
“No matter what happens, do not speak unless spoken to…It won’t end well if you do.”
|| Gortash ||
It’s never quiet here anymore.
Rarely does Enver Gortash find himself alone in the archives of Moonrise Towers these days. The air is usually filled with Ketheric’s discussions of strategy and copious orders, Z’rell’s field reports and boastings of her latest sexual conquests, Balthazar's grumbling curses as he mutters his own theories to himself. On the worst days, Orin slithers in spewing her florid dialogue in his ear as if she hadn’t compromised everything.
But today it is silent. A familiar quiet that tricks his mind. Periodically, he finds himself looking up from the desk towards the chair across the room, expecting to find her there.
But she isn’t. Tavrin has been missing for months now. The only presence there now is the void of her shadow and a tattered dust cloth drawn across the armrests.
His fingers grip tighter around the quill. There is no use in dwelling on it; Orin was not forthcoming, but made it clear she’d usurped her older sister. That she would now act as Bhaal’s Chosen in their scheme. Ketheric had been a necessary burden in their alliance, yes.
But Orin is an intrusion. Orin is not unintelligent; He’d go so far as to say she is remarkably cunning. But she lacks discipline, lacks the logical reasoning that Tavrin possesses—skills that are essential to ensuring their plans do not crumble under the weight of raw ambition.
He’s sent scouts searching for her since her disappearance. He’s burned every report to cover his tracks, lest Orin realize he’s looking to cut her out in favor of his original partner. All came back with nothing. No trace of what Orin had done with her. Not even a sign of where she’d left her body, assuming the worst. And Orin speaks only in cryptic riddles that fail to answer the question of whether she is still alive or not.
The length of her absence is what suggests the latter. If Tavrin were still breathing, she’d have clawed her way out by now. Without an intact body, however, even his most powerful clerics cannot bring her back.
Exactly as Orin intended, no doubt.
Enver severs the train of thought. Dwelling on her vanishing is a slippery slope that threatens his control, and he’s already on a precipice as it is.
There is no going back. Only forward.
Enver scrawls notes across fresh parchment, the scritch of the quill impossibly loud in the quiet room. He needs to choose the ideal location for the brain’s installation beneath Baldur’s Gate when they arrive. The domed cavern beneath Moonrise Towers had proven most effective in concentrating the psychic force of the netherstones; a similar chamber is essential to ensuring continued success. There are great labyrinths beneath the city, many unexplored…but finding a cavern of similar ilk and appropriate size has proven…challenging. Orin claims to know of one, hidden behind the gates of Bhaal’s Temple.
Convenient, that the ideal location is in a place he cannot access without her.
Footsteps tap across the floor at the office entrance; too quiet to be Z’rell or Ketheric, too heavy to be Orin.
“Lord Gortash~”
A sultry voice interrupts his thoughts, a woman’s silhouette stepping into view as she rounds the corner. Torchlight floods across her face, red eyes glinting amber in its wake.
Enver hardly glances up from his work, his dry tone lacking the usual charisma. “What is it, Araj?”
The alchemist presses her palms against the desk, leaning forward with feline grace. “I have exhausted my resources here,” she sighs, melodrama ringing just subtle enough to almost be convincing. “Every True Soul at Moonrise has donated their blood to your cause, yet none of them yield the desired results. I fear their illithid potency is too diluted to create anything…remarkable.”
The quill stops. Enver looks up, expectant. Unamused. “And so you’ve come to beg for more? Perhaps the issue lies with your skill rather than your donors, seeing as your months of research and testing have yielded nothing but trivial potions with adverse reactions.”
Araj is unmoved by his tone. She shifts her hip sideways, seating herself on the desk’s surface. Enver bites the inside of his lip at the familiar notion…tainted by the wrong presence.
“The sanguine arts are unpredictable, my lord. Each of my bleeders produces unique effects, even under the same experiments. I have had some success in creating potions that resist psychic influence, but the efficacy is limited. And temporary. Blood mimics a creature’s greatest strengths.” A beat passes, as if considering her next words. “If I had access to your blood…or that of a full illithid, imagine what I could make then~”
Enver places the quill aside. Slowly, calmly, he stands from his seat with arms braced against the table. “My blood, you say? Unlike the True Souls, I have no illithid worm in my head, Araj.” Skepticism lingers beneath his casual tone, eyes boring into hers. “If your potions reflect the traits of your donors, how do you propose mine will help you create one that protects my mind from an Elder Brain?”
A sultry smile pulls to her pouting lips, a practiced distraction that might work better on other men. “If I could even draw the blood from a mind flayer tadpole, surely the results would be far more likely to meet your intention.”
He notes that she has offered no explanation as to why she requested his blood first, instead skirting the question as if she’d never asked it. That will warrant an investigation. Later. “Seeing the amount of blood you require to produce nothing but failures, I am disinclined to grant your request. Every worm you drain for your efforts is one True Soul lost from my ranks, and I am not willing to part with dozens on your word alone.” His gauntleted hand lifts, fingers and thumb peaked together over his palm. “I need to see real results with consistency before I part with crucial resources. You have not managed that.”
Seeing that her charms are getting her nowhere, her gaze narrows to something petulant. “You requested my services because you know that I am the only one who can create the elixir you seek. If you deny me the materials to do so—”
“You were brought here—” he interrupts, posture straightening to assert the authority she dares to question. “—because my partner advised that if anyone could create an elixir capable of shielding us from an Elder Brain’s power, it would be a member of House Oblodra. And you are the only one left.” Gaze hardened, he holds his ground and his patience.
Aside from himself and the other Chosen, Araj is the only person privy to the Elder Brain’s existence and the presence of tadpoles in the heads of the True Souls. Though kept in the dark about the finer details, her knowledge of the secret of the Absolute is an unsettling necessity. One granted after an arduous meeting filled with arguments and lengthy lists of pros and cons. He and Tavrin had determined the risk of an Elder Brain outwitting them and overthrowing their authority was a far greater risk than Araj opening her mouth. Most would write her off as a conspiracy theorist at best and a lunatic at worst. He knows there is no reward without risk.
However, his patience has its limits when the risk fails to lead to the desired reward in timely fashion.
As Araj opens her mouth to protest further, the clunk of metal greaves trudges across the archive's floor on the other side of the wall. Urgency punctuates their every step as one of his bodyguards strides into view. She halts suddenly upon seeing he is not alone. Normally, she would exit without interrupting, but she lingers.
“State your business, Numia.”
Her eyes flicker to Araj before settling on him. Whatever she has to say, she does not intend to do so in mixed company. “My lord, forgive the interruption, but this is of the utmost importance.”
Of course it is. It always is. “Is it now?” he questions, effortless charisma allowing just the right amount of his annoyance to peak through. “According to whom?”
She nods briskly, no hint of hesitation. “According to you, my lord.”
He blinks, clawed fingers rapping once against his desk. Enver looks to Araj, and waves her off. “Leave us.” The alchemist scoffs, but he has nothing further to discuss with her. “Prove to me you can make it worth my while. Then I will consider your request.” It’s enough to get her out the door.
Enver grabs his cane as he looks back at his guard, assuming he’s needed elsewhere. “What have you found?”
“You’ll want to see for yourself.”
They cross the towers and ascend the stairs to his chambers and beyond the hidden passageway. The alcove behind is windowless, inaccessible without the proper key (even if Ketheric would know every secret room in his own fortress). It is here that he keeps his confidential plans and contingencies, away from the prying eyes of even his so-called allies. They may intend to dominate the Elder Brain together…but as far as Enver is concerned, that is only the beginning for his own ambitions. The less his compatriots know about the rest, the better. He may need them to start the war, but he has no intention of sharing his rule.
Not anymore. Not with an aged stump and the loose cannon he’s left with.
Towards the back of the dim, torch-lined room is the glowing, blue-lit screen he’d smuggled in. He’s used to having full surveillance of his operations in Baldur’s Gate via magitech and extensive political influence. Here at Moonrise, Ketheric monitors their operations outside the city via Scrying Eyes. The general, of course, assured him that he would be informed of any notable events or persons caught in their vision.
As if Enver would trust a war general who served three different gods not to have a hidden agenda.
The screen cycles through each of the Myrkulite’s conjured eyes, hacking into their vision like a parasite. The screen flickers from the empty prisons below to the eye that roams the upper floors. As the stone wall grinds closed behind them, Numia approaches the display. With a tap of her finger, the image in the glass flickers to cyan static before settling on another location entirely. The old Selunite temple in the wilderness, he realizes, as it hovers past a broken statuette. It passes over the top of a wall with intention more purposeful than its standard patrol. Down below, two figures enter the field of view, unaware they’re being observed. A human man in slate-blue robes, likely a mage—
—And a drow with black hair.
He freezes, fingers white-knuckled around his cane as his breath catches. It can’t be.
Enver moves closer to the screen, watching intently. Wishing he could move the eye himself. It would seem Ketheric is also watching, and equally interested. The general commands the eye to approach with caution, disguising the shift in its path as just another sentry route.
It will be interesting to see if Ketheric mentions anything about this during their next meeting.
Leaned in, Enver braces his hands against the edge of the desk, unable to look away. The eye wanders in close, catching her attention. She looks into its glassy gaze as if she’s looking back at him.
Tavrin.
His pulse thunders in his ears, seeing her face again after all this time. Mind racing, Enver begins to calculate exactly how he can get to her, how to pull her back into the fold of their plans without Orin finding out, how to get her back. He watches and waits for a signal, a sign, that knowing look that says I see you, I’m on my way.
Instead, she stares into the depths of the eye as if she does not even know what it is, let alone who might be watching through it. Her scrutiny is skeptical, careful, confused.
Confused. The excited whirring in his mind stops like a snapped lute string, the silence of the room bearing down on him in a blink.
It’s as if she does not even know where she is.
“A scrying eye, mistress.” The man beside her says far too casually for his chosen term of address. “Used to observe locations from a great distance.”
Enver squints, mouth down-turned in suspicion. Something is amiss. He’s never seen this man in any of their ranks. The choice of words indicates he’s a slave, but he carries himself with a confidence unbefitting of the role. More importantly…
Tavrin has never kept slaves.
“Hmm…” Enver taps his golden claw against the desk, calculating the angles of each hitch in this development. There are a few possibilities here…
One, she is engaged in a deception so deep that she cannot risk a signal. Unlikely, seeing as her facial expressions suggest otherwise.
Two, this is not Tavrin at all and is instead one of Orin’s doppelgangers. That is an irritatingly likely possibility; one that calls for further investigation.
Or three…It is her, but something is terribly wrong. He just cannot place what, exactly. Not yet.
“Monitor her,” he orders his guard. “If she crosses Ketheric’s surveillance again, note down everything. What she says, who she’s with, who she speaks to, her tone, her mood.” Anything to help him discern what she is up to. Despite his desire to right the ship and bring her back, instinct tells him he cannot play his hand just yet. His plans for reunion will have to wait until he has the missing pieces to the mystery of her disappearance…and sudden return.
The pair walk away from the eye, towards the Nightwarden across the bridge. Enver watches with rapt attention, praying the eye will follow and drop eaves. As if to spite him, it maintains its distance. When they reach the bridge, Tavrin leans in towards her companion. She whispers something into his ear. Too close. Too personal.
Enver’s claws dig into the desk, dragging shallow graves into the wood.
Something is very wrong, indeed.