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Chapter Text

Midsummer had just passed, Eleasis promised to be as sweltering a month as Flamerule before it, and night had fallen over Baldur’s Gate. Thick fog had rolled into the lower city, as it so often did when the tide came in. The city was quiet under its hazy blanket, the hours ticking ever closer to midnight. The entire populace had been made lazy and sleepy by the heavy summer heat. Light and music poured from taverns all across the city, but beyond those islands of excitement, the city slept on in the humid summer air. 

In the affluent district of Bloomridge, in the flat above Lintu’s Fine Lutes, a small figure stirred. It toddled through the flat on unsteady legs, fearless in the dim light of a single candle set to burn high on a stone shelf, out of reach of tiny hands. “Nana?” the figure asked a blanket-covered lump curled up on a fine chaise lounge.

The lump answered with a loud snore.

The figure stumbled on, heading towards a wooden door hanging on well-made, well-oiled hinges. After a few attempts, the small figure opened the door and found itself in a narrow stairwell. No light reached the top, the black depths of the stairs frightening the figure at first, but soon enough it noticed the glimmer of light at the bottom of the stairs, fitful lamplight entering Lintu’s Fine Lutes through leaded-glass windows. The figure sat heavily at the top of the stairs and proceeded to journey down the steps, one at a time, on its bottom.

“Oooof,” the figure giggled to itself once it reached the bottom of the stairs. The entirety of Lintu’s Fine Lutes lay before the figure, a treasure trove of instruments, tools, supplies, and all the forbidden things a small child should never touch. The figure tottered around the shop, the fog-hazy light from the street illuminating it in a square of soft yellow light.

The figure was a small, human child. Barely old enough to walk, the child toddled her way through the shop, poking at all the things she was never allowed to touch in the light of day. She immediately headed for her favourite instrument, a tambourine made of pale wood and dark leather, jingling metal cymbals adorning its side. The tambourine jangled in a damp grip as she explored the rest of the store. The child plucked at strings, blew wetly into flutes, and tapped lightly at the tight leather skin of a set of drums, laughing quietly when the largest drum produced a most excellent thump .

An answering thump, not of her own making, had the child windmilling her arms in the air, fighting to stay on her feet through her surprise. The tambourine clanged in her hand all the while. “Mama?” The child called out, once she was sure she wasn’t going to fall. 

There was no answer in the dark shop.

“Mama g’way,” the child reminded herself, nodding sagely. “Songs w’Papa.”

The child looked around the shop, feeling lonelier by the minute. She wanted her parents. “Find Mama.” She told herself, toddling over to the front door of Lintu’s Fine Lutes. This door, she could not open. Locked and barred, the heavy oak door was an impenetrable barrier for any two-year-old human. The child sniffled, a tear sliding down one plump brown cheek. She wanted her parents and they were outside, somewhere.

She thumped her tambourine a few times and sang “Door open! Door open!” in an off-key wail. Locks clicked, the bar vanished – reappearing on the ground at her feet – as the child knew in her heart it would when she sang like Mama. The door swung inward on silent hinges.

“Mama!” the child whispered to herself. She stepped towards the opening, taking wobbly but determined strides, only making it a few steps out of the shop before running into the legs of a grown-up. She bounced off the legs, falling to the cobblestone street on her behind. Her tambourine spilled from her hands to lay forgotten on the ground.

“Oh, Gods, absolutely not, ” a strange accent caught the child's ears. She looked up and up, to see the grown-up was a pale man with white curling hair and pointed ears. He was pretty, like all the elves she had seen before. He seemed to glow like an angel in the hazy fog; she just knew this grown-up could be trusted.

“‘Lf!” She announced, struggling back onto her feet.

“No. No no no,” the pale elf shook his head, delicate hands gesturing at her in a shooing motion, “Get back inside.”

“F’nd Mama?” She asked the nice elf.

Strangely, the elf looked back over his shoulder, up towards the heights of the city where the big houses were. That’s not where Mama and Papa went to play music, she knew. No one was up the street, everyone was listening to Mama and Papa sing. He sighed heavily, running a hand over a tired face, muttering to himself about children, not this time, and not if I can help it . She blinked at him, not understanding a word.

“What’s your name, little one?” the elf asked her, dropping one knee to look her in the eye very seriously, like grown-ups do. His eyes were as red as her favourite ball.

“Shay!” Shay answered. She liked the elf’s voice, he sounded like music when he talked.

“Shay, there are bad men out tonight,” the elf told her in a slow, patient voice with a hard edge, “Very bad men. I need you to go back inside and be safe.”

“Mama? Papa?” Shay was afraid. This had all gone terribly wrong. The tears welled up in her eyes again, she sniffled.

“I’ll… I’ll bring them here,” the pale elf sounded panicked, scared and angry at the same time like when Mama caught her climbing out her bedroom window onto the roof. Mama told her that voice meant things were important. His eyes kept darting up the street. “Alright, Shay? Just go inside. Shut the door.”

“‘Kay,” Shay nodded. The nice man would bring Mama and Papa home. She patted him on his pretty hair, it felt like Mama’s best silk scarf. “Pretty.”

The elf looked stricken, not knowing how to respond. Shay turned to go back inside, assisted by a gentle push from pale hands. She made a beeline for the stairs, wanting to go up where Nana slept. A crash of cymbals caught her attention, her tambourine sliding across the wooden floor boards to stop at her feet.

“Shut the door, little one,” the elf’s lilting voice called out.

“Door,” she repeated, turning back to push the door to the shop closed with all her might. It got most of the way there, the latch just didn’t catch. That was good enough.

She heard a soft growl of frustration, the click of the latch and the metallic thunk of the locks turning as she crawled carefully back up the stairs.

*****

“You hungry, love?” Keena Akanu asked Shay as she passed through the backstage area of the Elfsong tavern on her way to the kitchen, arms laden with a heavy tray of used plates and mugs. “I’m bringing up an order for table four, I can grab something for you.”

Shay hardly had attention to spare for the spritely blonde barmaid, avidly watching her parents perform as she was. Her hands twitched as she imagined herself playing along with her mother, fingers dancing along the smooth neck of the violin they shared. The word hungry echoed in her mind, starting a hollow rumble in her middle that reminded her she had yet to eat. Shay thought she should probably ask Keena for whatever food may have been destined for scrap rather than order a meal that would take money away from the night's profits. Papa had said money had been tight lately, that they would have to sell the last of the instruments left over from the sale of Lintu’s Fine Lutes. Though he said it with the glassy eyes of a man deep in his cups; if they could afford drink, why not food? Soon, they would have to survive on performance alone. With Nana gone, there would be no more instruments made for sale.

“Yeah, is there anything, um… cheap?” Shay asked, sticking a hand in her pocket to appear as though she was looking for coin. Her pockets, she knew, were empty.

“I got you, love,” Keena winked her chocolate-brown eyes, disappearing into the sweltering depths and clashing sounds of the Elfsong’s kitchen.

Shay returned her attention to the stage, completely forgetting about the hollow in her middle until a bruised apple dangled in front of her face. She grabbed the fruit, making a face at Keena, as the barmaid turned to draw pints from a cobwebbed barrel.

“Kitchen’s slammed, love, Chef’s in the weeds. I’ll have more for you later,” Keena explained, over her shoulder. She hefted another tray of full mugs, then hesitated, glancing nervously at Shay’s small form. “Have you… have your folks heard from Hokeo?”

The sweet ballad her parents played clashed with the sorrow in Shay’s heart. Hokeo had disappeared a tenday past, abandoning his young wife for no reason anyone could think of. The barmaids and bards of the Gate all knew the gossip, even Shay had heard things as an annoying ten-year-old not really in the circle of those who made the nightlife lively in Baldur’s Gate.

“No, Keena, I’m sorry,” Shay didn’t know how to comfort the woman, whose marriage had fallen apart so quickly. Her parents were a romance for the ages, she’d never know how it felt to have someone just leave like that.

Food never came that night. Keena fell behind, intermittently appearing to rush to the kitchen then back out again, pulling pints with more speed than accuracy. Backstage began to smell like old beer and sweat.

Shay glanced out to the bursting tavern, trying to see how the crowd were enjoying the set. Everyone seemed happy, all the barmaids run off their feet to keep the patrons well served. In a corner near where the door to the cold winter streets was set in a dark wood panelled wall, Keena was speaking with a pale elf in a fancy coat, embroidered in gold, with puffy sleeves. She laughed brightly at something that was said, touching the man’s arm with a strange familiarity that wasn’t familiar at all. Shay felt like she was intruding, as she watched Keena smile up into the handsome elf’s dark red eyes. The two seemed in a world of their own, sharing an intimate moment alone in a crowd.

“So much for Hokeo, eh bird?” Papa’s voice in her ear made her jump.

“Papa! Is the set done? Is it time to eat?” Shay asked, excited to finally get a meal in, to hear how her parents felt about the evening’s performance.

“Not yet, bird, they’re tipping well tonight.” Papa answered, his teal eyes scanning the crowd, “I need to wet my whistle, you get up there for a bit, would you?”

Shay froze. Papa wanted her on stage .

“Yes, Papa!” Shay breathed, dashing onto the small wooden platform that served as the performer's stage in the Elf Song, taking a seat behind Papa’s drums to play along with Mama.

Shay lost herself in music and applause, forgetting all about Keena and Hokeo until the night was finally over. She packed up Papa’s things, then helped him down from the bar stool where he had spent the last hours of the night. Mama collected their coins and a small sack of bread and fruit from the kitchen.

“Where in the nine hells is Keena?!” one of the barmaids shouted, “This place ain’t gonna sweep itself.”

“Keena’s gone?” Shay asked as she spun around on the spot, her sudden stop causing Papa to stumble beside her. He grumbled, but needed Shay to stay upright; he leaned heavily into her as she queried the barmaid, “What happened?”

“Suppose she walked out with that pale gent,” the barmaid sighed, beginning to lift chairs onto tables, a thick straw broom resting against the nearby bar, “Get Hokeo out of her system, anyway.”

Keena, like her husband Hokeo, was never seen again.

*****

The flat at the edge of the district of Brampton wasn’t nearly as nice as their home over Lintu’s Fine Lute’s had been. Brampton was an alright area, not as safe as Bloomridge, certainly not as affluent. In Bloomridge, she had a proper bedroom, not a mattress in a closet. Shay missed the home she hadn’t seen for five years. Even as she entered the Basilisk Gate for what seemed like the millionth time, she still had to fight her feet that wanted to head west through the Lower City, return to Bloomridge, to home . Instead, she turned south, to the small flat she shared with her parents close to Cliffgate and Tumbledown beyond. Shay’s bright teal eyes kept a sharp watch on every person she passed, her hands clutched tightly at mama’s violin case. The small amount of coin she had earned in Rivington all afternoon was scattered about her person; she had learned to hide what money she had after the first attempt at busking had resulted in her being mugged on her way home. Desperate men, to take a few coppers from a thirteen-year-old girl. Shay was glad they had only taken her coin and not the violin, had only given her a black eye and not worse. She tried to think of it as having paid a few coppers for a valuable lesson. A lesson she had learned well; she hadn’t been mugged in the year since.

On her way through Brampton, Shay stopped at a small corner shop, buying bruised and rot-spotted vegetables, cheaper for being long past their best, and a stale bit of bread that hadn’t sold that morning. After leaving the shop, she increased her pace, staying in the middle of the streets to avoid passing too close to dark alleys. The closer she got to home, the rougher the district grew, the people more desperate for even the half-rotted carrots in her rough hemp sack. She could never tell if the people who lived in the dreary, fog-covered Tumbledown were sad, desperate souls with nowhere else to go, or if the decrepit, haunted neighbourhood turned its own citizens into ghosts of themselves. She had told her idea to Mama, and they agreed it would make a great song.

Once she got to their flat, a rickety wooden walk-up where they lived under the steep rafters of the third-story, Shay crept silently up the steps, taking care to avoid the steps that creaked too loudly. It wasn’t time to wake her parents, not yet. Shay carefully placed Mama’s violin on a ladder backed wooden chair, her sack of food and the day's earnings carefully placed on a wobbly table that doubled as the kitchen workspace. She started a fire in the small hearth before grabbing a bucket heading back down to draw water from the nearest well. On her way back up with the water, she stomped her way up the stairs, making the loudest ruckus she could. She didn’t want to go into Mama and Papa’s room to wake them up, she hated seeing them in their room, more unconscious than asleep, surrounded by whatever bottles they had brought home from the Blushing Mermaid the night before. It seemed each week they brought back more bottles and less money. Shay hoped that being loud as she entered the flat, louder still as she poured some water into an iron pot hung above the fire and started preparing the vegetables for a stew, would wake her parents. They’d come out on their own, perhaps they’d be happy, for once.

By the time Papa hauled himself out of his room, the sun was a glowing orange memory to the west and the stew was ready, cooling in bowls on the table. Shay had eaten a small amount herself, saving the bulk of it for her parents. The fire was out, another full bucket of water waited near the hearth for everyone to wash with. Shay grinned, quickly setting the table for Papa’s meal, a mug of clean water ready for him.

“The Mermaid again tonight?” She asked, as though she didn’t know. Few other taverns in the Gate would have them play these days.

“Yeah,” Papa muttered, blinking bloodshot eyes at the meal Shay had prepared. He didn’t look quite ready to eat, but forced it down anyway. Shay had another bucket, this one empty, set on the floor near Papa’s chair, in case dinner decided to revisit them. That happened, sometimes.

Mama came out of the room in slightly better condition, though her hair was an absolute mess. Shay went to a beetle-eaten cabinet to grab a wooden comb and the jar of special grease they both needed to tame their wild curls. It was too expensive to buy, prepared by an apothecary in Bloomridge. To Shay, it smelled like memories of better times in better places. She had stolen a jar a tenday ago, hoping its appearance would please Mama. And it did, for a time. Things were almost like old times. Almost.

“Thank you, bird.” Mama said around mouthfuls of stew as Shay combed and braided her hair. Her dark eyes appraised the jar in the middle of the table, copper and silver coins glittering in the dim light of their flats one window. “Where did these come from?”

“I went to Rivington today,” Shay explained while she worked, “Did some busking outside the Temple of Ilmater.”

“Dangerous.” Mama observed. Shay heard a frown in her voice and didn’t like it.

“I’m fourteen, Mama,” She protested, “I’ve been busking safely for a year .”

“We just want you to be safe, Shay.” Mama said, stealing the wind from her sails. Of course they did, they were a family, they loved each other.

“Fine. Yes. I was safe.” Shay muttered, perhaps pulling a little too hard on Mama’s hair while she braided. She decided to change the subject, “The weather is lovely tonight. I bet the Mermaid will be busy.”

“Let’s hope the Sailor’s are in a tipping mood,” Papa answered, sounding more human with dinner settling into him. He rose from the table, heading back towards the bedroom, “I’m going to get ready.”

Much later that night, Mama stumbled into the flat muttering angrily about Papa flirting with handsome pale men, her words slurred with drink.

Shay waited up for Papa.

He never came home.

*****

The rooming house in Sow’s Foot, where Shay lived with Mama, was misnamed. It wasn’t a house constructed for living, but a converted warehouse, built close beside Hamhocks Slaughterhouse and replete with all the stenches that could come with living in what amounted to a fancy horse stall, jammed cheek-by-jowl beside fifty other people. But the house was dry and, if not warm, out of the wind and cold fog that rolled off the Chionthar. It kept Mama’s violin from warping and kept them alive through the night. Their landlord, Pester Longshine, was tighfisted with all his tenants, but didn’t mind if the Lintu’s were a little late on rent, as long as Mama or Shay – preferably Mama, the halfling thought Shay was too young, at sixteen, to have any stage presence – performed for his large family. It would do, until they got back on their feet.

Shay thought the day where they got back on their feet and moved back behind the walls of Baldur’s Gate would come soon. Money had been so tight lately, Mama hadn’t been drinking. She was almost her old self, her singing voice clear and bright, rather than sad and slurred. Shay still remembered to keep her eyes low when they were together. Mama still felt heartbreak when she saw Shay look at her with her father’s eyes, though without alcohol she was no longer cruel about it. The man had been missing for two years but no body had ever been found, Shay kept a secret hope in her heart that he was alive and would find them again, one day. Surely he loved Mama, loved them both, too much to leave for good.

She hardly busked anymore, that was Mama’s job. Instead, Shay found work wherever she could, often helping the farmers who brought their animals to slaughter at Hamhocks. One old widower, Vadin Korsk, had gone so far as to set an appointment with Shay every second tenday. She would meet him in Rivington to help him bring his pigs or chickens to slaughter or help him take his produce to market. He paid in food, coin and – almost as important to Shay – friendship. Shay liked the old farmer and the sweet stories he told of his husband, gone now for three years and counting. Vadin seemed grateful for her friendship as much as her labour; Mama’s heartbreak and loneliness had taught Shay how rough the world must be when one was alone. Vadin, like Mama, was heartbroken and lonely out there on his farm with only his husband’s grave for company.

“Glad I could give you a lift home,” Vadin announced over the creek of the cart’s axel and the clomp of Rose’s hooves, “Pretty young thing like you shouldn’t be blistering your feet on the road.”

“Pretty young…?” Shay repeated then burst into giggles. “Vadin Korsk, you old charmer. I’m filthy , not pretty.”

“Well, you’re pretty filthy!” the old man said with a wink, “Do you have enough for your Mother? You said she was performing tonight, right? At the Circus?”

“Yeah, she is. We have enough, we’ll be ok.” Shay reached beside her to clutch a rough sack full of produce, “Thank you, Vadin.”

“You work harder than I could pay you, girl.” Vadin said with a warm smile, “Now we’re almost there. Wash up ‘fore you see your Mama, ‘hear?”

“Yes, Grandpa.” Shay smirked. She hopped from the cart and gave the old farmer a gentle kiss on his cheek. “See you next time.”

Shay rushed to clean herself up at the well that stood between the slaughterhouse and their rooming house, then she prepared a small sack of food – apples, cheese and bread – to take the Mama at the circus. The sun had long since set and Shay felt the exhaustion of a long day's work, but she was still energised by anticipation. Mama would be on stage soon. It was a short walk through the twilight-dark districts of the Outer City, Sow’s Foot, then Twin Songs, then on to Wyrm’s Crossing and Rivington beyond. The Circus performed in a festival space beside the Temple of Ilmater, their animals not allowed into the city proper, as few animals were unless destined for slaughter. 

A gnome in heavy clown makeup, dressed in clashing colours and patterns, stood outside the gates to the circus, juggling an odd assortment of items, a free performance to entice more people inside. The line to get inside grew ever longer, but Shay went straight to the gate.

“Get in line, kid!” The gnome called, never dropping a single item. It was an impressive feat of dexterity.

“I’m Shay Lintu, I was told to drop something off.” Shay declared, as Mama had told her to.

“Lintu, right.” The gnome nodded while wooden pins and bright coloured balls circled her face, “I know that name. Let her in!”

“Thanks,” Shay said with a grateful smile, ducking through the gate and making her way, quiet and unobserved, to the space set aside for backstage. She passed Dribbles, one of Lucretious’ most popular acts, touching up his makeup in a warped mirror. Music floated into the backstage area; Mama was performing. Shay quickly found Mama’s station, her violin case open on a table. She put the meal she had prepared beside the case, then darted to the curtains separating backstage from the crowd. Mama was deep in her music, but not as lost to it as she usually was. Mama’s honey-brown eyes would crack open, now and then, to gaze at a pale man in the audience and smile softly. The man, a handsome, well-dressed elf Shay noted, smiled back. She hadn’t seen Mama smile like that in years. It felt good to see her smile, but it also felt wrong. Like she was betraying Papa somehow.

“Her set will be over soon,” Dribbles voice behind her startled her from her contemplation of this new wrinkle in her life. “But I don’t think she’ll want to see you, kid. She’s been flirting with a patron the past few nights and he keeps coming back for her.”

“She wants to see me.” Shay argued with the clown. Of course Mama wanted to see her.

“We’ll see.”

Mama’s song came to an end. Applause sprang up, the evening crowd quite pleased with her performance. After a number of bows and murmured thank you ’s, Mama hopped off stage and… went straight into the arms of the elf. They moved away from the stage, heads tilted close to one another. The elf said something and Mama laughed brightly.

Shay felt her heart break. For Papa and for herself.

She fled the circus, running all the way to the roominghouse to throw herself into their tiny room and cry on their shared pile of straw. She wanted to yell at Mama, to demand how she could betray their family like that.

She never had the opportunity. Shay never saw her mother again.

*****

“We have work! Wake up, Lintu!”

The high, musical voice brought Shay to consciousness. She blinked bleary eyes in the dim confines of the river-side cave in Gray Harbour where she had been staying the past tenday with a few other homeless youth. The tide had gone out, which was a double-edged sword; it left them all vulnerable to thieves but gave them the ability to leave the cave. She checked for Mama’s violin case, still beside her, always beside her, then began preparing to head out, turning to answer Misha Jithum’s call as she did.

“What work, Misha?” Shay gathered a handful of river water and sniffed it – more fresh than salt – before drinking and washing her face. She strapped the violin case and her dagger to her body, tucked her lockpicks into her boot and decided she was ready to face the night.

“Nine Fingers has a mark for the lower level thieves and that means us!” Misha explained cheerfully, tucking her straw-straight brown hair behind a softly pointed ear. The half-elf girl was as homeless as Shay, but made it look so easy, finding connections and friendships all over the Gate. Shay envied the girl for her easy friendships. Other than her every-second-tenday appointment with Vadin Korsk, Shay had a hard time trusting others. Misha Jithum wasn’t a friend; watch each other's backs through the night as they occasionally did, she was more of a colleague. People at the bottom, like Misha or herself, were disposable, so often they died or just disappeared. Over the past two years, Shay had learned it was easier to only trust herself.

“What’s the mark?” Shay asked as the two made their way out of the river cave and began to climb the rocks of the rivers edge, their secret path behind a dilapidated mansion at the edge of Grey Harbour. It was hard going, climbing in the dark of night where only Misha could see, but it was the only time to come and go from the cave that guaranteed they wouldn’t be caught by the Flaming Fist. Often the tide and the night didn’t line up, so someone was either trapped in the cave or out of it. It wasn’t the best place to stay, but they made it work; one of many way-stations the homeless youth of the Gate used to survive.

“Some fancy alchemist shop in Bloomridge got them something called Noblestalk, ” Misha explained during the climb, “special mushroom what cures anything. Sells for ten times its weight in gold and they got a whole crate of the stuff! It’s a two person job, needs a lookout and a lockpick. And I don’t know a better lockpick than you, Lintu.”

“Sounds easy, what’s our take?” Shay inquired, the two slipping from shadow to shadow, taking alleys and all the secret paths the low used to not be seen by their betters.

“We get to keep one for ourselves!” Misha answered, so excited to share the news, her voice squeaked shrilly out of tune. “We can eat it, sell it, anything we want. I hear that redheaded twat at Sorcerous Sundries will pay through the nose for fancy ingredients.”

The two made their way through the city, heading towards the job The Guild had put up, hoping another pair hadn’t got there first. Shay had been trapped in the cave almost all day, waiting for the tide to go out, hunger clawed at her middle. If this noblestalk sold as well as MIsha promised, it might net Shay a hot meal, maybe even a trip to a bathhouse rather than a cold wash-up in the Chionthar. If she was clean and well fed, she could busk. If she could busk, she could get back on her feet. Maybe find a room somewhere. A good job could give her a reason to go on for another tenday.

The Apothecary was dark and locked up tighter than a Patriar’s vault at the Counting House. Shay and Misha strolled past the shop casually, talking about other things while they both eyed the shop. The wide glass windows were filled with plants and other tools of the trade. This couldn’t be an easy smash-and-grab. Shay and Misha made their way down the well maintained cobblestones until the apothecary was out of sight, then they ducked into an alley to double back. Sure enough, the back door wasn’t as iron-banded as the front. Misha set herself up at one end of the dark alley, keeping watch, while Shay took her lockpicks to the door, singing softly under her breath while she worked. Like magic, the tumblers moved, the door opened. They were in. 

Shay was barely three steps inside, when Misha gave the alarm. Half the alarm. One whistle instead of two that cut off strangely. Shay had her dagger out and was running into the alley before the last note of the whistle had stopped echoing off the walls. She expected to find a second crew wanting the take but was instead shocked to find Misha struggling with a pale human with long, dark hair. His eyes seemed to glow red in the night, probably a spell to help him see in the dark. Shay rushed to help Misha, but a strike to her back sent her sprawling into the broken garbage that cluttered the alley.

Shay heaved herself over, just in time to be set upon by a second attacker. Another pale man, this one in a noble’s garb; a purple leather jacket, golden embroidery sparkling in the dim light, the white lace at his collar and cuffs practically glowing. The man reached for her and took a slash to his fancy coat for his trouble. Shay couldn’t tell if her strike had drawn blood, but the man backed off. She got to her feet, ready to face off against her attacker, then a scream from Misha caught her attention. Misha was down, unconscious on the ground. The long-haired attacker was coming for her now.

“Fuck this,” Shay muttered. She dodged around the crazed nobleman that had attacked her, running for the apothecary and its still-open door. If she could get inside, she could bar the door behind her. It would be better to face arrest than whatever these men had planned. Shay made it, breathing out a prayer to any god that was listening as she spun to slam the door behind her. A heavy, broken bottle, thrown with unbelievable strength, smashed into her face. Half the world went dark, pain made her want to vomit, but she pushed onward. The door shut, she shoved a wooden chair under the latch but didn’t take a moment to breathe easy. If she was lucky, she could wait the men out. Surely they wouldn’t wait for her forever, they’d be off to find another mark to rob or whatever their plans were.

Shay found a cloth to hold to her lacerated face, then checked on the violin, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw it was unharmed in the tussle. She tucked herself into a dark corner to wait patiently for the dawn, praying to Ilmater that Misha wasn’t suffering out there, that she had gotten away or died quickly. Shay prayed that she would make it out in the morning without being arrested. Tomorrow was her scheduled meeting with Vadin. If she could find healing before she met him, perhaps she would finally take him up on his offer to work on his farm. The Gate was just too dangerous these days. 

It was time to leave the only home she had known.

Chapter Text

A beam of sunlight burned its way through Shay’s eyelids, searing into her aching head with its bright cheerfulness. She sat up slowly, feeling much older than her twenty-five years, every part of her body bruised and beaten. She tried to rub a tired hand over her face, but was shocked when she pushed a handful of sand into her cheek. Shay’s eyes snapped open, taking in the wreckage of the nautiloid on a beach. A wide river – hopefully the Chionthar – flowed along passively, twisting through the land until sharply rising cliffs obscured it from sight. A peaceful scene, if one ignored the carnage of flaming tentacles and metal sending the sour smell of burning machinery and charred flesh into the early summer air.

“By th’Bard,” she swore to herself, the hazy events in her memory and the sharp pain behind her right eye resolving into truth. “It was no nightmare.”

If it was no nightmare… Shay searched the sand around her, frantically hunting for – there! A hard case of leather-covered wood lay half buried in the sand just behind her: her mother’s violin. Shay hurriedly opened the case, ensuring the instrument inside was unharmed before placing its long strap over her shoulder. Too precious a thing to be out of her sight, she felt almost whole again with the case strapped to her back once more.

“This is what I get for going into the city,” Shay muttered to herself as she checked to make sure her weapons had survived the fall – they had, thank Mielikki – then began scavenging her immediate area for supplies. Sadly, the area was full of corpses, the nautiloid seemed to have crashed into a small fishing village. Shay’s muttering became interspersed with murmured prayers for the dead as she began patting down the bodies of fishermen to see if they had anything of use. “I should never have listened to Pek. A visit to the circus isn’t worth all the trouble a city brings you. So sorry, sir, but I need this more than you do right now, gods rest your soul. Fucking illithids, of all things. Gods, I hope Pek is alright, wherever she is.”

The idea of losing Pek, the only family she had left, sunk ice-cold claws into her heart. She sent a quick prayer to Mielikki that Pek would be fine and would find her way home from the forested glade outside Rivington, where she had last seen her dearest – her only – friend. Prayers sent, Shay set thoughts of her friend aside to focus on survival. Pek was, at best, far away, and right now Shay had injuries and the wreckage of a mind flayer’s flying nightmare to contend with.

The nautiloid had absolutely ravaged the beach in its death throes. More than the wreckage of the ship, the beach was a wreck of human life, splintered long boats, and various supplies thrown everywhere by the impact of the illithid’s flying monstrosity. One man, his head cut clean off by a jagged piece of metal, still clutched a letter in a stiff hand. Shay plucked the letter from death-frozen fingers, giving it a quick read, it was a letter from a lover about the man’s return to Baldur’s Gate.

“That makes you the Chionthar, for sure,” Shay murmured to the sun-dappled river before placing the letter back into the man’s hand and folding his fingers around to make sure he held his letter, even in death. Sadly, none of the boats were river-worthy, else Shay would be floating downstream to the gate – to healing and Pek – immediately. No, she would need to cross the wreckage that blocked her from the wilderness and make her way on foot. She didn’t want to enter the nautiloid; there could be illithid survivors in there and she was hardly in a position to fight off so much as a kitten. Still, it looked as though there was no choice. Shay nocked an arrow to her bow, ready to draw and fire on the instant, then crept towards an opening in the giant ship's carapace. 

She settled into a shadowed alcove with a good view of the nautiloid’s innards, quiet and still, set to watch with the patience of mountains. There were rows upon rows of those strange pods, many smashed open in the crash, twisted corpses hanging out of broken doors. There was no sign of life, either illithid or survivor. No sign of the strange yellow-green skinned warrior woman, the githyanki, at whose side she had fought on the bridge of the doomed ship. No sign of the poor half-elf woman Shay had been unable to save from the pod that had held her.

Shay itched to search the bodies for supplies. That she had awoken in her pod fully armed and armoured had seemed, at first, to be a fortuitous mistake. But the more illithid victims she had encountered, free or not, the more it seemed like the monsters had simply not bothered to disarm their captives. Surely one of the bodies laying amid the wreckage held a healing potion or at least a bit of rogue’s morsel. Mielikki willing, Shay could summon goodberries and heal herself, but she would need to rest somewhere safe first.

The silence continued, the only movement the blowing of smoke from the smouldering remains of the ship. Still, Shay waited. Something told her to wait and she had learned to listen to those instincts. To keep her body still, she practised music in her mind. She sang songs, went over complicated fingering on an imaginary violin, the fingers on her bow twitching along as her thoughts made music. She even remembered one of her parents' concerts, foggy memories of youth bringing tears to her eyes.

Motion.

Shay quickly drew her bow and blinked, allowing her tears to fall unheaded down her cheeks. The motion within the shadows of the shattered nautiloid resolved into two intellect devourers, living brains walking on spindly legs. The beasts were mindless servants of the illithids; though if their masters lurked in the wreckage, SHay could not see. The creatures carefully checked each pod, presumably for survivors, before moving on. Shay waited for them to come closer, silently drawing her bow, fletchings tickling her cheek as she waited.

Closer.

A little closer.

There.

Shay loosed an arrow, sending it straight into a wet, pink body with a squelching thunk. It fell over, dead. She was already drawing another arrow before the first had even found its target, knowing that speed was her only advantage. The second intellect devourer let out a gurgling scream and charged towards her, its wicked claws heavy and sharp on its gangly legs. She loosed her second arrow. The brain creature fell over mid-lunge, its feet kicking a few times before its body understood it was dead.

Nothing else moved. The little voice that said wait, now said move , it said survive. She made her way into the wreckage, as quiet as she could manage, determined to find supplies for her continued survival.

*****

Shay stumbled out of the wreckage of the nautiloid, heading straight for the clear waters of the Chionthar. She was covered in blood and ichor, scratches from intellect devourers having torn her leather jerkin to shreds. She held her shortsword in a loose grip while her other hand held a bulging burlap sack, leaving her bow securely strapped to her back beside the violin. The wreckage she had travelled through had been full of supplies: corpses held food, gold, and healing potions. Sadly, a good number of those corpses’ skulls had been cracked open like eggs, brains having walked free of bodies as newborn intellect devourers, confused, but very territorial. Shay had been fighting hard for so long the sight of sunlight dancing on the placidly flowing river was almost a shock. Surely night would have fallen by now.

She spotted the wooden planks of a broken dock jutting out into the water. Shay made her way towards it, ignoring a cart nearby with crates, ignoring tufts of tall grass hiding, perhaps, herbs she could use to heal. Shay walked straight down the rickety dock, lay on her stomach and plunged her head straight into the cold waters of the Chionthar. Her frizzy curls relaxed in the water, dirt flowing away down stream. She helped the dirt along with her hands for a few moments, relishing in the feeling of the cool water tempering the heat in her battle-fevered body. Satisfied with the quick wash, Shay sat herself cross-legged on the dock, pulling off her torn jerkin and replacing it with a much better quality one she had taken from a mind flayer victim. Her hair curled tightly against her scalp and dripped water everywhere, leaving clean streaks running through her dirt-and-blood covered body. No stranger to filth, Shay still felt disgusted by the condition she was in. She resolved to wash properly at the earliest opportunity, if she ever came across soap.

Shay filled a waterskin she had found with river water and ate a bruised pear. She considered her options while she rested on the dock, recovering energy while her hair dried into frizzy coils without the luxury of a comb or hair product. She had found no path to the north, no escape from the wreckage of the nautiloid that would lead her away from the Chionthar. The wreckage was massive, though, as the nautiloid was a multi-leveled beast, a nightmare grown more than engineered. Surely she would find a way soon enough. Time, it seemed, wasn’t pressing on her as hard as she feared it might. The worm behind her eye was restful; she had been hardly aware of it since it implanted itself in her brain. According to the githyanki, it would turn her into an illithid at some point, though from what Shay could tell, its incubation period would be a lengthy one. She would have time to find healing. She had to.

Her own tracks in the sand, leading from the wreckage to the dock where she sat, caught her eye. She stared at them, contemplating what it meant as she rested. No other tracks marred the golden grains that sparkled in the sun. There had been no tracks within the Nautiloid as well, no tracks that weren’t the clawed evidence of intellect devourers, anyway. Perhaps there had been no other survivors. Shay was alone, with no friend or ally to help her through this nightmare. She hadn’t been so completely alone in years. Pek had always been there. She had thought she knew solitude, but without Pek loneliness was truly crushing.

“Hey, I need help!” a voice in the cultured tones of the Gate’s Upper City called out, shattering Shay’s line of thought. 

A survivor? It would be easier to fight the intellect devourers and mind flayers with someone else. The voice wasn’t the husky rasp of the githyanki woman – pity, she was handy with a sword – but any assistance in this mess would go a long way. Shay got to her feet, sheathing her sword and unholstering her long bow from its harness on her back. Assistance would be lovely, but Shay knew better than to blindly trust anyone. Her bow would keep this upper city man at a safe distance until she could decide if he was worth a moment's trust or not.

“Please, someone help!” the voice called out again. It wasn’t smart crying out like that, Shay thought as she made her way across the beach and up a hill towards the cry. He would attract any number of creatures to him. She spotted some burning underbrush and a tilted illithid pod, its door hanging open on a broken hinge, before she saw the source of the voice.

“You there!” the voice cried. Shay was surprised; she hadn’t made a sound; how had he heard her, especially with the flame-wrought wreckage all around them? She rounded the flaming underbrush and found herself staring at a handsome, if pale, elf. He was a little taller than she was, dressed in fine gold-embroidered leather, lace at the collar and cuffs. An intricately tooled belt at his waist held the sort of dagger upper city men were so fond of carrying, but were too important to actually use. Silver-white curls sat perfectly on his head, shading what must be dark brown eyes, though they looked oddly red in the sunlight. Shay shrugged that off; she hadn’t been great with colours since she nearly lost her eye. There was something familiar about him, something about his pale skin, the gold embroidery on his leather jacket, or the flash of red in his eyes that tickled the back of her mind.

“Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered,” the man said in a low, urgent voice. He pointed to a tangle of green undergrowth, mercifully safe from the nearby fires. “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

There was something off about all of it. The man had seen her fighting the intellect devourers and had done nothing to assist; now he wanted her to walk right past him to investigate a bush. Shay didn’t trust him; it seemed like a trap. Perhaps he was an illithid thrall luring her in to carry back to his masters.

“Kill it yourself – you look capable enough,” Shay told the man, backing away. She turned to go back the way she had come, to leave this man who tickled mistrust in her memory to the mercy of the wilds. Trusting this sort would get her killed, she was sure.

“I was hoping for a kind soul,” the man muttered as she turned her back to him. “Well, not to worry.”

She hadn’t gotten far before iron-strong arms banded around her chest, pressing her bow flush against her body. A razor-sharp dagger pricked the tiniest drop of blood from her neck. Shay struggled, managing to tangle her feet with his. They both fell to the ground, though the elf manoeuvred them as they went down, falling in a way that made it seem all part of his plan. Shay found herself laying prone on the ground in a parody of intimate embrace. Her bow was abandoned, both her hands holding tight to the lace-cuffed arm holding a knife to her throat. The elf’s other arm caught around her back, their legs still tangled together. She swallowed heavily, sinking the sharp edge of the knife a fraction deeper into her neck, the wet slide of a drop of blood slipping across her skin to fall to the dirt beneath her.

His face was close enough to hers that she could see his eyes truly were red. Agonising memories surged in her mind. The parasite behind her eye writhed .

The man may have cried out, he may even have released her. Shay didn’t know. Her mind was in the past.

Blink.

It had been little over a tenday and no sign of Mama. Shay went to the Circus of the Last Days one last time, hoping to get information, to see if someone had seen something. Mama had been performing for them, how could she just vanish?!

The circus was packing up to leave, heading off to perform on some other plane of existence, perhaps the Astral Plane, perhaps a level of the Hells. Ringmaster Lucretious was never honest with mere patrons, always preferring a grand tale to the truth. They were probably just going to Waterdeep. Wherever they were going, this was Shay’s last chance to talk to them while memory was still fresh. They wouldn’t be back for a year or more and, by then, no one would remember Mama at all.

Shay had worked hard the past twelve days, when she wasn’t searching for a hint of what had happened to her mother. She had stolen, schemed, actually worked, anything to sleep safe for one more night, to put one more meal in her belly. She hadn’t sold Mama’s wedding ring, even on the nights when hunger tore at her insides, keeping her awake with sharp, empty pain. 

Mama never wore her ring after Papa left, but she’d never sold it either. She had said they could, if it was an emergency. No emergency seemed big enough to warrant it, however. They always managed to survive another day without selling it. Together, they could.

Shay wasn’t certain how long she’d last alone.

She stood in line, pitifully clutching the single gold piece she had managed to scrounge up over days of hard work. It was enough to pay for her ticket into the circus. As she waited, Shay searched the face of every passing stranger, hoping one would be Mama. It never was.

“Psst, kid! Whatever your name is…Lintu! Lintu kid!” a stage-whisper floated down from above. Shay looked up to see a gnome with a painted face, one of the circus performers whose name she could not recall, hanging over the high wall separating Rivington from the festival space the temple of Ilmater set aside for markets, festivals and circuses. “Mama Lucretious wants to talk to you. They’ll let you in.”

“It’s the last day,” Shay answered, hesitant; if it was a trick, she’d never get in. “I don’t want to lose my place in line.”

“For the love of Gond,” the gnome rolled her eyes, “just come in, kid. I promise, it’ll be fine.”

Shay left the line, walking quickly to the front where disinterested employees were patting down patrons, checking for weapons before letting them in. They passed her through the gate quickly, leaving her in the stench-laden care of Benji the Ghoul, one of Ringmaster Lucretious’ creations.

“Mama says COME!” Benji cried in his high-pitched voice, taking Shay’s hand in a clawed grip, dragging her to the backstage area at a shockingly quick pace for something decades dead.

“My little Lintu-bird, there you are!” Lucretious cried out dramatically as Benji pulled Shay behind the ragged curtain hiding the backstage area from the patrons’ sight. She swept towards Shay, her dark purple robes glittering with sequins, metal chains, medallions, the accessories singing a jangling tune as she moved. Consternation painted her lavender face, her overdrawn red lips pouting, lengthy false eyelashes fluttering under heavy green eyeshadow. Lucretious pulled Shay into a comforting hug that smelled of spell components, musk, and incense, rather than the necromancer’s undead servants she employed to run her circus. “Darling, we’ve been looking for you everywhere since your mother vanished. Whatever happened to the shop? You’re not there anymore.”

“It’s been gone for years,” Shay muttered sullenly. She didn’t want to talk about the home that still haunted her dreams with memories of warmth and safety.

“Sorry to hear that, Lintu-bird.” Lucretious insisted on calling Shay the nickname she had given to Mama. It made Shay feel weird, like the name wasn’t Mama’s anymore. It was up for grabs, so it was Shay’s now, “and I’m sorrier still, because we have bad news.”

Lucretious snapped perfectly-manicured fingers and a skeleton in a clown’s garb shuffled forward holding a heartbreakingly familiar leather case. Shay froze, staring at the case, unable to look away even as her eyes filled with tears, causing the violin case to swim behind a wall of water.

“We sent Benji out to sniff around for your Mother,” Lucretious explained as Shay’s lip wobbled and she blinked ferociously. “He found this by the water, under Wyrm’s Rest.

“MURDER!” Benji shrieked helpfully in Shay’s ear. “Smells of sacrifice, regret and MURDER.”

“She’s gone, Lintu-bird.” Lucretious sighed, shooing Benji away with a jingle of bangles and chains adorning her purple arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Shay whispered. A wedding ring in her pocket, the only evidence she ever had parents at all. She had no home, no family, no future.

Shay grabbed the case from the skeleton.

She ran .

Blink.

“What in the hells?” the elf spat, dropping his dagger to clutch at his aching head.

Shay had a fleeting desire to grab the dagger, but another stinging flex of the tadpole in her mind caused her to grab at her own head. Behind her eye, the illithid tadpole thrashed in agony.

Blink 

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood so dry it was powder. It did nothing to assuage the hunger that gnawed at his insides like a thousand rats. He had been trapped for so long, his clothing was stiff with his own filth. Thankfully, he had long since gone nose blind to the stench of his own sweat. Everything was dark and close, he could hardly move. If he thought about the tiny space too hard, the panic would come again, the scrabbling at the heavy stone lid to the sarcophagus; the useless actions of a desperate man. Almost beyond his control, his ragged nails trailed along the lid of his enclosure, seeking a crack, a seam, anything to exploit. Anything to get out. He couldn’t stay in here, not another day, he couldn’t, he couldn’t he – no. Breathe. The panic won’t help.

With nothing to do, no way to distract himself from his thoughts or from the agony of the hunger, he found that his sense of loneliness was palpable. They were hardly a family, no matter what the Master insisted on, but he could still remember family. He thought he could. A soft touch on his shoulder, a sweet word. Someone had loved him, once, he must have experienced that. Surely he wasn’t conjuring memories up from some claustrophobic mania. Though, even if he was inventing a past for himself, he had seen families and love. Bards often performed as a family unit at the taverns the Master sent him to nightly. Families ate a meal together at the Elfsong, barmaids brought their younger siblings to find work at the Low Lantern. Family might be something he had never known personally, but he had seen enough to know the Master’s idea of it was wrong. Shit though his new ‘family’ was, they were better than nothing. The kennels were better than the endless echoes of his own cries that had been his only company for weeks.

“Please let me out,” He whispered through parchment-dry lips, “I won’t do it again. I promise.

Blink.

“Girl, I don’t know what them priests did, but I don’t think they healed your eye right. It’s the wrong colour! Didn’t you tell ‘em they’re both ‘posed to be blue?” Vadin Korsk laughed as Shay hauled bales of hay up to the loft of his barn.

“Teal. And it doesn’t see colour all that well either,” Shay grinned at the old man, the fresh scar bisecting her newly grey-coloured eye crinkling with her mirth as she came down the ladder to fetch another bale of hay. “But you get what you pay for and I’m flat broke.”

“Well, no need to see colour here, pigs all look the same anyway.” Vadin offered, fiddling with a heavy key and padlock set across a tall cabinet in one corner of the barn. He opened the cabinet with a squeal of rusted hinges, pulling out a well-oiled short sword and dagger. “Here, you should take these. Practise when you can. I heard from a Fist that there’s been goblins about lately. We should be ready.”

“I have the bow,” Shay protested.

“Bow’s no good up close and you know that.” Vadin argued. “It’s only for a couple weeks, ‘til Daisy farrows. The Gur usually come through just after the farrowing season, they use the old corn field through mid-winter. We’ll have extra eyes to watch, then.”

“Thank you for letting me stay, Vadin.” Shay took the weapons from the old farmer.

“Thank you for watching Daisy at night,” Vadin grinned, “I’m too old to be sleeping in the barn anymore.”

Blink

He stalked the dark, familiar streets of Baldur’s Gate, heading towards the Blushing Mermaid. He hadn’t been there in half a year, long enough to no longer be remembered, to not be tied to past events. A loose thread on his sleeve caught his eye as he passed under the flickering light of a lamp. He wished he wasn’t forced to wear the same clothes year after year. It was getting impossible to maintain, to repair the jacket and keep the embroidery from fraying. He was beginning to feel conspicuous, especially when the others had such similar clothing.

It wouldn’t matter to whatever drunken, lonely mark he found that night, but it mattered to him.

It was livery and he knew it. He hated it.

The Mermaid hadn’t changed. Same questionable smells from the kitchen, same old sailor behind the bar. Same wine that smelt of vinegar more than grape.

“You look familiar,” the barman grunted, serving him the glass of red wine he had ordered in a dented tin mug. “Seen that fancy coat before, I’m sure.”

Fucking Petras, he thought, knowing his sibling had been out and about recently.

“It’s in fashion, darling, surely you’ll be seeing this everywhere in a tenday,” He drawled with a wink, taking his mug and moving into the upper reaches of the bar where the sounds of music could be heard, violin and drums, playing over the roar of conversation.

Blink

Snort. Snuffle snuffle.

“Pek, you can’t come in the house with me!” Shay whispered to the piglet that had been following her everywhere. “You have to go back to the barn with your Mama.”

“What’s that?” Vadin called out from where he was chopping wood, “you named one?”

“Um,” Shay flushed in embarrassment, a mighty feat considering how dark her skin was. “This one is Pek. I know I’m not supposed to–”

“I guess Pek is yours, then.”

Shay’s heart filled so quickly joy spilled from her eyes. She dropped to the ground, scooping the little piglet into her arms. A soft snout pressed wet baby kisses into her neck.

“You hear that, Peki? You’re mine!”

A jingle of harness caught her attention. She look up to see a caravan of–

Blink

Gur. 

He was being sent to the Gur camp just outside of the city. The Master had framed it as an opportunity for revenge. It was the first time in almost two hundred years of the Gur coming and going that revenge was mentioned. Why now? He was the only one who might want revenge against the Gur, his other siblings hadn’t found their way into the family after a Gur attack, after all. Yet they were all being sent on this strange errand.

There must be something more to this. Something more than revenge for an attack two hundred years past. The Gur must have upset the Master in some way, it was his revenge they were being sent on, surely. To make it worse, Master was asking for children again and there was no getting out of it this time. They had explicit instructions to cause chaos and destruction at the Gur camp an hour's journey outside the city. To take their children.

There was no saying no, of course.

Perhaps he could think of it as a night off his usual duties. A break his body desperately needed even while his mind was tormented by new horrors. Causing a little chaos, getting his own revenge while he did the Master’s bidding, was worth not getting on his back for another night.

Blink

Shay would never know if it was the smell of smoke or the screams of the animals that woke her. All she knew was she was asleep one moment and the next she was throwing on her clothing, boots and cloak, setting the violin case safely in the snow, far from any fire, then running for the barn. The Gur camp beyond was a wash of hellish light, their wagons, brightly painted little homes on wheels, set ablaze. Dark forms ran everywhere, steel clashed, the farm was chaos.

The barn had caught fire, a spark from the Gur camp must have blown over and set the large building ablaze. She could hear the animals screaming in pain and panic. Shay ran to throw the barn doors open, to let everyone out to run for safety.

She tripped over something, a dark lump camouflaged by the darker night. Shay turned to see what she had fallen over just as something in the barn flared, blazing bright light into the cold winter’s night.

Vadin Korsk’s warm brown eyes stared at her through the glaze of death.

A wash of heat and shrieks of agony. There was no time to help Vadin, no time to mourn. Shay scrambled back to her feet, returned to her mission to save what could be saved. She threw open the doors and was almost trampled by Rose, Vadin’s old donkey. With thundering hooves, the animal ran off into the night. Pulling her shirt over her mouth to help her breathe, Shay ran into the burning barn, seeking out the pig pens. She burned her hands opening the stall door. Daisy rushed out, followed by her squealing litter. Shay counted as they ran past her. Almost all of them. Only missing–

Pek! Where was Pek!?

A plaintive wail came from the back of the pen, where a large plank of wood had fallen. Pek cowered behind the flames, an angry red burn on her pink flank. Shay dove into the small space under the plank, holding back a scream as the fire seared her back and shoulder. She reached towards Pek, grabbing hold of one tiny hoofed leg and pulling. Peg fought against her, but couldn't dig her hooves into the slick mud of the pig pen. Shay dragged the piglet towards her, then under the plank. She held Pek to her chest with the arm that had the least burns and left the barn.

As she fled through the wide barn doors, following the tracks in the muddy snow left by Rose and Daisy, she almost ran into a handsome, if pale, elf who held a squirming Gur child in his arms. Golden embroidery on his jacket glittered in the firelight as he fought to hold the child still. He looked as haunted and exhausted as she felt. Was he with the Gur? Had he come to–

The man bashed the hilt of a dagger across the child’s head, knocking them unconscious.

Shay quickly stepped back into the shadows, moving her hand over Pek’s snout to silence the piglet, praying the elf hadn’t noticed her. After a moment, he moved on with his gruesome prize and she was able to run into the snowy fields, scooping up the violin case, then fleeing into the winter-silent forest.

In the morning, she could return. Collect supplies and weapons. Maybe build a cairn for Vadin, beside the grave of his husband he had tended so well.

Blink.

Blink-blink.

Blink-blink-blink-blink.

She was him, he was her, their parasites coiled in agony both wanting and rejecting the connection. His memories were steeped in dark torment, waves of fear and agony trying to drown her with each connection. Her past spread out before her, memories embroidered with the golden thread on his jacket, with flashes of pale skin and red eyes in the night. After every encounter, sadness and loss. Someone didn’t return. It was all his fault, he had always been there, tearing away pieces of her.

Blink.

The connection severed, her tadpole quieting, seemingly asleep in her mind. She was on the ground beside the pale elf, laying half on top of her violin case, where they had fallen down in their struggle. His dagger lay on the dirt, as did her bow. There was no time to process what she had seen, what she had felt. Her memories, what she suspected had been his memories as well. A twisting tangle of minds she would have to unravel after she survived this moment. They rolled away from each other, getting to their feet and squaring off, he had managed to claim his dagger and held it ready. They both breathed heavily, as though they had sprinted for miles.

“What was that? What did you and those tentacled freaks do to me!?” the elf demanded through gritted teeth.

“They snatched me up too.” Shay spat, memory ebbing but not gone. She knew him, she knew this man and hated him to the depths of her soul. He had been everywhere, always near the people who disappeared, he had been talking to Mama, she remembered. He had destroyed her family, her life .

“Yes… Yes, I saw it. During… whatever that was.” his breathing calmed, his stance relaxed, though he did not sheathe his blade. She was no longer seen as a threat. If she had her dagger in hand, she would plunge it into his red eyes. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

“I would have done the same, were the roles reversed.” She still wanted to. Wanted to slit his pretty pale throat from ear to ear. But it seemed he hadn’t seen what she had seen, else he would be taking her for a threat. Her urge to attack him, to take revenge for more than a decade of pain, was strong but the desire to survive was stronger. He was the only survivor she had encountered; killing him would put her at a disadvantage. She would need help and it seemed he was her only option. 

“Ah, a kindred spirit,” he smirked, the bloodthirsty bastard. “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.

“Shay Lintu,” she wanted the words back the moment they left her mouth. Not that her name was famous, not even well-known. Perhaps some people in the Gate still remembered the Lintu’s – fine instruments, finer performers – but certainly not very many. Astarion didn’t react in the slightest, the name clearly meaning nothing to him. She felt relieved and aggravated all at once; he was the monster who had haunted her life and he didn’t know her, didn’t know what he had done to her. How dare he.

“A pleasure,” Astarion’s words drawled, his posture morphed from defensive to something presentational, perhaps intending to be attractive, or even seductive. He slipped his dagger back into the intricately tooled sheath at his hip. “So, do you know anything about these worms?”

“Yes, they’ll turn us into mind flayers.” May he turn first so she can see tentacles erupt from that perfect face.

“Turn us into…?” He burst into wry laughter. “Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect? Although, it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert – someone that can control these things – there might still be time.”

“We?” Shay asked, a little surprised he wanted an alliance. It was what she wanted – well, what she needed, she certainly didn’t want – and here he was assuming it was happening.

“I was ready to go this alone,” Astarion shrugged, “But maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea. And you seem like a useful person to know.”

Useful, indeed. The gods sure had a sense of humour.

Chapter Text

A rustling sound erupted from the tangle of undergrowth behind them, startling Shay into motion. As quickly and quietly as she could, Shay stepped away from the undergrowth, pulling Astarion with her by his fancy, puffed-up sleeve. She had been certain, after everything, that he had pointed towards the brush with nothing but the intention to lure her in. Though he was, she well knew, more dangerous than he appeared. Perhaps he actually had cornered an intellect devourer with nothing but a dagger.

“What are you doing?” Astarion demanded, roughly shaking off her grip, but continuing to follow along beside her. His eyes darted everywhere, his dagger back in his hand, ready to be used. His instincts there were at least good. Shay never took her eyes off the brush, she pulled her longbow off her back and nocked another arrow by feel and instinct alone.

“Did you really corner an intellect devourer?” Shay asked quietly over her shoulder, keeping her bow half drawn. The verdant greenery beside the fleshy polyp the Illithids had used as a storage chamber for their victims rustled again. A glance at the ground around them showed evidence of their scuffle, his footprints and hers, some squirrel tracks and the deeper tracks of a larger ungulate; something hoofed had moved through the area and into the brush fairly recently. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, she could make out no tracks that might belong to the clawed monstrosities that had run the Nautiloid for their squid-faced masters.

“Of course not,” he scoffed beside her, “I needed answers, not a fight with a monster.”

“We don’t always get what we need,” Shay murmured, noticing a pale flash of pinkish skin behind the bushes. A brain? “Something is there.”

“Well, shoot it already.” Astarion demanded imperiously, gesturing towards the brush with his dagger.

Shay shook her head. The man had no patience. He had clearly never learned the benefits of waiting, of taking the best shot when the moment presented itself. A pampered psychopath, descending from the Upper City to play with lives he probably didn’t even consider to be human. And she was stuck with him for the foreseeable future if she wanted to survive. Delightful.

A large boar burst from the brush, wild eyes unseeing in panic. Shay could hardly catch details of the animal, it was moving so quickly, drawing great clouds of dirt from the dry ground. Head lowered, tusks brandished, the boar charged around the pod, doing its best to avoid the burning embers glowing in the dirt. As the feral looking pig disappeared behind the pod, running full-tilt towards the river, Shay got a glimpse of a pink rump covered in an achingly familiar burn scar.

She gasped, tucking the arrow back into her quiver with shaking hands.

“Why the theatrics?” Astarion asked, relaxing as the boar fled, turning his dagger to clean under his perfect nails with the point. He rolled his eyes, “It’s just–”

His next words were drowned out in a piercing whistle. Shay had stuck two fingers in her mouth to produce the loud sound. Pitch perfect, she trilled through an arpeggio, the whistle going up, then back down. The crashing sounds of the pig fleeing ceased as Shay pulled her fingers from her mouth, smiling widely. She whispered a quick prayer to Mielikki, the Mistress of the Forest granting her prayers in a soft swirl of green light. Shay fell to her knees, arms open wide.

The sow returned, charging back towards them. She showed no signs of stopping, lowering her head and heading straight for Shay.

“What the fuck,” Astarion sputtered in surprise. He tried to pull Shay back to her feet, admirably trying to save her from the feral pigs charge. He had no idea she was perfectly fine. The sow bowled Shay over, tusks clacking gently against Shay’s head, soft snout snuffling into her neck.

“Pek!” Shay laughed, hugging the animal as best she could, considering Pek was easily thrice her size. “What are you doing here??”

“Tentacles in the air! Monsters sticking things in my eye!” Pek huffed, absolutely disgusted with the events of the past day, “I thought I was doomed to slaughter.”

“Oh, they got you too,” Shay sighed. “My poor Peki. I’m so glad I found you; we can both find a cure.”

“A cure for what?” Pek asked, confused, “We’re safe now. We should go home.”

“The things in our eyes are… babies.” Shay tried to explain in terms Pek would understand. “They’ll grow and turn us into monsters. We need to find healing before we can go home.”

“You can… speak with pigs?” Astarion asked, disbelieving. His expression was clear that he believed Shay to be insane more than he believed she could speak with animals. Which made sense, as all he could hear were Pek’s snorts and snuffles, then Shay responding as though Pek had spoken perfectly understandable common. Pek, finally calm enough to notice more than her friend, moved her bulk off Shay, placing herself between her friend and the pale elf. Sharp tusks glinted in the afternoon light. Pek moved her weight, planting herself quite deliberately, then staring unblinking at the pale elf. A threat held in the steadiness with which she regarded Astarion, the dark brown eyes in her pale, pig-pink face held a flat, uncaring expression. Pek would gore him to death in an instant and not feel a moment's hesitation or guilt.

“Who is he?” Pek asked, not taking her eyes off Astarion, “he smells wrong.”

Shay agreed there was something wrong with Astarion, but didn’t have the time to explain it to Pek, not in a way that Astarion wouldn’t overhear, anyway.

“Pek, this is Astarion,” Shay introduced her best friend in the world to the monster who had haunted her childhood, “Astarion, this is Pek. She’s my friend. It seems the Mind Flayers caught her too.”

“But... why?” Astarion asked, dumbfounded by the turn of events.

Shay shrugged. “Pigs are smarter than you think. Seems the Illithids know that.”

Pek turned from her appraisal of Astarion, dismissing him completely to ask Shay “Can we go now?” , blunt as always.

Shay got off the ground, dusting the dirt from her pants with her hands. She looked to the river, then back to the wreck of the Nautiloid, realising that the only path they had was back into the wreckage. She sighed, knowing neither of her companions would be enthusiastic about the idea of crawling back into the flaming wreckage of meat and metal that used to be an illithids plane-jumping aircraft. She sighed, already feeling long-suffering. It had been one hell of a day already. “We can go, I think–”

“Are we seriously travelling with a pig!?” Astarion cut Shay off to demand an answer to the obvious fact that, yes, they were travelling with a pig. “This is insanity, a filthy–”

Pek charged at Astarion. Three hundred pounds of growling, porcine rage thundered towards him, sharp tusks lowered and prepared to gore. He leapt out of the way with a yelp of surprise, barely managing to land on his feet. He turned to brandish his dagger at the feral sow, but Pek hadn’t been charging at him. Her charge continued towards a smoking hole in the nearby Nautilus, and the orange-eyed, tentacled monstrosity that had just emerged from the wreckage.

Shay scrambled to nock an arrow to her bow, needing to back Pek up in the fight, needing to protect her friend. Though, why bother? The Illithid was going to win. Its awesome might shone to the skies, nearly blinding Shay with its glory. Pek was doomed, they all were. Fighting was useless. Shay lowered her bow. Beside her, Astarion’s dagger slipped from his fingers to thunk to the dirt. They should kneel. The illithid deserved to be worshipped.

Pek’s charge ended with her tusks tearing into the Illithids guts. The monstrous creature launched metres into the air before falling to the ground with a wet splat. Pek followed with murderous focus, her eyes blind to all but the need to destroy the creature that had hurt her. Three-digit alien hands curling up to protect its bulbous head from Pek’s stomping attacks. It was no use, the soft body of the illithid squished like a rotten melon under Pek’s hooves. The illithid grew still, the demanding feeling to worship the creature vanished, but Pek still didn’t stop, stomping and goring the remains of the mind flayer, squealing her rage as she did so.

Shay shook her head, not needing to dispel anything, but feeling the urge to shake the touch of the illithid’s mind from her own. She scooped Astarion’s dagger from the ground and attempted to offer it back to him. He didn’t notice, staring in shock at Pek’s continued mutilation of the illithid corpse.

“Astarion?” Shay asked, waving the daggers hilt in his face. The elf roused with a shake, he snatched his dagger from her hand with a distrusting glare. She smiled sweetly at him. “Still not happy about travelling with a pig?”

“No, no.” He assured her, relaxing a modicum once his dagger was safely sheathed at his hip. “The pig is great. A blood-thirsty, monster-stomping pig. She’s darling, let’s keep her.”

*****

Shay had been right, no one had wanted to return to the wreckage of Nautiloid. Pek and Astarion had – unknowingly for him – echoed each other in their protests. Fire and danger awaited within the broken carapace of the downed ship. There was a good chance that they would encounter more intellect devourers, or worse, illithids. They had a point; a mind flayer had just emerged from that end of the wreckage and there could be more in there. Worse, Shay had noticed the mind flayer had left no tracks. The horrid thing floated through the air, meaning she couldn’t track its brethren, couldn’t ascertain their numbers. Returning to the Nautiloid was, quite possibly, suicide. Though with their only other option being swimming for it, weighed down by supplies, weapons, and armour, through the untrustworthy waters of the Chionthar, they really had no other option.

“Let the elf scout,” Pek suggested, “If he gets injured, nothing of value would be lost.”

Shay barely held back a chuckle. “It was my idea,” she told Pek, “and I have the bow. I should scout.”

“Should you?” Astarion asked, “If you come under their control, you’ll shoot us down before we know the difference.”

“And what will you do, if they get you?” Shay replied.

“Kill you, of course,” he smirked, sounding almost gleeful at the prospect of murdering her, “Which is why we should all go.”

He had a point and she hated that he was right.

“Alright, in we go, then.” Shay sighed, then added with a sweeping gesture and a slight bow, “after you.”

Astarion offered his arm in a courtly gesture, just as sarcastic as hers, “my friend, I couldn’t possibly go without you. Join me?”

Pek snorted loudly, then moved towards the crack in the ship’s carapace, putting an end to the question of who would go first. Shay hurried to catch up to her friend. Pek was terrible at spotting traps; she would need Shay at her side. She moved into the wreckage at Pek’s side, Astarion walking briskly to catch up.

Ducking inside the crack in the wrecked hull revealed that this portion of the Nautiloid was a large, circular room, littered with fallen bits of metal and sinewy flesh. There was no sign of intellect devourers, mind flayers, survivors or victims. The room was destroyed, bits of charred flesh fell from the ceiling like macabre snow, but otherwise, it was empty. On the far side, another laceration in the hull showed a path away from the wreckage. Shay could see greenery and sun-dappled forest. The vista was shockingly banal in comparison to the alien wreckage all around them.

Pek beelined for the forest, only stopping when Shay dropped a cautious hand to her bristled back.

“Wait,” Shay advised.

Pek snorted loudly, “you always say wait.”

“I’m always right about it,” Shay replied by rote. They had been through this before.

“Right about what?” Astarion asked at her other side, his voice sounding preoccupied as the bulk of his attention was on piercing every shadow of the wreckage, searching avidly for danger.

“About waiting.” Shay answered softly, drawing her bow. Not moving into the chamber straight away had paid off. She had spotted something.

Motion in the shadows under a large chunk of twisted metal had caught her eye. Silvery, alien blood puddled in the light, flowing from something trapped under the wreckage. The angry orange glow of Illithid eyes flashed from the darkness. Foreign feelings stirred within Shay, a brief sense of compassion, as though the illithid staring at her with burning hatred were an injured kitten in need of aid and comfort. The feeling of compassion was easily subsumed under her own rage and hatred. This is one of the things that had stolen her, stolen Pek and doomed them both with their horrid parasites.

Twin thunks sounded. The eyes vanished as each one was punctured by weapons discharged with unerring accuracy. The eyes were replaced by arrow and dagger, respectively, Astarion having thrown his dagger at the same moment Shay loosed her arrow.

Disgusting thing, she thought, happy to have put an end to its evil.

“Disgusting thing,” Astarion muttered, echoing her thoughts.

“I’m hungry.” Pek stated before resuming her trek towards the forest waiting for them beyond the wreckage. 

Shay shrugged and followed behind her friend, tearing her arrow from the illithid as she passed it. Astarion retrieved his own dagger in much the same way before catching up to them as they ducked through the ragged tear in the hull of the Nautiloid. The sparse forest that opened up before them was a welcome return to the normal wilds of Faerûn. The birds sang, the rodents chittered. Sunlight danced through leaves or baked exposed rocky outcroppings with heat. If the air wasn’t heavy with the metallic stench of burning Nautiloid, Shay could almost forget the nightmare that was behind her and inside her.

“Food!” Pek declared, rushing off down a twisting path shadowed by overhanging Nautiloid tentacles. Shay followed, unsurprised to find Pek standing among a small group of goblin bodies, each clearly a victim of the falling Nautiloid, twisted and broken in death. Pek tore an arm off a goblin corpse and set to feast on its foul flesh. Behind her, Astarion made a loud sound of disgust.

“They might have food or other supplies,” Shay told him, ignoring his revulsion at Pek’s eating habits, “We should search the bodies.”

“They are food,” He muttered while getting to work as Shay suggested. He quickly found a pack half full of travel rations and shouldered it before taking a rather basic short sword from another goblin and strapping its sheath around his hips. He held up a broken bow, looking rather dejected that the weapon was broken beyond all repair.

“They’re only food if you’re into that sort of thing,” Shay nodded at Pek with a grin before replenishing her own quiver from a goblin’s collection of warped arrows. They would hardly fly true but she had no time or supplies to fletch her own arrows; they would have to do. “For us, I think a different menu might be in order.”

Astarion hardly seemed excited by the prospect of goblin fare, but Shay could understand that. The filthy little creatures weren’t known for their cuisine. They’d be lucky to find anything not too far along in a state of decomposition. They couldn’t afford to be picky about food, not as bereft of gold and supplies as they were. Anything to keep moving another day was worth it.

“What’s that?” Pek asked, her voice sounding as grotesque as only a pig speaking around a mouthful of goblin arm could. Shay turned from her task of searching a corpse to see Pek nodding farther up the trail to a swirling storm of purple-blue light set against a steep rock face.

“Do you know anything about magic?” Shay asked Astarion, drawing him away from his looting. He stood beside her, making her feel uneasy at his proximity, to regard the strange light.

“I know not to trust it,” he replied after a moment’s thought, his voice distant as if he were thinking of something else. “Magic always seems to offer easy answers that are too good to be true. And if something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“Then we give it a wide berth,” Shay nodded, accepting the wisdom in Astarion’s words, if not being overly happy that said wisdom came from him. Mielikki granted small boons, but preferred her people to be self-sufficient. Not like a wizard, who lived and breathed magic, their only ambition to have more and more, and then still more. Beyond the swirl of purple magic, Shay spotted a brick wall rising into the sky. A building of some sort. “Do you see that? A building means people. A healer, perhaps.”

“Do you have anything to trade for healing that isn’t pork?” Astarion asked snidely, “I didn’t have time to grab my purse before I was taken, did you?”

Damn him, the asshole was right but he didn’t have to say it that way. The very idea of trading Pek for slaughter set Shay’s teeth clenching, her eyes narrowing in anger at the pale menace before her. Without taking her eyes off the elf, she called out. “Peki, love, could you stay here while we see if there is healing to be found at that building over there?”

In answer, Pek tore a leg from a goblin and flopped on the ground to languidly chew on it. Pek was no longer hungry, but that wouldn’t stop her from eating. She grunted happily in satisfaction while she gnawed on the goblin’s green skin.

“We should check it out, but I don’t want to walk into an armed encampment or something,” Shay began explaining in a low voice to Astarion as the two made their careful way around the magic swirl. “Can you be silent?”

“Can I–?!” Astarion was so shocked at her question, as though it were the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. In the face of her insanity, words failed him.

“Can you?” Shay repeated flatly.

“Can you?” He finally replied, tossing his head in a display of arrogance, “Just try to keep up, darling.”

He vanished into the shadowed forest.

Shay rolled her eyes before assessing the shadows around her and picking what she felt was the best one. She slid into it, attempting to hide herself from sight but, of course, the shadow was already occupied. She glared at Astarion, then made a shooing gesture, sweeping her fingers in the universal gesture for move along. He scoffed quietly, but complied. Together, they slipped through the forest, unseen and unheard, each trying to lose the other in what grew to be a strangely friendly competition as they moved from shadow to shadow.

The closer they got to the building, the more it revealed itself to be ancient and in considerable disrepair. A ruined temple, mouldering under the weight of time and overgrown vines. Disappointment surged through Shay; this place was long abandoned, a ruined monument to a forgotten god. No healing would be found here. She was about to suggest to Astarion that they return to Pek when voices raised in anger echoed from within the temple walls. At once, Shay ducked low to the ground, cocking her head as she focused on tangling the echoes apart from each other in her mind, trying to figure out how many voices were speaking and what about. At her side, Astarion was echoing her, acting on instinct as she was. It annoyed her how synchronised they were. She shouldn’t have so much in common with a monster.

“Raiders,” he whispered close to her ear. She could make out voices but not what they were saying, it seemed elf ears could hear more, “They’re looting the temple, but argue about looting the Nautiloid as well.”

“I did find some gold,” Shay replied, dejected that they would not find healing in the temple, but at least they could come out of this with something, “We could buy supplies from them?”

“I could,” Astarion shook his head with a smirk, “You look like a hermit that just crawled out from under a rock. They’ll laugh you out of the courtyard.”

“Fuck off,” Shay ground out, “if it’s so important, why don’t you trade for a comb?”

“A delightful idea!” he replied with a bright smile. She made a rude gesture at him. He winked, moved to leave the shadows, then hesitated, his face falling into something approaching vulnerability. He took a deep breath, as though bracing himself for something, then turned his wine-red eyes to stare deeply into hers. Shay felt caught by his gaze, a fly in a spider's web. Astarion seemed almost ready to flinch away from her at his next words, “watch my back?”

He asked like he knew the answer was no. Or that the answer might be yes, but reality would prove it a lie all along. They were together for survival, but it seemed he felt no safer than if he were alone. A strange thought.

She wasn’t sure how reassuring she could be when it came to someone she was half convinced would sell her out at a moment’s notice. He could very well join the raiders, sending them after herself and Pek. Trust was very thin between them. Still, he was her best chance at survival; people would be more likely to help a beautiful elf with a charming smile than whatever fuzzy wreck she appeared to be at the moment. Shay nocked an arrow to her bow and tried to give a reassuring smile. She nodded to a crack in the temple wall hidden by tangling vines and thorny brush. “Give me a slow count of one hundred to get into position. I’ll have your back.” 

Mielikki, don’t let this be a mistake.

“Really?” Astarion seemed surprised. A genuine smile bloomed on his face, enhancing his pale beauty. The shadows made his teeth look sharp. “Then let’s get you that comb.”

Shay crept into position, careful to avoid the grasp of tangling vines. On the way, she took note of the tracks in the sandy dirt around the temple walls. Marks in the ground suggested the raiding party was eight to ten individuals, some humanoid, others smaller. Gnomes or halflings. No tracks held the heavy, iron-studded mark of dwarven boots. Shay considered what such a party might look like. Fighters, probably magic users. No clerics, she couldn't imagine someone of faith desecrating a temple. Their best hope was to get supplies, hopefully be pointed in the right direction, and leave the raiders to their work. She settled into position as the count she kept in her mind reached one-hundred.

Astarion strode into the courtyard, circling a statue whose name and face was lost to the blasting winds of time. He ambled along with an unconcerned confidence, the casual swing of his arms belying how they brushed the hilts of his weapons with each swing. His entrance caught the attention of a gnome and a half elf arguing under a roughly built crane. The crane held a large granite block suspended in the air, cracks in the block and cracks in the ground suggesting they had been trying to smash through the courtyard into whatever complex lay below the flagstones. 

Shay didn’t listen to whatever Astarion was saying to the pair at the crane, focused on how they moved, on where their eyes looked. The gnome was focused on Astarion, he seemed angry and possessive. The half-elf’s eyes darted around the courtyard twice. Shay guessed there were two more raiders the half-elf could see that she could not. The rest of the group must be through the hole in the ground and exploring.

Shouting brought Shay’s attention back to Astarion and the conversation he was having with the gnome, presumably the leader of the raiders. The small fellow was shouting with such anger, his tanned face was growing purple as his stubby fingers pointed towards the smoking Nautiloid. Astarion had taken a step back, his unarmed hands open wide to show the gnome he was no threat. The half-elf reached for his sword.

Before the half-elf could draw his weapon, Shay shot at the hemp ropes holding the granite block above the two men. A dart of fire flew through the air at the same moment her arrow flew, forcing Astarion to leap backwards or be charred. The arrow severed the rope, dropping the granite block onto the gnome and his stab-happy companion. The block, gnome and half-elf crashed into the temple complex below, leaving nothing behind but a smear of blood on the sun bleached flagstones of the courtyard.

“Gimblebock!” a voice shouted in shock and surprise. A green arrow streaked through the courtyard towards Astarion. It landed a foot in front of him, but exploded into a puddle of burning green acid. He hissed in pain as the splash of liquid burned into his perfect pale skin. Shay thought of the scar bisecting her own face in a ragged line, and grudgingly hoped Astarion came out of this encounter equally marked.

In reply to the acid arrow, Astarion growled a word of power, a flame dart of his own erupting from his hands to hit whomever the archer was. Shay assumed his strike was true, when a grunt of pain and the scent of charred flesh hit the air. Three glowing red balls flew around the statue, to bury themselves in Shay’s shoulder, knocking her to her knees, as though she had been punched hard, thrice. As she struggled to catch her breath, Shay caught Astarion’s blood-red gaze across the courtyard. He looked angry …then he vanished into the shadows of the ruins.

Abandoned when it mattered most. In her heart, she wasn’t surprised. Still, Shay cursed herself for a fool. Her position had been discovered, the tangling vines behind her wouldn’t allow for a quick or easy escape and a mage had her in their sights. She wished she had brought Pek, rather than this backstabbing asshole.

A small, dirty face peaked over a broken wall. Shay took a shot, but the goblin-made arrow flew wide. The face ducked out of sight again. The red bolts returned, ploughing into Shay with unerring accuracy. She found herself on the ground, tangled in vines and gasping for air. Her chest felt as though an ogre had punched the very breath from her lungs. A cough lanced agony through her ribs, blood sprayed from her mouth to paint the dirt red.

“We know you’re there,” a cultured, feminine voice called out. A figure in emerald green robes appeared, standing on a crate near the top of the crane. The sun caught her warm brown hair, making her seem to glow with power. “This is our claim. Leave now or we’ll–”

The tip of a short sword bloomed from the woman’s chest. Her voice cut off in a bloody gurgle. She fell to the ground, revealing a smirking Astarion behind her. He wrenched his sword from her back, then threw a wink at Shay.

At least she thought it was a wink. Everything was rather blurry.

The dirty face of a rock gnome appeared again, on the other side of the courtyard from where Astarion stood as a pale, glowing beacon in the sunlight. This time, the gnome’s attention wasn’t on Shay, he had another green arrow nocked, taking aim at the beautiful target Astarion had made of himself.

Shay reached for another arrow, struggling against the darkness closing in around her vision. She shot, but didn’t see where her arrow landed, before pain dragged her into unconsciousness.

“Gods, the scent.” Astarion’s muttered words, almost in her ear, brought her closer to consciousness. Breathing was easier, though Shay was certain her ribs were cracked from the mage’s assault. She could taste blood, she must have split her lip at some point. “Up you get.”

Cool hands pulled at her arms, forcing her into a sitting position. A glass bottle against her lips, then her mouth was full of the citrus and pine taste of balsam. She recognized a healing potion and swallowed it gratefully. Her head cleared as her body healed. She blinked her eyes open, surprised to find Astarion holding her in a sitting position, a now-empty potion bottle in his pale hand.

“You stayed.” Shay observed in surprise.

“You had my back.” Astarion replied, echoing her surprised tone in a way that seemed genuine. They stared at each other for a moment, each surprised. He shook himself from the moment first, “Come on, there are more of them about and we’re not fit for another fight. Let’s take what we can and go.”

Astarion pulled Shay to her feet, then the two set to quickly take what supplies they could, keeping half an eye on the bloodied hole in the flagstones and the warped, iron-banded wooden door at the courtyard’s far end. They found rope, bedrolls, tents and sacks of food, as well as a few acid arrows and a handful of gold. It was enough to keep them warm, dry and fed for at least a few days. From a gnome-sized backpack, Astarion pulled out a wooden comb, holding it aloft with no comment but a single, raised eyebrow.

Shay made a rude gesture at him, but couldn’t hold back a grin.

*****

By full dark, Shay found herself in a strangely domestic little camp. Pek, stomach full of a very questionable meal, was pressed against a fallen log, snoring away into the night. Shay and Astarion sat on the other side of the log, poking at a campfire. Shay had made a small meal for them both, vegetables and sausage, not surprised to discover the pampered pretty boy she was travelling with hardly knew one end of a spoon from the other. Astarion was pushing his meal around on its tin plate, staring unseeing into the fire.

“Not hungry?” Shay asked, having cleaned her plate almost immediately. She knew what hunger felt like and would never feel it again, if she could help it.

“I suppose not,” Astarion sighed. “So… we’re resting here? Turning in for the night?”

“I’m sure you’re used to better,” Shay rolled her eyes, “But this is what we have. It’ll do.”

“It’s… all a little new to me, I admit.” Astarion sounded confused, but also introspective, “The night normally means bustling streets, bursting taverns. Curling up in the dirt and resting is… a little novel.”

Domesticity popped like a soap bubble. His mention of bursting taverns, of the night life he was used to haunting back in the Gate, set Shay’s teeth on edge. Their amusing games of stealth earlier, having his back in a fight, it all felt like a betrayal. She reached down to the ever present violin case, pulling out the instrument and carefully tuning it. She needed the distraction or she might ruin everything by stabbing him to death. The tussle at the temple had proved that she wasn’t up to surviving on her own just yet. She still needed him, monster though he was.

Shay began to play. Leaning into the instrument, cradling it like a lover as she drew the bow across the strings. One of the Gate’s more popular love ballads flowed from her hands, floating through the air in a delicate dance of melody and counterpoint. When the song was over, she lowered the violin, blinking away tears. Mama had loved that song.

“I had no idea I was travelling with a Bard.” Astarion murmured, seeming to understand the reverence of the moment and doing his best not to break it.

“No, my parents were.” Shay replied. Astarion opened his mouth to ask something else but Shay wasn’t having it. She cut him off before he could ask anything else, stuffing the violin back in its case and standing up abruptly. “We need to be up early tomorrow. Let’s get some rest.”

“I’ll be awake awhile,” He smiled, soft and open, not to be trusted, “I need some time to think, to… process this. You rest, I’ll keep watch.”

“Thank you,” Shay forced the niceties out, inwardly swearing to stay up all night. “I’ll sleep better for that.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” He rumbled in a pleasing tone. She found herself wondering what his singing voice would sound like, before quashing the curiosity. “Sweet dreams.”

Shay threw herself into her tent, tucking her dagger under the pack she used as a pillow, intending to keep one eye on the tent flaps the entire night. He wasn’t going to catch her unaware.

Sleep found her anyway.

Chapter Text

A gloriously warm late-Mirtul morning dawned on a very surprised Shay Lintu. 

That she had made it through the night alive came as a double shock. Her face was surprisingly free of tentacles and her back – literal and metaphorical – was free of any stabbing from her untrustworthy companion. At some point during the night, Pek had shoved her rump inside Shay’s tent, the canvas walls lifting up around her scarred, bristling haunches, delicate cloven hooves almost touching Shay’s bedroll. Her friend snored away into the gentle birdsong of the dawn, a noise Shay had become accustomed to sleeping with.

Had Pek protected them from Astarion?

The idea was sound, at first. Shay was certain she had only survived the night under Pek’s watchful eye. She performed her morning rituals, thanking Mielikki for surviving another day, casting Speak with Animals so she could communicate with Pek. Finally, Shay reached into her pack for the wooden comb Astarion had found for her, then rethought her position as she drew the comb slowly through the tangle of knots and filth that her hair had become. Pek wasn’t the sort to guard, not like a dog would. If there was a problem, Pek would deal with it, of course… but Shay hadn’t found a moment to explain to Pek that Astarion was the reason Pek and Shay had met at all, he was the reason for the burns that roped scars along both their bodies. He may even be the reason for Shay’s scarred face and grey eye, though that memory was hazy. His fancy jacket had been there, she was certain. She didn’t remember his pale beauty in the alley, just fear and confusion. Though surely no one would forget a face like that.

The beauty of evil, Shay thought to herself ruefully, a tale as old as time.

No, Pek would trust Astarion because Shay had vouched for the man.

Which meant they had survived the night because he simply hadn’t done anything to them – a thought that was both relieving and upsetting. She wanted to survive, of course, and for that they needed allies. Astarion was the only ally she had found, thus far, tied to Shay and Pek by their shared circumstances. She needed to trust him not to not murder them in the dead of night. However, her need for Astarion to behave as her ally warred with her desire for him to show himself as the monster of her nightmares. He was a monster, damn it, not a… a… person.  

Monsters were so easy to hate. People, less so.

Shay patted Pek on the rump. “Time to get up!”

“Food?” Pek grunted as she heaved her bulk to her feet.

“The sleeping beauties have awakened,” Astarion’s upper city voice called out as Pek stomped her way free of the tent. Shay herself ducked out on the hooves of her friend to find Astarion regarding her with lips pursed in disappointment as he stood before the glowing remains of a fire. “Oh dear, perhaps ‘beauty’ applies to only one of you. Getting you a comb didn’t improve a thing. Well, at least there’s no tentacles. Pek, my love, I have breakfast for you!”

Astarion proceeded to ignore Shay’s insulted glare to hand-feed bruised fruit, the remains of their dinner and a few pear cores to Pek. A plate of sliced fruit with a stale heel of bread waited on the log where they had shared a meal the night before. Shay observed the scene through sleep-bleary eyes, wondering if she was still dreaming.

“Food, food, food.” Pek grunted, happily stuffing her snout with every piece of scrap Astarion offered. Her entire body wiggled with joy, dainty hooves doing a little tippy-tap dance while she crunched a pear.

“Are you trying to steal my friend?” Shay asked the elf, sitting down on the log then blinking in surprise when he handed her the plate of food.

“Of course,” his eyes sparkled red in the morning light as he winked at her. It was too early for this. “Who wouldn’t want the loyalty of our best fighter?”

“… you made breakfast.” Shay settled on dumb observations.

“You’re eloquent first thing in the morning,” Astarion observed, not taking his attention from Pek, “I’ve been up for hours, darling, I got bored .”

From the way he spat the word, boredom was clearly one of the worst things that could ever happen to the man. Shay decided her brain, and its tenant, needed food to function better. She didn’t reply to Astarion, choosing instead to eat the fruit and bread he had prepared. Only when the meal was complete, Pek wandering off to snuffle around the clearing, and they were striking camp did Shay resume talking to the pointy-eared menace.

“Why were you up so early?” she asked while dismantling her tent, “You went to bed late as well.”

“Not familiar with elves, I see.” he smirked, eyes glowing with mirth in the early dawn light. It seemed that nothing could deflate his mood that morning. Shay still wanted to try.

“About as familiar as you are with tents.”

“Not at all?” his smile widened, Shay’s attempt at an insult having no effect, “Then be a dear and help me while I explain.”

Shay began work dismantling Astarion’s tent, quickly finding herself working alone. She turned to find him basking in a spot of sunlight, like a pale cat. She frowned. “Hey! Helping doesn’t mean I do everything!”

Astarion heaved a sigh dripping with reproach, then joined her at his own tent, following her directions to pack up his things.

“Are you going to explain about the elf thing?” Shay prompted when they were almost finished.

“Hm? Oh, yes.” he answered with the air of someone who had clearly forgotten all about the subject, “We don’t sleep like you humans. Elves trance to get their rest and it only takes four hours or so.”

Shay was intrigued. To not sleep, to not enter the dream realm and experience all the weird wonders therein, how did that work? Did elves have their own dream realm? A song began stitching itself together in the back of her mind. She tamped down the urge to ask every question in her fuzzy head, admonishing herself; no one wants your music, Lintu. 

“Guess you’re on night watch going forward.” she forced out around the questions hovering in the back of her mind. His answering grin was… sharp.

“Yes, darling, I suppose I am.”

*****

The morning passed by uneventfully.

Astarion deferred to Shay’s woodcraft, seeming happy to trail after her while she sought a path through the forest to civilization and healing. They journeyed north, following a strange bend in the usually western-flowing Chionthar. Shay kept them close to the river, though not following at its edge, the sandy beach they had crash-landed on quickly grew rocky and steep as the land rose into foothills. Low mountains rose in the distance to the West. If civilization was to be found within the passes to the west, they would need more supplies to survive the journey.

Shay wracked her brain, trying to remember what little she knew of the geography of the Sword Coast to figure out where they could possibly be. Nothing made sense; the Chionthar flowed east and west through hills and low mountains before arriving at Baldur’s Gate. It only turned its flow south in the eastern reaches of Elturgard and that land was flat plains or sparse forest. Though, having lived at the edge of the Cloakwood for the past five years, what did she know of geography? She hadn’t seen a map in years.

“What is that?” Astarion broke the silence, pointing a well-manicured hand towards the river, down a sharp incline to their right.

Shay’s eyes followed the point of his pale finger. Something pale bobbed in the water's edge. Wide and flat and…

“A boat!” Shay gasped. A river-worthy boat could get them to Baldur’s gate and healing. The path to the boat was precipitous, not worth risking Pek for if the boat turned out to be unusable. They would have to scout first, then come back for the pig. Shay turned to her dear friend, ignoring Astarion, “Pek, we need to see if the boat can take us. Stay up here?”

“Lay snares first. I smell rabbit.” Pek replied, thinking with her stomach.

“A good idea, my friend.” she replied, making a small stash of their things to free her body for its work. They would be coming up from the water either way; setting snares for game was a good idea. A rabbit or two would be a useful addition to their sparse larder.

“What is?” Astarion prompted, unable to understand Pek. He placed his pack on the ground alongside hers.

“She said we should lay snares for rabbits before climbing down to the water.” Shay explained, digging in her pack for rope.

“Fresh rabbit for dinner,” Astarion mused before announcing merrily, “I was right, you are useful.”

“You could help, you know.” she rejoined, rolling her eyes. His well-cultivated tones and general inexperience with life in the wilds made her feel like his servant.

“But I can’t,” he replied with a lighthearted shrug. He seemed perfectly happy with his incompetence, “I have no idea how to do any of that. I can watch, though. Perhaps I’ll learn something.”

“I lay the traps, you check them when we come back up.” she offered as a compromise.

“Agreed, darling.”

Shay dragged Astarion into the underbrush, seeking evidence of rabbits to lay her snares nearest to where they lived. She looked for tracks, game trails or scat, anything to reveal where rabbits had been and, thus, where they might be. Once she had found a good place to lay her snares, she explained her methods to Astarion as she worked. Pointed out the tracks in the dirt, the little pile of pellets under a berry bush that had been picked clean. He even seemed to listen, paying close attention to where she hid the snares. Dinner — hopefully — in the works, they moved back to the sheer ravine and the boat bobbing gently in the water below.

“How are we going to get Pek down there?” Astarion said, leaning over a particularly vertical rock face seeking to find a safe path to climb.

“Patience, Astarion. One thing at a time,” Shay advised, not willing to admit she honestly didn’t know while throwing her leg over the edge of the rock, seeking toe holds with a boot. If the boat truly was functional, they would probably spend the rest of the morning getting Pek down the ravine or perhaps splitting up to meet back at the Nautiloid ruins was a better idea. It would add hours to their day, but patience always paid off. Investing their time today could result in their being healed tomorrow.

The climb down to the water was fast and easy, both Shay and Astarion dexterous enough to climb the rock face as a squirrel would a tree. The last half of the climb became something of a race as they tried to outdo each other. Shay found herself sharing a grin with her pale companion, they reached the water so close to one another that declaring a winner would be impossible. Sadly, the joy of the climb was the only joy to be found. The boat was pinned to the sandy shore by a jagged piece of metal trailing pink, tendinous fibres metres into the water. There was no way to repair the hole the Nautiloid debris had left in the hull.

“Fuck.” Shay breathed, her entire body drooping with the weight of crushed hope. Her eyes tingled with the threat of tears. She had managed to keep positive all morning, moving forward with direction and purpose, certain healing was nearby. Yet another failed attempt at finding a cure, first the derelict temple and now another path to Baldur’s Gate stymied, crushed her spirit.

Astarion, carefully keeping his feet on dry land, leaned into the boat to pluck out a bucket full of fish. “Dinner for Pek, at least.” he observed brightly, his pale countenance glowing angelically in the sunlight. Astarion turned back to find Shay staring listlessly at the boat, he paused to contemplate her, head cocked, the bucket dangling from his fingers. “You need to be cheered up, don’t you?”

He didn’t sound capable of providing cheers. Annoyance, perhaps. Certainly the brief satisfaction of revenge if she really wanted to give up and put an arrow through his eye.

Gods, they were doomed. 

Shay continued staring at the wreck that used to be a boat. She ignored Astarion.

He huffed an annoyed sigh, then cast his eyes around the small beach where they stood at the bottom of the ravine, searching around. Something caught his attention a few metres upstream. He pointed, “Drag marks in the sand up there.”

“So?” Shay didn’t care anymore.

“So, it’s a beautiful, sunny day, we’re alive and there’s something to investigate.” he walked off without her, moving towards a shadowed cave at the end of the beach, calling back over his shoulder, “let’s have some fun.”

Fun.

Shay poked at the word in her mind. There hadn’t been much fun in… she couldn’t remember how long. Perhaps – ugh – he was right. Life may be much shorter than she could wish for, but that had been true for years. There was little difference between an early death by a goblin arrow, or an early death by an illithid parasite. She may as well enjoy what she could.

“Well?” his fancy accent floated down the water from farther up the beach. Shay shrugged, giving in to the idea of fun, jogging through the sun-warmed sand to catch up.

Astarion had found a shallow cave in the steep rock walls hugging the edge of the Chionthar. He was right, the sand was scraped away near a large, grey rock that stood out from the rest of the cave. It didn’t belong there.

“You’ll have to actually help me this time,” Shay stated, eyeing the rock. “It needs to move, but I think it’s a two person job.”

“Yes, fine.” Astarion put the bucket of fish down, joining Shay at the rock. Together, pushing and heaving, they moved the grey rock, revealing a small hole containing a steal-bound chest. An excited grin came onto his face as they beheld the chest. He gleefully announced “Treasure!” 

Astarion immediately had a set of tools out to fiddle with the heavy lock that held the chest closed. Shay wondered what he had done in the city for work, dressed in noble finery but ready to pick a lock in an instant. Confusing memories from the day before, when their minds had connected, assailed her. He hated his clothing, she recalled. But why?

A rolled up scroll of lambskin smacked her in the chest, startling her from her thoughts. Acting on instinct, her hands darted up to hold the scroll to her chest. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” Astarion hadn’t turned around, preferring to dig through the chest, throwing things over his shoulder, “Read it.”

Shay unrolled the scroll, noticing Astarion inspecting a sparkling ruby from the corner of her eyes as she did. The scroll held many pages, ragged and aged, some lamb, others parchment. A tattered collection of reports, most marked with a moon-and-harp seal in blue wax. The reports held frequent mentions of sacrilegious activity among a local Selûnite sect. Finally, Shay found a torn map in the reports. A little harp marked an area called Moonrise Towers in one corner, in the other, near what looked very much like the bend in the Chionthar they stood beside, a second harp marked in more recent ink, scrawled the word cache.

“It’s a Harper cache,” Shay remarked, recognizing the harp symbol of the infamous association of meddlers and do-gooders. She wasn’t fond of those who harped; she had done more for Faerûn killing goblin raiders with Pek than the harpers who always seemed to declare themselves the heroes after others had cleaned up their mess. “I think this is a map of where we are. There’s another cache to the northwest and, perhaps, a druid grove? Or maybe it’s just a stain, I’m not certain.”

“Let me see,” Astarion snatched the map from her hand, replacing it with a potion bottle that seemed to vibrate in her hands. A potion of speed, she surmised, recognizing the vibrations. She often traded potion ingredients with an apothecary at the Friendly Arm, taking payment in healing potions and the occasional potion of speed. If she remembered correctly, the key ingredient for speed was gnoll ears. Sometimes potions were more valuable than the bounty in silver she could get on the ears.

Astarion strode from the cave into the sunlight, examining the map after pausing a moment to heave a great sigh of satisfaction in the warmth of the sun. “You’re right, I think that’s a druid grove.”

“It’s no temple of Ilmater,” Shay said, joining him in the sun at the water's edge to peer at the map, “But Silvanus’s people can be good healers.”

Astarion didn’t reply.

“We should head towards the grove,” Shay tried again.

Still nothing.

Astarion had his face turned to the sun, a small smile of genuine delight gracing his lips.

Frustrated with being continually ignored in favour of a beam of light, Shay shoved Astarion into the water. He shouted in surprise and terror, far more dramatic than a little water warranted, losing the harper reports and the map to the flow of the Chionthar as his hands and knees plunged into the cold water. He paused, frozen in what seemed like shock, then slowly got to his feet, turning around to regard her with a predatory glare ruined by a bit of leaf caught in his wet hair and a truly joyous smile stretching his mouth wide.

“You left your violin with Pek?” Astarion asked quietly, surprising Shay. She expected a deluge of curses.

“...Yes?”

It was all the confirmation he needed. He began stalking towards her with the grace of a hunting cat, unheading of the water dripping down his body as he focused his entire being on her. Shay took off running, trying to climb the steep rocks of the ravine up to Pek and safety, but his wiry arms, shockingly strong, banded around her middle before she could climb more than a metre. In an echo to their meeting the day before, he again held her tightly, but this time there was no threat in it. Shay kicked and screamed, as she was lifted into the air, all to no avail as Astarion carried her to the icy waters of the Chionthar. He took her deeper into the water, throwing her, full bodied, into the blue depths.

As the water closed over her head, the chill shocking her body, she had no regrets.

*****

Shay did her best to ignore the dripping elf climbing beside her, but the third time he snickered broke her patience.

“What?!” she demanded, pausing her climb to round on Astarion as best she could while clinging precariously to a rock face.

“Your hair!” he giggled.

She reached towards him slowly, certain his instinct would be to back away and he proved her right, before mastering himself and allowing her hand on his head. She plucked a leaf from his wet pale-grey curls, holding it up before his face with a grin.

“You should see your hair.” she smirked.

Astarion resumed climbing, calling down to her “I’ll need my comb back tonight.”

“ Your comb?!” Shay sputtered, climbing fast to catch up. She crested the top of the ravine just a few feet behind him, but he was already cozying up to Pek, offering her the bucket of fish and praising her for keeping watch.

“He’s nice,” Pek announced over a mouthful of trout. “Still smells wrong, but I like him. We should keep him, Shay.”

The idea of keeping their new pet elf had Shay smirking. She began peeling off her wet leathers, setting everything on the edge of the ravine to dry in the sun. Astarion, recognizing a good idea when he saw one, joined her.

“What did she say?” he asked, fighting to pull his arm out of a clinging, wet sleeve. The action caused his shirt to rise up, giving Shay a glimpse of a rather impressive physique, seemingly carved from white marble. Once free of the fancy, gold-embroidered jacket, the shirt returned to hiding everything from her sight. Mostly. It clung to his body, wet patches still teasing the existence of what she had seen. The tease was almost worse than the full sight.

Oh. She thought, dumbly.

“Well?” Astarion prompted, pouring water from his boot.

Shay shook herself out of the strange path her thoughts had suddenly taken. She blamed the worm in her brain, not willing to examine the thoughts any farther. “Pek wants to keep you.”

“Of course she does,” his smirk was damnably handsome, “I’m amazing.”

“Be amazing and check the snares,” Shay rejoined, wanting him away for many reasons. To stop her mind from its new lascivious turn, to have a moment of privacy to change into dry clothes. She usually wouldn’t care, modesty wasn’t something one learned living alone in a forest with animals, but a peek at his pale perfection had her feeling every inch of the thick burn scars along her back and arms. She didn’t want them to be seen, especially by him.

A look of hunger crossed his face before he nodded and disappeared into the forest. Shay supposed she was hungry too. She quickly changed her shirt, then set about building a small fire. Finally, she constructed a rack from fallen branches, laying her wet shirt on it as close to the fire as she dared.

Astarion returned from the forest, looking quite pleased, the snares in his hands dangling two brown rabbits by their necks. One rabbit had a splash of crimson on its flank. An answering splash dripped from the corner of Astarion’s mouth.

“Did it put up a fight?” Shay asked as she took the rabbits from his hands, laying them on a nearby rock to prepare them for the flames.

“Hm?” Astarion pulled his wet shirt fully off, setting it to dry beside her own. He made no effort to find another shirt to change into. Shay clapped her eyes on the rabbits before her. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look…

“Your face,” she explained, skinning the animals with her dagger, “bit of blood.”

Silence stretched between them. Astarion finally rifled through his pack for a spare shirt, breaking the moment. “I bit the inside of my cheek when someone pushed me into the river.” He explained, his voice muffled as he pulled his dry shirt over his head. When Shay glanced at him from the corner of her eye as she worked, the blood on his face was gone.

Soon, the scent of roasting rabbits floated through the air alongside the comforting smell of woodsmoke. The scents of food and warmth comforted Shay; she had experienced neither enough times that the promise of a full belly and a warm body was a balm to her spirits. Their prospects seemed brighter as she pulled crispy meat from a skewer.

Suddenly, Astarion stood, a frown on his face. “I think I left…” he looked over the ravine, trying to spot something on the beach below.

“Dropped something?” Shay asked, offering him a plate. “We can go back–”

“No, I’ll go look now. Don’t want to be without my dagger. I can eat on the way down.” he picked up a leg from the plate before striding off to the edge of the ravine. Astarion disappeared over the edge, climbing down to the water once more. Shay only had a moment to appreciate the quiet stillness of his absence before his mocking voice floated up from the ravine, “And I don’t trust you around water!”

Pek, the traitor, grunted a laugh.

For the first time since finding each other, Pek and Shay were alone. Shay’s first instinct was to tell Pek everything; her belief that Astarion was responsible for most bad things that had happened to either of them, the joining of minds that brought every awful memory to the forefront of her thoughts. But she also didn’t want to ruin Pek’s opinion of the man. He hadn’t been a monster and they needed him to survive, would it be worthwhile destroying Pek’s trust just to rant about her past trauma? She dwelled on what she had seen of Astarion’s mind, chewing thoughtfully on a bit of rabbit as she did so. His memories had been swamped with darkness and regret, he seemed to be acting on orders from someone he feared, operating under fear and torment. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time to talk to Pek, Shay concluded, she needed to figure out just what–

“Ho! The Fire!” a voice called out. Clomping thuds echoed from the forest to the northwest, the thuds resolved themselves into a tanned halfling riding a heavily-laden pony. A second pony, saddle bags bulging, followed behind, tied to the first by a lead rope. The small man regarded Shay from the height of his saddle, hazel eyes sparkling pleasantly in the sunlight. He looked like any other halfling Shay had met; a round tummy held behind a thick leather belt, clothes plain but well made. His hair, the colour of straw, curled softly around his cherubic face.

Shay glanced at her leathers, still drying on the nearby rocks, and felt exposed. The halfling held no weapon, but oftentimes no visible weapon was needed. Pek seemed uncaring, flopping her bulk on the ground behind Shay. She would find no threat in ponies.

“You don’t look like a druid,” the halfling went on in a friendly manner, dismounting from his pony to tie them both to a tree. “Please tell me you aren’t a druid.”

“Mielikki forbid,” Shay replied, still hesitant about the stranger who had so casually decided their camp was his own.

“A ranger!” The halfling declared, correctly assuming Shay’s profession from her calling to the Supreme Ranger, “What luck. I have so many questions I’m certain you could answer. Could I join you?”

“Feed my rabbit to the child-man,” Pek suggested, “He’ll talk.”

“Yes, join us,” Shay gestured to the food set beside the fire, “Help yourself…?”

“Garic Greenhill,” the halfling introduced himself politely, though his eyes were only for the rabbit. “Humble trader of the Sword Coast, most recently of Scornubel.”

“Shay,” She had the good sense to skip her last name this time. “Why don’t you like druids?”

“Oh, it’s awful!” Garic tore into the rabbit, talking around his full mouth. “The Emerald Grove has a new leader and she’s locking the entire place down with some fancy magic ritual. I’ve been trading with them for a decade and she wouldn’t let me in, can you believe it? I even brought supplies when Elturel was destroyed and that was no small feat! I left the grove and headed south, as I always do. I was going to trade with the fishermen at the bend, but that smoke in the sky tells me something happened to them too. My livelihood is at stake! I can’t begin to tell you how upset I am.”

Somehow, Garic had picked the rabbit clean while complaining. It was impressive. Over the halflings golden curls, Shay saw Astarion pop up from the ravine. He moved soundlessly, crawling slowly up to crouch a short distance behind Garic. A raised eyebrow and a brandished dagger asked a silent question. Shay shook her head slightly. The halfling was no enemy.

“Darling, you didn’t tell me we were expecting company.” Astarion announced, his footfalls suddenly audible. He approached Shay beside the fire, lounging beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers.

“Garic Greenhill,” Garic introduced himself again.

“A trader,” Shay explained. “News is the druid grove to the north is being locked down against all visitors.”

“A pity,” Astarion frowned, “hopefully they’ll still let us in to… trade.”

“Let me help with that, my friend!” Garic declared, “What do you rangers need? I have potions, armour, arrows and more! The fishermen at the bend never trade for these things, it would be good to get them out of my inventory.”

“The fishermen won’t be trading for anything,” Astarion snickered. Shay elbowed him.

“No? Did the goblins finally get them? Is that the smoke I see on the horizon?” Garic asked, unpacking saddle bags to show his wares.

“A ship has fallen from the sky,” Shay explained as best she could without explaining they were refugees from that very ship, “Something alien, made of tentacles and strange metal. It crashed into the fishing village. We found no survivors.”

“Oh, a pity. May Yondalla watch over their souls.” Garic didn’t seem overly put out by the news of so much death, but few who traversed the roads of Faerûn would be. Death was a constant companion on any road. “Must be good salvage, though. All the more reason to trade! My prices are very fair, you’ll find, my friends. Your news may save my livelihood, so prices are very fair indeed!”

Shay had never haggled before in her life. She took the prices offered to her. Astarion, it seemed, was a creature who lived for a bargain. In short order, Shay had been cut from any discussion of trade or supplies, Garic and Astarion settling in to haggle over every little thing. Shay was certain the halfling would find it insulting or annoying, but both men seemed to be having a grand time of it.

In short order, they had bags of holding to carry all their supplies, soap, towels, spare clothing that would more or less fit them both, a new set of bracers for Shay, black leathers for Astarion and a small stash of enchanted arrows. Garic, with no comment beyond a friendly shoulder pat and a knowing wink, surprised Shay with a small sack that contained a length of silk, a wooden comb, metal clips, leather ties and a small pot of hair grease. She swallowed heavily, thankful for the gift and having no words to express that.

“I’ll be heading to Waukeen’s Rest after exploring this wreck,” Garic explained, gesturing to the west as he spoke, no doubt the direction to Waukeen’s Rest. Shay wasn’t about to disabuse the man of his assumption they knew the lay of the land. “Put a crew together, then return to salvage. If you need a break from the wilds, I would love to work with you.”

“Perhaps,” Astarion was somehow assuring and non-committal all at once. “We’ll certainly be avoiding the druid grove. Thank you, Garic.”

“Oh, thank you, ” the halfling replied, untying his ponies and mounting up. “I’d love to stay for dinner, but there’s profit to be made. See you at Waukeen’s!”

With a jingle of harness, the halfling rode off into the forest, leaving them alone once more.

Once Garic was most certainly out of earshot, Astarion giggled, “He thought I was a ranger!”

“Mielikki forbid ,” Shay fervently repeated her earlier words. The man seemed more suited for nighttime heists than guarding the forest and roads of the wild from the creatures who would harm or destroy.

“She doesn’t need to,” Astarion replied, making a small pack of clean clothing, towelling and soap. “I wouldn’t be crawling filthy through the forest of my own free will, darling.”

“We bathe!” Shay argued. “Rangers aren’t–”

“Pigs?” Pek offered.

“Oh, Peki,” Shay chuckled, patting her friend on her scarred rump.

“Well, you don’t bathe enough for me,” Astarion rejoined, taking his bathing kit and vanishing back down into the raving, not willing to wait a moment more to get clean.

Shay waited patiently, turning their things over to keep drying. When Astarion returned, scrubbed clean, hair perfectly in place and somehow smelling of citrus and brandy with a hint of greenery, Shay took the soap to go clean herself up. 

When she returned, the fire was down to glowing embers, Pek was digging in the roots of a large tree and Astarion was dressed in his new shadow-black leathers. He held his fine nobleman’s jacket, contemplating it with a frown.

“Did it go out of fashion while I was bathing?” Shay asked, breaking the pale elf from his thought.

“Yes, I think it did.” he gave a wan smile, “Honestly, I think it went out of fashion some time ago.”

“Why didn’t you trade it to Garic?” Shay asked, “It seems well-made. Surely he could find someone who would buy it.”

“No, I don’t want anyone else in this.” Astarion murmured, still not taking his eyes from the jacket, “I don’t want it to be found.”

“Are we burning it or burying it?” Shay asked, casually shaking the water from her hair with her fingers. She wanted to get on the road, but this seemed important. An echo of remembered trauma, of memories not her own, told her this was important.

“As easy as that?” He asked quietly.

“It’s your business,” Shay replied with a shrug. “I’ll help you destroy it, if that’s what you want, but you don’t have to explain.”

“I– thank you.” he replied, his voice sounded strangely honest, free from its usual affectations.

They burned the jacket, then buried its remains.

Chapter Text

“So. Not a tentacle to be seen.” Astarion remarked that evening when Shay ducked out of her tent in the purple light of dusk. She ignored his baiting, not sure what he wanted.

What she wanted was the sack of hair supplies Garic had given her. It was somewhere in their supply chest, she was certain. Shay hadn’t organised their supplies very well, stuffing everything into the bags of holding, then pushing north through the gruelling tangle for the rest of the afternoon. It was odd to her, to be told there was a druid grove so close but to see no evidence of druid work in the forest. Usually, evidence of even a single druid could be seen for a mile in every direction; having a druid about always caused a forest to grow into the platonic ideal of a forest. Trees were straight and side-by-side with each other without tangle or a fight for sunlight, snares always broken so animals could run free, birds nests never fell from trees, squirrels never forgot where they left their stash. Unless they were the Shadowdruids said to live in the heart of the tangle that was the Cloakwood, the Oakfather’s followers usually worked diligently to enhance as well as protect nature. With a grove nearby, the entire region should be sun-dappled perfection, not shadowy knots of thorns that seemed to grow before her eyes. 

This forest was bereft of that care, leaving them to struggle through tangled paths, seeking the grove and healing. Even following the narrow trail Garic’s ponies had marked with their well-shod hooves, the afternoon had been an exhausting slog; it seemed tangling vines grew like weeds everywhere, thorny bushes almost seemed to appear by magic to block their path. The land was increasingly shadowed and tangled, increasingly difficult to traverse. It had been an exhausting, sweaty afternoon. Despite her lunch hour bath, Shay felt dirty and uglier than normal. She wanted a bucket of water to wash in, clean clothes and a moment alone to finally braid her hair out of her face.

As she dug through the chest, she felt a tickle in the back of her mind, the voice that usually told her to wait, or to run, warning her something dangerous was behind her. Her heart began to beat faster, her palms sweat. She felt cornered, but couldn’t place why. Slowly turning her head, she saw Astarion close behind her and nothing else. Odd that she had such a reaction; of course she didn’t trust him, but it wasn’t like he was a mountain lion or some other dangerous predator. Their allegiance had held up quite well over the past forty-eight hours. She shouldn’t feel so threatened by his mere presence.

“Still no tentacles,” Shay informed him, turning back to her search through the chest, taking the opportunity for calming breaths to slow her heartbeat.

“Indeed,” he drawled, “we’re doing surprisingly well, given the circumstances.”

“Yeah, I’m just normal ‘human-ugly’, not monstrous ‘mind-flayer ugly’.” Shay sat up with the small sack of tools and product. Time to return to her tent and do her best with her hair before Pek came back from whatever foraging she was doing out there. Probably finding truffles and not sharing them. Again.

She stood up, turned around and ran smack into Astarion. Somehow he had crept up on her unawares despite their talking to each other. Cool fingers tangled with her own, plucking the sack from her hands.

“Hey!” She tried to take her things back, but he twisted away from her, opening the sack to peruse the contents with a critical eye.

“Glad to see Garic gave you everything I paid for,” he said.

“What.”

“Darling, you didn’t think a merchant gave you free goods, did you?” he looked at her askance over the sack. “Especially for the silk, even if it is the cast off from an apprentices dye lessons. I traded a perfectly good ruby for all of this.”

“No, I just… why would you do that?” Confusion was so strong within her she was surprised her tadpole hadn’t connected with his to share the wealth.

“Because you’re not ‘human-ugly’, you’re not ugly at all,” he sighed, looking rather uncomfortable as he confessed. “Perhaps I’ve… teased you… a little much.”

“Your apology for teasing me about my appearance is to give me the tools to change my appearance.” she observed flatly.

“It seems so,” he huffed a small laugh, his lip curling upward in a crooked grin. For the first time, Shay understood the beauty of elves. He was a little awkward, a little self-recriminating, slightly vulnerable; it was a devastatingly handsome look on him. He took the sack towards their campfire, sitting on a large rock they had used earlier as a table. “Well? Come on.”

“You’re going to braid my hair?” Perhaps she had sprouted tentacles after all. Shay’s body was a mind flayers’ now, wandering the forest in search of brains to eat. Her soul was cursed to some strange realm where the monster from her nightmares was also gorgeous and wanted to do her hair.

“I’ve done it before for my sib– friends.” he corrected himself quickly. Shay wasn’t certain why he wanted to hide siblings from her, but she wasn’t about to pry. “It’s hard to do by yourself, I know.”

“... ok.” Shay approached slowly, wondering where to sit. Shouldn’t she be sitting on the rock and he can stand? His legs parted, pale fingers pointed at the ground between them. Shay’s eyes almost fell out of her head. She prayed to Mielikki that the shadows of dusk and her own dark skin hid what was surely an impressive blush. This was definitely some specially-crafted level of hell, made just for her. After a hesitant moment, a single grey eyebrow raised over wine-dark eyes. Shay promptly sat where directed, thankful her back was to him and he couldn’t see her face anymore.

“What do you normally do?” He asked softly above her, his long fingers plunging into her hair to massage her scalp. It felt equally foreign and wonderful. How long had it been since anyone had touched her? Shay found herself leaning into the massage, wanting more. Her shoulder, clad in a soft oversized shirt for sleeping, pressed into his leg. She could feel his muscles along her arm, they felt delightfully solid under the loose pants he had changed into for the night. “Shay?”

Oh, fuck, he asked a question and she was practically drooling on the ground between his legs. What the hells was happening to her?

“Two,” She squeaked. Shay cleared her throat, then tried again, drawing her own fingers along her scalp to illustrate. “Two braids, one above each ear like this. Then I just use pomade to enhance the curls everywhere else. If I have the product, anyway.”

“Only two?” He murmured. The scalp massage stopped, but now a comb moved gently through her tangled curls. It felt so nice she could almost purr.

“You… you get too much dirt and blood in your hair when you live in the wilds.” Shay explained, trying to focus on the ability to communicate and not the strange and wonderful feelings in her body. It was her head for Mielikki’s sake, she could get a braid like a normal person and not turn into a blushing puddle. “I’d have to wash and re-braid all the time. I don’t want to waste the pomade, it’s already so hard to come by.” 

“Mmm,” He made a non-committal answer. Dextrous fingers began parting her hair how she had said, separating strands for braiding. “No sign of change in either of us. How long do you think we have?”

This was a question that put her on more even footing. Shay was pathetically grateful for the distraction. “I don’t know, but it has to be a long time. I feel fine, don’t you feel fine?”

“I do, but I’m not taking anything for granted, of course.” His voice was a low rumble above her, like the gentle comfort of a storm heard in the distance. Grease dabbed into the side of her head, then the familiar tugs of braiding began. “First sign of change and I’ll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours.”

“You can try.”

“I am open to suggestions,” he went on, ignoring her reply. Something metallic dug into the braid, squeezing around it. “Knives? Poison? Strangulation? Whatever you’d prefer.”

“How do you want to go?” She’d never thought about death before, other than to fight against it with every ounce of her being. It made sense that they should try to end each other if the tadpoles began to change them, but how to put a rabid dog down was the question.

He continued wrenching away at her hair, adding grease to the braid as he went.

“I don’t think poison is for me,” his voice turned introspective, the pulling on her hair slowed down. “Nor stabbing, come to think of it.”

Silence stretched. Fingers in her hair forced her head to cock to its side. Another pinch of metal, more grease, more tugging. Shay was lulled into relaxation by the familiar feel.

“I’ve always felt decapitation was a fine choice,” he started talking again, almost startling her. “One good swing and then… nothing. But we were talking about you. What’ll it be?”

“...a knife, I guess.” Shay answered after mulling the question over in her mind. “That seems quick.”

“A classic!” Astarion seemed delighted by her answer. It reminded her that he was a monster, ruining the moment. Her mood plummeted, there was no longer any joy to be found under his hands. He went on, oblivious to the conflict within her, “one good thrust to the heart and you’re gone.”

“Just, use a good blade, alright?” a quick stabbing would be preferential to becoming a mind flayer, she was certain. Even if it was from him.

“Of course,” he reassured her, “don’t want to waste time hacking and prodding with a dinner knife. Other side, darling.”

Shay obediently turned her head.

“This is all a worst-case scenario, obviously,” he continued, beginning to part the other side of her hair. “We’ll get a good night's rest, find the grove in the morning and keep all this… hypothetical.”

The braiding continued in silence. Shay wasn’t certain what to say, her mind swamped by their plans for death, the worst case scenario she hoped would never come to pass. A rustle of leaves at the edge of the firelight caught Shay’s attention. Astarion’s hands in her hair stilled, both of them focused and tense. The rustling was enhanced by snorting and grunting sounds. Shay relaxed instantly, the braiding continued.

“I found truffles!” Pek announced, entering the camp with something large and dark in her mouth.

“Truffles?” Shay repeated both in shock and for Astarion’s benefit, “and you’re sharing them!? Did the tadpole chew a hole in your brain?”

“I can share!” Pek argued, stomping her delicate hooves in stubborn denial as she brought the thing in her mouth to Shay.

“You’ve never shared a truffle in your life.”

Shay had a hard time seeing what was in Pek’s mouth. Dusk had long since turned to night, the campfire before her stole what little night vision she had. And, of course, she couldn’t turn her head as Astarion was still finishing the braid. Pek came closer, the dark thing in her mouth certainly looked like a truffle. Shay could almost drool at the thought.

Pek dropped the thing in her lap. Little quills poked through Shay's soft pants. She shrieked in surprise as the hedgehog Pek had dropped on her not only poked her with its quills, but peed on her in shock.

Astarion laughed so hard he fell off the rock.

*****

Shay tiptoed out of her tent, her bare legs sprouting gooseflesh in the chill pre-dawn air. She checked on her freshly-washed pants, strung up near the glowing embers of the campfire. Mostly dry. She bent over to add more wood to the fire.

“Oh,” the softly breathed word had her straightening up in a heartbeat. Her hands flew to her head, where she had tied the ragged length of silk to sleep in. She wasn’t used to feeling embarrassed, there was never anyone around but Pek to see, but Astarion had been on her since their first moment together about how awful she looked. Seeing her in a patchily-dyed headdress surely wouldn’t help things. She didn’t need him to see her as beautiful; scarred as she was, no one ever would anyway. But it would be nice to be left alone.

“No, don’t.” his voice was still soft, halting her fingers as they dug at the rosebloom of a knot she had tied at the peak of her forehead. “Don’t take it off on my account. It looks nice.”

Shay turned around to see Astarion at the entrance to his own tent, his eyes gazing significantly lower than her head. Shay glanced down at her feet, wondering if she had stepped in something.

“Pants are almost dry,” Shay observed, giving up on figuring out what had caught his attention. “I won’t make us too late getting on the road. Actually, I think I can start to pack up now, if you want to see what we have for breakfast?”

Red eyes widened in surprise, finally rising to meet her own.

“You’re going to–” Something caught in his throat, he cleared it, then tried again. “You’re going to dismantle the camp like that?”

“I don’t use my pants to take down a tent, so yes.” she spoke flatly, beginning to pull up the pegs of her tent. Within, Pek snorted herself awake, stretching her body before emerging into the dim pre-dawn light.

“Breakfast?” she asked, not catching the strange tension in the air while she licked her chops.

“Astarion is on breakfast duty,” Shay grumbled, heaving another peg from the earth. “Don’t get my pants messy again.”

“I didn’t get them messy the first time. The hedgehog did,” Pek grunted in return, striding towards the fire where Astarion was very inexpertly cutting bruised fruit for the meal and very not glancing in Shay’s direction.

“Oh, fuck off.” Shay called to her friend as she pulled the last peg of her tent, the walls billowed as they fell to the ground. Pek snorted her laughter as she ate the apple cores and other leavings from the breakfast meal. Shay quickly rolled up her bedroll, snagging her dagger from under the pack she used as a headrest.

Breaking camp went smoothly, aside from whatever dry throat Astarion had that he refused all water to correct. His constant clearing of his throat as she moved through the camp packing up was really annoying. Astarion disappeared into the woods while Shay dressed herself, suiting up in her leather jerkin, then scrunching a small amount of grease into her curls to help define them, pleased to feel the braids had survived the night. He was back from his ablutions by the time Shay had checked her weapons and was ready to hit the road. Or, the lack-of-road as the forest continued to prove itself a pathless mess of tangled growth and shadows.

They walked for hours in silence, following the Chionthar northward. The early summer sun was delightfully warm, when they found a patch of sun, anyway. Which was beginning to happen more frequently, rocky outcroppings dotted the forest more and more, the sort of land that was dry and full of scrub brush, difficult to track. Shay had kept her eyes peeled for bees, hoping to follow them to a hive and honey. It wouldn’t do for Astarion’s cough to return at an inopportune moment. Her sharp eyes had found nothing on that front, but now the land was tickling her memory, the rises and falls echoing the topography drawn on the Harper’s map she had glimpsed the morning before. The second cache should be nearby, on the steep rise she saw pierce the sky, perhaps half a kilometre to the west. That would also mean the grove was near, another kilometre or so, if the map was accurate.

“If we climb that,” Shay gestured to the steep rise, “I think we’ll find the other cache. More supplies would not go amiss.”

“Probably see for miles,” Astarion mused, “But, again, how do we get Pek there?”

“He’s very concerned about me,” Pek snorted beside Shay, “thinks I’m a vulnerable piglet.”

“I don’t know why,” Shay answered her friend, “We all saw you smash that Mind Flayer into paste.”

“He has no trust in me,” Pek grunted, more resigned than upset. People frequently had no faith in animals, putting themselves high above them, when really people were animals themselves.

“I’m sure he trusts you,” Shay smirked at the pale elf, “Right, Astarion? You trust Pek to be safe while we climb a little hill, don’t you?”

“I– she’s mad, isn’t she?” Astarion eyed Pek hesitantly. He had seen her rage and fervently wished to never be on the receiving end of it.

“Not yet, but soon; you’re not making a good case for yourself.” Shay grinned, striding off with Pek towards the rocky outcropping to the west. She called over her shoulder “She likes eggs!”

“Not truffles?” Astarion called back, jogging to catch up.

“No, we both love truffles,” Shay sighed in longing, “but she’ll find those long before you could. And she’s a massive lying bitch about them.”

“I am.” Pek agreed.

“How could you say such things about our dear Pek?” Astarion clutched at his chest in a melodramatic response.

“Because I am.” Pek said.

“Because she is.” Shay said right on top of her.

Shay and Pek continued to needle each other as only the best of friends can, with Shay providing the occasional translation for Astarion’s benefit. He seemed confused by their interactions, but also envious; Shay caught a longing expression on his face more than once when she turned from her millionth threat to cook Pek to translate Pek’s millionth reply of “I don’t need fire to get rid of you; they’ll never find your body.”

The friendly ribbing continued until their journey through the woods ended at the steep, rocky sides of the rise that most likely contained a cache of Harper supplies at its peak. They left Pek watching most of their packs in a small thicket at the base of the rise, then began the arduous climb up the rise. They found a plateau only a few body lengths above where they had left Pek, a copse of trees and undisturbed underbrush gave Shay the opportunity to forage for herbs. She was no apothecary, but cooking a basic healing potion was something all children of the realms learned. Rogue’s Morsel went into her pack, along with sap-sticky sprigs of balsam. She saw no sign of truffles, not that the fungus gave any sign of its presence. The delicacy could only be found if one had the nose for it. Shays foraging brought them closer to another steep cliff face, a rough ladder of branches lashed together with leather thongs had fallen to the ground nearby.

“A way up,” Astarion observed, nodding to the ladder before loosening his weapons in their sheaths. “Do you think anyone might be up there?”

“No,” Shay pointed to a fine tendril of a climbing vine that had wrapped many times around one of the ladder steps. “It’s been like this for some time and there are no tracks, either. Either we find the cache or we find it’s been taken, but there won’t be a fight up there.”

“Good eyes,” Astarion murmured. Shay felt oddly pleased by the compliment, especially when no comment on her appearance followed. They worked together to pull the ladder from the grasp of the undergrowth, tightened the ties on a few rungs, then moved the ladder to the sheer cliff face. “After you,” Astarion gestured with all the gestures of courtly grace. 

Shay wanted to roll her eyes, but the voice inside her that so often urged survival reminded her of fun. She bowed, instead, doing the best impression of her Mother she possibly could, all the flourishes and grace needed to accept a bard’s due. “Why thank you, good sir.”

She had a fleeting moment to see the pleased surprise on his face that she played along, before she felt like a fool – you’re no bard, Lintu – and spun around to climb the ladder. Her face felt warm as she climbed, she assured herself it was the early summer heat getting to her.

The top of the rise gave a grand view of the forest in all directions. The Chionthar sparkled sapphire blue in the distance, the forest seemed perfect and peaceful, none of the shadows and tangled vines revealing themselves from this bird's eye perspective. The wreck of the Nautiloid carved a dark scar into the land to the southeast; broken trees, deep furrows in the earth and, finally, the wreck itself, great twists of grey fleshed tentacles rotting in the summer sun around a torn metal shell. The scars of dragon claws and scorching marks of dragonfire could be clearly seen across the ruins of the ship, telling a clear story to anyone who cared to look.

“Long since turned to bone,” Astarion muttered near her, catching her attention away from the view. Shay finally looked around the plateau they had climbed to. The southeast corner held a well built wooden platform, weathered yet sturdy. Web-covered barrels rested in the shadows beneath the platform, supplies for whatever Harper took up a post here. Right in front of them, an old fire pit lay, the rocks that lined it still blackened from use but the centre was covered in enough fallen leaves and new growth to show the firepit had not been used for fire in some time. Enough time, at least, for one unfortunate harper to rot away to nothing but bones, the sun bleached skeleton resting near the fire having caught Astarion’s attention. Silver at the skeleton’s neck glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Astarion was on that in a flash, delicately removing a silver pendant from the skeleton. “It feels… helpful.” He observed, placing the pendant around his own neck.

“In tune with the arcane?” Shay asked, surprised and aggravated he hadn’t let that skill slip before. If he had been holding out magic powers this whole time, he would be getting off the rise much faster than he had climbed to the top.

“A little, I suppose.” He admitted, “I have a cantrip or two I can cast. Mostly, I think I’m just a little well read. I recognize things, sometimes.”

That fit in with the pampered nobleman she had met on the beach. She decided it wasn’t a big enough secret to warrant throwing him down to Pek.

A breeze blew in from the southeast, smoke from the Nautiloid causing Shay and Astarion to cough and cover their faces.

“My my, what manner of place is this?” a deep voice rumbled. Shay had her weapons out in a blink, short sword and dagger freshly sharpened, and was pleased to see Astarion did the same. Striding down from the platform, where he most certainly had not been a moment ago, came a very well-dressed nobleman. His fine clothing made Astarion’s fancy jacket look like an old hand-me-down; the shine of heavily brocaded silk and the glitter of thread-of-gold was obvious as the man strode confidently towards them. The white of lace at his collar and cuffs was so perfectly, brightly white as to not even seem real. The man was dusky of skin, dark of eye and hair though a touch of dignified silver sparkled at his temples. Everything about the man screamed wealth, control and power, Shay felt certain death himself walked towards them, her weapons held steady. The man continued his unhurried stride towards them, poetic observations dripping from his lips all the while. “A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.” 

“What would suit the occasion?” The strange nobleman stopped at a safe distance, but his stance still had a conspiratorial lean towards her as he continued to pontificate. He struck a pose, pretending to think. “Hmm, the lyrics to a lullaby, perhaps? You know those, don’t you little Lintu-bird? Say it with me. The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, and that, love–”

“–was that.” Shay finished, her voice hoarse with memory and anger.

The man chuckled, “they do know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they?”

The memory of a book of Cormyrian nursery rhymes burned in her mind, songs Mama used to sing, the same little ditties Shay had sung for children while busking. The nickname Ringmaster Lucretious and other friends had given Mama. How did this man know all these things? Shay blinked, not knowing how to answer. Astarion hadn’t said anything, still crouched, still prepared to defend himself.

“Well met, I am Raphael,” the strange man went on in his drawling, upper class accent. He sounded unhurried, as though every moment he stood there was a favour to him. “Very much at your service.”

“Are we talking to the mouse, or the cat?” Astarion asked. Shay was thankful, she had no idea how to speak past the lump in her throat.

“Neither!” Raphael replied, delighted, “the fox, rather, hiding in a word: a silent observer – about to break the silence. Of course, what I have to say merits some privacy – as well as some more… let’s call it refinement.”

Raphael frowned with distaste, looking around the dusty harper camp, skeleton and all. “This quaint little scene is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes. Come.”

The word held power. It drew more smoke from the southeast, black smoke that smelled of the still-burning Nautiloid, charred flesh and burning metal. Sight was obscured in the swirl of pitch-dark smoke. When it cleared, Shay was somewhere new.

The room she found herself in, an octagonal dining chamber, was lavish in its display of wealth. The chamber was a reflection of Raphael himself, sumptuously appointed, small details giving away that something was very wrong. Though Shay wasn’t certain a massive oil painting of a devil could be considered a small detail. Without taking her eyes off Raphael, she was still able to see heavy curtains, fine marble tiles, everything in shades of scarlet, plum and gold. When she breathed in, the air was richly perfumed but held a hint of sulphur. A hissed intake of breath behind her told her Astarion had also come along for the ride. Relief that at least she wasn’t alone released the cold claws of terror from her heart that she didn’t even know were there.

There was no sign of Pek, another blessing. Raphael either wasn’t able to include her in his spell, or didn’t consider her worthy of it. Either way, Pek was safe and that was all that mattered.

“There. Middle-of-somewhere,” the man himself purred, standing before a lengthy and heavily-carved hearth, backlit by massive flames, he seemed quite at home. The fires suited him. 

“Where is ‘somewhere’?” Shay tried to sound casual while every instinct she had screamed at her to flee. But where could they even flee? Where were they?

“The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed – lavishly.” Raphael spread his arms wise in a gesture of welcome. His last words seemed oddly directed at Astarion.

Shay refused to turn her back to the strange man who had teleported them to this equally strange place. She moved her body, allowing her to keep an eye on Raphael in her peripheral vision, but still take in more of the room. A massive oak table groaned under the weight of a feast. More food, Shay was certain, than she had ever seen in her life. Meats, cheeses, fruits and more were displayed in a mouth-watering array. Carafes of every drink she could think of sat steaming or chilling. Still, the details were off. A fly flashed into existence, buzzing around a roast duck before disappearing, mid-buzz. One of the carafes nearest to Shay contained a deep red liquid that smelled strongly of copper. Why would there be blood on offer?

“Don’t eat,” she murmured to Astarion.

“No,” he agreed, just as quietly. His eyes were large as he regarded the meal laid before them. Something bothered him as much as it bothered her.

“Go on. Partake.” Raphael encouraged them, gesturing towards the food. “Enjoy your supper. After all… it might just be your last.”

“What makes you say that?” Shay asked, turning back to Raphael. She still clutched her weapons, shortsword and dagger, though she felt they would be of no use against a man who could teleport them all at will. Surely he had other, more destructive magic he could call on. She sheathed her weapons, wanting to appear as little a threat as possible.

“Call it a ninth sense.” Raphael smirked, knowingly. Nothing else was said for a moment, then a log in the hearth split with a crackle and a shower of sparks. The sparks doubled, tripled, flying into the air to swirl around Raphael. In the shower of sparks, his body changed, crackled and crunched with growing bones. When the sparks cleared, the devil from the portrait stood before them. Raphael in his true form.

Shay found herself grasping blindly behind her, terror operating her limbs more than conscious thought. She found Astarion’s hand, shockingly cold, but gripped it for all she was worth. He returned the grasp, tugging her a step back to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. At least she wouldn’t die alone.

“What’s better than a devil you don’t know?” Raphael took a thoughtful pose, a hand rising to tap newly-red fingers against his chin. Shay had seen more subtle acting from Dribbles at the Circus of the Last Days. The devil continued, in his confident purr, “a devil you do. Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivable. But a saviour? That’s for certain.”

“We don’t need saving.” Shay lied. They did need saving. From the devil who stood before them, first and foremost.

“Come now,” Raphael sounded like a disappointed parent, “why play hard to get when you’re in deep over your tadpoled head? One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. There’s no revenge before you take care of that little problem, is there Lintu-bird? And you, my pale friend, someone wants you back very badly. Do you really think you’re safe out in the wilds?”

Raphael’s comment to Astarion had the elf gripping her hand so tight Shay worried he would break a bone. She feared Raphael knew too much, would say too much. There was no survival on her own and there would certainly be no survival if Astarion knew the place he had in her life. It seemed Raphael knew things about both of them. Who wanted Astarion?

“I could fix it all, like that.” Raphael snapped his fingers to demonstrate the ease with which he could fix all their problems. For the small price, she assumed, of their souls. It seemed everyone had their limit, as well as their price, and Shay had found hers. An alliance with a man she hated was one thing, but a deal with a devil? Survival wasn’t worth that.

“You’re mad if you think I’ll make a deal with a devil.” She spat, readying herself for death. Goodbye, Peki. I’m sorry.

“And what is madness but a denial of reality? Still, I’ve a feeling you’ll change your mind. Before it’s changed for you.” Raphael asked, and answered, yet another rhetorical question, enjoying his little game of cat-and-mouse. Anger grew in his voice as he pontificated. “Try to cure yourself. Shop around – beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair – that’s when you’ll come knocking on my door. Hope. Such a tease.”

“Take us back.” Shay demanded.

“All those pretty little symptoms…” Raphael ignored Shay’s demand in favour of the love he clearly had for his own voice, “sundering skin, dissolving guts – they haven’t manifested yet, have they? One might say you’re a paragon of luck. I’ll be there when it runs out.”

At a gesture from a black-clawed hand, smoke rose from the hearth, a vortex of swirling clouds, growing larger and darker, first hiding Raphael from sight, then the entire room. Shay and Astarion kept their grasp on each other, anchor points in the directionless black swirl. When the smoke cleared, they were back on top of the rise, the noon sun beat down on them with cheerful warmth. The normalcy of the scene seemed shocking after their little fireside chat with the embodiment of evil.

Astarion still held her hand

She didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

“Now there’s a bloody devil trailing after us? This gets better and better.” Astarion scoffed, the grip he had on her hand not letting up; he clutched at her like a lifeline. His words were aggravated, in a detached, almost blasé sort of way, but his body… his body was terrified. Shay wondered what had given him the ability to detach his mind from the instincts of his body. Another elf skill, perhaps. “‘Shop around’, he said. He seems sure we won’t find anything. And he might be right. We’ve had no luck so far.”

“He’s not right. We still have options” Shay resolved. She tried to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. She thought of an old adage heard in a bardic tale: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Against tadpoles and now, the plotting of devils, she would be a friend to Astarion as long as they pursued a cure. Neither of them would survive on their own anyway; they needed each other.

“Maybe, but all that ‘take your time, I’ll wait’ nonsense? Mentioning things he has no reason to know? He’s playing with us.” Astarion’s voice rumbled low, he seemed despondent as though the mention of whomever wanted him back had stolen the sun from his sky, “he reminds me of – well, someone I used to know. Someone that liked to play with people.”

Shay suspected that someone wanted him back ‘very badly’. Whatever that might mean.

Astarion tugged on her hand, pulling her around to stand overly close to him, forcing her to acknowledge that it was his hand she clutched. She stared up into his worried, scarlet eyes. “Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they can win.”

“We’re not his playthings – we’ll show him that.” she had needed reassurance just the day before, it was now her turn to reassure. They’d survive. They would.

“But he’s not the only one spinning a web for us.” Astarion finally let go of her hand to pace and gesticulate. She ignored the twinge of loss she felt, “This is no ordinary mind flayer parasite. Who tampered with it and why? What do they have planned for us? And why are we important enough that a devil comes knocking on our door? If we find those answers, we might have a chance.”

“We have a chance without those answers,” Shay assured Astarion. She gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder before moving to the ladder to climb back down to Pek. “I have faith we will find healing at the grove.

She chose to ignore the grumbles about ‘naivete’’ and ‘stupidity’ that floated down with her as she descended the ladder. Shay focused instead on the land, the half-glimpsed harper map held in her mind like a song stuck on an endless loop. The grove – and, hopefully druidic healing – should be another few hours journey to the north. Mielikki willing, this would all be over soon. She could take Pek back to the Cloakwood and pretend Astarion had never existed. Shay felt that mercy would be worth their surviving together for a few days, the revelations from Raphael and the annoying thoughts she had been having lately that perhaps Astarion wasn’t completely a monster. She would send him back to Baldur’s Gate with a firmly stated warning, then check in a month or two. If there were disappearances, she would hunt him down.

“Did you find food?” Pek asked the moment Shay returned to the copse where they had left her, Astarion on her heels.

They hadn’t checked the barrels or anything. Other than finding whatever charmed pendant Astarion now wore, the cache they had been seeking had completely slipped Shay’s mind in favour of fleeing the fiend who had summoned them to his table. There could be food back up there and their stores were dangerously low.

“No,” Shay sighed, already turning around to climb the rise again. “We didn’t search for the cache, there were… complications. Astarion, could you explain to her? I’ll go back.”

A cool arm encased in black leather hooked into her own, stopping her from leaving the copse. “Absolutely not,” he said quietly.

“She can understand you just fine,” Shay tried to pull away, ending up with her forearm held in a tight grip.

“Not that,” he rolled his eyes, “We’re not separating when there’s a devil out there and gods know what else.”

“We need supplies!” Shay argued, tugging her arm sharply.

“There’s no guarantee there are supplies!” Astarion growled back, refusing to let her go. “You go back up there, you might not come back.”

“What do you care?!”

“I don’t want you to–” Astarion stopped like he had slammed into the Basilisk Gate at full sprint. His burgundy eyes bore into hers while he took a few harsh breaths through clenched jaws before swallowing hard and dropping his gaze to the ground. He grated out through anger-gritted teeth, “we agreed to stay together to survive– and Pek would miss you. Think of Pek, won’t you darling?”

“Fine.” Shay shook his arm off, then grabbed her bags with more force than was really necessary before storming off. On her way out of the copse of trees, she threw over her shoulder, “We go north to the grove.”

Behind her, Shay could hear Pek grunting loudly at Astarion.

“Yes, I’ll explain.” she heard him sigh as he grabbed his own things, walking quickly to catch up.

*****

As they moved northward, Shay’s mood improved almost immediately, listening to Astarion explain about devils and tadpoles to Pek. She stifled her giggles, slowing her pace so she could hear more of the one sided conversation her friend and… travel companion… were having with one another.

“Really?” Pek would reply to Astarion, knowing he couldn’t understand her, “Devils? You don’t say! Sage advice to not deal with them. I’m so glad you’re here to share that wisdom! Do go on.”

“She is understanding, right?” Astarion asked, looking askance at Pek grunting away beside him.

“He’s an idiot,” Pek supplied helpfully, “If we don’t keep him, he’ll die in the woods after an hour. Dumb and helpless as a piglet.”

“Yes!” Shay squeaked around the laughter bubbling up within her, “She understood everything.”

Shouting ahead interrupted any further conversation. A hush fell over them instantly. The trio moved cautiously forward, listening intently to the jumble of raised voices, trying to make sense of it all. A rocky outcropping rose just ahead of them, the shadowed forest breaking up around it to reveal open paths circling on either side. The shouting was coming from the other side of the rise.

“That pack of goblins will be on us any second!” a man shouted in the familiar accent of Norchapel, one of many districts outside of Baldur’s Gate proper.

The word ‘goblin’ set Shay’s path. Her life as a ranger over the past five years had been primarily protecting the scattered farms near the Coast Way between Baldur’s Gate and Beregost from goblin marauders. If a tribe of goblins had found the druid grove, they would be hard pressed to defend themselves without a ranger who knew how the creatures operated. It was her duty to fight the goblins and protect the forest and any people who lived nearby.

“I’ll go up,” Shay stated, nocking an arrow to her longbow, “The two of you circle west.”

Pek, knowing Shay’s methods, immediately followed instructions. Astarion hesitated.

“We’re not separating,” Shay assured him. “I have your back. Watch over Peki for me? You’ll be closer to her.”

He nodded, unsheathing his blades before following Pek through the sunlight-dappled forest. Shay moved to the rise and climbed as quickly and cautiously as she could, with her bow still in her hand.

When she got to the top, Shay carefully peaked over the top of the outcropping, taking in the scene. A rocky clearing lay sun bright before her, at the far end of the clearing, moss and vine-covered rocks heaped themselves into a natural wall, many rocks bore the familiar, circular carvings of Silvanus’s worshippers. A narrow pass between the rocks was blocked by an equally vine-covered portcullis made of heavy oak slats. Rough palisades of sharpened branches lashed together with long strips of hemp rope marked the top of the rock walls. Above the portcullis, a large spiked wheel stood, presumably to bring the portcullis up and down. Three bruised, blood-covered humans stood in the clearing, their armour dented and well-used. One human, a dusky-skinned man with tightly-curling brown hair, shouted up to the top of the palisade at a strange collection of Tieflings who had gathered to shout down at the humans. The demonic-humanoids were mostly red-skinned, though a few were yellow-brown or even blue. None of them looked like druids, most wore no armour, though the man shouting down at the humans wore worn scalemail and seemed to know the business of fighting.

The scene was truly bizarre. Was this the grove or not? Where were the druids?

“Goblins are on our tail!” the dark-haired human shouted up at the armoured tiefling, “Open the gate, Zevlor. Now!”

“You led goblins here?!” the tiefling, presumably Zevlor, replied in anger, “Where is the druid?”

Horns sounded in the distance. Shay recognized the cry of a goblin raiding party. She crouched low, hoping to stay out of sight. The pounding of footsteps, many two-footed and one four-footed, sounded like drum beats on the ground. She couldn’t see them yet, but she knew this song; the raiders were almost upon them.

“ Please!” the man shouted, wrenching a goblin arrow from the shield of one of his companions to wave at Zevlor. “There’s no time!”

A large worg, a grey-furred, wolf-shaped beast commonly used by goblins as mounts or fighting animals, scrabbled into the clearing, almost rolling over as it tried to correct its forward momentum. It howled an announcement that it had found its prey, then snarled at the humans who backed into the palisade with wide-eyed expressions. The worgs’ black lips curled, revealing a row of sharp fangs. Shay could almost smell its fetid breath from where she crouched. She hoped Pek could hold herself back.

Pek hated worgs.

Not yet, Pek. Shay thought, praying her friend wouldn’t move too soon. Patience. Hold.

An order to open the gates was made, a tiefling in a blue robe began to turn the wheel. The portcullis began an agonising climb, not nearly fast enough to save the humans. Goblin scouts and raiders flooded the clearing, a large bugbear not far behind them. The scouts took aim and arrows began to pepper the palisade, forcing the tieflings to dive for cover. The man at the wheel of the portcullis took an arrow to the gut, falling to the ground. He didn’t get back up.

“Kanon! No!” Zevlor shouted as the man fell. The portcullis began to drop. The humans tried to catch it, to hold it, tried to crawl underneath to safety. The heavy weight of it was too much for them. They dropped it, turning instead to face the goblin onslaught in a line, weapons were unsheathed and shouts and curses began dropping on both sides. One goblin began directing his fellows; shockingly organised for goblins. He sent scouts to the high ground, and raiders to charge the line. All of his fellows followed the orders with harsh cries of “For the Absolute!” . Goblins, Shay knew, worshipped Maglubiyet and were notoriously disorganised, that was one of their great weaknesses. Their actually organising around something, whatever this ‘Absolute’ was, deeply worried her. 

“Provoke the blade,” a voice with hints of an Upper City accent called out, “and suffer its sting!”

A goblin scout began climbing the rise toward her, trying to get to the high ground Shay had claimed for herself. She put an arrow in its eye. Shay didn’t see what had prompted that call, shooting a scout as she was, but when she looked to the clearing again a dark-skinned man with hair in neat braided rows was shoving a goblin off his rapier, then brandishing it at another. A grey eye, a prosthetic made of stone, stood out in the man's dark face. That plus the rapier helped Shay put the identity of the man together. The Blade of Frontiers. The man was a legend of the coast, he fought just as Shay herself did, to keep the smaller villages and farms of the coast safe. With a hero like that around, their survival was looking likelier by the minute.

Pek charged into the clearing, knocking the worg off its feet in a tumble of monster and pig. Shay looked around, seeking another shot, then noticed Astarion below her, duelling with a tracker. He didn’t see the goblin booyahg behind him raising a clawed hand to cast gods-knew what. Shay put an arrow in the booyahg’s shoulder just as Astarion stabbed his opponent through the heart. The booyahg decided Shay was a better target than Astarion, sending its magic towards her, a bolt of fire flying from its hand to set the ground around her on fire. The flames set panic clawing at her mind, she was surrounded by them, there was no escape. Fire licked at her boots, scorching her legs. The sounds of the battle became distant, hidden behind a curtain of pulsing fear. Gods, no, not again!

Through the flames she saw the Blade of Frontiers take on another Goblin Tracker in a duel to the death. The green-skinned creature was outmatched in the duel, swiftly falling to the Blade’s rapier. She had wanted to be a hero like that, had wanted to be brave and strong. She shook off her fear, forcing herself to run through the fire, climbing halfway down the rise to escape the flames, but still kept the advantages of the high ground. Hands shaking, she loosed another arrow into the back of the goblin the Blade fought. He didn’t acknowledge her shot, just spun to engage the bugbear.

Feeling more centred, Shay took stock of the battlefield, wondering where she could help next. She saw that Pek had hooked a curling tusk under the jaw of the worg, piercing its mouth. Its growls faded to pained whimpers as she gored its face. Only one of the tieflings above, the armoured Zevlor, had joined the fight, sending crossbow bolts into the fray. The three humans were no longer overwhelmed, but held their line, fighting admirably. Beneath Shay, at the bottom of the rise, Astarion had finished off the booyahg. The fight continued, neither Shay nor Astarion having any problem with shooting – or stabbing – enemies in the back. Pek stomped another scout to paste once she was done with the worg. Shay put four arrows in the furry back of the bugbear before the beast went down.

When the last goblin had fallen, the Tieflings again brought up the portcullis, encouraging everyone to run under it before more goblins came. Shay found herself in a dark, rock-lined tunnel, struggling to catch her breath alongside Pek and Astarion, as the Blade of Frontiers left the tunnel to stride with purpose up the sun-dappled rocky trail and into a massive cave complex. The three humans, whose initial ruckus had caught their attention, stormed up the trail to yell at Zevlor, who was equally angry. Shay didn’t bother listening to the shouting. Anywhere there were people, there was going to be anger and fighting. It was useless to try to stop them.

She instead listened to the breeze rattle the trees, the gentle sound of birdsong and the buzzing of bees. None of those idyllic sounds had existed in the increasingly dark forest through which they had travelled. Surely this was a druid grove but…

“Is this the grove?” Astarion asked beside her, putting voice to her own thoughts, “It doesn’t look right. I expected more… butterflies and tree-hugging.”

“I haven’t been to many druid groves,” Shay replied, noting the stacks of barrels and crates along the trail, as well as carts in various stages of being packed. “But most of them aren’t full of Tieflings and piles of– what, did they move their entire village here?”

“Not our problem.” Pek grunted, the problems of people were never her problem. She was lucky that way.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t concern us,” Astarion noted, not knowing how in agreement with Pek he was. “Let’s see if there are healers here and get out before more goblins come.”

“I want to know more about the goblins,” Shay admitted, it was her duty, as a ranger, to eliminate such vermin from the wilds, “But you’re right; healing first.”

They left the dark tunnel and began heading up the sun brightened trail towards Zevlor and the humans he was arguing with. Just as they got close, the armoured Tiefling lashed out with a mailed fist, knocking one of the humans prone. The other two picked their companion off the ground, cursing about ‘foulbloods’ and ‘devil spawn’. They fled, dragging their unconscious friend with them, forcing the Tieflings to raise the portcullis again.

“The goblins have found us.” Zevlor growled to a tiefling dressed in a patchwork of worn, brown leathers and holding a bow, “No doubt, the beasts will be back. We need to pack up and leave immediately.”

The tiefling ran up a path to what Shay assumed was the top of the palisade, shouting orders. The buzzing of bees quieted as the buzzing of the tieflings increased. Zevlor stood on the sunlit path alone, the only person who had shown any leadership of this place, whatever it was. Shay took a deep breath and approached, trying to look friendly.

“Isn’t it delightful that some would rather face a goblin horde than find peace with their fellow man.” Shay remarked, offering a hand to Zevlor. The tiefling clasped her hand in a tight grip. “Well met. Thank you for letting us in.”

“Thank you for your help out there.” Zevlor squeezed her hand, then released it politely. “I’m Zevlor.”

“Shay,” She introduced herself. She glanced to her side to introduce Astarion, only to have him give his head a brief shake. She was reminded of Raphael’s words: someone wants you back very badly. Astarion wouldn’t want his name given to just anyone, that made sense. She cleared her throat, trying to hide that she had been about to introduce the elf, before turning back to Zevlor.

“I should warn you– visitors are no longer welcome in this grove.” Zevlor gave the warning with deep resignation. He wasn’t happy with these events. “Whatever your business, I’d see to it quickly – the druids are forcing everyone out. This attack will only strengthen their resolve.”

Zevlor’s explanation answered some questions, but birthed many more. Where were the druids of this grove, why were they no longer welcoming strangers, why was there an entire village of tieflings there at all? Shay grasped at the one thing she understood.

“Those goblins – have there been many attacks like that?”

“There have been several attacks by different monsters,” Zevlor explained, “The druids blame us ‘outsiders’ for drawing them here. Nobody’s welcome anymore. They’ve started a ritual to cut the grove off from the world outside. We can’t stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave – we’re no fighters.”

But they did have the Blade of Frontiers. Renowned hero of the coast. They’d be fine, Shay knew, with someone like him aiding them. All she could do was kill a few goblins, perhaps scout a little. And she might still do those things, but first–

“I need a healer.” she stated to Zevlor.

“Goblin got you?” Zevlor’s glowing, demonic eyes looked over her with gentle compassion. “The druid Halsin’s a renowned healer, but  he didn’t make it back from Aradin’s expedition. If it’s not too serious, you could try his apprentice, Nettie. She’s with the other druids, in the inner grove. They’ve withdrawn there to prepare this damn ritual of theirs.”

Astarion and Pek assumed the conversation was over, moving together past Zevlor and towards the large cave complex where the Blade of Frontiers had gone. Something still wasn’t right for Shay, however. She hesitated, before asking Zevlor “What brought you here?”

“We’re refugees from Elturel – we took shelter here after gnolls attacked us on the road.” Zevlor explained with a tired sigh, “We were bound for Baldur’s Gate, and it was too late to turn back. Elturel had no place for tieflings after the Descent.”

Shay remembered what Garic had said about Elturel being destroyed. The city hadn’t exactly been destroyed, she recalled, but pulled down into Avernus for a brief time. “If your people survived that, they’ll survive anything.”

“So I hoped.” Zevlor answered, beyond his shoulder she could see Astarion and Pek impatiently waiting for her. Astarion made a rolling gesture with one hand, clearly wanting her to wrap up her conversation so they could find this Nettie. “But we’ve lost so many already – and more will die if we’re forced out again.”

“Did I not see the Blade of Frontiers?” Shay smiled at Zevlor, trying to share her confidence with him, “With such a hero helping you, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Perhaps.” Zevlor was noncommittal about the chances of his people, even with a hero’s help, “Thank you again for your help out there. I’d best get my people moving.”

They separated, Zevlor moving upwards to the palisades where tieflings in worn clothing were packing supplies into crates, Shay heading towards the massive cave mouth to join Astarion and Pek in their search for the apprentice healer Nettie. 

The cave was multi-chambered, flooded with sunlight to the east, where large openings to a green space below – the inner grove? – let in sunlight. Circular carvings, just like the ones outside the grove, adorned the rock walls in random patterns Shay could make little sense of. Tieflings were absolutely everywhere, living, working, arguing. The cavernous ceiling, high though it was, still amplified the sounds of so many people living, making the population of the cave seem four times as large as it must have truly been. The cacophony of voices, the discordant song of so many people in one place assaulted Shay’s ears. She had a hard time focusing on anything around her. She wanted to curl in on herself, to protect herself from the sounds stabbing into her head. It was hard to see beyond the bustle of tieflings, hard to focus through the never-ending cymbal crash of sounds. Her skin felt tight, like a drum skin, the sounds and smells of so many people constricted around her, pressing in on her like an itch that couldn’t be scratched.

A cool hand took her right elbow, Pek’s familiar, comforting bulk leaned into her left side. Shay was moved forward. Down the path, past two cows and one cow-shaped-definitely-not-a-cow she didn’t have the brainpower to investigate, Shay could see the Blade of Frontiers standing on a wooden platform giving defence lessons to tiefling children. She turned her face from them, not wanting to be seen when she was so overwhelmed already. The path began to curl and slope downward, surely they would be healed soon, druidic healing waited in the inner grove. Astarion tugged her along, to her great surprise once she realised it was he who had been tugging her along since she entered the cavern complex. He could have gone without her to be healed, should have, in fact. Why was he still helping her?

“It’s you!” a soft voice gasped in surprise, “You survived.”

Shay stopped in her tracks. She could swear she heard a low growl, but its origin was lost in the cacophony of the tiefling refugees. The dark haired half-elf woman she had failed to save on the Nautiloid stepped in front of her, concerned hazel eyes holding her gaze, helping everything else fade into the background.

“You made it!” Shay breathed, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t open the pod.”

“At least you tried,” the woman gave a small smile. “I woke by the wreckage, surrounded by corpses. I was starting to think I was the only survivor. Well, myself and Wyll.”

“Wyll?” Shay asked the woman, confused.

“The Blade of Frontiers,” the woman explained gesturing behind Shay to where the man was crying out commands to the tiefling children, who responded by whacking away enthusiastically at wooden dummies, “he was taken, too. Found me in the wreckage and brought me here. I’m Shadowheart.

“Shay. This is Pek and–”

“Astarion.” the man himself said. He kept his hand on Shay’s elbow, looking at Shadowheart as though she might attack at any moment. Which was amusing enough to shake Shay out of the overwhelming panic of being swamped by the sounds of the overpopulated cavern. He was the one who stabbed first and asked questions later.

“I’m glad there are other survivors,” Shadowheart said, “now maybe we can help each other. We might be clear of those monsters’ ship, but we still have their spawn inside our heads. We need to get rid of them while we still can.”

“We’re going to see Nettie in the grove, we’re told she can heal us. Join us?” Shay offered.

“I’m told the Druid Halsin is the healer here,” Shadowheart frowned, “Who is Nettie?”

“His apprentice,” Astarion drawled, “Halsin’s gone missing. Nettie is our best bet right now.”

“A good idea to try her,” Shadowheart agreed before cupping a hand to her mouth and raising her voice, “Wyll! Come over here!”

Oh gods no.

Shay’s heart somehow stopped dead and took off at a gallop at the same time.

“Are you alright?” Astarion’s voice, pitched low for her alone, whispered into her ear. She looked up at him askance, “Your hea– you’ve gone pale.” 

‘Pale’ was a word that had never been used to describe her. The idea was ludicrous. What had he been about to say?

“Well met,” the warm voice she recognized from the fight just twenty minutes before stopped every thought in her head. “Shadowheart tells me you’re also infected?”

Shay’s eyes, still staring into Astarion’s, widened to the point where they nearly fell out of her head.

“I… I…” she stuttered, blinking fiercely, trying to be a person who could talk to other people, trying to be normal for once. Astarion gave her elbow a squeeze before dropping it, moving smoothly to intercept Wyll.

“Unfortunately, we are,” he moved to stand in front of her, Shay was grateful for the opportunity to collect herself unseen.

“We’re wasting time,” Pek grunted up at Shay as Astarion took over the conversation with Wyll and Shadowheart. “Worry about getting a mate when we’re healed.”

“Pek!” Shay hissed a mortified whisper at her friend, “That is not what I’m doing!”

“You’re human, he’s human, your heart is beating like you’re running… or mating.”

“I’ve never… done that and you know it.”

“Wyll, this is Pek and Shay,” Astarion’s voice interrupted the embarrassing conversation Pek had decided to have. “Shay, darling, come meet Wyll.”

“Shay, is it?” Wyll asked, his polished stone eye glinting in the falling afternoon light as he reached out to take her hand in a firm grip, “Astarion tells me you saved him from a Mind Flayer, that’s not a ranger’s usual work. Well done.”

“No, Pek did it.” Shay shook her head.

“Still, she’s yours, isn’t she?” Wyll smiled gently. Shay wanted to have killed the Illithid.

“I belong to no one!” Pek snorted, affronted at the implication. 

“She’s hers.” Shay corrected, “We’re fr–”

The tadpole in her mind suddenly seized, connecting her mind to Wyll’s. Agony burned liquid fire down her limbs as her mind suddenly filled with visions of a forest on a cloudy night. The moon gave light in sporadic intervals, bursts of precious seconds that allowed her feet, larger and heavier than she was used to, to find a narrow deer trail. The path was marked every few feet by a charred bush or scorched tree which led to a clearing, pitch black in the cloudy night. A feminine figure stood in the centre of the clearing, her silhouette darker than the night around her.

“My pet…” her low voice purred.

Blink

She was the Blade of Frontiers, hero of Toril’s Sword Coast. But she wasn’t in the Sword Coast. She wasn’t even on Toril. 

She pursued her quarry through the fire scorched lands, littered with the decaying bodies of the victims of the Blood War. Ahead of him, always ahead, the one-horned demon he pursued. Her skin was flame-wrought, she held a bloodied greataxe high over a head crowned with a single, curling horn.

Blink

“Shit, you saw her.” Wyll ground out through pain-gritted teeth. He shook his head, as though trying to shed the pain of the parasitic connection. “ Advocatus diaboli.”

“Who was that?” Shay gasped, trying to catch her breath in the sudden release of the parasites clenching hold on her mind. 

Wyll hesitated, eyes darting to the side seeking a way to avoid the question. With no way out, his shoulders fell and he answered, “Her name is Karlach. An archdevil’s soldier I swore on my good eye to kill” Wyll explained, not looking pleased. “I tracked her through the hells to the Mind Flayer ship, but the damned Illithids got to me first. She’s out there now, preying on the innocent.”

“Healing first,” Shay advised, wondering what The Blade had seen in her own mind, hoping he wouldn’t bring it up, “Hunting demons is admirable, but we need these parasites out.”

“Shall we go see Nettie?” Astarion inserted himself into the conversation, saving Shay from having to make more small talk. He took Shay’s arm again, though she had found herself completely forgetting about the cavern overwhelming in favour of her own embarrassment.

Wyll and Shadowheart moved ahead, Shay assumed they knew where they were going, as Astarion and Pek bookended her once more. Shay felt acutely embarrassed that she needed guards, but she also had no memory between talking to Zevlor and meeting Shadowheart. Panic had taken over her mind. It wasn’t the first time she and Pek had dealt with fear, both of them had their moments and they helped each other as friends do. But Astarion? Someone Shay had expected to abandon them the moment they got to the grove?

“Thank you,” Shay murmured to the pale elf escorting her through the grove. “You didn’t have to help me.”

“You’ve had my back,” he replied just as quietly, “it’s time I had yours. We’re a little team now.”

“A bigger team now, I guess,” Shay nodded ahead of them, to Shadowheart and Wyll.

Astarions lips twisted in distaste, “We’ll see, darling.”

“Well, a short-lived team, anyway.” Shay tried to be optimistic, “We’ll be healed soon. Where will you go when you’re healed?”

“I–” a deafening roar interrupted Astarion. Shay’s eyes darted ahead to the bottom of the twisting path, where the path descended between giant stone blocks, haphazardly creating walls of stone ending in heavily carved arches placed at the bottom of the path. She could see a small patch of sunlit meadow on the other side of the arches, but blocking the way was a small crowd of angrily muttering tieflings and a guard of two druids and a massive grizzly bear. It was the bear, Shay surmised, that must have roared. Wyll waded into the tiefling crowd in an instant, clapping shoulders, giving warm smiles and encouraging everyone to move back up the path, where the Elturan refugees had set up their camp. Shadowheart smiled beatificantly as the tieflings passed her.

Above them all, where they had the good sense to stop rather than getting involved in angry crowds, Shay turned to Pek, “Bear or druid?” she asked knowing that Pek had a good eye for wildshaped humanoids.

“Druid,” Pek answered,

“Druid,” Shay repeated the answer to Astarion, “I know Zevlor said they were closing the grove but I didn’t expect this. I’m glad the animals of the grove don’t seem to be involved. Yet.”

“And what do you want to do about any of it?” Astarion asked, a hint of frustration in his voice, “What could you possibly do anyway? We just need to find this Nettie and be healed.”

“I won’t be trapped in here,” Shay swore, “They’ve turned their backs to the wilds and I won’t be a part of that. Once I’m healed, I’m going goblin hunting.”

Pek knocked her heavy tusks into Shay’s thigh.

“We’re going goblin and worg hunting.” Shay corrected, patting Pek’s bristled back.

“Sounds fun,” his ruby eyes sparkled, “Perhaps I’ll join you.”

Shay had no idea how to reply to that.

Chapter Text

Join them?!

After a few shocked blinks, giving Astarion no answer to his outlandish idea, Shay’s attention was caught by Wyll and Shadowheart fervently agreeing to something with the last tiefling couple to stay near the entrance to the inner grove. While the other tieflings journeyed all the way up the path to their camp, these two settled against a stone wall, clearly waiting with thinly veiled patience. Whatever they had agreed to seemed to involve the druids; their two new infected recruits were intent on making their way to the bottom of the path, to speak with the two druids that had still retained humanoid form. Both druids, a human woman and a bearded gnome, wore heavily tooled leather and crowns of shed antlers, their bodies were decorated with vines and leaves. The druids' faces were mirror images of obstinate anger.

“We should hear this,” Shay realised, not wanting Shadowheart, a stranger, and Wyll, hero or not she had just met the man, to make any decisions for her. Astarion didn’t comment, but jogged down the hill at her side, just as eager as she was. Pek followed, ambivalent to the problems of humanoids.

“Step back!” the human druid was ordering Wyll. “No one is welcome in the inner grove. We will be safe from thieves and demonspawn.”

“I have no quarrel with druids,” Shay spoke softly before Wyll or Shadowheart could argue with the woman. “We seek healing, nothing more.”

“No, you seek to invade,” the woman argued, the feral light of fanaticism burning in her eyes, “We will lock down the grove from all who would defile it.”

“By the Forest Queen, never have I been called an invader or defiler to a grove.” Shay shook her head, “is this what has come of Silvanus’s people?”

“We will protect the grove!” the woman argued, tossing her head so angrily her crown of antlers nearly fell off.

“A moment, Jeorna,” the gnome reached up to gently touch Jeorna’s arm. The human woman leaned down to the gnome's height, cocking her head so that he might whisper in her ear.

“Oh, I see. Yes, Mino.” she said to the gnome before setting her pale eyes on Shay, “Mielikki’s child, you may go in. First Druid Kagha wishes to speak with you.”

Shay was confused. Why would the first druid wish to speak with her when the Blade of Frontiers, a famous and far more heroic ranger, was right there. Perhaps Kagha didn’t know who was in her own grove. The place certainly seemed like a buzzing hive of chaos, what with goblin attacks and crowds of refugees.

“My companions are joining me.” Shay stated flatly. She had little trust in her heart for the druids of this grove, splitting up was a danger she would not abide.

“Absolutely not–” Jeorna argued before, again, Mino tapped on her nut-brown arm. A single raised eyebrow from the diminutive druid had Jeorna wilting like a cut flower. “Fine. Go in. Behave yourselves.”

The druids, even the wildshaped grizzly bear, stood aside to let them in. Shay held her head high as she entered the inner grove, not willing to show nerves to the druids so eager to fight for their grove.

The inner grove was a sun-dappled clearing of soft green grass, the centre of which held a large, circular stone altar constructed of rough slabs of barely-worked rock, heavily carved and moss covered. The altar was awash in swirls of green light as druids standing at stations all around the circle performed thor lengthy ritual, beseeching Silvanus for protection. Shay glanced at it all with a mistrusting eye; these are the druids who had turned their back on the forest she had just spent two days travelling through.

“Halsin!?” a deep voice grunted. Around the altar, charged a large boar, a male bristling with anger and impatience. “You’re not Halsin. Where is Halsin!? He promised me a mate!”

“Earn your own mate,” Pek told the boar, disgusted.

“Oh, they like each other!” Wyll observed.

“So cute!” Shadowheart added.

Astarion looked askance at Shadowheart, having spent enough time with Pek to know her better. “I’m pretty sure Pek likes Shay and the rest of the world can burn.”

“Maybe he’s not so stupid.” Pek advised Shay, “the pale one might be a better mate than one-eye.”

“Can we–'' Shay choked on her words, coughing ferociously for a moment. Wyll helpfully pounded her back twice. She noticed the shine of steel in Astarion’s hand the moment the Blade of Frontiers touched her, but it was gone so fast she questioned herself. “Can we please go find Nettie and get healed from these worms.”

“Do you still want to mate?” Pek taunted the boar, “we can have tentacle-faced monster piglets.”

*****

Shay stormed out of the cavern the druids used as their home, leaving the dark, humid confines for blessed fresh air and sunlight. She didn’t care if anyone – save Pek – followed her. Her anger was a fire hotter than the sun and left little room to consider her companions.

Fuck Kagha, fuck Nettie, fuck the Ilithids… fuck everything!

Her mind was a tangle of negative emotions, hatred, disappointment, depression, and burning anger. Kagha, the grove's new First Druid, was an absolute monster. The woman tried to have her pet viper kill a child – a child! – who had only tried to help her people by stopping Kagha’s selfish ritual. Then the snake of a druid tried to treat Shay as her errand-boy, assuming that, as a ranger, she was available to all druids to perform their dirty work. Kagha wanted the tieflings out of the grove and wanted Shay to be the one to achieve that goal. The First Druid couldn’t care less about the methods Shay employed to do so. Shay wasn’t going to lie to the refugees that she could somehow get them safely past a goblin hoard; that was murder, no matter how you sliced it.

Druids and Rangers worked together, certainly, but Shay didn’t belong to this grove and had no intention of following through on Kagha’s insane demands to set dozens of tieflings into the path of danger, if not death, just because Kagha feared their appearance. The tieflings were already victims of the Blood War and racism. The true First Druid of the grove, Halsin, had offered them refuge and Shay could sense the tensions in the grove, saw the looks shared by the druids, and knew that Kagha’s leadership was on shaky ground at best.

Fucking viper of a woman.

Shay clutched the vial of wyvern poison she had taken from Nettie, swearing – a blatant lie – to take it should the symptoms of change begin. It wouldn’t happen, they would find healing before that happened. Shay stomped through the inner grove, past druids chanting to their idol of Sylvanus, the leaf-green glow of nature magic swirling around them as they performed their sealing ritual. The Chionthar was near, that she knew, and its waters would safely dilute the wyvern poison so no one would be hurt by potent venom. She ducked through carved wooden arches made from fallen logs, following the scent of water.

“A lead is better than nothing,” Wyll was assuring Shadowheart as the two followed behind Shay. “Shay, did you see any tracks in the wild that might point us in a good direction?”

“No, but I know Halsin went with human fighters to the west,” Shay spat, answering the question as best she could through her haze of anger, “The goblins are there. Find the goblins, find the druid; I expect they’ve taken him hostage. Or cooked him.”

Shadowheart blanched, her pale face draining of what little colour it already held. “Cooked him? Are you certain?”

Shay stopped in her tracks, spinning to address Shadowheart. She noted Pek hadn’t followed them, a flash of two curly tails disappearing into the brush showed Shay what her friend was about. ‘Get your own mate’, indeed. Astarion was nowhere to be seen. Shay didn’t know what had happened to him, she hadn’t kept good track of anything since the deluge of disappointment that had been her interactions with the druids.

“Don’t join a goblin for a meal,” Shay warned the half-elf, brandishing the vial of wyvern poison, “What they set their table with might upset your stomach more than this would.”

“I’ll stick to fish,” Shadowheart murmured, sharing a wide-eyed look with Wyll. “What does this mean for us? What are our next steps?”

“I need to find Karlach,” Wyll stated firmly. “She’s out there right now, killing who knows how many innocents.”

“We need to find Halsin and get these worms out of our brains,” Shadowheart argued.

“I agree: healing first,” Shay said, “Right after I throw this in the river. Hopefully we can get some supplies from the tieflings; I’m not sure I trust the druids to provise us.”

The group fell into an uneasy silence as Wyll and Shadowheart followed Shay out of the inner grove, along a well-trod path through the soft lawn of the grove. The path quickly became rocky, twisting sharply in a steep descent to the Chionthar. The scene was idyllic, a perfect summer’s day, a gentle cool breeze, the calming sounds of the water and–

“I hear music. Singing.” Wyll observed.

“It’s beautiful.” Shadowheart breathed on a sigh of longing. She quickened her pace down the path, moving ahead with Wyll.

Shay paused. She hadn’t heard singing; something wasn’t right.

“What music are they talking about?” Astarion asked behind her.

Shay tried to climb into the air, completely taken by surprise. He hadn’t been behind her a moment ago, she was certain. “Where have you been?!”

“Kagha has secrets,” Astarion gave his explanation through a distinctly self-satisfied smirk, “Secrets she doesn’t hide very well.”

“What did you–” a blood-curdling scream from farther down the path interrupted Shay’s line of questioning. She took off running towards the sound.

Shay ran down the path, leaping from stone to stone, on the edge of tumbling down the steep incline at every step. She needed the speed, the faster she got down, the faster she could help. The screams kept going, a discordant accompaniment to the singing she could now hear; peaceful music, wordless but soul-calming. 

Shay skidded around the last bend, half falling down the steep path to the water's edge where she saw Wyll, Shadowheart and a small tiefling child standing…

… at the edge of the small raised platform her parents performed on at the Elfsong. Their music, well-loved songs known up and down the Sword Coast, had the entire tavern clapping and stomping their feet. Shay’s heart stuttered, threatening to stop entirely at the achingly familiar sight of her parents doing what they did best. Her Mother took a step forward to the very edge of the stage, her body swaying with the music, her arms cradled her violin like a lover. Beautiful embellishment ripped from the instrument with a force that felt like claws across Shay’s chest, the standard tavern song elevated to something more, something exquisite, in the expert hands of Chal Lintu.

“Mama,” Shay whispered, eyes filling with tears until the sight of her parents wavered behind a wall of water.

The thump of Papa’s drums was the thump of Shay’s own heartbeat. His hands moving along the stretched leather tapped out the rhythm that set the blood running through her veins. Seated behind the instruments Nana had made with such care, the man’s teal eyes glowed with a zest for life she wasn’t sure she had ever seen in them before. Then his gaze shifted to the woman he performed with, his face blooming with love and adoration. Her perfect family, everything she had ever wanted, everything she had lost.

Shay stumbled forward through the crowd, her feet drawn towards the couple on stage as a lodestone to true north. The Elfsong was packed. She slogged forward, fighting her way against the sea of people crowded around the stage. Something cold splashed her leg, filling her boot, likely a spilled drink from a patron. But her parents were there, they were right there. She moved forward slowly, every step closer to her parents was a victory.

The song wound to its conclusion just as Shay reached the stage. The throng of people in the Elfsong erupted in thunderous applause, drowning out Shay’s voice as she waved and cried “Mama! Papa!” trying to get her parent's attention. At first, her parents ignored her, bowing graciously, taking coin from eager hands. Then, suddenly, her Mother’s dark eyes cut across the crowd and stared into her own. She strode across the stage, the embodiment of a confident performer. Mama leaned down, offering Shay a hand to help climb up beside her.

“Mama?” Shay’s lip trembled as she took the proffered hand, warm and dry and familiar. She blinded the tears from her eyes, not caring as they cascaded down her cheeks. On a stage with her parents once more, the cheering crowd faded to nothing behind her.

Her mother smiled, white teeth flashing sharp in her dark face. She reached out, slowly, hands curling around Shay’s shoulders. Long nails like claws pricked sharply into Shay’s skin. Slowly, Mama drew Shay closer into a loving embrace. Her soft lips brushed Shay’s ear as she whispered, “I’ll rip out your throat.”

Shay was shoved off the stage, her arms windmilling to keep herself from falling backwards, but it wasn’t enough. She fell back into a crowd that became shallow water, accepting her with a cold splash. Above her, on a stage of sun-warmed rock, Mama melted away, revealing a wrinkled, naked figure of a woman. Dirt-streaked, pendulous breasts hung low on her pock-marked body, long slimy hair fell in dark waves down her shoulders. Above her shoulders stood greasy black vulture’s wings, beating a foul stench into the air. The harpy Mama had become smiled, revealing rows of sharpened yellow teeth. Its filthy humanoid body moved like a bird hunting a worm; all sharp jerks and little hops. The sounds of battle washed over Shay, hypnotic singing cutting off in avian shrieks of pain. She couldn’t look away from the monstrous woman before her, couldn’t take in what was going on or think beyond the urge to slice the head off the beast that had crawled inside her mind and ruined her most beloved memories.

Shay’s bow was nowhere to be seen, she must have dropped it while under the harpies spell. Not that it would be helpful in close quarters. Luckily, her short sword and dagger were still strapped to her body. She struggled to her feet in the shallow water, unsheathing her weapons and assuming a battle stance. Behind her, she could hear more singing, and Shadowheart cry “I swear to Sh– not again, Wyll!” Sickly green light flashed on the water's surface; someone had cast a spell.

Shay felt the scratch marks along her shoulders, they burned where the harpy had dug its filth-encrusted claws in. The pain in her body could be ignored. The pain in her heart demanded blood. Existence narrowed to agony and vengeance. The monsters would die. They would die for being monsters, they would die for defiling sacred ground.

They would die for what they did to her.

She threw her dagger at the harpy, the weapon darting into the monster's shoulder. Thick, black blood dripped from the wound, showing that no matter how humanoid the harpy looked, it was a monster. The monster ignored the hilt that jutted from its shoulder to cock its head in a jerking motion, swaying its body side-to-side in a hypnotic rhythm. It began to sing again, beautiful melodies weaving peace like a blanket.

Shay charged forward as best she could in knee-deep water, swinging her short-sword at the scaled bird legs of the creature. The harpy hopped back, easily avoiding the sword. Anger flooded Shay like a wave, batting aside the peaceful effects of the harpy’s song. She swung her sword again and again, the harpy hopping over the weapon each time. Shay ground her teeth together, determined to kill.

“Come on then,” Shay taunted the Harpy perched above her. “Come rip out my throat.”

*****

Shay stabbed the motionless body of the harpy, lying mangled in the shallow water.

She stabbed it again.

And again.

The dagger descending, rising again and descending, was a calming rhythm. It didn’t slide into the throat of this harpy as easily as it had the last; its tip had broken off in the cartilaginous pharynx of the last one. This one, like the last, would never sing again. Never do anything again. Just in case, Shay forced the corpse’s mouth open with the hilt of her short sword, then drove her broken dagger into the creature’s tongue, twisting and wrenching until the organ slipped free. The body twitched when Shay yanked the tongue from its head, discarding the limp, slimy organ into the water behind her. Did the harpy still live? She stabbed it again, with her short sword this time. The motion aggravated the long scratches along her arm, they stung and burned as no scratch ever had. 

The sight of greasy feathers floating away from the body distracted her. The dark grey pinons twirled as they caught in the swirl and flow of the river, the sunlight sparkling on the water's surface turning their oily filth into glittering rainbows. Exhaustion burned in her limbs. Pain in her many wounds. She could hardly catch her breath, panting, open mouthed, above the silent harpy.

She stabbed the filthy body again.

“That’s enough,” she knew that voice. It was safety and kindness. It was hatred and fear. It had taken, but lately it had given. No matter. The monsters had to die. She ignored the voice to dig her blade into the body again. She liked how the squish of the weapon finding an organ was accompanied by silence. No songs. No screams. Silence. A cool hand grasped her blood-soaked wrist in a loose, gentle grip. “That’s enough,” the voice repeated in a gentle murmur. It sounded empathetic.

Shay used the grip on her wrist to help steady her as she turned in the water, slashing her sword towards her new opponent. The motion was slow, her muscles burned with fatigue. Her other wrist was caught in a firm grip before her sword could make contact. Both arms held, she struggled to kick, stumbling in the knee-deep shallows, where harpy blood flowed, black and viscous through the clear blue water. She looked up at her opponent as she threw her fading strength into breaking his grip. She failed at the effort, giving up when she saw the pale elf who held her wasn’t exactly her enemy. Not at that exact second. Astarion. His red eyes seemed interested, even concerned, in the glow of the low-hanging sun. Had he fought the harpies? She couldn’t remember, but he seemed as blood-splattered as she felt. Behind him, at the water's edge, beyond more twisted harpy bodies, Shadowheart held a rag to Wyll’s head, trying to stop the blood flowing from a shallow cut near his ear. A curly-hair tiefling child was running away up the path, fleeing the carnage. Shay blinked tired eyes at the scene. It was over. The harpies were dead, their malicious melodies would never be heard again. 

It was over. Why did her heart still feel so broken? Why did her Mother haunt her thoughts, an embrace so long-dreamed of accompanied by slashing claws? Mama had been gone for years, she should be used to this. Why wasn’t she? Her knees gave out and she crumpled into the river. Her tears joined the Chionthar’s swift flow towards Baldur’s Gate. 

“Come on,” Astarion pulled at her wrist. She stood but only for a moment, before her knees threatened to give out again. He caught her, bloodied arm around her bloodied waist. “Out of the water.”

“You took them.” She growled the accusation as he helped her stumble to shore. Her body felt hot and cold, shaking with exhaustion and something that burned fire through her muscles. She was ranting and sobbing, her heart raced, the world bobbed and spun. There was no control. “You took them and they’re gone. They’re gone! And I’m alone. Because of you.”

He didn’t reply. Quieter than the dead; she could still hear the dead sing, after all. 

A cool hand on her forehead.

“I think…” his words trailed off for a moment. “You! Shadow-whatever-your-name… Shadowheart! Do something. She has a fever.”

“I’m a little busy!” Shadowheart answered, “Bring her here.”

The water boiled ice through her shaking legs as she and Astarion stumbled through it. She hit him, weakly, with the hilt of her shortsword. “You took them!”

“I probably did,” he sighed in a resigned voice pitched for her ears only. He took the sword from her hand as though she were a child, “Whoever ‘they’ are. Here, dry land, sit.”

Shay sat, by the narrowest definition of the word. She was only saved from truly falling by Astarion guiding her to the ground. The grip she had on him forced him to the ground beside her. Her burning body curled up into as small a form as she could, teeth chattering through waves of ice, Astarion’s arm held hostage to the mindless ravages of fever. Shadowheart kneeled beside her, reaching out a pale hand towards Shay’s forehead. Shay threw herself to the side to avoid the touch, pushing into Astarion.

“Leave me alone!” she cried, the ground around her erupting into jagged spikes, forcing Shadowheart to fall back.

“Woah, there.” Wyll appeared beside Shadowheart, making calming gestures with his hands. Gestures that were completely ruined by how blood-soaked he was. “She's trying to help.”

“They’re gone. I don’t know you, they’re gone.” Shay mumbled in the center of the spiky rock nest. She felt hotter than any fire, no longer knowing anything but the need to cool down. Astarion, trapped beside her, was forced to embrace her as she mindlessly snuggled into his cool body.

“Where’s Pek?” Astarion asked Shadowheart and Wyll through the rocky spines of the prison Shay had placed them in.

“The pig?” Wyll asked, “I don’t know.”

“She’ll behave for ‘the pig’,” Astarion rejoined, struggling with Shay, “Fucking go find her.”

“I’m sure I can–” Shadowheart stuck her hand between the spikes, reaching out. Shay pressed herself back, another rock spike rose from the ground, nearly piercing Shadowheart’s hand. She yanked it back just in time. “Let’s get the pig.”

“Why did you take them?” Shay sobbed as Wyll and Shadowheart jogged up the path in search of Pek.

“Gods below, you better not remember this,” Astarion swore. A cool hand tilted her chin, forcing her eyes to stare into his, sanguine and earnest. “Whoever ‘they’ are, if I took them, I had no choice. Now calm down and think healing thoughts. They’ll be back.”

“I don’t like when you’re nice,” Shay slurred, the fever heating her until her eyes shone like glass, unseeing and barely understanding. “I want to hate you.”

“Can’t hate me more than I hate myself.”

*****

Her legs were numb.

Shay rose to consciousness slowly, swimming upwards from confusing depths of pain, fever and memory turned to nightmare. She felt as though she had been run over by an owlbear, every part of her felt bruised and exhausted. Shay remembered little; anger at the druids, crushing disappointment they couldn’t be healed, then… was there a fight? She remembered harpies, had that been real?

The only thing solid and real was the fact that her legs were numb. It was a familiar feeling; Pek often slept beside or on her, treating her like any other pig in the pen, treating her like family.

“What happened?” she groaned, reaching down to shove at the feral sow she called friend.

“Ask the people,” Pek snorted, barely moving away from Shay’s legs. The numb feeling became painful tingles as blood returned to her legs, “I came for the aftermath. Brought shiny things.”

Shiny things?

“There’s our hero,” Wyll’s voice was annoyingly cheerful. “Slayer of harpies!”

“She’s not the only one who killed harpies,” Shadowheart muttered at Shay’s side. Shay opened her eyes to regard the woman with bleary eyes. “You do fight well, though. One for me, one for Astarion and three for you.”

“I think saving me should count too,” Shay smiled, grateful.

“Ahem,” Astairon cleared his throat loudly behind her.

Shay glanced over her shoulder. Astarion looked oddly nervous under his show of bravado.

“He wants that credit,” Shadowheart explained.

“Because I deserve credit–”

“You were feverish from infection; the harpies filth worked quickly,” Shadowheart spoke overtop of Astarion, to his obvious annoyance. Shay turned back to the dark haired woman, “He… did… help you more than Wyll or I could. We had to get Pek to calm you down; you wouldn’t let anyone near you. No one but Astarion, anyway.”

Shay’s head whipped back to look at Astarion again. His eyes avoided hers. “We’re a team,” he explained. Shay was certain he was hiding something.

“Enough chatter,” Wyll clapped his hands, “We’re all hale again and we have worms to take care of. On your feet.”

“Yes,” Shay agreed, accepting a hand from Shadowheart to stand. She saw her bow up the path and began moving towards it. The others followed. She tried not to think too hard about that, she might panic if she really thought about leading people. “We’re seeking the druid Halsin, who was last seen fighting goblins not far from here. We need supplies; potions, food…”

“You need a new dagger,” Astarion pointed out as Shay bent to scoop her bow off the ground.

“I do?” she unsheathed her dagger, shocked to see half a blade emerge from the leather case.

“Broke it in a harpy throat,” Wyll said, an admiring tone in his voice. Shay grinned, a feeling of pride welling up in her.

“Probably new armour as well,” cool fingers poked at the skin of her shoulder, exposed to the air through torn leather. The ticklish feeling of Astarion’s touch stole Shays attention from Wyll, she twisted, ducking from under the pale elf’s hand. She glared at the elf.

“Pick one and mate,” Pek snorted at her side.

“Pek!” Shay spluttered, her mind stumbling from its path. She did the only thing she could think to do; she avoided the entire subject. Shay put her head down and doubled her pace towards the druid grove. They needed supplies.

“What did she say?” Shadowheart wondered.

*****

Shay sang softly to herself as she wandered the paths of the cavern system that the druids had, in better times, given to the Tiefling refugees. Pek and Astarion were at her side, odd how quickly she was getting used to his presence. Wyll and Shadowheart had been detained by the parents of Arabella, the child they had convinced Kagha to release. It was on Shay to find the supplies they needed, while the Blade of Frontiers clapped shoulders and took all the credit. Shay didn’t mind his being the smiling face; she wasn’t interested in talking to people. There was always trouble when too many people were in one place. People like Astarion.

No, that wasn’t right.

A hazy memory floated up from the corner of her mind that had managed to hold on to sanity while fever ravaged her body. Memories of her accusing Astarion, of letting it slip that they were connected by more than tadpoles. Memories of him not reacting with anger or denial but… resignation.

If I took them, I had no choice.

She allowed the words to echo in her mind, turning them about to examine and prod at them. Not an apology or an explanation, but a puzzle. The situation was already a puzzle, but it seemed it was a much larger one than she had ever known. For now, she would feign memory loss; easily done as she truly remembered very little. He could have killed her at any point since they met. Attacked in the night, allowed her fever to take her rather than helping her through the ravages of whatever the harpies had infected her with, betrayed her to the bandits at the crumbling temple. She wasn’t certain they really needed each other to survive anymore. If anything, Shay was an increasing liability to him. Her thoughts circled around and around like the melody of the song she sang in little snatches as she moved through the crowds of refugees, seeking someone with goods to sell.

Just as a bend in the path revealed a makeshift forge manned by a tanned tiefling, Astarion let out a deep sigh of exhaustion.

“Hungry or tired?” Shay asked, “Or both?”

“Hungry,” he answered immediately, before blinking and walking his words back with a shake of his head, “No, just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“It has,” Shay agreed, thinking of everything they had done since the morning. “Maybe Zevlor can give us space for the night before we go to find Halsin. It’s wasting time, Kagha didn’t give us long, but we’ll die if we go out there exhausted.”

“I’d rather be outside,” Astarion said, a considering tone in his voice, “I don’t trust Kagha.”

“Me either– wait.” Shay grabbed Astarion’s arm, dragging him behind an open wagon stacked high with crates.

“I’ll leave you to mate,” Pek snorted, staying on the other side of the wagon. Shay grit her teeth, but ignored her friends' baiting. “Need to get me alone, darling?” Astarion purred with a smirk.

“Gods, not you too.” Shay rolled her eyes. “K–”

“Me too?” He interrupted. The dim light of their hiding place cast dark shadows under his eyes. He did look tired.

“I’m not–” She almost allowed herself to be interrupted, then spoke quickly, trying to preempt anything further from him. “Kagha. You said she had secrets. Explain.”

“Look at this,” Astarion smirked, quite self satisfied, as he pulled a worn paper from his pocket. “I saw our dear first druid sneaking about after we were done with Nettie. I followed and, would you believe it, she has a little hidden place full of interesting books and notes. Things she might not want the others to know, just yet. Something about Shadow Druids.”

Shadow Druids were said to live in the Cloakwood. Every now and then, Shay would find a druid headed to the centre of the wood, where they claimed a grove lay abandoned. Ignoring all rumours that there wasn’t an abandoned grove, but a Shadow Druid enclave, the druid would swear they were going to reclaim the grove for Silvanus. Shay would never see them again. If Shadow Druids were working with Kagha…

Shay took the paper from Astarion’s hand and read, her heart dropping lower with each word written in a spare hand on the page.

Kagha. 

Swamp-docks. Tree. Meet me. Alone.

Olodan.

“Sealing the grove but having secret meetings outside it.” Shay mused aloud. “Something to do with Shadow Druids. That’s… not good.”

“We can’t spend the night here.” Astarion warned, his voice as low as his earlier purr.

“Agreed.” Shay dropped her voice, “We should keep this to ourselves for now. I don’t want to get tangled up in this more than we already are.”

“Way ahead of you, darling.”

Chapter Text

“This is a forge?” Astarion asked doubtfully as they approached the strange wooden construct that looked like the most ill-advised and flammable forge ever built. Pek flopped on the ground nearby, not caring for the constructs of humanoids.

“They tell me it is,” the tiefling working the bellows replied, his blue eyes twinkling, “but I have my doubts. I’m Dammon and you’re the heroes who saved us from the goblins.”

The tiefling looked like he knew his way around a forge. Tall and strapped with muscles bulging under his rough hemp shirt and leather vest, his blonde hair tied back in a haphazard bun. Sweaty strands of hair, escaped from the effort to contain it, clung to his forehead. He worked the bellows of the hastily-constructed forge, stoking the fires to white-hot heat. On a nearby table, a line of bent tools and broken weapons waited for repair.

“Word travels fast,” Shay muttered to the table, rather than Dammon. She felt uncomfortable with the praise. Killing goblins was the right thing to do; she wasn’t in it for accolades.

“Dammon, my friend, we need supplies,” Astarion gestured at the ravaged shoulder of Shay’s leather jerkin, “Armour and weapons. Anything else you might have that would make easy work of killing more goblins.”

“We have…” Shay dug into her pack, looking for gold. She came up with a small handful of coins, Astarion did the same, including the amulet he had found in the harper cache, “are you sure? You said that was helpful.”

He shook his head, tugging at a sparkling chain around his throat, “Pek found something more helpful.”

Shiny things.

“Alright,” Shay nodded, turning to Dammon, “this is what we have. I need new armour or a repair. And a new dagger.”

“More than enough,” the Tiefling nodded, taking the gold and the amulet. He reached into a nearby chest, pulling out a fine leather jerkin, stained a dark, walnut brown. “Go behind the forge, try this on.”

Shay took the jerkin, a little daunted by its fine craftsmanship. She wore scavenged armour from corpses, this was almost too much. Tamping down her feelings of inadequacy, Shay followed directions and hid behind the forge to change. The shirt she wore under her leather was just as torn as the leather itself, but she could stitch that back up later. The new leathers felt soft and supple, too good for a ragged orphan like her. She felt like a child dressing up in their parents fine clothes. Getting dressed took longer, as she struggled with the ties and buckles as well as her own feelings.

When she emerged from behind the forge, Astarion was deep in conversation with Dammon about a hand crossbow and a grey haired old tiefling was poking at Pek.

“Oh, what a lovely sow. Such good meat. Where did you come from?” the woman was saying to Pek, her red eyes aglow with hope, “The druids took all the animals, left us to starve. You’re a gift from the gods you are.”

“Excuse me?” Shay stepped up to the old woman, noticing she wielded a long wooden spoon. A small cooking area was staged behind the woman, across from the forge. A few cuts of meat hung on hooks above a scarred wooden table. Something unidentifiable bubbled away in a large cauldron placed over a fire.

“Is this one yours?” The woman asked, “We don’t have much gold for livestock, but I’m certain Dammon could be convinced to trade for her. ‘Would be a blessing to help feed so many.”

“I want to be sausages.” Pek grunted. “I’ll be delicious.”

“Not funny, Pek.” the woman’s wrinkled blue face scrunched further in confusion as Shay spoke to her friend before turning to the tiefling, “She’s not for sale.”

“Oh, but surely–”

“Listen to the child, would you?” another voice cut in. An equally old woman, this one human with skin as pale as her white hair, joined the conversation. “Not for sale means not for sale. Did you think farmers brought livestock to a druid grove for sale, Okta?”

“No, Ethel, but surely–”

“Surely nothing.” Ethel replied, her pale blue eyes twinkling with delight. Something darker lurked behind them. Pek sat up and paid attention to this woman, a suspicious sign to Shay, “You’ll just have to stretch that gruel a little farther.”

“‘Be cookin’ the rats soon enough, you have your way.” Okta grumped, but she went back to her cauldron, leaving Pek alone.

“Now you, sweet young thing, you need a little pick-me-up,” Ethel was saying, her bone-dry hand, as wrinkled as the rest of her, took Shay’s and led her under a nearby awning. The marks of a healer were everywhere in the space, bundles of herbs hung from the awning, bottles of various sizes and colours sat scattered on a rickety table beneath it. This, Shay surmised, was Ethel’s little corner of the cavern. “There’s not a bit of colour in your cheeks, sweetie! Let Auntie Ethel fix you up. You drink this and we’ll have you right as rain.” 

A glass bottle was thrust into her hands. Shay sniffed it, recognizing the scent of balsam in a healing potion. She quaffed it, feeling relief surge through her fever-sore muscles.

“You’ve been sick,” Auntie Ethel nodded, knowingly, as the potion worked through Shay’s body. “I expect your young man there used a restoration spell. Lovely things, gets rid of the disease, but doesn’t heal the body!”

Young man? Shay glanced behind, where Astarion was still haggling with Dammon. He noticed her gaze and threw her a wink.

Oh.

“Um… He’s not…”

“Of course he’s not, petal,” Auntie Ethel winked, “Not yet. But there’s history, isn’t there? Can’t tear yourself away, can you?”

“I… but…”

“But you’ve been so sick, probably haven’t thought about much beyond that,” Ethel went on, “I’m sorry to go on about it, but perhaps you’re still sick? You’re looking awful peaky.”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Shay finally got a full answer out, Ethel’s cheerful doting not interrupting for once.

“Oh, I’ve seen it all,” Ethel waved her hand, then her mouth was once more galloping away. “I once had a fella who’d been caught dabbling with a dryad. The wife was none too pleased and introduced him to a pot of boiling oil. But worry not! I fixed him up and, depending on the lighting, he looks good as new! Whatever ails you… I promise I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh, she sounds positively demented,” Astarion observed in a low voice in Shay’s ear. She barely held herself from startling, not wanting Astarion or Ethel to see her surprised. “Let’s tell her everything.”

“There’s something more,” Pek observed, “This one knows things. It could help.”

She was outvoted.

Shay shrugged, before explaining the facts to Ethel; “We have mind flayer parasites in our heads.”

Ethel’s pale blue eyes widened, then darted all over. Up and down Shay’s body, then Astarion and Pek fell under her scrutiny. Finally, she seemed settled to the situation.

“You poor pet. My heart goes out to you, truly.” Could I…? Her wrinkled hands reached out to Shay’s face, turning her this way and that to look at her eye where the parasite slept on. “I see no sign of a tentacle yet, but that could change in an instant. You need help, serious help.” She tapped her lips with a gnarled finger, gazing over her table of potions with a considering air.

“I’ve ne’er a potion or lotion here that could do it, but… Yes. I may have something at home!”

“Like what?” Shay asked, hesitant. Did the woman not belong with the refugees? Where was her home?

“I’ve collected some… interesting bits ‘n bobs over the years.” Ethel waved away Shay’s concern, “You’ll have to stop by my house – just at the edge of the forest. To the southwest, I’ll be heading back soon, so I can meet you there.”

“Um… Thank you.” Shay stuttered, not certain if she would ever want to find Ethel’s home. Something didn’t seem right about her.

“Yes, thank you.” Astarion leaned over her shoulder to speak to Ethel, “But I came to steal this one back from you. Darling, we do need to pay Dammon.”

Any thought of Ethel fled Shay. “Oh no! Did I steal this?”

“Almost, but you’ve hardly made a getaway.” Astarion chuckled, taking her arm to walk with her back to Dammon’s forge, “I don’t think this counts as larceny.”

*****

“They tried to eat Pek? Our Pek?” Shadowheart asked with something approaching disgusted horror, as the group made their way under the oak portcullis of the Emerald Grove.

“Shay’s Pek.” Wyll corrected.

“ My Pek,” the lady herself snorted in exasperation. Shay made eye contact with her friend as they walked through the bloodied mess of the goblin battle. A raised eyebrow was answered with squinting, mud-brown pig eyes rolling in exasperation.

Astarion said nothing. Shay found it uncharacteristic of him, but the way he stumbled along behind them, bruised shadows under his red eyes, revealed how tired he was. It had been a long day and would be longer still, as they pushed through the darkened tangle of forest. The group had agreed upon a few hours journey, to take advantage of what light was left in the day, before they would set up camp. Between the dark tangle of the forest and the jutting rocks of the cave system that protected the grove, they could spend the next few hours travelling just a few hundred metres. Every step forward was one more step closer to healing.

“We’re not mad,” Shay shrugged in answer to Shadowheart’s question. “They’re hungry. Kagha has pulled the resources of the grove back from them. Those people are desperate.”

“Well, the sooner we find Halsin and end the goblin threat to the grove, the less desperate they’ll be.” Wyll stated with firm conviction, as if it would all be that easy.

“If we find Auntie’s house, she may help.” Shay admitted, not certain how Wyll or Shadowheart would take the news that they had told someone else of their infection.

“Who?” Shadowheart asked, conserving her breath as she ducked under low-hanging branches.

Shay explained about the old woman, the hedge doctor who had set up shop in the grove to help the tiefling refugees.

“Perhaps she could help,” Shadowheart sounded doubtful, “If Nettie couldn’t heal us, I have my doubts about some old alchemist.”

“Worth a shot,” Shay said, “we won’t know if she can’t until she tries.”

“I’ll try anything,” Shadowheart said with a tired smile, “sometimes I think a knitting needle would be a good idea; just get it over with.”

“Perhaps for you,” Wyll said with a wry grin, “some of us don’t have extra eyes to sacrifice.”

“They put the damn thing behind my good eye!” Shay complained, “I don’t want to lose that!”

“What’s the story there, anyway?” Shadowheart asked.

The journey to the west continued in that manner; the group moving ever onward, through tangling vines and trackless forest, trading battle stories when breath allowed for it. Astarion stumbling along behind, concerningly silent. At some point, as the hours and the sun wound down, Pek began walking at the elf’s side, shoving him in the right direction when it seemed he was too tired to notice the group had taken a turn. When they finally found a clearing and hastily set up camp in the dim light of dusk, Shay had to help Astarion set up his own tent. He passed out inside almost immediately afterwards, not acknowledging her help in favour of losing consciousness almost before his body was fully laid upon his bedroll.

All the while, Shay wondered what he thought of her feverish confessions. Was he really tired, or was it a ploy to avoid her? Would she find herself silenced in the night, her throat slit to keep her from warning the others about him? She hadn’t brought it up since the fever was cured, did he believe she didn’t remember? He had cared for her through the fever, allowed her to press into his body and yell at him all at the same time. Why would he do that? 

It was a tangle she couldn’t unwind. 

Shay volunteered for the first watch, needing the time to untangle her mind the best way she knew how; she needed to talk to Pek.

“So, that’s it,” she concluded after finally catching Pek up on the situation, the aggravating tangle her mind had become, where the black and white facts of the murderer who had ruined her life were becoming a disturbing grey. “I know I should have told you sooner. I didn’t know how… and we haven’t been alone much. Still, I’m sorry. They’ll let you back into the grove, if you want. Go raise your piglets with that boar.”

“I didn’t mate,” Pek snuffled quietly, her bulk pressed into Shay’s side as they sat together before the fire, “you know I’m not in season. I got the tour. The snake thinks she’s in charge, but the whole place waits for Halsin to return. The two-legs will listen to the snake, but every animal in there waits for the real leader.”

“I won’t be an auntie?” Shay thrust her lower lip out in an over-acted pout. Tusks clacked against her leg in admonition, forcing her to hold back a laugh. “Well, if you’re staying, what do you think of my situation?”

“He hasn’t done anything but help,” Pek’s bristled shoulders heaved in her version of a shrug, “there are worms in our eyes and a devil wants you both. One-eye and Shadows are more strangers still. We should be a team. For now.”

“For now,” Shay agreed, “but what do I do?”

“No idea,” Pek snorted, “you do plans, not me.”

Shay mulled her options, turning the events of the day over in her mind. A snore rumbled from Pek, letting Shay know her friend had ended the conversation. She stood to patrol the edge of the clearing, taking her duties on watch seriously and thankful for the opportunity to try to untangle her thoughts.

Hours later, when it was Astarion’s turn to take the watch, Shay still hadn’t figured out what to do about everything. Talk to the man or ignore it all in the hope feigned memory loss kept him from stabbing her. Shay approached Astarion’s tent, barely lit by the glowing coals of the fire she had built with Wyll, a bowl of vegetable stew in her hand.

“Astarion?” She whispered, “your turn for the watch. I brought dinner.”

There was no answer.

“Astarion?” Shay spoke close to the tent, her face almost touching the tent flaps, tied tightly against intrusion. She had tied them herself, when Astarion had proved too insensible to do it himself. A sharp sound came from the tent, a single drum beat of a body startling, a quick gasp of breath. Shey knew those sounds, the song of nightmare and fear. He hadn’t rested well.

“Yes,” Astarion’s voice finally came, “I’m up.”

“I’ll leave dinner here,” Shay put the bowl down beside the tent entrance, “you haven’t eaten.”

“No, I haven’t,” came the quiet agreement. It held a deep longing; he must be very hungry indeed. A pale hand slid under the tent flaps to grab the bowl from the ground as Shay moved to her own tent. When Astarion finally emerged into the dark clearing, she was sitting on her own bedroll, cleaning Mama’s violin, keeping the strings in tune, rubbing rosin on the horse-hair strung to the bow. The flaps of her tent were tied open, but would be open regardless, as Pek had once again decided to sleep half inside Shay’s tent, her scarred rump holding the tent flaps open.

“A song before bed?” he asked in a low voice, respectful of the others sleeping on the other side of the dying fire. The shadows of the night deepened the bruises under his eyes. Shay wondered if he had found any rest at all. His eyes seemed a touch glassy; perhaps he too, fought fever.

“Are you alright?” she asked as she brought the violin to her shoulder.

“I will be,” he gave a secret sort of grin, then nodded at the violin, encouraging her to play.

She took it as the only answer she would get. Shay certainly wasn’t about to pry; if she didn’t pry, others wouldn’t pry into her own business. Instead, she drew the bow across the violin strings and fell into the music. A soothing, pastoral melody flowed from the instrument, it bordered on a lullaby, though not nearly so simple. The music sparkled and splashed along its path, a peaceful river held by soft, grassy banks. One of Shay’s own pieces, something she had been working on for some time but still wasn’t ready to share with anyone whose opinion mattered.

“That was beautiful.” He stated with simple honesty when the song concluded and Shay turned to put the violin back in its case beside her. “Thank you.”

She had no idea what to do with the warm feeling of pride that welled up within her. It shouldn’t matter what a murderer thought of her music. It shouldn’t, yet here she was gobsmacked and delighted by his praise. “Yes. Thanks… Um… goodnight.”

She closed the tent flaps as best she could around Pek’s bulk, tucked her new dagger under the pack she used as a pillow and tried to ignore her feelings while she chased sleep.

It took some time before the chase was won.

*****

“I smell goblins,” Pek warned suddenly as the group continued to make their way around the rocky outcroppings that housed the Emerald Grove. The outer shell to the cave system that housed the refugees from Elturel had added hours to their westward path, forcing them to journey around its bulk. It hadn’t been long since they broke camp, the sun was still a glowing promise to the east, and they were already sweaty and tired.

“Stop,” Shay warned quietly, raising her right fist in the air to signal everyone, “Pek smells goblins.”

The air around them changed as weapons were drawn, charging with barely-leashed violence.

“Where?” Shadowheart whispered.

“Not sure–”

“There!” Wyll pointed towards the ever-present druidic carvings in the rock, “tracks in the mud.”

“Good eye,” Shay smiled. Wyll winked his good eye back at her.

“That’s a door,” Astarion observed, “it’s the only carving without moss or vine. Look, the tracks go right into it.”

“Shit,” Shay breathed, “that’s gotta be a back entrance to the grove. The tracks overlap, hard to tell how many, but I don’t think more than five or six. A scouting party, perhaps.”

“We need to get in there,” Wyll began poking at the carved rock, “there has to be a… a catch or lever or something.”

“Or we can keep going and get healed,” Shadowheart argued, “you know Kagha won’t thank you for saving the grove again. This isn’t our fight.”

“Halsin might not be so open to the idea of healing us if he finds out we let his grove be slaughtered,” Shay contended, “and if we move on, we’ll have goblins at our backs. Like it or not, this is our fight.”

“Fine,” Shadowheart agreed, clearly unhappy about the prospect but still hefting her mace and shield, “let’s get this over with.”

Wyll continued to poke at the door until Astarion, with a frustrated sigh, moved the man aside to press a slim finger into a carved whorl on the rock face. With a loud click, then a rumble that could be felt through their boots, the door moved aside. A blast of humid air emerged from the dark recesses the open door revealed.

“Well, after you,” Astarion gestured to Wyll, “go be the Blade of Frontiers or whatever.”

Wyll didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm, darting into the dim tunnel with rapier drawn. Shay nocked an arrow to her bow, prepared to draw and fire in an instant, following behind Wyll at a more cautious pace, with Pek just behind her. Shadowheart and Astarion, much less enthusiastic, brought up the rear.

“Do you smell anything else?” Shay whispered to Pek as they crept through the muddy tunnel, the thick wet sludge sucking at her boots with each step, slowing her.

“Druids,” Pek answered with a soft snuffle, “but the scent is old.”

The clink of glass and the sound of a popping cork interrupted the silence of the tunnel. 

“Poisoning crossbow bolts?” Shadowheart’s voice whispered from behind Shay, “a good idea.”

“Nightshade,” Astarion replied, just as quietly, “always helpful to have an edge in a fight.”

Shay agreed. She turned on her heel and gestured with her bow to Astarion, silently asking him to share. With a knowing smile, he added a drop of the virulent green toxin to the tip of her arrow.

The tunnel lit with orange light, streaks of fire darting from the dim reaches of the ceiling. Wyll leapt backward with a curse, knocking into Shay. She managed not to stumble into Astarion, didn’t stab him with her freshly poisoned arrow and refused to consider the relief she felt at that. She spun again, drawing her bow and seeking a target in the dimly lit tunnel, but there was nothing.

“It’s trapped.” Wyll explained, pointing with his rapier to a tall carving of a falcon, its wings carved in a tight, stooping position, though its head turned down to regard them all with glowing red eyes. Shay felt like a bug, a meal for the falcon, should it come to life once more.

“Wut wus ‘at?” a thickly accented voice floated towards them from deeper in the dark cavern complex.

“It’s nuthin’. Them things go off ‘til you press th’button,” another voice answered, “jus’a rat.”

“Rat? Good eats,” the first voice answered. Goblin voices fell to discussing various rat recipes, arguing over who made the better. Stuffed rat, rat stew, rat-on-a-stick. Astarion managed, somehow, to grow a shade paler as he listened to the finer points of goblin cuisine.

“Hear that?” Shay grinned, pleased that the goblins had handed themselves to her, “the goblins have the answer. There’s a button somewhere. We need to find it or we’ll never get past the trap.” She began hunting for the button, twisting around to look up the nearby walls.

“It’ll be on the other side,” Astarion warned, his cool hand on the back of her neck distracting her from her search, “Like a lock, no sense having the latch on the outside.”

“There,” Wyll pointed. The rough cavern wall beyond the baked mud the falcon had made of the path held a smooth square with a carved rune at the centre. The rune glowed a very faint blue in the whirls and circles of druid carvings.

“I could make a run for it?” Shadowheart offered, gesturing with her shield, “I could probably take a hit if I hold this over my head.”

“No need,” Wyll shook his head, his free hand made a sharp gesture and a word of magic fell from his lips. A ghostly, blue glowing hand materialised at his side.

Shay frowned. The Blade of Frontiers was said to be one of the best rangers of the coast, a champion of the people. A hero. But rangers couldn’t summon mage hands; that was magic. She dismissed the uncharitable thought, admonishing herself; rangers couldn’t sing locks open either, after all.

The blue hand floated under the stern gaze of the falcon statue, but did not trigger its flaming bolts. It pressed into the carved rune with a soft click. The angry red light in the eyes of the falcon statue dimmed, then disappeared entirely.

“We’re i–” Wyll couldn’t finish the thought before Pek charged forward. Shay followed with a curse, Astarion close on her heels. They rounded a slight bend, ignoring a fork in the path that curved sharply downward, following the rumbling sounds of Pek’s charge and the tracks her cloven hooves left in the mud. A shriek echoed through the cavern as Pek charged straight into the back of a goblin, standing near a pile of crates at the edge of a sharp drop. The goblin briefly took flight, falling out of sight. The bone-shattering crack of its landing echoed through the cavern, followed by guttural goblin shouts coming from below. Shay and Astarion took up position with bow and crossbow alike, sending poisoned bolts into the goblins below.

Wyll and Shadowheart caught up, taking position to send their own magics into the goblins below. The fight wasn’t fair, trading magic and poisoned bolts with whatever poorly constructed arrows the goblins had to hand. With the advantage of the high ground, they quickly overran the small group of goblins, sending the smelly creatures into the arms of the Absolute they cried out to as they died.

“There’s a druid down there,” Shadowheart nodded to a small halfling body unconscious alongside goblin corpses in the mud below. 

Hopefully unconscious, anyway.

“They probably followed him in,” Shay said, considering what the tracks and bodies told her, “he would have reset the trap before they were on him.”

“Perhaps he knows something,” Astarion suggested in a low purr that suggested he was fine with any method one might use to get information out of an injured druid.

“We need to help him!” Wyll said at the same time, immediately climbing down the broken face of the cavern. The rest followed, climbing down the muck of the tunnel. Pek remained behind to watch the tunnel entrance.

“There you are, friend,” Wyll grinned at the druid once a murmured prayer from Shadowheart healed him enough to bring him to consciousness. “What happened?”

“Goblins,” The druid paused to cough, then called to Silvanus to further his own healing. When he could breathe better, he continued, “goblins must have followed me. I was so eager to get back; it’s my own fault. Didn’t cover my tracks. How did you find me?”

“Ranger tricks,” Wyll grinned.

Shay, looting the goblin corpses with Astarion, heard Wyll’s claim and frowned. Eldritch blasts weren’t in a ranger's repertoire; the Blade of Frontiers, Shay knew, was no ranger. Astarion raised an eyebrow at her in a silent question. She shook her head. Now was not the time.

“Well, thank you,” the halfling got to his feet, “I’ll see you out, then set the traps again. That should stop any goblin that finds the entrance. Good thing they didn’t find the switch and set the trap behind me; you would have been incinerated.”

“Yes, a good thing,” Shadowheart smiled, lying with alarming ease, “so happy we could help you.”

With the same cheerful yet unhelpful attitude as the other druids in the grove, the halfling half-escorted, half-herded the companions up a curving path that rejoined them with Pek. In short order, they found themselves back in the shadowed forests, paid with empty words of gratitude and whatever Shay and Astarion had managed to loot from the goblins. The secret entrance rumbled and clicked, sealing itself behind them with a feeling of finality. The grove was locking itself down more with each passing hour. That entrance would never be used again.

“That was a waste of time,” Shadowheart huffed in frustration as they made their way deeper into the forest. Astarion nodded in agreement.

“Oh, surely you don’t mean that!”

“I do, Wyll,” Shadowheart was firm, “what did we get for that? Barely a thank you and time wasted.”

“Backs not stabbed,” Pek noted.

“They would have been at our backs,” Shay translated Pek’s words and added her own, “that wasn’t nearly enough goblins to take the grove, they’d have been out and following us for sure. I don’t want a goblin arrow in my back, do you?”

“You’re right,” Shadowheart sighed in frustration, wiping sweat off her forehead, messing up the dark fringe framing her face, “just… every moment we’re not seeking healing feels like I’m one step closer to a face full of tentacles.”

“I know,” Shay clapped the woman on the shoulder, “we have time. We’ll be ok, I’m sure.”

Conversation ceased as the companions conserved their breath for the hard slog through the vine-tangled paths of the forest. Narrow deer trails overhung with heavy boughs were the only sign that anyone traversed the forest at all. Shay swore she could see the vines growing, a moving tangle, like a giant, many-headed snake slithering across the forest floor. The forest grew darker the farther they journeyed, shadowed and tangled like the depths of the Cloakwood. 

After an hour's slog, that felt like they’d hardly made any progress at all, a twist in the deer trail they followed suddenly opened to a rocky clearing and sparse trees beyond. A proper road of hard-packed dirt wound through the rocks of the clearing, disappearing into a thicket of aspen ahead. The border of the tangled forest they’d fought their way through was so distinct it seemed as though drawn with ink on parchment, the separation between light and shadow clearly defined. A broken dagger on the ground shone in the sunlight beside deep grooves of worg claws.

“We’re on the right path,” Shay breathed in relief, recognizing the evidence of a goblin scouting party, most likely those they had already fought.

“That guy wasn’t,” Shadowheart snickered, pointing farther up the path where the body of a large boar lay, stiff with death but otherwise appearing uninjured.

“Shadowheart!” Wyll admonished in a stage whisper, “Pek is right here!”

Pek didn’t respond, moving forward with Shay to investigate the body.

“Do you smell anything?” Shay murmured to her friend as she crouched beside the body to look it over. It seemed in the peak of health, no sign of illness or poison. Shay poked around the face of the boar, forcing her way into its eyes and mouth. The whites of its eyes were bright, its gums a healthy pink, with no sign of froth or blood. There was no injury on the body she could see; there was no apparent reason for this boar to be dead.

“I smell the elf,” Pek snorted. “Nothing else.”

Shay glanced up from her examination to see everyone had gathered around her. Astarion avoided her eyes, instead fiddling nervously with the hilt of his dagger.

“The boar is dead, my friend,” Astarion huffed, impatiently. “Come on, we'll never fix these brainworms if we stop and gawk at every piece of carrion you find.”

Shay reached into her pack for the cooking supplies, bringing out a heavy cleaver. She began to process the boar, cutting into its body to carve off large cuts of meat. Oddly, no blood oozed from the cuts. It was as though the boar had been pre-slaughtered and hung to drain just for her.

“What are you doing!?” Wyll demanded, his voice rising as his body was seized by horror.

“It’s stone dead, but it was healthy,” Shay shrugged, “there’s no sense letting perfectly good food go to waste.”

“But… but… Pek!” Wyll stuttered, “weren’t we just talking about the tieflings wanting to eat her? How can you eat pork when you’re friends with pork?”

“Food is food,” Pek grunted, “if you die, I’ll eat you. This is fair.”

Shay translated Pek’s words while she worked on the boar’s body. Wyll gagged, stumbling off to the edge of the clearing to lean over a rock to paint the ground beneath it with his morning meal. Shadowheart followed, a small, amused smirk gracing her pale face. She patted Wyll on the back as he grumbled complaints between heaves.

“Delicate little hero,” Pek chuckled.

“Help me turn it over,” Shay asked her friend.

“Can’t we go?” Astarion protested, “don’t we have enough already?”

“Food in the grove was in short supply,” Shay answered without bothering to turn from her work, “we don’t have enough, that’s just it.”

“Ugh,” he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms to tap pale fingers against his biceps impatiently.

She continued to butcher the body, despite Astarion’s complaints. Shay assumed he was as delicate in his sensibilities as Wyll, not willing to face the truth of where food comes from. Pek dug her tusks under the boar, helping Shay turn the body over so she could finish the job of processing it. When the body finally flipped, cloven hooves bouncing off the ground with the force of the turn, Shay finally realised what had killed the animal. Two small puncture wounds, side-by-side, stood out on the boar’s neck like a beacon for anyone with the knowledge to recognize them. The marks, combined with the lack of blood in the boar, was all the answer Shay needed. She had never met one, but she knew the signs all the same. The creature that had left the marks in the boar was the undead, a monster of grand tales and legends whispered around the campfire. It was a complication they really didn’t need at the moment.

“Vampire,” she breathed out, panic clenching its cold claws at her throat. “What in the hells is a vampire doing out here? The druids have turned their back on the forest, sure, and the forest is dark but… but… vampires?”

“We shouldn’t worry.” Astarion placed a calming hand on Shay’s shoulder, but she didn’t notice, her gaze instead fixed on the twin holes in the boar’s neck. “Vampires are more of a city problem, that’s where the food is, after all. It’s probably just one – perhaps a refugee from Avernus like the tieflings.”

“Or a survivor of the nautiloid.” Shay’s panic bubbled out of her in a hysterical giggle, “an ilithid vampire.”

“A what?” Shadowheart asked, as she helped Wyll back to join them. The Blade of Frontiers was pallid under his dark skin, but he seemed better for the purging of his stomach.

Pek leaned her weight into Shay, nearly knocking her over. The comforting press of her friend and Astarion’s hand on her shoulder encouraged her to take a few calming breaths and center herself. When she could speak again without losing her calm, Shay gestured to the boar, “it was… it was felled by a vampire.”

“The grove could be in danger,” Wyll noted, glancing around the clearing as though vampires could swarm the sun-dappled land at any moment. “We should do something about this. It shouldn’t take long to hunt them down.”

Astarion’s hand flinched.

Shay’s mind followed the tracks the evidence left. A singular boar, a single set of bite marks, the fact that they had been wandering the forest for days presenting a fine meal for a nest of vampires but nothing had happened to them.

“No,” Shay shook her head, turning to look everyone in the eye as she spoke her conclusions from the evidence before her. “No, it’s just one boar. That leads me to believe it’s one vampire, not a nest. A refugee with a curse they probably cannot help – not a threat. We’ll double the watch tonight, to be safe, but seeking healing is imperative, not hunting a vampire.”

“A curse it cannot help?” Astarion murmured, blinking his wine-red eyes, a considering look crossing his face.

“And if it’s infected, like us?” Wyll pondered. “Shouldn’t we stop it before it becomes more powerful?”

“If it changes, it’ll change at the same time as us,” Shadowheart pointed out.

“We’ll all be tentacle friends, then.” Pek snorted, grunting a low chuckle.

“Whatever is out there isn’t our problem,” the comforting certainty of a plan returned confidence to Shay. “Double the watch tonight, that’s all.”

She finished carving up the boar, packing away the cuts of meat in the bag of holding, where they would float in the timeless stasis of the astral plane. Astarion offered his pale hand, pulling her to her feet. For a brief moment, his hand gripped hers tightly, his eyes searching hers. What he was searching for, she couldn’t tell, caught in his gaze like a fly in a spider's web.

“We’ll double the watch,” he murmured after a moment, the promise in his words sounded just for her. “We’ll be safe.”

“We will,” Shay nodded, trying to reassure them both. “Safe and healed, soon.”

Chapter Text

That night, sleep was hard to find.

Exhaustion wrapped around Shay’s bones, like the tangling vines of the forest that surrounded the Emerald Grove. The day had been long: hiking and fighting, then more hiking and more fighting. Tossing and turning on her bedroll, Shay ran through the events of the day, trying to find what element of it was keeping her awake. She replayed the goblin fight, the discovery of the vampire-slain boar, the discovery of owlbear tracks, a fight with two humans who cried out to the Absolute with the same fanatical devotion the goblins had.

All in all, Shay thought, the day had been eventful enough to fill two or three days. Even Pek hadn’t made it to Shay’s tent, falling asleep with her face planted in the remains of her dinner beside the campfire.

Mielikki, bring me rest.

Shay prayed to the goddess of rangers, hoping for a miracle. She should be dead asleep, she wanted to be dead asleep. Why wouldn’t sleep find her? She tossed herself around again, tangling herself in the oversized shirt she wore to sleep. Maybe sleeping on her right side would be more comfortable.

It wasn’t.

Perhaps she should feign sleep. If she pretended hard enough, fantasy might become reality.

Some time later, a sound or perhaps a lack of sound – something startled her awake. Shay’s bad grey eye opened just enough to behold a blurry figure looming over her. She didn’t wake, she reacted. Her left hand, the closest to the dagger under her pillow, grabbed the hilt and she pushed herself up, swinging the dagger at the figure in one sweeping motion. The dagger thunked into flesh. The jolt down her arm, and the cursing from a familiar accent, woke Shay enough to realise what was going on. Astarion sat over her in the dimly lit space of her tent, probably just coming to wake her for her turn at the watch.

“Shit!” he swore, his cool hand coming up to cover hers and yank the dagger out of his bicep. 

“Fuck, Astarion, what are you–” a glimmer of firelight through the open flaps of her tent caught his pale face at just the right angle as he spoke and suddenly Shay had her answer.

All of the answers she could ever want.

“You’re a vampire,” she breathed, her gaze locked onto his pointed teeth.

“This isn’t what it looks like–”

“ You’re a vampire.” Anger overwhelmed her senses. She lashed out with her dagger, driving the point of the fine blade he himself had picked out for her straight towards his empty, black heart.

Astarion’s hand snapped out, a pale blur, encircling her wrist and holding her still with alarming ease.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he assured her, a demonstration of that assurance in the firm but gentle grip he had on her wrist, “I just needed–”

“Blood?” Shay finished his words for him in a dry voice. “I think draining me dry might hurt me. Just a guess on my part, seeing as I’ve never met a fucking vampire before, but I think I might be right.” She shoved the dagger towards him one last time before giving up on having the satisfaction of driving it into his dead heart. The fight drained out of her, her body too exhausted to hold on to her rage for long. “So how long has it been since you killed someone? Days? Hours? Were there more survivors on the nautiloid than I knew?”

His face twisted in disgust, then he protested, “I haven’t killed anyone; I’m not some monster!”

“You’re a vampire, ” Shay repeated her earlier words in a sarcastic drawl, “is that not the definition of a monster?”

“I'm a vampire spawn , ” he corrected in a low, dejected whisper. “Besides, you said so yourself: it's a curse that cannot be helped.” Astarion met Shay’s eyes with an uncharacteristic earnestness. He clearly wanted her to believe him, but could she? Was he being honest this time?

“What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” Shay squeezed her eyes shut, not believing herself and the action she was about to take. She relaxed her hand, the dagger falling into her lap with a soft thud. She took a large breath, though not as calming as she wanted it to be, then opened her eyes to search his, as he had searched hers earlier. She saw pain and fear in his scarlet gaze and a deep longing, probably hunger. There was no triumph, no satisfaction or ill-intent that she could see. He was the same annoying Astarion he had been since they first met. “You owe me some answers.”

“You won’t stake me?” he looked hesitant.

“Remains to be seen,” she hissed in a terse whisper, “but I could have gone for my dagger with my other hand. I don’t know why I didn’t, honestly, other than wanting some gods-damned answers out of you. You’re a vampire! Wait. Don’t victims of vampires rise from the dead to become vampires themselves?”

Gods, could it be true? Could…

“You don’t have to worry about a vampiric boar, I promise,” Astarion drawled, with a half-hearted, sardonic grin.

“Is my mother alive?!” her whole body trembled, with horror, with relief… with hope.

Astarion’s grin fell flat. He set his jaw, the turn in conversation casting a shadow over his pale features. “Is that who ‘they’ are?” he released his grip on her arm, “you were so sick; I thought you didn’t remember that.”

“Tell. Me.”

“No, if she was…” he swallowed hard and tried answering again. “No. That’s not how vampires are made. She’s dead. They’re all dead.”

At this point, she was used to the ghost of her mother rising from the dead to shred her emotions. The ache was dull and familiar, an old friend. Hope, ‘such a tease’ as Raphael had said to them, winked out of existence as quickly as it had come. Shay didn’t shed a tear this time; she was so used to this particular pain.

Astarion brought a hand to his injured arm, hissing in quiet pain as he tried to stop his own bleeding.

“You deserved that,” Shay muttered.

“I did.” his sanguine gaze cast around her tent, settling on the harpy-shredded shirt tossed in the corner, a needle and thread abandoned in the fabric after a few rough stitches. “Heal me? I’ll fix your shirt, and mine I suppose, while you get your answers.”

“Lie to me to avoid getting staked, you mean,” she spat with little vitriol. Exhaustion was draining her anger too quickly. She wanted to hold on to it, but it flowed like water through her hands.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a shrug. “I don’t want to be staked. But I haven’t lied to you yet. I’m willing to take a risk and trust you with my secrets. We’re a team, remember?”

“I might still stake you,” Shay grumbled, bringing her hands to the free-bleeding wound in his arm. Her blade had bit deep, she observed with some pride. A quick prayer to Mielikki where Shay was careful to entreat the goddess to help save Astarion’s un life, which earned a snort of laughter from him, brought forth a swirl of blue light. The wound stitched itself back together, leaving his arm smooth and unbroken. Muscle carved from pale, unblemished marble.

Immediately, he was pulling his shirt over his head so he could examine the slash she made in the sleeve. Shay tried to protest, she didn’t sign up for half naked vampires, but the words came out as a squeak.

“That’s not a question, darling,” he replied in a distracted tone, his gaze still glued to his shirt. “Can’t get answers without asking questions.”

“How does one become a vampire?” she forced out, reaching into the corner of her tent for her own shirt. Perhaps focusing on fixing it would distract her from the utter madness her life had become.

“It’s simple. Just find a vampire that will drink all your blood and turn you into a vampire spawn: their obedient puppet.” his voice wobbled, there was deep pain under the blasé tones, “in theory, the next step is to drink their blood. Once you’ve done that, you’re free and a true vampire.”

She took the needle she had left in her shirt and tried to pull another stitch through the slashes. Astarion reached over, casually entering her space as he always had, to pluck the shirt and needle from her hands. He undid her stitches, then started his own, fine and tight like only the best tailors could do.

“In theory?” Shay prompted after a moment, needing answers more than a repaired shirt.

Astarion chuckled, a laugh that held no humour. “People think the biggest threat to a vampire is a cleric with a stake. It’s not. The biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire. They’re scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts. So why would any vampire give up control over a spawn to create a competitor? Trust me. It doesn’t happen.”

“Then it’s a curse you can help… but you didn’t get what you thought you’d get out of the deal.” Shay felt a small, sour sort of satisfaction burn through her. “Serves you right.”

“I thought I was getting healing,” Astarion corrected, “I was a magistrate in Baldur’s Gate. A group of Gur had taken issue with one of my rulings. They caught me outside one night, the best fighters of the tribe, and beat me to death's door. As I lay there, bleeding out in some alleyway, Cazador Szarr appeared and offered me eternity. With my choices being death or his rather dramatic offer to help, I took him up on it. It wasn’t until later that I realised how long eternity could be.”

“So you’re a vampire spawn, which makes you a slave to this… Cazador Szarr?” Shay summarised, “And you’ve been eating the people in Baldur’s Gate ever since. Still don’t see why I shouldn’t stake you.”

“Because I haven’t been eating people,” Astarion huffed, throwing her perfectly repaired shirt at her chest. “Cazador killed them all. I had no choice. He had me go out into Baldur’s Gate to fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find. It was a fun little ritual of his. I’d bring them back and he’d ask if I wanted to dine with him. And if I said yes, he’d serve me a dead, putrid rat. Of course, if I said no, he’d have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse.”

“You still brought back people to die!” Shay argued. Fuck this. Where the hell was her dagger?

“I had no choice!” he spat back, “Do you not understand? A vampire spawn has no free will. The vampire speaks, the spawns body moves. It never mattered what I might want. He commanded, I obeyed. He even had a rule where I was never allowed to taste the blood of thinking creatures. I’ve been living on rats for two hundred years, when I was allowed to eat at all.”

“Why aren’t you tromping us all back to Baldur’s Gate for your master, then?”

“Our little friends here have changed the game,” his long fingers tapped his temple as he spoke, “I can walk in the sun, enter homes uninvited, cross running water. The compulsion of my master has evaporated like the morning dew. I’ve been conveniently lost. I’m… I’m free.”

“Oh,” embarrassment flooded her, “you were really here for the watch, weren’t you? You weren’t going to bite me.”

“No, I was.”

“Not making a case for me not staking you.”

“Up until now, I’ve fed on animals.” Astarion explained, abandoning work on his own shirt to curl into a ball at her side. She actively avoided the sight of him; clear thinking wasn’t aided by the sight of his naked chest. “Boars, deer, kobolds – whatever I can get. I’m just too slow right now. Too weak. I keep eating more but it’s not helping. I’m so tired I can barely move. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.”

“Why me?” a question for more than Astarion, she should be asking it of the gods at this point.

“You’ve been… kind,” a wondering tone came into his voice; kindness was a rare commodity to him. “You had some of it figured out and still didn’t betray me. And I’m not afraid to admit: I’m desperate. But you can trust me. Please?”

“I’m not kind,” Shay dismissed Astarion’s words, her hand moving through the air as if to dispel the kindness that had infused it. “I need you to survive this.”

“And I need you,” his voice became low and hypnotic, “we’ve done so well together thus far and we can be better still, if I’m at the top of my game. I only need a taste, I swear.”

Echoes of her own hunger, memories layered over years, helped make his case for him. Starvation was an old friend. An old friend she didn’t want visiting others, if she could help it.

“I am going to hold my dagger to your chest the whole time,” Shay was increasingly horrified at the words coming from her mouth. What in the hells was she thinking? How was offering herself up as a sacrifice to vampiric hunger going to help her survive? Yet he had a point; they had done well together. And a fully powered vampire – vampire spawn – would only increase their odds of survival. “Not a drop more than you need or I will stab you through the heart.”

“Really?” he uncurled from his ball, perking up with thinly veiled excitement, “Yes, of course, not one drop more. Here.”

She took her dagger from him. His cool hand – now she knew why he always felt so cold – slid up her arm, barely tickling her neck as it journeyed to her hair. He plucked the scarf from her head then observed, “you took the braids out.”

“What are you doing?” This wasn’t biting her, shouldn’t he be biting her?

“I like your hair,” he shrugged, a hand sliding into the riot of curls that had sprung free the moment the scarf no longer contained them. His other hand pushed gently into her shoulder, encouraging her to lay down.

“Stop lying to me,” she whispered.

“I have.”

His blunt nails scratched gently at her scalp, it felt good but couldn’t distract from her fear as his body covered hers. She held the dagger between them with a shaking hand, prepared to thrust the point into his heart. Her eyes shut tightly against the sight of the monster she was going to sacrifice herself to.

“Ready?” his lips moved against her throat, startling her. He hadn’t made a sound, his weight hadn’t moved, yet he was pressed against her as much as he could with a dagger between them. She should thrust the dagger, she could end it all now. Have her revenge then die trying to find healing. Pek would never survive.

“Do it.”

Astarion’s fangs slid into her neck with an icy pinch of agony that quickly dulled to something warm and throbbing. With the first drop of blood on his tongue, his arms tightened around her, holding her steady, and strangely safe, in his embrace. Her pulse thundered in her ears and in her neck as each thump of her heart pushed more blood into his mouth, had him swallowing then coaxing more from her with strokes of his tongue that set a fire burning through her veins and centering an inferno at the junction between her legs.

She was a leaf caught in a hurricane, a single note of a symphony he conducted. The dagger fell, forgotten, to her bedroll as she clutched at his shoulders, desperately trying to hold on through the torrent of feelings that crashed into her, coiling tightly within, taking her ever higher towards some unseen peak. Her head swam, she needed it to stop, it had to stop, he couldn’t possibly stop. She would stab him if he stopped before she found that peak, that unknown height where something wonderful waited.

A low moan slipped from her lips. In reply, he crushed her tightly to his chest with an answering moan of his own. A leg slipped between hers, the hard muscles of his thigh pressing into her, somehow both relieving the fire he had set and making it so much worse. There was something there, something she needed. More. She needed more. Seeking relief, seeking that ‘more’ that she needed, Shay pushed her hips into his thigh, seeking friction. It felt amazing, untold pleasure with the promise of more. She did it again. And again. She was dizzy with need, though she didn’t know what she needed. More. They couldn’t stop, she needed more.

Astarion broke away from her neck with a gasp, his breath heaving through his chest in great gulps, as though he had been sprinting for miles.

“Don’t stop,” the protest slipped, unbidden, from her lips.

“Never,” he swore, his leg pressing harder into her center for her to thrust against. His hand reached down, hitching under her knee and encouraging her to wrap her bare leg around his hips while she thrust into his thigh. “Knew your legs would feel like heaven wrapped around me.”

What?

Shay opened her eyes to see Astarion flushed above her, his eyes searching hers again. She didn’t know what he was looking for; everything was a blur. Then his lips were on hers, his tongue tasted of copper while it stroked against hers. Her first kiss; it felt wonderful, soft somehow. She didn’t mind the taste of her own blood.

A delightful hardness dug into her thigh. She wanted to explore that more. Her hand slipped down his chest, trailing across his stomach, then journeying lower to find a bulge in his pants. A soft stroke of her hand had him whining into her mouth, deepening their kiss. He thrust the bulge into her hand, encouraging her to explore more. His length, covered by his pants as it was, felt amazing against her stroking fingers. She wanted to investigate more, to learn the intricacies of his body, but was distracted by her own climb towards ecstasy. She was so close to something wonderful, her hips thrusting quickly against his leg taking her ever higher.

Soon.

More.

So close.

Shay broke their kiss with a gasp, needing air, needing sanity, needing more. “Gods, yes!”

His hands slipped under her shirt. One cool hand tweaked her nipple, before wrapping gently around her breast. She had no idea breasts could feel so good. It was a new level of pleasure, something more when everything was already too much and yet not enough. Astarion’s other hand moved around her back as she arched her chest into his touch. His hand grazed against the thick, ugly burn scar that lay there, waiting for his insults and disgust.

It was like being doused with a bucket of icy water from the Chionthar.

“Stop,” she whispered, grabbing his arms. He froze instantly, panting for breath he probably didn’t need. His face was so close to hers, there was no mistaking the fangs that had just been in her neck for anything else. Vampire. Monster.

This is how Mama died, what is wrong with you?

“Yes, of course.” Astarion removed himself from her, his hands sliding out from her shirt. She unwrapped her leg from his hips. “Just… caught in the moment.”

Which felt right. All she could ever be was a moment that went too far. A mistake. She could feel every inch of the scars on her back and arms, the fuzzy mess they had made of her hair. He sat before her like an angel, glowing in the faint light from the campfire, his body sculpted perfection that would make an artisan weep.

Of course he only wanted her blood.

She had never felt uglier.

“You’re fed,” she swallowed heavily, her neck aching. Tears rose in her eyes, she looked away so he wouldn’t see. “Just… just go.”

She held in her sobs while he put his shirt back on. Managed not to carve at herself with her own dagger, making the pain on the inside match the outside, even when he glanced at her legs, making her remember his words.

Knew your legs would feel like heaven.

Liar. 

“Shay, I’m–”

“Please go.” The tears threatened to spill. It was her own fault. He had wanted food and she had lost her fucking mind.

He was still tying the flaps of her tent closed when she gave up trying to contain her sobs. They ripped through her with strength equal to the passion that had heated her blood just a moment before. Great heaving sobs of loss and self hatred.

“Shay–”

“Leave me alone!”

He seemed to leave her to her sadness, the shadow he cast on her tent walls disappeared. She threw herself onto the pack she used as a pillow, sobbing into it to muffle the sounds. Then sounds at the tent flaps came again, filling her with anger. She sat up, turning to face the entrance of the tent and give the damned vampire a piece of her mind.

“I said–”

Then her tent and arms were full of Pek. She buried her face into a bristled shoulder and let her tears flow.

“The elf woke me up, said you were sad.” Pek said once Shay’s tears had quieted enough that they could talk. “He looked sad too. Did the mating not work?”

Shay barked a laugh through her tears, “no, Peki, the mating did not work.”

“You can try with one-eye, maybe he’ll be better at it.” Pek encouraged, as though that was the problem.

“Pek, Astarion is a vampire.” Shay sighed, wishing her biggest problem was finding a mate.

“Explains why he smells wrong.” Pek replied, nonchalant.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“He wants the worms out, he’s helpful, he kept you safe from the bird women.” Shay turned her head while Pek spoke, to show her friend the twin punctures in her neck. “And I’m going to tear his intestines out through his asshole.”

“No, no, no!” Shay grabbed Pek’s hind leg, preventing her from charging out of the tent to gore Astarion. “I let him bite me.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I already asked myself that,” Shay sighed, exhaustion returning to drag at her soul. She felt so drained. Literally and metaphorically. “Basically, you’re right. He’s been helpful. I don’t think we can find healing on our own, even with Wyll and Shadowheart. This little tadpole problem is bigger than we think and we need all the help we can get.

“No more sleeping alone,” Pek resolved, “Can’t trust him.”

“We can, I think. Weird as that seems,” Shay concluded, a wondering tone to her voice as she realised she did trust Astarion. When had that happened? Perhaps it could be blamed on blood loss. “A little blood now and then and he’ll be a stronger ally for it. It’ll help. We’ll get through this.”

“Then I’ll kill him.”

“Sure,” Shay slurred. The tent spun like a top, Pek spinning around and around. “‘F’that helps.” She lay down on her bedroll, wondering what was wrong now. Maybe it was too late for all of them. She’d sprout tentacles and it would all be over.

Shadows closed in around her.

*****

She floated in still darkness. Peaceful and warm.

Sound intruded, ruining the tranquillity.

Grunt. Snort-snuffle grunt.

“Yes, I have the amulet. She’ll be fine , you know.”

Clack.

“Don’t gore me until she’s healed at least.”

Thud. Grunt grunt, snuffle.

“Darling, you need to get up and tell Pek to not kill me.”

Something bright intruded on her safe cocoon of darkness, a shimmering swirl of azure wrapped itself around her, dragging her upward into consciousness.

“Why will none of you let me sleep?” She groaned, blinking her tired eyes open to regard the overly concerned team of Pek and Astarion crammed into her tent. “The fuck?”

Pek grunted and snorted in a torrent of sound, her words unintelligible to Shay. The spell must have ran out. “Pek… Peki, love… PEK! I can’t understand you. I need to sleep before I can recast Speak with Animals.”

“She was worried for you,” Astarion offered in a quiet voice, his eyes dropping to the ground. Something silver gleamed in his hand, the amulet Pek had found in the grove, “wanted me to cast restoration on you with this. You can have it. I’m sure you don’t want me here.”

Astarion turned in the limited space of the tent, but Pek’s body blocked the exit. He couldn’t leave without crawling over her face and risk a goring of some rather delicate parts. Pek grunted her version of a laugh, her bristled shoulders heaving.

“Pek, please let him out,” Shay begged to no avail, “I don’t want to have awkward conversations.”

Pek didn’t move. When Astarion lifted a canvas wall of the tent, looking to crawl out another way, Pek snarled and brandished her tusks. It seemed he was trapped.

Astarion growled in frustration, his eyes darting around the tent before settling on hers. “I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry for every victim that bastard made me bring to him, I’m sorry they were your family. And… and thank you. You were my first. Your blood was a gift, especially knowing what I've done to you. I owe you more than I can repay.”

Pek still didn’t move.

Astarion threw his hands in the air in frustration.

“You… you were my first, too.” Shay echoed his words.

“What?”

“First kiss,” she tried to speak lightly, to laugh it off.

“I took that from you too?” he seemed saddened to hear it.

“I… didn’t think it was that bad,” she bit her lip, using the pain to distract herself from how embarrassed she felt.

“I didn’t either,” Astarion’s lips turned up in a soft smile. She almost believed it.

“I just…” she paused, chewing on her lip, clenching and unclenching her fists with nervous energy, “Look, I know who I am. I know what I look like. You don’t have to give me pity affection because I’m feeding you, ok?”

“Feeding me?” he smirked, “Looking for another nibble already?”

Shay slapped his shoulder. “No, but it worked, didn’t it? We’ll probably have to do this again.”

“It worked,” he assured her, a tone of amazement in his voice, “it was… incredible. I feel strong. Happy. I would very much like to do it again.”

“We’ll do the feeding part again,” Shay clarified, “I’d rather be a team without you forcing yourself to do something you don’t want.”

“I’m free now,” Astarion’s smile bloomed wide, genuine and happy, “I haven’t done a single thing I haven’t wanted to do. Nor will I.”

She dismissed his words as a lie, but wasn’t hurt by it. It was the sort of lie people told each other all the time. It was the kind sort of lie friends told each other to spare feelings from being hurt. “We’re supposed to be keeping watch,” she realised.

“Yes, looking out for the big scary vampire,” he bared his fangs at her, smiling even wider when his actions drew a giggle from her.

“There’s an owlbear out there too,” Shay reminded him.

“Mmm,” Astarion made a considering sound, “wonder what owlbear tastes like.”

“Please don’t hunt the owlbear until after we’re cured.”

“I’m free now, you can’t stop me.”

“True, but there are easier ways to die.”

As they bantered back and forth, Pek finally, blessedly, rolled her bulk out of the tent entrance. Shay threw her blanket off her legs, reaching for the leggings she had removed before attempting to sleep. Pale hands reached for hers in the dim light of the tent, stopping her search.

“I’ll finish the watch,” Astarion offered, his eyes cast downward at her bedroll again. “You get some rest.”

“Thank you,” Shay squeezed his hand.

He escaped from her tent, avoiding Pek’s tusks as he moved into the camp to finish the night's watch. Shay lay back down, tucking her blanket back around her body. She stared up at the canvas ceiling of her tent and considered everything that had happened.

The monster that had ruined her life was a vampire. A vampire who was kind and funny and made her feel like…

Like life would be simpler if she would just turn into a mind flayer already.

Chapter Text

Shay was up and out of her tent, full of nervous energy, before the sun had risen. Bucket and soap in hand, she slipped out of the camp as silent as a moth’s shadow, intending on having a moment to herself to bathe and think. She followed the trail Pek had laid for her, the marks of dainty pigs hooves in the dirt heading out of camp and down a deer track in the dark forest. The stream she came to flowed silent and slow, a peaceful scene in the pre-dawn light.

“There you are,” Pek grunted from a muddy bend in the stream where she was enjoying a bath of her own. Shay ignored the indignant croaking of a frog hopping away from Pek’s bath. If Pek noticed it and heard it cursing at her, she’d roll over and crush it.

“Here I am,” Shay grinned at her friend. “Find any truffles on the way here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Pek teased.

Shay chuckled, undressing and hanging her clothing over a nearby fir tree, young and stubby enough to hold her shirt, leggings and underclothes. “Last night was…”

“Strange?” Pek offered, rolling over to wiggle her back into the mud. Four delicate hooves stuck straight up into the cool air.

“Yeah, it was strange.” Shay waded into the stream up to her knees. She held back a gasp at the cold touch of water, then began to lather up. “What do we do?”

“We keep him. Poor, stupid vampire-elf piglet is lost in the woods.”

“When did you become maternal?”

“He’s useful. He makes mistakes and learns from them. Can’t say the same of a lot of two-feet.”

Shay narrowed her eyes at her friend. Only last night, Pek had been threatening to kill Astarion and now she wanted to ‘keep him’? Something was up. “He’s been buttering you up somehow, hasn’t he?”

“I was hungry. He came along. Now he knows how to find truffles. Brought me a big one.”

“I fucking knew it!”

“We’re keeping him.”

“Yeah, yeah–”

“There you are!” Shadowheart’s voice called from up the deer trail. The woman herself emerged from the forest shortly thereafter, her own bucket in hand. Shay spun awkwardly in the shallow water of the stream, trying to hide the scars on her back from the woman's sight. Shadowheart waved her pale hand in the air dismissively, a friendly smile looking slightly out of place on her face. “Don’t hide your scars from me. I don’t care.”

“How do you know–”

“It peaks up your neck a little. I knew it was there,” the half-elf explained. “I’d heal it, if I could, but it’s too old. It’s a part of you now.”

“Alright…” Shay forced her tense shoulders to drop. They threatened to creep up again at any moment.

“Can I join you?” Shadowheart asked, hefting her bucket.

“Can Shadows be clean?” Pek wondered, grunting a laugh.

“Pek says yes.” Shay answered Shadowheart’s question with a smirk. Shadowheart nodded, then unknowingly echoed Shay’s earlier actions, putting her clothing over the other side of the fir tree and wading into the stream with a soft gasp.

Shay continued washing herself. Shadowheart began to lather herself up as well. For a time, birdsong and splashing were the only sounds to be heard.

“So, Astarion is our vampire.” Shadowheart observed.

Shay choked on nothing, coughing and sputtering while suds dripped from her body to float serenely downstream. In the muddy shallows, Pek grunted a laugh.

“What makes you say that?” Shay finally asked once she had regained control of her voice.

“She has eyes,” Pek noted.

“There are bite marks on your neck,” Shadowheart observed wryly before swinging her long, soap-covered hair into the water to rinse it. “And my tent isn’t as far from yours as you think. I couldn’t help but overhear some things.”

“Um…” Shay blinked, trying to think of a response as her mind was pummeled by a tsunami of embarrassment.

“It’s fine – you missed a spot, rinse your hair again – he’s obviously not a danger to us and we’re all in this together.” Shadowheart explained in her soft, soprano voice while Shay followed her direction and poured a bucket of water over her head, working the soap from her tangled curls with her fingers. “It even makes sense that he would keep it a secret. He doesn’t know us, after all. But now that we do know, we’ll be fine as long as he keeps his fangs from my neck.”

“Yes, um, I’m sure he won’t…” Shay tried to reassure Shadowheart, but realised she hadn’t exactly spoken to Astarion about his eating habits. She would have to rectify that before he found himself facing down a cleric with a stake for true.

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t either,” Shadowheart smirked, her green eyes glittering with mischief in the growing light. “Not as long as you’re around.”

“What–?”

“He’s going to try to mate with you again.” Pek supplied helpfully.

“Pek!” Shay hissed, admonishing her friend despite Shadowheart’s inability to understand what the sow was saying.

“I think you know.” Shadowheart said with an air of mystery that was quickly ruined by a giggle. She made her way back to the shore, avoiding Pek’s mud pit, to dry herself off and begin to dress.

“I… but… he…” Shay’s words trailed off as she gave up. Conversation and dealing with people were jobs for bards, not rangers. She eyed the shadowed forest on the other side of the stream and briefly wished she could just flee into it with Pek. Instead, she slogged her way through the cold waters of the stream to dry off and dress herself beside Shadowheart.

“Are you embarrassed?” Shadowheart asked, her voice muffled by the shirt she tugged over her head.

“A little? I think?” Shay replied, towelling her hair into a dryer mess. “I’ve been living in the Cloakwood with Pek for the past five years. I don’t know how to…” She gestured broadly in an all-encompassing gesture before she, too, began to dress herself.

“Learn to be quiet and you won’t have me asking embarrassing questions.” Shadowheart shrugged a pale, damp shoulder, her long dark hair dripping water over her arm and to the ground. “Braid my hair?”

“You can do that at camp,” Astarion’s voice floated from the woods beyond the stream in the direction of camp. The surprise brought a squeak to Shay’s lips. She tugged her shirt on as fast as she could.

“It’s our turn,” Wyll announced, emerging from the trail with Astarion at his side. Both men carried buckets and soap.

“Alright,” Shadowheart smiled sweetly at the men as they began taking their boots off. “See you up at camp. Oh, and Wyll: Astarion is the vampire.”

“What?!”

Shay spun around, her eyes making contact with the shocked red ones of a vampire caught almost literally flat-footed.

“Run,” Shadowheart whispered to Shay in a sotto voice, then took her own advice and fled up the path to camp, clearly amused with herself.

“You!” Wyll glared at Astarion, but could do nothing before Pek decided to deal with the situation. The Blade of Frontiers, vaunted hero of the coast, was unceremoniously knocked to the ground and sat on by a mud-covered sow.

“I’ll clean up elsewhere,” Astarion muttered, taking his things and moving up stream. Shay watched him go, feeling like she had done something wrong. She turned to morosely follow Shadowheart back to camp, the struggled pleas of Wyll following her up the path.

“Gods, Pek, I’m not going to hurt him. I promise. Please let me up?”

Not much time had passed before Wyll returned to camp alone. Pek and Astarion were nowhere to be seen, just as Shay was finishing a tight, battle-ready braid in Shadowheart’s long dark hair. The Blade of Frontiers looked damp and harried, his hair perfectly queued in the same rows it had been before his bath. His time in the stream had obviously been quick and perfunctory. 

“Your turn?” he asked Shay, nodding to Shadowheart’s braid.

“Yeah, I need to figure myself out.” Shay agreed, bringing a rueful hand to the mess of her hair.

“Allow me,” Wyll offered, “we can share any more revelations about each other while I work.”

Shadowheart laughed, “There aren’t any. Not as big as being a vampire anyway.”

“Vampire spawn.” Shay corrected, handing Wyll her sack of hair products. “He is ok, right?”

“I assume,” Wyll replied, sitting Shay down on a stump then standing behind her to work on her hair. “Unless your pig–”

“She’s not my pig,”

“– got stabby with him instead of me.”

“She likes him,” Shay shrugged, “and we need each other if we want to survive this infection.”

“I’ll give you that.” Wyll sighed. He began to work on Shay’s hair, the familiar tugging relaxing her. Wyll worked much faster, more experienced, with Shay’s hair than Astarion had. She tried hard not to think of how much better Astarion’s hands had felt in her hair.

“Wyll, I’ll do your tent,” Shadowheart offered, having dismantled her own.

“Thank you,” Wyll replied, dabbing more grease to Shay’s hair and continuing his braiding. “What are our plans, now that we no longer have to fear a vampire attack in the night?”

“Healing.” Shadowheart replied, flatly.

“Yes, but where to find it?” Shay thought out loud. “This Halsin is probably behind a couple dozen goblins if we’re lucky. Or Auntie Ethel said she might help us and I think we’ve been heading in her direction anyway. We could try her first?”

“Time is of the essence,” Wyll replied, “who is most likely to heal us?”

“I’m not dying in a goblin camp when there’s a healer so nearby.” Shadowheart replied. “Halsin got himself captured, which isn’t a sign he’s any good. I vote we find this ‘Auntie Ethel’.

“Everyone deserves a vote,” Shay replied. “We need to wait for Pek and Astarion.”

“Wait for Pek and Astarion for what?” Astarion’s voice came from Shay’s right. She cut her eyes to the side, seeking the sight of her friend without moving from under Wyll’s hands. Pek stood, dripping mud to the ground, at Astarion’s side. Steal shone in the pale elf’s fist. A dagger?

“We’re discussing where to go,” Shay answered.

“And we’re all fine with this morning’s… revelations?” he asked, a grey eyebrow raised over blood-red eyes.

“Don’t bite me and we’re good.” Shadowheart grunted, finishing with Wyll’s tent.

“We’re good,” Shay echoed. Were they good? The night before had certainly been a revelation, but perhaps not the kind he was thinking of. Her body still remembered the climb towards ecstasy, how good he felt against her. She was, no doubt, going to die of embarrassment the next time he needed to feed. Amazing how quickly he had gone from hated monster to… something else. That she trusted his tale of vampiric slavery astonished her, but she did. Everything about the night before seemed painfully honest. Even his lies were the honest sort of lies that told of a desire to protect her feelings more than a desire to trick her. Gods, were they becoming friends?

“Can’t say I’m happy with all of this,” Wyll sighed in resignation, “behave and we’ll be fine.”

“I could say the same,” Astarion said so quietly Shay wasn’t quite sure if she heard him right. He continued to grip his dagger, his eyes on Wyll. “I would rather visit a harmless old woman than fight my way through a goblin horde. I vote Ethel.”

“Agreed,” Shay said. Wyll forced her to turn her head so he could finish his braiding. She didn’t see Astarion’s reaction. “Pek?”

“Can we kill the goblins after?” Pek asked in snuffling grunts, moving to lay her muddy body at Shay’s feet.

“Sure, Peki,” Shay grinned, “We can kill the goblins once we’re cured.”

“Then I vote with you.”

“That’s three votes for Ethel.” Shay summarised.

“Would you help me hunt Karlach?” Wyll asked, finishing his work on Shay’s hair. She thanked him with a smile before moving to tear down her own tent.

“Yes, yes, we can all go be heroes.” Astarion rolled his eyes from his half-dismantled tent. He looked so frustrated with the process, Shay veered off to assist.

“Couldn’t wait to tell everyone, could we?” Astarion asked, jaw clenched as they worked together to dismantle his tent.

“Shadowheart overheard last night,” Shay explained, “and there’s a bite mark in my neck. You weren’t exactly cautious about everything.”

“I was almost out of my mind with starvation, what caution did you want?”

Out of his mind. Caught up in the moment. The words shouldn’t hurt, but they did. “That’s not fair. I had no idea you were a vampire spawn. Hells, I didn’t even know what a spawn was.” Shay finished bundling up his tent and moved to her own. Astarion followed. “I just thought you were a killer. It’s not like we sat down to have a chat about our history over tea.”

“Mmm,” Astarion made a non-committal sound as he helped her with her own tent. Shay had no idea what to say to him; she hadn’t told everyone, he had been found out due to his actions and it all worked out anyway. What more could be said? They worked together in silence. Just as they finished the tent and Shay was about to rifle through their stores for food they could eat on the road, Astarion caught her upper arm in a gentle grip. She looked up into his red eyes and waited. “This morning could have brought torches and pitchforks. I’m glad it didn’t.”

“We’re a team. We agreed to that.” Shay replied, searching his eyes. There was something there, she was sure. “Are… are we ok?”

His eyes shuttered, his body language returning to the blasé seductiveness of the man she had met by the nautiloid. The monstrous killer of her past. “Of course, darling. Though I would like to hear what our dear Shadowheart thought of our little performance last night.”

Sharp disgust and embarrassment sheared through her. She yanked her arm from his grip. “I didn’t ask and I don’t want to know. That wasn’t for her to hear. I’d thank you two to discuss my ‘performance’ where I can’t hear.” Shay didn’t bother to see his reaction, grabbing an apple then storming off to Pek, “Pek, did you eat?”

“Frogs.” Came the grunted reply.

“Let’s go,” She called to the group, hefting her pack and heading into the forest without waiting for them.

*****

There were goblin tracks on goblin tracks on goblin tracks. If there was a patch of dirt on the rocky ground, it was covered in a goblin track. The back of Shay’s neck itched; she felt like she was being watched, like the tracks could reach out to their makers and report on their location. It felt like at any moment, an entire clan would descend on them.

They had found a road, made of hard packed dirt and covered with the garbage of a large population fleeing, and the foul waste of a goblin horde. The road was old and broken; it ended abruptly at the forest they had emerged from. No one would build a road, or flee down a road, that ended at a wall of trees. Shay assumed druidic work was at play, that not long ago, a road had wound through the land, heading south towards the Chionthar. That something had happened to cause the people to flee and the druids to raise a forest to protect themselves.

The road became a solid, stone bridge that crossed a deep ravine, then the walls of a village, crumbling under the weight of time and vines, rose into the sky. A wide entrance, perhaps once barred by gates but no longer, stood open to any who may venture within. It was the perfect place for an ambush. Shay kept the party off the road. It slowed their path, but kept them from being perfectly visible targets for the goblin ambush she was sure waited for them. She contemplated what she could see of the road, the bridge and the village beyond while she waited for everyone to catch up. Astarion had been her shadow the entire morning, a shadow she ignored, but Shadowheart was having a difficult time keeping up in her combination of plate and chainmail. Wyll kept his pace with hers, Pek leading them through the forest when Shay – and Astarion – moved too far ahead to be seen.

Behind Shay, Shadowheart’s chainmail loudly clanged and jangled as the cleric tripped over a root in the ground. She cursed, making even more noise. Shay spun around, placing a finger to her lips and glaring at Shadowheart. Pek was already glaring at the cleric.

“I know,” Shadowheart sighed softly, Shay’s admonishment for silence was far from the first, “I’m sorry.”

Shay clenched her jaw, holding back a torrent of angry words. Her frustration had been mounting all day but no one deserved her to vent on them, especially when it would draw the attention of the goblins she was certain waited beyond the village walls. A few deep breaths and she had control of her voice, at least temporarily. “We need to go into the ravine,” she informed the group in a low, urgent voice, “the tracks I’m seeing indicate there is a large number of goblins in that village. It’s gotta be an ambush. The tracks don’t go into the ravine, that’s where the owlbear tracks are heaviest. Its nest must be down there.”

“You want to go into an owlbear nest!?” Astarion spluttered.

“Keep your voice down,” Shay hissed. Astarion pursed his lips but looked slightly contrite. It was the most contrite she had ever seen him look.

“I have to agree,” Wyll interjected, smartly keeping his voice quiet, “it doesn’t sound safe.”

“Owlbears are mostly nocturnal,” Shay explained, relying on her knowledge of the wilds, “and I saw cub tracks. She has a baby to watch. They’ll be in a cave or a thick copse of trees. They’ll probably be well fed, with this many goblins about, so we have little worry a starving animal will risk its life on us outside of its usual hunting time. If we move now, during high noon, we can make it to the other side of the ravine and climb up to the walls of the village. We can avoid the goblin traps and scout from there to find a safe path around.”

“I have a silence spell,” Shadowheart offered. 

“Why haven’t you used it?!” Pek snorted, affronted at the stupidity of humanoids. Shay could only agree.

“It won’t move, though.” Shadowheart went on, ignoring the angrily grunting sow, “But I think, if I cast it in the ravine, we can move through without making a sound. Even me.”

“Good. I’ll signal you when to use it. Are we agreed to the ravine?” Shay asked the group.

Wyll shook his head ruefully, “I still don’t think this is a good idea, but nothing about this is a good idea. I’m in. Let’s go.”

Astarion and Shadowheart both shrugged and nodded. Shay turned heel and led the group deeper into the forest, away from the road and down the smoothest path she could find into the ravine. She preferred to see the endless forest in front of her, rather than her companions and all the complications they had added to her life. Relationships, revenge, forgiveness, understanding… it was all a mess she would prefer to not think about. Scouting a path into the ravine in perfect silence was just the challenge she needed to distract herself.

The journey through the ravine was quick and peaceful, though everyone paused to stair at the massive owlbear tracks in the mud crossing the small stream at the bottom. The tracks went into a dark cave set into the rock wall of the ravine. A gnawed goblin torso lay rotting in the cave’s entrance. The remains of an owlbear meal, no doubt. Shay signalled Shadowheart to cast her spell, then they all journeyed up the other side of the ravine in silence. A peaceful, shadowed glade waited for them at the top of the ravine, rock walls stretching sheer and high before becoming the brick of the village. A heavy tangle of vines gave Shay a path to climb upwards and scout.

“I’m going to scout for a path. Wait here for me.” Shay told the group. Pek flopped onto her side to rest, knowing Shay’s strategies and trusting them. Shay climbed the vines, listening to the soft sounds of Wyll distributing food to everyone but Astarion as she did. It wasn’t long before she was over the wall and, blessedly, on her own.

She cast her eyes along the wall to the west, seeing an alley full of broken garbage between the wall and a very large building. Shadows danced in the alley, cast from movement on the roof of the large building. Goblins on the broken roof tiles, she surmised. She slipped quietly forward, using barrels and garbage to keep herself from being seen from above. A large hole in one side of the building showed a dark, distressed space just as pockmarked and falling apart as the outside of the building. Movement within caught her eye. A small, goblinoid form stood in a brightly lit window. The ambush was focused on the village entrance to the west. Shay felt a grim satisfaction. The goblins were so focused on their front door, they had forgotten everything else. It would be easy work to avoid them, if only she could find a path around the village.

A loud snore, like a saw grinding through ancient oak, erupted from the other side of the crate where Shay hid. She froze. The snore continued, grinding in and out, then winding down to a quiet pause for a few moments. The cycle began again. Satisfied that whatever was making the sound was deeply asleep, Shay crept around the crate. A bugbear in a patchwork of leather armour lay on the ground, smelling of spirits and sour sweat. Empty bottles surrounded the amber-furred creature, giving away what it had done to itself. Shay contemplated slitting its throat, but realised if anyone came to check on it, they would be found out. She moved on. The wall surrounding the village curved to the north. A tumble of rocks left a large crack in the wall, farther up, she could see a proper gate, a road that led through the village and out again. With the goblins focused on gates, she didn’t want to risk being caught there. Circling wider would be necessary. Shay crept through the crack in the wall, heading east.

Outside the village, there was little cover to be had. The road curved around steep, mountainous rock, heading east. A few scattered aspens provided sparse shade and no cover in overgrown glades. A large barn stood near the ravine wall, the building surprisingly intact compared to what Shay had seen of the decrepit village behind her. Shay paid the building no mind, instead keeping herself pressed to the wall, using it for cover as she followed it north. It began to curve west and Shay allowed herself to feel hope.

Hope which dashed to splinters on the rocks of reality when the wall abruptly stopped at the sheer edge of a steep gorge. On the other side of the gorge, Shay could see a large, stone compound, covered in crumbling and defaced friezes of Selûne, goddess of the moon. The entire building was wreathed in the smoke of dozens of cooking fires. She could hear the rhythmic thump of battle drums and the garbled sound of dozens of guttural voices speaking at once. That must be where the goblins had set up their base of operations. An entire clan, at least. Even if they could sneak around the village without being seen, they would make beautiful targets of themselves for the horde residing in the former temple compound.

She returned the way she came, creeping along the wall, the thump of goblin drums fading to nothing behind her.

Another, heavy rhythmic pounding replaced the sound of drums. This time, coming from the barn. The whole building seemed to shake gently with each beat, dust and debris falling from the rotted roof shingles with each mighty thump. Shocked that she had missed that, Shay made her way to a small, broken window on one side of the barn, determined to see what was happening within to make sure it was safe and she wasn’t leaving enemies at her back. Or a trapped animal. The closer she came to the barn, the more she could hear. Deep, heavy grunts and moans wound their way around each thumping beat. Someone – some thing – was having a bit of fun.

Shay peaked through the broken window and regretted having eyes.

Within the barn, a mighty ogress was positioned on all fours, her long greasy hair flowing down her bluff face, massive pendulous breasts swinging wildly with each thrust she took from a muscular – but much smaller – bugbear. They both seemed to be enjoying themselves, moaning and groaning into the dim, dusty light of the barn.

Shay wanted to look away, she really wanted to look away, but she was also horribly fascinated. Had she sounded like that last night? Gods, had she? Astarion must be laughing at her every time she turned her back. Shadowheart certainly was.

“What are they doing? They sound disgusting.” Astarion’s amused, smirking voice interrupted the embarrassed spiral her thoughts had taken. Shay turned from the window, ducking down to make sure the couple within didn’t catch sight of her. She turned to see Astarion standing in a patch of sunlight, cleaning blood from his dagger with a filthy scrap of cloth. He dropped the cloth to the ground the moment his dagger was clean, then smiled at her. The expression was open and friendly, but Shay could only hear the echo of his words.

Sound disgusting. Sound disgusting. Sound disgusting.

“Ogress and a bugbear.” Shay forced out, reporting clinically in an attempt to avoid her own feelings. “They’re not hurting anyone. You should not have bothered to come find me; this way is a bust. We have to go back.”

“Not yet, surely.” Astarion’s smile widened, he threw a wink at her, “I want to see this. Can’t let you have all the fun.”

A loud, wailing moan interrupted any reply Shay might have made. Astarion was at her side and peering into the window in an instant. Shay turned to look alongside him, curious in a repellant sort of way.

They watched in horrifically-bemused silence for a few moments. The ogress' wails grew loud again.

“She’s faking,” he observed in an aside.

“Why would you fake that?”

“Lots of reasons,” Astarion’s voice was distant, “people do things with their bodies that they don’t want to do all the time.”

“Maybe that’s just what she sounds like.”

“But it isn’t,” he argued, “Look at her face. That’s frustration, that’s boredom, darling.”

Shay had heard quite enough. She pushed herself from the barn wall and headed back to the wall. Just as she reached the crack, Astarion’s hand caught her upper arm, spinning her around to face him. He crowded her body against the wall, pushing her out of sight of the barn behind some dry brush. Shay allowed him to move her around; she couldn’t fight back without making a ruckus that would draw the wrong sort of attention.

“What are you doing?” she hissed in a whisper.

“I think you heard more than I said,” he replied, equally quiet. Ash grey eyebrows arched over sanguine eyes, his gaze bored into her, demanding an answer she didn’t want to give, “tell me I’m wrong, and we can go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not hearing every word I’m saying about two monsters fucking and thinking it’s about us last night?”

“Of course not–”

“Try again,” he murmured, “this time, look me in the eye, Shay.” The grip he had on her upper arm relaxed, but his hand caressed it’s way up her arm, across her shoulder to lightly stroke the marks he had left in her neck. It felt strangely good. She had to focus hard on not leaning into the touch, had to focus on keeping her gaze on his rather than letting her eyes shut so she could enjoy the caress. Caught like a fly in his web, the truth slipped from her lips.

“I am.”

“You shouldn’t,” his face was so close to hers, his lips almost brushing her own. Her body wanted his touch so much it ached.

“But Shadowheart–”

“Doesn’t know us.”

“But you said–”

“I’ve said a lot of stupid things and I’ll probably say more,” she had to give him that, “Don’t listen to me.”

“I can do that,” she smirked. He returned her grin, leaning in to press his forehead to hers. She searched his eyes for lies or obfuscation and saw nothing.

“I enjoyed every moment of last night,” his lips murmured against her own, “I hope for a repeat performance. I like when you sing just for me.”

There would be no chance of that, because she was going to combust. She was going to burst into flames and die. She scrambled for purchase in a suddenly topsy-turvy world, settling on being smarmy as her best defence against the strangest attack she had ever faced.

“You said not to listen to you.”

“I suppose I did,” he kissed her then, briefly, softly, his lips a cool balm against her overheated flesh. “Perhaps you should just pay attention to what I do, to what I want.”

“What about what I want?” Shay breathed out in a barely audible whisper.

“I think we want the same thing,” he kissed her again, longer this time. She returned the kiss as best she could, pressing into him, then feeling embarrassed by her ignorance. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” Shay admitted to both of them when the kiss ended. “I wanted revenge, but it turns out you’re just as much a victim as I am. Mostly, I think I just want to… live.”

“We’re of the same mind,” Astarion pulled back from their furtive embrace. Shay was relieved there was no pressure to continue whatever it was they had been doing, but she also felt a stab of regret. Had her kissing him back chased him away? “I want to survive this and live as well. Well, live as much as I can, being dead and all.”

Shay chuckled. “This was nice,” she admitted as Astarion took her hand and tugged her back through the crack in the wall.

“It was,” Astarion seemed almost surprised by his agreement with her, “we should do this more often.”

“Can we do it without the monster fucking?”

“Oh, absolutely. I would much rather be the only monster around.”

As they moved to the cluster of vines to climb back down to Pek, Wyll and Shadowheart, Shay realised the loud, drunken snoring of the unconscious bugbear had been silenced. She ducked low, dragging Astarion down with her, looking around to see if they had been spotted. She refused to lead goblins down to Pek.

“What–?” Astarion asked, cutting off when Shay glared with a finger across her lips.

“There was a drunk bugbear sleeping it off behind those crates,” Shay whispered, pointing towards the crates. “I can’t hear it now.”

“Of course you can’t,” he drew his dagger, spinning it in through his fingers, then re-sheathing it. “I wasn’t about to leave an enemy at our backs.”

“Oh, fuck, you killed it?!” Shay stood, dragging Astarion to his feet and shoving him towards the vines, “Get down before they find it and know someone has been here. You need to think beyond a kill, fuck.”

Shay climbed down behind Astarion, cursing him in her mind the entire time. Pek’s words from that morning came back to her, stupid vampire-elf piglet, and Shay had to agree. Though, curse him though she may, there was a warm kernel inside her when she thought of him. 

Something had taken root.

Chapter Text

“So can you play that?” Wyll asked Shay as the party made their way through the bottom of the ravine, barely keeping their worn boots from the chill waters of its small stream. Shay hadn’t been as lucky, her left boot squishing with each step. The owlbear tracks had long since disappeared and evidence of goblin activity was nowhere to be seen. The ravine had given them a safe road to the southwestern edge of the forest, where Auntie Ethel had told them to go. Shay assumed the rocky fissure through which they travelled was how the old woman had made her way to and from the Emerald Grove as well. With the owl bear guarding the far edge, it was the safest place to be.

“What, my violin?” Shay asked, a touch confused, “Why would I haul an instrument around if I couldn’t use it?”

“I don’t know, but you haven’t played a note since we met.” Wyll replied.

“You don’t seem like much of a bard,” Shadowheart explained helpfully. Shay frowned darkly in response, causing Shadowhear to raise her hands, open and unarmed in a show of peace. “No insult meant, you just don’t! You’re a damn good ranger, though.”

Shay looked to her right, expecting to see Astarion, hoping to have support from the one person other than Pek who had heard her play. He was nowhere to be seen. She looked around in surprise – he had been there a moment ago – amazed to see him far behind them, walking alongside Pek and astutely avoiding the conversation entirely. She sighed in resignation then began to explain, “I’m not a bard, but my parents were. They taught me to play a number of instruments. I can sing, too. Hells, I used to busk in Rivington. Life just… took me in a different direction. I guess you’re right; I’m not a bard.”

“Can I hear you play tonight?” Shadowheart asked. “It’s been ages since I heard a song.”

“Tonight?!” Wyll shook his head. “Now, please. A song to lighten the burdens of the road.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t–”

“Sing.” Pek called. “You like singing. Do it.”

“Peki, no, I–”

“Please?” Astarion asked softly, though the request boomed like thunder in her mind, the single word holding too many emotions for her to name.

“I… yeah, ok. But no violin, not until tonight.” Shay resigned herself to performing for her little audience. She began to tap out a rhythm on her body, using her leather breastplate, bracers and bow as her drum kit. 

TAP-tap-Tap-tap-TAP-tap-Tap-tap.

Once the beat was established, she began to embellish, growing the rhythm and playing within its confines before joining in with her voice, singing wordlessly to mimic what her violin would be doing.

Finally, the words came. One of the more popular, upbeat tavern songs that could be heard all along the Sword Coast. Shay kept her voice low, rather than belting like the song deserved. There was no sense in bringing every monster in the forest down on their heads.

"And we return to her with thirsty eyes / With history burning between our thighs / With naked longing trembling behind our smiles…” She refused to look at anyone as she sang, not sure what to do if she saw that they hated it, not sure what to do if she saw they enjoyed it. The idea of performing was so tied up with the memories of her parents, with the last time she saw her mother. She felt so close to her parents when she sang, she didn’t want to be seen in such a private moment.

Grunts from Pek and soft claps from her companions kept the beat with her. Mostly; someone was a little behind. In her mind's eye, her mother was smiling at her, encouraging her to keep going, to perform rather than simply replicate a song. Mama always said playing music and performing music were two very different things.

A gasp and a giggle had her turning her head despite her best efforts. Wyll had taken Shadowheart by the hand and twirled her into a dance. They still walked along the ravine floor, but now did so clasped in each other's arms, fumbling through steps of a simple jig, tripping over roots and rocks all the while. It was increasingly hard to tell if they were holding each other to dance or holding each other to keep each other from falling. It was inelegant, inexpert and looked like it was so much fun.

Shay didn’t miss a beat of the song as she grinned at her companions. Beyond Wyll and Shadowheart, she could see Astarion glaring at the two with some distaste, though he quickly looked up at her and winked. What did that mean? Shay almost stumbled in her music, but was able to keep going, winding the song to its conclusion.

“Hooray!” Shadowheart broke away from Wyll to applaud, “Well done.”

“Encore!” Astarion called.

“Another!” Wyll grinned, despite a wet boot from stumbling into the stream during his ‘dance’ with Shadowheart.

Muted shouting flowed down the rocky side of the ravine. A waterfall of arguing voices cascading down from above. Shay instinctively crouched against a tree, looking upwards at the source of the voices, but seeing nothing.

“Boys, I don’t know–” Auntie Ethel’s voice stood out, sounding afraid.

“That’s Ethel,” she said to Wyll and Shadowheart. Astarion was already limbering his weapons in their sheathes. Her eyes traced up the steep ravine walls, quickly finding a path even Pek could climb.

“Do we help?” Shadowheart seemed sceptical.

“Of course!” Wyll declared, certainty in the rightness of his actions thick in his voice, “but how do we get up there?”

“Follow me,” Shay instructed in a quiet voice, then she was moving, using tree trunks to pull herself upward, racing to the edge of the ravine. Shadowheart quickly fell behind, in her heavy armour and carrying a shield. Wyll assisted her. Pek was at her side, Astarion at their heels. The voices ebbed and flowed, but were always angry. Shay grew increasingly worried their latest chance for a cure would slip away, ended at the tip of an angry stranger's knife, before they could get to the top of the ravine. “No, no, no.” she chanted in her increasing panic as she climbed, “we need her, we need her…”

“Wait, Shay,” Wyll commanded just before she crested the top of the rocky ravine. She froze. “Let me go. Shadowheart, too, if she wants. Ethel knows you and Astarion. If she spots you, it may change everything. We don’t want her getting stabbed before we can do anything about it.”

“I’m going,” Pek snorted.

“She knows Pek too,” Wyll smiled at the sow as though he had understood her assertion “You all need to stay out of sight so I can–”

The shouting rose again, angry male voices rolling over Ethel’s feeble protests, a blast of brass drowning out a flute in a song of rage. Wyll was over the ravine edge in a blink. Shadowheart following.

“Peki, go.” Shay directed her friend, “but stay out of sight.”

Pek followed behind, leaving Shay tucked out of sight with Astarion, hidden by rocky walls and sparse trees.

She felt useless. Nervous. Panic roiled inside her and, for the first time since memory, Shay had a hard time being patient. Waiting would pay off, she tried to convince herself. The Blade of Frontiers, renowned hero, would save Ethel. They would all be healed. It would be ok.

It would be ok.

It would.

Shay tried to distract herself, using old methods to keep her focus. She scratched her blunt nails across the back of her hand, unable to reach her arms through her bracers as she would prefer. Her nails weren’t sharp enough to create enough pain to divert her thoughts. She scratched harder. Still nothing. The storm of fear within her tossed her about, a small boat in an angry ocean. Rational thought was gone.

“What are you doing?” Astarion asked, in a harsh whisper, “stop that!”

He tried to take her hand, she shook him off and scratched harder. Shay couldn’t answer. Panic had her in its grip. It was so hard to breathe. Air raced in and out of her lungs like a blacksmith's bellows but it never felt enough. Her face itched; were the tentacles sprouting? Her hands moved upwards to her face. On the way, they brushed the barely-healed marks Astarion had left in her neck. She scratched hard at the scabs. Pain blazed through her, a comforting jog to her system that restored focus and calm.

A low growl was her only warning before Astarion’s cool grip took her hands away from his marks. She was pressed against the hard trunk of an aspen, her hands held high above her head. She struggled against him, but he held tight.

“You’re not scratching yourself open,” he murmured in her ear, the length of his body pressing hers against the tree – when had he got so close? – “Not here. It wouldn’t help either of us. Wait for Wyll.”

“I– I–” Shay stuttered. Embarrassment flooded her. She couldn’t even speak. Her hands tried to reach her neck, the pain that could focus her. Astarion forced them above her head, away from any damage she could do to herself.

“Ah-ah.” He tutted. “Pek would have my guts for dinner if I let you get hurt.”

Her pulse thundered. Her mind rang like a gong. She turned her face from his; no one should see her like this.

The movement broke her wounds. A warm trickle of blood flowed down her neck.

A strangled sound from Astarion brought her attention back to him. She turned to see his pupils dilated so wide his eyes seemed black. His body trembled against hers, his grip on her hands tightened, an anchor more than a restraint.

Who was holding who?

“Can I–?”

“Yes,” she whimpered.

He ducked his head so fast he was a pale blur. A cool tongue stroked up her neck, lapping up every bit of the blood that had broken free of the punctures he had left in her neck. Astarion released his grip on Shay’s hands, no longer holding them above her head, so he could wrap his arms around her shoulder and waist. His grip was tight, holding her body against his. She moaned softly, her eyes sliding shut allowing her to focus on every sensation her body felt.

It felt wonderful, as it had the night before. Not just pleasure, but comfort. An assurance that she wasn’t alone. She wrapped her arms around Astarion and held him as tightly as he held her. Her hand slid into his silken curls and she could swear he purred. Shay wasn’t going to find that world changing peak of ecstasy pressed against a tree with Astarion licking blood from her neck, but her world was changing all the same. She trembled in the arms of a monster while he trembled in hers, sucking at her neck all the while.

A fang nicked her skin.

“We can’t,” Shay whispered, “not here. Not now.”

A whine of denial rose in the back of his throat. He sucked harder at her neck.

She was going to bruise and Shadowheart would never stop teasing her.

“Astarion!” Shay hissed, tightening her grip on his hair. His hips thrust into hers in immediate response, before he tore himself from her neck, gasping for air. His lips were smeared with her blood, the colour matching his eyes. He was a pale, colourless figure in his black leathers. White, grey and red. A vampire who truly looked the part.

Shay waited a beat for disgust and shame to rise within her as she watched Astarion try to catch his unneeded breath an inch from her own face. It didn’t come. She felt warm friendship instead. They were both fucked up and had seen each other through fucked up moments. He hadn’t yet risen to the exalted levels of wouldn’t-stab-you-for-not-sharing-truffles Pek had reached, but he was getting there. He was no longer the monster of her dark past, he was her monster. Her friend.

“Sorry,” Astarion apologised on a deep exhale. He gave a rueful grin. “Still getting used to that.”

“I’m sorry,” Shay returned, “I panicked.”

“I’m happy to distract you anytime, darling.” Astarion purred in a low, seductive voice.

She smacked his shoulder.

“Pleasure and pain,” Astarion drawled through a distinctly satisfied smirk, “You do know the way to my heart.”

“Argh!” Shay put both hands on his shoulders and shoved as hard as she could. Astarion went with the push, stepping away from her body, chuckling all the while.

“Shall we see if Wyll was successful?” Astarion offered Shay a pale hand.

She wanted to frustrate and confound him as he did her. Instead of taking the proffered hand, Shay surged forward, pressing her body into his and standing on her toes to quickly lick a drop of her own blood from the corner of his lips. Astarion’s jaw dropped.

“Clean yourself up, first.” Shay winked, then raced up the last few metres to the top of the ravine, leaving a gobsmacked vampire behind her. She was a little mortified at her actions, the coppery tang of blood in her mouth not allowing her to deny what she had just done. Stronger than mortification was a distinctly satisfying sense of revenge. See how he liked being on the back foot for once. 

At the top of the ravine, the land sloped gently through sparse forest. A few metres down a sun-dappled path, Ethel was backed against the trunk of a large oak by two hulking young human men in the worn clothing of farmers. Wyll was speaking with them and while they seemed attentive to his words, Shay noticed they kept Ethel behind them. Shadowheart, her heavy mace held carefully behind her back, was standing just behind Wyll. Pek was nowhere to be seen, but enough bush and brush was around that Shay was certain her friend was safely watching everything. While Wyll and the men spoke, Shay ran her eyes over Ethel. The old woman looked every year of her age and more: fragile and pale. She was obviously frightened and had nowhere to run – if she could even run – to safety. Shay limbered her short sword and dagger in their sheathes, but left her bow strapped to her back. A bow was of no use in close quarters and she didn’t want to risk shooting Ethel or anyone else in the tussle that might ensue. 

“Can’t we just shoot them?” Astarion asked behind her.

“I’m not risking Ethel,” Shay told Astarion. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”

She ignored Astarion’s scoff, striding forward – carefully – seeking to join Wyll without upsetting the men he was speaking with. As she approached, Ethel saw her, her bright blue eyes widening in her wizened face as she recognized Shay.

“Sweetie, be careful!” Ethel cried, her obvious recognition of Shay causing one of the men, sunburnt face almost as red as his hair, to double-take between Ethel and Shay. His eyes widened in understanding. If Ethel knew Shay then–

“They’re with the hag!” the red-headed man cried, both hulking humans readying their rough weapons: a heavy cleaver more suited to an abattoir and a well-used pitchfork. One of the farmers shoved Wyll aside and was rewarded for his actions with a smokey swirl of black-green energy emitting from Shadowheart’s sudden grip on his arm. The sickly light enveloped the man, doing something that drew screams of agony from his throat. Rotting wounds bloomed like foul flowers on the farmer’s skin.

The red-headed man, his pitchfork gripped tightly in ulcerated hands, stumbled towards Wyll. He clearly intended on spearing him with the sharp metal tines of the fork, but Wyll was able to knock the pitchfork aside with a graceful twist of body and rapier. 

The second man didn’t notice his companions' struggles, too busy raising his cleaver high to charge at Shay. His sun-weathered face was an angry red under his brown beard, mouth twisted in a snarl. She had her shortsword out in an instant. The cleaver descended. Shay raised her sword to meet it. The weapons joined in a cymbal clash of steel. The blow reverberated like an echo down Shay’s arm. She grit her teeth against the superior strength of the taller man, holding onto the pommel of her sword with both hands, pushing high to keep the cleaver from smashing into her face.

“What have you done with her?! Where’s Mayrina?” the man growled.

“Who?” Shay asked, honestly wondering who the man was talking about.

“Our sister–” Shay’s opponent spat, pushing his cleaver down. His angry words turned into a howl of pain. Pek’s tusks gored into his groin. At the same time, Astarion stabbed his dagger into the farmer’s armpit. A hand’s-length of steel pierced deep into unprotected flesh. Death glazed the man’s eyes. He slumped to his knees, then to the ground.

Over the fallen body, Shay saw Shadowheart and Wyll standing over the fallen form of their own opponent. The farmers wouldn’t harm anyone, not anymore.

“Oh, my stars.” Ethel gasped, her hands alternating between wringing together in consternation and fluttering about uselessly, “I– I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What happened?” Shay asked, sheathing her sword then stepping over the corpse of the farmer to approach Ethel. “It sounded like a heated argument.”

“Those poor boys were looking for their little sister, Mayrina. The girl who is… staying with me.” Ethel confessed, looking contrite. “This is all my fault. But I made a promise!”

“Your promise got these men killed,” Wyll spoke up, sounding frustrated. “You could have told them you had her rather than denying any sight of her.”

“Mayrina begged me not to breathe a word if they came looking for her.” Ethel frowned as though Wyll had suggested something foul, “And my word is my bond.”

“They called you a hag,” Shadowheart observed, her tone soft but considering.

“Cruel, but a common insult for older women. I won’t take it personal; they were so upset.” Ethel nodded. “Oh, poor Mayrina will be distraught . We can’t let her know – it’d break her poor heart. I’d best get going and see to her.”

“You can’t leave, we still need healing.” Astarion surged forward, his hand out to take Ethel by the arm and prevent her from going. Something about her expression, a sparkle of power in her blue eyes, stopped him.

“Please stop by my house, sweetie.” Ethel said softly. “I can thank you proper, there.”

The frightened old woman was suddenly gone. Nothing about Ethel had really changed; she still looked exactly the same, but she was no longer the herbalist in the grove nor the helpless old woman they had saved. Her stance and expression spoke of power and confidence. Her smirk was pure condescension. Then she winked and vanished in a sudden swirl of leaves and bugs. The swirl floated farther down the path, disappearing into the tall grass and cattails of wetlands, leaving behind a party of faces that ranged from stunned shock to horrified betrayal.

“Harmless old biddy,” Wyll scoffed, shaking his head, “oldest trick in the book and I fell for it.”

*****

“Fetid.” Pek observed the farther they walked into the sunlit wetlands. “Rotting, poisonous bog.”

“Peki, what do you mean?” Shay asked, basking in the warm light and calming sounds of birds and bees in the wetlands.

“You don’t see what I see,” Pek snorted.

Wyll stumbled into a delicately woven straw basket left at the side of the path. Something in it thunked and a parchment left on top almost slid into the grass. Astarion snapped it up and read aloud, “have a rest and a snack on me, loves. Ethel.”

Wyll opened the basked, revealing a handful of bright red apples. They looked perfect, ripe and juicy.

“Poisonous.”  Pek warned Shay.

“Pek smells poison,” Shay warned. Wyll quickly put the basket down.

The wrongness of the place hovered at the edges of Shay’s perception. Her eyes told her the wetland was perfect, unlike the surrounding forest. Here nature was working in harmony. The tall grasses and willow trees were verdant and healthy. The birds, briefly seen flashing through the grass to snatch up bugs, were plump and well fed. But Pek told a different story. Shay would believe Pek over her own eyes any day. She paused on the path, sliding her eyes shut to focus on her other senses.

She listened.

A discordant song fluttered like an injured bird under the loud, perfect song of the wetlands. While birds chirped happily and bees buzzed in a loud presentation of perfection, underneath the wetlands ached. Animals cried out in pain and hunger, their song of agony muffled under the louder illusion. Once Shay realised what she saw and heard was false, the mirage shattered. The light filtering through her eyelids dimmed, her nose filled with the bog rot stench of swamp. She opened her eyes to behold a dim fen, noxious and dying.

“This place is wrong,” Shay breathed out, keeping quiet so as to not attract attention. The back of her neck itched; something watched them.

“It looks delightful,” Shadowheart smiled. “I’m not one to spend time in wetlands, but it seems fine.”

“Don’t look with your eyes,” Shay advised them all. “Shut them. Listen, feel, smell. It’s wrong.”

Everyone stilled, listening to Shay’s instructions and following along. Astarion had his eyes shut for all of one second before he opened them to wink at her. He dragged a pale finger down his own jugular, mouthing the words ‘I can smell you’. Shay felt herself flush. She felt embarrassed, horrified but also slightly intrigued. She glared at the vampire spawn until he shut his eyes again.

“Focus on the sounds.” Shay spoke softly, encouraging the companions to shatter the illusion. “Are the birds really chirping? Breathe in through your nose. Without your eyes to lie, what do you smell?”

Shay knew the illusion had shattered for her companions when their hands gripped their weapons in visceral, instinctive reaction to the fetid nature of the swamp as the truth was revealed to them.

“Disgusting,” Astarion muttered.

“An illusion,” Wyll noted, “I think the boys may have been right; Ethel is a hag.”

“Makes me believe all more that we’re on the right path,” Shadowheart shrugged. “I don’t care if she’s a fae beast as long as she gets this worm out of my head.”

“But at what price?” Shay wondered.

“We won’t know until we ask,” Shadowheart shrugged. “At least the fae don’t deal in souls like devils. She’ll probably want something much more manageable. Like the first born I have no intention of having.”

Shay chuckled. Wyll’s eyes widened in horror.

“Let’s not say that out loud,” Astarion suggested. “She’s probably listening.”

Shadowheart nodded.

“Alright,” Shay sighed, “onward.”

She led the group deeper into the dark, fetid swamp, working with Pek to avoid venomous creatures, alligators, and quicksand. After twenty minutes, they were all soaked and filthy from the knees down, having had to slog through mud and stagnant water when the dry path abandoned them. When the path became dry again, Astarion quickly caught up to Shay, walking alongside her.

“So…” he ventured, through an irrepressibly giddy smile that looked beautiful, but unpracticed on his face.

“So?” she echoed, her eyes and the bulk of her attention on the swampland before them.

“So what are you doing tonight, my little song bird?” His seductive purr should have been ruined by his giddy excitement, yet it wasn’t. “Any plans?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Shay asked as an incredulous giggle rose in her throat. He was ridiculous. 

He quickly stepped in front of her, his hand chucking her under the chin. “Possibly,” he happily agreed with a shrug, “I’ve certainly never felt this way. Perhaps the blood of thinking creatures drives one mad.”

“Guess that’s my revenge,” she smirked, “driving you… batty.”

He groaned at her pun but his smile never wavered. “That was terrible, darling.”

“Can we… keep going?” Shadowheart panted behind them. She slapped a bug at her neck, squishing it before it could bite her.  “I’d like to get out of here before full dark.”

“Leave them alone,” Pek grunted at the cleric, “You’ll interrupt the mating dance.”

“Pek!” Shay gasped, smacking the scarred rump of her friend.

“What did she say?” Wyll asked, catching up to them all from watching their trail.

“Let them mate!” Pek grunted. “I want to be an auntie.”

“Nothing!” Shay squeaked. “She said nothing. Let’s keep moving.”

She shoved the still-smirking vampire spawn aside and stomped her way down the path. A twist around a rocky outcropping brought them to a perfect place to set up camp. Land that was flat and dry, atop a rise humped over the marshy ground. Clearly, someone had already thought it to be a perfect place for a camp. A ring of stones full of half charred logs sat in the middle of the space, surrounded by packs and bedrolls. Every bag and blanket was awash in blood. The campsite was drenched in it. What had been, Shay assumed, the owners of the blood, hung from willow branches. Rather, their skin hung, flayed from meat and bone in great strips and thrown about the branches like streamers for a macabre party.

“What a waste,” Astarion sighed.

“What could have done this?” Shadowheart asked, staring at the charnel house of a campsite.

“Gnomes?” Shay guessed, finding small footprints in the mud.

“Redcaps,” Wyll corrected, pulling an arrow from the marshy ground. A scrap of filthy red velvet clung to its point. “Dark fae. Bloodthirsty little fuckers.”

“Do you think they’re with Ethel?” Shay wondered.

“Doesn’t seem a coincidence to find more Unseelie here where we have already found one.” Wyll stroked his chin thoughtfully, observing the remains of a Redcap’s massacre. “We should rest before we find Ethel. Make certain we’re well prepared to deal with her, rather than tired from the journey through the swamp. But obviously camping here is dangerous.”

“What about over there?” Shay pointed into the dim reaches of the marsh, towards what seemed to be the stump of a mighty oak tree, many paces around. The stump was taller than some trees, a dark blotch on the horizon. They would soak themselves getting there as there was no obvious path to the marshy island that held the stump, but from what Shay could see, it was their best bet to find safe camping. They could rest on top of the stump and have a good view for keeping watch.

“I’m going to sink to the bottom of this swamp,” Shadowheart grumbled. “Chainmail wasn’t made for swimming.”

“We got you,” Shay smiled at the cleric. “We’ll make it.”

*****

Pek squealed in agony as a mud mephit exploded over her, flecking her hide with hissing droplets of boiling sludge.

“PEK!” Shay screamed. She ran to her friend through the sucking, squelching mud surrounding the giant stump. As she did, the opponent she had been facing took a glancing blow to her shoulder. It seemed the golem-like creature, constructed of twisted roots, had a brain in its hollow stump of a skull after all. Shay moved with the blow, accepting the pain, in order to make her way to Pek and entreat Mielikki for healing. Pek’s wounds closed, though the sickly scent of charred flesh still hung in the air.

Though the stump was barely a quarter of a kilometre from the site of the redcap massacre, it had been a hard, wet journey to get there. They were all exhausted and covered in detritus Shay would rather not think about. But the swamp would give them no rest. They had hardly set foot on the muddy banks of the island where the wide stump rose into the quickly darkening sky when they were set upon by elemental creatures determined to see their bodies adding to the rot of the mire all around them. Mud mephits, creatures of dry, cracked clay with boiling filth running through their veins and two large constructs of root and vine that Shay couldn’t name. She recognized druid magic, twisted though it seemed. These creatures had been summoned or possibly constructed. Silvanus’s magic made to give twisted life to earth and branch. 

“Your arm,” Pek noted, clacking her tusks gently against Shay’s thigh.

“Hm?” Shay scanned the battlefield. Wyll, Shadowheart and Astarion all fought in the boot-sucking muck at the edge of the stump’s island. Wyll’s rapier, a needle flashing silver in the rapidly dimming light, was of little use against their opponents but the magic he was able to summon – how could he do that? – did more damage than even Shadowheart’s holy fire. Shay had abandoned Shadowheart to fight alone against the root creature to tend to Pek. She considered the few enchanted arrows in her quiver, considering if a well-placed fire arrow would manage to damage only enemies.

“You can’t shoot like that.”

“Like what– oh.” Shay glanced down at her own mud covered body. Her left arm hung limp and useless at her side. With the sight of her injury, her shoulder wrenched from its socket, pain blazed through her.

A particularly hard strike from the root construct knocked Shadowheart back a metre; she fell prone on her back in the mire, her body coated in filth and mud. Shay saw her opening. She called upon the Lady of the Forest once more, something she very rarely did outside the occasional need for healing. Mielikki heard her child. A handful of red thorns darted like arrows from Shay’s right hand. They flew through the air with unerring accuracy, ploughing into the construct. The roots and vines that composed its body snapped and withered as thorns pierced them. The creature stumbled back a step under the onslaught. And it was good that it did. The thorns exploded in tiny fireballs, blowing a gaping hole in the constructs’ chest. The inferno set the dry branches that made up the creature’s body alight. It quickly turned into a torch. The crackling of fire was the only sound as the construct thrashed its final moment. It had no mouth to scream.

Shadowheart rolled away from the blaze, coming to stand beside Astarion, who fared better against his own construct only by virtue of his dexterous ability to dodge the creatures’ sweeping blows. A cut on Shadowheart’s forehead dripped blood down her face. She wiped a gauntleted hand across her forehead, smearing the blood everywhere.

“Don’t drool now,” Shadowheart smirked at Astarion as she brought her mace to bear against the twisted roots and vines of the construct. Her heavy weapon smashed through the wide arm the creature had been using as a shield. Splinters flew through the air.

“No worry of that,” Astarion grunted, stabbing his short sword into the glowing eyes of the creature he fought. The light dimmed as the sword pierced once. “I have taste, after all.”

“Ha,” Shadowheart rejoined, crashing her mace upon the creature’s head. The light dimmed from its other eye as the magic that held it together evaporated. It fell to the wet ground in a crumble of dry branches plopping into muddy puddles.

Shay and Pek made their way through the mud towards Wyll and the final two mephits. The muck sucked at their feet, making each step slow. Wyll hissed as a blast of magic caused another mephit to explode, painting him in droplets of boiling sludge, as had happened to Pek. Shay cursed her arm, wishing she could just shoot the last mephit.

A crossbow bolt darted through the air.

The last mephit exploded, painting Wyll in more seering mud. The one-eyed man cursed a blue streak until Shadowheart managed to cast a healing spell, mending his burned skin. Shay breathed a sigh of relief. The battle was over. They had all survived. She embraced the agony in her shoulder, her attention on her companions faltering as she panted, trying to catch her breath.

“Darling, you’re hurt.” Astarion’s cultured tones jogged her from the fog of pain in her mind. How long had he been standing in front of her? He still had his crossbow in hand. Were there more mephits? Just behind him, Shadowheart and Wyll gazed at her with concern.

“M’fine,” Shay waved her good hand, dismissing his words. She pointed to the south west, beside the stump, where a copse of shockingly verdant trees on a rocky rise showed promise. “We can camp up there, I think. Looks dry.”

Shadowheart and Wyll began making their way to the rise as instructed. Shay tried to follow. Tusks at her thigh and a very light touch on her injured shoulder stopped her.

“You need to heal,” Pek snuffled.

“Drink a healing potion, first,” Astarion suggested at the same time.

Shay blinked at Pek and Astarion for a moment. Understanding their words took time. The haze of pain in her mind made understanding hard. Astarion’s pupils were dilated again. Was she bleeding? Was he hungry? Surely he would rather she stay injured so he could feed again.

Astarion rifled a filth-caked hand through his pack. He drew out a small potion bottle, bulbous glass showing a red liquid inside. Red like blood. A quick twist of a pale hand broke the bottle's wax seal and removed the cork in one smooth motion.

“Drink this,” he murmured, thrusting the bottle into her good hand.

“You’re not hungry?” Shay asked, taking the bottle.

“Always,” he purred, “but I think we’ll both enjoy that more when you’re healed – and we’re alone.”

The implication sent heat flooding Shay’s cheeks. She upended the potion bottle into her mouth, trying to hide her embarrassed expression behind the glass. Gods, what did he expect of her? A performance of passion she would surely fail at, having never done it before.

“We don’t–” Shay cleared her throat as her shoulder gathered itself back into its socket, then tried again, “that’s not necessary. I can feed you tonight because you need it, because we’re, um, friends.”

He ignored her to hook his arm into hers, still achingly gentle despite her being healed. Instead, he turned to Pek. “Is she healed?”

Pek eyed her critically. “Yes.”

Astarion nodded, as though he could understand the sow. “To camp then, my… friend.”

Chapter Text

Shay rubbed a ragged cloth over the moss-covered pillar, peeling away a strip of damp greenery. The stone pillar was still filthy, but now its carvings were revealed. The swirls of Silvanus’s people covered the top of the pillar, but at the base where the moss had hidden it, sat a perfect relief carving of a rearing unicorn.

“There you are,” Shay whispered through a wide smile. She kept quiet, not wanting to wake her companions. It was very late. The campfire had burned low, leaving Shay enough light to keep watch, to busy herself with cleaning the four pillars that sat at the compass points around the rise on which they camped.

The area was obviously sacred, in some way, to druids. Not a grove, though perhaps it had been when the great stump that dominated the marshy island had been a tree. Or maybe the entire area had been protected and cared for, before the Druids looked inward, training up people like Kagha to abandon their sacred duty to the lands. And if wilds were special to Silvanus, they would surely also be special to his daughter. She whose symbol was the mystical, rarely-seen unicorn. Mielikki, the Lady of the Forest. The Supreme Ranger.

“Found you, again, just when I need you.” Shay murmured to the carving. She traced the whorls of the unicorn's mane with a finger before rising and taking a lap of the camp, staring out into the marsh making certain the watch was kept. Nothing to be seen, she began work on the next pillar, seeking to find another sign of her goddess.

“It’s worse than that first winter,” Shay told the pillar she scrubbed at, speaking to her goddess. “There are so many goblins about, just like the first time we found you. But now there is an illithid parasite in our brains. And I have people to care for! It’s not just me and Pek anymore, I have others to keep safe. One is a vampire. Vampire spawn. And I know you’re not a fan of the undead, but it’s not his fault. He’s been pretty good, honestly. Not evil at all. And, surely, you want to help Wyll, he keeps the frontiers safer than I ever could. I bet he had actual ranger training. Maybe other training, too. Probably why he can do magic.”

Moss and dirt fell away, revealing another unicorn carved deep into grey stone. Again, Shay traced the lines of the carving before doing another lap of the camp. She noted Astarion’s tent was open and empty. Much to her chagrin, she hadn’t noticed him leaving. Shay tried to convince herself the failure wasn’t so bad. The watch was to keep the camp safe from outside forces, not keep those within from leaving. Besides, Astarion’s turn for the watch would be soon; surely he had simply snuck off to hunt for a meal.

Shay rinsed her filthy rag before emptying and refilling the bucket they had placed beside the small, freshwater spring that bubbled merrily near the centre of the rise. A jut of granite rock, thickly carved, like an altar with a wide, shallow bowl of perfectly clean water in the middle of a dank swamp. It made no sense. Yet another reason the area was surely sacred – or had been sacred – in some way to the gods of nature. She stepped silently around the loudly snoring Pek to approach another pillar.

“I thought we were doing so well, back home.” Shay sighed as she began her work to clean away more moss and dirt. “No need for training or finding another person to talk to. Raim’s journal’s – Raim’s home – had everything we needed. We had information, we had you. We were fine. Gods, those asshole loggers are probably at the Cloakwood again and I’m not there to stop them this time. I’m so sorry. I’ve been a shit ranger. Pretender. Like I pretended to be a bard. But I’m not Mama and I never will be. I can do better, though. When we get back, I’ll take Raim’s journals… somewhere. Find a ranger for proper training. I should ask Wyll.”

“Who’s Raim?”

Shay was proud of herself for not startling at Astarion’s whispering voice just behind her. She calmly peeled away the moss that had come loose from the pillar before turning to explain.

“Raim Helemaer was a ranger and cleric of Mielikki. A botanist who recorded everything about nature and the work of rangers in endless journals. He lived in the Cloakwood, in a home he had built in a cave. He was my mentor, but we never met. I found his home – his remains – when Pek and I were at our lowest. After you – with the Gur –”

“You were there? Of course you were there,” Astarion answered himself. He sat beside her at the base of the pillar, staring angrily at the ground. Frustration laced his voice, “I saw it when our minds first connected. Why were you there? I thought you were in the city.”

“I was. On market days, I had a job in the city with a farmer. After Mama… um,” Shay swallowed heavily, fighting a great deal of emotion. All of this had happened to her because of Astarion. She was having a late night conversation with the monster that had ruined her life many times over. The monster who wasn’t a monster. Not really. She tried to speak again, “I was homeless after Mama disappeared. Worked for the guild for a bit, then Vadin Korsk took me in. I worked on his farm for a few months before… well. Before.”

“Before I showed up to ruin your life again,” he replied, looking defeated. 

“Don’t be like that,” Shay gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder, “you didn’t have a choice. I know that now. And it’s not like you were fucking around with me specifically. I was just… there.

“I do rather like when you’re there,” he purred, almost automatically. His eyes were glassy and blank. Shay assumed he was hungry.

“Your turn for the watch,” Shay murmured quietly. She stood, brushing the dirt from her hands and pants. “Let’s get you fed, then I can rest.”

“Really?” He stood quickly, crowding her against the pillar, his eyes suddenly focused and searching hers. “After all that, are you certain?”

“Yes? I said I would,” Shay was firm in her conviction, though his being so close to her threaded her with doubt. It would just be feeding. No… other things. She could do that. She was good at bleeding.

A boyish smile lit up his face. He quickly took her arm and escorted her – a generous term, he practically dragged her – to her tent. Shay ducked inside, situated herself on her bedroll, legs crossed, back as straight as a longsword. She braced for the bite, eyes tightly shut.

The bite never came.

She cracked her good eye open. Astarion was standing at the entrance to her tent, frowning at her.

“Change your mind?” She asked.

“This won’t do,” he sighed, moving into the tent. He closed the flaps, then sat on the ground with his back to her. “Take off your clothes.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Get changed,” She could hear the laughter in his voice. She wanted to hit him. “You’ll be resting right after. You don’t want to be in your armour.”

“Oh. Right.” Shay began the complicated process of unbuckling the thick leather from her body. She worked in silence, focused on her task and not the event that would follow.

“So… they talk to you?” Astarion’s voice broke the silence.

“Who?” Her jerkin came free. She began work on her bracers.

“The gods.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. To me? No.” Bracers joined jerkin in the corner of the tent. She began digging through her pack, searching for the oversized clothing she wore to sleep.

“Then why speak to them?” He sounded sad, almost lost.

“I know the stories tell of Chosen, heroes who have the direct attention of the divine,” Shay explained, her voice muffled as she changed her tunic for a loose shirt. She tugged her leather pants off, then wrapped the chain of the amulet around her wrist; surely it would get in the way if she wore it around her neck. Pants. Where were her pants? “But there are also stories of finding the divine in the small things, in coincidence or serendipity. When the farm burned, we fled. Me and Pek and all of Vadin’s animals that escaped from the barn. We ran into the winter woods, full of panic and fear. We should have died. Hell, Rose did die, poor old thing. Broke her leg. I had to put her out of her misery… and she was the only meat we had so…

“So you and Pek ate…?”

“Donkey. It was awful.” Where. Were. Her. Pants!? Shay stuffed her legs into her bedroll. “Anyway, it was sheer coincidence that we ran in the direction we did. Ended up on the edge of the Cloakwood. I found Raim– what was left of him. He had been gone for so long, the animals had scattered his bones. But his home was still warm and dry, provisions still edible. We survived with his knowledge. So I thank Mielikki. Talk to her like a friend. I feel like she saved us, even if she didn’t, really. Um… I’m, um, ready.”

He turned, slowly raking his gaze over her in a possessively intimate way. “Hard to think all this isn’t beloved of the divine.”

Shay clapped her eyes on the lump her legs made in the blankets. She blinked, furiously, trying to find a response to Astarion’s ludicrous comment. How could he say the stupidest things, but leave her blushing and stuttering? 

“Or perhaps you’re the gift,” Astarion murmured, crawling over her. A gentle hand pressed at her shoulder, encouraging her to lay down as she had done the night before. “A gift from the gods, just for me.”

“Just eat, would you?” She craned her head to the side, exposing the marks he had already left on her neck to the dim light of the tent. “Stop playing with your food.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” He was on top of her. The weight of him felt oddly reassuring. Comforting, even as her heart raced in anticipation of pain. A cool finger tugged at the loose neckline of her shirt. “I think somewhere less obvious this time.”

“No,” Shay gasped, grabbing his wrist. “You can’t.”

Realisation flooded his face, “you’re hiding something.”

“You don’t need to see my body, ok?” She couldn’t look him in the eye, “no one does.”

“Usually, I would agree, darling,” He didn’t move his hand. Not closer, but not away from her shirt. “But I think this is something I might need to know.”

“Know. Not see.” She feared being seen more than the pain of his bite. The disgust on his face would haunt her forever.

Astarion moved off her, sitting beside her bedroll. He waited. Shay rolled over to speak to the tent walls. It was easier to talk about it when she couldn’t see his reaction. “I saved the animals when the barn burned. Opened the doors and let them run to safety. But Pek was trapped. The rafters were coming down, everything was smoke and flame. She was just a baby, crying so loud. I still hear it in my nightmares. I saved her, but we were both burned for it. Me more than her. Then we were struggling to survive in the winter with no supplies. I couldn’t find healing. My arms… my back… it’s a hideous mess. Scars. Burns.”

“That explains the scars on Pek,” Astarion spoke softly, placing a hand on her shoulder to encourage her to turn around. She resisted. “I don’t care, you know. I rather like the idea of it, if I’m being honest. I don’t think I’ve known anyone willing to sacrifice like that. It’s admirable.”

“Admirable isn’t attractive,” Shay told the tent walls. “I’m well aware of your opinion of me. I don’t need to be beautiful but I don’t want to have it rubbed in my face that I’m not. Just… feed, ok? We have a long day tomorrow.”

“And I’m well aware of your opinion of me,” he spoke lightly, affecting a blase tone of voice that cared for nothing. “Monster. Murderer. You’re just waiting for me to turn my back to stake me.”

“No!” Shay quickly rolled over, frowning at the pale elf in her tent. “You’re not. It’s different. You didn’t have a choice.”

“So things can change?” He had her there.

“Well fuck you.”

“Gladly,” he purred before moving faster than her eyes could see. In a blink she was on her back, cradling his legs between hers. Her blanket was a very thin barrier between them. “Can I unwrap my gift now?”

“Um… I’m not wearing leggings,” Shay wasn’t sure what to do with the pulse of desire that sparked within her.

He gave her a wicked grin, then quickly bent down to lick a damp stripe across the marks in her neck. “All the more reason to unwrap you,” he breathed into her neck.

She hadn’t lost a drop of blood but her head was spinning. “Do you have to wind me up to feed? Is that it?”

“I don’t have to,” his eyes sparkled with mischief, “but it’s fun to.”

She punched his shoulder. An ineffective blow, with little strength behind it. All it earned her was a chuckle from him.

“I like you,” he explained through his laughter. “I want you to feel good, something close to how good your blood makes me feel.”

“You don’t have to,” Shay protested, “I’m sharing my blood with you willingly.”

“Then we’re agreed; everyone is willing.” He swooped down, then. His cool lips pressed to hers, moving, dancing, coaxing her to follow along with his movements.

Despite the length of his body pressing her into the ground, Shay felt like she might fly away. A feather, caught in the breeze, given to the whims of nature. She clutched at his shoulders for stability, anchoring herself to reality with a tight grip on firm muscles. It was the wrong thing to do; he groaned into their kiss, thrusting his hips into hers. The thrust brought a gasp to her lips, then his tongue was stroking hers, the kiss deepening further. Reality had no anchor. There was only pulsing desire, a hunger only he could assuage.

Astarion rolled off her, to her right. “No!” She gasped, trying to hold him to her for a moment before she came to herself. He could get off her if he wanted, of course he could.

“Not going anywhere,” he assured her, pressing kisses across her cheek and jaw, leading himself ever closer to her neck. 

She liked how he looked the same, even as the sight of him filled her bad eye. She could hardly see colour, but he looked no different. Pale perfection practically glowing in the dim light.

A hand tweaked her nipple over the thin shirt she wore. Oh. Hands. She had those. What does one do with their hands? Fuck, she was an idiot.

“Show me,” she panted as he played with her breast. It felt so good, thinking was almost impossible. How did anyone learn what to do when you can’t think? “I don’t know– show me what to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” his lips were at her neck, a practised purr rumbled in her ears. “Just feel. Enjoy.”

“No. That’s not right,” She gripped his wrist, stilling the hand at her breast. “We’re a team. Even in this. If you’re doing… things… to me, I’m doing them back.”

He stilled for a moment. The very air paused while her words permeated the haze of lust that had fogged them both. She meant her words, daunted though she was by her own offer. Shay wasn’t about to sit back and be played like an instrument, even if she didn’t know the tune. She would perform alongside him. With him or not at all.

He rose back on top of her, eyes searching hers for a moment. “You mean that?”

“Of course,” she whispered. She felt so good, he made her feel so good. She wanted to do the same to him. A team, a band. Mating, as Pek called it, was a duet. Not a solo.

Astarion swallowed heavily, his gaze dropping to her neck, “may I-?”

Shay bared her neck and shut her eyes. She nodded, sharply, once.

The icy pinch of his fangs came swiftly. Reality shattered. The universe shrank to just them, just the space inside her tent. Everything was heat, hands, panting and petting. He tugged at the blanket between them, freeing her leg to wrap around his hips. She jolted in shock when his fingers stroked between them, gently exploring her where she herself had hardly gone. Shay tried to mirror his actions, stroking the intriguingly firm length she found between his legs. At her first exploratory brush over his pants, he groaned and pushed himself into her touch. Her body seemed to know the tune, even if her mind didn’t. They fumbled, together, touching and stroking while he drank her life away in great, sloppy gulps.

She reached her peak as the shadows closed in around her mind, her body drawn tighter than any bow string, a note held for impossibly long.

The song ended, its absence leaving an echo of ecstasy behind.

Shay tumbled, sated and bloodless, into the welcoming arms of oblivion.

*****

“I smell him all over you.”

“Shut up.”

“He came out of your tent this morning.”

“Shut up.”

“When will the piglets come?”

“We are going to have bacon for dinner tonight if you don’t. Shut. Up.”

“Not likely. You couldn’t raise piglets without me.”

“Can you two stop …whatever it is you’re doing?” Astarion asked, looking at Shay and Pek with confused frustration. “We have an hour left to scout before we rejoin Wyll and Shadowheart. Hopefully they’ve had more luck finding Ethel than we have.”

“Piglet-Daddy is right,” Pek chided with malicious glee, “focus on the task, Shay.”

“I am going to drown myself in the Chionthar,” Shay muttered, pushing ahead along the damp strip of dirt that was the only path she could see through the foul waters of the swamp.

She had thought the worst of it had passed earlier that morning. Between Shadowheart’s knowing smile and Wyll’s befuddled double-take, Shay was already extremely self conscious about what she had done the night before. Then Wyll kept her talking all morning so he could stare at her mouth, hoping for a glimpse of fang. The man wasn’t subtle. She was relieved to be rid of them when Shadowheart suggested they split up to better scout the sprawling swamplands for Auntie Ethel’s home and, hopefully, healing.  

Of course, that left her alone with Astarion and the heavy – and heady – knowledge of the night before between them. Shay was just as ignorant about mornings after as she was about lovemaking. What did you do when you woke in the arms of the man who taught you the meaning of pleasure? Saying ‘thank you’ seemed trite, asking for another round seemed too forward. And there were so many questions. Too many. What had happened to his – Cazador’s – victims, her Mother chief among them. All dead, yes, but how? Could they kill Cazador after they were healed? Or would that end Astarion’s life as well? What were they now? Had anything changed? Perhaps it hadn’t. Did he have a lover back in the city, a vampire-spawn… mate? Spouse? Gods, that was a question she should have asked before making such a mess of everything.

She hardly paid attention to the path, curving back towards their campground as they were. Her thoughts roiled and tumbled within, a boulder rolling downhill. That they would soon flatten her was inexorable. Agonising over every unanswered question, cursing herself for an impatient fool, Shay’s body moved of its own volition, her feet taking them back to where they had begun. The blood soaked camp. The site of the redcap massacre was just as gory in the early morning light as it was in late afternoon. The hanging strips of flesh were black with feasting insects, the stench of decay hung thick and heavy in the air along with–

Shay gagged before remembering to take shallow breaths through a smiling mouth.

Powdered iron-vine. A foul, but very familiar stench. It smelled sickly-sweet of citrus long turned to mouldy rot. Raim had kept a jar with clearly written instructions in one of his many journals on how to find and prepare more. Ironvine itself had no value as food or salve, but the stinky little plant could produce a truly foul stench when properly dried and powdered. A helpful way to keep animals and the dumber monsters away from one’s garden or cave-turned-home without setting traps or hurting anyone.

Before Shay could warn her friend away, Pek squealed loudly in pain. She quickly turned to charge back up the path they had come. Shay cursed in her mind, quickly drawing her bow. Someone had made that scent and placed it in the swamp. There had certainly been no scent of powdered iron-vine just an hour before when they had passed. She scanned the tall grasses and hanging willow branches enclosing them on the dry path.

“Ugh, what in the hells?” Astarion spat, retching at the assault of the malodorous cloud the iron-vine produced.

Shay quickly turned to hiss “shh!”

Not a smart move, reacting to a companion rather than keeping her eyes where the danger would be. In the grasses at the colourless edge of her vision, something moved. She shot before she completed spinning, drawing another arrow and nocking it before taking in the sight of what she had done.

Her arrow jutted, straight and proud, from the trunk of a young willow tree. Beside which, stood a short, stocky man. His weathered face was darkly tanned, lines of laughter and care at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His hair was tied back from his face, moustaches waxed and he was dressed in the intricately-tooled leathers of the Gur. Shay was certain he was Gur, despite his lack of colourful scarves or the ear piercings she was used to seeing on the People of the Highway. She had spent an entire season living alongside a tribe, after all. This man, though not as colourful as his kin, certainly wore all the clothing that screamed he was of that nomadic people.

“Ah, stranger,” the man greeted with a self-deprecating smile. He opened his hands in front of his chest to show he was unarmed. Shay didn’t believe him; the heavy crossbow strapped to his back was obviously well cared for and well-used. “Forgive the aroma.”

“Powdered iron-vine,” Shay replied flatly, identifying the source of the smell. “Though I thought it was used for gardening.” She kept direct eye-contact with the man, hardly blinking and not lowering her bow. Pek, she knew, was long gone and would be of no help until she got the scent of iron-vine out of her snout. Shay was aware of Astarion standing almost directly behind her. If this man had bad intentions, at least they had the advantage of numbers.

“Ah, you know!” the Gur smiled wider for the knowledge, leaning forward to share in a rather conspiratorial tone, “it’s good for monster hunting as well. Most creatures will think twice before making a meal of me.”

“You're a monster hunter?” She asked the man, wondering what monster had brought him to the swamp. Was he hunting redcaps? Gods, was Ethel truly a hag? Had he killed her before they could be healed?

“I thought all Gur were vagrant cut throats,” Astarion drawled behind her.

“Nevermind him, he’s an idiot.” Shay spoke quickly, wishing she could elbow Astarion into silence. But she didn’t dare risk letting her bow down before the strange man. He certainly looked like one of the Gur, but the swamp had already proven to be a miasma of lying fae magic. For all she knew this man was truly a redcap. Her half-drawn bow was the only thing keeping the monster hunter a safe distance from them, the only thing keeping his hands away from the heavy crossbow strapped to his back.

“Oh, but you should listen to your companion!” The man grinned with no humour, “next he’ll warn you that my people can curse your cow to give only sour milk and will seduce your daughter to a life of roaming. I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess. Alas, I am a simple wanderer. Wanderer and monster hunter. But I’m no witchdoctor or cut-throat.”

“Are you hunting whoever did this?” Shay used her bow to gesture to the carnage all around them.

“In a way,” the Gur answered, “I’m seeking the hag of these lands, but not to hunt. I hope she can help me find my true quarry, if I can afford her blood price.”

“We seek her as well,” Shay replied, hopeful that this man could lead them to Ethel, “have you found her?”

“Not yet,” the man sounded as frustrated as Shay felt. As Astarion felt as well, judging from the grumbles he was making behind her, “Nor have I seen evidence of my prey in days. I fear he’s gone to ground.”

“He? What monster do you hunt?” Shay wondered, “Perhaps I have seen something.”

“It’s something terrible , no doubt,” Astarion observed in a mocking drawl. “Dragon? Cyclops?... Kobold?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” the Gur answered, refusing to rise to Astarion’s bait. “I’m hunting for a vampire spawn and it is a little too bright for you to be my prey.”

Short days ago, Shay would have been happy to hear those words. She would have handed Astarion over to the monster hunter in a heartbeat. But now… now her heart thundered in her chest and her breath caught on the edge of panic.

Wait, she reminded herself, wait.

Shay breathed slowly, forcing calm into her body even as she could feel Astarion practically vibrating behind her. The gur obviously doesn’t recognize the spawn standing right in front of him. They had the advantage on the man who was obviously hunting her… um… Astarion. She lowered her bow, finally, in a show of accepting the man’s words and no longer seeing threat in him. He relaxed when she did, his own hands falling away from his weapons. Ranger to monster hunter, there should be trust and mutual aid. Should be.

“A spawn?” Shay asked casually, “not the true vampire? I’ve seen no evidence of either, sad to tell you, but I wonder why you hunt the spawn.”

“Vampires, and spawn, are godless parasites. We do not need a reason to destroy them. But in this case, it is a sacred mission from the head of my tribe,” the man explained. “She sent me here to capture the beast and return it to her.”

“Capture? Not kill?” Shay wondered aloud.

“And bring it where?” Astarion asked practically on top of her own words.

“Baldur’s Gate,” the gur stated proudly, “my people wait for me there.”

“How do you even capture a vampire?” Shay asked the man, needing to know what traps he had laid out there for Astarion. “I’m more used to goblins and gnolls, this prey sounds more difficult.”

“You capture them at night, of course!” The man chuckled, “beyond that, I will say no more. There are some trade secrets we cannot share.”

“Well, um–”

“Gandrel,” the man supplied his name and offered a hand.

“Shay,” Shay gave her own name, stepping forward to clasp the arm offered to her. “I wish you well on your hunt. And I thank you for the information; we will take care at night with a vampire about.”

“Should you find any evidence of the monster,” Gandrel tapped his free hand to his nose, “you know how to find me.”

“I’ve crossed paths with your people before, you know.” Astarion said in a voice haunted with painful memories. He stepped closer to Gandrel, careful to keep a hand hidden behind his back. Shay feared she knew what was coming, but didn’t stop it, didn’t release her grasp on Gandrel’s arm to even give him a fair chance. In a blink, Astarion’s dagger was stabbed deep into Gandrel’s eye. Shay released her grip and stepped back to avoid the splatter. As blood fountained from the garish wound, Astarion let go of the daggers hilt. Gandrel dropped to the ground, stone dead. “It wasn’t a good experience.”

“Gods, why did I let you do that,” she whispered, watching Astarion bend down to wrench his dagger from Gandrel’s eye. He twisted it as he did so, mutilating the man’s face.

“Because he’d kill you the moment he found out I’m his spawn,” Astarion ground out angrily, “he’d kill Wyll and Shadowheart. He’d kill Pek.”

“No,” she breathed, finally tearing her eyes from the disfigured corpse to search Astarion’s eyes for truth.

“You’ve dealt with them before,” Astarion sounded calm, his words leading her thoughts towards truth, but a tick in his jaw gave away the depth of his feelings in the moment. “You know he wouldn’t let anything stand between him and his ‘prey’.”

“I didn’t want him to take you,” Shay admitted, realising that truth as it spilled from her lips. “You. Yes, Pek and the others need to be safe but I want you to be safe too.”

“I haven’t been safe for two hundred years,” Astarion seemed taken aback by her words, “And we’re not safe now.”

“We’re safer,” Shay gestured at Gandrel’s corpse.

“We are,” he murmured, a smile tugging at one corner of his lips. “And you helped. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

In her mind, Shay said a quick prayer for Gandrel’s soul.

“We’re a team,” she told Astarion. She bent to search the corpse for supplies. A thought occurred to her as she pocketed coins and well-made arrows, “we never found out if he was alone. There could be more.”

“Oh, there’ll be others,” Astarion answered in a resigned tone from the ground beside her where he was elbow-deep in Gandrel’s pack. “I’m sure of that. If Cazador sent one peon after me, he’ll send another.”

“You think Cazador is behind this?” 

“It was him, I’m sure,” Astarion’s voice was far away and laced with fear. His body curled tightly around the pack through which he searched. Shay wasn’t certain if he knew how he instinctively curled into a protective ball at the mention of his master. “Only he would know to send the Gur after me. It’s a message. He’s reminding me of his power. Even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me. And he wants me back.”

“He’ll have to go through Pek first,” Shay attempted some levity; she didn’t like how Astarion detached from the moment, instinctively trying to protect himself from a foe that wasn’t even near. She shoved Gandrel’s picked-over corpse off dry ground. It slipped into the stagnant swamp water with barely a splash. The foul stench of powdered iron-vine immediately began to dissipate.

“Oh, well then. Pek versus all the powers of a Vampire Master,” Astarion huffed a laugh. “I’m safe as houses, aren’t I?”

Chapter Text

“Baaa!” The dirty little man cried out at Shay. 

She paused, taking in the black sclera of his eyes and his well-cared for red velvet cap, the hat a stark contrast to the filthy, ragged clothing the man wore. His teeth were uneven and yellow, where they were not brown, lips black as a bruise hidden under a scraggly brown beard. Despite the man’s best efforts to convince her otherwise, he was no sheep.

The little man was a redcap, an unseelie fae creature driven by chaotic impulses to cause carnage and mayhem. The redcap and three of his fellows wandered the wide, dry path in front of a wide archway of woven boughs and dried flowers. A beetle-chewed sign beside the archway of weathered paint over wooden boards proclaimed the Riverside Teahouse. One of the redcaps shuffled up to a wide trough of hay, poking at it disconsolately before wandering off again.

Shay realised the redcaps were acting as though still safe behind illusions. They must look like sheep, to those who couldn’t see past Ethel’s magic.

“Baaa!” She said right back.

Behind her, Astarion cleared his throat to hide a laugh. Shadowheart giggled outright.

“BAAA!” Another redcap cried.

“BAAA!” Shay replied.

This time, Astarion couldn’t contain his laughter. Even Pek snorted her version of a giggle. Wyll sighed reproachfully.

“We’re just going to talk to Auntie,” Shay told the redcap in a saccharine voice, “you adorable little sheep.”

“Baaa,” the redcap replied, moving aside to take a turn poking at the trough.

The companions moved forward, passing the redcaps and ducking under the arches. A sprawling building on stilts revealed itself beyond the arches, tucked away behind a screen of rocks and hanging willows. The building was as grey as swampwater, the wooden slats of its walls bug-eaten and showing faint evidence of having once – perhaps a century ago – been white-washed. An equally decrepit garden surrounded the house, dry stems jutting from broken flower beds, not a petal to be seen. Shay assumed the place was beautiful, under the illusion spell she had long since shattered, it certainly had the bones for an idyllic countryside retreat. It was just that those bones were centuries dead and buried.

Wyll and Shadowheart moved ahead, seeking the uneven wooden steps leading to wide double-doors. Shadowheart, in particular, was very focused on finding healing by any means necessary. She had mentioned, more than once, selling a baby to the hag in order to get the worm from her skull. Wyll laughed it off as a joke, but Shay didn’t think Shadowheart was really joking. She was a strangely cold-blooded person, for a cleric.

“You know,” Astarion murmured at her side, keeping his voice pitched low to keep the others from hearing, “when this is over, it would be nice to have a little time together. Alone.”

“Yeah,” Shay agreed, not quite succeeding at keeping the nervousness from her voice, “we should talk.”

“Oh, darling,” laughter bubbled in his voice, “I don’t want to talk.”

“Makin’ piglets,” Pek snuffled out in absolutely vicious delight. “Dead little babies with tentacle faces and beautiful voices.”

The visual Pek presented stopped Shay in her tracks. She stared down at her friend in bemused horror. “What the fuck, Pek?”

Pek only grunted a laugh. She forced her way between Shay and Astarion to follow Wyll and Shadowheart to the teahouse door.

“I need to find a spell or a potion or something so I can understand her,” Astarion said, knowing Shay wouldn’t translate.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes he does.”

“Anything that makes you blush like that, I want to know.”

“How can you both plot against me when you can’t even talk to each other?!”

“Are you coming?” Shadowheart called impatiently from the door.

“I was trying to talk to her about that,” Astarion muttered under his breath. 

Shay elbowed him hard in the ribs before jogging towards the teahouse door.

Healing and salvation awaited within. Even if nothing would save her from the machinations of Pek and Astarion.

*****

“... that is my price,” Ethel told the group, a deranged light in her pale blue eyes. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“An eye?” Shadowheart asked in disbelief, “I was certain it would be a child. Hags always want children.”

“All full up on that front, dearie,” Ethel replied with a bright smile. “This is an easy one, far easier than making a babe. You’ve got two peepers, after all. I only want one.”

“What are you going to do to it?” Wyll asked, his voice heavily laden with suspicion, his own stone eye glinting in the dim light.

“I’m afraid that’s my business, petal,” Auntie Ethel replied with a knowing wink. “It’s nothing nefarious, though. I promise I won’t track your every move through it.”

Wyll swallowed heavily and didn’t reply.

“I’ll do it,” Pek volunteered

“Peki, no.” Shay dropped to her knees beside her friend to look the sow in the eye, “don’t sacrifice yourself.”

“Better her, dearie,” Ethel sounded comforting, even moving behind Shay to drop a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her grip was tight, her nails sharp even over the thick leather of Shay’s jerkin. Ethel’s attempt at comfort held a promise of violence Shay did not find soothing in the least. “I want an eye that works, so you and the pretty little Blade are right out.”

“We’ll match,” Pek grunted, “it’ll be cute.”

“I don’t like this,” Shay sighed.

“I agree to take the pigs eye.” Ethel stated with an air of finality. A contract had been made. She released Shay’s shoulder, leaving an ache behind. “Come with me, Pek, Auntie needs her real nails for this.

Pek walked past Shay, who refused to stand out of the way for her friend to sacrifice herself. She lowered her head, staring at the ageing and distressed wooden boards of the teahouse floor. A large bug emerged from a knothole, skitter across the floor, then disappear into a garbage filled corner. Auntie’s house stank, full of rotting food and swampy growth. Mushrooms sprouted in dim corners, bones and strangling vines seemed to be the only decoration the woman used aside from decomposition. 

A soft gasp from Shadowheart caught Shay’s attention. She roused herself from her feeling of defeat, and tried to turn towards the wide stone hearth of the teahouse where Auntie had taken Pek. Her face met black leather instead.

“Don’t look,” Astarion murmured, standing between her and the sight of whatever Auntie Ethel had become, whatever she was doing to Pek.

“Don’t let her do this,” Shay begged from her knees. From this angle, the branches of the large oak that made the centre pillar of the riverside teahouse seemed to grow from Astarion’s shoulders and head. Twisted black veins, dry and starving, seeking sustenance.

“I can no more stop her than you can,” Astarion replied through a crooked, sympathetic grin. Shay knew that for truth; Pek was always going to do whatever she wanted. She didn’t have to like it.

A pained squeal interrupted them. Shay flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. Then she found herself breathing in leather. Sound muffled under cool hands while rosemary and bergamot flooded her senses. A hint of brandy. Astarion had embraced her, pressing her into his hip. His hands covered her ears, dimming the sound of Pek’s agony.

The squealing stopped. 

The silence was deafening.

Shay trembled in Astarion’s arms, still on her knees in the filthy teahouse.

“Is she ok?” She whispered.

“Yes,” he answered, moving his hands from her ears. He pet her curls instead, a comforting stroke that reminded her of better times. Of her parents. When a person could comfort her and make it all better. 

“Auntie? What’s all the noise? What’s happening?”

The new voice had Shay grabbing Astarion’s arm to pull herself to her feet as fast as possible. She turned, taking in a scene far less gruesome than she had imagined. Pek stood before the wide stone hearth seeming hale and hearty. Her right eye was no longer a muddy brown, but a sickly glowing green set in ink black sclera. She winked her new eye at Shay, a signal that all was well.

All was certainly not well, though.

Auntie Ethel had assumed the form of a hag. Her true form, Shay assumed. The ancient fae monster was a tower of putrescence and puissance. She stood nearly eight feet tall, though she might truly reach that height if she wasn’t hunched with age, her spine curling under the spine of some other animal she wore, alongside poorly cured leathers and scraps of fabric. Her grey hair was long and scraggly, falling in a greasy clump over one wrinkled green shoulder. Her face was wide, nose long and pointed, mouth full of jagged yellow needles that barely passed for teeth. Her eyes were still the same arrestingly pale blue then had been in her human form. Mushrooms, moss and warts grew from her body in abundance, half growth half clothing. A crown of fungal growth sprouted from her neck and head, forming a disgusting crown. Her hands were massive paws, tipped in sharp black claws. The claws she had dug into Pek’s eye. 

In her own home, Ethel seemed relaxed; she was comfortable and confident in her powers. Her attention was on a red-haired woman in a worn but cared for green dress. The woman’s stomach bulged with evidence of a babe almost ready to come out and see the world.

“Mayrina, get back in your room and finish your dinner,” Ethel hissed, pointing a clawed finger at the young woman.

“But what’s going on?” Mayrina repeated herself.

“Don’t make me get the wooden spoon,” Ethel threatened, “you’re eating for two so get to it.”

“That’s Mayrina?” Wyll asked, “I have some bad news for her.”

“News?” Mayrina asked, “What news?”

“Oh, for the love of–” Ethel snapped clawed fingers. A swirl of fireflies appeared from nowhere, circling around Mayrina until the woman could no longer be seen. The bugs vanished in a blink. Mayrina was gone. The hag rounded on Wyll. “Listen, you little shit, I have a deal with her. And I have a deal with you. If I weren’t halfway done with our deal, I’d send you to join that stupid little child. Keep your nose out of other people’s business. Your little friend won’t be able to fix you up after I finish with you.”

“I can’t believe she made a deal knowing what you’ll take from her.” Wyll argued, a slight pallor under his dusky skin.

“You did, petal.” Ethel sneered, before turning back to Pek. “Now, unless you want tentacles for a tongue, stay absolutely still.”

Auntie Ethel wrapped her paws around Pek’s skull, fingers tense but not actually touching. Her eyes slid shut, her face twisted in a grimace of concentration.

Beside Astarion, Shay slid her own eyes shut and prayed for all she was worth that Pek would come out of this fae magic surgery unharmed.

Ethel jerked as though something took her arm and pulled. She pulled back. A tug-of-war ensued, the hag pulling and being pulled as her magic fought the tadpole in Pek’s brain. Finally, after one last pull, Ethel fell away from Pek, panting in exertion. She cast her rancorous eyes on the entire group, settling on Shay.

“You little shit!” Ethel spat through her needle-sharp teeth. “You didn’t tell me it was Netherese. I’m not touching that.”

“What’s Netherese?” Shay asked, confused. At the hag’s wart-encrusted feet, Pek wobbled on her hooves.

“Filthy shadow magic,” Ethel grimaced, “brings nothing but chains and misery. How could I have missed the stink? Like blood and piss congealing on my tongue. Bleh. Someone’s tampered with your parasite. Likely why you’ve not turned yet.”

“Tampered?!” Shadowheart cried out, “What do you mean? Why can’t you fix us?”

“Bless us, you’re as slow as a wet week.” Ethel sneered at the cleric, “that thing has been touched by more than mind flayers. You’re all dead souls walking. I can’t help you.”

“We had a deal,” Pek growled, stomping a hoof.

“And I held up my end of the bargain, little piggy.” Ethel replied blithely. “Now all of you get out of my home. I’m done with your shadow magic shite.”

“We’ve paid you but got nothing in return,” Wyll argued, “take our payment and let Mayrina go.”

“Oh, the wee hero thinks he can save the girl?” Ethel crowed, “Not happening, dearie. Leave now, while you can.”

“She’s why you didn’t want an infant as payment,” Wyll realised, not obeying Ethel’s order to leave. Pek listened, returning to stand with Shay and Astarion. She pushed her weight into Shay’s leg, trying to move her towards the shadowed doorway of the teahouse. Shadowheart looked askance at Wyll, her hands fluttering near the leather handle of her mace. “You’re going to take her babe.”

“She’s going to give me her babe,” Ethel corrected. “And there’s fuck all a demon-kissed fool like you can do to stop that.”

“Wyll–” Shadowheart tried to caution, but it was too late. The Blade of Frontiers had his rapier out and stood ready to fight Ethel.

“Fuck,” Astarion sighed, unsheathing his own weapons.

“Wyll, wait–” Shay tried to stop him, the heroics of the Blade of Frontiers was going to get them all killed. Wyll didn’t listen, he raised a dark hand towards Ethel and spoke a quiet word. A blast of green light, swirled with shadowed black, leapt from his hand to dart into the hags shoulder.

“Give her back,” Wyll ordered Ethel. “No one would willingly sell a child to a hag. You’ve lied to her, no doubt.”

He never wanted children. You ruined everything. Everything! I’d sell you in a heartbeat if he’d come back. If anyone would even take a useless thing like you.

Mama’s angry, drunken words echoed in Shay’s mind. Flashes of painful memory swamped her, Mama choosing the bottle over Shay, choosing whatever brief pleasure or moment of oblivion she could find rather than feed her own daughter. People would sacrifice their children. Sacrifice them for very little. That, she knew for sure, even if she fought to avoid those memories. They had been a family. They had loved each other.

Hadn’t they?

“Wyll, Mayrina made her choice,” Shay rasped out around a sudden lump in her throat. “Let it go.”

“Too late for that, petal,” Ethel chuckled grimly. “He hit me! And we hit back. We have an ‘eye for an eye’ philosophy here at the Riverside Teahouse. So you dearies enjoy that. Ta-ta, now.”

Ethel vanished from sight, one moment she was standing before the wide hearth of the teahouse and the next she was… simply not. At the same time, the warped double doors of the teahouse burst open. Four redcaps filled the doorway, each grasping a clean and well-cared for weapon in stark contrast to the filth that caked their bodies. They bared their brown teeth at the companions, ready to fight for their… whatever Auntie Ethel was to them. Patron? Parent? It didn’t matter.

The fire of the hearth roared and flashed, reflecting as a dull glaze in the redcap's eyes. There was little to be found behind those black orbs, no thought or compassion to be had. The dark fae creatures wanted one thing: blood.

“Fucking hells,” Shadowheart muttered, setting her shield and hefting her mace at Wyll’s side. “Had to be a hero, didn’t you?”

The redcaps charged in a line, their discipline forced by the shape of the teahouse entrance. They had no cohesion as a unit. Their charge broke on Shadowheart’s shield, a weak wave against a granite boulder. Wyll’s rapier flickered at the cleric’s side, taking hairy fingers from stubby hands. A cleaver, shining and silver, thunked to the ground alongside the bloodied digits that could no longer hold it.

“Up you get,” Astarion’s voice in Shay’s ear was her only warning before hands on her hips lifted her into the bug-chewed branches of the tree that formed the centre pillar of the teahouse. She grabbed at swamp-damp branches, pulling herself higher. From her new view, she could see two redcaps – one dripping blood from where he used to have fingers – on a small rise built into the teahouse. They had climbed a few steps of a ladder after backing away from the fight. That one redcap dripped blood from where fingers should be explained why. The fae creatures were fiddling with something Shay couldn’t quite make out while their companions fought Wyll and Shadowheart in the tight space of the teahouse entrance. Before the redcaps could use whatever spell or potion they held, Shay loosed a fire arrow into them.

The injured redcap fell to the damp boards of the floor, not even able to shriek his pain as his charred flesh choked the air. His companion leapt from the rise, trailing smoke from his flaming hat. He landed before Astarion, who immediately stabbed his poisoned dagger into the redcap’s shoulder. The dark fae laughed. Belladonna should be working through his body, but the little man just laughed harder and harder. He swung his heavy knife back at Astarion. Blades clashed, the men struggling together, unworldly fae against the walking dead. Pek joined the fray, stabbing her tusks into the redcaps underarm.

“Fuck!” The pained cry from Wyll caught Shay’s attention. She drew a regular arrow from her quiver, the fight was in too close-quarters for anything else, trying to find a clear shot in Wyll’s struggle with a redcap. Blood trickled down Wyll’s arm where the creature had scored a deep hit. Shay sent an arrow towards the redcaps face. Sadly, it ducked to avoid a blow from Wyll, resulting in her arrow pinning its red hat to the floor, rather than injuring the creature.

A green flash of light from Shadowheart nearly blinded Shay. The cleric cursed a blue streak while Shay blinked the light from her eyes. Whatever magic she had cast had missed, or not worked. The redcap Shadowheart fought seemed uninjured, from what Shay could see once vision returned. She couldn’t find an opening to shoot past Shadowheart’s shield, so turned her gaze downward to see if Pek needed assistance.

She didn’t. Their redcap opponent lay dead nearby. Sow and spawn, both bloodied from their fight, had decided to rest at the base of the tree. Together, they observed the fight Wyll and Shadowheart had yet to complete.

“... misses a lot,” Pek was telling Astarion. “Maybe we need a new cleric. One with aim.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Astarion replied to Pek’s grunts and snuffles. “Wyll is terrible at this.”

Shay turned back to the fight, trying not to listen. Giggles wouldn’t help with her aim. She finally saw an opening, putting an arrow into the eye of Wyll’s hat-less adversary. At the same time, Shadowheart bashed her mace down upon the head of her own foe. The redcap fell to the ground, half his face a pulped mess of blood, hair and flesh.

Shay quickly drew another arrow. She scanned the room, waiting for Ethel to re-appear. Everyone breathed harshly at first, while they waited for the hag to appear and fight them. Eventually, breaths and heart rates slowed as nothing happened. There was no sign of Auntie Ethel. It seemed that she had abandoned her home and servants.

*****

“But now they’re dead… They’re so dead… Forever dead and lovely now…” Shay sang to herself quietly as she rifled through a well-constructed cabinet in Ethel’s shockingly clean and well-stocked kitchen. She pulled a large healing potion out of the cabinet, scarlet liquid sloshing around in the clear glass bottle. She was surprised at the size and heft of the potion. “Astarion?” Shay caught the vampire spawn’s attention from where he and Pek sat together, bloodied and battered, nearly at her feet. He took the bottle with a grateful smile.

“Auntie taketh,” Astarion announced to the room as he uncorked, then took a long pull from the bottle, then added as his body began to knit itself back together, “but Auntie also giveth.”

“Can’t believe you drank that,” Shadowheart muttered, tending to a deep laceration on Wyll’s shoulder. She ignored the scorched bodies – body parts – of the redcaps scattered around the room.

“Why not? She was selling healing potions in the grove.” Astarion shrugged, turning to pour some of his potion down Pek’s waiting snout. Her own wounds shrank and vanished under the accelerated healing powers of whatever concoction the hag had brewed. “There’s a whole cabinet of potions here. They’re all clean bottles, waxed and corked expertly. She owes us, besides. We paid her for something, after all.”

“Labelled nice, too,” Shay threw in from where she was stuffing everything she could find into her bag of holding.

“We should have captured one of them,” Wyll muttered. “How can we rescue Mayrina if we don’t know where Ethel went with her?”

“Let’s rescue ourselves first,” Pek grunted, her newly bruise-black and poison-green eye glinting in the dim swamp light filtering into the teahouse through broken windows.

“Does it hurt, Peki?” Shay asked her friend, dropping a hand down to scratch Pek behind a soft ear.

“Not at all,” Pek replied with a quiet snuffle. “Hardly works. I can only see shadows. Does it look horrible?”

“No, love, you look ferocious,” Shay grinned at her friend. “If I ever find a mirror, I’ll show you. You’ll love it.”

“She looks fantastic, as always,” Astarion declared from Pek’s other side. Pek wiggled joyously between them, pleased at the compliments. Shay mouthed ‘thank you’ to Astarion. He shrugged off her gratitude, sipping more healing potion.

“What are our next steps?” Shadowheart asked the group. She stood from Wyll’s newly-healed shoulder, surveying the fae charnelhouse they had made while she spoke her thoughts aloud. “Do we go back to the goblins and try to find Halsin?”

“We need to save Mayrina!” Wyll argued, “we can’t just abandon someone like that, abandon a child.”

“Every moment you waste being a hero takes us one step closer to a face full of tentacles,” Shadowheart argued right back.

“Do you think they’ll fight?” Astarion asked Shay in a quiet voice, as Wyll and Shadowheart bickered, “I want to bet on Shadowheart.”

“I don’t know, Wyll knows spells,” Shay murmured right back.

“Are you done?” Pek called to Wyll and Shadowheart.

“They can’t understand you, Peki,” Shay sighed in resignation, she’d have to stop this stupid fight and get them all on a path towards healing. She didn’t really want to. Still, she took a deep breath and called out in a booming voice, “HEY! Can you two stop?”

Jaws dropped. Silence echoed. Wyll and Shadowheart turned to face Shay, both still blinking in surprise. Wyll stuck a finger in his ear and winced.

Alright, perhaps she had been over-loud for the space.

“We’re going after Auntie,” Shay informed them all.

Pek and Astarion were mirror images of revulsion.

Shay held up a hand to stop Wyll from any crowing he was about to partake in.

“I don’t really care about Mayrina,” She explained. “She made her deal. But Auntie Ethel said our tadpoles have Netherese magic. I’m no wizard. I have no idea what Netherese magic is. Do any of you?”

A chorus of shrugs and murmured ‘no’s answered her question.

“Well, the only person who knows about this is the green hag who's hiding around here somewhere.” Shay continued, “I, for one, want some answers. We’ve paid her already, it’s the least she could do. Point us in a direction that will help us defeat these… Netherese Tadpoles.”

“And if we fail?” Shadowheart asked, folding her arms over her armoured chest.

“If Auntie doesn’t give us information, we’re in the same position we’re in now,” Shay shrugged one shoulder. “I think it’s worth a try.”

“And we can save Mayrina at the same time.” Wyll insisted.

Pek and Astarion shrugged at the same time. Shay rolled her eyes. Pulling someone from the grave they had dug didn’t interest her in the least.

“Where do we start looking for Ethel?” Wyll asked, clapping his hands, then rubbing them together energetically and casting his good eye around the space.

“She went into the hearth,” Pek explained.

“Really?” Shay asked, “how?”

“Illusions are for human eyes, not animal noses,” Pek explained, her new eye glowing grotesquely in the dim light. “I can smell more than you can see.”

“Pek says there’s an illusion in the hearth,” Shay translated to the group. “It’s hiding an entrance or something.”

Astarion abruptly stood, turning to poke around the few bottles Shay had left in the cabinet.

“There’s gotta be a potion of animal speaking in here…” he muttered to himself.

*****

“Surely you’ll agree now that we need to do something about Ethel,” Wyll huffed as the group made their way through yet another muddy chamber under the teahouse. Another space full of tortured victims who had got exactly what they asked for from a deal with the hag. What they asked for, but certainly not what they wanted.

Shay stopped at a masked body, bristling with arrows, half buried in putrid mud. She bent to pull her arrows from pale flesh spotted with fungal growth. How long had Auntie kept her masked servants in her strange basement? 

“Make stupid deals, get what you deserve,” Astarion muttered under his breath as he stepped over her and the masked corpse.

Masks, Shay thought as she observed Astarion’s detached, faintly disgusted mein, were everywhere. She wondered if he saw himself in Auntie’s servants, her victims, the playthings she left in various states of torment scattered about her ‘playhouse’ as she called it. These poor fools they had passed by or fought against were no different from a wounded magistrate bleeding his life away into the night, saved by the offer of assistance from a vampire. They had all asked for help and received it, though not the help they had wanted.

Shay stood, her hands full of arrows for her quiver. The boot-sucking muck made keeping balance difficult. She wobbled for a moment, spreading her arms wide to find her balance before she fell on her ass in the mud in front of everyone. Astarion caught her arm, helping to hold her steady. Shay gave him a thankful smile, displeased to see his face was carefully blank. His body helped her, his grip on her arm was firm but gentle. His face, however… his eyes were blank.

“Are you alright?” Shay asked, keeping her voice pitched for his ears alone.

“I’m fine, darling,” He replied dismissively, through a practised smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Shay wondered if anything would reach them.

“It’s ok to… to not be ok,” Shay said in a rush. She winced at how clumsy her words sounded, but she soldiered on, “I’ve had my moments and you’ve been there. I’d like to be there for you. If you’ll let me. If you want. You don’t have to want that, of course.”

“I’m sure I don’t– really?” Astarion’s smoothly rehearsed response hit a snag as her words penetrated his brain. He seemed lost, blinking in confusion. He didn’t know his next line.

“Really,” Shay smiled.

“We have to go through this waterfall,” Shadowheart’s voice echoed through the dark chamber. She gasped, then called back “It’s cold!”

“I will not argue with a shower right now,” Wyll’s reply quickly followed. “Pek, you should take your time going through this.”

“What are you saying, one-eye?” Pek asked in a dangerously quiet voice.

“Perhaps later,” Astarion sighed, frustration heavy in his voice. “I’m… not sure if I’m alright. But I’ll survive. For now.”

“Alright,” Shay agreed, not wanting to push. She wouldn’t want someone to push at her. “I suppose we should save Wyll.”

“Should we?” A sliver of genuine mirth found its way into Astarion’s eyes. “If he survives her, it’ll be a valuable lesson.”

“And if he doesn’t survive?”

“Uh, Shay?” Wyll called, sounding desperate.

Astarion winked, making no move to answer Wyll with word or deed. Shay tried to glare, but quickly found her lips twitching upwards into a grin.

“Shay!?”

“Coming!” Shay went to rescue the Blade of Frontiers, taking slow, squelching steps through the mud towards a hole in the stone wall and a fall of clean water she desperately wanted to stand under. She found the man cowering against water-slick stone, Pek’s tusks dangerously close to some rather integral parts of him. Shay patted Pek’s bristled back, pulling the sow’s attention away from Wyll and his foolish observations about pigs and filth.

“He’s frustrating,” Pek grumbled.

“I agree,” Shay replied, “but this isn’t the place, Peki.”

“You agree with what?” Wyll sputtered.

“Can we just do this?” Shadowheart called.

“I agree with that,” Astarion added, walking under the fall of water with a small smile of delight. He quickly turned to call back, “are you three coming?”

“Come on, Wyll.” Shay held out an arm to Wyll, pulling him to his feet once he grasped her forearm, “let’s go be heroes.” 

Together, Shay and Wyll walked through the waterfall, the cold water quickly sluicing swamp mud from her body. She found herself shaking with chill on the other side in a narrow passage full of twisting roots and poisonous green fog. Across a narrow channel of fog, Shay could barely make out the rails and steps

“I can try, I don’t think warl– Shay! Do you have wind spells?” Shadowheart interrupted her own conversation with Astarion. “We have nothing. Well, I might but I doubt it.”

“Spells?” Shay scoffed, “I’m a ranger. We have no magic.”

“I think Mielikki would grant you more than you think,” Shadowheart said with a soft smile. “You’re a damn fine ranger, surely you have her favour.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Shay shook her head. Raim’s journals hadn’t mentioned spells beyond basic healing. She could summon goodberries, or cure small wounds but a gust of wind seemed beyond her.

“Hm. Maybe all you can do is spikes and thorns,” Shadowheart mused. “Try, though? I’ll try too. It’s worth a shot. I don’t want to walk through this.”

“Yeah,” Shay agreed, the green fog pulsed and roiled, sending off its own light in the narrow cavern. It flowed like its own waterfall, over roots and down the ladder, somehow never ending despite no visible source, an endless flow promising venomous agony should they step farther. Anything to help prevent that agony would be worth it. Her eyes slid shut so she could focus on the divine, praying to the Supreme Ranger to help her fight the blight Auntie Ethel had made of the swamp. Distantly, she heard Shadowheart make the same request of Wyll, then she was lost in a different fog. The fog of her own mind, full of negative thoughts, memories she would rather not experience and an enviable catalogue of tavern songs.

Shay wasn’t fond of the sensation of prayer. It felt too much like begging, something she was proud to say she had never done. She worked. She earned . Even if she was stealing, she was earning her keep with her talents and labour. Not everyone could pick a lock, after all. Begging – prayer – just felt wrong. It was one of the reasons she had felt so drawn to the teachings in Raim’s journals. Raim spoke of a self-sufficiency in Mielikki’s followers that appealed to her.

And yet here she was, yet again, reaching out to her goddess for help. She had done that more in the last tenday than she had in the past five years. Mielikki was going to grow annoyed with her very soon–

Something was there.

Something new in the foggy part of her mind where thorns and goodberries waited to be summoned.

Shay reached for it, fumbling and inexpert but enthusiastic. She felt a warm glow of pride not her own as she explored this new ability. Not a gust of wind, but something that would help all the same. A clear shield holding back virulent green light.

Her mind echoed with the words of others. Memories old and new.

Useless thing like you.

You ruined everything. Everything!

You’re a damn fine ranger, surely you have her favour.

Shay felt a rush of pride all her own. Perhaps she was good at something after all. She slowly released a breath she didn’t realise she was holding and opened her eyes.

Shay almost stepped back in alarm. Astarion was very close to her. As she blinked her eyes open, he pushed somehow closer, his eyes searching hers

“What?” Shay whispered.

“Are you–did you–?” His unfinished questions hung in the air.

“You took too long. Shadows and One-Eye, too,” Pek grunted and snuffled. “He’s worried.”

“No I’m not.” Astarion replied immediately, his eyes briefly flashing down to the sow.

Oh fuck.

“Found a potion, did you?” Shay asked.

“You found a potion,” Astarion smirked right in her face, the jerk. “Stashed it in your bag and didn’t tell me. There’s no trust in this little team of ours, is there, darling?”

“I trust that there’s no god in Faerûn I could pray to who could save me from you two.”

“Anything?” Shadowheart interrupted. Shay glanced to the side to see the cleric rising from a meditative position. Wyll doing the same nearby. She turned to speak to them, obstinately refusing to move away from Astarion – he was crowding her space, so he should move – she ended up with her back pressed to his chest, Pek pressed against both their legs. They made a strange little family.

“Yes, actually,” Shay grinned, remembering what she had found, the pride she had found in herself. It felt good. “Not a gust of wind, though.”

“Then what?” Wyll asked.

“This,” Shay reached down to Pek’s bristling haunches. She lightly touched two fingers to Pek and whispered new words she had found to summon the spell. For a brief moment, Pek was encased in light, a glowing shield. Shay explained the spell as the light sank into Pek’s skin and vanished, “protection from poison. Should last until morning. I’ll get each of us, then we can just walk through this.”

“Fantastic!” Shadowheart clapped her hands together, “I knew you’d come through.”

Shay made good on her word, casting the new spell on each of her companions, then herself. The magic felt like nothing, Shay could believe it was an illusion as so much of Ethel’s home was, if not for the remembered feeling of pride. This, she knew, she could trust.

Shadowheart was the last to be protected. Before Shay could move away, Shadowheart grabbed her hand and walked with her into the poison fog. Shay thought she had trusted, but the relief she felt when nothing bad happened was palpable. She sent a quick apology to the heavens as Shadowheart pulled her deeper into the strange pool of poison fog.

“How do we get Pek down that ladder?” Shadowheart asked.

“She’s pretty good at getting down,” Shay answered, “it’s up that could be a problem.”

“We have rope,” Wyll said from Shadowheart’s other side. “We’ll get her back up.”

“Aww, one-eye cares,” Pek snuffled with heavy sarcasm from behind Shay.

“Oh, I’ve been missing out,” Astarion observed, delighted. “Is she like this all the time?”

“Yes,” Shay sighed.

“Pek, my love, what have you been saying about me?”

“Don’t answer–” the world yanked and blurred, Shay’s hand was torn from Shadowheart’s as she was swept off her feet, spun around in familiar arms. When she was set back to the ground, she tried to shake the dizziness from her head. A wall of black leather filled her vision, cool arms held her tightly.

“Don’t move,” Astarion hissed in her ear, “traps.”

“Can you disarm it?” Wyll’s voice came from somewhere behind her.

“It’s a flower, what’s to disarm?”

“Everybody out,” Shadowheart stated firmly, following her own command by moving back to the waterfall.

Shay was spun again, Astarion dropping his hands to her hips to force her into walking a very fine line behind Pek.

“I can walk,” she rasped in a low tone, distinctly embarrassed.

“Let Piglet-Daddy worry,” Pek smirked.

Behind her, Astarion stilled. Shay prayed the protection spell would wear off, or that the ground would open up beneath her. A freak lightning strike. Something, anything, that would kill her on the spot.

“Not yet, Pek,” he finally said, before resuming his push of Shay through the fog.

Once out of the fog, Shay walked straight past Pek stopping only to thump her forehead into Shadowheart’s mailed shoulder.

“Kill me,” she begged the cleric.

“After we’re free of tadpoles, sure.” Shadowheart replied, stiffly patting Shay twice on her own shoulder. There was no comfort to be found in the gesture.

Behind her, Shay heard a scatter of stones being thrown, then a low thump. After a rather pregnant pause, the chamber erupted in explosive bangs, washes of hot air pushed her into Shadowheart. The women clung to each other as flames surged through the chamber. The conflagration vanished as quickly as it had come. Shay turned from Shadowheart to behold a dark chamber, pitch black and free of gas or flowers. She shared a gobsmacked look with the cleric.

Wyll gave a low whistle, “that could’ve been us.”

Chapter Text

“Get out of here, you’ll ruin everything!” Mayrina’s whining voice greeted the companions as they entered the final chamber of Auntie Ethel’s basement.

The space was a damp, deep bowl of a room with a hole in the center that surely reached into the depths of the underdark. Mayrina sat in a wooden cage suspended over the hole, seemingly content in her lot. She didn’t struggle, didn’t grasp at the root-twisted bars of her prison. This was no damsel in need of rescue.

“She wants to be here, Wyll.” Shay pointed out quietly before raising her voice to send it echoing through the chamber, “Ethel! We just want to talk.”

“Lying little arsewipe,” Ethel’s haggard voice replied, the woman herself appearing on the path that circled Mayrina’s cage, too far to be reached by arrow or spell. “The Fraud of Frontiers only wants to impress Daddy. As if he would be proud of any of your infernal heroics.”

Wyll frowned darkly, his lip twitched but he didn’t reply to Ethel’s taunting.

“We just want to know about Netherese magic,” Shadowheart called to Ethel.

“It won’t make Shar love you, child,” Ethel spat back. “No one does and no one ever will.”

Shay turned to look at Shadowheart, who had gone pale as a ghost at Ethel’s words. “Shar?”

“Now is not the time for that discussion,” Shadowheart whispered.

“The time to speak of darkness and betrayal is after she skins your piggy pet alive for the glory of loss.” Ethel took a few angry steps towards the group, but stayed well out of range. “Now get the hells out of my home, you insolent welps.”

“We paid her for nothing,” Astarion muttered to Pek.

The rotting corpse of a very dead rat plopped into the mud at his feet. 

“Dinner is served, slave,” Ethel sneered. “Debts’ clear. Get. Out.”

Astarion stared at the rat, stricken. Shay reached out to touch his arm. It jogged him from whatever dark path his thoughts had taken. He took a shuddering breath before earnestly informing Shay, “I want to kill her.”

“Me too,” Pek snuffled and grunted, her new eye a pustulent mass bulging from her soft pink face. “Can we?”

Shay wanted to wait, wanted to try again. They needed whatever information they could get from Ethel. She opened her mouth to call out to the hag, but was interrupted before she could even speak.

“You’ll get no answers from me, you tone-deaf, corpse-fucker,” Ethel crowed. Her countenance darkened with anger, then she began to rant, “you come into my home, kill my servants and playthings, then demand answers? I’ll fit you all for masks to replace what you’ve taken. And maybe you can get some new scars to add to that yochlol-hyde you call skin.”

Shay was enraged at the hags insults to them all. The words were deeply personal, she assumed the same was true for Wyll and Shadowheart. Whatever Wyll’s issue was, a problem with parents wasn’t a real concern. The revelation of Shadowheart’s faith, however, would have to be dealt with quickly. There was no trust to be found in one who followed the Lady of Loss. But before the cleric could be dealt with, they had a larger problem before them.

“Yeah,” Shay answered Pek as she hefted her bow and drew an acid arrow, “yeah, we can kill her."

Wyll charged forward, his good eye focused on Mayrina in her cage. His determination to save the woman and her unborn babe was unshaken by Ethel’s digs at him and Mayrina’s own continued refusal to be saved. As Wyll charged, Ethel’s horrid hag form began to glow a sickly green. When it seemed to reach a zenith, the light split to soar as twin beams through the chamber. The beams reformed into visions of Ethel. Three Hags snarled and postured, each insulting them in turn, each impossible to tell apart.

“Little human , trying so hard to be special.” One spat at Wyll.

Astarion drew his short sword and dagger, his vermillion eyes drawing a path that would take him to the closest hag and avoid the boot-sucking mud that puddled on the ground. At his first step, a Hag turned to him.

“Had to ask permission. Deep down, you like being leashed, don’t you boy?” Ethel smiled at Astarion, a grotesque display of yellowed, needle-sharp teeth. Astarion didn’t take another step, brought up short by Ethel’s barb.

Shay shot at the hag, her acid arrow pierced the creature’s eye and… passed right through her. It clattered uselessly into the hole under Mayrina’s cage. Ethel’s giggle hung in the air as the illusion dissolved.

Shadowheart and Pek charged together, barreling around the path towards another Ethel. A ball of fire launched from the hag’s clawed hand. The flame ball flew through the air towards Pek, but passed harmlessly over the sow when she gave up on her charge to drop to her belly. Flames charred bristling fur off her back, sending Pek’s squeals of pain and the stench of burning hair into the air. The flames exploded on Mayrina’s cage, lighting the wooden construct on fire.

“Save me!!” Mayrina screamed at Wyll, suddenly interested in a rescue. Wyll immediately began searching in his pack for something to help. None of them could summon water to douse the flames that threatened the woman's life.

Shadowheart completed her charge, swinging her mace at Ethel. The heavy iron ball of the mace smashed into the hag’s arm with a crunch of bone. The Hag’s warty arm showed no signs of injury beyond, perhaps, a darker green bruise on her toad-green skin. Ethel’s piercing blue eyes narrowed at Shadowheart.

“Bloody clever clogs,” she growled, summoning more dark fae magic with wide gestures of her large, clawed hands. 

Shay took advantage of Ethel making herself such a bright target in the dim gave. She loosed another acid arrow, knowing this time she wasn’t shooting at an illusion. The arrow pierced Ethel just under her clavicle. The glass vial it carried shattered, dripping yellow-green acid down the hags chest. Small bones and polished stone clattered to the ground as the acid chewed through Ethel’s amulets and necklaces, before burning into her skin.

“Melting flesh and charred hair,” the uninjured Ethel called out to Astarion, “must smell like her bedchamber. You must be so hard right now, little whore.”

This time, the insult had no effect. No visible effect, anyway. Astarion threw his dagger with every ounce of strength a well-fed vampire-spawn had. The blade sank deeply into Ethel’s thigh, puncturing the ragged cloth and deer hyde she wore, then skin and muscle beneath. Blood, shockingly a normal red colour, seeped down her leg.

Shay felt Ethel’s insults crawl into her mind and settle in somewhere beside the tadpole. A barrel of smokepowder that would explode later. She had no time to be insulted, not when lives were at stake. She could cry about the truth of the Hag’s words later. Take them out and flog herself with them when there was time for self recrimination.

“See how you like this,” Ethel muttered. The weapons that had pierced her body clattered to the ground as her body reformed into light, darting through the dark space of the underground chamber. The second Ethel-form vanished entirely. Instead, farther down the path, two Mayrina’s cowered. One much farther down the path than the other. Both Mayrina’s cowered on the ground, arms wrapped over their heads protectively. Both begged in scream-rasped voices for their lives. Shay’s eyes darted over to the cage, seeing it was now empty and dripping water. Wyll’s waterskin lay empty on the ground at his feet as he contemplated the two women, wondering which was the real Mayrina.

Pek got to her feet. She began moving down the path towards the women. Shadowheart followed.

“Which is it?” Astarion muttered under his breath as he and Shay moved closer. He scooped his dagger from the ground as they passed.

“Surely Ethel is guarding Mayrina,” Shay thought out loud. “Not hiding behind her. That makes no sense.”

“We can’t trust anything,” Wyll called to them as they approached him on the path.

“One-eye is wrong.” Pek stated firmly.

“Is he?” Astarion perked up a little at the prospect of being able to tweak Wyll’s nose.

“We can trust me.” Pek stated firmly. Then she was charging again. She quickly gained momentum, thundering down the path like an avalanche. Pek passed the first Mayrina, who squeaked and threw herself to the side to cower in a ball on the muddle ground. Pek slammed, tusk-first, into the gut of the second Mayrina. The woman flew into the air, the illusion around her body shattering as she did so. Ethel landed hard on her back before a twisted wooden door set poorly into the damp stone wall behind her. She quickly spun to get to her feet, her large hand backhanding Pek with alarming strength as she did so.

“PEK!” Shay screamed as her friend arced through the air just as Ethel had done moments before. Pek landed with a sickening crunch and lay still, a bone jutting white and sharp from her hind leg. Shay took off running to her friend. She dodged a hand – Wyll? Astarion? What did it matter? – trying to hold her back and raced down the path. Ethel could kill her too for all she cared.

“Shay, wait!” Shadowheart called, to no avail.

Shay ran past the useless Mayrina, and stood over Pek’s still form. She drew an arrow, not bothering to check what sort she had grabbed and shot at Ethel. The arrow landed in the Hag’s gut, lightning arcing from it to dance silver streaks around the dark fae, setting muscles alight with agony. Ethel shrieked, then her form dissolved into light again. Three Ethels took shape within the space, one before Shay, one behind her companions and another near the dark entrance they had come through just moments before. This time, the shape of each hag was blurred, hard to focus on. Shay squinted, shutting her bad eye to try to force Ethel into something clearer she could aim for.

Liquid streams of fire shot through the air, one for each Ethel in the chamber. Two Ethels dissolved into nothing when the flames touched them. The third, the one behind Wyll, Shadowheart and Astarion, grunted in pain when the fire scorched her skin. Shadowheart called to Shar but whatever dark magic the cleric was trying to cast failed to land on the hag. Instead, Ethel swung her heavy clawed hand at Astarion. The blow connected hard, sending Astarion sprawling towards Pek and Shay. He stumbled to the ground, tried to rise, then fell in an unconscious heap. He didn’t even twitch.

Shay held back a cry of denial, certain that Ethel wasn’t above grinding Astarion or Pek into pulp just to hurt those who still stood. If the hag knew how Shay felt about those who had fallen in combat, she would certainly focus her efforts on them. For now, as far as she could tell, they lived. They wouldn’t if Ethel got another blow in. Instead, Shay put a fire arrow in Ethel’s eye, feeling grim satisfaction when the hag’s face bubbled and burned. Black, crispy flesh melted from her face, falling to the muddy ground with a plop and a hiss. The scent of charred meat in the air smelled like revenge.

Shadowheart readied her mace again. Wyll’s fingers twitched and the black-green dart of an Eldritch blast seared into Ethel’s already ragged flesh.

“Wait!” Ethel held up her hands, open and empty in a sign of peace. For a moment, everything was quiet in the chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the companions and Mayrina’s quiet sobs.

“Wait? For what?” Shay called, relying on her scant bardic training to speak in a loud, sonorous tone that filled the space and covered the whimpers of pain coming from Pek. She carefully drew another arrow – acid again – and made a show of nocking it to her bow. Shay stepped forward, using the motion to draw Ethel’s remaining eye. If the hag realised Pek and Astarion were truly out of the fight, she would keep going. The dark fae would probably end them all. Survival, in this moment, depended on trickery.

Shadowheart glanced back at Shay and understood the need of the moment as, perhaps, only a Sharran cleric could. She hefted her shield, using its bulk to block the sight of Astarion and Pek as best she could. The cleric began chanting loudly, praising her dark goddess for a victory they had yet to assure. 

“Wait just a tick,” Ethel spoke quickly, “killing me is a waste of time. I’ll find a way to return. Always have, always will.”

“Pretty sure it’ll make me happy,” Shay drawled. Meanwhile, her mind raced. What was Ethel stalling for? In her peripheral vision, she saw Astarion getting to his knees. The soft pop of a cork could barely be heard. A healing potion, Shay hoped.

“Probably, petal.” Ethel’s one good eye gleamed, she could appreciate Shay’s stance. “But, for me, it’s… unpleasant. So how about we be civilised about this, hmmm? I have something you want.”

“I’m an expert on deals,” Wyll spoke quietly at Shadowheart’s side. “No funny business.”

“You wound me, sweetie,” Ethel winked grotesquely. “My offer will put your little pact to shame.” Let me leave here with the girl, and I’ll give you power.”

“No deal.” Wyll said immediately.

“Oh, gods,” Mayrina wailed, “What about my deal?!”

“He doesn’t speak for me.” Shay said loudly, over top of Mayrina’s whinging.

Ethel turned her melted face to regard Shay. She tapped a clawed finger to her thin, black lips. “Well, sweetness, what would you like? You want to be stronger? Tougher? Smarter? Done! Anything is possible. Just let me keep the girl and her babe.”

“I don’t–”

“Let’s heal you up a bit, luv, hmm?” Ethel offered, gesturing to her own wounds. “Clear up that skin.”

The possibility froze Shay for a moment. What would life be like, to not feel so hideous? Astarion was helping Pek get to her feet. The reprieve had allowed them to heal. That was worth it without whatever deal Ethel was trying to strike.

“Fine.” Shay said. Mayrina wanted her deal anyway and without this agreement, it would be next to impossible to get out of Ethel’s little sanctum alive.

“A wise choice,” Ethel whispered. She ripped a hunk of her own scalp off with her claws and threw the hunk of flesh, hair and fungus to the ground at Shay’s feet. “Here.”

“Is my deal still on?” Mayrina whimpered. Ethel rounded on her with a wicked grin.

“Deal’s on, girl.” The hag stomped over to Mayrina, hauling the girl to her feet then pausing to caress the swell of her stomach. “And you’re not leaving my side ‘til you deliver.”

“Best of luck, auntie.” Shay waved to the hag, inwardly praying that the creature would leave quickly.

“Bollocks to luck.” Ethel spat.

She vanished in a flash of light with Mayrina.

“How could you?!” Wyll cried. Shay ignored him to scoop the hunk of Ethel off the ground. She wrapped it in a rag and stuffed it into her bag.

“Mayrina made her deal, Wyll.” Shadowheart shrugged. “We shouldn’t have come down here anyway. We’re no closer to any answers.”

Shay ignored them all to beseech Mielikki for healing. Pek needed more than one potion to set her to rights.

“Hurts,” She grunted to Shay.

“I know, Peki, we’ll fix it,” Shay whispered.

“Shay–” Wyll pushed past Shadowheart.

“No, Wyll.” Shay cut him off without even looking at him. “It’s done and I’m done. We’re healing and getting out of here.”

Shay focused on what mattered; healing her family. And surviving.

*****

Later that evening, while they set up camp in a narrow box canyon near the swamp, safe from hags, goblins and owlbears, Wyll was still grumbling about their not saving Mayrina from Ethel. Shay was firmly facing down the fact that Wyll wasn’t the ranger she had thought him to be. There was no way to avoid it any longer. He summoned too much magic, he alluded to too many dark things – like a pact. What pact? – for her to believe the reputation the Blade of Frontiers enjoyed as a heroic ranger was anything but a lie.

Wyll grumbled and Shay held her tongue. She wanted to yell at the man, wanted to have it all out but they all needed each other for survival. Would confronting Wyll about his lies help anyone? She didn’t think so. Hells, he had never outright claimed to be a ranger. It was still a lie, his reputation was well known and he hadn’t corrected it, but what did she know of heroic fame? Perhaps it was out of his hands.

Thinking of the situation with Wyll twisted her mind into knots. Though the knots weren’t nearly as tangled as when she thought about Astarion. That was an entirely new level of tangled complication. He was acting strange as well. Ever since Shay had healed Pek, then immediately turned her energy to healing him, he had been jumping at shadows. Or perhaps it had started before, when Ethel had thrown the rat at his feet… or earlier still when Pek had called him ‘piglet-daddy’–

Oh, gods, she had forgotten Pek had said that. Embarrassment flooded Shay, heating her face. She tried not to wonder if he worried she was going to take him up on his earlier offer of finding time alone. After the day they had, after what Pek had said – Shay was quite certain Astarion would think twice before asking for so much as a drop of blood from her. She ignored the twinge of sadness she felt at the thought.

As Shay moved through the motions helping set up camp – where had Astarion gone, could he not set up his own tent?! – and began preparing the fire for the evening meal, she toyed with the idea of running away from men in general. She and Pek could grab Shadowheart and… oh, wait. There was a revelation there as well.

Shadowheart was a cleric of Shar.

Shay didn’t know much about the Lady of Loss, but her absence from public worship in Baldur’s Gate or any village along the Sword Coast, was all she really needed to know. Shar was one of the darker gods of Faerûn and those who worshipped her could not be trusted. Hells, could Shadowheart even be in league with the illithids? She had been in a very different pod, a different chamber entirely, than Shay herself had been. Perhaps she–

“Copper for your thoughts?” Shadowheart’s soft voice cut into Shay’s swirling panic.

The campfire was roaring and hot. Shay couldn’t distract herself with its preparation any farther. She grabbed the bag of holding that held their food supply in stasis.

“I was just going to start–”

“Not yet, surely,” Shadowheart smiled, open and friendly. She lifted her own bag, explaining “I was thinking a wash-up, first. We’ll feel better once the swamp-stink is gone. Join me?”

“I– um–”

“Bring Pek if you don’t feel safe,” Shadowheart offered, a thread of bitterness in her voice, something hardening in her face.

“She’s gone to forage. I think Astarion went with her.” Shay explained, feeling stupid for being caught out. “I’ll… I’ll join you. It’s just–”

“Today has been a lot,” the friendly smile returned to Shadowheart’s face. It felt practised, an expression one made because one needed to, not because of any emotion behind it.

The sound of Wyll’s grumbles, ever-present that evening, crescendoed from his tent. Shay and Shadowheart both rolled their eyes, then paused when they realised they mirrored each other. A genuine smile graced Shadowheart’s face; Shay laughed.

“Yeah,” she sighed through a rueful grin, “yeah, today has been a lot. You’re right, let’s go wash up before I throw a tomato at Wyll’s head.”

“Or a turnip,” Shadowheart muttered. Together, they gathered buckets, soap and towels, then made their way out of camp, heading towards a clear, freshwater brook.

“Maybe a pumpkin?” Shay suggested. 

“Yes. That. Let’s throw a pumpkin at his head,” Shadowheart snickered. “Heroes can be so annoying.”

“I suppose they show up all the time, knocking on the door of your dark lair, trying to save maidens from… from…” imagination failed Shay. What could Shadowheart possibly do to worship Shar? “From the darkness or whatever it is you do.”

“Really?” Shadowheart raised a dark eyebrow, “that’s what you think I get up to?”

“I don’t know!” Shay sputtered, “I’ve never met a Sharran before.”

“You have,” Shadowheart assured her, “you just didn’t know it. There are more of us than you’d think, though we keep our secrets. Wish I could have kept this one.”

“Sorry about that,” Shay muttered, feeling responsible for having dragged them all into Ethel’s layer with nothing to show for it but spilled secrets, angry words and a grotesque hunk of hag scalp. She began tugging her clothes off, preparing to clean up in the stream.

“No, it’s alright,” Shadowheart said with a resigned sigh. “We’re travelling together and infected with a parasite that occasionally connects our minds. It was really just a matter of time.”

“Are we?”

“Are we what?”

“Are we travelling together?” Shay asked. Was their little band of infected going to dissolve over secrets and arguments? Perhaps they’d come together again as illithids when their transformations took them. No longer themselves, they might finally be capable of teamwork.

“I think so,” Shadowheart’s voice was muffled as she pulled her shirt over her head. “You don’t seem to have a problem with these revelations. And we need each other.”

“I suppose, I am. I have to be,” Shay stepped into the shallow brook, the chill waters refreshing on her legs. She bent to fill a bucket. “As long as we work towards common goals and you don’t… um… “

“Sacrifice you to the darkness? ” Shadowheart finished for her, her lips quirking into a small grin. She too, stepped into the stream and began to wash with bucket and soap.

“Yeah, that.”

“I think you’re safe. You’re obviously earmarked for a different sort of sacrifice.”

“What?”

Shadowheart burst into delighted laughter. She tried, and failed, to overcome it a few times before managing to explain, “a rather attractive creature of the night has you in his sights. Surely you’re sacrificing something to keep all that attention on yourself… Perhaps in the bedroom…?”

“Ohgodsnotyoutoo,” she was going to blush to death. Could one die of blushing? If it had never happened before, Shay Lintu would be the first any day now.

“Me too? Who else– Pek.” Shadowheart answered her own question. “Oh, has Pek been teasing you?”

“You have no idea.” Shay punctuated the statement by upending a bucket of water over her head. She began to attack her ragged braids with nimble, soapy fingers. Washing product and swamp filth out of each twist and coil as she unbraided her hair. She felt more and more human with each sluice of water over her body.

“It must be nice to have a friend beside you,” Shadowheart observed as she began to unravel her own braid.

“We’re lucky. Unlucky? Something. I am glad she’s here.” Shay agreed. Her family was tiny, just her and Pek with room for a friend – Astarion? No, that’s insane. – but the notion of fighting the illithid infection alone brought a chill to Shay’s soul. It must be so much harder for Wyll, Shadowheart and Astarion. They were alone. “You must have friends you miss.”

“I… must.” Shadowheart frowned into the distance, staring at nothing. She set her jaw in a determined jut. “I’m sure I do.”

“You’re sure you do?” Shay repeated. The cleric didn’t sound certain. How could you not be sure of your friends and family?

“I… I can’t remember–”

“The tadpole took your memory!?” Shay gasped.

Shadowheart opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She paused, frowning and rethinking her words. She almost tried again, but clearly thought differently before she could begin. They finished washing while she wrestled with herself, tiny expressions of frustration and anger flickering across her pale face. Shay gave her all the space in the world, horrified at the idea that the tadpole in her brain could have taken something as precious as memories. Without remembering the events and people who created her, she wouldn’t be herself. Poor Shadowheart was living a nightmare.

Shadowheart finally explained, as they were walking back to camp, finally scrubbed clean of swamp filth, if not the filth of Ethel’s words on their psyches.

“I sacrificed my memories to Shar,” the words rushed from her in a tumble. Shay stopped in her tracks, shocked. Shadowheart kept walking, her eyes on the path ahead. “If I have friends, I don’t remember them.” 

“Wow. Why would–”

“It’s a sacred obligation and I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Alright,” Shay held up her hands in a sign of peace. “I understand. Well, I don’t, but I won’t bug you about it. Would you… would you like to be friends with me? At least while we’re out here?”

“I’d rather be friends with Pek,” Shadowheart replied in an arch tone through a mischievous smirk. “She seems much more interesting.”

“And fuck you, too.”

Shadowheart burst into laughter. She threw a companionable arm around Shay’s shoulders. “Glad to have a friend out here. Thank you for not asking questions about–”

“What are friends for?”

“If I could remember, I would know.”

This time, the laughter came from them both.

*****

When they returned to camp, Wyll was lounging in the entrance to his tent with a goblet and a mostly-empty bottle of wine. He frowned at Shay but didn’t say anything, seemingly content to drink his problems away. Shadowheart bustled to her tent to deposit her things and grab another bottle of wine. Soon she had joined Wyll, the two drinking and murmuring about who-knows-what.

Shay, on cooking duty, planned to go to the campfire after dropping her own things off at her tent. She passed Astarion’s tent on the way; flaps tightly closed now. If he had returned from hunting, he was obviously not in a friendly mood. The realisation was punctuated by a soft laugh from Wyll; he and Shadowheart were having a lovely time over their shared bottle. Shay tried not to feel left out and alone. She shook the thoughts from her dripping head, trying to replace loneliness with meal plans. As she walked to the fire and the bag that held their supplies, she thought of what she knew they had and what meal she could prepare from the mish-mash of ingredients they picked up wherever they could.

Someone had set up a cooking station. Their heavy oak cutting board laid out on a flat rock with a few sharp cooking knives waiting to be used. Three black balls, each roughly the size of a small orange – or hedgehog – sat on the rock beside the cutting board in little piles of dirt. More earth clung to their pebbled surfaces.

Shay froze. She rubbed her bad eye and looked again. The black balls hadn’t moved. They were there, solid and real.

Truffles.

The meal plan changed immediately. She set to work, nearly vibrating with excitement, cleaning the fungus off and chopping them into thin slices. The truffles went into a pot over the fire with root vegetables and cubes of beef. A warm, earthy smell arose from the pot almost immediately. Shay was tempted to watch the pot while it cooked, just breathing in the heady, musky aroma of the truffles.

But that would be rude. She owed someone thanks.

“Astarion?” Shay called out, shuffling her weight from foot to foot with a nervous excitement. The scent of truffles was still in her nose. Her mouth watered.

“Hm?” The reply confirmed that he was in his tent. Then Shay was in there too. Wrapping thankful arms around Astarion, hugging him and murmuring endless gratitudes. The space smelled of him, making her mouth water in a different way. Gratitude, truffles and Astarion coiled in her mind, setting her senses ablaze. 

She noticed he was stiff in her arms the second she placed a joyously grateful kiss on his lips.

Shay froze like a rabbit, horrified with herself. Barging into his tent, manhandling him, what was she thinking? She stared, shocked with herself, into his wine-red eyes. His arms were rigid at his sides, her arms were still twined around his shoulders. Their lips were still touching. Oh gods. What had she done?

“Sorry,” she whispered into his lips. She tried to throw herself backwards, needing to scramble from his tent and return to the stew pot. She could pretend it had never happened and, perhaps if she was lucky, he would do the same. Shay pushed against Astarion’s shoulders.

She didn’t move. 

She couldn’t move. 

Arms had wrapped themselves around her, a firm body melted against hers, drawing her down into a plush bedroll stacked with far too many pillows. 

“You surprised me,” Astarion murmured against her lips between kisses. “What’s this for?”

“Did you not find the truffles?” Shay asked, confused.

“What if I didn’t?”

“I suppose I need to go give these kisses to Wyll–” Shay’s words cut off when Astarion growled. He quickly rolled over her to pin her to his bedroll on the tent floor.

“You will do no such thing,” his soft voice was hypnotic, kisses pressed down her jaw to her neck punctuated each word. “I found you first; you’re mine.”

She thrilled a little to hear that, thrilled more at the feel of him on top of her. When they were alone in a tent together, it was so hard to be embarrassed, or think about the strange ways their lives were tangled. When they were alone, he crawled into her veins and ran rampant through her body. He messed with her mind more than any tadpole could. Confident in the confines of the tent, Shay wrapped her legs around his hips. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“It does for this,” Astarion stated firmly. “And I did find the truffles.”

Shay’s stomach rumbled. Loudly.

“Which I should probably deal with,” Shay winced, embarrassed at herself. She brought her legs back to the bedroll. “I’m on cooking duty tonight.”

“Fine,” Astarion nipped at her neck before rolling off her and helping her up. “You will come to my tent tonight though, right?”

“Yes,” Shay breathed, “yes, I think I might.”

“It’s a date, darling,” he purred.

Chapter Text

The scent of the stew Shay had made lingered around the fire. Warm and earthy. Comforting in the way only the promise of a full belly could be. If she didn’t have a spoonful of it in her mouth, she was certain drool would be pouring from her mouth. It had been so long since she had tasted anything made of quality ingredients, ages since she had found a truffle. She was, quite possibly, in heaven.

“This is delicious,” Shadowheart moaned over her bowl, “you should cook every night.”

Wyll nodded enthusiastically, too busy stuffing his mouth with stew to add any words.

“No,” Shay shook her head, “it’s not my cooking skills it’s–”

“I smell truffles,” Pek announced in a scandalised tone when she returned to camp just after sunset. She stomped up to Shay, her snout almost in the bowl Shay was eating from. Her pustulent green eye seemed to glow in the dim firelight, its glare was intimidating and very demanding. “Share.”

Shay paused, a spoonful of stew almost to her mouth. Before she could say anything, or offer Pek the remains of the meal, Astarion roused from her side where he had glued himself for the evening. He reached into the bag of holding that kept their food in stasis and brought forth a particularly large truffle.

“I wouldn’t forget you, Pek.” he drawled, holding the truffle flat in his palm so Pek could eat.

“Damn right you wouldn’t,” she sniffed, before devouring the fungus, “if you upset me, I won’t let you mate with Shay.”

Shay choked on a mouthful of stew. She waited a moment for Astarion to reply to Pek, but he didn’t. The potion he had found earlier must have run its course.

Thank Mielikki.

“So,” Wyll said, running a finger through his bowl to get the last of the gravy, “today was full of revelations, but little success. That hunk of whatever Ethel gave Shay won’t heal our worms. What’s next?”

“Halsin and the goblin horde, I suppose,” Shadowheart said with a tone of heavy resignation. She stood to dish herself more stew from the cauldron near the fire.

“I’m sure saving people isn’t what you’d like to do with your day, Sharran.” Wyll’s voice held a smile. They had clearly discussed Shadowheart’s faith and he was accepting of it.

“Watch it, Warlock, or I’ll find who holds your strings,” Shadowheart returned fire with a smile, “I wonder how you’ll do in a fight without a devil on your shoulder?”

Warlock?

Shay’s bowl slipped from numb fingers, stew spilling to the ground for Pek to eat.

It all made sense. Wyll’s powers, his hiding behind the reputation of a ranger. Who would believe in a hero powered by a pact with the hells? The Blade of Frontiers was a lie. The worst of lies, he was devil-sent trickery. Like Raphael, but worse. At least that devil had been honest about himself.

Wait.

Who had Wyll pacted himself to? Who ‘held his strings’ as Shadowheart put it? Was it Raphael? Was Wyll even infected or had he been sent by his master for reasons Shay couldn’t possibly understand? As Wyll and Shadowheart fell to gentle teasing, Shay glared at Wyll’s back, gritting her teeth to keep her rage contained. The famed Blade of Frontiers, a great ranger, the much lauded hero of the sword coast: a demon-spawn liar. They couldn’t be safe with Raphael’s little spy around. Her dagger was out and she strode quietly towards Wyll’s back.

Before she made it a metre, Astarion had hooked his arm into hers, spinning her around then grabbing her wrist. He didn’t force her to disarm, but held her gently. “Don’t kill him; we need him.”

“We don’t need liars.” Shay spat, “he’s a warlock! He’ll betray us all if his master so much as crooks a clawed finger!”

“I lied,” Astarion admitted quietly, his eyes burning into hers, “you didn’t kill me.”

“It’s different.” Shay argued quietly. It was different, surely he saw that. “You had no choice. You didn’t sell your soul, you’re just trying to survive through a wretched situation. And I did try to kill you.”

“What’s all this?” Wyll’s voice cut through Shay’s urgent whispers, “what’s wrong?”

“The Blade of Frontiers,” Shay began, refusing to turn and face Wyll. She stared hard into the darkness over Astarion’s shoulder, grating out her words through anger-clenched teeth, “is a famed ranger. I’m sure you know your own reputation. A ranger. One of Mielikki’s children, guarding field and forest from monsters. A hero. A hero I looked up to.”

“Oh… um–”

Shay turned then, slowly, to see Wyll standing beside the fire, abashedly staring at his feet. Astarion released her wrist and she was glad for that. She whipped her arm quickly, throwing her dagger. It thunked into the earth at the liar’s feet. Wyll startled, jumping back far too late – she hadn’t aimed for him anyway – and brought his mismatched gaze to her.

“Shay–” Shadowheart sounded hesitant.

“Did Raphael send you?” Shay asked Wyll, “have you been spying on us this whole time?”

Pek was at Shay’s side, leaning her comforting bulk into her leg. A cool arm wrapped around her shoulder, offering safety and comfort. She accepted the embrace, it was the only thing keeping her from stalking off into the woods and never coming back.

“Raphael?” Wyll asked with a befuddled frown, “who?”

“A devil we met quite recently,” Shay answered. She didn’t believe Wyll’s show of ignorance. Liar. Liar liar liar. “Has an interest in tadpole infections. We told him no, of course, because it’s smart to tell a devil ‘no’. And then here you were, a renowned hero, someone I would trust.”

“No, I’m pacted to M–... to M–...” Wyll struggled, something stopping the words in his throat. He rethought his words, attacking the answer from a different angle, “I’m not pacted to a devil named Raphael. I can’t tell you who holds my pact, her rules hold me tighter than the prison at Wyrm’s Rock, but I can tell you it’s not him.”

“He is who he says, Shay,” Shadowheart tried to speak in a calm voice, “he is that annoying hero. Just not a ranger. I didn’t know you thought him one of you.”

The rush of anger was draining from her. She wanted it to come back. Behind the rage, tears waited. She didn’t want Wyll to see her cry over his lies. He didn’t deserve to see friends when they were vulnerable. He was no friend. But the tears could not be stopped. They welled in her eyes, setting the evening camp scene dancing behind a wall of water. She turned, burying her face in Astarion’s shoulder, letting her disappointment spill from her eyes to be absorbed by his shirt. At first, Astarion was rigid, surprised by her actions, perhaps unaccustomed to the increasing amount of hugs he was receiving. He relaxed quickly, gamely stroking her back a few times. At least she thought that’s what he did; hard to feel things through the thick ropes of burn scars on her back.

“I may not have training like you,” Wyll began, his voice soft and low, a note of urgency threading through it, “but I promise you, every thrust of my blade and every flame I sparked was for the good of the Coast. I’m not a ranger and I’m sorry for hiding behind that lie, but I am the ‘heroic’ Blade of Frontiers and I did earn that reputation.”

Betrayal and shame roiled through Shay. She couldn’t answer Wyll, the ranger-who-wasn’t. Instead she cried into the arms of her mother’s killer while a worm swam through her brain. The absurdity of it all nearly set her to laughing.

“Shay?” Wyll sounded closer, “I’m sure we can work through this. We need each other.”

Shay pushed herself off Astarion, spinning to slap Wyll across the face. The sound rang out in the camp.

“Not right now we don’t,” she growled, before storming off into the dark forest, dashing tears from her face with each step. Wyll was right, they needed each other, but she didn’t want him to be right, she wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted him to be a heroic ranger. She wanted to go home.

“You deserved that,” Shay heard Astarion say as she slipped into the trees.

“She’ll calm down,” Shadowheart assured Wyll, “we’ll get on the road and get ourselves healed. It’ll be ok.”

Shay threw herself down at the base of a large oak, curling against a knotted root twice as thick as her torso. Nothing dared grow under its towering boughs, a little space just for her and her tears.

“I should find her,” Wyll’s voice floated through the darkness.

He could fucking try. If Shay put her mind to it, not even Pek could track her.

“Leave her be,” Astarion instructed Wyll, a note in his voice promising violence if Wyll didn’t listen, “I think she was quite clear she doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Maybe she just can’t think through all the blood loss,” Wyll’s voice rose angrily.

Grunts and growls wound through the night. A sudden, angry clack echoed sharply.

“I think Pek agrees with me,” Shay could hear the smirk in Astarion’s voice. “Leave her alone.”

Voices dipped to murmurs, fading to nothing like the last of the sunlight. Soon, Shay was cloaked in blessed silence. Darkness too complete to see through.

And, in her mind, a broken pedestal upon which a hero used to sit.

*****

The faces you trusted,
Just never came back,
Yes childhood has eroded away.
And the songs that your mother sang,
As she rocked you to sleep,
You howl out of tune when you're drunk.

Shay sang to herself quietly, her voice cracked and raspy from tears and poor posture. She still sat at the base of the oak, curled into a small ball with her head resting on her knees. Her arms wrapped around her legs, hugging herself in the only hug she had felt in the last five years. At least, the only hug until quite recently. She hugged Pek, of course, and the pig returned the affection exuberantly. But sows didn’t have arms and wanting a comforting embrace now and then was part of being human.

She sat, alone in the dark, stewing in anger and betrayal, feeling like the biggest fool on Toril. Shadowheart had understood Wyll was a warlock. Astarion showed no surprise at the news. Shay was the only idiot who had believed in the tales of the Blade of Frontiers. She had dismissed so much, certain that she just wasn’t understanding the situation correctly; the Blade was a hero, after all.

No, Shay Lintu was just a fool.

We sing, "everything, everything, everything,
Is now permitted.
All the oaths we've taken,
Have been graciously forgotten,
And every sin, every sin,
Is now forgiven."
And every sip somehow tastes rotten.

As she sang, the night played its own song around her. The chirp of bugs, the rustle of leaves in the underbrush as some animal went about its nighttime errands, the soft touch of a breeze. It all wound around her, an accompaniment to her own song of loss and sorrow. Her stage was the bare land under the oak, what light filtered down through branches and leaves was given sparkling stars and bright moonlight. She could still hardly see her hand in front of her face. Another part of being human. She’d have to hope that nothing that hunted the night would find her; a predator would be on top of her before she knew any better.

“There you are, darling,” Astarion’s soft drawl floated through the night.

Speaking of predators.

Soon the man himself stalked slowly and silently into the clearing under the oak. Moonlight caught in his pale curls and danced along his pale skin. He seemed like an angel, carved from starlight and shadow. Too beautiful to be contained by the heavens, much too beautiful to be spending time with her.

“I’ve been waiting,” he continued, allowing the words to settle heavily into her mind, pressed in by the weight of silence.

“I said I would come to your tent, I’m sorry,” Shay winced, “you must be hungry.”

“Starving,” Astarion purred, sitting very close beside her. “But I’m glad you didn’t come. Wyll was waiting for you. Wanting to apologise, or beg forgiveness or something equally boring. He can do that in the morning. Tonight… tonight, you’re mine.”

Nerves shot through her. This all seemed so much easier in the dark of a tent, when his fangs were in her throat and her body responded gleefully to his slightest touch. “What… what did you want to do with me?”

“I think you want to be known,” he murmured, drawing a cool finger down her cheek to dance along the marks in her throat, “to be tasted.”

“And what do you want?” Blood. He wanted blood. Probably a fuck, something dissappointing – how could it be otherwise? – and quick on the dry leaves carpeting the ground. He really liked to play with his food, Shay thought.

“What do any of us want?” Astarion’s soft voice continued, the hand at her throat became hands at the ties to her shirt. “Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our… collective ecstasy.”

Her shirt was unlaced, the night air pebbling her flesh. He fiddled with the hem at her waist.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asked gently, “to lose yourself in me?”

“Don’t want to lose myself,” Shay answered, stealing herself with a sharp press of her own teeth into her bottom lip, then pulling her shirt fully off. She felt exposed and terrified, certain he would turn in disgust just at the sight of the scars on her upper arms and shoulders. “I want to be present with you. I want to give… well, I want to learn how to give.”

Astarion’s hands were immediately on the bandeau she wore to contain her chest, tugging at the knotted fabric. It quickly followed her shirt to the ground. She had no time to be self conscious, to scan his face for the slightest hint of disgust at her body. He was on her, a predator indeed, but a welcome one. Soft lips pressed to her own, coaxing her to join him in a dance of pleasure. As their kisses quickly grew urgent, hands at her waist encouraged her to move. She went willingly, not knowing where he wanted her to go or why, but happy to follow along. In short order, she was straddling his lap, pressing her core into a growing hardness and regretting she hadn’t taken off her leggings.

He broke from their kiss, trailing his lips down her face to her neck. When he got to his barely-healed marks, Shay braced herself for a bite but nothing happened. A teasing scrape of fang and a knowing chuckle but nothing more. His lips continued their journey, heading towards her breasts. Shay gave an experimental roll of her hips, pressing herself into him. She was rewarded with a gasp and a growl. His hands moved, one to her chest where his lips had wanted to go, to caress the soft skin he found there and teasingly tug at a nipple. The other grabbed her thigh in a tight grip, encouraging her to roll her hips again.

She followed his direction.

And again.

Soon a rhythm had been established, beats of a song freshly learned and enthusiastically played. With every roll of her hips, he felt harder beneath her. She felt hotter, winding tightly, a lit fuse burning down to explosion. Shay leaned forward to kiss him again, her nipples scraping against the cotton of his shirt. She frowned. He was fully dressed. This wouldn’t do. 

“Please?” Shay whispered into Astarion’s lips as she tugged at his shirt, “off?”

“You too,” his hand tugged at the waistband of her leggings.

“But I’d have to get off,” she protested, rolling her hips again.

“You will,” he smirked, “I promise.”

“You first,” Shay argued, scrambling off him to shimmy out of her leggings.

“Me?” Astarion’s voice was muffled by his shirt as he dragged it over his head. Once the hirt was discarded, he stood to fumble at the ties of his pants.

“You. I want to make you feel good.” Shay looked up at Astarion in the dim moonlight, looming over her in marble-sculpted beauty. For a moment, he looked confused, almost lost, before seductive confidence seemed to pour over him like honey.

“How would you like to do that?” His voice was a low whisper that promised so much in every word. He sounded well-rehearsed and she had barely heard the tune. It wasn’t fair. If she asked for help, for ideas or direction, he would take over as he had the night before. She would be lost to his ministrations and not get to play herself.

“I’ll figure it out,” Shay sat up on her knees, reaching out to push his hands away from the ties to his pants. She hated the angle, hated that he could gaze down at the grotesque scars of her back. But then she was gently drawing his length from his pants, giving the fascinating silk-on-steel feel of it an experimental pump with her hand. He hissed, his entire body convulsing in one large twitch. Shay froze; had she done something wrong?

“Don’t stop,” he protested the second she froze. 

Shay obeyed immediately, resuming the gentle strokes of her hand. He groaned in relief. She looked up into his night-shaded eyes, pleased to see his pupils blown wide. There was something vulnerable in his face, something unrehearsed. His fists clenched and unclenched; he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. The evidence of Astarion’s defenselessness made Shay feel much more comfortable. They were even, now.

The memory of words he whispered to her the night before; of wanting to taste, sparked an idea in her mind. She leaned forward slowly, giving him the chance to stop her if he wished, and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of him.

His knees nearly buckled.

Shay had never felt more powerful.

“I… you don’t… don’t have to…” Astarion stuttered. He didn’t stop her from leaning forward to kiss him again. This time, she added a small lick. The moment her tongue touched him, he gave another full-body jerk.

“Maybe lay down?” Shay proposed; he was going to fall on her if this kept up.

“... yes?” he agreed, sounding hesitant, before nodding sharply and repeating in a more confident voice. “Yes.” 

Quickly, they re-positioned themselves. Astarion made himself comfortable in a nest of their closing. Shay straddled his legs, returning her focus to what she assumed was a very impressive cock. She had no idea how she was going to fit this in her mouth, much less in her–

“You really don’t have to,” Astarion’s confidence seemed to grow the longer she wasn’t touching him. He pushed himself up on an elbow, reaching out to her with his other hand. “Let me–”

Shay shook her head just before his fingers could touch her curls. “I want to. I’ve never done this before, but I want to try. Can I?”

“You… really mean that?” he asked, both confused and delighted. Moonlight fell on him, painting him in pale light, allowing Shay to see the eagerness in his eyes. The greatest Bards in Faerûn wouldn’t have the words to do his beauty justice. She certainly didn’t. The contrast of how he looked and how she knew she looked hurt her. She didn’t like the moonlight; he could see the grotesque scars of her melted flesh in horrific clarity.

A distraction was in order.

She wrapped her hand around his length – how was he still so hard? – and pumped gently. Her reward was a soft hiss and his eyes fluttering shut.

Good.

After a short time exploring with her hands, she was ready. Shay ducked down to lick a stripe up his cock from root to tip. Then a gulp and a breath and she opened wide to get as much of him into her mouth as she could fit. It didn’t seem to be much, but the cool hand that plunged into her hair and the murmured syllables that sounded like they could be praise or begging or both, told her she was on the right path.

She didn’t think it could taste good doing this. The subtle salt taste of his skin proved her very wrong. Shay grew more and more confident, his hand in her hair encouraging her. She quickly became enthusiastic about having him in her mouth. Licking and sucking like he was a rare sugary treat. 

That he was helpless beneath her was a heady rush of power. Shay Lintu had reduced Astarion, a man who was practically a succubus, to whimpers and groans with just her mouth. He twitched beneath her, obviously losing control. Shay loved it. See how he liked losing his mind for once.

Suddenly, the tadpole behind her eye flexed.

Blink

The mouth around her felt divine. Thinking was so hard, but she needed to think. What did it mean that the shy little ranger wanted to do this? She seemed enthusiastic, not forcing herself at all and she was too inexperienced to fake that. Did this mean the plan was– gods, so good. Nothing had felt good in so long and now there was blood and actually enjoyable sex.

Fuck, she needed to think.

Pleasure crested in a white-hot storm. Thought crumbled into ash.

Blink

Shay almost gagged as awareness of her own body returned and she found her mouth flooded. She swallowed, the action swiping her tongue along the softening cock still in her mouth.

What was that?

She let him slip from her mouth so she could catch her breath. She swallowed again.

“What–” the question had hardly left her lips when the world upended. Shay found herself pinned to the ground under alabaster muscles. Sharp teeth flashed in the moonlight, but she felt no fear. 

“Little minx,” Astarion murmured, leaning down to kiss her deeply.

It seemed her brief flirtation with power was at an end. Control slipped away with each kiss he pressed down her neck. When his lips brushed his marks, a whine slipped from her.

“Bite?” she whispered.

He shuddered above her.

Fangs were in her neck, the icy pinch of his bite quickly melting to something warm and throbbing. An answering throb between her legs where deft fingers played her like an instrument. He was too good at this. Pleasure quickly grew, her head spun with blood loss.

The world whited out.

Shay was lost to oblivion.

*****

A warm beam of sunlight on her face brought Shay to consciousness. She stretched languidly, feeling utterly relaxed and well-rested. As she stretched, her leg hit something. She opened her eyes to a warm dawn, to regard Astarion soaking in the light like a giant cat.

“Oh,” She gasped in a deep breath, shocked at finally seeing his back for the first time. It was a mess of scars, almost as bad as her own. Someone had carved strange writing in concentric wheels across his entire back. The scars were raised and slightly red, looking angry even as she was certain they weren’t new. “What happened to you?”

“Hm?” he turned from the dawn to look down at her, realising that she was speaking of his back shuttered his eyes. “Cazador.” he explained in a single, harsh word.

“He carved that into you?” she realised, her heart breaking. It must have been awful.

“It’s a gift,” Astarion spoke lightly, but there was anguish lurking deep within his words, “he considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as his canvas. He composed and carved this poem over the course of a night. He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

“What does it say?” she wondered. The script was in no language she had ever seen.

“You can’t read it?” Astarion seemed taken back, “It could be a grocery list for all I know. The bastard is– was insane.”

Shay stared, unseeing, at Astarion’s back. She thought of her own scars and how awful she felt about her body. Surely he felt the same, though he had never shown hesitance in removing his shirt. “Does it hurt?”

“Do yours hurt?” he snapped back.

“Yes, sometimes,” Shay answered honestly. She was stung by his tone of voice, but coached herself to patience. His back was scarred, true, but the true damage was to his soul. Just like her. “I can be stiff, especially in the winter.”

“I don’t… argh!” he muttered, bending to grab his shirt off the ground. He shook leaves and twigs from it before tugging it over his head. She wondered if he had wanted a fight. One might be coming up anyway, she had a question.

“So… I probably should have asked earlier…” Shay began, beginning to dress herself.

“Asked what?” He seemed tired and frustrated. With her, no doubt. Sick of her already.

“Is there anyone waiting for you?” She asked, staring way too hard at her boots as she laced them up. “Back at the gate?”

“Cazador, I’m sure,” he scoffed. The idea of returning to the city clearly didn’t sit well with him.

“No, I mean… like, someone.” in her mind, Shay smacked herself for the stupidity of her words.

“A friend?” he prompted, “a lover?”

“Either.”

“No.” His words were clipped and pained, “in Baldur’s Gate, I’m a friendless slave. A whore who’s never had a morning after. I’m a… a flesh golem. No one would want that for a friend or a lover.”

“I’m your friend,” why did saying that feel more vulnerable than having his dick in her mouth?

“But surely you’re more than that,” he purred. His response was automatic, his expression overly practised. Flesh golem, he had called himself. A man owned, a body used for others pleasure or amusement. Her heart bled for him. Sure, she had to survive her own traumas, but she had family, she had Pek, she had her body as her own.

“Maybe,” Shay shrugged, “I’d like to be both. But friends first. I think we could both use a friend.”

For a moment, her honesty left him standing shocked. His expression was open and vulnerable. He seemed almost confused. Then the mask descended once more and he opened his mouth to, Shay assumed, say something dismissive and snarky.

“I’m your friend, Astarion,” she assured him, clapping him on the shoulder, before moving off into the woods in the direction of camp.

Astarion remained behind, silent.

Chapter Text

Shay entered the camp and took in the scene along with a deep, fortifying breath. Wyll was dismantling his tent, Shadowheart was at the campfire cooking. Pek was bugging Shadowheart for scraps. Pek noticed her and turned, her eternally-pustulent hag-green eye glinting with mischievous intent. For a moment, Shay wanted to run a tired hand over her face, but she decided bravery was the song of the day. Today, she would give as good as she got.

“How was mating?” Pek called to Shay around a mouthful of apple core.

“It was great, Pek, thanks for asking!” Shay responded brightly.

“You’re no fun,” Pek grumped. She returned to nudging at Shadowheart for pieces of the breakfast meal.

“Are we ok?” Shadowheart asked, dropping a hand to give Pek an apple.

“I don’t want to be,” Shay admitted, glaring at Wyll. He finished with his tent and moved on to Shadowhearts tent. Wyll – the Warlock of Frontiers – very carefully, very obviously, avoided acknowledging Shay as he worked. Shay raised her voice to make certain he heard, “But we have to be, don’t we? It’s us and our tadpoles against the world. If we can agree that’s the last of the lies, I’ll help us get past those goblins. Halsin will heal us and we can go our separate ways.”

“I didn’t lie–” the words burst out of Wyll in an angry torrent. He threw a handful of tent stakes to the ground in frustration and turned to Shay, where his arguments died in the face of her sardonic smile and a single, raised eyebrow, arched more prominently for the thin scar bisecting it. “Alright. I omitted, and I swear it’s the only omission I’ve made.”

“Swear on your pact,” Shay stated in a near-monotone voice that crackled with anger.

“Swear on…?!”

“You heard me. Swear on your pact, or the… the thing who holds it, that you’re not ‘omitting’ anything else. Lie and you’ve broken the contract. You’ll have to deal with that. You too, Shadowheart,” Shay told the cleric, including her in the conversation, “swear to Shar that you’re not hiding anything else from me.”

“What about you?” Shadowheart asked, “if we’re all swearing on things, what about you?”

“I swear to Mielikki and on Pek’s life: I am Shay Lintu, a ranger with a penchant for song and an illithid tadpole in my head. Nothing more.” Shay replied immediately. 

“And you mate with vampires,” Pek snorted. Shay didn’t react to that and felt she deserved some kind of award for it.

“I swear on my pact with M–” Wyll began, but could not finish as the terms of his pact prevented him from naming its holder. He scowled in frustration and tried again, “I swear to she-who-holds-my-pact: I am Wyll Ravengard, the Blade of Frontiers, a warlock who fights for the good of the coast. I am infected with an illithid tadpole. Nothing more. If I am lying, may my pact be considered broken, with all the consequences that comes with.”

Somehow, despite standing in the shadows of a half-dismantled tent, Wyll’s stone eye glinted as though burning red light struck it. Nothing else happened.

“Nothing?” Pek sounded disappointed, “I wanted a show. When’s the Devil-Mommy coming to spank the liar?”

“Pek, we should be glad,” Shay admonished her friend.

“I know,” Pek shrugged her bristling shoulders, crunching on something else that was intended for the breakfast meal, “But I’m bored. You had all the fun last night. When do I get fun?”

“We’ll have an entire village full of goblins and worgs to slaughter,” Astarion’s voice came from Shay’s tent. How in the hells had he got in there without her noticing? He emerged from the tent into the morning light, a potion bottle dangling from his fingers, half-full of a murky green liquid. “That’ll be our fun, darling Pek.”

Ugh, how many potions of animal speaking did they have?!

“What does Astarion have to swear on?” Shadowheart asked. She seemed nervous, fidgeting with the spoon in her hand and the food over the fire. Shay hoped there was nothing else being hidden. Perhaps Shar just wouldn’t take kindly to the sort of oath they were making. Swearing to have no secrets didn’t seem like something the Lady of Loss would be happy with.

“You already know I’m a vampire,” Astarion drawled, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “what other secrets could possibly be bigger than that?”

Shay considered the awful markings on his back and wondered if there was more to the strange design than poetry from an insane master. But, most likely, Astarion himself didn’t really know. Their discussion about scars in the forest had seemed genuine. She thought she was beginning to notice when he was pretending, when he was being the slave his master had made of him.

“Piglets,” Peg grunted.

Shay froze, her eyes widening in horror. Astarion, blessedly, giggled. He patted Pek on the head, but didn’t reply.

“I don’t know,” Shadowheart sighed, “but you have to swear there aren’t any more and what could you possibly swear on?”

“What indeed?” he murmured, sounding blase and uncaring though Shay caught a twitch in his jaw that said he spoke his words through clenched teeth. No God worth swearing to would take the oath of a vampire spawn, if he caught their attention with such a thing, he was just as likely to be struck down by lightning. It wasn’t a fair question.

“Me?” Pek offered, leaning her weight into Astarion’s side. “Swear to me. I’ll kill you if you’re lying.”

“Well, you’d do that anyway,” Astarion told her. He turned to Shadowheart, bracing himself for something Shay didn’t understand. “I swear to Pek, as Mielikki’s emissary. I am nothing more than you already know. I have no secrets.”

The forest around them grew quiet, the leaves rustling in a faint breeze that quickly faded to stillness. The land seemed to pause under an almost imperceptible sense of weighing and measuring. Shay held her breath, trying not to tremble with nervous worry. Had Mielikki taken his oath? Was he lying about anything else?

A bird trilled it’s song, shattering the weight of the moment. Wind returned to play with the leaves and the forest quickly resumed the normal sounds of life.

“I think that worked,” Pek noted with none of the surprise Shay felt.

“Your turn,” Astarion said to Shadowheart in a quiet voice. A flutter in the corner of his eye told Shay that he was probably feeling some intense emotions for having a god respond to him. She didn’t draw attention to it; he probably wouldn’t want the others to know what he was going through. He probably didn’t want her to know; she’d keep it to herself.

Everyone turned to Shadowheart, expecting her to swear and get it over with as they all had.

“I– I swear to–” Shadowheart began, looking hunted. Her eyes darted around the camp as she sought an escape. “I–... argh, I can’t!”

She stomped her feet in petulant rage before storming off to her pack, sitting beside her bedroll. Crouching down to the pack, she began rifling through it, muttering to herself all the while. Her mutters were punctuated by the occasional gasp of pain and her shaking her right hand as though to dispel something. Shay caught a glimpse of a wound on the hand, a gash of red against Shadowheart’s pale skin. That hadn’t been there before, had it? Why hadn’t she healed herself? Shay exchanged uneasy glances with Pek and Astarion. Wyll sidled around the campfire to stand near Shay, nudging her with an elbow until she looked up at him. They had a silent conversation in shrugs and significant glances; no one knew what Shadowheart was up to.

“There you are!” Shadowheart crowed triumphantly, wrenching a small item from the bottom of her pack and holding it aloft. A strange, multi-sided box made of some sort of dark metal waved about for a moment before the gash in the hand holding it seemed to pulse with dark light. Shadowheart hissed in pain, bringing her hand and the item it held close to her chest. She took a fortifying breath before coming to stand before the others.

“This is my last secret,” she said, cradling the small box, foreign markings carved deep into its many sides seemed to glow with an inner light. “This is why I was on the Nautiloid.”

“What is it?” Astarion asked, his eyes alight with interest in treasures unknown.

“I don’t know… not exactly,” Shadowheart explained, looking at the box quizzically. “All I know is, it’s important I get it back to Baldur’s Gate. At any cost.”

“Why?” Wyll wondered, “were you hired to retrieve it for someone? You don’t seem like the treasure hunting type.”

“My home is in Baldur’s Gate,” Shadowheart set her jaw in a determined jut as she explained. The gash in her hand pulsed, but she no longer reacted to the pain it must be causing her, though that pain could be heard in her voice.. “A Sharran cloister. A secret Sharran cloister. A group of us were sent to retrieve this artefact. Now I’m the only one left. I can’t afford to fail. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know what it does, I don’t know why I was sent. I sacrificed my memories to Shar for the blessings needed to infiltrate the Gith hideout where it was being kept. Then the illithids came and… well, here we are.”

“So now you can swear to Shar there are no more secrets,” Shay encouraged her friend. Were they still friends?

“I’d rather not,” Shadowheart pleaded. “Secrets are everything to Sharrans. If I swear to my Dark Lady I have revealed all of mine, she may strike me down for– argh.” Her words cut off and she nearly dropped the strange box as the wound in her hand grew. A gash that did not bleed, but glowed with a strange dark light. Shadowheart clenched her wounded hand, holding it close to her chest for a moment. “See? She’s already unhappy with me. Please don’t make me. I assure you I don’t have any more secrets, but don’t make me swear it.”

All eyes turned to Shay.

“What?” She asked, under the scrutiny of the entire group. “Why are we looking at me?”

“Does she have to swear?” Wyll asked.

“Why am I making that decision?” Shay sputtered. She wanted Shadowheart to swear as they all had, but not if it would curse her or something. And why was it her decision anyway?

“You’ve been leading us,” Wyll explained, “we’re following you. It should be your decision if we accept Shadowheart or not.”

Shay turned to Pek and Astarion, expecting them to tease her. She was no leader, what had gotten into Wyll?

“Your call, darling,” Astarion grinned, “I’m following you anyway.”

What.

“You’re… but…”

“Make up your mind,” Pek grunted, “I want to kill goblins.”

“This would be funny,” Shadowheart sighed through a wan smile, “if my life weren’t on the line. You’re our leader, Shay. Somehow you didn’t know that, but you are. Now, do I stay?”

“Yeah, you stay,” Shay sighed, gently clapping tired hands to her face to rub her eyes. Leader. She was no leader. She’d lead them to doom. And, as they were doomed anyway, why not keep the cleric who wouldn’t swear to her god?

“Great! We’re a team. Let’s go stomp something to death.” Pek stormed out of the half-dismantled camp, eager to see to the needful business of goblin killing.

*****

“What’s the label on this one… oh, animal speaking!” Astarion crowed triumphantly, tucking the dusty bottle into his pack.

“Smash that right now,” Shay demanded from the other side of the dim basement of the Apothecary’s house.

“Make me, darling,” he purred.

Shay rolled her eyes and returned to her own search.

They had circled the decrepit village, avoiding the poor ambush the creatures had set at the east-facing main entrance. Instead, they had come from the south. Shadowheart, with the aid of the tadpole in her brain, had convinced the two guards there that the group were all True Souls – whatever that meant – and they were given free reign of the village. The ruse might not work on the goblin-camp proper, but at least they could search the village for supplies before tackling the greater problem of the old temple of Selûne, still pounding with war drums and crawling with goblins, bugbears and other creatures. The druid Halsin, and healing, waited within but getting in and out in one piece was going to be tricky.

While the group had the ability to move freely through the village, they didn’t have the luxury of time. Their tadpoles were bound to mature at some point, turning them all into tentacle-faced monstrosities. The group split up to search for supplies. Wyll and Shadowheart going to the north of the village to search through the buildings there. Shay, Astarion and Pek had found the Apothecary’s shop. There was not much to be found within, though Shay added a few goblin corpses to Astarion’s great amusement. Shay and Pek found it impossible to resist when the odd goblin wandered into the shop to inquire if the ‘True Souls’ needed anything. Every time, the goblin found that what they needed was its demise. The discovery of a basement the goblins had yet to raid put an end to the throat-slitting. Shay and Astarion quickly made their way into the dark, underground space, leaving Pek to keep watch above. She worked to hide the goblin bodies in her gut while Shay and Astarion explored below.

But now, with Astarion pocketing potions of animal speaking, Shay was regretting the decision to explore the basement. A few potions and herbs added to their stores surely wasn’t worth the grief he and Pek would give her. She made a mental note to search his tent after he went hunting that evening.

“Clean sheets!” Astarion’s announcement interrupted her musings. She turned to see him shaking the dust from a bright white length of cloth. He noticed her watching and threw a wink in her direction. “We could certainly use more of these.”

Shay felt herself flush. Potions of animal speaking weren’t needed to give her grief, it seemed. She turned on a heel and stomped away to investigate the farthest corner of the basement she could reach. She admonished herself; why had she forgotten bravery? Why had she stopped giving as good as she got?

Why was there a lever hidden behind this stack of crates?

“Hidden lever,” she called out. Astarion quickly brought himself to her side, his eyes alight with interest.

“Secret room?” he guessed.

“Probably treasure,” Shay replied, agreeing with his assessment. She reached for the lever, before noticing Astarion bouncing on his toes. His excitement was barely-leashed. “You do it.”

His eyes lit up in childish delight. He pulled the lever. A grinding of mechanics could be heard; machinery in desperate need of oil, before a large shelf behind them shuddered and began moving to the side. A blast of damp air came from the opening the shelf revealed. It smelled of caves, moist loam and rotting things. The shelf ground to a halt, leaving a very small opening.

“I think we broke it,” Shay observed. Surely the shelf should move more, leaving an actually functioning entrance.

“Wide enough for us,” Astarion shrugged. He removed his weapons from his hips, holding them in one hand as he shimmied around the shelf into the dark space beyond. “Are you coming?”

“Let me find a candle or something,” Shay called back. It was darker than night beyond the shelf; she would need something to see.

“Ah, yes. Humans.” Astarion murmured, reminding himself that Shay had no dark vision.

Moments later, Shay was fiddling with flint and steel over a nub of a candle when a rather impatient Astarion stuck his head out of the hidden entrance.

“No need, there’s light around a bend after a few metres,” he explained, gesturing brusquely for her to join him in the pitch-black tunnels beyond the basement.

“You’ll lead me through the dark?” Shay asked. She trusted him, but that was still asking a lot.

“Of course, darling,” Astarion offered, he offered his hand, “come on.”

Shay stuffed the candle in her pouch. She removed her weapons, holding them in one hand and taking Astarion’s in the other. He led her into the black void of the tunnel. Her eyes widened, desperately trying to drink in the faintest hint of light, but there was nothing. She was blind. The realisation chilled her. She swallowed heavily.

“Just a few metres,” Astarion murmured. His grip on her hand was firm, but gentle. He tugged her forward.

Shay allowed herself to be led, disarmed in every possible way. Even with his fangs in her throat, she had never been as vulnerable as this. Fear thundered through her veins, trembling her muscles. His hand squeezed hers.

“A little farther,” he told her, his voice soft and gentle, “we’ll turn to the left.”

“This is…” Shay had no words to express the terror of the dark. The fear of the narrow walls of the tunnel closing in on her. What would he know of it anyway? Were he mortal, he would still have the dark vision that blesses all elves. But he wasn’t mortal. He was a creature of the night. This darkness was his home.

“I know,” he replied, the bare honesty of his words shocking her, “I’ve been in places that were darker… and smaller. It’s… unpleasant to say the least. But we’re almost there. You’ll make it. I’ve got you.”

She was certain he knew of what he spoke. An echo of a memory, perhaps something from an earlier tadpole connection she couldn’t quite remember. He knew her terror, knew it because he had experienced it himself. His empathy assured her that she would make it through the dark, that he would see it happen.

He assisted her around a bend to the left and Shay’s greedy eyes caught a glimpse of faint sunlight at the end of the tunnel. She nearly sobbed in relief.

“See? I’ve got you,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” she agreed, squeezing his hand in hers, “you do.”

Together, they moved forward into a strangely lush little cave, lit fitfully by sunlight drifting through cracks in the stone ceiling above. Grass and small plants grew on the cave floor wherever the sun touched. Dusty wooden coffins lay in pools of plant life like strange flowers.

“A graveyard?” Shay wondered, picking up a shovel that leaned against one of the coffins. The word ‘shovel’ was carved into the worn wooden handle of the tool. Someone liked to label their things. “No sign of rot, though. And nothing is buried. These must hold something else, instead of bodies.”

“An interesting way to hide treasure,” Astarion observed, lifting the lid off a coffin. 

Shay heard the jingle of coin as Astarion rifled through whatever he found. She reached towards the lid of another coffin. With the touch of her finger to the lid, the coffin shattered, the lid propelled towards her by something unseen, forcing her to step backwards with a surprised gasp. A skeleton in patchwork armour emerged from the coffin. Its hollow eye-sockets looked through Shay, then it turned to race towards another coffin. She was still recovering from her surprise, a curse from Astarion still hovered in the air, and the skeleton was helping its twin from another coffin. The second skeleton readied a razor sharp sword and moved towards them. There was no expression to be found on its face, no sound uttered from its hollow chest. It moved with the clatter of bones and metal, an automaton magically assembled and magically instructed to kill.

Shay noticed the first skeleton was heading towards more coffins, stacked in a dim corner of the cavern. Looking for more friends, surely. She recovered her wits enough to send a flame arrow at it just as it reached the coffins. Wooden coffins and dry bones all went up in a small conflagration, quickly crumbling to ash. It was the right shot to take, no more skeletons joined the battle. But the one that had was in front of her, its sword sweeping down towards her shoulder with alarming strength for something that had no muscle. Shay braced herself for the hit, hoping her leathers were thick enough to absorb most of the damage. Her eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of an agonising blow.

The clash of steel and a distinct lack of pain had her eyes open again in short order.

Astarion stood before her, his sword raised to take the hit meant for her. He traded blows with the skeletal warrior, Shay was briefly struck by the poetry of the dead fighting each other. She grabbed the shovel at her feet. Stepping to the side, she swung the heavy tool with all her might, bashing its heavy metal end into the legs of the skeleton. A femur shattered. Bone crumbled. The enchantment that held it together fled.

They were alone in the cavern once more.

“Did it get you?” they asked each other at the same time. They grinned at each other.

“It had a nicer sword than you have,” Shay nodded to the well-polished sword resting on top of the pile of bones they had just fought.

“Better treasure than I found,” Astarion observed, dropping his sword onto the skeletal heap and taking the sword he had just been trading blows with. He turned it this way and that under a beam of light, inspecting it.

“What did you find?” Shay asked.

“A few coins and this,” Astarion handed her a curl of discoloured paper.

“Shovel,” Shay read from the page as she uncurled it. The rest of the words on the paper, inked in a strange burgundy colour, were in no language she knew. She tried to sound out words, wondering if it was a code, or a riddle. When she had finished, the words pulsed with a fiery glow, then the whole scroll vanished with a blast of sulphurous stench and a loud pop.

“Awwww, shit-piddling toe-rags!!” a high voice squealed.

“What did you summ– oh, a quasit,” Astarion observed, looking down with Shay at the cursing, spike-covered demon creature pacing before them. It was a tiny thing, hardly reaching to Shay’s mid-thigh. Its flesh was fish-green, pale at the stomach and darkening at the back, though its face and hands were reddish. It was covered in pustules and warts, where it wasn’t spiked and barbed. Its hands were bizarre, five digits like a humanoid, but a thumb where a pinky finger should be.

“Never summon Shovel, never feed Shovel, now call Shovel!?” the creature – presumably ‘Shovel’ – ranted as it paced. It finally looked up at them, its mouth twisted in distaste, its black eyes blank as a doll’s… or a shark’s. When the creature, a quasit Astarion had called it, finally noticed them, its angry posings melted away into confusion. “Wait. You’re not Illy.”

“Who’s Illy?” Astarion wondered.

“Who were in the coffins with you?” Shay asked the creature.

The quasit ignored Astarion. Shay’s question, however, had its entire body contorting in little jerks of pure joy. Rapture roughened its voice as it answered, “the blacksmith. The teacher. The grocer. The baker. Little piggies to the butcher. So. You’re Shovel’s master now? Fine.”

“Shovel?” Astarion chuckled, “your name is Shovel?”

Shovel didn’t react.

“Is that really your name?” Shay asked, imagining a level of the hells where all the little demon creatures had the names of mundane items. Shovel probably had friends named Fork and Bucket. He hated his neighbours Hat and Boots. Perhaps the level was ruled by the greatest demon of them all; Kitchen Sink.

“Master Illy calls me Shovel.” Shovel explained nodding to Shay, “new master doesn’t like it, new master can change it.”

“What would you like to be called?” Shay asked, trying to be kind to the strange creature that had decided she was its master.

“Don’t care,” Shovel sniffed.

“Ok, Shovel it is.”

“So, what first, master?” Shovel scampered before her, dry-washing its clawed hands, “gutting locals? Raising the dead? Making them walk? Making them scream?”

Shay exchanged an awkward glance with Astarion, made more awkward but his not seeming to care about the horrid acts described by the little demon. Shovel seemed to expect bloodthirsty chaos from its master. She, at least, didn’t want that job. “Um… is that what you did with Illy?” Shay asked. What a weird workshop they had stumbled into.

“Oh, yes! Steal bodies. Tear them. Then Illy puts them back together. Again. And again. And again again again!” Shovel could not contain their ecstasy, writhing in pleasure as they described their past deeds with this ‘Illy’. But their pleasure ran into a wall, pulling them up short. “Well. We had fun when he wasn’t horny for the book. Urgh. Book this. Book that. He loooves the book.”

Raising the dead, Shay knew, took powerful magic. If someone who did it for fun was obsessed with a book, surely that book must be a worthy bit of treasure. Shay cautioned herself to not read anything else she picked up. Summoning Shovel was enough strange magic for one day.

“What book?” Astarion asked, sounding very interested. Shay assumed his mind had followed the same trail hers had, led by the tracks of information that told them they hunted a fine treasure indeed.

Shovel ignored him.

Shay sighed.

“What book?” She asked, repeating Astarion’s question.

“Oh! Ohhhh!!!” Shovel’s ecstatic contortions doubled, it twisted itself into forms its bones should not allow, “Master should go see.” The little creature scampered a few metres into the dim recesses of the cavern, a back corner where sunlight did not filter through the limited holes in the rocky ceiling. Shay thought there was a wooden platform of some sort back there, perhaps some crates. It was so hard to see. Shovel’s stomach, pale as a three-day-dead fish, seemed to glow in the dim light the demon waited in.

“Um…” Shay fumbled in her belt pouch for the candle. She crouched to the ground, setting the candle down and digging into the pouch again for flint and steel. A short, impatient sight above her head was the only warning before a word of power was growled above her and a mote of flame darted over shoulder, lighting the candle for her. “Thanks,” she grinned up at Astarion.

“Let’s go, darling. I want to find this book,” Astarion offered his pale hand. She took it, allowing herself to be dragged to her feet.

“Come on, Beefy!” Shovel called, dancing farther into the darkness. “Talk to the mirror! And remember; balsam? Good for burns.”

A hand pressed into Shay’s back, pushing her forward at an alarmingly quick pace, considering she could hardly see where she was going. “Talk to a mirror? Like a fairytale!” Astarion murmured enthusiastically into her ear.

“You go talk to it,” Shay offered, amused at the vampire’s childish delight.

He was ahead of her almost instantly, quickly disappearing into the dark ahead, even his pale curls swallowed by the dark. “Meet you there, darling,” he called back over his shoulder.

Shay, candle gripped tight in one fist, Shovel at her side, moved into the back of the cavern, past an alarming collection of coffins she carefully avoided, certain they held more undead. They couldn’t fight as many skeletons as there were coffins stacked in the cavern. Better to let the dead rest.

“Hello?” Astarion’s voice whispered through the dark, followed by a loud scoff. He had found the mirror.

Shay came to a few steps that led up to a deck, of sorts, that was constructed over the uneven rock of the cavern. The deck was littered with dusty crates and barrels and, for once, Shay had no interest in investigating their contents. A full-length mirror, set in a heavily carved, overly gilded frame, waited in the back corner. The mirror was taller than Shay and wider than her and Astarion together, if they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Its reflective surface was oddly dark, even with her candlelight flickering as a smaller splash of light than should reflect back.

Astarion stood before the mirror, running a frustrated hand through his white-grey curls. “Helloooo?” he waved a hand before the mirror's surface. Shay noticed, as she drew closer, that everything in the room reflected, small and dim, in the mirror's surface. Everything from crates, to Shovel, to her flickering candle. Everything, but Astarion. She stood beside him, but in the mirror she stood alone.

“You don’t have a reflection,” Shay observed, instantly regretting her stupidity when anger and frustration crawled across his face. Astarion opened his mouth to reply, but a pale fog bloomed within the mirror's surface, it coiled and writhed, gathering itself into a semblance of a face.

“Speak your name,” the face demanded in an echoing, otherworldly voice.

Shay glanced up at Astarion, waiting for him to answer. His mouth twisted in sour disappointment and he turned away, saying nothing. Shovel gave a meaningful nudge to her thigh with a spiked elbow, making Shay very grateful for her leathers. The little thing would surely puncture her skin even with the best of intentions – and Shay was certain it had never had a good intention in its entire existence.

“Shay…?” she offered the mirror a belated response.

Mist twisted in the mirror, an inscrutable expression crossing the face. “I do not know this name.”

A glance at Shovel showed him perfectly unbothered by this response.

“If you are known to my master,” the mirror continued, “step forward and declare yourself an ally.”

Shay stepped closer to the mirror, her reflection sharpening over the misty face within. Astarion scoffed again, folding his arms over his chest in what seemed like annoyance but Shay suspected was a little protective. The mirror's insistence on ignoring him had truly bothered him. It’s insistence on questions she didn’t quite know the answer to – sure, I’m an ally of Illy. Who’s Illy? Fucked if I know. Some necromancer who used to live here. – were frustrating. Frustration was mounting in both of them, avidly watched by the blank, endlessly black eyes of the quasit at their side. The mirror, according to Shovel, was guarding this book. That made it a door to be opened. And doors, like mirrors, could be broken rather than opened.

“How’s about you open,” Shay smiled sweetly at the face in the mirror, “or I’ll smash you to pieces – bad luck be damned.”

There was a pause while the mirror considered her offer. Shovel filled it with a shrieking giggle, dancing from clawed foot to clawed foot and dry-washing its strange two-thumbed hands. She couldn’t figure out Astarion’s expression from the corner of her good eye, it had changed from thinly veiled upset to… something else. He… considered her. She wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. Shay had an urge to speak with him, to ask about the reflection, but not while threatening an inanimate object. Not wanting the mirror to think of her as anything other than a danger to itself, she kept her gaze on it, focused and steady, sure in her determination to break it.

The mirror decided self preservation was better than riddles. The foggy face within the mirror's dark surface shrank and dimmed, then the whole thing swung open on silent hinges, revealing what must be a large room, though it too was pitch black, leaving Shay unable to tell what they were walking into. Large candelabras waited on either side of the entrance. She would certainly be lighting those before doing anything else.

“Illy’s workshop,” Shovel crowed, scampering into the dark. “Let’s go, Beefy!”

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” Shay called after the quasit, “why?”

“Humans,” the scoffing voice echoed out from the dark workshop, “slabs of beef with nipples. Moo.”

The insult brought a wan smile to Astarion’s face, cheering him up after his failure with the mirror. Shay elbowed him in the side. Hard.

Chapter Text

“Traps,” Astarion drawled his observation once Shay lit the last brazier in the workshop, revealing a laboratory dominated on one side by a thick stone wall with a narrow iron gate in its centre. A wide tile set in the floor just in front of the gate in the otherwise unremarkable stone floor of the workshop was an obvious pressure-plate trap. The space beyond the iron gate was narrow and dark, thick with cobwebs, but Shay could make out a rough stone table holding a thick book beyond the bars of the iron gate.

The rest of the workshop wasn’t quite the horror show Shay had feared, considering what Shovel had said about what they had done with their former master, Illy. She had expected an abattoir, but found a rather comfortable laboratory. The main chamber of the lab contained a long wooden table that held a skeleton, dark, greasy puddles around the bones suggesting it had rotted there for some time. Against a wall, another table, but this one covered in strange glass bottles with tubes leading from one to the other, or to heavy iron cauldrons. A strange sort of kitchen, where necromantic horrors were cooked up. She could barely make out two alcoves on the far side of the lab, and what might be a door on the opposite side of the iron grate that held Illy’s so-important book. Those could be explored later.

“Master will be horny for the book, soon,” Shovel capered about the lab, careful not to step on the pressure plate.

Shay shook her head at the strange little demon, “you have such a poetic way with words, Shovel.”

Astarion kneeled down by the pressure plate, setting to work disarming the trap.

Shovel chuckled, “good with tongue. Good at cutting them out, too. Tell you secret?”

Astarion cursed, throwing a bent metal tool over his shoulder to clang against the stone floor. He drew another one from his kit.

“Sure,” Shay said to the quasit, willing to pass the time by encouraging the strange little demon to talk.

“Illy weak. Illy never finish book, ” Shovel grumbled, “but new Master? Master can do it. Read book. Conqueror book. Yessss."

A click and a grinding sound of stone-on-stone interrupted Shovel’s enthusiastic little diatribe. Astarion quickly stood on the now-disarmed plate and gave an experimental tug to the iron gate. It didn’t move, locked tighter than a patriar’s vault.

“I bet Illy hid a key somewhere really stupid,” Shay told Shovel, in a confidential friend-to-friend tone. Astarion looked back at her from where he was fishing out another set of tools to pick the lock. He nodded at her in encouragement, knowing what she was doing.

“Illy so stupid, Master doesn't know,” Shovel confessed, gesturing a clawed hand towards the unlit side of the lab, “key isn’t hidden. Just waiting on a shelf.”

“Of course you know where it is, because he was too dumb to even keep a secret,” Shay scoffed.

“Of course Shovel knows. Shovel knows everything! Illy was too stupid to have secrets. Shovel will show Master!". The quasit rushed off into the dark, clawed feet clicking on the stone floor. In short order, it returned, bearing a large iron key. “Here, Master, see? Sitting on a shelf. Stupid, stupid Illy!”

Shay took the key, exchanging a glance with Astarion that clearly communicated “this quasit is insane!” as she walked over to the gate. The key turned easily. Astarion slipped through the narrow entrance the second Shay had the heavy gate open enough for him to squeeze through.

“More tr–” Astarion’s frustrated voice floated out of the dark depths of the room, dropping quickly to frustrated grumbles punctuated by the clink of metal on stone.

Shay stuck her head into the little room, her eyes straining to catch any detail within. A long stone table dominated most of the room, covered in dust and cobwebs except for a heavy book in its centre. The book was shockingly clean; dust refused to touch its strange bindings, the front of which had two purple gems set like glowing eyes in a macabre face, the book cover had no title, just a scream frozen for eternity.

“Shovel, get a torch,” Shay directed her unasked-for servant without turning around. She stared at the book as she fumbled her own tools out of her pocket; its horrific face – gods, were those actual teeth in its hollow mouth? – drew her gaze no matter how much she wanted to look away. Thankfully, eyes that stared caught many details; the book was clearly set on another pressure plate and that trap would need to be dealt with. Astarion was hidden in the dark of the little room, but she could hear him working on another trap. They’d not be able to get the book without disarming everything.

The room flickered to life, spiderwebs dancing in the waving light of fire. Two grotesque statues, mouths open wide and black with evidence of past flames, revealed themselves to Shay's vision, once Shovel ran into the entryway of the little room, waving a torch as long as it was tall. She could finally see Astarion, hard at work with thin metal prods, poking at something within the fire scorched mouth of the grotesque to her left.

“Illy never let Shovel play with fire!” the little quasit cackled, waving the torch around. Shadows danced around the room.

“You’re not playing with it,” Shay cautioned, working to disarm the pressure plate under the book. Shadows leapt and danced as Shovel waved the torch again. “Would you stop that!”

“You’re no fun, Beefy,” Shovel sighed the long-suffering sigh of a child asked to perform an easy task. It stilled, pouting but holding the torch stable.

Under the steady light, traps were swiftly disarmed. Soon, Shay was lifting the book from the table, marvelling in mild horror at what must be humanoid skin encasing its pages and forming a screaming face – yes, those were teeth – the purple gems set in its dry eye sockets glowed brightly in the torchlight. It was hard to look away. Whatever was in the book, whatever Illy the Necromancer was so obsessed about, Shay wanted nothing to do with it. It was too dark for her.

“That looks awfully heavy,” Astarion drawled in her ear, “why don’t you let me hang onto it?”

She handed it over, glad to be rid of it.

Astarion accepted the tome with a hungry smile. He immediately tried to open the book, but it wouldn’t budge. The purple gems in its eyes glowed cheerfully, seeming to mock all efforts to read the secrets they guarded. Was its mouth frozen in a scream, or a laugh? He tried again, struggling to open a cover that seemed locked tight despite the visual absence of any lock.

“I’m going to see what else is in here,” Shay announced, leaving Astarion with the book and its necromantic secrets. She had no business tinkering with magic and, she was fairly certain, Astarion didn’t either. He seemed determined, though, and it was the best bit of treasure they had found. Though its worth would be very low if the damn thing wouldn’t open. “Come on, Shovel.”

She wandered back into the laboratories main chamber, with Shovel and its torch skipping along behind her. Torchlight set Shays shadow dancing on the stone floor before her, a silent partner in a strange dance. Taxidermied heads mounted upon the walls joined the dance. A hyena head, face set in a permanent snarl, seemed to growl at her from the wall, moving slightly left to right. If it had a body, it would be tamping its paws, reading for a pounce. From another wall, a direwolf observed her passively; the torchlight set fake life in its fake glass eyes.

Shay looked over the strange glass vessels on a long, deeply scored wooden table. What she recognized in the warm torchlight, clean tools for potion making, she added to her bag. A well-read book, the word Antidotes printed on its faded cover, went into her pack as well. She moved on, moving deeper into the dark laboratory.

A massive cave bear loomed out of the darkness. The beast stood at its full height, its head brushing the ceiling. The fitful light of the torch Shovel carried flickered light and shadow across its face, teeth bared in a bloodthirsty snarl. 

Memory and fear froze her body and threw her mind back in time.

Shay ran through the snow. Her heart pounded, breath thundering in and out of her chest like a blacksmith's bellows. A low growl reached her ears; it sounded so close. She dare not look back. A dark line of trees, descending to the north into a deep, rocky ravine, waited for her. Shay stumbled over something hidden in the snow. The fall blazed agony down her still-healing burns. She never knew what she had stumbled over, she ignored the pain in her body, got to her feet and pressed on. Her bow remained behind in the snow. Wasting a single second to grab it might end her life. The growls of the cave bear followed her. It had her scent in its nose now. All she could do was lead it from the copse where she had made something resembling a shelter with Pek and the other pigs from Vadin’s farm.

She almost grinned when she reached the tree line, but couldn’t spare the energy. The trees were safety. They had to be. That she was throwing herself into the infamous Cloakwood was of little concern. Surely, she would be ok, if she just stayed a few metres within the tree line, if she used her smaller form to lose the bear with twists and turns and doubling back. At the very least, legendary dangers weren’t the very real threat promised by the cave bear chasing her. 

She forced herself, poorly-dressed burns screaming with pain and heat and an inability to sweat, to hook an arm around a young sapling, using her weight to take a turn. Behind her, the bear crashed into the trees like a boulder, its momentum forcing it deeper into the forest while Shay ran north. She scrambled down the rocky sides of the ravine, reaching the bottom just in time for a monstrous roar to echo through the forest around her. Shay glanced behind. The cave bear, shaggy and grey and bigger than a boulder, snarled from the top of the ravine before picking its way down.

She took off running again. A dark crack in the far ravine wall promised salvation. A cave no bear could enter, but she could wiggle into. The cold air in her lungs burned, exhaustion seared through her body. Shay pushed onward. Giving up was death, not only for her but for Pek.

Momentum slammed her into the stone back of the cave, a shallow gouge in the rock that would do nothing to keep her safe from the tearing claws of the bear barreling down on her like an avalanche. But to her left, a dark entryway waited, chipped from the rock by inexpert hands. She pushed into it just in time; froth-flecked jaws snapped around the air where she had just been. The cave bear growled its frustration. A massive paw, claws longer than a dagger and twice as sharp, dug into her little tunnel, scrabbling and straining mere inches from her face.

Shay pressed backward into the tight tunnel, staring with horrified fascination at the razor-sharp claws reaching for her. Her feet tangled with something on the ground, cloth and sticks and clattering things that had her falling. Thankfully, she fell backwards. The air left her in a surprised blast when she connected with the hard stone floor of the tunnel. Light fled; the bear tried to squeeze its massive head into the small space, but failed. A roar of frustration deafened her, then light returned. 

The bear had given up.

At least for now.

She looked down at what had tripped her, a gasp of horror strangled in her throat when she saw the hollow eyes and wide grin of a skull at her feet. She sat upon the animal-eaten remains of a body, picked clean to nothing but bone, a few limbs missing. Torn cloth and leather covered the remains, evidence the body had once been dressed. She couldn’t tell the race or gender of the bones, death being the great equaliser. A glint of silver just under the skull caught her eye. She lifted the skull, taking a medallion out from under it. A simple silver circle, no bigger than a coin, with the form of a rearing unicorn stamped upon it.

“I’m so sorry, um, unicorn-person,” Shay whispered to the bones, “when the bear is gone, I’ll build you a cairn so you can rest safely.”

She put the medallion back where she had found it – what good was silver to her in the woods anyway? – and set the skull upon it. The motion caused more bones to shift, a hand held together by scraps of leather that must have once been a glove, rolled over and opened. A heavy iron key sat in its palm.

“A key? Why would you have–”

A heavy paw slammed into the tunnel again.

Shay felt her throat tear under the scream of surprise that wrenched from her. She pushed herself backwards into the tunnel, pressing against its wooden–

Wooden?

The back of the tunnel wasn’t a dead end, but a door. Rough slats of thick oak, banded with iron. A keyhole beckoned.

She grabbed the key from the bones, unlocked the door and was through in a blink.

Shay caught her breath as she marvelled at the place she found herself in. A tidy little home was built into the stone walls of the cave, dusty with disuse but very functional. Shelves – mostly level – hand-carved into rock held rows and rows of books, a pallet in one corner was piled high with blankets. A desk made of heavy wood dominated the room, lined with well-corked jars of ink. An open book sat upon it, a chair pulled out as though its owner would return any moment. Light filtering in from a smaller window-tunnel set in the back added a sparkle of light to the dust motes dancing in the air. A few more well-fitted doors hid more chambers from her sight. Shay went to the desk and looked at the open book on it. Notes about plants – balsam, iron vine, all new to her – written in a tidy hand. She flipped the cover to the beginning. The first page held few words, but so much information.

Raim Helemaer, Cleric of Mielikki
Cloakwood Journal #187

“Well, Raim, Cleric of whoever-Mielikki-is,” Shay murmured to the journal, thinking of the skeleton outside and how perfect the cave home would be, once she explored the rest of it and figured out how to keep pigs in a cave, “I think we’re moving in.”

“Shay, come back,” an urgent voice in her ear startled her. She spun around, eyes peering in every dark corner. No one was there.

Something flexed behind her good eye. It hurt. She clapped a hand to her face, curling up on the dusty floor of Raim’s bedchamber. This wasn’t right. This hadn’t happened.

Hadn’t? What?

“Where are we?” the voice again. It was familiar. “Shay, where is this place? Come back, I need you.”

A name floated through her pained mind. Astarion.

Astarion?

Everything flooded back. Five years of survival in the Cloakwood, learning to be a ranger from endless journals. Then the nautiloid, an illithid worm chewing its way behind her eye. Secrets and lies, heroes, friends and blood. Astarion. History and forgiveness.

“This is my home,” Shay explained to Astarion, still curled on the floor. “Or, it will be. How are we here?”

“I don’t know,” Astarion’s cool hand pulled her own from her face. She blinked pained eyes open to regard a very concerned vampire spawn, somehow in the middle of the bedchamber that would be hers for the next five years. “You wouldn’t answer me, just staring at a dead bear. I tried to get my worm to talk to yours and… I think it worked.”

Memory. They were in her memory. The worm in her head felt sated, full and sleepy as though it had eaten a large meal.

“There’s a cave bear outside,” Shay explained, pointing to the door to the outside, “it chased me here. I guess traumatic memories are different when there’s a worm in your head.”

Astarion shuddered, horror crawling across his handsome face, “better your memories than mine.”

“That’s all they are, now,” Shay grabbed his hand and gave it an assuring squeeze, “just memories. They’ll fade like any other memory. You’re safe now.”

Astarion didn’t answer her, though he didn’t remove his hand from hers. A muscle in his jaw fluttered. His eyes roamed around the space, alighting upon the blanket-piled bed in the corner. His entire body changed, then, face and posture moving into familiar poses as though a curtain had been dropped upon him.

“So this is your home,” he murmured, a smile spreading slowly across his face, “and that is your bed.”

Shay rolled her eyes, exasperated at his antics, “we’re not really here. You can really visit my home later, once we’re cured. Right now, we need to… to… unhook our worms.”

For a split second, Astarion’s seductive mein dropped, revealing an earnest confusion, “you would… invite me into your home?”

“If I didn’t, Pek would anyway,” Shay shrugged, self-consciousness forcing her to look away. “Of course you’re welcome to visit. Hells, you can sta– visit as long as you’d like.”

She cursed herself for a fool.

“Well. How sweet of you,” the curtain was back. A seductive shield held between him and the world. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve done to the place.”

“WAKE UP, BEEFY! I’M BORED!” the words shrieked, painfully discordant, into her ear. Claws dug deep into her arm, jolting her with pain. The world blurred and moved, Raim’s home melting to nothing before her eyes, reforming into Shovel’s face an inch from her own. Behind Shovel, she could see the cave bear, truly see it. Face frozen forever in a taxidermied snarl, blank glass eyes devoid of life. Shovel jammed its face even closer to hers, if that was possible, filling her vision with its dead black eyes. “There you are! New master was being no fun.”

“Sorry?” She gently pushed the quasit away from her. Its body felt feverishly hot. “I’ll try to be more… fun.”

“Ugh, worms,” Astarion muttered at her side. Shay realised they were both on the floor of the laboratory, before the entrance to a round alcove that held the cave bear and some rather nice looking furniture. Heavily carved table and chairs, their gilt glimmering under the torchlight. A heavy chest, pushed into the limited space in front of the cave bear, caught her eye.

“Up and at it,” Shay told Astarion, getting to her own feet, “let’s check out this last spot for anything useful, then we can go back up.”

“Don’t want to hold torch,” Shovel complained, picking up the still-burning torch from the stone floor, “boring.”

“What sort of entertainment do you want?” Shay asked the vicious little quasit with half a mind. She fiddled for her tools, certain the chest would be locked.

“Don’t know,” Shovel sniffed, “bored.”

“Go… spit in Illy’s experiments,” Astarion told the little quasit, gesturing towards the table that held twisted glass bottles in strange shapes. Shovel turned its black eyes to the table eagerly, hardly noticing when Astarion took the torch from its clawed hands. He deposited it into an iron sconce set in the stone wall. “Ruin them.”

Shovel cackled, responding for the first time to Astairon’s words, “Master’s dead servant finally has good ideas!” it scampered off.

"Servant?!” Astarion sputtered, insulted to his core.

“Leave it,” Shay advised, not bothering to look back at him. Her focus was on the chest and the heavy iron padlock that adorned it. She was going to open the damn thing before Astarion could. Shay slid a thin metal bar into the keyhole while talking to the vampire spawn behind her, “the little thing is insane, but it got us in here. We don’t have time to teach it manners.”

“You do seem to collect – not the flat one, use the hook – collect strange creatures that could learn some manners,” Astarion said, practically on top of her, his chin digging into her shoulder as he observed her work.

“Look in the mirror before you pass judgement,” Shay let the turn of phrase slip before she thought. Once thought caught up, embarrassment swiftly followed, “I mean–”

“–I don’t need a reflection to know I’m fabulous,” Astarion spoke over her, seemingly not insulted by her careless words. He slid a hand around her waist, somehow it felt like his hand was on her skin despite her thick leather armour. “Besides, I’m sure you and Pek will have me learn my manners long before you have me over for tea. When will that be, by the way?”

“Whenever you want, I guess,” She muttered, trying to ignore his hand on her waist, his breath ghosting across her cheek. She fished a hooked tool from her pouch and twisted it into the keyhole. Pins held, a tumbler moved. Curse him for being right. “We just need to heal ourselves first. And kill Cazador, obviously. It’ll be slow going travelling with you, once we’re healed; we’ll have to travel at night and I can’t see in the dark like you can. Have to figure something out there. I bet enough gold will get me an amulet of darkvision or something at Sorcerous Sundries. If it’s still there. Is it still there? You’d know what shops are in the gate more than I would.”

He didn’t answer her. Plastered to her back as he was, Shay could feel a very slight tremble in his body. It worried her, but she had no idea what she had said that was so wrong. “Astarion?”

The world upended. Shay found herself pressed into the dusty stone floor by a very amorous elf. Astarion was all over her, kissing her for all she was worth. Confusion spun her mind almost as much as his kisses. What did she say and how often could she say it to get this result? 

His weight on her was pleasant, but it could be better. Shay shifted her legs, cradling his hips between her thighs. She managed to get one leg wrapped around him, the stiff leather of her armour not being very forgiving of this position. The moment her leg hooked around his thigh, he whined in the back of his throat, thrusting his hips into hers. He deepened their kiss, if that was at all possible, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to duel with hers. As always with him, Shay felt herself swept away. Existence somehow expanded into an unknown universe, a vast space that was no bigger than the two of them. Pleasure streaked white-hot lightning through her veins with every thrust of his hips into hers.

“What is New Master doing?” Shovel’s shrieking voice cut through the fog of pleasure in Shay’s mind.

She froze.

Astarion growled in the back of his throat. His weight on her shifted imperceptibly, then she caught the flash of steel in the corner of her eye. His dagger.

Shovel might not survive this interruption.

“Go… keep watch or something,” Shay commanded the quasit.

“Master knows he’s dead, right?” Shovel responded, not moving away at all. Weren’t summoned creatures supposed to obey?

“Fuck off and keep watch!”

Shovel moved away into the dark of the laboratory, gleefully exclaiming, “Illy didn’t even fuck them. New Master is fun!”  

“Now there’s an idea,” Astarion purred into her ear before placing a trail of kisses upon her neck. She raised a hand to touch his soft curls and her bracer fell off her arm. When had he unbuckled it? Her senses reeled; everything was him, there was no room for awareness of anything else. Her eyes fluttered shut to better appreciate the feel of him on top of her. “Can we?"

“Can we…?” Shay repeated, confused. She felt Astarions hands at the buckles of her chestplate. She mimicked him, not knowing quite what else to do, her own hands finding the buckles on his armour, undoing them as he undid hers. She moved by feel alone, undoing buckles with eager hands.

“Say I can have you,” he murmured into her neck, dropping kisses on his bite marks between each word. She wasn’t sure how to answer, lost in the pleasure of his touch. A cool hand on her jaw forced her back to reality, his grip was firm but gentle. Shay opened her eyes to see Astarion’s red gaze boring into her, “and, to be clear, I do mean sex.”

“I’ve never–”

“–I know.”

“You still–”

“–very much, Shay.”

He was so earnest, completely shorn of the seductive performance he usually gave. She was terrified, worried her scarred body and inexperience wouldn’t please him. He had seemed to enjoy what they had done so far, logically he would enjoy this, but anxiety needed no logic. She was still scared, certain she would fail at this task and it would lose her this budding friendship they had formed. He waited patiently for her answer. The open honesty in his face was her undoing.

“Alright.”

Leather armour, his and hers, seemed to scatter in the small alcove almost instantly. They undressed themselves and each other, eagerly seeking skin to skin contact. Removing armour and clothing was difficult when they couldn’t keep their hands and lips from each other, but they managed. Desire heated in Shay when she found herself stradling Astarion’s lap, him naked and her in nothing but an oft-repaired shirt.

Astarion had one hand on her thigh, another on the side of her hip. He encouraged her to move, to grind down on his impressively hard length. Her own hands held on to his shoulders for dear life. If it felt this good just rubbing into him, she was going to lose her mind when he was finally inside her. But then his hands moved, ghosting upwards to slip under her shirt, caressing her midsection. The message was clear; he wanted her shirt off.

The room was so bright. Torchlight let her see everything, unlike the darkened forest or tent where he had glimpsed her scars before. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t see the disappointment in his eyes. There could be no lying to yourself in this light.

“No,” Shay whispered, grasping his wrists to still his hands, “not my shirt. I can’t.”

“You know I don’t care about your scars,” he protested with a gentle kiss to her cheek.

She couldn’t keep his gaze, the earnest desire held within them shamed her. She could see it all dying, wilting under the truth of how ugly she was. Shay shook her head, “I just… can’t.”

A cool finger caressed her midsection, “can I still touch? I want to see those beautiful tits bounce, but I’ll take touching, if that’s all I can get.”

“Yeah,” she released his wrists. True to his word, Astarion’s hands moved upwards, carefully unravelling her breast band without lifting her shirt or getting anywhere near her scars. Gratitude flooded her, an oddly soft feeling compared to the inferno of desire that still coiled deep within her, growing in pulsing leaps and bounds with his touch. That she could contain so many different feelings at once made her dizzy. Or perhaps it was just Astarion, spinning her mind like a top.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, cupping her breasts in his hands. His eyes bore into hers; he wasn’t talking about her chest. Shay felt herself flush. She resumed rocking into him, needing to distract him from his embarrassing compliments. The distraction worked too well. Shay found herself gasping as pleasure jolted through her.

“Feels good,” she panted, rocking again and again, “so good.”

“Need to taste,” he replied, thrusting back into her. She bared her neck eagerly and he grinned. “That too, darling, but not just yet.”

He encouraged her to get up, to sit on the heavy chest she had just unlocked and spread her legs. He kneeled before her, a penitent man come to worship. And worship he did. His clever mouth set to work with a single minded determination. Shay dug her hands into his silky curls and held on for dear life. Pleasure waxed and waned, cresting but never quite peaking as he played her like an instrument. The mastery she had over her violin was nothing compared to this maestro’s skill.

Words tumbled from her, but she had little idea what she said. Begging for him to stop, demanding he keep going, pleading for mercy, promises of all that she owned given to him. It all flowed from her in an endless stream she couldn’t control. Astarion slipped two fingers inside her, pumping and curling, opening her body with the same ease he opened a lock. She wound tighter and tighter, a string under ever increasing tension, but always somehow in tune. It felt too  much, it felt not enough, it was all so right, how had she never felt these things before he came into the wreckage of her life? 

Thought and confusion wiped out in a wave of white-hot pleasure. She floated in a sea of utter contentment, barely aware of the fact she was moving. At least, until she felt the first push of something much larger than fingers. Shay realised she was stradling Astarion again, he was encouraging her to sink down on top of him.

“Oh– I– um…” she stuttered, confused at what to do next.

“Take it slow,” Astarion advised, the grip he had on her hips suggesting he really didn’t want her to take it slow at all, “you have all the control. For now.”

“For now?” Shay asked, the word ending on a gasp as she sank down another inch.

“Gods– yes, for now,” he repeated through gritted teeth, “I’m being generous. But next time…”

The promise of a next time, the assurance in his words that he would want such a thing, buoyed her spirits. Perhaps inexperience didn’t mean this wouldn’t be enjoyable for him after all. Shay braced herself – she had heard that it hurt the first time – and sank down entirely, allowing him inside her as far as he could go. It didn’t hurt at all. In fact, it felt wonderful. She felt full in a way she never had before, relaxed and satisfied like no meal could quite accomplish.

“Shay, if you don’t move, I swear I will drain you dry,” Astarion’s strained voice brought her back to reality.

Shay moved.

And a new song was born.

Rather than the give and take she had learned earlier, this was a true harmony. Bodies moving together, pleasure truly shared. She leaned forward to kiss him as she moved, and he eagerly returned the kiss. She tasted herself on his lips, different than tasting her own blood on him but just as enthralling. Thinking was hard, maintaining anything approaching a rhythm harder, as her body was crushed under wave after wave of new feelings of ecstasy. She felt like she would drown, quite happily. A little death waited for her at the end of their song.

Astarion reached a hand between them to touch her as they moved together, enhancing her already exquisite pleasure, sending her barrelling towards that death like an avalanche.

“Close,” she panted in his ear, “don’t stop,”

Blink.

It was working! The plan had come together easier than she had thought it would– ohgodsdon’tstopShaydon’tstop– fuck, what had she been doing? This wouldn’t work unless it was perfect for her and here she was getting lost in pleasure. It was almost novel; centuries since– fuck, yes!!

Blink.

Shay shook her head. What was that? The thought was driven away by another wave of rapture. Astarion was thrusting into her, licking at his marks on her neck all the while. A whine rose in the back of his throat.

“Bite… bite me…” Shay begged, so close to the absolute peak of bliss.

Fangs slid into her neck.

The universe collapsed.

Chapter Text

Shay couldn’t complain about how touchy Astarion was after their little interlude in the necromancer’s basement. She was touchy too. They were supposed to be getting dressed, putting their clothing, armour and weapons back on, but it was quickly devolving into something else. Snuggles. Possibly more sex. Either way, she wouldn’t complain. She hadn’t been touched by anyone but Pek in so long, having Astarion all over her made her dizzy with sensation. And blood loss. The amulet they used to fix that problem refused to work more than once a day and it had already been used that morning. 

They had to get moving, they had to find Wyll and Shadowheart and continue with their quest to be healed, but they could surely do that without taking their hands from one another. Well, they couldn’t but she could dream for a moment. Especially when that moment involved Astarion helping her buckle into her leathers, clever hands quickly working the complicated buckles, and she could let her mind wander to the pleasurable thought of what those hands had been doing to her body just moments before.

“So that’s sex,” Shay muttered, mostly to herself, while she buckled the front of her leather chestplate. Astarion, behind her, fiddled with a buckle over her shoulder.

“That’s sex with me,” he corrected. She could hear a very self-satisfied smirk in his voice. “It won’t be as good with anyone else.”

“Oh, that can’t be right,” Shay grinned, seeing an opportunity and looking forward to tweaking his nose a little. “Differently good, maybe, but still good. I guess I’ll find out at some poi–”

His hand quickly moved from the buckles of her armour to the back of her neck. He squeezed ever so slightly, making her feel a little like a naughty kitten. She had got a response from him, though what that response might mean eluded her.

“I don’t think so, darling,” his voice was low and urgent, the slightest pressure of his hand on the back of her neck encouraged her to bend forward, over the heavy wooden table in the corner of the alcove. His grip demanded control and it was thrilling. Was this what it would be like when he led their duet?

“No?” she replied. He couldn’t see her grin, but surely he could hear it. This was a game they were playing and she almost thought she knew the rules this time.

“You wouldn’t want to give all this up,” he punctuated his words by thrusting his hardening length into her still-unclothed behind. Her whole body pulsed. No, she would definitely not want to give this up, not when she had just found it.

“You don’t seem like the ‘exclusive arrangement’ type,” she replied in a flat tone, trying to mask the desire for more of his touch. This game seemed to have a kernel of truth in it, a level of communication about whatever they were doing that was much needed. Allowing him to distract her wouldn’t help get her answers, and if he knew how much she was enjoying this, he wouldn’t let another thought cross her mind, she was sure of it.

“Hmm, but you do seem like the ‘exclusive arrangement’ type,” his tone was considering, his grip on her neck gentled, a thumb stroked across the barely-scabbed bite wounds in her neck. He continued, a sound in his voice turning into something approaching wonderment, “and, I…  might see myself being that type… for you.” 

It sounded pretty great, at first. Something about her, about them, made him want to have some sort of exclusive relationship with her. She wouldn’t admit it under torture, but life with just her and Pek had been lonely. It was one of the reasons why Pek had so easily convinced her to return to the city to visit the circus, a decision that had landed her here, in a necromancer’s basement with a vampiric lover and an illithid tadpole swimming through her brain. 

Shay may not be experienced or even talented at friendships or relationships, but she did want to have them; she was only human, after all. The idea of having something more with this man who, after a prickly start on both their parts, had been so kind to her. So funny, and loyal. She liked the idea very much. But then came the chilling thoughts of reality. They were stuck together due to shared circumstances, and she was his source of food. Of course he wanted assurances of her exclusivity. 

“Is this like the stories?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the dark path of her own thoughts, “a vampiric claim, or something?”

“We can call it that,” Astarion answered, pushing his now very hard length between her legs. She shuddered with pleasure and the anticipation of more, “if you want to feel dark and dramatic about it.”

“Maybe I do,” Shay sighed, pushing back into him, “I’ll write a song about it tonight. Endless longing and the agony and ecstasy of immortal love.”

“Ugh, you really are a bard,” his voice held a teasing smile, helped along by his free hand tickling the side of her hip before sliding around to find her clit.

“Oh,” she breathed when ecstasy shot through her like lightning with his slightest touch.

“So, are we exclusive?” Astarion prompted, his talented fingers continuing to play with her body. Waves of pleasure washed away her ability to think. She forgot everything for a moment; language, time, her own name, it all ceased to have any meaning.

She moaned, rocking against him, pushing against his cock and his fingers. Shay felt increasingly hollow. She wanted him inside her again.

“Shay?” Astarion teased her name, his fingers stopping their caress.

“What? Don’t stop!” She gasped, he absolutely could not stop, not when she was so close.

“Are we exclusive?” he asked again.

“Yes!” She agreed. At this point, he could ask for her soul and she’d gleefully sign it over. A relationship was easy to agree to, it was just an agreement to what they had fallen into anyway.

He slid his length into her, both hands on her hips now to steady her against the table. Shay grabbed the edge of the thick oak in front of her, holding on for dear life. The stretch of him against muscles that were very much not used to being stretched was uncomfortable in a pleasant sort of way. She was more aware of him than she had been the first time, and she quite liked it.

The force of their lovemaking slammed Shay into the table again and again. She was certain that something was going to bruise. She hoped her dark skin would hide that evidence, so no one would tease her about it. But more than not wanting to be teased, she wanted Astarion to keep going, to never stop. Shay pushed back as well as she could, pinned to a table as she was. She felt more at his mercy than she did with his fangs in her throat and it was an exciting feeling.

She was so close to that blinding peak of ecstasy. A few more thrust, a few more strokes of his fingers on her clit and she would be lost. Just needed a little something…

“You’re mine?” she panted, her whole body clenching rhythmically, surging towards pleasure’s oblivion.

Astarion bent over her, driving her harder into the table. His lips brushed against the marks in his neck as he answered, “yours.”

It was what she needed. The whispered assurance brought them both to the peak.

They fell, together.

*****

“Beefy! There’s a piggy!” Shovel shrieked when it popped out of the hatch behind her and Astarion, joining them – and Pek – in the apothecary’s shop its former master had used as a front for his necromancy back when the decrepit village held a living populous. The little quasit then fell to the floorboards, laughing uproariously as it rolled about and clutched at its gut.

“What the hells is that?” Pek demanded, rising from her meal of goblin flesh to stand over the shrieking Shovel.

“That is a quasit called Shovel, piggy,” Shovel answered, revealing an ability to speak with animals Shay hadn’t accounted for.

Astarion immediately began searching through his pack, “animal speaking… animal speaking…” he muttered.

“No no no!” Shay tried to tug the pack from Astarion’s hand.

Pek snuffled around Shovel, taking in the scent of the demonic creature. “You smell like the hells… and mating.”

“Mating smell from Beefy,” Shovel explained while getting to its clawed feet. It gestured over its spiked shoulder to the tug of war Shay was waging with Astarion. She dropped her end of the pack as she heard the little fiend's words, spinning around to grasp her hands over its fanged mouth.

Astarion wrenched a bottle from the pack, uncorked it and chugged for all he was worth just in time for Shovel to slurp an abnormally long, slimy tongue all over Shay’s hands.

“Ew!” she shrieked, yanking her hands from the creature's face and wiping them down her leather pants. She turned to see Astarion finishing the last of his potion bottle, and knew she was defeated. Her shoulders slumped and she braced for whatever fate had in store for her when Shovel, Pek and Astarion sat down for a little chat.

“Explain,” Pek demanded of Shovel, completely ignoring Shay. Her hag-green eye shone like moist puss in the dim light of the workshop, holding a threatening promise of untold horrors should Shovel not share its gossip.

“Illy’s apothecary,” Shovel explained with far more alacrity than it had ever given to Astarion. “Illy stupid necromancer. Summoned Shovel to dig up bodies. Help with experiments. Made them dance. Such fun. Then nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Then Beefy summoned Shovel! Beefy got Illy’s book, Beefy got railed by the corpse. She liked it. Oh oooh, don’t stop!”

Shay hid her face in her hands through Shovel’s terrible impression of her. Astarion snickered.

“Corpse?” Pek asked, confusion thick in her voice “what corpse?”

“That one,” Shovel pointed at Astarion, then leaned towards Pek, stage-whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “you know he’s dead?”

“Dead, you say?” Pek made an obvious show of looking Astarion up and down, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, he looks quite fine.”

Astarion chuckled, patting Pek on the head, but saying nothing, just content to watch the show.

Shay gave up on hiding her face, instead stomping off to the large hearth that dominated the east side of the workshop room. She was tempted to slam her head into the brick mantle, but had the good sense to fold her arms upon it instead.

“Piggy, corpse is a vampire!” Shovel announced, spreading its arms wide to enhance its announcement like a sideshow at the circus.

“I’m aware,” Pek told the quasit, “hopefully it won’t ruin the effects of mating. I want piglets.”

“PIGGY FUCKS HIM TOO!?!”

Astarion fell to the floor beside Pek, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Shay seriously contemplated bashing her head in.

“When Shay – pardon, Beefy – gets with babe,” Pek explained, laughter twinking in her voice, “it will be my piglet even if it’s only got two-legs. I’ll be an Auntie. I don’t need to mate with Piglet-Daddy.”

“Other babies not coming, Piggy,” Shovel, its inky black eyes wide, shook its head before pronouncing with solemnity, “Shovel thinks Beefy married the corpse.”

Pek growled and rounded on Astarion.

“OKAY,” Shay said loudly, pushing away from the hearth and turning to the group before Pek could lecture – or more likely injure – Astarion. “That didn’t happen. We need to leave; we need to meet with Wyll and Shadowheart.”

“THEN Beefy can get married,” Shovel nodded sagely, “Humans need parties for silly oaths.”

“Out!” Shay commanded, pointing to the wide, open door.

Shovel marched out, obeying if only because the geis layed upon its summoning scroll demanded obedience. Shay followed, knowing Pek and Astarion would come along eventually.

“Marriage?” Shay heard Pek ask Astarion as he got to his feet.

“Without you?” Astarion asked in reply, “and risk my life?”

“But you mated.”

“That we did.”

Pek nodded to herself, “there will be piglets.”

“WILL YOU TWO COME ON?!” Shay called, from the doorway of the apothecary’s workshop. She hovered in the doorway, even after Astarion and Pek had joined her and Shovel. The village, blighted by time and unknown tragedy, made every survival instinct Shay had fire off at once. Her mind swarmed with a thousand blinking fireflies, each flaming with a different anxiety. She could see goblins on the rooftops, looking down into the town square. Luckily, they continued to pay particular attention to the open gate of the village, the ambush Shay and her companions had avoided first by circling the village, then by Shadowheart’s deception. Still, their poorly-hidden forms made her fingers itch. Goblins shouldn’t be left to their own devices, they should be eradicated like the vermin they were.

Shovel leaned against the large cornerstone of Illy’s former workshop, a stone decorated with faintly glowing purple whirls and symbols. Evidence the village had once had a decent population of magic users, if they had scratched a permanent portal into a stone near their village square. The little quasit may not have cared about the portal stone it touched, but the presence of the magic symbols worried Shay. A magic user, possibly an ally of the necromancer, could appear at any moment and then what?

She itched to find Wyll and Shadowheart and get out of the dangerous village. Sadly, there was no sign of them in the town square. The building they had gone in to search, the Blacksmith’s shop across the square, was still and dark. It had a sense of emptiness about it. If they were in there, they were in a basement like Shay and Astarion had just been in.

“Pek,” Shay murmured to her friend, keeping her eye on the goblin patrols above, unwilling to risk even a glance at the sow, “do you know where Wyll and Shadowheart are? Do you smell them?”

“Old trails,” Pek snorted. “I don’t smell– wait–”

The wind had shifted, coming from behind them. It carried with it a strong scent of sweat and carrion. Shay turned to look around the corner of the Apothecary’s shop, but she was too slow. A club as big as her emerged from the alley and thunked down – hard – on Shovel. The little quasit squished flat in a spurt of bone and blood erupting from its spiky flesh. Dead, the creature had no more ties to the Prime Material Plane; its body melted away into a thin cloud that smelled of brimstone. An Ogre, massive yellow-green form strung with bits of salvaged armour and gruesome trophies of bone and fur, stepped into the cloud that had been a quasit, dispersing it into the ether. What might have once been a crown for a much smaller head, blood-crusted metal broken and bent, stuck out of one of the Ogre’s cauliflowered ear as a macabre sort of earring.

“Food?” it rumbled its question in a low growl to two of its brethren still back in the alley.

“Food.” another replied, smiling widely around a broken tusk.

Three Ogres shuffled into the town square. Three hungry Ogres.

Fuck.

Shay thought quickly; the Ogres were probably working with the goblins and would stand down for a ‘True Soul’, but a hungry Ogre wasn’t one to follow orders. They had already smushed the life out of poor Shovel. There was little guarantee they wouldn’t attack, True Soul or not. Her eyes darted around the square. Goblins on the rooftops behind, they’d probably enjoy the show if they ran that way and the Ogres caught them. They might even join in. Around the Ogres was a clear path out of the village, but that path would force them past a ruined building soon to collapse and down to the ruined Temple of Selûne. The rest of the monstrous horde waited there, not safety.

The Ogres were almost on her. If they glanced to their right, they would see Astarion a fine target trapped against the portal stone. Shay had no plan, but the time for thinking had run out.

“Food?” She scoffed, puffing herself up in her best impression of Shadowheart’s True Soul imperiousness, “you killed my servant! And now you call me food? How dare you insult a True Soul!”

Two Ogres paused to scratch their heads in confusion. The third frowned. Shay took advantage of the moment to reach for the tadpole in her mind. If Astarion could get his to talk to her, she could use hers as well. Thinking hard in the direction of the little worm produced little but a sense of sleepy fullness. The damn thing was sated and resting.

“If you be friend,” the earring-wearing Ogre said, “show us her mark.”

“What?” Shay asked, listening to the monster with half a mind.

Wake up you parasitic shit, we’re gonna die!

The sensation of the tadpole rolling over and waking up made her want to heave the morning meal on the sausage-like toes of the Ogre before her.

“The mark of the Absolute: show me her brand upon your skin,” the Ogre explained, sounding almost educated in his speech patterns. Shay was certain that wasn’t true, that the tadpole had just burrowed a hole in her brain and she wasn’t correctly experiencing reality. An intelligent ogre didn’t exist.

It didn’t matter. The tadpole connected in a blaze of pain. Quick as thought, Shay told Astarion and Pek to run. She directed them to the path where there was the best chance at safety.

“I’ll distract them,” she promised.

“No–” she had no idea which of them protested. She shut down the agonising connection and put her plan into action.

“Her mark is sacred,” Shay bluffed, taking a few steps into the square to draw the Ogres forward. They took the bait, focused on her and her theatrical gesticulations. Pek slipped away, holding tight to the wall of the Apothecary’s shop, quickly joining with Astarion behind the Ogres. He gestured to her to follow. Shay knew that was useless; the Ogres would be on them all in an instant. “I’ll only show her mark to one who also bears it. Tell me, uh–”

“Lump, the Enlightened,” the erudite Ogre gave its name.

“Tell me, Lump,” Shay pronounced with every speck of oratory skill she possessed, truly on a roll, “do you bear her mark?”

Her act of arrogance allowed her to make gestures that seemed in character, but argued with Astarion behind the Ogres.

Go, take Pek and GO.

Shay knew she could take out one Ogre on her own. Together, they could take out two. But a third Ogre, plus the goblins on the rooftops made everything futile. Unless Shadowheart, Wyll and Wyll’s devilish patron all showed up in the next five seconds, Shay was on a suicide mission. Death by Ogre; a fitting end for a ranger.

Pek, thankfully, understood the plan. She grabbed Astarion’s hand in her mouth and dragged him down the path. Shay saw him arguing with her friend as they disappeared safely beyond the wall of the village.

“We do not follow the Absolute,” Lump explained, following Shay through the square. She had managed to walk them in almost a circle where now they stood near a stone well. Shay could see the spinning blades of a windmill in the distance over Lump’s shoulder and hear the shrieks of goblin laughter floating through the late afternoon air. She wished she had found a scroll of fireball in Illy’s workshop. It would be a delight to burn the entire wretched place to the ground. “We are… contractors. We allow those with her mark to pass. The rest are food. Now tell us, morsel, be you friend or be you food? Show me her mark.”

“Oh, Lump,” Shay sighed with a rueful grin, “surely you know by now that I bare no mark.”

“Food?” one of Lump’s friends asked.

“Food,” Lump practically purred.

Shay dodged around the well. The three Ogres lunged as one, knocking into each other. It gave her the precious seconds she needed to sprint towards the decrepit building near the path Astarion and Pek had taken. She wouldn’t lead the monsters to them, that would end them all. Instead, Shay dove through the broken doorway of the building, surprised to see the interior littered with a few broken desks and torn books. Perhaps it had been a school of some sort, before whatever calamity had destroyed the village. Roof tiles and boards rested in precarious piles on top of desks; two thirds of the building had no roof at all, broken, jagged rafters poking into the sky.

She ran through the debris, dodging around detritus while struggling to get her bow off her back. She had no intention of getting close enough to an Ogre to need a sword, the small collection of enchanted arrows were the best bet she had. The entire building shuddered as, behind her, the Ogres smashed their way in. Dust and dirt from what remained of the roof rained on Shay’s head. A set of stairs leading to a platform loomed before her. Halfway up, a large window. She jumped into the air, kicking off a support beam to land on the crumbling set of stairs. She noted a dry cracking sound coming from the beam as she did. More debris rained down from the roof. The open window beckoned; Shay could see the forest beyond. Perhaps she could lose the Ogres in the woods. She ran for it, bow in one hand.

“Food!” the Ogres cried, catching sight of her. They ran into the middle of the room, desks splintering under their heavy feet.

They were catching up. The Ogres were too fast, each stride easily gained as much ground as she could with three or four. Shay gave up on jumping out the window. Instead, she stood in its empty frame and drew an enchanted arrow. The heavy tip sparkled with electricity.

She shot at the support beam. Under shocks of blue light, the beam collapsed into a pile of splinters.

The rest of the roof collapsed with a rumble like a flock of Axe Beak running through the village. A broken rafter with a sharpened tip, free of its moorings, slid forward like a giant’s speer. It skewered one of the Ogre through the chest, pinning it to the ground to flail its death throes. It managed to bash its club into the skull of a companion, sending it reeling. Lump, sadly, had dodged to the side as Shay loosed her arrow. Perhaps aided by his strangely advanced intellect. He was free and safe, and falling upon her like an avalanche.

Shay leapt from the window, but did not land. Massive hands reached through the empty frame and plucked her from the air. She struggled against the grip Lump had on her waist, but could do little about it.

“You make trouble, little morsel,” Lump growled, slowly bringing Shay back through the window.

At least that’s what he tried to do.

Lump’s arm split open under a double thrust from a dagger and a short-sword. The meat  of his arm revealed to the light, red and pulsing with a strong heartbeat that sent spurts of blood into the air and all over Shay. The Ogre bellowed in agony. Muscles and tendons severed, his hand fell open, dropping her a metre or more to the ground.

Shay tumbled to the earth, the landing blasting the air from her lungs. She flailed for a moment, trying to breathe, then Pek’s beloved face appeared in her line of vision.

“What are you–?” she asked, before being beset by a coughing fit.

Lump’s head thrust out of the window, his scared face twisted with pain and hatred. “Morsel! And pork!” he snarled, “you’ll both be dinner– argh!”

The shadows beside the window, cast by the overhanging remains of the roof onto a large boulder resting just beside the open window, came alive. Astarion launched from the darkness to plunge his sword into Lump's eye. The Ogre slumped, half out of the window, his remaining eye already glazed with death.

“You two were supposed to run!” Shay lectured when she could catch her breath again. The effect of her anger was ruined by her throwing her arms around Pek and hugging with all her might.

“We did,” Pek snorted, placing piggy kisses on Shay’s shoulder, “ran all the way here.”

“Which one of you had the dumb idea to turn back?” Shay asked, returning Peks kisses.

Pek and Astarion looked at each other. Astarion shrugged, explaining. “We just… did. Didn’t talk about it.”

A growl and a crash from inside the building ruined whatever smarmy rejoiner Pek was about to make.

“One more,” Shay groaned, getting to her feet. Her ribs and waist ached from Lump’s grip and her subsequent fall from it. But there was no rest until the work was done. She fiddled around in her quiver for something suitable. Astarion plucked the bow from her hand.

“You need a healing potion,” he observed, taking a few random arrows from her quiver. “Allow me.”

Astarion shimmied up the wall, past the window and onto what remained of the roof with the ease of a climbing squirrel.

“Get down, Food!” an Ogre’s rumbling voice yelled from within.

Astarion quickly aimed and loosed. The shouts of the Ogre turned to a scream. Astarion shot again and the scream cut off in a gurgling thump.

Silence fell.

Astarion peered into the building from his rooftop perch, ensuring the Ogre he had slayed was truly down. Shay sat back on the ground, taking a moment to rest. Pek flopped to the ground beside her.

“So,” Pek snuffled softly, keeping her voice pitched too low for Astarion to hear, “ piglets…”

*****

It took four tries for Shay to bring up enough water from the well in the town square to wash the few pieces of treasure they had got from the Ogres. It seemed like there was nothing but a puddle in the depths, rather than an actual water source. Perhaps that was the tragedy that had befallen the village. A clean water source running dry would decimate any town.

“Why bother?” Astarion sighed from where he sat on the ground, leaning his back against the stone of the well. “The stench of that crown won’t be a problem with it in the bag of holding.”

“A little effort to clean it and we’ll get twice, maybe thrice, the price for it,” Shay explained from where she worked nearby. Pek, snuffling at a pile of overturned chests and crates, picked up a few scraps of cloth in her mouth and brought them over. Shay immediately used one to scrub the ogre filth from the crown Lump had been using as an earring.

“Disgusting,” Astarion muttered, watching Shay use a stone to chip a piece of gunk so old it had calcified off the crown. He gave up on watching her, turning his face to the sun to bask in its warm light as he so often did.

“Don’t worry,” she smirked to herself as she finished with the crown, “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to put in any effort.”

Shay flipped the finally-clean crown over her own blood-encrusted curls. Everything seemed strangely clearer, though nothing had changed in her vision.

Of course, Shay suddenly realized, Astarion wouldn’t want to put in any effort to clean their treasure. He was already putting all his effort towards seducing her. He had done a magnificent job of it, too, though why he would bother was a puzzle she couldn't quite solve. There was no reason for someone like him to want anything to do with her. An exclusive relationship? With her? The idea was laughable. Look at him, pretending to rest while watching her every move through eyes that pretended to be closed. She could see the calculations grind through his tadpole-riddled mind. What word or gesture would make her like him more? How could he ingratiate himself further? She wished she knew why he was doing it; what was his plan?

She flipped the crown off her head. Clarity vanished.

“Crown of paranoia,” she said to herself. The thing had made her alarmingly suspicious. It must be cursed.

“Hmm? What was that, darling?”

“The crown, it–”

A deep gnome splattered to the ground beside her with such force his skull cracked like an egg. His brain, pale pink and wet, bounced out of its casing to splat into Pek’s side.

Pek launched away with a squeal of surprise, running around the well to hide on its other side.

“What the fuck!?” Shay cried, launching to her feet and reading her bow. She scanned the skies for something that could have carried, and dropped, the poor gnome from such a height as to splatter it like that. A tug on her arm tried to take her focus from the sky, but she wouldn’t let it.

“You’re a magnificent target out here,” Astarion murmured in her ear and tugged harder at her arm, “get to cover.”

She allowed herself to be dragged to the miniscule cover offered by the well. No monstrous form marred the perfect summer sky, but that wouldn’t stop her from watching for one. She moved blindly, trusting Astarion to take her where she needed to go while she kept them safe. What are you? Where are you? She scanned the sky for anything that moved.

“Who in the hells labels things like that?” Wyll’s frustrated voice jogged Shay from her focus on the sky. She peaked over the stone edge of the well to see Wyll and Shadowheart stomping towards them from the direction of the now-still windmill. Thick webbing, sparkling with dew in the sunlight, was caught in Shadowheart’s dark braid. “Brake… release brake… how was I supposed to know?”

“Well, he’s dea– oh, there you guys are,” Shadowheart interrupted herself, noticing Shay, Astarion and Pek hiding by the well. “What are you doing?”

“Gnome fell out of the sky,” Shay explained, gesturing at the broken form of the dead man. “I assumed something dropped him.”

“No, Wyll launched him.” Shadowheart smirked.

“Explain,” Pek insisted.

“Goblins had the poor fellow tied to the windmill,” Wyll explained, not understanding Pek but wanting to explain anyway. He gestured back towards the windmill of which he spoke.

“The Blade tried to save him,” Shadowheart jumped in, laughter sparkling in her words, “but it turns out reading labels on levers isn’t a skill one gets from a demonic pact.”

“Labels?” Shay asked, getting to her feet with Astarionl. Pek came to stand at their side.

Wyll sighed with frustration, “turns out ‘release brake’ doesn’t mean what I thought and, well…” he gestured at the splattered gnome corpse leaking blood and various fluids into the dirt.

“Sped the damn thing up,” Shadowheart giggled, “turned it into a trebuchet.”

Astarion barely suppressed his own giggle. Shay elbowed him. Someone was dead, it wasn’t funny.

“Yeah,” Wyll agreed. He stood over the gnome, looking regretful. “Sorry, sir. Shadowheart, would you say a prayer for the dead?”

Shadowheart rolled her eyes, but complied. She kneeled beside the broken body of the gnome and murmured to her dark goddess.

“Did you at least find anything?” Shay asked Wyll while Shadowheart prayed.

“Some,” Wyll replied, fishing a smooth purple gemstone from his pocket, “Bit of metal that stinks of the hells, this purple gem and an entrance to the underdark in a cave below the smithy. What about you?”

“A magic book that needs a purple gem,” Shay replied, recognizing the gemstone as the same that sat in the eyes of Illy’s book. She plucked the purple gemstone from Wyll’s hand, turning to give it to Astarion then continued explaining, “some supplies and treasure. Not a lot, really. We should figure out how to get to the temple without alarming all the guards.”

“We could go under,” Wyll offered his idea, excitement sparkling in his one good eye, “the underdark is right there! A new frontier.”

“Fighting drow instead of goblins!” Pek snorted, “brilliant idea one-eye.”

“Do you have any idea what’s down there?” Astarion scoffed, “surely it’s more dangerous!”

“Of course I don’t know what’s down there, I’ve never been,” Wyll replied, his excitement impossible to deflate, “but I want to see it.”

“See it when we’re healed–” Shay cut off as the jingle of armour caught her ears. Motion down the path to the temple quickly resolved into a new squad of goblins heading towards the village. More creatures they would need to convince of their fake True Soul status. If they were anything like the Ogres had been, more informed and looking for some sort of mark, they wouldn’t be able to fake their way through that encounter. Shay tapped Shadowheart on the shoulder, interrupting her prayers. “It’s time to go. Now.”

“We can use the portal stone,” Wyll pointed to the stone at the corner of the Apothecary’s building. “There’s another one near the grove. We’ll be untraceable; we can gear up more, deal with Kagha, help the Tieflings and come back here to attack the problem of the temple from a different angle.

“I know no magic to use that,” Shay frowned.

“But I do,” Wyll explained with a rueful grin. “Warlock, and all.”

The sounds of the goblin squad grew louder. Their flapping feet and grumbling voices complaining about having to work increased by the second. Shay mistrusted magic, but what choice did they have?

“Fine,” she agreed, “let’s go.”

The companions all rushed to the stone, holding on to each other as Wyll directed. Shay threw an arm around Pek’s neck, her other hand grasped in Astarion’s tight grip. In turn, he held Shadowheart’s hand and she held Wyll.

The Blade of Frontiers murmured magical words while tracing a dark finger along the purple lines glowing in the stone. Light grew in a swirl, a blinding storm that had Shay squeezing her eyes shut.

The squad of goblins entered the empty town square.

Chapter Text

The instant the tumbling, twisting, blindingly bright paths of magic dissipated into reality, Shay dropped to the ground, thankful for the return of gravity, and heaved the contents of her stomach onto the sun-warmed earth.

“First time?” Wyll asked with a wince as Shay retched again.

Pek leaned her weight into Shay, forcing her to brace herself on all fours, then added to the puddle Shay had made. Together, they made a disgusting racket, heaves and splashes of vomit echoed off the cliffs leading to the nearby Chionthar.

“Did… did we– nope,” Shay attempted to ask before cutting herself off and adding still more to the ever-growing puddle she had made with Pek. 

She winced as felt a few stiff, awkward pats on her back, upsetting her bruised ribs. Shay glanced over her shoulder, assuming it was Shadowheart offering the stilted empathy. Astarion stood behind her. He reached towards her, using his cool hand to brush sweaty curls – and ogre blood – from her face. Her waterskin, half full, dangled from his other hand. Pek finally moved away on unsteady hooves, allowing Shay to stand. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and felt deeply embarrassed. Short hours ago, he wanted them to be exclusive. Surely, by days end, that would be over with.

Welcome to a relationship with a human. All sorts of gross things come out of us. Wait, what? Where are you going? Come back!

“Drink, darling,” Astarion thrust the waterskin into her hands. She drank from it, then upended the rest over her head, trying to take care with her bruised ribs. The lukewarm water rinsed the sick from her mouth and body. She was certain it did nothing for her appearance, but little would until she found time to bathe. Surely, at least on that front, Astarion knew what he was getting into.

“You keep making faces,” Shadowheart observed, when Shay bent over to consider throwing up again, “something hurts, doesn’t it? Not just your sensitive little tummy.”

“Fuck… fuck you,” Shay panted, managing not to retch. Pek as well had ceased her riotous vomiting. They were returning to something approaching an equilibrium with reality. “I’m … I’m fine. Ogre squeezed my ribs. Fell out of a window. All in a day's work.”

“You said you would take a potion,” Astarion frowned at her.

“No, you told me to take a potion,” Shay corrected him, “I didn’t. It’s just some bruising. Which would be a waste of a potion.”

“I think we’re about to confront a Shadow Druid,” Wyll stated the obvious; Kagha, they all knew, was clearly aligned with the Shadow Druids of the Cloakwood, if not a Shadow Druid herself. They hadn’t found the swamp docks where Kagha had agreed to meet with the Shadow Druids, but surely secret communication with them and clandestine meetings was damning enough evidence. Wyll folded his arms, thoughtfully tapping fingers across his bicep, “Shadowheart, could you heal her? I’d hate to die because Shay would rather hoard potions than use them.”

“I’m fine!” Shay protested as Shadowheart approached her with outstretched hands. She took a step back, and proceeded to fall over Pek, landing heavily on the ground. Pain lanced through her, drawing a moan from her lips. If her ribs were bruised before, they might be cracked now.

“You will be fine,” Shadowheart made healing sound like a threat. She began to whisper prayers, summoning the familiar azure light of healing magic in her outstretched hands. Shadowheart ghosted her hands along Shay's ribs, not touching but allowing the magic to do its work.

“Take your medicine, baby.” Pek grunted at her side, “should’ve listened to Piglet-Daddy.”

“Can everyone take a potion of animal speaking?” Astarion asked the group, more delighted than Shay had ever seen him, “Pek’s words are a historical moment and I think they need to be heard by everyone. For… posterity.”

“Fuck you,” Shay groaned around the uncomfortable feeling of her ribs knitting back together. She wasn’t certain who she was cursing at. Everyone, probably.

*****

The tieflings of Elturel had been happy to welcome them back into the Emerald Grove. Upon ducking through the tunnel that led to the grove, the companions were quickly swarmed. Everyone asking for assurances from Wyll that the druids wouldn’t kick them out to face the goblin-infested dangers of the road. The people were scared and desperate, having – quite literally – been through hell. Wyll moved through the crowd, clapping shoulders, ruffling the hair of children. He brought an assurance to the tieflings that not even their own leaders could bring. 

As Wyll was speaking with the guards at the entrance, Zevlor appeared, rushing up the path with his crossbow ready. Relief nearly knocked him to the ground when he realised there was no danger at the gate, only the companions returning with news.

“Have you defeated the goblins?” he asked, a hopeful light in his orange eyes.

Wyll shook his head, “there are less now, my friend, but the bulk of the tribe has holed up in an old Temple. The damn thing is practically a fortress. We can find no way in that wouldn’t be a suicidal charge of the gates.”

“There may be a back way…” Zevlor said thoughtfully. More tieflings appeared, wanting the assurance of the Blade of Frontiers. Zevlor understood the time to speak of plans was later. “Speak to me in my office when you’re able to peel yourself away from this unruly lot. But don’t take too long; the ritual continues and our time is short.”

A tiefling laughed at Zevlor’s words, clapping the man on his mailed shoulder. Wyll nodded, turning away to speak to more tieflings.

Astarion and Pek had settled in to watch, and comment on, the performance of the Blade of Frontiers. Shay and Shadowheart were able to slip away to reprovision themselves, to trade whatever they had found that they couldn’t use for repairs, more potions and arrows. Food was in shorter supply than ever; there was nothing to be found there. While trading with Dammon at his makeshift forge, Shay avoided the gaze of Okta. The old tiefling woman was standing at her cooking station, dishing out bowls of thin gruel to equally-thin children from a large cauldron. The refugees of Elturel were beginning to look gaunt as supplies stretched thinner and thinner. Many would be going to bed that night with empty bellies. Shay felt some guilt over that; she had known hunger and wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but she wouldn’t sacrifice Pek to solve that problem. Trading family for a full belly was no trade at all.

Shay was bemused watching Shadowheart trade with Dammon. The cleric was an entirely different person; smiling and even giggling at Dammon’s poor attempts at humour. She kept fiddling with her long braid while she looked up into Dammon’s pale blue eyes. In days past, Shay would have been certain that there was something wrong with Shadowheart; a curse or poison or something to affect her behaviour. But days on the road with Astarion had given her a very intense course in flirting.

“Sooooo?” Shay asked Shadowheart when they were done with Dammon and began to head back to the last place they had seen Wyll, Astarion and Pek.

“Hmm?” Shadowheart asked with half a mind. She glanced back over her shoulder for one last look at Dammon working his forge.

“You like Dammon!”

“Darkness preserve me, no.” Shadowheart seemed surprised at Shay’s accusation. Her denial was emphatic and quite genuine.

They had rounded a corner in the tunnels of the outer grove. Out of sight of the forge, Shay grabbed Shadowheart and moved her to the side of the tunnel against the watermarked limestone walls. Tieflings walked by on various errands, many smiling and nodding at them as they passed. Shay made sure she spoke softly, so only her friend could hear her. “What the hells was that, then? Was I supposed to rob him while you distracted him? Because I didn’t. You gotta tell me these things first, Shadowheart.”

“No, that’s not it,” Shadowheart’s voice held a barely restrained laugh, “he’s just… rather nice to look at. Blacksmithing does a body good. And if we end up staying here tonight, I could use some company.”

“Oh.” Shay felt like a bit of an idiot. “Wait, what about Wyll?”

“Wyll can’t have him!” Shadowheart laughed, taking Shay’s arm to continue their return to the others. “I saw him first.”

*****

“Shadow druids are said to live in a grove at the heart of the Cloakwood,” Shay explained to the group as they loitered along the sloping path to the inner grove. They were gearing up for a fight while trying to look like they were doing no such thing. “Never saw one myself, I don’t think.”

“Do you know anything about them?” Wyll asked, he pulled a potion bottle from his pack. The bottle was small and bulbous, glowing with a bright yellow elixir within. He uncorked the bottle and drank its contents. For a moment, his body seemed to glow with an arcane light.

“Not a lot, honestly,” Shay replied. She removed the quiver of arrows from her back and passed it, along with her bow, to Astarion. “They’re said to be fanatical defenders of nature, uncompromising and unmerciful. Astarion, stay out of sight and get high. Remember last time we were in there, there were vines and a half wall right at the entrance? Maybe you can get up there. Guard our backs.”

“Of course, darling,” he murmured, his cool hand brushing hers when he took the weapons from her. “But I don’t see why you have to charge in like a hero. That’s a good way to die.”

“Kagha only has eyes for Shay,” Shadowheart spoke up, her attention on the gauntlets whose straps she was tightening.

“Grove Leader thinks rangers are servants,” Pek grumbled. She gave a mighty blow through her snout to show what she thought of that opinion.

“She sent me off to take care of her little tiefling problem,” Shay reminded Astarion, “she’ll probably think I’m reporting back or something. It’ll be hard to avoid her notice. But you can.”

“Are we ready?” Wyll asked. He received nods in return. “Then let us journey into the heart of danger.”

The companions followed Shay down the path and into the inner grove. Druids still chanted around their idol, the swirling green light summoned from their spell was nearly blinding. The ritual would be complete soon, which meant the tieflings needed to leave the grove, or die, as per Kagha’s orders. Shay walked through the grove projecting a confidence she didn’t quite feel within; she wondered if Kagha was the only Shadow Druid within the inner sanctum of the grove, or if they would be fighting the entire populace. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

The stone entrance to the inner sanctum of the grove rumbled as it moved aside with Shay’s touch to a carved whirl in its centre. Just like last time, a gust of damp air came from the dark depths of the tunnel revealed upon its opening. The dark scent of earth and loam and growing things lingered in that gust.

“Mielikki be with us,” Shay muttered, then entered the tunnel with Pek at her side. Wyll and Shadowheart kept close to her heels. Astarion quickly vanished into the dark shadows of the tunnel. Shay trusted that he was finding a good vantage point from which to shoot if necessary.

A large rat, one of three that kept close to Kagha at all times, ran up to Shay and sniffed her boot. She frowned at it, something about it tickling her mind. Why would a rat be hanging about the inner sanctum of the grove, when there was a large group of refugees and all their detritus so much closer. Why would they stay so close to a woman whose animal companion was a rat-eating serpent? Rats were usually smarter than that. Shay wondered if the rats weren’t familiars, but wild-shaped Shadow Druids. She kneeled down to look closer at the rat. It stood on its hind legs, looking back at her with keen eyes.

“I know the truth,” Shay whispered to the rodent, “You are a Shadow Druid.”

The rat grew still, its eternally sniffing nose and twitching whiskers freezing in a moment of indecision. Rats were usually quite talkative, but this one didn’t answer Shay. Instead, it ran back to scurry about Kagha’s feet. That was all the proof Shay needed.

“The rats are druids,” she murmured to Shadowheart and Wyll, standing to approach Kagha at the far end of the sanctum. They passed a dark skinned human man in armour made of leaf and leather, a crown of shorn antlers on his head. He ignored them, preferring to speak with a large, silver-furred wolf.

Shadowheart dodged behind Shay, using her and Pek as a shield from the wolf’s golden gaze. “Fucking wolves,” the cleric muttered to herself.

“What are you doing here?” Kagha demanded, her sharp elven features moving into an angry frown. Her imperious demands interrupted Shay’s line of thought about Shadowheart and wolves. “I sent you to Zevlor. The tieflings are still infesting the grove; you haven’t done your duty, ranger.”

“My duty?” Shay laughed incredulously, “don’t speak to me of duty. I know the truth, Kagha. You mean to take the grove for the Shadow Druids!”

“What?” Kagha was so shocked she took a full step backwards, pressing her back into the stone wall of the inner sanctum. She looked hunted, her clear, green eyes flickered between the rats on the ground and Shay. The other druids in the room, the halfling they had saved from goblins in the tunnel, a bearded human man and the antlered druid with his wolf companion, all leapt to their feet at Shay’s pronouncement. Hands drifted to weapons, eyes glanced suspiciously between Shay, a ranger they did not know, and Kagha, their leader and protégé of the head of the grove.

“This won’t end well,” Shadowheart whispered to Wyll. The warlock nodded his agreement, his own hand drifting to the hilt of his rapier.

Light and mist swirled around the rats on the ground, obscuring them from sight. The cracking of bone could be heard, then three halfling forms rose from the obscuring magic they had summoned. Their pale skin was streaked with filth where they weren’t wearing black strips of poorly cured leather. Their hair was matted into tangles. Each halfling looked almost feral, even the white-haired elder one who stepped forward to regard Shay with disdain. These were people who had lived in the wilds for years. They were Shadow Druids.

“I knew there would be trouble when the pretend-ranger of the Cloakwood showed up,” the white-haired halfling spat.

“Mistress Olodan, I can explain…” Kagha interjected.

“Shh-shh,” Olodan shushed Kagha, her hand fluttering at the druid, “No need. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Kagha!” the antlered druid cried out in horror, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Go on,” Olodan sneered at Shay, “let Rath in on all our secrets, you sneaky little spy. Tell him.”

“Kagha is a Shadow Druid.” Shay spoke through clenched teeth, Olodan’s accusation of her being a pretend ranger grated worse than any of Ethel’s insults had.

“She means to convert the circle,” Pek continued the explanation to Rath.

“Kagha, have you lost your mind!?!” Rath stared at Kagha in shock. The newly revealed Shadow Druid lifted her chin, a defiant expression on her face. The dim light in the inner sanctum caught in her bright auburn hair. For a moment, Shay thought Kagha’s hair resembled the hood of a venomous serpent. Fitting for a snake of a woman.

“She’s found her mind. Her right mind,” Olodan chuckled, “you and Halsin welcome untouchables into your midst. You defile the grove for the sake of misplaced harmony.”

“Olodan speaks truth!” Kagha spoke to the other druids in the sanctum, her voice gaining the sonorous quality of an orator used to being heard and obeyed. “Who among you disagrees? Who would see this grove in ruin?”

“The choice is made, Kagha,” Olodan said, her aged voice thick with fanaticism, “burn the tainted away. Start with Mielikki’s failure.”

Kagha hesitated. She glanced at Rath and the other druids, the tainted ones she was directed to slaughter, the druids she had spent years working with, side-by-side. After a moment, it seemed her mind was made up. She squared her shoulders and saluted, hand over heart, bowing her head to the leader of the Shadow druids, “as you say, Olodan.”

“Kagha, you don’t want to fight the circle,” Wyll cautioned the druid as she drew two short swords.

“Olodan is right about me being the pretender of the Cloakwood,” Shay spoke quickly, she wanted to distract Kagha from her gristly work. The circle falling upon itself in battle wouldn’t end well for the tiefling refugees or for her and her fellow infected. Kagha had to be stopped before she struck the first blow against the druids of the Emerald Grove and started something that could not be undone. “I’ve lived on its edge for five years. Got all my ranger training from the journals of a dead cleric of Mielikki. Have you ever been to the Cloakwood, Kagha? Have you seen its dark tangles through which no deer can pass? It’s bramble-covered trees that house no bird or squirrel? Nature doesn’t thrive in the shadows of the Cloakwood. It mourns what it should be. Is that what you want for your grove? The shadows won’t save you – they’ll corrupt you. Stop this, Kagha. Stop it while you can.” 

In Shay’s mind, a pounding headache began, her tadpole repeating Astarion’s voice again and again. Move back, let me shoot her. Move back, let me shoot her. She didn’t move, blocking Astarion’s shot with her own body. If Kagha fell now, the entire circle might fall and take them with it. She could feel his displeasure with her decision, but there was no time to explain, not when it might incapacitate her to access her tadpole to speak with him.

“No!” Kagha shook her head in denial, her voice breaking as she protested, “You… you don’t know what you say. In shadow, we are purified.”

“We know these druids’ ways,” Pek spoke to Kagha, knowing she would understand, “all they touch decays.”

“When I came to this forest,” Shay told Kagha, watching her wilt before the truths being revealed, “there was no sign of a druids care. I was shocked to find out there was a grove here. It’s a mess out there. You've turned your back on the forest. Is that what Silvanus teaches?”

“When… when the darkest hour fell, it was us that brought light.” Kagha spoke slowly, understanding coming to her in fits and starts. “Silvanus demands we illuminate shadow, not hide within it. How – how was I so blind?”

“Careful, Kagha,” Olodan cautioned, “the shadows don’t forgive.”

“I belong to the shadows no longer,” Kagha announced. The weight of dark secrets seemed to lift off her. The swords in her hands pointed towards the Shadow Druids, rather than her fellows. “You have no power over me!”

“You would question my power?” Olodan cried out, “Mother Earth, hear me. Grant me your wrath!”

Olodan and her compatriots raised their hands in the air, calling on druidic magic to change their forms again. Their bodies burst like overripe fruit, rearranging themselves into a bear, a giant badger and a wolf. Shay and Pek stepped back, giving Astarion the clear shot he needed. 

An arrow streaked into Olodan’s badger-furred chest, exploding in an inferno of fire that scorched the other Shadow Druids. All of the wild-shaped creatures growled in pain. Shay had little time to be afraid of the fire; before the inferno had a moment to subside, the silver-furred wolf streaked past her, clamping its jaws upon the throat of the wolf-shaped druid.

Shadowheart shrieked in surprise at the wolf, her fear of the animal preventing her from doing anything. Wyll called upon an eldritch blast, sending the magic streaking into the wild-shape bear. Kagha thrust her swords into Olodan’s back, stabbing deeply.

The bear, roaring in pain, sat up on its hind legs and lashed out. Shay tried to parry with her sword, but the bear blew through her puny defence. She was sent reeling into the cowering Shadowheart. She tripped over the cleric, both women ending up prone on the ground. Shay heard the twang of bowstring and felt the wash of heat as another fire arrow flew into the Shadow Druids.

“Silvanus!” Rath’s voice cried, joined in chorus by the other druids, even Kagha. Magic light flared in the dim sanctum, the growls of animals and squelching of weapons stabbing into organs. Shay got to her feet and helped Shadowheart to hers. They turned to the battle, noting that Pek had stood guard over them both while they were down.

“You’re up?” Pek grunted, not turning around to check for herself. Her full attention was on the battle before her, and keeping Shay safe.

“Yeah, go get ‘em.” Shay told her friend.

Pek charged into the fray, knocking the badger-Olodan onto her side with the force of her charge.

The wolves, fighting and snapping at each other rolled towards Shadowheart and Shay.

“Keep that beast away from me!” Shadowheart gasped.

Shay stabbed the wild-shaped wolf with her sword. It collapsed to the ground, dead. She looked around for her next opponent, but it was over. The shadow-druids were wild-shaped bodies on the ground. Rath was taking Kagha’s weapons from her.

“I should lock you in chains for this betrayal, Kagha,” Rath was lecturing as Shay approached.

“You once called me a monster,” Kagha told Shay, not fighting Rath as he disarmed her. “Seems I’ve proven you right.”

"Protecting your people is natural,” Pek consoled Kagha, clacking her bloodied tusks against Shay’s legs.

“But you went about it wrong.” Shay stated flatly.

“An understatement. I betrayed Silvanus himself, led the circle to shadow,” Kagha turned to Rath, still issuing orders despite her downfall. “We will stop the rite and I will stand trial. My fate lies with the Treefather, may he have mercy.”

“And what of Zevlor’s people?” Wyll called from where Shadowheart was patching up a deep clawmark in his arm.

“We will grant them safe harbour until they depart,” Rath assured the Blade.

“Meanwhile,” Kagha interjected, “help us contend with the goblins. Perhaps we can dissuade them from attacking.”

“Can’t attack if they’re dead.” Pek snorted.

An arm slung over Shay’s shoulder. The weight of it tucked her into the side of a cool body. “How did the Shadow druids find you?” Astarion asked, checking on Shay’s health in his own way.

“A good question,” Shay pointed out, “there could be more of them around.”

“It began with a letter. There was no messenger. It simply… appeared,” Kagha explained, her voice trembling with self loathing, “Olodan came soon after. An army was coming, she said. Goblins, drow, and more still – legions upon legions. The druids of the Cloakwood knew the dangers this would bring. They ordained that all circles cast the rite to shelter from the storm.”

“Nature – Silvanus – cannot be separate from the world.” Shay shook her head, “that’s… not natural.”

“It sounded right, at the time,” Kagha went on, “there’s no excuse, of course. I won’t forget the wounds I’ve inflicted. I pray Halsin returns to heal them in full.”

“Mielikki’s child,” Rath intoned to Shay, “you have saved Kagha from herself. I cannot thank you enough for that. Her mishaps could have ended in much bloodshed and you have prevented that. Thanks to your efforts, we can restore the balance of the emerald grove and the forest beyond.”

“We’ll deal with the goblins,” Wyll swore, inserting himself into the conversation, “we swear.”

*****

With the druid’s announcement that the Rite of Thorns was to be called off, and the Tiefling refugees from Elterel could stay in the Grove until the road to Baldur’s Gate was safe, the Emerald Grove had relaxed. Where before, tension had quieted the grove, now birdsong trilled from every tree. Butterflies and bees flitted about, sampling the nectar of blooming flowers and even the rats in the back of the cave seemed happier, or at least bolder, scurrying from cracks in the cavern walls to run around the feet of shrieking tiefling children.

The companions had scattered through the grove, agreeing to take a night off before seeking the back entrance into the Goblin Encampment Zevlor had hinted about. It seemed the Tieflings and the Druids all agreed with that sentiment. While food was still in short supply, wine was most certainly not and the libations that flowed further relaxed the inhabitants of the grove. 

Astarion had vanished into the shadows of the approaching dusk, presumably to leave the grove entirely so he could hunt. Shay assumed he would find them later. She moved with Pek through the paths of the grove, seeking a spot to sit down and find a moment of quiet. They passed Wyll at the table Ethel had manned only a few days prior, the table was now covered in potion bottles of a different sort; alcohol was, after all, a potion in its own way. He was sharing a cup with three red-skinned Tieflings, one in the robes of a wizard. She heard the words “Sorcerous Sundries” in a deeply pompous voice from the berobed tiefling as she walked by. The rest of that conversation was lost to the murmurs of the crowd. Shay noticed a rather disgruntled Shadowheart, wine bottle dangling from one hand, standing near Dammon’s forge. A line of Druids had formed, seeking repair to various weapons, armour or tools, and that completely absorbed his attention. He had even commandeered a fellow refugee to help manage the line and a hulking Druid with a green tinge to his skin – Shay suspected that one had Orc in his bloodline somewhere – to work the bellows of the forge. Dammon had no time for the pleasant diversions Shadowheart offered and she wasn’t happy about it. 

Shay ended up sitting on the rough wooden steps leading to the platform where she had met Wyll. The children who had then been learning defence from the Blade of Frontiers jumped and dodged about the platform, laughing as the rats of the grove played along with them. Pek sat on the ground at Shay’s feet, beside the pack and weapons Shay was relieved to not carry for a moment.

“You were right,” Shay told Pek as they both watched the children and rats play, “the animals of the Grove wait for the return of Halsin and would prefer to hold to his orders. They want the refugees to be welcome and cared for as much as he did.”

“I know,” Pek shrugged a scarred, bristling shoulder. There was little in the world that could deter her from the notion that she was correct in all decisions. She gently nudged at the pile of packs and weapons beside her, eventually poking the violin case out of the pile. 

Shay took the hint, removed her beloved instrument from its case and gave it a quick tune. She set the violin under her chin, cradling it gently, then brought bow to string and allowed music to carry her away. Her eyes drifted shut and she lost track of time as one song bled into another. Shay was in a near-meditative state, playing songs her body knew so well she had no need to think to produce them. The music brought a calm she hadn’t felt since before the Nautiloid; it had been too long since she had played for the peaceful enjoyment of it.

Peace shattered under a sound like hail falling on slate roof tiles. Shay startled, her eyes snapping open to see she had gathered an audience and they were applauding. Tiefling children and their parents formed a little crowd around her, everyone smiling joyfully. At the front of a crowd, a young tiefling woman applauded the loudest. She looked every inch a bard, wearing bold patterns and bright colours, violet streaked heavily through her light brown hair. Her pale blue skin stood out among the predominantly red-skinned tieflings. Her eyes glowed a fiery orange from black sclera, eyes that spoke of the demonic heritage of the tiefling, if the horns and tail didn’t give it away. The neck of a lute jutted above her head, rising into the sky just as her curling black  horns did. A thick leather strap crossed her body, clearly holding the instrument to her.

“A bard!” The tiefling bard breathed, excitedly stepping forward to grasp Shay’s hand and shake it vigorously. “They never said there was a bard. I’m Alfira, apprentice of Lihala of Elturel.”

“Oh… um,” Shay stuttered, trying to disengage her hand from Alfira’s enthusiastic grip, “I’m not a bard.”

Alfira’s face fell, “an apprentice as well? I hope you didn’t lose your mentor like me. Lihala died on the journey here. Goblin arrow. There was… there was so much blood. I’m writing a song for her.”

“No, not an apprentice,” Shay finally got her hand back. She swiftly put the violin back in its case and shut the lid. The crowd began to disperse, tiefling parents murmuring their thanks for the moment of music as they herded their children away. As the crowd thinned out, Shay caught sight of Astarion, leaning against the cavern wall. He was rolling a coin over his knuckles with a detached air of amusement. She glared at him, hopefully conveying a message of ‘get me out of this’. He smiled back at her, but did not approach. The bastard.

Alfira laughed brightly at Shay’s denials, “surely you jest! None but a bard could play like that! You must have had training. More training than me.”

“Help. Me.” Shay muttered to Pek before standinding from the violin case and returning her attention to Alfira. “I’m a ranger. If you want help with your song, I’m not the one to give it.”

“If you say so,” Alfira looked doubtful. Pek yawned and stretched, rolling over towards Alfira. The motion caught the tieflings’ attention. She smiled down at Pek. “Lihala could charm animals. Speak with them, too. She said I would learn that in a season or so.”

“Still doesn’t make me a bard.”

Pek started snoring. Astarion didn’t move from the rock wall. 

Awkward silence stretched.

“Just… would you hear the song I’m working on?” Alfira broke the silence to plead, “I really need a learned ear and, bard or not, you’re the closest thing to it.

She didn’t want to. Gods, she did not want to. The only person she had ever worked on a song with was Mama and those memories were sacred.

A druid walked by, frowning slightly as he glanced at her and Alfira. A tiefling guard passed the other way, giving Alfira an encouraging smile and a thumbs up before moving onward. Shay knew the companions were reliant on the newly forged equilibrium of the grove. As long as there was peace in the grove, they had a safe harbour as they sought healing from their illithid parasites. Turning Alfira down may not upset that peace, but things were so new and tense… who knew what straw might break the horses back?

“Yes, fine,” Shay agreed with a sigh, sitting herself back on the steps. She gave Pek a gentle tap with her foot. Far less of a kick than the sow deserved, but as much of a kick as Shay would ever give her.

Alfira had her lute in her hands almost immediately. She gave an experimental strum or two – Shay was pleased to hear the thing was in tune – then started her song. The melody was pleasant, a fairly standard ballad. It didn’t show off any spectacular mastery of the instrument, but not all songs had to. It was… fine. It was fine. Nothing special, but fine. Alfira looked at Shay with wide eyes.

“It’s lovely,” Shay told the budding musician with complete honesty. She wasn’t a master musician by any means, her ear wasn’t a critical one and she wasn't going to crush the young girl's dreams any further than they had been already.. “I’m sure your mentor would have liked it.”

“If only I could get the words right,” Alfira sighed in frustration and looked down at her instrument. The glow of her eyes gave away how she peaked at Shay through dark lashes.

Shay tried one more time to summon Astarion to save her with nothing but facial expressions. He smirked at her, completely understanding the request and denying it. She would plot her revenge later. “Let’s hear them.”

“Dance upon the stars tonight,” Alfira promptly began singing in a clear, high soprano far out of Shay’s own range, “Smile and pain will fade away. Roads of mine will change– no– become–”

“Stop there,” Shay advised.

“I can’t find the words!” Alfira cried, frustrated.

“Let’s think it through,” Shay felt her mother’s words come out of her mouth and she quickly blinked tears away. This wasn’t about Mama. “The song is about your mentor, but anything specific? Special moments with her?”

“She… she loved dancing,” Alfira began to explain, “had two left feet, mind. I remember waking up one night on the road and seeing her dancing beneath the stare… a huge smile on her face. Thinking of it now – my heart hurts and my words just seem to crumble… like ash.”

The young woman brightened when the word left her mouth. “Wait. Words of mine will turn to ash. That’s perfect! But then… what’s next?”

“What would you say to Lihala,” Shay asked, trying not to ask herself that question about mama,  “if she were here right now?”

“That… that it’s ok. That I’ll be ok.” Alfira replied slowly, thinking over her answer, “and thank you. Thank you for everything.”

“That’s what your song needs to say,” Shay told Alfira, standing to gather her bags. It was beyond time to exit this horrible trip down musical memory lane. “Write the song to Lihala, not about Lihala. Tell her your thanks and your feelings.”

“Yes…” Alfira replied with half a mind, already plucking at the strings of her lute. Her focus was on her song, not Shay.

Bags, weapons and violin strapped to her body once more, Shay nudged Pek with her foot, getting the sow to her feet. Alfira was muttering to herself in snippets of song, her attention completely lost to the music. “Good chat,” Shay grumbled under her breath, then moved on. The sun was getting low and it was time to find somewhere to lay her head.

Shay and Pek had made it out of the cavern complex that made up the outer grove, heading towards the tunnel entrance that led completely out before Astarion caught up to them.

“Leaving, darling?” he asked, falling into step at her side.

“No, just looking for somewhere I won’t have to talk to anyone for the rest of the night,” she replied, crossing a steep dip in the ground at the tunnel entrance by walking across a fallen log. A path curled around the top of the inner grove, heading towards the cliffs that held the Chionthar in a stony embrace. She paused on the other side, realising Astarion hadn’t followed.

“I’ll go… ?” he asked, looking a little lost.

“You and Pek don’t count,” Shay assured him, “though I should push you both in the Chionthar for abandoning me like that.”

“You like music,” Pek explained her motivations, “that was a music person. You should talk to music people.”

“You did help her, darling,” Astarion continued Pek’s line of thought once he joined her on the other side of the fallen log. “I just hoped that would lead to you playing a little more. It was lovely to hear.”

Shay wrestled with her thoughts as they passed under a tree. She had enjoyed playing, they were right about that part. A territorial squirrel shrieked insults from overhead. Astarion giggled, still not used to hearing the words of all of nature’s creatures. The cutest, most fluffy of animals were always the most crass. 

The path continued, winding around a rise that – blessedly – had a flat top, the endless dome of the sky for a roof and someone had left a telescope on a tripod up there. Scuff marks all over the ground showed that people often passed through this spot, probably using the telescope to watch for approaching goblin raiders. The telescope would be useless in the dark, leaving the area free for Shay to lay out her bedroll. Astarion too, if he wanted to stay.

“Can’t have a fire here, we’d be seen for miles,” Astarion observed, “and I, for one, want warm water to clean up.” He took Shay by the arm and dragged her back down the path. It was wide, with a gentle slope often flattening out entirely. One of those flat areas was a snake-bend curve that had plenty of space for the three of them. The rise would hide any fire from sight and a straight fall to the Chionthar on one side meant they could use a rope and bucket to bring up water. It was a better spot to spend the night than the top of the rise.

“Look at you, finding the best place to camp outside,” Shay grinned, setting up camp, “we’ll make a ranger out of you yet.”

Pek disappeared into the swiftly fading light, off to scrounge for tubers, worms and whatever other food she could find.

“Hardly,” Astarion drawled, tying a length of rope to a bucket, “I want to get clean, not muck about in the woods like you.”

“I want to get clean!” Shay protested, slightly insulted, “I’m a clean person!”

“You’ve been covered in ogre blood for so long, it’s dried. It’s begun to flake off,” Astarion stated, disgust in his voice, “and that’s under a layer of Shadow Druid blood.” He threw the bucket over the cliff.

“Thought you liked blood,” Shay muttered, feeling self-conscious. She paused in her construction of a camp fire to scratch at her temple. Dried blood flecked away, some falling to the ground, some caught under her fingernail.

“Under all that filth is a person I rather like,” his voice held the strain of effort. A full bucket thunked to the ground beside her. “Get the fire going so I can find her.”

*****

“See those four bright stars? And the four dimmer ones within the square they make?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s Lavarandar’s Lantern.”

“What’s the story for this one?”

“Four princesses, out in the woods gathering berries, were set upon by a werewolf. All four were bitten and found themselves cursed with lycanthropy. Their father, the king, built a silver cage to imprison them. It kept them, and the people, safe while he searched for a cure. But, alas, the absent king’s nephew desired the throne. He saw his opportunity to take it, with his four cousins imprisoned, and hurled the caged princesses into the ocean. The rage and fear of the four drowning women drew the attention of Umberlee. The Bitch Queen threw the cage back out of the water, but her own rage was so strong that she threw too hard. The cage soared far above into the Sea of Night, where it, and the women within, joined the night sky as stars.”

“That’s quite the tale,” Shay murmured from Astarion’s lap, where she was resting her head.

They had set up a tidy little camp in the small space. Their tent barred the path, so anyone coming up after them would be faced with a canvas wall. It afforded them some privacy, though the silence that had blanketed the grove with the fall of night made Shay think the cautionary position of the tent wasn’t quite necessary. 

The night was warm. After cleaning up, Shay had dressed for bed but only in the oversized shirt she wore to sleep in. Between the night air and the heat of the campfire, it was far too hot for leggings. The wide neck of the shirt fell over one scarred shoulder and, for once, she didn’t care. Didn’t care much, anyway. She still itched, on occasion, to cover herself up. Astarion’s gentle voice telling her tales of the stars and his hand in her hair soothed her from that urge every time it reared its ugly head. And she did like how his eyes lingered on her legs as he told the stories of the constellations.

“Your turn,” Astarion encouraged.

“See that one?” Shay pointed to a particularly large, bright star in the eastern sky.

“Yes.”

“That’s the Arrows of the Gods,” Shay explained, not certain why one bright star was called arrows, plural. She hoped he wouldn’t ask, either. “Points to True East.”

“Is there a story?” he asked, his hand never stopping its gentle stroking through her unbraided hair.

“Probably,” Shay sighed, “but I don’t know it. I can find the eastern star and the western star, but that’s about it. Knowing directions is survival, that’s important. I didn’t know there were stories about the night sky.”

“If you want to hear it, I happen to know–”

Shay's stomach rumbled. Loudly.

Astarion laughed, then laughed harder when Shay covered her face with her hands. He took her wrists in a gentle grip, peeling her hands from her face. Shay looked up at Astarion’s bemused, upside-down face looking down at her. “Let’s get you fed, darling.” he smirked at her, then his eyes drifted to his marks in her neck and his expression softened. “Then get me fed.”

“Yes, of course,” Shay sat up and looked around for her pack, “if I’m hungry, you must be starving.”

“For you?” he purred, “always.”

“Yes,” Shay rolled her eyes, finding her pack and digging through it for food, “I’m sure I’m quite the vintage.” Her hand landed on something squishy wrapped in a rag. What in the hells had she been carting around? She drew it from her pack and unwrapped it.

A grotesque hunk of hag skin revealed itself to the firelight once Shay got it unwrapped.

“It’s been ages since I ate mortal food,” Astarion frowned at the hairy, fungus-and-wart-covered blob of flesh, “but I don’t think that’s edible.”

“No,” Shay agreed, “I don’t know why she gave us that. I should throw it into the river. Disgusting.” She stood, fully intending on heaving the rag and the piece of flesh it contained over the cliffs into the Chionthar. Instead, Shay stubbed her toe on a rock and stumbled. The piece of Ethel rolled from the rag onto Shay’s arm. The instant it touched her skin, it glowed with a warm orange light, a light that surrounded Shay’s arm. The light grew brighter, the hunk of flesh melting into it, then it all melted into Shay and vanished.

Shay was suddenly very aware of the soft fabric of her sleep shirt on her shoulder and arm.

“What was that?” Astarion demanded, getting to his feet behind her. “Are you alright?”

“I…” she didn’t know how to answer. She gave her arm an experimental swing. It moved easily, smooth flesh moving over muscle as it should. Shay trembled with the realisation of what it could all mean. Surely not, though. Shadowheart said it couldn’t be healed. “I think…”

“Your shoulder,” he pointed out, standing behind her. Cool hands touched the newly-smooth skin exposed to the night air. “Your scars are gone.”

Let’s heal you up a bit, luv, hmm? Clear up that skin.

Ethel’s words, the deal she offered to leave with Mayrina and her life, floated through Shay’s mind. She hadn’t given it much thought. It had sounded like fairy tale; the promise of healing the impossible. And Pek had been injured, taking up all of her focus. But it seemed Ethel had been good on her word.

She held her breath and turned her head, slowly, to confirm with her eyes what she felt in her body. The unbroken skin of her shoulder met her disbelieving eyes. Dark, nut-brown skin stretched along her bare shoulder, smooth and unblemished

Shay was healed.

“By the gods,” she swore, jamming her hand into the wide neck of her shirt, feeling her newly-smooth skin with disbelieving joy. Tears fell freely down her face, she turned to Astarion, “I’m… I’m healed. I’m not hideous anymore.”

He seemed to share her joy, but he shook his head in denial of her words, “you were beautiful before.”

“You’re a liar,” Shay laughed. She couldn’t stop touching her skin.

“Yes,” he agreed with an earnest intensity, “but not this time.”

Chapter Text

Muffled shouting dragged Shay into consciousness. She blinked her eyes a few times, confused at what she was seeing. Dim light, a single candle flame set high above, far beyond her reach, illuminated the very small cell in which she found herself. Bare stone walls formed a small room that held just enough space for her to lay curled up on the cold floor. A deeply scored and iron-banded oak door made up the fourth wall of the room. Whoever had been in there before her had fought hard to escape. Scratches on the floor and walls appeared to be words. Shay couldn’t make out their meaning in the faint light flickering above.

None of her supplies, armour or weapons were with her. Shay was dressed in the clothing she last remembered putting on; an oversized shirt sliding off one shoulder and her smallclothes. She had to wait patiently for whomever had put her here to come for her. Then, hopefully, she could do something about regaining her freedom.

She flexed her muscles and focused on her body, trying to take stock of any injuries. Surprisingly, she seemed fine. How had someone captured her without a fight? She had no memory of a struggle and no injuries to explain memory loss. The last thing she recalled was falling asleep with Astarion by the fire. Pek hadn’t even returned from her foraging to join them. A small blessing; perhaps Pek hadn’t been swept up in whatever madness had taken her this time.

A sharp whip crack, followed swiftly by another shout penetrated the thick oak door. A voice loudly pleading – begging – for a merciful end. She thought she recognized the voice, though it was hoarse from the screams of endless agony. Somewhere, beyond the oak door, Shay was certain that Astarion was being tortured. And she was certain that his tormentors would not survive long. If only she could get out of this room!

“Master, I swear, I was returning to you!” Astarion’s voice sounded so odd, pinched with panic and pain, “I was just so far away. The illithids–”

“You can’t lie to me, boy!” a high voice, thick with anger, easily penetrated the oak door. Whoever spoke must be standing close. Astarion had called someone ‘Master’. Was this
Cazador who spoke? He had feared the Vampire Master would send more minions after Gandrel. She should have paid more attention to that. Should have kept a better watch. “ Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. You broke the commandments. Somehow, you and your little whore found a way.”

“No, Master, I–”

“Godey,” Cazador’s voice interrupted Astarion’s pleading to issue a command to someone. That made at least two people in the room who had to die. Without weapons or armour, it was a dicey prospect. Shay prayed to Mielikki there was wooden furniture in what she assumed was the torture chamber beyond. She wouldn’t survive this, but a lucky strike with a broken chair leg would end even the strongest of Vampires. If her prayers were heard, she could take Cazador out with her. “Fetch the human bitch.”

Strange sounds followed Cazador’s command. The clink of metal, something clacking, then grating like heavy, dusty stones grinding against each other. The door thunked, then clicked. It creaked open on rusty hinges. Bright light almost blinded Shay, she could barely make out a thin silhouette standing in the door.

“Here she is,” a rough voice emanated from the silhouette, “my favourite little one brought Godey a new friend. Let’s see if you scream as sweetly as he does.”

Shay rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to adjust to the new light. She couldn’t act if she couldn’t see. The silhouette clanked into the room. It moved slowly, knowing its business; anticipation could be worse than any pain. The torture, it seemed, had already begun. Shay scrambled to her feet, determined to face this head-on. Words scratched into the stone wall at shoulder-height caught her newly-adjusted eyes. 

Let me die.

The familiar loop on the d, ever present even written in a desperate moment, nails scratched on stone, stabbed her soul. Mama had been there. Had been tortured like Astarion, like Shay herself would soon be.

The silhouette drew nearer.

Act, Shay, do something!

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear her eyes from the writing scratched on the stone wall. ‘They’re dead,’ he had told her. Fool that she was, she hadn’t thought what that might mean, what death at the hands of a Vampire master might entail, other than being drained for sustenance. Of course Astarion’s sadistic master had tortured his food. The words swam in her vision; she couldn’t tear herself away from them. She ran her eyes over the writing again and again.

Let me die.

Let me die.

Let me die.

Something gripped her chin, forcing her face to turn from the horror of her mothers handwriting on the stone walls of a torture chamber. When she could no longer see the words, even in the blurry edge of her peripheral vision, Shay finally turned her gaze to whatever was holding her. She looked into the hollow eye sockets of a skeleton, its eternally grinning face shadowed by a rusty helm. The silhouette that had been sent for her was a necromantic construct. That could make fighting it harder… or easier, depending on what weapons she could get her hands on. No matter how strong the spell animating it, a few good swings with a hammer would render the skeleton useless.

“Come with Godey, child,” the skeleton rasped, whatever enchantment holding it together also, somehow, provided the ability to speak. “If you obey the Master, no harm will come to you.”

Liar.

“Who– who is ‘the Master’?” she asked, wanting confirmation of her suspicion. She kept herself frozen in Godey’s dusty grip. Fighting without confirmation would be foolish. She knew to wait. Waiting, for information or the perfect moment to strike, would be the only way to survive this.

“Master Szarr,” Godey stated reverently. His face was set in a permanent, gap-toothed grin that shared no joy. Nothing changed about his face with his answer, nothing could change but, nevertheless, something about him conveyed reverence and fear.

“Godey!” a sharp voice called. The skeletons grip on her face tightened, boney fingers pressing into her jaw, their sharp tips drawing blood just under her ear. Shay found herself led, by her face, stumbling along at Godey’s side, trying to keep her jaw from being crushed under the enchanted strength of his grasp.

Shay could hardly see the room Godey brought her into, his hand on her face and the bulky patchwork armour he wore blocked her view. She could see the ceiling disappear into vaulted arches ringed thickly with smoke from the poorly constructed torches that lit most of the chamber. There was a damp air about the place, similar to what had been in the cell, something that no torch could mask; a dank, earthy scent that spoke of being deep underground. Wherever they were, the air told Shay there was no hope for a window or any sliver of sunlight to help her.

“Chain her to the cross,” a high voice ordered Goey, the voice Shay had come to assume was Cazador. She could hardly see beyond the bones holding her jaw in a vice-like grip; she couldn’t see this monster who had spent centuries torturing and killing the citizens of Baldur’s Gate. In her mind, he was a large man, strapped with muscles and ringed with shadowed evidence of dark powers. A figure of malicious evil with a hunger for torment and pain as well as blood.

Distracted by her thoughts as she strained for a glimpse of Cazador, Shay found herself spread-eagle, chained by wrists and ankles. She was set face-first against thick oak posts bolted into the shape of an X. Her wrists were encircled by heavy iron manacles, their short chains stretching her arms as high as they could go. Her ankles were set tightly against the beams at the floor. With no room to wiggle and no way to pick the heavy locks that held her, Shay focused on what she could see. She was able to see a fair amount of the dungeon over the crossed beams she faced. She could see Astarion, thick chains on his wrists hanging him from the ceiling, his arms straining against the weight of it. He had been stripped of his clothing, wearing only his smallclothes. Rivulets of blood dripped from endless lash marks on his chest and legs, dressing him in crimson that matched the colour of his eyes.

Eyes that wouldn’t look at her.

Why wouldn’t he look at her?

Shay reached into her mind, seaking the tadpole within, a parasitic connection to Astarion. If they could communicate, they could plan.

Nothing was there.

Relief and panic flooded her in equal amounts. Now was not the time to be cured! Her head was empty, there was–

Burning agony across her back. Shay screamed in pain. A scourge dug its jagged ends into her shoulder, a hard pull from its wielder pulled those ends downward, stripping clothing and flesh from her back in ragged strips. Blood gushed from the wounds, flowing like a river. It added a distinct metallic smell to the damp dungeon air.

Confusion and pain spun her mind. No one had asked her a question. Wasn’t torture supposed to involve questions?

“This is what you brought me?” the high voice asked, standing just behind her. She ached to kick back, to throw an elbow, something to hurt the monster standing so close his fetid breath ghosted across her face.

“Yes, Master,” Astarion assured Cazador, though he still kept his eyes on the stone floor, “I was bringing her to you.”

Betrayal was a scourge of a different sort. It tore at her heart, hurting more than the cold hand suddenly grasped around her throat. Nails as sharp as claws dug into the bite marks on her neck. Thin rivulets of blood flowed from the reopened wound, the heat of her life a sharp contrast to the deathly cold grip of the Vampire Master.

“Lies, boy,” Cazador spat, his vitriol flecking spittle across Shay’s wounded back, “you fed from her. You wouldn’t mark her if she was to be mine. And she should be mine. How did you disobey my commandments?”

“The illithids–”

“Their worms must have chewed a bigger hole in your brain than I thought,” Cazador scoffed, “plucking them from you was no trouble at all and you wish to convince me their power was so great they could impede my will? You. Lie.”

The clawed hand at her throat tightened, then twisted and pulled. Shay’s throat tore under the strength of Cazador’s assault.

“No!” a voice cried. It couldn’t have been her voice. Her larynx, her voice, was displayed before her in the bloodied grip of Cazador Szarr. The fleshy tube seemed to pulse and struggle, her blood dripped from his pale fist. The ruby red liquid shone in the torchlight along the thread-of-gold stitched along the sleeve of his fancy coat. Blood gushed from her torn throat, spilling like a raging river down the cross. Her sight faded, the dungeoned dimmed. As the darkness closed in, she caught Astarion’s gaze. He mouthed ‘I’m sorry’.

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t do anything but fall into the cold embrace of oblivion. 

The last song she heard was the rhythmic patter of her blood striking the cold stone floor.

Drip... Drip... Drip.

*****

Shay bolted upright with a gasp. Her hands flew to her throat to check that it was whole. Fingers met smooth skin and two fresh scabs.

“A nightmare,” she murmured to herself. A glance at the position of the stars in the clear sky told her that it had only been an hour or two since she had fallen asleep. Behind her, on their shared bedroll, Astarion lay in reverie. Not wanting to disturb his rest while she tried to calm her racing heart, Shay slipped from the bedroll, tip-toed around the sleeping Pek and approached the fire. She crouched to feed branches and twigs into the flames, despite the light hurting her already aching head. The night was warm, but her soul was chilled and the comforting normality of the flames would help.

Why, Shay wondered, why would she dream of being handed over to Cazador as her Mother had? Why now? What could it mean–

Astarion whimpered.

Shay shot to her feet, staring at the vampire spawn on their bed roll. He whimpered again, his body curling up tightly, protecting himself from invisible blows she could not see. Behind her eye, pain flared as the tadpole in her brain flexed and rolled over. She felt full for a moment, the tadpole exuding a feeling of being very well-fed. 

“No,” he sniffled, a quiet denial that didn’t want to be heard. His arms wrapped around himself, both protection and embrace. His whole body shivered and twitched, his consciousness deep in the throws of a nightmare. With every shift of his body and flutter of eyelid, the tadpole in Shay’s mind felt happier. Full to bursting after a veritable feast. Understanding dawned slowly; they must have shared the nightmare. She had been in his, a player in whatever fears tormented him rather than dreaming of herself as the victim. The realization that she had been in Astarion’s nightmare, that the parasite infecting her had fed on the experience and enjoyed it, disgusted her. 

Bile rose in her throat, alongside a tidal wave of rage. He had dreamed of handing her over to Cazador! Just one more victim in an endless parade, alongside her mother and so many others in the gate who had vanished without a trace. Was that the end goal? She had convinced herself it was otherwise. Had thought of herself as his friend, had thought he felt the same. Gods, she had given him–

“Not her,” Astarion’s cry interrupted her seething.

Shay felt a wash of shame. She remembered the rules of a Vampire Spawn’s existence. Astarion had told her, a vampire spawn has no free will. The vampire speaks, the spawns body moves. Centuries of torture would have him trained better than any circus animal. Trained to say anything, to do anything, to avoid more pain. If Astarion’s mind was tormenting itself with visions of Cazador, of course he would say anything to avoid the lash, of course he would swear she was a victim. Shay’s thoughts touched on the fairly quick death she had come to in the nightmare. One lash of a scourge and then bleeding out through her torn throat. It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse. Was she protected by her own mind, or by Astarion’s manipulation? The only weapon he had against his master. I’m sorry, he had said to her as she died, sorry but unsurprised by the outcome.

There was no answering these questions. No assurance to be found in her own mind. Astarion wasn’t rousing himself from the dream realm as she had. He continued to twitch and whimper, muttering the occasional denial while he held himself in cold comfort. Elves didn’t sleep, Shay knew, not naturally. Perhaps he didn’t know how to tear himself away from the torment of his own mind. She approached their bedroll, her footsteps silent as she moved around Pek. Silence was unnecessary, the sow snored like a saw fighting its way through ancient oak.

“Astarion, wake up,” Shay whispered, crouching down beside him. He didn’t respond. Shay reached out to touch a gentle hand to his shoulder.

Astarion exploded into movement. Shay was shocked, falling back on her behind. Air blasted from her in a loud oof . It was a good thing she fell, as a razor-sharp dagger slashed through the air where she had been moments before. In a blink, Shay found herself knocked to the side by a charge from Pek. She sat up, rubbing an aching shoulder, to discover Pek sitting on a rather confused Vampire Spawn. The dagger, knocked from his reach, shone in the firelight. As did Pek’s sharp tusks, threatening to gore Astarion should he make one wrong move.

“Grunt… snuffle-growl, grunt!” Shay needed to recast speak with animals, but even without it she could understand the general sentiment Pek was expressing. The sow’s anger and betrayal at Astarion’s actions were quite clear.

“Gods, my head,” Astarion muttered, “Pek what…?”

“Grrrrrowl,” Pek lay her full weight across Astarion, keeping him pinned to the ground. She cut her eyes to Shay, a silent question in her gaze.

“Nightmares, Pek,” Shay explained, getting off the ground and dusting the dirt from her behind, “just… bad dreams. We’re fine. Right, Astarion?”

“... yes?” He replied, his eyes pinned to Pek’s sharp, yellowed tusks, shining dully in the firelight.

Pek heaved her bulk off Astarion, moving to pick up the dagger in her mouth. Shay wondered, as the weapon dangled by its hilt from Pek’s toothy grip, if her now-armed friend was about to stab him. Instead, the sow moved to the edge of the cliff upon which they camped. She dropped the dagger off the edge.

“That was my best–” Astarion’s protest faded to nothing as Pek challenged him with a flat, uncaring stare.

“Better your dagger than something more delicate,” Shay observed wryly. Pek grunted her version of laughter, then flopped back to the ground seemingly intent to return to her rest. The firelight catching her eyes gave that lie away; she would watch Astarion. Her trust was bruised.

As was Shay’s.

“Well,” Astarion rolled his shoulders, his eyes refusing to meet hers, “I suppose apologies are in order. I’m… not accustomed to nightmares.”

“I’d rather an honest death at knife-point,” Shay replied in a voice that trembled on the edge of upset. She watched Astarion nervously pluck at the blankets. He probably felt exposed without his dagger. Vulnerable. “Than find myself handed over to a monster… by a monster I thought was my friend.”

He stiffened, a muscle in his cheek fluttering as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Yet, still, he wouldn’t look her in the eye. Shay was almost ready to take it as confirmation that he was, indeed, planning on handing her over to Cazador at the first opportunity, then his shoulders fell. Astarion’s face crumpled into something Shay couldn’t name – Pain? Regret? Fear? – then he curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his legs and hiding his face from her.

“You were there,” his words, muffled by the protective ball he had made of himself, sounded almost sullen.

“I was,” Shay agreed, trying – and almost succeeding – to keep her own hurt and anger from her voice, “I assume the tadpoles had something to do with it. Bringing me to die just like everyone else. Just like M–”

“Which time were you there for?”

“What?”

“You died… so many times,” Astarion didn’t uncurl from his ball. Shay couldn’t see his face, could only hear the fear and pain in his voice. “I fought the first few times. Tried to save you, at least. We’re a team and I had hope… such a tease. He would… he would… he always won. Yanked the tadpole out and then I was a slave again. There was nothing I could do. Soon I started handing you over. A quick death was the only mercy I could give you.”

“I was in a dungeon,” Shay explained, ignoring Astarion’s reference to Raphael’s words. “An armoured skeleton, Go-somebody–”

“Godey,” Astarion’s body shivered with the name. She sat beside him on the bedroll, wanting to offer comfort but not sure how. He froze like a deer scenting a wolf, not knowing which way to run.

“Is this ok?” she whispered. He didn’t answer, but leaned into her ever so slightly.

“I know that bastard as well as I know Cazador.”

“He pulled me from a cell into a torture chamber,” Shay didn’t bring up Mama’s words scratched in stone. Perhaps that was her own little nightmare. “You were there, covered in lash marks. I was strung up and–”

“He tore your throat out,” Astarion finished, skipping past Godey’s scourge on her back. “I watched you bleed out, gurgling and drowning in your own blood. Then he put me, and your corpse, in a tomb. Sealed us in with meters of heavy brick I couldn’t possibly break through. I know I couldn’t escape anyway. I’d been there before. One of his worst punishments; locked in a tomb to starve but not die for months. We could be together, he said. As though it were romantic. So I could watch you rot.”

The blasé way that Astarion spoke of his own torture was horrifying. Two hundred years of that as his normal. Her relatively swift death was a mercy. She could have been locked in a tomb to die at Astarion’s hands, once the hunger grew too great for him to resist. Cazador could have tortured her in ways she could never imagine, but Astarion, having lived them, easily could. Even in nightmares, he tried, in his own way, to protect her.

“I’m sorry,” Shay curled into her own ball at Astarions side. “I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have known,” he leaned into her, their shoulders and arms pressed together. “And now that you do, you’ve apologized. Which… is still rather odd, I must admit. Usually, when a monster like me spills their guts to a hero, they end up with their guts spilled for true.”

“I’m not a hero,” Shay shook her head with a grin, “Wyll’s a true hero. Now he would have staked you.”

“Still might, I think,” Astarion murmured, uncurling from his ball. Shay  uncurled herself, reaching out to gently wipe red-tinged tear tracks from his cheeks. He caught her hand in his, holding it to his face. “I’m not used to dreams. I’m sorry–”

“Don’t,” Shay whispered, “don’t be sorry for something that cannot be controlled. Dreams – nightmares – aren’t our fault. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. You told me how you lived, how Caz– that bastard tortured you. Of course that would haunt you.”

“But I’m free now,” a grin tugged at his mouth, but didn’t reach his eyes, “so all it can do is haunt me.”

Shay’s heart ached. They shouldn’t be haunted by their pasts, it wasn’t fair. Joy was so hard to find in the present when the past cast such long shadows. She threw herself at Astarion, wrapping her arms around him and holding tightly. He froze in shock and didn’t move. In the silence that stretched between them, doubt crawled into her mind, planting seeds of embarrassment. Just as she was about to let go and apologize, Astarion’s arms circled her and held on as tightly as she held him.

“I’m going to kill him,” Shay swore, speaking her oath into Astarion’s chest. “I swear to Mielikki, once we’re free of these tadpoles, I’m going to Baldur’s Gate and I will end that monster. For Mama… and for you.”

Astarion said nothing, but his arms tightened further. A drop of moisture fell on her cheek. She could smell the coppery tinge of blood in his tears. They simply held each other, breathing in tandem.

Pek bowled them both over with a riot of grunts and snuffles, wanting to join the hug. As they both fell to laughter, hugging Pek but also trying to push her bulk off of them, Shay was pleased to see the light of laughter and joy finally enter Astarion’s eyes.

*****

“Shadows smells like mating at the forge,” Pek grunted to Shay, destroying any hope the cleric had of keeping her evening activities a secret.

“And where were you last night?” Shay whispered to Shadowheart, taking Pek’s bait as the companions followed Zevlor through whirl-carved doors into the cave he had turned into his office. Once upon a time, the waters of the Chionthar must have raged through the limestone rock that the druids now called the Emerald Grove, carving rooms upon rooms, tunneled together like the bubbles in a well-baked loaf of the finest bread.

Ahead of them, Wyll walked alongside Zevlor, keeping up a stream of chatter about the refugees from Elturel and how they were getting on with the druids, now that they were no longer being ejected from the grove. Behind, Astarion walked with Pek.

Two faint patches of colour appeared high on Shadowheart’s pale cheeks.

“Well?” Shay urged, nudging her friend with her elbow, “surely Shar’s need for secrets doesn't extend to sharing a little gossip?”

“It might,” Shadowheart replied, trying to sound lofty and important about the requirements of her dark goddess.

Shay raised a single eyebrow. 

Shadowheart crumbled.

“Dammon has a tidy little setup behind his forge,” she began explaining, her face lit by a secretive smile.

“Little?” Astarion interjected, amused.

“Ha, no,” Shadowheart looked over her shoulder with a knowing, self-satisfied grin, “not at all.”

“I’m trying to find a ‘blacksmith’s hammer’ joke in this,” Shay giggled, “but there are so many to choose from!”

“He’s skilled at pounding… metal,” Shadowheart offered.

“He can really swing his hammer,” Astarion smirked.

“He–”

“Are you done talking about my nephews’ ‘blacksmithing’ skills?” Zevlor sternly interrupted before Shay could finish her joke. The armoured tiefling had an air of righteousness about him, almost like a Paladin though he wore no emblem that spoke of an oath. The ridges on his cheeks and brow, a part of his demonic heritage, enhanced his frown. Shay wilted under Zevlor’s stern, orange-yellow gaze. She felt as though she had been caught by a parent with her hand in the cookie jar. Then his words caught up to her.

Nephew!?

Shay squeaked, grabbing Shadowheart’s arm to hide her face in the cleric’s mailed shoulder. Embarrassment flooded her; she felt her face heat against the cool metal it was pressed against. A chuckling Astarion came to stand at her other side. Shadowheart said nothing, but also didn’t react to Zevlor’s words. Shay wasn’t surprised; neither of them had any shame.

“Dammon’s your nephew, Zevlor?” Wyll asked in a friendly and inquisitive tone that also served to distract the man from Shay’s embarrassment, “I had no idea.”

“He’s not,” Zevlor explained, laughter creeping in at the edge of his voice, “I couldn’t help myself.”

Pek, wheezing with laughter, leaned hard into the back of Shay’s legs, causing them to buckle. Astarion caught her at the same time she caught herself on Shadowheart. The three lurched together, stumbling over Pek. It made the sow laugh harder.

“Zevlor!” Wyll laughed with a cloud clap of his hands. “I didn’t think you had that in you!”

“It is good to see laughter,” Zevlor sighed through a tired smile, moving through the cavernous space that served as his office, quarters and storage for the Elturel refugees,  “there’s not been much for my people to laugh at lately. ”

The leader of the tieflings approached a stone shelf, covered in papers and ink pots. He unrolled a large parchment over the existing pages, using ink pots and stones to hold it down at the corners. A gesture brought Wyll to his side, to look over the page.

“This is a map of the area my scouts put together,” Zevlor began, “last night, a few of the druids helped us make some corrections. It’s as accurate as it can be, now. If you see here, the ravine near that goblin-infested wreck of a village splits. Its second arm ends not far from here, the river that carved it flows under our feet before joining the Chionthar. If you use this as a path, you should be able to bypass the village entirely and with a little hard climbing, make it to the temple of Selûne where their leaders are holed up. Destroy their leaders, and you will destroy what little organization they have. They’ll scatter to the four winds and my people can safely journey to Baldur’s Gate.

“If the river goes underground, is there a tunnel or something?” Wyll asked, frowning over the parchment. Shay, finally getting her feet under her, joined him. She frowned at the markings on the map. The grove may be carved from porous limestone, but the path Zevlor suggested seemed to begin at the sheer rock face that made up the western wall of his office.

“Yes and no,” Zevlor replied. He gestured to a natural stairway in the cavern, large rocks heaped upon each other from an earlier collapse. “Up there, lies an entrance that looks down upon the ravine of which I spoke. It’s an impossible climb, so I only have one guard out there, to use the view more than anything. Impossible to get up, but not to get down. A feather fall spell will have you all safely to the ground.”

“Feather fall? We’re none of us wizards,” Shadowheart scoffed, “nor potion makers.”

“Good thing we have a wizard among us,” Zevlor smiled, producing a scroll that shimmered with magic. “Thankfully, Feather fall is within his abilities and Roland was more than happy to help. He is eager to get to Baldur’s Gate; I understand an apprenticeship waits for him there.”

Pek jostled into Zevlor’s side, causing him to drop the scroll. She scooped it up with her tusks, then moved quickly towards the pile of rocks. She climbed the first two levels, before turning back to regard the companions.

“Let’s go!” she called to Shay, “it’s time for pigs to fly!”

Shay translated for the group. Zevlor gave a much needed laugh.

“Get up there,” the older tiefling said, waving a mailed arm towards the heaped rock. “And good luck.”

Shay followed her friend, trailed by Shadowheart, Astarion and Wyll. She knew that a feather fall spell wasn’t flight; spells were named after what they did. Flight would be a spell to fly. Feather fall would help them float to the ground like a feather in the wind. Still, her exposure to magic was extremely limited, she wasn’t sure if she trusted the work of this Roland to see them safely to the ground. Shay was both excited and trepidatious.

Pek led them up rocky stairs, towards a ladder almost hidden within walls built of stacked crates. Some of the crates had their lids pried off revealing dusty bottles of wine nestled in piles of straw. Hollow indents in the straw showed that bottles had disappeared. Probably consumed by tieflings to help them forget the Descent of Elturel and the horrors of Avernus.

“Help?” Pek called, dragging Shay’s attention away from the crates of wine. The sow sat at the base of the ladder, the scroll clutched held safely in her dusks glimmering with power in the faint light shed from Zevlor’s torches and candles below.

“Coming!” Shay turned to her companions. Astarion and Shadowheart were talking in hushed whispers beside an open crate. Wyll, practically at her side, had set his one-eyed gaze upon Pek with an amused grin.

“Are you going to carry her up?” he asked, turning that grin to Shay.

“No,” she returned the grin, “but I’m going to help her… and so are you.”

She dragged the warlock to Pek and the ladder. Together, they worked to boost Pek up, setting shoulders into rump and heaving. Pek did most of the work, hauling her bulk upwards. She just needed a little help being steady. Otherwise, Shay and Wyll would have no hope between them of lifting the sow. Not without potions of giant strength.

Shay quickly followed Pek up the ladder, Wyll on her heels. They emerged through yet another hole in the limestone into a damp cavern lined with green, growing things. A rough scaffold, clearly newly-built by unskilled hands, leaned drunkenly into a wall. At its top, a tiefling in leathers sat, staring out at the glorious view the cavern’s entrance afforded. The tiefling nodded to Shay, her long ponytail falling over her shoulder as she did, but she didn’t speak or take her gaze away from her work.

“Wow,” Wyll murmured, taking a few steps to the cavern’s mouth. “Would you look at that?”

The view had captured his attention. The cavern sat behind a waterfall, its glittering spray hiding some of the view, but the water fell too far for its mist to obscure everything. The cavern’s mouth bulged to the right of them, a wide mouth with a single line of small, flat teeth. A ridge, barely a food across, meandered across a sheer cliff face, then ended abruptly. Beyond the mouth, Shay could see for miles. Treetops gave way to the rocky outcroppings of the ravine they had followed days earlier. The broken walls of the decrepit village where the goblins had set their ambush could barely be seen through the thick screen of trees. Shay moved to the edge of the cavern's mouth, her eyes following the journey of the water as it fell from above, then splashed far – far – below into a deep trench carved into the limestone by an increasingly raging river. Shay swallowed heavily. It would be quite the jump.

“Pek, can I have this?” Wyll’s voice jolted Shay from her contemplation of the dizzying fall before her. She turned to see the man taking the scroll from Pek’s mouth. “Don’t want it to get wet.”

“Read it,” Pek urged Wyll, “I want to fly.”

“Pek, wait,” Shay cautioned her friend, “we can’t just jump. We need a plan. We need to scout a landing point.

“She’s right,” Wyll told Pek, “though I think Astarion might be able to see more than– where is Astarion? And Shadowheart?”

As though speaking the realization that they were missing aloud was a summoning spell, Astarion and Shadowheart popped out of the ground, having finally climbed the ladder. Shadowheart was carrying a sack Shay had never seen before. It clinked.

“Went shopping?” Shay asked, nodding to the sack.

“Payment,” Shadowheart replied, “even if they don’t know they’ve paid.”

“You stole?” Wyll accused, aghast, “from helpless refugees?”

“Payment,” Astarion repeated Shadowheart’s words, taking the sack from the cleric and popping it into his own bag of holding.

“Can you even drink wine?” Shay asked.

“No, but you can,” Astarion grinned at Shay. He touched a gentle finger to the tip of her nose. “Haven’t seen you drunk yet. That could be fun.”

“You don’t want to see us drunk,” Shay shook her head ruefully, dropping a hand to pat Pek on the head.

“Us? There must be a story there.” Shadowheart interjected.

“A tale for tonight,” Wyll stated firmly. He was still unhappy about the thievery, but there was little to be done about it. Getting Astarion and Shadowheart in trouble with Zevlor wouldn’t help him, or any of them, find healing from the tadpoles. He gestured to the ridge running along the cliff face. “I think we need to get as far along there as possible, before using the spell. Feather fall can only take you so far and this is a long jump.”

Pek immediately stomped over to the ridge, then began edging herself across it.

“Be careful!” Shay called, rushing after the sow. The rest of the companions followed.

Once they had journeyed as far as they could along the perilous path, clinging like spiders to the sheer cliff walls, Wyll unrolled the scroll and read the words of power written there. Magic flared, burning the scroll to ash as the weave did as it was bade. Shay felt a gentle tingle all over her body, then weight seemed to leave her. She felt as light as… as light as a feather.

“PIGS CAN FLY!” Pek shouted, then launched herself into the air. She fell gently through the air, a feather in the breeze, falling slowly towards a small strip of sand at the river's edge on the other side of the ravine.

Everyone else jumped from the ledge, pushing themselves off the rock to fall safely through what should be a deadly journey to the ground. The feeling of magic fighting the laws of gravity was an exhilarating one. The fall was heart pounding excitement. The moment her feet touched the ground, Shay turned to Pek to share the sow’s excitement.

“You!” Wyll growled angrily, distracting Shay from her friend. She spun around, drawing her sword.

Standing on the sandy shore of the river, hidden from view from above by a jut of rock, stook a very tall Tiefling woman. She was dressed in strips of charred leathers held together by metal rings. Streaks of red in her hair matched the fiery red of her skin, some of her hair curling around bolts of metal shoved through the burn-scarred skin of an exposed shoulder. One horn rose from her forehead, curling to the side like a rams. The other horn ended an inch from her skin, broken. The silver half-moon of a large axe blade peaked over her shoulder.

Wyll had his rapier out, pointing the needle-sharp blade at the tall woman. The promise of death gleamed in his brown eye.

“Ah, fuck.” the woman said.

Chapter Text

“Ah, fuck,” the woman said, “the Blade of Frontiers. Thought I’d shaken you for good.”

Then, to Shay’s absolute amazement, the red of the tiefling’s skin became a burst of flame!

Expletives and shouts of surprise bounced off the ravine walls, echoes that made it seem as though hundreds were crying out, as the companions reacted to the surprising sight of spontaneous combustion. Shay’s newly healed shoulder itched, fear clenched cold fingers around her heart. She forced it all down, trying to move forward to help, to push the woman into the river – though her size and the bulging muscles barely covered by flame-blackened leather warned Shay the woman would probably never be pushed anywhere she didn’t want to go – but arms wrapped around her chest from behind. She was firmly held back.

“Are you insane?” Pek grunted, backing away from the terrifying effigy of her fears taken humanoid form.

“Are you insane?” Astarion unknowingly echoed into Shay’s ear as he held her tightly against him, “she’s on fire. Let her burn without you.”

The woman hunched over – slightly – and grit her teeth as her entire body roared with angry flames. The flames built, rising with a strange, metallic grating sound, the scent of charred flesh and burning metal – not unlike the scent of the crashed Nautiloid – permeated the air. As soon as they had risen, the flames died down. The tiefling woman was oddly unphased by her time as a torch. She breathed a little harder, as though she had exerted herself, but nothing else. She showed no fresh burns on her scar-roped skin, her clothing showed no fresh char marks.

“Evidence!” Wyll cried, though Shay thought his voice held a note of doubt, “proof that you’re a devil, a gladiator in the archdevil Zariel’s army.”

“All that time with the refugees and now you get racist?” Shadowheart scoffed from her very safe position behind Pek, “tieflings aren’t devils, Wyll. You know that.”

“No!” Wyll argued, sounding as though he argued with himself, “this is Karlach! The devil’s soldier! You don’t know how much blood is on her–”

Shay gasped as pain suddenly shot through her like an arrow. She grasped her head as the tadpole within writhed. The entire group, including Karlach, echoed Shay’s movements, clutching at aching heads and exclaiming at the sudden pain.

Blink

Heat roared through her. Avernus, the first layer of the Nine Hells, was always hot but sometimes, when the fires within her raged, the scorching air caressing her scarred skin felt almost cool. A line of fiendish creatures stood before her, the armies of the hells, the soldiers of the Blood War, battling yet-again in the endless fight for dominance of Avernus. Childhood stories told her great armies marched to music, the sound of drum and pipe, but clashes of claw and steel drowned out by gurgling death screams were the only song she could hear. The air stank of sulphur and viscera. She stood behind the line of squidges and blind-eyes, the line held – barely – against the horde of dretch and mane that sought to break it.

As always, when she was sent to the front, her eyes darted around the battlefield, searching for the portals the demons used to enter Avernus. Portals that could mean free–

The line bulged inward to her left. She gave up her search for demonic portals to focus on the job she had been sent for. An armanite, the heavy cavalry of the demonic armies, had charged the line. The fiends, dretch and mane alike, were falling under its sharp hooves. Now that looked like fun. She readied her axe and threw herself at the centaur-like tanar'ri, wondering, but hardly caring, if this armanite was one of the ones that could cast lightning.

Blink

“Argh,” Karlach groaned when their minds returned, “what the hells was that?”

“It was–”

“-all the proof we should need.” Wyll interrupted Shadowheart’s attempt at explaining the parasitic connection they all shared. “She’s a devil and she could face the justice a devil deserves.”

Agony returned, sending Shay forward to her hands and knees, Astarion’s weight on top of her driving her into the sandy ground. Pek’s pained squeals were deafening in her ear.

Blink.

“Hurry up, Mum!” She tugged hard at the clawed hand holding her own in a tight grip as she and her Mum pushed through the crowds of Wyrm’s Rock, heading towards Rivington. “We’re gonna be late for the bards at Ilmater’s!”

“I’m going as fast as I can, potato,” Mum replied, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. “We’ll make it, don’t worry.”

The walk from Norchapel had taken longer than it should have. Mum kept finding low walls or fountain edges to rest on. Of all the nights for her to not sleep well and be tired the next day!

“Come on!” She could see the towers of Wyrm’s Rock looming, they were almost there.

“Why don’t you run ahead?” Mum suggested, “I’ll catch up to you.” 

A shocking offer. Run ahead? On her own? She dropped her jaw – and Mum’s hand – in surprise.

“Really?” She gasped, “You’ve never–”

“I trust you, potato,” Mum smiled.

She ran, tearing through Wyrm’s Crossing like an army was on her heels.

“Whoops! Sorry! Buy the hat, it looks good!” she cried out various apologies to the people she dodged around. A chorus of oofs and gasps from the citizens of the Gate left in her wake.    

Soon she was skidding through the wide gates of the fairgrounds beside the Open Hand Temple. The grounds were full of families; parents, grandparents and children of all ages. A wooden stage in the corner of the space, set close to the walls of the temple, had a large semi-circle of open space before it, filled with dancing children. Upon the stage, two people performed a bright song on violin and drums. A small human child, her skin as dark as the violin player on stage, curly hair exploding from a headband in a puff of curls, danced with a tambourine at the base of the stage. She kept perfect time along with the drum player.

The scene was idyllic and carefree. She paused to take it in before glancing back over her shoulder to see if Mum had caught up yet. There was no sign of her.

She dove into the crowd of dancing children, excited to join them.

Blink.

Shay found herself on the sandy shore of the small creek, face pressed into the sand by Astarion’s shoulder. That had been her she saw in Karlach’s vision, her and her parents performing in the temple fairgrounds as they so often had in better times. Before things changed. 

Astarion heaved himself off her, shaking the vision – and the pain it brought – from his head. Shay stayed on the ground, turning the scene over in her mind. That wasn’t a vision, wasn’t a devil’s trick forced on them.

It was a memory. A memory of better times, not only for Shay but for Karlach as well.

“She’s trying to trick us,” Wyll sounded like he was trying to convince himself, and failing. “Don’t believe her lies.”

“You saw the truth,” Karlach argued, the pain they all felt melting quickly from her voice. Shay pushed herself to her feet to see Wyll had Karlach backed against a rock wall, his rapier wavering in an unsteady hand. “I don’t know what that was, but you saw me … my life, my memories. Please, I never wanted to serve Zariel. I was enlisted in her army against my will. Forced to fight, and fight I did. But this… this is my home, near enough to it, anyway. When I saw an opportunity to get away from Avernus, I took it.

“You served her,” Wyll cried, arguing though Shay couldn’t tell if he argued with Karlach or himself, “that’s enough to damn you!”

“Wyll, you saw what I saw,” Shay placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He flinched. “She’s not a devil, she’s a victim. A citizen of Baldur’s Gate just like you.”

He shook her hand off, shaking his head in denial, “you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re asking me to trust a devil!”

“She isn’t a devil,” Shadowheart murmured at Shay’s side, “she’s the sort of person the Blade of Frontiers is sworn to protect.”

“You know monsters, right?” Karlach pleaded, her hands open at her sides. Not once had she gone for the well-used axe strapped to her back. She didn’t want to fight, if only Wyll could see that. “You know monsters better than anyone! You’re the Blade of Frontiers, surely you’ve looked a devil in the eye–”

Pek snorted. Loudly.

“–Look into my eyes. Can’t you see I’m not what you think?”

Shay couldn’t see Wyll’s eyes, but she could see Karlach’s, warm and golden like a cat’s. She gazed down at Wyll, fervently searching his eyes, trying to show him the truth of the situation. The air seemed to still, the flowing water at whose banks they stood ceased its babbling and splashing. Everything was quiet but for the bellowing of Wyll’s breath.

“Shit,” he whispered, before drawing a breath and shouting the word, "SHIT!”

He threw his weapon to the ground in frustration. The hilt of the rapier denting as it struck a water-smooth rock. The clang of metal on rock echoed off nearby rock walls, clashing with the echo of Wyll’s cursing returning to them. His shoulders slumped, he turned back to look at Shay and Shadowheart. Shay was surprised to see fear on his face, dread drawing his brows downward. 

“She is no devil,” he finally agreed, though the acceptance came with a sense of horror rather than relief. “I’ve been deceived.”

Tension drained from Karlach. It drained from them all, really. A fight – a murder – had been averted.

“Thank the gods,” Karlach swore, a crooked grin gracing her face, “Thought I was going to have to take your head.”

“You would’ve died in the attempt,” Wyll grinned back, “but – there have been enough threats today.

“Truce, then, hey?” Karlach offered a clawed hand still licked by the occasional flame.

“Aye. Truce. But…” Wyll eyed the woman’s fiery hand askance. He didn’t take her hand.

“Oh, right.” Karlach frowned at her hand and shook the fire away. She glanced up, peering curiously at the rest of the companions standing behind Wyll. She offered a little wave, a stubborn flame still flickering over her fingers. “I’m Karlach – but you already knew that. And you are…?”

“Oh! This is Shadowheart,” Shay began, gesturing to each person she named, “Astarion, Pek and I’m Shay.”

“Well met, soldier!” Karlach touched her forehead in a gesture resembling a salute, her grin only widened, “nice to meet a friendly around here – it’s been tough going so far. Actually… I may not be a devil, but I can put the Blade’s reputation to work. How would you feel about helping me kill some evil bastards?”

“We’re not for hire,” Astarion answered for everyone. He reached forward to grab Shay’s hand and tug her back to stand with him and Pek. “we have our own problems.”

“Problems you share,” Wyll observed, tapping his temple. “You probably got the same little friend we all did once you stowed away on the Nautiloid.”

“Join us,” Shadowheart offered, “we could use all the help we can get.”

“Love to,” Karlach answered, then she shrugged, “but if we don’t kill these fuckers, they’ll follow and gut us in our sleep.”

Astarion began muttering disparagingly about the time wasted in helping every lost cause. Shay elbowed him. He glared at her. She glared right back. Their silent conversation went unnoticed as Wyll and Shadowheart questioned Karlach further. The one horned tiefling was in the middle of an animated explanation when Shay turned her attention back to her.

“... knack for killing demons. That made me a valuable asset. Zariel – the archdevil herself – made me as her personal attack dog. I played along until I could get the fuck out of there, but devils don’t like to lose their assets. I guess Zariel liked it so little, she sent a bunch of goons, so-called ‘Paladins of Tyr’ to take me back. Problem is, I’m not going.”

“Where are these Paladins now?” Shadowheart asked, looking up the raving in which they stood with a frown on her pale face.

“I got ‘em pinned down in the toll house up there,” a red claw pointed to the north and upwards, where just the slightest corner of a multi-story stone-and-wood building could be seen built into the rock high above. “... or they have me pinned here. I gave ‘em a scorching but I guess I ran in the wrong direction and now I’m stuck down here. Gotta pass the tollhouse to get anywhere. Unless you can fly again, there’s a fight waiting for us no matter what.”

“Didn’t fly the first time,” Wyll explained their strange entrance into the ravine, “it was a featherfall scroll. So. I guess we’re sending these ‘Paladins’ back to the hells.”

“Fuck yes!” Karlach unlatched the axe from her back, brandishing the hells-charred weapon. “We’ll take care of this little problem, then see about getting these worms out, yeah?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Wyll agreed. Shay heard doubt and fear in Wyll’s voice, but it was somehow far away. A distant fear, a future that had yet to come to pass. Surely he didn’t fear Zariel’s agents; this was the sort of fight that exactly fit his reputation.

“So we’re just teaming up with a bloodstained killer?” Astarion muttered in Shay’s ear.

“I’m fine with that,” Pek chortled, “we teamed up with you.”

“This way!” Karlach jumped over Wyll, an astounding leap, and charged up a narrow deer track towards the toll house. Her cackling laugh followed her. “Ah, it’s wonderful. I’m finally out of Avernus!”

“She’s mad,” Astarion observed, not moving to follow as Pek, Wyll and Shadowheart were.

“Everything is mad,” Shay observed wryly with a shrug, “we could use another sword – axe – against the goblins. She’ll be helpful in getting us healed.”

“Come on!” Pek called

They looked up to see the group waiting for them farther up the path.

“Everything is mad,” Astarion repeated Shay’s words in acceptance of their newest party member. He hooked an arm through Shay’s and tugged her along up the path.

*****

“AND I AM NEVER GOING BACK!”

Karlach’s growling shout seemed to come from nowhere. The shock of her intense anger surprised Shay, causing her to jump. She banged her knee on the drawer she was rifling through, the gold coins in her hand fell to the floor. Astarion scooped them up on their first bounce.

On the wooden floorboards of the toolhouse at Shay’s feet, where she was gnawing on the body of the so-called Paladin of Tyr – hopefully the God of Justice was having words with the soul of the man who masqueraded as one of his own – Pek looked up with casual interest. The fight was over, members of the party shouting at each other happened frequently enough that she found little cause for alarm.

“Woah there, Karlach” Wyll, standing closer to the fiery tiefling than Shay, made a pacifying gesture with his hands. “You’re heating up.”

“No! Fuck them! Fuck Zariel! I won’t go back!” Flames re-appeared all over Karlach’s body. She burned, literally, with the fires of her rage. She gave a hard kick to the body of one of Zariel’s felled servants, one of the paladins they had just fought. “And if any of mummy’s little friends want to pick up where the others left off… they’ll find nothing but a pile of ash!”

“What’s the shouting–oh. Wow,” Shadowheart skid to a stop beside Wyll, having run in from a side room where she was looting. She gazed up at the flame-wreathed Karlach with wide eyes. “Do we cure this? Can we cure this? Those flames are getting big.”

“Not big enough,” Karlach growled, breathing heavily. The heat from her body charred the wooden floor boards on which she stood. Shay eyed the still-open door and the sunny road beyond. The toll house was a powder keg and if Karlach was going to burst into flames, it was high time for her and Pek to get out. She and Karlach spoke at the same time.

“Pek–”

“Get out before you get hurt. Now.”

With a squeal and grind of metal, Karlach’s entire body became a raging inferno. Hot air carrying the sulphurous stink of Avernus washed over the companions. Flames rising from the growling tiefling caught the wooden boards of the ceiling above them, stitching themselves into the dry wood as they sought more fuel to grow.

Wyll and Shadowheart followed Karlach’s directions, quickly moving towards the safety of the road outside.

“Come on,” Astarion stood before her on the other side of the wide desk. She stared at him, unseeing. Flames crawled across the floor. Panic rose in Shay. It was the barn all over again. Pek squealed in fright and–

Blink

Fire. 
Pain. 
Fire!
Pain! 
Flee. 
Run. Must run. Run run run. 
Get away. 
Get away NOW!

Blink

When the agonizing tadpole connection severed, Shay found herself huddled with Pek against a broken down cart on the side of the road. In the distance, smoke rose from the burning toll house. Their fellow infected were nowhere to be seen.

“Fire,” Pek whimpered, still shaking with the strength of the panic that had driven them both to run. She held out a delicate hoof, an angry red welt upon the pale pink skin.

“I got you, Peki,” Shay touched the wound and whispered a prayer to Mielikki. A swirl of azure light stole the angry red heat from the burn on Pek’s foot. Soon her skin was whole and unbroken.

“I liked her,” Pek pouted as her shivers slowly subsided, “why would fire-lady do that?”

“I don’t think she meant to scare us,” Shay considered out loud. “Karlach seems to have a lot of anger and somehow she brought the fires of the hells here with her. We’ll have to figure out what to do about that.” She slowly pushed herself away from Pek, trying to get her bearings. The cart they huddled against had spilled its cargo upon the ground, sacks of fruit left to rot in the hot sun. It was practically a midden heap they had sought refuge in, a pile of moist rot that – while, disgusting – surely could not catch fire. She could see smoke rising into the sky into the east; probably evidence of Karlach’s anger consuming the toll house.

“I think we should head–”

Wheezing laughter from the other side of the cart silenced Shay. She immediately crouched for cover. Hands still shaking from remembered panic fumbled for her bow. She silently cursed when she found nothing. She must have dropped it when Pek’s fear overcame her mind. She drew her short sword and peaked carefully around the broken down cart.

The road beyond the cart was a battlefield. Corpses in various states of gnawed dismemberment lay in pools of blood amongst more carts, broken or overturned, one shattered to splinters. There was no sign of the animals that must have pulled the carts, though pony-sized saddle bags lay torn to shreds in puddles of blood. The answer of what must have happened to them lay in the middle of the road. A tall, humanoid shape, covered in patches of spotted fur poking through a mismatched collection of scavenged armour. The shape lay still on the ground in a pool of its own intestines. A gnoll, gutted and dead, but surely not alone. Gnolls never were. Shay's eyes darted around the battlefield looking for the source of the laughter. Something moved to her right, something else farther down the path.

“New flesh,” a husky voice groaned, “come see the new flesh.”

The laughter resumed.

“Hyena,” Pek noted, coming to stand beside Shay. They looked in the shadows just under the cart. A hyena rolled about in agony, bloated and bloodied. Scraps of pale flesh caught in its teeth; it has obviously eaten well. The animal's large, brown eyes rolled in the back of its head, showing the whites. Its claws flailed at the ground but found no purchase.

“Do we put it out of its misery?” Shay asked Pek.

“It’s changing,” Pek observed with a detached curiosity, “not for the better.”

“Fuck,” Shay breathed. She had read about this, but had never seen it happen. The hyena was consumed with Yeenoghu’s hunger. Shortly, it would transform into a Gnoll. More laughter echoed from farther up the road. More hyenas about to become ever-hungering abominations. Surely the poor animal did not want this. There must be some way– “Can we stop this?”

“No stopping,” the hyena panted weakly, “come feed the new flesh!”

Shay readied her short sword to stop the transformation. She thrust forward–

“FOUND!”

The bellowing voice caused Shay to jump, her sword missed its mark.

“New flesh comes,” the hyena laughed a taunt as Shay looked over her shoulder to see what had shouted so loud.

Karlach, her body trailing a few faint wisps of smoke, stood on the road. She scuffed her feet and looked at the ground like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Juvenile pouting looked out of place on the tiefling warrior. 

Shay didn’t know what to say. Pek had no such issue.

“Just gonna to stand there, fire-lady?” Pek snorted angrily, brandishing her tusks at the tiefling’s legs, “I should gut you. Burning down a building with people inside! You–”

“She’s mad at me, yeah?” Karlach asked, speaking over Pek’s ranting, “I deserve it. Got hot under the collar. Too hot. Shouldn’t have done that. ‘Specially when you’ve been so nice. So… um… Sorry.”

“You found her?” Shadowheart’s relieved voice floated down the road. Shay could see the cleric, followed by Wyll and Astarion, making their way towards her and Karlach.

“I’m here,” Shay called, “we’re fine.”

“I– Fuck!” Astarion cut himself off with a curse as a gruesome sound erupted behind Shay. Wet tearing of flesh, bones cracking and reforming and over it all, the endless, shrieking laughter. An arrow, shot from Shay’s own bow, flew over her shoulder and thunked into the transforming hyena. It did nothing to stop the change.

“Flesh,” the word was spoken in common, growled through a throat that had no right to speak humanoid words. It sent a gust of hot breath, reeking of rotting meat, across Shay’s shoulder. She saw a shadow move on the ground and threw herself towards Karlach in a forward roll.

She got to her feet beside Karlach and reach for her sw–

“Fuck!” Shay cursed, seeing her sword in the hard-packed dirt of the road at the grey-green feet of the newly-transformed gnoll.

Karlach stepped in front of her, the axe in her hands seeming somehow less eager for blood than the woman herself. The tiefling’s red body once again setting itself aflame with a high-pitched squeal and grind of machinery. “I got this, soldier,” she grinned at Shay over her shoulder, “whatever ‘this’ is.”

“Gnoll,” Pek explained, slowly backing away from both Karlach and the gnoll. She tucked herself behind Shadowheart, using the companions as a living wall to hide behind.

“It’s a gnoll,” Shay translated. She glared at the hyena-faced monster as it barely bent its knees so its clawed, humanoid hands could pick  her sword up. It turned to the broken down cart under which it had been born and reached a long arm within. It came back holding a spear with a broken haft. Broken or not, the tip was still long and deadly-sharp. “This is what happens when–um–”

“It’s a demonic curse,” Wyll interjected. From the corner of her bad eye, Shay could see the warlock readying his rapier, magic swirling around his other hand. He nodded up the road, “a curse that’s taken more than a few, I see.”

Laughter and yips came from farther up the road, along with other, less identifiable sounds. Newborn gnolls arming themselves from the wreckage along the road, Shay assumed. It was impossible to tell the numbers as shadows and shapes moved among broken carts, cackling laughter echoing all around.

“Feed,” the gnoll standing before them growled, then it barked a laugh and threw the spear. Karlach’s axe batted the weapon from the air with ease.

“People just… turn into these things?” Astarion asked in disgust, losing another arrow from Shay’s bow. The arrow sunk into the patchy, spotted fur of the gnoll’s shoulder. The monster quickly wrenched it out, showing little damage.

“Not people–”

“Fight now, lessons later!” Pek grunted. She surged forward, heatbutting Wyll in the back of his legs. His explanation cut off and he stumbled forward, into the range of its stolen shortsword. The gnoll wielding it bared its yellow fangs and swiped the sword at Wyll. Luckily, he was still finding his footing, stumbling and ducking. The strike missed but the return strike was swiftly on its way. The gnoll settled into the workings of its new body as quickly as Wyll found his own balance, and its body was far stronger than the arm Wyll held up to parry the blow. The shortsword, its reach extended by the gnoll’s gangly form, dug into Wyll’s shoulder. Worse, the gnoll’s heavy arm, like a club, blasted into the warlock’s side, sending him tumbling with a crunch of bone.

An arrow thunked into the ground at Shay’s feet. Growls and cackling laughter followed it. She looked up from the bent projectile to see three gnolls, one with a bow, moving towards them.

“Wait, no, I got this!” Karlach cried, “I got three, you got one! Cover me!”

“Wait–” it was no use. Shay’s words fell on deaf ears; Karlach was focused on the fight she was running towards. Cover her how? Shay had neither bow nor sword.

The flame-wreathed tiefling was suddenly joined by three duplicates of herself, running beside and in behind her. Shay’s jaw dropped in surprise.

“She’s covered,” Shadowheart murmured, her voice distant as she focused her effort on maintaining the illusion around Karlach. A gnoll wielding a short leg ending in a hairy foot as a club struck out at one of the Karlachs. The leg passed harmlessly through the illusion, which disappeared like a bubble popping. Behind the illusion, the real Karlach’s axe was descending in a mighty chop. The halfling leg fell to the ground beside a gnoll arm that could no longer carry it. Blood sprayed into the air, a fountain of red painting the two remaining gnolls squaring off against Karlach.

“She’s covered, what about us?” Astarion asked, sending another arrow into the Gnoll standing over Wyll’s prone form. This time, the creature reacted, Shay’s sword falling to the ground after a tendon severed under the sharp point of the arrow. The gnoll growled and raised a clawed hand to strike Wyll.

Shay burst into motion. She slid around Astarion, pulling his short sword and dagger from their sheathes as she did. She ran to stand over Wyll, holding Astarion’s weapons crossed over her. The gnoll’s clawed arm descended like an avalanche, the shock of the blow reverberated pain down Shay’s arm. She grit her teeth and held. At her feet, Wyll groaned a word of power, summoning a swirl of sickly green magic in his uninjured hand. He reached out, grasping the gnoll’s leg. The beast howled, the strength it pitted against Shay faded until she could easily push its arms away. The gnoll swayed on its feet, looking sickly and pale.

Wyll sat up, looking healthy and pain-free. He rotated his newly-healed arm before picking his rapier off the ground. His other hand still swirled with the light of magic. It pulsed in a manner that seemed hungry.

The gnoll stumbled backwards, catching Shay’s attention. She surged forward, stabbing Astarion’s dagger deep into its eye. At her side, Pek joined her in a mighty charge that dug a tusk deep into a furred abdomen. The creature collapsed. It’s laughter silenced forever.

Silence from one gnoll wasn’t silence. Not when a growling tiefling still fought two growling gnolls. Shay turned from her fallen foe to see Karlach dueling two gnolls, the third hacked to pieces at her feet. There was no sign of her illusionary companions.

Shay turned back to Wyll, offering a hand to help him stand. He waved her off, green magic trailing around his hand as he did.

“You don’t want to touch this right now,” Wyll grinned, getting to his feet on his own. He ran into the fray with Karlach. Ducking smoothly under a wild swing of her axe, Wyll threw himself at a gnoll, grasping his hand around its arm. Again, the magic flared a sickly green and the gnoll seemed to wither. The magic faded away, leaving Wyll looking as if he had spent a week at the finest inn; well rested and fully healed.

Astarion put an arrow into the gnoll’s throat. It dropped to the ground, soon joined by pieces of its companion, hacked into chunks by Karlach.

Shay picked her sword off the ground, then went to trade weapons with Astarion.

“Where’s the rest of this guy?” Karlach asked, poking her axe handle at the halfling leg laying pale and white amongst grey-green hunks of bloodied gnoll parts. She leaned over a broken cart, peering within as she continued talking, “maybe we can find him and heal his– oh, no. No, we can’t. Poor chubby little bastard was dinner. Him an’ his… pony? Maybe?”

“We should bury the dead,” Wyll said solemnly, looking with dismay beyond the gnoll bodies to their ravaged victims.

Distant, yipping laughter echoed off the rocks all around them.

“We should go,” Astarion and Shay said at the same time.

With quick nods of agreement, they hit the road. The sound of gnolls had long since faded into the distance but the grinding squeal of metal that seemed to follow her continued on. It was a low, thumping grate one could only hear if they stood very close to Karlach. Close enough to almost burn. 

“Karlach, are you alright?” Shadowheart asked the tiefling, looking askance at the woman as waves of heat pulsed from her body.

“Me? Best day I’ve had in years! Hear that?” Karlach asked, thumping a red clawed fist to her chest, “infernal engine for a heart. Lets me burn as hot as the Hells.”

A particularly loud screech erupted from Karlach’s chest, followed by a pulse of heat that had them all sweating. Shadowheart raised a dark eyebrow. Karlach looked slightly sheepish.

“Seems to be running in overdrive since I left Avernus,” she grinned apologetically, “but I won’t be seeing my mechanic any time soon, so we’ll just have to make the most of the extra heat. Just… don’t get too close ‘til I’ve found a way to calm it down.”

“How the hells did you get an infernal engine–”

Pek bumped hard into Shay’s hip, distracting her from the conversation between Karlach and Shadowheart. She looked down at her friend, who nodded her tusks backwards, over her shoulder towards Astarion. The vampire spawn was barely keeping up with the rest of them, dark circles under his eyes again.

Shay allowed Shadowheart, Wyll and Karlach to move ahead on the road. “Hey,” she murmured, bumping her shoulder into Astarion’s, “we’ll camp soon and you can feed, ok?”

“I was so hoping you’d say that,” Astarion purred, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’ll see your delicious self tonight.”

A final barking laugh followed them down the road, encouraging everyone to double their pace.

Chapter Text

Shay was wrong. Camping did not come soon. Instead, they were forced to push on, encouraged by the fading sounds of innumerable gnolls behind them. Tracks in the dirt, gnoll and hyena, all pointed back towards the massacre they had left behind them. Still, the road was hard packed, the land was rocky. Tracks were hard to spot and harder still to read. Shay couldn’t guarantee there weren’t more gnolls waiting just behind a boulder.

And she had to make sure they were circling the goblins. They couldn’t allow the gnolls or anything else to drive them away from their true quarry. They had to get into the goblin camp and find the druid Halsin. They had to find healing, before the tadpoles within them transformed. Fear and anxiety drove Shay to push harder, to force her companions to keep up. She would only pause to read tracks, if she spotted them.

The well-chewed remains of another pony, discovered around a bend in the road, gave that opportunity. Shay bent close to the corpse, using every scrap of wood craft she had to read the signs. How long had it been there? Where had its killers gone?

“Can we have a minute?” Karlach’s voice pierced the fog of anxiety swirling in Shay’s mind, “my dogs are barking.”

Shay glanced behind to see her companions – friends – seated on boulders or fallen logs wherever they could find a spot. Astarion, seated on the ground, was using Pek as a back rest.

“I don’t know…” Shay glanced at the tracks again, trying to glean more answers from them.

“I smell nothing,” Pek assured Shay, “and we’re downwind. We need to rest. And eat. I’m hungry. So is Piglet-Daddy. You should feed him.

“What, right here?” Shay gasped, “Pek, no.”

“What did she say?” Karlach asked Shadowheart.

“I don’t know,” the cleric sighed, her eyes sliding shut as it became evident they were resting for a moment, at least.

“Something hilarious,” Astarion added. With his eyes closed, he appeared at rest – he appeared to need rest, the dark circles under his eyes seeming to grow more pronounced by the minute – but a glitter under long eyelashes gave away the ruse, “look at her blush.”

“You’re just hungry,” Wyll grumbled, rolling his shoulders. The warlock looked the least in need of rest. In fact, he seemed bursting with energy he couldn’t quite contain. Almost as though he had taken a potion of speed. “You can’t possibly see a blush on her. Everything is blood for you.”

“Blood? Hungry? What is he talking about?” Karlach whispered to Shadowheart in a voice that surely carried back to the Emerald Grove

“Astarion’s a vampire.” Shadowheart answered, by now the cleric was completely nonchalant about the undead in their midst.

“Really? You’re shitting me, look at ‘im sunbathing!” Karlach was astounded, but to Shay’s great relief she didn’t seem upset about the information. “Hey, fangs, how’s being a vampire work?

“I have a name,” Astarion replied succinctly.

“So do I,” Karlach answered, a touch of befuddlement in her voice, “what’s your point?”

Astarion sighed, deeply and very put upon. He pushed himself off Pek, and stood. Facing Karlach across the road, he announced, “My advocate Pek will explain everything to you. I have something I need to do.”

He strode off the road, swiftly disappearing behind a boulder.

“But I can’t understand her,” Karlch called after Astarion. No answer was called back to her.

“We shouldn’t separate,” Shay told the group, backing away a few steps in the direction Astarion had gone, “I’ll get him. No one leaves, ok? Have a meal or something. I’ll be back.”

Shay walked around the boulder, trying not to dart after Astarion as she wanted to. She kept her eyes glued to the ground trying desperately to find any trace of where he had gone. Behind her, she could hear Pek begin to explain to Karlach.

“But I can’t understand you!” the tiefling’s voice chased Shay into the brush

*****

“Hunting monsters, ranger?”

Shay hadn’t gone far off the road, following her heart more than any tracks she could see in the hard-packed dirt, when Astarion’s voice brought her up short. She turned to see him sitting amongst a tumble of rocks and boulders, looking like a fallen angel on a throne of ruin. The dark circles under his eyes almost matched his shadow-dark leathers.

“Looking for my friend,” she corrected with a smile, approaching to stand before him. With him seated, she was a head taller. She stared down into his red ey

He looked away and scoffed.

“Wyll’s an ass,” Shay told the top of Astarion’s head, “we both know it. At least he didn’t kill Karlach. She’s nice, when she’s not terrorizing us with fire.”

“You ran,” his voice was so quiet, she could hardly hear him.

“What?”

“You ran from me,” Astarion repeated, something small and painful in his voice, “she lit the building on fire, I offered you my hand and… you ran.”

“I didn’t see you,” Shay could hardly remember what had happened. It was all a dark cloud; a song of crackling flames and terrified screams.

“You looked right at me.”

“Probably,” Shay shrugged, tapping a finger to her temple, “but my little friend was talking to Pek’s and all I remember is her fear. Neither of us do well with burning buildings.

“I know,” his jaw clenched, a trace of pout in the set of his lips, “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. It’s not your fault,” she assured him, “you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

“Tonight,” he sighed, pushing himself off the boulder.

“Now,” Shay argued, putting her hands on his shoulders and pushing him back down. His eyes darted to the marks in her neck.

“Really?” Astarion asked, his body trembling slightly under her hands. She could hear the hunger in his voice.

“Can’t have you falling behind,” a thin excuse, even to her own ears. It felt good to be in his arms. And perhaps they could both use the assurance of an embrace. Arms wrapped around her waist, drawing her slowly closer. She shivered in anticipation

“So you’ll fall behind instead?” he murmured into her neck.

“Shadowheart can heal me,” she shrugged one shoulder, the feel of clothing on her newly-healed skin delighting her, “or I’ll just push through it. You need this.”

“I need…” as his voice trailed off, he raised his head from her neck to gaze into her eyes, his face marred by a slight frown, “but what do you get from this?”

“I get my friend feeling better,” Shay raised a quizzical eyebrow at Astarion’s weird question, “what more reason could I need?”

“I–” he looked confused, not knowing how to answer.

“Just eat, ok?” Shay assumed the hunger was sapping his ability to think. She slid a hand up his arm, settling it gently in the curls on the back of his head. A slight press brought him back to her neck. Astarion pressed a gentle, almost reverent, kiss to the marks in her neck. Shay kept her hand in his hair, cradling him to her, “you deserve to be cared for, you know.

She thought she heard a small sob before the icy pinch of his bite drove all thought away.

*****

Shadowheart did heal Shay, and the group got back on the road, pushing westward. Initially, they made good time, walking down the hard-packed road was far easier than fighting tangling vines in a pathless forest. But the road was angling upward through increasingly rocky terrain. Soon it began to switch back, to climb ever higher. An hour of hiking got them higher, but not farther.

“You know,” Wyll tapped Shay’s arm from behind, pulling her attention from the landscape before them, “I finally think I recognize where we are. I’ve rarely been this far east, but I remember a trip to Elturel as a lad and this road seems familiar.”

“So we’re near Elturel?” Shay was disheartened to hear how far they were from home. Elturel was more than a tenday from Baldur’s Gate and that was assuming one used well made roads and traveled during the day. Once Halsin healed them, it would be a month or more traveling back to the Gate with Astarion.

“No, I think we’re about midway between Elturel and the Gate,” Wyll explained as they all climbed a particularly steep section of the twisting road, “somewhere in these rocky hills should be Waukeen’s Rest. A sort of way station and inn for merchants. If I remember correctly, they had a decent bath house.”

Shadowheart and Astarion both sighed in longing. Karlach shrugged a shoulder, not caring as much as the other two, then tried to itch a spot on her back without being noticed.

Waukeen’s Rest. The words tickled Shay’s memory. She had heard them before but where–

“Oh. Oh, no.” She breathed out loud the moment her mind connected all the dots.

“What’s wrong with a bath?” Wyll grinned at her, “maybe I should be glad I'm not a ranger if that’s your reaction to getting clean.”

“No, I think…” Shay ignored the gentle ribbing about baths to explain, “the people the Gnolls ate back there… I think I knew one of them. The halfling Karlach found. He was a merchant we met on the road after the Nautiloid crash.”

“May Yondalla watch over his soul,” Wyll murmured, invoking the Goddess of the Halflings. “Sorry to hear that. The roads to the east have become quite dangerous. Perhaps they need The Blade.”

“Once we’re healed,” Shadowheart interjected, breathing harder than the rest as she climbed in her heavy armour, “be a hero once we’re healed.”

“But he’s always a hero,” Karlach said, “can’t get that reputation without always doing the thing, right?”

Their conversation continued, but Shay ignored it. She turned her attention back to the landscape. The sun was climbing towards the western horizon, the eastern sky had begun to purple, signalling the coming of night. It was time to find a safe place to camp.

Almost an hour later, a campsite presented itself when another switchback in the road brought them to a blessedly flat stretch in the mountainous terrain. The northern side of the road was a sheer rock wall broken up by a wide entrance, a gaping mouth that led into a spacious cavern. Evidence that the space was well-used by local merchants was everywhere. Wheel tracks on the ground, where the dirt was thick enough on the rock to show any, led into the cave. Within, a drying pile of pony leavings lay piled on the ground near wooden posts clearly used as a hitch. Near the hitch was a water barrel – nearly full – and a trough. The back of the cavern had a second level, accessible only by a narrow, and very steep, path. More proof the space was a way-station waited there, in the remains of a campsite. A well-used fire pit built of piled rocks sat at the edge of the space, overlooking the cavern below and its entrance. A tall stack of chopped wood waited against the cave wall. Affixed to the rock beside it, lower than eye-level for Shay, a brass plaque caught whatever fading light it could to shine brightly. Words of welcome were engraved on the plaque, set beside the emblem of Waukeen; the face of the goddess herself in profile, stamped on a coin.

“Is this Waukeen’s Rest, then?” Astarion asked, glancing over Shay’s shoulder to note the emblem of the Coinmaiden while the rest of the party set up their spaces for the night. “He said there would be a bath.”

“No,” Wyll called, struggling with his tent, “I remember an inn, good food… baths. A proper bathing house . This can’t be it.”

“It says we’re a day out,” Shay explained, gesturing at the last line on the plaque. She then set herself to gathering wood. “The Coinmaiden’s people maintain this space and gently suggest we make a donation in thanks when we reach Waukeen’s Rest.”

“A day away from a bath,” Astarion grumbled, assisting Shay with the wood, “ugh.”

“Set up his tent,” Pek told Shay, “I want to roll in it. Make him earn that bath.”

Shay chuckled to herself. Everyone was getting so precious about bathing.

An hour later, Shay regretted that laughter. With Karlach added to the party and space in the cavern at a premium, Astarion’s tent had remained in their bag of holding.

“I’m moving in, darling!” he had announced to her, in front of everyone, when she finally turned from setting up the campfire and getting a stew going to survey their camp and try to figure out where to set up her tent. It turned out, her tent had already been set up, at the end of a squished line of tents immediately beside Shadowhearts. The line continued with Wyll’s tent, then Karlach’s. The tiefling warrior had set up the canvas walls she called a ten to block the narrow path back down.

Shay froze, her eyes darting to the rest of the party. No one reacted, everyone was preoccupied with getting themselves ready for rest. Still, embarrassment flooded her. A blush could hide in the dark of the cavern and the dark of her skin, but it couldn’t hide from a Vampire Spawn. Astarion laughed, a giggle of delight, before ducking into her – their – tent with a bucket of water.

“Mommy and Piglet-Daddy are together!” Pek chortled around a mouthful of the odds and ends that hadn’t gone into the stew pot. Her pustulent green eye caught the firelight and seemed to glow with her delight. “All my dreams are coming true. We’re a real family now.”

“Bacon. For. Breakfast,” Shay hissed at her friend, the hot feeling of mortification climbing her neck. She stormed into her tent.

“Bacon for breakfast?” Karlach’s voice floated through the tent flaps Shay was hastily tying. “Sounds good.”

“It really does,” Pek replied.

“Karlach!” Shay heard Wyll chide, “Pek is bacon.”

“Can’t be much different from a hellsboar though, right?” Karlach replied, “‘n’they eat each other.”

“Smart,” Pek told the tiefling. The click of her cloven feet sounded.

“Aww, see? She likes me!” Karlach’s joyous observation came a moment later, “but I can’t give you chin scratches, or I’ll cook you. Lemme find something… my axe! Here, I’ll hold it and you use the butt–”

“Planning on turning around, darling?” Astarion’s voice jolted Shay from her position at the tent entrance. “I am decent. Well. I’m dressed, anyway.”

“I… might stay right here.” Shay replied, not turning around. She willed her blush to fade, sending cooling thoughts in the direction of her cheeks. It didn’t work.

“Oh? Surely you’re not upset at our little tent-share,” Astarion’s voice was light and dismissive, but Shay detected a cautious note under it all, “I’ve been staying in here anyway.”

“No, not you,” Shay sighed, her shoulders slumping. She finally turned around, but kept her eyes lowered. “It’s just… a lot. It’s only been me and Pek for years. If I ran into anyone, they were being attacked by goblins or something. You kill the monsters, send the people on their way. Or if I needed to trade, I’d go to the Friendly Arm, get it done and be back on the road in no time. Now there’s people! People everywhere! Following me, relying on me and trusting me and teasing me and it’s–”

“It is a lot, isn’t it?” Astarion cut her ranting off. His boots entered Shay’s vision as the low rumble of his voice soothed her nerves. “I’m a lot.”

“No–” Shay protested, then interrupted herself when she considered further, “well… maybe.”

“I like to think I’m one of those people, though,” the note of caution curled around his words, a slim tendril so small Shay wasn’t even certain she was hearing it. Cool hands curled around her shoulders. Shay slumped into his embrace. “Following and trusting and all that.”

“Teasing,” Shay muttered into his chest.

“That too,” his tone of voice promised the teasing wouldn’t be coming to an end anytime soon. Astarion’s arms tightened around her.

For a moment, everything in the tent stilled. Shay accepted the comfort of the embrace and breathed deeply to calm herself. She felt safe. Eventually, the murmurs of the camp intruded and Shay was reminded that duty waited outside the canvas walls. She pushed herself away from Astarion’s embrace with a tired sigh. “Did you clean up? I need to do that, then get out there to finish the meal and begin the watch.”

“No,” he replied firmly.

“Oh, then I’ll go and finish the meal while you–”

“I washed,” Astarion cut her off, “you’re not cooking. You’re not on watch tonight. They can figure out when to eat and Karlach can take your turn at the watch. She owes us that much, at least. Take a night off, darling. Rest. You… you deserve to be cared for. Too.”

His words, an echo of what she said to him earlier that day, surprised her. Her immediate reaction was to deny it. Others deserved that, not her. Pek and Astarion deserved that. Shadowheart and Karlach and, yes, even Wyll. It was her job to care for others, not to be cared for. Family meant caring for others, didn’t it? Endless memories of her time in Baldur’s Gate, growing up and caring for her parents, then just Mama, swamped her. Busking for coin, buying food, cooking the meal then scraping her parents out of bed to prepare for the evening. Papa stumbling home at her side, his arm thrown over her slight ten-year-old shoulders. If you weren’t working to care for your family, what good were you? Why would they want you around?

The worm behind her eye flexed.

Shay tried to banish her thoughts, lest it connect with the others to share the meal with its fellows. No one in the camp needed to see Shay's memories and feel her bone-deep assurance in her own worth… or lack thereof. She squeezed her eyes shut, then startled at the feel of Astarion’s fingers gently wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Stay here,” he murmured, “get clean and I’ll bring you dinner.”

Then he was gone and Shay was alone with the ghosts of her past and stains on her soul that would never quite wash away.

Hours later, Shay was still trapped in her tent. She was clean and fed, idly plucking at her violin and quietly singing to herself. Pek, happily co-opted by Astarion, had taken up position at the entrance as Shay’s personal jailer. Shay was alone in her tent, though she wouldn’t be for long. Astarion was taking his turn at the night watch, but would be returning soon for his turn to feed and rest.

“Encore!” Shadowheart’s piercing whisper penetrated the canvas walls of the tent when Shay’s song wound to its conclusion. Shay moved to the wall of her tent, knowing that Shadowheart, in her own tent, was just on the other side.

“Got a request?” Shay whispered back.

“A lullaby,” Shadowheart replied, “can’t sleep.”

“Got it,” Shay grinned, feeling better about being able to do something. She took up the bow and began to play a gentle lullaby. She didn’t skip a beat when Astarion ducked into the tent, stepping cautiously over Pek’s scarred rump to do so. He smiled softly at her – the song may not have skipped a beat, but her heart was another thing entirely – and gestured for her to continue on as he prepared himself for rest, shucking his leather armour and changing into a loose-fitting shirt.

“Who’s on watch?” she whispered to him over her shoulder as he settled to the ground with a book, his back pressed against hers to give her arms room to keep playing.

“Wyll,” Astarion replied, a smirk in his voice, “or no one. Perhaps you’ve sent them all off to sleep. It certainly worked on Shadowheart.”

“Yeah?” The song wound to its conclusion. Shay carefully returned the instrument to its case, “how do you know?”

“I can hear her heartbeat,” he replied with half a mind, his eyes on the book in his hands, “she’s either asleep or drugged.”

“Could be drugged,” Shay kept her voice low, a grin tugging at her lips, “who finished cooking?”

“Karlach,” Astarion replied.

“She’s probably fine,” Shay returned to her bedroll, snuggling under the blankets. Astarion re-adjusted himself, laying beside her with his book. “You need to eat?”

“Later,” he dismissed, “when you’re at rest.”

“‘Kay,” a yawn cracked her jaws. She double-checked on her weapons, ready at the entrance of the tent, then set her head to rest on her pack. Sleep found her quickly.

*****

A wash of hot, sulphurous air choked Shay. She woke, confused and coughing, each heave of breath through her clogged throat set agony in the fresh bite on her neck. What was going on? Had they been taken again? The air on the nautiloid had smelt of sulphur, of the hells it traveled through. The creak of leathery wings reminded her of the dragons that had chased the ship through the burning air of Avernus.

“Gods damn it, anyone but her,” Karlach’s angry voice penetrated the tent walls, “get out of our camp!”

“Now?” a foreign voice replied, feminine and confident, “but I’m just getting comfy.”

Shay grabbed her bow and launched herself from the tent. She had a split second to see Karlach and Wyll standing to the side, facing down a winged form beside the low light of the campfire. Similar to the winged devils Shay had seen on the nautiloid, but this creature was curvy, wearing a tight fitting dress to highlight her body, her head and horns adorned with shimmering gold chains and medallions. Her skin was the purple colour of dusk, compared to the red skin of the devils she had seen thus far. Differences didn’t matter, though. A devil was a devil. Shay nocked an arrow and shot.

“No!” Wyll cried, launching an eldritch blast at Shay’s arrow. The black-green dart turned the arrow to dust that sprinkled the dainty clawed feet of the devil.

“Hmm, you can be a good boy,” the devil purred at Wyll. “Pity you’re not consistent.”

“Wyll, what the fuck?” Shay sputtered. She nocked another arrow, but wasn’t sure if she wanted to train it on the devil or the Warlock. “Who is this?”

“Mommy’s home,” Pek said behind her, the commotion finally rousing her from her rest.

“Call me Mizora,” the woman announced with a flourish of hand and wing, “I’m Wyll’s patron, the fount of his power. But I’m afraid my pet’s been unruly, and his leash needs a yank.”

Wyll began to cough and choke, his hands raised to this throat, scrabbling to remove a hand that could neither be seen nor touched.

“Wyll!” Shadowheart cried, running from her tent. She put her hands on Wyll’s shoulders, entreating her dark goddess for healing or curse breaking, whichever was needed.

“The Lady of Loss has no jurisdiction here,” Mizora informed Shadowheart with a lofty tone, “Wyll agreed to this. Signed in fire and blood on his very soul. My little hero works for his powers and if he fails, he’s punished. We had a deal, Wyll. But Karlach’s still breathing.”

Wyll coughed and struggled to reply. Mizora sighed, highly put out, and banished whatever was choking him.

“You told me devils only,” Wyll finally rasped out, when he had caught his breath somewhat, “She’s – she’s a tiefling. Not a monster!”

“So this is where the Blade gets his power,” Astarion observed from behind Shay, having woken from his reverie. Shay turned her head slightly, noting Astarion held his weapons and was using Shay to block the sight of them from Mizora.

“Clause G, section Nine: Targets shall be limited to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless,” Mizora noted, lecturing Wyll on the details of the contract he had signed. “Karlach meets the criteria by virtue of having no heart.”

“Ugh,” Karlach rolled her eyes, “I’ve taken more pleasant shits than you, Mizora, and at least those can be buried after.”

“That’s no kind of talk for a lady,” Mizora brought a delicate hand to her chest, performing affronted to the hilt, “And here I’ve been sent to give you Zariel’s regards!”

“Gods, Wyll,” Shay felt a throb in the old wound of her disappointment in the Blade, “I can’t believe you signed your soul away to this."

“Because he wanted so badly to be the Blade of Frontiers,” Mizora smirked. “You can’t call yourself ‘Devil’s Plaything’ and hold on to that heroic reputation. Now, speaking of…”

Shadowheart leapt away from Wyll with a curse as the ground beneath him turned inky black. His boots sank into the miasma that formed beneath him, though he didn’t even struggle to get out himself. He seemed resigned to his fate, whatever that might be. The black goo rose with a mind of its own, coating Wyll’s entire body and emitting sulphurous pulses of super-heated air. Pek backed away into Shay’s tent, the heat frightening her.

Wyll began to cry out in pain, the cries growing with each wave of heat that emitted from the black substance coating him.

“Mizora, stop it!” Karlach demanded, her anger bringing its own heat. 

The cavern began to feel like a sauna, sweat poured down Shay’s back. She kept her bow trained on the devil before her, wondering if a shot would disrupt Mizora’s focus on Wyll, or make the situation worse.

“Karlach,” Mizora sighed as though speaking to a rather dim child, “you know there are magics that cannot be undone.”

The black goo drained away, sinking back into the ground. It left a very changed Wyll behind. The Blade of Frontiers was no longer human. His skin had grown ridges and turned a deep red colour, his eyes had turned from a warm brown to glowing red set in deep black. Most obvious of all, a set of tall, curling horns erupted from his forehead.

Mizora clapped her hands together in delight. “That’s better,” she purred.

“What have you done?” Wyll cried out, looking at his hands in horror.

“A promise broken, a price paid,” Mizora shrugged, “you know the terms, pet. Now, let’s see how the Frontiers fare without their precious Blade.”

“It’s ok,” Shadowheart approached Wyll again, trying to assure him, “it’ll be ok."

“Keep an eye on him, would you?” Mizora asked them all, “I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Oh, and Wyll? Don’t forget: our pact still stands. Ta-ta!”

The black miasma returned, this time forming a perfect circle under Mizora’s feet. It rose to cover her as she sank into it. The puddle dwindled to nothing. Mizora, Wyll’s Patron, was gone.

The cavern began to cool without the heat of the hells. Karlach stood, shocked, staring at the spot on the ground where Mizora had disappeared to. Wyll fell to his knees, cursing his patron with all his might, Shadowheart murmuring ineffectual prayers over him. Wyll was a devil now, nothing would change that.

“Karlach,” Shay asked the tiefling, getting as close to her as her own heat would allow. She would rather check on Karlach than Wyll, not wanting to speak with the fallen Blade just yet, “are you alright? Did she come to kill you?”

“I– no, I think she came to–” Karlach looked over at Wyll, “I’ll be honest, soldier, I’m reeling. Wyll hardly knows me, but he chose my life over his. He must’ve known this would happen if he didn’t kill me and he still didn’t even try. Been a long time since someone stuck their neck out for me like that.”

“You must be relieved,” Astarion noted. He seemed unwilling to be any distance from Shay.

“Gobsmacked, really.” Karlach laughed with little humour, “But grateful. Really grateful. I could learn a thing or two from a man like that. Hopefully we won’t turn into mind flayers first.”

“So,” Astarion murmured, mostly to himself, “Wyll did the right thing and it earned him a set of horns. Let that be a lesson to us all.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Shay replied. “She could’ve come for us all. I don’t know how to fight a devil. Especially when Wyll seems determined to defend her.”

“Well, better him than us.” Astarion shrugged. He turned around, heading for their tent. To him, the matter was over. Pek emerged from the tent, giving Astarion room within. She flopped on the ground near its entrance.

“Gods damn her straight back to the Hells!” Wyll shouted, pounding his newly-clawed fists to the ground in frustration. Shadowheart backed away from his rage, finally accepting that her prayers for Wyll would not – could not – be answered.

“Wyll-” Karlach tried to sound comforting, she reached out her own clawed hands, but thought better of it. No hugs would be coming from her.

“Just look at me!” Wyll snapped. He raised glowing red eyes to Shay, his anger turning to pleas. “I did what was right! And Mizora made me pay for it. I’d be hunting devils and demons, she said. Traitors and hypocrites – heartless evils of all sorts – but not… not Zariels’s victims. Not innocent tieflings.”

“What did you expect, Wyll?” Shay didn’t have it in her to sound comforting, but she managed to keep the disappointment from her voice. “You made a deal with a devil. They’re hardly the paragon of honesty.”

Wyll gave a wry chuckle, laughing at himself. “All these years, you’d think it’s a lesson I’d have well learned.”

“So that’s where you get your power from?” Shadowheart asked, sitting on the ground beside Wyll. Shay waited for his answer, her eyes flickering over Wyll’s new form. He didn’t look that bad, if she was honest with herself. He resembled the tieflings back at the Emerald Grove.

“Yes, I’m pacted to the Cambion Mizora,” Wyll said, making it sound very formal. “She grants me the power to conjure armour and cast eldritch blasts. Before I was infected, I could even call hellbeasts and summon festering clouds. But I promise you all, everything I did was for the greater good. The good of the Coast and its people.”

“You should’ve let me shoot her,” Shay grumbled, sitting beside Shadowheart, “you wouldn’t be like this if my arrow found her heart.”

“I’d be worse,” Wyll barked a laugh with no humour. “She’s not of this plane. Killing her would only send her back to Avernus and piss her off.”

“I can’t believe you summoned her and signed yourself over,” Shay shook her head. How far the Blade had fallen in such a short time.

“It wasn’t like that,” Wyll explained. His hands rose, shaking, near his new horns, but he dropped them before he could touch his new head accessories. “I can’t tell you what it was like. I’m forbidden to speak on the terms and circumstances of my pact. I can tell you it was worth the sacrifice. All I can give you on that is my solemn word.”

“I believe you,” Karlach told Wyll, sitting down with them. “You did me a solid and you knew what the punishment would be. You’re the Blade of Frontiers, still. A true hero.”

“Thank you for that,” Wyll gave a hesitant smile. “I’ll earn my reputation back. Even if the people only see a monster, I am the Blade and I will remain so.”

Wyll and Karlach looked at each other in a way that made Shay feel like she was intruding. She took the hint and nudged Shadowheart. They both got to their feet, murmured their farewells and left their Avernus-cursed companions to the firelight and the night.

Chapter Text

“All this… and it’s mine. You agreed to be mine.”

Whispered words scarcely penetrated the thick blanket of sleep that wrapped tightly around Shay’s mind. Someone was speaking to her, but her consciousness was barely engaged with reality. The words washed over her, as meaningless as Pek’s loud snores.

“I wanted safety, but you’ve given me so much more. You’ve taken care of me. Which was new and strange and… and wonderful. And just as wonderful is taking care of you. I might actually want to keep you, when this is all over. I wasn’t expecting that. What have you done to me?”

“Dun’a’me,” Shay murmured, repeating what was said as she slowly rose from the depths of sleep. Warm blankets were tucked around her by soft hands. She hovered on the edge of consciousness, one foot still in the realm of dreams.

“Rest lo–darling,” the voice soothed, a warm hand rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“Hmm? ‘starion?” Shay asked, finally brought around by the strange feeling of a warm hand on her back. She turned in her bedroll, realizing that the vampire spawn had lain beside her for so long he was now reflecting her own body heat back to her. He was warm for the same reason the blankets were; Shay herself. “D’you need’t feed?”

Her question brought a wicked grin to his face. He traced a gentle finger down her neck, the slight ache she felt at his touch let her know that he had already eaten and she had somehow slept through it. A faint memory of neck pain as she faced Mizora tickled the back of her mind. He must have fed hours ago.

“I could eat something,” he purred.

Shay blinked stupidly at him, her mind not fully awake to understand the meaning of his words but knowing there was something there she was missing. That he wasn’t wearing a shirt did not help her brain’s ability to process words, or anything, really. His hands tugging at the waistband of her leggings helped her understand his intent.

Shay wriggled out of her leggings, assisted by the eager vampire spawn at her side. When her legs were free, he began to attack the laces on her shirt. Shay stilled his hands with her own.

“You too,” she murmured, releasing his hand to drag her fingers along his soft skin, heading downwards towards his pants.

“After,” he replied, pulling her shirt over her head. For a brief moment, they struggled. Shay tangled herself further in her own clothing, refusing to sit up and let the warmth of the bedroll dissipate. She tugged and pulled at her shirt to get it over her head.

Astarion suppressed a laugh. Shay heard a giggle slip free as she wrestled with her shirt and the blankets covering her.

“‘s‘not funny,” she grumbled, sleep still holding on to her mind and body. She finally freed herself of her shirt, “I’m ‘sposed’t’be sexy.”

Astarion leaned forward to press gentle kisses into her skin, making his way up her chest, to her neck. Then he was hovering over her, his gently smiling face just inches from her own, “And, somehow, despite all your efforts… you are.”

Shay snorted a laugh, a sound that was alarmingly similar to something that might come out of Pek. She was instantly deeply embarrassed by it. Astarion just smiled wider. There was a soft, dopey quality to his smile that Shay had never seen before. It erased lines of worry and trauma from his face. He looked so young, so happy and carefree. Shay felt something lurch in her heart.

“Com’ere,” she whispered, reaching up to twine her arms around his neck and slowly drawing him down to her. Astarion followed along, his soft smile never wavering an inch. Then that soft smile became a soft kiss. Shay’s eyes slid shut as she returned the kiss. They lay there, bodies pressed together, gently kissing and nothing else. In Astarion’s arms, Shay felt cherished. Not safe, they were never safe, especially not when multiple powerful devils could appear in their camp at any moment, not to mention the tadpoles incubating in their skulls, but she felt secure that no matter what might happen, Astarion would have her back. She had increased the little circle of her family by one and it seemed permanent.

Astarion whined in the back of his throat and deepened their kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, his body against hers moved with a growing desperation. Growing, indeed, Shay realized when he pressed his hips against hers and she felt a delightful hardness there. His body felt warm against hers, reflecting her body heat. It was an odd feeling, being in bed with someone as warm as her. Warm lips against hers kissed her with familiar urgency, if not familiar temperature. A warm hand stroked its way down the still-sensitive skin of her newly healed shoulder, on its way to her breasts. She squirmed and giggled at that.

Astarion pulled back from their kiss, raising a grey eyebrow in a silent question. Shay looked away, feeling slightly embarrassed by her laughter.

“New skin,” she muttered, reluctantly returning her gaze to meet his, “it’s still sensitive.”

“Is it, now?” he replied, a sparkle of mischief flaring in his wine-dark eyes. 

The world suddenly upended. Shay found herself flipped over, squirming and giggling under Astarion’s rather gentle exploration of her no-longer-fire-scarred back. As his touches moved from tender strokes to outright, intentional tickles, her giggles turned to shrieks.

Shrieks that suddenly cut off when silence snapped into the tent, sound snuffing out like a candle flame in a storm. For a moment, Shay still squirmed, still tried to giggle and shriek under Astarion’s merciless onslaught, but no sound came from her mouth. He froze a split second before she did. Understanding dawned upon her and she turned her head, slowly, to make eye contact over her shoulder with her tormentor.

“Shadowheart?” Shay mouthed, remembering the silence spell their companion had cast days earlier. Astarion nodded, in confirmation or agreement, then fell to silent convulsions of laughter when Shay’s eyes widened comically and embarrassment sent all the blood in her body to her face in a powerful blush. 

Shay counted to ten. Astarion still hadn’t stopped laughing. She turned herself around and smacked him on the shoulder. No sound came, which wasn’t as satisfying and he still didn’t stop laughing. She took a deep breath through her nose, trying to calm herself and redirect her embarrassment. It worked, when she realized that sound had been destroyed, but nothing else. She couldn’t hear, but she could see, taste… and smell. Shay scratched her nails at the barely-healed bite marks in her neck, breaking them open easily. A trickle of blood dripped down her neck, the coppery scent blooming within the tent.

Astarion’s laughter cut off, his head snapped around so his eyes could stare eagerly at that single trickle of blood, now making its way down her chest towards her breasts. His entire body transformed from mirth to predatory hunger in an instant.

She would never deny him a meal, not when she was so familiar with starvation, but after being laughed at, Shay decided it was her turn to play. She dragged a finger through the blood on her chest, gathering it as though stealing a dollop of icing from a cake. His eyes followed her every move. She slowly brought her bloody finger to her mouth, reveling in the feeling of power she got from his rapt attention and the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed heavily. Her finger went into her mouth and she sucked, hollowing in her cheeks with the effort.

Astarion’s entire body convulsed. Somehow, with great effort, he tore his eyes away from her mouth. They flickered to her eyes and back down again, each split second of eye-contact carrying a question… a plea. He wanted to eat.

But she wasn’t done playing.

Shay gathered more blood on her finger and brought it to his lips. He sucked it into his mouth immediately. With her other hand, she pushed at his shoulder. He lay down willingly, as long as he could lick every drop of blood from her finger. She took advantage of his distraction to untie the laces of his pants and free his erection. He had said later, but did nothing to still her hands as they worked, he did nothing when she straddled his lap, dragging her core along his hard length as she did. Astarion’s eyes fluttered shut as he enjoyed the feel of her in his lap and the taste of her blood on his tongue. Shay envied him; she just wanted to feel and he felt so good. It was so hard to keep her eyes open, to pay attention to his every blink and twitch, but she had to. There was no song to be heard in this lovemaking – sex. In this sex . All she had to go off was the evidence of her eyes. Evidence she desperately needed, as she faked her way through confidence she did not truly have.

That fleeting moment of distraction, where her inner monologue stole her confidence for the  briefest second was all Astarion needed to gain the upper hand. She had turned her back, metaphorically speaking, to a predator. Something she knew not to do in the wilds, but apparently in a tent it was different. Shay found herself crushed to a cool chest, the icy pinch of fangs in her neck. His hand caressed down her body to settle on a hip, where he encouraged her to keep thrusting.

She was helpless to do anything but follow along with his directions as the pinch of his fangs relaxed into the warm throb of his feeding. His lips and tongue coaxing blood from her neck in a way that sent pulsing beats straight to her core. Shay whined, though there was no sound to it, wanting to feel him inside her. Wanting to feel all of him at once. Playing no longer mattered, she was as ravenous for him as he was for her blood. She needed–

As though reading her mind, or perhaps as desperate for her as she was for him, Astarion’s other hand dropped to her hip so he could re-position her and thrust–

“YES!” Shay screamed, thankful for the silence so she could be unabashed within it. The hot stretch of him inside her countered the ice of his bite. Sense and reason fled with each stroke of his tongue, each mouthful of blood that left her body. Existence narrowed to their silent little bubble of pleasure. There was no music for a song, but they could still dance together, falling apart under the onslaught of pleasure.

Astarion tore himself from her neck, his lips moving in words she couldn’t make out as he breathed heavily. Shay felt a glowing sort of warmth in her chest. It must be so hard not to drain her dry, but he had never once faltered during his nightly feeds, even when bringing her so much pleasure she thought she might die from that anyway. Feelings clashed in her heart; the rising pleasure Astarion brought to her body fought a growing feeling of lo– romance.

His thrusts grew sloppy as he reached his peak. Shay was right behind him, ecstasy cresting within her, washing away any sane thought she may have had.

“Yes, fuck yes, don’t stop, fuck… yes!” she found herself babbling, panting entreaties into his skin that would never be heard, “fuck, oh, fuck–!”

Blink.

“Oh, absolutely not!” Shadowheart’s indignant voice flooded her mind, “I cast silence, for darkness’ sake!”

“Can you two please keep it to yourselves?” Wyll joined in. He sounded resigned… and exhausted.

“We can talk through these things?” poor Karlach just sounded confused.

Blink.

Oh… fuck.

*****

“You’re… too far… ahead,” Pek panted, flopping on the rocky ground at the side of the road Shay stood upon.

She didn’t even look back at her friend. She scanned the wide pass ahead, her eyes searching for tracks leading southwest through sparse trees to the lip of the ravine they would have to climb through eventually, a deep cut in the land forged by centuries of wind and water. She took care to note the state of ledges and cliff faces high above to the north and northeast. She wouldn’t have them caught under falling rocks with nowhere to find safety. Shay noted large claw marks on a cliff’s edge, far above her head where details were hard to see and everything was washed in a faint blue haze. The marks seemed weathered, blurred by time and, more importantly, solitary. Something large had launched itself from that mountain top some time ago, but it had never returned. Shay couldn’t determine, from the distance, if the claw marks were Griffon- or Dragon-made, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were old. Whatever creature had hunted these paths in days gone by, it hadn’t found enough prey to stay in the area.

The road had leveled out, a change from its steep climb into more rocky foothills they had faced the day before. Signs of passing horses and wagons were everywhere, most likely left by poor Garic Greenhill and whomever he had hired at Waukeen’s Rest. The path still cut through the occasional rocky outcropping, rather than climbing over it, but now there were sparse growths of trees, mostly evergreens sprinkled with the occasional aspen. Shay could see, on the other side of the ravine, the ruined roofs of the village poked up through the treetops to the southwest. By day’s end, they would find their ‘hard climb’ to the temple. A backdoor the goblins were – hopefully – not guarding.

“I’ll mark the trail,” Shay told Pek, reaching for a loose stone to use, intending to scratch her mark on a nearby boulder, “if you could go back–”

“No,” Pek stated firmly, “I’m resting. I refuse to go back and forth so you can avoid them.”

“That’s not what I’m–”

“So they heard you mate,” Pek’s words rolled right over her, more unstoppable than any avalanche, “no one cares.”

It was true, from what she remembered of her head-down charge through camp that morning. She called out something about scouting and disappeared into the rocky terrain of the foothills. She hadn’t spoken to anyone, not really. Not since Shadowheart’s silence spell ended and she was left with what should have been bloodless satiation, but was ruined by Shadowheart’s laughter outside her tent. And Astarion’s laughter within.

Shay knew he wasn’t laughing at her. Not exactly. Maybe laughing at her innocence, how easy it had become for her to blush, but not laughing at her. Not that it mattered. It still felt like she was being laughed at. Like the whole camp was having a chuckle at her expense. 

It didn’t feel good.

“Piglet-Daddy probably thinks you’re embarrassed of him,” Pek sighed, rolling over onto her back so the loose rocks of the trail could scratch an itch she had, “I’m never going to be an auntie at this rate.”

“Does he?” Shay asked quietly, shame cutting through her like a razor, “you’ve gone back to speak to them a few times. Is he mad at me?”

Pek’s ear flicked. She wiggled on her back, really getting that itch, but didn’t answer.

The jingling sound of chainmail reached Shay’s ears. A rhythmic cymbal clash accompanying Karlach’s voice as the tiefling woman explained something.

“... what they don’t love is getting their bombs lobbed right back in their faces. Demons, on the other hand – every demon is absolutely singular. You can’t ever think you’ve got ‘em typed out. Sharp instincts, sharp weapons, and a knack for improvisation. That’s the only way to survive ‘em. Anyway, what were we talking about?” Karlach’s voice floated up the road, bouncing around the chiseled rock walls of the tighter bends.

“How you and Mizora seem to know each other,” Shadowheart’s voice barely carried over the sounds of her armour.

“Not sure how we got to talking about killing,” Wyll added.

“Because I’d like to kill her,” Karlach replied. A sort of strangled sound followed, then Karlach’s booming laughing echoed up the road, “what, can she hear me through your horns or something? Don’t worry, you raging cunt, I’m not actively plotting to kill you at this exact– oh, hello, soldier! Fangs, we found–”

Karlach called out to Shay the moment the group turned the last bend in the road. Astarion, a few paces ahead of Karlach, didn’t need her words. He ignored anything she said, storming up the path to crowd Shay against the prickling branches of a tall spruce tree, running his eyes up and down her.

“I suppose we rest here,” Wyll said, exhaustion creeping into his voice. He sat down on the boulder Shay had intended to mark, but stood immediately when Astarion snapped out “no rest, keep going,” without ever turning from Shay. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His hands fluttered, for a brief moment, at his side. Astarion stood before her, obviously interested in her status, but unwilling to touch her.

“Waukeen’s rest should be around the bend,” Shay added helpfully, allowing herself to be cornered by Astarion. If he wanted to be near her, things couldn’t be that bad, could they?

“I can walk a little more if there’s a pint at the end,” Karlach said, half groaning the words as she stretched, “c’mon, Wyll, let’s see if we can get some polish for those horns.”

“Polish?” Wyll asked, following Karlach alongside a quiet Shadowheart.

“Your horns look great, Wyll, so much character,” Karlach began explaining, her voice growing distant as they walked farther away, “but you gotta care for ‘em. I’ll show you.”

Shay couldn’t take it anymore. She had run, using scouting as an excuse to avoid everyone, to avoid her embarrassment and it wasn’t right. Surely that’s why Astarion wasn’t speaking to her. She couldn’t tell if it was hurt she saw in his sanguine eyes, but there was certainly a storm of emotion in there and she felt responsible for it.

“I’m sorry,” three voices sounded at once.

Astarion was sorry? Sorry for what?

Wait, there were three voices?

Shay looked up the road, finally breaking eye contact with Astarion to look towards the last bend that hid Waukeen’s Rest from sight. Wyll and Karlach were gone, but Shadowheart stood on the road, looking awkward and a touch recalcitrant.

“For what?” Shay asked the cleric, genuinely confused. Astarion ground his teeth, a frustrated growl rumbled in his throat. Instinctively, Shay reached out and took his hand in hers. She stroked her thumb along the back of his hand. The gentle touch seemed to relax him; she hoped he was taking assurance from it. 

Shadowheart’s mouth twisted in distaste, “you’re… you’re my friend. I know you’re not experienced in some things… and I know we can’t control the tadpoles. This morning was just a… mistake. I shouldn’t have laughed. Or been frustrated with you when these wretched parasites connected us. I think I hurt your feelings and… and I’m sorry.”

Apologies for mischief and mockery, it seemed, did not come easy to clerics of Shar. Shadowheart gasped and shook her permanently-injured hand. The flair of pain, a direct response of her goddess’ displeasure, let Shay know that Shadowheart’s apology was, truly, a sacrifice for the woman.

“I forgive you,” Shay replied, simple and honest, “it did hurt my feelings and I still feel embarrassed, but I believe you didn’t mean to hurt me. Because we’re friends. So I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” Shadowheart sighed out in relief. Her shoulders dropped a little; Shay hadn’t realized her companion had been so tense, but the relief she felt in being forgiven had clearly wiped a lot of tension from her body. “I’m… going to catch up to Wyll and Karlach. Leave you two alone. Don’t take too long, though, ok?”

Then, true to her word, Shadowheart spun on her heel and double-timed a march up the path, calling out to Wyll to wait up. This left Shay alone with Astarion. And Pek. Though the soft snores emitting from her porcine friend, increasing in volume with each second, let Shay know that Pek certainly wouldn’t be involving herself in their conversation.

“Right, she’s gone,” Shay nodded to herself, turning back to Astarion, “so, again, I’m–”

A cool hand covered her mouth, preventing her from speaking her apology.

“I won’t hear it,” he murmured, gently holding her face, “you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Mmphuth!” she tried to argue around his hand. Astarion shook his head, the corner of his mouth curling upward. She licked his hand. He didn’t move it.

“Darling, you know you can lick me any time,” he laughed. The jerk. His laughter quickly ended, though, “you really have nothing to apologize for. Agree and I’ll let go.”

Shay huffed and rolled her eyes, but finally nodded. What else could she do?

Astarion slowly pulled his hand away from her mouth, looking like he was ready to put it back to stop her words at any moment. Shay shifted her weight on her feet and twisted her lips. She wanted to say something, but had agreed and stuck to that agreement. She waited with thinly veiled patience.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, staring earnestly into her eyes, “we’re a team and should be safety for each other. It sees you’ve been safety for me more than I–”

Blink

“Ulder Ravengard!?” Wyll’s thoughts, thick with pain and panic, connected through their illithid parasites, thundered into their minds with a hot stab of agony, “Father is here?”

*****

Waukeens Rest was burning.

Shay was horrified to see thick black smoke billowing over the stone-walled complex when she, Astarion and Pek finally made their way around the sharp bend in the road that had hid the place from their sight. It was slow going, their bodies frequently overcome by flashes of agony as their minds connected in flashes to Karlach, Shadowheart or Wyll. In those brief seconds, Shay saw walls of flame, feeling its heat washing over her body like a wave. Her lungs would choke with gusts of soot that she wasn’t truly breathing in. They needed to find the rest of their companions and either help or, more likely, get the hells out of there.

It took her and Astarion both to keep Pek moving forward rather than giving into panic and running blindly into the wilderness. The ravine was so close by, Shay feared letting Pek run until she came to her senses might kill her. Instead, assisted by Astarion, she tied a rope around the sow as a harness and attached her to a horse hitch outside the stone walls.

“Knock me out,” Pek requested, shaking with fear but forcing herself to stay still so Shay could tighten the ropes around her. Her trust in Shay was the only thing keeping her from running off, but it was a battle she was losing.

“Knock you… how?” Shay asked. She wasn’t about to attack her friend, “I’m not going to hurt you, Peki.”

“It’s a good idea,” Astarion observed, beginning to dig around in his bag, “can’t have you both running off again.”

“You’re not hurting her either,” Shay stated firmly, frowning at him.

“Of course not,” Astarion agreed, removing a stout glass bottle from his pack. The glass was thick and seeded with a few air bubbles, sloshing about within was a syrup-thick solution of a pale purple colour. He held the bottle out so Shay could read the label written in thick black ink on tea-brown paper pasted to the glass. Auntie Ethel’s familiar handwriting stood out under drips of melted beeswax that sealed the bottle shut around its cork.

“Sleep,” Shay read out loud, understanding dawning, “you genius–”

A loud crash, accompanied by a hot blast of ash-thick air, flowed over the stone walls of Waukeen’s Rest. Pek squealed in fright, like a crack of thunder after a lightning strike. Shay felt the tadpole behind her eye flex, sending her to the ground in agony. She tried to fight against the waves of fear and panic coming from Pek, waves that battered relentlessly against the shores of her mind. Then, as suddenly as sound had vanished under Shadowheart’s magic, the connection to Pek vanished. Shay found herself cowering on the ground beside her friend, who lay suspiciously still upon the dirt.

“What… what happened?” Shay groaned, heaving herself to her knees and reaching out a trembling hand towards the unmoving Pek. Instead, her hand was grasped by Astarion. He pulled her upwards, forcing her to her feet.

“Sleep potion,” he reminded her, shaking the now uncorked and empty potion bottle before throwing it back in the direction they had come. Shay didn’t hear the glass smash, so many sounds were drowned out by the roaring of the fires of Waukeen’s rest and the shouting from desperate voices within.

Shay shook off the pain of tadpole connection and took stock of where they were and what they had to do. There was no sign of their other companions; it was entirely possible that Karlach had set the place ablaze and everyone was trapped within. They would need rescue and possible defence from whomever else was in there. Surely those who ran Waukeen’s Rest wouldn’t be happy about a tiefling run by the fires of the hells destroying their complex.

“We have to go in,” she realized out loud, desperately wanting it to not be true. She wished her companions would suddenly exit the wide-open gates of Waukeen’s Rest and make it so she didn’t have to enter a burning building. Miracles, however, were not on offer that day. Nothing happened but more sounds, shouts and a clash of steel, flowing over the walls of the complex.

“Ugh,” Astarion made a sound of disgust, but he limbered his weapons in their sheaths, “do we have to?”

Shay didn’t answer. She was too busy fortifying her soul against a bespoke nightmare that was crafted just for her. She took a gulp and a breath and forced herself to walk through the open gates. Astarion would have to follow or not on his own.

Chaos roiled within the walls.

Waukeen’s Rest was half inn, half fortified compound. Built in a rough square shape into the sharply rising rock of the foothills, chiseled out by expert hands. It only had three walls, the rocks of the landscape making the fourth. Within those walls a large but simply constructed stone fountain dominated the centre of a courtyard, flanked by three wooden buildings built on rocky foundations, each caught in its own conflagration. Shay realized quickly that Karlach could not have set all of the fires at once, nor could she have got the buildings of Waukeen’s Rest to such a state within the ten minutes or so she had been out of Shay’s sight. 

Smoke from all of the fires blew in every direction, obscuring sight. Shay thought she could make out figures rushing to and from the fountain, when a break in the smoke allowed her to see. Still, she saw no signs of her companions. She moved forward and promptly tripped.

Astarion caught her arm, preventing her from falling on her face. “Careful,” he murmured in her ear as she regained her balance, “Drow.”

His observation slipped out just as Shay realized what she had tripped over. The body of an elf, its skin so dark as to appear carved from onyx, lay at her feet. His red eyes were open, his entire expression a death-frozen snarl of pain. A crossbow bolt stuck out from the dark elf’s neck, half hidden by flowing snow-white hair, stained red with blood. For a moment, Shay was almost hypnotized by the dark features of the drow, by the contrast of his dark skin to his leather armour, swiftly bleaching in the smoke-obscured sunlight. The armour seemed to grow lighter before her eyes, the web-like details stitched into the chest piece faded as it all became a dull sort of bone-grey and even began to crumble off the body.

Shay had never seen a drow, though she was well aware of the reputation of the dark elves as ruthless killers. An entire race of elves dedicated to the murderous whims of their spider goddess. Even if Raim’s journals hadn’t mentioned them, Shay would recognize a drow from their reputation alone. Never seen, but often spoken of in hushed, feared voices by merchants guards deep in their cups in the taverns of Baldur’s Gate. Though the drow had been banished to the underdark in some great war millenia ago, sometimes raiding parties would come to the surface to decimate farms or small villages. There was, Raim had written, no such thing as a single drow. They may worship spiders, Raim wrote, but they operated more like a hive of bees. Sending swarms of their males out, armed with venomous stingers, to bring back nectar… or, in the case of drow, to bring back the treasure of the people they had slaughtered.

A chill ran down Shay’s spine, cold sweat appeared on her brow despite the waves of heat coming off the burning buildings before them. The reputation of the drow was a death sentence. 

“I can’t fight drow,” Shay hissed at Astarion, “Mielikki save us, everyone here is doomed to death. We have to go.”

Astarion nodded in agreement, “don’t turn your back,” he suggested, unsheathing his weapons. Something greenish shone on the tip of his dagger. Shay wondered, with a sort of horrified curiosity, what drow poison did to a person. She had seen some horrid wounds from spider’s venom; necrotic damage that rotted an animal from the inside out while it still lived. Together they backed away from the courtyard, ignoring the shouts and other strange sounds coming from deeper within. The smoke made it impossible to see, but Shay took comfort in that as it made it impossible to be seen. They could slip out and not join Shadowheart, Wyll and Karlach in being victims of a drow raid.

A shape suddenly loomed in a break in the smoke. Shay squeaked in fear, forgetting to draw her own weapons in her terror. Astarion stepped in front of her, using his body to push her backwards towards the gate.

The shape stepped from the smoke, coughing and waiving a clawed hand before her face. Karlach, soot stained but very alive, smiled when she saw them.

“There you two are!” she announced cheerfully, “well, come on then, come help with the bucket brigade. The First are short on hands and there’s work to be done.”

Shay, trusting Karlach despite the evidence of the drow raid rotting at her feet, tried to step forward. Astarion moved in front of her. “Explain first,” he drawled, not sheathing his weapons.

“Goblin raid. Though there was a drow – two drow, I guess,” Karlach reported succinctly, noting the dead drow on the ground near them. “Bullshit about the Absolute, whoever that is. There was a squad of Flaming Fist here, protecting some counsellor and Ulder Ravengard. Him, I know, he was a big deal even before that trash pile Gortash sent me to the hells. But he’s Grand Duke now, can you believe it? Everyone’s out, but the fire’s still burning and the First need their gear. Not sure who started the fires, but they got out of hand fast and that’s comin’ from me! An’ that’s it. All caught up? Can we go?”

Shay exchanged an uneasy glance with Astarion, not entirely certain that they were caught up on the events they had barely missed at Waukeen’s Rest, but willing to trust Karlach that the bulk of the danger had passed. Astarion sheathed his weapons and followed Karlach along with Shay. They made it through the smoke to the fountain where they joined the line passing endless buckets back and forth, trying to put out the flames on the largest building of the compound, something that looked like it used to be an Inn. 

The surviving members of the Flaming Fist, humans, half-elves and a couple dwarves, either worked the line or nursed wounds that rendered them unable to help off to the side. Shadowheart moved among the wounded, her prayers helping send more of the Fist back into the fight. Shay nodded to the cleric but soon all thought of her vanished as she gave herself over to the work. Fill the bucket, pass the bucket, take an empty bucket, repeat.

“Where’s Wyll?” Shadowheart’s voice interrupted the methodical beat of Shay’s work.

“What?” the rhythm stopped, water sloshed over Shay’s hands. A newly-healed soldier stepped in, allowing Shay to speak to Shadowheart uninterrupted. “Wyll’s not with you?”

“He’s inside,” Karlach shouted from farther up the line. 

“Why–” Shadowheart turned to the broken doors of the inn and the smoking cavern within, but the Blade of Frontiers was already emerging from the burning building, soot-blackened and a little singed. Wyll, true to form as the hero he was reputed to be, was assisting the faltering steps of an olive-skinned wood elf in fancy dress robes. The woman gasped for air when she wasn’t coughing enough to double herself over.

“A little help here?” Wyll called to Shadowheart as he helped the woman to rest on the edge of the fountain.

Shadowheart went to offer what healing she could. Shay wasn’t certain what to do. The entrance to the inn gaped like a dragon’s maw, smoking and glowing with flame that could consume at any moment. There seemed to be more soldiers in the courtyard than ever before and no one was going into the inn to look for more survivors. There could be more people in there, if Wyll was able to bring this woman out. She didn’t want to, but she felt like she had to. If the Fist wouldn’t find survivors, it was up to her.

“Wyll, is there anyone else in there?” Shay asked her newly-horned companion as the azure light of Shadowheart’s healing magic swirled around the wood elf he had rescued.

“Counsellor Florrick,” Wyll ignored Shay, dropping to one knee to better speak to the wood elf he had rescued, “are you alright?”

Once she had stopped coughing, Counsellor Florrick looked at Wyll and shock stole over her features. She pushed her dark brown hair out of her face, leaving black soot streaks behind, to more closely look at the man – the devil – before her. “Wyll–” she spoke in a voice torn by ash, “by the Maimed God, what’s become of you?”

Wyll winced. His shoulders fell in defeat. Shay felt terribly for him; he had rescued this person, this Counsellor Florrick he apparently knew, and she had no gratitude for him. She moved to stand behind him, ready to give the Counsellor a piece of her mind. She realized she wasn’t alone in this; Astarion and Karlach had abandoned the bucket line to stand with Wyll as well. She shot Astarion a small smile of gratitude. They had their problems with Wyll, but he was the Blade of Frontiers. A hero. He had just saved this woman’s life and didn’t deserve racism in return simply because he had horns.

“It’s… a story best left for calmer days,” Wyll finally replied, “now, breathe deeply – are you in pain?”

“A scorched throat, a few hairs singed off,” Florrick replied, quickly warming up to the new Wyll before her and answering with no reaction to his newly demonic visage, “Nothing a bit of time and fresh air can’t cure.”

“Gaun… Gauntlet,” Florrick tried to call, but her voice crumbled and she fell to coughing. The soldiers rushing around the courtyard didn’t respond to her.

Wyll stood and whistled, a piercing and specific trill. The Flaming Fist all snapped to attention at the sound, rushing to stand before Florrick in a well regimented line, though a few looked confused that Florrick had not summoned them. She smiled gratefully at Wyll, reaching out a hand to pat him on the arm.

“Gauntlet, a new duty calls,” Florrick addressed the Fist standing before her, “Drow have taken Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard – westward, if my eyes and ears can be believed. Report to the manip and send for reinforcements. We must find the Duke.”

The Fist all saluted in tandem, fists over hearts. The line broke, each soldier moving off to do their part in assembling gear or reporting to the manip for further instruction. 

“No, it can’t be,” Wyll spoke through frozen lips, looking as though he had taken an arrow to the heart. “You mean, they’ve taken–”

“Yes, Wyll.” Counsellor Florrick replied, sharing a look of loss with Wyll that Shay didn’t understand, “the drow have your father.”

Chapter Text

“Shay?”

Speech washed over her, unheard. The screams of those who had burned echoed in her ears, blocking out all other sound. All she could hear was the ghostly memory of the agonizing shrieks that must have been made when the bodies had been alive and burning. They flooded her mind every time her searching brought her to another charred body dressed in the familiar chainmail and tabard uniform of the Flaming Fist. 

Cinders and ash were all that was left of the fires that had destroyed Waukeen’s Rest. Shay had retrieved Pek, though her friend was still groggy from the potion, and the companions were all digging through the charred remains of the waystation looking for food or whatever supplies could help them keep going in their quest to find healing… and Ulder Ravenguard. Wyll had promised Counsellor Florrick that he would join the search for his father, speaking for the entire group without checking in with them first. Pek wasn’t overly enthusiastic about rescuing Wyll’s father from drow cultists and Shay had to agree with her; it sounded like a very intricate way to die for a man who, from all that she could tell, was a bit of a shitty parent.

“Shay?”

She didn’t like the burning embers of the fallen buildings around her. A change in the wind blew ashes and a wave of heat into her face, setting her heart racing with familiar fear. She ignored everything, blocking out all sound to focus on her task and avoid, if not overcome, the fear and painful memories the smells and sounds of burning buildings sent buzzing through her mind. To distract herself from her own fear, Shay quickly dug through the pouches and pockets of another dead goblin. Strangely, it had a thick piece of parchment folded precisely thrice in its cleanest pouch. She quickly unfolded the paper and glanced at the bold, black lines of ink that flowed across it in a precise and educated hand. The words Moonrise Towers and Ravenguard leapt out at her.

“Soldier!” Karlach snapped, the touch of her clawed hands briefly heating Shay’s shoulders as she quickly grabbed them to spin her around.

Astarion was on one knee just a few meters behind her. He knelt on a rare patch of dry ground, smoke from the still-smouldering buildings framing his pale beauty in a contrasting darkness that just set off how angelic he could look. He held out something small and shiny in his hands. It was… a ring.

A ring?

A ring!

“Um…” Shay was struck dumb by the scene before her. Kneeling on one knee while holding out a ring meant something and she knew very well what that was. She was shocked to her core, though a tiny voice deep within her thrilled at the sight. At her side, Karlach vibrated with excitement, shuffling her weight from foot to foot. Shadowheart and Wyll looked over from their own looting with surprised interest. Even Pek had come over to observe, abandoning whatever corpse she had been stuffing in her gullet.

“Shay, I need to ask you something rather… important,” Astarion said softly, his wine-dark eyes boring into hers. He was a soot-stained angel, risen from fires of pain and torment. Hurt, but still pure despite it all. Astarion was too beautiful for a scarred, fucked-up person like her. The sun caught in his silver-white curls and he glowed with warmth and light. She felt unworthy of the moment, blessed by it, and a touch confused.

A strangled sound emerged from her throat. Not a word, she was incapable of words, but some attempt at communication all the same.

“Oh my gods, oh my gods!” Karlach squeaked.

“Could I have– I would like to have– may I have your…” Astarion spoke with a rare nervousness.

What was happening!?

“... permission to give this ring to Pek?”

“No!” Karlach gasped.

Wyll chuckled. 

Shadowheart giggled. 

Shay considered cutting off the pale hand that held out the ring. Shadowheart could heal it, right? Astarion would get what he deserved but without permanent limb loss. Maybe just be handless for a night. Teach him a lesson.

Pek practically danced over to Astarion, her rump wiggling with absolute delight. He put the ring over her tusk, pushing it down until the metal warped. It couldn’t be coming off easily. The little strip of gold caught the light and shone brightly as Pek turned this way and that to admire her newly-decorated tusk.

“Piglet-Daddy gave me shiny things!” Pek crowed, skipping around a laughing Astarion as he got to his feet. “He’s my Piglet-Daddy now!”

“I hate you,” Shay stated flatly, but not certain who she was speaking to.

“Naw, don’t say that,” Karlach denied Shay’s words, while giving her a quick double-pat on the back, “‘was a funny prank. They got us.”

“Look at my ring!” Pek said to Wyll as she skipped up to him, her joy contrasting sharply with the poisonous shine of her pustulent eye.

“Looks good,” Wyll told Pek, not understanding her words but easily understanding her body language. He gave her a pat on the head.

Pek moved on to Shadowheart and got the same treatment.

Shay had to admit, as a heavy wave of chagrin pushed away her fear, the screams of the burning dead no longer haunted her. Panic no longer buzzed through her blood, telling her to run, pushing her to flee with each gust of hot, ash-choked wind. It had all been washed away in the purifying waters of embarrassment and a heavy desire for vengeance.

“Bacon for dinner,” Shay grumbled under her breath.

*****

“I should push you into that,” Shay remarked to Astarion as the companions, tied together with heavy ropes, prepared to climb into the steep ravine that carved through the land. Here, near Waukeen’s Rest, the rocky sides of the ravine weren’t as steep. There was a natural path, a narrow ledge, that ran along the western edge. They’d have to jump for it, but once over, they could shimmy along the ledge until they were below the old temple now infested with a goblin tribe. The Druid Halsin, and his promised healing, waited within the compound. It would be dangerous, but surprise would be on their side and it was their best option to get in, rescue Halsin, and live through the attempt.

“You’d miss me, darling.” Astarion replied blithely. 

“Would I, though?” she replied, reaching out to tighten the rope harness crossing his chest.

Grumbled complaints from Wyll silenced her, for a moment. Shay wasn’t up to announcing her feelings to the entire group. The reminder that there was an entire group had her flinching like a wild animal, hesitant and untrusting. Though Wyll wasn’t grumbling about her, or even paying any attention to her. He and Shadowheart were working on adding Karlach to their harness line and it wasn’t working very well. Thankfully, Waukeen’s Rest had a storage room untouched by fire. They were wealthy in rope and some rather standard potions. Shadowheart was helping Wyll dip a length of rope in a potion of fire resistance; messy, but necessary work.

Shay returned to her own work. Making sure she and Astarion were properly harnessed for their climb through the rocky walls of the ravine.

“Your heart was racing,” Astarion murmured, his voice pitched for her ears alone as she worked, “I could smell the fear spiking in your blood. Pek wasn’t doing much better. I do know how you both feel about fire. I was trying to distract you from that.”

“Mission accomplished,” she replied through a tight jaw, keeping her voice just as low. Shay tugged on a rope harder than it needed, hoping the rough hemp left a burn across the soft skin of his neck, “in the most unnecessary fashion.”

“You want a ring,” he spoke aloud as realization dawned.

“Maybe? One day?” Shay whispered, her words speeding up as embarrassment flooded her once more, “we all grow up on bardic tales of romance and being swept off your feet and… ok, I’m not a bard and this isn’t a story but, for a moment, I really thought–”

His lips pressed against hers, silencing her. She made a sound of protest and shoved against his shoulders. He moved, but not to step away; his arms wrapped around her in a sweet embrace.

“Cheater,” Pek grunted from their feet, “giving rings, then kissing other people.”

Shay raised a middle finger somewhere in the direction of her friend. Pek laughed.

Astarion’s kiss was overwhelming; truly the bardic tale personified. Shay felt swept away, even as his arms tightened around her, anchoring her to the moment, to him. Everything dropped away; their companions, her embarrassment, it was all gone. There was nothing but his embrace, the public assurance of his feelings. Shay returned his kiss, giving him forgiveness in the movement of her lips against his. She’d have her revenge at some point, some harmless prank, and they would laugh and make up. Better than some bardic tale of perfectly unattainable romantic perfection, they’d make mistakes, they’d fuck up and forgive each other and be a t–

A dark shadow passed over them. Something large flying overhead, blocking out not just the light of the sun, but somehow blocking out hope and joy. Fear flooded Shay, a chill push of ice water through her veins. Pek squealed in terror.

Blink.

The tadpole connection made everything worse. Everyone’s fear and panic crashed into each other, a cacophony of terror that swirled and crashed like a hurricane. Whatever the shadow was, its fear had affected them all.

“Don’t move,” Wyll’s calm thoughts, spoke softly but firmly over Shay’s panic, keeping her still when all she wanted to do was flee, “let it fly overhead. Movement will attract it. Let the dragon pass by.”

Dragon!?

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Wyll’s thoughts became a steady mantra, solid and unyielding to the fear that had set the rest of them to panicking. The tadpoles in their brains connected them all, turning them into a cauldron where their dread stirred together into a strong potion. Shay could feel Pek trembling against her leg, hear her friend panting as she fought against her instinct to squeal and bolt for safety. Astarion’s sweet embrace had become a firm clutch around her shoulders and she returned it. They held each other steady, keeping to Wyll’s orders to not move. She had no idea what Shadowheart or Karlach were doing, though their terrified thoughts swirled around her so she knew they must be near. 

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Wyll continued to chant.

“Don’t move,” Astarion repeated, his voice pitched for her ear alone.

“Don’t move,” Pek echoed.

Then it was gone. The fear popped like a bubble, vanishing into nothingness as though it had never been. In her arms, Astarion sighed deeply and rested his head against hers. Pek continued pressing into her legs, though she had stopped trembling

“Everyone into the ravine, before it comes back,” Wyll encouraged them all to move, even though Shay wanted to let her knees collapse so she could sit in a relieved puddle.

“Karlach isn’t–” Shay tried to protest, pointing out that the red tiefling wouldn’t be safe from a fall as she wasn’t harnessed yet.

“Soldier, that was a fucking giant red dragon, and it might come back,” Karlach herself interrupted Shay’s arguing, “fuck the ropes, let’s go.”

They worked together, swiftly and efficiently, to access the ledge on the far side of the ravine. Karlach was the only one strong enough to assist Pek in moving her great bulk and the sow wasn’t happy about the overly-warm touch of the flame-wrought tiefling warrior. Still, the threat of a small burn from Karlach’s hellfire was nothing compared to the draconic threat that had just passed overhead. Everyone but Wyll kept one eye on the sky, fearful that the evil red wyrm would return at any moment and decide Flame Broiled Adventurer would be the evening’s dinner menu.

In short order, the companions were making their careful way along the ledge that should lead them to the goblin camp and – finally – druidic healing.

“Sad that wasn’t a metallic dragon,” Wyll, having taken point on the ledge, spoke over his shoulder to the rest of them. He pushed hanging vines and roots out of the way as he went, but they moved back to impede the next person in line. None of them had the tools to cut the plant life that hung over their path and, even if they did, Shay wouldn’t allow them to do it. Such actions would leave an obvious trail for any goblin, or dragon.

“Because it probably wouldn’t eat us?” Shadowheart asked from her position just behind Wyll.

“Metallic dragons are good, Shadowheart,” Wyll corrected, using a thick root to anchor himself to the narrow path for a couple feet, “they don’t eat people.”

“I’m certain they do,” she argued right back, taking the root for herself when Wyll was done with it.

“No, only the evil– well, alright, maybe you are at risk,” he agreed.

“We’re all at risk,” Astarion interjected himself into their conversation, “except, perhaps, Shay and Pek.”

“What, me?” Karlach asked from the back of the line where she was trying to help Pek without falling herself. “Why me?”

“You and Wyll are touched by the hells,” Astarion explained as they all edged their way along, “Shadowheart follows Shar, I’m a vampire. We’re all infected by illithid tadpoles… honestly, we’d have better luck facing a chromatic dragon than a metallic.”

“I’ve worked with a Silver before,” Wyll told Astarion with a shrug, “my pact didn’t bother her.”

“Who ‘works with’ a dragon?!” Karlach asked, amazement heavy in her voice, “what’s the story there?”

“Two winters back, I found myself in Beregost,” Wyll explained as the companions continued to make their way along the steep sides of the gorge, “when word reached us of a problem in Nashkel. They’re under the protection of Amn, but the snow had closed the passes through the Cloud Peaks and they needed help. So they sent to the Flaming Fist. A young red dragon had made its home in the mountains near Nashkel and, rather than sleeping through the winter, had decided that Nashkel would provide it with food and treasure. It had taken livestock and, worse, people. They’re just a small farming village in the foothills of the mountains; they had no way to fight the beast off. We had to help.”

“What did you do?” Karlach asked, fully invested in Wyll’s tale.

“I happened to know where a Silver Dragon had made her home in the Cloud Peaks to the Southwest of Beregost,” Wyll replied, happy to spin his tale for his rapt audience-of-one, “she would probably see the upstart Red off, come spring, but Nashkel needed aid now.”

The details of the story tickled the back of Shay’s memory. She had heard this tale, another heroic adventure of the Blade of Frontiers, the last time she had passed through the Friendly Arm Inn. The famed ranger – ha – had braved the snow-choked passes of the Cloud Peaks and walked right into the Silver Dragon’s lair to boldly ask for aid.

“... she wasn’t too happy when I woke her. It was a terrifying moment, for certain,” Wyll went on with his story. It provided a pleasant distraction to the dangers of their path and the fear the dragon might return, “the waves of dragon-fear froze my feet to the ground; I wanted to run but my body wouldn’t move. In the dark of her cave, the Silver’s scales looked pale, almost white. For a moment, I worried I had stumbled into the wrong lair!”

“No!” Karlach gasped.

“Yes, it was quite the moment. Then my torchlight caught her scales and silver gleamed in the dark of the cave. The assurance hardly relaxed me,” Wyll looked back at Karlach, and the rest of them, with a smirk dancing on his dark face, “but once I had introduced myself and explained everything, Sarr’azuur was more than happy to help rid her territory of the hated enemy. I think Nashkel still pays her in sheep, to keep her eye on things.”

“Not pigs?” Pek asked with a smug tone, “she’d do a better job if you pay her in better food.”

“Pek!” Shay hissed at her friend. The path was too tight for her to fully turn around, so all she could do was try to silence her friend with words.

“It’s true,” Pek replied blithely, shrugging a bristling shoulder, “we pay Piglet-Daddy in better food and he’s doing a grand job.”

“Pek is right, darling,” Astarion threw a wink at Shay before taking his turn, behind Shadowheart and Wyll, to carefully make his way around a jut of rock that narrowed the path.

“Gods,” Shay muttered to herself, regretting many of her life choices. The thump of her embarrassed heart thundered in her ears, alongside an increasingly louder thump of war drums. They were approaching the compound where the Druid Halsin and healing waited behind stone walls and a fully armed goblin tribe. The companions moved along, slowly, as the sound of the drums grew louder. Soon, the scent of campfires and cooking meat rolled over them. Snippets of voices could be heard, the rough accent of goblins speaking in common. Shay found it odd, for a tribe to not be speaking ghukliak amongst themselves. She was thankful; she couldn’t understand a word of the guttural goblinoid tongue. Raim’s journals hadn’t been very explanatory on that front and her experiences with goblins in the wild had been to kill first and talk never.

Most of the goblin voices were unintelligible. Shouting and laughing interspersed with the occasional cheer washed over the companions as Wyll led them from the path up a rough incline and through a broken section of compound wall. One word could always be heard clearly.

Absolute.

The Absolute.

Shay wondered if they would find a monster within the compound, something that had co-opted the Goblin’s loyalty and become their new god. What else could the Absolute be?

“What’s the plan, soldier?” Karlach asked in a whisper, once they were safely within the walls of the decrepit temple of Selûne the goblins had taken over. Shay looked over at the tiefling warrior from where she was untying Pek. Karlach had her greataxe in a clawed hand and a sparkle in her eyes. The assurance of a coming battle had set a sort of excited glow to her expression.

“HEAR MY VOICE. OBEY MY COMMAND,” the disembodied voice thundered into Shay’s mind with the undeniable force of an avalanche. The tadpole behind her eye writhed, sending a tiny feeling of joy washing through her. A feeling that was quickly wiped away by agony that sent her to her knees. She was barely aware of Pek and the others around her also writhing on the ground.

It was the same feeling she had when her tadpole connected with others, but amplified to overwhelming strength. Shay’s vision quickly clouded, waves of dark shadows crashing over her mind and blinding her eyes.

“THESE ARE MY CHOSEN, THEY SPEAK FOR ME,” the voice rang in her mind like a gong, “AID THEIR SEARCH FOR THE PRISM, AND YOU WILL BE WORTHY TO STAND BESIDE THEM. IN MY PRESENCE.”

A vision resolved in the darkness that has stolen Shay’s sight. Three humanoid figures standing side-by-side, their dark silhouettes backlit by unknown light. The light allowed Shay to see movement at her side. Shadowheart, fighting against the pain and overwhelming authority of the voice that swamped them all digging around in her pack. Behind her, Karlach and Pek writhed on the ground. 

Something, a new energy, another power unknown, began to push the disembodied voice away. Shadowheart lifted her strange little box from her pack. Its odd markings glowed stronger and stronger. Shay felt more herself with each pulse of light that came from the strange artifact Shadowheart carried, the oppressive push of the voice in her mind, the painful writhing of the tadpole, lessening in strength.

“MY POWER GROWS,” the voice cried, as its power decidedly lessened, “MY FORCES GATHER. THE RECKONING DRAWS NEAR…”

Silence fell. The tadpole quieted and sunlight returned. The goblin drums returned.

Shay watched Pek get to her feet, the first of them to fully recover from whatever power had just crashed into their minds. She stayed on the ground, breathing heavily.

“What in the hells was that?” Astarion asked at her side. Shay turned to regard him, her head felt not-quite-attached to her body, still. He looked just as out-of-sorts as she felt. Pek almost crashed into them both, rushing to check on her family.

“We’re ok,” Shay assured her friend, patting her on her scarred rump before getting back on her feet. Astarion caught her arm, needing physical assurance just as much as Pek did. They stood together, leaning into one-another while the remnants of the voice dissipated from their minds.

“Don’t give me that look,” Shadowheart’s sullen voice caught Shay’s attention. She turned to her other side to see Shadowheart and Wyll, on their feet and facing each other. Karlach still struggling up beyond them. The strange box, gripped in Shadowheart’s hand, no longer glowed with power but it was certain that the Absolute had only released their minds from its grip thanks to whatever power it held. Shadowheart set her jaw and glared at Wyll, as he was glaring at her, “I don’t know what just happened any more than you do. We should keep going.”

“I don’t know what that toy of hers is,” Astarion murmured in Shay’s ear, “but I’m glad it’s on our side.”

“You’ve got some explaining to do first,” Wyll told Shadowheart, “what is that thing?”

“I don’t know,” Shadowheart replied, frustrated, “I already told you I don’t know what it is.”

“Then how did you know how to use it?” Wyll answered, his newly-demonic countenance lending an intimidating air to his questioning.

“I don’t know that either!” Shadowheart stamped her foot with a jingle of mail, “something just… told me to use it. Maybe it told me. I don’t know.”

“Handy, whatever it is,” Karlach observed, picking her axe up off the ground.

“Keep that thing safe,” Shay advised her friend, quietly reveling in the feeling of normalcy that had returned to her, “seems we’ll need it.”

“I will,” Shadowheart promised, returning the little box to her pack.

With no more answers coming from Shadowheart and, hopefully, the voice of the Absolute quieted permanently, Shay looked around, taking in what she could see of the compound from their new position. The gorge they had just left forked, one tine continued south, becoming the natural barrier that separated the decrepit village from the temple, the other curving westward, wrapping around the temple as a sort of natural moat. The rocky foothills the temple was built into seemed like steps carved from the rock by giants. Below them, a courtyard spread out, interspersed with crumbling, broken walls. Goblins and bugbears moved within the courtyard, seemingly having a party. A large, dark-furred bugbear was pouring wine from a cobwebbed barrel, refilling what looked like a trough for horses. A long fire had been set, various meats skewered above it on a metal rack. Shay carefully took it all in, making sure to stay far back so as not to give their position away.

“It’s a party,” Astarion observed at her side, a little confused

“Why would they–” Shadowheart asked, her question trailing off in confusion.

“Goblins will take any excuse to drink and be lazy,” Shay grinned, “this is perfect.”

“There,” Wyll pointed behind them, “I think that’s an entrance, behind that fountain.”

Shay turned to see another level of the compound, slightly lower than the rocks on which they hid, a sort of wide balcony lined with crumbling balustrades. A large, round fountain, full of slimy green water, stood before a darkened archway. There were no goblins on this level that she could see.

“Looks like you found our way in,” she said to Wyll, agreeing that it looked like an entrance.
The companions moved off, following Shay towards the fountain. At the lip of their little rise, the place where rough stone became worked masonry, they had to climb down a two meter drop.

“Stop,” Pek warned, “I smell–”

A loud snore ripped through the air. Everyone flattened to the ground. Astarion moved before Shay could, keeping low and crawling to the edge of the rise to look down. He returned swiftly, reporting to Shay by whispering in her ear.

“One bugbear, two goblins, about fifteen empty wine bottles,” his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he spoke. It tickled. “Can I kill these ones?”

“Race you,” Shay replied, then she was off with Astarion close behind. Together, they silently made their way down to the sleeping drunkards, daggers at the ready. Throats were quietly slit, then signals given. Wyll frowned at the corpses as Shay led them towards the fountain.

“What?” She whispered at the one-eyed warlock.

“They had no chance to fight back,” Wyll explained, a quarrelsome note in his voice.

“They’re goblins,” Shay replied, frowning back at Wyll. If she hadn’t known the Blade of Frontiers was no ranger, this would’ve given it away. No one who followed Mielikki would make the foolish mistake of giving a goblin a fair fight. Wyll’s lips twisted in distaste, but he didn’t argue about her actions. They moved on.

“Two more,” Pek noted as they drew closer to the fountain. Shay followed the direction of Pek’s snout to see two more goblins, one in the feathers and bones of a Booyagh, sleeping off their drunkenness in the shadow of the fountain. Shay moved forward with Astarion to take care of them. Behind them, Karlach, Shadowheart and Wyll moved into the darkened alcove.

“Oh, nuts,” Karlach’s voice floated out, “it’s a wall.”

“I think we can push it over,” Shadowheart replied, tapping her mace along the crumbling bricks, “it was an entrance, once.

“Time it to the drums,” Shay told them, “hopefully the sound won’t catch attention. But just in case, we’ll keep watch. Astarion? Wyll?”

She knocked an arrow to her bow, ready to draw and fire in an instant, and set herself at the alcove’s entrance with Astarion and Wyll. They waited.

The drumbeats coming from the courtyard below were soon joined by shoving and grunting from Shadowheart and Karlach. It took time, the heavy stones moving little by little with each shove. Wyll fidgeted. Astarion began cleaning under his nails with his dagger. Shay and Pek waited patiently, their attention never wavering from the wide balcony. Their mismatched eyes scanned across it and back again. 

The drums beat. Thump… thump… thump…

Karlach and Shadowheart grunted and shoved in time with the thumps.

Then there was a clatter of stones and a waft of damp air, thick with the stench of unwashed goblin bodies.

“Wha’s…?” a single, confused voice floated out of the dark hole.

Pek spun on her hooves, her rump shoving Shay out of the darkened alcove and stumbling almost to the fountain. When she had recovered and turned around, Pek was nowhere to be seen. Crumbling stone bricks framed a dark hole that led into the old temple. Karlach and Shadowheart were just peering into the darkness when a low grunt emerged from the hole. Then everyone ducked when something small and green-skinned launched from the hole at frightening speed. It splattered against the tall pillar of the fountain, then flopped to the ground, limbs unfurling to reveal a goblin body, its chest oozing blood from a large hole. 

“That was a good throw!” Pek announced, very proud of herself, from the entrance they had created. No one moved, everyone staring at the broken goblin body in various stages of surprise or impressed. Pek waited a moment, allowing everyone to bask in the glory of her work. More goblin voices, quite distant and unintelligible, emerged from the darkness of the temple. “Are you coming?” Pek asked the companions, impatience heavy in her voice, “there’s more goblins to kill.”

“Sounds fun,” Astarion told the sow, picking his way into the dark temple to join her.

Shay followed, gathering Wyll, Karlach and Shadowheart as she did. 

*****

From their hidden position in the smoke-hazed rafters of the ancient temple, Shay tried to count the number of goblins in the filthy hall below. She swiftly gave up;   They moved too much, some patrolling in and out of sight, others waiting before a crudely built platform that set a throne of lashed-together branches and feathers above all onlookers. A goblin priestess, dressed in poorly cured leathers, polished stones and feathers tied in her filth-locked hair, stood just below the throne, beside a brazier filled with glowing coals. A smaller goblin knelt before her, its face slack with awe. Shay watched as the priestess reverently lifted something from the fire, a poker perhaps, its tip glowing white-hot.

“What are they doing?” Wyll’s voice was so quiet, Shay wouldn’t have heard it if he weren’t practically in her ear already. The rafter upon which they perched was strong and thick, made of oak so ancient it was practically stone, but a thick rafter only meant it was a comfortably wide path for them to walk single-file.

The priestess took the hand of her supplicant and readied the poker. She appeared to intone something, her body language seeming rehearsed. Whatever words she was speaking were for the ears of her people; they didn’t rise to be heard by the hidden companions hiding in the ceiling.

Then the fiery-hot tip of the poker was applied to the meaty flesh of a goblin palm. The scent of charred flesh swiftly rose to the rafters. It set Shay’s teeth on edge. She glanced to her left, where the rest of the companions had crossed the rafters and waited on a narrow stone walkway. She could hardly see them in the dark, smokey haze. Pek’s pustulent green eye caught what little light there was and gleamed wetly. The band of gold on her tusk also shone. She seemed unaffected by the scent of freshly-branded goblin, for which Shay was thankful. This was no place to be overcome by trauma and fear.

“Why–” Wyll’s next question cut off when the priestess lifted her brand in the air, shouted to the Absolute and the tadpole behind his eye flexed at the cry.

The companions froze, waiting with baited breath for the voice of the Absolute to return.

Nothing happened.

“It doesn’t matter why,” Shay replied firmly, “I don’t see a druid. We move on.”

The companions crept through a crumbling gap in the stone walls, continuing to sneak through the dark ceiling of the old temple.

Questions sloshed around the overfull bucket of Shay’s mind. What were the goblins doing? What was the Absolute and how could Shadowheart’s little box keep it at bay? Why hadn’t they all turned into ilithid’s yet?

One question rose above the rest, the most important question.

Where was the druid who would heal them?