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Morgana had expected to hate the Underdark. The Dusk Court had been a dark, dismal place without sunlight, and she had expected much the same when they went below ground. But it was beautiful, full of bioluminescent mushrooms and twisting, ancient columns of stone. It was far brighter than she’d expected, and it was a considerable effort of will not to go around touching and examining every new bit of fungi or strange glowing moss.
The moss, she discovered, was both safe and useful, but most of the mushrooms were to be treated with extreme caution.
Halsin watched Morgana as she crouched over a canyon creeper, head tilted as she examined the softly glowing purple plant. He’d noticed she had an interest in nature from the beginning, and he had often seen her in conversation with local animals, asking for directions or just speaking with them for the joy of it. And she always had a kind word and gentle hand for Scratch, wielding her deadly claws gently to elicit happy groans and a thumping back leg.
“Did you ever consider studying druidic magic?” he asked later, while they all traversed in pairs across a long, narrow bridge of stone that spanned a deep, watery chasm.
Morgana blinked, then smiled. Her good eye was luminous in the dark, glowing a deep magenta. “My mother had a knack with plants and animals,” she explained, reaching down to give Scratch a quick pet. “She taught me a bit.” Halsin’s smile was warm when she looked at him, and her eyes quickly slid back to the path before her. “I think… if life had gone differently, I might have. I prefer the wilds to the city, anyways. Although the city has better food…”
Halsin chuckled. “You have a natural way with animals, as well,” he said. “That owlbear cub is quite taken with you.” He watched her face brighten with a smile.
“I couldn’t turn him away,” she said, looking away but still smiling. “He… he still sounds very young.”
“Even the young are extremely hardy,” Halsin said in an effort to comfort her. “Cubs will usually stay with their mother for a year or two, but are usually mostly self-sufficient at around six months. The rest of the time is spent learning to hunt alongside their mother. I’d been watching his mother for some time before the Goblins became a problem.”
Morgana’s face fell. “I’d hoped that when I convinced her that we weren’t worth eating that she could raise the cub in peace,” she said. “Then we found the cub with the Goblins.” Her voice took on a sharper edge. “The beast wouldn’t have bothered them if they’d just left her alone, but no, they had to have the cub for chicken chasing!” Her voice dripped with disdain.
Halsin regarded her for a moment, a half-smile pulling at his lips. “You really are a true friend of nature, Morgana,” he said, his keen Elven eyes catching the hint of a flush in her ears. “First, you speak with a caged bear and fight Goblins on its behalf, and you even tried to reason with their wargs.”
The warmth in that low, rumbling voice of his only deepened Morgana’s blush. “It’s not their fault they’re owned by awful people,” she said quietly. “Animals…” She paused, eyes turning upwards in thought. “They’re pure, if that makes sense. A snake will bite you, but it won’t pretend to be your friend first. They are what they are; there’s no pretense.”
“I didn’t expect such a profound answer from someone city born,” Halsin admitted.
Morgana shrugged, unable to suppress a smile. “When I wasn’t holed up at home with a book or at the library… I was playing by the river. Catching frogs and crayfish.” She looked at him. “I think everyone longs for something different sometimes. People born far out in the country long for the idea of the glamourous city, and those born in the city long for the peaceful countryside.”
“And what do you long for?” Halsin asked. “You’ve spent time in both, I assume.”
That was… a very profound question. Morgana thought for a moment, listening to the rushing water below. “Beyond finding a cure? Freedom,” she finally said. “I want to be able to travel without being told when or where, to love and fight as I please.” She looked over at Halsin, stomach flipping at the soft smile she found him directing at her. “What about you?”
He appeared to consider her for a moment before looking away. “I’m afraid I don’t give it much thought these days,” he said. “Lifting the Shadow Curse remains at the forefront of my mind. It has for close to a century.”
His voice sounded so pained, as if the curse weighted as heavily on him as the death of a family member. It was almost as if he blamed himself. “If it’s as bad as you say, we should probably look into lifting it,” she said after a moment, missing how quickly his head snapped back to her. “I mean, it’ll be hard enough to deal with the Absolute cultists, so getting rid of a nasty curse could only help, right?” She could hear Astarion complaining about her helpful nature already.
“That’s generous of you,” Halsin said. “I did not mean to push my burdens onto you, though I will gladly accept your help.”
Morgana scoffed, shaking her head. “Look, if this curse is as nasty as you say, I don’t want to deal with it any longer than I have to. It’s not a burden to try to make our mission to save ourselves easier. For all we know, the cultists are using the curse as a cover, and breaking it will give us an advantage against them.”
“A love of nature and a keen mind,” Halsin said kindly. “I’ll help however I can.”
“Thank you,” Morgana said earnestly.
000
Mushroom people.
Well, technically they were called Myconids. But still… mushroom people. That spoke not with words, but with thoughts and memories.
Morgana completely understood the draw of the Underdark now, and why so many adventurers dared to risk its dangers. The place was as fascinating as it was beautiful.
After speaking with the Myconid leader, Sovereign Spaw, Morgana had agreed to help deal with some murderous Duergar that had killed Myconid young. There had been promise of reward in treasure, of course, and that had been enough to convince Astarion to stop pouting. When Morgana had shared an antidote with the runaway Deep Gnome, she could practically hear Astarion roll his eyes behind her. Her smug smile when she was given a pair of magical boots as a reward had been what led to the sulking in the first place.
“Astarion,” Morgana asked, “has it never occurred to you to pretend to be nice, just to get a reward out of it?” They were climbing down an incline towards a clearing to make camp.
“No,” he sniffed. “It’s much easier to just not get involved.” He glanced over at her, and a rueful smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “But… I suppose I’m… starting to see the use in it.” He still wasn’t entirely convinced that Morgana was only being helpful for her own selfish benefit, and not out of some wasteful sense of altruism.
“I wasn’t always good with people,” Morgana said. “But in…” She paused, waiting for the squeeze of her Patron’s restriction… but it never came. “In the… Feywilds, I learned very quickly that it was easier to get by on flattery and favors owed, rather than turning a blind eye. It’s better to have people feel like they can trust you, or that you’re a valuable piece in their scheme. They’re less likely to sacrifice you that way.”
As they spread out into the clearing and separated, Astarion thought on her words.
He supposed he could understand her point. Her becoming her Patron’s puppet had been a very different environment from Astarion, who’s own enslavement had been more… secluded. Yes, he’d been sent outside the palace to lure back food for his master, but he’d hardly had to navigate court politics with a proverbial leash around his neck. There had been the occasional vampire coven soiree, but it had hardly been a court. It made sense that she would want as many people on her side as possible, if what he’d heard about the Unseelie Court was true. When navigating such an environment, the more people who owed you favors, the better.
Astarion scowled to himself as he set up his tent. He’d gotten better at it, and thankfully got it set up correctly on the first try. This empathizing was becoming an unfortunate habit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to think about something from anything other than his own point of view. He was realizing now that his scope had been… stunted.
Unknowingly, Morgana herself was a perfect example of her own point.
In befriending and seducing her, Astarion had secured an ally for himself, one who would vouch for him to others, and even repeatedly offered her own lifeblood to sustain him. He’d done what she said, using flattery and favors to win her over. While she wasn’t swooning over him exactly as he’d intended, she considered him a friend, and one she trusted at her back in a fight.
And Morgana’s trust seemed to encourage the others to do the same. Astarion had noticed that Triscyne had relaxed very quickly around him as soon as Morgana vouched for him. Wyll, who had been the most suspicious out of anyone, had even started trying to banter with him on the road. Astarion wasn’t even sure if Morgana knew about the trust she inspired, somehow in all of them.
Lae’zel and Karlach were about as different as they were similar. Both were fierce warriors with an unending thirst for battle. But Karlach was undeniably sweet, and easily had the most noble heart in camp, even if it was a mechanical Infernal monstrosity. Lae’zel was only just starting to see the world beyond her strict, secluded, and violent upbring. Morgana was kind enough to earn Karlach’s trust, and fierce enough for Lae’zel to try to bed her.
But that all just made it worse. By Morgana going about and being friendly and helpful to everyone, she had amassed a party of—no matter how grudgingly Astarion would admit it—powerful friends, each willing to put their lives on the line for the other. No matter how much it might grate on him, Astarion had to admit that his companions instilled… confidence in him. He was decently sure that they could handle just about anything they came across, even if the world seemed to be trying to fuck them at every opportunity.
Astarion was undeniably benefitting from Morgana being friendly and—Gods fuck him—helpful.
With a heavy sigh, he walked over to where Morgana and Shadowheart were unpacking the bags of holding. By now, they had learned what belonged to who by heart, and set camp supplies in individual piles for their respective owners. Hearing his approach, Morgana lifted her head, face instantly cracking into a smile. One corner pulled a little higher than the other, exposing a glimpse of pointed fang.
How could a fanged smile be pretty?
“We’re opening some Blingdenstone tonight, if you’d like to join us,” she said, wagging a bottle in her hand before setting it to the side.
A light wine, Astarion recalled. He and Morgana also seemed to have similar taste in wine. It was almost annoying. “Well, I won’t say no if you’re offering, Darling,” he said slyly. He was also starting to enjoy the way the tips of her pointed ears flushed a deep magenta when he spoke in that certain tone of voice. He picked up his pile of things and returned to his tent.
“Darling, is it?” Shadowheart said, not looking up.
Morgana gave her a side-long glance. “I thought everyone spilled the details about that already,” she muttered. It had been about a week since the party at the Emerald Grove, and it wasn’t liked she’d tried to hide the bites.
“Oh, they have,” the cleric assured her. “I just wasn’t aware it was an ongoing thing.”
Morgana shrugged. “I don’t know if it is, honestly. But he’s acting like he’s interested.”
Shadowheart sat back, considering the Tiefling. “Acting?”
“Oh please,” Morgana rolled her eyes, “you really think he’s fallen for me?”
Shadowheart glanced over at Astarion’s retreating back. “Probably not, but he rolls his eyes behind your back less than he did before.”
Morgana cackled, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. “Has he been doing that the whole time?” When Shadowheart nodded, Morgana shook her head. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“I didn’t really expect to care quite so much about those Tiefling refugees, if I’m being honest,” Shadowheart said. “So… I suppose I was a bit annoyed at first, too.”
Morgana shrugged. “Can’t blame you. I just didn’t want to immediately run off to a Gith creche when there was potentially a cure with less… arduous roadblocks.”
Shadowheart’s head turned, eyes lingering on Lae’zel for a moment. “Turns out neither panned out,” she said quietly.
“I mean, Halsin gave us the best lead we’ve had so far,” Morgana said. “Even if Moonrise Towers sounds like more of a pain than getting a satyr to leave a party early.”
Shadowheart gave her a bemused smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t met enough satyrs to form an opinion, myself.”
“Easiest way to get a satyr to leave a party is to make sure it runs out of booze,” Morgana said, grinning when Shadowheart chuckled. “Otherwise there’s no moving them.”
“You’ve certainly led an interesting life,” Shadowheart said.
“I’m convinced that the phrase ‘may you live in interesting times’ was, in fact, a curse,” Morgana said firmly, pleased when Shadowheart’s smile remained. The cleric always seemed troubled, and it was nice to see the reserved, contemplative mask crack. But then, not having any real memories to speak of would probably put a bit of a damper on anyone’s mood.
That, and the few Sharrans that Morgana had met hadn’t exactly been the… happiest types.
Shadowheart had been clearly surprised when Morgana didn’t flinch when she admitted to worshipping Shar, and considering her goddess’s reputation, Morgana didn’t blame her. But she’d been taught you didn’t judge someone on the god they worshiped, but rather by their actions. So far, the worst that Shadowheart had done was almost kill Lae’zel. And in the grand scheme of things, Morgana was willing to overlook at little murderous threat if the intent behind it seemed to have died out.
Morgana herself had also fucked a man who put a knife to her throat at their first meeting, so she wasn’t exactly one to judge. “Still, it’s good to know Astarion is feeling a bit less… begrudging about the whole situation,” she said.
“You are uncannily persuasive,” Shadowheart said. “Hard to see the harm in helping a few people if that silver tongue of yours keeps us well supplied.”
“Happy to be of service.” She thought for a moment. “I’m glad you and Lae’zel have managed to put your differences aside.”
Shadowheart draped a hand over one knee, glancing towards Lae’zel’s tent again. “For the time being, at any rate. She’s been… quieter.”
Either Morgana’s hearing was going out, or there had been a trace of sympathy in Shadowheart’s words. Though, if anyone might understand a crisis of faith, it would probably be the only other seriously devout person in the party. All Gith seemed to be as devoted as clerics, regardless of their skillset. Though Morgana doubted that Shadowheart would share if she’d ever had her own crisis of faith. Could you even have a crisis of faith if your order regularly erased your memories?
“She beat my ass back and forth across camp the day after… everything,” Morgana said. “I think it helped a little.”
Shadowheart’s eyes lingered on the Gith for a moment longer, and then she turned back. “Are you devout, Morgana?”
Morgana tensed slightly. Religion was rarely a comfortable topic, especially when she had a less than stellar opinion of the Gods in general. After a moment, she shrugged. “Not really. They never listened to me, so it got to a point I no longer cared.”
The cleric’s face was unreadable, a strange mix of emotions. “I supposed you also have more immediate concerns with powerful beings,” she said. “And Fey are sometimes far more fickle than gods.”
“You can say that again,” Morgana snorted. “But honestly, Shar’s oblivion has been appealing to me… from time to time. I can understand why someone might be drawn to that sort of worship.”
That earned her a raised brow. “Really? Did… did you know much about Shar? Before you met me, I mean.”
“There’s Sharran’s in the Feywilds, believe it or not,” Morgana said. “Sort of a… nihilistic bunch.”
“I can’t image what Shar worship would look like for Fey,” Shadowheart said.
“The one I knew best was a warrior,” Morgana said. “They would go into every fight with the intention of sending as many to Shar’s oblivion as they could, and would have gladly joined them.”
“That’s… one way to do it, I suppose.” Shadowheart eyed the warlock beside her curiously. “You know a little bit about a lot of different things, don’t you?”
“I was most at home in the library when I was young,” Morgana said. “I was painfully shy, and books were easier than people.”
The half-elf laughed. “That’s not how I pictured you at all,” she admitted.
“Let me guess, wild, half-feral Tiefling child running wild in the streets?”
“Mmm, more… magical accidents and bringing home every stray animal you came across.”
“Well… no one here has complained about me still picking up strays,” Morgana said, watching Shadowheart look over at Scratch and Owlbert, who were engaged in a game of chase.
“I suppose we’re all strays of one kind or another,” Shadowheart said. With a sigh, she pushed to her feet. “I should set up my tent as well.”
Gathering her things, Morgana stood. “Same for me. Nice talking with you.”
Shadowheart gave her a strangely bemused smile. “Yes… it was.”
Once everyone had retrieved their gear and set up their tents, Gale took his usual place at the campfire with their cookpot, their food supplies scattered around him. Morgana sat before her tent, going over her armor and checking for repairs. The hide armor allowed for easy movement and decent protection, but keeping gore out of the fur trim was a bit of a pain. But thankfully she was well practiced at such things, and it didn’t take her long.
Conversation ebbed and flowed around her, most of the party exhausted from their trek down through the temple, the pair of minotaur, and slowly trying to diffuse the exploding mushrooms that lead to the Myconid colony. Morgana had noticed that she was becoming more and more relaxed at camp. She hadn’t been around so many people she genuinely liked on a regular basis for a century. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so pleasant, having gotten used to solitude.
Now, she was among friends. Young friendships to be sure, with much to be learned, but all the same… Picking up her rapier, Morgana began the familiar rhythm of cleaning and sharpening, the whetstone a comfortable weight in her hands. It was easy enough to pass the time while Gale cooked, and Morgana let her mind wander.
Some time later, Gale’s voice made her look up.
“Ah, there’s our fearless leader,” he said, all smiles as he presented Morgana with a bowl. They had roasted some of the meat they’d found that day, and Gale had managed to make a delicious smelling gravy to top the potatoes and carrots.
“I still don’t know how that happened,” Morgana muttered, taking the bowl.
To her surprise, Gale sat down beside her with his own food. “You and Triscyne seem to have the easiest time negotiating our way through this mess,” he said. “I’m certainly good at speaking, but you two seem to always know exactly what to say to get us what we want. Sometimes even without violence.” He looked over and smiled at her. “It’s appreciated.”
Morgana smiled. “Happy to be of service,” she said, doing the best imitation of a regal bow that one could manage while sitting and holding a bowl. Gale smiled, eyes crinkling in amusement. But when he looked away, his expression was distant. His fingers flexed and fidgeted around his bowl, his lips shifting as if he was trying not to chew on them. “Something on your mind?” Morgana probed.
Gale blinked, looking briefly startled before he ducked his head with an embarrassed smile. “Am I that obvious?” he said.
“Gale… I’m used to trying to read Fey,” Morgana reminded him. “As intelligent as you are, you are, in fact, much easier to read.”
He hung his head for a moment, then carefully set his bowl down beside him, turning himself more towards her. Taking a breath, he pressed his palms together and pointed them at Morgana. “Alright. Hypothetical question for you…” It seemed like he almost wasn’t certain if he wanted to continue, but he did. “If someone—not me, of course—detected a hint of romantic interest from another… unnamed individual, what might that someone… do about it?”
It took every ounce of Morgana’s training not to crack into the biggest shit-eating grin. The poor man was almost blushing, and couldn’t quite seem to look her in the eye. “Well… I may not be the best person to ask, but… this completely hypothetical person should know what they want before they respond to this perceived romantic interest.”
Gale blinked. It clearly hadn’t been what he’d expecting.
“Speaking from personal experience,” Morgana continued, “it’s best for all parties to be on the same page about what they want from a potential relationship. Astarion and I, for example, are just having fun. If one hypothetical person just wants a quick fuck, and the other wants a proper courtship, it’s not a good match.”
Now considerably red-faced, Gale looked intently at the ground. “That is… an excellent point,” he finally said.
Morgana leaned over and nudged his shoulder with hers. “Just talk to them, Gale,” she said gently.
He gave a wry smile, seeming to soften at her earnestness. “Talking. Right. I’m good at that.” He eyed her for a moment. “So… you and Astarion, huh?”
Morgana rolled her eyes. “It’s just a bit of fun,” she said with a shrug.
“Fair enough.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, both tucking into their food. After finishing her vegetables, she looked over at him again.
“Also, Gale?”
His mouth was full. “Hm?”
“You’re not wrong. She definitely likes you.”
The wizard turned a shade reminiscent of the party’s barbarian, and nearly choked on his food.
Morgana returned her own meal with an unrepentant smile.
000
Sleep was elusive. Morgana woke several times during the night, laying awake for a while before dozing off again. One of the few nights she wasn’t interrupted about their Dream Visitor, a hungry vampire, party squabbling, warlock Patrons, or Gith freedom fighters, and she couldn’t stay asleep. With a groan, she sat up, scrubbing a hand over her face and rolling over to pull back the flap of her tent.
Gale had set up a charm, the transparent disk floating above the fire indicating she’d managed to sleep for about five hours. Morgana could make do with that. She took a moment to slip her sandals back on, and give Scratch and Owlbert some reassuring pets. Then she crawled outside, straightening with a tired groan and stretching her arms over her head.
This close to the Myconid settlement, they hadn’t set a watch, but Gale had cast Alarm around the borders of their camp. Because of that, the camp was uncharacteristically quiet. Even during sleeping hours, someone was always up to something. But there was no one by the fire, the rune carved into the earth glowing brightly beneath the flames. Morgana paused for a moment, closing her eyes and just listening.
The nighttime sounds were so different. Instead of the soft rush of wind through the trees, she could hear the drip and rush of water, both nearby and distant. Instead of the peep of frogs and the chirp of crickets, there were unfamiliar groans and whistles in the distance, and the sounds of tiny feet against stone. And the echoes. Sounds seemed to last much longer in the cavernous Underdark.
It was so unlike the cold, barren forests and undead cities she’d inhabited in the Feywilds. Many adventurers told stories of how bright and colorful everything was in the Feywilds, and Morgana had certainly traveled those lands from time to time. But the majority of her time had been spent in Cendriane, and ancient Eladrin city that walked the line of existing in both the Feywilds and Faerûn.
The city had been mostly destroyed during an ancient battle between Eladrin and Drow, and was mostly populated by undead loyal to King Kannoth. Those undead had ranged from zombies, ghosts, ghouls, vampires, and other such beings. There had been many Fey, of course, but they were far outnumbered by the undead servants.
Morgana shook herself, shrugging off the memories. As she looked around again, she saw another fiery glow, separate from the campfire. A moment later, Karlach came around the rocky outcropping that partially divided the camp. She paused when she saw Morgana, but then broke into a smile, changing direction to walk up to her.
“Evening, Soldier,” Karlach said, smiling.
Morgana shivered as the temperature climbed, heat radiating almost… pleasantly from the other Tiefling. “Can’t sleep either?” she asked, nodding for Karlach to follow as she moved to sit on the log beside the fire.
Karlach dropped down beside her with a grunt. “It’s so… quiet up here,” she said after a moment. “Or is it down?”
“My brief foray into the Hells did seem a bit loud,” Morgana said. “Though I was more focused on the worm crawling in through my eye socket.”
Karlach shuddered in disgust. “Don’t remind me,” she muttered. Then she shrugged. “Still, better than being an Archdevil’s lapdog. At least we’ve got something to go on.”
“I am not looking forward to pretending to work with this Absolute cult,” Morgana said. “Like I’m all for a little murder here and there, within reason. But playing along with them makes my skin crawl. Anything that fucks with people’s minds and free will just… eugh.” She shook her head, scowling and sticking out her tongue.
“I noticed something,” Karlach said. She grinned when Morgana looked over with a raised brow. “Yeah, we barbarians can be observant, too. But all of us here; you, me, Lae’zel… Astarion, too, when you think about it. All of us are just looking for freedom. We’ve all been…” Her hands grasped at the air, as if searching for the words. “Trapped… somehow. I was in the Hells, you were in the Feywilds; we’re all just looking for a way out of whatever used to be or whatever is binding us.”
Morgana blinked, slightly taken aback by the truly profound observation. Then she melted into a smile, warmth unfurling in her chest. “I hadn’t thought of it like that before,” she said. “And you’re right. We’ve all had people that put us in positions to be used. Whether that be our Gods, or old bosses.”
There was a flare of heat from Karlach. “I can’t wait to smash Gortash’s face into the cobblestones,” she growled.
“I’ll make sure you get that chance,” Morgana said firmly. “Looks like ones we get to Baldur’s Gate, we’re going to have a laundry list of people to visit for vengeance.”
Karlach looked over. “Who else? Anyone for you?”
Morgana’s chest squeezed. There was someone in Baldur’s Gate she’d gladly see drawn and quartered. But her anger was tangled with fear; the last remnant she carried of her old self. She hadn’t spoken his name in a century, and it still stuck on her throat, as if her body feared the bitterness that would linger if the syllables crossed her tongue. Despite all that she had overcome, all the lives she’d taken and power she’d amassed, the fear shamefully still clung to her.
“My… ex. Not a good person. Could do with a little face-smashing,” she finally said, looking into the fire. Karlach was silent for a moment, but Morgana could feel her gaze lingering. “Of course, we’ve got to kill Astarion’s sire, and maybe help free the guy who can usurp Vlaakith. And, of course, figure out what to do about Shadowheart needing to return the prism to her people.”
“Oooh, right.” Karlach nodded. “Yeah, we kinda need that thing, don’t we?” She leaned back on her hands, turning her eyes upwards. They fell into silence for a while, the soft crackle of the fire mixing with the rush of distant water. “Just when I was getting used to the stars,” Karlach said.
Morgana looked over, and found Karlach looking wistfully up at the distant stony ceiling. Following her gaze, Morgana lifted a clawed hand to point. “Look, some of that glowing moss looks a bit like stars,” she offered. “I know it’s not the same, and believe me, I understand missing the sun. It was really dark where I was before.”
Karlach glanced over at her. “In Baldur’s Gate?”
“No, the Feywilds,” Morgana explained. “Don’t know how much I can say exactly—pact rules, you understand—but we didn’t get the same sunlight as everyone else. The… Lord preferred…” She paused, thinking of how to talk around exposing too much information. “He preferred less… lively company.”
For a moment, Karlach’s brows furrowed in pure confusion. “What… like Astarion? Undead?”
Morgana muffled her snort into her hand, doing her best to swallow her laugh. “Yes,” she said, “undead. And also… yes, again. There were vampire spawn there.”
“Really?” The red Tiefling seemed genuinely curious. “Astarion’s the first vampire I’ve ever met.”
“I… knew a few of them quite well,” Morgana said. That was a lie. She’d known one vampire spawn quite well. “If I’m being honest, I recognized what he was the second he put a dagger to my throat.”
“He what?!” Karlach hissed, looking both confused and concerned.
“This was a couple days before we found you,” Morgana explained, somehow smiling at the memory. “Just about an hour after waking up from the crash I think. He was pretending to be helpless, but I didn’t want to stop because, you know, brain worm. So, the fucker gets up behind me, puts a knife to my throat, and pulls me to the ground.” Her grin widened. “I saw the fangs and the red eyes and headbutted him. Bloodied his pretty white forehead.”
Karlach actually had to clap her hands over her mouth to muffle her cackling roar of laughter, the sound sputtering into her palms as she hunched over, shoulders shaking and the vents on her shoulders flaring. After a moment, she recovered, sitting back up. “Oh, I can just see his face,” she wheezed. “That’s beautiful. And good for you! Never reward a man for behavior.” She paused, then snorted. “Well… guess you kind did reward his bad behavior…”
“Is everyone going to ask about that?” Morgana sighed, throwing up her hands in mock surrender.
Karlach shrugged, unrepentant. “Well, it’s more fun that talking about our inevitable demise.”
Heaving a sigh, Morgana shook her head, a smiling pulling at her lips. “I suppose that’s fair enough. Gossip is always fun.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Karlach said, leaning slightly towards Morgana as if intending to nudge her but pulling back at the last second. “I’d ride him to the Feywilds and back, given the chance. Probably wouldn’t trust him, though.”
“I trust him to act in his own self-interest,” Morgana said. “And right now that means sticking with us. He’s a damn good lock-pick, and a menace with arrows. If he wants to have a tumble for fun, I’m not going to say no either.”
“Just tumbling then?” Karlach asked, tone careful but undeniably curious.
“Honestly… I don’t think either of us is coming from a good enough place for anything else,” Morgana admitted softly. “I… lost someone I cared about. She was…” Her breath hitched. “She was special to me, and I don’t really know what happened to her.”
Silence clung for a moment, before Karlach hissed a vehement curse in Infernal. “Gods, I wish I could hug you,” she muttered hotly.
Looking over, Morgana saw an expression of such open sympathy and care that a lump tried to rise in her throat. Instead, she smiled. “If I had fire resistance like other Tieflings, I’d take that chance.”
After that, they talked a bit about the different kinds of Tieflings, and a bit about devils. But eventually, Karlach yawned and stretched. “I should try to sleep a little more. G’night, Soldier.”
Comfortable by the fire, Morgana retrieved her bedroll and a few pillows, bringing them back to lay near the log she’d been sitting on. She had just pulled her cloak about her shoulders when she heard the soft crunch of gravel behind her. The shadow cast by the soft glow of the mushrooms revealed Astarion’s silhouette before he came into view, and Morgana had a tired smile ready for him.
“Hello,” she said, lifting a clawed hand to stifle a yawn. “Finished your meditation?”
“Don’t you mortals get cranky when you don’t sleep?” he asked.
To her surprise, he sat down beside her on the bedroll. She shifted slightly to give him more room. “I’ll manage,” she said. “I’ve fought worse than Duergar on less.”
Astarion leaned back against the log, extending one leg to the fire while resting his hand on the other bent knee. “Yes, our newest noble quest,” he said, his tone half-way between exasperation and wry amusement.
“I’ll happily take your share of treasure if you’d prefer to stay at camp,” Morgana said, unphased.
“Not a chance,” Astarion sniffed, but the lines framing his mouth deepened slightly with the soft hint of a smile.
Morgana considered him, trying to squash the warm little flutter in her chest. It had been so long that any kind of affection was likely to affect her. She didn’t believe for a second that Astarion was pursuing her out of any real affection; but she did believe that he trusted her, at least to an extent. If he was playing a game, what were the rules?
Her eyes turned towards the fire a she drifted in thought. Was it just sex? Using that as a tool to cement himself in her good graces? Or would he try to be affectionate in other ways? What sort of affection would he allow her? Morgana considered her own position. She had had her free will shoved back into her hands after it had been dangled just out of reach for decades.
Though she thought she was doing a good job of hiding it, she kept feeling like she was doing something wrong, like Fensuren was about to swoop in and harshly correct her. That constant waiting, that feeling that punishment was coming, it was so ingrained it was almost primal instinct. Like forever flinching for an expected blow that never came.
Astarion was probably in a very similar position. She could easily imagine the type of life he’d had under his sire, considering her own knowledge of vampires and their spawn. Harsh, violent, and sadistic punishments coupled with depravation were the norm. King Kannoth had had a penchant for public punishment. From the Infernal carvings on Astarion’s back, Cazador seemed to fit into the sadist category.
Was he just playing a game with her for favor, or was he testing the limits of his new free will, maybe relearning what it was that he liked? He probably hadn’t been able to express any individuality whatsoever, so exploring things with her could be him acting on simple urges. But there was something else there, something underneath the too-perfect smiles and flowery lines of flattery. Something almost… fragile.
And if it was a game, what was the harm in her playing along? She found him agreeable. Well… mostly. He was certainly pretty, and funny, too. The barbs he traded with Gale had had her cackling on the road on several occasions. If he wanted to play at getting close to her, Morgana didn’t see the harm in playing along and seeing what he would allow. Any rebuff wouldn’t be hurtful, considering she was more invested in keeping their group together than Astarion in her bedroll.
So… she let herself lean to the side, shoulder pressing into Astarion’s. She didn’t look over despite feeling his gaze, her own still directed at the fire. Astarion’s first instinct was to flinch away from the contact, something inside him squirming. But despite Morgana’s icy Infernal heritage, he could feel the living warmth of her seeping into his skin. It was… oddly pleasant.
Before he could look too closely at that, he smirked to himself. She was already getting more and more comfortable with him; that was a good thing, it meant his plan was working. There was no harm in indulging her a little.
Morgana’s nostrils flared as Astarion shifted beside her, his arm slipping from between them to go up over her shoulders. When his fingers sank into her hair, it was and effort not to sigh in contentment. He didn’t tug or pull, fingers simply moving in loose circles over her scalp. She let her eyes flutter closed, humming her approval.
“Careful,” she murmured. “I’ll fall asleep if you keep doing that.”
Astarion curled his fingers slightly to bring his nails into the motion. “Maybe, but if you’re asleep, then you can’t come up with more ways of getting us into trouble.”
Eyes still closed, Morgana huffed a laugh, shifting slightly to lean further into him. If he was going to encourage her, she was happy to proceed. Even though her horns were on the shorter side, she was still careful as she adjusted herself to lay her head on his shoulder. He didn’t protest, just continuing to touch her, occasionally letting his fingers sift through the soft waves of her hair.
Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion saw her tail waving slowly. An amused smirk curled his lips, keen ears focused on her breathing. There was a soft, almost humming sort of undertone to it, almost as if she were purring. The sound was… pleasant.
Pleasant. That word was coming up a lot more lately, usually in connection with Morgana. Astarion’s lip curled slightly. It felt… strange. Like stepping into a room and realizing you don’t fit in at all. There was an… unnaturalness to it. He tried to think of the last time something had been ‘pleasant’ for him. The closest he could come was the rush of relief at realizing that the sun no longer harmed him. In the past two hundred years… no, nothing pleasant.
And yet somehow… he managed to find pleasantness with an almost insufferably friendly Tiefling with a smile as sharp as a mithril dagger. It was actually a bit annoying, that someone so seemingly prone to altruism could also be so… easy to get along with.
Morgana felt herself slowly starting to relax, limbs growing heavy and her breathing slowing. She really could fall asleep like this, with the warmth of the fire at her feet, and Astarion’s nimble fingers playing with her hair. Part of her wanted to pull away, to come back to full attention and not let herself be vulnerable.
But his touch was so… comforting. So much so that her chest squeezed with longing. Gods, she had missed this. Being close to someone, trusting them enough to let them hold you as you slept. A lump rose in her throat, and she almost pulled away. But then his fingers began to rub in small circles just behind her ear, and she sighed, giving up and letting herself sag against him.
What harm could it do, to just indulge a little bit? It wasn’t real, it was just a game. So there was no harm in playing along.
Right?
A new thought cut through the others, sliding easily to the front of her mind. “We forgot about the wine,” she muttered, eyes opening. Her eyes moved across the fire, where the camp supplies were stacked. Shifting her head, she glanced up at Astarion. “Share a cup with me?”
Gods damn her and that sweet, hopeful smile. Astarion leaned away from her, gesturing towards the supplies with a shrug. “Well… if you’re going to twist my arm about it…”
Morgana snorted, clambering to her feet, and walking over to the supplies. It didn’t take long to find the Blingdenstone, and only a few more moments to find the bottle opener. Wishing she’d asked Tris about the cork trick, Morgana went briefly to her tent to retrieve the tankard she’d just cleaned after dinner. When she returned to Astarion, she sat down beside him again, crossing her legs and setting the tankard between them.
“Don’t mind sharing, do you?” she asked, starting to twist the corkscrew into the bottle.
“Considering how much of you I’ve consumed already, I hardly see the harm,” Astarion said, pleased when Morgana froze briefly.
Even knowing it was a game to him, Morgana couldn’t help her reactions. He seemed to know just how to get under her skin. “You are a menace,” she muttered, frown softening at his responding giggle.
“Happy to be of service, Darling,” he purred.
Rolling her eyes but smiling, Morgana yanked the cork from the bottle with a pop and poured it into the tankard. Putting the cork back in the bottle, she leaned it carefully against the log, and returned to her seat next to Astarion.
“You definitely hit that Bugbear more than I did, so you have the first drink,” she said, offering the tankard.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He took the tankard and brought it to his lips, briefly catching her eyes over the rim before he took a drink. Morgana watched him close his eyes, humming softly. There was a brief moment where his face relaxed, and when he opened his eyes again they were round. “Oh, that’s much better,” he finally said, leaning back and offering her the tankard.
She took it with a smile, the tip of her tail wiggling happily as she took a sip. “Hells, I’ve missed good wine,” she murmured, savoring the light, sweet taste on her tongue. “Like hard liquor is all well and good, but wine?” She took another small sip before offering it back.
“Wine is something to savor,” he said, nodding in agreement before his drink.
Morgana’s smile softened, expression going distant. “Gods, savoring things? I haven’t had time for that in… fuck…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It’s been too long.”
Astarion found himself nodding in agreement, and quickly frowned. Yet another thing they had in common. “We barely have time now,” he muttered. “All this running about, hoping that Prism thing keeps us from turning into,” he shuddered as he handed the tankard back, “eugh, mindflayers.”
Morgana made a face, taking a bigger drink. “Just thinking about that thing living inside my skull makes me feel sick.” She shivered, tail snapping. “Just wiggling around against my brain. Almost wanted to take that bard up on his surgery idea.”
“You’ve only got the one good eye left,” Astarion said. “It’s quite pretty, would be a shame to lose it.”
Morgana pushed back on the instinct to try to flinch at the compliment. It didn’t feel wrong for him to say those things, Hells, it was nice. But tender complements were still fairly alien for her, even if he was just putting on a show. It was still oddly… comforting. It was like trying on something beautiful in a store, just to see how it looked. No intent to buy just… trying for the little rush of joy at seeing yourself in the mirror with it.
“Want to guess what color they used to be?” she asked.
Astarion blinked, remembering her telling Triscyne that she hadn’t always looked the way she did now. But he had been eavesdropping on that conversation, and was thankfully intelligent enough not to out himself. “Before…?”
Morgana blinked. Right. The one person she hadn’t told about her pact altering her appearance was the one she had slept with. “Oh. So… you know how Wyll is basically a Tiefling now? I’ve always been a Tiefling—both parents were, too—but I wasn’t always this…” she waved a hand at her face and hair, “dramatic. Looked mostly Human.” She handed him the tankard.
Astarion tilted his head as he considered her, and Morgana brushed her hair from her face, smiling coyly at him and making it obvious she enjoyed the attention. He clicked his tongue, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he drank.
“Hmm, brown?” He shook his head. “No, green.”
Morgana’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “Yes and yes,” she said happily. “They were hazel. I was basically just a lot less purple, honestly. Still covered in freckles though. My hair and horns are actually still the same, the purple is dye.”
Astarion blinked. “They’re dyed?” He sounded almost incredulous.
“I’ve got an enchanted comb,” Morgana explained. “One of the few things I didn’t lose on the Nautaloid.” Still facing him, she leaned against the log, scooting just a bit closer. He didn’t seem to mind. Leaning up, she brushed one of his snowy curls back into place, the backs of her claws just barely brushing his skin. “Why? Wanting a color change?”
Astarion’s smile dropped and he rolled his eyes, shoving gently at her hand. “that… particular shade of purple isn’t my color, pet.”
Morgana made a show of considering him. “Hmm, yes, it would clash with your eyes.” She tapped her chin. “Black would certainly suit you, but a darker blond might as well. Though with your bone structure and curl pattern, you could pull off anything.”
He looked as if he desperately wanted to be annoyed with her, but his pride seemed to win out, and he smiled. Bracing one elbow on the log, he turned towards her, leaning in. He watched her face out of the corner of his eye as traced the shape of one of her horns with a fingertip. Morgana’s breath hitched, earning her a brief whiff of citrus and something herbal.
“And a comb dyes these?” he said curiously, pinching the purple dyed tip of her horn lightly between his fingers. He was close enough to see the engravings on her horn rings were in a combination of Sylvan and Infernal, and her one dangling charm was shaped like a sprig of lily of the valley. Everything else was fitted tightly to the horn’s surface, the amethyst in one band cut thin and flat. He had to admit, it was lovely craftsmanship, and would probably fetch a pretty penny.
How did someone who was technically undead smell so good? Something about it was familiar, strangely bringing to mind… teatime? Bergamot, she realized. With him leaned in, she had a close view of the way his long, graceful neck lead down to the ruffled v of his shirt. Morgana’s eyes drifted back up his neck, the spell of closeness broken as she looked at his bite scars.
“Kind of. It’s meant to work on hair, and aside from a bone core with a blood supply, my horns are made from the same stuff.”
Exerting just a hint pressure, Astarion nudged her head to the side by her horn, and Morgana’s tail arched. If he had noticed, he didn’t say anything, releasing her and sitting back. “Well, despite being cut off from civilization for a century, you appear to have maintained some decent taste.”
Morgana blinked.
Astarion pointed at her horns. “I’ve seen Tieflings just wrap a bit of wire or colorful string around their horns and call it done,” he said.
“I liked purple ribbons when I was little.”
Astarion snorted, but there was a softness around his eyes. “You know… that doesn’t surprise me. But I’m assuming those ribbons went hand in hand with scraped knees and mud-spattered clothes.”
“Don’t forget the bouquet of flowers with half the roots still attached.”
“A proper ragamuffin, as I expected!” He handed the tankard back, fingertips skimming her claws.
The coolness of this touch made her shiver, and Morgana realized that he was probably the only person in their party that made her feel like the warm one. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, her mind quickly reminding her how nice it had felt to press against the coolness of his skin when her own had been flushed with passion. The thought warmed her cheeks along with the wine, and she was glad to have another excuse for her growing flush.
“All I can imagine for you is perfect boyish curls and lots of silk shirts and private tutors,” she said over the tankard.
Astarion snorted, leaning back and closing his eyes.
Morgana took a long drink, the lull in the conversation allowing her to consider his profile. He had such a strong, straight nose, and an almost perfect jawline. The soft lines that framed his mouth were mostly relaxed, but there was the tiniest upturn at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, that’s not a no, so I’ll keep that image.” She also leaned back, looking up at… oh. Right. Underdark. “You know… you were right.”
He opened one eye to look at her. Morgana was still looking up at their stone ceiling, fingers fidgeting with the tankard. “Hm? About what?”
“What you said when we first came down here. I’d just gotten used to being in the sun again, too,” Morgana admitted. “I barely had an hour in Baldur’s Gate before I was snatched up, and it… it wasn’t very bright where I was before.”
Astarion couldn’t take it anymore. “Gods, do you know how insufferably relatable you are?” he muttered, managing to keep most of the real annoyance out of his voice. “Hard to maintain the good old brooding vampire mystique when you… understand so much.”
If Morgana had been anyone else, she would have missed the faintest hint of an edge in Astarion’s voice. Something about her understanding him bothered him. A grin cracked her face, realizing she’d made him break character for a moment. “I’m sorry, but it’s just… I’ve seen the brooding vampire thing before,” she said, voice lilting with mirth. “It’s very effective, though, my neck can attest. Granted the last person that tried it was a bit… curvier.”
He was feeling vulnerable. Maybe if she offered a little of her own vulnerability in return, he’d feel better. He just had to pick up on the clue and ask the right questions.
Astarion blinked, remembering her mentioning her last vampiric friend. Something about the way she’d said the other spawn’s name before, and the way Morgana spoke of her now… His eyes widened and he turned fully to face her, looking her over anew. A vulpine grin curled his lips, eyes lidded.
“Well now… you have a very specific type, don’t you?” he practically purred, one brow raising a fraction.
Well, he’d bounced back quickly.
But Morgana’s smile pushed at her blushing cheeks, and she demurely took another sip of wine. “Technically,” she said, holding up a finger, “it’s the sharp teeth, not the vampirism.”
“A likely story,” he snorted.
“I think the more interesting thing is how astronomically small the odds of me finding another vampire spawn I just so happen to get along so famously with are,” Morgana sniffed.
Astarion paused, opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You know, that’s a fair point.” He looked over at her and clicked his tongue. “Being around you has made me far too agreeable.” He pushed to his feet, dusting off his hands. “I think it’s time I turn in.”
Morgana giggled, finishing the wine. “See you in the morning, Astarion.”