Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Turns out, it’s not heart disease that gets you. Not a car crash, the second coming, or even a plain old slip in the shower that removes you from this mortal coil.

It’s motherfucking aliens.

Your Uncle Randy would be so proud.

You wake to heat and smoke. The acrid taste clings to your tongue, and grit crunches between your teeth. Your first thought: the Big One finally happened; your apartment has collapsed in the earthquake and you’re stuck in the rubble. You were in bed. That might have saved you from being completely crushed?

Only you’re not on your bed, anymore. Nor are you on a pile of splintered wood and concrete. The floor is cool and disgusting, in a kind of spongy way. You can tell this rather intimately, as you’re naked.

Then the smoke clears, and you’re not in a debris pile. Because there’s a squid-face motherfucker grabbing at you. The ancient, primate part of your brain that remembers loping along tree branches and eating bugs takes one look at that thing, and it starts shrieking.

And that’s when you realize you’re not on something, you’re in something and it’s a goddamn cage and you flail around, buck-ass nude, as Squidward lifts something squirming towards you.

“Fucknofuckthis!” you say, in a long, one-word primate screech.

Squidward jerks its hand and your head slams the back of your cage. Things go a little fuzzy.

More smoke billows into the room, and your cage shudders around you. Squidward is moving fast and frantic. It gives the smoke a hateful glare like the smoke insulted it.

You can’t move. Can’t even blink. Can only pant and wheeze and shriek as it all but smashes what you think is a worm onto your fucking eyeball.

Pain digs in. The little fucker writhes, chewing, flattening itself around your eye. The pain blinds you.

The next time you wake, it’s to the feel of empty space. You cartwheel once. Hit the ground. Pain blasts through your left hip and knocks your breath out. You lie there for a second, lungs spasming and trying to inhale, and it’s like sucking air through a coffee straw.

The floor has the same, unpleasant squishiness. It makes you think of congealed slime, like bare toes sinking into cold cat vomit, and you finally recover enough to gag.

You’re in the same room, you think. You’re not sure. It’s moderately on fire, hazed in rancid smoke that smells like the worst crossover of burning rubber and scorched slugs. You force yourself up—your bad knee miraculously not popping like the hateful bitch it is—and find yourself alone. Except for dead Squidward.

The ship is large. A lot of it is made of cat vomit floor, and the doors are people-sized buttholes. You find a room which sets off your “xenomorph from Aliens” phobia. And inside, you find the intact body. It’s another human, a large man dressed up in some kind of SCA reenactor’s clothes. They’re not crusted in blood or anything else, and it’s way better than running around with your tits flapping. After a struggle that leaves your out-of-shape ass flushed and panting, you slip on an off-beige tunic. It comes down to mid thigh.

So now you’re in a large, on fire alien butthole ship, still defenseless and alone, dressed like medieval Winnie-the-poo. It’s an improvement.

You find an H.R. Giger box. You almost don’t open it. But your white women ancestors reach out through you, and your hands are fiddling with the thing before you can think, “Hold on.” Inside is some weird shit: a slug in a jar, a funny rock, and—is that gold? What the fuck? There’s also a little voice whispering in your mind, that you follow over to some slack-jawed dude strapped to a chair. And you know it’s not his voice because 1. it echoes in your skull and 2. the back of his skull is gone, leaving exposed brain.

Your primate brain is having none of that. You end up reflexively slapping the thing when the creepy voice speaks again. You don’t mean to? You probably don’t mean to. You’re high as a kite on adrenaline and shock, and your hand just kind of does the thing. Oops.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” you say to the actually this time dead guy.

You haven’t seen any other aliens. Might be because the whole “on fire” part. Something bad is happening, and a very loud part of you insists you better find somewhere to hide. But an even louder part rages at this entire situation, and it would really like you to find a gun or space laser or a goddamn butter knife please.

Things do not improve in the next room. The far wall is gone. It’s not the vacuum of space that tugs your short hair. Your nose doesn’t fill with what one astronaut described as the “burning metal” smell of low earth orbit. What hits your nose is sulfur and smoke. The outside holds no stars. It’s orange and hazy, with weird, shifting dark slashes. And it’s filled with demons.

The butthole ship is in hell. Actual, literal hell.

Your Aunt Patty May would be so self-righteous right now, the stupid bitch. You really did die and go to hell.

You take a couple of steps and catch yourself on the slimy edge of a wall. You manage not to fall onto your knees.

The ship zooms along what looks like a twisted, red ground swarming with ants. A rush and—is that a dragon—swoops past the hole.

Aliens, you can deal with.

Hell, you can be bitter about.

But dragons? You’re not on anything. None of your medications cause hallucinations. There’s no explanation  for this 80’s metal album fever dream. Your brain has just about had it, and fuck if it’s not reaching for the shutdown switch.

Which is when a lizard woman vaults and flips over your head. She lands and twirls, and points a sword at your face. She’s green. She’s in metal armor. She opens her mouth and snarls something at you.

And you…you have no idea what she’s saying.

Chapter Text

You wake up on a beach. It’s much better than the last time you woke up. Still catch the stink of ozone and charred snails, but there’s also a soft breeze that carries the salt smell of the ocean.

You’re flat on your back underneath a sky so normal and blue you almost tear up. But something groans and crashes, and a blast of hot air washes over you. You turn your head to the left, and there’s a (still burning) butthole ship.

Fuck.

When you climb to your feet, nothing hurts. Your skull is intact, after what you remember—in snippets—of a long fall. Aside from a raging headache, you feel fine. Physically.

You’re still dressed in a dead man’s tunic. You’re not a small person by any dimension, and you’re going to flash anyone behind you. Probably did, back on the ship.

The sand is pale. The water is blue. It laps gently along the shore. Some kind of sound or inlet, maybe? A great lake? The grass and trees (not on fire) are green. If this is an alien planet, it’s strikingly similar to earth.

(You wish you had your phone to take pictures. If you ever manage to get back, Uncle Randy will lose his shit.)

You hear nothing over the low groaning of the dying ship. No voices, no cars. No boats or planes or anything else but wind and waves. Either this planet is uninhabited, or you crashed out in the sticks of Bleurgh Five or wherever.

Does that make you the alien?

Sweet tits, what if this is Squidward’s planet? Except there’s no fucked up nightmare architecture, and the ground is pretty solid beneath your bare feet.

…you were in hell at some point.

You bend over, squeeze your eyes shut for a long, long moment. “What the fuuuuuck.”

After you manage to sweep yourself back into a sad, soggy pile, you straighten again. Near as you can tell, you’ve got two options:

1. Give in to the overwhelming urge to sit down and wait for dehydration, exposure, aliens, demons, or something even worse to come around to finish the job.
2. Go somewhere else. And find some fucking pants.

Sand, in your experience, doesn’t mesh well with a vagina. Pants it is.

You’re probably disassociating or like, deep in shock. You should be feeling more than mild, fuzzy alarm. You’re aware of this. But every time you reach to open that particular Pandora’s jar, your brain slams the veto button and everything goes hazy again.

This can’t last forever. At some point, all the emotions will kick down the door to your psyche and let loose like a frat party hopped up on cocaine. But that time isn’t now, and the goth girl is a fantastic distraction.

Back on the ship—you shove off a wave of exhaustion thinking about it—Lizard Lady had almost skewered you. Her brain worm and yours reached across the space between you to give each other a little, psychic tickle (that almost brought your entire stomach up your throat). You saw a dragon and a sword and a face that almost looked familiar? Then she hissed more stuff at you, before charging over to hack at literal fucking demons. You contributed to that fight by throwing a piece of ship at one of them, which distracted it long enough for Lizard Lady to cut it in half with her sword.

Demons had physical bodies, wherever you were. Good to know.

Then you both stumbled across a goth girl banging around in a pod. She didn’t speak English, either; she didn’t make any words whose sound resembled any of the languages you’d dabbled in over the previous ten years (nothing fancy; enough to say hello, what’s your name, and where’s the toilet). After kicking the nearby console didn’t work, you noticed another puckered hole the same size as that stone you found in the alien chest. (What was it with Squidward and sphincters?)

Goth Girl, after falling on her face, sniped at Lizard lady, while you wandered over to another butthole and found a woman whose face got ripped open as she turned into a Squidward herself.

Then a bigger demon showed up, the ship zapped itself through space, and you woke up on a beach.

Goth Girl looks to be in decent shape, lying on her back in the sand. Aside from being unconscious. No sticky blood pools beneath her head, no broken bones jut through skin, and she wakes up fast when you shake her shoulder. She even stands on her own! So no spinal injury.

You really wish you could understand what she’s saying, though.

Maybe you should pretend to be mute.

That thought lasts until the pasty guy jumps out of the bushes with a knife to your throat.

“Jesus fuck!” you say as you both tumble backwards.

Mr. Pasty—are…are his ears pointed? Does this guy have elf ears what the sweet shit?—babbles at you. You do your best to look dumb and innocent, and hope if he makes a move, Goth Girl will bash his head in with that mace she’s carrying around. You really, truly, deeply should be feeling something that isn’t “take a nap in the dirt” right now. Poor brain. Trying to shield you. That defense never saved you before, but the little guy is doing his best, bless his heart.

Pasty talks to Goth Girl. Pasty talks to you. He sounds pretty irritated. Then your brain worms decide to headbutt each other and you catch a glimpse of what could be a historical district in some European town at night. If all the tourists wore old-fashioned clothes. Like, “wrong century” old. And carried swords and knives and axes.

The knife leaves your throat. You consider staying on the ground. Both brain and body agree that moving is a misallocation of resources better spent being unconscious right now. And maybe, when you wake up, the bad things will have left!

Then Pasty leans into your field of view. He really does know how to scowl. He tries talking to you in what you think are five different languages. You stare up at him. He gives you a look you recognize, a “this one is broken” face pinch.

Goth Girl does you the solid of helping you stand back up.

Fuck.

Then you find the glowing, purple swirl. Pasty and Goth Girl argue about it. You stare. It looks like a portal. It moves like a portal. You pluck up a rock, throw it at the thing, and the rock disappears into the portal.

“Ah!” says the portal, before a human-looking hand thrusts out.

The proto-argument behind you stops. The hand babbles something. You look to your group, they look at you. Well, Goth Girl does. Pasty is too busy examining his fingernails.

So you end up dragging some guy out of the portal. He bursts free rocking a salt and pepper mullet, a purple mumu, and a lot of words that wash over you.

Mumu throws more languages at you. Does a lot of looking at the rest of your huddle and talking to them? Then he says something that makes the air vibrate, and his eyes fucking glow and he touches two fingers to your forehead. Then he smiles and says more gibberish.

He seems to expect something to happen.

That something isn’t the last several hours finally knocking on your mental door with a dump truck of trauma that it proceeds to pile into your mental living room.

That something definitely isn’t the giggle. The snort. The hysterical laughter that wheezes out of you and folds you in half so hard you almost faceplant into the ground, that eventually peters out to hyperventilating, that peters out, finally, into the sweet, sweet oblivion of numbed shock.

They have the decency to guide you about a hundred feet to the left, away from the dead goblins, before setting up camp.

Chapter Text

Whoever thought up camping needs to get their teeth smashed out with a brick. You’re pretty sure Hammurabi chiseled that into a stone somewhere.

Your ragtag squad of weirdos bustles around a clearing they found just off the trail. You’re far enough away from the wreckage of the butthole ship that traces of the stench only occasionally drift over you when the wind shifts. As night falls, your mental states unclenches. The python strangle the panic has eases enough for you to be aware of how your left side hurts. You’ve been laying, unmoving, for a while now.

But it’s your bladder that does it.

You’ve had funks before, hence the medication (and there’s a fun thought: brain zaps out in the middle of nowhere/space). This episode is shorter than most. You can’t tell if that’s because of all the progress you’ve made (yay, therapy!) or because you’re still very much in a survival situation in which a freakout is entirely warranted (yay, therapy).

Mumu glances up when you push yourself to your feet. He’s got a tent with rugs and baubles all set up. Goth Girl is making a little tipi out of sticks, and Pasty is nowhere to be seen.

There’s not going to be any bathrooms around.

Or toilet paper.

Jesus christ.

Then Mumu is crossing over to you, holding out a pair of pants, and suddenly, he’s your favorite person in the world.

He says something. Smiles. Holds them out.

“Thanks,” you say. You’re sure he doesn’t understand English any more than you understand pigeon, but he seems to get the gist of it.

Now, how to pee in the woods.

Which is a ghastly business. Fancy word, “ghastly.” But accurate! The tunic hitches up easily enough, and you have the foresight to set the pants aside until you’ve finished. Unfortunately, you’ve not super athletic (or flexible), and balancing while squatting and trying not to touch anything ends with piss all over your right calf.

“Kill me now.”

There’s got to be water, somewhere? People camp near water?

That water is the ocean—it is salt water you’ve crashed into. You glance around, find nobody, and shuck off the tunic to give yourself a scrub that almost takes off a layer of skin. There’s no snakes in the ocean; at least not this close to shore. Right? Too late. The salt is going to wreak havoc on your hair. But hey, no more slime or soot or blood, so that’s worth something.

One leg into the pants and you wonder when the last time they were washed. They don’t smell bad? Just neutral? But someone running around with archaic weapons and sleeping in archaic tents is not going to have a washing machine, you fear.

You try really hard not to wonder if Mumu goes commando, and where his junk might have rubbed in here if he does.

The fire’s going when you get back. Goth Girl digs around in a pack and produces what looks like thick crackers. She gives you a cool once-over when you ease yourself down nearby. You’re barefoot, toes dusted in drying sand, your thankfully short hair dripping onto the neck of your tunic. Good thing the night breeze is warm.

She hands you a cracker. You take it and thank her. Eating is a small task you can focus on, an easy achievement.

You smell vaguely of seaweed. No one says anything to you. Mumu talks enough for everyone, it seems. When Pasty slinks in, he doesn’t join your little campfire circle, retreating to the edge of the firelight instead and propping himself up against a large rock.

How does one sleep outside, you wonder as seven generations of Cherokee ancestors stare down at you in Disapproval. Which is rich, considering Cherokees lived in towns for a reason. That reason being that they knew camping was bullshit.

You sleep in the dirt, it turns out. Mumu and Goth Girl both pull a tent out of literal nowhere—magic bags? Is that a thing here?? Some kind of space-warping, bigger-on-the-inside alien tech???

Mumu offers you a sleeping bag, of sorts. It smells a little musty. The night seems clear and warm, so you opt to lie on top of it while the lucky two retire to their individual tents. Leaving you and Pasty outside.

He seems to be about as out of sorts as you. Shifts against that rock of his a few times. Frowns at the dirt and grass. Until he meets your gaze.

Mumu had offered him a sleeping bag too, which he’d declined. He cocks his head at you now. Says something you choose to interpret as, “Greetings, fellow dirt napper.”

You nod back.

He’s not laying down. Seems content to sit cross-legged against his slab.

Now that your head is clear(ish), you can actually look around. One moon hangs in the sky. A lot of stars, but you don’t see any of the three whole constellations you know. And there’s no Milky Way.

When you look back down, Pasty is watching you. His hair is a goofy-looking fluff of silver. His eyes catch the firelight just so, like a camera flash, and reflect back a red glow. Super pale, red eyes. An albino elf? (Elf??)

His clothes look fancy. Spirals of embroidered lines curl around his jacket—is it a jacket? Your schooling sucked and you haven’t sent yourself down a “historical fashions” rabbit hole yet.

Except it would be “alien fashion”, wouldn’t it? And how the fuck do aliens, hell, and what you’re pretty sure is a fucking wizard all mesh together?

You rub your face with both hands.

Pasty says something. “Pasty” is probably insensitive, isn’t it?

“Hmm?” you say.

He repeats himself, gestures to the sleeping bag you sit on. You try hard not to stare blankly at him—”you look like such an idiot when you just stand there”—and end up flapping your hands around in a way that makes even less sense.

Pasty—no, Fancy Pants—stands and dusts himself off. Motions to you—lay down, you think, sleep—and presses a palm to his chest. Then waves to the area around you and then up to his eyes.

Lookout, your brain chimes in. Staying up to keep an eye out.

You really should have realized that sooner. A bunch of UFO survivors camped out near the wreckage need to keep watch. God knows what else could be out here or looking for y’all.

(If you’re all abductees, why do these three all speak a shared language?)

No. Fancy Pants is right. You need to sleep.

“Thank you,” you say, though his vague, unwavering smile shows he didn’t understand.

You’re done thinking for today. You’ve been through enough. It’s time to sleep. Slip into nice, safe oblivion where everything is fine and nothing is wrong and you’re not always two seconds away from another breakdown.

About two hours before dawn, the sky opens in a downpour.

Chapter Text

A sound startles you out of your miserable doze. Mumu stands before you in a fuzzy, purple robe—more classical sculpture, less fluffy bath accessory. He looks concerned.

You try not to shiver.

You fail miserably.

He mutters something, brow pinched in what you hope is worry. He takes your sodden bedding from you. The downpour woke you from a dead sleep. Fancy Pants was nowhere to be seen, and neither Goth Girl nor Mumu roused themselves. So you crafted the only shelter you could, and huddled beneath your sleeping bag.

It soaked through within an hour. You soaked through in half that time.

Your limbs are stiff. Muscles scream and bones creak as Mumu helps you up. His hands are so warm against yours. He guides you, staggering, over to where the fire went out. He says more echoing words.

Nothing happens.

He mutters what you’re sure are swears, and tries again.

Nothing happens, again.

You drip miserably. You’re pretty sure some great, great grandmother is clucking her tongue at your complete lack of outdoorsy skills.

He gestures to the soggy pile of ash and stomps over to his tent. Returns with what must be a spare mumu.

The thing is, it’s awfully close to a dress. Dresses are pretty and there’s nothing wrong with anyone wanting to wear them. You’ve even eyeballed a few, wishing. But actually on you?

This garment seems clean, should fit even your thicker frame. But when you picture yourself in it, the feel of loose fabric on your bare legs beneath it, the vulnerability, you can’t stop the shudder. Yes, you were one hundred percent naked on the ship. That’s different, your brain insists. The feel of it is completely different. The context of it is completely different.

“No, sorry,” you say. You hope the smile and the shake of your head will translate to polite refusal.

He chatters—you can guess some form of, “this is how you catch hypothermia, dolt”—but. You can’t. There’s only a few things these days that you just Can’t, and this is one of them.

“I’m good.” You hold up a hand in what you hope is a universal “stop”.

He stares at you like a disapproving PTA board member. You keep smiling. Playing dumb, playing innocent. You can’t understand each other, after all. He can chalk this whole thing up to bad communication. No one’s fault, couldn’t be helped.

He sighs and—oh hey! Here comes Fancy Pants strolling into camp! What fantastic timing.

The group has an argument. Or a kerfluffle, at least. And it’s not over your soggy self, you think. (You hope.) You stand around, trying to keep yourself moving, as everyone (Goth Girl and Mumu) pack their things away and snipe at each other. As you watch, Goth Girl crams a tent pole into her bag and that absolutely should not fit.

Magic. It has to be. Squidward aliens, hell, and magic bags.

You can’t collapse into the mud. You know it’s a stupid thing you do, what you’ve been told is a “maladaptive coping mechanism” to stress. You scrub your face again—at least the rain washed off the eau de seaweed. Maybe your hair won’t frizz. You run your hand over your elbows and frown. Damn things are going to turn to cheese graters if you can’t find some kind of lotion or something.

There’s a better “response to stress.” Focus on little things you can actually do. This entire situation is so huge and monstrous, no one—not even someone without your own brand of bullshit—could possibly face it without fainting like a tiny goat. So you’re going to do what you’ve been trained: smash it into smaller pieces.

1. You need to warm up. You have no clothes and no source of heat, so you need to move. The clouds have dispersed and the sunlight shines down all warm and golden. If you can get everyone walking, you might be able to keep your internal temperature up enough to dry out.
2. Water and food.
3. Find help??

Three is still too big. You shove that aside.

Mumu is rubbing the gap between his eyebrows when you reach him. Goth Girl is saying something with a tone you recognize: voice soft, but with a set to her jaw that means, “I’m going to do what I want regardless of what you say.” Fancy Pants is cutting in now and then with what you can only assume is bitching. So these three are your survival buddies. Neat.

“Hey,” you say. It takes another attempt before Mumu sighs and glances to you.

God, you need to learn the language. Single words, at least.

You mime lifting something to your mouth and chewing (they aren’t toddlers, you shouldn’t go “Mmmm, nummy” with it, but damn if that image doesn’t pop into your head). You point to all of them, to you, and lift your eyebrows expectantly.

Goth Girl’s lips go thin. She looks to Mumu. She’d shared her crackers last night, so maybe she’s suggesting it’s his turn to donate?

He apparently agrees. Reaches into his bag and pulls out a few apples and a loaf of slightly stale bread. Only Fancy Pants declines, all breezy and unconcerned. Fancy man, probably used to fancy food. Not that you’d blame him. You would stab someone for some teriyaki right now.

Would Mumu have something like that in his magic bag?

Fucking magic. Unless it’s nano tech. You know, like people with armor and maces and primitive ass tents usually use.

What the fuck.

But that’s all problem number three. You will deal with that later.

Except Mumu looks entirely human. You’re trying hard not to stare at the back of his head as you walk along a dirt path. Round, human ears. Wrinkles beginning to form around his eyes. Stubble. His hair is starting to go gray, and what kind of alien species would decide on “mullet” as a fashion statement? Though it’s not so much a mullet, as the way he combs the top part back. If you combine that with the earring, he’s rocking a kind of “metro, wacky uncle” vibe.

The path climbs up. You’re heading away from the wreckage through a forest. The ground is getting steeper, the rocks bigger. You turned back, once, to get a glimpse of the carnage. You’d never imagined a UFO would be a big snail shell with squid arms smashed all over a coastline. But while you were in hell—!!!—you threw a broken piece of that shell at a demon, and it looked and felt like actual shell.

Aaand you’re filing that under Problem Three.

Goth Girl looks human, too, until you catch the points of her ears. Not as prominent as Fancy Pants—walking along at the back of the group, face turned up to the sun—but those aren’t human.

Aside from the ears, and Fancy Pants’ complexion, they all look remarkably human. Bipedal, with mammalian, primate features and hair and eyebrows and Goth Girl has boobs.

Is this even an alien planet? Or is there something weirder going on—you’re not saying supernatural. You’ve had more than enough of that already. What are the odds of green grass on another planet? Pine trees? They even smell like pine. The air is breathable. The gravity feels the same.

…is this Narnia?

No. Absolutely not. You haven’t seen any religious allegories prancing around disguised as talking animals. It’s not. It can’t be. You’re thirty-fucking-five, not a child.

Think of the pounding in your head. It hasn’t faded, though it has retreated into the back of your skull rather than lurking right behind your eyes, so there’s that.

And your clothes are starting to dry. Things are manageable. You’re going to deal with all of this.

The murder hobbit sours everything.

Chapter Text

None of this is your fault. Literally no one can fault you (maybe some of them can fault you). You’ve never been in a fight in your entire life. Not a physical one, anyway. Of course you have a reaction.

Mumu is up ahead. He spots the building and leads your gaggle to it. Where you’d stopped dead at the sight of the…that’s a hobbit. He wears boots, so you can see if he’s got foot hair, but those little stompers look very large proportionally. He’s even got the Elijah Wood eyes. And some knives!

A fucking hobbit. You’re not in Narnia, you’re in goddamn Middle Earth and Mumu must be Gandalf what the fuck.

But voices turn sharp, and then loud. And then a woman on a crumbling staircase—these are ruins, not a building, buildings need a roof—raises a bow. Mumu tries to deescalate, you can tell. Goth Girl has her hand on her mace, though, and you can’t see what Fancy Pants is doing behind you, but you don’t imagine it’s standing there quietly.

You don’t know who fires first. Everything just goes to shit in the span of a second. There’s screaming and running and a clang. Mumu’s voice goes all ~mystical echo~ and you’re too busy diving for cover.

Fancy Pants darts past you to charge up the stairs, a knife in his hand. Someone—the woman with the bow, you realize—screams and then a heavy, meaty thud as her body comes crashing down. Meanwhile, Goth Girl clubs the brains out of a guy, twirls, and brings her mace down on the arm of another. Even across the skirmish, you catch the nasty crack of bone snapping.

You don’t know how to fight. You don’t even have any weapons. You can barely muster up a short jog now and then when you catch the sound of the city bus turning onto your road a minute too early in the morning.

You scramble over to the statue of some lady and duck behind it as Mumu unleashes a fucking firebolt at someone. That is not tech. That is magic.

In that instant, Hobbit spots you. He’s been pecking around Mumu. But when Mumu goes after a lady who shouts and shoots a bolt of fire back, it leaves Hobbit unchecked. So he decides to come after you.

You don’t make a decision. There’s no cerebral processing of any kind. You’re crouched there, and then you’re sprinting. Around the statue, across an open space, out into the trees. Running flat out feels strange. You’re wildly out of practice; your body barely remembers this. Impact lances up your shins, jolts through your skull. You’re already gasping. The air claws the inside of your throat.

You don’t even know where you’re running. Only that you can’t stop, you have to stop, if you stop you die, you can’t keep this up.

Something hits the back of your knee. The leg buckles. You eat dirt.

Everything sort of slows. Maybe that’s just you. The ground is hard beneath you. There’s a rock digging into your knee. When you raise yourself up, you find your hands scraped with small rocks embedded in the skin. Your chin hurts and there’s something wrong with your lip. Something stuck in it. At first, you think it’s another rock. Until you try to wipe it and you feel the edge and it’s your bottom teeth. You’ve bitten through your own lip.

And no antiseptic, you think. Do the hospitals here even take medical insurance?

Your knees are fucked through the pants you just got. And there’s a goddamn knife buried in the back of your knee.

Noise behind you and the small man slams into you. He grabs for your hair. A hand rakes over the side of your face and catches on your right ear. You think you scream. You thrash and flail, but the little fucker is a fighter where you aren’t. He grapples you around, manages to pin you halfway onto your side. And that’s when the sun glints on his hand. On the other knife he holds.

He’s going to kill you. For no reason you can decipher. Plucked from your bed in the middle of the night by aliens, and crashed into Middle Narnia, and a hobbit is going to stab you in the eye.

It’s not fair. You’re survived everything before, dragged yourself out, broke down all the conditioning and made a whole fucking person from what they left and this motherfucker is going to just take that from you like it’s nothing.

You couldn’t stop the aliens. You couldn’t stop anyone before. It was always run, hide, heal. Run, hide, heal. Be the better person, take the higher road. There’s nothing you can do. You have to move on. But you can’t run now, and you can’t hide, and he’s going to kill you.

“no” some part of you says. It’s cold. It’s certain. And the entire world goes icicle sharp around you.

This isn’t earth. This place will eat you and crunch your bones without even the courtesy of a gaslight. There’s no one here to blame you for the gnashing, hissing, raging thing at the heart of you. Not fit for society. Not fit for healing and forgiveness and easing everyone else’s feelings. Being the Good One, always understanding because you can’t get mad. You can’t be violent. You can’t be the Bad Example. You have to take the fucking high road knowing full well it never benefits you. It wasn’t designed to and you’re so, so tired.

Here, in this fraction of a moment, you don’t have to keep that part of yourself chained tight and buried deep in the dark.

All of this flashes through your mind in less than a millisecond. Less an active thought, than a surfacing instinct. One your body latches onto, wraps itself tight around, and squeezes.

 You can see in that second of instinct a possibility, a clean and clear line between now and surviving, and you reach for it with no thought. No morals. There’s no judgment in your mind, only the ancient lizard brain your rodent, mammalian ancestors eventually evolved from. The one that remembers basking on the riverbank, waiting for the prey to come. What it sees is a threat. And what it knows:

End the threat.

So you do.

You pull the knife out of your own leg. Swing. A miss, and Hobbit reels back defensively. You give him no time and surge up after him. Use your greater weight to bare down on him.

The next strike does not miss. Neither does the one after that. Again. Climb on top of him and again. End the threat. You’re not going to die here. Not if you end him first.

The handle is slick. The weapon flies out of your hand.

You don’t notice.

Strike. Strike. End the threat. End him. Make him disappear.

Then a scent flutters into your consciousness. Some kind of spicy herb scent. A shock of white.

You look up. Fancy Pants stands right there. You’re on your knees over a very, very dead hobbit, gore up to your wrists, warm on your face, with your curled fist hovering midair.

“Uh,” you say. You’re not sure what you meant to follow that with. You look to the (dead) man—hobbit. His face is beat to hell. Blood slicks his front, covers his face, pools in the dirt. You did that. The memory is hazy, but you did that.

This is illegal. It’s immoral. It’s everything your mother and the others always said, the devil in you resurfacing, the outward manifestation of your sin splayed out for Fancy Pants and all the others to see and know and judge.

But when you look up. When you looks at Fancy Pants.

The man seems absolutely delighted. Eyes sparkling in what you can only describe as glee. A rather amused smile stretching his lips. And when he talks, his smooth voice is all lilts and good humor. Then he seems to remember the whole language barrier, huffs, and settles for light applause.

“Um,” you say.

He walks past you—still sitting on dead Hobbit, good god you’re too fucking exhausted to move—to pluck up the knife from several feet behind you. You have no idea how it got there. You stare at your hands like they’ll confess, but they don’t, because they’re hands. Your right palm has split open somehow. Fancy Pants wipes the blood—oh fuck—off the knife with a part of the hobbit’s tunic, and starts to hold the handle out to you: the one who just went berserker on some random guy.

And then a voice pipes up. Goth Girl, distant enough, but still way too close to your literal crime scene.

Terror washes through you. Your skin prickles from scalp to toes. She’ll come here. She’ll see. It was self-defense. If you didn’t kill him, he was going to kill you. You still stabbed him multiple times, and then beat his corpse with your bare fists afterwards for you’re not sure how long. That’s not a normal reaction. Sitting here now isn’t a normal reaction. You’re supposed to be crying or throwing up somewhere, right?

Fancy Pants cocks his head. A small movement, his eyes narrow and…weirdly evaluating. He looks from the shout, to you. You gulp.

He nods once. Straightens. Reaches out, and you think he’s going to give you a hand up, but then he shoves you hard, sends you toppling over. Before you can recover he hoists Hobbit up by the back of the shirt, grabs his head—

And slits his fucking throat. Just opens it. And Hobbit is dead, but there’s still enough blood for it to spray out all over you.

“What the f—” you start to say. Before Fancy Pants drops the dead body onto you.

You scream just as Goth Girl and Mumu appear through the brush.

They shout. At Fancy Pants or at you, you’re not sure. It’s Goth Girl who reaches you first. She pulls the dead guy off, checks you over, and you’ve never seen someone express, “I’m so disappointed in you” with only their face that well before. It’s probably the blood that isn’t yours. Or it’s the blood that is, along with the scraped to shit hands and knees and your poor mouth—your teeth are still stuck in your lip.

She says something all ~mystical~ and great, there’s two wizards. Only it’s not her eyes that glow, it’s her entire body, hazing around the edges in blue that focuses into her hands as she touches you.

“In the name of jesus” your bastard brain says quietly.

Warm tingles blast through you. It’s a nice kind of blast; less “drunken fireworks oops” and more “gentle wave at a pretty beach.”

When you sit up, your chin doesn’t hurt anymore. Your hands are smooth and pink. Even the knife wound in your knee is gone.

You look up at her and wonder if she’d marry another woman.

She regards Hobbit’s body, and her nose wrinkles. But none of that seems directed at you. She helps you up (again). Turns to say something to where Mumu appears to be lecturing Fancy Pants. Mumu gestures to the dead guy, over to you, and while Fancy Pants isn’t actually buffing his nails, he’s doing so in spirit.

They notice you stand; Fancy Pants gives you a once over and makes some point to Mumu. Who sighs, examines you, and has a short conversation with Goth Girl. You amble past them. There’s a bench tucked underneath some trees, and your legs are pudding. You’re done for the day. Or for the next two hours, at least. That bastard looks napable.

But as you pass Fancy Pants, he clears his throat. He’s watching the discussion behind you, but turns just enough for you to catch the wink and the smirk.

Fatigue is rapidly dragging your few remaining brain cells down into the abyss. But there’s enough in that expression to give you pause. You can’t name what it is. Something dangerous. But also something…

Fuck. You can’t do this right now. It’s all Problem Three. All of it. Fuck all of this, you’re taking a damn nap and your body hits the power switch before you remember actually sitting down.

Chapter Text

They make food while you’re out. Or find it. You wake to the plink of a metal plate setting down, and open your eyes to sausages and cheese. There’s also a bag sitting next to it. Mumu straightens, gives you another smile, and gestures.

Food and stolen goods. Neat.

Your eyes feel gritty. Your joints do, too. Every part of you hurts as you sit.

The sausage is room temperature, as is the cheese. You absolutely horf it down. Everyone seems calm as they move around the plaza of the ruins. They don’t seem to pay much mind to the stains. Still red where it pooled, turning to brown around the edges. They’ve moved the bodies out of sight, somewhere.

A cry and Fancy Pants pops up with a grin. He’s going through a pile of stuff just down the stairs, and pulls the ends of what you’re pretty sure are tent poles out of a bag the width of his forearm. You look over to the bag next to you. When you open it, there’s clothes sitting on top. And more dried food below them. A mug. A couple of jars of something. Three bottles of wine (gross, but maybe it’s like prison currency; Fancy Pants might trade you something for it). It keeps going: a couple of books, some kind of box that super shouldn’t fit in there and, at what you hope is a bottom, blue canvas curled around sticks.

Fucking magic bag.

Fucking magic bag with a goddamn tent. See who gets rained on now.

Your own clothes are fucked. Absolutely drenched in blood. So are you. It’s in your hair.

“Is it clear?” you say to the group, who look at you. You kind of wave your hand around and raise your eyebrows to indicate question. They answer in a way you assume means “probably but don’t be stupid.”

They didn’t give you Hobbit’s bag—you find yourself so thankful that your eyes water. After scrubbing yourself in a tiny stream—look at you, going to water; you almost feel a tick of +1 ancestral approval—bubbling around the side of the ruins, you dress. Green tunic, tan pants, and a belt long enough to wrap around your waist with more belt to spare. You’re a knock off Robin Hood. They even found boots that, as you hold them up, seem to be about your size. What you need now, though, is a bra.

You’d be so screwed without these people. Fuck, you need to start pulling your own weight (hah).

You stare at the ruined tunic for a second. There’s no underwear in your bag (not that you’d use it if there were). And the back of the fabric is fine (it soaked through and dried on your front, gross). You settle for folding it inside itself to try to contain the bloodstains; you’ll need to find a knife or something later and see what you can rig up.

Everyone seems all packed up and ready to go when you reemerge. Only they’re looking at a hole in the floor—must have been the boom you heard earlier. Goth Girl holds her mace in one hand and Fancy Pants twirls his dual daggers (the other one you’d plucked out of your leg before stabbing Hobbit with it). Mumu looks to you. Winces. Holds out a hand in what is clearly a universal, “Wait there.”

Fine by you. You nod and find a stair to sit on while they hop down. The shouting starts almost immediately, followed by screaming and something else exploding.

A nasty thought is beginning to creep up on you (not going berserk on Hobbit; you’re not thinking about that, thank you very much). Your fellow abductees were not surprised by a murder hobbit and friends. They all spoke the same language. They all seem to have similar gear and clothing.

Conclusion 1: they’re all part of, if not the same culture, neighboring ones.

Conclusion 2: you aren’t.

Conclusion 3: something really weird and really bad has happened to you.

All of which you gather up, lovingly fold in on itself, and gently sweep under the rug labeled Problem Three, which is less a rug and more a misshapen pile of mental issues taller than you.

It goes quiet, below. You continue to sit there, not looking at stains and not thinking about things. You keep an eye out. Pretty sure the noise of the fight would have brought any more murder fuckos from nearby. But someone might have wondered off to take a shit, and the last thing you want is to get ambushed by Jimbob the tomb raider who has no access to toilet paper.

Time passes. You start to fidget. Surely your group is done killing everyone? (Jesus lord.) But there’s no shout for you to join them.

You’ve known them all for maybe a single day. That’s enough time for you to realize you have none of the prerequisite skills—outdoorsing 101, campfire cooking 101, and Intro to Tent-Building (that one is the White side of your family, and they were too busy frothing at the mouth over religion to teach you anything useful)—to make it by yourself.

God, you need to take Remedial Murder. You got the drop on Hobbit; you won’t be so lucky the next time, and everyone here is so quick to reach for weapons.

You’re considering your options—hiding, scavenging, wading into the sea—if they don’t come back, when the door down below cracks open. It’s Mumu, waving you over.

“Thank god,” you say.

Since you have no fighting skills, you make yourself the pack mule and shoulder everyone’s (recently stolen and re-purposed) bags and trot down to join them.

Goth Girl lays her glowing hands on Fancy Pants—sporting a nasty burn—as you poke around. It’s a ruin, alright. Could be a historical site in Germany or France. The hearth has a metal hook that has to be used to hang cooking pots. Candelabras lean against the wall, and the table and the chairs all have four legs, built to human proportions. Except the design is just off enough, and the books you find are all written in a language you’ve never seen; it’s like if someone took historical Japanese kana shodo, turned it horizontal, and made all the loops sharp.

The fucked up part is how old everything looks. The stone stairs have divots in the middle. You’ve seen pictures like that of ancient castles—grooves worn down by centuries of footsteps.

Nothing here suggests aliens. Nothing suggests extraterrestrial. It’s more like an alternate earth. Some other universe adjacent to your own.

Another dimension.

Is there even a way back home?

Your throat is too tight. Ah. All the emotions you’ve been shoving down are getting persistent. Murder and panic and all. Totally not a bad time to break out in hysterical whimpering. Absolutely wouldn’t make you look unhinged in front of your new friends, who already seem dubious about you, the ones you need to impress so you don’t, you know, die of exposure. No, no. It’s fine. You can lean against that wall while the others wander into a library to curl up and have yourself a soothing little panic attack—

A shout from the library, and then the wall supporting eighty-five percent of your weight lifts up and you tumble ass over tea kettle into a hidden chamber.

Which leads to a room full of motherfucking skeletons. You don’t touch anything. You didn’t touch anything. That was entirely Fancy Pants and his pasty ass who pushed a suspicious fucking button that reanimated motherfucking skeletons.

You’re not as lucky this time. One of the assholes hits you with some kind of icicle that freezes you to the spot, and by the time everyone else has blasted, bashed, and burned their way through all the goddamn walking skeletons, you’re numb below the knees. Goth Girl chips you out and has to catch you as you stumble on useless feet.

Things do not improve when y’all stagger into the room the button opened. When fucking Mumu lets his own dimensionally-adjacent European ancestors reach through him and push open the perfectly good, untouched sarcophagus. When this next mummified motherfucker floats out, you almost start swinging your stick. At everyone.

What stops you is the Jerky Man opening his dried out mouth and saying, “So he has spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always.”

It’s not the words themselves that throw you—or it is, but it’s not the old-timey “thee” and “thou.” Nor is it the British goddamn accent.

You understand him.

“What the fuck,” you say.

And his shriveled little eyeballs turn in their shriveled little sockets. It’s really hard to tell with the whole cadaveriffic withering of all of (his??) facial features, but you think he’s looking at you.

He hums. Human vocal cords that dried out should not be able to make such a reverberating sound. “What a curious way to awaken.”

“How are you speaking English?” you say. Part of you wants to claw your way past Mumu to give Jerky Man a healthy shake. The louder part of you screams that Jerky Man levitated like fifteen feet into the air and good little Indians do not fuck around with dead people; politeness might be the best course.

“I am not,” Jerky Man says.

Everyone else turns to look at you. You don’t focus on them. Goddamn European ancestors of your own with their goddamn pale-ass skin genes; you feel yourself blushing.

“I can understand you, though,” you say. It’s a fight to keep your voice level and calm. You want to start chewing on things.

“All life in all dimensions dies,” Jerky Man says. “All life knows this.”

Super not an answer. But he seems done with that thread of conversation—holy fuck, the others are staring at you hard. Your scalp prickles as you break into a sweat.

“Now, I have a question for thee.”

He asks you. Mumu steps back so you can make your way forward (you don’t, fuck that). Your brain is an absolute, gibbering mess, and you have no idea what you stammer out. Jerky seems content, though, and says something about meeting y’all later, before shuffling his desiccated ass out the door.

For some reason, that is the weirdest part of the entire thing. The mummy speedwalking. Holy shit.

Goth Girl murmurs to Mumu, who gives you a narrow-eyed stare. You shrug and look away. And catch the tiniest flash of expression on Fancy Pants: naked calculation. He wipes it with what you’re realizing is his usual, smug boredom.

You need to learn their language. Now.

Chapter Text

All of this lights a fire under Mumu’s ass. He doesn’t even get his tent set up—in what you think is the dining room of the ruins, after picking y’all’s way over more dead bodies they’d murdered because that is shockingly casual here—before he’s at the fireplace, fucking around with a cauldron he somehow pulled out of his backpack.

You find a nice, quiet corner to sit down in and make yourself unobtrusive.

It’s super ineffective.

Goth Girl keeps glancing your way. She sets up her tent—you’re in a dining room but privacy is privacy, you assume—right up against the wall. Facing you. Fancy Pants fumbles with his own, red tent much close to hers than you. He also angles his tent flap to face you, which is fucking rich coming from a guy who slit the throat of a dead hobbit and then threw the body at you.

Honestly, though? Same. You’d do that too, were there three of you and only one of them and you crashed outside some abandoned refinery in Tulsa.

Though you’re probably the least dangerous person here by a long shot. You have a single stick to your name, and one, single set of clothes that aren’t soaked in blood.

At least you have an answer now? If Jerky Man is to be believed (and why the fuck wouldn’t he be?).

Inter-dimensional travel. Not interstellar. Must tie into that whole “seafoam universe” theory thing you watched a documentary on that one time. Squidward and his butthole ship must have popped into your universe to…teleport your naked ass? Steal you. Before zapping away to grab more people.

Which means hell is real. Or a version of it, anyway.

“Jesus fuck,” you say and let your head fall into your hands. Your mother and her fanatics had better not be right. You’ll fistfight god if that fucker is real.

You’re a stranger in a strange land. The absolute irony. You try hard not to think of poor Matoaka and her fucked up fate. You try even harder not to wonder if there’s some fantasy version of smallpox waiting around to take you out.

Then Mumu’s cauldron explodes.

He goes through three of them. Everyone has shifted their tents away from the real threat, and now you’re all grouped against the far wall. It puts Fancy Pants right next to you. You do not fumble with a tent. You have a new, not soaked sleeping bag made of, as far as you can tell, leather and cotton and hide with fur still on it.

Mumu’s explosions are all mild, that leave him staggering back, coughing and waving a hand. The second one cracks the cauldron, though, and he’s forced to dig another one out of his pack (how many goddamn things does he have in there?!).

Fancy Pants mutters. His nose wrinkles. He spots you looking and gives an eyeroll. Clearly not impressed by what you’re ninety-nine percent sure is the group’s wizard (Goth Girl isn’t fucking around with any cauldrons).

It’s then that Jerky Man steps out of the shadows. You almost suck your own tongue into your trachea in a gasp. Mumu and his, you assume, very pale ass doesn’t have your very sensible reaction to a talking, talking piece of long pig jerky, and says something all warm and friendly.

“If it’s information though seekest, I can provide,” Jerky Man says. “At a price.”

And there it is. He’s gonna eat someone’s soul. Or possess their meat. Turn one of you (oh fuck, it’s gonna be you, you can feel it) into a skinsuit.

You eyeball the door. If you can sneak out now, they might not notice? Fancy Pants notices your shifting over the edge of the book he pilfered from the library. Maybe you can pantomime having to pee?

But Mumu goes and hands Jerky Man a handful of…that’s gold. (Is gold seriously their currency? What kind of whacked out fucking economy do these people have that regular old peasants are running around with gold coins??)

Mumu receives a scroll for his pile-of-treasure-could-be-a-down-payment-on-a-car. He nods his thanks, gives you a grin, and starts back to his still-smoking cauldron.

Jerky Man stays where he is. Oh lord, he’s just going to hang out with y’all now, isn’t he?

This cauldron does not explode. After a good half hour—there’s no clocks so you’re just guessing—he exclaims something and ladles whatever he’s cooking into a bottle. He doesn’t cap it; just turns and beckons you over.

You look to Fancy Pants. He gives a “try not to die” kind of eyebrow shrug.

“Fuck.” Because what are you going to actually do? Sprint off into the night?

You try not to drag your feet like a second grader called on to solve the big math problem. Mumu chatters at you once you reach him, catches himself, and presents you the bottle with a flourish.

You stare.

It steams gently. The liquid is a deep blue color that makes you think of a raspberry icee. You hate fake raspberry. Nothing in nature should be that color.

Mumu clears his throat.

Fuck. Fine.

The glass is warm beneath your fingers, but not hot. You waft your hand over it to catch the scent: some kind of herb and what smells a lot like dirt.

“What is this?” you say.

Mumu motions for you to drink it. Goth Girl is watching all this a little too intently, and Fancy Pants leans over to murmur to her. They’re totally taking bets on whether this shit turns you inside out.

You shouldn’t. You really, truly, deeply shouldn’t. Man blew up cauldrons before buying what you think might have been this recipe from a corpse, like making a back alley weed purchase. Both sides of your ancestry come together to agree on that, which is so rare, you almost “accidentally” drop the thing. But Mumu looks so goddamn hopeful. And for all you know, he and the others would hold you down and pour it down your throat anyway.

Might as well go out with a shred of dignity?

You take a breath. Scrunch up your eyes. Slam it back like it’s cheap whiskey from the corner gas station you took a shot of on a dare that one time.

It hits just as nasty. The burn is immediate. A cloud of it punches up the back of your throat to singe your sinuses. You make an awful, sputtering noise and try not to snort blue shit out your nose.

“Oh god, oh god!” you say. “That was a mistake! Oh, fuck me!”

In the silence that follows, you make a couple of dying cow sounds and scrub at your tongue with your fingernails. Your eyes water and a dribble of snot leaks out one nostril. A handkerchief appears in your swimming vision and you cough a thanks and take it.

Finally, you look up. Finally, you see Mumu’s quizzical expression, Goth Girl holding in a smile, and Fancy Pants wearing the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen.

“What a delightful turn of phrase,” he says.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure it’s working correctly?” Goth Girl says.

“For the price I paid, I certainly hope so,” Mumu says.

You hear the words. Not as they are, but their meaning. Like an overlay voiceover of original dialogue that British documentaries like to do.

“Say something else,” Fancy Pants says in an absolute goblin tone.

You sniff noxious fumes, blow your nose again. The taste of burning dirt lingers in your mouth like grease coating your teeth.

“Y’all can understand me?” you say.

Mumu’s face lights up. “Yes! Yes we can! Hello! So nice to finally be able to communicate with our mysterious traveling companion.”

Mysterious. What you are is lost, dazed, and in desperate need of a toothbrush.

“Sorry for the swearing,” you say. The words form on your tongue in English. Leave your lips as English. And twist their shape in midair before they reach the others.

“No apologies needed, my friend. I myself can rather attest to the affront to the senses that is the Potion of Tongues. I am glad to see it’s worked, though I am sorry it took me so long to realize this particular cure to your ailment; Wither’s commentary was the last piece of the puzzle.”

Your eyes still water. You squint at him as the speech assembles in your brain.

“Withers?” you say.

“Our good friend over there.” He gestures to Jerky Man. Whose actual name isn’t much better.

“Right.”

“So. Another dimension, eh?” Mumu says. “I suppose the mindflayer nautiloid did travel extensively.”

You’re trying to come up with some sort of answer to the first part, catch the word “mindflayer,” and all that extra thought grinds to a halt. “Wait, what? The hell is that?”

“The tentacled monsters that snatched us,” Goth Girl pipes in. “Is that not what your people call them?”

…what. Wait. Squidward isn’t an alien to them. They know of them?

“No. I don’t…none of this is anything I’ve ever had to deal with.”

Keep it simple for now. Hide the full extent of your ignorance. You have to be useful to these people. If you become a problem or a drag, they can cut you out. You have no friends, no family, no…no culture here. You can’t even talk to anyone without Mumu’s charity (potion). You need to make allies. You need to make them your allies, and that means shrinking yourself, taking all your weirdness and loudness and folding it small and shoving it into a box.

It tastes like swallowing that potion again, burning down your throat to boil your gut. You won the right to be weird and loud. To have opinions. To flail and bitch and be dramatic. It took fucking years to dredge up all of what makes you actually you. But you can’t be that here. You have to be quiet and calm. Be docile and small. Fade into the background.

For a second, the nasty little thought pops up: maybe you should have sat back down on that beach.

But no. No. You’ve put too much work in to lie down and die. This will be temporary. You’ll make sure of that. Just until you can learn enough to secure yourself a place here. Until you can build the skills or the good feelings or hell, the money to be able to protect yourself. You can do this.

“I take it mindflayers aren’t a common occurrence in your, erm, realm?” Mumu says. He’s totally fishing.

Calm and quiet and perhaps a bit simple.

“Eh, not really?” you say. “I ain’t any kinda scholar or whatsit. I’m just an office clerk. I file paperwork, mostly.”

You’re not important and you’re not a threat. Head empty, hands busy. You can almost hear your mother smirking triumphantly.

Mumu’s head tilts. “What an interesting accent. I wonder if that’s a consequence of the potion?”

How does the damned stuff even work? It seems to be fucking with your brain. With your language center. You’re hearing a difference in the way they all form their own words—mostly from Fancy Pants, who sounds like some hoity toity British guy. So it has to be somehow translating social connotations of their language at you. Which might mean your own, basic southern accent can work in your favor here.

You lay the backwoods on as thick as you can. Really channel Uncle Randy at his most self-parody. “I don’t know about any all that.”

It comes out “ah-oun’ na-oh ‘bou’ any awl ‘at.” Every vowel is too vowels—unlike clipped, too-fast northern—and half the words don’t have their proper start or end.

“Oh gods,” Fancy Pants drawls. “She’s a bumpkin.”

It does translate connotations. Huh. His last word comes in a little weird, but you think you get the gist.

“Those cephalopod monstrosities,” Gale says. “Nasty bunch. I don’t suppose, then, that you understand the full horror of our circumstances?”

Well that sounds like bad news.

“No?”

“Regarding the tadpoles? And the melt-change-condition?”

That word morphs in your brain way weird. Comes in totally garbled. What he says is one word, but what you hear is a very literal etymological breakdown of it? And it sounds downright nasty.

You squint at him.

“The tadpoles gestate in our brains before turning us all into mindflayers,” Goth Girl says. “We saw the results on the nautiloid.”

It takes a long second. That day is kind of a swiss-cheese fuckaroo in your memory. And then you remember the girl’s mouth splitting open as tentacles vomited out of the ragged hole in her face.

You stare at Goth Girl. Back to Mumu. The floor tilts beneath you.

“The what, now?” you say.

So Mumu repeats it, but in full-body graphic horror this time. Sweating. Bone liquification. Skin splitting. Shitting out now-useless internal organs.

You’ve never fainted before. Gotten dizzy? Yep. But an honest to god swoon?

You reach out and grab the edge of the table to keep yourself vertical. Fucking xenomorph bullshit, is what this is. Uncle Randy was right: aliens are out to get you, and they’ve got you.

As if sensing the brewing existential crisis, the brain worm—tadpole—behind your right eye gives a jaunty wiggle.

You swallow down the urge to puke. “How the fuck d’you fix that?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. I don’t suppose you or, your people? Would have any solution?”

A surgical wing. Probably in some top secret “on foreign soil so U.S. laws don’t apply” military facility. They’d knock your ass out and go in with scalpels. Probably try to take the damn thing alive, your carcass be damned. Another missing Indian woman what a shame.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Not that I know of,” you say. “I’m from, I guess y’all said another world? It’s called Earth?”

You get blank stares. So this doesn’t happen often, then.

“We don’t have any of all this, this magic and monsters and shit. I was asleep, and then I woke up on that ship. I got no idea what’s going on, sorry.”

Mumu sighs and nods like he’s expecting it. “Well, I suspect a proper introduction is in order. Hello! I’m Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Gale. Sounds English.

“Eleanor Ripley,” you say.

“Ah. Interesting. Can’t say I’ve ever heard a name like that. You are from a long ways away, aren’t you?”

“It’s French,” you say helpfully. “I picked it.”

He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t make it weird. What about the name your parents gave you and why would you change your whole name and isn’t that the lady from that alien movie?

The name your parents gave you fits someone who doesn’t exist anymore. You picked a first name that sounded pretty, and your family name was too easy to track down, too tied to all that bullshit. And yes, it is a variation of the lady from the alien movie because that was the first one you watched that you weren’t supposed to. It scared the absolute piss out of you for about a year. But you saw it and got away with it and you got rather…attached to it, after you got over yourself.

Goth Girl is Shadowheart. It translates literally, and for a moment you think Gale must just be “particularly strong breeze”. Until Fancy Pants introduces himself as Astarion—with a little bow. No translation on that one. So Shadowheart really is rocking around with the gothest name you’ve ever heard.

Good for her.

Everyone properly named and all, you then make the mistake of trying to figure out where y’all landed. And you realize that listening to Mu—Gale—when you couldn’t understand him made for a pleasant background noise. But catching the torrent of words that pours out of him all translated is an entirely different matter. You stop paying attention about a minute and a half into the geographical specifics going back to naming conventions from five dynasties ago.

He doesn’t stop talking.

Chapter Text

The bread and cheese the others leave for you stares forlornly up from the plate on your lap. You woke to a splitting headache and a stomach disinterested in doing its one job. You wait until the others aren’t looking to stash the food in your bag.

Gale has another nasty potion for you. You’ll have to take one every morning if you want to be able to communicate. You choke it down, almost bring it right back up, and give him a thumbs up through watering eyes. And then you learn he only has three more left.

“So keep a sharp eye out for,” some kind of plant names that he has the sense to describe to you. In detail. You retain maybe half of it?

To which you reply, “Um. I’d like to learn y’all’s language itself, too. Y’know. In case we run out?”

So you don’t have to toss that shit back first thing. Or rely on magic leaf juice to translate for you (melt-change-condition, for fuck’s sake).

You catch Astarion wrinkling his nose at your accent. You’d love to understand how, exactly it translates to him. What a Middle Narnia—apparently this place is named Faerun—southern accent equals to. But then y’all are packing up and climbing out into fresh sunlight. And while most of you squint and shield their eyes, Astarion throws open his arms as if he’s greeting a long, lost meemaw. And almost swats you in the face in the process.

Y’all set off walking again. Still uphill, still heading away from the water. Gale immediately starts pointing out plants that you dutifully pick. It’s not your favorite, but you need to be pleasant and accommodating, so tromping through thigh-high grass and shoving through bushes to rip up leaves and flowers it is.

You start checking for ticks.

You don’t find any. Which is deeply weird, and also deeply a relief.

Gale starts to name things, too. It’s hard to remember, with the dirt potion twisting sounds. But you do your best, and by the time y’all take a thank fuck break, you can repeat the words for sky, sun, tree, and ground.

Astarion uses your snack break to go have himself a look around. He’s real quiet, today. Gotta be an elf thing, maybe. You wanna ask him about that—and a lot more, because holy shit, he’s an actual elf—but you’re trying to keep quiet yourself and he’s been trailing along at the back of the group all morning.

You manage to force a few crumbles of cheese past your lips. Your stomach is real unsure about that, until it remembers how much walking and scuttling and running you’ve been doing lately and comes screaming back to life.

Gale flops down next to you. Holds out a scroll. Says the name until you can repeat it back. Then, “Now, I—and by that I mean the three of us—have noticed you don’t seem to have much experience when it comes to combat. Since our ocular invaders don’t normally give us the kind of time frame needed to develop these kind of skills more organically, how about we start off with something easier. You said you’re unfamiliar with magic?”

You nod.

“And I couldn’t help but notice you said your world was unfamiliar?”

“Yeah?”

His eyes almost physically light up. “At all, or just not something you yourself have been exposed to?”

“I mean, people do sleight of hands tricks and call that magic? And some people say they can do magic, but it’s all fake bullshit? We build things we can’t do on our own. Machines and the like.”

“That is fascinating. Machines to do what?”

How the fuck do you explain a computer? “Um, well, it’s all run on electricity. Like lightning, only we’re not out there actually catching lightning or nothing. We use it to light rooms or run heaters. We build, erm, communication machines to let us talk to people real far away. And we made, basically, think of a cart but it goes on its own without a horse or nothing.”

He’s practically vibrating next to you. “Ah, what a wonder your cities must be like! And what a mystery it is that magic hasn’t touched your realm.”

“So it’s common, then? Magic? In other worlds?”

“As common as the air we breathe,” he says and waves a hand that trails purple lines after it. Show off. “I’ve heard there were other realms less connected to the Weave, but—”

“There was a point to this, I believe?” Shadowheart says. She’d plonked herself down on a fallen log on the other side of the clearing you’re on, and is using this break to clean and oil her weapon, it looks like.

“Yes, thank you,” Gale says. Back to you. “So! Never fear, scrolls like this are made for beginners and those not gifted with manipulation of the Weave. As you can see—or maybe you can’t. Does the potion translate writing for you?”

Sharp ass kana shodo is still sharp ass kana shodo.

“Nope.”

“Mmm. Well then. We’ll definitely need to add that to your curriculum. Can you read your own language?”

That was one of the things you went glutton about once you were on your own. Turns out having full, unhindered access to things like the internet and public libraries—books! movies! as many as you wanted and free!—went straight to your head. You went, as your friend put it, “a little apeshit.”

“I’m a clerk, so…”

“Yes, you did say that. Excellent! A fine start. I take it your family valued a good education?”

He smiles as he said it, and you’re pretty sure he means well. Other families are happy (in shows) when their children go to school or get good grades or think and act independently like a grown ass adult. But your dad died when you were too young for any memories, and your mother…well. You proved her right, in the end, didn’t you?

“I like learning,” you say.

“The scholarly pursuits can be extremely rewarding. I’ve always thought—”

“We’ll need to be moving soon as well,” Shadowheart swoops in again. “You might want to actually show her how to use it?”

Is she on the market? Like, for real? You make “thank you” eyes at her while Gale nods somewhat abashedly.

“Right. This is a scroll for Mage Armor. I have another reclaimed from those ruins, should you need it in the future, but it’s a purely defensive spell. I thought that might be a good start for you, out of our other options, currently. If you’ll follow me?”

You tag along back out into the dirt path, and he hands you the scroll. Motions to open it. It’s got writing at the top, and a picture done in what looks like calligraphy painting of some sort of, well, armor.

“This spell will consume the scroll, so don’t be alarmed should it disintegrate,” Gale says. “When you’re ready, you’ll say the words maia et fortior. Don’t repeat that yet. Do you need me to repeat myself?”

It sounds…latin? Yeah. Latin. You’re pretty over being surprised at this point. Why not latin?

“Nope,” you say.

You hold the scroll out like you’re some old-timey town hollerer. Take a breath. Your hands tremble, but your brain has such a lock down on your emotions right now, you don’t actually feel anything but the physical symptoms and the way your neck muscles tighten.

Open your mouth. Say the words. “Maia et fortior.”

You wait.

Nothing happens.

Gale frowns. “Try again.”

“Maia et fortior.” You make sure to roll the r’s, enunciate slowly, hearing the reverberation in your brain as the words match.

But nothing happens. The scroll stares back at you like an underpaid, overworked teenager halfway into the opening shift at a McDonalds on a Saturday morning.

“Let me see that,” Gale says and doesn’t quite snatch it from you. He studies it. Runs a finger over the lines, inspects it from several angles. Has you repeat the words three more times while he listens with his eyes closed. Then he hands the scroll back to you.

You say it again.

The paper fucker isn’t a teenager, it’s an eighty-year-old Walmart greeter who got fired from a forty-year career six months before retirement and found themself back on the job market with no college degree where all entry level positions in their field want a Masters and three years unpaid internship and they’re so done you don’t even dare give them a polite nod because honestly? Yeah.

Gale makes an offended sputter. Holds his hand out. Lifts the scroll once you fork it over and says the words and his voice goes all echo-y and his entire body flares with golden light.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

“Shit,” he says.

Chapter Text

You can’t do magic. It can be done to you, if it’s things like “throwing ice” or “jumping high.” Shadowheart tries to put you to sleep. It doesn’t work. Gale mumbles something about a spell he knows that “induces temporary madness” and Shadowheart—the traitor—cocks an eyebrow in interest. But Gale waves that one off as too risky.

He’s theorizing aloud about the differences between “elemental magics, anything that can alter the physical reality of the world, but it seems anything of the mind or the spirit has no effect” when Astarion slinks back. He seems to be in a better mood, and less wan than before.

Shadowheart takes over for the next part of testing.

You don’t know weapons. You fumble with everything from a bow (you’re such a bad Cherokee it’s an embarrassment), to a knife. You catch Astarion arching a brow at you during your last, painful display of incompetence. It’s a subtle movement, gone like the flash of a fish in a murky lake, but your face grows warm.

He hasn’t mentioned your murder freakout. Hasn’t explained himself, either, for the whole corpse chucking thing.

They insist on giving you a stick. Gale—who also wield a stick—shows you a few pointers (aim for the knees, arms, and faces; keep your hands far enough apart to maintain better control; when swinging, slide the hand on the outside closer to the inside to give it more swing). Except he says “shaft” and you bite the inside of your cheek and hope no one notices you acting like a thirteen-year-old.

Nothing of note accomplished, y’all start walking again.

For maybe half an hour before Astarion stops dead and fucking coos over what looks a lot like a tripwire. One tied to a log up in the trees fucking bristling with sharp sticks.

“What the fuck?” you say.

“Someone doesn’t want anyone wandering this trail,” Shadowheart says.

Someone is a damned psychopath.

“Is this normal?” you say. “Do people just, rig up death traps out in the woods?”

“What, you don’t have roving bandits or goblin raiders where you’re from?” Astarion says.

Street gangs and drug cartels, maybe. Did he say goblins?

“I didn’t get out that much,” you say.

This world is batshit, run by murder hobbits and flamethrower wizards and squid-faced monsters intent on killing you. Goddamnit.

The bandits-or-goblins theory gains a notch when y’all find the overturned wagon. No bodies, thankfully. So maybe somebody just got run off. Your group wastes no time going through the scattered boxes and belongings. You pick a box of your own to pillage, and find it filled to the brim with rotting potatoes.

“Jesus,” you say and back away as quick as you can.

Shadowheart hums thoughtfully. You turn to find her with an arm full of clean-ish clothing. But it’s the weird vest she holds up that catches your attention. Mostly because she’s holding it up over you with a speculative eye.

“I think this might work for you,” she says.

It’s thick and quilted, made with several layers of what you think might be cotton and linen. Pretty sturdy, you realize as you take it from her. It’s a soft, butter yellow with light blue vines embroidered up the front. You hold it up, note the holes running up the front like eyelets for shoelaces.

Shadowheart watches you. She’d got a mean poker face; seems to think you should find the vest familiar, though.

“Thank you?” you say. You want to stash it in your bag to figure out later, but she’s looking at you all expectantly, turning vaguely confused (suspicious).

“For your breasts, dear,” Astarion cuts in. “They move rather a lot.”

Oh. Okay. No, that’s…that’s just…

You ears seem to catch fire, whole face on the verge of combustion. You’re larger (in width and height) than average, and yes, the trudging leaves the girls rather…pendulous. But you’re pretty goddamn sure people aren’t supposed to say that to someone.

“I was trying to be more tactful,” Shadowheart says while Gale stays one hundred percent out of the conversation and seems intent on admiring a nearby tree. “It looked like you were uncomfortable. But if you’re not bothered by it…?”

She’s not wrong. Being heavier means you’re more often than not more comfortable in a bra than swinging loose. And for the reason she stated. Still. You’re torn between thanking her and pitching yourself face first off the hill.

“We, uh. We have different clothes where I come from,” you say. You’re not mumbling. They’re breasts, not something to be ashamed of. You will not give these fucking goblin people the goddamn satisfaction. “I’m not sure how to use this.”

Astarion tilts his head. Gives you a fucking once over with a gleam in his eye and he’s going to say something horrible.

And Gale swoops in like a knight in shining armor to shield your ragged dignity and show you how to lace the damn thing up.

It’s called a “stays.” That name is hilariously appropriate the moment you get it tied. It’s a goddamn corset, soft enough you can move as well as before—maybe better without all that frontal action going on. It doesn’t cinch, pinch, or squeeze anything, doesn’t fuck with your breathing, just does it’s job and makes sure your girls stay where they are, mostly.

Both Gale and Shadowheart make a point to explain to you that it goes over a tunic or shift, and apparently, unless one is wearing a fancy gown or a coat, it doubles as a form of outerwear (thus the embroidery).

When you look down, it’s very ren-faire. But it stops all that ~distracting extra movement~ so good for you. You can now proceed while protecting the people around you from the horror of noticing tits.

…was that why Astarion wasn’t talking to you.

You’re still fuming—as much as possible through the haze of exhaustion—when your band catches the sound of raised voices. The party stops. Another kerfluffle breaks out between y’all revealing yourselves in case the group is friendly, going in weapons out in case they aren’t, and bypassing the entire area completely.

No one really notices you, lurking at the back and staying out of it. This doesn’t look like it’s going to resolve itself, and the sun is getting low and you are tired beyond belief.

You take a step back.

No one says anything.

Take another step as Astarion scoffs and his voice pitches higher in theatrical mockery.

Soon, you’ve disappeared into the brush.

As an adult, you’re a city person (town, rather, since actual big cities still freak you out—it’s the tall-ass buildings you always imagine falling over on you). But as a kid in Oklahoma, when you weren’t attending your duties or stuck in church or locked in the root cellar for disobedience—which meant someone needed a scapegoat or a power pick-me-up that day—you were outside, scrabbling up trees and through underbrush and imaging you were some Bible hero on an adventure. And picking up lots and lots of ticks.

You’re rusty, but you haven’t forgotten.

You circle wide, skirt a small hill, come to the edge of the brush and find two…

Demons. Those are demons. Like with the horns and the black eyes literal fucking demons. You almost slink back right where you came from when you catch what they’re saying. Something about some monster. Something ugly. Something mean, whose fellows tore up some guy they knew. Curious, you shuffle a little to the left—

Holy shit! There’s Lizard Lady!

She’s up in the air like a snared animal in a cage, looking none the worse for wear after surviving a whole ass UFO crash. She looks real pissed, though. Like she’s trying to melt someone’s brains out with her glare alone.

You hesitate. And in that moment, she spots you.

Her eyes widen. Her whole body bristles. She squints at you for a hot second and for some reason that makes her even more pissed off.

Fuck. You can’t leave her here. The demons are talking about setting her on fire, and your ass would have gotten eaten back on that ship if it wasn’t for her talent for cutting things in half.

You still have your stick—much good that’ll do you. You should go back, tell the others what you found. Get the people with the weapons and the spells back over here to do their thing.

Which is when one of the demons—both red, but a dude and a lady, if gender presentation is the same here—looks over and spots you. Blinks.

No time.

You charge out. Hands waving, eyes wide and wild. “Run! Please, run! There’s things! They ambushed us up the trail but they’re coming! Please, we got to get out of here!”

The demons startle; the man reaches for a sword on his hip. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

You pant. Bite your tongue hard enough to squeeze out a few tears. “Monsters! Frog people! Please, they got my friends, we got to go! You got to warn somebody—”

Someone distant shouts. Gale, you think; you did disappear.

They look to each other, and then up to Lizard Lady whose entire face is twisted into such a leer of disgust, one of the demons flinches back.

And you? You make like you’re seeing her for the first time. Plaster on your best actor face, choke on a scream and stumble away.

“That’s them!” you say. “That’s them! Run!”

And here’s the risky part. Here’s where you got to sell it. Because no one whose friends got slaughtered by an alien in a cage is going to stick around to make sure the demons leave. You’re supposed to be panicked. So…you panic.

“No!” you screech and dive back into the bushes. Flail around and disappear around a tree and hope like hell you didn’t make a bumbling ass out of yourself. That you haven’t been the biggest buffoon this world has ever seen. That those two aren’t standing there, boggling at the lunatic who just ran off into the woods.

You peer around the tree enough to make out the two of them. The girl is edgy. Gale shouts again and she takes a step back. And, bless her lizard heart if she even has one, Lizard Lady takes the bait and literally hisses like an alligator.

That does it.

“Shit,” the guy says.

Then they’re taking off, crashing in after your trail. You tuck yourself against that tree trunk as tight as you can and wait for the crunching and snapping to fade. Wait another heartbeat again. Then pop up in time to see them hauling ass over a short hill and disappearing behind it.

You wipe your face on your sleeve. Clear your throat and your nose. Return to the road and give Lizard Lady a thumbs up—which baffles her—just as your group comes cresting over the road.

Chapter Text

You fumble with your stolen tent for a good thirty minutes until Gale takes pity on you. Though he assembled his with a wave of his hand, and since you’re incapable of the ~mystic cosmic powers~ he possesses, he tries to show you how to rig the thing up by hand. Which means it’s Shadowheart, ultimately, who takes pity on you both and shows y’all how to drive in the stake into the ground to secure the canvas.

“As, yes,” Gale says, totally not wiping sweat from his brow. “I’d forgotten how refreshing manual labor can be. Quite invigorating to get the blood pumping again.”

He’s quick to take a seat next to the fire Lae’zel got going. From being invigorated and all.

You’re not far behind.

Your feet are about to fall off. Your legs shake so bad you don’t sit so much as keel over to land on your ass. The pounding in your skull goes atrocious for a hot second, spiking into nausea, before clearing enough for you to make out Gale telling some story about a “magical misadventure” during his youth.

Shadowheart doesn’t join you. Too busy glaring at Lizard Lady—named Lae’zel. They’ve been making snipes at each other. From what you gather, Shadowheart is real indisposed to Lae’zel, and Lae’zel is generally indisposed to everyone.

Y’all didn’t talk much as y’all got her out of that cage. Everyone boot-scooted out of the area before the demons—called tieflings—came back with friends.

Lae’zel has an accent none of the others share. And Gale said something about “astral raiders” under his breath as she marched to the front of your group (before Shadowheart stopped, declared she wasn’t “following a githyanki”, and the two almost got into a fistfight right then and there).

“Astral” sounds a lot like “inter-dimensional” to you. So you extricate yourself from Gale’s story—sorry, gotta check on the new guy!—and trudge over. Lae’zel has probably the nicest tent here, with a hide rug inside and a comfy looking bedroll set up. It’s also scattered with stuffed heads.

“Hi,” you say.

She regards you with her narrow eyes as she pulls an entire training dummy out of her bag. It’s got tentacles sewn onto its face.

“We, uh, we met on the ship?”

“The useless istik, I am aware,” she says. “So you survived the crash. Perhaps you are not as pathetic as you first appeared.”

Wow, okay. Accurate, but damn.

She keeps on hammering that one. “It would have been more efficient to kill those horned teethlings. Though I suppose one as weak as you would not be capable of such a task. In githyanki culture, you would have been culled from the creche. Your people must be soft. Or perhaps you are not as you seem.”

“Well,” you say. “I’m trying, thank you?”

Her eyes narrow. This close and actually talking to her, and she’s not so much a lizard as a crocodile. There’s the same coldness in her, the same predator shine to her eyes. Best to divert the conversation.

“The way the others are talking, you ain’t from here, right? This world?” you say.

Her spine straightens. Her face is pretty, in a sharp, harsh kind of way. “We githyanki are not bound to the physical realms. We sail the astral seas in pursuit of our ghaik quarry.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and you legitimately would like the time to sort it out and pick through the details. Buuut…

“Your people have been to other, uh, realms, then? Worlds? Not this one?”

“My people guard and conquer all the realms connected to the astral plane, yes. The noisy ones said you were taken from one such plane. I assume that’s why you came to me with your meaningless chatter.”

“Yeah, sorry. I don’t wanna take up your time, setting up the heads and all. Very aesthetic.” She pulls out a stuffed Squidward face. “Is there a way to get back? Like, at all?”

She pauses. Her expression is still sharp enough to slice, but you think you might, maybe, just a little bit detect the faintest baby softening around her eyes.

“You wish to return to your people,” she says.

“Yes. Very much.”

“I do not know,” she says and curb-stomps your burgeoning hope. “You would have to know the path the nautiloid took, and perhaps find your world alongside it.”

Fuck. Fuck shit fuck no.

Does a nautiloid have some kind of flight data recorder? Can you even access the damned thing if you find it (if you even recognize it)?

You think of the tadpole. Amongst Gale’s ramblings had been something about a hive mind. If you give that nasty thing a nudge, learn how to use it, maybe…

Assuming it doesn’t rip your face a new asshole.

And maybe it’s the wormy bastards and their bullshit psychic powers, or maybe Lae’zel is just really good at reading people. She stops her set up. Gives you what you can only call a scathing glare.

“The only way to save ourselves is to find a githyanki creche. All this prattle will be futile should the ghaik parasite twist our bones and melt our organs and turn us into ghaik ourselves. We have been lucky, far too lucky, that the process has not yet started. But we cannot trust to luck.”

That’s that. You’re maybe three days out from being stolen and brainwormed. According to the others, you should basically be shitting blood right now. But aside from the occasional, crippling headache—and looming mental breakdown; you know that bitch has penciled herself an appointment in your mental calendar—everyone seems to be good?

You turn to watch Gale rake coals out onto cleared dirt to nestle beneath what looks like a cast iron skillet. More sausages. Jesus.

You would literally commit murder (again) for a bottle of ibuprofen and a pepperoni pizza.

Speaking of murder.

Almost everyone has tucked in for the night. Or made a show of doing that—you’re pretty sure Shadowheart is going to literally sleep with one eye on Lae’zel, while Lae’zel dismisses sleep entirely as a weakness and seems determined to spend her night sitting crisscross-applesauce and glaring into the night.

Maybe she’s on watch. No one asked you. No one even brought it up to you. That’s probably a bad sign.

You’re sitting next to the fire, poking at the coals with a stick and trying to rub the burning from your eyes. Then Astarion is kneeling right next to you out of fucking nowhere and you startle so bad your stick goes flying.

He watches it arc away into the night with a raised eyebrow. “You throw things a lot, I’m noticing.”

“Jesus fuck,” you whisper shout. “You scared the piss outta me!”

“Apologies,” he says in such a smooth, blatant lie like he wants you to know it. “I forgot human senses aren’t as perceptive. I wasn’t trying to be stealthy.”

Bullshit. This guy is such a fucking weirdo.

“Uh huh,” you say, aiming at amiable and probably failing.

The two of you sit there a moment. A piece of wood collapses into the fire and sends up a cascade of sparks into the sky. They look like a swarm of orange fireflies. The homesickness crashes into you so hard you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself. Nights with Uncle Randy on his porch, his lanky frame sprawled out over a lawn chair, cigarette flaring red as he took a draw. He’d offer you a beer, which you’d decline (“It takes like piss.” “Well suit yourself and more for me, sug’.”)

He wasn’t close to your dad once they’d gotten older. Had some sort of nasty fight Uncle Randy never talked about (you’ve developed a strong suspicion it had something to do with your mother). But he told you stories he knew about your dad—hunting squirrels, illicit fishing trips, that one time they got chased and bit by a raccoon and the rabies shots they’d needed (“Your gramma was so pissed off. We came back all cryin’ from them first shots and she made us go collect us a switch for our own ass-whoopin’”).

Your family wasn’t traditional. But Uncle Randy still had the stereotypical eagle feather tattoo on his bicep. He didn’t talk about it, much.

“Wa’n’t sump’n t’be proud of,” he’d said one time. “Things’re changin’ now, I guess.”

But you’d caught him mouthing Cherokee words on the porch in the dark, scrolling along a language lesson from the Nation on his ipad.

“So,” Astarion drawls.

Fuck. You’re in another dimension. You blink a couple of times, make sure no water spills down your cheeks.

“I couldn’t help but notice how easily those tieflings left earlier,” he says. He gives you a slow, deliberate once over. “Yet you’re not drenched in blood, so I assume there was no stabbing this time?”

“I don’t know about all that,” you say. “Like I told y’all. I said y’all were monsters coming up after them and they hightailed it outta there.”

“How lucky.”

“I generally am.”

“And the gnome the other day? That was luck?”

You blink. Turn to look at him. “Gnome?”

You hear that word and you think of that old cartoon of those pixie people with beards and pointy, red hats. The guy rode a fox, you think?

“Yes. The gnome you butchered,” he says.

“I thought he was a hobbit?!”

“A what?”

This fucking place. This absolute clusterfuck of a place. The fuck else is there over here? Fucking werewolves?? Do you need to watch for fucking werewolves now???

“I’ll be honest with you,” you say. “I ain’t never hurt somebody like that before and I am in way over my head here. I don’t even know what all happened that day.”

Aside from the murder. Self-defense, absolutely. But you freaked the fuck out and a man—gnome—is dead.

He nods in what a casual glance would label as sympathetic. “I see. Your first time?”

You stare. He’s still wearing that face. But the edges—maybe it’s your hyped-up paranoia here, but it shifts into something…smarmy.

“Yeah, actually,” you say because damned if you’re gonna let some bastard man make fun of you over that. He wants some kind of easy target? Come get some.

You choose: stoic Indian face!

“It happened so quick,” you say. “All the adrenaline, you know.”

You scrutinize him. Try to catch a hint of maliciousness.

But his grin widens and the corner of his eyes crinkle. “It got the best of you, eh? Happens to us all, from time to time. The first one, especially. All that rushing and one tends to fumble. You’ll want to practice your technique for your next round.”

Stoic Indian face is super ineffective!

He pats your arm in a half-hearted “you’re too gross to actually touch” gesture.

Is he…joking with you? Not mean-teasing, but like, murder-buddies-teasing?

“Since we’re talking about that, I got a question for you,” you say. “What’s up with chucking that body at me?”

The shithead actually places a hand on his chest like some kind of southern belle-of-the-ball. “Oh darling, I had to make sure he was dead. You were in such a state.”

You’ve been told you’ve got an intimidating stare. You don’t try to look mean, you just keep everything still and blank and stare at people, and it tends to make them squirm. But that just slides right off this bastard.

“It looked kinda calculated to me,” you say. Because it was.

“I do apologize for that,” smarmy bastard says in smarmy bastard tone. “It happened so quickly. You know how the adrenaline is.”

This bitch!

You almost call him a liar to his face. But sense wrestles back control. You don’t know these people and you have no backup, no safety net. This smarmy-ass, fancy pants fucking albino elf is absolutely messing with you, but he hasn’t pulled a knife (this time). And while he’s hinting at stuff, he’s not actually accusing you of anything (yet).

A test? An introduction? Both?

Maybe you’re as weird to them as they are to you. You’re an unknown entity; unable to communicate until yesterday, unable to use their most basic magic, and no training with weapons. But you did stab a gnome to death, and you freed Lae’zel.

He chose to interrogate you—none of the others have asked, was this an agreed upon plan?—by, what, teasing it out of you?

“Well,” he says. Stands and brushes the dirt off his pants. “It’s been a delight properly making your acquaintance, my dear. Do sleep well.”

You watch him saunter back to his tent. Duck inside. His shadow moves against the candlelight as he settles down.

He doesn’t blow the candle out.

Between him, Lae’zel, the girl named Shadowheart, and Mr. Chatterbox wizard, you’ve collected quite a company of oddballs.

Your headache remembers itself and sinks in to kick at the back of your eyeballs.

Fuckin’ A.

Chapter Text

You’re picking over bodies, again, when you catch sight of its face. Only for a moment and you’re quick to look away, but enough to catch the mouth full of needle teeth.

Goblins. Actual, living (they were), goblins with big eyes and green skin. You squat down to examine one of the less torn apart bodies. Again, very careful not to look at the face, because avoiding faces means its less likely to stick in your brain later.

The cloth is rough—hide, mostly, but with patches of what looks like crude linen. While you don’t know fashion, exactly, you have a basic knowledge of fabric thanks to that stint in cosplay Sasha (that delightful bitch, good god you miss her) got into a couple years back.

This goblin died clutching a staff with some kind of skull—maybe a goat or a sheep—tied to the end with a bundle of feathers. If they hadn’t been so hopped up on ripping those three guys outside the gate apart, you might have tried to talk to them.

A shadow falls over you. Astarion stands there, not a hair out of place despite the fine spatter of blood across his features that he hasn’t bothered wiping off yet. He’d taken a long-range position when Shadowheart and Lae’zel rushed in. Turns out he’s a good shot with a bow he scavenged off a goblin (after he slit her throat, thus the blood).

“Are you going to take that?” he says.

The dead goblin wears a belt, and on that belt, a pouch. Aside from the dead gnome he’d dropped on you, you haven’t touched a dead thing.

“What?” you say.

He flips his knife, kneels next to you, and slices the pouch free. Metal clinks when he gives it a light toss.

“Into my pocket,” he says cheerfully and does just that.

Leaving you, squatting over the body he robbed. You look up to find every other member of your group doing the same to the other dead.

So there’s a whole thing going on inside this Grove place. You keep your distance as a tiefling yells at one of the guys you saved (something about a missing druid) and then punches him out. He says something else about goblin raiders, which you don’t really process, and then something about being forced out, which you do.

The man looks scared shitless, as far as someone with a demon face can. The other tieflings do, too. And the people wearing antlers and feathers and shit look both scared and pissed off. Not at the goblins, though. But at the tieflings. Something about “allowing outsiders brought this on us” and “let them deal with it.”

It’s a very “got mine fuck you” attitude that immediately raises your hackles.

“What an unfortunate situation,” Gale says.

“I don’t think these people will survive such a long trip in their condition,” Shadowheart says.

Astarion says nothing, but you catch him slipping something shiny out of an unsealed crate in a wagon.

“Zevlor did say they had a healer,” Gale says. “I suggest we pay them a visit and see if they have a solution to our infestation problem.”

You tag along. This place feels vaguely Celtic, real nature-y. Apparently the guys with the antler hats are druids? But like, with actual magic who can turn into literal animals.

The group stops to barter with what you think is another gnome, except this one’s ears are round. Then Astarion makes a point to lean over to you and whisper (not quietly), “This one is a halfling.”

So…a hobbit. But they’re not actually called that.

You press your palm over your right eye as the ache spikes. Then you skirt around your group and wander further in. You’re in some sort of cavern with multiple openings. You pass through a ray of golden sunlight pouring in from a hole overhead. There’s a big statue of an animal, the top of the head slightly weathered. Around you, tieflings argue, huddle close and mutter, shovel hay. They’re all holding themselves small and guarded. Gazes darting, like startled birds, never landing on one thing for too long. You can almost feel their misery.

Trapped. Trapped and unable to do a damn thing about it.

Your palms are sweating.

A flash of red. A tiefling child stands in front of a cluster of rocks, swinging his arms. He looks at you for less than a second before shifting away. He’s a scrawny thing, wearing half-ragged tunic with only one shoulder strap. He’s got little ridges laddering down his chest.

They have children, these scared tieflings. Trapped children that know something bad is happening, perhaps without knowing what, exactly, it is.

You wave at the kid. Again, that darting glance. It’s not a suspicious movement. He rocks a little as he stands. He reminds you of one of your paternal cousins (fourth cousin, technically; you have more “kin on our side, don’cha ‘sug?”), who your third cousin (her mother) affectionately calls, “Just a little bit different.”

You crouch down. Look over the kid’s shoulder. He gets hoppy, starts making excited noises. Swings his arm like playing a sword fight.

“You saw us fight off those goblins?” you say. Well, the others did. You clubbed one with your stick which distracted it enough for Astarion to put an arrow through its eye.

The kid nods. Swings his arms again, making those happy sounds.

“Is that something you’d want to learn?” you say.

But this seems to stump him. Or maybe he’s just had enough. He starts to nod but stops, ends up clutching his arm against his chest. You open your mouth to change the subject, but he goes all distant.

Your group has caught up to you. The kid scurries off. The others barely glance your way—Astarion with a sneer—except for Gale. He watches the kid scamper off, and then gives you a smile.

There’s another kid up ahead. Gale seems to take this as an opportunity to talk—the kid offers him a ring, and then makes the biggest mistake of his life when he tells Gale it’s magical.

You’re settling in for some prime time zoning out during the forthcoming lecture, when you register a touch. You look down, follow the wrist to the arm to the second kid with her hand in your pocket, frozen and staring up at you in horror.

Huh. In your periphery, the magic ring kid straightens from his bored slump, and then the pickpocket backs away, crying and blubbering. Which grabs everyone’s attention.

“M’sorry, Mattis, I can’t do this,” the pickpocket wails. She cringes away from you. Like she expects you to hit her.

“Easy there, kiddo,” you say. “It’s okay. No blood, no foul, right? You didn’t hurt nobody; nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

She sniffs a few times. Realizes you aren’t lunging for her and makes a break around you. You let her go. Catch Shadowheart’s unimpressed eyebrow raise and Astarion’s audible scoff.

“In a githyanki creche, thieves are severely punished,” Lae’zel says, making hard eye contact with you like she’s trying to prove some point.

Which she can shove up her ass. It seems the only one not annoyed at you is Gale. These people are a bunch of assholes.

“So where’s this healer?” you say.

As Gale leads the group further into the cavern, the floor sloping down and the glare of sunlight shining through another exit, you pause. Lower your head to murmur to the magic ring kid. “Find a partner who doesn’t get caught.”

The kid, being a shit because everyone in Faerun is, you guess, only rolls his eyes and gives you a, “Yeah, yeah. Outta my way, I’ve got a business to run.”

Part of you want to shove his head. But he lives in a place where stepping over ripped over bodies is normal. Where people loot the dead. Where children are forced to be street thieves while waiting to hear if they’ll be expelled into the waiting arms of sharp-toothed goblins. You don’t need to add to his pile of shit.

Especially when you pass another cluster of tieflings clearly retreating from the cavern exit, throwing nasty looks over their shoulder. Two of them are crying. You catch something about a daughter being taken for “discipline” by some psycho bitch, and your stomach drops out. It’s been a while since you felt that particular wave of dread. Since your lungs clutched up inside your chest and the fear hit so strong it made you dizzy.

A devil child taken for discipline.

Astarion eyeballs you as you sidle up behind them all, talking to two druids and a fucking bear. He must see something in your expression. The little nose wrinkle he sported drops off. “Do you always let yourself be robbed?”

You shrug. Hope the gesture appears loose, like your muscles aren’t wound up to a snapping point. “I’m flat ass broke. Wasn’t nothing for the pipsqueak to take.”

“And if you’d owned anything more than the clothes on your back?”

The druids move aside, all glares and belligerence. The fuck kinda place is this? The fuck kind of shitbag runs a place like this?

You don’t answer. You’re too busy moving up on Gale’s ass and finding out who the fuck this Kahga person is.

Chapter Text

And a psycho bitch she is. You catch the raised voices the second y’all enter into another cavern. A man and a woman arguing. Something about “she’s just a child” and your raised blood pressure makes your neck feel too thick.

It almost bursts the capillaries in your eyeballs when you get down the stairs to find two, grown ass adults standing around a little tiefling girl stuck in a pit. Your vision goes hazy when the woman calls out what has to be a venomous snake.

The little girl screams.

Gale is opening his mouth to make y’all’s introductions. You shove past him.

You can’t do anything about goblins or mindflayers, tadpoles or bandits or goddamn otherworldly racism. But you can damn well stop this bitch from murdering a fucking child.

“What’s going on?” you say.

The woman unleashes some racist-ass fuckwit bile. It twists up all over her face, making the man beside her flinch and frown. And, yeah, making the girl cry more. That’s also probably because the snake is clearly some kind of sentient motherfucker—and is finding this whole thing fucking fantastic.

You’re wearing a cover. You need these people to like you. You’re supposed to make yourself small and quiet and disappear into the background. You’re tall for a woman—eye level with Astarion—but people see your frame and they see your slouch and the way you look down and they make assumptions.

Beneath all that, you carry anger. Always did. “The devil” your mother used to call it. It’s what kept you going. What kept you alive all those years. It’s what finally got you out and kept you out.

Adults are terrifying when you’re three feet tall and they’re calling you a devil. You know all too well, and you ain’t standing for that.

These two aren’t the only druids in this cavern. There’s about five or six, and an actual goddamn wolf to boot. So as much as you wanna grab that bitch by the back of her floofy up-do and smash her teeth out on that stone floor, you gotta play it cool. You gotta show her what she expects. Buy yourself time.

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there,” you say. “I don’t actually care that much. We heard you got a healer ‘round here?”

You’re at the front of your group. You can almost feel some of them startle behind you.

This bitch, this Kahga, diverts back to “devils” this and “parasites” that. Swerves over to suggest the snake should bite the girl.

Gale makes a sound as if to interrupt.

And again, you steamroll him (so much for sticking to the background). “You know, it’s gonna make it real difficult to get all them horned people outta here if you go and kill one of their kids. Tends to upset people.”

“Ah, a bleeding heart for devilspawn,” Kahga says. She gives you the same kinda look you give to surprise shit on the bottom of your shoe.

“Nope. Just want a healer and wanna be on my way. I don’t want to deal with whatever shit mess you’re fixing to kick up here. People are harder to march off when they’re rioting, and they tend to not be picky in who they rip apart in the process.”

Her expression cools. Goes all evaluating. Then she looks to the girl, whose arms are pressed as tight to her sides as she can manage, her whole body trembling with the effort of not moving.

“Have much experience with that, do you?” Kahga says.

Only the history of it, and the scars it leaves behind.

“Some,” you say.

Another pause. You make sure you’ve got enough clear space in case you need to swing your staff. A club to the side of the head might knock her down and fog her up long enough for you to get your boot on her throat,

Her jaw clenches. Then she breathes through her nose. “I suppose you have a point. Teela, to me. But if I catch so much as a glimpse of you, devil, the viper will find her mark.”

Said to a child. Bitch all huffed up like she’s some big, scary snake herself. But you come from snake country; you’ve lopped off your fair share of fanged heads.

You let the kid run outta there. Keep your gaze on Kahga. She makes an effort to straighten her spine and square her shoulders as the other druid shakes his head and stalks off.

“I suppose you’ll tell me I’m a monster,” she says. She knows she’s a bitch, it just ain’t stopping her. That’s the worst kind. The ones who think they got a reason.

“I don’t really have an opinion,” you lie, watching the others disband now that the show’s over. Still too many of them in this room. You wonder how often Kahga leaves, and if she happens to find her way into any dark alleys by herself.

She snorts. “Quite the mercenary, then. I know your type. You handled those goblins well enough. Why don’t you extend your services to those devils?”

She propositions you for the tieflings. You make noncommittal noises, tell her you’ll think about talking to some Zevlor person, and she literally dismisses you from her presence after pointing out where the healer is.

It’s a struggle to keep your face blank. Keep your teeth from grinding, and your grip on your staff loose, lest the whitened knuckles give you away. When she turns away, the image of cracking her over the head pops into your skull. But you don’t, no matter how satisfying that would be. You take your own leave and the group trails along after you.

“You know,” Astarion says, sidling up to you. “I didn’t think you had that in you. You don’t quite seem the type.”

You glance at him for a second. Then to the doors in front of you. The one on the right holds the healer. But the one on the left is filled with bookshelves and beds. A dorm? You veer left. Astarion starts to correct you, but you don’t even slow. You can’t lose the initiative here. These ass clowns seem down for letting all this shit happen, and you ain’t gonna give them a chance to realize what you’re doing.

There’s an elf druid (druid elf?) browsing the central bookshelf. Beds line the walls of the room here and there. It’s all very symmetrical, which is kind of funny if these guys are so ~in tune with nature~. They look like someone trying too hard: stone slabs with moss for bedding to keep the sleeper’s spine from cracking in half, you assume. And here, by the door, a bed slightly bigger than the others. One eye on the elf perusing, and you edge over to it.

“Can I ask y’all a favor?” you say. “I need y’all to snoop while I get that guy’s attention.”

Lae’zel looks bored, Gale has been frowning at you the entire time, but both Shadowheart and Astarion perk up.

“‘Snoop’ for what, exactly?” Gale says. So the meaning is making it through translation. Awesome.

“Anything weird or suspicious. Y’know, snoop.”

For a second, he holds your gaze. You don’t blink, don’t back down. Keep your face still and calm in a way you know people take as a challenge. This is the test. They’ll either go along with your batshit plan, or they’ll head off and do their own thing.

Gale blinks first. You try real hard not to sag in relief. Astarion has already fucked off to the nearest nook, and it’s up to Shadowheart to usher Gale somewhere useful. Once they’re dispersed—Lae’zel remains, turning your own unblinking stare at you, which is fine and totally not intimidating at all—you take another breath, plop down on that bed, and kick your muddied boots right up to lay down.

“Hey!” the druid elf says, because you called it and that prick was watching you the whole time. “Get off of there, you wretch! How dare you. That’s Mistress Kahga’s bed you’re soiling.”

You’re careful not to let your lips twitch, even as sweat prickles along your spine. Instead, you plaster apathy onto your face. Look to your boots and the mud flaking off onto the moss. Look to the fuming druid.

“Whatever,” you say and slide your boots back down, making sure to wipe as much as you can on the bed.

A disgusted shiver shudders through you.

The druid chokes and marches over.

Lae’zel glares at you—a very “what the fuck coward thing are you doing now” kind of look—and squares up as he nears.

“You,” the druid says. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

You’ve lost sight of Astarion. Gale and Shadowheart slip behind that central bookshelf. You take your time answering. Size him up, like you’re imagining the best way to hurt him. What you’re actually doing is examining his clothes—the fur and bits of feathers are actually part of the whole skins he’s wearing. Which is fascinating. Your dad’s people used to make feather cloaks, but near as you can tell, the feathers would be gathered and sewn in. But this fella right here must have found a bird big enough to make a whole ass tunic outta the hide. Which means they got some giant ass birds here.

“Who’re you?” you say.

His lips press so tight. Dude seems to be fifteen seconds from spitting on you. He gives you some fancy name (got to be an elf thing, between him and Astarion), and he’s apparently the librarian, only he doesn’t use that word.

Gale appears across the room. He looks a bit lost. Not the sneaking type, you guess.

“Well that’s nice,” you say to Mr. Librarian. “What’cha got to read in here?”

“Nothing for the likes of you. This is the collected wisdom of thirteen generations of Emerald Grove archdruids. It’s not for outsiders.”

Shadowheart leans into view. She makes a motion to the bed you’re still plonked on. Kahga’s bed. Considering the things you kept under your own pillow back home, she definitely needs to rummage here.

“Huh,” you say and kick off. Shadowheart ducks back as you lead Mr. Librarian to the shelves. You pluck up and random book.

Mr. Librarian sputters and tries to snatch it from you. He’s shorter than you, so you’ve got the height advantage and the width to block him as you open the thing.

“Put that down!” he says.

“Why?” you say. “Did I find the sex stuff?”

He swipes at you again—jokes on him; you can’t read. You spin and draw him away so Shadowheart can slip past y’all. You lift the book sideways and flip roughly through the pages for that extra dash of asshole. And then scoff and toss it at Mr. Librarian, whose face is tomato red at this point.

All this has brought you to the edge of this shelf—and given you a clear line of sight to Gale standing around awkwardly. So you march over to the shelves behind him.

“No, you can’t go in there!”

You go in there. Grab a scroll this time. Pseudo-pirouette away and unfurl it (harsher than you mean to, and you feel a little bad) and the end rips halfway off.

Mr. Librarian makes a wounded sound and stills. Stares at you. Behind him, Shadowheart ruffles through Kahga’s bedding with suspiciously practiced ease, and lifts her head to give a negative shake. Gale just stares at you. Which leaves…

Flash of white. Astarion casually leaning against the center bookshelf with what can only be classified as a devilish smirk.

“Guards!” Mr. Librarian shouts. “Someone get in here!”

You shove the ripped scroll at him and steamboat your way right out of the dorms.

“Please tell me you found something,” you whisper to Astarion as the lot of you duck into the actual room where a short woman waves glowing hands over a bird. Y’all squeeze yourself behind the central pillar and wait a moment to see if anyone follows you. Luckily, they leave you be.

Astarion shifts way closer than he needs to. “A hidden chest locked up tight, with a letter inside asking for a secret rendezvous enough for you?”

Chapter Text

You have no time to ask him for the letter, as the healer (is this one a hobbit???) named Nettie turns to see who just burst into her cave. A cave connected to another, hidden cave, that she one hundred percent doesn’t lure you into and lock the door behind y’all. Oh goodie.

The mood soars even higher when you see the dead elf (she calls him a drow, whatever the fuck that is).

Gale hangs back this time, and they all sort of look at you. The oddball who doesn’t speak their language and who is arguably the least qualified person to do this. Also the one who started it and should probably, y’know, finish this.

“Oh, goddamnit,” you say and spill your guts to Nettie.

The mindflayer transformation seems to freak her out more than it does you. Kind of hilarious, since you’re the one with the needle-teeth worm in your brain. It freaks her out so much, in fact, she gives you a bottle of poison that actually glows green. It’s like cartoon radioactive sludge held back by some glass and a wax stopper. This fucking place.

You promise her you’ll drink the shit if you feel your skin sloughing off. You feel the judgment from your group on your back. Like you’re not completely lying through your teeth.

She says something about a better healer named Halsin. You’ve heard his name a couple of times—mostly when Kahga snapped at that other guy not to say that name. Nettie is otherwise a dead end, thanks for all the poison!

“As I told you,” Lae’zel all but hisses. “The cure we seek will be found with my people. We waste our time pursuing your primitive healers.”

Says the lady in metal armor you’re decently sure couldn’t hold up to a modern rifle.

You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything. Not until you emerge back into sunlight and the droning chant of the druids with their fuck off ritual. There’s still too many people around. But a path runs off out the side, looks like it heads out of the grove, so you start towards it.

The path eventually leads to a secluded beach, huzzah!

The beach is infested with harpies, fuck!

It goes tits up almost immediately. Y’all are banged up, bruised, and bleeding by the time the last feathered bitch goes down in a pool of her own blood. You fall right on your ass there in the sand, and let yourself slowly topple onto your back.

You lie there for a long time. The sky is pretty, and the sand is soft and warm beneath you. It smells a lot like rotten fish and metal for some reason—

“Fuck me!” you holler when your hand comes up smeared in red. You’ve collapsed into harpy blood. This was your only unstained shirt and literally your only pair of stays.

“I think we’re all a bit too tired, dear,” Astarion says because he’s an asshole.

You’re fucking covered in blood. A-fucking-gain.

The kid y’all inadvertently saved seems to find that part a bonus. He stares up at you with huge eyes glazed, in what you suspect, it awe.

He thanks you, says something about a dragon lair and Doni, and scampers off.

The sun is sinking fast behind the tan cliffs. You’re really not sure you’ve got the energy to drag your ass all the way back to the Grove. The rest of the group seems to agree, as Gale sets down his bag to start digging for his tent poles.

“Maybe we should go upriver some?” you way.

“Why?” Lae’zel says, her first pole already buried in the ground less than three feet from the still hot carcass of a dead harpy.

You squint at her. At the others, who seem just as unperturbed. These fucking people.

“So we can refill our drinking water,” you say. Gesture to the right. “From that river right there. But probably not near the saltwater or where harpy juice might be dribbling in—do y’all not have waterborne diseases here??”

“…‘waterborne’?” Gale says.

It takes much longer to set up camp—upriver—than it should. While Gale and the others know of basic sterilization, they haven’t quite gotten to the germ part of germ theory. You went on a big Historical Plagues kick a couple of years back, and you fill in the basics you remember. He actually abandons his tent in favor of finding a scroll and a quill to start taking notes.

The sun has long set by the time you can get free long enough to grab all your blood-crusted clothes and trudge down to the river. You got no idea what you’re doing with hand-washing. Rubbing the cloth underwater does get some of it out, but the stains remain: huge and brown and still reeking. They’re honestly not salvageable.

You dunk your head and give your hair the best scrub you can manage. Thank yourself again that you keep it short, because trying to deal with all this with hair down to your ass would have been an utter shitshow nightmare. You long for shampoo. You’d cry if someone gave you soap. There’s still oil in your hair that no amount of dunking in the water is going to fix and you have to look like a catastrophe to anyone you meet.

You find a flat-ish rock to spread your sopping clothes on, and make your way back in your lightest-stained tunic and trousers.

The others have a fire going, and Gale—thank fuck—has left off the sausages. Appears to be making some kind of potatoes and vegetables scramble with eggs he got from somewhere. You winder if he’s got anything for your aching skull. Days in and the sunovabitch has yet to let off. But throwing rocks at the harpies probably did not impress any of them, and you don’t want to make yourself look like an even bigger drain on resources.

Astarion has pitched his tent further back. He sits outside on a carpet he’s found somewhere, rifling through a stack of books he’s also found somewhere. He looks up as you approach.

“Anything good?” you say.

He glances to his stash and his lips pull into a mild smile. “Oh, a bit of this and that. Trying to decide which I’ll hang onto for the time being.”

You nod. Eyeball the small tower by his right knee. The dirt-potion doesn’t translate writing (and Gale had said that the writing isn’t the spoken language anyway, as that is apparently called Common and isn’t anyone’s first language, begging the question which fucking colonizer empire took over and made that decision for everyone). You miss reading. You miss the internet and music. Lights and washing machines and waterfall showers. Your bed with it’s thousand-thread-count sheets, because you were no Captain Moneybags, but there were a few things you’d splurge on now and then, and that was one of them.

What books do the people here write? Is it just poetry? Treatises? Dry-ass history accounts? Or do they have novels? What would a place like this write about when they were making things up?

Is there smut?

“So, what’d you find in that chest?” you say.

Astarion stands, having selected tonight’s reading material. He flips through it, not meeting your gaze. “A few odds and ends, a couple of valuables.”

You wait. He doesn’t continue.

“And a letter?” you say.

His face is a mask of pure innocence. “A letter?”

Okay, so that’s how he’s playing this. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands and scream.

“The one you told me about in the Grove,” you say. “When I asked you this same question then.”

“I believe what you said to me was, ‘Please tell me you found something.’”

You’re going to kick him in the shin. You’re going to reach down, grab a handful of dirt, and throw it in his pasty face. He watches you like a cat that knows it’s pissing off the neighbor’s cat and there’s nothing the neighbor’s cat can do about it. Then his eyes widen.

“Oh! Yes! That letter.” Bastard man knows exactly what you were talking about from the beginning. “Yes, I did find that, didn’t I? Though I’m not sure why you want to know about it so badly?”

He slips on casual douchebaggery the way other people wear fashionable overcoats. One fist on a hip slightly jutted to the side, shoulders back, head cocked to the an inch or two to make sure the camp fire catches the “haughty” on his features in the best light.

He knows you have an ulterior motive. He wants in on it, you think. And you don’t think he’s going to back down.

“That Kahga woman isn’t our problem,” he says. “You said so yourself. Which I, for one, think was the correct decision. These druid politics aren’t our concern. The tadpoles are. Quite right you stuck to our priorities back there.”

“I’m gonna depose and ruin that bitch,” you say. He blinks at you. Several times. You probably shouldn’t have said that out loud. But ever since you started sharing your actual opinion (once you found it) to the people who mattered (and didn’t that take fucking forever), you’ve had poor impulse control about it. “I want her metaphorical head on a metaphorical spike and if you’ve got dirt on her, I have a very vested interest in knowing it.”

“I…well. That’s…quite bloodthirsty of you. Metaphorically speaking.”

The last part is a question even if he doesn’t vocalize that part.

He doesn’t seem the altruistic type (stealing from what you now realize are refugees is a crimson flag in that department). “The bitch reminds me of my mother” would be way too personal and, you suspect, would fall on deaf ears in this group. Well, any group, really.

Luckily, you’ve always been good at justifying shit to yourself, so you have that flank already covered in your head.

“That Nettie woman said we’d need to find another healer named Halsin, who was their leader but got caught by goblins, right?” you say. You’ve gathered that much. When he nods, “This Kahga is a stand in. She didn’t seem to like that other one mentioning Halsin, and she’s taking an extreme path which at least some of the druids seem to oppose. But not all of them. So what happens if we do manage to find and free this Halsin guy, and he gets all caught up in a power struggle with Kahga when he gets back? He ain’t gonna have time to help us.”

You watch that thought enter his mind and make connections. This time, he lets a frown wrinkle his forehead.

“That’s…” he says. “That’s certainly a way of looking at it. But what if it turns out to simply be an illicit lover’s rendezvous?”

“Did it sound like a lover?”

“Not necessarily. It could—you cheeky devil!”

You mask a grin of your own. You still want to keep a low profile, at least with the others. He already saw you stab a guy like thirteen times, so the gig might be up over here. But he doesn’t exactly interact with the group much, and it doesn’t seem he’s shared any of his observations about you with them.

Astarion drops his pleasant mask and what’s underneath is…you can only describe as malicious humor. His eyes narrow and he grins. “Alright, have it your way. It was a request to meet in a swamp. I did spot one yesterday to the south at some distance. There’s an island next to some docks, seemingly off the main path, the note said.”

“No date or time?”

“No.”

“Can I see it?”

Here he pauses. Almost fidgets. “I didn’t take it, darling. I left it in that chest. People tend to miss important documents and you hadn’t exactly told us what you were ‘snooping’ for.”

“So you just, what, memorized it?” you say.

You look at him. For the first time, a suggestion of hesitation flits through his body language.

“That is so fucking smart,” you say and make a look at this man gesture. “I am so glad we found you.”

His eyebrows shoot up for less than a second before he relaxes back into smug self-assurance. “I am quite exceptional. I’m glad someone here has realized that.”

“Seriously, thank you, Astarion. If this turns out to be a bust, I’ll drop it and follow along like I been doing. But thank you anyway.”

The man absolutely preens.

“Now, you got any ideas how to get the others to go to a swamp?”

Chapter Text

You imply Kahga had something to do with Halsin getting caught. They’d all heard her snap at that other druid, “Don’t say his name! He’s not here!” Which sounds, at very best, shady as fuck. A letter about a secret meetup needs to be investigated if you’re to properly rescue this healer. Lae’zel takes the news with a glare and what you assume is githyanki swearing.

And that’s how y’all end up back on the road again, with a fresh set of clothes you bought from that halfling guy using a pile of gold (from Gale, to whom you now owe twenty-seven gold pieces so guess who has to start robbing bodies). Spending gold coins like they’re ten dollar bills; this economy is so fucked.

Your new stays are a soft blue, covered in tiny, white flowers. You cover it this time with the shirt you bought (bloodstains can be an inside shirt because no one else will see that and run screaming). Wading through a swamp seems like something you might want some kind of overclothes for.

You once again lag after everyone. Part of it is all the goddamn walking. After three? Four days of hiking? You’ve burned through your energy reserves and your ass drags. This is probably going to be fantastic for your cholesterol levels, once all is said and done. If squidwards even have cholesterol levels.

The other part is the headache. None of the others have mentioned one—though the tadpole has mind whammied them all a few times by this point (Gale damn near tripped over his mumu when your tadpole shivered as you were thinking longingly of cruising down a highway at seventy miles per hour with the windows down). Which led to a snack break while you had to explain highways, cars, and radios. The tadpole shimmies are a fucking weird sensation, but that’s not the screaming throb through your skull.

You say nothing of that. You don’t like the way Lae’zel looks at you when she catches you rubbing your right eye. Her lizard brain lives right on the surface of her skin, and you can feel that cold, predatory judgment pressing you every time her head turns your way.

Astarion makes quips—how he likes his steak super rare, how flowers are stupid, how he’s apparently got a gaggle of bed warmers back in the city. When Shadowheart calls him out for practicing pickup lines within earshot you stagger off the path before you can piss yourself laughing. This starts a verbal slapfight between the two of them over haircare routines.

He says nothing of y’all’s chat the evening prior.

He’s the first one to catch what turns out to be sobbing and shouting. The man literally perks up like you scenting coffee a block away.

“Oh? What’s that?” he says.

A dead guy, is what it is. Or almost dead. And two people understandably losing their shit over him. You downed a bottle of the dirt potion that morning, and you have one left. You almost saved today’s for later. But when the woman starts snarling at you to stay back, and when the dying guy looks at you and your fucking brain worm wiggles, you’re glad you took it.

It hits you like a breaker wave. The mind whammy slams into you, bowls you over, and sends you spinning. This isn’t the slight brush you’ve had with the others. This is fucking focused.

You catch faces, names. A chamber with a giant, red goblin man chanting. The two, mourning humans hunch on their knees before an old goblin, their faces upturned and shining wet with joyous tears.

More than that are the feelings. The dying man’s protection for these two. Love and devotion to someone else. Something else. Love and devotion, the way one loves and adores a parent. You feel safe. You feel joy. You feel power and salvation. The one come to rescue you from filth and sin. The one to pull you up from nothing to join his (her) mighty forces, to ride forth in a vanguard to cleanse the world for his (her) children. A call to remake the world in her image, perfect and beautiful and eternal. An eternity basking in her perfect love and her perfect guidance.

A lord. A savior—

You wrench yourself back so hard you physically stumble. Lae’zel catches you—mostly so you don’t fall on her.

Your entire body shakes so hard you can’t see straight. Panting, rasping in your throat so loud you don’t even hear the dying man’s last words, aside from two: true soul. But you can’t pay attention. Every hair on your body stands on end. Your heart slams your ribcage so hard it shudders your entire chest. You want to bolt. Want to scream. You want to grab that man by the neck and spit obscenities in his face because it’s a lie, it’s all a lie and he’s too fucking stupid and deluded to realize that. Too hopped up on petty power, too busy hurting people who look up to him, who trust him, she wouldn’t do that to you, she’s supposed to love you and protect you, she can’t be hurting you, she can’t be leaving you to this, you must deserve it, you’re the reason her life fell apart because you’re filthy and sinful and wrong—

“A True Soul?” the balding man says. “You? Oh, praise the Absolute!”

You can fucking hear the bullshit capitalization. Familiar bullshit. Your bullshit.

None of the others have a chance to respond. Your adrenaline jacks into your system and you all but throw yourself to the front. You lock gazes with Baldy and the worm in your head hums in delicious approval.

“She’s a True Soul?” the woman says. The more skeptical of the two. Newer, perhaps.

You don’t know what an Absolute is, but you know the flavor of this. You know it too well. You can play with this.

“Your brother speaks true,” you say. Your own accent dulls and clips itself, buries itself under sharper-than-usual northern. “What happened here?”

The man explains. Something called an owlbear. The guy is a blubbering mess. He doesn’t have your attention, though. The woman does. Because while he’s desperate to believe, she’s not the easy type. She’s the hard sell. The one who must be coaxed in. Broken in. But once that’s done, once she’s been twisted into line, she makes for the best weapon against the enemy. Especially once she gets a taste for it, gets her first hit of righteousness and then she’s in forever. A pawn of her own free will. A cherished right hand, eager to do her duty (whatever she’s told).

She becomes the worst of them all.

The three of them were out here searching for survivors of the nautiloid crash. That’s y’all! The energy around the group fills with building charge. Their orders are to capture or kill. They’re hunting y’all.

“Who is the Absolute?” you say.

Skeptic blinks, and there’s that doubt. But you can play on that, too.

You summon your best Aunt Patty May (the hateful bitch). “I asked you a question, sister.”

“A test?” Skeptic says. And she rolls right over to show you her metaphorical belly. Because one doesn’t question the voice of the savior, does one? One must obey.

A goddess. Maybe a false one. Definitely connected to the brainworms, though. Someone from the ship, maybe? Skeptic babbles about a great purge, to be lead by the true souls.

“You will rule,” Skeptic says. “Once the old systems are torn down.”

There’s too much going on. You need to speak to the group. You need these bumblefucks out of here.

The shining line between points one and two lights up in your brain. A perfect solution, clean and simple.

“The owlbear,” you say. “It’s nearby?”

Gale makes an aborted sound. You don’t even blink.

“In a cave down the road,” Baldy says. “It’s a den, we think.”

“Then it sounds like you know where you must go and what you must do.”

Baldy’s face goes slack. Then rigid in terror. He glances to Skeptic. “But that’s… we can’t…?”

Skeptic nods slowly. But not in any agreement with her partner. “That monster attacked a true soul. It’s an enemy of the Absolute.”

A cold flush sweeps down your skin. It’s such a perfect solution. Ties up everything and plonks a little bow on the top.

“And enemies of the Absolute will be destroyed,” you say.

You’re detached from your body. Not hovering over it, or anything. Not trapped behind your own eyes. Just cold and clear and dead inside. Lizard brain in the pilot’s chair, watching with predatory interest.

“Thank you, true soul,” Skeptic says. To her partner, “Come on. We’ll meet her there once she’s finished her business.”

She gives you a nod, which you return but shallower. True souls are some higher rank, and higher ranks do not lower themselves to their lessers.

You kneel down and move over the dead man. It doesn’t take long for Skeptic to drag Baldy down the trail and out of sight. Zealous. A real victory for these true soul dipshits.

“What was all that?” Shadowheart says, and you thaw enough to pick up on the edge in her voice.

“What’s an owlbear?” you say and turn. All four of them watch you. None of them looks particularly friendly.

Fuck. You fucked up. This Absolute horseshit hit too close to home, slipped through all your defenses and all the coping mechanisms you worked so fucking hard to build, and it knifed into soft flesh you didn’t even know was there anymore. Maybe it’s all the stress. The exhaustion and adrenaline. The fighting and looting the dead and the murder. You’re in a completely different reality, and within four days, some fucking goddamn shitass cult fucking found you.

Un-fucking-believable.

(“Is it, though?” a tiny part of you whispers. “No one ever actually gets out, do they?”)

Even worse, you’ve shown your hand. There’s no doubting the sudden caution in Gale’s eyes, or the carefully blank look Shadowheart wears.

You panicked, is what you did. More than a decade out and the merest fucking suggestion of a whisper and you lost your shit completely.

You fold your hands in front of you to hide the trembles. You’re glad you’re wearing two shirts, so they can’t see the sweat stains you feel gathering in your armpits.

“You’ve never heard of an owlbear?” Gale says slowly. He wants to trust you. He wants this to be a simple mistake.

“No,” you say and make sure to blink more, to hold his gaze less. You’d been mean-mugging Skeptic and Baldy. Sasha caught you doing that when trying to intimidate people (on purpose or not).

“A rather nasty creature,” Gale says. Warms up to the subject more as he describes it. You let the calm melody of his voice wash over you as you listen. Let the sound of the words sink into your skin, soothe the tightened muscles enough for you to breathe properly. Except what he describes sounds like a monster. Bear body, owl front, all razor beak and meat hook claws. Judging by how opened up the dead guy is, it knows how to use them. “It’s not too late to follow those two and pull them back. If it’s fed recently, owlbears typically like to sleep off a large meal, I’ve read.”

And therin lies the problem.

You can nod. Demure to his wisdom and kindness. Keep your low profile and hope these people know what they’re doing well enough to keep your ass out of this. You’ve only been on speaking terms for a few days. You don’t even know the basic rules of this world.

But there’s so much adrenaline. The dread is a roiling pit in your stomach. You fled in the middle of the night without even the clothes on your back so they couldn’t come after you for theft (Sasha had a duffel in her truck; the first time you’d worn jeans since you were five years old). Disappeared yourself as well as anyone legally could. Changed your name, changed your state, did everything you could. Healed as best you could, took therapy as best you could, got on medication for the depression and the anxiety. You did everything you were supposed to do, but you’d see someone out of the corner of your eye, even more than a decade later. Someone you didn’t know, had never met, and on second glance, had nothing to do with anything. But that didn’t stop your pulse from jackrabbitting. From your lungs squeezing. It got better, over the years, but it never left. Not completely.

Every instinct you ever built screams at you. Shrieks in your mind to run, to hit, to start biting. None of these people would know what it was like so how could they ever anticipate how to deal with this? How could any of them know what to watch for?

You taste lemon and raspberries. You have to gulp several times to keep your stomach from coming back up your throat.

“This creature sounds like a challenge,” Lae’zel says, because while you’re melting into an internal, gibbering mess, the world around you doesn’t actually stop on your account.

“This creature sounds like it’s not our business,” Shadowheart says. “Nor these people and their ‘Absolute.’ You’re the one reminding us all of the little monsters in our heads, constantly.”

“I actually agree with you, darling,” Astarion says. “We’re off to a swamp, yes? Much as I loathe to imagine what we’ll find there, it’s bound to be ages better than some rancid animal’s lair.”

“Gale,” you say. “Didn’t you mention speaking to the dead?”

The group pauses. Gale blinks. “Ah, the Amulet of Lost Voices, yes. You have questions for this poor fellow, I take it?”

“Please. Ask him why they were looking for us?”

Gale says something in latin and his eyes glow green. The corpse jerks off the ground, and in a slurred voice, rasps out answers. Goosebumps sweep up your arms and down your thighs.

They’re looking for a weapon. Their “mighty goddess” thinks one of y’all have it. That it was taken by infidels.

The spell runs out. Gale lets the man fall. He takes a few breaths and rubs his chest.

“You okay?” you say.

His grimace fades. “Quite. I’ve been rather out of sorts since our new cranial tenants took up residence. My magic is more difficult than it should be. Never fear, Eleanor; I seem to be regaining my strength every day.”

You nod. Look at the dead guy.

“Quite the popular little deity, this ‘Absolute,’” Astarion says, peering over your shoulder.

You will rule, Skeptic had said.

They think y’all’s group has a weapon. They know y’all were on that ship. How do they know that? How would they—

The tadpole squirms. That’s all the warning you get. You’re looking at the dead guy, and the next you know the worm slams itself against the inside of your skull, rolls against your brain and you almost black out. Your vision explodes into sparkles and you feel your arms moving. Something in the tadpole reaching through you. It finds a mirror in the dead guy.

And pulls.

“You—sunuvabitch!” you say.

It wants. It craves the tadpole inside the dead man. Its experience, its power added to yours. You’re so weak here. But you can be more. You need not fear.

That’s the tadpole. Burrowing into your soft brain tissue and whispering into your mind. Tasting the bitter fear in your blood and turning it against you. Dripping sweet poison into you. It wants you to pull the worm out, take it, devour it.

“Go fuck yourself you pansy ass bitch!” you say and slam down every mental shutter you have. Lock it down, Throw all the switches. Light it the fuck up.

The psionic power snaps. Backfires. The body thuds back down and your knees almost buckle. You look up just in time to see some xenomorph shit shifting under the guy’s dead face, before the toothy fucking tadpole punches out in a fine spray of blood and eyeball jelly.

“Jesus fuck!”

The little bastard shimmies fast. Writhes off into the brush before you even finish flailing away from it. Leaving all of you standing there with a dead body and way too many questions.

Chapter Text

“That was disgusting,” Shadowheart says, her entire face wrinkled in horror.

Gale is a delicate shade of green, while Lae’zel looks as grim as usual.

Only Astarion appears chipper as he says, “So, these brainworms are part of a cult that give us the power to control other people?”

You’re not entirely sure where he got that, but he sounds way too excited about it. You stand there as the group descends into another kerfluffle.

1. Tadpoles are awesome and we should use this.
2. That sounds morally questionable.
3. We should figure out how the fuck first.
4. You meat creatures are all beneath me I waste my time on vermin.

And then there’s you and your spinning, churning thoughts. A cult is on y’all’s asses and its hierarchy is designed with brainwormed people at the top. You have a brainworm, but none of the others have heard of this “Absolute” character. The dead guy and his cult lackeys think either the brainworms are a goddess, or are somehow tied to one.

A thought occurs.

“Are gods real here?” you say and the kerfluffle dies so quick you look up expecting to see whatever an owlbear is looming. Everyone stares at you. “What?”

“What do you mean, are they real?” This comes from Shadowheart, and goddamn, that edge is back in full force.

“Are they? We got religions where I come from, but no one has ever credibly, like, seen a god walking around or nothing. No magic, no prove-able deities. At least not scientifically speaking.”

Gale is damn near shaking. He’s a dog watching you hold a ball; he wants you to throw it so he can chase it so bad. But maybe it’s the worm bursting through an eyeball, or maybe Shadowheart’s sudden cloud of gloom dampens even his enthusiasm. He settles for a, “Yes. Gods and goddesses are very much real. I myself, er, have been in the presence of one.”

Fuck fuckity fuck. That is what you need to hear right now. Fucking brainworms, fucking cult, fucking actual gods.

“Motherfucker.” You don’t mean to say that out loud. But you do and while Gale seems horrified and Lae’zel completely baffled, Astarion is one hundred percent maliciously beaming. This fucking guy.

“By all the hells, what do your people get up to?” he says.

“It’s a saying. Not the point.” You wave a hand as if to clear the air from a particularly rancid fart. “Is this Absolute shithead an actual goddess?”

No, not that any of them have heard. And Gale reads a lot. Which plonks you right back on square one: real or imagined tadpole goddess, and those cultists you sent to some monster’s lair.

“We waste time,” Lae’zel says.

“I do agree with you,” Gale says. Looks at you with this kind of hopeful expression.

He’ll be wanting you to call those bumblefucks back. Save them from their apparent suicide mission. And you could. Maybe you even should.

Her power is mighty, dead guy had said.

You’ve been running for close to fifteen years. You survived all that, survived starting over with literally nothing to your new name. Survived a UFO crash, an attempted murder, goblins, and harpies. This Absolute wants you for something you don’t even have, and you of all people know what cults can do.

“Can owlbears understand human speech?” you say.

“If a magic user casts ‘Speak with Animals’ or consumes a potion to the same effect. I believe I have one in my bag,” Gale says. The unspoken “why” hangs heavy in the air.

This place will kill you. Half the people you’ve met have tried, and those that didn’t, wanted to kill someone else. You’d read somewhere that modern Earth has the lowest percentage of “death by violence” on average than any other point in history. A few days into Faerun and you’re beginning to understand that.

People like to think nature is sweet and harmonious in a cute, fluffy way. Everything gets along and animals live fruitful, content lives raising babies and watching pretty sunsets.

That view is wrong. Monkeys eat songbirds. Seals eat baby penguins out for their first swim. Orcas get into narwhal breeding inlets and slaughter every, single narwhal. Probably for fun. Fucking deer eat fucking snakes if they can.

Your White ancestors built fortress cities, and your Cherokee ancestors (unlike the bullshit stereotypes) built and stuck primarily to their towns. Life eats life to keep on living, and you don’t go outside at night because you are a slow, hairless, bipedal ape with no natural weapons and a lot of nature finds you easy pickings. And as a bipedal ape with no natural weapons, you don’t have the luxury of playing fair.

“I say we follow those two into that cave and sick the owlbear on them,” you say and toss the dice. Bumbling yokel is out; it was nice knowing her.

Gale frowns. Opens his mouth. Pauses. Shadowheart nods thoughtfully.

“Ch’k!” Lae’zel hisses. “More cowardly skulking. If you wish them dead, simply kill them yourself.”

Your stomach is tight. The ghost of raspberries sticks in your craw. You have to swallow a few times before you can answer.

Let that cold detachment seep in. See the shining line connecting you to what you want, what you need to do. This is the cleanest way. You know that. You know how to follow that line, trust that instinct, do what you have to to save yourself. It’s not the first time (it is the first time where someone’s life was the price).

“They was sent out here by somebody,” you say. “That implies there’s people they report to; who’ll notice when they don’t show up. Say they come looking. Say they find bodies you chopped in half. They’d know their people met someone who wanted to kill them.”

“We have seen many others slain along the road.”

“They’re looking for us, Lae’zel. Us specifically, though they don’t know it yet. But if they get to talking with anyone we’ve met, if they know someone matching our descriptions was here about the time their people got murdered, then it starts to tie us to them. Starts to paint us in ‘the people they’re looking for.’ Y’all don’t really fit in, I’m noticing. I sure as shit don’t without Gale’s potion.”

Gale sighs and hangs his head.

“But if their people get themselves mauled by an animal? One that scares them that bad? That ain’t nobody’s fault but theirs. They just got unlucky or stupid.

Astarion claps like a giddy first-grader. “Oh, I like this plan!”

“You just want to watch someone get torn apart by an owlbear,” Shadowheart says.

“Spoken as if you don’t? I agree with Eleanor. We can’t have these people running around at our backs. Better to deal with them now.”

Lae’zel scowls but doesn’t object. Leaving only Gale.

His eyes dart back and forth in thought. His brow furrows. He rubs a hand over his forehead a couple of times, and then sighs again.

“I do see the logic in your suggestion,” he says. “Much as I wish I didn’t. Alright. I don’t like the thought of leaving potential enemies at our backs, either. Lead on, then.”

Lead on. All of them looking at you.

Now hold on just a minute. You ain’t the group leader. You can barely manage your day-to-day life without resorting to cereal for dinner for two weeks straight. You don’t know about this place or its people, and now this gaggle wants to follow you?

This is so fucked up.

But it is your suggestion. And if you’re gonna set out to turn a big, mean, bear type creature on somebody on purpose, you should probably own up to it and do it yourself. You owe those bumblefucks that much.

You do your best to let lizard brain take over. Go quiet and still and dead inside, the version of you where hands don’t shake and lungs don’t twitch, and whose head doesn’t feel like an egg about to crack open.

You lead on.

It’s Gale who finds you outside, puking your guts out in the bushes. He winces sympathetically. You’re just glad your hair is short enough it doesn’t get any vomit on it.

Once you’re done—after two false endings—he hands you a water skin and you gargle for three minutes.

“I take it you don’t do this sort of thing often,” he says.

You shake your head and splash water over your face. You need a bath. You need a steel scrub brush. Maybe take a few layers of skin off. You also need a handkerchief, which Gale is kind enough to supply, and you try to ignore the vomit burn in your sinuses as you clear them out.

Your idea had been effective. Terribly so. Gale had found that potion, which you had insisted be given to you. It tasted vaguely of wet dog for some reason. But this was your call, so you were going to see it through, and you’d been all brave and stoic right up until you got halfway into that stinking cave and heard the thunderous footsteps. You had to literally clap a hand over your crotch to keep from wetting yourself as the thing rumbled into view.

An owlbear. Exactly matched Gale’s previous description. And they weren’t kidding about the “bear” part, neither. You’d been kind of expecting a very large dog size, more like a black bear. But this thing was some awful cross between a grizzly and one of those ancient cave bears. Goddamn thing’s shoulders were taller than your head. Its face was that of a giant owl, with a beak as long as your forearm and an intrusive thought plowed into your mind’s eye: that beak closing on your middle, puncturing and piercing you like you were a blood-filled soup dumpling as it tore out chunks of pink meat and intestines—

You pause washing while your stomach considers another round.

Gale also had an invisibility potion, which also worked on you thank fuck, and it let you creep horrifically close to the creature. Close enough you could smell the sweet reek of decaying flesh and carnivore stench.

You’d already sent Skeptic and Baldy around back to flank it, you’d said. Now, the owlbear was between you and them.

This would be a damn stupid way to die, you’d thought. And then you opened your mouth before your bladder could cut loose. “Behind you! Humans here to kill you!”

For one, horrifying second—the crest feathers stood straight up in a move that left your primate ancestors swooning in terror—you were sure it was going to charge you. It’s hackles, both fur and feathers, lifted and it hefted itself up onto its hind legs to let out a deep, trilling shriek.

This is how you die, you thought as a heavy haze drifted down to blanket you.

But the owlbear turned, spotted the cultists, and charged.

Things went to hell after that.

“How’s Lae’zel,” you say. God, your throat burns.

“Managed to clean off most of the acid,” Gale says. “She refused to let Shadowheart heal her, however. I’m afraid our supply of healing potions dwindles even further.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Next time, she’s gotta suck it up and let Shadowheart help. No more health potions.”

Gale shrugs. “If you’d like to be the one to tell her that, I shan’t stop you.”

For fuck’s sake.

Skeptic had caught on quick and started lobbing fucking acid bottles at the others. She’d only stopped once the owlbear’s giant fuck off claws tore her throat out. Baldy hadn’t been that lucky. That beak…

You squeeze your eyes shut and take careful breaths.

They’d managed to hurt the owlbear. But they’d also given your group away, and the furious thing had turned on y’all once those two were down.

Lae’zel had done most of the killing work; she’d get herself a new, stuffed trophy after all. If you could pry it from the cub now tearing its mother apart and gulping down her meat.

“Y’all’s world sucks,” you say.

“Oh, it has its charms,” Gale says. “Just as I’m certain your own has its dangers.”

He’s got a look you can’t quite place. He’s been eying you with it since you suggested this. Probably because this solution wouldn’t occur to someone fully hinged.

“Are they about done in there you think?” you say.

“Scavenging and cleanup, yes. I came to get you, actually, as there’s something interesting further in and didn’t want you to feel left out.”

He’s a good guy. Bit of a windbag, but not mean. Maybe the most normal person here.

“I’m not helping you lug that dripping head all the way back to camp,” Astarion’s voice drifts out.

“As if your weak arms could assist me,” Lae’zel says.

You close your eyes.

Chapter Text

You don’t make it much further before calling quits. Between your horror vomiting, Lae’zel’s brush with acid, and the rest of the party being generally wrung out from killing a wholeass owlbear, y’all are beat.

Camp is in a pretty, little clearing just off the trail. The grass is soft—and joyously free of ticks—with patches of pretty, yellow flowers. It’s a clear night; the moon is a great, big silver plate, and the spray of unfamiliar stars overhead shine bright and crystalline.

While Lae’zel scrapes the brains out of the skull of the owlbear, the others hunker down for a good and proper soup. It’s mostly vegetables, with sliced sausages, and you’re so, so fucking thankful Gale kept spices in his magical go bag. More than salt and pepper, too. You’re picking up traces of chili powder, paprika, and even a taste of cumin, you think. Not bad at all.

After your meal, y’all sit around for a bit. Astarion returns from scouting and takes his bowl back to his tent. Mr. Fancypants doesn’t like eating with commoners. It’s the first night everyone’s free, not working on spells or meditating or sulking alone. But the mood is still heavy and subdued.

Fucking cults will do that.

You wonder if your group’d listen to White people ghost stories—the Cherokee ones you do not tell at night out in the open.

You kick back and stare at the red line dancing around the edges of the embers.

Your stomach is still sore; throat still scratchy. And your headache is a constant grind. Must be the brainworm chewing on your gray-meats. The others hide their own discomfort pretty good—though that might just be the whole “not human” thing. Except Gale is human. Does he have wizard ibuprofen?

You stare into the fire some more and resist the urge to palm your right eye and press until you see sparkles.

The next thing you know, everyone has moved around the fire.

You sit up. Look around. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are arguing over the importance of keeping trophies (which Shadowheart dismisses as barbaric nonsense). Astarion is now standing outside his tent with a book propped open on one arm. You literally blinked and they all moved. What the fu—

“Are you alright?” Gale says. He was opposite you on the whole other side of the fire. Now he leans on the same fallen log you rest against with his own book sitting in his lap.

“I,” you say. You lost time. You completely lost, at minimum, several minutes. You try to breathe normal, instead of panting like a sick dog. “Yeah. I just…zoned out pretty good right there.”

Gale frowns. “’Zone?’ How would you use area as a verb?”

God, your head hurts.

You flap a hand. “Means I wasn’t paying attention, is all. D’you, you got anything for a headache? The stress has got my neck wound so tight it could crack a walnut.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so. Shadowheart may have an easier time of it. Are you…?”

He pauses. There’s more than confusion etched into his brow. It looks suspiciously like concern.

“Are you having any other symptoms?” he says in a low voice.

You look at him until it clicks. The whole face melting thing. All the stuff he’s described.

“No, no,” you say. “I don’t think it’s any of that. I woke up with this back on the butthole—I mean, the nautiloid.”

But his eyebrows have already shot up to his hairline. “The what? I’m not sure that translated accurately.”

Oh shit.

You groan. “No, it probably did. It’s what I been calling the nautiloid, before I learned its name. The doors on there looked like, well, buttholes. So I just went with it.”

His mouth opens. No words come out. You’ve shocked Mr. Verbose into silence. You almost give yourself a high five.

“I named all you’uns,” you continue, a bit more of Uncle Randy’s vernacular slipping in. It feels nice, letting your tongue slide back into that cadence. Feels like relaxing. Once you’d moved away, you tried to soften your country accent, fold it up into neat, shortened northern.

“I can only hope it was more sophisticated than your naming convention for the ship,” Gale says.

“You were mumu.” You wait. His expression doesn’t change, so the dirt potion must not’ve had a decent replacement for that. So you explain it, and by the end, he’s got a wry sort of smile.

“I can state with full confidence I’ve been called much worse,” Gale says. “Though it is a slight blow to my ego that I couldn’t impress any of my more noteworthy traits over my wardrobe.”

“It was either that or mullet.”

Having explained that, he proceeds to quiz you on the others, stumbling only over “goth.” But educated on that, he agrees with you on all counts.

“We’d been calling you Tav,” he says. At your blank face, “It’s a name used for orphans or someone whose name isn’t known, usually due to illness or injury. Quite common.”

Tav. It’s…their version of Jane Doe?

Then Gale’s face twists up. You can’t tell if it’s some flavor of perplexed, or if there’s a hint of amusement around his eyes. “Though I am curious how you’d gotten a glimpse at Astarion’s pants?”

You stare. Twist to find Astarion lounging on a nest of pillows he’s somehow managed to collect—he stole them from the tieflings, didn’t he.

“He’s wearing them?” you say and gesture with your thumb.

Gale’s whole face opens in surprise (relief?). “Ah! Another translation quirk. We call the outer garments trousers. The inner clothing is called pants, or smallclothes.”

You sit there. He’s definitely amused, now. Because you’ve been calling Astarion ‘Fancy Underwear.’ Good god. You’re so glad you figured that one out with Gale.

“Right,” you say. Your face definitely doesn’t feel warm. Not at all.

“Apologies for the distraction, and back to your headache. So you have no other symptoms.”

“I mean.” You gesture to your face, which as far as you can tell by touch is still your face. Goddamn, you haven’t had a proper bath in days. At least y’all are camped next to a stream; you can keep on dunking yourself as best you can. Still, no moisturizer or shampoo. Your elbows are getting rough.

“It’s all rather odd,” Gale says. “We should be halfway through the gestational process, yet none of us—aside from possibly you—have shown any sign of it. Either your being from a different plane has made you more susceptible, or our own physiology has shielded the rest of us. But Lae’zel isn’t a local, either, and even you aren’t following the standard process, as I understand it.”

He studies you a long moment. His lips press thin. But then he sighs and shakes his head.

“No, I don’t think you alone are going through the melt-change-condition.” You catch the vague shape of the actual word he uses behind the magical translation, but can’t suss it out. “I think it safe to assume this is merely the stress from all of this. I would suggest you find a way to relax, but, well.”

Lae’zel has finished both her scraping and her argument. She settles down next to a big, stone wheel that starts to spin as her foot taps a pedal. You watch, curiously, until she lifts her brains-scraping knife and you realize that sumbitch is a fucking grinder.

The noise shoots right through your eyeball to lodge deep in your aching brain.

“Nice talk, Gale, I’m getting out of here,” you say.

He winces next to you. Nods. “I’ll retire to my tent and see if I can’t come up with something in my stores to help with that ache of yours. In your head. That you mentioned.”

He rolls to his feet super spry for someone with gray streaks in his hair. He gives a little bow with his head, which you return with a nod as you make your way to the opposite side of the camp from Lae’zel.

Which happens to be where Astarion has set himself up for the night. Almost like he didn’t want to be around someone scooping out a dead owlbear head.

He glances up as you near. Watches you sink down into the grass nearby. You pause for a moment, considering, and flop onto your back in a full sprawl beneath the stars.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he, for a long moment. He flips a page. The pounding in your brain begins to unclench. Turns another page.

“So,” he says in a fucking tone.

“Oh god,” you say preemptively.

“You think my pants are fancy?”

Fucking elf ears. Of course he fucking heard you. Of fucking course.

You cover your face with one arm. “Would you stop if I said it was a mistranslation and I meant your trousers?”

“Whyever would I do that?”

Whyever would he. The man is a fucking menace.

Thing is, you’ve been so polite and quiet this whole time (until today, really). But Mother and the other leadership saw something in you, even as a child. And they weren’t exactly wrong about it (just the part where it was bad bad sinful bad the devil shame shame bad).

You turn to squint at him through the throbbing in your skull. “Are they?”

“Are what, dear?”

“Your underwear. Are they fancy?”

Bitch doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. He wants to give some, he better be able to take some.

You almost miss his hesitation, it’s so fast. Then his malicious smirk is back on and he snaps his book shut. Spins to face you. “They are, actually. I would ask the same of you, but I’m rather sure you’re not wearing any.”

“Nope,” you say, popping the “p” and waggling your legs back and forth in the grass. Outbrazen that, chucklefuck.

His mask doesn’t even crack. Not a flinch, not a micro expression; the man is stone cold fucking with you. “Are those not a norm in your realm, either?”

“Oh, they are, I just didn’t have them on me when I got grabbed.” Let him wonder about that. Dare him to fucking ask. The reason is you were asleep, but he doesn’t know that. “Unless we find some kinda clothing store soon, I think I’m gonna have to make some myself.”

He leans forward to rest an elbow on his bent knee. “I could help you with that, you know.”

You…can’t tell if he’s being serious.

“I ain’t wearing your drawers, fancy man. You only got the one pair anyway, unless you’re walk around with spares in your pockets.”

To this, he grimaces. “I didn’t need the reminder. All the material we’ve come across has been roughspun, mildewed, or both. Not a scrap of silk to be seen anywhere.”

You turn your head to frown at him for a long moment. Because yeah, that tracks. Of course this floof-haired, ridiculous city man wears silk drawers. You should not be so surprised at this. But also…

“You expecting to find you some silk out here in the boonies?” you say.

Now it’s his turn to frown. You watch his lips form the word “boonies.”

“Outside the city,” you say. “Back woods, back water, the sticks, wilderness, middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Hmm. No, I suppose I didn’t. People travel through here, but not the sort to own any apparel worth salvaging, would they? No, you’re correct.”

You say nothing to that. Content to lie beneath the moon and let the conversation about y’all’s panties die a quiet, natural death.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch his head tilt. He’s watching you.

“That was a clever little plan, back there,” he says after a moment. “I dare say, you thought further ahead than any of the others regarding those cultists. And regarding how to deal with them. It was very clean—efficient, even if their deaths were very much not. It’s a shame you had to leave us so quickly back in that den.”

To vomit.

You’re not gonna out-edgey the edgelord here. Simpler to go for the boring answers. “Ain’t used to seeing something like that. Horror is a normal response to people getting torn up back where I come from.”

“Mmm. Sounds terribly dull. And yet, for someone so inexperienced,” he makes some gesture that either their version of air quotes or him just being a theater kid, “you came to that conclusion quickly and you saw it through. Against some objections, even.”

Objections from half of them. Or only Gale, really, as the only part Lae’zel hadn’t liked was the sneak factor. She seemed pleased as punch when then owlbear turned on y’all and she got to hack it to pieces.

And Gale got over it all well enough to come hang out with you at camp.

These fucking people.

And goddamnit, you’re fitting in.

You find him with his chin propped up, his gaze fixed on you.

“I have never, in my life, had to deal with this kinda shit before,” you say. “I’m just…getting ideas as we go along and trying not to die.”

“Quite vicious ideas.”

Your neck is hot. You turn away, point your face at the sky as if the cold starlight will chill the head building over your cheeks.

He’s not wrong. You have a ruthless streak, you know. Part of your whole healing process was recognizing and accepting that part of yourself. And you had. And now, you wonder if that is part of the problem. If you hadn’t just gone down into your mental basement to feed the monsters there, but you’d pulled up that cellar door and leapt in yourself.

You feel guilt, for sure. But you already know you’d do it again. You’d put up that ruthless streak in a shoebox and set it up on a tall shelf in a back closet in your brain. But now you went and you opened that up, and it’s working for you. It’s a tool and a weapon, and it might be your best shot at surviving all this.

“Your ideas got you out of that crash,” Astarion says. “They kept you with all of us, saved you from that bandit, and effectively took control of our little band of miscreants.”

“What? I’m not—”

You didn’t take control. Did you? They went along with one horrible idea. Or two, actually, with Kahga. Except there were several ideas involved in that—

You’re not the leader.

You’re not.

“And even now, that mind of yours is plotting out our continued survival, isn’t it?” he says. “You might be a useful person to know.”

“Well thank you, darlin,’” you drawl.

He makes a sound that forces your attention back to him. You catch his eyebrows raised, eyes round. The laugh is more of a snort, and he seems as surprised at it as he does at…whatever caused it.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“That’s just a saying,” you start.

But he’s already waving it off. “Not to worry. I believe I’ll leave you to your little respite away from that cacophony. Take a walk and get some air, myself.”

Oh shit, you weirded him out. It’s just a phrase. Old, southern ladies you’ve never met call you “sugar” and “honey” all the time.

He stands. Sweeps the wrinkles out of his clothes—mostly his silly, frilly shirt. Then he gives you some ridiculous, over-the-top, one-arm-in-the-air courtly bow. “Do sleep tight, darling.”

He wanders off. The wind hisses in the trees. Lae’zel’s grinder screeches like a thousand souls of the damned, and your brain worm nibbles contentedly at a piece of your pre-frontal cortex.

“Jesus christ,” you say and roll over to lie face down in the grass.

Chapter Text

The dead boar stares up at you with glassy eyes, its tongue lolling out into the dirt. Hefty thing. Probably some good bacon on it. Lae’zel hisses something, and Gale answers. You’ve only got the one potion left, and you want to save it for whatever you find at that swamp.

Y’all move on.

You trudge for two days. You lose time twice more—only small episodes, once while walking (you crested a hill, and suddenly you were down it again) and once while taking a break on the side of the road (you’d gone to pee, and woke with your trousers around your ankles; you made vague hand gestures when you returned to quizzical looks at how long, you assume, you were gone).

You kick the panic in the face and wrestle that bitch to the ground. It’s easier to focus on the language lessons, especially now there’s no magical translation twisting in your brain. You can construct toddler questions after Gale introduces you to “this is” and “what is”. You decide to use it to maximum effect and really lean into the toddler aspect, asking “what is this” about almost every item you pass.

It’s hard to remember when you can’t write anything down. Gale corrects your pronunciation several, several times. Especially once Astarion involves himself, and takes up duties when Gale disappears off into the woods for a moment. You thought he was teaching you “stone.” But judging from the flat look from Gale once he returned (and an intrigued-bemused Shadowheart), and a hands pantomime, turns out he’d taught you the word for panties. In a posh accent, no less.

This fucking guy.

That bit brightens his whole day; he stops complaining for at least an hour.

By then, Shadowheart has dropped back enough to watch you for a second. And, in heavily accented English, she says, “Gofgel?”

“Goddamnit, Gale,” you say.

He gives an apologetic shrug from the front of y’all’s miscreant party.

That night, you notice Astarion watching you. Nothing overt—you only catch him the once—but you can feel eyes on the back of your neck. That and the others (Shadowheart) keep giving you pitying looks while Gale seems agitated.

Lae’zel finishes cleaning her owlbear head. Rubs the inside with something greasy and sets it to the side to dry.

On the third day, y’all get jumped. The bandits everyone had been alluding to. You try to hang back, but one of them (rightly) singles you out as the weakest link and comes straight for you. You try to hit him with the stick the way Gale showed you. But then Lae’zel darts in to cleave off a chunk of one of their faces, and the two of them stagger in, and you end up cracking her right on the shoulder instead.

She hisses nastily and wrenches the staff out of your hands. Leaves you standing at the edge of a fight, with nothing but the rock you pick up.

That night, after dinner, she steps in to loom over you. Arms crossed, sharp face stern. She snaps something.

Astarion perks up.

This alarms you.

She repeats herself, and then shoves your stolen staff at you and motions you to stand. You look to the others and they’re all resigned, glaring at Lae’zel, or scooching closer on a stool he found somewhere.

Are…is she gonna beat you up? Is this some form of corporal punishment?

Your palms go slick. Your legs wobble as you stand. They’re all watching; everyone here is so goddamn casual about killing, what would a lashing be but a form of entertainment?

You try hard to tamp the fear down, resist the urge to fall to your knees and apologize (uselessly), or start praying (better, but never enough). It’s mortifying how fast these responses flood back. You almost want to give yourself the ass beating.

But Lae’zel does not hand you a knife so you can go find and cut an appropriate switch (not too thin cause that hurts like a motherfucker, but not too thick so it doesn’t break your damn ass). Nor does she strip you down to your underwear to receive your punishment. Probably a good thing; fifteen years of freedom and an adult body later and you’d probably start clawing and biting, consequences be damned.

What she does, is pick up a stick herself and turn to face you.

When you hesitate, she says what you’re ninety-five percent sure is an insult, repeats her first words, and gestures you forwards.

When you finally do totter over, and she lifts her staff, it isn’t to hit you (you don’t flinch, you don’t. Goddamnit, goddamnit this stupid fucking place fuck the whole thing and fuck all these fucking people).

Instead, she sweeps the staff up into some sort of stance. Horizontal, held in front, hands a shoulders-width apart. She says a word. Waits for you to repeat it. Waits again for you to mimic.

Your face is hot. Fucking everyone watching. Why for fuck’s sake can’t they go find their own goddamn entertainment? Fucking watching you? Fuckheads.

But you recognize what she’s doing. Or intuit it, anyway. Weapons training. She’s teaching you how to actually use the damned thing.

That knowledge should soothe your out of control endocrine response.

It does not.

You proceed to follow her as she shows you various stances. There’s two crouching ones you can’t do very well because your bad knee screams when you try.  You manage to stop yourself from looking over to your goddamned audience. Watching you fumble. Watching your thick thighs and thicker trunk try to move with scrawny, ropey-muscled and lithe Lae’zel.

She either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care about your self-esteem crisis. Just examines you, and raps an elbow or knee when you fuck up. Which is often.

You’re trembling by the time she lets you stop. Want nothing more than to collapse face first into your bedroll and let the sweet exhaustion of oblivion wipe you from consciousness. But she swats your arm again, harder. Motions you to set down the staff and follow her.

As she jogs.

You stare. She gets four steps, glances back, and you’re learning “Tsk’va” is definitely a swear. You also know what “come here” sounds like in Faerunese.

Your friendly onlookers give you a sort of “that sucks” wince. They make no attempt to intervene. Astarion gives you a jaunty farewell wave. You consider stealing his camp shoes and dunking them in the river while he’s not looking. Except the guy has a lot of knives by this point, so that’s probably a bad idea.

“Fuuuck,” you groan.

You’re out of shape. You know that. Had known it for years, in fact. You were never a runner. Even as a kid, you came in last place when the other kids would race. Not that you, a girl, were expected to win or even try that hard. Future mothers don’t need to be fast, they need to be sturdy enough for chores, need to be dutiful and obedient.

You didn’t realize you’d forgotten how to jog, though. Didn’t know that was a thing that could happen. The movement feels weird, your body disconnected and stiff and sloppy. Lae’zel mutters, but her frown seems more thoughtful, and less disgusted. She takes you for a few, gasping laps around camp. You consider veering right and disappearing into the night, never to return. Then you wouldn’t have to meet any of their gazes and know that they saw you being such a disgrace.

Once that’s done, Lae’zel still doesn’t let you stop. She moves onto strength exercises. Shocker! You can’t do a single push up.

So she has you lift and carry a bunch of water skins instead. By the time she’s done, your muscles ache all up and down your sides. Your shoulder blades are sore, your crotch feels sore for some godforsaken reason, and your hands and fingers are so weak, you can’t actually uncork the water skin she hands you.

She opens it without a word, and glares at you until you’ve drunken enough she deems it sufficient.

Then she makes you stretch.

Later, you have to palm your own bedroll back to flop onto it.

Your stays are just going to stay on all night. You have no dexterity for unlacing. Everyone else is bedding down. The fire burns low. And that’s why you jump when someone sits beside you.

The scent of sweat mixed with something delicate and floral washes over you. Shadowheart looks at you. Gestures to your stays. You try for a self-deprecating smile and hold up your useless fucking hands.

She nods like she’s expecting it. Asks you some kind of question. Goddamn dirt potion rationing. She repeats herself, points to the laces, motions to herself.

Help. She’s asking if you want help…getting out of the stays.

She’s been quiet around you. Speaking up mostly to snark (mostly at Astarion) (or to verbally gut Lae’zel). You can’t tell if she’s super reserved, or she doesn’t like you in particular.

It’s a tentative connection, you think. A simple offer. She’s watched you make an ass out of yourself all evening, and instead of making fun of you or using this to cast you out (fucking raspberries; raspberries and that sickly, fake lemon), she’s…offering to help.

That or she’s making sure you like her more than you like Lae’zel. Trying to one-up Lae’zel. Who the fuck knows.

You know this word. You nod. Say, in their language, “Help?”

She nods and makes efficient work of it. You try to hold still and not melt into a useless mess as your posture support disappears. Once it’s done and hanging open—your shirt is soaked in sweat, at least you have one, clean spare you got from those bandits you did absolutely nothing to help with.

“Thank you.” The other phrase you know.

Her smile is tiny and brief and just a bit detached. So you probably got the vocabulary right. Then she’s off, striding over to her own bedroll—the night is warm and they all set up out here, so you’re guessing it isn’t going to rain (except for Astarion, who always sleeps inside his tent).

You hope you won’t be as sore tomorrow (it’ll probably be worse!). The night air carries a heavy sort of fug that reminds you of humidity and growing things and Oklahoma. Y’all had spotted the swamp down the next rise; you’d reach it tomorrow morning.

You think your tiredness and achiness would make it easy to fall asleep. It ought to. But your body seems hell bent on revenge, and you sleep rough, tossing and turning.

And maybe something about that puts you more on edge than usual. Or maybe you just get lucky. Cause the next time your eyes crack open and you roll to your opposite side, you spot the teeth.

Adrenaline blasts right through the fatigue. You’re scrambling away before you even fully register what you see. Until he also stumbles back, and Astarion lifts both his hands in surrender.

Chapter Text

Astarion lurches back and onto his feet. Says something you can’t understand because you are rationing your last dirt potion. But this seems pretty goddamn important, so you reach for your bag without breaking eye contact. His gaze follows your hands, and even in the dim light from a dying campfire, you can tell his whole frame tenses. And then sags—less than an inch—when you pull out the potion bottle and unstopper it with your teeth.

Still tastes like ass.

“What the fuck,” you say.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Astarion says. He’s back up another three paces or so, hands still held up.

It looks like a man looming over you with his mouth fucking open. Are bath salts a thing here? Is he some kind of serial killer?

“What’s it look like?” you say.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you!”

“So, what, you just spend your nights breathing on us while we all sleep?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” His usual smirk and swagger are gone. They’ve left someone with his ridiculous, poofy hair and the frilly ass shirt and the scaredest aura you’ve seen in a long, long while. When you don’t scream or try to kick him—his eyes track to your hands again—he continues. Winces. “I just needed a little, well, blood?”

You’re not sure that translates correctly. Then you’re not sure you heard it correctly. Because it makes no damn sense. Not at all. Gale is the cook, and you’ve never seen Astarion fucking around with potions—you’ve never seen Gale fucking around with blood in his potion brewing, but you brain makes that jump anyhow.

“Why?” you drawl.

He blinks at you. Seems a little taken aback, almost sheepish. Both at himself, and at you, for some reason.

His gaze darts behind you, to the rest of the sleeping party. He swallows visibly. “I…might have neglected to mention something about me. Not anything momentous! It’s just well, I might happen to be a…what’s the best way to put this. A vampire! Haha!”

The laugh comes out as this bright, theatrical giggle. Dude might as well be flashing jazz hands to go with it.

A vampire. Like…like fucking dracula? If it translated correctly. If your brain hasn’t started bleeding in your sleep as the worm hits some vital artery and this is the last, bizarre hurrah delusion as your cerebral tissues wither and die of oxygen deprivation.

“A vampire,” you say to see if it sounds like bullshit out loud and yep, sure does.

“Yes.” He still wears that fake smile. One that morphs as you watch. Twists into nervousness. “I’m not some monster, though. I feed on animals: boars, deer, kobolds. Whatever I can get. I’m…just too slow right now. Too weak.”

Boars. Like the one y’all found on the road two days ago. The one he just left there for anyone to see.

…you could have sworn he was smart. He couldn’t come up with half the shit he’s said to you without a touch of clever. But that seems so…amateur hour.

Then again, you come from a world with fifty-seven new murder podcasts a week, so there’s that.

“So like, ‘drink the blood of the innocent’, honest-to-god actual vampire,” you say. “That’s a fucking thing that exists here?”

“Gods have very little to do with it. Do you not have vampires in your realm?”

“No. Not, I mean. There’s people who call themselves that? But they just dye their hair and wear dramatic makeup and I think some of them actually do lick each others’ blood, but that’s how you catch hepatitis, so…”

It’s his turn to stare all baffled at you. He starts to open his mouth.

“They’re not like,” you say and gesture to him. “They’re just pretending.”

Red eyes and pale skin. You’d thought he was albino. Some kind of fantasy albino that could bask under the sun, because this is a whole different plane of existence and what the fuck do you know?

Looking now, he’s not the same type of pale, though. He’s more corpse-pale. And in the low firelight, as he’d loomed over you, you had spotted, you realize, a set of fangs he’s until now kept hidden.

Man is a fucking vampire.

“But you know what that is?” he says. “What I am?”

He keeps checking behind you. He was on first watch (…that explains so much right now; he always took first watch). Considering he’s kept the entire thing hidden until you caught him, you know, with his fangs over your neck, and considering the way his body language screams, you’re guessing he expects a strong, negative reaction.

“Maybe we should talk about this closer to your tent?” you say. “Y’know, out of earshot?”

It’s the second time he’s ever dropped his “smug bastard” look in surprise. At least that you’ve seen. His mouth even flaps a couple of times before he recovers and slides the Goblin Man persona back on.

“Yes, of course,” he says, sweeps one arm out to indicate “after you.” Seems to consider how vulnerable this leaves you and he sort of freezes. Must not like the idea of you at his back, either.

Well. He’s had plenty of time to slit your throat since you met. And he rolled back when you woke up, instead of lunging and pinning you and ripping your throat like some 30 Days of Night motherfucker.

You climb to your feet (fuck fuck! The burn! Why does your fucking scalp hurt??) and stagger past him like an arthritic grandma.

His footsteps follow a second later. You hear footsteps, which means he wants you to, so that’s likely a good sign?

You stop next to his tent, just at the edge of the dim glow of the embers, and give him the best look-over you can manage in the gloom.

“My people got all kinds of stories about vampires,” you say. “But they’re just stories, and a lot of them don’t match each other. I been saying we don’t have monsters or magic or all that. Just humans and other animals.”

“No monsters? At all?” he says. “How…quaint.”

“None,” you say. “So you’re gonna have to explain to me what this all means, and I’m gonna ask around later to make sure it all checks out.”

“Ask?” His voice goes hard and his entire frame snaps into harsh angles.

“Gale. About history. Monsters and such. I don’t know shit and everyone knows it. No one’ll find that weird.”

He watches you for a breath. Two. The muscles of his jaw work. Then he sighs all harsh through his nose. “I suppose that’s to be expected. Fine.”

And he explains. A “vampire spawn”, not a “real” vampire. Some fuckface named Cazador. He gives no details about his life, no emotions, only what you might call a wikipedia summary of what, exactly he is. But you can imagine a lot of horror around the words “puppet” and “slave.” You can imagine a lot.

“We’ll be in the swamp tomorrow to ambush this meeting you’re so curious about,” he says, moving on like he didn’t toss a psychological grenade into your lap. “If I need to fight, I need to get my strength up. And, well. I’m too slow to hunt at the moment. One too many ambushes, lately.”

“How often do you need, um, blood?”

“Oh, most days animals are just fine. I hunt most nights, but I can go much longer in between, if I need to.”

The tadpole shivers in your brain. You flinch, and notice Astarion do the same. It’s trying to mind whammy y’all. The connection flows between you, and you catch a sliver of cracked and quivering memories, of—

no no NO.

Of fear.

You slam it shut so hard the both of you stumble.

Fear. No.

Terror. The man is scared absolutely shitless right now. And he can go longer in between meals the way a human can technically survive a few days without water. You’d felt starvation chewing through his gut, an icy thing made of teeth chewing, chewing, chewing at him.

“Fuck!” you say and clamp a hand over your mouth.

None of the others stirs.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you whisper shout. You’d felt it for less than a second and it had damn near turned your brains to scrambled eggs. You’re not even sure how the man is capable of standing upright, let alone using facial expressions and gesticulating.

A snarl tugs at his lips, even as his facial muscles twitch and you watch in real time as he smooths his expression out into a pleasant neutrality.

Motherfucker. This, he…this is so fucked up.

“At best I was sure you’d say no,” he says. “More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs.

You’ve demonstrated to god and country tonight that you literally do not possess the upper body strength to pull that off. Nor do you have a stake (he’d been watching your hands so carefully).

“No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”

“You put a knife to my throat the first time you saw me,” you say.

His smarm bleeds over him like a drop of water touched to a smear of paint. “Well, darling, it was quite a day. I’d been abducted and infected once already. I’m sure you can appreciate having a healthy amount of caution.”

He’s not wrong. If you’d found any weapons on the butthole ship, you probably would have pointed one right back at him. Had he not tackled you to the ground, anyway.

It was a fucking day.

You glance back to the others. Gale curled on his side with his toes peeking out. Shadowheart bundled into a ball with only her long ponytail to indicate she was anything more than a lump of bedding. Lae’zel on her back with one leg kicked up, for some reason.

“Have you bitten any of us before?” you say.

He makes a sound, one part smug, and one part wistful. “Darling, I’m good, but I’m not that good. You’d have noticed if I spent the night devouring you.”

You roll your eyes. “So what stopped you?”

“It seemed ill mannered to bite without asking. Present instance excluded.”

So he could have, but didn’t. Whether he’d actually considered it rude, or some other reason he’s not telling you (getting caught), y’all’ve been laying your necks out for the taking for days. He hasn’t been pulling a dracula and draining one of y’all slowly. He didn’t slaughter his way through camp in a feral blood rage.

And yes, you’re pretty sure part of that is the reason he’s tagging along with y’all anyway: security in numbers. Still. He can control himself, present instance excluded.

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, you been trustworthy so far. Mostly.”

“Thank you,” he says. For the first time tonight, the tension laced through him seems to genuinely crack and give. You think that’s the end of it, and almost turn back to your warm bedroll. But then he makes a hesitant gesture and you stop. “Do you think you could, ah, trust me just…a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.”

A taste…?

Oh.

Ohhh.

“My blood,” you say like a clever person.

“Not all of it! Just enough to get me back to top form. For whatever we find tomorrow.”

The vampire wants to drink your blood. That’s…

“Um,” you say.

Focus. You need to focus.

That hunger. Your own middle still shivers from the memory, and you’d only brushed his thoughts for a moment. You know hunger. Or thought you did (it seems a mewling kitten in comparison to the thing Astarion is carrying around). You wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And you donated blood back home on the regular. It’s just blood, right? Your body will make more, and the guy could use it.

But vampirism is a bit different from a sterile needle, and it has side effects in all the movies. You take a breath.

“Two questions. One, is this in any way, shape or form, going to result in killing me now or in the future?”

His face does something complicated before he answers, “Not at all. I don’t intend to take any more than you can handle.”

Your stomach flutters. This is batshit (ha). Surely y’all could bring him something still kicking in the morning? Go hunting for him?

You fold your hands so he can’t see them shake. “Second question: is this going to, in any way shape or form now or in the future, turn me into a vampire?”

The emotion in his next smile you can identify. Bitterness. His chin drops, casting even the faint shine from the embers out of his eyes and leaving them dark.

“I’m a spawn, not a real vampire, darling. My bite won’t do anything more than sip from that precious neck of yours.”

Okay. Right. Questions answered. You think he’s telling the truth? You hope he’s telling the truth. Sweet baby jesus on a pogo stick, this is the stupid idea. Stoopid with two o’s.

“Can you pass on any other diseases you might have?” you say because you still have a handful of braincells trying to do their job.

“That’s three questions.”

You stare.

He grins all fake; you’re learning to recognize it.

“D’you want my blood or not?”

He actually slouches as he rolls his eyes.

 “Alright, fine. Not that I know of.” He holds one finger up to silence the next question forming on your lips. “I can experience side effects if I feed on something rancid. But as I’m dead—technically undead—I can neither catch nor spread mortal diseases.”

…sounds logical. Also sends a cascade of biology questions churning through your mind. Maybe he’ll let you ask, later? This’ll probably increase your standing with him, if no one else, and that’s a step towards proving you aren’t a total drain on camp resources (the fucking irony). Besides, it’s not your first donation, even if the form and function are vastly different (are they, though?).

You roll your head onto your shoulders. Shrug a couple of times to loosen the tension. Say, “Okay then.”

He actually backs up. Not a full step, just a surprised sort of shuffle. In the gloom, the dead fire paints his shocked expression in shades of orange and red.

“Really?” he says, and even he can’t hide the genuine surprise in his voice. “I…of course. I’ll not take one drop more than I need.”

You’re doing this. Good god, you’re doing this.

He seems to psyche himself up, too. Straightens and gives his shoulders a wiggle. His chin lifts, mask slides back into place. He says, “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

Chapter Text

There’s no donation chair, obviously. No medical gurney. Your choices are dirt, or your bedroll placed on the dirt. At least the bedroll is close to the fire (and the others, should your atrophied sense of self-preservation decide to wake up).

Astarion tags after you. Waits as you sit and reach for your pack. Shifts almost awkwardly, and keeps glancing from your hands, along your arms, to stare at your neck before, you assume, catching himself and starting that process over. Now that he’s illuminated—and you’re not so groggy—you spot the changes in his body movement. How still he is, except for a barely discernible shiver now and then. He swallows a couple of times, and at first you think it’s nerves, until you catch a flicker of pink tongue between his lips and realize he’s trying to hide how badly he’s salivating.

That’s…you have to turn away from that. Your body has a very weird and off-putting reaction, all flushed terror and all.

“Here we are,” you say. You found the bandits’ food store after the party slaughtered all of them. Most of it went to the camp rations, but each of you got an iced bun. Gale already ate his with no ill effects, but you saved yours to go with breakfast. Your waterskin is maybe half full—you frown at that—and set it next to your bedroll.

“Something wrong?” Astarion says.

“I get all demon thirsty when I donate blood,” you say and uncork the thing to down several gulps. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and look up. Find the man absolutely bewildered.

“It’s for medical purposes,” you say. “People volunteer their blood, and it gets cleaned up and stored in hospitals and stuff. That way, if someone needs a transfusion—did that translate right? If someone loses too much blood, they can give them some of the donated stuff so they don’t, you know, die.”

“Oh. That sounds…altruistic.” You’d never known someone could make that word sound like a negative. “And you’re one of those…volunteers? Why? What do you get out of it?”

You’ve got your stuff staged and within arm’s reach. Satisfied, you turn back to him.

“Cause I got plenty and my body makes more. They also give you cookies afterward. So how do we do this? I got a good vein in my left arm, in the elbow that they always really like?”

He looks at your offered arm. Resettles himself and motions for you to lie down. Which you do. He takes a knee next to you and you try hard not to think about how vulnerable you are. Some vampire elf man kneeling over you, flat on your damn back.

One of the charcoaled logs collapses into the bed of embers. A soft flash washes over the two of you. In that light, his eyelids lower and he goes all smug and smarmy.

“I think the classic method might be best,” he says.

And that takes you longer than it should. Because you’re used to the cold swab of alcohol in the crook of your elbow. The tight band wrapped around your bicep. Looking away as the tech slides in the needle.

He’s a vampire. They, classically, bite necks. Which yeah, not fun to think about. But it’s the mouth part that trips your pulse and makes it stumble over itself. Somehow, you did not consider that part. To make you bleed, he will bite you. With his teeth. In his fucking mouth. Which means his mouth is going to be at your fucking neck.

“Oh,” you say and want to kick your own ass at how small that comes out. Especially when that fucking goblin grin ticks up on one side of his lips. His lips that will be on your neck. You clear your throat. “I mean, if that’s the best way. Uh. Go for it.”

He dips his head in a bow and his left hand comes to rest just above your right shoulder. Which means he’s reaching across you (flat on your damn back, belly exposed). He leans across you and he is all up in your personal space and you are suddenly, viscerally aware of that. People don’t get close to you (except for Uncle Randy and Sasha and her boyfriend). You don’t get close to people. You’re the one that stands back and waves when Debbie or Jeff leave the office for retirement or transfer, when they all hug each other goodbye. You haven’t held so much as a squirming baby in over a decade.

And his face is going to touch you. His fucking hand comes up, under your chin to tilt your head to your left, looking away from the fire, leaving your neck bare and so horribly exposed to teeth but also his goddamn lips.

You didn’t think this part through, is what you didn’t do. Look at you, getting necked before you’ve ever been kissed. That has to be some kind of achievement, right?

“Easy, darling,” Astarion murmurs and he’s so goddamn close to you you can actually feel his voice.

Your heartbeat ratchets up. Blood pressure probably on the verge of splitting an artery somewhere. You flex your fingers (and toes) and nod.

“Sorry,” you say.

“It’s alright. Are you this nervous when you donate your blood to others?”

Again with that sneer. He’s got you turned away; all you see above his chest is the poof of his hair out of the corner of your eye, “They don’t take it out with their mouth.”

He leans in. You expect to feel a wash of heat, but there is none. Undead. He’s ambient room temperature. But there’s still a presence there. Something solid moving over you, a strange charge in the air you’ve never felt before.

He hums and that soft exhale tickles your ear because he’s right there. “So it’s my mouth that has you shivering, is it?”

For fuck’s—

“Just fucking bite me,” you say.

You’re pretty sure he smiles. Smug bastard.

Then he lunges. It reminds you of a snake strike. Utter calm to piercing pain and you gasp despite yourself. You’ve known pain, before. Gut cramps, menstrual cramps, switch welts. None of them are teeth in your flesh.

It shocks you. Your body seizes up as a sharp, freezing pain stabs the side of your neck. Almost as quick, it fades to throbbing, and then into a gentle numbness.

Analgesic spit, you think. Neat.

The bite itself distracts you for a long minute. You try not to think of fangs in your flesh. Hard teeth digging through skin and muscle and vein. Then Astarion shifts and through the numb, something moves against your skin. Something…wet? Strong, but not hard—

His tongue. The man is licking your goddamn neck.

Just as that registers, Astarion outright groans against you. Your cheeks light themselves on fire. The sound shivers against your skin and his voice vibrates up your throat. The hand not holding him up slips behind your head—fingers gliding along your scalp and lifting goosebumps in a sweep from crown to toes—to cradle the back of your skull and hold you to him.

You bite back the squeak. Hold as still as you can.

His lips are cool and soft. Slurping echoes loud in your ear, mixed with small noises he makes and his cool breath ruffles the short hairs on the nape of your neck.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a blood donation. Just a procedure. You’ve done this many times before. Except this one has a grown man humming and…sweet jesus, he’s moaning. Not audible, exactly. You feel more than hear it.

So far, he’s been lapping at you. His own throat bobs as he swallows (holy fuck he’s close enough for you to notice that and you don’t even have any space because he’s taking it all and his chest brushes yours where the fuck are his legs). But then his voice changes pitch. Then he sucks.

That hurts. Sharp, burning pain lights up the side of your face. You can’t stop your own whimper, or the way you grab a handful—with just your fingertips because more means touching him more—of his shirt.

But that only seems to egg him on. He sucks again. His weight drops onto you holy fucking shit, and the hand supporting him wraps around your shoulders in some fucked up hug. All of it to pull you close. Every alarm left in your brain goes off all at once. Your deep, deep primate brain has memories to recognize a predator securing its prey.

“Astarion,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

“Astarion, that’s enough.”

Still no answer.

Your head’s going foggy. You never noticed any ill effects during any previous donation—all that comes when people sit up or stand or try to walk over to the cookies table. But you are, and you’re lying down. You know that is a very, very bad sign.

Your arm is heavy when you lift it. You push through—limb shaking—to tap his shoulder. Probably harder than you mean to. But it’s enough to jolt him. His lips break their seal and hot liquid dribbles down the back of your shoulder.

“Mmm?” he says. Then he takes a sharp breath. “Oh. Of course.”

He lifts up immediately. The action only partially soothes you. The majority of your emotional system is still screaming at your vulnerability, at how shaky and light-headed you are, at how goddamn close he still is to you.

You do your best to show none of this as he rolls back and to his feet. It’s a smooth motion, lighter than you’ve seen from him. He’s grinning, a trickle of your blood running down the side of his chin. He touches it with his fingertips, brings them up to suck them clean.

“That…that was amazing,” he says. Dude’s panting like he was the one who got drained half to death.

You don’t dare sit up. You roll to your side to grab your provisions, uncork the waterskin, and slam down as much as you can before your lungs start to protest. You wish it was juice. Your stomach trembles, all queasy.

Astarion’s entire posture is different. He holds himself taller, frame wider somehow. His eyes are even brighter. “My mind feels clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

The next part seems to baffle him. You rip off a piece of the iced bun and slip that into your mouth. You chew slow and careful to make sure your stomach will take it. You’re ripping off another piece before you even swallow.

“I feel happy,” Astarion says. And maybe it’s your imagination, but the last word there sounds tinged in what you might almost call wonder. Even his grin has changed—showing off those fangs you honestly should have noticed sooner.

“You get enough?” you say. He’d better say yes, because you don’t got no more to give for a while. Half the roll is gone, and your stomach seems content to hold it. The thirst taps your shoulder and then screams into your ear. You down more water.

“Quite enough, darling. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He dips into a fancy bow. “You’ve been invigorating, but I need something more filling.”

“Gonna find you a nice, big deer?”

“Indeed. You know, you’re taking this all rather better than I expected.”

The last thing you saw with a vampire in it was that show where they were all sad and hilarious roommates. You’re operating on an entirely different cultural level with zero context towards how him or vampires should exist in this world. Hell, there’s a lot of people of all genders on Earth who’d be down on their knees for him right now.

You don’t tell him that, obviously. You’re not giving him any more ammunition against your ignorance on this matter.

“Just hope it helps you for tomorrow,” you say.

His grin pulls itself back down into the one you’re more familiar with. The one you’re pretty sure now is his version of the “sexy bad man vampire” he’s so keen to wear.

“Well,” he says. “I will aim to please, should we encounter anyone in need of a killing. Sleep well, darling.”

He saunters off towards the trees. A ghost in white disappearing into the dark. On the very edge of your vision, damn near swallowed by the gloom, he pauses. Looks back. His voice is soft and low. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Then he’s gone. Off to hunt something he can actually drain like a capri-sun.

You roll back over and your neck twinges. Fuck. Forgot about cleanup—no phlebotomist with a teeny square of gauze and a stretchy wrap bandage. You don’t have any sterile bandages at all. Damnit. You really fucked this up.

You pull out one of the bloodstained shirts from your pack. One of the less stained ones. Manage to rip off an unbloodied sleeve and press that to the wound. You’re drinking a healing potion first thing. And then keeping an eye on that shit. First sign of infection, and you’re talking to Shadowheart (got hurt during one of the fights; didn’t notice until later and didn’t want to bother you, so sorry, very silly of me).

You tentatively feel the puncture wounds through the cloth. They’re larger than you expected. And very quickly, you feel wet heat soaking through.

Fucker is still bleeding like a stuck pig. You refold the gross, makeshift bandage, press down harder.

Anticoagulant spit, probably. Makes sense; mosquitoes and leeches have that.

You take a swig of water and pop another piece of iced bun into your mouth. It’d be easier to put pressure on that wound if you were lying down. But then your head is swimming and you’re really very tired. Your bedroll is comfortable. Rolling onto your side (so the wound is elevated; you aren’t a total moron!) and you sigh and it all feels so nice, so gentle, you should probably swallow that food in your mouth, should….

Chapter Text

An earthquake!

The shaking cuts through the crushing depths around you and jolts you awake. You flail, inhale something, and end up coughing and gagging on your side in the dirt.

“She’s not dead,” Shadowheart’s voice is calm and cool in a way that sounds really bad.

Your neck hurts. There’s something horrifically heavy squeezing down on it. And it’s rained in the night; as you shift, the neck of your tunic clings to you.

The sun flickers.

Wait.

That doesn’t happen.

You open your eyes. They’re crusty and gummed up and too heavy.

“What’s happening?” you say only it comes out, “Wuhbthhh.”

“Hand me that potion,” Shadowheart says. Still rigidly calm.

It’s night. Weird, soft light washes over you. You’re on your side, your mouth disgustingly sweet, your tongue all cracked and dry. And someone is trying to choke you.

“No, Eleanor, don’t move,” Shadowheart says. “Gale, give this to her.”

The light shifts. Gale, still in his mumu pajamas, sits on his folded knees. The light follows him, and you realize it’s some kind of magic fireflies swimming around his head. He fiddles with something, and the cool, smooth lip of a bottle touches your lips.

“Careful,” he says and tilts it.

Healing potion tastes like sweet chiles, for some reason. Vaguely sweet, mostly burning, but more like strong alcohol than capsaicin melting your taste buds. You sip it, wincing at the crushing pressure on your throat.

Your head clears a little as Gale tilts the last of it into your mouth.

It’s still night. No moon. The fire is low embers, so Gale has cast some spell. Shadowheart kneels over you with a rag pressed to your neck.

“What,” you start.

Oh.

Oh.

Fuck.

“It looks like the bleeding has slowed,” Shadowheart says, easing off a bit.

Your tunic is damp and a bit crusty. Because it’s covered in blood. Yours, this time. Anticoagulant vampire spit. Motherfucker.

Shadowheart casts her jesus-hands spell on you. It feels like strong sunlight soaking into your skin. The bite on your neck itches as the scabs form. As the skin slams into production to grow over and seal the puncture. As your bone marrow kicks into high gear to churn out more blood cells.

“Water?” you say. You’re so thirsty it hurts.

Gale hums, even as he lifts up a waterskin. “She must have had time to drink her last Potion of Tongues. And couldn’t have been so long ago, as it’s still working.”

You latch onto the waterskin like a starving thing. Slam back three gulps before Gale—that bastard—pulls it back.

“Slower,” he says. “Don’t want to go rupturing your stomach.”

Which sounds made up.

“Here,” Shadowheart says. Finally, the awful pressure eases. Her body heat washes over you as she leans in to inspect her work. “That’s closed up nicely. You’re lucky. If Gale hadn’t woken when he did, you might have been stone dead come morning.”

You do your best to sit up. The world spins. Gale hands you the waterskin and you chug down three more gulps, lowering it before he can chide you again.

“What time is it?” you say. Remember that no one has cell phones or watches.

“About halfway between moondark and dawn,” Gale says. “Do you remember anything?”

You remember all of it quite distinctly. You take up more fluids and hope it hides the flush you feel sweeping up your face. Apparently you have enough blood still in you to pull that off.

You must have passed out while still bleeding. And the wound hadn’t closed because vampires are, turns out, literally giant leeches. Your tunic is plastered to your shoulder and even your weak, human nose is filled with the metallic tang of blood.

And the cause of it chooses that moment to come strolling into Gale’s spell light.

“On no, what’s happened?” Astarion says in the most bullshit bullshitter tone you’ve ever heard.

Gale tenses next to you. Shadowheart, still hovering over you, goes eerily still.

Astarion stands there, all stupid, floofy hair and stupid, frilly shirt. He hasn’t made near a mess of himself as he left all over you.

A soft sound, and you twist to find Lae’zel standing back there with a neutral expression. And her hand on the hilt of her sword.

You can’t see Astarion’s face in any detail at that distance and in this light. You do, however, catch the subtle raise in his shoulders. The way he shifts his weight onto his back foot.

“So, the vampire reveals himself,” Shadowheart says. “I was wondering how long you would try to keep your ruse going. If you can even call it that.”

“I…what?” he says.

“What?” you say.

Gale has fully turned to face Astarion. Shifted himself between the two of you, even. He glances over his shoulder at you. “It’s alright, Eleanor. We’ve got you.”

“There’s been some mistake,” Astarion says. “I’ve been patrolling. I thought I heard something and came back to check on the rest of you. Has something happened to Eleanor?”

You roll your eyes.

“It seems a blood drinker attacked her in the night,” Lae’zel says.

Attacked? Wait, shit.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on,” you say. “Everybody calm down. I wasn’t attacked—”

“A vampire?” Astarion says. “Here?”

“You really thought we hadn’t noticed?” Shadowheart says, a pleased little hum in her voice. She’s gloating.

“Hey,” you say.

“What’s it to be, Astarion?” Gale says. “Will you leave willingly?”

“Hey.”

“This is all a misunderstanding.” Astarion lifts his hands. Takes another step back. He’s going to bolt.

“HEY! Will you chucklefucks just listen to me?” you say. “Fuck’s sake. The lot of y’all getting all pissy and hopped up for no goddamn reason!”

It’s enough to startle Shadowheart back an inch. Judging by the slight furrow in her brow, that’s more to with your vocabulary than any genuine force you have (it was chucklefuck, wasn’t it).

“Ain’t nobody got attacked. I let him have some blood, you hear? I volunteered.”

It’s like you whipped a trout out of your shirt and smacked them in the face with it. You’ve seen church ladies look less affronted at a teenage, drive-by mooning.

“You…?” Shadowheart trails off. Her nose wrinkles in delicate distaste. “Why?”

You make eye contact with Astarion (or where the shadows hide his eyes, anyway). You’ve seen him murder-horny, smug, nervous, bored, and smarmy. You ain’t seen him shit scared before. Oh, he’s trying to hide it. Sweep it under smooth reassurance, plaster it over with confidence and faux concern. But the man is an alley cat backed into a corner. If he had fur, it’d be standing on end.

He tried to bite you in your sleep. Tried to do the exact thing everyone is so upset about. He looks at you, and you look at him, and y’all don’t even need brainworms to understand how aware of that y’all both are.

“He asked,” you say. Perhaps not technically a lie, at least not after he’d explained himself. “We got no idea what we might find tomorrow, and it seemed like a good idea to make sure we’re all at our best, right?”

“You aren’t,” Gale says. “Not after this.”

Astarion bristles. Opens his mouth.

“I’m about as useful in a fight as tits on a boar hog,” you say. “We all know it.”

This last part to Lae’zel behind y’all, with her gaze still fixed on Astarion, but her posture looser than it was.

It’s Shadowheart who snorts first. Covers her mouth to hide it. “Sorry. Sorry, that’s just…”

But Gale still frowns. Still glances between y’all. Focuses on Astarion. “Did you dominate Eleanor?”

That…cannot be an accurate translation.

It doesn’t faze Astarion, though. He slaps on a self-deprecating smile. “Were I a real vampire, I might be capable of that. Sadly, though, I’m just a spawn, as I explained to Eleanor. Along with answering all of her following questions.”

Passing the ball back to you. Maybe it’s all the blood loss, but you’re still caught up on “dominate.” He didn’t hold you down, and there wasn’t any weird sex stuff. The fuck…?

Gale looks to Shadowheart, who shrugs.

And then it hits. You never actually read Dracula yourself—too dry and boring. But you watched that movie where he turned into a werewolf to bang that girl out in the garden (you mostly remember her tits, honestly). He could mind whammy her. Enchant her.

Dirt potion, for some reason, translates that to “dominate.”

You think, anyway.

In a normal situation (nothing about this is normal and you’re not going to think about that because you might start screaming and never stop), Gale would be completely justified in asking that.

Exsanguinated, exhausted, and emotionally fucked up, what fills you is spitting rage.

It’s not your fault you sinned. You’re too weak and stupid to resist the devil’s temptations. It’s not you getting angry, it’s the devil’s whispers. Not you crying, but the devil making you weak. You have no will, no opinion, no ideas. They’re all the fault of the devil, because you are filthy and pathetic, and you could never, ever know better, now go cut yourself a switch.

You tear yourself from the bedroll, even as your brain shouts how stupid that is. Force yourself onto feet that wobble. Have to catch yourself on Gale’s shoulder as your head floats off your neck and everything goes sort of fuzzy and ringing around you.

“Gale of fucking Waterdeep, don’t you ever suggest I cannot make my own decisions.”

He moves as if to step away; catches himself (probably) when he realizes that will one hundred percent end in you eating dirt. He holds up a hand in a pacifying gesture. “Please, I don’t think this wise at the moment. We’re only trying to ensure the safety of the group. Shadowheart?”

But Shadowheart’s arms are crossed. She makes no move to guide you back to the reasonable ground.

Astarion hadn’t told you because he was afraid of this. You could kinda see people maybe being unhappy. He made you wary, yeah. A little creeped out, even. But these people turned on him so fast—

Because they found you bleeding out.

“Fuck,” you say and bury your face in one hand. Gale is good enough to keep his arm steady as you slide down to your knees. And yeah, he was right about standing being a terrible idea.

“I thought I could take care of the cleanup,” you say. “He didn’t go all rabid on me or nothing. Stopped when I told him to and backed off.”

Astarion lifts his chin at that. Fixes Gale with the most self-righteous look. Even though you both know you’re fudging that, too.

“I’m guessing your spit is an anticoagulant?” you say.

“I’m…I’m not sure.” He catches the looks from everyone. “That is to say, I’ve never, ah, fed on something that needed to survive the encounter. I hunt animals. It’s never been an issue before.”

Around then, it hits how epically stupid you’ve been. You thought he did this regularly. Vampire, and all. But that statement? You let him at your neck unsupervised and unchecked. He could have drained you dry. He’s used to doing just that.

“How many people have you killed?” you say. The pitch is higher than you’d like. All the adrenaline and other pants-wetting hormones dumping into your bloodstream now that you know exactly what type of venomous snake you’ve stepped on.

“Oh, plenty,” he says. “But never for food. I…”

A shadow crosses his face. His lips thin and the barest flicker of a sneer wrinkles his nose for a second. Then he sighs. Clears his throat. “You were my first thinking creature.”

No one moves. No one says anything. Crickets hum and the wind rustles softly through the leaves.

Shadowheart’s laugh is shrill and borderline ugly. “A virgin vampire?”

You’re not following. Look between all of them. Gale finally softens in amusement. Shadowheart doesn’t even try to hide her grin this time. And Astarion is…still wearing a smile. But there’s something about it now. Something about the way he’s holding himself.

It’s a mask. And the Astarion below that, he’s wildly uncomfortable. The set of his shoulders. His hands are too still.

He’s never bit a person before. That’s what he’s saying.

“Ch’k,” Lae’zel finally speaks. “All of this talk of an undead threat, yet I see no threat.”

“We had to be sure,” Gale says, and thank baby jesus, the man finally relaxes. “I’m sorry you were the one who took the brunt of this, Eleanor. I had assumed he would go after myself or Shadowheart, as you are an unknown entity and Lae’zel is…ah, formidable.”

Lae’zel lets out a crocodile hiss. You’re beginning to wonder if that’s a laugh. “Should I ever wake missing so much as a drop of blood, Astarion, I will open you from throat to belly.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he says.

Gale turns to you, all solemn. “As it was my idea to wait before confronting him, I take full responsibility.”

“I’m just surprised he didn’t do it sooner,” Shadowheart says.

You meet Astarion’s gaze. He seems as befuddled as you feel. Because that sounds like they already knew. Knew for a couple of days, at least. And even talked about it?

“Y’all knew he was a vampire?” you say.

Gale holds up one finger. “We theorized.”

“He didn’t even hide it,” Shadowheart says. “Look at the mark on his neck.”

“Your complexion is rather corpse-ish.”

“And his eyes? Red eyes?”

Lae’zel even jumps in. “His temperature is that of the air. Even amongst istik, that is a known inaccuracy.”

This fucking…the whole time?

“Wait, wait, wait,” Astarion says, one hand pressed over, yeah, those certainly are bite marks on his neck, aren’t they? There’s a heaping tablespoon of bitchy in his voice. “You, all of you, knew what I was? This entire time?”

“I certainly had my suspicions,” Gale says. “I waited for a few days to verify my observations, and then brought it up to Shadowheart who confirmed it.”

“And you didn’t think to, to stake me?”

“I wanted to,” Shadowheart says.

Gale steamrolls her before Astarion’s sharp glare can turn to sharp words. “You’d been behaving yourself, contrary to all the lore. Considering our shared circumstances, it seemed a waste to turn away potential allies should you prove to be one. Until tonight, that is.”

“I asked permission!”

“He did ask permission,” you say.

“And that is to your credit, Astarion.”

“What about you?” Astarion says past your shoulder. “When did they rope you into all this?”

Lae’zel gazes impassively. She honestly looks bored now that she’s lost her chance to cut someone in half again. “They awoke me shortly after finding that one bleeding out.”

She throws a glare at Shadowheart. It bounces right off.

Astarion huffs. Takes another step back, only he doesn’t seem two seconds from sprinting off, so much as a pout. He runs a hand through his ridiculous hair. His eyes catch on you. They narrow.

“But not you,” he says and it is one hundred percent an accusation.

One that draws the attention of the others. You can feel Lae’zel’s disapproval glide across the back of your skull. Shadowheart’s incredulousness warms the side of your face. Gale’s concern and burning curiosity skitters over your brow.

You throw up your hands. “We don’t fucking have vampires where I come from! I told y’all we don’t got monsters. How the fuck was that supposed to occur to me? I thought he was just albino!”

“Al…” Gale starts. Snorts. Runs a hand across his face. “Once we’re free of these parasites, you and I need to sit down to a nice bottle of Blackstaff with as many scrolls as I can carry. I have so many questions.”

Lae’zel sighs. Her sword has been sheathed this entire time, but now she lets go of the handle. “I go back to sleep. Do not wake me for foolishness again.”

Astarion glances to everyone and falls into his theater posture. Spine straight, hands loose at his sides, casual smarm back on display. “There now. We’re all friends again, eh?”

Gale looks to you as if seeking confirmation. You shrug at him. The skin where Astarion bit you is warm, but the wounds themselves are closed. You down more water.

“Alright.” Gale nods. “As Eleanor is the aggrieved party here, if she will allow you to stay, I have no objections. Though I do have to warn you, Astarion, I taste terrible.”

The goddamn vampire gives a little, swooping bow. “Thank you. And noted.”

Shadowheart lingers a moment longer. Looks at him. Looks at you. Back to him. “If I wake up with you hovering over me, I’ll blast you to ash.”

He gives her the same bow, with a touch of a leer to it. You’re not even sure it’s intentional.

Shadowheart pauses as she stands. To you,” I do suggest that if we find a bell, we tie it to him so he can’t go skulking about in the night.”

She leaves, but not before setting two apples and another waterskin. You dig in as best you can while lying down.

“So,” Astarion drawls. “I think that went rather well.”

You glare at him. “Y’all got some real fucked up standards over there.”

Gale clears his throat. You’d thought he’d started back to his tent, but now he stands there all apologetically, holding out a steaming cup he didn’t have two seconds ago. When you lift one eyebrow, he says, “Tea. You’ll probably need it.”

If he has sugar or honey to add to it, that would be great. But something about his face makes you hesitate.

His lips press and he sighs. “I assume you were saving that potion for whatever we find tomorrow, correct? Most potions, that one included, wear off once you sleep. I’m also assuming you passed out too quickly for your body to actually rest or heal itself—as it does during sleep—and that’s why it’s still working. But if you want to retain the effects of that last bottle—and I don’t know how long they will last, mind you—you should probably avoid sleep for the rest of the night. Not to worry, though. We’re not terribly far from dawn. And as I know what a night spent pursuing knowledge is like, and as, well, this is rather my fault, I offer my services, such as they are, to help you pass that time.”

“Oh~ Gale,” Astarion says with such a fucking tone. “You’re being quite direct, aren’t you?”

That fucking asshole. You find a twig to throw in his direction.

Gale frowns. “I meant reading. Aloud, since I’m aware the potion doesn’t extend translation to the written word. Though this could be the time to start to teach you that, as well.”

So after hiking all day, enduring Lae’zel’s death march, getting drained almost to death by a vampire, you now have to stay up the rest of the day.

“I fucking hate it here,” you say.

Astarion sniffs. Says, “Well, I wish you luck, darling. I’ll see you in the morning.”

This…this fucking guy. You and Gale watch him prance back over to his tent, almost whistling. Bastard nearly killed you, and now he’s leaving you in blood-soaked clothing, to keep yourself awake for the next god knows how long, all so y’all can go traipsing around a fucking swamp looking for what will probably be another goddamn fight. And yep, there he goes, ducking into his tent, letting the flap swing shut, and flopping down onto his own bedding.

“That fucking guy,” you say aloud.

Beside you, Gale hums in agreement.

Chapter Text

Morning greets you hunched and miserable on your bedroll. Your hands tremble and your head aches even worse than usual. But that, at least, is from a known source: the six cups of tea you’ve had in the last three hours.

Gale’s chatting still makes sense, so you’ve got that going for you. Neither of you are sure how long it’ll hold, though.

Your tunic is, indeed, fucked beyond all saving. You’re glad Shadowheart helped you out of your stays before you fell asleep.

Your head buzzes when you stand. You have to walk carefully over to seat yourself properly in front of the fire, closer to where Gale putzes around with breakfast. Some kind of eggs thing. You’re both insanely wired, and insanely head-empty exhausted. It’s a peculiar blend that means you spend all of breakfast quiet and by yourself. You rouse only long enough to glare at Astarion when he emerges, fucking chipper as hell. Bastard.

Once everyone has downed their eggs and potato hash, and are taking a moment before gearing up, you say, “Thank y’all. For, y’know, not letting me die.”

“So long as it doesn’t happen again,” Shadowheart says, glancing over to where Astarion has plonked down on his pile of pillows with a book.

“I’m just sorry it came to that,” Gale says, again. And then he piles more food onto your plate and gives you a look.

You take a few bites—using your hands, because silverware is too slow. He seems really caught in that net, and his guilt makes you feel guilt and you know how vicious this cycle can get. You’re bemoaning the need for another outrageously expensive tunic when the idea strikes.

You’ve been pretty quiet and pretty serious around the others, for the most part (Astarion being the exception, because the bastard has a way of getting under your skin) (the irony of that thought is not lost to you). They still seem fine with you. Haven’t kicked you out or made you feel small or stupid. Hell, they were ready to force Astarion out when they thought he mauled you in the night. Maybe you can let that facade crack a little. Maybe you can test the waters.

“So you’uns knew about the whole vampire thing and didn’t tell me,” you say, keeping your voice level.

Shadowheart chews her food. Looks to Gale. Who coughs into his hand.

“I wasn’t, ah, entirely sure how you would react,” he says. “If you could keep a secret.”

He hems and haws. You have a pretty good idea what he wants to say next, and trade a look with Shadowheart. Neither of you bail him out.

“Or that you could, if we’re being strictly honest, could contribute in a fight should it come to that,” he finally manages. Bless his little heart.

You nod and chew. “So you let me be the bait.”

Ooh, that’s a wince. You don’t want to push it too far, though.

“As I said, I take full responsibility. If there’s anything I can do to make up for it, you only need to ask.”

You hum. Can feel Shadowheart’s full attention. “Anything?”

Gale blinks. Frowns. “I may have left that statement too open to interpretation.”

“How about an ‘I’m sorry’ in the form of twenty gold pieces?” you say. Which was enough to buy your currently ruined tunic. The one you owed Gale for.

He looks at you, and the Dread starts to writhe in your guts. You pushed it too far. Were too demanding and obnoxious and arrogant. Been too much again.

Then he chuckles. Lifts his eyebrows. “A clever dealmaker, you are. I believe I find that more than fair, good lady. Would you like the payment in coin, or shall I simply forget about your tab?”

“Tab, please.”

And just like that, you’re free of debt. And you get to watch Shadowheart smile. If she were less reserved, or if it was a thing in Faerun, you’re pretty sure you could give her a high five.

“That’s the spirit!” Astarion hollers from across camp because he’s got fucking super hearing. “Always press your advantage!”

“You would know!” you holler back. Asshole.

Still. There’s warmth in your chest for the first time since you woke up on the butthole ship. The first, baby shoots of tentative connection to these people. If you’re careful, if you nurture this and nothing goes wrong, you might be able to grow this into—maybe, possibly—potential friendship? Hopefully you’re not reaching too far there.

So of course things go immediately wrong.

The swamp is nice. Full of light and flowers and frogs. No leeches, and more shockingly, no snakes. There’s even some sheep roaming around for some reason. You find one standing in the path. Only once you get close, you catch how the thing moves. It’s wrong. A weird jittering, discombobulated tremor. That thing is seriously diseased.

The sheep looks at you. It bah’s.

And that is the most fucked up sound you’ve ever heard come from an animal. Something is desperately wrong. The tadpole in your brain jigs like a worm on a hook, and you’re pretty sure it bites your optical nerve. Because after your skull lights up in pain, the swamp warps.

No sunlight or butterflies here. It’s entirely gray and green, hazy and reeking of death and methane. And that’s not a goddamn sheep, but some ugly fucking gnome or something, standing there, staring at you with beady eyes and needle teeth.

“Uh,” you say. You don’t think it realizes you can see it. So you do the only thing you can think of, and go “baaah” back.

You catch Astarion’s little giggle from the back of the group.

The fugly gnome scowls and spits (literally sprays) a louder, “Baaahhh!” before stomping off. Leaving y’all ankle deep in muck and flies.

“Everyone else saw that, right?” you say.

“Only too well,” Gale says.

Then the wind shifts and something reeks.

The man is alone. Pointy beard, long hair braided on the sides. The stink roils off him. He slows as y’all near, and stops outright when he catches glimpse of all y’all. His hands are empty, but the butt of a crossbow peeks over his shoulder.

“Hello there,” he says. Lifts a hand in greeting. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else around these parts.”

You try to nod and wave while not breathing. He must notice the struggle, though, because the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile. “Sorry about the smell. Powdered ironvine. Helps any monsters to think twice before taking a bite out of me.”

“A monster hunter,” Astarion says, suddenly at your side. He gives the man a look over, and his nose wrinkles in disgust. “And a Gur.”

He’s usually, well, polite isn’t the right word. But more subdued to people he thinks are a waste of his time—he spends that time stealing pillows from refugees, apparently. You’ve never seen him so upfront about his hostility before. At least not directly to someone’s face.

“Gur?” you say.

“Oh, the absolute worst,” the man says. “We sneak in during the night to spoil your crops, sour your milk, and steal away your daughters.”

“And here I thought you merely settled for being vagrants and cutthroats,” Astarion says.

You shoot him a what the fuck look. This all sounds depressingly familiar.

The man sighs. The eye crinkles smooth a bit, but don’t disappear entirely. “I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess. Alas, I’m a simple wanderer and monster hunter. No cutthroats here. My name is Gandrel.”

Astarion still hasn’t lost his sneer. Pretty rich, him getting so snobby about this random guy when y’all’s party had a secret vote on whether to kick him out or kill him.

“You hunting a swamp monster?” you say. Because y’all are, in fact, in the middle of a swamp. And Faerun has demonstrated quite painfully that there are literal monsters that will literally bite you.

Astarion gasps theatrically. Even covers his mouth with the tips of his fingers. “Oh, it must be something terrifying, darling. A dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?”

Why does that last one have a tone? And why the hell is he being such an ass?

“Nothing so dramatic I’m afraid,” Gandrel says. “I’m hunting a vampire spawn. His name is Astarion.”

The words slap all thought out of your head. You stand there and your hands begin to tingle. Turn just enough to make out how very calm Astarion looks. In face, that is. His right hand hitches up towards the knife at his belt. His grin has gone all brittle around the edges. The man is practically vibrating. Then he looks to you. And there’s a question in his eyes. One tinged with worry.

“I fear he’s gone to ground,” Gandrel says, completely oblivious to the internal cataclysm he’s just caused. “I hope the hag of these lands can flush him out. If I can afford her blood price, that is.”

You’re so tired. The weak tea caffeine is a flimsy barrier between you and crushing exhaustion. You can feel it closing in, squeezing all around you like a submarine at too great a depth. The exhaustion searching for some weakness, the tiniest crack to crush you.

“Hag?” you say. When in doubt, make people explain.

A rustle as Lae’zel shifts behind you. She’s angling to get a clear shot between her and the man without taking you out in between.

“You’ve never heard of a hag?” Gandrel says.

“I was really sheltered.”

“Ah, I see.” His face says he clearly does not. But he goes along with it. “Terrible creatures, hags. Very powerful, and very cunning. You’d best steer clear of this one. I would leave myself, if I weren’t truly desperate.”

“Why would you be so intent on a vampire spawn?” Astarion says.

“Orders from the headwoman of my tribe.”

You wouldn’t notice Astarion’s twitch if he wasn’t right beside you. The sneering, biting Astarion is gone. He’s been replaced with what you’re beginning to suspect is his favorite mask: casual confidence papering over intense wariness.

“You here to kill him?” you say.

You feel Astarion’s glance burning the side of your face. He left you high and dry last night. Didn’t even apologize this morning. The group has already demonstrated how willing they are to cast him out, and the last thing y’all need right now is more trouble.

Gandrel shakes his head, though, another, easy chuckle on his lips. “Not this time, no. I’m here to capture, not to kill.”

“And bring him where, exactly?” Astarion says.

“Baldur’s Gate. My people wait for me there.”

Everyone has a life outside of this shitshow. Families and friends, cultural networks and enemies and histories. And a tribal man, a hunter, is dispatched specifically for Astarion.

“Please, there’s no need to be so alarmed,” Gandrel says, mistaking y’all’s tension for an entirely different kind. “At least not during daylight hours. We’re safe enough for now. But do know this: though a spawn is weaker than its master, that’s only in comparison to a true horror. Come sundown, you couldn’t seek out a more dangerous quarry. They’re vicious, starving creatures with the full intelligence of a thinking creature. You would do well to take this threat seriously.”

“Indeed, they are,” Astarion says. His voice has gone all silky in a way that lifts the hairs on the back of your neck and sends alarm bells clanging. “We should do something about this threat.”

He’s going to kill this guy.

You are bone-achingly exhausted. Maybe a minute or two from sitting right down in the mud and conking out whether you want to or not. Your eyeballs feel dry, and you have to keep blinking just to keep them open. You do not have anything in you for some stupid fight with this man.

And this Gandrel has a tribe, has a headwoman. Those might not mean the same things as where you come from, but they strike close enough to home. You do not want to see this man dead.

You smile at Astarion in your best PTA mom-supervising-a-toddler benevolence. And it’s enough that his eyes narrow.

“We’ll trust you to take first watch,” you say. “In case the threat wanders to our camp.”

Not here, you’re trying to say. Not at all, unless he actually comes after you.

“See that you do,” Gandrel says. “The wilds can be exceptionally dangerous, even without spawn on the loose.”

“Thank you.” You angle yourself between him and Astarion. Hope that can soothe Astarion’s ruffled feathers enough he doesn’t start anything. “We need to be going. But good luck with that hag. Don’t give her your hair or your teeth, yeah?”

Because a hag sounds a lot like a witch, and not the White people pagan kind.

Gandrel smiles again and nods.

“What?” Astarion says far too loud for your liking. “That’s it? We’re just walking away?”

“Unless you’re volunteering to go with him? Watch his back and all? He’s got his own business to deal with, and it sounds like it’ll be nasty. We’ll all be careful.”

He settles into a glower. His jaw works a few times. The, “Fine. But if this comes back to bite us, it’ll be on your head.”

“Go in peace, my friends,” Gandrel says. Gives you a look you know, a sort of recognition. “I’ll be sure to keep my hair. I pray our paths cross again in good luck and good bounty.”

“They better bloody not,” Astarion says. This time quiet enough that you don’t think Gandrel—who appears to be human—catches it.

Chapter Text

Y’all take a snack break further along the path. Past the campsite full of slaughtered travelers that Gale says was a work of the “redcap” you’d bah’d at earlier. This place is fucked up.

Astarion is quiet the whole time. The others keep sneaking glances when they think he isn’t looking. Each time they do, his shoulders hitch up another fraction of an inch. So he’s totally noticing.

Y’all find the docks the letter had mentioned. Spot the island out in the murky, sludge water. Before y’all get over there, the others stop. You find a mildly rotted crate that takes your weight. It groans, but it doesn’t bend or buckle or dump your ass into the water.

Astarion does not sit. Too busy looking back the way y’all came.

You chug from your waterskin. You physically feel better from the whole blood loss thing, save for the exhaustion and the ache in your bones. But you’re not panting after water anymore, so the fluids appear to be topped back up. You look out over the swamp. The tree growing from that island puts any childhood climbs to shame. You’ve only seen anything comparable when you went to that old growth rainforest up north, them trees so wide three people couldn’t hug it and touch hands.

With some luck (ha), the island will be deserted. You might be able to accomplish something in this godforsaken place without anyone getting their innards turning to outtards.

“How’re you feeling?” you say after chomping down the last of your bread rolls, two apples, and a chunk of sharp cheese (you try not to shudder at the bitterness).

Astarion glances to you without really seeing you. “Hmm?”

“With the, uh, my blood?” you say. “Did it help?”

“Oh. Oh yes, of course.” His usual smile slips back into place. “Much better. That Gur wouldn’t have been an issue if it had come to it. You could have seen those results yourself, but, alas, you chose to let him leave.”

Gandrel had seemed amiable enough. And though y’all were literal worlds apart, part of you resonated with what sounded a lot like racism. Not the same kind your ancestors had faced (at the hands of your other ancestors), but enough for it to twinge at you. Not civilized, not cultured, savages. As if Cherokees didn’t have towns and crops and trading networks spanning hundreds, if not thousands, of miles. Oh no, they couldn’t be “civilized” because that would mean they were people, and if they were people well, murder and theft would feel a bit more uncomfortable, wouldn’t it? Probably not enough to stop, mind. But enough to make a conscience itch here or there (and it did).

“I did,” you say. “And I’d do it again.”

He starts to bristle. He won’t get it, will he? Whatever bullshit he has against these Gur people, challenging it to his face won’t get you anywhere right now.

“We don’t know what we’re heading into over there, either,” you add. “Thought it might be best to save everyone’s strength.”

Astarion takes this with a small grimace and a soft sound of displeasure. “I don’t like leaving him out there. You didn’t want those Absolute cultists running around behind our backs.”

No, you didn’t. You suppose in his shoes, you’d be just as disconcerted.

“He’s looking for a run-of-the-mill vampire spawn,” you say. “It’s daytime, you’re running out here with SPF-0 and not bursting into flame, and ain’t none of us been mauled to death. Not, y’know, fatally. Mostly.”

His gaze flicks to your neck. The wounds closed and smoothed over by Shadowheart’s magic and Gale’s potion. You realize now just how fortunate that wasn’t visible when you’d met Mr. Swampman.

“Yes, I suppose it’s not as obvious,” he says. “Still.”

Behind the both of you, Shadowheart makes some jab about Lae’zel’s preferred diet. You check and find Lae’zel swallowing what you think is a still-kicking frog.

“Huh,” you say. To Astarion, “Why’s he after you, anyway? How’d he know you were out here at all?”

You hadn’t thought about that part until you say it. Y’all are less than a week out from the crashed butthole ship. Ain’t none of the others even knew where y’all’d landed (and you’re pretty sure they still ain’t completely sure).

“He was sent to fetch me,” Astarion says.

Who, you almost ask.

“It was Cazador,” he continues. You ain’t never seen a man sneer a word until now. The sheer loathing oozes from that name like a stink smearing the air.

“The shitbag who turned you?”

He blinks at the phrasing. The corner of his mouth makes the barest of twitches. Then falls back into that grim line. “Only he would know to send those vermin after me. He’s showing me his power, reminding me he can still reach me, all the way out here.”

You try, and fail, to hide the wince at “vermin.” Pasty White boy with a posh accent using that word to describe a whole group of people sits all wrong.

“It was a group of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion says. His gaze goes distant. “I would have died, had Cazador not appeared and ‘saved’ me.”

The Gur he says Cazador has just sent after him.

“Sounds convenient,” you say.

“It’s a message. He wants me back.”

Oh. If that doesn’t send a shiver of recognition down your spine. More than ten years later and you still don’t open mail from someone you don’t recognize. The second the sun sinks towards the horizon, your drapes are closed, and you know every single car on your street. You even recognize the usual doordash or uber drivers in your area. Because strangers…

You were working on that with your most recent therapist. Not making much ground, honestly, because your fears were fucking founded in reality, thank you very much, and she charged more money for an hour than you made in a day.

“How’d he know where you were?” you say. “We got taken so quick. Or, I did, I ain’t sure about the rest of y’all.”

“Oh, I never saw it coming, else it probably wouldn’t have happened and then I’d be worse off,” Astarion says. His eyes track something you can’t see. His expression goes flat. Not his usual version, though. This is obviously a mask. One to hide what you strongly suspect is disgust (you should be over this by now) and hatred (people say it wasn’t your fault but there were ways out, if you’d just been brave (desperate) enough sooner). “I’m a spawn. As my… my master, he can command me. Our bodies just obey. There’s nothing we can do to stop it. But he hasn’t since I woke up on that beach. I suppose I have the parasite to thank for that; the old rules have stopped applying. Even his. Especially his.”

That last part is soft, barely more than a whisper.

The quiet is interrupted by Lae’zel trash talking the entire concept of eating fruit. They’re doing just fine over there.

“He wants me back,” Astarion says again, still in that soft tone. “He’ll always want me back. He should be able to reach out and compel me, and he can’t. I don’t know if it’s the distance or the worm, but he’ll be furious that I’m still out here. Still free.”

The tiniest inflection on “free.” Something fragile. Tentative. The barest spark that must be breathed upon softly to coax it to kindle. Too strong, and it snuffs it out and kills that spark dead.

“So he sent a monster hunter after me to drag me back. Make an example out of me. Death would be too much of a reward.”

Damnit. If he’s right, if Gandrel really is unknowingly working for that sunovabitch, he’d have reason to kill him. You’d do the same; what he’s describing is hell, worse than anything you’ve known. You’d rip out someone’s throat with your teeth should that ever come for you.

You hope to god he’s wrong. Hope that Gandrel and his people are just doing normal, monster hunter things. Maybe Astarion tangled with this group before. Maybe he ended up on someone else’s shitlist (but how would they know where y’all are? Fuck, that part really bugs you).

“How concerned should we be?” you say.

“‘Concerned?’ Do you know the power a vampire lord possesses?” he says. Actually looks at you and then sneers. “Of course you don’t. He can change his shape, turn into mist, call wolves to do his bidding! Shrug off blows like they’re nothing. He could walk into our camp tonight and kill you all with his bare hands.” He leans in close enough you can smell his hair oil, that spicy herb mix. His face is sharp, eyes damn near burning. “And you would be lucky if death was the worst of it.”

You look to the scars on his neck. They’re ragged. Must have been painful.

Our bodies just obey.

You swallow down a queasy feeling.

“Then what should we do?” you say.

He stares at you. Almost looks like surprise, quickly snuffed for agitation. He scoffs. Stammers a second. “First, we have to…we…I don’t know. If we kill his lackeys, he’ll just send more. We have to be vigilant. Keep our wits about us. And kill any monster hunters on sight.”

That feels extremely directed at you.

Also not a plan. “Be vigilant?” It’s almost enough to draw an eyeroll. Except.

The way he talks, the way he watches the swamp. It’s familiar on a visceral level.

So that’s what that looks like from the other end.

Sasha said that was normal. The better of your therapists (when you could afford them) said the same. Being watched all the time, knowing you were trapped, knowing you were weak and helpless and there was nothing you could do because those higher than you had all the resources, the money, the obedience, and the power? It fucks with the brain. Turns the lever to dump stress hormones into the bloodstream and then kicks off the handle to jam it open.

And you were only in for, what? Fifteen, sixteen years? You don’t know how long Astarion’s been a vampire. But you’re pretty sure it’s way longer. And way worse.

“Okay,” you say. “Will do.”

He gives you a tight nod. Looks past you and his eyebrows flick up. You turn to find both Shadowheart and Lae’zel reaching for their weapons while Gale stands between them, arms raised, holding a carrot for some godforsaken reason.

“Oh,” Astarion says, tone all bright again. “Dinner and a show?”

Chapter Text

The good news is y’all find a path to that island with the big tree so y’all don’t have to wade through murky, probably leech-infested swamp water.

The bad news is that there’s monsters crawling all over the island once y’all get there.

“Shitfuck!” you holler.

Bunch of flying, gremlin fuckers fucking explode when they die. You been knocked flat on your back with all the air slammed out of you twice, now. And that was before the swamp ents emerged to rip the roots out of the ground and send them writhing around like fucking snakes.

Lae’zel is chopping at one of them roots, yelling something about her queen. Shadowheart snarls between casting spells left and right, trying to either shield y’all from getting hit, or repairing the likely internal bleeding when you (especially you) get hit.

You’d feel better if you got run over by a goddamn bus.

But you still shove yourself back on your feet as another fucking mud gremlin shrieks and comes flapping at you—

The arrow just appears in its skull. Fucking thing drops like a sack of stones. Skids in the mud y’all’ve been slipping and sliding through, and starts fucking twitching at your feet. This one does not explode, thank fuck.

You look up. Astarion catches your eye, another arrow already knocked in the bow he’d found somewhere. Can’t even wave a thanks, because he’s taking aim at the swamp ent charging you. He shoots it where the eye should be.

Fucker doesn’t even slow—

It swats out. The impact crashes through you. Feet leave the ground as something gives in your chest and you go weightless. Until you smack into the water and bounce off the shallow bottom. Surface wheezing, gasping for air through ribs that scream. Fuck, they gotta be broken fuck.

A shout. Lae’zel charges another swamp ent. Her big fuck off sword arcs down. Hits the thing’s arm. And gets stuck partway through. She pauses for a fraction of a second, and then readjusts her grip to yank it free. But those fuckers are way faster than something that big ought to be.

It slams her. Smacks her flying into the big ass tree. She crashes with a clang of metal and, even worse, a cry.

“Ignis!” Gale’s voice reverberates as a bolt of fire roars past.

The swamp ent flinches away. Kicks one tree trunk leg high—

“Shadowheart,” you wheeze.

Brings it down in a rippling wave of torn dirt and roots that take Shadowheart clean off her feet and bury her.

“Fuck fuck!”

This was your idea. You brought everyone here. They followed you for some fucking reason, and they should have known better. You should have known better. You’re incompetent, incapable, and they’re all going to die because of you.

“Ignis!” Not Gale. Astarion lobs a bolt of fire. This one grazes the swamp ent. This time, the motherfucker screeches. It sounds like wood squealing; you hear that in Oklahoma after an ice storm, the branches coated in inches of frozen rain, the weight too much so limbs rip off in the night with that same sound.

Fire hurts it. Not swords or arrows or three, red (phaser) magic blasts Gale chucks.

They’re trees. They’re made of wood.

“I’m fucking stupid!” you say and slosh back to shore. Fall to your knees. White out for a second as your ribcage jolts and all your internal organs sort of freeze.

Gale and Astarion have taken the high ground on some tiny ass bluff. With the girls down, everything converges on them.

You grab your bag and upend it in the mud. No time for care. Paw through the jumble of your stuff. You know you have one. You’d picked it up at some point, or maybe it just came with the pack, but you know you have one. Bottle about the size of a pepsi. No markings, no—ah!

A plain, brown bottle with a faded, blank label. You’d been peering into it when Gale had sauntered by one time.

You’re not fast. You’re not strong. You can’t swing a sword or utter a lick of magic.

But by god, you can throw a fucking bottle.

It twirls through the air. Clips the shoulder of one swamp ent to burst all over the backside of the other. Grease spatters everywhere.

“Fire!” you say as best you can and then pass out for just a second. It’s not enough for Gale to catch over the cacophony of the fight.

But Astarion, with his stupid vampire elf ears, turns. Spots you. Follow your cringing gesture to the shards of brown glass and the shine coating the swamp ent.

He grins. “Ignis!”

Big, wooden bitch goes up like a christmas tree soaked in kerosene. It goes up so fast and so strong, it catches the other one on fire, too.

Without their big buddies around to protect them, Astarion and Gale make short work of the mud gremlins.

And that’s that. The fight is fucking over.

You can roll onto your back (suck in a gasp at the pain which makes it about eighteen times worse). Spend a few seconds not breathing, not moving as your chest spasms and the pain chews through your brain.

Cool hands touch the side of your neck. Sweat and swamp muck and the vague scent of wet rot. But beneath that, something light and floral.

Shadowheart frowns down at you. Sees you looking and gives a nod. She says her prayer and her hands light up and sweet, sweet relief washes through you like water over a cracked and broken riverbed.

You slump into a boneless sprawl.

“Thank you,” you say.

She starts to stand. Probably to go over and make sure Lae’zel has a pulse—the others call her a cleric, and apparently that means some kind of team medic. She takes that very seriously.

You catch her wrist just long enough to catch her attention. “Gale says we’re low on potions. Please don’t give her one, if you still got magic.”

She arches an eyebrow. “She won’t take that advice from me, you know.”

You close your eyes. Sigh. “God fucking damnit.”

And you roll, slowly, painfully, to your feet.

Shadowheart is correct. You’ve had an easier time bathing a cat in water than you do convincing Lae’zel to let Shadowheart heal her. The solution is damn near the same for both.

“Gale, you can paralyze people for a second, right?” you say.

He frowns, lips shaping “paralyze”, and his brows lift. “Hold person. Yes, I very much can.”

Lae’zel’s glare could probably punch through tank armor. “You would not dare.”

You look at her for a full three seconds. Then, “I’m fucking tired. I’m covered in filth, we’re in the middle of a goddamn swamp getting eaten by bugs, and there’s some kinda hag lurking around which sounds very scary. This is the fastest way.”

In the end, after a shit ton of grumbling, she lets Shadowheart lay on the jesus hands. Shadowheart does the job, but wincing and sneering the whole time. You’ve seen alley cats greet each other with better manners.

But it’s done. Y’all loot bodies for parts (mud gremlin pieces can be boiled down and rendered into one of the ingredients for Gale’s dirt potion, so that’s a badly needed win). Astarion finds some kind of thief gloves. Shadowheart and Lae’zel stand as far apart as they can while still, technically, remaining within the group perimeter.

And you find a chest with gold, a ring that glows faintly, and a shirt that has not a single fucking blood stain on it anywhere (you do not tear up). And while you’re totally not swiping your face with your wet, stinking, current shirtsleeve, you notice the crack in the tree.

Within, is another letter. You can’t read it, of course. Which leaves you in a conundrum.

Gale seems the most trustworthy. But you only got this far because of what Astarion found (and eventually shared). He’s also seen you in your least savory moments, and hasn’t appeared to have shared that with any of the others.

You hand the letter to him. And the entire group seems to rethink the life choices that lead to them following after you.

Except for Astarion, who lifts his eyebrows before giving a tiny tilt of his head that isn’t quite a bow. He cracks the seal. Reads silently. Says, “Oh, this is delicious.”

Bitch better not hold this against you again. He’s gonna do it. Gonna blackmail you or tease you or just in general be a dick. So when he looks at you and says, “Looks like you were correct, my dear” you almost think the dirt potion wore off.

Astarion skims the letter again, eyes tracking back and forth in a blur, and then he hands the letter to Shadowheart.

“Someone is helping Kahga with the promise of making her First Druid,” he says. “Should she succeed in finishing whatever that ritual they were all chanting.”

“A coup,” Gale says. He regards you a moment. Gives a nod. “Those was good instincts you had, Eleanor.”

Which isn’t a sentence you hear often. Maybe never.

“What are the shadow druids?” Shadowheart says.

“I’ve no idea. My scholarly pursuits did not veer into that field of study.”

The name sounds ominous. You look to Astarion, who stares back a moment before sighing and repeating the letter in full (the letter itself now in Gale’s hands).

“A power struggle,” you say after he’s done.

“So it would seem,” he says. And there’s something in the way he looks at you.

You pause a moment, thinking. You’ll need to poke around at the grove. See what the political landscape actually is. If too many know about Kahga’s intentions, your best bet might just be getting the tieflings out.

But.

Kahga and the douchecanoe she’s writing to have gone through a lot of trouble to hide this. Which you suspect means her support would be weak if others knew. If her faction is outnumbered, revealing her might just do the trick. At least remove her from the direct reins of power. Jam up her machinations and stall whatever’s going on. Give everyone some needed breathing room.

You need to head back. Do some scouting.

…everyone else is looking at you now, too—though Lae’zel appears to be trying to peel off you skin by glare alone (oh god, she’s going to wreck your shit if she gives you another workout, isn’t she).

“What?” you say.

“Your plan,” Astarion says. “Whatever devious scheme you’ve got flitting about in there.”

That…sounds like some kind of leadership thing. Which you aren’t. Because that would be a terrible idea. Everyone knows that. You can barely lead yourself out of bed every morning back home. You cannot be expected to do…whatever this shit is.

You open your mouth to explain that. Make them see how terrible that will be, both for them and for you. Only Gale interjects something. And you…do not understand a single word.

You look at him with horror sinking through your guts. Watch his lips move, his words rolling and strange, and no magical voiceover or translation pops into your head. You used your last potion last night because Astarion fucking could not resist chomping on your neck like it was a fucking ribeye in the middle of the night.

“Oh fuck me,” you say.

And none of them can make fun that phrase, because none of them speak English.

Chapter Text

“It wore off,” you say.

The group stares at you. Then stares in dismay when they, in fact, do not understand you. Shadowheart says something and her head falls back in a sigh.

Gale says something else, but seems more thoughtful than anything.

Astarion…is hard to read, as usual. On one hand, this seems incredibly funny to him. On the other, he clearly wanted a plan out of you and you’ve just been reduced to charades and pantomime.

Fuck.

This is going to be a nightmare.

You know the basic sentence structure. You know “help” and “no” and “yes.” You suspect you know some form of “hear me/listen” and some form of “incorrect.”

Time to test it.

“Listen,” you say. And it does grab their attention. You take another step out on this wobbly ass linguistics branch. “Kahga incorrect.”

Bunch of blank stares. So incorrect does not necessarily relate to bad in Faerunese. Interesting.

“Kahga no?” you try and scrunch your face in an exaggerated frown.

Gale and Shadowheart talk to each other for a moment, while Astarion regards you with his head cocked to one side. Only Lae’zel stands apart, looking bored. She has to do this every day, you realize.

Gale responds. Pinches the shoulder of your most recently acquired shirt (the one bought on his tab having been soaked in blood). He says something else, and then taps your staff and mimes hitting something.

Is he saying to fight? Only, your shirt has nothing to do with…the bandits. You got this shirt from the bandits y’all fought (the others fought while you racked up friendly fire points). The ground is muddy several inches deep, but not so saturated it slops around. You spot a twig, and hobble over to snatch it up.

Y’all have been busted back to caveman days in terms of communication. But stone aged people knew how to communicate with drawings.

Or stick figures, in your case.

You draw five of them. Give them swords. It looks pretty terrible, and Gale squints and turns sideways. You repeat his second word—the verbs all have endings you’re sort of seeing a pattern to, and this one didn’t have that, so you guess it was a noun.

You gesture to the figures. To Lae’zel. Draw your stick through the head of a figure and make a sort of “slurgh” sound effect (the actual sound of a skull cleaved in two is harder to replicate).

The next stick figure you chop at with your staff, but then point to Lae’zel. Clutch your own shoulder and say, “Ch’k!” That gets a glare out of her.

You point to the figures. Say the noun(?) again. Gale nods.

Bandits. All of that to establish the word bandits.

“Bandits no?” you say. Hoping Gale understands where you’re taking this. If something is no, something is a negative. If something is negative, then it must also be…?

“Bandits,” he says, and then something else. It has to be “bad”, right? “Bandits bad, Kahga bad.” Gesture to the smoking swamp ents. “Bad.”

Right. Cool. About five minutes for one word. This isn’t going to be horrible at all.

So then Gale, of course, makes you repeat it back to him three times. At which point Astarion finally loses his patience, snorts, and fucking mind-whammies you.

All of you, actually. Because none of you have tried (to your knowledge) to do this on purpose, so none of y’all really know what you’re doing. One moment, y’all are standing there stewing in frustration, the next your brain shivers and seems to blast right out of your skull as it simultaneously opens up into petals like a blooming, agonizing flower.

You shout and stagger back. Your hand goes for the pommel of your great sword. Ghaik sorcery! Which of these outsider fools would dare—

You mind is a hollow, echoing thing, but you still throw up all your defenses when it’s forcibly opened. Secrecy is one of the greatest tenets of the dark lady, and you will not—

Oh, Mystra save us, what is this idiot doing—

Fuck fuck fuck fuck get the fuck out no no no fuck—

Oh shit! You backpedal. This hadn’t quite been what you intended because now they can all feel the hunger, a constant beast clawing at your innards, through the blood, the scent of her blood—NO. The plan! Quickly!

Gather intelligence! Shadow druids, Kahga’s allies. How many? Opposition forces? Enough to oust her? Fuck, my head is splitting. There’s something very wrong, something not the brainworm, there’s something so, so wrong—focus. Find the opposition leader—the man who argued with her over the child. Only a suspicion, but learn the terrain—

The connection severs. Your knees give out and your brain quivers like jello in an earthquake. It’s all you can do to remember to breathe.

Sensation comes back slow. Cold and damp soaking through the knees of your trousers. Definitely trousers, and not pants. The heavy stink of wet and rot and swamp. Water dripping from your hair and down the back of your neck. Your chilled tunic clinging to your skin.

Eleanor. You are Eleanor and you are in a swamp and you are going to fucking strangle that fucking goblin man—

“Astarion, goddamnit!” you say right around the time everyone else recovers enough to reach the same conclusion.

Bastard doesn’t even look sorry, just a touch paler than usual, blue-purple eye bags standing out a bit more.

You’re pretty sure what he says is some form of, “What? It worked, didn’t it?” based on the looks from everyone else.

And it did, the shithead. Which seems the only reason both Lae’zel and Shadowheart don’t try to bash his head in.

A hand descends into your vision. Gale helps you back to your feet. He looks at you for a moment, brow furrowed. He seems on the verge of asking you something. But then he tucks that expression away. Says, “Kahga bad. We all,” this communicated by looping his hand to indicate all y’all and Faerunese seems to have a distinct word for that, just like Cherokee does which is neat. “We all listen. Talk druids.”

You think he says “druids.” Mostly because he holds his fingers up to make antlers on the side of his head and that word has the same ending as bandits, leading part of your mind to drift off pondering how the nouns are even formed in this language (is it by what they do? some common physical or behavioral description? Huh).

He turns to you, eyebrows raised. So you nod, because what else is there to do? Fucking Astarion and his mind-whammy.

And that seems to settle it.

Gale does tap your shoulder as the others prepare to leave (none of y’all are keen to camp out here with all the fucking biting flies and god knows what else). Says a word and points to his eyes. Then says something you vaguely recognize. A plant. Might be mergrass, you think? He’d explained all this before. This might be the one that grew near water? Or maybe the one that grew on cliffs? You’re not really sure, but you nod anyway.

It’s a long walk back to the border of the swamp. There’s no mergrass anywhere.

The next day, you expect silent walking, on your part. You do not receive it.

Gale, and by extension everyone else—lay into your lessons. Pointing things out. Quizzing your vocabulary. Quizzing you a little too hard until you start mixing up words and Gale’s smile thins around the edges.

Lae’zel absolutely kicks your ass. Blood loss, sleep deprivation, and exhaustion be damned. She all but runs you into the ground. You’re so tired you bypass the campfire entirely and trudge your way back to your tent. But her hissing words stop you, and you find her pointing to a spot next to the fire like summoning a dog. Apparently she takes eating seriously.

Makes you do stretches after them, too.

Your entire body hurts. Your brain hurts. You don’t even remember making it to your tent, let alone falling asleep. You wake with your mouth open, drool crusted up one cheek, and a horrific taste in your mouth.

All for it to start over. You don’t even have enough energy to feel any way about it all. Which might be a good thing, considering y’all are marching in to instigate a counter-coup. You should be wound tighter than pig’s tail. Instead, you’re numb and brain dead to your surroundings. It’s all trees, dirt, rising hills, and flashes of Gale’s boots (which are actually rather nice; got some good stitching on them).

You’re all but stumbling around so bad that Shadowheart has words with Lae’zel on the side. Even Astarion…well, calling it helping would be overkill. He’s less bitchy? You’ll go with less bitchy. Waits a whole hour or two before he starts complaining (which you pick up on by the tone alone).

Too bad you can’t talk to him anymore. He’s sticking a little closer than he did on the way down. You want to know about elves. You wouldn’t mind learning about vampires. But you get neither, because all his conversation is one way (you’re pretty sure Gale outright banned him from your language lessons after the whole “panties” thing).

He doesn’t try to bite you again. At least not that following night. And from the lack of shouting and beheadings, you assume he didn’t go after any of the others. Who all give him a wider berth than before.

The next day has more walking and more aching and more sore muscles. Honestly, you’re just a big, walking muscle strain at this point. Not a goddamn square inch of your body that isn’t weeping in aches. Your body is so sick of it, all you manage for breakfast on the third day is a cup of tea while the others finish. They all give you stink eye, but you must look real wretched, because none of them thrust a plate into your face.

(You don’t pass Gale slipping extra rations into your pack.)

You’re woozy when you stand that morning. Fucking exhaustion.

Which only gets worse as the day crawls on. The headache is still there, still chewing at you. Lunch rolls around and you really should eat. But the cheese they give you smells rank. You try a nibble, and your throat damn near closes.

Gale doesn’t let it go as easily, this time. Offers you an apple. You can only shake your head and blink as your vision swims (is Lae’zel mean mugging you?).

Fuck, you need ibuprofen. And ice cream. Mint ice cream with oreo pieces, swirled with fudge and brownie bits. How come no one makes that flavor? It’s always chips or cookies and it’s hard enough to even find the ones with cookies. Stingy fucks.

The wizard keeps shooting glances your way as y’all hit the road again. The ground starts to turn steep. The air dries out your swamp-crusted clothes.

You miss showers and lavender body wash. The steam rising. The clean porcelain of the tub and the thick suds in your hair. The way you close your eyes and lean back to rinse the suds, let the hot water stream over you—

You’re falling. The little balance tripwire inside your inner ear plucks and your whole body jolts as everything tilts—

Your face hurts. It really fucking hurts. You’re somewhere. Somewhen. Maybe? It’s hard to think. You’ve been gone forever. Why do you hurt? Where the fuck are you?

Voices. Shouting. A reptilian hiss and a clanking, jostling noise.

Warm hands on your cheek. Slide down to your neck. Pulse point.

Tickles.

Someone grabs you, eases you onto your side. You were on your front? Lying on your face? That’s weird. You try to pull away and a man says something.

Not in fucking English. Not in fucking anything.

“Eleanor?” the man says and your voice carries an accent you don’t recognize.

There’s another voice, higher and lilting and sounding real agitated.

Wait. You’re Eleanor. Oh fuck. Oh shit. What happened? What—

Wrench your eyes open. Horrific sunlight blasts right through your pupils to stab you in the brain. But not before Gale’s blurry face swims into view. Astarion’s head of fluffy, white curls glints like a silver white cloud around his head. You’re on the ground. You don’t remember stopping, let alone lying down. Your face throbs. Did you bite your lip?

Gale talks fast. Shadowheart answers, voice strained. Something is going on to your left. You tilt your head—black out a second—come back to find her wrestling Lae’zel on the ground. Lae’zel’s fuck off sword lies in the dirt a foot from your head.

A flash of light and Gale’s voice thrums. A purple glow locks Lae’zel into place. Leaves Shadowheart to stand, panting, her gaze darting to you. Oh, she looks worried. Poor thing. You’re fine. Just a bit of a bump. Nothing even hurts anymore.

…that’s probably not good.

But you don’t care. You don’t feel anything.

Nothing hurts.

Nothing…

No…

Chapter Text

Nothing. Floating? Time passes maybe. Or doesn’t. No focus. Just stillness, darkness, and nothing at all.

A shiver of sound. A single drop of rain gusted off the wet branches of a pine tree above you. Splats right on your forehead, cold and wet.

But nothing hurts. And you don’t want to. You’re tired. You’ve been tired a long time. Longer than this brainworm bullshit.

Another shiver. Almost words. All dry and rasping, but the nothing shivers around it.

Some bullshit. Just let you rest for fuck’s—

“Eleanor,” the voice rattles.

You slam back. Lungs seize, muscles scream and cramp and your body twists. Horrible noises wrench out of your throat. Ice and then terrific heat blasts through you and your vision sort of explodes.

And then it’s over.

You sprawl, boneless, mindless for a time. Dimly register someone moving over you. Tucking limbs in. Someone that smells faintly like flowers on a spring morning.

You drift into dreams. Fragments of them, anyway. Nothing you’ll remember later. Just your brain flailing around, trying to reconnect torn and jagged wiring.

The brainworm pulses in time to your heartbeat. Even it tries to hold you together. Hold some sense of you in place long enough for that strange, icy burn to finish sewing you back together.

When you open your eyes again, it’s dark.

This feels very déjà vu.

“Hello?” you say. Your vocal cords are shredded. The cough is automatic and pain roils through you.

Someone murmurs. A cool hand, fingertips rough with calluses slide under you. You recognize the scent. Shadowheart. She’s easing you up, bracing you against her. Then cool metal touches your lips and your body latches onto the first taste of water.

“Did Astarion bite me again?” you rasp.

She says a word, not English. Right. Language potion all used up.

You’re in a tent. Blue fabric above you, though it’s hard to tell in the low light. Quiet voices chatter outside. Your mouth tastes like you’ve been licking a week-dead skunk, and your bones creak when you move.

The fuck happened?

Shadowheart lifts what you now know is a bowl again. You sip more water. Let your throat work that down, and then polish off the rest. Only once that’s done does she let you lie back down.

You remember…walking? Sunlight. Being really tired.

Did…did you pass out?

Shadowheart leans out of the tent and calls to someone. Gale answers back. Footsteps crunch outside, and then he’s poking his head in. Surveys you. His smile is strange and tight around the edges. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Oh fuck.

“What,” you start to say, remember again that none of y’all can fucking understand one another.

He only nods and converses with Shadowheart. Who says the word “no” along with some verbs. Gale sighs and ducks back out.

“Um,” you say.

Then Shadowheart lifts one of her camping crackers. Says a verb you think in this context means “Eat this or I’ll make you.”

You really don’t want to. But expectation pours off of her, and she holds eye contact until you blink first and take the cracker. Force a nibble.

More footsteps. Ones you’re beginning to recognize as Gale, and the other…the other is fucking weird. Too light. Kind of dragging, almost? Like—

The tent flap lifts. Gale and—

You choke on a mouthful of cracker. Crumbs spray everywhere but you’re too busy trying—and failing—to throw yourself backwards in a primal scream as Wither’s desiccated face peers down at you.

“Jesus,” you manage, still choking (sorry, Shadowheart).

Withers doesn’t seem bothered. Withers never seems bothered by anything. You’re not even sure he notices the rest of the world around him. No idea what goes on in that shriveled brain (does he have a brain? how does that even work and why does your mind insist it looks like a crusty, dehydrated old sponge?).

The others speak. You catch your name a few times.

“It was not thouest time,” Withers says. Holy fuck, his voice should not echo like that. Nothing should sound like that and you should absolutely, definitely not be fucking around with dead people.

Gale seems exasperated for some reason. Gestures to you.

“Ah. The limits of the mortal tongue. Very well, if I must.” Never have you heard a mummy sound so dry. Then he turns to you and all thought flees into the night. “Thou was conceived of a different plane. As thouest body is born from it, so is thouest soul. As one was removed from that plane, the bond betweenst the two strains, and will, in time, sever.”

You gawk. Lot of old-timey words in there. A lot of mystical woo woo shit.

“My soul?” you manage.

“Indeed.”

“It’s not…” Real, you want to say. No heaven, no hell, no great judgment day for your mother and her husband and their band of psychos to sweep the “unclean” from the earth in the lord’s name. “It’s still…on earth?”

“Tied to the pane that bore it, yes.”

But you are here. So…

“Did I just fucking die?” you say.

“Indeed. Thouest body lives and breathes, but thouest soul remains connected by merely a single thread. One that frays, even now.”

You look at him. Look at Gale and Shadowheart. Who both wear the grimmest expressions you’ve ever seen on them. And you’ve seen them picking over eviscerated bodies.

“Can you fix it?” you say. Your throat is tight and your voice comes out all strained and pathetic.

“As such, that is beyond my power,” Withers says and everything goes sort of numb.

You…are dying. Like, actively. That’s what he’s saying. You apparently have a real soul, and it’s not in fucking Faerun with the rest of you, and that’s going to kill you.

“However, I can anchor thee. Strengthen the bond between thouest soul and flesh for a time.

Gale makes a motion to you. Taps his temple. Your brainworm twitches. He’s asking permission for a mindwhammy.

Well fuck. This is, this is all a little much. Sure. Whatever. Why not.

You think of your own worm. Of the way it felt when it pulled at that dead guy.

There. Something in Gale. The parasite shivers, reaching, wanting.

It connects.

This isn’t the wild flood Astarion triggered. This is tighter, more focused even as your skull pounds and the damn thing crocodile rolls along the inner curve of your brain cavity.

A potion. Gale’s thoughts are narrow and focused, less a blast of sunlight, and more a narrow laser beam. And that thought must leak across because you feel him pause, feel thoughts moving like great gears in his mind before he forces that aside. And he’s not thinking in words, exactly. More ideas and visuals and feelings. And there, swimming around all of that, a touch of fear. Not entirely for you. Something deeper, darker, far more personal—

A shove. You almost lose the connection. It was him, redirecting you. He gives you a small shake of his head.

No prying. Even unintentionally.

Don ’t want to do this too often. No idea if it will strengthen the parasite.

Ah, makes sense.

I have the ingredients. Very common. Steady supply. Will have the first batch in the morning. Strengthen your ties to this plane, coax your soul closer. Withers gave instructions. But more needed …

The connection wriggles. Loosens. He fumbles for it, a kite string unspooling out of control, the kite caught in a massive gust.

Need relic. Summon your soul and contain it.

The connection snaps. The both of you fall back, reeling.

“Fuck!” you say and slam your hand over your right eye. The pain throbs for a moment before it begins to soften, to dim, to fade.

Leaving…no pain. For the first time in days, your mind is clear. Battered and bruised, but not locked in a vice of agony.

Your soul fraying from your body. Fuck a duck.

“Thou shall remain until the time is right,” Withers says all cryptic, like a magical, talking fucking mummy. And that seems to be that. He just turns and leaves all of you there.

“Sorry,” Gale says (you’ve picked that one up by now). Gestures. You think he means to ask if you’re alright.

You’re not. You’re anything but. Your face is going hot in a way that usually means sobbing, but everyone is all staring at you, and you crunch down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Don’t. You can’t fucking do that, don’t you do that. You will not cry in front of these people. You will not give them or anybody that. Never. Never again. Stop.

You give Gale a thumbs up.

Which he seems to understand? Sure.

He nods and leaves. Off to make the potion to keep your soul from flying off into space or whatever. Because that’s something you get to worry about now, how fun.

Magic is going to be the only thing keeping you alive. Potions. Cause that’s going so swimmingly right now, too.

Shadowheart finally leaves you to rest. Lets the tent flap close behind her. Leaving you in the dark, where you can turn away, pull the blanket up, over your head, and scream silently. You have a lot of practice at that. Know how to quiet the gasps in between so none of them ever come and check on you. You can suffer alone and in silence. You’re good at that.

Chapter Text

Your face is puffy in the morning. Always is. You were never a pretty crier; it always left evidence all over your face for the others to see. Always marked you out as easier prey.

So you do as you always do. Make a show of being so goddamn exhausted. It wasn’t tears that left your eyelids swollen, it was a really rough night. Tossing and turning. You slept wrong, and make a show out of trying to massage out the crick in your neck. Find cool water so you can splash your face and hopefully coax the swelling down.

You avoid the others as long as possible. You’re an old hand at it all. Natural as breathing.

“Eleanor!” Gale calls as soon as you come back from dunking yourself in the river (your clothes are impossibly swamp-stained). The headache is still gone. You can, for the first time (through the heavy numbness clinging to you) notice how pretty the woods might be. How sweet the air smells. You should focus on that, you know. Grab at the small niceties and refuse to let them go. The only floating debris in the oil-slicked crash site in your head.

The whole “dying” thing threatens to put a damper on that—

“Hey,” you say. Your voice, luckily, is none the worse for wear. One point to silent crying.

You run your fingers through your damp hair. It’s getting longer on the sides, almost enough to brush the upper edge of your ear. You’re going to have dandelion head before too long, assuming you live long enough—

Gale all but bounds over to you, beaming. He presents you a still-hot bottle with a flourish.

Ah. Another potion. The potion to anchor your soul, the potion brewed especially to anchor your soul, your soul potion. Because if you can make this funny, maybe you can keep yourself all upright and on your feet and responding to everyone.

He wants to talk to you. Gale wants to talk to you so fucking bad. And you’ve got psychic brainworms, but who knows what using the damned things does? Maybe, as long as y’all are quiet with them, they’ll keep sleeping, instead of punching tentacles out of your face in a spray of blood and teeth and slime.

The potion smells like hot metal. Straight-up car engine. You wrinkle your nose and hold it away, but Gale gives you a stern look. Realize the others are watching from their respective tents.

This is bullshit.

“Bottoms up,” you mumble and toss it back.

Yep, hot metal all the way down. It’s that time you set water to boil (in a pan, because you were too poor for kettles and microwaves) and forgot about it until the smell of the pan burning itself crawled up your sinuses. Then comes a kick weirdly like clove, bitter like spinach, and then more hot metal. You might as well be licking an iron pipe.

“Sweet fuck,” you say. You have to clamp a hand over your mouth as some of it comes back up. Force swallow it down.

That shit is vile.

“What the fuck did you put in here?”

But Gale is watching you carefully. Beckons Shadowheart over, who says something magic and her hands glow. You stand there and shut off the breathing through your nose, hoping enough mouth breathing might dull the awful taste.

Then she’s done. She nods. Gale beams. You get the sense yeah, he’s happy it worked or whatever, but also he’s a bit smug with himself. Something about the tilt of his chin. And the way he motions you over to the front of his tent where it looks like he’s converted the space into a magical field lab.

There’s herbs. Some kind of powder collection. An empty vial with something still clinging to the bottom. He notices you noticing, and plucks it up.

Could almost be wine, maybe. Except wine isn’t that viscous. It’s not that dark, either. You stare at him, totally not shielding it from your view.

“Gale, what is that?” you say. Only it’s in Faerunese and it’s actually, “Gale, over there what is?”

He picks up the herbs you clearly are not referring to. Says the name.

“Gale.”

He stares back. Then sighs. Prattles a second before handing the empty vial over to you and letting you sniff at it.

Metal and earthy musk.

“Is that blood?” you say.

He doesn’t understand you, of course. You don’t have the vocabulary (or mental capacity at the moment) for this. Everything is spiraling down the shitter.

You tap the inside of your wrist, at the purple veins there. Then tap where Astarion bit you (the mark closed thanks to Shadowheart’s magic and the potion they poured down your semi-unconscious throat).

“Blood,” you say, in English. Then in Faerunese, “This is?”

You’ve caught him. His whole frame screams guilt. But, being Gale, he repeats what has to be “blood” in Faerunese. And then waits for you to repeat it.

Which you do, after the image of throwing the bottle at his stupid face flashes across your mind.

“Whose?” you say (English). You point from it to him. Hope it’s from a chicken or a rabbit or something. Animal blood you can understand—plenty of people use that in food. That would be the sensible thing.

But.

But he winces.

He winces.

And then points to himself. And then points to Shadowheart, and gestures to the entire fucking camp.

Your thoughts stutter. Your body goes sort of numb, even as a shiver runs through you. Even as Gale indicates with his fingers something tiny, a jab at a finger, the little oil lantern under the chemistry set on his desk as if to say, “See? Hot. Cooked.”

Their blood. All of their blood, and you threw it back like that cheap vodka you tried one time.

Your stomach heaves.

“No, no!” Gale says even as you swallow it back down.

“Why?” you say and enough of that must be beyond translation, because he sighs again. Ponders a moment. And then taps his temple.

Oh good. Why not potentially piss off the brainworms. It’s not even the worst thing happening to you right now.

This mind-whammy is short. The thoughts burst in your head like fireworks before he’s gone again and leaving you reeling.

Tethers, Wither had mentioned. Gale had visualized a thread, too thin and too taught. And then a purple one coming in and sewing through it, sewing into you. A black thread. Green. White. All of them stitching into you and tugging something far away just a bit closer.

Their blood. Their essence, part of Faerun itself (as you are of Earth) threading through you and reinforcing that link. Drawing your soul in.

Wait. Four threads. That’s…

“Lae’zel?” you say. “She’s not even…”

And then the full implication chops you over the head. You turn. Find the red tent and the floofy, white hair outside it. Because Astarion is, in fact, watching you. And is, in fact, grinning like a bastard. He’s got a goblet (possibly wine, but he’s been keeping bottles of animal blood in his tent this whole time, turns out, and he ain’t shy about that no more). When you look over, he lifts that goblet in a toast.

Welcome to the club, he seems to say.

Absolute fucking goblin.

Gale shrugs helplessly. Says, “Withers talk. Us all.”

Dirt potion has been, for now, replace by blood (hlurgh) potion. Fuck your life. Abducted by aliens to a fucking fantasy world and you’re still on daily medications. Swell.

Though that pings another thought. Or a lack of pings, really: no brain zings. You’ve been off your Earth meds for well long enough to have side effects. Brain zings, lethargy, massive bad temper. But you got none of that. The brainworm, maybe? Has to be. That or being here has fundamentally altered your physical makeup on like, an atomic level or something (holy shit, do you not have depression anymore? No, you’re not that lucky).

You feel much better, everything else aside. Physically. Still sore and aching from all the walking, but your head is clear and the bone-deep drag and time loss disappears.

Lae’zel stares holes into the side of your head as y’all head out again. She still runs you through the paces the next night, though. And this time, you manage to unlace your stays yourself. Progress?

But the way she watches you. It’s so cold. A crocodile in the river, eyes unblinking as a baby zebra picks its way down to the edge of the water.

You still wear stains and the faint stench of swamp and sweat and mud gremlin guts. Once Lae’zel is done with you that night, you grab your things, walk down to the river, and just keep walking—fully dressed—until your feet lift off the bottom and you float.

One good thing about being plus-sized: you are a personal flotation device. The only treading you have to do is enough to keep you floating upright instead of rolling over as your girls try to bob out the top of your tunic.

You float like that for a long while. Swirl your clothes around you and submerge yourself a couple of times to scrub at your hair and scalp. Then you paddle a little closer to shore, blow out, and let yourself sink.

Bubbles stream out of your lips. Your feet touch soft mud. You crouch down there, unable to sink far enough to sit, and see how long you can stay put.

You used to do this when you were a kid, down at the creek when the water ran high enough. Down here, there’s no sound. No one watching you, judging you. The water is cool, the pressure squeezes. It’s calming. You can close your eyes and listen only to your own pulse whooshing in your ears and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

No one can hurt you. No one can mock you. No one to call you a fuck up or failure. No constant, crushing sin.

Just you and your heartbeat and the press of the river.

At least until your lungs start to bitch, and the burn gets too much.

You plant your toes and launch yourself upwards. Breach the surface in a little hop, and clear your nose and suck in a deep gasp.

A fucking voice says something.

“Jesus fuck!” You whirl.

It’s Astarion, of course. Bastard stands at the water’s edge, face unreadable, his pale feet bare against the muck. Then ends of his trouser legs are rolled up, and for a mortifying second, you wonder if he was about to come in after you. Until you see the bundle of cloth under his arm.

Right. Laundry. Other people have lives outside of your bullshit.

“Hey,” you say in English, just because you can.

“Hello,” he says in Faerunese.

You wade back to shore, sluicing water as you go. Not the best laundry job ever, but you hope enough soaking and maybe some of the worst stains might lighten at least a little.

You’d give up your eye teeth for a goddamn washing machine.

He waits for you to slog onto the bank before moving in after you. Gravity presses back in, and your muscles remember how pissed they are.

The walk back to camp seems longer. The group has seemed to collectively agree on today being laundry day, and they’ve rigged up a sort of drying rack near the fire. They’ll smell like woodsmoke whenever the wind shifts, but that’s way better than gremlin guts. As you’re hanging them, you feel something in a pocket. Reach inside, and something glowing comes out.

That ring from the swamp. You forgot all about it.

It’s not flashlight bright. Not even cell phone bright. It’s enough for you to walk in the woods without tripping over anything directly underfoot, though. The band is plain, and from the look and feel, you suspect that’s real gold.

You never had real jewelry before. Never had the budget. The thing fits on your right ring finger, barely. You look at it, wave your hand around, watch dim shadows stretch and dance away from you, and catch Gale smiling softly at your display.

This is something nice. Another small thing you can latch onto. A shit awful mess, but you’re the proud owner of a real, gold ring for the first time in your whole life.

You don’t talk much around the fire back when you still had dirt potions. You try to listen to the others, but it ain’t the same. You didn’t realize how nice it was to sit back and listen until you can’t no more. You can only eat your food, cut off from the rest of camp.

Tomorrow, y’all should reach the grove. You’ll have to figure y’all’s shit out. Hopefully someone has the mergrass Gale needs so you can communicate again.

Soft footsteps pad up behind you. Nice of him to give himself away, this time. Astarion stops at the drying rack to fussily spread his dripping clothes. They appear to be linens, maybe? Towels? Long strips of undyed cotton or linen.

He finds your gaze, squints a second, and slaps on a smile that screams “mischief!”

Oh, what the fuck is he—

He points to one of the rags. Maybe two feet wide, three feet long. He’s got three of them (you have no idea where the fuck he even stole those from).

He gestures to you, points to the nearest linen. Only Shadowheart is close enough to notice and take an interest in whatever this is.

“You,” Astarion says (you’ve picked that one up). “You this is.”

The cloth. He’s saying is…yours?

You frown, mime grabbing it, point to yourself.

He nods.

“Why,” you say because Gale made you learn that one and this time it isn’t a question.

His grin is pure light and benevolence when he says, “Panties.”

Shadowheart snorts into her cup. You consider pulling the rag off and whipping it at his head. But this feels like a personal challenge, and you could use the fucking distraction. He might have a radically unfair advantage over you, but that about sums up your whole life.

“Thank you,” you say, deadpan, like it’s a normal gift between camp mates.

He gives a little bow.

Chapter Text

You can feel the Grove before you round the last bend and actually lay eyes on the damn thing. That heavy, oppressive dread. The goblin bodies have been cleared out, and there don’t appear to be any new ones. Hopefully, it’s been quiet while y’all were gone.

The gate lifts when the tiefling guards recognize y’all (and ain’t it interesting that it’s the very people that bitch wants to kick out who seem to be doing most of the heavy lifting, so to speak). You pass a young couple inside stacking their stuff into a wagon. Once in the cave, the others break off to talk to the trader, and you clock three more tieflings arguing with each other down the way.

Last time, you veered right. You can’t really speak, but you can still snoop. This time, you turn left. An old tiefling cooks at a cauldron. A blacksmith bangs away at a forge (you want to go over and watch so bad; you ain’t seen blacksmithing before).

But before all that, is the clacking and grunting. There, in another shaft of sunlight, a wooden platform. Training dummies stand in a line. Several tiefling whap at them with wooden swords. But it’s the gaggle of kids and the Black man talking to them in a low, easy tone that draws you in.

The kids look scared. One seems to be on the verge of tears. It’s this one the man takes a knee to talk to. Hand on then scrawny shoulder. Head ducked low so he can peer up at the wet face.

You know a pep talk, even if you don’t know the words.

He’s training them to fight. Training all of them to fight. They’re being kicked out with the looming threat of goblins; of course they’re teaching the kids defense.

Jesus.

The man stands. Readjusts the grip the kid has on the practice sword. Guides them to a dummy. A bash at the knees. A jab to the groin. All things within a kid’s reach. All things more likely to incapacitate than kill.

He backs off, lets the kid have another few goes. Claps and his voice carries an exuberant warmth. Enough that the kid swipes their face with a forearm and hacks at the dummy again.

The man turns, surveying the others, and that’s when he spots you. Faint recognition sparks in his eyes—eye, you see as you get closer; the other is artificial. You saw him before, during that goblin fight. Only a flash or two—you were hanging back and mostly trying to stay out of the way.

His eyebrows lift all friendly and he says something.

To which you can only smile and make a vague hand gesture to your ear. “Don’t speak y’all’s language, sorry.”

Though the “sorry” is in Faerunese.

The man nods slowly. Looks behind you and spots your companions—now clear of the trader and making their way over.

You turn back to the one-eyed man as he opens his mouth, and the goddamn worm flails in your skull. You’re distantly aware of shouting behind you, the man slams a hand to his head, and then your knees almost buckle and you stagger over to the fence—

Red skin. Black horn. Eyes liquid gold and the demon woman literally burns as an ax the size of your torso splits down—

Horror and urgency. A monster on the loose. She’ll carve a path of blood and bone up and down the Coast if you can’t find her, stop her—

The whammy passes. You hang, limp, over the fence and pant. Voices call around you. A child. You lift your head to see the man—

Wyll.

—see him comforting the crying kid again. Then footsteps jog up behind you as the rest of the group hightails it over, Astarion’s lilting voice sharp in annoyance.

Fuck, that brain shit is jarring when it isn’t Gale.

Everyone talks around you. Introductions and what the fucks, if you had to guess. Dude got brainwormed, too. You’d sensed concern in him. Where Gale had been shielded and Astarion a hot mess, Wyll had felt…collected. Worried, but channeled, like storm water redirected into an arroyo. All of his emotions serve a purpose.

Part of that worry is for the tieflings.

“Hello,” you say, hoping that passes as a form of “excuse me.” It nabs Gale’s attention, and to him you say, “Talk shadow druid.”

Wyll picks up on that with a frown. Repeats it slower, but shakes his head. More conversation—fucking running out of that potion, goddamnit.

“Go noun talk,” he says. Or that’s the part you pick up on, anyway.

Gale thanks him. Turns to leave.

But this guy has a brainworm, too. He seems a capable fighter, and, unlike everyone else (you included), doesn’t seem like a complete douchebag.

“Wyll,” you say. “You, um. You walk, talk, all of us? Walk, we sleep over there, eat. All of us also?”

Fuck, this is fucking hard. Come with us, you try to say. Join us in activities. Hopefully it made some sort of sense and wasn’t just babbled gibberish.

Astarion scoffs. But Wyll looks to Gale, says something with his head tilted. A “I’m considering, however” gesture.

The thoughts you’d seen. The demon woman. He’s hunting her. Worried about stopping her.

The last thing y’all need is another fight. But. But people working together, gadugi, got your ancestors through ten thousand years and a whole ass genocide, so hey.

“We all,” you say, swirl your finger to gesture to the group. Then make a stabbing motion. “We all, you. Bad fire tiefling.” Stab again.

Take the meaning, Wyll. Please, please have understood that.

He nods again, slowly. Gale meets your eye—the rest of the group bitching, some more quietly than others (Astarion)—and nods as well. Then Wyll is clapping Gale’s forearm, before holding out a hand to you.

Look at you, making friends and allies.

Now, to start a possible coup.

The person Wyll sent y’all to talk to is a druid woman whispering to birds. Neat. You let Gale and Wyll do all the talking, while you watch Bird Lady. The second she hears “shadow druid” her face darkens.

Well shit. There’s your answer.

She’s agitated, now. Talking low, looking around. You catch Kahga’s name a couple of times, that Halsin guy as well. You need to communicate. You don’t have the vocabulary to pantomime this.

You tap Gale’s shoulder and temple-tap. The muscles of his jaw clench, but he nods.

Initiating the mind-whammy is, somehow, even more disorienting when you’re the one starting it. The world shifts, and you can see yourself standing there—

Oh my fucking god, you are such a mess, you look half dead and greasy—

Focus, Gale thinks.

You close your eyes. Both sets. How many for Kahga, how many for Halsin?

It is… a whole trip to feel Gale’s brain forming words and speaking them. If your lids weren’t shut, you’d be cross-eyed and drooling right now.

Five or six for Kahga certainly. More every day, Gale translates. Must act soon. Now. Before tide shifts.

Tell her gather Halsin ’s people. Armed—

A spike of alarm through him, but also the others (oh goddamnit, it’s a group chat again fuck) and you feel disgust, disappointment, and amusement.

Scheming, as in derogatory. Has to be Lae’zel.

Winning, you think and picture wolves on an elk. Which seems to slap Shadowheart right out of the group chat. More numbers, no fight, easier victory—

The connection sloughs off. You gasp and blink at the sudden daylight. Sway a moment until your balance kicks back in.

Lae’zel is, indeed, curling her lip. She wants a fight. Wants honor or glory or whatever stupidass thing her people and that fuck off sword value.

But you don’t want a fight. You want to win. And that means setting the pieces so the enemy never has a warning, never has a chance to respond. Because the enemy is bigger than you, stronger, more numerous, more influential. They have more power than you can ever claim, and trying to fight something like that is suicide.

You know how to bide your time, suck it up, and wait for the right moment. How to strike in the dead of night and be gone before anyone even knows you’re missing. Beyond reach before they can lift a finger.

Fairness is for people who can afford to lose.

Astarion stares at you until you notice, and looks away, pretending he wasn’t absolutely doing just that.

Gale must present your idea to Bird Lady. She looks grim as fuck as she sends her last birds off. As she turns and surveys the circle of druids around their idol, chanting as magical, green haze fills the air around them.

Her eyes are scared when she looks to you.

Which leaves the tieflings. The terrified kids swinging wooden swords around. The tieflings as a whole clearly don’t know how to fight if Wyll has to teach their children. You think of the skinny one that don’t talk, of the pipsqueak y’all saved from the harpies. If this goes bad, they need to stay out of it, stay hidden and safe.

“Wyll,” you say. “Tieflings also. No this here. Walk over there. All them shh.”

You mime crouching. Put a hand over your mouth, motion under Bird Lady’s bench.

Wyll’s gaze is sharp. His nod swift. He says something to Gale, who turns and nods at you. Well takes off at what could almost pass as a casual stroll, if you hadn’t seen the tight expression on his face.

“Tieflings,” Gale says and a verb. One he demonstrates ducking down. Hopefully it’s “to hide.”

Good. That’s good. Keep the civilians out of this. Keep the kids the fuck away from this.

The door to Kahga stands twenty feet to your left. You itch to slip in there, get things over with (or run for the hills because what the fuck are you playing at here). But you need to give them time. They got to get everybody ready, and you can’t draw attention to yourselves just yet.

So you look over to the man in the foppish had trying to talk to a bear, and let your feet guide you, and clasp your free hand into a tight fist so no one can see how it shakes.

Chapter Text

It takes about forty minutes, you guess. You let Gale talk to the foppish hat man. Wander around and find an elevator and a rabid squirrel. It makes the mistake of trying to bite Lae’zel. It will never make another mistake again.

And then, below, you spot Bird Lady emerge from the cavern. She searches, finally notices y’all up there, and nods just once.

No one stops you from going into the druid cave. There’s no yelling as you trundle down the stairs. Water drips from the ceiling, and somewhere, a stream gurgles. There’s a wolf and three other druids in there with Kahga: Rath, a tall man and woman, and a short guy. No other bystanders, no possible backup for either side.

Fuck mcfuckity fuck.

You can’t stop the urge to gulp down air. Your hands rapidly go numb and awkward, your fingers little better than dead sausages hanging at your side. Gale is tense beside you, knuckles white as he grips his staff. Shadowheart unbuckles the first clip of the two that hold her mace to her back. Lae’zel is pure, coiled violence. And Astarion isn’t walking so much as slinking down at the tail end of the group.

You pull back 1. To be out of the way and 2. To get that stupid letter from Astarion. You almost drop it, and he gives your shaking hands a look.

It’s Kahga, predictably, who notices y’all first. She calls out something, but then y’all are on the main floor and you split off to the other man, Rath. While Gale talks to Kahga—pulling her attention from you for a crucial few seconds—you wordlessly hand the letter over. Watch Rath’s eyes dart back and forth, his dark brows furrowing.

“Kahga shadow druid,” you say. “Shadow druid talk no Halsin. Here no Halsin.”

Rath looks at you, and he doesn’t believe you. Or he doesn’t want to believe you. You’ve seen that expression before, many times. It never ends well.

Perhaps you’ll get lucky. Perhaps Kahga ain’t so far gone she can’t be brought back from that ledge.

Rath’s words to her are full of disbelief. Pain. You have to close your eyes and turn your face away from your crew.

Kahga snaps back full of defensiveness and venom. As you knew she would. Other voices chime in. Rath takes a few steps towards her, palms out, pleading. Yet the tendons in his arms are tight. Man is angry.

And that seems to set Kahga back. Her face is open, eyes searching.

Which is when the rats you hadn’t been paying attention to explode in golden light and emerge as three, short druids. And when Kahga calls one “Olodan,” you surmise they’re all shadow druids and you know exactly how this is going to go.

Because the old lady at the front is the ringleader (Olodan, presumably). And Kahga will never turn when her leader is here. She can’t. It’s been wired too deep into her by now, and though her face pinches in worry and what you suspect is grief, when the old lady reaches for the bow on her back, Kahga lifts her staff.

Goddamnit. God-fucking-damnit.

The violence is swift and brutal. It’s shocking how quickly one shoots the other, one dives in and clubs at another. Shouts and screams. The wolf darts in and grabs a former rat by the throat.

Wolves kill by crushing the windpipe.

Then the spells start flying and you duck behind a stone table. A shout and a body thuds overhead, drops down almost on top of you. It’s one of the rat fucker druids. Little shit shakes his head and spots you. Lifts a glowing hand.

You run.

Some sort of zap singes less than an inch from your ear. You dive behind a stone pillar and pull in your feet and hope you don’t get shot in the ass. More screams. Another druid erupts into golden light and then the biggest fucking badger you’ve ever seen rips into the rat fuck trying to shoot you.

Leaving two targets.

Olodan perches on a stone, firing ominously glowing arrows at Shadowheart and Gale, both ducking behind some kind of forcefield one of them threw up. Lae’zel hacks at a mess of vines holding her, and the old bitch turns, draws a different arrow, and sets the fucking vines on fire.

Shadowheart reacts. Glowing hands and reverberating voice and a torrent of rain dumps from nowhere. The fire clawing towards Lae’zel hisses in fury and blows into steam, but her move leaves Shadowheart exposed.

The bitch was waiting. The arrow is sickly green. It hits Shadowheart right in the armpit as her arms come down. Right in the gap of her armor. Punches into her chest up to the fletching and oh god, please no, please no—

Gale shouts. The old bitch takes aim again—

Flash of silver. Two blades whirl. The first catches the string of the bow—snaps it—and slices into her face. The second whips around Olodan’s throat and wrenches back hard enough it lifts her feet clean off the ground. Astarion nearly severs her head from her body, her neck gaping and gushing blood.

Leaving Kahga. The bitch herself. She squares off against Rath, the wolf, and one of the other druids. But in a blink, she launches something at the wolf and the druid, and both go down in a spray of some kind of mist.

The cloud wafts closer, dissipating as it roils. It’s still enough to make your face burn and your sinuses crackle.

You throw a sleeve over your mouth and nose. Rath shouts, Kahga shouts back. He tries to duck around her. Almost trips her with his staff, but she dances back.

And you see it.

She’s turned away from you. Focused on Rath. The both of them stand close to the edge of a chasm, where the ground plunges what sounds like a good distance to the water below.

She’s open. A vulnerability.

Weakness.

You’re moving before you can think. Tired and clumsy, hands numb and tingling, breath clawing your throat. Close the distance. She can’t turn. Can’t see you. If she just keeps—

Rath takes a hit. Staggers back. Her head lifts to scan the fight. She catches your movement. Eyes widen. Then tighten as she snarls.

You’re on her.

A swing to her left collarbone. She spins away.

You snap the staff up, try to jab at her.

Her own staff cracks against yours. The thing jumps. Your stupid meat paws are absolutely useless and the thing nearly goes flying. You scramble for it, brain screaming to grab it, grab it, losing track of everything else. Then her voice goes all echo-y and green glows out of the corner of your eye.

You snag your staff again.

No time now. No thinking or tactics. All instinct.

You charge.

You’re a bigger girl. Tall, too. Out of shape, weak, fat, and people have called you all these things and worse.

But all that weight? It’s mass. And when you move mass at speed?

You crash into her. All her fancy footwork, her careful staff tricks, her magic. All of it gets knocked stupid and flailing like a quarterback mowed down by an enemy linebacker.

She was right on that ledge. This sends her flying. Her hand clutches your staff even as you dig in your heels to keep yourself from going over, too. She catches herself. Dangles on the lip, toes scrabbling to keep an inch of purchase, but she’s off balance and only your staff keeps her.

She looks at you in that split second. No hatred or sneering. No disgust or fantasy fucking racism or devils or thieves. Just a woman with green eyes. Green eyes wide and shining with unspent tears, her mouth open but silent.

Scared.

Her weight hits the staff. You brace it without thinking. But.

But.

No thought. No judgment. Just the clear solution, the path to victory. You don’t feel anything in that moment but cold certainty.

You let go.

A scuffle and she drops. Too fast to scream. Too fast to do anything but fall. Fall for a long moment that seems to stretch as something nasty inside you shivers, something almost like relief because it wasn’t you, not you, they can’t hurt you if you hurt them first. It’s righteous.

Then the thud. The sound of meat splitting over rocks.

“Kahga,” Rath says, and it’s a plea. For salvation or repentance, you don’t know.

The grove moves around you as you stumble back. Gale and the tall druid swoop in to Shadowheart. The arrow sticking out of her is obscene, a violation of her flesh.

Your heel hits something. You trip, but catch yourself before you can fall. Glance down and spot the face. One of the Halsin supporters, the woman who turned into the giant badger and saved your life. Her face and throat are a wet, bloody mess of pink gristle.

“Oh,” you say.

You brought this. You and your letter and your meddling.

You can’t speak to anyone. Can’t help Shadowheart, can’t reassure or even fucking apologize to Rath and you’re not sure he would even want to look at you.

You should go. You should just…get out of this. Useless thing. Vicious thing. Get out of here, you stupid girl! Can’t do anything right. Always ruin everything, always make everyone else suffer.

Yeah. You’ll just…there’s the stairs. You clamber up practically on all fours. No one even notices you leave—too busy trying to help or heal or unfuck this mess.

Except for one.

Chapter Text

People stare as you emerge. Bird Lady approaches, but you can only stand there as she jabbers. Finally, a voice calls out from inside, and Bird Lady hustles in without another word.

You wander off into the cave. Find a ladder to a wooden platform, and climb up it. Then you sit a bit.

Exhaustion pulls every part of you towards the ground. Pulls your thoughts down, too. Down, down, into crushing oblivion. Easier, that way. Just don’t think about it (you used to pray so hard in moments like this).

But thoughts do start to trickle back in. Stubborn bastards. The smell of it. Blood and fear sweat and stink; it coats the inside of your nose. The screaming; not any in particular (Kahga’s tiny gasp as you let go), but the sheer noise of it all. The assault to the senses.

You’ve…you’ve hurt people before. Not that bad (never that you knew of). But enough to know your capacity. To know the relief—thank god it wasn’t you this time.

You ain’t never brought that part up in any therapy session. Not even with therapists you liked. They probably suspected it. You’ve read enough to know people say that’s a common reaction.

While Kahga’s face flashes over and over in your mind—it’s the eyes, her fucking wet eyes—there’s part of you that’s…glad. It wasn’t any of your group. Just that woman and her supporters. She could have done with a good ass whooping much sooner, sounds like. Now an obstacle has been removed. The tieflings and their children are safe, your life is a bit easier, and she’s dead.

And you. There’s something wrong with you. Or different, maybe, if you’re feeling charitable. In stories, if somebody sees that aspect in themself they’re horrified. “I could never do such a thing!” they’d cry.

But you can. You have. And though that fucking face is busy worming itself deep into your long-term memory (hello, future nightmare fuel), while something thorny twists tighter around your ribcage, this is part of you. Has been for some time. Ratting someone else out for impure behavior means attention pulls away from you, this time. There’s a vicious sort of triumph in hurting someone who hurt you; even though, from the outside, nobody should have been hurting at all and y’all were rats stuck in a cage and goaded into biting each other.

Running from this knowledge of yourself seems pointless (and leaves you lying on the floor for hours or days, but never weeks, because bills and rent).

You don’t go into your mental cellar to feed the monsters there. You butchered them and ate them back.

A noise. Movement below. You got no idea how long you been up there, but word must’ve gotten out. Tieflings emerge from a stone doorway set into the far wall. And at their front, standing tall but wary, is Wyll, rapier in his hand.

Something rustles behind you. You jump so bad you kick a little ceramic pot off the ledge. It crashes below as you spot white hair and the amused tilt to his goddamn fucking eyebrows—

“Astarion, fuck damnit!” He leans against the wall, wiping his daggers down with a rag. “How long you been standing there?!”

He doesn’t respond because he doesn’t speak English. You settle for breathing deep, and leaning over to make sure the kicked pot didn’t hit somebody. Only to find an old lady peering curiously up at you. Ceramic shards lie exploded at her feet.

“Oh fuck jesus,” you say. You scoot over to the ladder and start down.

The old lady watches you, cool as a cucumber. You apologize, probably profusely. She says something back, waits for a response she’s not going to get, and her gaze goes all shrewd. She motions you to wait. Comes back after rummaging through a wicker chest with a bottle. Which she uncorks and holds out.

You recognize the dirt and herb stink. You feel your face light up.

“Dirt potion!” you say. Look at her, pull out the five gold pieces you have to your name. But she waves you off. Thrusts the bottle at you again.

You’re pretty sure your White ancestors are eyeing that bottle suspiciously, but it’s been days since you could communicate, you just launched and executed a successful coup, and if this lady can brew this potion, she might know a good place to find the ingredients.

So, logically, you slam it back. Cough the burning out of your throat as Astarion’s murmur catches your ear. “That seems rather unwise, even to me.”

You turn. Look at him. Say, “Why the fuck are you lurking around like a damn creeper?”

To which he responds, “Lurking? I trail after our victorious leader to make sure she doesn’t do something stupid in a fit of conscience, and you call that lurking?”

In through the nose (cough). Out through the mouth (cough again).

“Yeah, I kinda do,” you say. To the old lady, “I am so sorry for the pot thing. I got startled and kicked it; are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m right as rain, Petal,” the woman says. “It sounds like you might be in a tighter spot than me. You don’t look well, dearie. I sell all manner of potions and remedies. What’s ailing you? I’ve got more than a fair chance of having something to help.”

“Oh, no, I’m good,” you say. Sleeping a week might fix the tired. Unlimited garlic cheese fries might fix your soul. You’re not sure anything can fix your brain, at this point.

“Come now, don’t be shy. You can tell old Auntie Ethel.”

And old Auntie Ethel launches into the most bullshit story about a man and a vat of hot oil. As she wraps it up—your eyebrows practically crawling all the way up past your hairline—Astarion leans in and says, “She sounds positively demented! You should tell her everything.”

You think about it. Or don’t, to be more accurate—your decision-making capabilities are a molten heap of slag at the moment.

Fuck it.

So you do just that. And Auntie Ethel doesn’t flip out or tell you to drink poison like the druid. She only focuses, nods thoughtfully, and then says yeah, she can totally help with that. But all her stuff is back at her teahouse and she not only hands you a fucking map, but marks her house on it.

“That’s enchanted, you know,” Astarion says. Gives her a look.

“And so are my skills,” Auntie Ethel shoots back. “You can repay me for all of it once I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, Petal. Until then, call it an incentive.”

Sounds shady. You don’t have much capacity to care right now, though. “Thank you. Do you maybe have more of that potion? I can pay.”

She waves dismissively. “I’ve got plenty of the stuff to make it back home. You find your way to my teahouse, and we can get that all worked out. Now, if you’ll excuse my, my dear, I don’t want to get caught up in all this business and if I’m not mistaken, that nice young man seems to want to have a word with you.”

That nice young man is Will, rapier sheathed, hovering a few paces away.

“Thank you, Auntie,” you say. She only nods and resumes packing up her things to boot scoot out of here.

“You speak our language, now?” Wyll says.

“Potion,” you say. “I’m learning, though.”

He nods. “A wise decision. I find it best not to rely too heavily on the talents of others, all of your company excluded. That’s a very interesting accent. Where are you from, if I may ask?”

You consider your options. You’re pretty sure he agreed to come with y’all, and things just worked out with old Auntie. In for a penny, in for a pound.

You tell him everything. And by the end, his eyebrows have crawled up into his hairline.

“A different plane?” he says. Gives you a once over. But rather than suspicion, he seems almost…impressed? “I’ve heard tales of such things, but to meet someone myself? It’s an honor. I don’t believe I was able to properly introduce myself earlier. I’m Wyll Ravengard, known as the Blade of Frontiers.”

He gives a dorky, but charming, little arm lift you think is some kind of bow.

“Eleanor Ripley,” you way. And automatically extend a hand to shake. Then remember that this isn’t Earth, and start to pull away.

But his smile is relaxed as he reaches forward to clasp your forearm. “Eleanor. It’s a pleasure to meet you. How are you finding Faerun?”

You open your mouth to answer. Someone starts screaming.

It’s Lae’zel. She’s gone off on her own and cornered some kid (in his early twenties, maybe). When y’all jog up, it’s to find her standing over him, sword drawn and touching his gut.

“You will answer my question,” she hisses. “Or I will gut you where you kneel.”

Because he is on his knees, trembling like a chihuahua without a sweater, and probably five seconds from pissing his drawers (you would be too, in his boots).

“Lae’zel, what the fuck?” you say.

She ignores you. “You saw others of my kind. Where, istik?”

“I…I—please!” the kid says. His gaze darts to you, and that seems to piss her off.

“Perhaps I will start with the extremities, then,” she says. Draws her arm back, and she’s going to cut his goddamn arm off. You can almost see it in the way she moves.

“And here I thought the rest of this day was going to be boring,” Astarion says.

You don’t bother shooting him a glare. Too busy shoving yourself between Lae’zel and the kid.

“Stop,” you say.

She pauses; good sign. “You dare come between a gith and her prey?”

“Stand down, Lae’zel. You can’t get answers out of him if he’s dead.”

Well… Gale could. But you’re not reminding her.

“I do not intend to kill him. Only remove a limb or two to loosen his tongue.”

“Because people fucking remember worth a shit when they’re screaming and in shock? Back. Down. Let the man speak, for fuck’s sake.”

She stares. You cannot look away. You cannot blink. You’ve accidentally started some kind of dominance stare down, and if you break first, you know on a cellular level this guy will absolutely get cut to pieces and Lae’zel will proceed to walk right over you for the rest of time.

Everything slows and speeds up. Cold sweat gathers in your armpits and between your shoulder blades. This was stupid. You’re putting yourself in the firing range for some guy just after you killed someone (again), and you luck is gonna run out. She’ll never—

Lae’zel blinks. Hisses. Her lips pull into a sneer. But she takes a step back and actually sheathes her sword.

“Ch’k! Your kill of the druid was effective given your lack of skills. I will accept your judgment in this,” Lae’zel says. “But you would do well never to challenge me again. If you wish to lead this interrogation, do so. But should your techniques fail, mine will not.”

Torture, she means. No pressure.

You don’t respond. Merely turn (not all the way, because the thought of giving her your back right now sends a mental primate screech through your ears). It’s enough you can grab a fistful of the kid’s tunic and haul him to his feet. Astarion, still at your side, clucks his tongue in what you can only assume is disappointment. Fucking hobgoblin.

“You okay?” you say.

“Y-yeah,” he says. “F-filthy monster.”

Lae’zel’s grip tightens on her sword handle.

“~Super not the time,~” you sing-song. “What was she asking about?”

He tells you: a patrol, the githyanki they found, what they did to his friends. Lae’zel’s face never changes. No shock or denial. Just the flat stare of someone who would have cut that guy’s arm off just to prove a point.

When he’s done, you send him off. Lae’zel watches him go. Looks to you and her eyes narrow.

“Perhaps not so useless,” she says. You don’t know if she’s talking about your “torture bad” approach or like, in general. But before you can shift your mental gears, “The creche must be in this mountain pass. We will head there immediately.”

Chapter Text

Which is when Gale and Shadowheart find y’all.

“What’s all this about a pass?” Shadowheart says, scenting blood in the water.

“That is where we find my people and the cure for these parasites,” Lae’zel says. “We leave immediately.”

To a chorus of negatives.

Astarion groans, because he’s Astarion. Gale questions the wisdom of setting out on a different venture with other priorities already in play. Shadowheart’s lungs have been magic-ed closed again, and while she can stand, walking is pushing it. Wyll just looks troubled (you remember his gut-churning horror over leaving the demon woman and the defenseless who might stumble into her path).

“Why don’t we at least rest here tonight and figure everything out tomorrow morning?” you say.

And then they’re all looking at you, and you wish you’d kept your stupid mouth shut.

“You found a potion?” Gale says. “I couldn’t find you after that mess down there.”

When you ran away. You ditched them. You couldn’t do anything to help, but you should have stayed; they were there on your idea.

“I didn’t want to be in the way,” you say and gesture to Shadowheart. It’s only halfway a lie. “I don’t know about medicine here. I’m sorry. Are you gonna be okay?”

“After some rest and once wiser opinions prevail,” she says and shrugs.

Fuck a duck.

Y’all are starting to draw a crowd, too. Both tieflings and druids. After what just happened, it makes your skin crawl to have so many eyes on you.

“We should probably make camp, then,” you say.

And one by one, the others agree. Now that everything is wearing off, all the adrenaline petering out, the exhaustion comes knocking.

Y’all set up on an outcrop above the druid circle. The chanting stopped. No more green haze swirling in a vortex around, what you can now make out, is an antlered idol. Rath calls a huddle outside the stone door, and he must announce what happened. Some of the druids slump in relief. But others lean in close to whisper. You catch at least two throwing glares at the steps up to the tiefling cave.

You hope they keep themselves armed, tonight.

So that’s one part of this dumpster fire banked. The tieflings can’t stay forever (don’t want to now, for obvious reasons). And as long as they plan to pack up and hit the trail, the goblins need to be dealt with.

But there’s no looming forced march, now. You’ve cut the hair holding the sword of Damocles. If nothing else, you accomplished that.

It’s only late afternoon, but y’all’s group is done. Even Lae’zel, after muttering and (you assume) swearing, takes a moment after she removes her armor to run her clawed fingers through her hair.

Then she busts out her cleaning kit, including that goddamn wheel.

You manage to join Astarion in setting up your tent as far away as possible (which puts you both near the ledge of the little promontory y’all are on). The sun shimmers over deep, blue sea out beyond the drop of the cliffs. The wind carries the scent of salt and water and growing things. It’s nice. You hesitate a moment, and then slip off your repurposed boots and roll up the legs of your trousers to give yourself shorts as best you can.

Then you find the closest tree and flop down.

Soft wind traces through your toes as you wiggle them. You scrunch them into the soft grass and sigh.

“You picked what I think might be the most beautiful spot here.” Wyll, heading up the slope from main camp holding two cups. He hands you one as he comes to a stop beside you. “May I join you?”

You beckon to the open spot of grass. He sinks down. Sighs. Glances at your bare legs and feet and then, with a smile, starts toeing off his own boots.

“Mmm,” he says and takes a sip of what smells like wine. “That’s much better. Good thinking.

You nod. Give him a silent toast and take a sip. Try not to grimace.

Wyll chuckles. “Not to your liking, I presume?”

The wine tastes like all wine does to you: intensely bitter. “Hints of cherries” a label might say. “Subtle smokiness.” It’s all bitter. Rotten, bitter grape juice. A slander to perfectly good juice, even.

“I don’t like alcohol,” you say. Because it doesn’t end at wine.

Beer? Sparkling, bitter wheat juice.

Whiskey? A burning, bitter punch to the back of your throat.

Vodka? Right out; you took a single sip and gagged into the sink.

This, finally out of all things, earns a startled look out of Wyll. “None at all?”

You sniff the wine. Try another sip. Still bad. “Nope. I’ll drink it if it’s mixed with other stuff that covers it. But even then, I can still taste it.”

You can’t tell if his expression is perplexed, pitying, or just amazed. He sets his own cup down right on the grass and leans back on his hands. “So what do you drink, where you come from?”

“Water. Tea.” A thought occurs. You try to keep your voice nice and normal and level. “Do y’all have coffee here?”

“Yes, actually.”

oh my god oh my GOD.

That thought must be showing loud and clear on your face, because he holds up a halting hand. “But it’s rare along the Sword Coast. You mostly only find it in port towns.”

Motherfucker.

You’ve heard the name Baldur’s Gate from some of the others. Astarion is maybe from there? Maybe he knows a place. Maybe you’ll have a reason to go there after all this brainworm bullshit.

“To my recollection, coffee is rather bitter,” Wyll says.

“Not with enough milk and chocolate.”

“Your people drink milk?” he says.

You pause. Right. Because that’s a genetic thing. One that might not be present over in Faerun (but they make cheese?).

“Historically, my mother’s people handle dairy very well,” you say. “My dad’s, not so much, but there’s enough Wh—of my mother’s side over there that my dad never had any issues. None of his side does, far as I know.”

Your fourth cousin might—little five-year-old spitfire. But she’s the only one.

Then you register what he didn’t ask about, and you have to breath calm and move slow so you don’t give your damn self whiplash. “Do you know what chocolate is.”

Please. Please. If there’s one good thing in this whole shitmess, please.

“Oh yes. Again, port cities, but my home town had at least once shop,” Wyll says and you want to kiss him on the mouth. He catches that expression, too. His good eye sparkles. “You’re a connoisseur, I take it?”

You got no idea how the fuck a French word translates, and you don’t care.

“I don’t care who I have to kiss, marry, or kill, if this place has chocolate, I am going to get it.”

His eyebrows lift. He gives a sort of “hmm” lip gesture and nods.

“Noted,” he says.

You both sit in silence for a moment. You’ve probably made this awkward. You get real excited about few things, but when you do, hoo boy.

You take another sip of the wine to try to cover it, and because he was nice enough to bring it and hospitality is written on your bones. He finally takes pity and gestures for the glass. You almost don’t give it back (it’s so rude). But then he gives you a look, and he’s still got that playful glint. He’s not mad. He’s not even annoyed. You hand it over.

“I wanted to tell you,” Wyll says and nonchalantly pours your wine into his. Is that something people do? Wine does seem important to everyone else; probably bad form to let it go to waste like that. “The way you handled that situation back there, with our gith friend. You did well. Not everyone could stand up against her like that. It was brave.”

It really wasn’t. She was attracting attention; would have attracted more, and with what y’all just did, that seemed a bad idea.

You shrug. “Was just trying to keep us all outta trouble.”

Wyll nods. Sips his wine. Stares at the blue sky a moment, where a crow circles far overhead. You wonder if it’s one of Bird Lady’s.

“Well. I’m glad to see the leader of the group I’m joining has a practical head on her shoulders,” he says.

“I’m not…” you start to say. Oh jesus fuck.

He gives you a knowing look. “Especially when that practicality includes protecting people.”

His praise sends a flicker of warmth through you. Quickly doused by cold shame. You’re not a protector. You never saved anybody but yourself. You were good and practical about that, leaving everyone else behind, leaving them to take the blame when you ran off into the night—

You give a tight-lipped nod. Wyll seems like a genuinely good person. There’s no way he’ll understand your bullshit, let alone sympathize with it.

He gives a formal kind of bow, and heads back down the slope towards the campfire, where Gale has two pots sitting over raked-out coals.

The leader. Christ’s sake. The only damn thing you’re fit to lead is a parade of your own mistakes off the edge of a cliff. Why in the fuck these people keep saying that is beyond you.

Though, a little voice whispers. That means you made yourself important, right? Enough to keep around?

Only so long as you keep performing well enough. Only so long as your shitty plans pan out. The second one doesn’t, the second they see how goddamn inadequate you actually are…

Fuck. You should have kept that wine. Slam the rest back just to take the edge off the constant, churning anxiety in your gut. You fiddle with the glowing ring on your pinkie finger.

A scrape as Astarion emerges from his tent with a small stool he one hundred percent did not have before. He sets it down, wiggles a bit to make sure it’s not going to tip over. Glances over to you, and then down to Wyll’s retreating back.

“Making friends, are we?” he says.

You shrug.

“The Blade of Frontiers,” Astarion says. “I might have heard of him once or twice back in Baldur’s Gate. In the lower districts, mind you. The taverns there care more about quantity rather than quality, if you know what I mean. I didn’t think we’d end up inviting obscure monster hunters into camp.”

“Wait, he’s what?” Astarion had been coiled tight when Gandrel identified himself. The look in his eyes as his fingers inched up to the hilt of his knife. “You don’t think he’s here for you, is he?”

“Oh darling, is that concern I hear?” When you only throw some plucked grass at him, he snorts. “No. I expect someone of his caliber wouldn’t be manipulated by the likes of Cazador. Though one can never be too certain, I suppose.”

Wyll, now seated at the campfire, sits enthralled by Gale and a lecture of some kind. He seems affable. Courteous. And very competent.

Unless that’s the point. He saw you as the leader and came to chat. Be friendly. Exactly like someone would do if they were trying to make themself appear non-threatening. He could be playing a long game. Either lull y’all into a false sense of security to grab Astarion in the night, or simply ingratiate himself well enough to try to turn y’all against the vampire spawn.

“Though I suppose having a mindflayer parasite dims the odds of that,” Astarion continues. “Hardly enough time to receive a summons and get himself abducted and brainwormed.”

“Or the shitbag who turned you already knew him, he already got himself abducted, and then that shitbag contacted him. How do y’all communicate over long distances? Is that a vampire thing at all?”

A pause. His whole tone lifts up into a teasing lilt. “You are concerned. Or at least planning something no doubt sinister in that devious little mind of yours.”

You turn and find him a lot closer than we was, looming over you. He’s changed out of his armor and into that silly, frilly shirt. He peers down at you with the sun lighting his hair into a white halo around his face.

“There’s not much we can do right now, I reckon,” you say. “If he’s just some wandering guy hunting this demon woman who got brainwormed like the rest of us, he seems like a good ally. I think we ought to wait and see.”

Astarion taps one long finger against his lips. Watches the camp a moment. And then, all silky, “And if he were a threat?”

You shrug again. “We’d have to deal with it, yeah?”

“Mmm. I have to admit a certain level of curiosity, my dear. Why go through all this plotting and planning to protect a vampire spawn? Even one as beautiful as my good self? We’re monsters, you know—though maybe you don’t.” And if that isn’t a backhanded insult. “Exactly the type of dangerous creature heroes like our good Blade put down. Yet here you are.”

Astarion is a grade-A ass. A for asshole. He left you high and dry after biting you. He tried to bite you in the first place. He’s rude and a thief and very clearly rolls his eyes whenever you do something halfway decent for somebody. You shouldn’t care. Were y’all back on Earth and all of these people normal humans, if you met this man at work or something, you wouldn’t give two shits about him.

Maybe it’s the brainworm connection. Maybe it’s just the first layer of foundation in shared fucking trauma. You’ve only known these people a little over a week, but already, the idea of losing one of them makes you nervous. And not just because you can’t boil a potato over a fucking campfire. It’s because, well…you might like some of them. Sorta. Very tentatively.

Even this pompous jackass.

You ain’t telling him one word of that, though.

“Pretty sure it’d fuck group morale beyond all repair if we go around letting each other get murdered or kidnapped or whatever,” you say. “Sets a bad example.”

That probably sounded really callous, didn’t it? Or maybe Astarion don’t care about stuff like that (he was down for letting Lae’zel go full ax murderer on that idiot man earlier).

The man tilts his head in a sort of nod. Then stands there for a couple of seconds, staring at you. Long enough to become uncomfortable. Long enough you open your mouth to ask if you got a bug in your hair.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he says.

“Ain’t nobody let Gandrel know who you were. I doubt anybody’ll just stand by if somebody else—Wyll—tries to stab you.”

He actually gives you a fake little pout. “Oh, will you swoop in to defend me, darling? It might be a bit tricky without a chasm to shove him into. Though if you could get him up here, to the edge of the cliff…”

Okay. Wow. Fucking asshole. Maybe Gale had a point kicking him out in the dirt.

Before you can string those words together, he squats down next to you, face level with yours. His eyes are such an interesting shade close enough to see them. Most days, they’re a dull crimson, kind of brown in the right light at the right angle. But all up in his business like this, in full daylight, they’re the color of fresh, arterial blood.

“I do think it’s…sweet,” he says and boy howdy, that last word is doing a lot of heavy lifting there. “Not many would offer to take on a hero for my sake. Even if I’m reasonably certain you’d find a way to kill him without getting your own hands dirty.”

“I ain’t said a single goddamn word about killing—” you start.

And then he reaches towards you. Both brain and body sort of trip over their own feet, and you sit there like a jackass as his fingers brush your hair. Pluck up a blade of grass. Accidentally brush your ear on the way out.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s been bugging me for several minutes. And it sounds like dinner is nearly ready; I couldn’t on good conscience let our dearest leader show up with foliage in her hair. Even if she was the one who put it there.”

When—oh. Right. Throwing grass just blows it back at you most of the time.

Then Astarion stands, dusts off his hands, even as Gale’s voice rings out that supper is, indeed, ready.

He waits for you to climb back to your feet. You step past him to start downhill, and notice he don’t follow.

“There’s really no point in continuing the ruse anymore,” he says and waves dismissively at the gathering below. “I’ll stay at my tent, I think.”

You get it. If you couldn’t eat food no more (wait, what the fuck happened to all those meals he took back to his tent in the first days?) you probably wouldn’t want to sit around and watch everyone else enjoy it. Still. Isolating himself ain’t gonna help none of y’all.

“You sure?” you say.

“Quite. I have a few things I need to attend to.”

Well, you can’t force him. “Right. I think we’re gonna eat up and then figure out what to do, next. Want me to come get you for that?”

His head tilts again, the barest twitch. He looks…odd. Then he’s all smug and smarm again when he grins. “If you like. However, I’m rather beginning to trust your judgment, darling. Careful you don’t take on too many burdens, though?”

Goddamnit, he’s doing it, too. None of them should be doing that. They don’t know you like you do; they don’t know how much of a fuckup you really are, and you’re in too deep now to admit it.

Astarion glances back at you. His chin lowers a touch; gives his eyes a hooded look. “Do feel free to seek me out should you need someone to help alleviate any of those burdens, hmm?”

What a bizarre way to phrase that. And it’s not like he’s volunteered to help with literally anything else (that wasn’t murder). Still. If he wants in on the planning?

“Yeah,” you say and hope it doesn’t sound as weirded out as you are.

Guy is such a nut.

Chapter Text

So, y’all nearly lose Lae’zel. Mostly because outta the three options y’all got, “searching for the hidden location of a bunch of lizard murder hobos” sounded like the longest, most involved, and most dangerous one.

Lae’zel takes it about as well as can be expected. She cuts one of her training dummies into pieces with a single-minded viciousness that makes you wonder who’s face she’s projecting onto it.

She does end up staying, though.

Then there’s the western route. Y’all murdered druids so Halsin could have a smooth transition back into power if 1. Y’all even find him, 2. He ain’t dead, and 3. Y’all ain’t dead. Three steps makes this one slightly less of a pain but still not ideal.

So then there’s old Auntie Ethel.

You show Gale the map she gave you, with her house marked on it—damn thing is enchanted and he eyeballs it real weird. There’s only her house and a mark he says is some kinda wayfinder rune stone thingamabob.

To which Wyll chimes in about the rampaging demon woman you kinda roped all y’all into dealing with.

To which Gale puffs up, lifts his hands, and opens a fucking portal.

“Jesus fuck,” you say. “How the fuck long have you been sitting on that?”

“Will it trap us in a stone?” Astarion says, having decided to grace y’all with his presence, though he seems kinda put out by it.

Not long, Gale explains. And also no, on the stone thing.

Gale took a hit after waking up in a portal after the butthole ship went down. Shadowheart and the others chime in with the same. Spells weaker. Some unsteady (Gale says with a pointed look at Astarion, who dodges it) or unusable. Only Astarion seems to have netted positives (which sends him preening for about five minutes).

But their strength is returning, gradually. Gale had felt his magic capacity (“connection with the Weave, Eleanor” so now you’re calling it his mojo) increasing every day. So now he can cast this. Apparently, it connects to that rune stone thing on the map by Auntie’s house. As best you understand it (in between zoning out) it’s kinda a train station (or subway, since it “tunnels between the fabrics of the realms”). Y’all’ve seen weird marks carved into big rocks; those are the waypoints.

You call them teleporters, cause that’s what they seem like to you and you couldn’t follow his detailed explanation all the way through. It ain’t like you can use magic anyway.

As none of y’all want to spend the night at some stranger’s house in god-knows-where, y’all break for the night to settle in.

But Gale catches you before you get far. Up close, you can see sweat on his brow. He’s trying hard to hold himself straight, project calm and coolness as usual. But there’s a strain around his eyes that you ain’t seen before.

“May I have a word?” he says.

Only Astarion lingers, idly swirling a cup of wine near the fire. He looks up as you glance his way, but then you look to Gale again.

“Sure,” you say.

He leads you off a bit, out of earshot of most of camp. Stops at the tree you and Wyll had chatted under.

There, he tries to slap on a smile. But there’s tension around his eyes, and even the smile seems to twitch with effort.

“We’ve been on the road together for some time now, haven’t we?” he says. “Survived some perils, overcame some obstacles. Ever since you were kind enough to pull me from that stone, I’ve seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and generosity.”

This is a speech, you realize. Man’s practiced this. He’s usually expressive when he talks; waves his hands a bit and his face is animated. Here, he’s still and forced-pleasant. You watch him sharper as he goes on; having delivered the opening sentence, he backs that up with exaggerated examples you ain’t sure even he believes.

“In short, I’ve grown to trust you,” he says. And there’s the thesis.

“Okay?” you say.

He waits a pause. Probably expected something more, and when you don’t elaborate, he sort of stumbles into the next part. Uses more words than he needs to (he must be one of those people who get a “five page essay” assignment and turn that sucker into fifteen pages, single-spaced) to get to the next part. “You see, I have this… condition. Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly.”

You frown. “What kinda condition?”

Much better than leading with “is it contagious”, which you want to do.

“The specifics are rather personal. Suffice to say, it’s a malady I’ve learned to live with. Though not without some effort.”

Like slamming down both a dirt and a blood potion in the morning. The man makes these for you. He was one of the first of them (Shadowheart being the actual first) who tried to help you. And he cooks for y’all. You owe the man your time and attention.

And then he says he needs a magic item. Which, okay? There’s gotta be plenty of those around Faerun, right?

“I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t vital—dare I say it, critical,” he says. “I may have, ah, pushed it aside for too long, now. The need has become severe.”

You nod, but then catch his glance. You got your arms folded, and your glowing ring lights his face in soft blue in the shade of twilight. Your first, real jewelry. Your enchanted jewelry.

“I know the allure magical items possess. I understand their value, and their power. All this to say: I understand the sacrifice I ask of you, and I promise, you will be rewarded with any and all means at my disposal.”

Again, the flicker of his gaze. The raw hunger in his eyes. Except it’s not just hunger, is it? That’s fear tightening his jaw and drawing a line between his brows.

“What happens if you don’t get an item?” you say.

He loses the last few threads of fake charm. His face goes entirely grim. “It’s already started, I’m afraid. And as you’ve probably noticed. I’ll spare you the finer details, but it begins with simple biological deterioration. Muscle spasms, disorientation, a slight ringing in the ears. And, if left for too long…catastrophe. And not just for myself.”

Jesus on a pogo stick. Only now do you notice the tremor in his hands. The hands he’s carefully left hanging at his sides, rather than draw attention to them as…as he normally does goddamnit.

“Why in the fuck didn’t you say something sooner?” And what the fuck is it about this group of screwheads not letting anybody else know they’re literally starving or like, melting from the fucking inside? These fucking people.

To this, Gale winces. “I don’t intend to impugn what I’ve now seen is your good character…”

“But we’re all a bunch of strangers on a butthole ship. Yeah, okay, I probably didn’t need to ask that.”

A lizard murder hobo, a vampire, and now a wizard with a chronic illness. What the fuck are Shadowheart and Wyll hiding?

You look at the ring. The one good thing in all this. The first actually nice thing you’ve ever had.

But Gale don’t look well at all. And he’s helped you so much in all this. You probably owe him your life, and it’s bad group dynamics to let one of them stumble and fall.

You sigh.

The second you get something nice, the universe comes to snatch it away. As usual.

You try to ignore the way your throat tightens as you wiggle the ring off your pinkie. It’s not even that nice of a ring and it was too small to begin with. And Faerun is littered with more. This was probably their version of one of them quarter machines in a grocery store selling kid’s jewelry. You ain’t gonna get upset over something that small, not when it sounds like this man’s life actually depends on it.

You hold the ring out. His whole face lights up in relief. “Thank you.”

He presses his hands to his chest. His whole body flares in purple light and he kind of grimaces, but it’s the Thanos snap that dissolves the ring to dust what really grabs your attention.

“Holy shit,” you say.

“Yes, it’s quite a sight.” He pants a couple of moments, dry swallows a couple more times, and then sighs as his whole frame relaxes. “H’oh, that hit the spot. I can feel it work. The magic is a lullaby that sings the demon inside to sleep.”

And if that ain’t the most concerning phrase. He must see the “what the fuck” on your face, because he lifts his hands (oh look, he’s gesturing again), and continues. “Not literally. I’m only saying, it has worked. And I am indebted to you, most gracious lady. You can count on me for any aid that you require.”

You…did do it because he makes the potion that keeps your soul from flying off into space. But you also did it because he’s part of the group and you don’t like seeing people hungry or hurting.

“It’s all good,” you say. “How, um, how often d’you need one of them?”

“I was able to wait about a tenday between, back home. I had a steady supply of such artifacts in my tower at Waterdeep, mind you, and I wasn’t gallivanting about the countryside with a worm in my head while fighting packs of goblins. I nearly pushed it too far, this time, and it hasn’t even been that. I suspect I may be down to a hand of days, maybe a few more.”

So about five days, give or take. Swell. Peachy.

Fuck.

“Right,” you say. “I guess we’ll have to keep an eye out, huh?”

The look he gives you is so warm and relieved you have to look away. “I am sorry for asking this of you, but I truly, truly appreciate your help. You do your people credit, Eleanor, to have raised such rare kindness in a person.”

And that’s hitting too close to home.

You nod again, mumble something about heading in for the night. He sweeps down into a both-arms-out bow and leaves you with a defined pep in his step.

He passes Astarion on his way back up, who gives the wizard a single, arched eyebrow.

When the vampire man reaches you, he says, “I’ve known people hungry for power, but Gale takes a bit too literally for my liking. At least I only take blood.”

So he heard. You wonder just how sharp them pointed ears actually are.

Gale needed that ring. You know that, logically. But still, you look to your bare pinkie finger and the cold disappointment sinks into you.

“At least he only wanted that trinket,” Astarion says. “Can you imagine if we’d had to give him something more valuable? Gods, what happens when he needs another one? I’m not donating.”

You try to smile. But too much has happened today, and your own masking game ain’t up to par at the moment. Astarion gives you a sort of pitying look.

“Don’t tell me you actually thought that bauble was useful?” he says.

“Not really. Just, you know. First actually gold thing I ever wore.” And that makes you feel even more pathetic, so time to change the subject and make a joke! “So that means the next one we find, I call dibs, got it?”

He lifts his hands in surrender. Eyes you a second. “Lower class family, was it? Grew up with a single pair of shoes between you and your siblings, and one good dress to visit whichever temple your family liked?”

You huff. “I had three skirts, thank you very much.”

“Oooh, someone’s family was moving up in the world.”

Normally, you’d be down for this sort of game. Teasing is fun when the other person plays into it. But this topic…it’s a little more difficult. And you’d really like nothing more than to crawl into your tent, lay down on your face, and pass out until morning.

You try to smile.

“I’m heading in for the night,” you say. Pause and look him over. He’s a touch paler than he has been the last couple days. A light smear of purple smudged under his eyes. “Have you, y’know, fed on anybody else? Since me, I mean?”

“Haven’t had the chance, darling. Are you offering?” A glint in his eye. You don’t miss his gaze moving down your neck.

“Not tonight, sorry. You took more than my usual donations, I think, and I ain’t really sure how healing spells work when it comes to replacing red blood cells.” At his stare, you veer off into explaining that part of biology, as best you can remember. Then, “But I think in a week, I should be okay. If, y’know, that’ll still help you out.”

He’s on full smarm when he says, “How could I turn down such a delectable offer? Though I’ll be sure to take less next time.”

There’s a slight question at the end of that sentence.

“And I’ll be ready with a potion and some actual bandages,” you say. Last damn thing you need is the whole crew finding your half-bled carcass drooling in the dirt again.

Astarion literally twirls one of his curls around his finger. He’s got such Blanche Devereaux energy.

“Well,” he drawls. “Do let me know when you feel up to it.”

You nod. Lift a hand. “Night.”

“Good night, darling. Do sleep well. I’ll be waiting in my own tent, whiling away the time until I can taste you again.”

Jesus lord.

You consider flipping him off. Decide you don’t wanna take the time to explain that gesture and get into a verbal sparring match over the potential innuendo. Settle for a, “You do that.”

Never has a bedroll been so comfortable.

Which is why you shouldn’t be so surprised when, halfway through a dream involving you and Deadpool (except you were Deadpool?) robbing a steam engine while fighting ninjas armed with a gatling gun, the dream shifts and your soul slams back into your body.

The sudden physicality of it jolts you. Dreams don’t have feeling, but suddenly the air is cool and smells vaguely like…burnt metal? Carbonized steak? You lie flat on your back, staring up at an old screensaver of spinning, LSD purple clouds. And there’s somebody talking nearby. And that voice is vaguely familiar.

Chapter Text

A woman stands over you. Short hair, more copper than scarlet, ears loaded with piercings, two barbels glinting on the bridge of her nose. The face is a bit off, and some of the piercings are in the wrong location. But she still looks so much like—

“Sasha?” you say.

Not-Sasha kneels, her hands glowing, fucking eyes glowing. Her voice is urgent, the timbre too low.

“You are transforming,” she says.

Trans…? You’re even more crushingly exhausted than you were before you went to bed. And it’s not just the guilt and turmoil of killing someone and then everything else that happened. Your skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. Your tunic clings to you. Your teeth ache and your bones feel like they’re splintering into shards.

“What?” you say. To your horror, your mouth feels mushy.

Not-Shasha’s hands move. Her face pinches in worry.

That woman on the butthole ship, her face ripped open as tentacles spilled out. They said you melted from the inside, oh god, oh god no, it’s—

But Not-Sasha’s hands are cool as she palms your cheek, runs that palm over your face. The blue glow of what you assume is magic soaks into you. Your entire body seems to settle; tissue firms up. Your teeth reattach their roots back into your jaw and your tongue remembers its shape.

“Who,” you say and sit up. Your body is yours, again. “Oh god. I was…I almost…”

“I came just in time,” Not-Sasha says. “Don’t worry. You won’t become a mindflayer. Not while I’m around.”

And who the fuck is she?

She offers a hand. You hesitate, but take it and let her pull you to your feet.

She’s taller than Sasha—not a difficult accomplishment—but scrawnier. And where Sasha’s eyes are bright, sky blue, this knockoff wannabe’s are sort of hazel.

Thing is, she’s also familiar in her own way. The echo of her voice reverberates in your ears.

The butthole ship. You almost catch the ghost of a memory, a specter out of the corner of your eye. The ship breaking up, spilling out into emptiness. Your mind blanked in sheer terror. You’d screamed, screamed until your air ran out, then sucked in a breath against hurricane winds to scream more. You do not have a visual memory; brain had spooked like a new horse and blanked that right out.

You’d stopped. That part finally surfaces all hazy in the back of your mind. Something had caught you right before you went splat all over the landscape. Kept your skull from smashing like a watermelon.

“I saved you before,” Not-Sasha says. “And I’m here to save you again. I’ll protect you from the tadpole, block the transformation.”

What the fuck how the fuck, you want to say. But Not-Sasha listens to something in the distance, and her face is grim.

“Listen carefully,” she says. “We don’t have time.”

You follow her over to a jumble of rocks, where she pulls a Yoda on and mindwhammies them off into space with a wave of her hand. Revealing a giant fucking skull with flashing lights and some kind of forcefield and a lot of warped screaming.

“There’s a fight for Faerun occurring even now,” she says. “And we are losing.”

Phantoms in space fizzle out of existence. There’s a lot more of them, fighting what looks like a shrinking group of others. Her group?

“But you might be able to change all that,” Not-Sasha says. And then explains.

Something about potential, about the parasite, about its power. Specifically, learning to use its power. Which makes your guts go all hinky like when you see tarantula legs sticking out of the shoe you were two seconds from jamming your foot into. It’s all a bit convenient. And interesting that she would wait until your bones were fucking dissolving to make this little speech at you.

And why the fuck does she look so much like Sasha. That’s the part that skeeves you out the worst.

Something explodes over at the skull. Not-Sasha’s lips press thin (Sasha had a lip ring; this…thing does not).

“The enemy comes,” Not-Sasha says. “You must return. Use the power. It’s the only way.”

And then she does a Jedi hand fling and smacks you right off into space. For the second time in a week, you slam back into your body. Bolt upright and stare at the dark fabric of your tent. The night is quiet, save for the soft sound of canvas flapping gently in the wind.

“Ghaik!” Lae’zel shouts.

From what you gather, y’all had the same dream. Seems to be differing opinions, generally landing in camp “GHAIK!” and camp “Astarion looks entirely too thoughtful.” You ain’t sure of the specifics, because the goddamn potion ran the fuck out. You’re reduced to hovering next to the rekindled campfire while half the crew keeps Lae’zel from going full rabies on all y’all.

Gale hands you a mug of tea. You sip that and watch the fuckery, and wish it was a mocha.

Astarion says something and he’s got that goblin grin, and it’s kind of nice to see somebody else take Lae’zel’s cold glare off’a you. Not that Astarion even notices.

All said and done, it’s mid-morning once everybody is all packed up and ready to go. The grove is quiet in the low, morning mist. Dew glints on long grass and the fur of a slumbering bear. No dead bodies, so apparently nobody started revenge killing in the night. Hopefully it stays that way.

You wonder how that’s going to go if the old auntie really is as good as her word. These people and their political clusterfuck, the missing druid, the goblins. What Not-Sasha will do with whatever propaganda Amway bullshit she was trying to sell you.

You’ll still be stuck here, still helpless, and this group will one hundred percent break apart.

You don’t think Wyll will abandon the tieflings here, even after he kills that demon woman. Maybe he’ll let you tag along and, like, wash his clothes or something? Or you can go with the tieflings (though none of them know you at all). Or someone will rescue this Halsin guy and the druids will let you sleep on their metaphorical couch (because they’ve been so welcoming to refugees).

Fuck. Fuck McFuckity fuck.

Still. Better than tentacle-face, regardless of phantom dream douche promises of protection.

What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. You can’t stop it. You can only control your reactions (lying in the mud accomplishes nothing). So you stand by as Gale does his mojo shit. As a purple portal flares open. As Wyll volunteers himself to go through first. And when he doesn’t stumble back, turned to hamburger or screaming with shredded lungs, the others follow.

Until it’s your turn. Gale—Astarion lurking just over his shoulder because he’s waiting for everyone else, isn’t he—gives you a smile and a nod. At least he’s put your dissolved ring to good use.

You step through.

It feels weird. It feels like nothing. Like you just stop. No pulse, no breathing, no thoughts. No you. Then a flash and you have legs and a spleen again. You stumble. Your foot catches something almost squishy and you barely catch yourself from tripping into murky stink water. Turn to see what you stepped on and those are human bodies.

You stare. The others have drawn close, weapons out. Astarion emerges, spots the bodies, and does a kind of hop-skip right over them. Makes a guttural “er?” sound in his throat.

Then Gale’s through—he stops before the bodies—and the portal disappears and y’all are in that fucking swamp with two freshly dead guys who have been torn open and pulled inside out like someone digging impatiently through a coin purse.

This isn’t like the bodies those redcaps left. This is much worse, much more savage. Plus there’s no viscera. These guys got filleted open and somebody scooped out their organs and those organs are nowhere to be seen.

You look at the swamp. Look at the others. Pull out your map and see that yep, you sure are right near the teahouse.

Old Auntie Ethel with her potions and cures. Gandrel coming here for information. Witches and body parts.

Auntie Ethel is the fucking swamp hag, ain’t she.

“Ethel bad,” you say.

Gale’s lips press thin. Then, you assume, “Ethel very bad.”

Ethel is, indeed, the hag. And she was, indeed, extremely fucking scary. Especially after she’d given you another dirt potion and then her skin split, spilling queasy, green light and she turned into a fucking swamp monster.

All she wanted for a tadpole extraction was your eye. You didn’t give her so much of a strand of your hair, because that shit is how you pick up fucking familial curses.

There was no sign of Gandrel (or his parts) (you hoped), but there was a miserable looking girl, heavily pregnant, face streaked with cried-over eyeliner.

Y’all should have let it be. But Wyll didn’t get that memo, and honestly? He was right not to. Not that you had any room to judge as your entire contribution to the clusterfuck that followed was whacking a masked guy over the head until he fell, and then systematically breaking both his kneecaps.

The corpse, once she was finally dead, looks smaller than it did in life. Less a big monster, more a collection of dried sticks and moss and swamp grass. You keep your distance (bitch was throwing poison the entire time).

Y’all are battered, bruised, bleeding, or fucking poisoned. And the girl y’all did this for is too busy screaming insults to mind a flock of fucking witch crows (you want to clock her in the mouth so bad, just once).

A crow caws. You think nothing of it until another answers. Then another. More and more, and y’all are now surrounded by a murder of them, standing, staring, and cawing at y’all. Then one launches itself into the air in a burst of black wings and the murder moves.

There’s shouting and flailing (that part from you). And through it all, you notice one crow land on the hag’s head. Hop along her face. There’s something wrong with that bird. Weirdly skinny. Its wing is broken—

Oh.

Oh, nope. Not broken. just rotted halfway off. Feathers missing in clumps to reveal slimy, brown bone beneath. And where its eyes should be are two, empty sockets.

“Oh my god,” you say.

The crow ducks down. Its black beak catches something and it tugs once, twice. Pops something free and lifts…

It’s got one of Ethel’s eyeballs, optical nerve trailing down like a diseased worm. The eyeless crow looks right at you. Cocks its head first one way, then the other, and then throws itself back into the air.

As one, the murder coalesces. Forms a swirling, clacking, coughing cloud that rises like a column of smoke to disappear back the way y’all came. When you look down again, the body is picked clean. You’d only seen the one bird, but somehow, the carcass is stripped down to nothing but bones and rags.

“We should leave right now,” you say.

No one argues.

Chapter Text

No one has the energy to march back out, and Gale is fresh out of mojo. None of y’all want to camp in the creepy fucking swamp lair, but the alternative is free range bog. You literally feel your White ancestors shushing you, it’ll be fine, the bad thing is gone, is that oakwood flooring?

Amongst all the shuffling and the “what the fuck was that noise”, Shadowheart finds a horde of herbs. A decent chunk of them is the mergrass Gale needs to brew dirt potion, thank fucking god.

You took the fewest injuries, and as Ethel’s dirt potion still works, you take the first watch with Astarion (creepy murder hag house needs two people, no splitting up, your Cherokee ancestors rejoice).

Dinner is cold cheese and slightly stale bread. No one complains; nobody wants to trust Ethel’s stove or fireplace. Probably some kind of murder pit waiting to be activated. Y’all don’t explore much, either. Even Astarion lingers closer to the tent huddle than usual (and they did all put up tents; it’s a psychological thing, you’re sure). He’s quieter, than usual, hands still and unmoving at his sides.

He’s actually too still, now that you look. Barely breathing, gaze shifting around and restless. But the rest of him is unmoving. The hag had been shouting insults at all y’all, and had said something to him about being leashed at one point.

“You alright?” you say, seating yourself nearby.

He blinks. Eyes track to you. “Oh yes, just fine, darling.”

It’s like dropping a quarter into one of them old mechanical pony rides stores used to have outside the front door. A chunk, and a pink unicorn—paint sun-faded and chipped—surges into movement. His face hitches up in a micro expression (smug, sass, all the usual). His breathing increases to what might almost be normal. Even his hands flutter back to life.

Huh.

“How’re you doing food-wise?” you say. “Or, y’know, blood-wise?”

“You’re awfully concerned about my health this evening, aren’t you?” His eyelids droop into that silly, flirtatious dip. “Offering me a snack?”

“Still too soon. And we just fought a hag, which everyone was right about her being a nightmare. So yeah, wanted to make sure you don’t got acid melting through your foot or nothing, sue me.”

“Mmm.” He settles his chin in his hand, one finger tracing up the side of his face. Regards you. “So, how’s the tethering potion working for you?”

Fucking blood potion. Nasty ass, fucking vile thing. The only benefit you feel is the kind of exhaustion has shifted (less depression monotony, more muscles crying in agony) and the chronic headache has, blessedly, fucked right off.

So maybe it’s worth it.

He notices all of this, of course. His smile widens. Vampire man must find this hilarious.

“What’s it taste like, to you?” you say. “Blood, I mean?”

His eyebrows lift. He looks up, thinking. “Animal blood is all plonk compared to—other things. But leagues better than the rats and bugs Cazador deigned to give me.”

Add another bullet point to your list of “reasons to kill that fuckface.”

“What do I taste like?” you say, right as Shadowheart emerges from her tent. She arches a solitary eyebrow and you can feel her judgment. “My blood! I meant my blood, not some kinda, uh, innuendo.”

She makes a “sure, Jan” face and proceeds to leave the circle for the door leading outside. Nature must be calling.

So obviously Astarion grins like a lecher. Bastard.

“Hmm, what do you taste like,” he says. To your surprise, he shifts past the leer and actually seems to consider the question. “Warmth, first and foremost. Salty and savory, but with a hint of spices, rather like a mulled wine.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Oh, I quite enjoyed it.”

You ain’t blushing. You’re almost blushing? Why in the fuck would that make you blush? Bastard has two modes: flirt and murder hobo, and he only ever means the latter.

Things are so weird, here. The people are weird, the monsters are weird, and apparently it’s contagious.

“So blood is like booze for you?” you say because you gotta shift the tone here.

“Mmm. They are rather alike, aren’t they?”

Unfortunately, being in the middle of a hag house, y’all did not light a fire on her floor. So there ain’t no flames to distract you, and you both sit there for a good moment or two. Watch Shadowheart come back and she absolutely does not give you a “I see you two sitting together over there” glare.

“So,” Astarion says with a goddamn tone. “As a fellow blood drinker—”

“It’s a drop from each of you and it’s cooked with leaves and mushrooms and shit.”

“As a fellow blood drinker, who’s your favorite? I’ve only tasted you, darling, but you’ve sampled the full spread, as it were. Lucky thing.”

“All I taste is like licking an iron pipe.”

“What?” He sounds genuinely surprised. Then he clicks his tongue. “Such a waste.”

You shrug. “No vampire senses, I guess.”

He processes that. An odd look crosses his face and disappears again. And then he’s back to smarm. “So, in the spirit of theoretical questions, if you could taste anything besides that wretched description, which of our dearest companions would you take a mouthful of?”

…is that an innuendo? That sounds like an innuendo. Goddamn, the man never stops. No wonder he’s got a pile of lovers back in his hometown.

It also sounds like he’s actually asking your opinion on which one to nibble first.

“This is theoretical, right?”

He places a hand lightly over his heart, the wikipedia banner image of solemn. “Of course. I’ve wondered about Gale, myself. He strikes me as someone whose blood is rich, refined as a well-aged brandy.”

Gale is a wizard, and they’re probably snooty, yeah? Except Gale has more than a dash of awkwardness in there.

“And then there’s the gith,” he says. “What in the hells do you think she tastes like?

You know jack shit about alcohol. Try to think of some way to add to this conversation without revealing that (people get weird about it).

But he beats you to that non-alcoholic punch. Fake gasps and looks at you, all smugly scandalized. “Oh, but that’s right. You told our dearest Blade that you don’t drink.”

And the man casually leans in to pat your fucking cheek. You jerk back, swipe at him. But he’s already retreating out of range, and continuing on because he’s fucking horrible like that. “You poor, poor thing. That must be so boring, darling. How sheltered are you, exactly?”

Extremely, in some ways. And aggressively not in other ways on very, very purpose because your mother and her band of psychos can fuck right off into the sun, you’re a goddamn adult, fuck you very much.

“You eavesdrop on the regular?” you say.

He taps the pointed tip of his long ear. “Darling, when you have my hearing, you learn everything about everyone in camp.”

…good to know, holy shit.

“I bet Lae’zel is sour,” you say, shoving this conversation back on track. “Like, really sour. Maybe a gamy undertone.”

He pauses, opens his mouth. Shuts it and taps his finger to his chin. “Hmm. You might be right.”

“You, uh, you looking at other necks?”

His smirk morphs into a malicious sneer. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s enough of me to go around. I’m a man of tremendous appetites. Still this is just a little team bonding, eh? Good for morale and all?”

You…feel like he’s saying something else. You ain’t sure what, like hearing a voice in another room but unable to pick out a single word. And before you can try to work on that he changes the subject.

“So, you don’t like drinking? Surely the benefits outweigh the taste?” he says.

Honestly, that gets you more questions than almost anything else (the top contender is the lack of bed partners, because people get real weird about that so you don’t bring it up). They assume it’s a religious thing. And maybe that did keep you from developing a taste earlier in life, but you’d tried plenty ever since (out of spite) and they’re all horrifying.

“Not really,” you say, and stick out your tongue in what you hope is the universal “blurgh” face. “I can drink it in other stuff, sometimes, but I’d just rather not.”

“You dislike bitter things. Noted.”

Did…did he just turn that into some kinda innuendo? Because his tone suggests it is, but the words make no damn sense and you stare at him for a hot minute.

“You’re being real weird tonight,” you say. And immediately regret being so forward and the first twinge of panic uncurls beneath your lungs.

But he only grins and leans back on his hands. “We just murdered a hag, my dear, as you noted. Is it a crime to bask in our victory?”

Everyone and everything was so scared of her. Those still-living people below had been trapped so long. Even Gandrel, a professional monster hunter, was wary of her.

“Guess not,” you say.

“Thank you. And you never did answer my question, you know.” At your blank stare, “If you could properly sample anyone here, who would it be?”

Six tents, yours and his included. Nobody did their extra stuff today—no writing desk for Gale or practice dummies for Lae’zel. Just a closed tent and a bedroll within. You suspect y’all will be hoofing out the second y’all can in the morning, this entire place be damned. The tents are all, to your ears, quiet.

“I dunno,” you say. “Guess it depends on what makes blood taste different. You said it’s life force, right? So wouldn’t someone like, say, Wyll, be better than Gale? Just cause he’s younger? Or is it experience? Fitness? Is diet a factor? I mean, if somebody eats chocolate, it puts sugars and hormones into the bloodstream. Does that alter what you get outta it?”

Now it’s his turn to stare. To blink. “I don’t really know, darling. This is theoretical.”

“Do you want to know?” Because you do. Sweat smells different when the body processes alcohol. Urine smells different depending on vegetable consumption. “The human—er the body is basically a big, interwoven chemistry set. Whole thing is run on chemicals and hormones. So tweaking some a those ought to affect what you get out of it. Unless it’s all magical, vampire bullshit stuff. But we could experiment, maybe? If you wanted?”

And now a slight frown folds the skin between his brows. You’ve gone and overdone it again. Fuck.

“Wyll,” you blurt. “I’d try Wyll.”

He pauses, and then smooths back into that delighted grin. “Ah, I was thinking the same. All that self-righteous heroics. Honestly, that man.”

See? He flirts with everybody. Guy is just a flirty nut. But you two’ve established the foundations of a game, so you look at him. Hold that eye contact while keeping your face blank in the way most other people find intimidating (it’s not anything, you’re literally just holding still).

Astarion, shockingly, only rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes. I have no intention of snacking on our beloved teammates.” Sweeps his gaze to your neck. “Aside from one. When she permits me to end my agony.”

Good lord, this guy. He really is punch drunk off this fight.

“I honestly started feeling a lot better a lot quicker than when I donated back home,” you say. “I’ll ask how that all works in the morning when Gale potions me up. See if the healing juice speeds up red cell production. If it does, maybe you can tap in more often.”

Blood and dirt. What an exciting flavor profile. You almost fold into a groan.

“Really?” Astarion says. There’s the barest tremble to his voice. The lightest touch of what you could almost describe as incredulity.

Acknowledging something that skittish would only send it sprinting off. So you continue as if you hadn’t noticed. “Sure. If you want to?”

And then he leans in. Like, leans in, and his eyelids drop. “Oh darling, I will eat you right up.”

Oookay. You know he’s ridiculous, but the man is upping it to the nth degree. What an absolute goober.

He settles back before you can shove his head. You have to settle for a brushing motion with your fingers. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your fangs in your mouth please.”

The man full on simpers. Clucks his tongue, even. And in the most oozing, sleaziest tone imaginable, “Oh, you sweet, generous thing. I’ll be waiting.”

He’s just too much. You still feel yourself smile, though.

Chapter Text

The Halsin guy is, once again, y’all’s best bet—no, Lae’zel, we don’t even know where the creche is and we do know where the goblins are and I promise if our dumb, istik brains get this wrong, we go there next.

Thank fuck for Gale and his teleports.

And your suspicions the night before were, in fact, entirely correct. Blood potion and dirt potion taste fucking horrific together. You futilely scrape your tongue with your nails in between gargling with tea (despite Gale’s wincing and “that was a perfectly good brew”). You’re so desperate, in fact, you try to gargle with wine.

Astarion laughs so hard when you choke that he almost rips open the seat of his pants as he keels over in hysterics.

Bastard.

But you can talk, your head feels calm and clear, and you’re not face-planting dead in the dirt.

“We cannot leave that devil to terrorize innocent people,” Wyll says as you swig the alcohol taste out with more tea (actually drinking it, this time, Gale).

He did agree to join y’all to get help taking that thing down. The brainworms fucked him up along with the others; man is down to a couple of spells a day. And the devil’s last known location was sort of in the vicinity of where y’all need to go anyway.

A demon hunt it is.

Y’all step through the swirling, swooshing purple portal into sunshine. Astarion isn’t the only one to sigh and turn their face up to bask in the warm, clean light. To a one, y’all’re coated in swamp muck and hag goo. There’s nobody on the road when y’all emerge, but you suspect anybody coming across you would give you a real, real wide berth.

The teleporter spits y’all out near the grove again. It’ll be several days’ walk to the goblin camp. But at least the crew knows this area well enough to find all the streams to camp next to.

Wyll chomps at the bit, though. His hero instincts can’t let y’all rest and clean up. So loathe as y’all are, y’all agree to set off now and make camp and wash your damn clothes later.

You ain’t that far from the grove when you notice the handholds carved into a cliff on your left. You saw similar marks when you went to visit a national park a few years back. Ancestral Puebloans used them to get up to their cliff cities down in New Mexico. You look up, and think you see the top of a structure up there. And more importantly, some kinda chest on that structure up there.

“I’ll be right back,” you say and unsling your pack. “Might be something useful.”

Lae’zel eyes the cliff and nods approvingly. Probably because this is exercise and while she left off going into the hag fight, she’ll be right back on your ass tonight, you reckon (your entire body is sore, but your pack seems a touch lighter than usual).

“I’ll go with you,” Wyll says. “We can scout the area from up there. Make sure there aren’t any goblin patrols.”

And then Astarion surprises all y’all. “I suppose I’ll go, too.” Catches all of you staring and rolls his eyes. “If someone died up there they might still have valuables.”

Of course. Mr. Sticky Fingers.

“Dibs on jewelry,” you say, because you haven’t forgotten that conversation and you can’t afford to back down on it.

He tilts his head, all amused, and Lae’zel makes a sort of low hiss in the back of her throat. Surprisingly, Shadowheart near mimics the sound. Then the two realize they agree on something and both appear pretty grossed out by the prospect.

The cliff ain’t one long wall, but a jumble of several shorter ones. Your boots are thin and flexible enough, and the angle just shallow enough you can scrabble up. Slower than both the boys—holy fuck, Astarion is fast at that but he frowns at his hands when you crawl up to join him on the first ledge.

Wyll, the gentleman, lets you go first in case you need a boost, but also scurries up beside you in case you need a hand at the top—which you do thanks to the whole “upper body strength deficiency” thing.

There is a structure at the top, alright. Real dilapidated, all wooden poles leaning haphazardly together. But there’s also a chest up there. Astarion volunteers himself. Shimmies right up, swipes the thing, and more slides than climbs down, the wood groaning and swaying alarmingly.

There’s no bodies, though. Just a moldy sack of some kind, and a spectacular view of the smashed open butthole ship.

“Damn,” you say, looking out. The debris field is huge, but the main shell of it seems to have landed close together. More like it dropped right outta the sky and cracked like an egg, less like an airplane shredding itself to pieces as it plowed across the landscape.

You wonder how the damn thing flew at all. No wings or rotors; probably wasn’t as fast as an actual airplane, since you doubt it had to generate lift like one. That lack of speed (and Not-Sasha) are probably what saved you from being roadkill.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Astarion says.

You hum. “I wonder if anybody else survived? Maybe fell out earlier, got saved by that dream douche.”

There’s a pause as you both wonder if that word translated correctly. Then Astarion moves past it. “If they did, they’re probably dead in a ditch somewhere by now.”

You give him a look.

“I’m just saying, we’ve been incredibly lucky. The wilderness doesn’t lack for monsters and bandits and cutthroats. Any one of us could have died at least twice by now had we found ourselves alone.”

“True,” Wyll comes in. He surveys the destruction below, and gives a slow shake of his head. “It almost makes you wonder if something else has a hand in all this.”

Astarion’s scoff is harsher than usual, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. “You think gods saved us for some ‘higher purpose?’”

You could catch those air quotes blindfolded. You ain’t sure if he’s mocking the higher purpose, or gods in general (you try to hide the smile at either prospect). It is interesting, though, since gods are actually a physical thing, here.

“I’ve not seen the handiwork of many gods,” Wyll says. “But I have seen the influence of other things.”

“Ah! A well-traveled group, then!”

Y’all whirl, both men going for their blades.

Another guy stands behind y’all, dressed like a real fancy man, all ruffles and buttons and embroidery. You heard nothing from the other below to indicate y’all had company, and the man’s hands—held out as he dips into a theatric bow—are clean, his fingers well-manicured.

Fancy little fuck did not climb up here.

“Who’re you?” you say, dropping your customary swearing because this guy seems to have dropped clean out of the sky.

His eyes shift to you—

Oh. Fuck.

Those ain’t human eyes. That’s not a man. He’s man-shaped, but there’s something about the air around him, something that suggests an ill-fitted suit, like the atmosphere strains against the seams where he stands.

What the actual fuck is that thing?

“Such ferocity from one so defenseless,” he says, his voice pitched so low it goes gravelly.

Your lips hurt. They’re pulled back over your teeth in an animal snarl, you realize. Every hair on your body stands on end. Something about that thing ain’t right, ain’t natural, shouldn’t fucking be here.

“Who are you?” Wyll says as your monkey brain scrambles for human words.

The thing ignores him. Scopes the area with a disdainful air. “My, my, what manner of place is this? A path to redemption? Or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.”

You immediately want to smash his teeth out. Not just because of the gibbering alarm shrieking in your skull; his entire vibe oozes pretension.

Which gets worse when he again, theatrically—still pretending y’all ain’t standing there, waiting for an answer—taps his lips with one finger. “What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?”

And then he launches into some goddamn poem. You don’t pay much attention—something about a cat. The talking pisses you off. Bitch drops out of nowhere and fucking monologues at you and you want to crawl out of your own skin. He rambles on and on until, finally, says his name: Raphael.

There’s no magic translation of his name. It really is “Raphael.”

Which is a Hebrew name.

It is an angel’s name.

You don’t think this thing is an angel what the fuck.

Your companions both look to you, for some reason, and when you still don’t speak (please be wrong, please be wrong, please your mother cannot be right about this), Wyll ventures a, “Are you the cat or the mouse?”

And hoo boy. Does this (demon demon demon) man look fucking ecstatic with somebody playing along.

Your mother and the others loved talked about the devil. Loved. Demons and evil and witches and sin. Couldn’t somebody spit out more than three sentences without bringing one of them into it, up to and including passing the salt at breakfast.

You left all that behind. Slowly, deliberately. Like pealing leeches—fat and gorged and pulsing with your own, stolen blood—from your body. Each belief, each phrase, each word carefully (or extremely rushed in a fit of anger) pulled out, mouths chomping and bloodied. Each one dropped into the dirt and left behind to rot.

Now you’re here, with wizards and vampires and a literal fucking soul trying to fly off into space, and you look at this monologuing motherfucker, and something long dead stirs within you.

(demon demon demon)

You been palling around with killers and monsters. But now, in front of this creature, you feel the first brush of evil.

Raphael lifts his fingers. He’s been talking; you were too busy keeping your limbs still, knees locked, keeping yourself upright. Now he snaps, and the world shifts—

You’re in some ugly fucking dining room. Everything in red and gold and black, like a migraine made visual. Fireplaces big enough to stuff a fucking buffalo into. Paintings of demons (yep, those’re demons) on the walls. It’s all opulent and gauche in a nauseating way.

Voices startle behind you. The rest of the crew, clutching their weapons, eyes wide, teeth bared in Lae’zel’s case and huh, she’s an alien entity to these people and the two of you seem to have the same reaction to that thing.

Beyond them, you spot another painting. A red demon, big, bat wings spread wide, dressed in frilly, foppish finery. Skull in one hand. Same, smug face as the creature standing in the room with you.

Motherfucker.

“What’s going on?” Gale says. “Who…?”

“Welcome, welcome to the House of Hope,” Raphael says. Gestures to the huge table piled three tiers high with food. It even smells good. You been living off stews, sausage, and cheese for a week. That pie looks so flaky and tender, your mouth actually waters. “Please, help yourselves. Enjoy supper. It might be your last.”

“Don’t touch the food,” you say. So many stories about abductions and food. Fairies, Greek gods, and that one Guillermo del Toro movie with the pale man.

This, unfortunately, draws the attention of the sonuvabitch back to you. Jesus lord, his face is so sleazy. He cocks his head. Studies you.

“Yes, you’re an interesting case, aren’t you?” he says. His voice dips even lower, going ragged in his throat like he’s trying too hard. “Not from around here. You notice it, don’t you? You and the gith, both.”

“Notice what?” Wyll says.

“That creature cloaks its appearance,” Lae’zel says. Much better wording than your own, mental his skin is fucking fake!

“Indeed,” Raphael says. He tosses an arm into the air as if to present a stage line. Only hot wind buffets out from him, stinking of ozone and sulfur. And when you blink through watering eyes, there stands the red motherfucking demon from the painting.

Wyll tenses beside you. Astarion has gone utterly still, not even pretending to breathe.

Raphael smirks. Says, “What’s better than the devil you don’t know? The one that you do.”

“No,” you say.

You don’t mean to say it. You have every intention of staying still and quiet, like Astarion. Of fading into the background and hoping the bad thing doesn’t notice you until y’all can get the fuck outta here.

But this is all too much, and you’re flat out panicking and (demon demon demon the devil will steal your soul). It just sort of slips outta you.

Raphael frowns, mildly. Cranks up the sleaze. “I’m afraid I haven’t even—”

“No thank you we’d like to go now—” You clap both hands over your mouth. Resist the urge to walk over to the nearest wall and lobotomize yourself through sheer blunt force trauma.

At least a few self-preservation instincts manage to reach in and make sure it comes out sorta polite?

The next frown is not mild. “Ill manners make an ill guest. On this plane and in all others.”

You’re done talking. You’re done moving. You can feel the sweat beading in your armpits and along the edge of your scalp.

Raphael’s creepy demon eyes hold your gaze a moment longer. When you sensibly keep your lips shut, he resumes his monologue. You all but sag against Astarion when the demon shifts to address the others.

Something something brainworms. Something something he’s your savior (you’ve had quite enough of those to last a lifetime). Something something grandiose pretension.

“I could fix it all like that.” Raphael snaps his fingers. Flames burst up from his hand.

Neat party trick, you think and absolutely do not say.

He wants y’all to ask for help. Says y’all won’t find any with Halsin or Lae’zel’s people. He says all that in the nastiest, most arrogant way possible, and your companions look at each other, unsure. One of them is gonna say something stupid, ask for more information, actually consider what this fuck is saying.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” you say. Your voice only shakes a little. You’re almost proud of that. “But I have to insist we leave.”

Maybe it’s the extra courtesy in your phrasing. Or maybe he’s too wrapped up in the sound of his own speech. He sweeps right into his next schtick of “blah blah denying reality, blah bah change your mind, you’re so weak, you’ll come crawling back, blah blah.”

Wyll is damn near trembling to one side. There’s a look in his eye part contained anger, part fear.

“You’ve been lucky so far,” Raphael wraps up. “And I’ll be there when that luck runs out.”

He snaps his fingers.

You’re once again on a cliff, under a blue sky smelling of pine and distant water and the slightest tinge of burning slugs and rubber.

None of the others gives you crap as your legs give out.

Chapter Text

“A devil? Astarion’s voice is sharp and just this side of a whine. “Now we’ve got a devil after us?”

Voices from below. Gale and Shadowheart and Lae’zel. Y’all should probably regroup. You try to focus as you climb back down (easier, as you’re laying on your belly, but also harder, as you’re already shaking and shivering).

The rest of the crew look between worried and grim. Lae’zel has relaxed back into her “breathe on me and die” stance. Only you seem to still be having a physical reaction. Possible because you’re the only one suddenly dumped ass over tea kettle into an unasked for crisis of (un)faith.

The others debate about it. Or discuss it, since nobody seems to be outright in favor. Wyll is dead set against the entire concept. But it’s Astarion that draws your eye. He wants to use the parasites, you’d gathered from snippets over the last day and a half. He’d said so to the others after the whole dream intruder episode. Man seems pretty down for snatching any form of power (or supplies) he can get his hands on.

But when you look at him, he wears a dark look.

“He’s playing with us,” Astarion says when you ask. “He reminds me of…well. Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they can win.”

That fuckface hunting him.

“I don’t want any kinda deal with a devil,” you say. “We got stories about that where I come from, and they all end bad.”

Which piques Gale’s interest. You really should take an evening and let the man go whole hog on your stories. He’s been so helpful and curious. Might be a good idea to get a wizard on your side anyway. Short of finding some butthole ship flight recorder, he might be your best shot and getting home again.

All your troubles are starting to run together. Problems gained, nothing solved. You’re not even sure you’re remembering everything outside of “Wyll’s demon” and “Halsin with goblins.” Seems like there’s more you should be remembering.

This line of thinking usually means y’all should set up camp. You ain’t gonna get any less crotchety. Maybe if you offer Gale a Q and A session you can get another vote in “we should stop for tonight.”

Gale is only too happy to swing the vote. To be fair, Wyll don’t even protest. Whole devil thing really rattled everybody. Y’all find a stream, start setting up tents, and Astarion is the first one to march over with an arm of clothing.

You still ain’t done nothing with that scrap of linen he gave. You don’t know how to sew, and you don’t have the supplies. You been pondering scavenging another belt and just rigging you up a goddamn loincloth. You suspect it’d look weird and bulky underneath your trousers, though. But maybe you should, just to get used to it. You been here a week or so; it’s maybe another week until the cramps kick in and you start bleeding. You read enough history to know a loincloth is your best bet for dealing with that (you’re gonna have to keep an eye out for more rags or shirts that ain’t all mildewy).

Thoughts of drawers aside, Gale is ecstatic to sit you down and pick your brain. He hands you a scroll and a quill and an inkpot (“For your own keeping. One never knows when one might need to take notes”). He talks to you until most of the others have retired for the night. Talks to you as Astarion finishes his first watch (he sends you both a weird look), and only seems to notice when Shadowheart emerges from her tent to take second shift.

“Oh, goodness, I’ve completely lost track of time!” he says, scribbling furiously.

He’d started with what you remember of Mesopotamia—quickly sidetracked into prehistory and the entire theory of evolution, and then veered into parallel world speculations you didn’t quite follow. He taps his lips with the tip of his quill. They’re not, you notice, full feathers like in the movies. He actually cuts them much shorter, leaves only a tuft of feather on the far end. You wonder about that, until you realize the trim brings the thing down to about pen length. Huh.

“But if that theory is correct, your people would have had to be on Ay-arth for a significant amount of time. Far beyond even the creation of Toril.”

“Toril?”

He looks up. Blinks. And that’s how you learn Faerun is the name of the continent. The planet is Toril. Neat.

You leave him still muttering. He kind of waves, murmurs a “Thank you, Eleanor. Rest well.” And then he shuffles towards his tent, still reading his notes, quill still tapping his lips and you don’t have the heart to tell him he’s got ink on his fingers.

Shadowheart nods as you approach. “Late night?”

You groan. “I barely even got started. He wants to know everything I do and I been learning for years.”

She hums. Glances to the wizard settling in at a reading desk he probably pulled out of his magic bag. You don’t think he’s going to sleep at all, tonight.

“So you’re a scholar, then?” she says.

“More of a hobby,” you say. “My people got access to a lot of information real casually. I don’t got the brain juice to explain right now, sorry. Though, could I ask you a question?”

Her face is cool in the orange glow of firelight. “That depends on the question.”

You know very little of her, aside from hating Lae’zel, and she’s got jesus hands. Also that she’s got mean girl tendencies.

“That potion and your magic, the healing? Does it speed up, um, blood production? Not the fluids but, like, the bits it carries?”

She holds up a hand. “I’m aware of how blood works and its components; I’ve seen enough of it. And yes, a healing potion or my spells encourage the body to heal any recent injuries; so more than just replacing the water in the blood. Why?”

There’s…a suspicious fucking edge to the last word, there. Ain’t no time to be subtle.

“Feeding the vampire,” you say and fuck it, being honest with doctors makes their job easier, right?

Her suspicion turns scathing. It takes all you got not to squirm.

“Really?” she says.

“It helps him fight,” you say.

“So would a feather bed, yet we’ve all been managing fine without.”

But she didn’t feel the monstrous hunger ripping through her innards. Not more than the barest flash Astarion had let slip during his impromptu group chat.

You been hungry before. It was one of Mother’s favorite lessons, hungering for the grace of the lord. His salvation made physical through the hands of the shepherd he sent to guide the unworthy. Deliverance could only follow punishment, though. As your unclean thoughts or actions separated you from the light and bounty of the lord, so did your physical body have to experience that loss. Plus it left no marks for any outsiders to see and be concerned over.

(raspberry and artificial lemon and the stink of dirt)

(No, there’s no root cellar here.)

It’s an awful feeling. And if your body is fine (and soul firmly tied down) you don’t want to let that carry on. Not if you can do something.

Nobody came to help you. Not for a long, long time. Not until Sasha.

You can do your best to be a Sasha, too.

“Is it gonna hurt me in the long run?” you say.

Shadowheart’s voice is as flat as her expression. “No more than letting a vampire at your throat usually is. Are you sure he didn’t dominate you?”

That word again. It’s enough to break through the nasty turn your thoughts were taking. You wonder if that’s a sex thing in Faerunese, as well in English.

“I am of sound mind, making choices of my own volition,” you say. “I used to do this back home pretty regular. Not with vampires, though; we don’t got them. Donating blood helps people with medical emergencies. And my dad’s side…helping your people is a cultural thing. You go to any of my relatives and you barely get a ‘hi’ outta you before somebody’s asking if you’re hungry and they got food in the kitchen, help yourself. It’s real…people-oriented. Helping each other. Or it is when people are trying to do right, anyway.”

Gale still mutters over his desk. There’s ink stains in his beard, now. You wince, but you’ve committed, and you ain’t gonna out yourself at this point. Let him think nobody noticed and salvage his pride.

“That sounds like a people that can be taken advantage of,” Shadowheart says.

That hits. It’s a subject you get stuck on, too. Maybe if the first people the Spanish and then the English had found had been less generous and more murder-happy, y’all wouldn’t have been decimated by disease and then force-marched off all y’all’s land.

Or maybe your ancestors still would have lost, eventually, and without that caring, y’all would have torn yourselves apart during the chaos that followed. Maybe y’all wouldn’t still be here.

“I helped you on that ship,” you say.

Her frown is a sharp, vicious thing. A razor embedded in a ball of ice. “I believe I’ve already repaid that debt a few times over.”

You hold up your hands. “More than that. I’m not trying to hold that over your head. You’uns are the only reason I’m still alive, so thank you. I’m just saying, people survive better when they work together. I ain’t gonna ask any of you to let him chomp down, I just wanna know if it’s safe for me to volunteer. If it ain’t, I won’t.”

She stares silently for a long moment. So long, you’re sure she’s gonna walk off without giving you an answer.

Only she sighs. Puts her hands on her hips and glares at Astarion’s red tent. “You should be able to manage every three or four days, given you have a potion or someone to cast a lesser restoration spell.”

You look at her. She looks at you.

She throws her hands up. “Alright, fine. Find me in the morning after I’ve had my breakfast. But if he drains you dry, you’d best let everyone else know not to come to me to revivify you.”

The too-tight muscles at the base of your skull relax a tick. There’s one thing off the problems list. Or, well, piled onto your plate. Still, you’re gonna count that as a win because fuck it.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Don’t thank me for this. Ugh. And keep you…feedings to yourselves. I doubt anyone else in camp wants to see that.”

You give her a two-fingered salute and let her begin her patrol.

Finally, you can sleep. Deal with all this tomorrow (when maybe y’all find a demon woman to kill). You’re trudging by the time you make it to your tent—next to Astarion’s; somehow, that’s become the official set up. You hadn’t really noticed before, but they did it even when you died passed out, didn’t they?

“Well?” His voice is smooth and low in the dark. You valiantly try to catch yourself when the startle tangles your feet and you end up plowing into your own tent. The poles creak as the whole things sags under you.

His laughter is high and light. Exactly what you think some fancy boy at a rich bitch party would sound like if the staff dropped a tray of teeny, tiny little pickled fish eggs or roasted peacock asshole or whatever those dipshits eat.

“Fuck you, too,” you say on instinct.

On bad instinct.

“Feeling rather forward this evening are we, darling?” Astarion says. The dick. He’s not actually inside his tent; has plonked himself down all criss-cross applesauce right outside the flap. He sits completely unmoving, the only giveaway the shift in eerie eyeshine as he tilts his head back to regard you.

“Ain’t you just a creeper,” you say.

“A what?” He sounds more amused than insulted.

“Creeper. Some guy lurking all creepy in the fucking dark.”

He ponders that a moment. Then lets out his high, little “ah-ha!” giggle. The firelight catches that predator’s eyeshine again. “Vampire, darling. It rather comes with the territory.”

“I guess.” He’s got a point, goddamnit. “You eavesdropping again?”

“Of course. Especially once I caught that juicy little conversation with our dear cleric.”

You’re so tired. You sway on your feet. Sitting down sounds great, and it’s the polite thing to do, but you know the second your butt touches the dirt, you ain’t getting back up.

“Tomorrow night,” you say. “I’m way too beat right now. But you can feed tomorrow.”

“Oh ~darling~” the man fucking purrs. “I was so hoping you’d say that. I’ll come to you then, when you’re snugly wrapped in your bedroll, and we can have a little privacy. And this time, I’ll make sure I’m quiet. We don’t want to disturb your rest. Later on, when we are at rest, I will eat you right up. Just enough to give me strength and just enough to leave you wishing for more.”

Um.

“Um,” you say. Scratch the back of your head. “I think I’d prefer you don’t come in while I’m asleep?”

So of course he plays right onto that, because he’s a horrible person. The firelight catches his face as it pulls down into a leer. “Prefer to feel my lips on your skin again?”

He can see in the dark better than you, you gathered. Hopefully not enough to catch the wash of heat over your cheeks.

His tongue on your neck. It’s the most intimate you ever been with somebody.

“A strange man slipping in and biting my while I’m asleep, hmm. You do know that’s exactly what I meant when I called you a creeper, right?”

“We’re hardly strangers at this point.”

“I’ve known you a week.”

He seems on the verge of firing something back. Reconsiders. His smile, when it comes, is a touch too composed. “As you like. You’ll wait for me, then? After the others have gone to rest?”

Making it sound like a damn hookup.

You’re honestly too tired to keep up with this pointy-eared dork. “Sure, sure. I’ll wait up for you. Do me a favor, though, and if I do fall asleep, wake me up?”

The reflected glow of his eyes dips as he places a hand over his chest and gives you a seated bow. Maybe it’s your own tired, or maybe (just a little), the teasing is (kinda) fun. But you dip into a fancy bow back. You been itching to do that.

Which lights up his whole face in delight.

“Night,” you say before he can kick off another round of being weird, and you duck into your still-sagging tent.

Chapter Text

You realize the next day what you’d agreed to. And then you blame that for the absolute clusterfuck y’all walk into.

You’re walking along, lost in thought. Astarion is gonna bite you again. You done went and invited him to do it. Yes, there’s practical reasons, and yes, you don’t want more of these assholes in the group (your assholes) going hungry. But he’s a real flirty guy, and he is one hundred percent going to use this to tease you. Wants to already, judging from the looks he keeps tossing your way as y’all walk along the dirt road.

And that’s why you don’t notice the noise ahead (you will swear that as the truth to your grave). Snapping and growling and whimpering. Not until you crawl up the steep path—damn near a cliff—from the river and the stink of blood and ripped bowels smacks you in the face.

“Oh what the fuck,” you say.

You stepped into a massacre. Dead bodies, piles of viscera, and blood everywhere. You freeze so long one of the others has to tap the back of your calf to get you moving again.

“Go back down,” you start to say, but Astarion—the bastard—clambers past you like some kinda fucking spider man.

He takes in the scene, nostrils flaring, and says, “Well, what do we have here?”

Then the others are urging you up and you got to get outta the way as they pile up after you. By then, it’s too late. Y’all are upwind of whatever the fuck this is, and heads lift up down the road, noses in the air.

They ain’t human heads.

So now you’re up a tree, a big fucking hyena monster snapping at your ass cheeks. The branches are too thin to hold your weight any further up, and all you can do it cling and wrap your legs tighter and wait for the feel of big, nasty teeth sinking into your ass.

“Fuck off you hairy piece of shit!” you holler.

The hyena thing only snarls. Spittle lands on your face and if you weren’t so focused on koala hugging that branch for your life, you’da probably gagged.

The others have much better luck than you. Lae’zel will be able to claim another trophy for her head collection. Gale works up a spell that smacks two of them flying off the cliff in a crash of thunder. Astarion giggles as he darts around another, twin knives flashing, sending arcs of blood spraying.

A crunch. Your tree shudders. Fucker’s too big to climb up after you, so now it’s chewing on the trunk. A ghost of memory floats into your mind: some British grandpa voice over of a nature documentary talking about hyena bite strength.

The hairy bitch rips out a chunk of wood like a dog chewing on styrofoam.

“Shit, shit!” you say. You can’t get to your pack—it’s on the ground. Can’t do anything but watch, horrified, as the monster gnaws, bloodshot eyes trained on you—

A shout. A flash of light. Red engulfs the monster. The thing bulges from the inside, limbs writhing. Its jaw crunches down over its own tongue and bites it clean off. Eyes roll in their sockets, pink spittle froths the lips, and then the light snaps and the thing falls, still twitching.

“Eleanor!” Wyll says. He keeps his rapier out as he rushes over.

Your limbs shake about as bad as the hyena’s did. You finally lose your grip, but Wyll is there, wraps his free arm around you to keep you from tumbling onto your ass.

You tense at the touch. Abdomen pulls tight as your spine locks and you’re stepping away before you can really register the decision.

“Thank you,” you say. Glance to the gore spattered on you—Astarion had started the fight much closer to you, and your shirt is now a Jackson Pollock painted in red. “I didn’t want to get this all over you.”

Wyll’s smile is warm, his eyes soft. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’d found myself covered in gore after a fight. Are you alright? Did it hit you?”

“Nope,” you say and spread your arms to do a slow twirl (in case you’re wrong and haven’t come off the adrenaline enough to notice).

The hyenas had started popping like meat balloons and those monsters had clawed out of their bellies. They were fucking fast. Astarion is also fucking fast, which had given you just enough time to turn tail and sprint for the closest tree.

Fighting people is one thing. Fighting hyena monsters? Not so much.

“You don’t have much field experience, do you?” Wyll says.

“Was dropping my staff that much a giveaway?” you say. “I got no experience. Lae’zel is teaching me how to use that damn stick. Did you see where it went?”

Lae’zel is the one who finds it (oh fuck). She holds it out for you and her face is blank in the most terrifying way you ever seen. You almost don’t take it back. The prey instincts scream not to get so close to what is very obviously a crocodile waiting in the water.

She doesn’t even say anything, and that’s how you know you’re fucked. That woman is going to run you straight into the ground.

She leaves you standing there. And you start to feel the wetness on your hand, and you finally look down to the pile of guts she’d plucked your staff from.

“Oh! Fucking gross!”

Which is when Astarion saunters over, sheathing his own, cleaned knives. He looks at your staff, at you furiously shaking your hand, and laughs.

Y’all follow the bodies up the road. “Looking for survivors” as Wyll puts it. “A snack trail” as Astarion counters. Though the bodies are too dead for his liking, and he keeps “sneaking” glances over to you.

Y’all reach a bridge and spot the structure on the other side.

“Looks like a tollhouse,” Gale says and the urge to bite into a warm, chocolate chip cookie punches you right in the throat.

It quickly fades (though not entirely, which weirds you out, considering the carnage) as y’all pick through bodies and pieces of gore leading up to it. Slip through a jumble of crates and wooden spikes lashed together that looks like somebody tried to throw up a barricade. Trashed, abandoned wagons dot here and there, and as y’all approach, y’all catch sight of the hyena monster bodies sprawled all over the porch amidst more boxes and barrels with a flame painted on the sides.

You slow.

“You think anyone is alive in there?” Shadowheart says.

“We owe it to them to check,” Wyll says.

“Oh, they’re in there alright,” Astarion says. When everyone turns to look at him, “What? These ears aren’t just for decoration, you know. There’s at least four things with a pulse in there.”

The others look weirded out. You’d chalked it up to elf ears, but now you reconsider. He’d also specifically mentioned the pulse. So maybe it’s a vampire thing. And then you’re seeing him in a different light, one that sends a shiver down your spine. He looks like a pasty elf, and he’s got sharp teeth and he drank your blood. But he’s a vampire, and that means more than “pointy teeth” don’t it. He’s a predator. And he preys on people.

Except Wyll don’t look surprised. Just nods slowly and gives Astarion an appraising glance. “Vampire spawn. You lot can hear the twinkle of the stars, I’m told.”

“Hardly anything so poetic,” Astarion says. “And even if I could, it’d be drowned out by the sound of all of your nightly emissions. Honestly, do you have any idea how loud your digestive systems all are?”

“Four people,” Gale cuts in before any of y’all can think too deep about that. “I’d assume the toll collectors? Or whoever came to help whenever all this occurred?”

“We ought to see how they fare,” Wyll says. “And ask if they’ve seen anything.”

A red woman on fire, he means.

You let him take front. Move in with the others. It’s not just hyena monster bodies lying around, but human ones as well. Or humanoid, anyways. You have to step over a severed leg to reach the front door, boot still on, sock soaked through in blood.

Astarion’s chest ain’t moving. He notices you staring, rushes out a, “The blood.”

The stink is thick enough to clog your nostrils. Apparently, being undead and all, he really can just stop breathing. Probably a good thing, right now; it’s got to be some kinda torture for him to stand in all this.

Wyll opens the double doors and y’all spot three people. A guy with an even bigger fuck off sword than Lae’zel talking to a short little dude, and a hobbit (halfling?gnome? You don’t know) standing to the side.

All startle at y’all’s entrance. Hands grab for weapons. The halfling has a bow out and arrow knocked before you can even lift your hands.

“Who are you?” Fuck Off Sword says. “Keep your distance.”

Wyll, hands raised, voice soft, says, “We’re but travelers. We saw the carnage outside and came to see if anyone needed aid.”

Oh, he’s good at this. Maybe he should be y’all’s leader. Or, judging from the squint on Lae’zel and the slight lip curl on Astarion, maybe that wouldn’t work out so well.

“Travelers?” Fuck Off Sword says. Then, “Yes, we’ve grave injuries to tend to, but the tollhouse is safe enough for now. It’s under Tyr’s protection.”

Tyr. You’ve heard that name. It takes a few seconds ruffling through mental files, but there it is. Norse god. Guy has one hand.

“You serve Tyr?” Wyll says, brightening.

How the fuck is a viking god known here?

“Yes. We are paladins in his service, sworn to bring justice to those who need it. But there are many in need, and few of us.”

The halfling still has y’all in her sights. A twitch of movement inside a door under an inner balcony reveals another woman lurking, watching you.

A god of justice. That rubs you the wrong way. Justice by who? Or on what grounds? Too many people do terrible things for that they call justice. The only ones who ever seem to actually get it are already rich and powerful. And usually, it’s at the expense of everybody else—only time somebody with money or status ever gets convicted of anything, it’s when they fucked over somebody with more money or status.

You must be frowning. Astarion watches you with a raised eyebrow.

“Later,” you breathe. To Fuck Off, “What happened to the toll collectors?”

Fuck Off wipes his forehead. Dude’s face is mottled with bruises. “All dead before we could get here. And then we were attacked by the pack of gnolls you saw outside.”

Gnolls, huh.

“Quite the feat, taking out one of those,” Wyll says.

Fuck Off nods. “We should have had an easier time of it. It’s our job, after all. But this was our third battle in as many days, and the gnolls weren’t alone. They were led by a creature, an infernal devil we’ve been dispatched to kill.”

A bolt seems to lance through Wyll. His cheery eye twinkle vanishes, entire posture straightening. “A devil?”

“Aye. She’s in the shape of a tiefling woman with one horn. She’s slaughtered countless refugees. Butchered an entire family last night. We’ve been on her trail for days, but we’re now too injured to move.”

Wyll’s fists clench. “Do you know which direction she went?”

Fuck Off looks at Wyll; really looks at him. Nods slowly. “She can’t be far. We dished out as we were served as best as we could. She’ll be licking her wounds nearby. I’d say to follow the carnage. Are you pursuing her?”

“I am. I’m sworn to return her damned soul to Avernus.”

Fuck Off all but sags. Closes his eyes and sighs. “Thank the Lord of Justice. Here.” He unsheathes his stupid fucking sword—big bitch is almost as tall as you are. “It’s all I have. The Sword of Justice, blessed by Tyr. I’ve wielded it since I swore my oath. It’s yours, if you stop her. End her slaughter. Should you bring me her head, Tyr will consider her many crimes repaid.”

Something ain’t right. Giving that stupid sword away? Isn’t that some knight kinda bullshit? Keeping it and all? And “bring me her head” is a bit villain monologue-ish.

Wyll simply nods, turns to y’all with steel in his gaze. “Let’s go.”

The halfling and Kitchen Lurker still watch you with drawn weapons. Something really does not feel right, here.

Chapter Text

Y’all do not find the demon woman by the time evening rolls around. Wyll curses as the crickets chirp into twilight; stares out at the forest as y’all set up camp. You leave him be—comforting others ain’t your strong suite (you mostly just stand there all awkward because shows are liars and actually saying “there there” pisses people off more than it helps).

Shadowheart swings by to run her jesus hands over you again.

“You still feel stable,” she says.

You nod. Pause a moment, considering. Then, “You’re a cleric, yeah? Like, tied to a god or something?”

Her expression doesn’t budge from the cool neutrality she usually wears. “That’s what clerics are, yes. Why?”

You don’t know what you’re talking about. This world and its customs are fucking foreign as hell. Still. Something shivers in the back of your brain (not the worm this time, which seems to be dozing).

“Paladins are kinda the same? That one back there mentioned Tyr.”

She almost rolls her eyes. “The Lord of Justice. Paladins are sworn to their gods or goddesses. But they’re strictly fighters.”

Shadowheart carries a mace and seems real cozy bashing in skulls with it. You got an idea what that makes a cleric, but you also realize you don’t know which god she’s all cozy with (the concept makes your skin crawl).

“Who do you, uh, serve?” you say, totally suppressing the helpful urge to sneer.

That coolness freezes solid. “We’re all stuck together for the benefit of working as a group. But we barely know each other, and we’re all entitled to our own business.”

Oof. Some kinda sore spot.

You back down. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I just…would you be able to tell? If those guys was, if there was something weird?”

Now she frowns. “Weird?”

Actual gods with real people as their servants (again, you smother your grimace). You don’t know shit, do you?

“Nevermind,” you say. “I just…this is all real new. Sorry to bother you and for, y’know, getting too personal. Won’t happen again.”

The ice around her seems to thaw just a touch. She gives a sharp nod. “Alright. And…thank you. For respecting my privacy.”

Which leaves you at Lae’zel’s tender mercies before bed.

You manage an actual push up.

So you’re flying pretty high as you drag your ass to your tent. Half the camp is bedded down for the night. Lae’zel—completely unfazed by running your ass into the dirt without so much as a hair out of place or a bead of sweat on her skin—takes first watch.

The spacing arrangement has definitely gelled; seems you’re assigned to the desk next to Astarion for this quarter. He lounges on his back amidst a pile of pillows—where in the hell did he pick up more of them? As you draw near, he sits up and spins around to face you.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “Always a pleasure to see you sauntering over.”

“Tripping, actually,” you say. You reach for your tent flap. The white of his hair and his shirt glow in your peripheral, and you stop. He stares at you. Expectantly.

…right. Blood.

“Oh, um,” you say. Pause.

“You don’t have to, of course,” he says. “I’ve gone much longer in between meals.”

You fucking forgot. There’s no solid reason for your hesitation, except that this is a change in plans (your fault) and that always wigs you out and having time to mentally prepare (lips, lips) would have been nice.

But you did offer. And he’s waited for you. It’d be bad manners to leave him hanging.

“It’s fine,” you say. Look around. Gale and Wyll are in their tents. Lae’zel stalks the perimeter, and Shadowheart kneels outside her own tent. She looks at you. Her judgment is just as potent at sixty yards. “You wanna take this inside?”

His grin spreads slow and syrupy. “My dear, there’s nothing I’d like more.”

You don’t got much in the way of decoration. Just your bedroll and your pack. You pause a second inside; there ain’t enough room to stand upright. This’d probably be a two-sleeper tent back home. But you got no seats or cushions. Hospitality dictates you let Astarion sit on your bedroll, as the guest.

He ducks in after you, and the tent seems a lot smaller. Y’all are gonna have to sit criss-cross applesauce. Knees touching.

Oh jesus.

“Um.” You clear your throat. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

You busy yourself lighting the small lantern you scrounged up using the (thank FUCK) matches y’all also found. It’s enough light to see his features clear when you turn and find him stooped there, watching you.

“And where will you be, darling?” he says.

You will not clear your throat again. You will not act like some awkward twenty-year-old climbing into a boy’s car for the first time. You are a goddamn adult human and humans touch each other all the time. He’s (sucked) touched your neck before. What you have in mind is far less intimate than that. This whole thing is a casual act born of necessity.

Touching other people is fucking normal.

You just ain’t…used to it.

“I thought it might be easier to control the bleeding if you bit my wrist,” you say. It’s just practicality. Nothing else. Certainly not you being shy all the sudden. Has got nothing to do with the feel of his cool tongue on your fucking neck. Nothing at all.

“Ah,” he says. Gaze flicks down your arm. “If that’s how you’d prefer it. Though, as I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t have, ahem, as much experience with that.”

The blind leading the blind. It’d be funny if you weren’t so full of the heeby-jeebies.

“You wanna try?” you say.

He looks at you. Goddamn, he’s hard to read when he wants to be. Then his usual smile slots into place and his eyelids drop and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he says, “I’m willing to try a lot of things with you.”

Jesus lord on a pogo stick. You turn away to let the eyes roll freely; disguise it as lowering yourself to sit on the grass beneath you. Your bad knee has been acting up worse than usual. It pops as you settle, which makes Astarion pause.

“’M fine,” you say and start to roll up your left sleeve. You wore your worst-off shirt for Lae’zel’s nightly beat down. Won’t hurt if you get more blood on it.

Astarion settles in next to you. Facing you, rather. But that angle won’t work very well, so you turn and shuffle a bit until you’re side-to-side, sort of staring past the other.

You got all the gear this time, too. A shirt you tore apart and washed (in boiling water) for bandages, water, apples, and a goddamn healing potion.

“I won’t take as much this time,” Astarion says.

You nod. There’s no protocol for this, so you lift up your arm and hold it straight out.

He takes it. You expect that. It has to happen; how else is he gonna bite you? Lunge teeth-first, like a dog?

Still.

Cool fingers glide over your forearm, across your palm. You blink fast, but refuse to let your face so much as twitch. Keep your hand and arm steady but pliable, just like you do when a doctor is taking your pulse and blood pressure.

He brings your arm up as his head ducks down. Hovers over your wrist a moment; cool air brushes you as he exhales through his nose and your rebellious skin erupts into goosebumps.

“Sorry,” you say before he can pull some shit. “Tickles.”

He gives you a sly glance out of the corner of his eye. Shithead. Then he presses his lips to your inner wrist.

He holds you like that a moment. His lips certainly are soft and cool. You’re pretty sure every muscle on your frame pulls tight. Then he moves. And it ain’t to bite. He brushes those lips over you, slightly parted, up and down. You’re about to ask what in the hell he’s doing, when he twists your arm to change the position and, apparently, finds (through scent? Touch? Vampire bullshit?) the right spot.

His lips pull back. His brow wrinkles. His pupils are huge and dilated, even for the low light.

His teeth sink in. The pain is sharper, this time. Probably because you see it coming. Twin fangs pierce your skin, sink into muscles. Your arm tries to jerk back, but his grip tightens to bruising.

You gasp. Jerk. Will yourself not to fucking move, because his teeth are buried in your wrist and there’s tendons and ligaments in there.

Then his fangs are out, and his lips come down and seal around the wound.

This time, you can see his face. See the way his eyes roll back. His lids flutter shut. He makes a soft sound against you, low and guttural and for some reason, your face starts to burn.

You tear your gaze away. Do your best to stare at the blue canvas of your tent.

The pain throbs into that pleasant numbness as before. The rest of you relaxes as nerves stop shrieking in alarm. He’s not pulling this time—thank god. Seems content to hold you, grip eased, and lap at it.

Which means that sure is his tongue against you. Again.

You wonder what the thread count is on canvas here in Faerun. Light shines through it, but you ain’t sure about water. Might have to find a magical tarp the next time it storms—

He’s still making sounds. They’re soft. You don’t hear them, not really. But the vibration thrums against your wrist. Short, tiny things. Moans. It don’t seem voluntary. His eyelids still flutter like he’s trying to open them and can’t. He takes a particularly wet suckle, and that pops him free.

He lifts up a second to pant. His lips and teeth are coated in red. A dribble runs down his chin and his nostrils flare.

Your wounds immediately stream. You manage a single “um” before he pulls your arm up so he can lick a strip back up with a groan, and seals his mouth over it again and suck in a gasp through his nose.

And that’s when the numbness…twists, somehow. Morphs a bit. Instead of throbbing nothing, there’s a feel of…heat? A kind of euphoria. Gentle, right now—you really want to sigh and fall backwards—but it seems to be building where his lips touch you. On the prodding of his tongue between the punctures, encouraging more blood to flow. You can almost feel your blood in him. The throb melding with your heartbeat filling his mouth, filling him. The two of you connected in a way you can barely comprehend, and heat blooms between your legs—

Oh motherfucker, he’s got aphrodisiac spit??!

“Astarion,” you say.

He’s not as lost in the sauce this time. He hums. Takes a last slurp and then pulls away. Snatches up one of the rags you set aside for this and clamps it down hard over your wrist.

You hiss. He doesn’t let up. His hands have turned into a vice. Fucker’s gonna bruise tomorrow.

“Lift your arm a little, darling,” he says and you do.

“Didn’t know you knew wound care,” you say. You’re a touch lightheaded, but you ain’t dizzy. Tired and thirsty, mostly.

“In my line of work, you pick up a few things,” he says. And sucks his teeth. His tongue moves around in his mouth (it was just on your skin) as he laps up all traces of your blood.

“So you just didn’t the first time you bit me?”

He turns. Pupils still dilated and if that doesn’t send some kind of prey animal shudder down your spine.

“You told me you did this all the time, little donor.”

“Not through a bite on the neck. And with vampire spit to deal with.”

He shrugs. “As I said, I’ve never had to keep a snack alive.”

The pressure hasn’t wavered. You fully cannot feel your fingers anymore. “Well, thank you. For learning.”

He blinks. Has that weird look you can’t place. Then he, as usual, buries it with smarm. “It has been an absolute pleasure, darling.”

And then he’s leaning in, face all intent, gaze locked on you. A static charge seems to fill the air and your brain starts flipping levers to dump some kinda panic chemicals into your bloodstream. His face is so focused, even as his lids come down and he is entirely too close.

You panic. You ain’t even sure why. Lift your free hand and jab him in the nose and say, “honk” because your brain is a loser and you are a loser and what the fuck, why the fuck is that what you went with??!

Astarion jerks back like you slapped him, the very picture of a pissed off cat. “Excuse you?”

Which send you jerking back because you pushed it too far. Got too weird. Fucked this up and misread something and got too forward a-fucking-gain.

“Sorry!” you say. “I was just, I don’t know, um! I was joking and I’m sorry.”

The two of you sit there, hackles raised, and stare at each other for a long moment. Until he (mercifully) blinks first and smooths his ruffled feathers back down.

“I can’t saw I’ve ever garnered that reaction before,” he says. Studies you, and then looks away (you try hard not to cringe). Then he notices his hands are empty, because you both pulled away.

“Right,” you say and take over pressure duty—the rag has absorbed quite a bit of blood, but when you risk a peek underneath, the wounds only ooze sluggishly.

Awkward silence fills the tent. You can’t go anywhere (and it’s your tent), and he seems kind of stuck on what to do now (how bad did you just fuck this up).

So you reach for your favorite tool: changing the motherfucking subject. “Can I ask you something?”

He finally notices the smear of blood on his chin as is in the process of fastidiously wiping it clean with his fingers and sucking those into his mouth.

You want to ask him about the paladins, but another question comes barreling into your brain and it sounds like a much more bonding topic anyway.

“You remember how I asked what blood tasted like to you?” you say. When he looks over, “I want to experiment with that, if you’re okay with it. Now that I know I can do this kinda regular.”

He wears the most deadpan expression when he says, “Ah, the vampire fetish appears at last.”

“What? No. People do that? No, no, nothing weird. It’s just, you only eat blood and I can’t tell the difference, but you can. So what if we varied up the taste? If I even can? So you can have different things, sorta, too?”

His eyebrow arches at a pace you can only describe as glacial.

“Like, if the next time I donate, say I eat a bunch of fruit. Or apples, really, since that all we ever find. Get them sugars into my blood and see how that comes across to you?”

“And whyever would you do that?”

Well shit, he makes it sound so stupid. Maybe you ought to bury the idea outright. But you notice while the others tolerate him, they ain’t inviting him in for dinner, and you don’t like seeing people left out. And while he’s an asshole, there’s a level of charm to him. He kinda pings on your level, so to speak.

“We all get to eat lots of things,” you say, going with earnestness and hoping he don’t toss it back in your face. “Might as well see if you can benefit off that?”

He don’t say nothing for a while. A long while. It starts to turn uncomfortable, and you’re considering forfeiting your tent and ducking out into the night.

When he says, “”Well, it’s your blood, darling. If you want to tinker around like that, far be it from me to stop you.”

You start to relax. Peace and good feelings restored.

And then, because it’s Astarion and he’s a shithead, he leers in and says, “Though if you truly want to know what you taste like, I know of much better options.”

This fucking—

“I think it’s time for me to take that potion and get some shut eye,” you say. “Thank you for helping.”

His smile doesn’t even twitch. If anything, it gets worse.

“A cruel denial,” he says and presses a hand over his heart. “I shall have to skulk into the night alone and pine away, awaiting our next encounter. Try not to keep me waiting too long to sample your…experiments.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” you say as dead-voiced as you can.

He rises and steps around you in one swift, fluid motion to duck through the flap behind your back. Before he goes, he gives you another silly bow.

You probably shouldn’t. That voice in the back of your brain (sin, sin, shame, sin) screams about it (talking to a man while you’re alone). But you do your best to bow back while seated. Because your life has got real, real weird, but beneath the bored, dull, and generally uninterested face you slip on everyday, you’re pretty weird yourself.

It’s that little connection. The tentative root unfurling and reaching for something it recognizes. The dare to grasp at something fun, just to spite the universe so intent on burying you.

He grins and lets the tent flap fall shut behind him.

Alone and unseen, you let yourself smile back.

Chapter Text

Karlach, it turns out, is awesome. And not very far away. Y’all are following along a river, Wyll in the lead. Can’t hear shit over the rush of water, but Astarion’s nose suddenly wrinkles halfway through goading Wyll about hunting vampires.

“What’s on fire?” he says.

A shiver runs through Wyll just like a hunting hound on a scent. His entire being focuses ahead on the trail. Over a fallen log. Across to the other side.

Where a red woman bends double, her skin bathed in crackling flame.

Oh fuck.

Except when she lifts up (giant woman your brain says), she doesn’t lunge at y’all with her giant fuck off ax. She’s on fire, yes—torso and shoulders littered with scars and tattoos and what seems to be, are those fucking vents? Blasting out fire???

But her eyes (molten gold) are clear when she glances between y’all. Her thick lips pull into a cheery smile, revealing fangs galore.

But there ain’t nothing sinister in it. She’s confident, even a little self-deprecating as she addresses Wyll, but there’s an exuberance to her. Like a…like a big jock. Like a himbo, but with a big fuck off ax.

“Thought I’d shaken you for good,” she says. “That’ll teach me to underestimate you.”

Shadowheart stands closest to you. You lean over. “You getting any bad vibes from her at all?”

She frowns. “Vibes?”

“Feelings. Like, like intuition or whatever.”

But before Shadowheart can answer, the brainworm decides to throw itself at your optic nerve.

—air hot and reeking. Throat burns but you don’t stop, won’t stop, can’t stop. Impact shivers up your shins and judders all the way through you and it’s right fucking there. Bleeding nautiloid. Probably full of them squiddies, but anything’s better than this shithole and that fucking bitch—

“T’sk’va!” Lae’zel snarls. “Enough with these parasites!”

But Karlach looks up at y’all and her eyes are wide and bright. “You too? Aces! And you all saw that, right? So you know I’m telling the truth!”

“All I saw was evidence,” Wyll says and draws his rapier. “Proof you’re a devil, a gladiator in the archdevil Zariel’s army.”

“I can explain,” Karlach says. “But it’s a whole situation—”

Brainworms ain’t done this time. Y’all’s minds slam together—

Zariel’s servants in your way. Trying to stop you. You. As if they’ve got a shit’s chance. You slice through them like they’re nothing. You won’t be stopped. Not now, not so close to freedom—

You and Shadowheart stumble into each other, the both of you cradling y’all’s heads.

The rage and the desperation wash through you as familiar as the burn of vomit on the back of your throat. The running. The fear. Got to get out, got to get away, far away, they can’t ever catch me, can’t drag me back, won’t.

She was stolen. Taken (like you, who hid under the kitchen table when Mother and a strange man came into Grandpa’s house). Held by a wicked bitch and forced to fight.

She’s a victim.

“She’s trying to trick us,” Wyll says, voice tighter than usual. “Don’t believe her lies.”

You’ve only ever seen Wyll be kind and encouraging, sometimes grim and determined. You ain’t seen this on him, before. He wears his “fuck ‘em up” face, but there’s a crease in the brow. His posture sinks low, blade readied.

“Aw, come on,” Karlach says. “Look into my eyes, mate. I am not what you think I am. I never wanted to serve Zariel. I was conscripted, forced to fight and fight I did. I saw that ship come careening outta nowhere, and I took my opportunity. I’m finally home. Or near enough to it.”

“You served her,” Wyll says. “That’s enough to damn you!”

He still ain’t attacked. Still seems held back.

“Wyll,” you say. Wait for him to turn his head just enough to glance back at you. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

And Wyll really is the best of you. He don’t shout. Don’t charge. He keeps his weapon up, but he does look at her. Really looks at her. And his face pinches. At first, it looks like disgust. But it ain’t aimed at her, and it ain’t disgust at all. It’s…pain. Dread.

“You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re asking me to trust a devil,” he says. You remember the slight tremble that rolled through him when that clown Raphael burnt off his fake skin.

“Is she, though?” you say. “She ain’t nothing like the last devil we met. You see anything, Lae’zel?”

The gith stares at Karlach a moment, appraising. Then lifts an eyebrow. It seems…an awful lot like an innuendo, somehow?

“We both got creeped out by Raphael,” you say. “And ain’t neither of us getting that from her.”

“Listen to sense,” Karlach says. “I don’t want this to end bad for either of us, mate. You know monsters, right? Better than anyone. Can’t you see I’m not what you think?”

“Shit,” Wyll hisses (first time you ever heard the man swear). But he lowers his rapier. “You really are no devil, are you? I’ve…” His face falls. “I’ve been deceived.”

Karlach sags. “Thank the gods. I really didn’t want to have to take your head.”

And Wyll musters up a smile from whatever’s weighing on him to say, “You would have died in the attempt. But there’s been enough threats, today.”

“Truce then, hey?”

“Aye. Truce.”

Wyll says “aye.” That’s adorable.

Then Karlach’s gaze shifts past him to all of y’all. “So, who’re you lot?”

Aaand they look at you. Motherfuckers. You sigh. “I’m Eleanor.”

The others introduce themselves, and Karlach’s is bright when she smacks her fist into her other hand. “Right, so I got some of Zariel’s agents after me. Calling themselves paladins.”

You fucking called that phone.

You look to Shadowheart, who tips her head thoughtfully.

“The paladins of Tyr?” Gale says.

“That’s them, alright. Bunch of evil fuckers. Got into a scrape with ‘em earlier. Wiped the floor pretty good, but they got me back and I started overheating, so I had to back off a bit.”

Gale frowns. “They said you lead an attack on them. That you, well, that you slaughtered refugees.”

Karlach rolls her eyes. “Bet they said a lot—bet the mam was pregnant, too—but it’s all goblin shit. I hit them, hells yeah. But they were alone, and they tried to jump me first.”

“Tyr isn’t a god known for tolerating deceit,” Shadowheart says.

“They left a leg in front of their door,” you say. The sketchy way the others acted. The bodies lying everywhere.

“They’d just been attacked and heavily injured,” Gale says.

“And they left a fucking leg literally in front of their fucking door. Like, we had to step over it to get inside. Rushed or not, you don’t leave a fucking leg out in front of the door.”

Astarion squints thoughtfully. Doesn’t seem convinced. Not about the paladins, you suspect, but on the prospect of random body parts left out to bake in the sun on somebody’s porch.

Wyll frowns, a bit distant. Gale seems to consider it. Lae’zel just looks irritated.

“Listen, they’re a bunch of evil bastards who’ve been on my tail since I broke out and sprinted for that nautiloid,” Karlach says. “You’d be doing me and everyone else a favor taking them out. Fuckers don’t care about casualties.”

You remember the way the woman lurked in the kitchen. The halfling and her bow. Y’all were strangers, offering to help them, even, and that was their response.

And whose leg was on that porch? Them hyena things was eating the dead. Those bodies was just chopped up. As if somebody used a giant fuck off sword.

“I say we join forces,” you say. Lock gazes with Karlach. “Get these ticks off your backside before they can hurt anybody else.”

“Ch’k. This is not our fight,” Lae’zel says.

Karlach is huge. Height and girth and muscle. That ax is about as big as Shadowheart’s torso, and the woman keeps it perched like a little birdie on her shoulder.

“You a good fighter?” you say.

And when she grins—bearing all her fangs—the air around you seems to heat up. “One of the best, mate.”

To Lae’zel, “How about taking out those fuckheads so we can bring in another fighter to the squad? So you ain’t the only muscle?”

Lae’zel’s lips pull back in a hiss. You can almost sense the “I do not need help” before it comes.

“Mostly to cover my squishy ass,” you add. “Let you focus on splitting heads.”

She stares. Relaxes the approximate diameter of a human hair. “So be it.”

“It would be nice to have an additional frontliner,” Gale says. Catches your look. “I’m not exactly a hand-to-hand combatant.”

Shadowheart shrugs. Wyll still looks like he’s in pain, but he nods.

“You want us to join forces with a blood-stained killer?” Astarion says in the snootiest fucking tone you heard from the man. You can only stare, brain stuttering, tripping over the sheer hypocrisy. Then his face lights up. “Because I’m fine with that.”

This fucking guy.

“Yes!” Karlach says and does a little fist-bump dance. “Ah, this is gonna be aces! You and me, we’re gonna grab Faerun by the shorthairs!”

You don’t find people, like, sexually attractive. Not at first. Not until you know them better and a tiny switch flips in your brain and suddenly, randomly, oh. But as Karlach tiptoes across the fallen log to join y’all, as you have to crane your head back to look up at her with her golden eyes and soft lips and sharp grin, you reallllly start to question that fact about yourself.

“You’re…big,” you say.

“Ain’t I?” she says and flexes a bicep thicker than your head. The ground seems to tilt beneath your feet and holy shit, is she your type? Do you have a type now?

You manage to wrangle that thought together into something distantly related to coherent. You lift a hand to shake hers.

But Karlach don’t take your hand. She actually recoils, winces. “Eh, sorry, soldier. I burn hot. Like, hot hot. Can’t do any handshakes without burning your skin right off. Hugs neither. Or arm wrestling, or headlocks.”

Touch. She can’t touch nobody. That is so fucked up.

“But I can damn well smash some skulls!” she says, brightening.

You’re only marginally aware of Astarion watching you, gaze flicking between you and Karlach. You turn away to follow the others (totally not noticing the way Karlach’s clothes are leather and, like, strategically ripped), and so you don’t see his eyes narrow.

Chapter Text

Y’all coulda made it back by nightfall, now that y’all know where you’re going. But both Wyll and Gale agree that arriving after a whole day of hiking is a bad strategy (to the disappointment of Karlach and the disgust of Lae’zel). So y’all stop about an hour away—close enough y’all can be rested when you get there, but not so close a patrol might trip over somebody’s tent.

Gale has a spare canvas, nobody has spare poles or stakes; Karlach solves that problem by sauntering to the edge of the trees and ripping three saplings out of the ground to whittle into poles with that bigass ax.

She drives them into the ground and does not use a hammer.

You ain’t the only one watching this with a little too much interest.

big lady your brain chants.

She carries a regular pack, from which she pulls out a blanket that smells vaguely like vasoline, and a raggedy teddy bear she introduces as Clive. The bear is singed around the edges, and seems nearly shellacked in the not-vasoline stuff on the blanket. Some kinda fire-resistant salve she says.

She’s careful not to touch nobody, or even get too close. You watch this, lips pressed tight, chest hurting for her.

Dinner is, once again, bread and cheese and wine. No fire so close to the tollhouse. Karlach strikes up a conversation with Lae’zel about the best way to twist somebody’s head off, while Shadowheart watches over the rim of her goblet.

Gale, without much to do in the way of a cook fire, plops down outside his tent with a book, several scrolls, and an ink pot to start scratching away. Meanwhile, Wyll volunteers to go on patrol—make sure y’all really are out of fake paladin range—and set up some snares. You can’t tell if he’s upset with y’all’s decision to let Karlach join, or if he don’t like her around, or if it’s some secret third thing that’s got him so tense. He’s seemed like a real good dude—though everybody has shit takes on something.

The sun sinks low and the light goes gray as evening deepens. Lae’zel actually takes a night off from breaking your ass (either distracted by Karlach, or deciding that leaving you like, rested, increases your chances of not fucking anything up tomorrow).

Which leaves you just…hanging out. For the first time, you have the mental and physical energy to stay awake, but you have no phone, no internet, no books or movies or anything to fiddle with. Maybe you could work on that strip of linen Astarion “gifted” you. But then he’d see you doing it and start shit and besides, you got no clue how to sew.

You’re so busy trying to think up a way to be busy, that you notice the man skulk out of his tent. He’s got something shiny in his hand. He’s positioned his tent slightly facing away from the fire, tonight, which leaves it facing your tent more than usual. He’s not, like, hiding, but he’s not out in the open as he holds up what you realize is a mirror.

Huh. Lots of different cultures have vampire lore; you wonder if the mirror thing is accurate. You got nothing better to do, so you find yourself trailing over, coming up behind him.

“Looking at something?” he says. It’s addressed to you, even though he hasn’t glanced over.

“Saw me coming?” you say.

He stares a moment longer, before turning. There’s no sparkle to his eyes, tonight. His lips are a straight line. “The only benefit to a mirror when you have my condition. It doesn’t make up for a lack of reflection, mind you.”

Ah. That part of the lore is true, then. Ouch.

“Sorry to hear that,” you say. “You must miss it.”

And then you want to kick yourself over how stupid that sounds.

“Preening into the looking glass? Petty vanity?” he says all flamboyant. Until he deflates. Until you see what might be a flash of sadness in him. “Of course I miss it. I’ve never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

You didn’t know about the eye color thing. None of the others are anywhere nearby; you wonder if that’s why he’s letting this show. He’s never made so much as a peep that wasn’t joke-flirting, complaining, stabby, or bored.

“What color were they before?” you say. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I—” he starts. Blinks a few times and there’s the barest shiver of, dare you call it, vulnerability in his face. “I don’t know. I can’t…remember.”

He stares out at nothing for a pause. Don’t got the presence of mind to slip the smarmy mask back on. It’s like he…like he just realized that. Doesn’t remember his own eyes.

Then his face shutters. Tight-lipped anger slips down and buries all traces of confused horror. He chucks the mirror to smash on the ground.

You try not to wince even as you take a step back.

“My face is just another dark shape in my past,” he says. Looks away. “Another thing I’ve lost.”

You can forget some details about your own face, sometimes. You don’t generally wear makeup (never learned, and then when you could, that shit is expensive), and your hair mostly sorts itself out when you comb conditioner through it in the shower. So you don’t see your reflection every day (the ladies room at the office don’t have a mirror—used to be a closet until the seventies or eighties when they converted it).

But you know your eyes are dark brown the way you know your own name. It’s just a fact about you. You can’t imagine what it would take to just…lose that.

“How long you been a vampire?” you say.

His gaze flits around a second. “About two hundred years, give or take. Things start to run together a little.”

Two…two hundred years? Under that fuckface? Without ever being able to see himself?

Holy fucking shit.

Holy fucking shit.

And yet, he’s standing here, traveling with all y’all, acting…well, not normal. But he ain’t catatonic. He’s only killed people when y’all were fighting already, and he only tried to bite you the once (without asking). He’s talking to you, and he makes jokes and…

And he said you were his first “thinking creature” blood.

In two hundred fucking years.

The kind of strength it would take to scrape himself together and hold in there…even if it was barely. Even if he wasn’t all there. You’d known that shit for over a decade. But two hundred motherfucking years.

You been staring. He notices, and turns to you. “What?”

The man teases you. Steals from goddamn refugees (he has got to stop that). And he hasn’t seen his face in two centuries. You can maybe afford to make a fool of yourself if the idea blooming in your brain makes a fool outta yourself.

“I can be your mirror,” you say, your neck heating up, trying not to squirm. “You don’t have to. Or I don’t have to. If I made this weird, that is. I can, uh, leave.”

His eyebrows twitch down into a micro frown. He stands there a hot second, sucks in a breath through his nose. His mask is slipping again, and the man underneath…

“I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me,” he says. “What, well, what you see.”

Slight emphasis on the “you” that you ain’t gonna read too much into.

A long face. Thick brows. A strong, straight nose. Thick lips, pointy chin, and floofy, white hair.

You ain’t never really described somebody in detail. Not like this, and not to their face directly. You ain’t a poet or an artist. This was probably a really bad idea.

“Your face is very, uh, symmetrical,” you say.

He pauses a moment, before drawing back. “Oh darling, you’re terrible at this.”

Fuck you, too!

“Well, I mean, it’s the most noticeable thing aside from the granny hair.”

And now he fucking recoils.

“What? I have the best hair in camp. If this is your idea of a joke—”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m kidding,” you say. It’s only kinda a lie. It’s granny hair, no two ways about it. “Your hair is very shiny and it looks real soft. The rest of you” —you wave your hand vaguely around— “looks good.”

“Really?” His usual smirk slips back on and he damn near purrs. Then he lifts his hands and gives a slow, little runway spin. “Anything in particular?”

Jesus lord. Man’s moods turn on a fucking dime and he cannot stop being a prima diva.

You think. What would you want to know about your own face? You got no idea how elves age or how old he was when he got bit. He looks young, in the dim light, but there’s an age to him, a smattering of fine lines at the corners of his eyes that you started noticing on yourself recently. You ain’t gonna mention how gaunt his cheeks are, even if they do make the bones stand out all high fashion or whatever. It ain’t a healthy look (any time anybody mentions native cheekbones, you have to bite back the little historical fact that a lot of those photos was of starving natives, of course their cheekbones stood out like that, their food sources were butchered, burned, or a thousand miles away after a forced march).

You’re gonna ask in the morning if Wyll can bring back what his snares catch before he field-dresses them, and ask Astarion if he wants the blood. Man needs to eat more often. Put some goddamn flesh on them bones (oh god, you sound like your aunties).

“You got these eye creases when you smile,” you say.

But he does not take that as the compliment you mean.

“Excuse me?” he says like you just called his mama ugly. “I’m an eternally young vampire, forever beautiful.”

Forever corpse-y.

“It’s a good thing.”

“It sounds an awful lot, my dear, like you just called me old.”

“You just said you was at least two hundred.”

He gestures down to himself. “Vampire. Come on, darling, you can do better than this sorry excuse.”

And then the man has the audacity to fucking pose. Hand on his hip. Shoulders swaying like some old-timey, rich debutante.

“This whole thing is just you fishing for compliments, huh?” you say.

He looks at you like you’re the weird one. “Well of course it is. Now don’t leave me waiting.”

You ain’t sure if this entire cluster started as a sham, or if it just naturally devolved into one (he’s very good at the latter). His frustration had seemed genuine, though. He wouldn’t meet your gaze for a time. And you’re picking up on a pattern: obfuscation. He gets all fussy and theatric right around the time you notice (or he notices, maybe) he’s expressing something that ain’t flirt or murder.

You…kinda want to see what he’s trying to hide. What’s actually under that mask you caught a glimpse of.

In any case, it’s funner to play along right now, so you don’t got to think about the bullshit waiting tomorrow.

What would a vain peacock like him want to hear?

“Your eyes,” you say. “They’re real sharp, especially when you’re focused on something. I think people call that ‘piercing.’”

He rolls said eyes. “Acceptable. Finally. Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we can end this travesty.”

And you can’t help yourself. “Well, Karlach is beautiful. You’re fine, though.”

The moment of truth. See if he’ll engage…

He gasps, but through a grin. Literally splays his fingers over his chest. “How dare you. I thought we had something special.”

Warmth flutters through you. You set the game down and he picked it up. He’s returning it. Holy shit, you went and established banter with a maybe-friend. It’s a damn good thing you got so much practice keeping your face blank.

He clucks his tongue. Nudges at you with his hip. “Still. You’re nice, too.”

Well that’s an overstatement. You are plain and plus sized, and it ain’t some false-modesty thing. If you ain’t in some colorful or flowery blouse, you can feel kids staring at the store. More than once you caught a, “Is that a boy or a girl” and a parent frantically shushing.

You’d always thought the boobs would be a giveaway (they ain’t subtle), but hey, baggy clothes.

Sailing too close to the rocky Shore of Truth. Time to veer back into the humor pool. You deadpan. “Oh good. The pretty boy thinks I’m acceptable. Now I won’t have to cry myself to sleep in shame.”

The smallest snort tears out of him. Seems to catch him off guard. But he quickly folds it under his mask and sighs. “I’d better go get some beauty sleep, darling. Seems like I need it if I’m to catch up with the competition.”

“You do that,” you say, letting a tiny grin crack your own stoic mask.

Which he returns.

Which is right when the ground in the middle of camp cracks open and some kinda hell goo burbles up, spinning in a vortex, before it bursts into flame. Out pops a winged demon lady with her tits half out.

Chapter Text

Wyll is now a devil. That is a thing that can, apparently, fucking happen in Faerun. You quietly add “Mizora” to your “fuckheads to kill??” mental list. You ain’t sure if Wyll’s new look is permanent, or if it even goes more than skin deep. He, understandably, wants some time to process the whole thing—away from y’all—so you don’t ask.

“Mmm,” Astarion tuts. “That’s a warlock bargain for you.”

Catches your blank stare, scoffs, and has to explain (“Not even devils? What do you mean Ay-yarth only has humans?”)

Karlach goes real quiet. You think she might be tearing up, but she runs so hot, any tears evaporate before they can pool.

You sit with her a bit. Let her talk at you. You don’t got much to say—isolated as Earth is from all this shit (is it, though? Seems to be an awful lot of cultural and culinary crossover to be coincidence). You ain’t sure why somebody like Wyll ever felt so desperate he had to make a deal with a devil for power.

“I think he’ll be okay,” you say.

“Really?” Karlach says. She’s big and intimidating, but she’s still got that golden retriever softness to her. When she’s not swinging that ax around. Or ripping saplings out of the ground and replanting them with her bare fucking hands.

“He don’t seem the type to give up,” you say.

And this gets a snort out of her. “He chased my big, red ass halfway through the hells, alright. Yeah. Yeah. Good old Blade of the Frontiers wouldn’t let that sack of shit win, will he? And between you and me, I’m gonna find a way to get that bitch’s claws out of him, if I have to smash her face in to do it.”

She’s like a black hole, only bright and shining, pulling you into her gravity well. “I’d pay money to watch that. Shit, I’ll help you do it.”

“You will?” And sweet god, all that violence-tinged enthusiasm focuses on you and your spine melts all warm and gooey like taffy in the sun. You want to swoon into her giant arms.

But can’t. Because she’s on fire.

Instead, you nod. “If we get a chance to get him out of this bullshit contract, we do it.”

“Fuck yeah. I knew you’d be alright!”

You would do almost anything to make this giant, flaming woman smile.

Naturally, that means killing the fuck out of some fake paladins. You should probably be more squeamish about that. None of the others are. Karlach is downright chipper and Lae’zel smiled for less than half a second when y’all set out.

“How many did you say were there?” Gale says.

Karlach answers, but your gaze slides to Wyll, sticking to the middle of the group. His cheeks have ridges, now. His eye turned black and red. And he’s got an impressive set of oil-black horns curving up from his forehead.

He was so eager, yesterday. So in his element, confidant he could remove a piece of evil from the world. And it was a lie. The whole thing might be a lie.

You know what that feels like.

“You okay?” you say, dropping back to his side.

He tries to smile, but it’s like a gray cloud blocking the sun. “I’ll be alright. Best focus on the mission at hand. It won’t be easy fighting agents of Zariel. Even if we outnumber them.”

This close, and you can trace the ridges disappearing down the neckline of his shirt. His cheekbones jut out, now. The whole look is sharper than before. But his eyes are still soft and kind.

“You’ll be okay, Wyll,” you say. “If you need anything, ask, yeah? I mean it.”

He kinda blinks at you. Attempts a smile and almost sticks the landing this time.

Then the wind shifts and the reek of carrion left out to rot washes over you. The road is up ahead. And beyond that, the tollhouse.

“Keep yourself safe,” Wyll says.

“You, too.”

Karlach wants to kick down the front door and start smashing heads together. You talk her down. Barely. She’s literally blazing by the time she steps back, sulking. She says there were five. Astarion noticed four, and they’d said they were “gravely wounded.” They mighta lost somebody.

Y’all need to scout the area.

Your gaze lands on Astarion. His eyes narrow.

“You and me take a peek?” you say.

And half the group objects. Not over Astarion—which he goes full offended cat about. Rather, it’s you. Until you remind them that 1. you got Lae’zel outta that trap by yourself 2. nobody's stabbed you yet, and 3. you are the most unassuming out of y’all’s entire group.

Lae’zel with her fuck off sword and her silver armor. Shadowheart with her cool, skin peeling glare (and also her armor and that mace). Gale is a fucking wizard and anybody at fifty paces can clock that. Wyll and Karlach both have horns, and Karlach is on fire.

“Sides, I ain’t going through the front door,” you say. “Hopefully they don’t see us at all.”

So with a reluctant “be careful” and “I can’t heal a severed limb, you know” and a “fuck yeah, bust some heads!” you both go scuttling towards the nearest overturned wagon to the tollhouse, the one that’s part of the makeshift barricade.

“Hmph,” Astarion sniffs. “No sending off for me, then.”

You kick her body like the football, your brain chimes in helpfully.

“Poor Miette,” you say. Flap your hand when he frowns. “It’s a saying. I would very much like it if you don’t get hurt.”

He settles. A bit.

Them bodies are still sprawled everywhere like lawn clippings. That alone makes you side with Karlach.

“Who leaves bodies just lying around where they sleep?” you say, as the two of you crouch down (your knee crack is barely audible) to watch.

“Oh, most monsters,” Astarion says.

You remember how he just left that pig in the road. “Huh.”

There. Backroom Lurker woman emerges from a side door on the second story. Stares out over the woods a bit. Stares out so long your left calf goes from burn to cramp. Astarion is absolutely fixated on her. Eyes not moving, not even twitching. His nostrils flare and he goes so utterly still, you know he’s not breathing. He’s every inch a big cat on the stalk. It sends a shiver down your spine.

Eventually, Backroom Lurker starts towards the stairs leading down to the porch. Stands there as you start sweating, swearing without using your vocal cords, before she finally opens a door at ground level and slips inside.

You fall on your ass and hiss as you stretch your legs. Astarion gives you an eyebrow arch and you know the bastard is laughing in his head. At least it broke up his eerie staring.

“What now?” you say.

He hesitates a second. Something flashes across his face, but then he looks back to the tollhouse and shifts his crouch.

“We wait.” His voice is so soft it gives you an ASMR shiver. Which he notices, and because he’s an asshole, it makes him smirk. “We need to establish her pattern before we try to slip between her little outings. At least one more go should give us a rough estimation.”

You nod. Stretch your legs a bit more before folding them in criss-cross applesauce (Sasha taught you that phrasing; you refuse to abandon it). And wait. And wait. The sun beats down and you ain’t even in armor and you’re starting to overheat. Astarion isn’t sweating, though. Nor does he seem bothered. He watches the tollhouse—gaze still creepily fixed, but has tilted his head so he catches as much of the light on his face that he can. He’s a cat sprawled on a windowsill. One watching for a pretty bird.

And there she finally is. Backroom Lurker reappears upstairs again some fifteen minutes later. Does her whole “standing around and looking at the trees” schtick before making her round and going back inside.

Astarion lifts his crouch. You scramble back to your feet just in time for him to take off. God, he’s fast and he is fucking silent. More like a ghost streaking towards that porch while you lumber and pant behind him. He barely slows as he sort of flows up onto the porch, still without a sound. There, he turns back. Frowns to find you about half the distance behind and already panting. You redouble your effort (maybe Lae’zel had the right idea; you would not have been able to do this a week ago).

You stop before the porch. Turn and reverse hop your ass onto it and roll as quietly as you can to your own feet. He keeps glancing behind you (the door where Lurker disappeared into) and up the stairs.

“Keep quiet,” he says as if you aren’t already smothering your own urge to fucking pant under trembling slow breaths. Then he starts up the stairs.

You tread carefully, much more slowly, up after him. Until you’re both at the upper deck. He starts to move and then stops so fast and completely, you think something shot him. But then his face twists—oh fuck, that man is a fucking vampire—and his lips peel back in the most fucked up grin you’ve ever seen. He silent-sprints over to the other side of the door, crouches down.

Leaves you standing there all dumb and awkward. Just in time for the door to swing open. For Backroom Lurker to step out, muttering, and take two steps and notice your own frozen ass.

“What—” she says.

And Astarion is on her. He rises up, something terrible, something that locks your bones and trips your heart. A hand comes around her front, glittering silver. The knife flashes. Opens her neck in a spray of blood. And before the first drop can even hit the deck, he tears into the wound with his fucking mouth. His other hand comes up, clamps her own lips shut—pretty sure he severed the vocal cords, oh god, is that just instinct? And he clutches her to him.

It’s part cat, part python. Her legs kick and she reaches up to try to tear at him, wrench him off her. But her neck is open and his teeth savage the wound and she makes these horrifying gurgling, gasping sounds. She looks at you. All fear and desperation—

You look away. You don’t need to see this. Don’t need this burned into your memory. You track the both of them out of the corner of your eye as she slumps. As he follows her down, until she’s sprawled out and he’s hunched over her, making those slurping, half-moaning noises of his own.

Until he finally wrenches himself off, panting, looking high as fuck. His grin is a wet, red smear across his face.

That…

Holy shit.

“That’s, uh…” you say. You ain’t even sure what you meant to finish.

He sighs happily. Stands. Pulls a rag from his pocket to clean off the knife.

Backroom Lurker lies deader than the ghost of Abraham Lincoln. Just like Olodan, her head is damn near sliced off, only the spine and a flap of skin holding it to the rest of her. Astarion’s lower face is absolutely soaked in blood, a sheen of it running down the front of his armor.

He notices you staring. “Is there something in my teeth, darling?”

You ogle a second. And then you can’t help yourself. There’s so much death and maiming, and your brain always did short circuit to humor.

You laugh. It’s a quiet thing, high-pitched, more of a wheeze. You motion to his mouth. “Yeah. You got a spot right…right there.”

His eyebrows lift, eyes glittering. The game between you is shifting and you’re kind of stuck in this raft as the current veers off course. This seems to tickle him right back. He wipes the corner of his mouth with a gloved hand. Pops it back in to suck it clean, glove and all.

“Better?” he says.

He’s smeared it, is what he’s done.

And the only thing you can come up with it, “Eh, I don’t think anyone’ll notice.”

A drop pools on his chin and falls to the deck between his feet.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, and he damn well knows. Has to feel all that wet on his face, but he makes no move to clean it (aside from occasional finger swipes, like stealing icing from a mixing bowl).

He examines the dead woman a second. But doesn't crouch to go through her things. Instead, he looks at you.

“She’s all yours,” he says. When you only stand there and stare, he motions to her. “You claimed first shot at jewelry, didn’t you? Her pockets are right there, my dear. I’ll let you have your turn.”

You…what. What the fuck? Why does that sound…what?

But he just stands there, smiling at you. Like he’s not covered in blood. Like he didn’t quite literally tear her throat open with his own teeth and now you’re both standing here, in the sunlight, over her cooling corpse and talking about dibs rights.

“We are running out of time, darling,” he says. “If you want to continue this scouting venture, that is.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fake paladins y’all gotta kill. Right. And he’s going to stand there until you do this, isn’t he? Fucking asshole. Fucking goblin ass psycho man.

You look down at Lurker. This was your idea. You know he had to kill her—it ain’t actually that easy to knock people out and it causes literal brain damage; she might’ve died anyway. And y’all are here to kill all of them. And, well…you do need money. She won’t.

Fuck.

You reach down, careful not to look past the arm flung over her torso, careful not to touch her anymore than you have to. A quick rummage through her pockets and you draw out five gold pieces.

“Hmm, no jewelry,” Astarion says. “How unfortunate.”

No jewelry. Just your first corpse robbing. Dead-thieving? What the fuck does one even call this, and why does it feel like some kinda test? One Astarion seems to approve of, judging from the glint in his eyes.

Though that might be the blood lust.

“We may only have a few moments before the others notice her deviation,” he says and pads over to the ladder next to the door. He gestures for you to go first and gives a bow at the waist, like some fancy pants doorman.

You got a dead woman’s coins in your pocket and he’s covered in blood, so you do the normal person thing and give him a silly bow back. What the fuck even is your life.

Your knees bitch about the climb, but you make it anyway. Settle into a crouch on the open patio to let Astarion take the lead. He palms the door handle, cracks it and pauses, listening. He ain’t breathing again, so you gold your own lungs as still as you can until he gives what you assume is an “all clear” gesture. Then he eases through.

You glance back, catch a flash of red at the barricade—the crew ducking down. Close enough that if you two get caught, one of them might get to you both before y’all get your asses skewered.

You breathe deep, flick your shaking hands a couple of times, and follow Astarion.

Chapter Text

Another small room with another door. This one already open. Astarion crouches down next to the frame, clinging to the shadows, face intent as he peers out. Then he glances to you, motions you over and places a finger over his still bloodied lips.

You ease over, walking toes-first, shifting your weight along the sides of your feet as smooth as you can. An inner balcony rings the second floor. Nobody is up here right now, but two voices talk in low tones below. It’s Fuck Off and Short Shit. Another guy leans against the wall by the front doors, cleaning his fingernails with a big fucking knife.

There were four of them. Astarion just killed the shit out of Kitchen Lurker, which should leave just these three.

You touch his shoulder. Motion, “Three?”

But he shakes his head. Shows four fingers. At your stares, taps his ear (looking way too amused) and points right below y’all’s feet.

Either they got reinforcements, or one of the fuckers was out when y’all first came by.

You don’t like this. If one more can pop out of the woodwork, who knows how many might be luring in the woods or a fucking basement.

They’re currently clustered in this main room. Karlach had hinted that they’d be tough, and you’d agree that anybody who can swing around that stupid fucking horse-killer sword probably ain’t somebody you want to tangle with.

A big fire pit hangs up like a chandelier. There’s bunks on the main floor, a screen, a desk, and a barrel near the door. It’s got the same fire symbol painted on that as the barrels you’d spotted outside yesterday.

“What is that?” you breathe.

Astarion leans in close enough his iron-drenched breath ruffles your ear (you absolutely do not shiver). “Lantern oil.”

They’re all so very close together down there…

The shining line hits so hard your eyes water and goosebumps ripple up your arms and across your chest.

You signal for you both to retreat.

This is gonna have to be fast and highly coordinated. Lurker had taken a long time between the first two patrols, but way, way shorter on this last one. Y’all will need to move.

The both of you scuttle back down the ladder and skedaddle to the roadblock. You pause a moment to glance back and yep, them barrels are still there.

The others spot you coming. Karlach looks alarmed.

“What the fuck,” she hisses as the two of you duck down to join them.

Oh, right. Astarion is a messy eater. In the daylight, his whole front is drenched from the nose down.

“He’s a vampire,” you say. “We ran into one of them, but she’s dead. Didn’t get to warn the others. There’s four in there. Karlach, you look real strong. Would you be able to chuck a whole barrel of oil lantern say, ten feet into the air?”

Everyone stares at you a hot second.

Karlach blinks through a handful of reactions, settles on a grin and a, “Fucking ‘course I can.”

she’s best girl

Shadowheart gives Astarion a very complicated look involving the most judgmental eyebrows you ever seen.

“This is gonna be the tricky part,” you say. Look to everybody. Fix on Astarion. “How good are you with that bow?”

“That depends on the target,” he says, you know, helpfully.

“Could an arrow open that barrel?”

“Perhaps if it was enchanted to thunder—oh. Oh, you delightful creature.” His fucking eyes almost glow above the red-lined grin that splits his face. He lets out the most murder-goblin giggle anybody ever produced.

“Am I missing something?” Karlach says.

Gale nods slowly. “A single, ordinary arrow wouldn’t produce the effect I believe you’re aiming for. You don’t actually have a thunderwave arrow, do you?”

“No,” Astarion says, still grinning. The man practically dances where he crouches. “Oh darling, this is going to be so fun.”

“I believe a thunderwave spell ought to cover it, then,” Gale says. “How do you intend to set it off? I’ll have to follow close behind Karlach, and I won’t have the time to conjure a fire bolt in addition to it.”

To which you look to Astarion. “The hanging firepit.”

He gives a bow. “I can absolutely provide, my dear.”

“Efficient,” Shadowheart says. Gives you a once over.

“Speak plain,” Lae’zel says.

So you do.

It’s the fastest and the slowest five minutes of your life. Karlach is practically hopping to go, with Lae’zel sneering on the outskirts of the group again. Y’all have moved up to the corner of the building, just out of sight should that bottom story side door open again.

Astarion strings his bow, draws and eases it, and checks his arrows. He can make the shot. You believe him; he’s shot well enough in the fights y’all’ve been in so far and he’s damn near frothing at the mouth in anticipation.

Karlach swings her arms a couple of times. Says to Gale, “I run real hot, yeah? I’ll have to grab it, sprint for the door, and throw it before I set it off.”

“I understand,” he says. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Wyll and I will open those doors, and I’ll be standing by should it light off anyways,” Shadowheart says. She’s got her mace in one hand, but holds it as casually as anybody ever holds a mace. She seems more amused than nervous about this.

Astarion sets one foot on the stairs, ready tom sprint up and get to that inner balcony. But your gut gives a funny twist.

“Lae’zel,” you say. When she gives you a mean glare, “Are you quiet enough to go with Astarion?”

Astarion himself frowns. It’s a particularly bitchy frown, and when his mouth opens, you know it’s gonna be to gripe.

“I am well-trained in all forms of combat. Including stealth,” Lae’zel says, mouth curling around that last word like she bit into a rancid lemon.

“I hardly need a nanny,” Astarion says.

“They coulda moved around in the last few minutes,” you say. “I don’t want you getting cornered by yourself. Please.”

He shuts up so completely you wonder if you just offended the man. Then he looks away, clears his throat, and slaps on his more malicious grin. To Lae’zel,” Do see that you don’t give us away with all that rattling, dear.”

She glowers after him.

“You should probably stand back,” Wyll says. Poor man looks so resigned. Somebody with better people skills or social training’d probably know what to say; touch his arm, maybe, do something to reassure him and lift his spirits.

But they’re all stuck with your ass, and you can only nod and say, “Good luck.”

You stand out in the road, with the rotting carrion, as they form up. Wyll and Shadowheart by the door, stepping carefully over the severed limbs.

You catch Gale’s eye. Deadpan, “Why is the leg still in front of their door, Gale. Why. Why is that leg still there.”

He gives a kind of “yes, you were correct” shoulder roll and takes up position right behind Karlach next to the barrels.

You saw that movie Gladiator when you were in your twenties. You’d been on an Ancient Rome kick at the time. As you stood up on that balcony with Astarion, the image popped into your head.

A clay jar, filled with oil, topped with a burning rag. Catapulted into the air, tumbling end over end to smash into a tree and rain down fire on Gaul’s trying to protect their homes and people from a sadistic, all-consuming empire.

(What does that make you?)

The barrel ain’t a jar and will need something to smash it apart. Thus Gale and his spell.

He’s got this. Karlach seems confident, and Astarion will not miss.

Six people, all putting themselves in harm’s way on your word. It’d probably throw the whole thing off if you threw up over here in the road.

Time slows. You count to one hundred, the agreed-on mark. Astarion said he’d be in place (unless somebody went looking for Kitchen Lurker and found her slaughtered corpse). Karlach runs through a short regimen of stretches.

Wyll lifts a hand.

This is all your doing.

Drops it.

Everything speeds up so fast you almost can’t follow.

Karlach wrenches up the barrel. Turns to the door as smoke curls off her hands. Shadowheart and Wyll throw open both sides of the door and somebody inside yelps. Gale’s voice goes echo-y, talking fast, the air pressure drops so fast your ears pop.

One of the fake paladins (probably Short Shit) is fast on the draw; an arrow catches Shadowheart in the hand as she withdraws.

But Karlach charges up the stairs, eyes huge, grin bearing her fangs. Hits the landing and twirls herself and the barrel. Fucking launches the thing and shouts, “What’s up, motherfuckers?!”

Gale moves. Purple light flares. Less than a second later and a bone-shuddering blast kicks through your ribcage.

The barrel blasts apart. Gallons of lantern oil aerosolize as something drops from the ceiling. The bowl of fire plummets into the flammable mist.

The room combusts. A ball of fire so bright and so hot it prickles your face roars through the tollhouse. Your crew ducks back, except for Karlach who takes it head on, cackling the whole time.

You drop and cover your head. Blink when the heat recedes into cold.

The tollhouse is on fire. Black smoke billows into the sky. Through the door is solid, roiling flame. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound.

If they were lucky, Gale’s spell knocked them out and the blast caught them on an inhale and scorched their windpipes shut. If they were lucky, they never knew what hit them. It they weren’t…

“Should we put that out?” Shadowheart says.

You don’t want to start a forest fire. You start to nod.

And then there’s a shout inside. The tone grabs you buy the spinal cord, sends an electric jolt through your chest. You know that voice.

Astarion.

Then a reptilian roar. Metal crashing and shrieking.

Oh god, oh fuck.

Shadowheart raises her hands—snapped the arrow off but part still sticks through her palm and she grits her teeth and keeps going. She’s chanting, but you’re already off and around the side, bolting for the stairs. Footsteps pound after you and it’s Wyll. You hit the stairs, start up, and a flash of white hair above.

Astarion practically slides down the ladder. His face is covered in soot, he’s hacking, and an alarming amount of blood slicks down from a gash above his eye.

None of y’all get a chance to do nothing but spot each other. Because somebody else staggers out onto that patio. Hair gone, charred to hell, his armor smoking. Fuck Off has gone whole-body Harvey Dent. He stands up there, looks down at y’all, and then fucking launches himself into the air.

You got no time to do more than register how bad that’s gonna fuck his knees. Then the fucker lands—the impact should break his legs and shoved his femurs up into his pelvis to shish kabob his intestines. But he hauls himself up and that fuck off sword flashes in the light and oh.

He’s aiming at you.

A tug on your collar. You fall back. Movement above and around you as Wyll barely deflects the blow that woulda chopped you clean in half. But Harvey Dent is some sorta terminator on his last death match, and he don’t even slow. Just takes the parry, uses the momentum to spin that fucking blade around to come back down on Wyll. And there ain’t no way Wyll’s rapier is going to block that kinda momentum.

You think you scream. Your throat hurts. Wyll starts to dodge but everything is so fast—

A green and silver blur tackles Harvey Dent clean off the stairs. Lae’zel plows him face first into the hard-packed dirt before she has to tuck and roll and come up on her feet.

Harvey Dent still don’t slow. He’s up and swinging. Lae’zel’s fuck off sword has an easier time swatting his first strike off to the side before she sorta rides it up and damn near spears him through the eye.

Wyll shouts. A red flash and energy boils over Harvey Dent’s barbequed face. He staggers. Nearly drops his sword. Lae’zel comes in for a neck shot and he leans back. She misses. He brings a forearm up to pin her fucking blade. She’s got less than a second to figure out how to—

She drops the sword. Kicks out at his knee. He staggers, does not go down, and she ain’t got no sword. Wyll staggers next to you, clutching his side where that fucking sword caught him and opened his skin down to the ribs. Astarion is hunched over, clutching both his knives.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fu—

“Eat shit fucker!”

Red. A scream that lifts every hair on your body. Heat washes over you as a flaming fucking meteor plows into Harvey Dent. Karlach don’t even have her ax. She just grabs his wrist. Head butts him in the face. Takes his own sword and clubs the side of his head with it before she flings it to the side.

Her arm wraps around his neck. He still ain’t making any noises, though his feet kick as she hefts him up. Grabs the side of his face and—

She rips his head off. Clean off, like pulling off a drumstick from a Thanksgiving turkey. Except with a lot more blood.

“Bye bye, asshole!” she hollers, and lets the body fall.

You’re on your ass on the porch, popped up on your elbows. Wyll carefully slides down the wall of the tollhouse. Astarion grimaces and spits ash out of his mouth while Lae’zel reclaims her sword and she’s limping on her left knee.

Which is when Karlach, still grinning, lifts the head and screams in the slackened face. “I’m never going back, you sack of shit!”

The air from her lungs is hot enough to curl the bits of flesh still on Harvey Dent.

“I am never! Going the fuck back!”

And she cackles. Drops the head and crunches his face beneath her boot. And then stomps over to where she apparently dropped her ax.

“Never! Never! That bitch is never, ever taking me!”

And she sort of bursts into flame and storms into the still-burning tollhouse to go on some kinda blood lust rampage.

Chapter Text

“That went well,” Astarion says. He sits nearby on the unshattered stairs leading to the front door, hair dripping from the quick wash he’d given himself.

The air stinks of smoke and char and some nauseating, roast meat reek you refuse to think about. Everybody calmed down (Karlach) and most got their wounds treated. Shadowheart had conjured up a rain to put out a fire (with a fucking arrow in her hand), leaving the tollhouse a fire-gutted wreck. Fucker ain’t structurally sound in the slightest; you’ll ask Gale to thunderwave it before y’all leave to make sure no unsuspecting travelers try to take shelter and get crushed when the roof finally caves in.

Literally everybody got hurt except you. Lae’zel tore ligaments in her knee. Gale’s hands and half his face are mildly burned. Shadowheart actually got hit in the face with shrapnel in addition to the aforementioned arrow-through-the-hand. And Wyll is gashed down his side to his ribs.

Karlach is still burning too hot to be near anybody—she sits over in the road with her teddy bear.

And Astarion, who doesn’t need to breathe, inhaled smoke right after Harvey Dent gashed his head. You gave him a healing potion to help his lungs—he don’t need air to live, but he does need it to talk—because Shadowheart is triaging the magic she got left.

“They’re dead and we’re not, darling, and that is what matters,” Astarion says. He wipes his blades down again, having already inspected his bow (and found no damage).

He’s right. Y’all did what y’all had to. Karlach don’t got hunters on her tail no more, and none of the injuries are more than y’all’s resources can handle.

Except you are completely fine and none of the others are.

Astarion finishes up and slips his daggers back into the sheathes on his belt.

“We’re probably staying here for the night, huh?” you say.

“I can’t imagine the others will want to go far.” He looks to the rotting carcasses. “But I also don’t anticipate anyone, even the gith, wanting to linger amongst all this.”

You nod. You can help set up camp. That can be your contribution; you should really ask Gale for cooking lessons. Nobody fucks with the camp cook.

“Well, my dear,” Astarion says. “Shall we see what items might be left in that ruin? I’m rather sure I saw a basement.”

Bringing back presents also boosts morale.

“We probably shouldn’t go alone,” you say, and completely miss his smile turn sour. “Hey Karlach! You wanna see if they got shit in the basement?”

In the road, Karlach perks up. Woman has such golden retriever vibes.

Karlach ends up taking an ax to the charred hatch cover that does, indeed, lead to a basement. And then to the big doors Astarion can’t jimmy open—you let him search the ripe body y’all find down there. Must’ve been the toll collector. You got a sneaking feeling it wasn’t them dead gnolls outside that got him. Might be the way his gut is cleaved damn near in two, like some Harvey Dent motherfucker and his overcompensation sword nailed the guy.

Most of the boxes in that first room are empty, save some salvageable rags, which you stuff into your bag like there’s gonna be a shortage (you got maybe six or seven days until shark week, you suspect). Find a couple of broken weapons, a pair of frayed sandals, and not much else. But as you start into the second room, stepping over splintered wood, Astarion grabs your elbow.

“Careful darling,” he says. “There are traps about. Stay next to me, hmm?”

Circular grates dot the floor. A lot of them.

“Can you disarm these?” you say.

“Oh, I got it,” Karlach says, flexing her biceps unnecessarily (but not unappreciated). She skirts the first one, hefts up a heavy looking jar that comes up to your ribcage, and sets it over the grate. “There. Fucker can’t spew if it’s blocked, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Astarion says. “Why don’t you be a dear and go handle the others?”

“Aww, what’s a matter, Fangs?” she says, and if he were a cat, his ears would be plastered to his skull. “Can’t do a bit of heavy lifting?”

“I’d rather not dirty my hands, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, despite the fact that 1. he's wearing gloves and 2. he's still got dried blood crusted in the creases down the front of his armor.

Karlach looks at him for a second, and the both of them make weird facial expressions. Then she grins. And there’s something odd in that grin. And in the way she glances over to you.

“Gotcha,” she says. And saunters off to find more huge-ass pottery.

You start rummaging through the first box you see. Old clothes. Not moldy or covered in mildew or crusted bodily fluids, so into the pack they go. Move on to the next.

It’s quiet as you work. Karlach shuffles over to the corner, secures that vent, and starts rummaging herself.

Two boxes later and Astarion sighs. You look up, find him about where you left him, but leaning on a shelf with an arched brow.

He…hasn’t been looting?

“You alright?” you say. He don’t look injured. His arms are folded and you catch the barest flicker as he apparently resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Then he pastes on the smarm again. “I just wanted to take a moment to congratulate you. That was quite the plan, back there. Very effective.”

“Uh huh.”

He’s angling for something. And he seems to know that you know, and he leans into it. “Are all your plans going to be so vicious?”

“I’m not…it’s not on purpose. I’m not trying to cause…mayhem.”

“And yet you’re rather good at it.”

It’s still not a comfortable thought, that part of you. It’s keeping your ass alive, but if (when) you get home, you ain’t sure you’ll be able to cram it back into the box you took it out of.

“I don’t know how to fight and I can’t use magic,” you say. “If you don’t hit hard and hit first, you give them a chance to hit back and you get your ass handed to you. We cannot afford that.”

But no disgust wrinkles his face. No frown draws his brows together the way most people in this situation would.

“You know, my dear, some people might call that cowardice,” he says.

This time you get to roll your eyes. “Bet you those people die young.”

He barks out a laugh. Doesn’t seem to mean to, but his eyes are wide and sparkling in the dim torchlight. Karlach pauses her rummaging, and then begins again in earnest.

“I like you,” Astarion says. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone with a modicum of sense, for a change.”

Insulting the entire rest of the group. There’s a tactic that should work to do…whatever he’s trying to do here.

“Neat,” you drawl, using that extra second to try to get a fucking read on him.

“Honestly,” he says, and his voice drops. “I’m beginning to like the whole package. And you clearly like me, too, so…?”

You stare. After a moment, you realize he’s waiting for a response and you’re just standing there. You should probably put on a facial expression. You’re doing the blank face thing again and that tends to piss people off (you look like an idiot, you stupid girl, ohh I’m a stoic Indian hey-ya-huh-huh). You should really stop. You should stop right now.

You can’t stop.

“…so?” you finally manage.

“Come now,” Astarion says, expression dripping smarm. “Don’t be coy. Your body’s already given you away.”

What in the fuck is he talking about? What is this? The man flirts literally more than he breathes. He’s fucking with you, somehow, trying to get a reaction. You’re just not sure which one.

But his eyes widen in what really looks like a genuine smile. No malicious smirk, no smug, just…a man smiling at you.

“I could feel it, you know. As I was getting…” He steps towards you and you ain’t sure when he got that close. His gloved fingertips brush down your neck where he bit you, so featherlight, you ain’t even sure he actually touches you. “Getting lost in your neck. Your little shakes of excitement. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

He is entirely too close. You can smell iron on his breath. That strange, almost electric charge that hugs his skin crackles against yours.

“Um,” you say.

He was this close when he bit you. His soft lips on your neck. His fucking tongue. And the noises he made slurping on your wrist. You ain’t never heard those kinds of noises outta someone before.

It’s his spit. It’s that memory effected by his goddamn vampire spit. Of course you had a physical reaction. That was normal.

But you barely know the man and having a chemically induced reaction like that don’t mean you want what you think he’s alluding to.

“I…I was trying to help, is all,” you say.

Thank fuck he steps back. Only to throw out his arms to show himself off. “And look how well it’s worked. I’ve never felt better, all thanks to you. So let me repay you for your noble sacrifice.”

Is it just you, or does his voice take on Wyll’s cadence over that last bit? (Yes, much better. Analyze that and not the situation unfolding here. So much better.)

But then he leans in again, lids all heavy.

“We could take an evening to ourselves,” he says, voice low and…and melty. “Get away from camp—get some privacy. I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere…intimate. Somewhere we can indulge in each other.”

He waits. You stare. Cause it sounds like he’s suggesting…?

He sighs. “And I do mean sex, to be clear.”

…no. No. He’s not. He can’t be. It ain’t the first time somebody joked like that with you (against you, using you as a prop to make their buddies laugh). But he don’t got no audience to play to. And he ain’t never took the joking this far. The others wouldn’t find that funny, would they? You want to look over to Karlach—suspiciously loud in her searching—but don’t think you can break his eye contact.

“You really don’t owe me for that,” you say. “I’d do it for anybody.”

He lets out that soft, high giggle. “But you didn’t do it for just anyone, darling. You did it for me. And that’s hardly the only reason. It’s more of an excuse, if anything. Assuming…you want that too, of course?”

Your chance to get the fuck out of this. But then he tilts his head down and what you suspect might be actual lust (might have been this whole time, oh god, you didn’t see, you never see until it’s too late, until it’s printed on a big, plastic sign some high school kid twirls over his head outside a roadside sandwich shop).

“But we both know you do,” he purrs.

Oh god. Oh sweet jesus.

You been friendly. You shoulda known better. People—men especially—always take it wrong. Why do they always take it wrong. Why is he targeting you for—

Oh.

Yes. That makes sense, don’t it.

A pile of lovers. That’s what he’d told Shadowheart he had. Man likes sex. Nothing wrong with that, but now he’s stuck out here with all y’all and who is the easiest target? Who has no backup? It’s the same reason he picked you to bite in the first place. You look as you do, so he probably pegged you from day one as the most desperate. The easiest prey. He wants a quick, no-strings lay, and who better than the fat girl with no connections to anybody?

You can say no. Logically, you know this. You don’t think he’s the type to hurt you for refusing (none of them ever seem like they would in all those crime stories, do they?). And Karlach stands right there. You’ve refused people before (it’s all you ever done).

But that was back home. You had a stable job and a couple of hundred bucks in a savings account and your own, one-bedroom apartment. You could stand on your own, two feet back then. Back there. If anybody tried to give you shit, you could call dad’s side or Sasha (who carried a baseball bat in the trunk of her car).

Here?

You’ll die without Gale’s blood potion—and it needs all of them to make. You can’t even ask for help without the dirt potion. You got a brainworm, and your best chance of not turning into a space monster is a band of people you keep leading into danger while you sit your fat ass in the background and take not a single fucking scratch.

What happens when you make a bad call? What happens when they get sick of covering for you? Coddling you? You are wholly dependent on their good will for food and a…and a fucking allowance.

You been trying not to think of that for a week. Of just how defenseless you are. How you worked so hard, and yet you are right back where you started, poor and helpless and vulnerable and staring down the barrel of fucking someone you don’t know.

Except you ain’t some twenty-year-old kid this time. Now you know what’s happening to you. Your body is on the market, and there’s no Sasha to swoop in with her pickup truck and whisk you away into the night.

“You’re…you’re not joking?” you rasp, throat drier than a salt flat.

Astarion blinks. “Darling, I would never about this.”

He wants to fuck you. Whatever reasoning (easiest prey, the lamed deer) he actually wants to fuck you.

You can’t feel your hands.

You’re not…possessive of your “virginity.” It ain’t some commodity (Mother). You know, intellectually, it’s an activity just like any other: riding in a hot air balloon, scuba diving, eating one of them lollipops with a bug inside (crickets actually don’t taste too bad, once you get over the leg barbs dragging on your tongue). You ain’t opposed to trying sex sometime.

It’s just…you barely know this man. You barely know any of them.

God, you’re being fucking precious. It’s just sex. People have sex all the time. They been having sex they weren’t enthusiastic about for thousands and thousands of years and they all survived just fine. This ain’t no different. And you can use this, right? Forge a…a…

(Relationship, and your stomach clenches.)

An alliance with him. That’s just good interpersonal insurance, right? He’s damn good with those knives. He’s even pretty—not that that part really matters to you; it’s the same category as “his shirt is white” and “his hair is white” and “his face is symmetrical and he’s got fangs.” Just an observation.

He watches you. Waiting. He expects an answer. He expects a yes. Possibly a gushing “oh me oh my, lowering yourself to offer me??”

It probably won’t be bad? Somebody with a pile of lovers in the city has to know what he’s doing? Orgasms feel great and other people really like sex. It’s just an activity. You were probably gonna do it at some point, anyway. This is just sooner than you anticipated. It probably won’t even last all that long, right?

It’s the smart move.

“I, um, yeah,” you say and now you can’t feel your face.

“Wonderful,” Astarion says, lighting up. “Once we have a chance, I promise you a night of passion you’ll never forget.”

You certainly won’t be forgetting your first time, you’re sure.

You can’t throw up on then man’s shoes. That would be the height of rudeness. God, you’re such a mess. Your body is wigging out for no reason. It’s not that big of a deal; there’s no reason you should be this light-headed.

“Oi! You two!” Karlach pops her head out of an aisle. “Think I found a secret door!”

Oh thank fuck. You want to hug Karlach. Swoon into her arms. Except she’s still on fire and you just told Astarion you’d have sex with him.

Astarion lifts his eyebrows and makes an intrigued noise. He starts past you, but pauses and leans in to whisper, “See you later, lover.”

Your heart lurches. It’s not a good feeling. The pit in your stomach only grows when Karlach—behind Astarion’s back—catches your eye and gives you a grin and two thumbs up.

She knows. Oh sweet christ.

You smile back and hope it doesn’t look as weak as it feels.

Chapter Text

You find some stuff. You leave. Gale blows down the roof. You rejoin the others and wander out of the stink cloud of rot and set up camp. Gale makes food. You eat it mechanically.

Notice Astarion watching you.

Try to focus on the conversation but you can’t. Everyone is talking and their faces move and their limbs gesture. It’s like watching wooden puppets dancing around to an alien performance. Their words make no sense. Their expressions make no sense. You sit there and float on a cloud and do not taste your food.

The sun sinks into the treetops. Dread rises cold and leaden in you.

You can say no. Should say no. You can do it in front of all the others in case it turns out you’re wrong and he doesn’t take it well.

But.

You’ve dated before. Just the once. Ryan Meadows. Nice dude, one of Sasha’s friends. Never raised a voice or a hand against you. Said he wanted to take things slow. A real history buff and he was teaching you to cook more than boiled eggs.

Until he wanted to take it further. And you said no. Because the secular world said you could (no heavenly father or The Pastor to disapprove of you not satisfying a husband, no congregation to hold you responsible for failing your wifely duties). And Ryan had accepted that. He’d been gracious. He’d been kind. He’d smiled at you and hugged you (you hadn’t got to kissing, yet) and told you you never had to force yourself.

Then he ghosted you.

And you realized the secular world was just as much a piece of shit liar as your mother’s. You could, indeed, say no. And the world and the people in it would hold up a mirror so you could see exactly what you were worth if you didn’t open your legs.

Which was nothing.

No call, no text. He even ghosted Sasha (and she’d raged on your behalf for days, which…she meant well. But in all honestly it made you feel worse, taking up her time and attention like that).

You could and did build you some worth on your brains and your learned typing and filing skills. You got your apartment and a credit score. But you saw it in their eyes when you refused coworkers and strangers alike. How you got passed over, left out. How you’d started catching murmurs (never to your face, that would be rude). Ice queen and frigid, nun and sad and what’s her deal, is she gay—shh!

You can say no. And lose every single chance at friendship. If you refuse Astarion, he will drop you quicker than a sack of rotten potatoes, and the others will catch on. Broken goods. Legs padlocked shut. And once they realize you don’t want to fuck any of them, either? Once that option is closed and you make a bad call, ever?

You cannot survive on your own, here. You can’t.

Astarion glances to you again. You’re pretty sure those are what they call bedroom eyes—the half-lidded thing. Shadowheart catches him doing it and it looks like she stepped on a slug with her bare feet.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. A bit of exercise, once and done, and this time tomorrow, you’ll have had sex, oh goodie.

But what if he wants to again.

Gale looks at you. Frowns, actually. “Are you alright?”

You sit against a tree in the clearing. Your plate is empty (you have no idea what he cooked). You hold a slice of bread in your hand. What remains of one, anyway; you done squeezed it into a hardened ball of dough.

You can’t breathe.

“It’s been a day,” you say and smile. You make sure to keep the edges of your mouth soft, keep your lips from being too rigid. “I think I’m gonna wash up. Thank you for dinner; it was delicious.”

“My pleasure,” Gale says, and he ain’t as good as you at making his smile look genuine.

Karlach ducks to whisper something to Lae’zel. Who gives you a cool once-over. The giant tiefling looks back at you, eyes sparkling. She looks so happy for you.

You force yourself to give her a thumbs up. You feel Astarion’s stare on the back of your neck as you turn and head down to the river.

It’s just sex. A bit of touching, he’ll probably use fingers at first, if he’s courteous. All you have to do is not scream or flinch. Don’t lie there like a doll. Maybe touch him back (oh god) and participate or something.

Maybe you can make it bad? A bad lay is still more valuable than an ice queen.

You take a sharp breath. Flap your hands to try to dissipate the tingles.

It’s just sex. You’ll be fine. It’ll probably feel nice and there’s no need whatsoever to get so worked up about it, stop being stupid.

Your head gets that memo, reads it over, and nods. Your body launches itself into a tantrum you cannot control.

You undress. Try not to feel so exposed as the wind brushes your breasts and between your legs. There will be hands there, soon.

It is literally just sex. It’s fine. You’re fine. This is nerves, is what it is. You said yes. It’s still happening on your terms, even if you didn’t initiate it. Astarion is, well…he’s not actually a good man, is he? He’s an outright bastard. But he’s funny? And there’s something about him you recognize, some connection you can’t name. He’s seen you at your worst, and he’s fine with it.

He jokes about it.

And he wants you. At least for this, at least for right now (lamed gazelle, the most vulnerable prey and what is a vampire if not a predator—)

But that just means you’re going into this eyes wide open. You know he’s not like, marriage material or anything, and he doesn’t see you as such either. You ain’t even sure he’s capable of that kind of attachment (he might be?? You just do not know). He wants sex, just sex, and you can handle that and it’ll secure him to the group and better secure you to the group. That’s what European marriages were: a political alliance forged through genital contact.

A snort breaks free. And it’s the first pebble in a whole ass landslide. You end up crouching in the river, butt-naked, laughing your ass off.

Honestly, you’re probably about to have a better first time than a lot of people—especially the ones with vaginas. Might as well enjoy what you can. You can even make it a funny story, later. “Oh, my first? Got railed by a vampire bareback out in the woods.”

It’s already hilarious.

You get to washing. Well, washing as best you can without soap. Or a razor; you don’t normally shave your legs (wasn’t a thing, growing up) and you never had the time or the spoons for the armpits. Plus, you weren’t looking to impress nobody.

You splash between your legs. If somebody is gonna be all up in there, it only seems polite.

And somebody is gonna be all up in there. Jesus lord, there’s going to be a cock inside you—

The flush is part fluster and part nerves. That’s what you tell yourself. It’s normal. This is normal. You’re lucky, really.

Really.

Absolutely.

Your hands still shake as you pull your trousers on for the walk back to your tent. You got the one clean pair; you’ll change into those.

Only a flash of white catches your eye on the way back. You stop, hand buried in your hair, trying to scrunch the extra moisture out. Astarion leans against a tree. Gives you a slow (is that sultry?) once over.

“A quiet evening,” he says.

“Uh huh.”

“Rather perfect for two people who’d like to take some time to themselves, if you still want to?”

The air is too thin. His collar is looser than usual. It’s the first time you’re aware of, like, how long his neck is. The hint of his collarbones. He’s not Astarion the Dork in your head, suddenly. This is a man. One with corded forearms and tight pants and he’s looking at you (how did you never register this? Oh wait) in a way that makes you feel entirely too exposed.

Sex. With him. Both of you naked and him between your legs and these are just nerves fluttering in your stomach. This is a good thing. This will be a good thing.

“Yeah,” you say.

He cocks his head. Studies you. “You know, I thought you’d be a little more, well, enthusiastic at the prospect.”

Fuck fuck fuck. He’s picking up on how you don’t wa—yes you do. You agreed. It’s the smart move. You want this.

“Kinda nervous,” you say.

His gaze sharpens. Oh god oh fuck. You should tell him. It’s the courteous thing. Let your partner know, because that’s good communication and communication is what makes sex good.

“I, um,” you say. “I just. I haven’t…”

But you’re vulnerable here. He’s pretty and a vampire and you’re the weakest link outta the whole group and you cannot show any more weakness. You learned that lesson early on. You never give them more than you have to. You never let them in. They can only hurt you the worst if you let them inside.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” you say. “Like, a long while.”

Is it just you, or does he relax a smidge? No. He’s got no reason to be tense. Man’s getting what he wants.

You try hard (and fail) not to fidget. “Where, um, where do you wanna…?”

He pushes off the tree, takes a step closer. “Let’s find our own little piece of nowhere. Somewhere we can lose ourselves and forget all this madness.”

He’s still such a dork. Fucking aside, this man is such a massive, massive dork. The thought loosens one of the barbed vines strangling your heart, just a bit. It’ll be fine.

“There’s a secluded place nearby that should do nicely,” he says, and hoo boy, you sure are gonna lose your virginity getting railed bareback by a vampire out in the woods, huh? “Wait until the others are asleep, and then come find me there.”

Thank fuck he gives you instructions. Thank fuck they ain’t too hard to follow. Almost like he knows your brain’d be firing off in sixteen different directions.

“Right,” you say. “I’ll…I’ll see you there.”

He takes a step over to you. One finger reaches up to trace along your jaw (SKIN CONTACT, you brain shrieks). “Indeed you will, my love.”

Your body is a riot of conflicting urges. Giggle clashes with screech, bolt clashes with fold like a startled goat. You’re pretty sure the hullabaloo leaves you trembling.

Then Astarion leans so close you’re sure he’s going to kiss you and you have to lock your knees and slam down every impulse you have to not flinch back.

But he only hovers, eyes half-lidded, the one, cool finger on your chin. “I can’t wait.”

He steps back, gives you what you are reasonably sure actually are bedroom eyes, and then saunters off. You have to stagger over to that tree he was leaning on to catch your own goddamn balance.

You can’t do this.

You have to do this. Look, you even threw in an excuse when you inevitably have no idea what to do, later. “Oh it’s been a while.” Smooth move, brain.

You should stay out here in the woods. Crawl under a bush and stay until morning and don’t think about it.

This is so stupid. What the fuck even is this. Aliens and brainworms and soul potions and, and fucking goblins. And now you’re gonna strip down to your birthday suit and let a damn near stranger stick his cock in you because you’re not gonna settle for medieval European aesthetics, oh no. You’re going whole hog and selling yourself off like a dairy cow at market.

He’s not going to eat you, you fucking dumbass. You’re thirty-fucking-five, for christ’s sake. You are an adult and adults have casual fucking sex. And they don’t spin themselves into a flapping tizzy like some teenager (who has at least kissed her first crush oh god, what are you doing).

No. No. You made the decision.

You push off from that tree, take several deep, deep breaths. Then you head back towards the orange glow of the campfire to while away (dread) the minutes (you wish it were days) until everyone goes to sleep. Then you’re gonna march your lucky ass out into those woods for a dollop of casual sex. It ain’t a big deal. It ain’t.

You stare at the woods for an inappropriate amount of time. Karlach had made a show of stretching and turning in early, nudging Lae’zel and even Shadowheart along. She’s such a good lady. Y’all should really become friends. Maybe once this whole thing is done you can win that friendship.

You lost track of Astarion maybe twenty, thirty minutes ago (oh god). It’s a struggle to sit there, act like you’re just stargazing when your skeleton wants to rip its way out of your skin and sprint off into the night.

Soon, Wyll is the only one left. He sits at the fire, ankles crossed, elbows on his knees.

First watch. Right. That’s a thing y’all do.

He looks up as you stand and brush off your clean trousers.

“I’m, um, gonna have to take a walk for a bit,” you say. “Nearby.”

He knows. Jesus, they all do, don’t they. You aren’t sure if you should say something—wish me luck??? Or if you should stand there all awkward.

Then, bless him to pieces, Wyll smiles. It’s a small thing. Guarded. But it still softens around his eyes.

“Stay safe, yeah?” he says. “If you need help, don’t hesitate to yell.”

Right. Yes.

…he’s not talking about goblins, is he.

Fuck, he’s such a good dude. Seriously. Your heart wibbles a bit, and you’re pretty sure some of that creeps into the smile you give him.

“I, um. I will,” you say. Christ above, you been such a stammering mess since the tollhouse.

You look to the forest. Deep breath. Start walking.

It’s not super far—y’all are still in the wilderness and there’s fucking gnolls and goblins and fake paladins and shit. The moon is out; there’s just enough light for you to make your way without tripping or falling into the underbrush.

Oh god, you’re doing this, ain’t you.

You know what would have helped? That ring Gale ate. You coulda had a flashlight, but no. No ring, just dirt and rocks and that—oof! That one motherfucking tree root.

You stumble into a clearing. The clearing, you think. Only ain’t nobody there. Just you, and trees, and bushes, and what’s that on the ground? Something dark. You take a step and peer down.

A blanket. The fuck—

Movement. Something pale between them. Astarion’s lilting voice, “There you are.”

The man has no fucking shirt. Silvery moonlight paints over his chest and movie star abdomen, over his wide shoulders and veiny arms. Holy fucking shit, he ain’t got a shirt on, and you know why you’re here, but his chest is fucking bare and for some reason, that catches you completely off guard.

You take a step back and look away. Realize what that looks like and force your gaze back to him. You’re here for sex. With him. You’re gonna see more of him than pecs and most people would appreciate that view, right? That’s like, half the point.

He catches the double-take—of course he does—and his smile slides across his lips like warmed molasses.

“I’ve been waiting, you know,” he says (for twenty whole minutes, you almost fire back). Then, “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

Okay, yeah, as if you hadn’t already guessed this was just a desperate booty call on his part. You ain’t a looker. Never were, never will be, not even when you were a skinny bean pole right off the farmstead. Your face is too masculine to be feminine, but too feminine to be masculine and the short hair don’t help. Add all the plus size in, and you are every southern, overweight gay uncle in a button-down plaid shirt.

Good god, at least you’re aware of what this is. Though why he’s taking the trouble (what a fucking dork) to go through all these lines is beyond you. Maybe it makes him feel all, all puffed up or whatever.

You should be bad at this on purpose. They’d all leave you alone.

And then he’s right in front of you and all the shy bravado you’ve managed to scrape together collapses in on itself.

Oh god, this is happening.

Fuck.

Fuck.

“You still want this, don’t you?” he says because you’re just standing there and you really wish he’d stop asking that and fucking get on with it. “To lose yourself in me?”

Time drags and sprints at the same time. You want to stare—you seen men without shirts before, jogging down the sidewalk, and you seen porn before. But it’s different now, in the flesh, right here. You also want desperately to close your eyes and wait for the thing to be over.

He makes a cooing sound. Run his knuckles along your cheek (you shudder and can’t even begin to pick apart where touch!excited and touch!shame end or begin). “That’s right. Your other lovers; I take it they weren’t as considerate as I’m going to be?”

You swallow past the strange, cold queasiness. This might be arousal. Like, genuinely. But it’s so wrapped up in dread and anxiety, you can’t even tell anymore.

“They, uh.” Fuck, you’re gonna have to remember this shit. A fucking story. God, this is too much work. You’re too tired for this. “It was, you know, quick. Young and stupid and all.”

You are completely pulling this out of your ass. That’s what they say in romance novels and shit, right? That’s what someone would expect? Swap out a car for, like, a wagon or some shit?

The way he looks at you makes you shudder. You feel like a deer catching sight of glowing eyes peering out of the dark at you, eyes in front; a predator.

“Don’t worry, darling.” He’s almost whispering. So close (all that skin, what the fuck are you supposed to do with that???) you can smell his perfume or hair stuff or whatever that spicy herb thing is. And under that is something else. Something cool and almost…stagnant? “I meant what I said earlier. I can show you what it is to be properly known. To be tasted.”

Do people actually fucking talk like this to each other?! Is this what people fucking do?! You can’t giggle—absolutely cannot—and you can’t flail, and the result is you stand there like an idiot, quivering like a nervous horse while he stares into your eyes as if searching for something.

What do you say? Yes please? I’d like that? Can we maybe not?

…yeehaw?

Definitely not yeehaw.

Then he’s leaning in the last few inches and you realize what’s happening. Your eyes fly wide (as his flutter closed, thank fuck). And his lips brush yours.

It’s gentle. Soft. He tilts his head so your noses don’t smash into each other, and his lips sort of stroke over yours again.

Your very first kiss. Aside from aunties pulling you in for a forehead smack (and the comically loud “mmmmWAH!”). This is your first mouth kiss, and he’s not wearing a shirt, and he’s a man kissing you and y’all are gonna have sex and you aren’t following any traditional fucking trajectory here at all.

You’re still standing there. You’re standing still. Fuck shit fuck, he’s gonna notice and you don’t know what to do.

Mimic, that ruthlessness chimes in all whisper soft. Mimic him. You’re a fast learner. Always were. It got you into trouble on the farmstead, but here, it might save you.

You wait as he adjusts the angle and comes in again, and you try to meet him. It ain’t the exaggerated auntie pucker—he’s much softer than that. But he makes the teeniest sound when you respond, and one of his hands comes back up to your cheek. Palm wide, long fingers sliding around to brush your ear and glide further back to cup the base of your skull.

It…it’s real hard to focus. There’s too much going on, so much touching. You ain’t used to that. Thought you’d be weirded out by it. Kind of are. But there’s a small part of you, all skin and bones and starving, that perks up at the first brush of his fingers and leaps onto the bars of its mental cage to shriek and rattle.

Feeling surges through you. It’s like hunger. Part of you want to grab, wants to wrap around him and hold his cool skin to yours and bask in the novelty, the sheer luxury of it. He’s touching you and he’s allowed to and holy fuck, you can touch him and it’s okay. He’s all soft and delicate.

Until his other hand snakes around your waist and you flinch.

He pulls back. Searches you again.

“Tickles,” you lie. “Sorry.”

“Quite the sensitive one, aren’t you?”

Oh, he has no idea. “Yeah. I’m just…ticklish. I’ll try not to be, um, to not let it…you know.”

“Do I?”

This shithead. He’s even grinning like a shithead. This is familiar. This is y’all’s game. Back into comfortable territory.

“I mean, if it’s too much for the great Astarion who sold me a ‘night of passion’?”

His eyes narrow; turns the grin a touch sinister. “You think you’re funny, do you?”

You can’t help yourself. Your head is a mess, body all whacked out, hormoned to hell, and you cannot stop your mouth.

“I know I’m funny,” you say.

His thumb traces along your side. And maybe you actually are ticklish, because it sends a jolt through you (you still can’t tell if it’s good or bad).

“A night of passion, was it?” he says.

Oh no. His tone is entirely too light—

He moves into you. Forces you back and back. His hand at your waist, his other on your shoulder, until the ground changes and you thud into a tree. He don’t even give you a chance to react before he’s on you. Mouth open, lips to yours. This kiss is different, more aggressive. Like he’s asking…no, demanding something.

Mimic.

You part your lips too. And apparently that’s the answer he was looking for. Suddenly his tongue swipes your upper lip. You make an aborted sound in your throat and he presses in.

It’s the weirdest sensation, tongue kissing. You can…taste him? Mostly the faint tang of iron, but still. Your lips are turning sensitive. Your whole mouth is turning sensitive and it seems to be spreading down, along your neck where his hand curls around you, down your chest to pool between your legs.

Holy shit. This is…this is nice? It’s nice, you decide. You begin to understand why people do this? It’s all the skin. The touching. His body is solid against you. You can almost see the appeal, if one was used to touching this much. Then the hand at your waist slides up, rasps over your stays to drag over your front.

You make another sound but this one, you think, isn’t happy. Luckily, Astarion doesn’t seem to notice. Too busy touching his tongue to yours (the intimacy nearly blinds you, it’s so shocking). Too busy palming your breast.

Thing is, you like tits. You first noticed them when one of the other farmstead girls—Rachel Olmstead—was changing in the dorms. She was a couple years older than you, barely outta your preteens, and she slipped off her blouse and the sports bra (to keep y’all modest, but under wire bras were for sluts) and there they were. Pale and heavy and you had some kinda reaction and turned and left the room.

When you confessed this to Sasha years later, she’d said, “Oh no, you poor baby queer” even though you were in your early twenties by then.

You’re what the internet calls “demisexual.” But once you get to know somebody—seeing them in that light hits you like a bolt outta nowhere—you discovered genital configuration didn’t matter much to you.

Astarion runs a hand across your bound tits. This should be one of the greatest things to ever happen to you.

But the shame. Because you had been young and curious, even back then, in that place. Most of the other kids were, too—you heard things, chatter and whatnot—but they musta been better at hiding it. Cause you got caught with your shirt off, by yourself.

“Let’s free these, shall we?” Astarion murmurs into your mouth as the other hand joins the first to pluck at the lacing of your stays.

You close your eyes. Try to focus on the rough bark against your back, the cool, almost sweet scent of the forest. Wood creaks in the soft wind. Branches and leaves rustle and in the distance, the soft hoot of an owl.

The woods were always safe for you. You are here and now, in these woods, and not then and there. You’re a whole different person now. You ain’t a kid or a teenager or a young woman, and you ain’t helpless—

(Aren’t you, though? You didn’t actually ask for that breath puffing against your collarbones or the fingers flying over the lacing so he can strip you—)

You walked yourself out here, damnit. He caught you off guard, yeah. This is happening much faster than any pace you would ever set. But it ain’t that bad. He’s being gentle. This is just new. It’s just foreign. And like anything foreign, as you take the time to learn, it ain’t something to be scared—

The stays loosen. You open your eyes to him pulling them apart, exposing your undershirt. His hand seems to move in slow motion, inching up and up. You have time to think, “Oh, he’s going to grab my tit.” Your body does this weird hot-cold flash you can’t decipher and then he sure does grab your tit.

And…it feels nice. Really good. Something, you’re distantly aware of, something you could really enjoy some other time. But this isn’t some other time. This is here and now and the shame claws up the inside of your chest. Wraps itself around your throat and squeezes and your arms jerk before you can repress the urge to cover yourself.

(Shame, dirty, filthy. Disgusting girl. An animal in heat. Shame. Shame. SHAME.)

Astarion grins at you and his eyes are a little glazed. “Last one?”

You try to inhale and it’s like sucking air through a coffee straw. Your hands are numb again (disgusting). Your body goes distant (whore). A shudder that has nothing good in it rattles through you (filthy slut). Something else nods your head, because you are too busy thrashing around in your own skull, trying to shove the thoughts away because they’re wrong. You know that. You know that. They come from assholes and their asshole control methods and they ain’t real and they don’t bind you, you can make your own choices, you got away.

Astarion’s cool fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. It’s almost enough to jolt you out of it—room temperature fingers, and sex toys are room temperature, and you got those and they’re safe, they’re yours.

But almost don’t quite cut it, and the stupid fucking thoughts pull you back in, further this time.

Astarion slides the shirt up, kissing newly exposed skin as he goes. You try so hard not to just stand there and tremble—he’ll notice and then he’ll know and the crushing shame. You force a hand up, brush the edges of his white curls and through the haze and clamor, you notice how soft his hair is. The barest sliver of a thought makes it through the cacophony—wouldn’t it be nice to bury your hands in it? A different you in a different time and place, the both of you calm and comfortable when your head wasn’t full of the shrieking ghosts of trauma past?

Cool air hits your nipples. Every muscle in your body locks into place, your hand frozen, hovering just behind the back of his head.

“Arms up, darling,” he says.

You’re surprised your limbs don’t squeal like rusted hinges as you obey. Seems like they should. And you do obey. Because you can’t control this. You can’t focus. There’s too much noise and confusion and the horrific, icy shame and you aren’t a thirty-five year old woman abducted by aliens and dropped into Middle Narnia.

No.

You’re fifteen, skinny and scared, and you’re in trouble, you are always in trouble and all you can do is submit quietly. Just do what they say, say what they want, endure the switch or the vomiting or the whole group staring as Mother and The Pastor stand over you, your pathetic body crouched face down and shaking, spilling confessions for judgment.

Where the fuck is your shirt?

Astarion stands there without one, and now you match, and this was a mistake. You are not ready for this. You shouldn’t be here.

He hums as he examines your (naked) (SHAME) chest. Like most people with tits, one of yours is bigger than the other, and he’s deciding between them like a man picking out a melon at the store.

(Come on, your brain whispers. Follow the joke back to yourself.)

He decides on the smaller one and his head ducks and the man puts his mouth on your goddamn nipple.

It actually blinds you for half a second. Not that the pleasure is overwhelming (it certainly feels great) but the sheer…sheer sexuality of it.

You gasp.

“Like that do you?” Astarion says in between licks.

You want to, so bad. You want to tease him. You want to go back to him being a dork and a fucking murder hobo. You want so bad to be able to feel anything that isn’t…isn’t whatever shitshow is broiling through you right now.

He fucking sucks on you, bold as brass. Closes his lips and—TEETH! And you’re gonna fly apart. It feels good and you feel horrible and it’s the smart thing and you should just let him and it’ll end soon and you want it to be yesterday before all this and you just…you just…

His hand presses between your legs.

It’s a soft touch. A delicate stroke. You still got your trousers on and he’s outside them and it’s just a casual, surface level stroll of his fingers.

And before any thoughts form, your body moves. You jerk back. Hands shoot out and hit his shoulders and push and your voice shakes and your lips say, “Stop.”

To his absolute credit, he catches his balance and one hundred percent stops. Straightens. Looks at you and something like a frown flashes across his face before he smooths it over.

“Is something wrong?” he says.

No. Yes. You don’t…what the fuck do you say now?!

“I,” you start. Your tits are hanging out and you cannot stop your arms from crossing over them this time.

You both stand there, topless, out in the woods. His spit is drying on your nipple.

Your throat goes tight again, that traitorous sonuvabitch. You got to say something. You ain’t never done this. All memory flies outta your head and you don’t even know if you’ve seen a piece of media, a weekly special, “What to say after stopping sex.”

“I, I think I changed my mind,” you manage. Immediately hate it. “I just…I’m not…it’s my fault.”

He’s a friend. At least tentatively. He listened to you ramble about blood chemistry. You can salvage this, right?

But his expression goes sharp. Lips pull into the tiniest sneer. There’s no sparkle in his eyes, no gremlin shine. No jokes or any familiarity when he says, “Then what are you doing here? I thought we had an understanding?”

Your mouth falls open. Yeah, okay, it’s sudden and confusing and you’re not helping that, but you expected…

“Honestly, I’ve never had to spell it out so blatantly. I’d have already bedded you twice if you were normal,” he says and it feels like slipping a shard of glass between your ribs. Everything goes sort of numb and cold. He huffs. Seems to reign himself back in. “Well, I guess there’s no helping it, dear. If you’d like to carry on being frigid, far be it from me to stop you. I guess I’ll entertain myself tonight.”

To your utter horror, part of you does start to thaw. And it’s your fucking eyes. The corners prick and your throat is so tight you don’t dare speak. You won’t cry. You won’t. You don’t give that to anybody, not even Sasha. Ain’t nothing screams blood in the water on the farmstead like tears in your eyes.

You can only watch, motionless, as he looks around, stalks over and snatches up his shirt. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of his back and there’s something on it. Then he’s dressed. He doesn’t even look at you as he stalks off into the trees. Leaving you without a nod or a smile or a silly bow.

Goosebumps rise on your skin. On your naked skin. You’re exposed out here. Your skin crawls and your stomach tightens and you need your shirt, you need it right now. You need to cover yourself. You don’t want to see yourself, don’t want to feel your own skin, don’t want to have a body right now.

You find it at your feet and shuck it on and it’s not enough. You can still see the swell of your breasts and you can’t (SHAME). You need, you need…

The square on the ground. You stagger over. Land on your knees and your bad knee cracks and pain grinds through it. But you snatch up what actually is a blanket and throw it over yourself until you’re a lump. Until you’re shapeless. Until you can forget you have breasts and Astarion didn’t (ghost you) leave and everything is ruined.

You can’t stop the tears anymore. You curl tight into that blanket—catch a whiff of spicy herb—and break down.

Oh god, what’ve you done.

Chapter Text

You must fall asleep. Because suddenly the sky has the lightest wash of pale to the east. Your face is swollen and crusty, and your mouth tastes terrible. You sit up, notice how cold and stiff your lower legs are—they stayed out all night in only your trousers and boots.

Your brain doesn’t even give you the courtesy of pretending to forget for an instant why you’re out here. You sit on the ground and the aching dread coils around your guts.

Oh jesus, what’ve you done.

You need to get up. You need to get back before anybody notices you’re gone, before Astarion—

He didn’t come back. He didn’t come back at all, not even to get the blanket that he musta left out here (it smells like him). Something small and delicate cracks and dies within you.

He can’t know you spent the whole night out here like some pathetic, sad sack loser. You cannot give him that over you.

But going back…

Your stomach hurts. It’d be a whole lot easier to lie back down, curl into a ball, and not think for a while. Maybe sleep some more. You don’t have to remember how his skin felt so nice even as the bottom of your stomach dropped out and you fucked this, you ruined whatever seedling thing y’all had, what the fuck is wrong with you.

Except you know that’s not fair, either. It’s not right for him to just expect that. He’s an adult, same as you. It’ll be awkward around camp, you’re sure, but you’ll get over it. You’ll have to. He’ll know that, too.

But you can lay back down for a little while. Let things settle. It’s not for long, just—

Plants rustle. And you remember that your ass is out in the middle of the goddamn woods and there’s bears and hyenas and goblins and shit out here, and you don’t got so much as a stick to defend yourself.

But your legs tangle with the blanket. You really turned yourself into a burrito there, and you kick and flail your way free when—

Shadowheart. When Shadowheart emerges, spots you, and you both freeze.

She frowns. “Eleanor?”

Your name comes out accented funny. “Oh hey there! Shadowheart! How nice to see you!”

But she stares, and you realize you’ve slept and you do not have any dirt potion on you. Great. Peachy. This is just…just going so great.

Shadowheart looks around, looks to the blanket, and her frown deepens. Then she walks over and you make a show of readjusting the clothing you have now slept in so she can’t get a good look at your fucking traitor of a face. She pauses beside you as you run out of things to do with your tunic and have to settle for rubbing the gunk off your face.

When you look up, a glass bottle hovers in front of you. Dirt potion. She’s the best.

You slam it back and grimace and contemplate licking the grass to wipe off the taste.

“Why are you still out here?” she says.

That “still” is doing a lot of work in that sentence. It implies she knew you were out here to begin with (thus why she brought the potion). It also implies you should have returned by now, which itself implies she knows why you were out here to begin with goddamnit, Karlach.

“It was a nice night,” you say.

She lets you fidget like there’s absolutely nothing wrong, like you haven’t bust open capillaries in your face and eyeballs and look like a nervous wreck. Then she says, “Where’s Astarion.”

Which…implies he is not back at camp, either. You ain’t sure what to make of that. He didn’t come back here. You ain’t sure if there’s anything to make of it at all.

“He left,” you say. Try to keep the tone light and unbothered, but disastrously overcompensate. You can hear it in your own voice and you wince.

Shadowheart also catches it.

“Eleanor?” she says. A shush of the grass and the light floral scent of her soap or whatever it is washes over you as she kneels. “Are you alright?”

Of course you are. Nothing happened. That’s the point. So there’s no fucking, goddamn reason for your bitchy little throat to go all tight again. You can’t say anything without giving that away, so you nod.

That’s a mistake. You know it’s a mistake, fuck, fuck.

She leans in. “Eleanor, look at me.”

How about not. Your stupid eyes water now for no good reason and this is pathetic, you are pathetic, and why can’t you fucking stop?

“’M fine,” you say in the most “obviously crying” voice. So you crunch down hard on the inside of your cheek to try to distract your body, but it don’t work because you’re a stupid little bitch and your body is intent on plowing this plane into the side of the mountain and killing everyone on board.

So, as she’s not sitting and you are, Shadowheart moves herself to get a look at your stupid ass face and hers goes all tight.

“Are you injured,” she says without a question mark.

You can’t talk. It’s all snowballing into a fucking emotional avalanche, and you flap your hands as if that means anything.

She touches your chin with a single, delicate finger. “Eleanor, please. I need you to talk to me. Are you hurt anywhere?”

You sniffle like a sad toddler. God, you have such an ugly cry face and your lips and chin are doing that pathetic wobble as you throw everything you have to keep this shit contained.

You do manage to shake your head no.

“Alright, that’s good,” Shadowheart says. “Did Astarion…?”

You don’t understand what she’s asking. He’s not here, clearly. He left after—

It crashes over you. Shadowheart doesn’t trust him and Wyll all but sat himself up with the light on waiting for you to come back (was only missing a shotgun). They’ll think Astarion did something to you. Hurt you.

“No!” you say. “No, no! Nothing like that! Nothing happened at all.”

Shadowheart seems to absorb this. She’s very good at keeping her face blank. You’d hate to gamble against her.

“Why are you out here by yourself?” she says.

Ah. Well. That would be the crux of it, wouldn’t it? People go stargazing, right? You could totally use that. Except you ain’t never showed the slightest interest in the stars, and the canopy here obscures most of them.

And she knows. They all know, apparently, that you weren’t coming out here by yourself.

You look up at her, eyes watering like a bawling calf. You know so little about her. She keeps things tight to the chest.

“N-nothing b-bad happened,” you say. “I j-just. ‘S embarrassing. I d-don’t want everyb-body to know. F-fucking gossip.”

She nods slowly. Says, “Alright. We all have our own secrets. So long as it won’t hurt any of us, I can keep yours.”

She’s so solemn. Y’all’s cleric healer who hates Lae’zel for some reason.

“I—” You hiccup. Oh joy. Because that makes all of this better. “Astarion asked me. K-Karlach told you?” And when Shadowheart nods, “He’s r-ridiculous. I t-thought he was just j-j-joking the whole time. Didn’t think he m-meant it. I ain’t exactly a catch. B-but he asked.”

You don’t got nothing to wipe your face except that blanket. He musta stole it from somewhere, and thought to make you both comfortable out here, and you ruined it and he brought it for nothing now and—

“I-it just, just d-didn’t w-work out.” Good god, your lungs hitch uncontrollably. Jesus fucking lord, you’re hyperventilating. At least you’re far enough away from the others nobody else should hear this. “I-I wanted to s-stop. And he d-did. We d-d-fuck. D-didn’t even get that f-far. ‘M sorry. I d-don’t know w-why this won’t f-fucking stop.”

It just keeps wracking through you, out of control. You’re slamming mental levers, trying in vain to seal the watertight doors, and like the fucking Titanic, that shit just spills over the top, deeper and deeper. Nothing happened. You said stop and he did. Immediately. It was kissing. Maybe necking, you ain’t sure of the definitions.

And yeah, that was your first and now it’s a smoking crater, but so what? So what if your bullshit brain and dumbass endocrine system pitch a fit over it? It was one makeout session. It’s not the end of the world.

But the look on his face. The way he closed off. It hurts. It hurts real bad.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “Ain’t n-normally this pathetic over some, some boy.”

Because it is over some man (actually), and ain’t that just galling? You done went and survived so much bullshit, and now you’re reduced to this over a man you just fucking met.

“It’s alright,” Shadowheart says. You sense a hesitation in there. An awkwardness to her crouching with you. He lips purse. “I’m…more adept at healing physical injuries. I’m not…”

“Sure what to do ‘bout a s-stranger leaking all over herself and hyperventilating?” you say. Crack a baby smile. “Me n-neither.”

And that finally pulls the teensiest, most uncertain smile out of her.

“Would you like me to smite him?” she says, almost shy. And you realize she’s joking with you. Hole shit, you got Shadowheart to joke with you.

“N-nah. He’s t-too useful.”

She pulls a face. “At what, complaining?”

“I w-was gonna say t-theatrics.”

She hums. “Well, I suppose every band of misadventurers needs at least one clown.”

It’s probably your shredded nerves, but that pulls a snort out of you. An exceptionally wet one that has you grabbing for the blanket to frantically wipe it away. Which sets off the giggles, and if you can laugh once, you can laugh more, and the hideous tightness in your chest loosens its grip.

“He a-also pretty good at killing things,” you say, thinking of nearly-decapitated Olodan and what he did to Kitchen Lurker.

“Only when they don’t see him coming.”

“Eh. A-ambush predator.”

And she gives you a look. A tiny one. The barest flicker of her eyebrow, but the foolishness of this whole thing starts to seep into you. You were the easiest target twice over. Whatever creepy vampire bullshit he’s got, it led him straight to you. You can’t be that, anymore. Can’t let something like this happen again.

Shadowheart (this is her patrol shift, you find out) helps you back to your feet. Casts a minor healing spell with her glowing jesus hands, and your face cools and settles down.

“Oh,” you say. Not even your eyelids feel puffy. “That’s real useful.”

“It comes in handy. Not on myself, mind you.”

“Course not. You would never.”

And there’s that barest flicker of softness, like the glimmer of fish scales way down in the deep green.

This was a mistake, is all. He read you wrong, and you read him wrong, and y’all can put this behind you. You ain’t gonna cry over a fucking man, certainly not one as outrageous as Astarion, who can go back to his pile of lovers in the city as soon as y’all pull this worm outta y’all’s brains. And y’all kill that fuckface who enslaved him (asshole he may be, but if you can keep him from going back to that shit…).

She lets you catch and smooth your breath. Lets you pat yourself down to make sure you don’t got bark in your shirt or twigs in your hair. Then she walks back with you.

You’ll face Astarion. You ain’t gonna cower. You ain’t gonna be some sad little mope. You’ll talk to him like a goddamn adult (Ryan), and you’ll both move past this and it’ll be fine. Y’all got bigger problems to deal with.

The crew kept the fire burning all night. The sun is reaching its first tendrils of light through the branches as you emerge into the clearing—the camp quiet—smiling softly.

Something moves. Astarion looks away from the dawn light to glance your way. His gaze fixes on Shadowheart for just a second, the barest flicker of narrowing. Then back to you.

“Good morning, darlings,” he says.

And any hint of friendship you thought you’d built crumbles to ash. There is nothing in his eyes when he looks at you. It’s the same, fake face he wore on the beach, when he tackled you to the ground with a knife to your throat. Outside, he’s clean and coiffed. But inside, the man is as hollow and plastic as a barbie doll.

Chapter Text

You offer back the blanket Astarion brought out to the woods. He gives you a delicately offended face and says he’s never seen it before. And then he’s turning away, done talking to you because you are nothing to him now, and Shadowheart shoots you a—it’s not quite sympathetic, but it’s in the same family—look.

The rest of camp emerges as you dress in your second-cleanest clothes.

You avoid eye contact. Especially with Karlach, who greets you with a grin that falters when you nod and brush past to get to the egg scramble Gale throws together.

Astarion doesn’t join, y’all. You catch a few glances thrown his way from the others, some silent conversation passes around you like a flurry of group chat text you ain’t included on.

Great. Awesome. Just what you wanted. Not awkward at all.

But either Shadowheart does a great job silently deflecting everybody, or they communally decide to let sleeping dogs lie; nobody outright asks you about it.

Then y’all bust up camp and set out to find this goblin camp and the druid who might be able to do magic brain surgery or whatever.

And Astarion immediately sidles up to Gale with a tone you now recognize. Not even twelve hours later, and he’s completely ditched you. All because you wouldn’t spread your legs.

That explains the pile of lovers, don’t it? He’s a fuck boy, is what he is. And you are an idiot for not seeing that sooner (of course the only one chasing you would be the one with the loosest standards).

You increase your pace to join Lae’zel and Wyll up front. Wyll glance to you, smiles, and thank fuck he don’t say nothing.

Lae’zel, unfortunately, stares at you a second, and then, “You smell of the bloodsucker, but not of mating. Was he not satisfactory?”

You don’t even see the rock that trips you—points to Wyll who manages to catch your elbow and keep you from eating dirt.

“Fuck’s sake, Lae’zel!” you whisper-shout. “You can’t go asking people that!”

Y’all are at the front. There is a chance, however small, the words didn’t carry back to the fuck boy bloodsucker.

“Why not? If you have no claim to him, then others may make one. But if he is an inadequate partner, I would be less likely to do so.”

You stare. Wyll, beside you, looks horrified.

Lae’zel scowls. “Is this another istik oddity? Your people complicate all things for no reason. Speak plainly.”

And it is silent behind you. No idle chitchat, no scoffing; Karlach isn’t even humming. Oh sweet fucking christ on a cracker. This is not happening.

“Lae’zel,” Wyll tries.

But she fucking hisses at him. “I was not addressing you.”

Maybe you can override the blood potion you slammed back not too long ago and force your soul to separate from your body. Maybe you can negate the dirt potion if you bash your head into a tree enough to give you brain damage. Or at least pass out so it hits whatever bullshit magic timer it needs so it stops working.

Lae’zel stares at you. She ain’t letting this go. And you are not going to turn around. If you turn and see the others, you’ll have to acknowledge this is, in fact, happening when it so clearly ain’t. This is a dream. This is a horrible, nightmare dream.

“Um,” you say, your voice all high. “It, um, that’s…is that blood?”

There is blood in the path, actually! Thank fuck! It is also fresh, as indicated by the body in the grass and the pile of scooped out guts not much further along. Flies buzz over them, but ain’t no maggots, so it can’t have been lying there too long.

Considering all the other bullshit y’all’ve run into recently…

It’s gnolls. Of course it’s fucking gnolls. A whole fucking pack of them and you have the presence of mind to not drop your fucking stick this time. Wyll helps a lot with that by staying out in front of you, hitting them with spells that boil the skin off their faces if they get too close.

Karlach takes the worst of it. Tends to happen when one screams, “Eat it, fuckers!” and charges in like a pack of suburbanites on a Black Friday store opening. Shadowheart has to make her sit so she can jesus hands shut the massive gash opening up the tiefling’s thigh down to the bone.

Karlach takes it all in stride. “Ooh, think it’ll scar? I’m gonna tell everyone I got it chopping through a Beholder!”

You leave them to it, and follow Wyll and Gale into the cave the gnolls were trying to get to. Three more dead people lie in clustered pieces. You stand over the nearest a moment before kneeling.

“Sorry, friend,” you say. “I hope you find what you’re looking for and get some rest.”

And you slip your fingers into his pockets. Some gold and a handkerchief. Well.

The others poke around boxes and baskets, retrieving the still-edible food and anything of value. You wander alone, until something catches your eye. A fancy box wedge between two rocks. You crouch to peer at it in the gloom.

The lid does not lift. There’s a lock on the front. Astarion has been getting y’all into this shit so far. And it ain’t like you know how to pick the damn thing open.

You spot him up a ladder on a ledge nearby, patting down a dead man of his own. That new and exciting dread washes over you. Surely you can figure this box out? Maybe hitting it hard enough will pop the thing free?

It does not pop the thing free. It does attract Gale’s attention. He ambles over, saying something about an unlocking spell, but his mojo is running dry and it don’t work.

You can feel Astarion’s gaze on the back of your neck. But you refuse to turn. It’s probably childish, and definitely petty as hell, but he tossed you out like garbage, like you are nothing. No hesitation, no attempt at talking it through. You didn’t put out and he was done with you, and two can play at that, motherfucker. You are not the metaphorical bigger person.

Eventually, Karlach saunters in.

“Trying to get into that?” she says, noticing the both of you armed with sticks, standing around the damn thing like a couple of uncles holding beers and staring at a car engine that won’t turn over. “Want Mama K to take a crack at it?”

Mama K. You go a little weak in the knees. “Yes, please.”

She lifts her ax and brings that sucker down so hard it makes you jump. Metal bangs, and y’all flinch, but Karlach is a fucking monster with that ax, and her aim is dead-on. The front wall of the box falls off, neat as cut paper.

“You’re amazing,” you say.

She guffaws, but there’s a teeny duck of her head, and you have a suspicion that if she wasn’t red and literally on fire, there’d be some blush on her cheeks.

Inside is a letter, some gold, and a funny looking bottle. Scratch that, an evil motherfucker of a bottle. It’s made of metal, with the most sinister fucking face glowing on its surface. Fucker screams poison. You ain’t dealing with that right now, but it might come in handy on a druid rescue (Ancient Romans used to poison the wells around an enemy army, perhaps?).

What you don’t want is for the bastard to wiggle open in your bag and like, melt it from the inside or whatever. You grab the top and twist to make sure it’s on tight.

Except this ain’t Earth. And righty does not mean tighty in Faerun; nor does lefty mean loose-y.

You unscrew it.

Only a little! The barest wiggle before you catch it! But it’s right as Gale spots it, squints, and starts to say, “I’d be very careful with—”

The bottle explodes. Black fumes pour out. You drop the thing and fall back, waving your arms before the sense bubbles up through your brain and you wrench the front of your tunic out of the stays to cover your mouth and nose. The others cough and swear, and the air shifts. Goes cold to freezing so fast your skin prickles in confusion. You stagger out of the cloud just in time to catch Lae’zel shout something in her language and something big moves above you.

“The fuck,” you start.

A giant fucking eyeball over a goddamn fucking maw of teeth longer than your forearm. Fucker is huge and hovering over you. Four tentacles lift up from its back, and each of those ends in an eyeball, too. They blink all out of sync, and you’re backing away, but one of them stalk eyes spots you, and the entire thing turns to look.

Your bladder nearly gives.

“Spectator!” Wyll shouts. “Eleanor, get out of there!”

The thing rises up silent, a goddamn UFO made of teeth. You can’t breathe. All thought fails, leaving only mindless gibbering and your body is a dead thing around you.

“Shka’keth!” Lae’zel shouts. A silver blur streaks past you as she vaults up and tried to bury her sword through that big ass eye.

But the UFO dodges and roars. The sound slaps even the gibbering right outta your head. Your body turns, and bolts. No thought. Just run. Away from the sound, away from the horror and the teeth.

Impact lances up your shins. Air claws at your throat. A stitch pulls at your side sharp and hot and still, you stagger on.

 Flash of the others around you—Gale lifting his staff, his eyes glowing. Karlach roaring. Wyll pointing a magic blast.

You run past them all. Sprint—it’s too much, you can’t do this anymore—for a pile of rocks. Throw yourself behind it and try to catch your breath. Your heart tries to burst outta your ribcage.

More roars and shouts behind you. Light flashes and the thunderclap swats you and the thing screams. Your hands clap over your ears. You shut your eyes and burrow into your knees as best you can.

It needs to stop. This all needs to stop. All too much and you can’t. You’re so done. You just want it all to go away. You been strong and resilient and all them fancy words people like to throw around and you cannot anymore.

A thud and a scrabble.

Lae’zel lands in the dirt next to you. Blood coats the side of her face. She starts to roll up, spots you. Her lips pull back in a sneer.

“Gah! Useless,” she hisses. And then she vaults off, leaving you sitting there in the dirt.

Fuck, they’re fighting. They’re hurt and they’re fighting and this one really, really is your fault. You don’t know what you’re doing and you don’t know this place and Lae’zel is right. You can’t do magic or swords. You dropped your staff again. You are a pathetic, useless little shit.

“Wyll!” Karlach shouts.

Oh god. You turn and peer around the outcrop. Spot the man down, Karlach standing over him with her teeth bared at the advancing UFO thing.

Oh no. Oh god, no. No. You have…you have to do something. Do anything.

Bag. See what’s in the bag.

Next thing you know, all your worldly possessions are strewn out on the dirt as you scramble through them. Water, rations, clothes, a rusty fork. Something useful, something you can…

A misshapen little thing. Roundish, but in patches with nasty little holes all over it. Lae’zel had called it something when you picked it up. What was it? What—?

“A void bulb,” Not-Sasha’s voice echoes in your head the fucking bitch. You almost drop the damn thing (is this fucker watching you twenty-four seven? Is it listening in on this, too? How was that view yesterday of you taking a shit—) “Use it.”

In an instant, you see it in your head. What it is. What it does.

And oh. Oh very much yes.

You can’t think. Can’t let yourself. You’re staggering up on jittery legs and stumbling out. The UFO monster fires some kinda beam that Karlach barely dodges. Something is very wrong with Gale—he’s on his knees, batting at shit you can’t see. Astarion pops out from an outcrop much like your own to fire an arrow that don’t do more than turn one of them stalk eyes towards him to blast another fucking laser beam (Astarion ducks).

This is stupid. This is so stupid, and you’re gonna die but y’all are gonna die if you fucking stand here—

“Hey! Fucker!” you say. Voice reedy, higher than a toddler, strained almost to a superhuman screech.

One stalk eye turns towards you. That ain’t gonna cut it. Which is why you grabbed the other bottle, the one Gale had called “arsonist’s oil.”

You lob it. The thing goes spiraling, misses by a good ten feet, and bursts in a ball of fire close enough to Shadowheart for her to dive out of the way. But you ain’t really aiming to hit it (well, you are, but you know it’s a goddamned long shot). The real goal was all them eyes focusing on you. It was the thing shuddering, spikes rippling along its back as it pivots to you, opens its maw, and howls.

“C-come on,” you stammer. Probably not audible. Don’t matter. The thing lifts over the fire. Passes through the column of black smoke. Drifts close and down, down, down over you.

You got one chance at this. And if you fail, your death is gonna be fucked up.

The monster shrieks again and it’s three different sounds twisted around each other, each one loosening bowels and turning limbs to pudding and brains to scrambled eggs.

Closer. Closer. Your hands don’t feel attached to your body. You got them tucked behind you now—don’t know if that fucker is sentient enough and can’t risk it.

Until you can’t wait no more. The thing opens that godawful mouth, puffs itself up, and you got to move.

You throw. A Hail Mary chuck. Except the thing sees it, starts to duck to the right.

One of the stalk eyes brushes that little void thing.

The void bulb detonates.

It’s too fast to track. A rapid wh-wh-UMP, faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Your ears pop so hard it hurts, and your sinuses damn near explode right outta your face.

The air shifts itself so hard it drags you forward and you fall to your knees (ah fuck! Your bad knee!). The crew shouts and curses, and then it’s over.

You missed. You’d aimed dead center. But it hadn’t mattered too much there in the end.

Damn thing created a void, alright. Sucked in everything nearby so fast and so hard matter collapsed in on itself. Part of the monster was within range. The rest wasn’t, and the implosion was so sudden and brutal, it ripped that flesh right off.

Half the UFO thing comes crashing down. Its right side is torn clean off, eyeball popped and shriveled like a deflated balloon.

The resulting silence is deafening. Until you catch movement: Shadowheart waving, her mouth moving, yet no sound comes out. All you hear is sharp ringing.

Oh cool. You gone deaf. Totally fine. Nothing to see here.

Except you start to stand and the dizziness puts you flat on your back. Which then makes it feel like you’re lying on a microwave plate, spinning around and around under that big, blue sky.

You close your eyes. Swallow a few times.

A shadow falls over you and there’s Gale with a potion. You don’t even ask. Just slam the thing back. Sweet burning, and pain spikes in your ears and the ringing goes shrill…and then quiets. Dirt crunches. Wyll grunts. Shadowheart murmurs for her jesus hands.

“’S everybody okay?” you say.

Gale helps you sit up. Your spine cracks in three places. Wyll lies prone, Shadowheart over him while Karlach hovers anxiously. Lae’zel stands next to the halved monster, staring speculatively. Then she shakes her head all disgusted (hard to make a trophy outta half a head and a popped-ass eyeball).

She turns that look on you. Her expression does not lighten.

“I think Shadowheart has Wyll in order,” Gale says. “And I don’t believe there were any other serious injuries. Are you alright?”

No. You’re a fucking useless goddamn liability.

“Yeah,” you manage. You don’t look away from Lae’zel, who spits out a gob of blood and dirt. She gives you a last, withering look, and turns.

“Good,” Gale says because he wasn’t paying attention and is now unaware of the internal catastrophe kicking off in your head (she’s done, she’s done with you, it happened, you made a bad call and she’s going to abandon you and this is how it starts). “Through this debacle, I think we may have found a suitable object for you.”

“What?” you say. It’s hard to pay attention over the internal screaming. But he, blessedly oblivious, holds up the evil potion jar (monster prison) with a flourish.

“I sensed a strong binding spell on this when you first picked it up,” he says. “And that magic remains. And if it can hold a spectator within, I believe it can hold one human soul.”

Evil jar with an evil face. He’d mentioned that before, hadn’t he? The blood potion was just to keep your soul from wandering off, a type of mystical toddler leash. But here’s something to stuff it inside long enough for you to deworm your brain and find a fucking way home.

He lets you take it, feel the cool metal and the smooth ridges of that fucked up little goblin face on the front. A soul jar, just for you.

Chapter Text

You don’t look at nobody as y’all set up camp that afternoon. Wyll is moving and speaking, but still weak. Shadowheart monitors him between starting a campfire. Karlach hovers around, unable to settle in any one spot too long, either looking at him all anxious, or you with big, sad eyes.

Astarion fucks right off without saying a word to nobody. Hopefully he’s out hunting something.

And Lae’zel…

Gale is brewing what turns out to be the very last batch of blood potion. After everybody got settled in, and the mummy man just fucking emerged from the shadows to loiter at the edge of camp—Gale went over and had a long discussion with him. Must be nice to be able to look into the hollow sinus cavity of the guy you’re speaking to without screaming and flinching away. In the end, Withers does confirm the evil bottle will in fact hold your soul, so he starts prepping for whatever the fuck that entails. He wants you to guzzle down another blood potion right before, but supplies are running low, and Astarion ain’t here, and Lae’zel flat out refuses to help.

“The useless istik will live or die on her own strength,” she says, loud enough y’all catch it. “I will waste my time no more.”

Gale looks to you, but there ain’t shit you can do about it, so you just shrug. She’s right to cut you loose. You fucked that up and ran like a bitch. So much for being some kinda leader.

“I believe between Withers, Shadowheart, and myself,” Gale says, “we can successfully summon your soul to this plane and bind it here. We, ah, don’t have many other options.”

Because you got maybe three more blood potions left and then off your soul goes.

“Okay,” you say.

Gale looks at you. Squints slightly. There’s something to him, the stiff way he’s holding himself, that sets alarm bells clanging.

“What?” you say.

“I…I thought we would have more time to prepare,” he says. “Both to gather supplies, and to, well, to let you ready yourself.”

He’s waffling. You already feel like shit scraped off the heel of somebody’s boot. You don’t mean to snap, but your control and your manners are frayed. “Yeah, and? It there a point here?”

And the man looks at you with such grim pity, you’re sure he’s gonna say it ain’t gonna work.

“I’ve been researching on my own,” he says. “My sources are rather limited, but I did study soulwork and astral travel with, ah, anyway. I have full confidence we can do this, as long as you’re up to it. But you do understand that it requires magic to perform?”

He waits for an answer. Seems important, though you cannot fathom why.

“Uh huh?”

“If what you say is correct about your plane, Ay-yarth doesn’t have much, if any, access to the Weave, strange as that sounds to my ear.”

He stares. You stare back.

And it clicks. Oh how it clicks.

“I can’t just pop the cork on that jar if I get home, can I?” you say.

“There isn’t much theory in that field. It could very well settle into you again, as it’s meant to. It may be an instinctive thing, once you’re back in your own realm.”

But.

“But it might fly off into space again,” you say. “Because, what, it’s all destabilized now?”

He nods.

You’re sitting criss-cross on the ground. The sun shines down warm and the breeze smells of leaves and green, growing things. The sky is blue, with happy clouds puffing along as Shadowheart helps Wyll sit up so he can take a drink of water, while Karlach sits about ten feet away, shredding grass with her talons.

“You’re telling me we gotta do this today,” you say.

“It…seems most prudent, yes.”

“And if we don’t, and I run outta potion, I die or whatever.”

He nods again.

“But if we do do this, and I, by some motherfucking miracle, find a way back home, I still gotta carry my soul around because it still might fly off into space.”

“I’m…not sure it would even be wise to travel across the planes once it’s been transferred.”

The forbidden carry-on. Well.

“I am sorry, Eleanor. Truly. I wish I bore you better news.”

You wave, all distracted. “Ain’t your fault. Y’all been going outta your way to help me this whole time, and I appreciate it. How long does this take to set up?”

He takes a breath, hands folded behind his back. “Not long. We would give you a sleep draught—of which I have a few—so for you, it can happen as soon as you lie down.”

Magical surgery. Neat-o.

You nod. Push yourself up and both your knees creak. You feel heavy and slow. No energy, everything in your body vaguely hurting.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you say.

Gale’s head dips in a bow. “Of course. Take all the time you need. And whatever you decide, we’ll be here for you.”

He’s a good dude, even if he did eat your very first ring. You put a little effort into your smile as you brush past him to head down towards the river y’all set up next to.

You made yourself stop caring about some “afterlife” years ago. If God is a bitch who don’t deserve nothing, then heaven and hell and all that shit can go get fucked right alongside him. You don’t do woo-woo shit anymore.

But you always liked the idea of seeing Grandpa again. Of meeting your dad, maybe. Of seeing your ancestors and finding wherever they went once they left.

Somehow, you don’t think your soul is gonna make it across the space-time continuum between here and Earth to ever see that, if it’s even real.

You can die. Or you can stay here. Forever. Away from your friends, away from Uncle Randy and your aunties (they’re technically cousins, but eh) and all your little third and fourth cousins. You ain’t never gonna catch fireflies or sit on Uncle Randy’s porch, giving him shit for smoking. You ain’t never gonna see your apartment or listen to the rain with Christmas lights twinkling and a mug of cocoa in your hand.

Never catch up on any of your shows or movies. Never listen to a podcast ever again. Never hum along with a favorite song because you ain’t never gonna hear your people’s music again.

Never hear English.

Never learn more Cherokee.

You start sobbing at some point. You’re seated in a hollow among tree roots next to a stream. You can’t stay upright anymore.

You’ll never go to a cafe or a library. No more pizza. No blackberry mochas. Stir fry. Fry bread. Biscuits and chocolate gravy. Fucking ice cream. You will never find a funny meme or have to explain an internet video to your relatives.

Never text Sasha again. Never hear her voice. You’ll forget what she and all the others look like, what they sound like. You’ll forget all the people you love except for their names—

You can die. Or you can lose everything except your fading memories and your own skin. Stuck in a place where you can’t speak the language. Where you don’t understand the clothing. Can’t cook the food. Can’t even read a book or tell a joke because the strangers around you won’t understand why a boat stuck in a canal is so goddamn funny.

The hyperventilating kicks in. You’re far enough from camp you can’t hear the others. You can risk making noise, even if it’s shameful bawling.

Ain’t no one to see or hear you, no one to stop yourself from clawing at your own hair or hitting your head against the dirt. Nobody to point out the wet mess of your face.

Just you and the golden sunshine.

It’d be easy to die. Wouldn’t have none of these worries, no more, and wouldn’t be around to care if Astarion friendship-dumped you and Lae’zel was down with letting you die. No more nasty potions. No more sleeping on hard ground with a rock wedged into your hip. No goblins or brainworms or murder or devils. No more goddamn decisions. No more horrible fucking waiting for the decision to be wrong and for that other shoe to finally, inevitably just fucking drop already.

And if your soul is still on Earth, or closer or whatever woo woo bullshit this all is, maybe if you kick it here and now, it can find its way back.

You don’t want to die. You’re just kinda tired of being alive.

Gale said this was risky. It might not even be up to you in the end, huh?

And that gives you some fucked up comfort. Small, weak, but there. All you have to do is walk back, drink one last, goddamn potion, and lie down. Let what happens happen.

You look over the silver glimmering of the water dancing in the light. Your ancestors went to water to cleanse themselves. Probably not a bad idea. Live or die, at least you can do it clean of spectator guts.

The sun skims the treetops by the time you come back. Gale is deep in conversation with Shadowheart. Karlach notices you first. Comes bounding over and opens her arms to kind of hover her hands near your sides.

God, you want to hug her for real.

“How’re you feeling, soldier?” she says. “Up for this wizard shit?”

You’re quite numb, actually. But you throw her a thumbs up and a, “Let’s do this.”

“Fuck yeah, that’s the spirit! Gale told us what he told you. You’re a mean, clever little thing. You got this.”

Shit, she’s kinda worth staying for.

Gale has optimistically laid out a bedroll for you near the fire. Karlach has apparently punched her tent poles around that bedroll and set up a canopy over the whole thing (minus the fire).

“Thank you,” you say.

She does that head-duck shrug thing again.

Gale and Shadowheart meet you at the edge of the magical operating theater.

“Ready?” he says.

No.

“Sure,” you say.

It ain’t really your choice no more.

You lay down. Wiggle around until you’re at least kind of comfortable.

Wyll has propped himself up on his pack so he can give you a smile. He says, “For moral support.”

And then Karlach looms over you again, and she’s got that raggedy teddy bear, Clive.

“I thought,” she says. Shuffles. “Thought this might do you more good than me right now.”

That plucks something in you. Baby soft, thinner than spider silk, but it’s there, and it’s touched. She has to drop it on you so she don’t get too close and burn off your eyebrows. Clive’s a bit charred, a bit tacky from whatever she puts on him to keep him from lighting up, and he smells of sulfur and grease.

You tuck him into the crook of your arm.

“Right,” Gale says. And you been so busy watching all the others you didn’t notice Withers lurking in. You only jump a little, this time. “Eleanor, we’re going to give you a sleeping potion. Should knock you right out. I don’t know what this will be like for you, but we will do all we can. Try not to lose yourself, and hopefully, the potion and our spells will draw you back here, yes?”

You nod.

Shadowheart kneels and holds up a bottle. You feel cold all over, super detached. Death or exile. One of them’s gonna happen.

“Bottom’s up.” You say and slam it down.

For some godforsaken reason, this one tastes like motherfucking cotton candy.

“What the shit,” you sputter. Try to grimace. But a cool hand slips over yours to hold it and you…

Chapter Text

Astarion should be having the time of his life. Warm sunlight filters through the mottled treetops to tingle his ever-chilled skin. If he stands still enough, and finds a patch open enough, he can soak it in until the warmth seeps down to his aching bones.

This week has been the first time in two hundred years of unlife that his joints haven’t hurt.

And more than that, his mind if clear and strong. His own. He thinks what he wants, he says what he wants, and he does what he wants. Which is why he’s stalking along some overgrown trail through the trees, scenting the air for the gamey tang of a nice, little snack.

That bastard Cazador is gone. The dark, oppressive presence has been obliterated from his mind for the first time in memory.

There is the slight shiver of an illithid tadpole behind his eye, but the parasite is a worry for another day (and possibly even a benefit).

His steps are lighter than they’ve ever been. Body lithe and strong. He’s been eating well the last few days. Been eating very well, and he can’t help but wonder if this is how a vampire spawn ought to feel (when he doesn’t have a sadistic bastard feeding him vermin once every tenday or so).

He should be enjoying this. Should be basking in his newfound freedom, his new power.

But that continued freedom and power all depend on one alien, idiot yokel and she has utterly failed him.

The wind shifts. He pauses. Turns to his left. Something off the trail, something his senses pick up as tantalizing, even if he can’t yet identify it.

Eleanor.

What a stupid name. A stupid name for some country bumpkin. She’s ruined everything. He has a nice, simple plan. It works every time. Or nearly every time.

She’d been receptive to his advances! She’d joked back, in an almost delightful way, even. She’d at least smile quietly as he talked, which was refreshing in and of itself. And he’d felt her trembling when he got near. Heard the way her pulse spiked like a cornered little rabbit. The rich scent of her blood rising to the surface of her skin. He knows all the signs of a successful seduction; she’d agreed.

And then she stopped him. She’d lured him out there, made him wait in the blasted trees with his shirt off like some…some green teenager. She’d let him close, let him say all his lines, only to refuse him.

The others must have put her up to it. He’d caught their whispers—the big tiefling wasn’t especially quiet. They’d known what he and Eleanor had planned, and they put her up to making a fool out of him. It was the half-elven cleric, he has no doubt. She’d come strolling back, nearly arm-in-arm with the bumpkin, the both of them smiling and giggling.

Astarion has very little pride left in him, if he can claim even that. But this rankles.

She should have been flattered. Someone like her doesn’t get the chance to bed someone as beautiful as him. She’s nothing special—plain and large, with dark hair cut short and dark eyes better suited to a…a dairy cow (except no dairy cow ever looked down on a group of fake paladins with that level of predatory cunning, which absolutely did not send a shiver down his spine).

Unless he made a mistake somewhere? Did something wrong?

That tang in the air again. Stronger, now. Something heavy and meaty, something that makes his fangs itch. He pads on, silent as the grave he left behind.

No, no. He didn’t misstep. He’d flirted, she’d flirted back—she’d played coy the entire time but some prey liked to be chased like that. He’d worked her like a particularly stubborn lock, rusty in the turning mechanisms, squealing as he tinkered before she finally clicked.

Unless she wasn’t playing coy?

At this, he stops. Blinks up into golden sunlight.

…maybe she really was just stupid? Too dense to register his interest? Or unused to attention from someone on his level, the poor thing. Wasn’t used to someone doing more than bending her over a hay bale for fifteen seconds.

Ah! The scent carries something new. Something he knows.

Blood.

Every muscle pulls tight and trembling. His mouth floods with saliva as all his senses hone in on that delicate curl of the breeze.

He’s been eating well, but he is a vampire. He’s always hungry. Especially after that spectator nonsense (the bumpkin at least had the right instinct in bolting; his only qualm about the entire thing was himself getting pinned down before he could follow her).

Unless, his mind whispers and he almost stops again. Unless the coyness was an act for her.

That accent and crude language when she does speak, it smacks of a bumbling peasant. Yet she’d stabbed that gnome at least five times before she lost her knife and settled for punching the dead face. She’d shoved that druid woman off a cliff with almost no hesitation. And she just ripped a spectator in half with some alien bomb. To say nothing of the sheer viciousness of her plan for those paladins.

Or the cultists and the owlbear.

She makes sure they all know she’s helping every dirty wretch they come into contact with. Oh, she always frames it as just so happening to align with their own interests, but they all see past that. The others won’t question it—it’s not the done thing, darling.

The blood scent grows strong. Thick enough he can almost lick it from his lips. A heart beats up ahead. Confident and sure, the beat steady, th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The sound of bone cracking. Something large snuffling.

A bear, he sees as he scuttles up a nearby tree. Not full grown, he suspects, but plenty big enough to swat a man’s head from his shoulders.

Astarion crouches there, considering.

Risky prey. This one can fight back. The smart thing to do would be giving the beast a wide berth and finding something softer to sink his fangs into.

But she made a fool out of him. The bumpkin, with her blank face and blank stare and…and calculating eyes, like she can see past the mask he’s crafted so carefully. The one he now wears so effortlessly. The one that captures prey, lures it back. The right smile, the lightest touch along a neck or a shoulder (the cold revulsion he swallows down so deep he can barely feel it tugging at his innards anymore).

It had worked on her. Until it hadn’t. And it had felt glorious to show her in the morning when she emerged from the woods (she’d spent the night out there?) (with the half elf, because it had been a setup, he’d seen it as clearly as the triumphant little smirk the cleric had worn).

He let that bumpkin see he could reject her right back. She hadn’t made a fool out of him, oh no. He’d make a fool out of her. And she must have known it, perceptive (simple) creature. She’d scurried off so quickly after he turned down the raggedy blanket she dragged back.

The woman can’t even read. Who the hells does she think she is? Some milk maid, an upstart peasant too clever for her own good. Destined to return to her hovel and marry another illiterate, human peasant and squirt out four or five squalling babes.

Disgusting.

He needs to weave a web, lure one of the others to his side. Alas, the only tolerable one who would have him is the wizard. Except he’d shot Astarion right down.

He knows marks. Who needs a kind ear, who longs for a cool touch or a whispered invitation. And who, despite his best charms, isn’t on that particular market. And the casual, “In silence” the wizard had tossed back at him that morning fell solidly into the latter category.

Shit.

The Blade of Frontiers was too noble (and he watched the bumpkin a little too closely, gods, he was halfway besotted already). The cleric too prissy (and decidedly not his taste). The tiefling’s skin was literally on fire.

The gith? She wouldn’t be the worst bed partner he’s ever had. He’s been handled roughly plenty of times in the past, and at least this time, he’s properly fed enough he might be able to carve out his own sliver of bliss from it.

Except.

The bear rips off a strip of belly. It’s found itself a fat pig to feast on, and it buries its snout inside the guts, snuffling as it slurps up the sweetmeats.

Except even the gith had asked their dear, precious leader about him. And she’d all but accused him of inadequacy. She’d barely even sampled the goods, and she had the audacity to suggest he wasn’t the most proficient bed partner for these ruffians within a hundred miles? It was preposterous.

But even worse, the others listened. He could see it in the way they looked at him as they all trudged along. Could feel the stares as they made their way from the spectator corpse to find somewhere to make camp, the wizard prattling on about some bottle.

It’s why he left. Away from them, away from that damned bumpkin and whatever she thinks she knows. He’s finding himself a proper meal. Something he can really tear into.

That bumpkin has them all wrapped around her finger. Useless, no skills, as helpless as a babe; yet they all look to her, now. And how can he ever forget that the others only tolerate him because of her good graces. Should he lose those graces, should she deem him unnecessary…

To the hells with it.

Astarion pulls his knives. Waits until the bear sticks its blood-slicked muzzle back into the flopping body of the pig again, and drops.

It’s a perfect leap. His knives sink into the shaggy hump right between the shoulders. The beast squalls and bucks. Flails itself up and the whole hide shivers so hard, Astarion is nearly thrown off.

But he’s not here to ride a moaning bear around the forest, he has to get to the—

The world tilts rather strangely.

He slams into the ground and some four hundred pounds of angry bear lands on him. The knives slips free. The animal squirms over and turns.

It…it threw itself on to its back, onto him. Which means—

“Shit,” he says and rolls as the bear lunges, all teeth and claws and carrion breath.

He’s not quite fast enough. Those claws rip right through the sleeve of his light armor to gouge his bicep. The strike is deep, near to the bone. He’s been cut and sliced and opened up enough times to judge these sorts of things. And while such an injury might have startled a mortal into a gasp or a hesitation, he’s doing what he knows and tucking the pain down as best he can.

Then the bear is up. Lifts a paw to rake him open again. But that gives him an opening, and he’s been so delightfully fed recently.

Astarion lunges, rolls, tucks himself tight and scrabbles underneath the beast. Claws catch his back, but at this angle, they shred only the padded leather of his doublet and not his skin.

Alas for the bear, Astarion is close enough to whip his knives around and slice cleanly through the tendons connecting feet to both hind legs. The bear squeals as it comes crashing down.

No time to gloat—a wounded animal is a dangerous animal, as Astarion is all too familiar with.

He leaps atop the creature once again. But this time, is aim is different. He scurries up as the bear thrashes. As it starts to roll, and he can’t have that. Everything moves so slowly now that he’s dined on her the blood of thinking creatures.

His knife gleams in the light. His strike is true. Into the throat. Not aiming for an artery, this time, nor for soft tissue. He wants to enjoy this.

He feels the blade’s edge grate against bone. Adjusts the angle so the tip slips between vertebrae to sink into the spine. A thrust, a twist, and something crunches as the bones come apart and the spinal cord severs.

The bear goes limp. All but for the head; dumb, animal eyes rolling in rage and pain and terror. The jaw snaps, rancid spittle flying in flecks. It tries to pant, to growl or roar, but the sound is weak and slow. Just enough to keep it from asphyxiating immediately.

Now Astarion can stand. Can wipe his face and check his arm—oh yes, that’s certainly to the bone and this padded doublet is ruined. He’s free to pace around to the back of the animal. It tries to follow with its gaze, but the muscles of its neck don’t work well anymore, so it can only twitch and moan and wheeze as he settles on his knees and tilts that big chin up.

The fur is not fun—it never is—but at least this fur only smells of meat and game and oily bear, and not reeking of sewer and rot. But he finds the big artery easily enough, pulsing and thumping and calling to him, and he to hells with being fed, he is ravenous.

He bites. He drinks. And drinks. And drinks and drinks and drinks and the taste is rich with fat, with iron, with the fresh pig the bear had been feasting on. With berries and apples, nuts and bone marrow. Cool dips into the river and lazy afternoons spent slumbering in the warm sun.

He drinks more than he ever has in his life. Drinks past what he thought was physically possible. More than he could ever imagine. So much of it, so much life pouring into him, diffusing through him. Loosens twisted muscles and soothes cracked bones.

When he senses the end—he’s not sure how, he just knows—he wrenches himself up. Blinks and the forest shimmers around him. His thoughts are light and…and fluffy. Like sinking into something…something soft? Yes, he decides. This must be soft, because it doesn’t hurt and it’s not cold and not pain. This is soft.

A sound startles him. But it is him. He laughs. Does it again, just because he can. Just because ugh, disgusting worm aside, his head is his own. There’s no…no orders. No pressure. No bastard looming in his mind, cold shackles biting into tender flesh.

Just him and that swimming, golden light and his newfound drinking partner. He’s somehow sprawled on his back over the bear’s side. He gives it great shoulders a pat.

“Not bad, eh, my furry friend?” he says.

The bear doesn’t move. Because it’s dead. Right.

He should…hmm. What should he do? He’s got his meal and he’d usually head back to their miserable camp to see if he could fluster that strange, quiet bumpkin woman—he’s not keeping track, per se, but he’s on at least fifteen different counts—

Eleanor. That…that infuriating woman.

“Gods,” he says and runs his palms down his face. Oh, he’s got blood on his hands. And his face. Oh gods, is it in his hair?

That woman is a godsdamned menace. There’s just something so…so…it’s her godsdamned eyes. Something lurking in those dark, dark depths. Something that—were he a man so inclined to things like “introspection”—he might call recognition. She refuses to die. Dropped into a foreign land, a foreign world, and she has no useful skills (how pathetic is that?) and can’t even speak properly even when a wizard and a withered old corpse supply her with a magic language potion.

Yet she’s already built herself a cozy little spiderweb of allies, hasn’t she? Got them all in her clutches. Already building a foundation from which she can start gathering power. It’d be impressive if it was something he could steal from her.

Except that she made a fool out of his perfectly-played seduction and without that, he has nothing. He is naked to whatever Cazador throws at him, because that bastard will come for him.

“Fuck,” he says. He only slurs a little.

The bear doesn’t answer.

“You’re no fun,” he says.

He sighs. The very pleasant hum dims a touch. It won’t last too long, he’s sure. His undead corpse is a hungry thing, after all.

He’ll have to go crawling back.

“Godsdamnit.”

Put on his mask and swallow the frayed shreds of pride he clings to. Make himself agreeable and welcoming and coax her back into flirtation. Maybe take it slower, this time? Woo her? (He hasn’t wooed anyone, not actually, in…he’s not even sure.)

Present himself as understanding, perhaps unknowing of whatever scheme she and the cleric have been up to. She’d simply caught him off guard and he—understandably, just look at him—hasn’t much experience with the slower route. But he can make himself into what she needs (that part is not for her to know). And if that’s becoming the joke to their little band of “heroes,” if he’s to be the besotted fool for her to string along, well.

Well.

He’s done far more humiliating things for far, far less.

Secure her loyalty. Securing her means securing all of them, and all that murder and magic and self-righteousness pointed right at that bastard’s face? It might win him his freedom.

Or at least by him enough time to get his own winsome self to safety.

Astarion sighs. The light has lost its golden hue as the sun sinks behind the trees. Twilight approaches. He’ll have to simply do what he always does and push through the unpleasantness for the reward at the end.

One that isn’t breadcrumbs.

His feet are lighter than ever as he staggers walks back to camp. So much life! A whole bear’s worth. And it was delicious and thick and…

No.

And it was…so much. Just so much.

No, he’s not going to think about that.

About how watered down it still was?

No. It was delectable.

But not as delectable as her—

Firelight! The group all together and safe and doing whatever it is they do, throw rocks at each other, most likely. He searches for the crop of short, dark hair. He’ll apologize. Plead if he has to. He’s no stranger to that, and he doubts she’ll laugh and mock him openly (that would ruin the image she’s cultivating), and she doesn’t even own a set of pliers—

And anyway. Slow. He’ll be slower, this time. Ease her into it (and past that damned cleric). He does not doubt he’ll succeed this time. He’s stunning. And he thinks he knows the game she’s playing, now, and can properly adjust his hand for it.

Oh, there’s the tiefling. She’s a boisterous sort. He raises a hand to catch her attention because surely that mountain of muscle—he can’t actually blame the bumpkin for being smitten with all that; if the woman wasn’t literally on fire—

But the tiefling turns. Spots him.

There’s something wrong with her face. With the way her lips pull tight and tremble. Hells, her whole body is twisted up, like she’s been wounded or is in pain or—

The Blade of Frontiers propped up on a stump near the fire and a sort of covered area nearby, where the wizard and the cleric stand all agog and grim. And there, at their feet on her back, clutching some mangy, disgusting toy bear, lies Eleanor.

Her eyes are closed. Her face is slack. Her chest does not rise and her veins and arteries are silent.

She’s dead. Eleanor is dead.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Astarion says.

Chapter Text

Muggy air sticks your shirt to your back. The tin siding you lean on is warm without scorching. That’s thanks to the pecan trees planted around. The sun hangs low and orange over the gentle hills in the distance.

You blink.

Uncle Randy ain’t inside. You can tell without checking. His plastic chair with its detritus of twigs and leaves and occasionally pecan shells sits out front. The stinky ash tray sitting on the nearby, wire frame table is cold. His truck is out front, but that don’t worry you.

It’s too nice to sit here, stretch out, and admire the view.

You family had tried keeping cows on this land. Y’all had a good fifty acres, once—courtesy of the government allotment a hundred years ago, cause land was owned by the whole tribe, and busting it up meant they could take the “surplus” away to sell to good, christian White settlers. Last you was here, it was down to ten after some dumbass cousin or another got drunk and sold off shares before the rest of the family found out and, real gentle, corrected him. Your neighbors now are rich White families who do run their cattle on what used to be Cherokee land (that used to be Osage land, because colonizers don’t really pay attention to who might already be living in a place when they shove a whole nation west and draw their own, bullshit boundaries).

This field was your favorite. It slopes down to a pond below. Might technically be a small lake. It’s got sunfish in it. The field lights up green and gold in the light. The water twinkles. The air smells of damp earth and damp grass and heat.

You’re so damn tired.

A thump next to you. A woman sits there. You can’t see her face all that clear; she seems real familiar, though. There’s something about her that pulls you in. Makes you feel safe.

“Quite the view, girl,” she says. Her accent is strange. Southern, but also dipped in something else.

“Mmm,” you say.

The two of you sit in silence a tick. A flock of birds swoops and swirls in a ball above the lake, feeding on the bugs rising up into the early evening.

“Long day?” the woman says.

You snort. “Long life.”

She nods along. “Ye-ah.”

It’s that drawl, the two syllable “yee-aww” you remember from your grandpa. You smile. This was his land, and his mama’s land, and her mama’s land. Your dad grew up here, and this was where Grandpa took you. It was where you found Uncle Randy years and years later. It’s home. You gaggle of cousin-aunties, all “yer kin” as Uncle Randy calls them. This land is what your kin held to as the world around them shattered into pieces, the family clinging to it like a life raft in a storm.

“You eat yet?” the woman says.

Your smile grows. “Not in a while.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” She holds out a folded cloth napkin. Inside, is a biscuit. Still warm.

It crumbles on your tongue, rich and buttery and filled with grape jelly. The two of you sit in the muggy sunshine. Until the biscuit is gone and you feel a little better.

A kid runs into view with a long, straight stick over his shoulder. Three others scurry after him, each with their own—it’s a blowgun, you realize.

“Off them boys go. We’ll see if they come back with any rabbits, this time,” Biscuit Woman says.

You watch them head towards the trees, content. But something niggles. Something about their clothes, their bare bellies and toes stomping through the grass as they talk and laugh.

“You thinking about getting on up?” Biscuit Woman says. You still can’t make out her face. It’s almost like it shifts. Dark eyes, light brown skin, but the features drift, change with every twitch of your eye.

“It’s nice here,” you say. It’s safe, here. It’s home, with your family, with people who won’t hurt you, with no hairy hyena-monsters—

You frown. No, there’s no reason to follow those thoughts back. That way is all dark and sad.

“Uhhh,” she drawls. It’s not an English stammer sound. It’s a nasal thing, swooping up at the end. It means…yes? “That it is. Good to be home.”

The red gravel driveway leading down to the red gravel road. The patch of corn Uncle Randy got from the Nation—“used to be,” Grandpa had said, quoting one of the spiritual teachers, “you couldn’t find no Indian without a corn patch.” The stalks are tall and green in the unchanging light. Two women walk amongst the patch, one with a toddler tagging along behind her, watching.

“But sometimes, you got to go elsewhere,” Biscuit Woman says.

You let your head thunk back on the tin siding. “But what if I get lost? What if I’m too tired?”

Biscuit Woman hums. Looks out over the field and the water.

“What will be is what needs to be,” she says. And reaches out to place a wrinkled, warm palm over your cheek, and suddenly your eyes are wet and your throat is too tight. “You’re a strong’un. Always were, girl. You got more fight in you.”

The tears spill over your cheeks. It’s so warm and soft, here. More women in old timey clothes—skirts and bare chests—in the corn, now stretching down to the water. Kids chase a scrappy puppy and a group of men emerge from the woods with a fresh-killed deer strung from a wood pole.

You want to stay. Want to rest. But there’s an itch in you. A hum beneath your skin. Your palms tingle and your calves flutter with the urge to stand. To move. To go.

“You can do it, girl,” Biscuit Woman says, only now she stands. Holds out a brown hand. Waits for you to take it.

You miss them. All of them. But she’s right. Your bones whisper that truth.

You slide your hand into hers. Her fingers look delicate, but they grip you tight as a raptor’s talons. She pulls you up effortlessly. Leads you as you cry around the side of the house, down to the driveway. Red gravel crunches beneath your bare feet, but you feel no pain.

The men with the deer call out and lift their hands. The women in the field smile and wave. A gaggle of kids comes running up to dance around and poke at you, laughing and giggling. One of them holds out a hand. Gives you something. When you look, you see seven dried corn kernels, blue and white.

“Thank you,” you say and swipe your face.

The kid beams and ducks behind their fellows. Biscuit Woman takes your hand in hers, examines the kernels.

“These could grow into something good, something strong,” she says. Looks up at you. “But only if you plant them, and you nurture them.”

Then she folds your fingers over the corn and you’re at the gate and two men stand there.

One is old, hair white underneath a worn, blue baseball cap. He’s got a hunch, a round belly, and a big smile. He holds out something. Red, small. Lifts his eyebrows.

You…know this. Know him. Like a word you’ve forgotten, the shape of it so close to your tongue. Something about his face, the smell of tobacco, the way he holds that out to you, waiting…

“Ani,” you say. Strawberry. Your favorite.

His smile lights up his whole face. “That’s right, sugar!”

It stabs you. You know this man. You know this game.

But then the second man steps forward. Tattoos ink a line across his face. His head is shaved except for a patch at the back. His face looks familiar, especially when he smiles.

You turn to Biscuit Woman, her hair long and loose, dressed in a skirt and cloak of white feathers.

“But what if I can’t find the way back?” you say. The question is a thorn piercing between your ribs.

It’s the familiar man who answers. Long nose, brown eyes. Something of Uncle Randy in the shape of his jaw and his brow.

“We got good at finding lost cousins,” he says. “Don’t worry, gehooch. We’ll find you, too.”

His hand on the rickety gate. He unlatches it, but only holds it, waiting for you to open it. When you turn, Uncle Randy’s house looks different. Longer, made of wood. Biscuit Woman in her feathered cloak smiles, and the warmth of it trickles through your veins, diffusing through your body.

She says, “Don’dagohvi.”

You nod. And you step past the gate.

You’re a child. Maybe five? Probably four. Grandpa stands by the door, wringing his hands as he cries. You don’t know why he cries; grandpa is always laughing about something. But you don’t know why the strange woman and the man are in y’all’s house, either. Or why the woman says your name wrong as she tries to coax you out from under the kitchen table, where you ran to when they came inside.

When they do finally manage it, she leads you over to Grandpa. He picks you up and hugs you, tight. He smells like tobacco, and the brim of his blue hat knocks the side of your head. He hugs you so tight your ribs creak.

“Stay strong, gehooch,” he says. “We love you, you hear? We’ll always love you.”

It’s so cold outside. The woman says she’s your mother and she’s come to take you home. Five other kids sit in the back of the van she lifts you into. The man is her husband, and now he’s your dad. Which makes the other kids your siblings. Mother gives you a plastic doll with yellow hair. Tires crunch over the red gravel and Grandpa stands outside, waving until you can’t see him no more.

And then one of your new sisters takes the doll away from you.

You live on the farmstead. It has no address or phone. None that you know. There are a lot of other families here, and even more kids. The oldest remembers going to something called a “school” but you’uns (the grown ups slap your head when you say words like that) do Bible lessons every day, and that’s better. That’s what Mother and her husband, The Pastor, both say.

Other kids don’t like you. You don’t know why. You’re not the oldest or youngest. Not the skinniest or fattest or tallest or shortest. You’re quiet. You try to make friends, but they all laugh at you and play without you.

Later, you’ll learn Mother’s shame of you. Her daughter, born out of wedlock and in sin with a poor, dirty Indian. You’re pale enough in winter, but in summer, when the sun touches your skin, you stand out. But all the other kids know your dad was an Indian and that makes you stupid and dirty and weak.

They like to show you this by throwing dried cow patties at you. Or by making you eat mud. By stealing the presents Grandpa sends you on your birthday and Christmas. Until one year he stops. Mother says he got tired of you, and you cry so hard you burst a blood vessel in your eye. Which brings the other kids down on you so bad you do everything you can to never, ever cry in front of someone else ever again.

You learn years and years later that Grandpa died that year, with a pink bicycle with your name on it sitting in his garage, waiting for you to come back. You’ll be in your early twenties before that happens, and far too big to ride that bike, tires all flat, pink ribbon still tied around the handlebars.

The farmstead is up in the hills. Surrounded by eighty acres of pastureland and woods. Good deer hunting, better turkey hunting. The locals know y’all are up there, and that y’all might be weird, but it’s good, christian country and at least y’all ain’t one of them new age-y hippie communes or some shit. Religion is a sacred thing here (but only of the christian variety), so they don’t ask too many questions.

You stand in that driveway now, and the dirt is a similar red to that of your family’s land. But it’s a shade off, a shade wrong.

You stand in that driveway and dread oozes across your skin like rancid oil.

Over there is the bunkhouse, where all you girls slept. The boy’s dorm. The chow hall, the main house where Mother and The Pastor and a few of the favorites slept. You’d only been in the main house a couple of times. Never for anything good. It leers down at you, windows empty eyes and open mouth, waiting to crunch down and splinter your bones between its teeth.

You turn away.

And there stands Sarah Greenwood.

You make some kind of aborted sound. Words get all tangled. Nothing seems adequate. In the silence, she smiles at you. It’s a soft thing. A sad thing.

“Sarah,” you finally manage. “Are you okay? Did they…do anything? After I…?”

But she holds up a hand to stop you. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

Sarah Greenwood, the oldest of The Pastor’s five daughters. The only one who took you under her wing (she was fifteen when you arrived and she did what she could). She braided your hair as it grew long, all the way to your waist and then past that.

The other girls hated your hair. How smooth it was, how thick and straight and how it never stopped growing, where theirs would break and frizz. So one day, two of them held you down while a third took scissors to it. And when you went to Aunt Patty May (the grown up women were all Aunts, but never aunties), she beat your backside black and blue for shaming yourself and destroying the lord’s property.

Guinea hens call from the trees around the gravel parking lot (not that there were ever many cars). The farmstead stretches off as far as you can see in all directions. Fields in the front, near the main house; they raised cows for a time before the market crashed and it got too expensive. Woods and scrub swallow the rest of the acreage. Trailer homes dot here and there—the other favorite families. Sarah and her husband and their four kids live in one such trailer, closer to the edge of the property. You’d been counting on that when you…

“No,” you say.

You want to go back to Uncle Randy. To where Grandpa took you after Dad died. Not here. Never here.

Sarah’s smile is a ghost. She looks just like you remember—a woman in her thirties, face tired, hair turning gray too-early. But it’s been almost fifteen years since then. She should look—

She holds out a hand. Points. Not at you, though, but past you. To the building you won’t turn to face. The thought of it turns your guts to ice.

The chapel used to be a barn, back when Mother and The Pastor first bought the place. But the faithful worked hard (and cheap) and turned the old thing into their house of worship.

The switching stump sits right outside the door. Perfectly placed for those within to witness.

“I’m not going in there,” you say.

“You have to.”

“I don’t want to.”

You left. You got away. You ran a thousand miles and you never wanted to see this place ever again. Bad enough it paints the backs of your eyelids when you have nightmares. Now she’s telling you to…?

Your stomach clenches. The wind shifts and it smells of sweet, raspberry jam.

“I can’t,” you say.

“You can’t run forever.”

You absolutely can.

The sweet scent gets stronger. Your guts heave so hard you stagger, have to brace yourself on your knees and swallow fast and hard to keep your insides inside.

Fuck. Fuck.

The chapel waits. The big, sliding front door is open, the inside black and ravenous.

Wisps of Sarah’s honey-colored hair escape her long braid to drift across her face. “You can do this.”

You really can’t.

But you take a step. The guinea hens above go quiet. The stump sits to your left. Pale wood worn smooth from many hands, not just your own. It’s cut in a way that you have to sink to your knees to drape yourself over it, skirt up while one of the Aunts flicks the switch still dripping sap from where you cut it (because half of the thing is making you go select your own tool; too thin and it’ll cut, but too thick, and it’ll leave nasty bruises).

Another step. The cicada chir stills.

That was the first time you ever saw the shining line. Judith Engel and her friends stole the doll Grandpa sent you that year, an Indian girl with tassel earrings. Judith and her friends burned the doll as a witch (you would later learn the term “in effigy”). Then you seen her kissing Daniel Sharpe. They were both kids—y’all were just kids—but girls were not supposed to talk to boys, let alone do that with them.

The line had hummed in your mind and you knew exactly what to do. You ran to Aunt Patty May, told her everything. And then you stood with the rest of the congregation as they dragged Judith Engel to the stump and you’d felt such hot, vicious glee. Your retribution. Not you, but her over there as everybody watched her squeal and cry. And she’d picked too thick of a switch. Aunt Patty May beat her so bad she couldn’t sit for days.

The chapel door waits. You spook like a nervous horse. But Sarah emerges from the shadows and beckons you in.

You close your eyes. Take a breath. And step in.

Chapter Text

It’s…the chapel. You wouldn’t know until much later that chapels outside the farmstead have benches. That their congregations sit for their sermons.

The Pastor of the farmstead, however, says laziness comes from the devil. Your congregation stands. All the better to witness confessions.

The floor is bare concrete. The walls are timber boards. The roof arches up, overhead. The whole space is open and clear in the back, where y’all stood, with a raised dais at the front. Upon that dais sits two chairs.

One is a massive throne, painted gold with red, velvet cushions. Only the lord in heaven can sit in it—it’s big enough to hold two people with their feet dangling. Beside it sits a smaller, slightly less opulent chair. And everyone was very specific to call it a chair and not a throne, because The Pastor was not some delusional man with dreams of grandeur, but the voice and the right hand of the heavenly father. His chair just happened to be decorated like a throne, because he was still important to the lord.

Both were illuminated in a single, golden band of sunlight streaming in from a strategically-placed skylight. The pastor would seat himself in his “humble” chair to deliver his latest sermons, Mother and his eldest son standing to his right.

He took confessions from that chair.

You walk towards it. The space is smaller than you remember. Old. Sort of musty. The boards don’t fit together very well, and sunlight leaks through the cracks. It got terrible cold in the winter. The chair is smaller than you remember, too. And the paint don’t glimmer. It’s faded in places. Cracked and chipped. It looks…cheap.

When you turn, Sarah stands in the confession circle. Your knees hurt just looking at that part of the floor. There’s nothing to mark it. Seems it should be stained. Greasy brown from sweat, crusted white with salt. Worn dents from all the knees and foreheads pressed into it.

But it’s just a plain patch of concrete, same as the rest.

You spent hours on that spot. Knees aching from the cold. Face pressed down, voice shaking and cracking as you said whatever they wanted. Whatever an Aunt hissed at you. Pride and stupidity, insolence, laziness. Lust. Always lust. They saw it every time you looked at someone, every time your lips moved, your fingers twitched, every time you breathed. Never mind you’d never so much as kissed anybody, that you don’t understand when the others saw in Caleb Jennings (he was tall? And skinny).

You are a lust-filled harlot. They can tell just by looking at you (and later, much later, you would read about “savages” and the “loose morals” of the native women, and some of that would shed light on what exactly all them people was seeing in your tanned face and dark hair).

So that’s what you said. Over and over, day after day crouched on that floor, crunching the inside of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to keep in your tears. Groveling for forgiveness for your whoreish thoughts, the way you lusted over this or that boy (but never the girls). How craven you were, the filthy things you (never actually) imagined. Lies and stories spilled from your lips, crouched right there on the floor, at the feet of The Pastor and Mother while they watched on in judgment.

Until you believed it. Because there had to be something wrong with you. There had to be a reason for this. They had to see something your stupid eyes couldn’t perceive. You were wrong. You were dirty. And only they could cleanse you.

Your stomach flops all queasy. You look to Sarah.

“I’m here now. Is that all?” you say.

But she shakes her head and points again. You instinctively resist the urge to roll your eyes (it was ten lashes with the switch). Remember you are thirty-fucking-five, your name is Eleanor Ripley, and you can roll your eyes as you damn well please.

It feels like sacrilege, all heady and delicious.

It feels great.

Until you follow Sarah’s gaze, and where them thrones sat, the cellar doors await.

Your entire body snaps rigid.

“No. No, Sarah—”

But she’s gone. You stand alone in that fucking barn. Alone. The empty space, the creaky boards. And those fucking doors.

From the outside, they’re shabby, fragile looking things. Classic root cellar—two doors opening up from the ground. But normal root cellars don’t have a chain wrapped around the handles with a padlock hanging unlocked, you suspect. It came with the house, these doors. Back from when claim jumpers raced in to snatch up Native land. The farmstead even used it as a root cellar, most of the time.

The handles are worn smooth. You ain’t never touched them. Always one of the Aunts, or even Mother, when you were especially egregious. Your hands rattle as your fingers brush the cool metal. Bile rushes up the back of your throat and you have to take a step back and swallow.

The chapel still sits empty. Outside, the air is hot and heavy and stone still, like it’s waiting. You know you have to. Down in your bones, the knowledge thrums. Only way out is through. Is opening them doors. Is stepping down them stairs.

You use every trick you know to keep the vomit down. It barely holds. And before you can think anymore, you grab the handle (no chain and padlock now) and wrench it open.

The stairs are bleached out. They creak as you coltishly stagger down, gripping the door frame above to keep yourself from tumbling (unlike last time).

The smell hits you first. Dirt, wood, stale air. The faintest tinge of mold. A sourness to it.

You double over, clap a hand over your mouth. No. No, no, no, no. If you puke you’ll be switched so bad you can’t sit. You’ll be stripped down to your underwear for next confession, so the congregation might witness your shame. No. No, you can’t.

Deep breath. Controlled, deep breath.

You open your eyes. There’s the shelves you spent so much time looking at. The one on the left has a whorl and a knob in it that looks like man with a pointy beard. They line the walls, two rows filling the space between, loaded with big cans of evaporated milk and powdered eggs. Sacks of flour and sugar. Canned vegetables stacked ten rows deep, on the outer shelves. The jarred fruit and jams. Some of it was farmstead produce. The gift of the lord through y’all’s hands.

A lot of it was store bought—though less and less often as the years went on and The Pastor preached self-reliance, rejecting the toxic chemicals of the secular world which damned the body, and wasn’t the body the holy temple of the lord? To pollute it was a sin.

It looks innocuous. Some old-timey painting of Wholesome Farmer’s Pantry. Until one noticed the bucket in the corner. The glint of a long chain bolted into the wall. The handcuffs they’d bring from the main house, by the shepherd ushering your way to repentance, to click into one of the links, its proximity to the wall depending on how bad the sin was.

You stand at the foot of the stairs, legs rooted to the dirt.

The chain only appeared after the first few years. In the beginning, they’d shut the sinful down here in the dark, to reflect and repent. And starve. Age didn’t matter. Sin was sin, and all were equal in the eyes of the lord. You were five the first time. You broken a towel rack in the bunkhouse on accident.

The thing about the root cellar was that it was full of food. And to a five-year-old, eight hours is a very long time in the dark and hungry. You took two fingers of raspberry jam. No one would notice. You even hid the jar behind the others after you’d jimmied it open.

But five-year-olds are stupid. Your fingers were sticky when Mother came to fetch you.

Your body was a holy temple. You’d defiled it with stolen goods. It dirtied your temple, and a dirty temple must be cleaned.

She’d made you drink the lemon-scented dish soap. Not a lot. Couldn’t bring down the attention of the secular, satanic authorities should the poison control center become involved. But it was enough. Your system purged itself quite thoroughly. Quite violently.

Then she’d made you wash the sin from your clothes yourself. By hand.

Everyone knew, of course. That might have been the start of it; you’re not sure. Your childhood memories are hazy in the few patches you can remember. You were branded a thief. Greedy. Dirty. Sinful.

And here you stand now. What a fun trip down memory lane. Time to go.

Wood thumps. You spin as the light winks out. Bolt up the steps. Misjudge the distance in the dark and slam head first into the doors. They give, but only so far as the chain allows.

“No, no! Let me out! I didn’t do anything, let me out!”

You bang and shove and rattle. Get your feet under you and shove up with your entire body. The chain above rattles and wood squeals, but it doesn’t give. It just falls back on you, hard enough to send you stumbling down, lose your footing, crash into a shelf.

Jars fall around you. One of them crashes and you know even in the dark it’s shattered. Slimy pears spill over your hair, down your front, pooling in your skirt.

“No, please! I didn’t mean it! Please!”

But nothing moves up there. The chain will hold. The chain always holds. And trying it only earns you lashes, and more time down here surrounded by food you cannot touch.

The lord will not forgive you this time. Because The Pastor will not forgive you. Prideful thing. Too busy lusting after good, honest men.

“But I’m not!”

They’re trying to protect you. Give your sinful lust a holy purpose.

“I don’t want to!”

They all see how you watch the men. Twenty years old and your womanly weakness cannot be contained anymore.

“I want to be good! I’ll be good! I can stay pure, please!”

The lord has finally blessed you through his shepherd. The Pastor has found a faithful man to take you into holy matrimony. To (you’re gonna vomit) fill your womb (throat clenches and the corners of your jaw prickle) with the blessings of the lord. Your duty is to him and through him the lord and you will obey the head of your house as you would the lord for if his eye strays it is because you invited the devil and failed the commandment given unto you to be fruitful and loving and kind and ever welcoming—

You scream. You scream now as you couldn’t then. When The Pastor summoned you to the main house to deliver unto you the Good Word and Mother beamed. You were to be a wife, finally. A mother, finally.

They see how you watch the men.

“I d-didn’t.”

They see how you lust.

“I n-never.”

The lord knows your secret thoughts.

“Please. I want to be clean. I want to serve you.”

The Pastor is the instrument of the lord and you are to be his trusting child.

“I don’t…I don’t want…please.”

You could never overcome your own, weak nature. So you had to be placed into the root cellar to cleanse yourself. To prostrate yourself before the lord and his will and see the wisdom of The Pastor, see his Holy Truth.

Mother had been rough pushing you down the stairs. You fell against this shelf, right here. Knocked off a row of jars (you don’t even know how many lashes, it’ll be a lot, waste is not tolerated). The glass shattered, had sliced a thin line into your forearm as it broke.

You sit down there, cradling the scratch as the terror closes your throat and buries your thoughts. A husband. Your duties. Your purpose as a servant of the lord. Finally, to be wed to a man forgiving enough to accept one as flawed as you. A holy match, determined by the holy lord.

You can’t refuse. No more than you can deny the word of the lord himself. You’ll come to your senses. Here in the peace and quiet, your female hysteria will run out of fuel to burn and you will know the proper order of things and submit yourself to the authority entrusted to guide you. And they’ll be proud of you. Married. Swollen. Run ragged by children to raise for the lord’s army.

Your duty. Your sole purpose on this earth.

That glass is awful sharp.

There’s no way out, no matter what that heathen girl in town (her ears pierced like some jezebel whore) says. She’s trying to temp you (“You ain’t never seen the ocean?”). Trying to lead you astray. (“There’s all kinds of people on the other side. You know in France they serve hot chocolate and it’s literally melted chocolate? Wait…what do you mean ‘what is chocolate’?”)

She gave you a slip of paper with her number, she said. If you ever needed anything (you ain’t got no intention of reaching out to an agent of the devil). You’d taken it, because she was talking to you all friendly, like she wasn’t trying to damn you, and the joke was on her, because the farmstead don’t got phones.

You’ve disappointed Mother. You disappointed The Pastor, who only wanted to keep you safe, even from yourself. They found you something good in your life, and you threw it back in their faces. This ends one way. You’ll accept. Whether they keep you down here for days, until your legs cramp, until the hunger wraps around your spine and turns you inside out. They ain’t letting you out until you beg for forgiveness and accept The Pastor’s judgment.

But…that’s not the only way out, is it?

Mother was so disgusted she didn’t even walk you back to the chain. It’ll be some time before somebody comes to bring you water. Once that happens, they’ll bring the cuffs.

That jar smashed. One of them pieces is about the size of your palm. Long enough. Sharp enough. It could…could cut deep. You hear sermons, and some of the husbands work out in town, so when a secular girl killed herself, the news spread like a brushfire through the bunkhouse. You seen them bleed the calves come butchering season, and you’re sure this glass could cut deep enough. Could open your arm and let all the sin flow out of you. Let it seep into the dirt of the cellar floor. Let it take all this with it.

You’ll be damned. But lately, you’ve started to think you’ll never be the lord’s favorite. Won’t even be the lord’s liked, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you pray or how hard you work, you are broken. Wrong. Dirty and stupid, greedy and lustful, the product of shame and sin and it flows in your veins, corrupting every part of you—

No. No, the lord probably doesn’t even know who you are, does he? Or he don’t care. He’d never smiled on you. Never reached his hand to shield you or protect you.

No.

You won’t be missed. And this, this you can choose. You can rest. No hurting. No cold guilt. No freezing, aching shame.

You test the sharp edge. It pierces the tip of your finger. You’d barely feel it, even if you do make a mess of it, and you would deserve that. It’ll be hours before anybody finds you. Long enough. They’ll all know they were right about you. A disgusting little bitch to the end.

But.

There’s something inside you. Not a voice. Not a song or a feeling or any of those pretty words you will soon read about. It has no emotion to it. No warmth. It just is. A tiny, little ember. Not even a flame. Just a glowing speck down deep in the heart of you.

Sleep, it says. And you’re tired. Sleep now. Maybe all these thoughts later, but sleep now.

Your body drags. Your eyelids flutter. You shuffle around and curl up on your side, try to tuck your bare toes within the folds of your skirt to keep them warm. And you sink down.

Wake to light. Warm sunlight. For a moment, you only lie there. It comes back as slow and steady and dreadful as gray rain. The glass. Your way out.

But that tiny ember is still there. Still glows. Soft and steady. So fragile, yet it doesn’t sputter. Footsteps stomp outside and voices mutter, yet it remains. It just…refuses to go out.

A high voice, pitched sharp in irritation. Mother. Come to water you. To chain you. To wait out your stubbornness the way a cruel man breaks down a dog.

That’s what you are, isn’t it? That’s what you always been—

You clap a hand over that thought. Not safe. Blasphemy. The lord can hear your every thought and if The Pastor learns of it…

A shadow falls over the hatch. A booted foot on the first step.

The phone number. That heathen jezebel.

Sarah Greenwood lives with her husband and kids in one of the trailers closer to the edge of the property. She’s The Pastor’s eldest daughter, the shining beacon of gentle womanliness to the rest of you. Her husband has a town job, so he has a phone…

As eldest daughter, it’s Sarah’s job to prepare her younger sisters for being married. Helps sew the dress, teach the rules, instruct their duties. Mother is too busy being the helpmeet of The Pastor. Sarah will surely be the one to prepare you. And Sarah’s house has a phone.

Another boot. The hem of Mother’s skirt.

That shining, shimmering line. What you want and how to get there. You…you have to leave. God save you, but you can’t, you can’t stay here. But that brilliant, glimmering line can show you how to get out. All the steps leading to that phone. What comes beyond it, you can’t imagine. Your mind shies from it. But you can feel it in the thump of your own pulse. This is what you need to do. They’ll be furious. Sweet Sarah, who only ever helped you, the only one to help you, and you are going to hurt her. Betray her. Get her into trouble because everyone will be furious.

But this is your way out.

You scrape at the dirt with your bare hands. Look at the piece of glass in the dim light spilling down from above. The razor edge glitters. You lower it into the shallow hole. Scoop and pat the dirt over it and it’s a promise, somehow. One that faded as you threw yourself into the back of Sasha’s (that heathen jezebel, and she absolutely cackled when you told her that) truck not-so-distant-from-now.

A promise that became blurry as she reached out to friends and coworkers, because it turned out she was part of a network for this, and they could help you get things like a birth certificate, a social security number, enroll you into school. You cried when you got your GED certificate in the mail. You spent precious grocery money to get a frame.

And your promise lifted like morning mist as you built yourself an entire life upon this tiny grave in the bottom of a root cellar.

But you did make a promise, those years ago. One you remake now.

Mother descends to find you sitting primly, hands folded in your lap, head bowed respectfully, stinking of canned pears.

For the first time in years, she smiles at you. Even offers her hand to help you up and guide you to the stairs to emerge, and take your first steps towards the life you will claim.

Just as here, now, you emerge alone, into brilliant sunlight.

Chapter Text

People’re hollering. It’s all gibberish. You feel well-rested for the first time in a long, long while. Are half-tempted to turn over so you can go back to sleep, except two things: there’s something in your arms that smells like vasoline and farts, and the chatter around you is real loud. Right until it hushes.

A woman says something. She’s got nice perfume. Don’t stink of chemical or sickly sweet. Her voice rings like a bell, though her words don’t make no sense.

It’s a stuffed animal that you got in your arms. That’s what smells. You cuddle into it and sigh…

Why is it sticky? What the hell—

Open your eyes. Spot a pair of boots with real nice embroidery along the seams. Track it up to a purple mumu and—

“Gale!” you say.

The man smiles down at you, all but sagging. And then Shadowheart fills your vision, leaning over you, her jesus hands over your chest.

Shadowheart. And Karlach and Wyll watching. You got Karlach’s bear. And apparently the little procedure made the dirt potion stop working, the fucker.

“You got any…?” you say and mime tilting a bottle.

“Yes,” Gale says.

You start to sit up as he reaches into his bag, and then you pause. Stare at him as he produces the blue bottle.

He holds his innocent expression for a good five seconds before cracking. “Aang-lish. Ta-ok.” And he mimes writing.

You blink a couple of times, trying to make sense. Cause it sounds like the man is saying he’s trying to learn English (from your chats). But that is monstrously complicated and y’all are super busy and…and you’re you. Ain’t no reason for somebody to take on that kinda task on your account.

You point to him. Tap your temple, and then your mouth. “You talk? English?”

“Ye-ah,” he says again.

Oh god, he’s learning English with your accent.

You are simultaneously amused, horrified, and then indignant at the horrified part. Ain’t nobody complains when a non-English speaker picks up a Western accent. Fuck all them classicist fuckwads.

You down the potion so you can say, “Why?”

“Ah! Well, a multitude of reasons,” he says and lifts that pointer finger and that man is the dictionary definition of a lecturer. “I reckoned it might do to have a backup plan should we run out of ingredients again. And as I’ve always said, a good education—”

“She seems fine,” Shadowheart cuts in. Gives you a tiny smile and then stands. “Take it easy the rest of the night. I’m not sure how this process goes, exactly. But I’d say if you start to feel strange, at all, let one of us know.”

“Yes’m,” you say.

She gives you a nod and leaves you be.

“How d’you feel, soldier?” Karlach says.

Physically, great. A little dizzy, maybe. And tired, now that you think about it. You want to find a blanket, burrito yourself next to the fire, and sit there until everybody goes to sleep.

So that’s what you tell her. She nods along, then jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Sounds like you and Wyll’ll be spending some time together, then.”

That…don’t make no sense. Why would Wyll…?

The spectator. Him lying in a pool of his own blood.

“Oh fuck, Wyll, how’re you doing?”

Karlach moves so you can see him leaning against a bedroll. He gives you a wave. “Nice to see you among the living again.”

…what?

And then something moves in the shadows and your skin shudders like a pissed off cat as the fucking mummy emerges.

He regards you with his shriveled, raisin eyes. Then, “Thou soul is tied to this place. Thy destiny shall play along as it must.”

And then he turns and just, you know, leaves. Like that was a totally normal interaction and he wasn’t the creepiest thing to ever exist spouting some of the most cryptic shit to ever exist.

“I don’t like him,” you say.

“Yeah,” Karlach drawls, watching him shuffle over to the perimeter of camp. “I’ve seen people get turned inside out—literally, and it’s the hells so they don’t die, you know? But there’s something really off about that one.” Then she looks behind you, to the sound of Gale lowering himself, and something flashes across her face before she slaps another smile over it. “Guess I’ll leave you to it. You did good, soldier. Knew you were a tough one.”

She goes back over to Wyll and settles down about three feet from him—the closest she can safely get. Leaving you and Gale, alone.

Gale clears his throat. Waits for you to look back to him. Folds his legs beneath him and both his knees crack. “I can certainly understand your level of apprehension around him. But we should probably discuss what he said. Or didn’t, I suppose.”

Well fuck.

“What, the shit about fate?” you say, because if you make a joke about and throw in profanity, it can’t be all that serious, right?

But Gale don’t smile back. Nor does he join in on the joking. He looks serious in a way that makes your conjured joviality wither in on itself.

He holds up something. The evil bottle. Motions for you to take it. The soul jar. Right. But like, it’s a physical object? For some reason, you didn’t think it would be. Like, they would do all their woo woo shit and it’d disintegrate into the ether or some shit and you’d wake up all better.

The metal is smooth in your hands. You expect warmth or an electric tingle. Maybe a creepy heartbeat or something. Souls are, apparently, real, and they’ve (said they’ve) trapped yours inside that thing like a genie in a lamp. There should be some mystical shit, right?

Only it’s just a metal bottle. Smooth and cool, and about as heavy as it looks.

“Are you sure it worked?” you say. Cause it feels just like holding an empty bottle.

“It did, eventually.” He catches your look. “There were some…complications. It caused no damage, both Withers and Shadowheart assured me!. All of your soul is within that flask, and we’ll continue to monitor it, but you appear to be perfectly stabilized.”

Huh. “Complications” can mean so many things.

“But?” you say.

Gale makes a “easy there, Bessy” hand gesture. “But you, ah, died in the process. Again. You are perfectly alright now! Withers was able to keep both parts of you here long enough for the spell to work. But you, well. I’m no necromancer or soulworker, but your soul went elsewhere for a time before we could draw it fully into this realm.”

That…is horrifying. Where the fuck does a soul just wander off to? Like it fucked off to some interdimensional 711, stole a car, and drove three hundred miles out to fucking space-Idaho?

“Do you remember anything?” Gale says. And there’s that gleam in his eye, the one he gets when you brought up your speculations of the religious aspects of them animal stones in that ancient city in Turkey. Dude hungers for knowledge the way Astar—the way a vampire hungers for blood.

But the last thing you remember is settling down with Karlach’s bear.

“No,” you say. Though the thought niggles something in the back of your mind.

Corn?

Whatever.

“I see. Well, it does please me to say that you seem to be present and accounted for. No need for those potions—I gathered from your facial expressions that they didn’t taste terribly fantastic. However. That flask must stay on your person at all times. Or near enough to it.”

“Oh god, is this a proximity thing?”

What’s a reverse electric fence? If you forget the damn thing in you tent and go to the river to bathe, is it gonna tase you?

A twitch of a frown at the word “proximity.” His lips silently move over the shape of it. Then, “Not in the sense I suspect you think of. If I were to snatch it and use a waypoint to travel to the other side of Faerun, it would do you no harm. But I would be holding your soul in my hands, and that…”

And…that sounds bad. Catastrophic, even.

“You said soulworker and necromancer before,” you say, a different kind of dread oozing up your spine to claw at the muscles at the base of your skull. “Someone could, like, use this against me, huh?”

He nods. “Indeed. At the very least, one could hold it for ransom. At the worst, there are ways of chaining a soul to a person or an object. Or even, well. Even bartering one to the hells.”

If somebody gets their sticky fucking fingers on that flask they can literally sell you to a demon? Oh what the actual fuck.

“Kinda hate this place,” you say.

Gale winces. Sympathetically.

“So keep the damn thing safe,” you say.

“Yes. I cannot stress that enough.”

Part of you thinks it really would have been easier to just die.

Except…there’s something in you. A little glow against that darkness. Though the exhaustion and the dread pull you down like your guts are made of concrete, that tiny ember glows on.

Fuck. Fuck.

“I…thank you, Gale,” you say. “Thank you for all a this. I’ll do my best not to let y’all down.”

He claps your arm (you try not to flinch at the touch). “You’re doing far better on that account than I suspect you give yourself credit for. Now, I’m going to whip up something light but filling, and I suggest you eat your fill and get some rest, hmm?”

You nod. Food does sound really good.

The others mingle or tend their gear. You lie there and half listen to Wyll and Karlach talking. Things haven’t gotten better so much as simply…changed form. Same problem, new and exciting ways for it all to go wrong.

The exhaustion drags at you. Gale is right. Food and rest will be good. This shit will land and settle as it will, and you’ll have to pick a path through it.

Which is when something pale moves in the dark. A set of glowing eyes leer out of the shadows.

“Well hello, darling,” Astarion says.

Chapter Text

You don’t say nothing. Fucker slinks into the light like he didn’t just dump your ass this fucking morning for not spreading your legs. He walks on in like y’all are within one hundred miles of banter territory.

“Nice to see you still alive and kicking,” he says. Waits, like he’s going to get any kinda answer more’n “why are you here” or “fuck off.”

He seems to pick up on that when you sit there and stare. Silently. He drops the saunter and folds down into…what looks an awful lot like a “dog who knows he fucked up” sort of hunch.

“I…I came to apologize for my behavior last night,” he says. “It was rather…beastly.”

You…he…you wanted this conversation. When you saw him again. You’d hoped y’all could hash this out like adults, maybe find what went wrong and, you know, fix it.

“You’ve seemed upset today,” he continues. “And I can see why. I made…assumptions.”

Your throat is not squeezing shut. You don’t get apologies all that often. Because you are usually the problem. Ryan Meadows thought you were such a problem he never even gave you a chance to apologize or explain. He cut off a decades-long friendship with Sasha to ditch you.

You start to open your mouth. Tell him it’s okay. But you pause to swallow and try to make sure your voice don’t come out all strangled or pathetic.

And Astarion says, “But if you let me know what you prefer, we could try again? I’m quite open to most things, darling.”

Your teeth snap shut. He smiles at you. Bedroom eyes creep back into his expression.

He’s…what?

He takes your silence as some kinda invitation and sidles closer. Pitches his voice lower, “When you’re ready, of course.”

He thinks…you didn’t like the way he touched you? And that’s why you been avoiding him? Why you spent the night crying until you couldn’t breathe? Why you went into this soul thing vaguely hoping it wouldn’t work?

Because you didn’t like his fucking foreplay technique?

“You don’t got any idea why I’m upset, do you?” you manage.

He blinks. His face moves in like, three different emotional directions before landing on polite interest. “I beg your pardon?”

He still wants to fuck you. Still sees you primarily as a potential fuck buddy. You pressed yourself into it. Chickened out and got treated like garbage, but now he, what? Wants to shoot his shot again?

Is this negging? Is this what negging is?

You thought…you don’t even know. He was fun? Kinda charming, in a fucked up gallows humor way. He was someone you could relate to in a way a lot of people aren’t.

But he don’t see you the same way at all. Maybe it’s the whole vampire thing—predators who lure victims in—or maybe that’s just who he is. You are something for him to eat. To use. Man don’t mean a single thing he’s said to you, does he? Apology included. He’s after blood and sex, and he’ll offer any kinda sweet apology to get it.

You recognize it. What it looks like, what it sounds like, what it feels like. You got good at that when you were younger.

It’s like colored lenses falling off your eyes; you see him in a whole new light.

“I think,” you say. Take another calming breath (it don’t work). “I think you and I have a very different idea of…”

This ain’t a relationship. And…well. He ain’t actually your friend, is he? At least not from his perspective. He, he may never have been. You read it wrong (again). Thought you were making a connection with someone you could maybe, just maybe trust (again).

And you were wrong.

Again.

You look at him. Pasty weirdo. Charming dork. A vampire that ripped open a woman’s throat and drank her dead. He looks at you, all smiles and expectation.

“I think,” you try again, “that you and I should put some distance between us.”

You watch that hit him. Watch his face shutter tight.

“I still think we should all stick together, though,” you add. “You don’t got to; you’re a free man. But I think we’ll be safer sticking together.”

He even moves different. Gone is the fluidity of his shoulders, his lazy head motions. He’s crisp and precise when he backs off. “So, no pitchforks and torches to chase me out, then?”

“We ain’t never gonna chase you out. You can stay as long as you want, Astarion.”

“Ah. Ever the generous one, aren’t you.”

He really can’t help but make that sound like a bad thing. Especially with that edge creeping into his voice.

“I just don’t want any of us to die, alright? Is that suitable for you?” you say.

He tilts his head, every mean girl, passive aggressive smile-to-hide-thoughts-of-harming-you. “But of course. I always appreciate someone sensible. There’s safety in numbers, darling.”

Somehow, though his tone don’t change from his usual, that last word manages to come out bladed.

He’ll stay part of the group. And…and he’ll still need blood. You ain’t never gonna use hunger against nobody (dirt and raspberry jam). You ain’t never gonna stand by and watch somebody starve (lemon soap and bowels). Even if that person is a grade-A jackass.

“I,” you start. Force the rest out. “I’ll talk to Shadowheart, see if I can, you know, bleed into a cup or something for you.”

Something nameless flashes behind his eyes. It looks a lot like anger.

“I will have to decline, I’m afraid,” he says. Spreads a hand over his chest. “I’m touched by your nobility, truly, but I do believe that if we’re to be ‘putting distance’ between ourselves, I’ll be finding my meals elsewhere. Unless you have an objection? Want to spare the lives of goblins and mercenaries you were going to blow up anyway?”

Heat rises in your face. Part rejection, weirdly, and part shame.

“I have no objection,” you say.

“Well. I guess that settles it.” He stands, dusts himself off. There’s something wrong with his sleeve. It’s slashed open. Y’all haven’t been in a fight recently, so where…? “I’ll see you around camp, then.”

You can only nod and watch him walk off towards his tent. Catch Wyll giving you a sympathetic wince and Karlach studiously keeping her head down. Because ain’t no secrets in a camp full of fucking magic people and magic fucking hearing.

It needed to be done. For you, and for the group. It was best to handle it before it got messy. Cut that connection before it could tie you down too much. That’s the safe way.

Even if it hurts.

Y’all walk for days. Up into foothills, until the sea y’all crashed near is a distant, glimmering band through the trees. Birds chirp and a crow caws, but it’s quieter than it should be.

Y’all head inland, following a stream. You pass more abandoned luggage, broken down or overturned wagons. All signs of bad shit happening.

The bad shit makes itself known when you come up on a broken bridge and the rank stench of carrion wafts over you.

Astarion has been keeping to the back of the group. The last day, he’s fallen quieter than usual (the others don’t seem to have the patience for his chatter, aside from Wyll, who seems to be needling him) (you glanced back and the man stood straighter and winced).

You’re pretty sure it’s either late spring, or early summer. Cool at night, and the further up you go, the cooler the occasional breeze is. But there’s a hint of muggy in the air, and it don’t do any good for the bodies waiting for y’all.

What the fuck is up with this place and bodies left out to rot?

“You know,” you say to no one in particular. “I read one historian who said the surest sign of an empire in decline is an inability to keep the dead outta the streets.”

It was a funny book about historical plagues (you went down a long and winding rabbit hole of historical plague nonfiction for a while; something about reading up on people who got it way worse than you made your shit seem manageable).

“That’s an interesting theory,” Gale says. His hands twitch; if y’all weren’t trying to hike past what’s got to be five dead people and make it to the walls of a village up ahead, you know he’d be taking notes. “Unfortunately, we’re in a bit of no-man’s land, as it were. I can assure you, the streets of Waterdeep are clean enough you can actually walk down them.”

It takes you a minute to mentally amend the, “And not have to clamber on top raised sidewalks to avoid a slurry of horse and human shit.”

“Hey, Blade, you’re from Baldur’s Gate, yeah?” Karlach says. “I ain’t been back there in a while; how’re the streets now?”

Wyll hesitates. He’s wearing that chagrined expression you’re starting to recognize. The one where he wants to say something all upstanding, yet know he can’t.

“They were decent enough last I saw them. Though my information might be slightly out of date.”

Astarion is from the Gate (as you’re noticed some of them call it). He’d know. But while you’ll toss him a “good morning” or “pardon me,” y’all ain’t really on chatting terms. Nothing more than polite courtesies.

But that means you walk in silence more’n not. You don’t got nobody else to bounce your less than savory ideas off of (not that you needed to the last few days). But y’all had started joking. And it ain’t the same as talking history with Gale, listening to Karlach’s greatest bar fights (though that is fun), or Wyll spinning tales about some of his own shenanigans.

You think about breaching that wall of silence. Just a pinprick. Ain’t no harm in asking a question?

Except that pinprick opens you up to a vacuum, and that vacuum will try to suck you and everything else into it.

No. It sucks, and it’s awkward, but this is for the best. The goblins can’t be far, now. Y’all can get in (somehow), find the druid (you’ll work on that once you get the layout), and he can pull them brainworms outta you (the fuck happens after).

You…got no idea what happens after.

The metal flask with your soul in is sits between your tits, tied to a cord looped over your neck and secured against you by the stays. Good thing about being heavier is you got enough squishable flesh to sort of pack in there without anybody noticing.

But after all this…if you find somebody to latch onto—Gale, maybe Wyll—you’ll have a whole lifetime of guarding that fucking thing. Always. Forever.

You can’t let your thoughts start down that particular shit chute. You focus on that village.

Which, as y’all get closer, is eerily quiet. It’s cool enough you’d except a tinge of woodsmoke—people need fire to cook here, after all. But there’s nothing. No voices, no kids shrieking and laughing, no dogs or horses or hammers or nothing. As y’all reach the gates—busted open and hanging from one hinge—y’all look up a narrow main street that disappears up a hill and, presumably, ends in a town square. Two-story houses line each side of the street. All quiet. All rotten; ruins sagging on their frames, one of them overgrown in ivy, the other with the windowsills lying in disintegrating piles beneath the warped windows.

“Uh,” you say.

Right as Astarion wrinkles his nose. “Does anyone else smell goblin piss?”

Which is apparently some kinda bat signal for said goblins to pop outta the ruins. All of them armed. All of them snarling at y’all.

Chapter Text

The brainworms can mind-whammy some of the goblins so hard you pull a jedi “we absolutely do go here” shenanigan on them. The worm slams your brain into one of the archer goblins up top of one a them houses, and before you can even think about it, you feel her mind quiver, and then accept your power.

But then the brainworm does something. It twitches in your skull. The human brain ain’t got no nerve endings. It’s impossible to tell exactly what happens, but it’s like something in you winks out. A star in the galaxy of your brain just goes dark. Something alters. Something is gone.

And you can’t remember what.

“I knew these tadpoles could be advantageous,” Astarion says, all but rubbing his hands together in glee.

You rub the side of your head. Meet Lae’zel’s stare. She holds your gaze, and then deliberately narrows her eyes.

She knows. The brainworms can influence people. But there’s a cost. And you don’t even remember enough to know if it was worth it. It did get y’all past the gate without having to shoot somebody (oh look, more bodies lying around, even if they are mostly bones), but you don’t like it.

The goblins mention a camp further up the road. But y’all do a bit of poking around before y’all head that way (y’all are looting). In an herb shop, y’all find a basement. And a secret door inside that basement.

Which leads to a bunch of reanimated skeletons, some kind of magic mirror Karlach puts a rock through, and the apparent resting place of the motherfucking necronomicon.

You stare at the ugly damn thing as flames whoosh behind you. Damn thing went up like a gasoline barrel after you picked the thing up. Y’all’ve shut and re-locked the door behind y’all, and don’t appear to be anything around that’s flammable, so it should be able to blaze away. Besides, if an abandoned village serving as camp for a scouting party of war goblins goes up in flames, would anything of value actually be lost?

The book looks something nasty. You ain’t sure if somebody cut off the desiccated face of some boor bastard and glued it to the cover, or if that cover is some kinda, like, physical manifestation of a soul trapped between the pages (that thing is skin; it has fucking pores).

You nudge the lump in your cleavage where your soul jar sits.

“Oh, creepy book,” Karlach says, looming over your shoulder. “Please don’t open the creepy book. That thing must be loaded with curses.”

Magical Faerun. Of course there’s haunted books.

“I think it’s locked anyway,” you say. There ain’t no visible lock, neither.

“I could take it off your hands?” Gale says. “I am just about due for another artifact—”

“Don’t you dare.” Astarion swoops in from across the room. Catches your eye and looks away. “We have no idea how valuable something like that might be. It’d be a shame to let the wizard eat it.”

“As opposed to what?” Shadowheart says. “Letting you have it?”

“I don’t see why not. Unless any of you—the wizard excluded—would rather take it?”

“Destroying it seems the best option,” Wyll says.

To which Astarion literally gasps. Only thing the man is missing is a set of pearls to clutch.

And then they look at you, and you look at that book, and you can actually trace faint, dried out capillaries below the ridges of the upper mouth. Withered gums pulled back over yellowed teeth enamel. Holy fuck, that is somebody’s face.

You shudder. “Goblins, druid, brainworms. Divvy all this shit after that, huh?”

Literally none of them like the compromise, but nobody gets an advantage, so they watch you shove the haunted fucking book into your magic bag.

So Gale falls through the floor of the place across the street. Lands in another hidden workshop with another hidden passageway—this one just a crumbled wall. Which leads to a cave full of monster fucking spiders.

Y’all—mostly Karlach and Lae’zel—kill the shit outta the things (as big as a goddamn great dane sweet baby jesus). And y’all find more shit to loot. Turns out, other people fell down here or got dragged down here and didn’t have a Karlach or a Lae’zel. And then Astarion’s voice drifts back, all soft and high in a way you know in your bones means he’s up to some shit.

And then Wyll, who tagged after him to keep an eye out, mutters a curse and everybody turns.

Astarion has, in fact, found something interesting. And has, in fact, gotten to it. It’s the whole “chased by a fucking truck-sized motherfucker of a spider” part that’s the problem. So tired, acid-burned, poisoned, and in general overall maimed, y’all fight twenty-goddamned-more spiders and their goddamned Shelob mother.

What y’all get out of it is a purple, glowing rock.

You stare at Astarion, the grinning bastard, as green slime slides down the side of your neck and a glob plops off your nose. Around you are several squashed baby spiders, their guts oozing slowly down the shaft of your whacking stick.

“That’s…what this was all about,” you say.

Karlach is missing a patch of hair. Wyll lost his rapier down a crevasse. Somehow, one of them fuckers exploded and Lae’zel is literally covered in guts (y’all say nothing as she scowls, pops a slimy finger into her mouth, and seems to consider the taste).

Astarion is one hundred percent unscathed. Not a spot of muck, not a single singe of acid. Not even a stray gibblet in his stupid, poofy hair.

“It matches the gems on the book,” he says. “The eyes. I know my way around a lock or two, and this is the exact sort of thing a wizard—”

Said with a tone that makes Gale’s eyes narrow even further.

“—would go mad for. None of the others want it. So why not let me take it off your hands?”

That book craves the soul of the innocent. It really would be best to chuck it down that huge-ass chasm across the floor and be done with it. But…

You don’t owe the man nothing.

But the amputated connection of friendship still tingles with the phantom memory of late-night talks, his cool hands pressing your wrist.

I’d have bedded you twice by now if you were normal.

He’s a grown ass man two hundred years old, and a fucking vampire to boot. If he wants to play patty-cake with the exorcist, let him.

“Sure,” you say.

Astarion opens his mouth to argue. Then it clocks, and so do his teeth when his jaw snaps shut.

You dig the damned thing out, hold it pinched between your fingers.

“Are you sure about this?” Shadowheart says.

The vampire looks from the book, to you. The shadow of a frown mars his brow. Then he straightens. Says, “Really? Just like that?”

You’re sure you look as tired as you feel. “I don’t want it, nobody wants it, and we’re all covered in dead spider. At least make it worthwhile and take the damned thing. Just…don’t open it while anybody else is around?”

He eyes you. Reaches out and takes it all slow, like you’re gonna jerk it back. Or like it’s gonna bite him. You let it go.

“Right,” he says. And stands there. While you also stand there.

Man don’t know how to say thank you. Noted.

“Hey, Eleanor,” Wyll says. He’s over poking around the dead shelob, and he emerges holding some kinda dress. “I think this might suite you.”

It’s a robe, not a dress, and it magically adjusts itself over you, stays and all. It’s got embroidery to look like webbing, all of it a soft, silver mint green. And, it turns out, it makes you motherfucking poisonous.

“Be very careful with that staff,” Gale says.

Unlike a lot of the magic here, this one don’t make your staff glow a sickly green or nothing. So whoever you hit with the whacking end is gonna get real sick, real fast, and have no idea why.

You like it. Finally might not be so goddamn useless in combat. Plus, it looks kinda cool in an “evil sorcerer” way.

Karlach grins and makes you spin around. “Nice threads, soldier. Finally look like a proper adventurer.”

“Adventurer” meaning ren-faire attendee, but they’re all crushing it, and standing out ain’t probably a good idea. Just because you’re an uneducated (in Faerun), inexperienced hillbilly, it don’t mean you wanna advertise that.

The others mill about, chatting with each other, cleaning gear as best they can. Astarion has fucked off by himself again to peer at that book—still unopened thank fuck. He looks up, spots you watching, and shoves the book back into his pack. He ain’t mingling with the others no more.

Cause that ain’t awkward at all.

You rub your face.

And have a thought.

“This thing only makers that staff poisonous, right?” you say. Your hands kinda tingle.

“Oh yes,” Gale says. “Even mad wizards have enough sense not to poison themselves. Mostly.”

You stare. “Mostly?”

He smiles. And you really hope that tingle is just psychosomatic.

Spiders dead and looting done, y’all surface up through some well bucket (that bitch must be enchanted or something, cause there ain’t no way a dinky ass rope on a dinkier ass bucket could haul you up, let alone Karlach without bursting into flame).

There’s only one more home that ain’t a collapsed pile of rubble left. The spider fight wiped y’all out. It’d be nice to find somewhere to set up camp, maybe even sheltered from the elements. The goblins seem to be avoiding this one, which—in retrospect—should have been a big, red flag.

But y’all are beat, and survival instincts are freshly squeezed out, so y’all trudge on in to get smacked in the face by the reek of death, blood, and some kinda rancid piss.

And then the ogre takes a swing at you.

Chapter Text

“Fuck!” you holler and throw yourself to the side.

The club—which up until a week ago was a perfectly good tree—crunches into the support pillar of the indoor balcony above. Which creaks, wobbles, and then breaks free of the wall anchors.

All y’all scramble out of the way as half the room fomes down and curies the door. Leaving you, sprawled on your front alone, looking up at an ogre with his raised club.

“Hold!” a voice rumbles. It’s the exact kind of low, growling sound you’d expect to hear out of a twenty-foot bull. But it’s another ogre stomping over, with his own club raised.

You’re gonna die. All this—the potions, the soul jar, and you’re gonna get smashed into chunky salsa all across the floor.

But the second ogre…bonks the first one. With a fucking tree trunk club. It smacks McClubby in the face, and the big boy stumbles back. But it kinda reminds you of horses kicking each other: on a human, that’s broken bones and scrambled egg brains, but to another horse, it’s more of a nudge.

“We wait to see if the new meat is a snack, or an ally,” Mr. Eloquent says.

McClubby grunts. Peers down at you with piggy eyes.

Then the rest of your party comes back into view, shepherded by a third fucking ogre.

“Meat?” Thirdy asks.

“That all depends upon the circumstances, gentlemen,” Mr. Eloquent says. And regards you.

You should get off the floor.

The ogres, it turns out, have been hired by the goblins and their Absolute cult as mercenaries. With the bonus of eating people they kill (there’s a dead tiefling missing a leg, the upper thigh ripped away with jagged bone sticking out; it looks distinctively…nibbled).

When Gale—watching the whole explanation with a furrowed brow—asks Mr. Eloquent how he came to have such a loquacious vocabulary (Gale’s words), Mr. Eloquent says, more or less, it’s from a good diet. By that, you assume he means eating people rather than cattle or pigs.

It’s ultra fucked.

“How do they call for y’all?” you say. Try not to quiver (partially succeed) when that too-intelligent gaze turns to you. “When they, uh, when it’s time to work?”

“Oh, we stick close enough to smell when there’s delicacies on the wind,” Mr. Eloquent says.

“You, um, you have such an excellent nose?” All the fairy tales you ever read (in your fucking twenties) come flooding into your brain. Be polite. Flatter. Sweet talk.

And you can see it hit and watch it work. Mr. Eloquent tilts his head back all proud. Spreads his arms wide. “We have the best noses in all the Sword Coast.”

“Best. Good for sniffing out meat,” McClubby says.

To which Mr. Eloquent bonks him in the face again. “I said no talking.”

If they’re summoned up by smell alone, that’s gonna be a problem if y’all can’t rescue the druid without a fight.

“The goblin camp is close?” you say.

“Only an hour’s walk.”

“And you can smell all that way?” you say, laying on the impressionable yokel.

“That’s just goblin stink,” Astarion murmurs.

“Oh, my tasty morsel, I can scent much further than that,” Mr. Eloquent says.

He’s a problem. A major one. Small head, you’re guessing a thickass skull judging from how hard McClubby gets smacked around without apparent concussion. Short neck layered in fat and muscle, and a solid build all the way down. Gonna be real hard to kill one of these without, like, an elephant rifle.

You catch Lae’zel examining them in the same way. She meets your gaze, still cool, but you catch the flicker there: they’d be a hard fight. Which she seems stoked for, but your bones are real breakable and one of them clubs still has a full root system at the base.

But they’re mercenaries. And the problem with mercenaries, is that they work for coin, not cause.

Ooh, this is risky.

“How much they paying you?” you say.

And see the glimmer of greed in Mr. Eloquent’s eyes.

“Be very careful,” Gale mutters low in your ear.

“I am, by all accounts, a student of higher commerce and extortion,” Mr. Eloquent says. “Make me an offer. Tempt me.”

Fuck. You don’t know what pay is like here. And y’all don’t actually have that much coin. Thirdy is looking at you like you’re a goddamn rotisserie chicken. Y’all are all but trapped in here, there ain’t much room to maneuver, and y’all are already dragging ass.

But he’d said something else. Mr. Eloquent calls you “morsel.” (Yikes.)

You fold your hands so they don’t notice the tremors. Clear your throat to hide the quiver.

“Seems to me, such specimens as yourselves require a great deal of meat to keep up your strength. Them clubs look real heavy.”

The two ogres—McClubby and Thirdy—remind you of bears. Big, dangerous, all-purpose eating machines. But Mr. Eloquent? That one is a pig. Not in any derogatory sense, but in the way that pigs are clever, possibly sentient, and will eat their elderly owners should they take a fall in the pen.

There’s intelligence in them eyes. Hungry intelligence, just waiting for you to take a wrong step.

“Ogres strong,” Thirdy says. “Ogres eat!”

“What did I say about talking?” Mr. Eloquent says and thumps his buddy hard enough to make an elephant stagger.

“No talking,” McClubby says, and gets his own whack for his trouble.

“Do they summon y’all often?” you say.

That gleam in Mr. Eloquent’s eye brightens. He folds his hands over his great belly.

You can feel the others tense behind you.

“We mostly guard the village and check for the brands of the Absolute, save one foray to the west.”

You nod. “The picking around here seem real slim. How’d you like a feast? I hear there’s a hundred of them goblins at their camp. And I don’t imagine they’d put up much fight against y’all’s ferocity.”

McClubby and Thirdy huff and hoot. Mr. Eloquent holds your gaze a long, long moment. Sweat trickles down your back. Leather creaks behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know everybody’s got a hand on a weapon.

“A fair assessment,” Mr. Eloquent says. Studies you as you lock your knees and force yourself to stare right back. Then he nods. “A fair assessment indeed. You have a bargain, my kibble.”

He hands over a horn, explains stuff that you don’t really catch because all you hear is buzzing. Except the bit about it summoning the lot of them. Good. Right. You nod and tuck the horn into your bag.

And then the ogres leave by smashing out a side wall and shuffling off into the sunlight. Y’all stand there and watch them go.

“Holy fuck,” Karlach says. “I can’t believe you pulled that off.”

You hold until the ogres are definitely out of sight. Then your lock fails and you all but fold over your own knees. “Holy shitballs we almost died. Holy fucking shit!”

A hand claps your shoulder. Wyll grins. “Bargaining with an ogre. Can’t say I’ve seen that tactic before.”

You try not to wheeze like a dying horse. Holy fuck, it worked, you can’t believe it, y’all almost died but didn’t and got yourselves a three-ogre army if y’all need to wreck some shit.

“Can we set up camp, please?” you say. “I need to sit before I fall over.”

They agree to do so outside the rotting, half-eaten village. You unroll your bedding so you can lay back and try not to hyperventilate in peace.

Through it all, Astarion sits alone, fingers tapping on the edge of his new, cursed book, his gaze fixed on you.

Chapter Text

You sleep like the dead. Don’t even remember conking out. Just the part where you wake up to the scent of woodsmoke, tea, and sausages.

Whatever high you were on yesterday is faded. You feel wrecked. Physically, mentally, like you got hit by a bus, dragged along for a mile, and then run through a meat grinder and repackaged into a human shape again.

The sausages don’t look all that appealing.

You sip tea as the others finish eating and packing. Thick clouds fly overhead, edging silver in the sunlight. Must be some strong winds up there. Hopefully, it don’t start to rain.

There ain’t much critters around. Occasional squirrel. The caw of a crow. But the rest is weirdly silent. Or maybe not so weird as the wind shifts and the rot and piss stink of the town washes over y’all.

The goblin camp is about an hour north, Mr. Eloquent said. You’ll have to track back through that village to get to the road.

“I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Gale says.

And if he don’t turn out to be right. Y’all’ve crossed about halfway through the rest of the village when the wind gusts moisture onto your face. Then the first drops fall. You get to hope for about thirty seconds that’s all it’s gonna do.

Then the sky opens and it dumps.

“Ah shit” you say.

“We need to find shelter,” Wyll says. “Storms like this will pass swiftly, but it’ll soak us through in moments.”

Karlach, sizzling as the rain hits her and immediately bursts into steam, lifts her arms and spins in a circle. “Rain! I haven’t seen proper rain in ages! Look! It’s not even blood!”

…huh.

The houses here are all half-collapsed, with no clear way inside. The lot of you jog up the hill, and spot some low building. A shack or a barn. It looks structurally sound.

“That one?” you say.

“That should do,” Wyll says.

Y’all boot-scoot over. The torrent gets worse. Turns the air silver. Water already streams down your face and you sputter to clear your mouth and nose.

The rush of it is so loud, you don’t even notice the sounds until you’re reaching for the doors. A low moaning, like some kinda cow or buffalo lowing for food.

“Did somebody leave their animals—”

Then there’s rhythmic grunting. Too low and…and too snarly to be human, but there’s some kinda words in there and the other…animal? It moans again. Cause that is a moan and your brain finally puts two and two together and sticks the solution into the square hole.

You step back.

“What’s wrong?” Gale says. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the storm.

“Um,” you say.

Something thumps and bangs.

“Go on then,” Astarion’s voice right beside you. You do not jump. He stands a foot away, peering intently at that door. Fucker knows what’s going on in there. “We’re all getting soaked, dear. What are you waiting for?”

Bastard. He makes no move, offers no guidance; just stands there, arms crossed, looking bored.

The rain is cold.

“Fuck,” you say. Brace yourself. Push on them doors.

The scene will haunt you.

An ogre (ogress?) kneels on all floors, flopping tits bare, grass skirt hiked up over her hips. Behind her, some kinda man-wolf thrusts away. They both spot you and Man-Wolf pulls out, covering himself. But not before you get an accidental eyeful.

“Ah!” Gale all but yelps in horror.

“No,” Karlach says.

Shadowheart looks like she just accidentally swallowed a bug.

But Astarion, the fucking shithead, grins like the douchebag he is.

“What…what the hells are you doing here?!” Man-Wolf says, still overing himself. You don’t see no pants anywhere.

It’s not the floppy tits or the sex that gets you. Logically, ogres don’t just sprout out of the ground like cabbages, and sex always looks weird and super undignified to you. But the glimpse you saw of Man-Wolf showed what you assume is an average-sized, humanoid cock. Nothing like, abnormal about it. But that ogress is the height of the barn. And your brain, always the asshole, shoves its way to the front of the line to cut off common sense.

“How does that even work?” you say.

“What the fuck?” Man-Wolf says.

“The, you know, size discrepancy? How’re you even…does she even notice?” You really should stop talking. Ogress scowls and Man-Wolf has real big fangs. But the horror twines around with your scientific curiosity, and all you can think about is how a vet has to shove their whole arm up a cow to do like, bovine ultrasound. Man-Wolf wasn’t arm-sized.

“Ain’t you too small?” you say.

Astarion sputters and spins away.

“I think I’ll wait out in the rain,” Shadowheart says.

“I—you!” Man-Wolf sputters.

“Gragh!” the ogress bellows, and yeah, that’s why you shoulda kept your mouth shut. She glares down at you as she hauls herself up. “Moment over! Passion ruined!”

There’s something underneath her. A splash of color. That’s clothes. That’s a fresh corpse.

“Uh,” Karlach says as the ogress looms over y’all.

Only the big girl don’t lift a foot to squash your guts outta your mouth like a tube of toothpaste. She turns to Man-Wolf. “We go.”

“But, my sweet—” he says. Still don’t got his pants nowhere.

“We go.”

And ogress lumbers right off into the rain, tits swaying, just as the downpour eases up.

Man-Wolf’s ears pin back. He throws you a nasty glare and scurries out after his paramour.

Leaving all you in the barn, which smells weirdly musty.

“That…really happened,” Wyll say. “I’m not hallucinating?”

Astarion, curled into a ball, wheezes.

“I very much wish it were,” Gale says and rubs his eyes.

You stare out after the couple. Ruin a hand down your face. “How does that even work?” Notice the others staring at you. “What?”

“That’s what you’re focused on?” Shadowheart says.

“They’re two entirely different species! They shouldn’t even be compatible! It’d be like…like a dog trying to mount a heifer!”

Karlach actually grimaces. “There’s a visual I didn’t need. Thanks, soldier.”

“But it don’t make sense. You can breed a donkey and a horse because they’re similar enough, but…I mean…that? Is that a thing here?”

Lae’zel ignores the whole conversation to go search the corpse the two were literally fucking over (gross).

“Like,” you say. Your gaze lands on Astarion as he stands and wipes his eyes. “Elves exist, and so do humans, so do y’all have half-and-halves?”

“I’m a half-elf,” Shadowheart says. And oh. Her ears are shorter than Astarion’s. You never really made that connection, huh?

“But that means both species are genetically compatible. And, you know, physically. Is everything here like that? Because that’s fucking weird, y’all. That’d indicate a common ancestor way, way far back, which’d actually make them two closer to a pig mounting a bear—”

Gale claps your shoulder with one hand. And with a pain-filled grimace, says, “While I always appreciate the pursuit of knowledge, even I believe there are limits.”

And…they all look a bit green around the gills.

And you realize it ain’t about the evolutionary or sociological implications of inter-species fucking. You squint. “Are y’all seriously having a collective tizzy cause you saw them fucking?”

Wyll looks like he bit into a lemon.

“You’re not?” Karlach says.

You ain’t never had sex with someone else. You was raised to think that the literal worst thing somebody could do, the filthiest thing somebody could be. It made you disgusting, made you worthless. Then you got to the secular world and learned that not having sex made you a cringey weirdo.

So to spite the both of them, you learned about it. You learned all about it, because fuck the shame, fuck the farmstead, and fuck everybody (but not literally).

They got no idea how funny this conversation is for you. So it’s with a little bit of bravado, a lot a bit of truth, and a dash of gremlin in you that says, “No? It’s just sex?”

“I…think I’ll check the outer perimeter,” Wyll says. And leaves.

You survey the field—Shadowheart and Gale all uneasy, Lae’zel snooping through barrels, and Karlach wincing.

Ha.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion clears his throat and tugs his poofy shirt vest down.

You made the man outright wheeze. Your mouth opens, so ready to fall back into the banter of days before. God, it would be so easy to riff off him. He ain’t bothered by the whole display y’all walked in on, and he’d absolutely join you in horrifying the others.

But y’all are keeping distance, ain’t you? You got the keep the walls up. You can’t go around encouraging him. You got to suffocate that ember before it flames, for his sake and yours.

So you only give him a nod, and turn to the others. “Let’s get outta the fuck barn, huh?”

Chapter Text

As Wyll says, the rain ends just about as fast as it started. Y’all head out again, up the hill, when y’all run into another troupe of goblins with a short, purple dude tied up to a spinning windmill. Little dude hollers all the way up, and all the way down.

You’re still drained, so when you catch Karlach clucking her tongue at the little dude’s predicament, you nudge her into talking to the goblins. She basically threatens to crush their skulls between her hands—she leans in all close and heat pours off her and huh, that does something for you.

The goblins leave the little dude—Barcus—who’s looking for his friend. He lets y’all have his pack in thanks for the rescue. Still no jewelry (you been avoiding looking at Astarion since the shed; it’s horrifying how easy it is to fall back into a friendly pattern with him).

It’s quiet up to the last bridge. Some kinda building rises in a crag through the hill beyond. The brush is burnt and charred, little pockets of embers still gather at the bases of blackened trees. Shitty, shoddy ramparts have been thrown up in that crag gap, and goblins move atop them. They ain’t alone.”

“Are those wargs?” you say. Fuckers look like some kinda hyena-bear mix (what would a half Man-Wolf, half ogre even look like).

Gale shoots you a look. “How do you know what a warg is?”

Same way you know about elves, magic, goblins, and fucking ogres.

“We got stories,” you say. “Made up stories, for us. But here…”

The last part said with a gesture to the ramparts.

Gale’s fingers twitch again. Since he can’t whip out an inkpot and a scroll right here, he inhales, clasps his hands, and says, “I rather strongly request another information session when we have the chance.”

Man wants stories.

“If we ain’t all dead, sure,” you say.

This whole thing might be over by tonight. Or soonish, if Mr. Healer ain’t dead. And after that…

After that, you’re stuck here.

The thought twists your stomach. You look at the group again. All of them with their own lives. Two of them want nothing to do with you (you try not to acknowledge the white fluff outta the corner of your eye). Shadowheart seems nice enough eventually, but she still has her own secret shit going on. Karlach is fresh outta the hells, so your best bet is still likely Wyll or Gale. And you can be of more use to Gale, you think. Wyll seems friendly and heroic, and you doubt he’d leave your ass in a ditch. But Gale is hungry for knowledge (you recognize that look) and you can leverage that.

…maybe he needs a housekeeper? You could do that.

Later. This is all later. Flailing around about it now ain’t gonna help a damned thing.

For now, y’all gotta get past the guard post of goblins.

“Hey Karlach, you wanna go scare our way in again?”

She grins all mean and smacks her fist into her palm. “Aces.”

She does, in fact, scare y’all in. Leaves one of the goblins wearing a smear of warg shit all over his face—he started it, so you don’t feel that bad. The trail is muddy, everything smells like acrid piss, and then a fucking voice shoots down outta the sky to thunderclap inside your skull.

It knocks you to your knees. Overwhelming pressure shoves you down. Squeezes your skull. You try to push up (Lae’zel got you to three push ups before she gave up on you), but a new wave comes crashing down and tries to shove your face into the dirt.

Someone curses behind you. The crew is down, too. What—

A voice. Loud. Consuming. A woman? She’s saying something, but you’re seeing flashes of something, of people?

The Absolute, you realize. You know it, like you know your own name or you know you got ten toes. This is the Absolute calling to you, pulling you, forcing you.

She bursts open your head like stepping on a grape. Bursts the others, and you can feel them, too. Stranger thoughts, alien ones.

Mostly panic. This is it. It’s got you. A ghaik enslavement. A foreign goddess. No, no gods not again not again you got away from him—

Your mother standing over you, you all half-naked and crouched on the cement floor with everybody watching, everybody knowing and you grovel outright, the shame clogging your throat, blinding your eyes—

The rage snaps like a trigger. Like an eruption. Hot fury blasts up, shattering fear and panic in a raw, churning plume blowing up the surrounding mental landscape.

No.

No.

Fuck that bitch and fuck them all, you’ll kill them, every last one of them and they ain’t gonna get you, not ever again, you will burn the farmstead to fucking ashes and then burn those ashes to fucking powder—

“Stop!”

A red light blasts through the crushing torment. Cuts through your rage—a flash in the periphery, startled, wary—and the new voice barrels into the Absolute. The pressure clears, the voice whispering before it cuts off completely.

You’re on the ground again. Arms shaking, knees knocking. You take some unsteady breaths and sit up as something flies outta Shadowheart’s bag to plop into your hand.

The fuck?

“Uh,” you say.

But when you turn, you’re getting weird looks. Lae’zel wears pure suspicion, laser-focused on Shadowheart. Who seems torn about something, though she keeps glancing to the spiky ball now in your hands. But the others…

Gale swallows. Blinks something down. “I believe we’ve just met this new goddess, then.”

Fucking bitch pig. Fucking asshole bitch pig.

“And we were saved by a relic of my people,” Lae’zel says, staring daggers at the back of Shadowheart’s skull.

The cleric stiffens.

But Gale cuts between them, as he’s low-key been doing the whole time. “Whatever it is, it just saved us from a psychic bombardment. We must be getting close to this Absolute, and its power will only grow stronger as we do. I have a grave suspicion that without that artifact, we’d be helpless as babes. Best put aside our difference before we sprout full ceremorphosis tentacles, yes?”

Both women stand there a moment. Only once something moves at Shadowheart’s side do you notice she’d grabbed the handle of her mace.

“Agreed,” she says. Gives a mean girl head tilt to Lae’zel. “Or are the gith so proud and blinded as to throw themselves unarmed at their enemy?”

If Lae’zel glared at you like that, your skin’d peel right off. She hisses (good god, your primate brain don’t like that at all) and nods. Once.

“Good. Now,” Gale says. “There’s a goblin camp and perhaps our salvation just ahead. Shall we?”

You let them all settle and set off again. You try to give the spiky ball back to Shadowheart, but she catches Lae’zel watching her like a dingo on a human baby, and shakes her head.

“It came to you,” she says. “You keep it.”

An uninvolved third party. Cause that’s what you wanna be right now.

You pull out your pack to shove the thing in there—the fuck is it? A toy? A music box? A puzzle to summon skin-flaying BDSM demons?

Wyll sidles up as you’re cinching the pack shut again. He’s got something soft in his face when he looks at you.

It immediately lifts your hackles.

“Was that your mother?” he says.

Your mind blanks. Everything goes flat and still, because this? This ain’t happening.

(Your brains were connected.)

Those memories are your own, private shit show and you don’t share.

(They saw.)

You ain’t never told Sasha all of it.

(They saw.)

You ain’t never told any therapist all of it.

(NO.)

“Who was what?” you say.

Karlach stares, too. Her eyebrows crunch together.

“That vision. Or memory,” Wyll says. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

Oh, you seen this before. Especially in them early days, when you’d be telling some story and kinda laughing about it, but then you’d look over and catch that face, right there. The veiled horror. The goddamn sympathy. The look of somebody who found a mangy, broken stray on the side of the road, only this dog’s too mean and it keeps trying to bite.

The fuck they’re gonna look at you like that.

You keep your expression loose, your own brow slightly wrinkled—totally in puzzlement and not at all in panic and terror.

“What vision?” you say. “I saw them three people that voice was all attached to? Them fucking…disciples or whatever?”

How much did they see? You felt Lae’zel’s queasy dread, the utter failure that swallowed her when that seemed the end.

Wyll pauses. He’s gonna say something. You know it. But then he just folds whatever it was back underneath a rueful smile. “It must have been part of the attack, then. Think nothing of it.”

And you almost believe him. The way he relaxes. The softness of his eyes. It’s all Wyll, dashing and kind.

But you didn’t get out by believing, and part of you whispers: he knows, they all do, fuck, fuck.

You can’t show that, though. You’re gonna brazen it out come hell or high water.

“Druid rescue, huh?” you say.

And that gets Karlach going again, too. They shuffle off after the others, and you sling your pack up over your shoulders.

You know he’s still standing there. Hasn’t moved or said nothing. But you can feel him watching, so you summon your best bored face (which you been told by a lot of people it looks extra bitchy) and turn.

You don’t say nothing, either. Just watch him watching you. Raise one eyebrow.

Astarion looks…strange. Maybe that’s just his version of thoughtful. It ain’t Bitch or Gripe or Flirt. You ain’t even sure he knows he’s doing it. There’s something different in it, different than all the other times he’s ever looked at you.

He still don’t say a goddamn word. Finally, you lift your arm in an “after you” gesture, and his face buttons back up. He sets off after the others.

And that is entirely too much being perceived for you. Makes your damn skin crawl.

Chapter Text

There are a shit ton of goblins. Goblins shrieking. Goblins belching. Goblins taking a piss in the corner. Goblins chanting, and goblins drinking and throwing bones at each other and two of them fistfighting. It reeks of sour sweat, rot, and alcohol. You regret every, single choice you ever made in your life that brought you to this point.

Until you spot the owlbear cub. At least, you think it’s the same cub. It cowers in a corner with three goblins around it. The lead one offers you a bet in a game she calls “chicken chasing.” And you ain’t one to knock on other folk’s games—your White side plays corn hole for fuck’s sake—but you draw a hard fucking line when it involves cruelty.

You decline her request as polite as you can. Which means letting her insult you. The others give you looks (Lae’zel seems especially disappointed in you), but you ignore that and ask Gale for a talking-to-animals potion.

It is the same cub. And he’s scared to hell. You offer your camp to him, but one of the goblins looks over and his little ear tufts fold back and he scurries off.

You survey the courtyard. Used to be a temple to a goddess named Selune. Shadowheart seems real pettily amused about the recent remodel. Calls it fitting. There’s maybe twenty goblins out here.

You look to Wyll. “Can you check the left side of the courtyard? Get a head count and general location of everybody over here?”

He nods. Karlach bounces all hopeful, so you ask her to go with him.

There’s a section above, and you spot movement up there. Look over the crew. You need somebody nimble, and somebody with good judgment.

“Shadowheart, would you mind taking Astarion up there to do the same?” you say.

Her flat expression smooths to Kansas levels.

“Please?” you add.

“Just counting?” she says. And oh. There’s something hidden in there, ain’t it?

No point in trying to sugarcoat it. “If the druid is alive, we’re gonna have to break him out. Don’t know what kinda condition he might be in, and if we can, I’d like a clear exit.”

Her head tilts back. Astarion’s eyes go all half-lidded and a smirk twitches on the corners of his lips.

Cause yeah. You’re planning murder. Your fingers find that horn in your bag.

You’re planning a lot of murder.

Lae’zel makes a short, soft sound. She watches you all cool. Has been since the spider fight. Still ain’t dragging you to her workout, but it’s the first time she’s responded to you with something that wasn’t a sneer.

“On it,” Shadowheart says.

Astarion meets your gaze, that malicious smarm all over him. He gives you a kind of flippy hand salute, and heads after her.

“You really intend to do this?” Gale says. Holds up a hand before you can do more than turn to him. “There’s a lot of goblins. I only worry we may be calling more trouble to ourselves than necessary.”

“That’s why we’re scouting around first,” you say.

Gale frowns thoughtfully. Or maybe it ain’t thoughtful, as the owlbear cub runs trilling in desperation with two goblins on his ass. “It may not be necessary to do what I suspect you’re planning. We might find a different way in, find the druid, and spirit ourselves out without calling attention to ourselves.”

You think of them tieflings. The bodies all over the place. Kahga tried to do that shit with the idol because she was scared (and also a despot well on her way to authoritarianism). And if that fuck-bitch who hit your brain is what’s causing all this…if she’s real. If this is a militarized group of fanatics…

You’re stuck here. Probably forever. You got skin in this fucking game, now. You know shit like this don’t stop once it starts moving. And that’s only when it’s being driven by one power-hungry asshole and his dipshit of a wife. But they throw in a mind-whammying goddess?

Goblins drink and tear into half-cooked meat. One of them is a human foot. They’re people—they got customs and dress, language and rules and games. But these particular ones are a threat to you and your crew and that whole grove and anybody they come across. Whatever shit they start next, they ain’t gonna stop until somebody makes them stop.

“We see what we’re dealing with here,” you say. “Ain’t got no other plans until then.”

Gale nods and turns as shrill hooting starts. A goblin leads a man in the most foppish hat you ever seen out onto a crude stage. He looks kinda familiar.

“Isn’t that Volo?” Gale says.

You notice most of the goblins is drinking from mugs. You also notice they’re refilling from a single barrel across the courtyard.

There’s one of them man-wolf guys running around—called “bugbears” for whatever reason. A crowd of goblins cluster around another with feathers in his hair as he boasts about killing somebody. There’s a naked dead guy at his feet.

This place reeks.

Y’all keep your distance.

The others meet back in the main courtyard. There’s red at Astarion’s neckline and Shadowheart’s nose is wrinkled.

You almost don’t ask. But you need info.

“There were five above, one of them was a bugbear,” Shadowheart says.

Astarion picks a tuft of fur outta his teeth. Flicks it away with a grimace.

“Past tense?” you say.

“It’s clear,” the cleric says. “There’s also a weak spot in the wall. I think Karlach could handle it, should we want to avoid the main door.”

“Some sort of obstacle course over there,” Wyll says. “Deserted, but I’ve spotted an alarming amount of goblin burrow holes. I don’t think the doors will matter much should a general alarm sound.”

So. A way in and out above, the path cleared. An ogre stands at the main doors, a bugbear to the right, and about twenty goblins in the courtyard, give or take.

That’s a lot of people.

But if you leave this, even if you get the druid out, the tieflings can’t stay where they are (you wouldn’t want to, either). And as long as this encampment is here, they’re in danger. You look to the big spit turning over the fire where a cut of ribs you highly doubt are pork sizzle.

This is your problem. And you know there’s no such thing as a fair fight. There’s winning. And there’s losing. And you been at the mercy of winners before.

None of the party-goers pays any attention to you as the bard warbles something about door rags. None of them notice you pull something outta your bag.

“That’s,” Shadowheart starts. Something flashes in her eyes. It looks a lot like…approval.

You catch Karlach’s questioning look (and it is a question, not any kinda concern, they don’t know shit about you).

“Wyvern poison,” you say.

“The one you said you’d drink should the tentacles start sprouting,” Astarion says. He shifts his weight to his back foot as his head cocks to the side.

“That’s called lying.”

His eyes narrow. Then he snorts. That almost looks like a smile.

“Poison?” Karlach says.

You don’t look at her. She’s good people. Violent as fuck—she ripped Harvey Dent’s head clean off like a Thanksgiving turkey drumstick—but she’s got a good heart.

“A coward’s weapon,” Lae’zel says, because of course she does, the woman oozes judgment.

“You wanna win, or you wanna die?” you say. “Or do you wanna just fuck around all honorably until your skin splits off and you throw up your own guts?”

She snarls silently.

And you make a decision.

This is an army. Whoever them goblins are as individuals, as a people, this band is an army and will kill everyone in their path.

Lae’zel hates this, both Wyll and Karlach are too good for this world, and the others…no. No, you need a sneaky bastard.

“Astarion,” you say. He’s a member of this crew. Y’all are working together to keep y’all’s faces intact. Whatever happened (whatever coulda happened) you gotta bury it and move on. “You’re good at sneaking. Can you get over to that barrel with this without getting caught?”

He examines you, expression buttoned down tight. Then comes to a decision of his own. His smile oozes bad intentions. “Rather easily, darling.”

You hand the poison off. He looks it over, nods, and sort of disappears it with a gesture.

The Volo guy from the grove is still prattling on, though a couple of goblins have started to hiss. One throws a bottle that misses him by a good four feet.

There’s your distraction.

Not all the goblins are sloshed. But it’s a good number of them. And what’s left…your fingers dip into your pack again and find the cool enamel of the war horn.

“Let’s go,” you say.

It takes maybe thirty minutes. Astarion disappears, only to reappear next to one of the ringleaders as she proposes a toast. You ain’t sure if poison does anything to vampires? But you do catch a subtle wrist flick from Astarion, and you know without asking the man just found a way to toss the contents of his cup.

As that’s going down, y’all join in on the harassment of Volo. And then goblins start dying. And that, naturally, pulls attention to all y’all.

There’s a good dozen goblins left, with others pouring in from the right side. So you pull out that horn, bring it to your lips, and blow.

It goes to fuck shit carnage after that. Them ogres ain’t kidding around. They tear through camp like an industrial corn thresher. At some point—you think it’s McClubby—dual-wields two goblins to swat other goblins in the most fucked up game of put-put golf you ever seen in your life.

Y’all barely have to do anything. There’s a couple of archers, and that ogre by the door, but an arrow from Astarion and a fireball from Gale, and both the archer and big boy go down right in front of them main doors, blocking them from opening.

Then it’s over. The Volo guy ducks out (says something retrieving his dog??) and promises to meet y’all back at the grove. The owlbear cub made himself scarce the second them ogres smashed through the front gate, and you hope he got away.

Leaves y’all standing in a field of carnage full of corpses as Mr. Eloquent and his, uh, lads get busy…eating.

Horf.

“I can see why you gentlemen are in such high demand,” you say, voice trembling with the urge to vomit.

Mr. Eloquent grins as he slurps up an arm still holding a mug. It crunches between his teeth and something squelches.

You swallow.

“It was a pleasure doing business,” he says.

He still got them piggy eyes. Time for y’all to get the fuck away.

“Damn,” Karlach says, brows raised. “I’ve seen some one-sided battles, but damn. D’you see them throw that guy?”

At another, fleeing goblin, yes. They both went down with broken bones and broken wails.

And this is just the courtyard.

Time to head in and see if any of this was worth it.

Chapter Text

The temple is huge, falling apart, and absolutely infested with goblins. The sounds of slaughter outside don’t seem to have reached the inside; nobody’s up in arms. Y’all come in and hide up in the rafters a long while, just watching. Ain’t nobody sprints in or out, no shouts of alarm. Just bitching and belching.

Y’all find a quiet corner to descend—there’s a ladder, but Gale casts some falling spell on you and him for both your knees. Once on the ground level, nobody questions any of y’all. Apparently they’re recruiting “all sorts”, says one goblin too busy picking his ear to actually look at y’all. He examines his prize a second before popping his finger into his mouth.

The next goblin is sleeping on the job.

But the one after that mentions prisoners.

“Ah,” Astarion all but sighs. “Drink in the debauchery. It’s filthy, of course, but then they are goblins.”

You can’t help but squint at him.

So of course, the goblins got one of them prisoners on a torture rack. They’re getting ready to, as best you can tell, smash off his kneecaps with a club.

You panic. “Hey!”

The little shit looks at you, spouts something about watching (heavily implying something about masturbation). You think fast.

“Boss sent me,” you say. You don’t look away, you do not blink. You are a bored retail worker, you’re seven hours into your shift on a Thursday fucking night and your feet hurt. You’re done.

“Door Rags Lynn sent you?” Little Shit says. “Why?”

Bored employee. Somebody wants you to check the inventory in the back—you know for a fact the “inventory in the back” is jammed into four foot boxes stacked fifteen feet high and you sure as shit ain’t digging through that for this dude. You shrug. “Don’t know. Just following orders. Said something about a rotation, and I ain’t asking.”

He seems to chew on that a second. Then the other one snorts.

“If she wants to take a crack at him, I say let her. I wanna see that pain priest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Little Shit says. Tosses his club at you and thank fuck you manage to catch it. “Have at him. We been trying to crack this feck shite all day.”

You watch them scurry off, apparently to watch whatever the fuck a “pain priest” is. Leaving you and the crying guy on the rack.

“It’s clear, right?” you say, because others got that magic hearing

Shadowheart nods as Astarion frowns.

“P-please, I already said,” Rack Guy sputters. “I-I don’t k-know nothing!”

You set down the club. Reach up to examine the restraints. “It’s alright, kid. I ain’t here to hurt you. If we can get you down, can you walk?”

“I…think so?” he says. Tries to blink the blood and tears outta his eyes.

You nod. They done went and shackled the guy in, both wrists connected by an iron bar with another lock on it.

A glance behind you. Astarion fiddles with his fingernails.

“Can you get these off?” you say.

He looks up. Cool gaze slides from you to the rack. His nose wrinkles. “You’re letting him go? I was hoping for a little entertainment.”

You got a dark sense of humor, sometimes. But it don’t extend to people being fucking tortured.

“It’s a yes or a no question,” you say. Your tone is sharper than you intend, and you see him shutter against it.

“I could, darling, but what’s in it for me?”

“Fuck’s sake, Fangs,” Karlach says.

“We’re here to find a druid that can remove our parasite problem. Not go gallivanting around rescuing all the idiots too stupid or too slow to avoid getting caught by goblins, of all creatures.”

That’s just…he said he was enslaved. Was a puppet to that fuckface for two hundred years. And he’s just gonna stand there and leave this guy?

…why did you think y’all could be friends?

It’s been a day on top of a week on top of a lifetime. And you’ve had it.

“Are you gonna pick this lock or not?” you say, shoving aside the twinge of guilt, the strands of hurt. He ain’t your friend; that much is clear. The sooner you get that through your thick skull, the better.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. From where I’m standing, you got two things you contribute to the group: lock-picking, and murder. So which’ll it be? Help me with this guy, or go stand watch.”

He goes all rigid. Your stomach tightens and you want to open your mouth and take it all back. You’re sorry. You didn’t mean it. You’re just tired and could he please help?

But that’s an instinct you have. What your therapists have called a maladaptive coping mechanism. You make yourself small. Docile. Sweet and nonthreatening. But you ain’t small and docile, and you fucking deserve a place in the world.

So you stand there as Astarion slips on a smile as fake and sweet—it’s his eyes; them eyes are empty—as cotton candy. He gives you a bow and unsheathes his knives.

“I’ll be at the door, then,” he says.

You’re not actually surprised. Shouldn’t be disappointed. You been around the guy for a week, you don’t know nothing about him—favorite color, hobbies, does he like music? But you remember him leaning down to whisper information to you. The flash of surprise when you asked his opinion that first time, about Kahga. The way he lingered in your tent with his hands clasped around your wrist to stop the bleeding.

Oh no. No. You are not going to go sniveling like some pathetic fucking child.

“Can any of you get this open?” you say.

“I believe I may have a spell that’ll do the trick,” Gale says, more subdued than usual.

You back off and let him at it. Nobody says nothing about you sniffing and clearing your throat.

And it’s a good thing y’all do get Rack Guy free: turns out he was part of the group that got caught with the druid and he heard the goblins talking about a new war bear in the pens.

Y’all find the warg pens. Kill all the goblins.

Except for two, shitty kids. They’re assholes, no mistake. Each one deserves a solid ass-whooping. But you ain’t gonna kill no kids, even little bastard ones, because people gotta draw a line some damn where and that’s where you’re placing yours.

Wyll discovers a tunnel y’all can shimmy through all the way to the surface. But then the bear y’all rescued turns into a man. Or elf. A very, very large elf. Funny enough, he don’t do to you what Karlach does. Apparently you only like beefcakes when they got tits.

All of that flutters through your mind as the elf introduces himself. Goes quiet as he lays jesus hands on you. And crashes when his expression turns grave.

You make a point to avoid eye contact with Lae’zel. Y’all are gonna have to go after her creche, next.

The brainworms ain’t just brainworms. They’re magic fucking brainworms and they’re unfuck-with-able—Halsin don’t go into details, but it’s real easy for you to picture brains oozing outta your eye sockets like gray whipped cream and chunky jello.

“So all of this was for nothing?” Astarion says.

You don’t look at him, either.

But Halsin ain’t done. He has theories and information back at the grove, but he’s got a score to settle with the goblin cult. With their leaders. And he ain’t gonna get distracted by y’all’s problem until he deals with them leaders.

Or until you do.

Goddamn last thing you want is another fight.

Goddamn dead last thing you want is another fucking fight with a stranger in the mix. You kinda got a feel for how y’all move. Fucking trying to fit somebody else into that (who turns into a giant fucking bear, cause that’s subtle) would be a stressed out nightmare.

“You’ll try to help us after the grove is safe?” you say. And ignore the eyeroll you feel Astarion give the back of your skull. The quiet hissed swears from Lae’zel. Even Shadowheart looks miffed.

“I can,” Halsin says, all apologetic (and pissed), but weirdly, magnificently sombre. No wonder he’s head druid. Guy gives “wise grandpa” vibes in a brick shithouse body. “I do apologize for putting your needs aside—grave as they appear. But my people are in danger, and I cannot let this unnatural darkness take root.”

Fuck. You wince and rub your face.

“Don’t you dare,” Astarion says.

“We’ll do it.”

At least Wyll seems proud of you.

Chapter Text

As y’all don’t got no bear around to announce yourselves, y’all decide stealth is the best option. You start on the peripherals, catch stragglers or small groups here and there. Gale can actually silence a whole room while the others move in and take them out. Astarion is as efficient with his knives as usual.

Y’all find a guy in a cage, lamenting the new cult. Goblins, turns out, have their own god. One this codger (you can’t actually tell his age, but little dude’s talking like an old-timer) refuses to abandon.

Gale lets him out, too.

Eventually, y’all wind up in the main hall at the front, where some goblin version of a biker granny tries to brand you. And then tries to mind-whammy you. So she’s got a parasite. She calls you a “true soul” like them people you fed to the owlbear, and she’s one of them leaders Halsin mentioned, so you suggest y’all talk in private and she goes right along with you.

You barely get the door shut when Lae’zel skewers her. Literally. Sword punches clear through her back, out her front as she gasps, and then Lae’zel kind of flicks the blade. And biker granny falls to the ground in pieces.

“Jesus,” you say.

“We waste our time,” she says.

Biker Granny has a bedroom with another ogress in it (you wonder if it’s the same one hooking up with Man-Wolf, but she don’t seem to recognize you when she spots y’all). The fight is short but mean, and as y’all are looting around, Karlach busts down a door that opens to a spooky hallway. Which leads to an inner temple that puts a sneer on Shadowheart’s face.

“Not a fan of this goddess?” you say, looking up at a statue of a woman in some ancient robe ensemble.

“Selune,” Shadowheart says like a curse. A moon goddess or something. Shadowheart calls her followers hypocrites and a few other choice insults.

Huh. You notice Gale eyeballing her all speculative, but he don’t say nothing.

And then Karlach finds and presses a button that opens a wall. Faerun really, really likes the whole “secret hallway behind a fake door” bullshit.

Below is a fuck off chasm with a ladder disappearing into the gloom.

“Hell no,” you say.

But Gale surprises you by offering to float himself down—y’all watch until he’s swallowed by the gloom—and then fly himself back up. “It’s a Selunite outpost extending into what I heavily suspect is the Underdark.”

You zone out a little. It ain’t murdering the two other ringleaders, and it ain’t getting the worm outta your head, and it ain’t fixing whatever inter personal fuckshit is going on between you and…and everyone and each other.

You ain’t sure how to deal with the other two leaders. One is their general—something called a drow, and the others looks real grim about that—and the other guy is holding a fucking pep rally with another dozen goblins in a room around a dead squidward.

“Fuck,” you say.

Which is when you catch the words “spark powder barrels” and “enough to light the whole place up.” You turn. Find two goblins chatting in the corner.

“What’s this about barrels?” you say.

The thing about modern Earth warfare is that people got real, real good at killing other people from a distance. Sometimes even killing people who ain’t in the same room, or continent, as you. Faerun ain’t primitive—that word is loaded with all kinds of racist undertones anyway—but they’re still more used to killing with blades and arrows and spells.

Y’all find a way into the bomb room through Biker Granny’s quarters. You give her cooling body a wide berth.

You and Astarion have been ignoring each other since he chose the lookout option, and he now stands at the edge of the group, cleaning his knives. But you seen him sneak, and you seen him climb, and he’s the best man for the idea brewing in your brain.

And maybe he’ll take it as an olive branch?

(You got nothing to apologize for in snapping at him about Rack Guy. You stood up for yourself, and for Rack Guy. Anybody who’s got a problem with that is the problem.)

“Astarion,” you say.

And he ignores you like a petty bitch. So that’s going great.

Losing your shit ain’t never accomplished nothing. So you reign yourself in, walk over to him, and stop right in front of him. You try to keep your body relaxed and your tone professional. “Astarion.”

He deigns to look up. Give you a smile. “Ah, our illustrious leader. What may I do for you now?”

Murder or lockpicks. His only contributions.

Your righteous huff deflates just a little. That part was uncalled for. Breaking people down to what they can be used for is fucked up farmstead shit.

You really look at him, the minute hunch to his shoulders, the flat eyes, the tiny tilt of his head. He’s a bitch, but that don’t mean you have to be.

Fuck. Damn.

Well, no time like the present. You breathe deep and slow.

“I’m sorry,” you say, trying to ignore the others around you. “About what I said earlier. You’re a lot more than I gave you credit for, and it was outta line for me to suggest otherwise. It won’t happen again.”

Y’all might not be friends, but he’s still a member of the group, and you’d feel like a giant fuckhead going around and making bad feelings.

But…he just stands there for half a second. His face does something complicated—a frown, confusion, narrowed eyes—before settling back on his usual, fake smile.

“Ah, for that, I can only assume you require something outside of my usual repertoire?” he says.

Which…how the fuck does the dirt potion translate something into French??

And ouch. He really took that insult to heart, huh? Fuck.

You close your eyes. “I deserve that. Yes, I’m gonna ask you to do something. And leaving that guy was a dickhead move. But I really am sorry for, for implying that you’re only your talents. Which you have more than two, and that was me being a jackass. But I’m sorry, and you deserve to know it.”

Again, that careful blankness. It only lifts when you show him your baby bird of a plan, all small and ugly and shaking around in the mental nest. He snorts like he can’t help it, and for just a split second, something genuine skirts along the edge of his smirk.

“You’re forming a pattern, darling,” he says.

“If it works, don’t break it,” you say. “It’s how the empire back home deals with everybody.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned something like that,” Gale says. “When this is over, you and I desperately need to have another sit down chat.”

So you can spill U.S. military tactics you learned from the internet to a wizard. Why not.

“And if I run into anyone else skulking about?” Astarion says.

You want to sigh, but don’t. “Still hungry?”

“Always, darling.”

“I guess as long as you ain’t dropping bodies outta the rafters…”

The man lights the fuck up, a kid handed a hundred dollars and let loose in a candy store. He scuttles up the closest ladder with what you can only describe as sheer glee.

“Turning a vampire loose in a den of goblins,” Shadowheart says. “I’m not sure which part is worse. Do you think he can drink himself into a stupor?”

“He got pretty sloshed the night when soldier here stuck her soul in a jar,” Karlach says. Catches your silent question. “While you went wherever it is you went to, old Fangs came back drenched in blood. Looked like he got in a fight with a bear. He couldn’t even stand straight. Then he saw you, well, dead, and he stormed off. Tripped over a root, too, which I only noticed cause he don’t normally do stuff like that.”

…huh. Okay?

Well, he seems to revel in your ideas (when they involve murder or being a shithead). He stopped when you told him to. He was an absolute bastard about it, and he later tried again. But when you told him no, he fucked off (which hurt, you’re beginning to realize, because you apparently have the emotional intelligence of a potato. It actually hurt).

“I think I trust him,” you say, looking up to where he disappeared. “With this stuff, anyway.”

Astarion returns with good tidings. There’s a path along the rafters right over to Door Rags and his pep rally. Gale has enough juice to help float up the barrels Lae’zel and Shadowheart can’t hoist up (Karlach looks on like a dog told to sit while you throw a ball). It takes a bit to get everything where you want, but y’all manage it.

You have to step over three dead goblins stuffed into a corner. Astarion catches your gaze and gives you a proud tilt of his chin.

See? it seems to say. Not raining down bodies.

You give him a thumbs up.

Then you sneak off with Wyll to a wall ledge overlooking the rally room. Spot another room off to the side with some magic, floating crystal ball.

“A watcher,” Wyll says. Up close, he smells of mint and some kinda herb—you ain’t sure if it’s soap, perfume, or something he uses in his hair. “Someone is keeping an eye on all this. We’ll want to take that out before any fighting starts. Blind whoever’s controlling it.”

“Can you do that?”

He gives you a warm smile. “The blade will strike true.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, too. Then you catch voices, and inch further out onto the ledge. Across a wooden bridge, somebody moves. A woman in armor. An elf? Only she’s purple with a shock of white hair.

“The drow,” Wyll whispers, sinking into a crouch next to you. “She’ll likely be a powerful fighter. They’re known for their strength in battle. They kill any of their own who show what they consider a weakness. Which generally amounts to being kind or merciful.”

Because that worked so well for the Spartans.

Wyll must catch a look from you. You say, “I’ll tell you later. It’s stupid and impractical, and usually ends with a couple of people slapfighting each other for status while their nation can’t support itself anymore and collapses.”

And another idea blooms in your head. Which you share with him.

He considers a moment. Nods slowly. “Alright, it seems a sound strategy. I’m beginning to see a pattern with you.”

Which, what the fuck does that even mean?

But y’all need to move. The longer y’all camp out up here, the more likely somebody gets spotted. You both sneak back to join the others.

Chapter Text

The plan is simple: hit them from above. The modern twist: with bombs. In this case, that’s barrels of sparkpowder and lamp oil. It’s the same as the fake paladins, but bigger, and with more explosives. It’s also both more and less complicated.

Between Gale, a magic necklace Shadowheart picked up a few days ago (that she just told y’all about, and you catch Gale eyeballing it like a plate of biscuits and gravy), and Astarion being a sneaky shit, y’all get everything into position.

Most of them barrels dot around in the rafters over the pep rally as Door Rags hollers something about respect and bowing before you and drinking from the skulls of enemies, blah blah blah cult shit. Lae’zel takes another barrel over to Wyll. There’s a wooden bridge between drow lady and the rest of the temple, and if he and Lae’zel time it right, they’ll hopefully blow the bridge with the drow on it and spare the lot a you the trouble of fighting her.

Which leaves you, once again, in the back as everybody moves themselves into position. You watch them go and that same, sick feeling fills your gut. Astarion don’t even glance your way. You try to return the favor.

This room is bigger than that whole tollhouse. Y’all got more bombs, but the blast won’t be contained and amplified the way it was there. Plus, the targets here are more spread out. Ain’t no guarantee y’all’ll get everybody as effective; it’s probably gonna take groundwork to finish the job.

You tell Karlach to kick one of them sparkpowder barrels directly onto Door Rag’s head.

And then it’s time to exact U.S. Foreign Policy: Round Two. Time to stand back and rain down fire and death.

Door Rags finishes his rousing speech and takes a seat on—that’s a goddamn throne. Fuck that guy.

The space where Karlach should be hides in shadows—thanks to both Gale and Shadowheart, the big, burning tiefling ain’t nothing but a blurry outline. You lift your hand, palm out, fingers splayed wide.

She kicks off the first barrel.

Around the room, the others do the same. Six different barrels plummet down from the dark. They ain’t really aimed at anyone. But one of them catches a goblin, crushing it instantly even as the wooden frame bursts apart.

Gallons of accelerant burst all over the room. Door Rags stands and goblins shout and swear. And then look up.

Just in time to catch the second wave.

Sparkpowder, as Gale explained, is volatile. It don’t actually need flame to ignite. A hard enough jolt will do the trick—something about the friction between the grains building charge and then igniting.

The first one lands right on Door Rags. Face turned up, gawping in surprise. It plows him down into the ground as it comes apart and explodes.

They go off like a chain reaction. Ka-THOOM and a smaller blast as vapor drifting through the air from the accelerant combusts. You duck and cover your face as the concussive waves rattle through you. As heat scorches your skin.

It works. A shout in the distance—Lae’zel—and Wyll’s voice gone echoey and that should take care of the drow and the spy eye. Y’all might make it outta here without—

Somebody else shouts. You don’t recognize the voice. Or the language. Look over to see Shadowheart shove off the last barrel. But light flashes below. Catch a glimpse of a goblin with feathers and bones in their hair. It’s pointing a staff. You actually see the spell arcing up.

It hits the barrel midair.

Oh fu—

Horrific force blasts you. Knocks you right outta your skull.

Black.

Aware. Weightless. Hands scrabble, trying to find purchase. Your legs kick and there’s nothing underneath oh god oh fuck—

The wooden beam pulls away. Your stomach gives a funny little flip-flop.

You fall. You fall too long. This is bad. This is gonna be real—

Impact.

Pain.

Blackness.

Muffled noise—

More black.

You can’t breathe. It hurts and you cannot breathe—

You lie flat on your back. Your body screams. You can’t inhale. Lungs shudder and spasm and you gulp and suck and your body just won’t do it. Won’t fucking breathe in fuck you’re gonna die again, fuck shit.

Your lungs hitch. Then release. Your gasp is loud and wet. Makes you think of calves at the farmstead. The sounds they made as one of the boys slit their throat. Knowing it was bad, you always thought, knowing it was fatal but making one last bawl anyways.

Then you cough. And wet spatters your chin. It tastes like metal.

Rupture. Something broken in your chest or your throat. Inhaled blood.

Very, very bad.

The fuck happened?

You’re on the ground. It’s hard and warm. Stone? The air is thick with smoke, with screams. Orange light paints everything in waves. The place is burning. Stinks. Not just of fire, but of char. Of meat and hair.

A wooden beam far above ends in a jagged, splintered stump. The wall behind it is half-crumbled.

Goblins. You’re in the goblin camp. The bombs…

Your fingers move. Hands lift. You can wiggle your toes…

You cannot wiggle your toes. You try, and try again, but your legs are dead ends. Don’t even hurt, beyond the feel of horrifying pressure. It’s like they just…stop.

Panic skitters along the inside of your rib cage to bite into your heart like a juicy apple.

Your toes don’t move. Neither do your legs. You can’t feel them at all.

No. No, no, no, please no.

The rafter. That big, wood beam lies over you. You try to lift your head to get a better look, but that movement makes pain spike behind your eyes so bad everything turns to spinning, queasy pain.

You’re stuck. Room on fire, and you’re pinned like a butterfly in a fucking collector’s case.

The air is harsh in your throat when you drag in a gulp. Your lungs hitch, and the cough is weak, and still too wet.

“Help,” you wheeze. It’s barely audible over the sound of chaos and murder.

Where’s everybody? They was up there. You don’t see nobody now. You hope they’re okay. They was further from the barrel when it went off. Hopefully they didn't get caught like you did.

You’re tired. More than usual, more than the depression or your own dumbass trauma response. That should alarm you. Part of you registers that and reaches for the mental alarms.

But they don’t got no power.

Footsteps scurry nearby. A goblin’s scratchy voice shrieks. More voices echo in the distance, and light flashes. First purple, then gold. A woman roars.

The shadows move. You look up, find the bone and feather goblin. It sneers down at you, needle teeth glinting in the crackling inferno light.

“Traitor,” it spits and raises a knife.

You can only stare up at it. Can’t move. Exhausted. Eyelids heavy.

Silver flashes. The goblin’s throat opens. Hot, salty blood spatters all over your face. You sputter and try to blink it outta your eyes. Catch the pale fingers dig into the edge of the wound and wrench back in a monstrous tug that rips the neck wide open and damn near takes off the thing’s head.

The goblin falls.

Astarion looms into view.

He don’t say nothing. Just looks down at you. His eyes glow in the light, a haunting red that’s pure predator eye shine.

Your eyes hurt. Lids too heavy. Time seems to skip, because he’s suddenly crouched over you, his own eyes narrowed, an alien expression on his face. Like he’s sorting out which type of bug you are, like he’s cataloging which board to re-pin you to.

You try to talk, but it comes out as iron and choking. It don’t hurt much, no more. You feel almost fine. Except everything inside you is wrong in a way you’ve never felt before but know, instinctively, that you ain’t gonna recover from. You’re exhausted. You need to close your eyes and let go. Not into sleep, though. That ain’t what’s waiting for you. This is death tugging at your mind.

Catastrophic damage has broken your body; it’s shutting down and you know it. So you can only look up at Astarion, motionless above you. And close your eyes and sink down and down.

You have the most fucked up dream. Something with fire and red eyes and a corn seed. You wake up for just a second, enough to itch at something over your chest, before you resettle on your side. Then you’re out again.

When you wake again, you’re on a bedroll. It’s soft and warm. You burrow deeper, shove it up around your face so you can nuzzle into it. A shift of your hips and pressure disappears and you sigh. Back to sleep…

“Eleanor.”

Mrnghgrphghgh.

“Eleanor,” and then words you don’t catch. It’s Shadowheart. Shit. You musta slept in.

“’M ‘wake,” you mutter, and it comes out, “Mrngya.”

Goddamn. You gotta open your stupid eyes. Gonna have to flop around and find your goddamn pack and drink another goddamn dirt potion again.

Only you do open your eyes, and you ain’t in your tent. Trees rustle above you. A flap and a dark shape as a crow darts among the branches. It’s late evening, the sky sorta pale to the west but darkening rapidly. Shadowheart’s face is worn, flecked in blood and soot, and she’s usually real clean, what…?

Your memory kicks back on.

You scramble up.

Chapter Text

And you immediately flop back down as the continent gives a whirl beneath you. Shadowheart sighs. Something rustles as you squeeze your eyelids shut and try to stay awake. A stopper squeaks, and then Shadowheart’s cool hand slips around the back of your neck. She urges you up at a much more sedate—and sensible—pace. And the taste of dirt and fire flood your mouth.

“Fuck shit that stuff is so nasty!” you say.

“It doesn’t smell pleasant, either,” she says. “Now lay back down before you break your spine again.”

Again? The fuck?

You ease down. Wiggle your toes. And them fuckers move. The surge of relief almost takes you out again.

“Do I wanna know?” you say.

Dark smears hang beneath her eyes. Her lips press thin. Then, “Suffice to say, you nearly died. I managed to piece you together, but barely. You need to take it easy for several days, no exceptions. It took a lot out of you.” And her, judging by the slump of her shoulders and the sheer exhaustion painted over her posture. “Your bones and flesh had to knit back together. You’ll be tired for some time.”

“Something exploded,” you say.

She nods. “One of the goblins was some kind of mage. Sent a sparkpowder barrel back towards the pillar holding our section of the rafters. I managed to catch myself, but you…it was chaos below. It took all of us some time to find you.”

Laying on your back, coughing up blood. Ruptured insides, bleeding out into your own body with your spine shattered. There was a beam on you. You were too far gone to lift it. But your memory is hazy. Pain and smoke and screaming. Something pale. Red…?

Where’s Astarion?

Y’all look clear of the goblin camp. Set up in a patch of woods that don’t smell of burnt hair or blood or piss, so that’s nice. Karlach has her tent set up, with Wyll’s beside hers. She’s on her side, passed out and curled around Clive. Gale’s voice murmurs, and something scrapes across metal—Lae’zel tending to her gear.

“Everybody else okay?” you say. You scan for white and don’t find it.

“In one piece, yes,” Shadowheart says. “A few bruises, burns, and Gale has a concussion. You were the worst off.”

She don’t mention Astarion. His tent ain’t in the usual spot…oh. Oh, it’s not in his usual spot. There’s a clear area next to Karlach, where your tent would habitually go if your body wasn’t “knitting” its own bones back together. But the red fabric of Astarion’s tent ain’t next to yours. It’s next to Gale. On the other side of camp.

Something about that twinges in your chest.

But you don’t got time to study that at all, because something rasps behind you and the voice of the devil says, “Thou must take care to protect thy flesh.”

Motherfucker!

Injuries be damned, you’re up and backing into Shadowheart, clutching at her as your legs almost spill out from under you as the dizziness blasts through your vision.

Withers stands there, arms at his sides, rotten and dried out face peering at you with his nasty, shriveled eyes. Fucker just appeared behind you. You just looked around and that fucker wasn’t nowhere around.

“What does that mean?” Shadowheart says for you, and it’d be rude to kiss her on the cheek without asking.

“Thy soul is bound to a vessel, and thy name is not written within this realm.”

Which means fuck all to you.

“Her soul is here,” Shadowheart says. “Couldn’t she pay your price as the rest of us can?”

But Jerky shakes his head. “Nay. To restore thy flesh to life, thy soul must inhabit it. Should thy flesh die, thy soul will remain bound to its vessel, trapped.”

Now you frown. Turn to Shadowheart, who’s gone pale. “What’s he saying?”

Cause you got a suspicion that if you go and kick the bucket, you’ll be the first poltergeist Faerun has ever seen wandering the wilds hollering, “It’s Britney, bitch!”

Shadowheart takes a breath—to compose herself, you think—and says, “He can’t revivify you if you die, anymore. You’d…you’d become a lich.”

“A what?”

A fucking ringwraith, is what she describes. Which don’t that just sound de-fucking-lightful.

“And this ‘vessel’ containing her soul,” Shadowheart says to Jerky. “There’s no permanent solution? A better way?”

Jerky holds up a hand. Ignores Shadowheart completely. “Thou is not of this realm. The divine powers do not recognize thee. Take care of thy mortal flesh. I shall say no more.”

“Wait,” Shadowheart says.

Jerky only walks off into the shadows. Gone off to lurk, like usual.

Shadowheart’s jaw clenches a couple of times. Something flashes over her features, it looks like worry, if you’d be so bold to assume. Then she stuffs her emotions into a mental jar (like your soul), and gives you a once-over.

“You need to lie back down,” she says. “And we’re going to have to seriously reconsider this for any…future plans of yours.”

You got enough bullshit going on, that becoming a ringwraith ain’t even in the top five list of Shit to Deal With. The fact that these people can just be, like, brought back from being dead is enough of a mind boggle. It only makes you feel even more vulnerable in comparison. Makes you feel coddled.

You are always gonna have to stand back, now. Always let all of them deal with everything and do all the work of whatever bullshit your brain throws at the wall. Because the big druid is gone, and he ain’t gonna help y’all, so now y’all will have to go to Lae’zel’s people and that just…just seems like such a fun time.

You’re starting to wonder if that demon fuckhead was onto something. All y’all’s leads are closing off. Y’all are stuck with the memory of Not-Sasha and whatever the fuck she’s going to ask for because that bitch has a reason for shielding you, she just don’t want to spill it right now which means it’s a lot and it’s probably very, very bad.

Jesus lord.

You need sleep. Your body feels ragged, like you ain’t slept in a week and the only thing keeping unconsciousness at bay is a couple a shots of espresso and you got the shakes and you are three long blinks short of a hard-crash pass-out.

So of course that’s when Lae’zel decides to pick a fight with Shadowheart. And of course Shadowheart does the smart thing, and waits until Lae’zel falls asleep before almost slitting her throat.

These fucking people.

When you do pass out again, you don’t even remember lying down.

You wake to both the owlbear cub and a dog in your camp the next morning. Gale is nice enough to lend you an animal speaking potion, and the owlbear is the most adorable little murder machine you ever met. The dog says his owner died on the road, and that Volo guy took him in, but the Volo guy lost him (or ditched him, you ain’t really sure) so he followed the people smell back to y’all.

You ain’t never had a pet dog. There were a couple of dogs on the farmstead, but they wasn’t for playing with. You kinda always wanted one; living in an apartment nixed that idea, though.

“You’re not going to seriously let two animals follow us around, surely?” Shadowheart says.

You look from her, to the dog, and back to her.

“But he’s such a good boy,” you say.

And if that dog’s tail don’t give a fucking wag at that.

So now y’all have an owlbear cub and a dog. Add two more members to the brainworm crew.

Gale says he’ll jump all y’all back to the grove with them magic rocks. After breakfast (“the mind requires nutrition as well”), and that means letting him snack on a magic necklace as he cooks breakfast.

It’s something Wyll found in the temple, casts magic lights that turn invisible people back to visible (…that’s a thing you don’t like at all). He forks it over without complaint. And after Gale disintegrates it, he looks at y’all, sighs, and explains what the fuck.

When he’s done, you quietly add Mystra to your “people to kill???” mental list. Lean to Shadowheart to whisper, “Can somebody fistfight a goddess?”

And the look she gives you damn near regresses you back to childhood.

“I would highly discourage any attempt,” she says, drier than Withers’ ass.

So Gale’s cursed by a goddess (and his ex???). Only he don’t call it cursed, but she certainly left him out to die, didn’t she?

Nice to see gods here are a bunch of useless fucks, too.

Which you kinda, maybe, accidentally mutter too loud. Because Astarion—freshly emerged from his tent after what appears to’ve been a great night of sleep—says, “On that, we can agree.”

You accidentally meet his gaze. Jerk yours away. (fuck).

But that just jiggles something loose in your head. Red eyes peering down at you. A beam crushing your legs.

You were trapped. Astarion. Astarion was there.

“When you found me,” you say to Shadowheart, “was I under rubble?”

She hums. “You were actually very lucky. You just missed it when you landed.”

You remember. Couldn’t breathe. Aching exhaustion. The weight of all that crushing you, and a pair of red eyes staring down out of the smoke.

“Right,” you say. “Good thing.”

She goes off to gather her things as everybody packs up—Karlach insists on taking your pack, cause Shadowheart glares at anybody who tries to hand you anything heavier than a plate of scrambled eggs.

You said to keep distance. You said it was for the best. No more misunderstandings, no chance to be hurt. People do the most damage when you let them in, and the safest thing right now, especially right now, is to clam up tight.

But you remember that asshole. And so your feet carry you over to the pale elf as he finishes stuffing his tent into his magic pack. The rampage yesterday left a pink tinge to his skin, a bit of color to his lips and the tips of his ears. He looks quite a bit more, well, alive than usual out in the sunlight.

For a long moment, you look at him. It don’t make sense. He ain’t the type to help somebody; he’s the exact type to advocate for you to break a man’s kneecaps for fun and profit. And even if he did, if something possessed him to do something nice for somebody else, he’d brag about it to every living soul to score brownie points.

Maybe you’re wrong. You cracked your head; whole thing could’a been a hallucination, easy-peasy.

But then why him? Why would your brain conjure this bastard, instead of Sasha or Uncle Randy or, or anyone else?

“Is there something in my teeth, or did the cleric not heal your brain injury?” Astarion says.

There’s no fucking way he helped you.

Still.

You ain’t sure how to phrase the question. It sounds so stupid in your head. He stands there, unnaturally still, hardly blinking as he looks at you. And frowns at you.

“Brain injury it is,” he says and starts to slip by.

It makes no damn sense. The man himself don’t make no damn sense and that’s on a good day. He’s snarky, a bitch, and steals from refugees. He likes killing people, he’s vain as fuck, and…and he had absolutely no idea what to do with your apology. You’d caught it on his face. And the way he perked up when you flattered him, that night you talked about your Kahga plan.

There’s your opening.

“Just wanted to thank you,” you say, all casual.

For a second, you think it ain’t gonna work. His back is to you as he saunters over to where Gale gathers all the gear for the portal. He wasn’t there, and you really did hallucinate that douchebag because human brains are fucking weird.

But then he stops. Turns, to give you the most unimpressed glare. “Excuse me?”

And oh. Oh, he almost sells it. He’s real good at obfuscation. Man would make a helluva street magician, all “look here and not at my left hand”. But there’s a flicker. The tiniest goddamn thing. So fast and so subtle—the barest twitch to his eyelids—that you ain’t even one hundred percent sure you see it.

So you jab at him again. “Thank you. For what you did at the goblin camp.”

“Murdering goblins?” he says, slowly raising one eyebrow. “It was hardly a challenge. By all means, I ought to be thanking you.”

You stare. He stares back.

You didn’t hallucinate. He was there when you landed. He fucking killed the goblin trying to knife you, and he must’a moved that big fucking beam.

The both of you square off, shields up, waiting for the other to blink first.

“Right, everyone ready?” Gale says.

The fuck game is he playing?

One you ain’t gonna win by brute-forcing it. So you change tack.

“Not a fan of gods then, huh?” you say.

And that shithead changes tack right alongside you. “Never saw much use. Most of them don’t care for undead. Which I heard is a new little problem for you?”

Die and become a ringwraith. Awesome.

Gale opens the portal. Lae’zel charges through first, Wyll following along behind her. The both of you shuffle along as Karlach steps through, then Shadowheart. Until it’s your turn.

You pause at the edge of the glowing, purple swirl. Turn to give one, last shot.

“You did real good back there,” you say. You ain’t friends or whatever, but that don’t mean you can’t include people, and he did do a damn good job.

Again, that hairline crack in his mask. Something beneath it…

But then he’s all liquid smarm again. “My limited talents remain at your disposal, darling.”

Gale clears his throat, because he’s holding this damn thing open, and you give him an apologetic nod before stepping into the crackling swirl of magic.

Chapter Text

The hollering starts as y’all approach the grove gate. It’s good hollering, for a change. A lot of, “They’re here!”

“Halsin must have already arrived,” Wyll says.

Which means Halsin can also open portals. Apparently not when he’s in bear form in a goblin den, though. Something to do with having to say words, according to Gale, which a bear can’t do very well.

The gate opens, and half the tieflings are waiting for you. There’s some shouts, a couple crying ones, and a lot of relieved body language.

“Thank the gods,” one woman puts it. “Now we’ve got a fighting chance not to get torn to shreds. At least not by goblins.”

Which…what the fuck else is out there?

Halsin did make it. But he’s too busy dealing with y’all’s whole coup thing, and you’d rather not, you know, poke that bear (you say that one out loud and it translates well enough for Astarion to make a face and groan all dramatic). Plus the tieflings are antsy as hell.

Naturally, they gather up their booze and decide to throw a party.

That guy y’all rescued from the goblins, the one with the stupid hat, is there. You spot him looking around; when he makes eye contact with you, his expression brightens and he charges at you through an audience listening to a tiefling woman sing with a pretty voice.

You, reading this as him looking for you specifically, duck behind a tent and scurry into the underbrush—thank fuck them druids let trees and shrubbery grow all over in here. Foppish looks for you for a hot second. Mumbles something with the word “drat!” And the dirt potion actually translates. How fucking twee.

That man is a gabber. You are not in a gabbing mood on the best of days—least not with a stranger.

Parties ain’t your thing. You don’t drink, don’t hook up, and it takes you a fair bit to make friends. So there ain’t much point in any of this for you. Maybe you should just camp out under this bush and wait the whole thing out.

The others seem to be having a great time. Karlach flings herself into dance moves so enthusiastically nonsense that if these people had the internet, she’d be a viral star. You don’t spot Lae’zel or Wyll, but Gale, with several tieflings, tends the cook fire and a bubbling vat of…you ain’t sure. It smells great, though, and you are fucking famished.

So you slink out like you didn’t just crawl out of the foliage, and sidle your way past a wizard tiefling launching fireworks from his hands. Neat. Gale has a smile and a steaming bowl for you. It’s a thick ass stew—potatoes, tender meat, onions, and a load of salty-spice seasonings. He hands you a kind of flatbread, too, fresh off a stone set on the edge of the fire. Fucker steams when you rip off a piece.

Your eyes almost roll into the back of your skull when you take a bite, and the wizard ain’t never looked so pleased with himself.

“You’re a goddamn wonder,” you say. And then Foppish pops up at the edge of the crowd and you have to duck away.

Unfortunately, you’re surrounded by tall rocks. The only place to hide without sprinting and sloshing your hot stew all over your hands is a tent.

A red one.

The pale owner stands outside with a bottle of wine, all but laughing at you.

“Hide me,” you say and crouch behind his tent.

“My dear fellow?” Foppish says.

Astarion looks from the man, over to you, crouched just out of sight.

“And what do I get out of it?” he says because he’s a rat bastard.

Blood, you almost say. Except you ain’t letting him bite you. It ain’t safe, and it gave him ideas.

“My share of the wine?” you say.

He snorts. Sneers. Then Foppish is there, and you ain’t never talked to the man, but he’s looking for you, so now you have to avoid him on sheer fucking principal.

“Ah, excuse me,” Foppish says. “I’ve been looking for, er, your leader, I’m told? A woman from another plane, if you can believe such tales. Quite the tactician, I hear.”

“And who told you that?” Astarion…the word drawl don’t cut it. You heard the man bitch before. And flirt. Whine and complain and even snap at you. But you ain’t never heard a man lace his words with such viscerally dripping condescension quite like this.

“Why, everyone!” Foppish says. “I say, you’re also a member of her band of adventurers, are you not? Is it true she persuaded half of the goblin camp to sacrifice themselves to this new god of theirs?”

You did what now??

Astarion don’t blink. Don’t even move. He’s the picture they put in the old version of dictionaries, the one they chose for “disdain.”

“That was the poison, actually,” he says.

Foppish hums. Jots notes—because he’s carrying around as fucking quill and parchment. “And is it true that she took a vampire as a paramour?”

You tip forwards, slosh the stew over your hand, and bite back a hiss. Only it ain’t fast enough, because Foppish makes a noise. Leans like he’s trying to peer past Astarion and you have to duck back.

Well fuck. He’s gonna find you all crouched in the dirt like a fucking gollum. Add that to whatever bullshit he’s already gathering about you. Fuck you. You just wanted stew. A threat gone, one fucking item off your fucking checklist, and now some goddamn middle ages version of a fucking tabloid reporter is gonna get the gravy—

“Interested in vampires, are you, darling?” Astarion says, because he calls everybody that. And oh. His tone changed. Gone all smooth and buttery the way you remember from the woods, when you kinda lied about being sexually experienced. “I could tell you a thing or two about vampires, you sweet thing.”

You can’t peek to check, but it’s real easy to imagine the way that man leans in, eyes all sharp and glowing in the refracted light. Flashing the barest hint of his fangs behind his lips.

“I, er, I thank you, my boy,” Foppish says.

“I am not your boy.”

The snap smacks you. Makes you quiet, makes you small, makes you want to disappear.

Seems to hit Foppish kinda the same way. “My good fellow, I meant to say. But I do believe I’m being summoned. It appears word of my talent has spread to the good people here, and I shall have to bid you a very good night.”