Archive of Our Own

Eleasis 20, 1492 - (Day 1)

|| Gale ||

Gale’s knees shudder as he steps off the small river boat onto the solid dock. It’s been nearly three days since he left Waterdeep and this is the first time he’s felt steady ground under his feet. Sea legs are not the only cause of his foal-legged balance, however. Hunger claws at him, and his rations are best saved for when there is not available sustenance in reach. The mortal hunger in his belly will be easy enough to remedy with a quick trip into town. It’s the bite of a hunger more arcane searing in his chest that will prove more difficult. Beneath his jerkin, the faint violet glow of his mark flutters and fades; the dark magic within demands tribute. It’s been days since he last sated it, and to push it off any longer could prove disastrous. He needs to find somewhere to eat, yes…but first, he’ll find somewhere secluded to feed his body’s more gluttonous tenant.

Yartar may not be as glamorous or sprawling as the City of Splendors, but its streets still burst with the hustle of tradesman, merchants, and off-duty sailors. They all pass by the wizard without so much as a passing glance as they go about their day. To these civilians, Gale is nothing more than an adventurer passing through like so many others. They remain blissfully unaware that they tread alongside a walking apocalypse, teetering on the edge of succumbing to his own doom and dragging them down with him.

He finds a back alley, blissfully empty. It’s not far off the beaten path, but it grants enough shadow and privacy for him to do what he needs without witnesses. With a sharp turn, he moves to the back and ducks behind a stack of crates near a warehouse. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small silver ring. Though simple in its design, it pulses between his fingers with traces of the Weave.

“Well…this is the last of it.” He sighs. Gods, what a shadow of himself he’s become. Once the great Gale of Waterdeep, now reduced to a shell of a man on the last dregs of his life. He closes his fist around the ring, then lifts it to his chest. The Netherese blight nestled precariously by his heart surges with greed, its roiling power ripping every trace of magic from the item. The ominous glow is a poor indicator of just how ravenously the Orb devours; an avatar of pure avarice. It consumes mercilessly, leaving nothing left behind but a mundane hunk of jeweled metal. Perhaps before he is due to embark once more, he can hand it off to someone down on their luck. It may hold no more magical properties, but it could fetch a few coin for someone’s next meal. It’s not nearly the sort of mark he wanted to leave on Toril before he left it, but with numbered days…every little gesture counts.

For now, the Orb quiets and slips back into dormancy. It will never be satisfied, but for now it feigns appeasement. The fatigue in Gale’s mind and limbs finally eases, invigorating him with the strength he’ll need to cross through the mountains. Provided his calculations were correct, he should have enough time to get to the Spine. With a wave of his hand, he summons an illusory map of Faerun. The translucent topography hovers before him; Multi-colored pins dot the more remote reaches of the frontiers, at least a dozen within a thousand miles of Waterdeep. Gale taps his index finger to the marker for his current location in Yartar, and slowly drags it up along the river towards the mountains in the north. “Up the Surbrin and through the Lurkwood…” he mutters to himself, counting the miles in between until he stops at a black pin positioned in the frigid, mountainous reaches of the north. “Yes, I should have enough time.”

With that, he dismisses the map and heads back to the main streets in search of the nearest tavern. As he moves, he keeps his head down and hood over his face. There’s a good chance Tara is out looking for him by now…and if she by some grace of Mystra finds him, he’s not sure he has the heart to tell her where he’s going. Or why.

But he’s not exactly a good liar, either. That’s why he hadn’t said anything at all before he left. While the tressym had gone in search of more magical artefacts, Gale had slipped away with the last one. The guilt of that betrayal hangs heavier than the Orb itself. Unfortunately, he had little choice. When Tara had found his original map, she’d been incensed—ripping it to pieces as she chided him for even considering giving up. If he’d made even the slightest suggestion of it again, Tara would have done everything in her power to convince him otherwise. Historically speaking, she would have succeeded. The brutal cycle of giving up, finding hope, enduring—all to give up again—it’s worn the wizard down to the bone. He can’t imagine the burden it’s been on Tara…

…Or his mother. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to see her again. Fate hadn’t been merciful enough to allow it, not without making this even more painful for them both. Once he reaches his final destination, Gale will use the last of his power to cast a sending spell to both her and Tara. The message wouldn’t allow for many words, but it would provide enough information for them both to find the goodbye letters he’d left behind.

If only things could have been different. In his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, his unyielding desire to please his goddess and reach into parts of the Weave unknown, he’d made a grievous error. Now he must pay that price…and he won’t allow anyone else to pay it with him. The sooner he reaches the mountains, the better.

A woman’s shriek rips through the usual din of city life, echoing off stone walls behind him. It gives way to a cacophony of others—men, women, children—screaming for their lives, and the screams grow louder. Gale turns, alarm and confusion twisting in his gut. People start running, and more follow suit before they even know why. As the stampede of panicked civilians swarms closer, the eerie creek of metal booms across the sky. The edges of his mind tingle, like the static that pulls your hair towards wool. A dark shadow looms over the street and rounds the corner, coils of massive tentacles weaving through the air.

His eyes shoot wide, disbelief and horror hitting him like a tidal wave—just before the horde of people does. Gale turns on his heel and sprints the other way, jostling against the shoulders of every fleeing pedestrian desperate to escape their certain doom. 

But no one can outrun a nautiloid on foot. If the Orb hadn’t consumed so much of his magic ability, he could have teleported to safety. Unfortunately, that spell is far beyond his reach these days. Gale doesn’t dare look over his shoulder, even as the individual screams that echo behind him are cut off one-by-one at alarming rate. The first chance he gets, he veers down a side street to try and slip away.

It’s too late.

Something touches his back—one of the ship’s tentacles, he realizes—and for the briefest moment, his mind and body seem torn asunder. As quick as that agonizing disorientation comes, it reassembles back into sanity and stability. Gale sucks in a panicked breath and opens his eyes. Around him is a veritable coffin of living metal. Thick, curved glass distorts the vision of red sinews and dark steel beyond. The dread of realization hits him.

He’s trapped in the nautiloid.

A tentacled figure of sleek, lavender skin crosses his field of view, floating towards a shell-like vessel with an eerie yellow glow. He’s read enough tomes on illithids to know what this means, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. When the mind flayer’s clawed hand pulls out the wriggling tadpole from the brine, Gale’s breath stops completely. 

This was decidedly not the end he was anticipating to meet.

The insertion had been a blinding discomfort, one that still throbs behind his eye now as the sinuous bindings release his limbs and the glass barrier reseals. Gale groans and arches his back, skull pressing into the hard steel behind him as the pounding agony wracks his head. Gradually, it ebbs away to a dull, yet ever-present ache. The pod that cages him swiftly moves away, shooting back and up the wall fast enough to make him dizzy for a spell. When it comes to a stop, he finally has a moment to try and collect himself. To think for a damn minute.

All he can think is that this isn’t good. If the Nautiloid is abducting people, that means it will be moving towards populous areas, not away. Gale is out of magical artefacts, and with a tadpole now lodged in his brain…it’s only a matter of time before ceremorphosis takes hold. There’s no telling what that will do to the Orb. Does it count as dying if his body merely reshapes itself gruesomely into another form? If it does…he supposes at least his illithid captors will go down with him. He can only hope there won’t be any innocent bystanders nearby.

The entire ship lurches, as if avoiding a massive obstacle. Then again, sharper and more violently as it crashes into something else. A rush of cold air seeps into his pod, the nautiloid colliding against yet another barrier or sorts. Another lurch, another swerve. He can’t be sure if the pilot is using evasive maneuvers or if they’re just out of their mind.

Suspension sends his stomach fluttering as the nautiloid jumps once more, then gravity pulls him back down. The burn of sulfur singes his nostrils, a hellish heat brushes across his cheeks even behind the prison glass. What in the blazes was going on?

He spots movement down below. Gale leans up towards the glass, hands pressed against the cool surface. It’s not a mind flayer, but a person; a humanoid of some sort. In the darkness at this distance, he can’t make out their features at first. Not until they move to the center of the room.

A woman, he realizes; dark hair, dark clothes, grey skin. It’s all he can make out. She’s likely another captive, but somehow she’d gotten out of her pod. Gale tries his luck, slamming his fist against the glass as he shouts to get her attention. She pauses, glancing about her surroundings. For a moment, he wonders if she heard him. Unfortunately, she doesn’t look up. Moments later, she sprints away and out of sight.

Damn. It was worth a shot, but luck has not been on his side for a long while now. Why should today be any different? Gale grunts in frustration and pounds the heel of his fist against the window, but lets it go. Better to move on to other ideas. If she was able to get out on her own, maybe he can, too. Clearly the mind flayers have run into some variety of trouble with the way they’re flying.

As if to accentuate his point, the nautiloid jolts as a massive impact wrecks through the nearby wall. Gale is painfully jostled about as part of the ceiling comes tumbling down. The earsplitting crack of metal shattering glass rips through the pod, a thick spiderweb of fractures erupting across the window. His heart skips a beat upon realizing how easily that could have been certain death had the pod’s construction been any less sturdy. Whatever anxiety that came with the revelation is short lived, however. Replaced with a newfound hope.

He pounds against the cracks, desperately trying to break through the weakened structure. When that doesn’t work, he tries his elbow. More hairline fractures cut along the rest, but it doesn’t give way. With a heavy breath, he pushes himself as far back into the pod as he can, bracing his arms on each side. Exhaling slow, he slams his boot through the window and it finally gives way. A few more strong kicks, and there’s an opening large enough for him to crawl through without completely cutting himself to ribbons.

Gale climbs out of the pod, the remaining slivered shards biting into his hands like a teething puppy. The drop to the floor from here isn’t fatal…but it won’t exactly be painless. He carefully scrambles onto the nearest ledge, ensuring his footing is secure before he continues on. With a few painstaking maneuvers, he finally finds his boots on solid ground—or, whatever you want to call the symbiotic, flesh-and-metal floor of a mind flayer vessel.

Now what?

Through the great crack in the ship’s hull, he watches as the scorched earth and blood-red skies of Avernus rush by. Good gods, they are way off whatever their original course was, that much is certain. Before Gale even has the chance to consider that this might be a suitable alternative to an isolated mountain top, the scenery changes as the floor sways beneath him. Gale stumbles, the familiar blue skies and grassy landscapes of Faerun materializing outside…just as the ship is torn asunder. He’s in freefall before he even realizes it, limbs lifting from the floor at gravity’s behest as the nautiloid breaks apart around him. He struggles to get his bearings as the wind rushes past, before his breath is ripped away by the rapid descent. The ground below approaches at frightening velocity. His panic starts to spark, but there isn’t time to indulge it. He has to break his fall somehow.

A glimmer of Weave catches his eye…magic in a stone. A Waypoint, he realizes. Fingers curled in the right pattern, Gale gestures his hands and calls on the Weave with heightened urgency. Gods, its been more than a year since he tried to cast something of the 7th level…With his magic as stunted as it is, chances are it will fail. He can only pray the Waypoint itself can provide enough aid that he can somehow manage to go through it rather than hit the ground at this speed. 

“Hinc illuc!”

Gale makes impact, but not with stone. The warm embrace of the Weave swallows him whole like the sea, cradling him in the soft darkness. Finally he stops, floating in suspension between worlds. He’s made it into the Waypoint…but he didn’t make it through. His magic wasn’t strong enough to complete the journey—

—Nor was it enough to go back the other way. 

Blast it.

Minutes pass as Gale tries to wrestle his way out of this predicament. Just when his luck starts to look up, something knocks it back down. Karma, most likely. If the gods were known to interfere with mortal affairs, he might suspect Mystra. She certainly still held a grudge over their falling out…not unreasonably so. 

But really, the only person he has to blame is himself. Weakness caused by the Orb, the Orb brought on by his own hubris. Thankfully, stuck as he is, he’s still alive.

Still alive.

What a strange relief to have, when not even an hour ago he was willingly walking into the waiting arms of death. Perhaps he was not quite as ready to die as he thought, now that he’d come so close to it.

The Weave flickers with a crackle of electricity, the smallest spark that tickles his hand hovering near the Waypoint’s entry. Gale looks up (or…left? right? It’s impossible to tell in this void). There’s a figure just outside, their silhouette peering in through the violet vortex he’s trapped in. This is his best chance…With all the strength he can muster, he moves just enough to stick his hand out of the portal.

“A hand?!” He calls out. “Anyone?”

Immediately, the stinging slap of a palm smacking against his own rattles his arm. He winces in mild pain, then breathes out slow. Alright, he probably deserved that. No doubt an arm suddenly flying out of a nebulous black hole would startle anyone. “Perhaps I should clarify…a helping hand?”

The hand wraps around his wrist with surprising strength for its size. Slender fingers grip tight as they start to pull. He inches closer, but it’s slow going. “That’s it! Another quick little pull should do the trick.”

Another arm reaches in, shrouded in the swirling shadows of the Weave. It latches around his bicep for better leverage, fingers digging into the sleeve of his shirt for extra reinforcement. With another pull, they heave him towards the exit with precision rather than brute force. He slips through the Weave and tumbles out from the stone, landing less than gracefully on his knees. The warmth of the sun pelts his skin, the dry dirt scuffs his slacks—but he’s free! Alive, free, and out of (immediate) danger. With a slight groan, he pushes onto his feet and brushes the dust from his clothes. Gale looks up at his savior with a giddy grin of relief plastered across his face. “Hello.”

Before him stands two women. A few feet away is a pale, half-elf in dark armor, raven hair cut into blunt bangs and tied back in a chained plait. Standing right in front of him is the woman who pulled him out…who is surprisingly a drow. At least, he’s fairly certain she is. Ashen grey skin, pointed ears, a rigid countenance that could send a more timid man straight into heart failure. He’s never seen a drow of her like, however: long ebon hair pulled back tight into a high braid, obsidian eyes ringed with white around the pupils. Rare features for her kind; exceedingly rare from his readings. Most curious. He wonders if there is some part of her bloodline that could cause such distinctions.

Sharp lines of ink run up the lean muscles of her arms. Scars old and new riddle her skin, the most indelible one stretching up her right cheek and across the bridge of her nose in jagged form. Strangely, her neck is wrapped with a black leather collar, a silver tag dangling against her throat. Though most notably, she looks like she’s gone through absolute hell (metaphorically as much as literally). Blood spatter stains her skin, streaked across her face and body in a steady chaos; It’s unclear how much of it is her own. There’s something about her eyes beyond that stern glare…Gale can’t quite put his finger on what it is. 

Gale realizes he’s staring. Very unbecoming. He moves on towards introduction before she comes to an unsavory conclusion about why he’s staring. “I’m Gale, of Waterdeep. ” She remains silent in his greeting, so he takes it a step further. He reaches for her hand to shake it, ending the gesture before she can tear it away. “Apologies, I’m usually better at this.”

Her brows raise at his boldness, but quickly settle back into their graven furrow. The drow crosses her arms under her chest, shoulders squared. The long braid bounces across her shoulders as she leans to the side, peering at the rock behind him. Her dark eyes flit back up to him and she finally speaks, her tone far smoother than he anticipated. “At climbing out of rocks?”

Confusion. That was it. A hazy confusion lingers behind her sharp gaze; one deeper than the mere curiosity of how he’d landed himself inside a stone. She seems confused about her very surroundings. “At magic,” he clarifies. With a good-humored nudge of his head, he adds. “Though, you’re not completely off the mark.”

Her lips, painted as black as the heavy kohl around her eyes, twist up in uncertain contemplation. “How did you end up…stuck in it?” The curiosity has an uneasy edge to it, as if she can’t determine if this is a mistake of his own or if boulders have suddenly grown sentient appetites for passersby. 

Gale looks up at the now-clear sky, waving his arms in dramatic gestures to punctuate his regaling. “I don’t know what transpired exactly, but the ship broke into pieces and suddenly I found myself in freefall.” He motions towards the sky and lowers his hand towards the ground. “As I was plummeting towards certain death, I spied a glimmer of magic quite near where I estimated my body to impact with less-than-savory propulsion. I reached out to it with a Weaving of Words and found myself on the other side.” His smile falters a bit, but he plays it off. “Well…inside, more like.”

“So, you were also on the nautiloid?” The other woman asks, her expressions stern despite her softer features. “I take it you also had a rather unpleasant insertion of a tadpole behind your eye?”

“Indeed,” he nods. “A most unwelcome development in the ocular region.” It’s then that memory strikes him. He looks back to the drow, brows knit together in interest. He recognizes her; that shadowy figure he’d seen from his pod. “Say, I know you though, don’t I? In a manner of speaking. I saw you on the nautiloid as well.”

The woman’s severe features do not sharpen, nor do they soften. “I didn’t see you.”

“No, you certainly didn’t.” He raises a hand in truce, easy smile still cradled in his jaw. “But that’s neither here nor there. I am curious, though…how did you survive the fall?” Judging by the crude knives at her sides and the ragged nature of her coal-black clothes, she doesn’t seem to be a spell caster of any sort. 

Voice as deadpan as her expression, she glances over her shoulder at the smoldering ship, then turns back to Gale. Her tone is dryer than the mouth of a parched man wandering a desert. “I landed the ship.”

His eyes flit past her, as if trying to discern if she sees the same sight that he does. “That vast, burning wreckage behind you somewhat contradicts your story, but here you stand, so who am I to argue?” If she’s whipping out sarcasm, chances are she doesn’t want to go over the logistics anyway.

“We’re not sure,” her pale companion replies. “I remember her freeing me from my pod, I remember falling, and then nothing until she woke me up on the beach.”

The drow perks up, looking off down the path. “Where’d the gith end up?”

The half-elf scoffs. “Oh, she’s run off on her own the moment we were of no more use to her, I’m sure.” She bristles at the very mention of this other woman. “No loss, really.”

A drow and a githyanki on that ship? Gods, how many stops had that nautiloid made before it picked him up in Yartar?

“Well, rather than following suit on that front…” Gale can try his luck again, maybe. Surely, he’s due for some turn of the tides by this point. “How about the three of us stick together—search for a healer, perhaps? We’re going to need one sooner rather than later before ceremorphosis takes hold.”

The drow squints with suspicion. “Ceremor-what?”

“Ceremorphosis,” he holds up a finger in indication, studying her face to see if she’s receptive to further explanation. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to read her. “If we don’t rid ourselves of it quickly, the parasite in our heads—after a period of excruciating gestation—will turn us into mind flayers.”

The scowl on her face could curdle blood. She looks to her companion. “Shadowheart, do you know how to cure it?”

The other woman—Shadowheart—shakes her head, her own lips down-turned. “I’m afraid that’s beyond most cleric’s skills. Mine included.”

The drow sighs and begrudgingly returns her attention to Gale. “Can you fight?”

Fight? Well, he hopes it doesn’t come to that, but clearly they’ve already had a few skirmishes of their own based on how much blood she’s wearing. “I am a wizard of considerable acclaim. You were kind enough to pull me out of that stone, I’m sure there will be ample opportunities for me to return the favor, so to speak.” With a slight, polite bow he adds, “My magic is at your command.” He opts to leave out the part where his ‘acclaim’ is a bit more tarnished these days…and his skills a tad less powerful. A lot less, actually. But he can still hold his own, no doubt. At least with a pair of rather capable-looking women to watch his back.

The drow’s jaw sets forward as she mulls over the offer. The collar of his shirt feels tight suddenly, not enjoying the prospect of trying to find his way on his own when he’s certainly lost and in dire straights in more ways than one. Finally, she relents with a lazy shrug. “Fine. You can come with us.”

“Most excellent!” He rejoices with a pump of his fist. “A parasite shared is a parasite halved…Or something to that effect.” 

The woman rolls her dark eyes, but doesn’t comment. Instead she turns and heads down the path they’d been traveling before she stopped to rescue him. By the sound of it, she’d also rescued her cleric companion. An unexpected development, admittedly. Gale is not one to begrudge someone their heritage, but drow aren’t particularly known for their mercy or generosity. The woman’s demeanor didn’t exactly reek of patience or altruism, either…but he can respect her pragmatism, at the very least. Why turn away allies when you’re in a fight for your life, after all?

He follows behind next to Shadowheart, the drow woman pulling away at a deceptively brisk pace ahead of them. That’s when he realizes something. He leans in toward the cleric as they walk, the spark of curiosity in his quiet question. “I don’t suppose she gave you her name, did she?” It certainly wasn’t offered to him.

The woman shakes her head, lips pursed in dismissal more than annoyance. “No, she didn’t. I can’t be certain why, but…she does seem a bit disoriented. I suspect she may have hit her head during the crash.”

He nods, having made a similar assessment not long ago. “Quite likely. I received a few knocks of my own before the sudden dissolution.” It’s a reasonable enough explanation, so he lets it go. “Well, hopefully it’s nothing serious. Perhaps she’ll tell us later.”

For now, there are more pressing matters to worry about.

|| Tav ||

Straj, her head is pounding. Her skull throbs beneath her scalp, the tight pull of her braid only adding to that tension. Yet the pain is the least of her worries; her real concern is the fact that there is nothing in her skull. No memories whatsoever of who she is, how she got here, where she’s supposed to be going. She can’t even remember her own damn name.

Currently, she wanders aimlessly in unfamiliar environs, with two desperate people following her like lost puppies. Why follow her? She can only begin to guess, seeing as they know more about their situation than she does. They lag a number of paces behind her, talking about something she can’t quite hear. She doesn’t particularly care what.

As she trudges through the smoldering wreckage, the smell of burning metal mingles with the stench of fresh grass and the damp river assaulting her nose. She can’t determine why the scents irritate her, why the aroma of the congealed blood festering in that fisherman’s corpse sings sweeter. It was the first thing that had roused any semblance of a memory in her mind; even if it was only the ghostly reminiscence of death. Death in droves. 

There is something dark and unspeakable there…and she’s torn between fear, excitement, and revulsion of what it might mean. For now, she pushes it out of her empty, fragile mind. There are more important things to worry about, such as finding a healer to curb this threat of ‘ceremorphosis’, according to the wizard. She doesn’t need memory to tell her she doesn’t want to become a mind flayer. Once the tadpole is removed, then she can worry about backtracking.

In the haze of her headache and distracting thoughts, she doesn’t see the shadow moving in her peripherals…not until it’s on her. In a blink, she’s tackled to the ground and pinned down in the dirt on her back. She grits her teeth in a vicious scowl, glaring up at her attacker as he holds a knife to her throat. 

The elf above her is phantom pale with stark white hair and piercing red eyes. Though his gaze is steady, she detects a hint of unease behind it. He hides it well, but she sees straight to the core of it…like an innate part of her knows what to look for and how to find it in every micro-expression. “Shhh~” he soothes, an almost sensual lilt in his tone. “Not a word. Let’s try to keep that lovely neck of yours in one piece, hmm?”

Her followers rush to her aid, but are stopped short as the man presses the edge of his blade closer to her skin. He glares up at them, harsh warning sharpening his honeyed tone. “And you, keep your distance. No need for this to get messy.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” The wizard’s tone is casual, but the lingering threat beneath his words is clear. “But if you use that knife, I will incinerate you.” She’s somewhat surprised to hear the wizard speak so boldly of killing the man; he didn’t strike her as the type.

“And your friend along with me? Hardly.” The pale elf all but dismisses them, crimson gaze fixed on hers—the color of blood. Her mind swims with intrigue she can’t quite place. Images of that same red covering his face, eyes open and mouth agape as he lies lifeless in the soil. Frozen in the the immortalizing art of death like a marble sculpture of agony. A perfect, pretty corpse~

She blinks hard, forcing the macabre thoughts away. Let’s not get ahead of myself…

“Now, I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?” He demands, so sure of the power of his position. “Nod.”

Simmering fury threatens to rekindle the bloodlust she’d just swallowed. The gall of this man to pin her to the ground like she’s some groveling weakling. She does not think, only acts. Her body moves with an instinct that speaks decades of discipline, one hand jabbing at his neck as the other rips the blade from his hand. Her leg wraps over his waist, forcing him down as she rolls him under her in turn. Legs lock his down, one hand pinning his arm to the ground as the other pushes the knife to his neck in turn. In a blink, she’s swapped their position completely, leaving the elf flabbergasted beneath her. Maybe a little flustered.

“If you’re angry about the tadpole in your eye, I’m not the one who put it in there.” She growls. The broken pod a few yards away betrays where he came from. He’s not wrong to think her a threat: only his reasoning why. As a warning, she just barely breaks the surface of the skin on his neck. A trickle of pure crimson trails down his pallid neck in a perfect, tantalizing line. Her mouth waters, breaths steady as she watches the droplet with hawk-like focus. Again, she painfully suppresses the urge to slit him open. “But I can try an extraction if you’re feeling bold.”

The man hesitates, examining her face to find the truth. She feels a tingle in her mind, as if something unseen brushes against it…accidental, clumsy. Like a ghost that’s lost its way in her head. She sees visions of familiar streets, the lamps lighting the darkness with a soft golden glow. Blood streaks across the cobblestone before her. Is this a memory of hers? A pale, masculine hand reaches out into the night with dagger drawn: not her dagger, not her hand.

Not her memory, she realizes. His. 

He winces beneath her, as if wrestling with a vision of his own. Then it passes. Clarity returns as she stares down at him. At least now, he seems convinced she’s no thrall. He lifts his hands in surrender, a grin pulling to his lips that might have been sheepish if it wasn’t so barbed. “Well, then…my mistake~” When she does not immediately let him up, he glances to her followers who make no move to assist him. His focus returns to her. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards.”

She snorts something akin to humor, however dry. “What a coincidence,” she drawls as she pulls the knife away as she stands. “I was imagining the same.” Shadowheart doesn’t flinch, but the wizard’s face contorts in some manner of disapproval. His distaste is not her concern.

The pale man rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “A kindred spirit~” he muses, holding out his hand expectantly. Though she hesitates, she tosses the blade back to him rather than get close. He catches it with ease. “My name is Astarion,” he introduces with an outstretched wave of his arms. “Apologies for the…surprise, but I spotted you running around the nautiloid of your own free will. I thought you were one of them. At least until that little brushing of minds just now, where I saw that you were trapped in a pod of your own before then.”

“Brushing of minds?” Shadowheart echoes with heavy suspicion. “You read her thoughts?”

One hand on his hip, Astarion flicks his hand dismissively. “Well, not intentionally. When we were that close something just…happened. I wasn’t sure what it was until I saw her hands in the vision.” He points to said hands with his dagger as casually as one would their finger. Suddenly, his brow furrows as he looks up at her. “What did you see?” Despite his attempts to sound casual, there’s the faintest trace of anxiety.

“Just a dark alley,” she bluffs as easily as she breathes, leaving out the bloodier details. “It was cut off before anything happened.”

The wizard’s brows raise, surprise mingling with rapt curiosity. “So you were able to somehow exchange thoughts? Or perhaps memories?” His questions are colored with the thrill of someone eager to unwrap the intricacies of a new mystery. “My, that is strange…Was it the tadpoles, perhaps? If this is a symptom of ceremorphosis, all the scholars I’ve read from neglected to write it down.” He shakes his finger in the air as he ponders, trying to recall any mention of such an ability and coming up short. Lifting his head, he looks to Shadowheart. “Most curious, indeed, if it affects all the infected.”

The cleric reels her head back, nostrils flared in a warning scowl. “Don’t even think about it.”

The wizard steps back, hands up in defense. “I’m not suggesting we test the matter on the spot, merely making an observation.” Unfazed by the woman’s accusatory tone, he turns his attention to Astarion. “In any case, we’re already in search of a healer for this malignant condition. Perhaps you should join us. Four heads are better than three, as they say. To some extent.”

Tav exhales slow, trying to find balance between her empty head and racing thoughts. Barely an hour ago, she woke up alone in a broken pod with no memory, and now she’s surrounded by three strangers she doesn’t trust and can’t quite get a read on. Part of her wants to slip away and deal with the situation on her own. Her missing memories and battered body are her problem alone, there’s no need to drag other people into it…She’s sure they’ll only slow her down.

Astarion perks up, taking interest in the wizard’s offer. “You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.”

Right…those aren’t her only problems. The tadpole is her most pressing concern. Injuries will heal, and it’s not like she can lose any more memory…but the parasite proves to be an immediate threat that will render the rest null if she doesn’t do something about it.

As much as she hates to admit it, the wizard is right about one thing: the more people they have in their group, the better their chances of finding a solution. “We need to find civilization if we want to find a healer,” she says. A quick glance to the cleric. “A better one, at least.” Shadowheart grimaces at the insult, though it wasn’t intended as one. Just a brutal truth. Turning on her heel, the drow continues on the way they’d been heading before the elf had ambushed her. 

Though the others fall in behind, Astarion dares ask the question the others didn’t. “So…do you actually know where you’re going.”

She turns on her heel and walks backwards with graceful ease, arms out to the side in exasperated concession. “Not a fucking clue.” Turning forward once more, she continues to storm down towards the riverbank. That’s the only idea she has. And if they have a problem with it, they can take the damn lead.

They don’t. They just follow.

By nightfall, they still haven’t found any sort of city or settlement. They’re in the middle of the wilderness with nothing but water, trees, and burning wreckage as far as the eye can see. They did manage to stumble on the githyanki woman—Lae’zel—who spoke of a creche, some sort of commune that could purify them of their parasites. She made it sound so easy.

She can’t put her finger on it, but something about an easy solution doesn’t sit right with her. It settles in her gut like lead. Easy answers to complicated problems…they don’t work out the way you hope they will. Vicious lies wrapped in pretty promises that lure you to your doom like a spider lying in wait.

But what better prospect do they have? According to the wizard, they would be symptomatic by morning, and they had a week at most before they turned. Already they’ve wasted a whole day running around in the middle of nowhere. With the moon rising high in the sky, however, they don’t have much choice but to rest.

While most have retreated to varying corners of the clearing, she isn’t tired yet…and that pounding headache, while less agonizing, is still a persistent nuisance. She walks towards the crackling campfire to bide her time and sharpen her dull, stolen daggers by firelight. Something productive to keep her hands and mind busy until exhaustion claims her. 

It seems she’s not the only one still awake.

The wizard sits in front of the fire with his arms wrapped around propped knees, staring into the dancing flames in placid silence. He does not turn, if he notices her behind him at all. She hesitates, not particularly interested in striking up conversation. Though, he does seem…quieter than before. More subdued.

“…Go to hell,” he mutters. Maybe to himself.

“Good evening to you, too,” she breaks her silence, sarcasm easing along each word.

The wizard turns with a start, eyes wide as he stares at her over his shoulder. He had no idea she was there. Upon seeing she’s not offended (or, perhaps, that she’s not there to murder him), he lets out a breath of relief that fizzles into a gentle exhale. “Ha. You’re a good sport. And frighteningly light on your feet.” He turns back to the fire…and something stirs in her gut. To trust a stranger and show her his back so readily, without the slightest fear she’ll drive a knife through it. What a fool…her fingers twitch at her sides, itching to reach for her dagger and plunge it into his spine. She wonders what his screams would sound like, what his blood would taste like as she licked it from her palm…

A shiver runs through her bones as she shakes her head. The feeling fades, but it leaves her disturbed. What are these morbid thoughts that keep plaguing her?

“An everyday expression,” the wizard continues, unaware of her violent fantasies. “A trivial one with abstract monstrosities that were once nothing more than pictures on parchment.” He sighs, the hold on his own wrist tightening ever so slightly. “But we’ve seen hell, and it isn’t trivial. These monstrosities aren’t abstract.”

So he’s brooding. Well, she supposes that’s better than his more effervescent enthusiasm from earlier. Perhaps it’s better to sit where he can see her, lest her dark thoughts return and she’s tempted to indulge those fantasies. She walks towards the fire and takes a seat a few feet away from the man, pulling out one of her blades to sharpen it against a stone. She says nothing.

He nods mechanically, seeming to accept that she’s not in the mood for conversation. Only the steady shing…shing…shing of her whetstone accompanies the crackling fire. For a few minutes, at least. Then he dares to speak again.

“Can I ask you a question?” The dejection from before has faded, the spark of curiosity lifting his tone.

Her hand stops, stone on steel. She glances up at him, expression neutral. It takes a moment for him to realize her silence is invitation for him to ask.

He lifts his chin slightly, pointing at his neck. “What is the collar for?”

She drops the stone and her hand flies to her neck, wrapping around it in shocked disbelief. Sure enough, there’s a band of thick leather strapped around her throat. It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel it, but it hadn’t drawn her attention in any way. Part of her clothes, she’d assumed. But no…it’s a collar. Deft fingers work the buckle until it slips off and she stares at it in horrified disgust. The kind of thing you put on an animal to claim ownership…The gall of whoever put this on her. And for what reason? How had she allowed it?

What if she hadn’t?

Her lips twitch up in a snarl as she unceremoniously tosses it aside. Just another question with no answer. A frustrated huff blows out her nose as she desperately tries to remember…and fails to.

“You didn’t know it was there.” It’s not a question, just his observation. 

She leans forward and stares into the fire, dagger and whetstone nearly as forgotten as her memories. “No. I don’t know why I have it.”

Concern wrinkles his brow and coats his next words. “Are you alright? You seem a tad…confused since…well, since you pulled me out of that stone.”

Since before then, really. Not that he would know that. Not that it mattered, since her memory started only an hour before she met him, anyway. She taps her nails idly against the dull blade in her hand, glaring into the crackling campfire as she debates on whether or not to answer him at all. Considering they’re all due to turn into monsters soon, and she doesn’t know exactly when she had the tadpole implanted in her skull…she decides it’s better to answer than leave room for uncertainty. With a heavy sigh, her tense shoulders drop. “I have no memory,” she admits. “Nothing from before today when I woke up in a broken mind flayer pod with a massive headache.”

“Amnesia?” His tone balances on the knife’s edge between worry and intrigue. “Well, memory loss is a common early symptom of ceremorphosis. One that usually starts on the first day. In all the research I’ve read on the subject matter, the memory tends to fracture—gradually slipping away piece by piece—not vanishing in entirety from the get go.”

She quirks a brow at him, mouth still a hard line. “So…it’s not from ceremorphosis?”

The wizard shrugs, turning his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “It’s difficult to say at this point in time. What I can say is that it is unusual, and therefore there is a chance it’s unrelated.” He pauses, a glint of realization flashing in his eyes along with the firelight. “Come to think of it, I’ve not had any gaps in my own memory yet, though by rights I should.” He rubs his index finger along his beard below his protruding lip, suddenly very deep in thought. After a moment, he breaks from it. “Of course, not feeling as though I’m forgetful does not necessarily mean I haven’t lost any memories. A rather vexing predicament, as it were.”

He’s rambling now, and she turns her attention back to the flames and her own thoughts. The others had only been infected with the parasite today. When had she been infected? What if it was days ago, and that’s why her memory is so far gone while the others’ still have theirs in tact? She could be ready to turn at any moment for all she knows. That’s not a prospect she particularly enjoys.

“What are the other symptoms?” The question surprises her when she speaks it, but he seems to know quite a bit about their condition. It’s worth a shot.

He looks up at the starlit sky as he counts the symptoms off on his fingers. “Let’s see…Day one: Fever and memory loss. Day two: Hallucinations and greying skin. Day three: Hair loss and blood leaking from all orifices—” he pauses and looks at her with a questioning look in his eyes. “Has your skin…always been that color?”

She looks at her hands: Ashen grey, almost purple in undertone. “Yes.” The word comes unbidden, an honesty from instinct rather than memory. She doesn’t remember, and yet somehow she knows. Her lashes tickle her cheek as she blinks, surprising even herself. “I don’t know how I know, but I do.”

He nods, accepting that answer. “Well, in that case, I think we both still have time yet. No fevers or hallucinations to speak of, and certainly a full head of hair on the both of us.” 

It’s something, at least. By the sound of it, they have a few more days before things become dire. If they can just keep going and get lucky, there’s still time to undo this.

“…Kressa.”

She looks at him sharply, the name striking a sour chord deep in her gut that she can’t explain. He’s leaned over, the collar in his hands as he reads the tag. His eyes glance up, looking at her with yet more burning questions. “Is that your name?”

“No.” She scowls, the certainty of it surprising her more than the severity with which she says it. She knows that name—Somehow, some way—but can’t put a face to it. But she knows it isn’t her name.

A mirthful huff passes his lips as he sets the collar back down. “I thought not. You don’t strike me as a Kressa.” She half expects him to try and point out this ‘Kressa’ must be part of her life, or hells, that he’s going to try and give her a name that ‘fits’ like she’s some domesticated pet. Lucky for him, he does neither.

“So, then. What is your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Tav—” It’s halfway out her mouth before it fades. There’s more, she knows there is…but she can’t remember it. Only base instinct managed to draw out the first syllable. It’s something, though. Something from her past that’s starting to come back. Maybe the rest will too, with time.

He smiles at her; something warm and genuine that strikes her with unknown force. As if it’s some foreign thing she’s never experienced even before her mind was shattered. Perhaps she hasn’t. “Short for something, perhaps?”

She presses her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Maybe. Don’t know.” Tav turns to glare at him. Why is he so insistent on asking questions? The moment they find a healer and get these tadpoles sorted out, she’s going her own way. “‘Tav’ will suffice.”

Mercifully, he backs off. “Well, Tav. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Tav just turns back to the fire. Rather than drag her into further conversation, he pushes off the ground and rises to his feet. “On that note, I think we should get some rest.” His smiles takes on a playful curve as he points towards the side of his skull. “Let’s be up with the lark, before the wee one gets hungry.”

As he turns and walks away, she lingers. Sleep still doesn’t call to her…but she’ll need rest for tomorrow. If the wizard is right, they don’t have much time left. 

‘The wizard’…she realizes she’s already forgotten his name. It was so much simpler than the others’ and yet it’s slipped her mind. How fragile her memory truly is, to let even recent recollections fade away so easily. She tries to recall the encounter with that sigil, when she’d pulled him from the stone. He shook her hand when he introduced himself…and she hadn’t even been properly listening, far too engulfed in her own racing thoughts.

Oh well. Again, it won’t matter. In a few days time, they’ll either part ways, or forget all semblance of themselves as they turn into mind flayers. Either way, his name his not important. Neither is the rest of her own; not yet.

She picks up the collar in her hand again, the leather burning into her skin not with heat but with audacity. Someone put this on her…On the metal tag in nearly illegible scratches reads the name he’d spoken before: Kressa.

Was this ‘Kressa’ the person who collared her? If so, why? And how had that woman survived the attempt? The very notion makes her blood whisper with murderous intent. Surely Tav would have eviscerated her for it…

Unless she couldn’t.

It’s the only clue to her past that she has, but her name had started to come back. Though memory still eludes her, knowledge still lingers beneath. She is not some helpless, ignorant foal limping through the wilds. Tav can take some comfort in that, at least. This vile, leather insult in her hands invokes no recollection. It triggers nothing at all. Stirs nothing in her mind except rage and revulsion.

It’s worthless. And so she tosses it into the fire. The sharp tang of burning leather and melting iron wafts through the night air. It’s almost…cathartic to watch it melt into the embers. In time, she’ll find other ways to remember. Other clues to her past. 

Tonight, she will rest. And tomorrow, she will find a healer. She has no other choice.