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These days, her head seems to always be pounding.
They're in the Lower City now, inching closer and closer to the belly of the beast. Close to what once was her home. Close to the end of it all.
Enver Gortash had told them her secrets. Orin had told them her fate. There's nothing left for her to do now but to finish it.
Maybe this is just what heroism is supposed to mean. She has to fix her mistakes, no matter the cost, and her father's wrath pounding through her skull doesn't mean there isn't work to do. No, it's better to not say a thing. She's their rock, after all. She's their leader. They may know her past now, but that's only more reason to keep her struggles to herself. She cannot falter. There's nothing to be done, after all — the distraction would only upset them. If they followed this current lead, they would be delivered straight to the head of Bhaal's Temple at last.
Follow the bodies, Gortash had told her, and it's starting to piss her off that he was onto something. With a list of the Bhaalists' next targets on hand, the next task is simple, and so the party had split up to warn more names at once. This leaves Astarion and Nethandre to explore past the lower city’s central wall. Overall, it’s a very monotonous search.
— At least, it is until the building in front of them explodes. The doors blow to pieces, chunks of shattered glass and wood going everywhere. A shard flies into her cheek, embedding itself just under her left eye. Fuck's sake.
"As if my day couldn't be going any worse…" Grumbling, she pulls it out, unbothered by the trail of blood beginning to drip from her cheek. Some pieces of glass were nothing compared to the holes carved into her brain, after all.
A drow in red runs out of the burning building, catching the two's attention as she hops around. "Hot, hot, hot—!”
Her head swivels to look at Nethandre and Astarion, her mouth widening in an 'O' when she recognizes the duo in front of her. Nethandre does not feel the same once she finally recognizes her in return. Yes — unfortunately, in front of them is the blood merchant from Moonrise. Araj is unchanged from their first meeting, still sporting the same red armor and dramatic makeup that made it impossible to blend in with a crowd.
Astarion, although clearly disgusted, seems amused by this turn of events. "What were you saying?" He looks over to the small river of blood running down her face, making a show of licking his lips.
Nethandre elbows him. "I'll bite you back."
The woman is overjoyed, completely oblivious to the pair's hatred of her. “Oh, my silk, what are the chances, it’s you!”
“Ugh, I had hoped the shadow curse took you,” Nethandre hisses in return. Her luck was just awful lately. No matter — she could fix this easily. Her hand twitches, moving closer to Astarion on instinct, wanting to protect him from whatever vile things she was about to say to him. Wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch—
“Come now, that’s no way to greet a friend. I see you’ve brought the heart-stopping bloodsucker, too!” Her eyes flit to Astarion with a poorly-contained lust. Nethandre practically growls at her. How dare she? “I hope you’ve changed your mind. My neck is yours, anytime.”
Oh, how Nethandre itches to tear her throat out.
“And I will keep refusing to the end of tiiime!” His singsong tone makes Nethandre chuckle, breaking through the blood-haze ever so briefly. “I’m done bowing to the whims of others.” Maybe she'd take some time to be proud of him, if she wasn't so distracted by her own rage.
“Never say never!” She’s ever so cheerful, as if this was merely a game to her. Like they were two friends discussing their taste in food. It's company that, perhaps, she would have appreciated in a past she no longer remembers. Still, the matter drops with no further arguments, and her attention turns to Nethandre now. "Forgive the fire and brimstone. Your blood is far more volatile than I expected.”
"What...?" Nethandre tenses, trying to recall something through the holes in her mind. When did Araj get her blood, again? It had been so long ago, she had completely forgotten she ever took the offer, a transaction made before she made her horrid request of Astarion. How could she make a mistake like that? How could she allow Bhaal’s divine gift to get into the hands of this common woman? “What are you talking about? My blood—?"
She starts to speak about something — drow politics, sanguine arts, her research, but Nethandre’s head is spinning and pounding far too loudly to focus on any of it. This woman has her blood. This woman did something odd with her blood. Her hand moves to the hilt of her blade, but Astarion’s own cold one moves to rest over it.
“Easy now,” he murmurs, voice so quiet she can barely hear it herself. “It’d be hard to get away with murder in broad daylight.”
Of course, he’s right, especially when both of them are already one bad move away from being recognized. Gods, contain yourself, wretched thing…
So wrapped up in her own mind, she doesn’t realize she’s been addressed until Araj clears her throat and speaks again. “My friend, are you alright?”
Nethandre jolts, eyes narrowing on the woman before her. “We are not friends.”
“Well, then, my colleague." Now firmly rejected, her voice positively drips with venom as she speaks. It's a little funny. Is it intentional, or is she just a bad actor? “I invited you inside to discuss something. I have an opportunity for you.”
Her eyes briefly flit to Astarion, seeking his input, but he seems unbothered. “Hearing her out won’t kill us.”
“Very well." She takes a deep breath. "It would be a lie to claim I wasn't curious.” Her blood. Herbloodherbloodherblood Father’s blood her unholy inheritance she did not deserve this gift. How dare she?
“YES!” The blood merchant cheers, before restraining herself. “That is — do follow me inside.”
Eyes alight with a sick malice Araj seems not to notice, the tiefling follows her from a safe distance. Uneasy, Astarion trails further behind. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”
A wicked grin finally cracks onto her face, and she turns her head to look at him. “Don’t you want to hear what’s so important about my blood to her?”
"Oh." Understanding washes over his features, confusion melting into a smile that's almost as devious as hers. “When you put it like that … I think I do.”
Nethandre’s eyes flit over the simple building while they walk, trying to discern the layout of the place. It's been blown to bits, which isn't exactly surprising after what they witnessed. Shame. There must have been something interesting there, once. The pair descend down stairs, trailing behind the alchemist without a word exchanged. Only when they’re safely away from prying ears does she speak again.
“A cosy little spot, isn't it? These four walls have witnessed greater alchemical triumphs than the keep of Urngath Dorrund!” She prattles on, Nethandre barely able to see (let alone hear) past the haze of red. What the fuck is Urgnath Dorrund? She needs to make her scream, needs to make that tainted blood leave her body — no, no, no! First, she needed some godsdamned answers. Then, she could satisfy the urge. The drow deserves to die, and even her rational mind agrees with that. It's rare that they unite so cleanly, and she relishes those kills each time.
A potion is withdrawn from her pocket, and the bard’s eyebrow raises at the sight. “And now that you're here, the crown jewel of my research is soon to be faceted. All you have to do is drink Formula Gruna.”
“If that's her 'formula' I can smell, it's even fouler than her blood. Gods below…” Astarion grumbles, mostly to himself.
“Do tell, what will this potion do to me?” Nethandre’s arms cross, looking down on the woman with a disdain she doesn’t even try to hide.
Araj continues to prattle on with her sales pitch, and the longer she talks, the harder Nethandre has to resist ripping her throat out and being done with it. “When you first entered this home, you saw the incredible latent power within your blood exposed in all its nuances. Formula Gruna will unleash that power within you.” Her enthusiasm is nauseating, but to unleash the power within her blood… Well, that’s curious. Maybe Bhaal’s blessing could finally do something good for her. “Risky, but, erm… safe!”
“Say no.” Astarion butts in. “the only thing she's offering is pain and I—” He stutters. “I don't want to see you hurt.”
“You’re sweet, but don’t worry,” Nethandre murmurs, emotionless if not for the hint of a cold smile on her face. Araj's lip briefly curls upwards into a sneer, but it's smothered as soon as it appears. A bad actor after all, then. She plucks the potion from her hands, but doesn't do anything with it yet.
"What are you doing?" Astarion hisses.
"I have a question first." Her head cocks to the side, deliberate in its unsettling malice. “Tell me, Oblodra. Do you understand what you’ve been working with?”
Araj freezes. “Whatever do you mean?”
“My blood. What does it contain? Surely an ... experienced practitioner in the sanguine arts would know.” Nethandre slowly leans in, starting to leer over the much shorter drow. “Unless this was simply dumb luck… Won’t you tell me?”
The distress is clear on her face now, stepping backwards like a cornered animal. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have after you drink the potion.”
Nethandre answers in kind by closing in on her. Ahh, Bhaal below, how she adores this: the fear before the kill, the sheer terror that blooms when prey realizes just how doomed they are. "Promises, promises. Surely your precious potion can wait.”
“Fine.” She scoffs, trying to mask her rising panic. Pointless. The fear in the air is so thick, she can practically smell it. “Your blood positively pulses with divine energy, although I can’t exactly pinpoint the source. I suspect this has something to do with the explosion you witnessed. You already knew that, though, didn’t you? Perhaps you could illuminate why, if we’re already discussing the matter.”
Nethandre’s head tilts mechanically, golden eyes widening. “Yes, yes. Seems you're not completely useless. What do you know about Bhaal?”
The color drains from Araj's face, the pieces finally falling into place in her simple little mind. “You don't mean to say...”
Nethandre laughs in response, cold and cruel. "It took you long enough, but you figured it out. Congratulations. You see, my Father isn't very happy with you. What you've taken is sacred. It was a lapse of judgement to let it fall into the hands of some common wretch like you, but you must understand why I can’t let you just leave now, yes?"
“Now, now, surely we can talk about this!” The alchemist stutters and fumbles, uselessly attempting to regain the high ground. “Imagine what we could do together! I’ve discovered how to unleash some of that power already, but I could do so much more if I had more samples to study. Formula Gruna could only be the beginning of our partnership — imagine how much power must be in your blood, just waiting to be unleashed.”
“You must be stupid." She unsheathes her blade, unblinking golden eyes not leaving Araj for a second. "Why would I believe a single word that comes out of your mouth? Come quietly. Or, don’t. I’ll have fun either way.”
Araj is frozen to the spot, red eyes desperately flitting between Nethandre and Astarion behind her. “I — Stop her!”
“Oh, no.” Astarion leans against the wall, glancing at her in mock disinterest. “I have to say, I’m looking forward to this.”
With his words, the last string holding her together snaps, and she strikes.
It’s a haze of red and black, slicingandstabbingandtearing with a manic desperation. After all, how dare she? How dare she defile Bhaal’s divine essence, trying to use his gift for her own pointless goals? She relishes every scream, every cry of terror, every attempt to wriggle free from her iron grip.
Araj is no fighter, even with a dagger in her hand. Every time she tries to dodge or make a slash of her own, it's so easily telegraphed. What a stupid woman, thinking she could use her father’s blood and walk free afterwards. She believed herself to be such a genius, but couldn’t even understand what she held in her hands until she was told. The drow’s tainted blood spills on the floor, and she laughs at the sight.
“Weren't you proud of this? You all bleed the same in the end," she mocks, unsure and uncaring of if she was conscious to listen anymore.
She can’t stop. Can’t bring herself to. Doesn’t want to, even if she could. It doesn’t even matter why she’s doing it at this point — the divine ecstasy granted to her by this slaughter is all that matters.
It’s not over until the woman's limp body falls to the ground, corpse bloodied and savaged almost beyond recognition. A grin breaks across her face, and she gazes upwards, letting out a breathless laugh.
It's been so long. She feels alive.
Disgust overwhelms her, next. Yes, the alchemist is dead, but how could she have let her have her blood in the first place? What a complete disgrace she is. Even in her mangled state, she should have known her blood wasn't something that could be freely given.
“Father, I’m sorry,” she murmurs to herself. “I assure you, it was a mistake that won’t be repeated.” Yes, penance was only natural after allowing this to happen. She begins to raise the sword towards herself — she knows where to hurt, but not kill, and it's what she deserves. "Forgive me, Father, I—”
“Get ahold of yourself!” Astarion snaps in a rising panic. The sword clatters to the ground, head snapping in his direction in shock.
It's quiet for one agonizing moment. Nethandre is sent reeling, heaving sharp breaths, trying to make sense of her own mind once more.
That was new. Her body has been forced before, but not her mind. Not like this. Mechanically, she understands what she was thinking, but its impossible to reconcile with how she actually feels. Is this what he's capable of doing to her? Was that a warning? If he can force her to love him, to beg for forgiveness, what else can he do?
How much longer can she live like this?
(When will he take the rest of her freedom away?)
"He — He made me think, I — I don't understand, he's never... I didn't know he could..." Her eyes are stuck wide in horror, fixed on nothing, trying desperately to process what just happened to her mind. She's doomed, isn't she? Resisting doesn't mean a damn thing if this is what he can do. "He tried to make me hurt myself, and I wanted to. I don't..."
"Oh, my sweet. Come here." He rushes to her side, wrapping his arms around her, uncaring of the foul stench of the gore splattered on her body. "You'll do nothing of the sort. Daddy dearest is a greedy bastard, isn't he? It's not enough you kill for him, he always wants more."
With a weak chuckle, she softens at his touch, lifting her chin to rest on the top of the shorter man's head. Her arms settle around his torso, squeezing him tight to reassure herself he's there. "I — I wanted her dead, but not like this. Not because of … that." She swallows down the lump in her throat, choking back a sob.
"I know, I know." He moves a hand up to the back of her head, threading his fingers through her hair.
"I'm scared." The words, her feelings laid naked in front of her feel wrong. "I'm so scared, Astarion, please." She doesn't even know what she's begging for. She's so tired. So, so tired.
"He won't have you." The fire in his words is enough to convince her of it as well, at least for this moment. He won’t, he can’t, she’ll overcome this. Somehow. "You can fight this. I know you can."
They stand there for a while longer, uncaring of the scene before them. Holding onto Astarion makes her feel a bit more like a person and a bit less like an uncontrollable beast. He’s here, he’s real, he cares for her, and she will get through this. For him, if anything else. He’ll have enough strength for the both of them, and she’ll have enough strength to free him from Cazador, in turn. Easy, right?
(What Cazador can do is nothing compared to Bhaal's grip on her. She's delusional.)
It would be easy enough to stay like this for hours, but a faint shard of recognition in the form of the scent of iron reminds her they still have work to do. Taking deep breaths, she finally breaks off to reacquaint herself with reality.
Ah. She nearly forgot where they were. How romantic.
"We should leave, shouldn't we?" Glancing around at the gory murder scene, she suddenly feels quite ill. As far as corpses go, Araj's isn't very pretty. Her fault.
"Ah, not just yet. I see a cellar," he points at a hatch, "and I'd like to see what secrets she kept in there."
"Aha." Finally, the smile that cracks on her face is warm and genuine. "You always have the best ideas."