Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Birth was always meant to be painful.

Probably not for the person being born, though.

He wasn’t particularly sure when he had regained consciousness, only the slime pulling itself into his lungs, only the glass that cut against his skin, the pounding ache in his head. He fell to the ground as the cage shattered, and like of a newborn babe, his lips parted for a scream that must have been boiling for gods know how long.

Instead of a voice rippling from his throat, it was slime, mucus, blood – he hurled it all up, nasty bile coating the burnt floor under ground.

Hands under him. Nails grown into sharpness, scratched and scuffed edges from clawing at the walls of his containment, that’s right, his hands, his own hands that were holding him from falling face first into his own puke.

He felt better after most of the bile was out of him, clean on the inside, and despite the throbbing in his head, he managed to pull himself up and onto his feet, even with how shaky his balance was. Finally able to look around the room that was nearly his grave, he took in his surroundings; the fire, the odd structures he could barely see the detail of, the body on the floor-

Strike. Attack, strike, rip, before it gets you-

How odd, for his mind to be this defensive, when the creature was so clearly dead.

“Good,” a voice said, and it took him longer than it should’ve to realize it was his own as he practically stumbled over to... what, he wasn’t completely sure, but there wasn’t many ways to go, with the fire all around. The blue-glowing device seemed good though, and when he touched it, his vision has cleared up, his scuffed hands stopped bleeding.

That was better. He could focus.

He?

He looked down, at his hands, at his body, covered only in shaggy pants and nothing else; he probably should’ve cringed at the wet, concerningly squishy membrane of the floor that got between his bare toes, but the feeling wasn’t exactly one he would describe as bad. Curious. But his body was definitely male, and with a quick grope at the groin, he confirmed it. One thing down, he tried to remember, something, anything from his past, but it was so hard to think with every one of his instincts screaming at him to strike and rip and tear and slaug-

“Strike, huh.”

That sounded like a name; it felt right on his tongue, partnered well with aftertaste of bile.

It was good enough for right now at least, and he had more pressing issues to think of rather than what was going to be put on his gravestone. Strike headed out, into the surprisingly literal pits of Hells.

For some reason it was incredibly amusing that he could remember the words cerebral oedema much more certainly than he could his own name, but it made pulling the rather outspoken brain out from its bone prison all that easier. Strike slid his hands around it with the ease of tying one’s shoes, a practiced move with just enough pressure not to damage it too much and be mindful of the swelling.

Brain full of holes. Missing holes, a brain like yours, make it-

It would be interesting to see what’d happen if he stabbed it, just a bit, but... Strike glanced around himself as he held the little brain. Alone, on a mindflayer ship, with no memories and no weapons – not the best idea to weaken it, or gods forbid, turn it against him.

“To the helm, to the helm,” the creature whined the moment it was let go, its cute tentacles and feet spawning just to twitch nervously at the wait.

Strike’s already started to follow it; helm of the ship was probably the best way to go, if he wanted out of Hells – how did he even know he was there? The air smelled like sulfur, did he read about that before? – and potentially even do so alive.

“What should I call you?” My name is Strike, I think. I like the sound of it, from my mouth at least. Have others called me so once?

“Us. We are Us.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Us.”

The thing was adorable, it almost distracted him from a shadow that fell over him, but some deep-rooted instinct pushed his bones back and stopped him in place, right before a woman landed in front of him with a sword in hand.

“Abomination,” she hissed at him, as Strike stared at the sword and the way she held it. “This is your en- tsk’vas!”

The twist of whatever worm was eating at his brain was almost a welcome change of pace to the previous headache he had, and the visions certainly made it more interesting. Not that the woman agreed, judging from her shout of pain.

Dragon’s wing. Sliver of a sword, slaughtered enemies. Tadpole, worm, crawling into an eye. Pale man with eyes like pink spinel, fire roaring behind- Was this right now? Did their minds connect? What did she see in him?

It was gone in a breath, returning to the previous, milder pain as the woman sheathed her sword.

“... You are no thrall, good. Vlaakith preserves,” she nodded. “Quickly, then, we must make it to the helm.”

“Us knows where it is,” Strike agreed. He liked the stranger already; the immediate efficiency was certainly appreciated in the situation. And the cute furrow to her brow when she didn’t seem to understand, until he hinted at the little brain pet he’s acquired. “If you don’t mind continuing together.”

She glanced at Us, catching on quickly. “It will not attack us, as long as it thinks we’re thralls. It could prove useful in battle ahead.”

“Great, let’s go then. Unless if you want to appreciate the view some more?~”

A smile slipped to his lips without Strike even noticing, and he almost immediately felt more like himself – whoever that might be. The woman rolled her eyes.

“There,” she pointed, posing for battle once again. “We take care of the hell beasts, then, continue.”

She has charged forward too fast for Strike to be able to inform her that he wasn’t even sure if he could fight, but is was slightly too late as an imp advanced on her, and she cut it clean in half.

Blood squirted over infertile ground.

Something in Strike rose, an instinct, a need, power, it swirled through his chest, a word that came to mind so much easier than his own name, ignis; he watched as another hellish creature screamed as it burnt to death in front of him. The irony distracted him for just a moment too long before it hit him that it was his magic that did so, the practiced gesture of his hand throwing a fire bolt felt as easy as a handshake. It was over before it even started.

“... oh.”

“A magic user,” the Githyanki woman noted while wiping the black tar of blood into a corpse of a fallen thrall, “I was wondering why you’re so foolishly unarmed.”

“It would appear so. Give me a moment, if you will-“ Strike crouched by another corpse after noticing a crossbow and a few bolts on it; it wasn’t much, but certainly better than bare fists and hopes for magic to not run out. He took a knife on another corpse, just in case, but right when he was considering pulling the robe off of it for the slightest layer of armor, a familiar sound caressed his ear.

A woman screaming. It had a nice ring to it.

“We don’t have time, istik!”

But Strike’s already started to move before he could think much about it; his head hurt more if he thought too much, he realized, and so far, his instinct have seemed to not be that bad of a thing to follow.

“Tsk’va, pa’vrylk-“

“Get me out of here!”

The screaming woman was in one of the pods, but she was surprisingly coherent; pounding her fists against the glass and kicking at the –door? Did it even have a door?– front of the biomachine.

“You,” her voice came out muffled, familiar as Strike cocked his head to look upon the panic in her eyes. “You have to help me! Please!”

His companion seemed to disagree, with that pissed off scowl that Strike was finding himself enjoying already, but perhaps it was just a welcome change after he (supposedly) stared at nothing but mindflayers for a while. “We must proceed. Now.”

“That is fair, but...” Strike sighed, thinking about it when he gave the woman’s attire a second look, and it clicked in his head. “Ah, I see. Are you a cleric?” He yelled the last sentence, just in case if she couldn’t hear him as well as he did her.

“Wh- Yes!”

“Here you go, lady,” he grinned at his gith friend, “useful in battle. It’ll be just a moment. Unless if you happen to have a bunch of healing potions on you?”

Beastly eyes glared him down... and down some more, away from his face and over his body, but before Strike could ask, she just sighed.

“G’lyck... Make it quick.”

“Yes ma’am.”

His cheerfully raised thumb didn’t seem to do much for the woman in the pod, but her screaming stopped once she saw him step to the device on the right.  It was... an odd device, for sure, with a bulbous lift in the middle and tentacles sprouting out at the side... but something compelled him to raise his hand to it. A twitch of pain, a twist of the tadpole in his hole-riddled brain, and yet, through the agony, something else rose once more. Power.

Authority.

And oh, did it feel good.

‘Open’, he thought, ‘do as I say’. He knew it was going to obey before it even reacted, his thoughts forcing themselves into it and making it obey, oh, the things he could do if-

“I refuse to expect a gith to see reason, no offense, so I would prefer to speak to someone in charge.”

“Kainyank, you’re free to go on your own, if that is what pleases you.”

“Hm?” The voices brought Strike back from the power trip, and he pulled his hand away, noticing only now the way tentacles have started wrapping around his wrist. No thank you, he wasn’t intending on becoming part of the ship. Even if the authority did feel oh ever so correct.

“You’re the leader of this group, right?” The cleric asked, and, seeing that Strike’s old githyanki buddy had nothing to say to that, he just went with it.

“Sure. My name is Strike.”

It’s not, he’s never said that sentence before. Has he? He liked the sound. It was too late.

She blinked. “Shadowheart. Do you have a plan to get out?”

Good, they both had stupid names.

“Get to the helm and kill every thing that stands in our way.”

“Efficient. I like it.”

He winked at her, and she gave him a little grin in return before bending down to pick up... something, Strike couldn’t see it well, and didn’t bother asking, especially with their Gith friend already on her way forward.

Us waited for Strike though, and him and Shadowheart were soon jogging after it, along with the Gith, through the dark and bloody hallways.

“So,” he started, right as she threw golden holy fire onto a hell beast that was approaching them a bit too close. “about healing-“

“Save it for when we’re done,” she retorted, giving him a pointed glance across his entire height. Strike almost made the mistake of looking down, which would’ve gotten him to miss the imp that was descending on him – it was enjoyable, to watch it burst like a blood balloon with a flick of a wrist. “If you survive long enough.”

“Cover me.”

“Huh?”

It was a massacre, there was so much blood, a devil and a mindflayer, wrapped in a battle to death; a battle Strike had no logical desire to see the end of, so when he heard the mindflayer shout in his head on what to do, he rushed forward.

The Gith and Shadowheart did good enough job of slaughtering anything that advanced on him, while he ignored the dizziness in his head and ran towards the transponder, just as a red dragon smashed through the roof. The mindflayer’s soft stomach met the blade of the devil’s sword, and as its organs burnt, and it’s wet eyes met Strike’s right as life was leaving them – a projected image of what he had to do. Last conscious decision dedicated to saving the ship... How honorable.

Or perhaps, a mindflayer just wasn’t capable of feeling fear upon death; Strike didn’t particularly care in the moment, even if he would like to know; he grabbed two of the tentacles, the skin of them wrinkled, soggy under his palms, and pushed them together like a child making his dolls kiss.

Heh.

It was a nice enough last thought before the ship went crashing down, and Strike’s vision dipped to black as the vertigo hit him.

Gods, his head fucking hurt.

For a few moments, Strike just laid where he was, almost afraid that if he opened his eyes, he would find himself back in the pod, and it would all happen again... Until he decided that the warmth on his skin was sunlight, not heat from a fire. Birds probably also wouldn’t chirp in Hells, would they?

All in all, it was a lovely beach that he woke up on, he thought as he sat up and tried not to vomit again.

Pieces of the nautiloid laid scattered around like fallen leaves in Marpenoth, and sand was sticking to his skin where it was most bloodied; even if he remembered his own face, Strike was sure he could not look good in the moment. Getting on his feet was a process. Getting back up after he toppled over, even more of it; every single joint in his body hurt like Hellfire, and it took a while for him to manage to walk on the sandy floor, but eventually, he remembered how to place one foot in front of the other.

A squirming in his brain reminded him of the very real, very unwelcome guest he had on him, and so, he couldn’t afford to wait too long – just a few feet away from him was a corpse, one Strike assumed wouldn’t mind if it’s robbed of its clothes. He wondered over, cringing at how his knees cracked during a crouch, and as he reached to grab the man’s shirt, the corpse twitched.

Strike froze with his hand over it.

The human’s neck was broken, head turned far too far, like that of an owl. His spinal cord must have snapped, airways shattered, but if his veins somehow managed not to get torn, he was unfortunate enough to die slowly, choking on his own fluids.

Dying, right under him.

Strike’s breath hitched.

He’s been here before.

There was fear in the man’s eye, the one that wasn’t smashed on the rocks his head must have hit when he fell from the sky.

“Hey there,” Strike’s mouth felt wet. He swallowed. “... not the luckiest guy in realms, huh.”

The man gasped for air he couldn’t properly take in, eye closing tightly as Strike found himself reaching forward, hand to cheek. Sliding down to the soon-to-be corpse’s neck and gently feeling where his spine was disconnected from his skull. The bump was ugly, rough, quickly swelling, but bruised and bloated skin looked good with Strike’s own skintone. Blood suited them both, to think of it.

When was the last time he stood over a corpse? A mass grave came to mind, faces, limbs, guts, blurred in with one another.

He watched with fascination as his clawed thumb found a vein as easily as breathing, and then pressed forward, cutting into the skin and into the pulsating red below.

“Here we go, buddy,” he wondered if the man knew this was mercy. He wondered if either of them cared if it was. “Just- that’s it. Let go.”

Blood poured on the sand, the man’s eye rolled up in his head – it only took a few seconds before his soul finally stopped fighting back, and Strike watched life leave with the man’s last, choked up breath.

Strike wasn’t sure when his smile has left him, but as he stared down at the still warm corpse, part of him felt... hollow? Bored? It didn’t matter, not really. He left the guy with his shirt on, not exactly interested in putting it on anymore, now that it was absolutely caked with gore.

Luckily for him, there was another person moving around nearby, and his grin was right back on as he recognized the cleric from the nautiloid.

“Heya!”

He stood up, avoided collapsing again when his leg locked up for a second, and walked over towards her; she was brushing the sand out of her hair, untied now and reaching almost down to her waist.

“Good to see you lived too, uh...”

“Shadowheart.” She had a pretty smile, just the right amount of forced.

“Shadowheart,” Strike nodded as he put his hand out to shake. “Any idea where we are?”

She blinked as she saw his palm, and he realized all too late that it was still bloodied. With a ‘what can you do’ shrug, he wiped it in his pants, and this time, she did shake it.

“Not in the slightest, I don’t recognize the area. But we need to find a healer, quickly.”

“Straight to the point, ey?

It was intriguing to watch how she pulled her hair up with such a practiced move, and started re-braiding it, even as she started to walk.

“I suppose so, we don’t have much of a choice, do we? Those... things in our heads could transform us, at any point.”

“I wasn’t complaining. But I take this as you wanting to continue together?”

“Well,” her fingers moved so elegantly, pulling silver rings back onto her braid to fixate it in place, “It would be the smartest option, don’t you agree? We need eachother. We have the same problem.”

I think I got a little hard during the fight, Shadowheart. Do you also have that problem?

“Sure thing,” Strike nodded, smiling a bit wider. His face hurt when he did so. “Finding other survivors might also help.”

The cleric looked a bit skeptical, but agreed. “If there are any.”

“If there are any.”

Strike really missed Us by the time they fought through a couple of its siblings, but with his fire bolts and Shadowheart’s... holy bolts, they managed, and as he stood over their corpses, he wondered if they could eat them.

Probably not, since brains riddled with potential diseases if you ate the- ...

He stopped wondering how he knew that when he heard a shout ahead, and with a quick glance to Shadowheart to confirm that they were on the same page, they headed over.

“It’s in the bushes, there!”

A man dressed a bit too fancy stood halfway up the hill, his back facing them as he pointed at something in the bushes a bit below.

Strike stepped closer, Shadowheart standing behind – he could feel her getting ready to aim if needed, how sweet of her.

“What’cha got there, buddy?”

The blonde man visibly froze up for a moment, and while Strike wondered if he really looked that ugly, something rattled in the bushes, and it got more attention of his than the guy. Sadly, it was just a wild boar, but while Strike considered pulling out his crossbow and getting some proper dinner, he-

The man wasn’t heavy, but the force with which he slammed his entire weight into him sure was enough to get them both on the ground, Strike’s vision twisting from the sudden shift. It took him almost too long to realize that not only was he being held down, but with a knife to his throat, too.

“Whoa there.”

The man was straddling him, his full weight put in into holding Strike down as he blinked up at him in confusion. The rage on the pale man’s face was... not what he expected, to be sure.

“Where the fuck did you-“

Their minds linked before he could finish whatever he wanted to hiss at him, and because it wasn’t Strike’s first time, he powered through for just a moment longer; all he needed to send a wave of lightning down his arm; his assaulter yelped and twitched away, still in the mess of eachother’s mind.

Brightest light, cold embrace of shadows. Door full of clawmarks, door that never opens. Red dragons climbing up a pair of shoes, black and bloodshot eyes seated above a cruel smile, it twists and mocks and tells you h-

“Move, and you won’t have a hand to wield a knife with,” Shadowheart stated, and Strike shook his head to leave the pale man’s mind, only to see her standing over him with a hand firmly around his wrist. The blonde’s skin was already smelling slightly burnt, from the electricity, and he must’ve dropped the dagger... Strike picked it up. His brain flashed him a picture of the same knife being hilt-deep in the blonde’s eye socket, and he didn’t know if it was because of the tadpole, or... whatever else his deal was.

“That’s not how you get help from people, ykno?” He said, almost surprised at the chirp in his own voice; a droplet of blood dripped from where the knife cut him, and he reached up to wipe it away, only to find a much older, massive scar crossing the entirety of the front of his neck. “... Sheesh.”

“Strike? Are you okay?” Shadowheart asked, traces of a threat in form of necrotic damage dancing around where her fingers held onto the man.

“Hm? Yeah, I think so.” He looked to the blonde, the mix of expressions on his face. Was he scared, confused, still angry? It was a pretty mix of all. “No need to attack me, I think we’re all in the same ship.” He glanced around, at the remains of the nautiloid. “... Metaphorically speaking. But we were on the same ship a bit ago, weren’t we?”

“You-“

“Stop moving until I allow you.” Oh, Shadowheart knew what she was doing, Strike realized with utter delight. She was completely capable of and ready to take the man’s arm off, and the blonde seemed to realize that as well, because he only nodded.

Strike twirled the knife around between his fingers, finding it to be a very easy gesture, and then he smiled back at the blonde and his big, pretty ruby eyes.

“Well?”

“.... Yes. I... I was on there.”

“Great! So were we, and another lady-“

“A Gith.”

“Shadowheart, no need to be racist, she’s not even here to hear you. My point is, we’re trying to find a healer for the worms in our brains, and you seem to have a quick hand – interested?”

The man stared back, so many emotions happening that Strike was more than interested in unraveling... but eventually, the blonde sighed, and pulled his hand away from Shadowheart, who this time around, allowed him to do so.

“... I don’t believe I caught your name, darling.”

He must have, when Shadowheart said it before, but Strike indulged him, and offered him a hand to pull him up, one that the man took with great reluctance. His skin was so cold to the touch. Like holding hands with a corpse.

If Strike hadn’t liked him already from the whole knife stunt he pulled, he thought this would be the moment when he would start to.

“Strike,” he repeated, shaking the cold hand he was already holding, and watching the blonde’s eyes narrow as they skimmed over his face, and then body. “Pleasure making acquaintance, buddy.”

“Astarion,” the man cut in, his grip on Strike’s hand ever so shaky before he let go. “... My apologies for almost spilling your guts on the floor, then.”

“Nah, understandable; I was looking forward to seeing yours.” Strike winked at him, and Astarion let out the most uncomfortable laugh he’s ever got the privilege of hearing... probably. “But that’s Shadowheart. Now we’re all acquainted, and should maybe-“

The rumble of his own stomach cut him off, a horrific, vile sound that surprised all three of their little group.

“Gods,” Shadowheart sighed, “When was the last time you ate??”

“... Can’t remember?” He wasn’t lying, but before he could get scolded, he gazed up, to the slowly setting sun behind the mountains. “It’s getting dark; we should set camp, find something to eat, and continue tomorrow.”

“We?”

Perhaps he would feel better if he ate something, but Strike doubted it was just hunger that was making his head pound like a blacksmith’s hammer. He didn’t particularly bother with his new companion’s question as he’s already started heading back to the beach.

“I’m assuming you wanna get help for the brainworm, right? Feel free to stick around if you will.”

“A- w-well, I was going to do this alone, but it can’t hurt to have more company, right?” Astarion jogged to catch up with him, and Shadowheart followed suit; apparently neither of them had anything to voice against Strike taking the decision-making position. It felt natural, anyway. “You seem like a useful person to know, D-“ Astarion paused for a moment, then smiled. “darling.”

“Aw, thanks, buddy.”

They found a decent spot, secluded enough and not far from the initial point of the crash, and Shadowheart brought out an axe she found somewhere – Strike realized in the last moment possible that his already aching joints were not going to enjoy chopping wood, so he quickly gave the assistant role to Astarion, while he himself went to scavenge the beach for anything closely resembling food.

He found a few more corpses, seriously considered, but then a few fish caught his attention better, and he returned victoriously with them to find a sweaty Shadowheart chopping wood and Astarion trying to put together something similar to a campfire, and by the time the sun has set, they’ve finally... figured out that none of them knew how to cook.

“There’s three of us, what are the odds?” Astarion complained, apparently deciding to just stick a fish into his blade and hold it over the fire (that Strike has started with a fire bolt and nearly burnt his eyebrows off).

“Three elves, non the less,” Shadowheart agreed, staring with disgust at the wet fish carcass in her fist.

“I’m pretty sure you have to peel off the scales first, Ast- eh?” Strike cocked his head. “We’re all elves?”

“Half elf,” she huffed, “But close enough, isn’t it? My point is we’re all more than old enough for one of us to-“

“No, not you – I’m an elf?”

How weird that he hasn’t noticed; but he reached up and sure enough, there were pointy ears poking through the mess that he assumed his hair was. Huh. He could wiggle them at will, but as he traced his fingers down the sides, he found tearings, massive chunks of cartilage missing from both ears...

“Neat?”

Shadowheart paused her clumsy attempts at cutting off the scales from her fish. Astarion’s almost dropped into the fire.

“Strike? Are you... all okay? In the head?” she asked him, and Strike almost laughed.

Gods, no. He didn’t think that’s even his name. Or is it?

“Are you asking if I have brain damage?”

“Roughly said, but yes.”

“... I think I do, yeah.” He sighed, reaching forward to poke the fire. “Truthfully, I do not remember anything from before the nautiloid. I hoped it’d go away when we escape, but... It’s just red fog in my head. Do either of you have memory issues?”

Shadowheart’s cheeks turned a shade redder, and she shrugged while Astarion shook his head.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I remember everything from before, thank you.”

“Yeah, thought so. The sword lady seemed to be also pretty aware, so...” Strike sighed, absentmindedly taking a bite. “Maybe it’ll come back to me when we get rid of the tadpoles?”

Something crunched in his mouth, and his companions horrified stares confirmed what he’s just done wasn’t nearly as normal as he felt it to be.

“...’ve heard they eat fish raw in the east, ykno.”

“They have bones, you bloody-“

“A man of culture,” Astarion agreed, and Strike grinned at him with a mouthful of blood and sharp fish bones pricking down his throat, while Shadowheart threatened not to heal him if he keeps doing so.

Turns out, with their combined efforts and cooking abilities, fish weren’t much better cooked than they were raw; it was so bad Astarion declined to eat at all, claiming he had a sensitive stomach. Looking at his pampered looks and hair, Strike believed him.

After the charred dinner and Shadowheart casting a few minor healing spells on herself and Strike (just in case), they stripped a few corpses and lucked out enough to even find some more supplies, a single sleeping bag included; which ended up Shadowheart’s. Strike kept one shirt for himself to wear, and then him and Astarion bunched together the rest of the clothes into two slabs that roughly resembled sleeping mats.

It would be nice, but... Strike looked at it, and everything in him resisted the idea of getting there and closing his eyes. It was cold. Lonely.

The voice in his head was already purring, and he just... really, did not want to be alone with his thoughts.

So, he wandered off, to the beach where they landed; there was some things on the corpses, a little love letter for someone’s beloved who will never received it. Without giving it much thought, Strike put it in his pocket, sat in the sand, and... Waited. The water was louder there than at their camp, in the supplies was a book of horoscopes, and he apparently was able to see in the dark; it was by far better than thinking about whatever his brain wished to do.

The headache has almost subsided by the time he was halfway through the book, a few hours later, when a sound of rustling sand behind him brought it right back.

“Thought you’d be sleeping,” Strike sighed, licking his thumb to be able to turn on the next page.

Astarion hesitated.

“Something wrong?” Strike looked up, far up, until Astarion was upside down behind him. “Besides the impending doom and maggots in our brains, I mean.”

After a few more moments of the elf not moving, Strike just shrugged, and went back to his book. Too bad that Astarion apparently finally decided to walk forward, and sit next to him.

“... Do you really not remember anything?” He asked, quietly, staring at his face. “Like, what happened to you?”

“Nope,” Strike slapped the book close, keeping a finger between pages to not lose where he left off at though. “Why? Do you think we know eachother? You acted weird earlier too.”

‘what happened to you’. Strike sure as hell would’ve loved to know; he took a quick bath in the water earlier, and finally understood why everyone looked at him as if it made perfect sense for him to need a cleric. Every inch of his body was riddled with scars, so clearly purposefully done by someone else. His wrists especially had a thick circle of scarred tissue around, enough to make him appear deformed, and Strike figured that he looked about as good as he felt like. Weak. Ruined.

Oh, he’d love to know who did this to him.

Perhaps even return the favor.

But if Astarion knew anything, it was hard to read, especially with the growing headache that has started to birth right behind Strike’s eyeballs.

“.... No,” Astarion finally said. “I’m... I just saw you at the nautiloid, when I was still in my pod. That’s all, I- I thought you worked with those tentacle creatures.”

“Mindflayers.”

“... of course.”

Strike rubbed the bridge of his nose, even more annoyed now that he could feel the cracks where it was broken and grew back – gods, what has happened to him?

“... Are you not planning on sleeping?”

“For fuck’s-“ Strike huffed, and he saw the elf flinch away. He didn’t exactly feel bad about scaring him, but it would be annoying to lose the extra pair of hands, so he pushed down his growing frustration and managed to make out a tired smile. “Look, uh... Astarion, was it?”

“... yes.”

“Astarion. I’m sorry but my head is killing me, and I’d prefer to be a little alone right now, 'kay? Nothing against you but today’s been a lot and I doubt tomorrow will be much better. Yeah?”

The elf stared at him, and Strike couldn’t find it in himself to care enough to analyze what that was supposed to mean. “... I understand. We all probably have to... I suppose, think things through. Just... scream if you feel yourself sprouting tentacles, will you?”

“Heh. Not making any promises.” He felt his voice soften, appreciative of being given space, even if Astarion took a few moments longer before he got up and backed away.

Strike sighed and let himself lay down, arms spread, book on his chest as water hit the sand mere inches from his head; the sound was so nice. Calming.

“Hey, and... one more thing?”

“Mhm?” Strike didn’t bother replying fully anymore. Astarion sounded further away, shy.

“... You look more like a drow to me, rather than an elf. ... Good night.”

Drow, huh. Yet another thing for him to ponder when his head feels less like shattering. He listened to Astarion walk away, although not to the camp directly; perhaps he was also taking some time to himself; it was a very rough day, after all.

Strike didn’t have it in him to open his eyes again, not when even the stars felt too blindingly bright. Sleep never came. Only nightmares.

Chapter Text

“Oh darling, you look... awful.”

“Thanks.”

“Rabid, sick – are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure there’s a hole that requires exploring, doesn’t it?”

“That filthy mind of yours, tsk.”

Astarion clicked his tongue as if in disapproval, as Strike cocked a brow at him and hinted towards the chest the elf has been breaking into.

They started the day off fine, with Astarion graciously allowing his two new companions to eat the couple of apples and slightly stale bread that they’ve found – it was just enough to calm their ravenous stomachs that seemed to still disagree with the charred fish they’ve been forcefed the night ago, and off they were, in search of a healer, or more survivors, or edible supplies... Strike ignored his own thoughts once again when they suggested the abundance of flesh that was scattered all over the beach. (ignored, filed for later... what was the difference?)

He barely slept a blink, but he felt surprisingly okay, if he ignored the general pain his body was apparently in every moment of the day. By ‘okay’, Strike has decided to mean that he was able to move, balance, think and speak. It was a low bar, but he didn’t feel comfortable setting anything higher for himself in the moment.

Astarion’s cheeky comments about his appearance didn’t exactly help, though, and Strike momentarily wished he would’ve gone with Shadowheart to the opposite direction, but she claimed to be comfortable walking a bit further away on her own, it made sense for them to split to cover more grounds. Strike didn’t want to admit it, but with how weak his body felt, he was slightly relieved to have someone who could wield a dagger by his side, if nothing else.

“A bit of gold, nothing special,” Astarion sighed once the chest popped open, and Strike saw him shove the gold in one of his pockets.

“Hold onto it,” he sighed, watching the elf stand up and put his lockpicking set away. “These carts and the traps we found indicate some sort of civilization nearby; we might have to pay off a healer, when we find someone.”

“Pay?”

There was a twinge of disbelief on Astarion’s face as the two walked closer to the nautiloud’s remains.

“Yes? What would’ve you suggested?”

“... Intimidation?”

“Ha!” Strike couldn’t help it, even if his own laugh still sounded wrong; he truly didn’t feel able to threaten people much, especially as he was just barely aware of his own magic – so far he hadn’t needed to use much more than a few fire bolts, and while those came to him easily, he wasn’t sure if there even was much more to him. It was, it was, he could feel it. Power in his fingertips, bubbling in his chest, lack of enemies to test his true self out on. “Buddy, neither of us are particularly scary, in case you haven’t noticed. Shadowheart... now her I could see.”

“.... Right.”

Astarion had such an odd way of looking at people. Or perhaps it was just Strike, he guessed. Who knew, maybe the elf had an issue with someone who looked as badly ran over as Strike did.

The scarred masses around his wrists that he supposed to call skin ached terribly today.

“Strike?” Astarion suddenly asked, just as something caught Strike’s attention from the corner of his eye. A movement. A gasp for air. “The girl isn’t here, do you want to drop the ac-“

A mindflayer.

“Baldur’s arse, it’s still alive.”

It was captured under ship’s rubble, it’s body squished and legs crushed. Strike noticed with great pleasure that apparently, mindflayers had all the same bones as his own kind did. He could name the shards he could see.

It’s head and one arm were fine, and its wet, orange eyes traveled up, from Strike’s boots, over his salt-crusted pants and stolen tunic, to the excited grin he felt himself wear, and oh, something felt so right as he stood over a dying creature once more.

He could hear Astarion hurrying after him; right, Strike has kind of ran off the moment he found the poor mindflayer.

.... Poor?

The creature was kind of majestic, if he thought about the way its tentacles curled, the way its broken leg twitched under the weight of the rubble... Strike thought of how to fix it; a shitton of healing potions and a good splint, but no, perhaps amputation, since there was no way it wasn’t infected, but-

He shook his head once he’s caught his thoughts slipping, from excitement to watch death of one who no doubt tortured him, to sympathy for maste-

“Wh-“

Shouldn’t he hate it?

Yes, he should. Good. Bad. He was bad for it, he deserved punishment, to be whipped, to-

A wave of nausea hit him like a fist to the gut, and what little he had in his stomach, came fighting right back – Strike stumbled backwards, just in time to retch not directly at the mindflayer who has just been in his head to tell him-

His back ached more than his throat when he was finished, and with his heart pounding in an arythm, his eyes found the mindflayers. The feeling didn’t crawl back; perhaps the creature lost its strength.

Perhaps it was weak, just like he was.

He didn’t think about it as his legs carried him back to it, nor when one of them raised. Nor when it came slamming down onto the squishy membrane on the back of the mindflayer’s head, and then the surprisingly soft skull of it.

It all happened too fast for Strike to think, not really – one moment he remembered being interested in how a mindflayer’s death looks like, and the next he felt like utter garbage with a heel slick from mindflayer’s brain.

“... Hah,” was the noise that eventually left his lips, and he crouched, painfully aware of Astarion’s wide open eyes on the back of his head. The elf has jumped away at some point, putting distance between them, but Strike wasn’t sure when he had done that. Perhaps when he vomited. Perhaps when he stomped the monster’s head into a pulp. “Sneaky of ‘em, eh?”

“What-“

“What were you asking me earlier?” His hands were shaking as he dug through the creature’s robes, finding a small potion of healing... He considered it, then glanced at the elf, and just how much paler he was now. “You won’t tell Shadowheart, will you?”

“.... No.” Whatever Astarion was going to ask, he didn’t repeat it, and truthfully, once Strike popped the cork open and downed the bitter liquid inside (after giving it a quick sniff to make sure it is, indeed, a healing potion), he felt the smallest of reliefs spread through his body, and he could not care less about the elf in that moment.

Gods, it was so much better.

Gods, his entire body still hurt, but a smidge of mercy that was relief and healed the acidic sting in his throat from his vomit... It made him feel the slightest bit better.

He really needed to find a healer, though. Or convince Shadowheart to heal him some more.

Speaking of whom...

“Strike!”

He hid the empty bottle under the corpse, taking a few moments longer as it didn’t sound like she was in danger; she just called out for him, and so him and his white haired companion headed over.

“Let’s keep this between us, aight?” Strike managed a smile, far too easy to return to his lips when his hands were still trembling.

Astarion’s eyes stayed on his own for just a bit too long, yet again, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Had his headache not been back, Strike could’ve been interested in decoding the little scowl of his face, the redness of his eyes, the way his brain must have been working behind them.

But neither said anything, until Astarion smiled back.

“If you order so.”

“Aye, soldier,” Strike joked back. Astarion’s laugh sounded just a little strained.

“What did you do?”

“It’s a corrupt portal, Shart, I barely even touched it!”

“It wasn’t like this before you- .... What did you just call me?”

“Hm?”

“Strike-“

Universe decides to give Strike a hand to get away from the questioning about the nickname that just slipped out; the hand came in form of a literal hand, poking out of the distorted portal that Shadowheart has found when looting goblin corpses. It was dressed in purple, and while Strike’s initial thought involved slightly more maiming than he would’ve preferred, he still felt the ghostly ache over his back, and it was enough to push his mind back to what he assumed was that of a person whos brain wasn’t riddled with holes.

He watched the hand flail out and heard a voice that called out for help.

“A hand? Anyone?”

Ah, fun, a pun. Strike was already inclined to help just because of that, but as he reached forward, Shadowheart grabbed his sleeve.

“It could be dangerous.”

“Yeah, it could put a knife to my throat.”

Astarion made a little cough, but the cleric didn’t seem especially amused by Strike’s joke.

“C’mon. Worst case scenario, we have to kill him. Three against one.”

He felt a stab of annoyance that he had to explain his judgement – how odd, when he wasn’t making any judgement, he just wanted to see what was attached to the hand – but it went away the moment Shadowheart sighed and tightened her hold on him, for just a moment that it took her to bless him.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t know if it was the magic of his own, or the blessing, but the sigil spoke to him; he found an opening in the magic, a white spot in the dark, and right there, grabbed both folds to shove them together...

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working!”

It wasn’t hard to pull the trapped man out after that, but truthfully, Shadowheart did the most work when it came to raw strength.

“Whew,” whistled the man the moment he was freed, and Strike immediately couldn’t help himself but be intrigued already.

The man was handsome, a few winters away from forty, if Strike had to guess; a human with a trimmed beard and well groomed hair, his purple robes betraying him as a wizard. Strike had no idea what to do with the last information, but he did like how the man kept a firm hold on the hand with which he pulled to lift and shake it in a friendly hello.

“I am Gale, of Waterdeep. My apologies, I’m usually better than this.”

“Magic?”

“Most certainly,” he nodded, and something about his accent was quite appealing. Silly, yet posh, Strike decided. “But say, you do have a particularity for the weave, don’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Ah, don’t be modest, the- oh dear.” Strike could tell the exact moment the wizard finally took in his face, with all of its scarring and no doubt unpleasant to look at textures. He cocked a brow, but the wizard quickly wiped the shock from his expression. “I was going to inquire if you had happened to be at the nautiloid as well, but I don’t think that would be quite necessary.”

“Heh.” Strike felt a corner of his lip twitch upwards, a smile which this so called Gale mirrored right back. “Let me guess – have you also gotten an free surgery?”

“Not surgery, but a rather unwelcome guest, partaking in fine dining near my ocular region, yes. Say, none of you would happen to be a healer, right? A cleric? An especially delectable calamari chef, perhaps?”

Shadowheart piped in for the first time as Strike gave her a pointed look, with the slightest tint to her cheeks claiming that “Not even a cleric can heal everything, wizard; you seem to know enough of our condition to be able to understand so. We are looking for a solution – unless if you happen to have one?”

“Sorrowful, I do not. But,” Strike found the way this Gale rose his pointed finger endlessly amusing as he attempted to make a point, “Why don’t I join your ternary? A parasite shared is a parasite halved – or something to that meaning.”

Just as Strike parted his lips to agree, he felt a yank on his sleeve, facing his elvish associate as upset red eyes looked up at him.

“We aren’t seriously picking up any more lost strangers, are we?”

“We picked up you, haven’t we?” Strike didn’t wait for Astarion’s response, but let him keep holding onto the fabric of his tunic if he had wanted to do so – Strike didn’t mind. The coldness of another’s touch so close to his own skin felt nice, actually. “You’re free to join us, Gale of Waterdeep,” he informed the wizard with a smile, noting the way Gale’s shoulders relaxed, almost as in relief. Curious.

“Most excellent,” the wizard clasped his hands together. “Ternary becomes a tetrad; lead the way then, collegian of the weave.”

“My name’s Strike,” Strike replied, oddly enough realizing that the more often he said that sentence, the less strange it felt on his tongue. Perhaps it really was his name, before. “That’s Shadowheart, and this,” he pulled his arm forward, where the elf was still clutching it. The fabric pulled tightly against his cuts, for all but a moment before Astarion let go of it. “-is Astarion.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

Strike watched as the three interacted; Shadowheart who’s handshake made Gale twitch, Astarion who immediately pulled up a dishonest smile and made a comment about how next time they get hungry, they could eat the human, and Gale... Gale, who smelled like death. Like rot.

He wasn’t sure why, or how he knew it, but something, something about this seemingly so alive human man... It was intriguing. It lingered on the tongue. The smell wasn’t exactly obvious, since neither of the other two seemed to notice it, so perhaps Strike was imagining things, but...

“Shall we venture off, then? To the wild, hopefully absent of tentacles, journey ahead?”

“Yes,” Strike smiled, and the moment they started to walk, slid an arm over Gale of Waterdeep’s shoulders. The man appeared to be only slightly surprised at how “Awfully familiar already” he was, but since he didn’t pull away, Strike didn’t move either, and just kept up the same pace of walking.

“Wizard, right?”

“That is most correct.”

“Which school?”

“Ah, you’re versed in the traditionalistic studies?”

“Not that I’d know,” Strike tapped at his own temple, “My memories are shrouded in darkness, sadly – yet another reason to find a healer. But come now, Gale of Waterdeep – which school?”

The wizard appeared understanding about his condition, and just like that, Strike saw a light of excitement flicker in those brown eyes as the man started.

“Well, that would be that of Evocation; although I have dabbled in others, of course; the temptation of knowledge proves to be a temptations vice even for a man like myself-“

He rambled on, and Strike could practically hear just how not interested both Shadowheart and Astarion were behind them, but he found himself nodding along with new information.

Gale looked lovely, this passionate about something. Especially compared to less mouthy cleric and rogue Strike’s picked up so far.

Yes, he liked the wizard, he’s decided. From upclose, the scent of rot didn’t seem to be exactly a scent – more an aura. A whiff of magic, thick as a fog, right under Gale’s skin.

Something in Strike itched to tear his chest open and peek at what might lay inside.

“Mind telling me which god you serve again, Shadowheart?”

“Have you not heard of private matters, Gale?”

“Forgiveness. I would only like to know if the cleric who’s hands are on me feels any particular fondness for Loviatar, is all.”

He hissed as the woman pressed her hand over the acid wound on his stomach, but she was light with touch – only making it look as if she was going to push harder before she smirked at the downed wizard. “Not religious fondness, no.”

“Ah.”

“In personal life, though...”

“Ah.”

“Now lay still.”

“I think that’s everyone,” Strike sighed, sitting down and massaging at his own thigh where it still hurt, despite Shadowheart’s earlier healing. She closed the wound, yes; but apparently couldn’t do anything for just how raw and sore his muscle and bone felt underneath. At least their entire group made it.

The same couldn’t be said for the tomb raiders they’ve happened to run into.

Strike could’ve almost said he enjoyed himself, had it not been for the nausea that hit him mid-way through, when he saw blood splatter against one of the graves – it wasn’t gross, he knew it wasn’t because of disgust, but whatever it was, it left him lightheaded and nauseous and awfully, painfully hard.

His pants were loose enough to hide it in the halfdark of the tomb, and Shadowheart was too busy with Gale to notice, thank whatever gods Strike might have worshiped in his life before the dark.

Astarion was closer, though. If he had noticed, he didn’t make it obvious, something Strike was grateful for.

“Astarion,” he called out, noticing the way the elf’s eyes slid downwards as he faced him. Strike crossed his legs, head leaning to the blissfully cold wall behind him.

“Yes, darling?”

“Can you un-pick the lock?”

“You want us to be locked inside?”

“A storm’s brewing outside, and we’re all exhausted.” Mostly himself. Others could pick themselves back up, if they needed to. “There’s food and blankets and a fireplace right here; we’ll be fine until the morning, when we can continue, freshly rested.”

Strike hasn’t slept the past night, and something told him he won’t want to tonight, either, but at least the others could probably do with some shuteye.

“Sleeping here, amongst the graves and forgotten gods – how charming,” Astarion chimed, but went off to do as Strike said, without even waiting to see if Shadowheart and Gale agreed. Strike liked it like that, he realized. It felt natural to say what he thought others should do, and to have them do it.

While Astarion tinkered with the locks to all exists, Gale got healed up, and then revealed that he very much could cook; Strike saw the moment when Shadowheart’s decided that it was a good idea to keep the wizard around. Admittedly, he himself also didn’t want to return to the charred fish from last night, so once Gale rolled up his sleeves and shooshed everyone out of the room of the crypt he declared a kitchen, Strike let him alone.

“Lucky, huh.”

“If he also couldn’t cook, I would start to believe we were cursed in a way,” Shadowheart grinned, just a bit more earnestly than she did until now. “Do you need any more healing?”

“...”

“... Any more immediate healing,” she added, after remembering the state Strike’s entire body was.

He sighed. “Not really. Keep your spells in case Gale is a liar and accidentally explodes us.”

“As you wish.” She also looked tired. “Tomorrow, I believe we should head north, by the way.”

“Yeah? Your mysterious god told you so?”

Her lips tightened, and Strike apologized, unserious.

“The goblin corpses, from the way they were positioned, something must be north from here. Something they were either attacking or returning home to – it is something though. I am sure of it.”

She had a point, the drow thought. “So we either run into a goblin settlement, or one that’s being attacked by them?”

“In either case, they’d most likely be vulnerable.” Shadowheart hinted behind them, to the two men her bolts burnt to ashes. “We’ve proven we can work together; we can take a few goblins, in whatever way we decide.”

“... Hm.”

Blood, his mind screamed. Blood, spillage, goblin slaughter. It sounded like fun, that was for sure.

“Good point,” he nodded, noting that his position as a leader seemed quite established, judging from her expression, or the fact that she came to him with the planning of their next steps. “We’ll pick from here tomorrow – try to get some rest before, though, kay? I need you rested.”

“Likewise.”

“Perhaps give a prayer to your god, whoever that is, hm? Ask for something nice to happen to us?”

For the first time, he heard Shadowheart laugh; a quick, short cackle, which didn’t exactly inspire hope for her god being a kind one, but Strike didn’t find it in himself to care, not when it was (hopefully) on their side.

“I don’t think my deity could offer you any more than what you already have.”

“How not omnious. And you’re sure it’s not Loviatar?”

“Have a good night, Strike.”

With a slight smile and a wink, she has departed, leaving the drow behind and so, so tempted to follow her and figure her out... But he had time, he supposed. And Shadowheart seemed to appreciate privacy. Strike could respect loyalty to a god, at least. ... Somehow.

But he’s had other problems to deal with in the moment, namely that there were still parts of the crypt left unexplored, and so he’s headed off to find whatever he could use to not have to think too much as his own thoughts crept up on him the moment he found himself alone.

It turned out that a dusty bottle of wine and a potentially cursed book were just what he needed. The part of the tomb was larger than what he expected, overgrown with green and a collapsed wall that showed off the storm outside without letting it rain far inside – it was lovely, in a way, and Strike was quick to get himself comfortable on a moss-covered bench.

The book was chained up and a struggle to read, as if it was fighting him back, and oh, did he enjoy that; it gave him a fun challenge for a few minutes that he needed to get through the arcane lock and then messy writings inside. Book of dead gods, and those revived...

Words tasted familiar, and Strike lost himself in them, chasing after the flavor of familiarity until he was half a bottle into the wine and feeling much better than he has since he has woken up on the nautiloid.

He made a mental note to collect more booze on the way. His head felt so delightfully dizzy.

He heard Astarion approach, but didn’t bother to react until he was almost right next to him, once again the elf having stalked him when they were supposed to have alone time.

“If you keep following me, saer magistrate, I might start to think you’re in love. Or after my head.”

He never said which head, nor did he look up from the book, even when a smile stretched his mouth at his own bad joke.

“I’m serious, Astarion. What do you want?”

“... Care to share the wine?”

“Is that your best move?” And still, Strike has moved to the side of the bench, so that the elf could join him. Finally glancing up as he passed the wine, Strike found that the rogue got himself a new outfit – something simpler than the one he had for on the road, and yet, frilly over the deep cleavage. It suited him.

He’s such a pretty corpse, his mind suggested, but it was much easier to brush the thought aside now that his broken brain’s been conveniently doused in alcohol.

“New wardrobe?”

“Sleeping garments, I found some in a closet back-” the elf nodded, taking the bottle as Strike passed it to him. “... are you drunk?”

“Nahhh.” He watched the other take a sip, then pass it back; Strike drank down four gulps the moment he got the bottle back. It felt good. It felt like nothing. “’s Gale done cooking yet?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

They sat in silence, Strike leaning back eventually, eyes closed, ears only to chase the rumble of the storm outside, the crashing of the water against the shore, the buzz of his heart as it forced blood through him.

Of course, silence couldn’t last forever – Strike could feel Astarion’s eyes on him again, the way the pretty man stared at him; and how apparently he didn’t intend on actually talking, not as the first one, at least.

“Why are you here, Astarion?”

Those red eyes turned towards him. Slowly. Unreadable.

If Strike hadn’t been sure that he’s never done anything to the elf that could be held against him, he would think Astarion was angry at him, or, more interestingly, afraid.

“Well?”

“What in the bloody Hells happened to you?”

“Fuck me if I know. Wait, or do that if I don’t-“

His joke was cut off with knuckles to the face; a brief meeting that knocked him off of the bench. Wine spilled on the floor, red on green and grey, mixing in Strike’s head as it hit the stone ground.

It happened so fast.

His vision was blurry, the throb in his skull ruthless, and as he scrambled to figure out what is left and what is right, a swift kick to the chest sent him onto his back.

Astarion stood over him, in a flash of a storm lighting him up from behind – when the lightning disappeared, the elf’s eyes burnt red with an emotion so unreadable it wasn’t worth trying to understand.

Strike tasted blood in his mouth.

It felt like home.

As Astarion descended down on him and lightning rippled through Strike’s fingertips, he understood joy for the first time in his fresh new life.

Chapter Text

It was interesting, if nothing else. ... Well, it was also painful. Quite so, but Strike wasn’t exactly complaining – not that he could, with Astarion hitting him right in the face before the drow even remembered to put his arms up to protect his head.

There was blood, so much blood in Strike’s mind, red wine mixing with drips from his broken nose and coating his lips and tongue like a kiss of an old lover. Blood on Astarion’s pale pink knuckles, bruises to be shared as the elf’s fist rose and lowered once more.

Perhaps Astarion was saying something.

Perhaps Strike should’ve listened, but he couldn’t hear anything, not through the storm outside or the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears, or through the anger that didn’t feel his own that forced his body to move without him having much of a say.

Astarion fell over after a harsh kick to the knee, and Strike winced in pain his own joints caused him when he lurched himself over at the elf. He was moving too slowly, he vaguely thought. He should’ve been faster. This shouldn’t be a problem. He should’ve sliced the corpse’s head off the moment it dared to-

His own thoughts were what confused him, the building headache that couldn’t have come just from hits to the face, and an opening was enough for Astarion to flip him over. Someone was laughing when the elf’s cold hands found Strike’s throat.

How odd, Strike thought, looking up and only barely seeing the enraged face of the pale elf. He didn’t look like he was laughing, so where...

“Shut up!”

Oh. It was him, wasn’t it?

Strike felt as if he was floating, someone else, floating in red. His claw-like nails have dug into Astarion’s wrists, yet no blood was drawn, and that somehow distracted him more than the lack of breath he could pull into his lungs. The elf was so much prettier when he was angry, and Strike’s body did not know how to react as the alcohol drowned whatever in him he was waiting to take charge.

Black spots started to pulsate in his field of vision, beating along with his heart, his head felt so blissfully full of everything and nothing, and oh gods was he going to die? He knew he was hard under Astarion, he could feel himself press up against him and it was funny, so funny, more blood going anywhere else but his mind. Strike’s hand found one of the elf’s thighs, digging claws harshly inside but unable to break through the leather of his pants, and wasn’t that just so funny, dried skin on that that is still living.

Then, just like that, the bliss was gone.

Astarion was knocked off of him, Shadowheart having apparently foregone her healer nature and straight up docked him with a mace to the chest.

Strike was almost disappointed as Gale helped him up, Shadowheart holding her hand open and aimed towards the pale elf on the floor.

“You don’t understand, he-“

“Did you really just attack him?? Out of nowhere??”

“N- no, I-“ The rage slowly slid off of Astarion’s face with stutters, realizations of the position he was in settling in in no doubt not pleasant ways. He was holding onto his chest, where the mace has hit him. “... Shit.”

“Strike?” Shadowheart asked, not looking at him as to not let Astarion out of her sight. “What happened?”

How sweet, her and the wizard apparently trusted him so much more than the shady elf... Strike couldn’t shake the idea that that was stupid of them, even when he couldn’t find the logical reason why for.

“...dunno,” was the clever answer he’s settled on, because really – he didn’t know! He doubted whatever he’s said before getting sucker punched was bad enough for that big of a reaction...

“If I may present my layperson opinion,” Gale chimed in, while he helped Strike back on his feet. The world spun around the drow, but... he could manage. The headache wasn’t back. “Could it be ceremorphosis settling in? Astarion, are you feeling any more... prone to cultivating tentacles? ”

The elf was even paler than before, Strike thought, absentmindedly reaching up to his own bruised throat. “No!” Astarion insisted, almost jumping from his knees but Shadowheart fixed him with a glare. “I’m not- gods, I wasn’t trying to-“

But how can one explain this?

“Then give me one good reason for why I should believe you. People don’t just attack somebody.”

I want to, Strike thought. Dreams of blood and red and death – do you dream them too, Astarion? Is that why he didn’t sleep at the camp? Another effect of the tadpols, perhaps?

Astarion was fidgeting with his hands, his bloodied fingers; so many thoughts he probably couldn’t explain... Shadowheart stepped closer.

“If you can’t say anything, perhaps you could show-“

“I’m- I’m a vampire.”

“....”

“.....”

The word was blurted out so fast and out of nowhere, that Strike for a moment thought he could add hallucinations onto his list of currently pressing mental issues. But no, judging from their expressions, his other companions have heard it, as well... They both looked towards Strike, and despite the bizarre situation, it felt right that they’ve done so. It wasn’t hard to stand up straight and look down at the pleading... vampire, apparently. It wasn’t hard to cast judgement as if he had any right to do so, either.

“You tried to bite me?” he asked, raising a brow in doubt – what kind of a vampire would go for strangulation and fists?

Astarion’s eyes, red as wine, found Strike’s own, and the drow wondered how noone has figured it out sooner. The guy had fangs, for gods’ sake.

“I... I’ve just been so starved, I,” Astarion licked his lips, nerves getting to him, but perhaps he noticed the confusion that replaced the immediate hostility in the other three. “I’ve only fed on animals until now, deer, boars, kobolds – I was going to do so again tonight, but we’re locked indoors, and... well, I suppose I wasn’t expecting you all to be exactly understanding of my, uh. Condition.”

“And you thought beating the stuffing out of Strike would help us be a tad more supportive?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, gods, Gale.” Astarion winced as Shadowheart rose her hand as a warning once more, and so, the vampire stayed on the floor even as Strike took a step forward. “I just wanted to... Well, not much. These halls reek of death and blood, and we’ve killed so many today, so much spilt blood...” He swallowed. “... I wasn’t planning on attacking you, I swear. Please. It just happened.”

Strike could still taste the blood from his broken nose, could see it on the knuckles of the pale elf’s hands, could see it reflect in his pleading red eyes. He could understand it, oddly enough. The desire to hurt. To bleed.

Astarion’s eyes closed once Strike stood in front of him, his shadow falling over the floored vampire as lightning struck outside again.

“Please, Strike.” The plea was for nothing, Strike thought. He has made his mind minutes ago. He reached out, offering his own, shaky palm to his companion.

“Are you sure?” Gale inquired behind him, doubt furrowing his brow.

Strike shrugged. “Sure, why not hear him out? He didn’t hit me that hard, anyway.” It was a lie, because his face, jaw, throat, all still hurt terribly, but he couldn’t help it but be intrigued by the vampire in their midst.

Finally hearing that he wasn’t about to be staked to death, Astarion peeked between his eyelashes, only to find the offered hand. With great reluctance, he took it, and as Strike helped him to his feet, he understood now why his mind kept imagining Astarion as such a pretty corpse. The thought was almost comforting – the man was dead, it might not have been Strike who was sick!

“... Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, buddy. We’re still going to talk about it, yea?”

Astarion swallowed, a nervous smile sneaking back onto his pale lips. “Yea,” he repeated.

“So the tadpol lets you walk around in the sun?”

“I would assume so, since I haven’t burned just yet.”

Seated around a dining table with steaming hot food in front of them easened the atmosphere quite a bit, while Gale passed around the stew he has made, and both Strike and Shadowheart decided that yes, the wizard was a great thing to have pulled out of a suspicious rock. Strike wasn’t even aware of just how hungry he was until he felt the first spoonful of meat and soup fall into his far too empty stomach.

For a minute or so, Astarion’s vampirism got reduced to a less important task, as the cleric, wizard and amnesiac just ate, while their rogue sat slightly awkwardly at the side.

“You can’t consume that?” Asked Gale, the most polite eater out of the three, and the first one to come back for air.

“No. All food but blood just tastes like ash to me.”

“Ah, yes; slave to the sanguine hunger, price for eternal youth.”

“... Yes. Thank you, Gale.”

Another minute later, it was Shadowheart who has finished with her bowl, pushing it away from her and sighing, most likely full for the first time in days. Strike hoped to himself that maybe she could understand Astarion’s hunger a bit better, now that she herself was reminded of how starvation feels like...

“If you come after my neck, Astarion, I will not hesitate to evaporate you where you stand,” she threatened; but that was good, if she was even willing to extend a hand in potential truce.  “Understand?”

“Crystal clear, darling.”

“And your flirting will get you noone with me,” she paused, then moved to grab the kettle for another serving of stew. “But do keep trying.”

“Will do.” Astarion looked much better already, relieved and far, far less stressed out than before, especially now, when Gale’s stew got more attention than he did.

The wizard also smiled, warningly waving his spoon towards the vampire. “I would not recommend myself as cuisine, I must inform you. I’ve been told I have quite the unpleasant flavoring for a human.”

“...Noted, yes.” However weird that was... Astarion didn’t seem to care that much, even if Strike did peek up from where he was bent down to his bowl.

“So, what’s the plan now?” The drow asked, once Shadowheart and Gale were both busy eating again. He himself has scarfed down two portions and has felt so much better, no doubt thanks to Shadowheart’s quick healing spell that cured the worst of the damage his beating earlier has given him. But the stew no doubt also helped, he’s decided. “We can’t just let you keep starving, if that leads to you snapping and attacking the first thing you come across.”

“I could last until tomorrow, and then hunt something down?”

“Mhm, mhm – and then? We just have to deal with that extra burden?”

A glimpse of pain sliced over Astarion’s face, as Strike slurped his stew. Loudly.

“I can not be a burden, darling.”

“Tell that to my face. My poor, beaten up face.”

“There was hardly an inch I touched that wasn’t already beaten up.”

Strike felt his eye twitch at the reminder, of just how fucked up his... everything was, but he turned it into a laugh, to ease the tension before it would start over. “I’m trying to be nice to you, you arse.”

“And here I was, thinking you were feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Me? Never.” He was done with the soup and licking his spoon clean, so he dropped it, and sat up, rolling up a sleeve. “Well then? Want me to be nice?”

Gods, his wrists were fucked up... He noticed Shadowheart and Gale staring, but they didn’t say anything; they’ve all known he was doing so unwell. It didn’t seem to click for Astarion, though.

“... What are you doing?”

“What, would you prefer from the neck? Feels a little intimate, ykno? We have just met, after all-“

“No, you-“ Astarion sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before his eyes returned to the offered, scarred wrist, and then up to the drow’s challenging grin. “You want me to bite you?”

“Nah. But Gale and Shart said no, so-“

“Do not call me that.”

“... Gale and Shadowheart said no, so unless if you are too fancy for damaged goods, here I am. Filled with blood.” Strike winked. “However much you haven’t punched out of me yet, that is.”

He felt a sudden prod in his mind, and looked over; Shadowheart was using her tadpol to penetrate his thoughts, her green eyes boring right through him... Strike didn’t mind, not really. He guessed she might’ve thought he was enthralled, but he was quite sure he was being himself, what little of himself he’s gotten to know in the last two days, that is.

Are you sure about this?

He’s let her in, let her poke and prod around his thoughts about the vampire, and knew it was alright when she pulled back out, and, as if nothing happened, went back to eating.

“I have enough power for another heal, I suppose,” she shrugged, “Just don’t go too far.”

It didn’t feel like a permission –good, because Strike didn’t need her permission– but it was an offer of help, and that was probably what let Astarion move forward, to the same bench Strike was sitting on.

“And you’re completely sure?”

“New experiences, ey? Although I suppose all experiences are new to m- shit!-“ Strike sucked in a sharp breath when he felt fangs pierce his skin, on the underside of his forearm, above the mass of scars that he called a wrist. It was freezing. Icepricks through his flesh, cold tongue of a corpse licking at the little wounds before the blood came.

It was pleasant, in a way, but Strike has been finding out today that there was certain relief that came with pain. One that was sudden, stronger than that that sat deep within his bones and weakened flesh. Surface pain that took the deep one away and was able to offer relief of being cured with a spell or a potion... Strike’s hand found its way into the vampire’s white curls, cradling the back of his head as Astarion nursed himself on the wound. It must’ve been good, judging from the moan that wretched itself out of his throat as he sucked in a mouthful of red, then another...

Gale coughed politely, slight flush to his cheeks. “Is the dinner table an appropriate place for this?”

“I dunno,” Strike sounded gaspier than he expected, another strain of that odd pain-pleasure sending a shiver down his spine. “Isn’t he doing just that, eating dinner?”

“You’re looking awfully pale yourself, dinner,” Shadowheart chimed in, a smirk of amusement betraying her actual thoughts about the view. “That should be enough.”

“You heard her, ‘starion. Move.” The vampire didn’t seem to hear them. Strike grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling just enough to make a point, and it was worth it to see the delighted confusion on the elf’s face. Some blood has trickled down the corner of his mouth, something that he immediately licked off with the tip of his tongue, and Strike couldn’t help himself but grin at the sight. “I’m that good, hm?”

“Exquisite, darling,” Astarion breathed out, for the first time since they’ve known eachother, some actual color painting his cheeks an almost normal tone. From corpse-like to pale.

Gale coughed again, this time slightly more aggressively, and Astarion took that as a hint to let go of Strike’s arm and straighten back up, fixing his hair. He really did look so much better... and somehow, Strike doubted that the opposite didn’t happen to him. Not judging from just how quickly Shadowheart has gotten up to come to him.

“I’m fine, buddy, really-“ Strike got up, and the world spun around him. He sat back down. “... Actually, I would like that healing spell about now. Wonderful idea.”

“Astarion, are you feeling better?” She asked with a halfsmile, her warm hands reaching for Strike’s arm, where the two punctures have already started to dry, skin around them swelling up and irritated... It felt good, when she healed it, and clarity returned to Strike’s field of vision just in time for him to be able to see Astarion flex his fingers.

“Oh, so much better. I feel... stronger. Faster.” He looked up, a hungry smile reaching all the way to his eyes that shone brighter than ever. “Thank you, darling.”

He looked happy.

It was a good look.

Not as good as that of a corpse, though. He’d make the prettiest- Strike shook his head to get the voice out, making a mental reminder to grab more wine before bed.

“Make sure you’re useful in the morning, aight? And to not attack me again while we sleep. ... Do you even need-“

“Sleep? Of course not, I was an elf before I was a vampire.” Astarion rolled his eyes. “But I do still trance. Hopefully tonight, it will for once be not to the screams of my own starvation.”

“A man can hope, buddy.”

Gale had a bit of magic left, so he used mage hands to help him clean up, much to Strike’s relief; he was exhausted, but really, Shadowheart wouldn’t allow him to offer assistance even if he had any wish to attempt to do so. She shooed him straight to his sleeping mat, claiming that after all the stress he’s gone through today, he needed to rest if he “wanted to be of any use tomorrow.” Truthfully, he was thankful for her insistence, it made it much easier to just admit to himself that he was once again too weak to do much.

They’ve found the dead scavengers’ sleeping equipment, set a small fire for warmth, and settled down with full stomachs and much less tension than they had when the day has started. It should’ve been a good night.

It wasn’t.

There was no more wine Strike could use to silence the craving in his chest, the odd pressure that crawled up his throat, into his head, and the pounding headache has returned, no doubt made worse by his lack of sleep the night before – but it wasn’t looking like it was going to get better anytime soon. He still couldn’t sleep. Something terrifying lurked in the darkness, in the one that covered him the moment he closed his eyes...

He spent the rest of the night stalking the tomb, collecting trinkets and letters from corpses, finding moth-eaten books that laid covered in thick dust. It was a good way to pass the time, even as his body screamed at him to lay down and rest, but the ache in his chest hurt more than the exhaustion.

Every once in a while, he thought he felt eyes on him. Whenever he turned towards the direction the feeling came from, Astarion was deeply in trance.

Peculiar.

“You look terrible.”

“Really, buddy? You don’t say.”

“Listen, it is difficult carrying all the looks of this party by myself. You’re dragging us all down, poor thing.”

Strike’s eyes narrowed at the vampire, who was practically glowing from health as he walked alongside him. In the early morning, they’ve helped him catch a boar, and he has drained the beast dry; with how much his skin has flushed with color, he nearly passed as a normal elf now.

And apparently, had to rub it in Strike’s damaged face.

“I don’t know,” the amnesiac hummed, “Gale has a good thing going on with that beard of his, and Shadowheart-“

“Can hear you perfectly fine, drow.”

“I was about to compliment you, lady.”

“I was merely warning you,” she smiled dangerously, and Strike made a point to dramatically turn away from her.

“Don’t want to anymore, now, you ruined it.”

It was almost comfortable, to walk with those two; they’ve left Gale behind at the camp, as the wizard looked oddly sickly in the morning, and insisted they head out without him. Strike was still just intrigued as he was before by him, but they supposed they could trust him to stay behind with all their rations. It wasn’t likely that he would try and make a run for it, not with the tadpol still firmly lodged in his brain. And it wasn’t likely that they would leave him behind, because neither Strike nor Shadowheart had any desire to return to a diet of charred or raw fish and apples.

“All I was saying is,” Astarion continued, agile in a way he climbed on top of a smaller cliff, the showoff, “You look like you haven’t gotten a blink of sleep since last decade, darling. Are the floors too harsh for you?~”

“You’ve never slept in your life, according to yourself, Ass, so do me a favor and don’t inquire upon mine.”

“Do you have trouble sleeping?” Shadowheart asked, and Strike was saved from answering in just the moment as Astarion suddenly warned them about a peculiar sight ahead.

A githyanki warrior, stuck in a wooden trap, two tieflings watching her.

A familiar githyanki warrior.

Strike gave her a little wave, right before the tieflings noticed him.

“Oh gods, a drow.”

“Oh gods, a Hellspawn.” Strike huffed. “Not so nice when it happens to you, is it?”

The two tieflings looked at eachother, one grabbing for a sword, and Strike could hear the pull of a string as Astarion, still on higher ground behind him, pulled back the arrow on his bow. They all could hear it.

Strike smiled. “Hey now, we’re not here to fight.”

“We’re not?” Shadowheart rose an eyebrow, much to the tieflings’ discomfort, and Strike threw her a scolding glance.

“No, we’re not. Unless they want it?” He asked the duo. “Three on two, my man with an advantage? I don’t mind, is what I’m saying.”

He was pulling his confidence out of his ass, because he felt physically even worse than the day before, and wasn’t quite sure how many of spells he would even be able to throw before he’d collapse, but he knew for a fact that none of his doubts (or pain) showed on his face, because the tieflings reluctantly put away their weapons. Astarion eased on the arrow, still holding it ready though.

“We don’t want trouble, underelf.”

“... Great start for that, with use of that name. But what’s with the gith?”

The man nervously glanced up at the trap and the githyanki’s murderous frown, then back to Strike. “We just caught it. The trap wasn’t meant for it, but-“

“Let me down this instant,” the Gith’s voice suddenly rang out, and Strike sent a mind message to Shadowheart to not say out loud what she was going to say – there was time for racism, and that was not now.

“It’s dangerous,” the woman tiefling chimed in. “We were going to kill it, but-“

“That’s fine, we can do that. Feel free to run.”

“But-“

Strike hinted with a persistent smile, and oh, oh, they walked away. Then Astarion shot an arrow that just barely missed one, and they ran, and the sight was so good Strike almost stopped regretting letting them live. But then again, how far would they come if they just killed every single person they came across of?

“You missed,” Shadowheart still commented, and Astarion jumped off of his high point.

“On purpose, darling. I got a feeling our dear leader wanted to show mercy, for whatever reason?”

“We would’ve killed them if they tried to fight us,” Strike lied. Sure, Astarion and Shadowheart no doubt could, but he himself? On three sleepless days and barely self-discovered magic? No, he preferred to get by on bullcrap alone, if he was able to do so.

Despite Shadowheart’s protests, they freed the Gith quickly –with a well aimed fireball that dropped the floor from under her, and she landed with terrifying grace in a half-kneel– and she informed them that they made a right choice.

“You should’ve slain them, istik.” Not the right choice about the tieflings, apparently. Strike was already annoyed with everyone complaining about his decisions, but... oh well. Better than have them complain when they did kill someone.

“My name is Strike.”

“... Lae’zel.”

She was cute, in a respectable way. Small and slim but Strike has seen her wield that massive sword of hers as if it were a pen – he was looking forward to getting to know her better already.

“Shadowheart, Astarion,” he introduced the rest of his company, but she didn’t seem particularly interested.

“It matters not. We are all infected; it is a miracle we have yet to turn into ghaik.”

“You mean mindflayers?”

“Yes. I do not intend to let that happen, Strike. I shall be on my way.”

“Eh? You’re leaving?”

She picked up her sword from where it had fallen to the ground, probably just when the trap has snatched her in the air, and already started walking. Strike’s knees protested as he rushed after her, catching up.

“We just saved you, Lae’zel.”

“Chk. And that means what?”

“Well, on our plane-“

He wasn’t sure why he wanted her to stay, other than she was interesting. And a decent fighter, something he would truly appreciate now that he was so sure he himself might not be able to hold his ground as well as he’d want to, or even as well as he had days ago on the nautilod.

But luck must’ve been on his side again, because right in front of them, they heard shouting. A scream. A goblin war drum, a bark of a hyena.

Lae’zel’s stopped in her tracks, and listened, then turned to Strike with a frown. He grinned down at the much shorter woman.

“On our plane, that means you owe us, ykno?”

“And if I repay this... favour, right now?”

“It’d make us even, and you would be free.”

Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him, just when Astarion and Shadowheart caught up with them, weapons in hand.

“We are going to see what this is all about, won’t we, darling?” Astarion asked with an excited smile; no doubt he was itching to see what he can do now that he was full. “It would be so rude to miss a party.”

“A battle is no party,” the gith hissed, but did indeed pull out her sword, just as cool and shiny as Strike remembered from Hells. “But I can offer my aid, if that will make your Fayrun customs satisfied.”

“As if we needed your help, Gith.”

“K’chacki.”

Strike wasn’t quite sure what Lae’zel has said to his cleric, but it didn’t sound exactly nice. They didn’t have quite the time for it, though – there was a horde of goblins ahead, and blood to spill.

His companions were excited for it.

Some sick urge inside of it roared in agreement.

Perhaps he was wrong, earlier, he thought as they ran forward, towards the screams. Perhaps some slaughter was just what he needed to feel better.

Chapter Text

Thrill of a battle rushed in his ears, the joy of spilling blood – although an uncomfortable amount of it was Strike’s own, because he was on the verge of vomiting from the moment it started.

Perhaps he should’ve slept more.

“Strike!”

It was Shadowheart who has called out for him, and just in time for him to turn and take an arrow right to the arm, how kind of her. He fried the goblin in a moment, a string of lightning rippling through his fingertips and into the pathetic creature, and hearing it scream, die... It felt satisfactory, for all but a moment when the next one came.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Lae’zel, slicing open the gut of a bugbear twice her size. Nice. Just behind her, a few people in simplest of armors were trying to put down a worg, that lashed out and brutally mauled one, but they weren’t someone Strike would know, so the image barely registered in his mind except for the blood that gushed into the air. Somewhere else, Astarion has knocked a goblin to the ground, only for another to sneak up behind him, blade in hand, and just as Strike realized someone should probably help him, someone did – and in a quite flashy fashion, if Strike could comment. A young man with a rapier and a dark spell that turned the goblin to dust... It felt as if he had struck a pose, even, but Strike couldn’t hear what he had yelled before he felt a spell of confusion hit him, and the world turned upside down.

How dare they, a voice that sounded almost like his own yelled in the back of his mind, as he turned and shot scorching ray into whatever direction he thought the attack came from. Someone screamed. It didn’t sound like a goblin. Oops.

He smelled burnt hair.

He hoped it wasn’t his own.

Did goblins have hair?

He threw more fire, it wasn’t right, to not know which way was up or down, to have the world spin and him be stuck in it, a panic grabbed him by the throat and pulled him down to his knees, to the ground that trembled. He lashed towards the hand that touched him on the shoulder, but his wrist was grabbed, and the panic was almost worse, no, no, he wasn’t meant to-

The confusion left him, and slowly, the world pulled itself back together. Shadowheart was holding him by the arm. Has she stuck behind him this entire time?

She frowned at him, a wink of a grin to her lips.

“Are you finished?”

“...” Strike looked around them, the corpses that surrounded them. “Seems like it.”

“You almost roasted our gith friend, you know?”

“I was wondering why you seem so happy.”

With a smirk, she pulled him back to his feet, and before letting him go, put a palm to his arm, to close the wound of the arrow Strike hasn’t even realized was pulled out of him at some point.

“Thanks, buddy.” He said, and he was grateful; he had no idea what he would’ve done without his cleric of Gods-know-who that has for some reason decided he was a leader worthy of following. It felt right, in either case.

“Are you insane?” Astarion walked up, hair ruffled and eyes angry; he was covered in dirt, head to toe. Strike cocked a brow for further elaboration on what seemed like such an obvious question. “I was trying to help you, and you throw me off?? What was that??”

“I beliave a thunderwave. A well cast one, I must say.”

Neither of them knew the voice, but have looked towards the newcomer, the man Strike has seen saving Astarion’s arse earlier. He doubted the vampire has noticed it, though. It was a handsome guy, with dark locks pulled into a half-tail, but what immediately caught Strike’s attention were numerous scars all over his face, and one prosthetic, white eye.

Astarion huffed. “Blade of the Frontiers, came to sign autographs?”

The young man laughed. It was a nice laugh. “No, merely to make sure everyone is okay.”

“We’re fine. It wasn’t us who needed rescue.”

Ironic of Astarion being the one to say so, but the man didn’t point out saving his life, and merely looked to Strike. There was a sign of intrigue on his face, perhaps that same wonder about scars that Strike felt himself about the other guy, and he felt briefly aware of how Astarion settled himself up under his arm, as if to help him stand up. It was probably more neccessary than Strike thought; he has barely noticed how he was swaying before getting the support.

“Thanks though,” Strike sighed, smiling at the apparent hero. “What was that even about?”

Before the man could reply, a voice called up from above, the tiefling Strike has seen yelling down at the humans before the fight has properly started. “Come inside, quick! Before more come!”

Shit chance of that, the drow thought. If he were leading an army, he wouldn’t split up his forces, what good would that achieve, when attacking a fortress?

Yet still, the gates have opened, and the humans rushed inside, throwing Lae’zel some not so kind looks that she pointedly ignored as she’s turned away from the doors.

“I will be on my way now, istik. My debt is repaid.”

“I’ve never met a gith before,” the young man piped up, genuine curiosity in his eyes that wasn’t exactly one Strike has seen on others when it came to their... unique buddy.

Lae’zel scowled. “Clearly, as you’re standing before me, unslain.”

“I don’t know about that, Zorru has seen some of your kind, and he is still quite alive to tell the tale...”

Her head turned itself back towards him so quickly her hair – partly burnt on one side, Strike noticed – whipped around her. “You saw another gith? Where?”

The man shrugged. “A tiefling in the grove, I haven’t quite spoken to him just yet, but-“

“Would you PLEASE walk inside??” The exasperated tiefling yelled.

Strike has put more of his weight on Astarion than he would’ve wanted to, but it did help him drag himself over to the gates, and as they passed Lae’zel, he could see the hesitation on her face.

“You can always leave after you’ve interrogated him,” he suggested, feeling Shadowheart’s glare of disapproval. “Maybe even had a quick rest.”

“... I will take you on that offer, then.” She decided, and before the poor tiefling above them had to yell again, all five of them got through the gates. The entrance closed behind them.

Strike’s felt a little better after another pat from Shadowheart, enough to pull himself away from Astarion – it was terribly weird that the vampire was so nice to him, but perhaps he had just wanted to wipe mud from himself and onto Strike. If that was his plan, it failed, as it’s long since dried out all over him. It was cute that his rogue and cleric gave this much of a damn, though. Strike wondered for what reason that could’ve been.

“There are children here, you fool!”

Ah, something almost as interesting was happening right by them.

The old tiefling was arguing with one of the humans, and Strike wandered by, just to see what was happening, only to immediately catch a stray.

“Oh great, an underelf. Want us to house ‘im too, Zevlor?”

“That man just saved your life, you ungrateful mongrel!”

Tensions were brewing, that much was clear. Strike was quite sure one or the other were about to attack, but it was hard to pick who... he decided on the bias, of course.

It was getting easier, sending messages to his companions, he realized, the worm in his head squirming as he sent a picture of needing someone to step between the two. Not because he wasn’t sure if he himself could take it, in the moment, but... The message was meant for Shadowheart, who has already taken a step forward, yet it was the man with locs who was faster, hand firm on the human’s shoulder.

“No need for violence; we’ve plenty of enemies on the outside.”

The human scoffed, but did unclench his fist, and pushed Strike’s new interest away from him. “... Whatever. This isn’t worth it, horns.”

He shoulder checked the tiefling as he passed him, and while Zevlor did look tempted to trip him with his tail, he held back and ignored him. He sighed.

“Thank you, Blade.”

“Gladly. And I thought I’ve told you before, it’s just Wyll, please.”

“Thank you, Wyll.” A tired smile was offered, but the tiefling looked like that was the last one he’s had in him for a while. “And to all our saviors, of course. I don’t know what we would’ve done had any of the goblins escaped.”

“There’s more?” Strike asked, intrigued, and wondering why Lae’zel has stayed with them to tap her foot to the ground impatiently, instead of leaving to do her own thing.

Zevlor nodded. “An entire army, sadly. They’ve been on our tails for a while, while we were merely trying to pass to Baldur’s Gate. Thankfully the druids of the grove have taken us in, but it seems their generosity is running short..” He sighed, waved his hand as if it wasn’t that important. The man clearly had so much weighing him down –Strike found himself more than interested in what caused frown lines of that depth. He hinted him to continue, but Lae’zel cut him off.

“I must speek to a Zurro, immediately.”

“Zurro? Are you certain?” Zevlor gave the githyanki a look that could at best be called... politely doubtful. “He’s... not in the most stable of moods, in the moment.”

“I do not care, the matter is urgent.”

“I suppose...”

She has already walked past him, when the old tiefling sighed again, and turned back towards Strike and the man with locs, Wyll. “I’m sorry for burdening you with another of our worries, but could you talk to Kagha? She is the current druid in charge, and if she convinces others to kick us out, well... My people aren’t in the best of conditions. We have some fighters, but not nearly enough, and we have children with us. She won’t listen to me, or to any of our kind, but you?”

“That means him, right?” Strike hinted towards Wyll, who smiled almost shyly. “Not the bloody underelf?”

Zevlor looked uncomfortable for a moment. “It is brave of you to not hide your heritage, but you must understand, our enemies do currently work with drow.”

“You’d be surprised at how often this seems to happen to me, it’s all good, buddy. He seems like the more trustworthy guy anyway.”

Zevlor seemed relieved, and proceeded to explain the situation; the rife of thorns and their missing high druid, Halsin, who could maybe help... They never said anything about the tadpoles, but apparently it was a quite useful thing that Strike looked the way he did – noone doubted for a second that he needed a healer. Zevlor offered even before they asked for one, really. Strike could feel the disapproval of his companions, all three of them deigning him standing there and talking to the tiefling who was asking for help an utter waste of time. Astarion was thinking about how to rob him, and the grove. Lae’zel just wanted to go talk to the Zurro guy. Shadowheart has shut her mind firmly, and Wyll... Wyll shouldn’t be one of the people Strike could read, but when he glanced over to him, the man sent him a pretty surprised thought about how they can discuss it later. He was very much willing to help the tiefling, though.

Strike himself wasn’t sure of why he kept entertaining this idea, not when they were in immediate threat of turning to mindflayers, but... maybe he just enjoyed listening to someone talk about their problems. Maybe he enjoyed someone begging when this desperate.

“Feel free to stay here for a while while you consider it,” Zevlor said eventually, after Strike –with much annoyance from his team– assured him that they will at least talk to this Kagha. “And do visit Nettie, for your, uh. Condition.”

“Will do, buddy.”

“Thank you, again. We owe you so much.”

Felt good to hear, if nothing else. The moment the tiefling left, Strike has turned to face his much less kind team, their pouty frowns and raised eyebrows, and the straight up pissed off frown that Lae’zel wore.

“I am not here to save those that are too weak to save themselves, istik.”

“Nor are we,” Astarion chimed in. “Have we all forgotten that we could all start sprouting tentacles at any- what?” he barked as Shadowheart hit him in the shoulder, realizing a moment too late that Wyll was still standing right there. “... Shit.”

Luckily... “You’ve got it too, don’t you?” Strike asked him, and the younger man nodded.

“I’ve been in Avernus when the nautiloid appeared, sadly. Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you for something...”

“We’re not running a charity here!”

“Astarion, shut it,” Strike was surprised at just how easy it was to shut up the vampire with a just slightly harsher order, but he was dealing with other things in the moment. Such as Wyll stepping closer, lowering his voice to tell him about the woman he was hunting down.

“A devil. I believe she has escaped me to Faerun, I would appreciate help as it seems the tadpol has limited my usual abilities.”

“Blade of the people, hm?”

“Whenever needed,” Wyll smiled. Strike liked him, this kind and simple looking man. And the slight smell of sulfur that seemed to follow him, undetected by others. The way Wyll’s shadow twisted when he saw it only from the corner of his eye.

“Hm.” This was an easier decision to make, at least. They’ve all seen Wyll be useful in a battle, and a devil in Toril... “Aight, here’s the plan,” Strike decided. “First, Lae’zel goes talk to the tiefling guy. You show her which guy it is.”

Wyll nodded. Lae’zel seemed to agree. Shadowheart had doubts.

“I don’t think she should be trusted with someone already traumatized by her people.”

“Great, you go with her and Wyll then.”

“Wait, I didn’t-“

“Keep them outta trouble, buddy.”

“And you?” Astarion asked, taking a step closer to the drow.

“I’m gonna go back to tell Gale about this and help him move the camp closer. You guys explore the grove meanwhile. Then we meet back up here and decide on what to do next. Sounds good? We don’t have to help them but it would be idiotic if they had a healer here who could pull out the tadpols and we went out to chase the Githyanki creche – no offense.”

“Consider it taken, istik. My people-“

“Are further away than a healer in here. Can we just check them out first?”

“.... That is acceptable.”

“Great. So, all good?”

They seemed to agree... Astarion only mentioned that he would prefer to go with Strike, and noone had anything against it. He just hoped their new friend Wyll would be able to wrangle both their cleric and githyanki.

“So you wanted to go with me because of this?” Strike grinned as him and Astarion picked through the corpses of the fallen goblins just outside of the creche. “Corpse touching?”

“I- robbing, darling, robbing.”

“Tomato, potato.”

“That’s not how-“ Astarion scowled at him, and Strike laughed. “I actually wanted to make sure our dearest leader doesn’t faint on the halfway. I’ve seen how terrible you were in that fight.”

“Fuck off.”

“No. When is the last time you’ve slept?”

The humor left Strike’s tone as he pocketed some vials of acid, however tempting it was to think of throwing one at the nosy vampire’s face. “None of your business, now, is it?”

“If you’ve put yourself as our leader, then yes, it is.”

Astarion had to lightly jog to catch up with him as he has started to leave, and Strike had to fight back the growing headache that was starting to build back up again. The reason why he had wanted to leave was to get away from people and conversations, perhaps vomit a little, but apparently...

They walked in silence for a bit, until they made it to the nautiloid crash site, and walked past the dead mindflayer whos head Strike has stomped in just a day ago. How odd, Strike thought as he stared at the corpse, for not more than a moment or two. He remembered the fury that took him over when he had done so. Just how badly he had wanted to kill it. And now, the corpse could not have risen less of a feeling in him.

Not much more than a squish of meat in an admittedly nice outfit.

How... shallow.

They kept walking.

“Hey, D- Strike,” Astarion suddenly said, his voice dropping, the smallest smile on his face as the drow looked at him with a ‘hm?’. “There was one more reason I wanted to come along...”

“The fact that Wyll is a monster hunter and you are a vampire?”

“... Did not even think about that, shit.”

A tired grin crossed Strike’s lips, but Astarion pulled himself out of his thoughts, and next thing Strike knew, the vampire has moved in closer. And closer. Strike’s back hit the harsh bark of a tree, just by the road as the rogue shoved him against it.

“If you want another nibble, buddy, wait for Shart to be around,” Strike said, while in the back of his mind flashed images of the night before. Astarion’s fist cracking the bone of his cheek, the fury in the ruby red eyes. The blood, just how fun that was.

There was no fury this time though, no.

“I was thinking, how stressful it must be, for people like us around here... Dealing with all those worthless nobodies that beg for help...”

“True, you help them once and next thing you know, they could be beating you up in a desecrated tomb.”

Astarion frowned for just a moment, before a sultrier smile replaced that, and his hand pressed against Strike’s chest. He could no doubt feel the way his heartbeat fastened, little wardrum pumping red through his body, and then down as the vampire played with the lacing of his tunic. His sharp nails brushed against the skin underneath, no doubt on purpose. It was nice. Strike gripped his wrist without any intentions of stopping him, yet he could still see the moment when Astarion almost flinched.

“And where is this coming from, if I may ask, buddy?”

Astarion paused, just for a blink, before his entire body was pressed up against Strike’s, cold and heartless like a corpse.

“Forgive me; am I encroaching on Shadowheart’s territory?”

“Ha!” It was a laugh, an honest to gods laugh – Strike had no idea why that was so funny in particular, but just... the idea... “Why’d ya think so?”

“She seems... fond of you.”

“As she should be, I saved her arse on the nautiloid. Or maybe it’s just that cleric pride where they can’t let a patient die before they heal ‘em.”

Something softened in Astarion’s expression. Something hardened in Strike’s breeches. Especially once the vampire reached down to cup him through the fabric.

“I saw how you got when I bit you, darling.”

“Ah- you did?”

“Everyone did.” He palmed the drow’s growing erection and Strike leaned his head back, trying to figure out what his buddy’s deal was... or what was his own. He didn’t particularly hate the feeling. He didn’t particularly love it. It was pleasant. He bucked his hips into Astarion’s hand, earning an amused hum in return.

“We’re right out here.”

“We can kill whoever notices us.”

“Heh. Sure.”

Just behind Astarion, there were the corpses of goblins Shadowheart has found a while ago; by now, they’ve been rotting, seagulls picking at their softened flesh. Not the most romantic of places to be at, but despite knowing barely anything about himself, Strike could say quite confidently that he was not the most romantic of people.

He’s let go of Astarion’s wrist and instead cupped the back of his head, unsure if he should pull him in for a kiss or push him down to his knees, so he did neither, and just petted through the white locks. The vampire really was pretty. The red around the white parts of his eyes, the quickly fading bruises of a not-yet-well-fed vampire. He looked better when he was hungry, the voice in Strike’s mind suggested, more dead then than now. He shooshed the thought away, despite quietly agreeing.

“I still have it in me to fry you, if you try anything,” he warned him, just in case, once Astarion unlaced his pants and took his cock in hand. Cold flesh against his heated skin felt good. Familiar.

“I would never- huh?” Astarion’s sultry voice disappeared completely for a moment, once he actually got a good feel of the drow’s member, and he glanced down to make sure what he felt was correct. Strike closed his eyes; he knew what he was seeing, he’s seen it plenty of times before, but even to him it was a surprise upon first discovering it – the few deep, rough scars that encircled his cock. They looked grotesque, but were at least fully healed.

“Ribbed for your pleasure, I guess,” Strike managed to let out a chuckle, despite just how tight his throat felt at the thought, for whatever reason. Whoever did this to him, did that, as well. He didn’t want to think about it, the implications. “What, too gross for you?”

“N- no, darling, it’s okay.”

He didn’t want to see the look on Astarion’s face, the pity, disgust, whatever he was feeling. By that point he has realized just how little he actually cared of who it was that was holding him – it was good enough to just be held. By whoever it might’ve been.

“Get to it, then,” he huffed, and only when Astarion stopped for a moment, added a quick “if you will. Buddy. Pal.”

“... How could I ever say no, when you say please so nicely..” Sarcasm dripped from the vampire’s voice, but he kneeled, and Strike let out a sigh of relief once he finally took him in his mouth.

It was good. Wet. He could barely feel the fangs, despite a stray thought that he wouldn’t mind them digging in there, if Astarion asked, but it was good nontheless. The vampire knew what he was doing, and soon enough, both of Strike’s hands were in his white hair, straining to let him control his own pace.

Good. Good. Breed it, take it, force it, good .

The voice got louder, but for once, it didn’t come with a headache; there was instead relief. An embrace of pleasure that took away the pain. A pat on the head by an invisible hand.

He was good.

Corpses reeked, and they were so, so close. He could see the organs and ribs that were revealed by the hungry wildlife, could imagine so easily burying his hands into those guts and adorning them like jewelry. As he let out a moan, he thought of what the tieflings would think if they saw him wearing them. The old man looked so grateful to him, and the so called hero of the coast with such a trusting eye-

 They would fear you, a voice said, and he couldn’t tell if it was his own thought or whoever else’s. As they should. They should hate you and they should die for it.

If he closed his eyes and drank in the pungent corpses, the wet worship of his cock, the hair under his hands, head that in his mind detached itself from a body as he fucked into it... It felt good. Right.

For the first moment since he woke up, he felt an embrace of home.

He wasn’t fully sure when he came, but eventually, the sun on his face reminded him of where he was, and he blinked himself from wherever in his mind he was stuck at. He was still holding Astarion, his hair balled in both of his fists, tight enough for it to must have been painful, the vampire’s nose squished against Strike’s pelvis.

“Ah... sorry,” he muttered, releasing him, and apparently the vampire has swallowed whatever it was he was able to give, sliding off of his softening cock with a wet pop the moment Strike let go.

“It’s... It’s alright, darling.” Astarion seemed slightly shaken up, but he covered it up quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t have to breathe, in case you forgot.”

“Hah... yeah, I s’ppose...”

The pleasure has left, and Strike was back to feeling cold and in pain. But it was a little better, he had to admit. He laced himself back up and looked around, just to make sure noone had come by while they were... busy.

“... Want one back?” He asked, more because it felt like what he probably should’ve offered, rather than because he felt like it, and he was relieved when Astarion shook his head.

“How about some other time?” The vampire asked, fixing his hair before Strike reached out to do it for him. It was really soft, he liked the feeling. And the way Astarion went still under his touch, voice stuttering for a moment before he collected himself. “Wh- when we have more time, for... proper pleasure?~”

Strike laughed, suddenly pulling him in, just to give him a little peck on the corner of his lips. It felt like the proper thing to do, when his buddy was this generous. He had yet to learn what the reason for the generosity was, but he had time. “Sure thing, buddy. Sure thing.”

They had to step over the corpses to continue their way, as Strike thought of what this meant...

“.... Hey, Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“Is fucking you-“

“No.”

“I mean, since you’re a vampire-“

“Do not.”

“Which is a form of an undead creature-“

“Don’t you dare make that joke.”

“.... necrophilia?”

Astarion hit him. Strike laughed.

Whatever lived inside of him roared, and he couldn’t tell if it was in approval or not. Or wheter either of those would be a good thing.

Chapter Text

Strike jumped himself awake with a gasp, only to bump into a cold arm that was apparently resting in his hair just a moment ago.

“Slept well?” Astarion asked with a cocked brow, and the confused drow blinked at him.

Slept? Slept?

“I-?”

“You passed out almost the moment we made it here,” the vampire explained, seemingly amused. Strike looked around; they were in the old crypt, by the wall, and he was apparently using Astarion’s thighs as a pillow... No wonder his neck hurt. “Really should rest more, darling, you know?”

How long has it been since he first woke up, four days? The first night Strike tried to sleep or even trance, horrid nightmares dug his chest open and rushed him awake with a red fog in his mind – dreams carried horror with them that made him too uneasy to allow them to take him. And yet, just now...

“You make for a decent pillow, buddy.”

“So I’ve been told.” Astarion closed the book he was reading, and Strike offered him his hand to help him stand up, which the vampire took after a moment of slight surprise. “I’ve caught our dear friend with everything, so we can be on our way with the camp relocation? If that is still your plan.”

“My- ah, right.” He was still surprised enough at the idea of having actually slept a dreamless slumber, it took Strike a few more moments and a shake of his head to gather his thoughts. He felt better. Not good, but better. The corners of his vision were not blurry for the first time in days, and when he tried, his mind was almost clear for once. He wondered if that was what Astarion felt like after a drink... “You can bite me again tonight, if you want,” he blurted out without much thought, still amazed at just shit he was before this apparently life saving nap.

“Oh my, don’t get too grateful, darling~”

“How long was I out?”

“Just a few hours, really.”

“Three, and seven minutes, actually.” Gale has peeked through the door by them, provoking an eye roll from the vampire. “More a short rest than a proper one, but..”

“Good enough,” Strike declared, feeling the excitement rush back to him, the same thrill he felt when he was pumped with adrenaline, running through the nautiloid in Hells. And all he had to do was faint from exhaustion on a nice cold cor- vampire. “We should return to the grove, the old guy told us there’s this place nearby that we could set a better camp at.”

“Too bad. I am going to miss this old decrepit crypt.”

“You? I’d never guess, vampire.”

Gale has found a handy bag of carrying, and has pocketed most of their found stuff, even a nice bottle of liquor that Strike memorized the location of, for later that day. As they were leaving, his now sharper mind couldn’t help but also notice just how in a hurry the wizard was to leave...

“Hey, Gale?” he asked, watching him twitch and then smile at him, hiding whatever he was actually feeling quite well. “What’s with the burnt skeletons in the back room?”

“Hm?”

“The skeletons. Burnt skeletons.”

“Ah. I believe they were already here when we arrived, were they not?” Gale was absentmindedly shoving some cooking equipment into his bag, which Strike was thankful to him for. Not thankful enough to drop the subject, though.

“That door over there certainly wasn’t open when we arrived.” And the skeletons were very much not burnt. “How long did we leave you alone for, two hours?”

“Four. And that has naught to do with... whatever you think it does.”

He was saved by Astarion; the only one not helping pack, and the one most excited to get back in the sun, despite his claims of missing the crypt, as the vampire shouted at them to “Do you mind if we leave before the nightfall? Or before we all turn into tentacled monsters? Pretty please.”

Strike eyed Gale. Gale avoided looking at him. The wizard certainly looked in better health than he did in the morning; the smell of necrotic tissue was also lesser.

Oh, did Strike enjoy being awake enough again to be able to notice all of the delicious secrets around him.

Next thing they learnt was no secret, even if it was intriguing. It didn’t take a sharp mind to notice the way Lae’zel’s leg was torn open ankle to knee with downright horrific cuts that were bleeding through even through the thick bandages as the dwarf healer tried to patch her up.

“Whew,” Strike whistled upon seeing it, smelling the Gith blood in the air. Seemed like on the inside, they all looked (tasted?) the same in the end. “Had a catfight?”

Shadowheart huffed, trying her best to look not happy about the Gith’s injury and failing terribly. “A flock of harpies made their nest on the beach, and it seems our gith friend has never heard of one.”

“Cowardly k’chakhi, tempt opponents with shka’keth songs instead of facing in battle like- tsk’va!”

“It is a disinfectant, mistress,” the dwarf sighed, quite tired as she gave up on the bandages and instead poured a whole bottle of something that smelled strongly of alcohol on the torn flesh.

Strike took a step closer, getting a better look at the wound. He overheard a conversation Astarion and Shadowheart had, in what he assumed they thought was only their minds.

‘Don’t you dare, leach. It’s probably bad for you, anyway,’

‘Do you have me for a monster? Why in the sweet Hells would I try to-‘

‘I can see you licking your lips, Astarion.’

‘Ah, and why are you looking there, dear Shadowheart?~’

As interesting as that was, the torn apart muscle was more, and Strike cringed internally as a memory of who knows what told him all he needed to know about the injuries. The harpy must have grabbed her just as Lae’zel jumped or something, because the cut started right under the knee, wrapped itstelf down and around the leg and right through the tendon on the back of it. There was no way the Gith was going to be running anytime soon, he realized, with surprising excitement. Great, actually. It meant he- ...they could keep her.

“You’re not going to be exactly sprinting to that creche of yours, huh,” he pointed out, hoping that he sounded not exactly thrilled about that when she gave him a hateful glare. Oh, but he could feel it, right under the anger and the furrowed brows and snarling teeth.

She knew he was right. And she was terrified.

It was a good feeling, familiar, but Strike pushed it away in order to step aside to let the dwarf work.

“No, I must, istik, the creche is the only-”

“Listen, Lae’zel.” He didn’t reach out to her, merely moved closer to her head while he felt Shadowheart’s disapproving glare burning at the back of his skull. “You’re fucked,” he started, hinting at her messed up leg. “But,” he added, before she could protest, or worse, panic (he felt like if she had a panic attack, there wouldn’t be many survivors left in the room). “But, you’re with people who can fight, and who can get you there, because they have the same issue as you do, yeah? You can even lead us there once we’re done here.”

Her lower lip trembled as she looked at him, then her leg, then his companions –and Gale, who was new to her– and back to him. Strike didn’t really know Githyanki ages, but especially like that, the poor girl seemed so much younger than he thought... it didn’t really change, not even when she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and yanked him forward to the slab of stone she was sitting on.

“We will all die if we don’t get to the Creche, istik,” she hissed, but with furious desperation Strike could tell was coming from a place of fear. He knew fear, he realized. He knew its taste in the air, the color of its sweat.

“I know,” he smiled in return, despite the pain exploding in his knee, where it hit the stone when she grabbed him. He dared to reach up and wrap his hand around her wrist. “And we are capable of getting there. You aren’t, though. Wanna take our chances with us?”

Something on his shirt ripped when she tightened her hold –gods was she strong– thinking about it, her eyes on Strike’s as if to try and see anything distrustful in them... and just like that, she released him. Didn’t break his hand for touching her, either, so he decided to count this whole interaction as a huge success.

“... Fine. I shall be your guide to the creche.”

“Mhm. After we’re done here, I said.”

“But-“

“A- ah,” Strike pressed a finger to her lips to stop her before she could protest, and she was apparently so shocked that she actually froze up for a moment. She had soft lips. “We are taking you in, Lae’zel. We’re going to speak to that Halsin guy, first. And if anyone starts sprouting tentacles, you included, we will kill them on spot. Kay?”

That last reassurance seemed to work, because when he –swiftly- removed his finger, she’s quieted down, then nodded.

“Those terms are... acceptable.”

“Oh, and do use my name, aight? It’s-“

“Strike, yes. I recall.”

“I’m honored.” He pulled away from her with a smile, back to his other three companions. “Gale, put that book down before kind doctor here thinks you’re stealing. Lae’zel will travel with us.”

“A wounded Gith?” Astarion scoffed, almost in sync with Shadowheart. “I can’t imagine how much good that will bring us.”

“As if we haven’t collected enough road trash already.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know, I am exceptionally trained at my craft. Not some wayward street magician.”

Strike felt his eyelid twitch in annoyance, same annoyance that appeared every time when his decisions were met with complaining... He was going to have to look into why that was, he thought, but for now, he just sighed. Forced himself to relax a bit.

“You’ve seen her fight. In two weeks, she can start putting weight on this leg again; in two months, we have a fighter. And that is the worst case scenario, that we have to stay on the road for this long – without turning. In a second worst case scenario we can use her to negotiate if a Githyanki patrol attacks us. Any other objections?”

“What would be the best case scenario?” Gale asked, intrigued, and Strike half wished he’d have thrown something at him, but sadly, the only thing close by were bottles of medicine and a dead drow.

“Best case scenario, we find Halsin,” he smiled through grit teeth, “he pulls the tadpols out of us, and we go our separate ways.”

“... Sounds unlikely, but okay. I agree.”

Strike clasped his hands together, ears perking up. “Great, me, Lae’zel and Gale against Shart and Asstarion. We overrule you, Lae’zel is staying.”

And the moment he turned around to finish the conversation, because there stood the dwarf he has completely forgotten about, with cautious wide eyes and what was clearly a branch of poison in her hand.

“... Right, you probably heard that.”

“You- you’re all infected? With mindflayer tadpols?”

Strike sighed, the familiar headache creeping back into his mind even as he rose his hands and smiled. “Whoever just pulled out your weapon, Astarion, put it down. I’m sure we can talk this out, it’s not-”

Bullshitting was easy, Strike has learnt through the next two hours. Terribly easy, at least for him. He founds words that were just the ones he needed roll from his tongue before he could think much of them, it was so simple to find what the other person wanted to hear. Don’t kill us, sure, I’ll drink this poison if I have to. Don’t feed a child to a snake, how about that? We can find your druid for you, no problem. How about you don’t start a race war just yet? We’ll talk to the racists so that you won’t die on the road. Hey, you will die on the road, how about you fucking stay? Easy.

“You know, you’re very likeable when you try to be,” Shadowheart told him later when they were setting camp, and Strike found himself still humming the melody he heard someone singing, when they were at the grove.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Even if you for some reason invited a bloody Gith in our midst. You’re charming when you need to be.”

Lae’zel was spending the night with the dwarf, Nettie, and while she made Strike a promise that she wasn’t going to murder anyone during that time, Gale still volunteered to stay back and make sure of it. Strike has his suspicions, based on how excited the wizard was around all of Nettie’s books and glyphs, but he let it slide. Even if that meant that him and Shadowheart were doomed for pre-packaged dry meat and bread for dinner.

“Keep being mad about it,” he teased, holding still the center of the tent she was putting up, “I’ll charm you out of anger eventually.”

“Will you, now.”

“Well, according to some cleric that I know...”

“Sounds like a smart cleric.”

“Not really, doesn’t know which god she follows.”

She grunted as she pulled up the tent, and the weighted fabric smacked the drow in the face while lifting past him. Blind for a moment, Strike froze up, only for Shadowheart to pull it off of him, revealing a smarmy grin.

“Doesn’t tell you – that’s a difference.”

“Sure you don’t, Shart~”

She dropped the cloth, blinding him again. It went into his mouth when he laughed, but by the time he was out of the freshly built tent, his cleric was already away, carrying a rug that she bought on cheap from the seller merchant in the Grove. It matched the purple of her tent, how nice.

Luxurious, even. Strike was thinking of just sleeping –if he was even going to do that– on a mat by the fire, but...

“Strike, Shadowheart!”

“Akhem.”

“Ah, right, Astarion.”

Wyll’s voice called out, the hero gracefully sliding down the small cliff their camp was built under. Astarion huffed something from where he was, laying down, sunbathing and not helping, and now that he was acknowledged, returned to doing just that.

“Blade of the frontiers, how may we help?” Strike asked, ears perking up in interest when he saw just how out of breath the monster hunter was.

“Just Wyll, please.”

“Okay then, Wyll please, what-“

Shadowheart has punched him in the arm, but Wyll didn’t seem to acknowledge the joke past a quick chuckle; it must’ve been serious.

“The devil I was after? I’ve tracked her down,” the young man said, waving his arm in the vague direction. “I know I am asking for a lot, but if you could perhaps provide backup, just in case the worm messes with my abilities too much-?”

Before he even asked, Strike was on his way to give Astarion a friendly kick to the ribs, to get the weirdly tense vampire going.

“Oh, we’d love to help,” he grinned, ignoring the elvish cursing of his entire family, and the cleric’s disapproval.

Strike had an idea in mind of what a devil was; he wasn’t sure where he got it from, perhaps from a book he’s read before his memory restarted, but in his mind, a devil meant an earthly person that smelled of trickery. Someone sly, refined. Subtle, was his point.

He wasn’t expecting a massive, brutish looking woman with Infernal tattoos, ripped clothes, panting and quite literally on fire.

“This is the least subtle devil I’ve ever seen,” he commented as they approached over the river. The water was steaming around them from the heat the devil woman was putting off.

“And I suppose you’ve met plenty of devils?” asked Astarion, eyeing him from the side. Funny, it was as if the vampire were more focused on him rather than on the quite literally extremely hot woman.

“Buddy, my pa could’ve been a devil ‘n’ I wouldn’t fuckin’ know.”

“... Right. My apologies.”

“One horn. The stink of Avernus. Advocato diaboli.” Wyll ignored them, fully focused on the woman, and Strike found himself finding it cute, how serious the Blade was.

She snarled back at him, straightened and far taller than anyone else in the party – Strike heard more than saw Astarion pull his dual daggers out, felt Shadowheart focus to smite the moment it would be needed, and he-

He looked at the woman, and saw the red. The red. Red stone ceiling far above, screams from your left, wet slops. Heart that aches and is gone. Hands that reach out and hurt, hurt, rage and despair and devils, real devils, as your axe slices through them and they fall like freshly cut grass. Grass, for the first time in years, that feels so cold against your palms and you weep-

Monster hunter and his sword, trio of people behind him.

Fear in your heart. Your heart. Heart that isn’t-

Strike gasped himself back into his own mind, not even noticing that he has fallen right back, onto his arse. Astarion was by his side, Shadowheart still standing between him and the woman, and her... fallen to her knees, clutching at her head. Strike wondered what she saw. Or why every time this happened, the other person seemed to be way more affected than he was.

“You are going to die, Karlach.”

“Fuck, don’t-“ She didn’t really see him just yet, she must’ve still been dizzy from the brain sharing thing. Wyll seemed to notice, reluctance in the way he lifted his sword-

“Wyll,” Strike called out, letting Astarion help him stand up. “She’s tadpoled.”

“A devil could be tadpoled, just as well!” But there was a shake to his voice, a tremble in his scowl that he had to fight to maintain as he glared down at the woman who finally returned the glare.

“I am no bloody devil, I- fuck, Blade, I can explain, I swear.” She stood up, towering over him; but she didn’t reach for the massive axe on her back, which Strike could applaud her for, had he not worried about ruining their moment. If Wyll would still want to kill her, well... Strike didn’t particularly mind, not really.

“As if I would believe a devil.”

“Look at me, monster hunter,” she hissed, bending at the waist just far enough for them to be eye to singular eye. “You know monsters. Do I really look like one?”

Yes, she did. If you knew nothing about devils, Strike supposed.

And Wyll apparently agreed, because they held the eye contact, and then, the Blade swore, a loud, juicy word that none of them expected from his –until now– polite tongue.

“Whoa,” Astarion whistled.

“You’re really no devil, are you,” Wyll’s face has changed, pulled into an expression of pure despair... then shame, as he put his blade away. “I’ve been... decieved. My apologies.”

“Phew.” She seemed at ease, but Strike could see the relief, the way her shoulders relaxed and her tail went less rigid. She did not want to fight four people in that moment; she was injured and alone. “Thought I’ll have to take your head, Blade.”

“Heh. You would’ve died trying. And my name is Wyll.” The young man was troubled, that much was clear, but he seemed to have pushed it aside in exchange for that handsome smile of his. “Truce?”

“Truce, Wyll.” She smiled back, then looked at Strike and the other two. “My name is Karlach.”

“Strike. That’s Shadowheart and that’s Astarion,” the drow introduced them, noting the way the woman stared... at him, in particular. “Before you ask, I got amnesia alongside with the tadpol.”

“Ah, so you wouldn’t happen to know if you were in Baldur’s Gate around ten years ago?”

“Buddy, I wouldn't happen to know where I was a week ago.”

“Sorry to hear that, soldier. You just look a little familiar, is all. Maybe from the creepy mindflayer ship?”

“Maybe!”

“We should head back,” Astarion cut in, pyshically making Strike turn. “We have a camp, and I assume we’re going to be taking her in too, hm?”

“We have enough supplies. You okay with that, Wyll?”

“Hm? Oh, sure.” Wyll seemed to be deep in his thoughts, trailing behind everyone as they walked, and Karlach jogged to get to Strike’s side.

“So.... how’d ya end up in Zariel’s army?”

“Long story, soldier. And what in the fuck happened to you?? You look as if you went through a hell of your own!”

“Still no memory. Hey, cleric, can you heal whatever’s wrong with our new friend here?”

Turned out that wasn’t exactly possible, but Shadowheart was able to heal whatever surface injuries Karlach has suffered during the last four days. She told them of some false paladins she’s had a rather violent encounter with, and of goblins... On the walk back to the camp, the cleric also took to catching her up with their entire situation –she certainly seemed to like the muscular woman, huh– much to Strike’s relief, because the exhaustion has started to settle into his bones all over again. It was worse, even; his hands felt itchy, denied of blood that was promised. Sure, Strike liked Karlach, but he was prepared to spill blood...

He thought of murder, just this morning, but it did the same amount of good that thinking of food did to a man starved. His head hurt. The settling sun was too bright. Strike found himself closing his eyes and leaning onto Astarion, who, surprisingly, didn’t complain about having to kind of lead the way for the drow too.

His headache didn’t get better when they found another tiefling in their camp. Wyll knew her by name, a lady named Alfira, from the Grove.

“I wanted to follow you, adventurers! The great Blade of Frontiers; surely would be a good inspiration for a ballad, if nothing else?”

She seemed sweet. Kind. A young girl with the brightest smile and agile hands that strummed her lute.

Strike imagined his hands on her throat.

“Oh, sweet, dinner and a show?”

“We really are just collecting strays, aren’t we? I suppose, darling, if you’re a good bard-“

“You can’t stay,” Strike choked out. Watched her pretty smile drop. “We- We’re full.”

He felt the odd gazes from his companions, but more than that, he felt the clawed fist that grabbed at his guts and twisted when he saw the bard’s already big eyes widen. Pretty girl. Pretty.

“O- oh. I thought-“

“Bullshit, you can’t send her home now!” Karlach pouted at him, and the same red thing that was demanding of Strike to gut the bard, flashed him an image of the not-devil, with her head on a pike. “Does she live a minute away or something? There’s goblins everywhere!”

“I am not picking sides, merely saying that perhaps it would be fine, to have some entertainment,” Shadowheart chimed in, already heading to her tent as if this wouldn’t concern her. “And, if she goes home alone now, we might as well pour some sauce on her, for the goblins.”

If she stays here, something way worse will happen, Strike wanted to say, but he couldn’t, not with an invisible dagger in his throat, the threat of what was to happen if his new companions find out.

How does one say that they saw a pretty girl and the sight alone made them want to rut into her dismembered torso? Strangle her with the strings of her lute?

He couldn’t find words anymore, at least not ones that weren’t horrible, as the rest of the group decided to vote, and came to a conclusion that Strike was worried over nothing and it really was better for the girl to stay. The drow had no idea on how to explain. In the end, he shrugged, and requested a song.

The red was threatening to swallow him.

It was bad enough when everyone was awake and listening to the music, the music even kind of calmed him down, but now, when everyone was asleep?

He didn’t want to think of what could happen if he allowed himself to give in to the embrace of unconsciousness. Not now. Not with the girl so close.

Her shallow breaths, the way her ribcage moves with them.

His hands itched. He kept scratching at his neck, his hands – what was a few more scars to blend in with the rest?

Strike sat with his back by the tree, as far away from the campfire as possible; at this point, it was only the uncomfortable ground and the tiny pain of his scratches that kept him awake as he sat there. Staring. Imagining.

He wanted it. Walk over there. Grab her by the throat, crush it, before she could scream. He wasn’t even sure if his desires were sexual or murderous, and he wasn’t sure which one would disgust his companions more. He knew he couldn’t survive out there on his own – at this point, his body was too ruined to make it through another week without Shadowheart’s repairs, and that was even completely unrelated to the fucking worm in his head that was causing all these thoughts.

Deep down, he knew it wasn’t the worm’s fault, not likely at least. Everyone else slept okay. Oh, sleep... He felt so much better after he slept that day, even if only for a few hours.

A few minutes, perhaps... closing his eyes, just a wink, gods, fathers, he was so tired-

“Shh. Darling.”

Astarion’s hand on his shoulder woke him up right before he’d doze off, and Strike snapped, grabbing at the vampire’s wrist before he realized it was him.

Bloodshot, not fully lucid eyes of the drow found the dead elf’s, and the cold flesh under his fingertips almost helped him pull it back together.

“What,” he whispered, partly not to wake the others, and partly because his voice was starting to break.

Astarion didn’t seem to notice his absolutely unstable condition, and instead brought his hand to his lips, pressed a cold kiss to the scarred knuckles, and Strike could only stare as those ruby red eyes turned to him. Sultrily. A rekindled desire flew through his loins.

“I was thinking,” Astarion purred, quiet and sinful, pressing another kiss to Strike’s wrist, then on the inside of it. “Everyone is asleep, how about... you and me, get lost in the forest together?~”

“What, not gonna beat me up this time? No foreplay?” Strike just barely forced a joke out of himself. It was terrible, unfunny, and yet, Astarion gave a soft chuckle, pulling him to his feet.

“Come, darling,” he held his hand, pulled him with him. The drow wasn’t sure how or why, but his feet moved, one in front of the other, as he followed the barely familiar vampire into the darkness of the woods.

As they were walking, Astarion glanced back, smiled at him, flashed the fangs that tasted him already. Strike could smell fear in the night’s air.

He wasn’t sure which one of them was the scared one, though.

Chapter Text

The vampire was pretty in the moonlight, Strike found himself thinking as he was following him deeper into the woods. Pale and graceful and with absolutely no reason for wanting to bed a half sane, half mutilated drow he’s met four days ago.

“Y’gonna kill me?” He asked, almost surprised at the feeling of a smile on his own face. It seemed to never really leave him, anyway.

Astarion chuckled that high pitched laugh of his, glancing over his shoulder. “Darling, what good would it do for me to kill you? Especially right now.”

“Tryin’ to figure out what good it will do you if you fuck me.”

“Don’t think so lowly of yourself. Is it so impossible for me to simply want some fun?”

Strike felt like he was going to vomit, and wondered if telling that to his buddy would make this any less fun. But being away from the camp, alone with the vampire... It certainly calmed his mind, ever so slightly. He gripped Astarion’s hand tighter, noting the surprised twitch in his shoulders.

They didn’t speak much until they made it to a small clearing, one that Strike suspected Astarion has scouted out before; it was far too convenient to have just stumbled upon it. A very dead, very dry looking boar, poorly hidden in some bushes, confirmed his theory, but before he could say anything, he found himself chest to chest with a vampire far out of his league.

Half a foot shorter, Astarion had to crane his neck far beck to keep eye contact, as his hands found the draw’s hips, pulling them in, against his own.

“I could tell you were looking at me, earlier, darling...”

Sultry bedroom eyes suited him, but Strike didn’t buy it. None of it.

“You’re far too pretty to have such a weird taste,” he commented, and still, he found himself touching that pretty face. Sharp cheekbones, old smile lines. Lips that struggled to keep up the seductive smile that was hard to believe in, a little tremble under his touch.

“Don’t make me beg, now,” the vampire pouted, running his hand up, over Strike’s ribs, where they showed themselves so clearly just under the fabric of his tunic.

“Begging, I’d believe even less, cause you’re a pretty shit actor, buddy.”

He found himself shoved roughly, falling right on his arse and hissing at the sudden shift of perspective. Astarion stood over him, moonlight behind, and the barely contained anger suited him far more than smut-worthy whispers and smiles.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible?”

“Not that I’d know of~”

The vampire’s foot on his crotch wasn’t what he expected, but there it was, pressing down in a way that sent both pain and pleasure down Strike’s spine. There it was, he realized. A distraction. Something to drown out the voices.

“Allow me to be your very first, then,” Astarion was smiling, but he was angry, angry and enjoying this. He pressed down harder when Strike hiccuped from pain and grabbed for his ankle. “You are an arse.”

“Speaks much to your taste, budd-“

Next noise of suffering was an honest to gods moan, one that left them both slightly surprised. Astarion moved faster than Strike could react to, moving his foot up to his chest and slamming it down on him, forcing the drow’s back into the grass as he pinned him down with most of his body weight.

“You’ve been staring quite a bit on our lovely guest tonight, I couldn’t help but notice.”

Topic changed, Astarion put on a more dismissive face and pretended to check his nails as he spoke. It was heard to breathe like that. It made Strike’s mind cloud with blissful darkness. He was sure he was hard by then, but couldn’t quite look down and see, far too busy staring up at the pretty vampire that had him like that.

“What, jealous?~”

“Hardly. More... concerned, for her well-being.” Red eyes moved, looking down with an emotion Strike didn’t quite care to understand, not when Astarion was watching him with such delicious discontent. “A sweet soul, all out and alone... You’re not exactly subtle, darling. It’s almost as if you have a thing for innocent things like such.”

“Interesting idea, but seeing as you are neither innocent nor sweet, I’d say it’s been rebuked.”

Astarion didn’t see it coming, when Strike suddenly pulled his leg down, making him lose his balance just in time for the drow to roll them over, this time with Strike on top as he towered over the smaller man.

There was terror in the vampire’s eyes, he noticed. For just a moment, and yet, it was there.

“... Why do you fear me, Astarion?” Strike asked. He cupped the elf’s cheek again, ran his thumb over the sharp line of his cheek, watched him suck in a breath he didn’t need.

“I don’t-“

“I smell it in your sweat. The way you look at me when you should be asleep.”

He was hard as a rock, but that didn’t matter. Not when Astarion grabbed for his shoulders, as if uncertain if he should pull him in, or shove him away.

There was a tremble, a twitch of his lips. Strike almost thought he was actually going to shove him away and leave, and he wanted to think that he would let him. But it felt right, being like that... until Astarion sighed.

“... You get aroused at the sight of blood, darling.”

“Says the vamp-“

“Shush.” A finger crossed his lips to silence him, and as tempted as Strike was to bite it, he held back. “I saw you lash out at that mindflayer. You’ve become the somehow not completely self imposed leader of our array and I am still not quite sure how. Now forgive me for being slightly uneasy with someone like yourself, darling.”

Strike’s eyes softened, and he covered the back of Astarion’s hand with his own, pressing a kiss to the same knuckles that merely days ago nearly broke his nose.  “I’m flattered.”

“You- gods, you shouldn’t be!”

With a chuckle, Strike sat back, arse right over where the vampire’s crotch was. “I appreciate you feeling all of that and still wanting to have sex, though. What is it, a scar fetish? Wanting to plow a drow?” His grin widened. “I’m all yours, if you’re already willing to go this low~”

He saw Astarion’s eyes widen, and gods, was it a pretty sight. The vampire’s hands moved to rest on his thighs, as Strike stripped himself of his belt and tunic, let his buddy see the mangled, scarred top half of his body. He’s seen it before, but he must’ve forgotten all the fun details. Astarion sat up, head not more than chest-height with the drow, and touched him. Tracing his fingers down the largest scar, one that crossed his chest and belly in a distinctive, Y shape. Then the one in his side, that replaced a missing chunk of his waist and pulled his body slightly to hunch to the right. The one that nearly took away his nipple and left it feeling numb and sometimes itchy, the clearly removed piece of his flesh that felt hollow under the skin... There were so many, and Strike let him explore that wretched body of his with an odd, almost sorrowful expression on his handsome face.

“One of a kind, ey?” The drow asked, jokingly, as his hands found Astarion’s jaw and made him look up. “... Don’t pity me, buddy. At least I am still alive.”

“... Of course.”

Strike felt impatience that he didn’t know the source of, but something in the vampire’s expression made the red fog return to his mind; he may not have known who he was, but he wasn’t someone to be pitied. Or to be treated as if he were.

Their kiss was hungry, but whether it was because Astarion’s mouth tasted like animal blood or because Strike was just so starved of touch, he couldn’t tell. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a good kiss, not with how sloppily he got into it, but it would be hard to care in the moment. Astarion’s hands gripped him by the waist, just below the protruding ribs where he was slimmest from starvation, and Strike grinded his hips down until he felt the elf harden underneath him.

They rolled around again, the drow at the bottom once more, but it was different, with the dead elf biting at his lips, drawing blood, hurting as he clawed at the hem of his pants to get them off. When Strike fumbled around his shirt though, he found his hands pinned down, by his head.

“I’d- I’d prefer to keep those on, if you don’t mind, darling,” Astarion muttered, ignoring the questioning look he got in return. “You’ve enough skin to show for both of us.”

“The one of us that can’t actually catch a cold? How generous of y-“

As if. The night was kind and warm around them. Astarion silenced his nonserious complaints with another kiss that took his breath away, grabbed for his pants, pulled apart the belt that held them on the too slim of hips. He was good at what he was doing, Strike thought; managing to match a breath Astarion himself didn’t need, quick to arouse, knowing just how to get a man’s pants off one handed while never disrupting the kiss. It was as if there were multiple hands touching him all at once. Something in Strike felt pleasantly sick at the thought.

“Youre allowed to bite, ykno?” A voice said, and only after a sharp pain shot up the side of his neck, did he realize it was his own. He was floating, sea of red, hungry mouth at his flesh in a way that felt so, so rightful.

As if he’s been there before, at another’s mercy.

Astarion’s manhandled him to his knees at some point, Strike dully noted once he found his face pressed into the grass, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the hesitating touch of the man behind him.

“Not gonna break me, buddy.” He breathed out, felt the vampire’s hands pause at his hips, move to cup his buttocks.

“We hardly have any lubrication, would you mind-?”

“What, more blood?” Wouldn’t help much, a strange memory without a shape reminded him. Not oily enough. Too watery. Too quick to dry. “You greedy leach.”

He could hear the frown in Astarion’s voice when he spoke. “... What about a good old fashioned grease spell? My dearest sorcerer?”

Right, magic. That was an option.

The spell was instinctual, he didn’t have to ponder for even a moment before he reached behind himself and casted it, shivering as the far too cold grease covered his rear. He could’ve modified the spell, he thought. Make it warmer. He’s settled on his elbows to at least not reopen the wounds on his face with having it shoved right into the dirt, arse up, a position he neither liked nor thought he particularly enjoyed, but then Astarion pushed himself inside, and Strike’s mind was shoved into a bucket of red.

He felt sick. He felt used. It felt so right and so false at the same time.

Are you still here?

Astarion’s voice, from somewhere far away, earning himself what Strike hoped sounded like a reassuring response, because he was trying not to vomit, or turn around and ride the vampire until he could claw out his cold guts.

Images of that girl flashed in front of him, pretty thing with big eyes and those sharp horns that would make just the perfect match to the depths of her sclera. Agile fingers of a bard that simply cried out for him, begging to be intertwined with his own and then broken. Voice that would’ve no doubt wept so sweetly if he had only-

“Strike.”

A pair of red eyes stared at him. There was grass tickling his ears.

He was on his back again.

“That’s my name,” he replied, failing miserably to sound cheeky but it was the best he could do in the moment. “Yes?”

Astarion has had pulled out, his pale cock hard and just above Strike’s own as he loomed over the drow.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve... spaced out.”

“Did I? Sorry, buddy, thought of someone else for a moment there,” he let out a soft chuckle, reached up to feel at the blood that escaped the bite on his neck when Astarion wasn’t attached to it. “No offense.”

“... Do... Do you want to continue, darling? If you’d prefer not to-?”

“It’d get real awkward real quick, I imagine. You’re fine.”

“Am I? Because while you might enjoy your lovers cold and inactive, I happen to not share that taste exactly.”

“Why, that feels like cousin-fuck to you? Heh.” He sat up on one elbow, just enough to be able to reach his other hand properly around the vampire’s shoulders and pull him back down. “You’re fine if I say you’re fine, buddy. I’d thunderwave you again if I wouldn’t want you on me.”

Slight furrow to Astarion’s brow gave way to the more usual, sly smile, and with a kiss, he pushed the drow back to the ground.

“You better not.”

“You better not be a shitty lay then, how bout that?”

“I’ll do my best, darling~”

There was that stupid smut-novel voice again, but since he didn’t speak that much after, Strike could forgive it. It was definitely better now, when he could embrace him, feel the fabric under his hold, have the vampire bury his face in the side of his neck and lick at the small puncture wounds while he fucked him. Stars above twinkled at them, and Strike kept his eyes on the little lights, let the endless blue drown out the stinging red of his mind.

He moaned at last, felt his own orgasm building, and unlike just hours before, he was present in the moment. Astarion smelled right. Death, but not quite, road dust and firewood. Slightly fancier perfume he must have pickpocketed in the Grove. Cold and moving and there, and so, Strike whined into the darkness around them, dug his fingers into Astarion’s back and came, a curse replacing a name on his tongue.

He wasn’t sure when the vampire has finished, but he must have, at some point, because they ended up still holding eachother, even after everything was long over. Strike didn’t bother with clothes again, merely pulled Astarion closer.

“... Thanks, ‘Star,” he sighed into white locks of hair, running his hand up and down the vampire’s arm, as he didn’t seem to like having his back touched, for whatever reason. Strike didn’t care; not right then, not when he finally felt so delightfully tired and at peace.

“You really don’t need to be that surprised that someone laid with you, it makes you look so inexperienced.”

“Nah, I mean...” He thought about it, and just how awful he was feeling before Astarion had dragged him off into the forest. “Fuck it, it’s still a thanks, arsehole. This weirdly helped me clear my head.”

“... Glad to hear that, darling.”

“Best sex in recent memory, actually.”

“Wh-“ Astarion has lifted his head from Strike’s chest to look at him with almost concerned eyes, before the point of the joke settled in, and he smacked him. It hurt. “I suppose I can still take the compliment.”

“Next time, I think I’d prefer to top, though.”

“.... Next time?”

Strike made himself comfortable, one arm around the vampire and the other under his own head, supporting it as he glanced down with a lifted brow. “If there is a next time, ‘course.”

“Do not flatter yourself too much, darling.” Astarion sounded slightly more relaxed, even closing his eyes as he moved his head to find a more comfortable position on the assassin’s bony chest.

“Yeah, you do it for me enough.”

“I’m starting to believe I might prefer you gagged, actually.”

Strike laughed into the night, just as he started to feel his energy leaving him all over again. Surprisingly enough, for once, the nothingness of sleep didn’t scare him. The extra weight on him was quite comforting. Tips of Astarion’s fancy hairdo tickled his chin whenever he inhaled and made the vampire rise slightly with his chest.

He fell asleep like that, and unlike the rest of the time he remembered, no dreams came. Only kind, welcoming darkness.

The bard’s scream played a part of a pleasant dream, before Strike immediately woke up, sitting straight and-

“Wha- Ugh, hey!”

Astarion must have drifted to trance as well, now rudely awaken with his pillow jumping up like that. His hair was a mess, it suited him, as did the morning grumpiness, but Strike had to remind himself of something probably more important going on.

Something awful was in the air, a terrible faint scent of sulfur. It reeked of familiarity and a terrible omen – and it was coming from the direction of the camp.

“Ass, can you smell that?”

Astarion was in the corner of his eye once the drow stood up, and he was sure he saw him flinch, before he took his nose to the air and sniffed. “Rotten eggs?” as funny as his offended grimace was, they had to investigate.

“I don’t think Gale had a cooking accident. C’mon, we’re moving.”

“Du- Strike!”

Strike’s almost left already, turning back to the vampire, still on the ground. He was pointing at the pile of clothes at his side, frowning, and only then did the drow look down and realize he was still very much in a state of undress.

“... Is this really more important than-“

“Oh for Gods’ sake.”

“No need to be jealous,” Strike pouted, but still grabbed his pants to pull them on haphazardly. He was still yanking his tunic on as they ran, but he did have to admit that wearing shoes before sprinting through the forest was probably a good idea.

He realized something, while moving in the not-quite-there-yet light of the early dawn. His vision was fine. Sharp, even. He wasn’t losing his balance as he jumped across the roots. Who would’ve thought that four days (or more) of insomnia did damage to a person’s abilities?

Clear of voices and sound of mind, for the first time since he woke up, Strike felt almost okay; he should’ve thanked Astarion for exhausting him enough, he thought. Let him feed off of him again, perhaps.

They’ve made it to the campsite just a bit too late, it seemed. The smell of sulfur was thick in the air, Karlach was engulfed in flames, Alfira was crouching somewhere with her head in her hands, Shadowheart was kneeling by Wyll, and Wyll... Wyll wasn’t the same Wyll anymore. Thick, devilish horns protruded from his skull, visibly weighing it down, and a tail behind him flailed without any real direction.

“... What did we miss?”

“Where were you??” Karlach shouted at them, her eyes quickly finding the sore, fresh scar on the side of Strike’s neck. “... oh cmon, soldier-“

“How was I supposed to know that- actually, what did happen?”

He huffed, pushing past her to get to Wyll, who seemed the most distraught. And because his consciousness still pulled him uncomfortably close to Alfira.

“Blade? Buddy? Wyll?”

He crouched by him, giving Shadowheart a questioning look as she kept petting the back of the young man.

“We’ve all been asleep but him,” she said, quietly, “and then, this woman...”

“Mizora,” Karlach spat, her saliva sizzling when it hit the ground. “Zariel’s fucking lapdog, she was the one who sent Wyll after me.”

“Wyll’s- you’re what, a paladin?” He knew his guess was wrong before he even said it, but under Shadowheart’s healing hand, Wyll shivered once more, and pulled himself up, to at least his knees.

“N-no,” he sighed. “A warlock, of a devilish patron.”

Astarion’s laugh was almost grating to the ear – or at least Karlach seemed to think so, from the look in her eye. “Even the great Hero of the Sword Coast has his dirty secrets, then? How shocking.”

Wyll simply frowned, but smiled appreciatively when Shadowheart helped him to his feet, checking him for any more injuries as the newborn devilman turned to Strike.

“I understand this is out of nowhere, but I assure you, I am the same person I’ve presented myself as.” He attempted to explain, not quite pleading, merely asking for understanding with caution. “I was seventeen. I wished to help protect Baldur’s Gate from an attack, and Mizora, well... Offered a solution. Enough power for me to be able to do so.”

“In exchange for your soul,” Strike finished.

Wyll nodded. “Exactly. But, my contract is very clear on who I am to hunt for her; I would never allow myself to be used as a weapon against the innocent. Only the devils, the soulless, and the heartless. Believe me when I told you that I would’ve never expected Karlach to be innocent, and yet...” his gaze fell, shame and disappointed and hidden, delicious anger dancing in the twitch of his lips. “She’s tricked me. Because of course she did.”

“C’mon, Wyll,” Karlach stepped closer, air quite literally warmer where she wandered. She didn’t touch anyone, but reached her hand out for just a moment, as if she wanted to, then instead brought it to her own chest. “... You couldn’t have known the ‘heartless’ was a literal loophole; how could you?”

“Still! I almost killed you, almost dirtied my hands with the blood of another victim, I-“

Strike was the one to reach out next, hand on the young man’s shoulder, fixing him to look up.

“Wyll. Buddy. You knew this,” he vaguely hinted at Wyll’s entire, transformed body, “was going to happen if you don’t do it? That’s what the hesitation was for?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for misleading-”

“Ehh, not so much misleading as just. Not tellin’ us everything, wasn’t that it?” Strike gave him a little shake, trying to cheer him up. “Being all self-sacrificial and swallowing shit for the right thing; sounds exactly like something a bloody hero’d do.”

“Damn right it is, Wyll.” Karlach punched her fist into an open palm, flames burning hotter for a moment of her passion. “Bloody heroic stuff, right there – I owe you one, big time.”

“Whether I agree with your whole... Hero thing,” Shadowheart sighed, “I do have to admit that you did no false advertisement. For better or worse.” She seemed slightly over it, instead walked away; probably to predesignate away the stench of sulfur from her tent.

Wyll was young, Strike realized right then, when the man smiled so sheepishly at them. Second most scarred person in the group, with no doubt so many stories to tell and so much weight on his shoulders, but there was something so young in his eyes. Conflicting thoughts in Strike’s head shouted ideas, one to admire him, one to desire to break him, and yet, the darker voice was quieter today. Almost easy to ignore, and pretend it isn’t there.

“Plus,” he said, “The horns look pretty nice, don’t they, Karlach? Alfira?”

“Real nice pair, yeah. And the tail, look at it!” The bigger tiefling at least looked excited about it, her smile so contagious that even Wyll got put in a slightly better mood; awkwardly laughing and attempting to wag it, which prompted another excited noise out of Karlach.

The bard, on the other hand... she looked shaken up, clutching her lute to her chest.

Still alive, though. Odd. It didn’t feel like a real possibility.

“Alfira? You good?” Strike asked her, ignoring the knot in his throat when she walked too close to him, which was at least far, far easier than hours ago when his eyes barely held themselves open. “Heard ya scream from the forest.”

“Y-yes, just...” She threw those big doe eyes at him, and his fingers twitched towards a fist. “A devil appeared, so... out of nowhere, I woke up to the smell, and the fire, and...”

“Elturel?”

She nodded, sadly. “I felt like I was back there, for a moment. ... I’m sorry, I- I don’t think I am quite ready to be here. With you, on the road, I mean.”

“You should get back to the Grove, yes,” Strike agreed immediately. Anything to get her and her concerningly tempting liver away from right under his nose. He looked up, to the rising sun. “It’ll be safer now, in the light; but someone should escort you.”

“Would you?”

“HA!” The panicked noise rippled out of his throat before he could stop it, but his eyes found an exit strategy in Karlach, so he was able to quickly cover it up. “... Akhem. I mean, I promised Karlach to go after some fake paladins that were riding her tail, more of devil business, I assume. They could use a sorcerer, so...”

“I understand,” she sighed. “I suppose... Blade of the Frontiers?” She looked shy when she approached the hero, whom Karlach has just gotten to chuckle, with a fistbump, using tails instead of fists. “I saw everything, I’m so sorry this happened but... If you’d like to feel kin, perhaps, you could do so with our people? You do kind of fit in now,” she smiled, that sweet, sweet smile, and Strike has turned away and let them talk before he’d hurl blood again.

Instead, he found Astarion; the vampire mesmerized as he watched the sunrise. The rays slowly crept over the trees, reached his hair, then face... He looked so peaceful. In awe.

“Astarion?”

“...”

“Star. Ass.” He had to gently punch him in the arm to get his attention; the elf blinking a few times before he finally noticed him.

“Yes?”

“Your thoughts about the Wyll thing?”

He shrugged. “Hardly of my concern, really, Unless if this devil plans to bother the rest of us, I don’t find myself caring about his issues.”

“Sure you don’t. Come, we’re heading out. Get dressed.”

“In that dreadful armor we were given at the Grove?”

It was simple leather, far more function than beauty, and Astarion’s been whining about it since they got it, but Strike wasn’t having it.

“Would you prefer to be stabbed?”

“I could avoid it.”

“By me, I meant. As a form of harm prevention. If not, go, put it on.”

Before he could say another thing, Wyll has ran up to them, clearly uncoordinated with his new weight points, but in a much better mood than before. Karlach seemed to have done a quite decent job at making him feel better.

“I’m going to escort Alfira back to the Grove and collect Gale and Lae’zel,” he explained, “And we shall meet you again here, when you return?”

“Sounds good.”

“And thank you, Strike,” Wyll smiled, gratefully. “Although I must admit, I did suspect you would not just throw me out in disgust had you known of my patron...”

“Oh? And why would that be?” Astarion asked with a huff. “Due to his clearly generous, bleeding heart?”

The Blade had a warm laugh. Teasing. “Hah ha, no. His clearly vampiric friend though might have been a hint.”

Astarion went even paler than usually, only choking out a meek “ah.” as Strike laughed, and slapped him on the back.

Yeah, he liked Wyll, horns or not. Everyone else as well, surprisingly. With a clear mind, rejuvenated and stronger, his skin itched to get covered in blood, and those paladins Karlach mentioned... Goblins, hundreds of them, even... Oh, he craved to get the road back under his feet.

For the first time in perhaps a forever, he woke up with a good day ahead. Excluding the devil that visited his camp, of course; but that was technically before the day started.

Chapter Text

Much to Karlach’s joy, they’ve found the paladins that were hunting her rather quickly. Much to her fury, they found them in multiple places at once. A pack of gnolls must have gotten to them before they could’ve, and now they laid with the furry corpses in their pools of blood.

“FUCK!”

“At least their ends were gruesome?” Strike tried to be helpful, only to jump aside as Karlach slammed her greataxe into the ground just inches where he last stood. “Hey now.”

“Sorry, soldier- just- fucking shit, man!”

He could agree that this was disappointing, the whole... promise of blood, it certainly got him riled up, but... He sighed, giving Karlach a pat on the part of her arm that was wrapped in leather – he could feel the heat right through it, enough to burn his hand had he let it rest there for more than a quick touch.

“They still have their valuables on them!” Astarion exclaimed, already crouching down by one with their torso so massacred, it was hard to tell whether or not they were man or a woman. “Not much, of course, but that is a nice blade.”

“You can double wield, can’t you?” Shadowheart asked, only partly interested as she stood by Strike’s side. “I’d suggest you get spare blades, had I not known how sticky your fingers are...”

“Darling, you wound me. Acting like I’m a common thief!” Astarion complained as he emptied the fake paladin’s money pouch, and moved to pull the boots off of it next. They were slightly nicer than what he wore right then.

“You’re right, ‘common’ might be too high of a praise.”

Strike tuned their bickering out as he squatted by one of the fallen gnolls instead, cringing as his knees loudly protested this apparent abuse. The animal’s fur was rough under his hands. Nice, even. Almost sharp as a needle, and yet, Strike found himself wanting to shove his face into it as if it were a pillow. His hand moved upwards, to the gnoll’s head, the arrow that stuck from its eye that took its life... He scratched it behind the ear, as if it were still alive.

Good pup, he thought. Then the next thought, Aren’t gnoll ears the main ingredient for a potion of speed?

“That is disgusting,” Astarion commented when he saw Strike carving away at the gnolls’ skull, until the cartilage snapped and he could pocket the ear.

“For potions!”

“Still disgusting.”

“Oh, but you’re fine with drinking blood?” He didn’t particularly bother with disapprovals, the potions would be a good idea (and he felt slightly proud for his mind being so certain about this – it tended to be right when it came to medical things) and seeing Shadowheart raise an eyebrow in acknowledgment and join him with a knife was definitely encoraging. But of course cleric would know a thing or two of a similar matter.

Karlach has broken down a door to the house as a way of letting off steam, furious and engorged in flames as she raged around, smashed some furniture, left scorched wood behind her... It seemed like good therapy, and it didn’t last that long, anyway. She was back, fuming, with her sweat turning to steam that heaved off of her as she gripped her axe and returned to the others.

“You good, buddy?”

“....”

Didn’t seem like a right moment for a joke, she didn’t look in the best of mood... so when a voice called out from behind her, she’s proven Strike’s point true.

“Oh my, you too?”

She has swung her axe towards the new voice before he was even done speaking, and it all happened just so fast – the man has jumped out of the deadly path of her swing, and rolled in a surprisingly elegant way before getting back to his feet, hands lifted in a surrender.

“Wrong time?”

“Wro- Who the fuck are you?! One of them, too?!” Karlach was still spitting mad, but the sheer surprise of just how casual the intruder was seemed to have shock her out of immediate blind rage.

He huffed, plush lips pulled into a small smile. “Ew, no.”

It all happened so fast; Strike has only now gotten the chance to get up, the gnoll’s ear still bloody in his hand. He didn’t even notice when he had finished the job after getting distracted with Karlach, but the move felt so practiced he didn’t need to really focus on it to perform it. He’s turned to face the newcomer, shoving the ear in his now bloodied pouch.

Tall, horrifically tall, especially for an elf, but his features and pointy ears betrayed his heritage. A headscarf containing black hair that ended in an ombre of blue, tanned skin covering bulging muscles that were definitely needed if he was actually using the giant sword he wore on his back.The damned thing was the size of Astarion – whom Strike thought of as a comparison due to the vampire suddenly grabbing for his wrist with something akin to a panic.

Must have been as surprised as everyone else, then...

Strike found a grin placate his face as usually; the man looked interesting! Intrigue drove him to let a joke unleash from his tongue the way it has wanted from the moment he sensed a setup for it. “Of course he’s not one of them, they’re dead, buddy.”

There was a pause, of Karlach visibly taking a deep breath to calm down. Strike decided to pretend that she wasn’t even more pissed off because of him, and rather focused on the man, who... Looked oddly, at him. Head to toe, as it seemed to be usual these days, blinked once, twice... Then he laughed, red eyes shining almost too amusedly as he moved closer. Not towards Strike, no, or anyone still living.

He’s stopped by the corpses, hands on his hips and his back turned towards people who were definitely still a threat to him.

“Well, in a literal manner of speaking, you’ve got a point!” He looked over at the mess, nudging one of the mutilated bodies with his foot. “Gods, what a mess. There’s nothing like profiting off of it, huh?”

Definitely a warrior of some kind, Strike’s decided. Very cheeky, though. He liked that. He wiped his bloody hand in his pants, ignoring how Shadowheart immediately prestigitated it away.

“I suppose. Any idea what happened? Besides the obvious, I mean.” When he wanted to step closer, Astarion’s grip on his wrist held him back, and he gave him a questioning look; only to be faced with the vampire looking even paler than usually, eyes wide open as he stared at the bigger elf.

Curious.

“Here? No idea,” shrugged the stranger. He reached out to soot-covered wall that has fallen over during Karlach’s rampage, scratching off a chunk as if he’s noticed something unusual. He still didn’t bother looking back at them. “But take a few steps down the road and you’ll see some more corpses. Those ones? I know those ones.”

“Lots of corpses around, in this trying times,” Strike agreed.

We should kill him, Shadowheart suggested in his mind, sudden enough for him to flinch. This mind to mind communication... So far it seemed her, himself and Astarion, were the ones most versed in it. He seems dangerous.

If he DID kill all those people, we’re in no shape to square up against him, Strike reasoned. Her silence was taken as an agreement.

“... Ya killed the ones you know, buddy?” He asked outloud, aimed at the strange elf. “Not that I’d judge, ‘course.”

“Pfff, why would I do that? Those were my friends. Ish. Colleagues,” the giant corrected himself. “Killed themselves with their own stupidity, poor bastards. I took everything in their pockets, though – someone’s got to cover for all the losses, yeah?”

He turned to Strike, the flaps of his scarf hanging over his front in a way that screamed at Strike to grab it, choke him, strangle the whor- He shook his head to get the thought out; something much easier done when he was as well rested as he was this day.

The man smiled wider. “Not that looting is the most disrespectful way to treat a corpse though, right, old fri-?”

“You’re a Zhent??” Astarion cut in, his voice a higher pitch than usually. Enough of an oddness to make Strike and the women look at him as if he’s lost his mind, but upon a further investigation, the taller elf did wear a symbol that seemed familiar.

“No honor amongst thieves sounds about right,” Shadowheart commented, suspicious wrinkling the bridge of her nose in the cutest way. “I didn’t expect to see your kind around here.”

“Zhents, ey?” Strike whistled. If his –admittedly underwhelming– memory served him well, the Zhentarim were a group of Bane-associated mercenaries and merchants... “Still better than false paladins from Hells.”

Karlach disagreed. “His bloody sword is hellmade, I can recognize that shimmer anywhere. Him saying he’s not with them doesn’t mean shit, does it?”

“Hey,” The man rose a hand to her, then tipped his head in Shadowheart’s direction. “No honor amongst thieves.” He definitely looked too relaxed for someone admitting his cohorts were massacred; There was no telling if the servants of Zariel had anything to do with it, and with how Strike’s group sniffed those seemingly innocent paladins out, who’s to say there weren’t more in disguise? He did come out of the basement, after all, but...

What kind of a range was that, that some members would pretend to be paladins, and the other a mercenary? With a hellmade sword??

“Listen, buddy.” Strike sighed, making a decision. Worst case scenario, they were still four to one. Even if something told him that fighting the elf would be a bad idea. “Smell of the Hells is distinct, isn’t it, Karlach? And he doesnt have it.”

“... I can still smell a whiff of their fucking stench on the corpses.”

“And not him, right?”

“... ‘sppose not.”

“Great.”

It was Shadowheart who cut in, distrust still in her eyes, but she seemed to tend to respect Strike’s leadership and his decisions, which he could appreciate. She pointed towards something that has previously escaped Strike’s notice – a symbol in blood, painted on the wall of the tollhouse. “Do you know anything of that, Zhent? It doesn’t look yours in the slightest.”

And really, it wasn’t – a bloody handprint, the palm of which turned in a skull.

Strike’s turned to look, Astarion still downright clinging to his hand, enough now that he was getting genuinely weird about it; when Strike yanked his hand away, the vampire seemed to have snapped out of it, but before he could be questioned, the Zhent has already walked up to see the symbol from up close.

He clicked his tongue, shook his head. “No, not Zhent. It’s some culty symbol, seems not finished. I’ve seen gobbos all over it, a couple humans for some reason. Nor sure why there’s one here though, you think one of these dead guys were a fan?”

‘None of them. I’d know.’ Karlach’s voice, distorted and struggling, rang through Strike’s mind; from the corner of his eye, he could see her visibly straining to send him a mental picture of the same men, fleshed and horned, devious on the burning plane of the infernal.

He walked up to the elf, taking a better look at the strange symbol. “We know for sure this ain’t from them. That leaves the pups, and, well. You.”

“I say it was the gnolls,” Astarion chimed in, his voice only slightly higher than normally. “He, uh. He has no reason to lie about that, does he?”

He shrank a little when everyone gave the usually distrustful vampire an odd look, all but the Zhent, whos eyes glimmered with amusement.

“I mean. If it’s really the gnolls,” he smiled, “guess my previous assumption’s way off. They got the dogs on board now...”

“They’re not related to dogs, hyenas are their own specie entirely.” It came to Strike without thinking, a twinkle of annoyance letting the words slip from his lips on their own. It definitely made the Zhent huff, entertained. As if he’s been in that place before. “New god, though...”

“Do gods just crawl out of nowhere?”

“They gotta come from somewhere, don’t they? Shart?”

The cleric frowned. “Do not call me that – and I would hardly know, about a god besides my own.”

“Which would be?”

“Nice try. No.”

The Zhent laughed. “Yes, well, other than that, I’ve got no idea about that thing. Us Zhent don’t really care about fledgling cults, except when they’ve got money to spend.”

“Goblin cult having enough gold to afford you? Business must be flourishing.” Strike snorted, then a thought popped in his head, and he glanced back to the house their new friend has just walked out of. “... Mind if I ask whatcha were doing in there, buddy? Anyone left alive?”

The Zhent put his hand to his smirking lips, tapping them over with a playful dance of fingers. “What’s in it for you?”

“Friendly intrigue, nothing more.” Strike returned the smile; it was easy, to banter with this man. Easier than he found it with most people even, despite him rarely having problems with that. “No need to argue over loot, of course; just interested in whether or not these guys left anything useful behind.”

“... Eh, I’ve seen better. But I was in the middle of looting the basement. They’ve got the good stuff there, but lots of traps. It’s been a little slow to steal everything, so you might just be lucky with your timing...”

“I could help with that.” It was Astarion, slightly too eager for it – enough for Strike (and probably Shadowheart) to shoot him a mind message of what is up with you?

“You sure?”

“Well – of course, darling. I have stuck my fingers in a dangerous hole or two before in my life.” The usual tone was returning back to the vampire’s voice, even with the awkward laugh that escaped his lungs.

The Zhent grinned wider, his eyes flickering up and down the smaller elf, reading his oddly nervous posture before Astarion corrected it. “Oh, really? You don’t look too confident about it.”

“I might be slightly out of practice,” there it was, the normal Astarion. The scowl that wrinkled his eyes, the hands on his hips. “But if I mess up, it is my skin just as well as yours, stranger.”

“You don’t mean going in alone, do you?”

Strike hoped, prayed that Astarion wasn’t thinking about trying to bite the man. It would be so incredibly stupid, even for him, but perhaps that bear he’s had a few nights ago made him feel like he could take over the world...

“I can take care of myself, darling. Well?” Astarion looked up (and up) at the smiling Zhent, who was tapping his chin, as if thinking about it. “Would you like the help? Or do you prefer to simply brute force your way through the traps?”

“Hmmm.... I suppose being at risk of blowing up isn’t swell for business. Why not?” He winked. “If you’re so good with your fingers...”

Astarion has started walking already, but it was Strike’s turn to grab him by the hand and stop him. This was a bad idea. An odd idea, more importantly. “You sure you don’t want Karlach to go with you? Or me?” ‘Don’t do something fucking stupid’, he hissed at him in his mind, not really caring how the vampire flinched at the tone.

“Please.” Astarion pulled his hand free. Huffed as if everyone was overreacting. “As if I need more of you stopping around and potentially triggering something. If our new friends here tries anything, I will explode us both.”

‘Not what I’m worried about.’

‘You’re the one who wants to be buddy buddy with everyone, don’t you? Trust me.’

‘...’

“Neither of us wants that, do we?” The Zhent laughed once more, breaking the tension with a dismissive wave of his hand. “So thanks for letting me borrow him! Come down if you hear one of us scream.”

And just like that, the two were off. The Zhent first, and Astarion not looking back as he followed him into the house, and then down a ladder into darkness.

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Strike grumbled to himself. If his knees wouldn’t be hurting again, he would be pacing around, but like this, he could only sit and wait. All the gnolls have been de-eared, all corpses looted. Karlach was cleaning the dirt from her axe and Shadowheart was copying the symbol of the goblin cult into an empty scroll she had on hand, for future references.

“You’re really worried about him, huh, soldier?” Karlach asked, a knowing grin on her face that was met with a dismissive huff.

“Hardly. I don’t trust either of them.”

“Astarion? Really?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t trust a person I’ve met less than a tenday ago with my whole life.”

“You’ve met me the same time ago. And Karlach yesterday,” Shadowheart pointed out.

“I’ve met you entire ten hours before him, just to remind. And that was while saving your life. And neither of you is trying to jump my bones out of nowhere.”

Karlach laughed. “That’s what makes him suspicious, soldier? That? Ever thought he might just have the hots for you?”

He simply rose an eyebrow at her, hinting with a wave of his hand at... his everything, pretty much.

Karlach rolled her eyes. “You’re a good looking bastard, don’t put yourself down like that. We just gotta feed you more. Maybe fix your hair. How ‘bout a shave, ey?”

“No, last thing I want is to die after just finding out I have a weirdly shaped head, thank you very- ouch?” He yelped in surprise when Shadowheart stepped closer, ran her hand through his hair and immediately got it stuck on the thick knots that held its shape. “Why’d you-“

“You’re like a matted dog, Strike.” She frowned, but there was a teasing wink of amusement in her eyes. One that for once, Strike didn’t appreciate. He didn’t like thinking about his hair. The general state he was in – it really just reminded him far too much of how far he’s fallen, despite not even knowing where he stood before.

When he swatted her hand away, it seemed to click for both of the women, despite how casual he tried to be about it. Shadowheart sat next to him, smile disappearing, and Strike felt annoyance, boiling anger at the pity in her eyes, as if she-

“I do see what you mean about Astarion, though,” Karlach cut in, changing the topic as if the awkward moment never happened. “He’s, well. I’d ride him to Avernus and back if given a chance, don’t get me wrong, lucky you – but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”

“... heh. Pretty far, wouldn’t that be?”

“Shit, you’re right. What is he, a hundred pounds, soaking wet?”

“Hundred and thirty, maybe? At most.”

“Yeesh. Guess that’s another companion of ours we have to feed way more.”

Strike was grateful for the rowdy barbarian to have put him in an easier mood before he could get caught up in his own thoughts again – and he didn’t have to risk falling back there, because the door to the house swung open, revealing a very alive pair of elves. Both unharmed, and Astarion in a more normal mood.

“Allllllright, we’re all done down there!” The chirpy Zhent exclaimed, carrying a sack over his shoulder.

“What did you find? Anything of interest?” Shadowheart has stood up the moment the two returned, and as casually as she could, offered Strike a hand to help him get up as well without making it a big deal.

The Zhent shrugged. “Nothing of sound note... but nothing worth the hiding, either.”

“Mostly weapons and some coin,” Astarion shrugged. “Our new friend here got to keep most of it, because- I said because!” his voice turned offended when he saw the bewildered looks of his crew, “Let me finish, godsdamned it! He agreed to show us where the goblin camp is! Wasn’t that our whole plan? You’re welcome!”

Before they could complain any further, they heard noises in the distance; barks and howls that immediately rang in Strike’s ears as a gnoll war cry, mixed with explosions in the same direction.

The Zhent heard it too, they all did, but he seemed the most unbothered about it, simply clasping his hands together. “Oh, now that doesn’t sound quite friendly! Lest you all want to cut off more ears, why don’t we start trekking?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

He’s already started walking, Strike needing to jog to properly catch up with the golliath of a man and his long steps. Astarion was right behind him, and the women a bit behind, no doubt still cautious about the stranger, even if he’s proven okay so far. Strike could appreciate the efficiency; him and Astarion did well close ranged, if needed, but it was a good idea for the other two to stay out of the immediate reach of the giant sword, had it been suddenly swung.

“Hey, buddy – didn’t catch your name back there.”

“Oh, mine?” The Zhent cocked his head back to flash him another grin. There was something so practiced in it – practiced or off, in a way that felt like he’s done this many a time before, enough to do it on cue. “The name is Amos! Not many folks ask my name like that, so consider yourself a sweet exception~” And just like that, he swung an arm around Strike’s shoulders, the drow’s knees buckling under the sudden weight. His glare was met with the friendliest of all winks. “And what about you? What’s your moniker, friend?”

He didn’t like feeling frail, but the much bigger man certainly woke that feeling in him. Then he remembered the magic he wielded, and as the spell needed to summon lightning licked at his brain for the first time since he woke up, it settled in him like a calming touch of a mother. He wasn’t helpless. If he wanted to, he could fry the man where he stood.

He smiled back. “How awfully kind of you, friend... My name is Strike.” It really did get easier to say it, every time the word felt a bit more right.

“Strike...” The man, Amos, practically purred the word out. For a moment, his face was coy and playful with lidded eyes... But then he was back to that bright chipperness before Strike could think of it for too long. Maybe it was just a shadow that tricked him. “Sharp and to the point, emblematic of a good fighter. I like it!”

“Why, thank you~” But something wouldn’t leave Strike’s mind; the question Amos was trying to ask before Astarion noticed he was a Zhentarim. Question you wouldn’t ask a stranger – would you? “... My memory is slightly on the rocks these days, sadly – say, Amos. Have we met before?”

Amos pursed his lips, looked away. “Have we?”

He glanced back, to the girls and Astarion, who was still right behind them. “Have we?”

The silence hung, interrupted only by their footsteps as he tapped his cheek, rose an eyebrow... and then winked back down playfully at the drow. “If we did, our one night stand must’ve been utterly forgettable, huh?~”

“Should fix that one day, then.” Disappointment welled in Strike’s chest, but the quip back came so naturally he didn’t even think about it. Of course they didn’t know eachother. Amos could’ve said something sooner if they had – Strike doubted his appearance was one someone would forget easily. He didn’t perceive any sign that the Zhent would be lying. What reason would he have for lying, anyway?

He thought a moment more, about the worm in his brain. “One day. If we survive the next few weeks, that is.”

“Oh, I will,” Amos gently knocked on Strike’s skull as he retracted his arm, not seemingly bothered by the frown he got in return. “But you? Hopefully your friends keep you in check, yeah?” He glanced back again. “By the way, how are these friends of yours?”

“Friends? Hardly colleagues, I assumed,” asked Shadowheart, earning herself a friendly jab from the bottom side of Karlach’s axe handle.

“Oh, you assume too much, cleric. We’re all stuck in the same mess, aren’t we? Consider us cautious friends until we don’t need eachother anymore!”

“Hm.” Strike could see the cleric blush, ever so slightly. He could hardly blame her, when Karlach smiled at her with the brightness of a star.

But he was still focusing on the Zhent. “They’re clearly better at staying alive than your friends were,” he grinned. “How come you know where the goblins gather, by the way? You live around here?”

“Pfff. They aren’t my friends. Unfortunately, I’ve heard I’m quite unfriendable,” Amos chuckled to himself. Strike noted that down as a warning. “Or I only attract unscrupulous people. Which,” he tapped his Zhentarim badge that held his scarf on like a pin, “love following the money, if you’d like to know. So if some culty goblins are willing to barter, us Zhent take them up on it. Their gold might be filthy, but it’s still gold.”

“Fair enough.”

The path was short, but the conversation with Amos wasn’t; the Zhent has proven himself to be quite a chatterbox, quickly enough luring Karlach and even Shadowheart into the conversation with him once when asked about the origins of his sword. Which, it turned out, indeed belonged to a devil – one that was on the nautiloid when they teleported out of the Hells, and then proceeded to meet his demise under the unfortune of running right into the Zhent’s arms.

“I can’t believe we’ve missed you by the nautiloid.”

“Or that a devil survived the path from the hells, and the crash,” Karlach added, by now walking on Amos’ other side.

“Must’ve been a lucky one, since the others I saw over there were horribly mangled,” Amos shrugged as he reached behind him, felt the hilt of his infernal sword. “’s a good thing he had this on him too, because there was only so much I could do with a dinky Baldurian blade before then. This one could be better, though...”

“You didn’t kill him, not truly.” Karlach commented, although admiration was clear in her eyes at this point; she obviously also liked the Zhent. “When devils die outside of the Infernal plane, they appear back where they last were, you can only kill one in their own home.”

“Speaking from first hand experience?”

“Killed many, and boy, was I good at it.” She laughed, then smacked Amos on the back – he could no doubt feel the heat even through his jacket and corset. “Enough to know that this guy’s serious business if he put one down all by himself, injured or not! Good thing we didn’t kill you earlier, ey?”

“Yes, simply wonderful...” Astarion, still quieter than usually, muttered to himself, loud enough for others to hear him too.

Amos thought to himself at Karlach’s explanations, for a moment. “Hm, too bad. Maybe one day I’ll knock on a devil’s door, then?” He definitely heard Astarion speak though, picked up on the tone, and glanced at the vampire. Then back at Strike, and suddenly leaned in, closer to him. “Pssst, I’m not doing anything wrong, am I? I’m not making your friend back there jealous, am I?”

He looked genuinely curious. Almost concerned. A little bit, but not quite.

Astarion looked up in alarm, and Strike merely lifted an eyebrow.

“That might surprise you, Amos, dear, but I am my own man, yknow? No ball and chain in the moment. Even one as pretty as you, Astarion. No offense.”

Astarion let out that high pitched laugh of his. “We have just met, darling – I’d be concerned if you thought any other way.”

“You positive?” Amos cheekily chirped. “Don’t want to get anything in a twist...”

It pissed Strike off, for whatever reason. That everyone assumed he would be all big in feelings for a stranger with whom he’s shared bed once. Or perhaps, that the big man was insinuating that Strike couldn’t trust his own words that he has just said.

“If you want something, say it.” His eyes narrowed.

There was a moment of tension... and just then, Karlach looked ahead and shouted that she sees the camp.

“Ah, yes!” And just like that, Amos was off of Strike, looking ahead as well and gesturing towards the camp to the rest of the party.

They stopped, top of a hill that overlooked what seemed to be an abandoned temple... Goblin footprints were all over it, in a metaphorical sense. Spiked fences, smell of slightly burnt meat that made Strike’s mouth water when the wind pulled their way. Crude voices, lost in the distance, yet so clearly shouting at eachother. Burning fires and noise and the smell – something about it felt good to look at. Not quite right, but... familiar. Strike liked it already; his fingers itched with sudden want to be there, that sense of familiarity that rang completely opposite to the nothingness he felt in the Grove.

How odd. How intriguing.

His thoughts were only torn through by Amos’ hand on his shoulder, and as he turned, the elf was looking at him with a weirdly knowing smile.

“What.”

“Since I’ve done all this for you, you wouldn’t mind doing a little walking for me, yeah?”

There was a clear threat laying just beneath the friendliness, one that was at least interesting, and so, Strike didn’t move away.

“You already kept most of the loot.”

“Ah, ah, that already belonged to me; what I allowed your friend to take was a pay for his help. For the camp, though?”

“If we agree, what would that be?”

“Excellent!” Strike hasn’t agreed yet. Amos ignored that. “Down south of here, they’ve got this nice little place that’s crawling with wood woads. Think you could flay a few of them for me? I’d have gone down there myself, but... y’know. Zhents aren’t supposed to dawdle during business hours.”

“You want to send random strangers to what, fetch wood for you?” The drow asked, more intrigued than surprised at the bizarre request. “This better be some important wood.”

“That we hardly have the time to grab, in case you’ve forgotten, Strike,” Shadowheart reminded him, but she must have also picked up on how this sounded far, far to easy.

“Fair, fair, but... Listen, if the path takes us there, why not? Maybe the goblins would have also something to do with that... what was it, a meadow?”

“In a way.” Amos winked. “And I’ll give you something nice on top if you do this. A discount, other offers – you’re in good business, right? Though...” He yawned, and it was hard to tell if it was real or for the sake of dramatics as he walked past them again, ready to depart from the group. “Speaking of, they’re probably expecting me any minute now. If you do end up knocking, they’re listening for a ‘little serpent, long shadow’. Place is an hour walk away from here, right by Waukeen’s Rest. Come with wood... or a good fight. Either way’s fun and fine by me~”

“No promises, buddy.”

“Watch out for the gnolls!” Karlach waved a goodbye, earning a wave back from the tall elf.

“Good luck living, all of you!”

Amos, happy, chirpy, so, so capable of decimating... he soon disappeared down the trail. They left the encounter on a friendly note; probably for the best interest of all of them.

“So... Uh... Are we going to pay these ‘gobbos’ a visit?” Astarion asked, flinching slightly as Strike turned towards him.

The setting sun behind the drow threw a shadow over him. Astarion took a step back.

“The fuck was that, buddy?” Strike asked, friendly, yet... He did feel the cold anger burn right behind his mind, if he wanted it or not. “You’ve been acting weird since the Zhent walked up to us. Do you know eachother?”

“What? No, he-“

“You’re lying.” He took a step forward. Astarion took two back. “Do you think me stupid? Us? That was not how you normally act around people.”

Astarion glanced to both the women, and while Karlach looked slightly uneasy about this, she didn’t say anything. Shadowheart stood behind Strike, as she tended to do – and oh, did Strike feel right like this.

A moment passed. Then two.

Then, Astarion sighed, found it in him to meet Strike’s eyes once more.

“Back... Back in Baldur’s gate, I used to lure home victims, for my master to feed on. I’ve run into him once. Thought him an easy target. Brute is smarter than he looks, or simply doesn’t have a taste for other elves.” He sounded bitter about it, a hit to his ego.

“Target, huh?”

“A... seduction, target, if I simply must elaborate.”

“You do.”

Astarion frowned. “I lured in victims with my body, is that what you wanted to hear, oh, glorious leader? It’s not exactly something I am proud of. Even less when some filthy barbarian rejects me.”

It... made sense. Strike sighed in return, stopping to rub the bridge of his nose. His headache was back. The smell from the goblin scent was not helping him.

“Y’know, if you maybe spoke of that earlier...”

“I wanted to see if he remembers it, perhaps without having to disclose my history of prostitution to everyone I currently travel with!”

“Did you think we’ll think even less of you if we knew?” Shadowheart rose a brow, a disbelieving scowl on her face. “We’re traveling with a bloody gith, and you thought you being a prostitute would make you lesser than it?”

“Shart, racism.”

“Would you stop with the-“

“Yeah, soldier!” Karlach laughed, slapped Astarion on the back so hard he stumbled forward. His clothes smelled of burnt leather. “C’mon, you’re still our same blood thirsty bastard, we already thought you had a body count!” She thought for a moment. “More in a different way, but hey, body count’s a body count.”

He looked surprised. Glanced to Strike as if to gouge his opinion, but honestly, the drow was simply annoyed with him now. Or perhaps just with the headache.

“You really could’ve fucking said something, yknow? You’ve no idea how shady you look when you’re trying to hide something.”

“Hah. I suppose so, darling.” Relief was visible on the pretty vampire’s face. “So, if that is behind us... The goblin camp?”

Strike shook his head, despite how much he wanted to see it from upclose. “The sun is setting in an hour or so; we should head back to our camp, regroup with the others, and go tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Karlach clapped her hands together. “And hey, Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t feel bad about that guy rejecting you; if you targeted this barbarian,” she tapped on her chest, “I would’ve been done for.”

The joke brought a smile back to his face, and he gave her a sultry wink. “You have no idea, darling.”

Strike watched him as they walked back. The night they shared suddenly had a whole another meaning; but at least it explained why the elf was so all over him. He wanted something. Now, all Strike had to figure out was what that something was.

“Let me set the record straight,” Strike sighed, three hours later, where their last three companions finally joined them at the camp. Bloody, bruised, exhausted. Wyll practically carrying Gale with Lae’zel using a clearly goblin-made longbow for a crutch. All smelling heavily of gnolls and alchemist fire.

“You were meant to explore the grove and wait for us at the camp. Wyll is supposed to be the responsible one.”

“Well, I-“

“I wasn’t done,” he cut him off with a raised hand, the other covering his face. “You took that and decided to not only steal right from under the Grove’s leader nose, risking a race war, then getting lost following a dog and ending up in a fight with a dozen or so gnolls. Just the three of you. A wizard with a worm in his brain who has to relearn his base spells, a githyanki warrior that can’t walk, and a recently tieflinged warlock. Did I get that right?”

“... There was also that dog-“

“Did you fight a dog???”

“Gods, no!” Wyll protested. “I had a talk with him, kind of, well. Offered him a place to stay if he decides to move on from his dead owner.”

“... Of course you did.” Strike groaned into his hands. The pounding in his head has gotten worse – no matter how amusing this whole situation was. “May I ask, how the fuck did you manage that?”

“There were two people in the cave that helped us by throwing alchemist fire at the gnolls,” Gale informed them from where he was laying, shirtless as Shadowheart cured the gashes a gnoll’s war whip left on his side. Strike didn’t miss the way she and Wyll (and himself) couldn’t help from occasionally peeking at the wizard’s exposed, soft belly, covered in hair and blood as it was.

Tempting, but there were more important things to discuss. Such as...

“And who exactly did you help?”

“Couple of Zhentarin. Is that the word?” Lae’zel looked to Gale, just as he groaned in relief with his wounds closing.

“Zhentarim.”

“Yes, those.”

“Shit, really? You won’t believe who we ran into-“

It didn’t take long to catch the others up on the events of that day; it certainly seemed the name Amos was familiar to them, too.

Lae’zel huffed. “Name of a coward who left his crew behind, they cursed it with what they thought were their dying breaths.”

“Coward or not, he gave us important information. Such as finding the goblin camp; we’ll head there tomorrow.”

“When are we leaving?”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Strike informed the gith, as offended as she was from it. “Miss 'I can barely walk by myself'.”

“That is not my name,” she complained. “And even immobile, my arrows took out two thirds of the enemies. I am not useless.”

“I know, it’s just that we won’t be doing much fighting tomorrow.”

“But-“

“Listen,” Strike put a hand on her shoulder; watched her hold back a punch she reflexively almost threw at him. “I need you here, to keep the camp safe. You’re most useful here at the moment. Yeah?”

“.... You do speak reason.”

“Thank you. And the rest, we’ll figure out tomorrow.” He stood up. “Gale, when you’re done healing, you think you can throw together a meal?”

“Most certainly!”

Shadowheart checked his healed injuries again – her hand stayed on Gale for far longer than necessary, if one thought about it – and agreed with it, so by the time she went to help with the injuries Wyll’s non-dominant hand suffered, the wizard was already pulling his robes back on, much to the visible disappointment of the camp.

Karlach and Astarion were back from the hunt soon, and over the campfire, they shared the (quite bloodless) deer they’ve caught, after Wyll prepared the carcass for cooking. Karlach mentioned missing Alfira, or some sort of a show during dinner, so Lae’zel, across an entire thigh of the deer, told them some stories of the Githyanki – if they ignored Shadowheart’s eyerolls, it was even fun. Then Wyll stepped in with a story of fighting a dragon, and Astarion, dropping some gossip from Baldur’s gate, some that Gale could even confirm first hand...

It was nice, to listen to them speak. Hear stories and memories Strike had none of his own to share.

Him and Shadowheart sat in silence, only listening and eating, as Wyll and Karlach told of their fight in Avernus, now with a veil of friendship thrown over it, a memory almost enjoyable in hindsight.

The dinner passed in peace, the party went off to their tents to sleep, and Strike stayed by the fire. He didn’t feel like dealing with people tonight.

Shadowheart annoyed him for a moment when she came to sit next by his side, but she didn’t say a word – merely leaned her head against him.

They watched the fire together, until her breaths softened and Strike knew she was asleep without even having to look at her to confirm.

Silly thing.

Seeing him as someone worthy of support.

And yet, Strike’s mind stayed quiet as his eyes started to close. He leaned his head onto Shadowheart’s, felt the soft hair under his scaled cheek.

No Urges came.

Before he drifted to sleep, he felt a gaze of red eyes on the back of his head.

Chapter Text

Blood.

Blood.

Pulsating, vile.

Arm’s reach away.

So easily spilled, papertorn skin.

Blood.

Blood .

BLOO-

“Strike!”

It was a swift jab to the ribs that woke him up in the morning, hitting a crack that hasn’t healed well yet, and Strike found himself jumping to his feet with speed that made his body ache in protest.

“Spare me your spells, sorcerer,” Lae’zel scoffed from where she stood on one leg, leaning onto Gale for support while apparently using her bow to crudely wake the drow. “Or at least, aim them at the istik who has walked in our midst.”

Strike didn’t even notice his hands rising to perform half a move for a lightning call, the move so instinctual even he was surprised by it. But Lae’zel clearly wasn’t the threat, and so, he shook his head to get rid of the remains of his dreams and focus on this apparent intruder. An intruder, who stood with his hands raised high, and Karlach’s axe just under his neck.

The whole camp was up, and armed, and Strike felt a moment of shame wash over him that he was the last one to be prepared – but it was what it was, and he straightened his back to greet the stranger the way he deserved. Now, to figure out what that way was...

“Friend or foe?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep, yet able to slip into an easygoing tone that didn’t exactly fit the situation.

The man, tall human with a slightly oily beard and braided hair, let out a polite chuckle. “A mere wanderer, if you will.”

“Rare are wanderers in these gobbo-ridden lands.”

“And even rarer are the underelves. Or so I believed.”

... Touche.

The stranger carefully put his finger to the side of Karlach’s axe, pushing it aside. “I assure you, I am not here to cause harm to you. Had I wanted so, I would’ve assaulted your camp instead of walking right into it.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s got a point, Karlach,” Strike sighed, and reluctantly, she pulled her weapon aside, allowing the human to stop straining his neck.

“One wrong move,” she hissed at him, to which he quickly nodded. It seemed she was still concerned over the paladins, or people who would follow her... Strike caught a whiff of her dreams before the blood of them took him to his own direction. Wicked nightmares of devils tearing her traveling companions apart.

Strike was flattered, to see his own corpse in the tiefling’s nightmare. It certainly felt good to have assurance that their strongest would consider harm done to them a personal failing.

“So, wanderer,” he turned to him, “not an exactly common name, is it?”

“Not amongst my people. It is Gandrel; a humble monster hunter. One with potions to trade and a road under his feet.”

Strike almost flinched when he felt a cold hand against his wrist – but Astarion has moved so stealthily that even he didn’t notice him until he was right by him.

“You’re a Gur,” the vampire noted, an obvious mockery to his voice already, and oh, it was still only so early in the morning. “Funny, I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats. Is family business not working out for you?”

Was there anyone in the group that wasn’t racist?

The Gur laughed it off. “If only. I would’ve preferred not to wander this far out, but sometimes, the cause is just simply too important.”

“Ah, yes, a satchel of gold for a moral, must be quite a cause.”

“Please,” Wyll frowned, a disapproving pout that Astarion firmly ignored as he kept sneering at the Gur.

At least Gandrel seemed not to mind much – or was used of it, seeing as he simply ignored the nasty remarks. “If your distrust for my people makes you want not trade with me, I understand, of course, but if you wish higher quality products...”

Recepies for potions wrote themselves in Strike’s head, handy ingredients to posess, mix, be good at. They had money, from robbing corpses and eating things they found. He smiled.

“Show me your wares, wanderer.”

Two hundred coins later, Strike felt like a child, looking at all the dried leaves, bottled ingredients, even a stone mortar and pestle. He was downright giddy at all the options, similar to how Gale was when they let him pillage the library of the older temple they found on their first night.

“Thank you~” He couldn’t keep a smile off of his face, and he could tell Astarion was also pleased with himself after bargaining down the prices – he had insisted that as someone who was familiar with Baldur’s Gate prices, he was there to make sure the drow didn’t get ripped off with their money.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Gandrel smiled back, pocketing his much heavier pouch. “However sharp of a negotiator your lawyer is.”

“Magistrate, actually.”

“Of course you are.”

“What is that supposed to-“

“What’d you even need that much money for, anyway?” Wyll cut the vampire off before he could insult the kind man again. “If I may ask.”

By now, they’ve moved to the side, with only the four of them, leaving the others to get ready for the day. From across the camp, they could see Lae’zel and Shadowheart bickering about the Gith’s wound and someone redressing it – it sounded like they chose Gale to do so as a compromise, as Lae’zel did not trust the cleric to go anywhere near her leg. Karlach was chopping wood for the breakfast fire.

Gandrel patted the pouch. “South of here lives a woman I would like to employ the help of; I’ll need all the money I can get, and more, most likely.”

“Having trouble on your own mission, Gur?” Astarion snickered, earning himself a hit over the head by none other than the Blade of Frontier’s new tail. Seemed like Wyll finally started figuring out how to control his new limb, huh. “Mind the hair??”

“Mind the tongue, first.” Wyll replied sternly, but Strike could swear he saw a twitch of a grin on the young man’s lips.

“I’m afraid I do need some help,” Gandrel sighed, turning away as he went to pack up his remaining goods back in his satchel. “I’m hunting down a vampire spawn, you see, and while it should be far easier to track him, it makes no sense with how he moves.”

The air froze. A moment of weakness, a quick glance, Astarion grabbing for Strike’s wrist and grasping at nothing when the drow yanked his hand away.

“A vampire spawn?” Wyll asked, remaining admirably calm.

“Yes. His name is Astarion; if you happen to run into an elf by that name, do stand careful, will you?”

Oh.

What were the chances?

Keep it together, Strike hissed in Astarion’s mind, before pushing the information to the rest of the camp – it was only good that Gandrel was turned away in the moment when everyone paused in their movement, and their eyes found them. Noone take any fucking action, Strike quickly added, when he felt Lae’zel reaching slowly for her bow. Shadowheart snatched it away just in time.

“Goblins, drow, gnolls... And now we have to look out for vampires, too?” Strike rose an eyebrow, just in time for Gandrel to look at them over his shoulder. “... At least it’s not a true vampire.”

“I don’t know,” Astarion hissed at him, notably moving his lips less than usually when he spoke. “A spawn could still rip out your throat, if you provoked it enough, darling.”

Gandrel sighed, nodding. “He’s right, sadly. In the daylight we have the advantage, but in the night? Well, you should be alright – I doubt even a starved spawn would risk attacking such a large group. They are not to be underestimated, though; bringing him back alive will be one Hell of a task.”

Strike was weighing his options; he could tell that everyone was waiting for his decision. His call. His order, almost. Spill the hunter’s blood, or let him go. His mind itched for the first option, but...

“We’ll be on the lookout,” he nodded, reaching out to shake the living Gur’s hand. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Thanks for the hospitality, friend.”

The handshake was firm, warm. Begging for Strike to realign all the little bones involved until the Gur could never pull a crossbow trigger again, and yet...

“And you, for your professionalism, magistrate...?” And oh, he’s turned to Astarion, the pale elf from Baldur’s Gate in their midst. Asking for his name as if he wasn’t blind and stupid and noticed the obvious vampire.

To his credit, Astarion didn’t even blink before a lie and a sweet smile. “Dekarios. Gale, for friends.”

“Ah. Pleasure to make acquaintance.” The suspicion in the Gur’s eyes wavered – of course the elf wasn’t a vampire; he was standing in the sun!

Everyone took a breath of relief when he left. Even Astarion, who did not need to breathe at all.

“We should go after him,” Astarion said during breakfast, pacing around as everyone ate. “What if he comes back? If that woman can actually help him?”

“You’re walking in the sun,” Wyll protested, only after swallowing the bite he had just taken from the slightly stale bread they found a day ago, near the paladins massacre. “That absolves you of all suspicion, truly.”

“You noticed!”

“I can feel the tadpol in your brain. I know the reason.”

Karlach looked up from where she was cupping Lae’zel’s bowl of their remaining broth, to warm it after it went cold. “If he comes back, we’re just going to show him he’s not messing with our vampire.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, as if he didn’t believe her.

“He did say he wants you alive, in any case,” Shadowheart commented. “I don’t believe we should be worried. Gale, are you going to finish that?”

“Yes, fear not. I do believe we should focus on more pressing matters at hand as well.”

“More- more pressing?” Astarion’s voice did get so awfully shrill when he was outraged; it ground sharply on Strike’s ears, the fastly approaching headache that has started the moment he saw the Gur leave his line of sight. “Excuse me if I care about a bloody vampire hunter that is after me, me personally, Gale.”

Blood was pounding in Strike’s head as the bickering continued, driving his appetite from nothing to zero. He passed his still mostly full bowl to Shadowheart, which she took with a quick bow of the head that he barely registered over the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears.

It gave him an idea, at least.

“Hey, Ass.”

The vampire’s head snapped towards him – eyebrows raising even higher as Strike patted his lap in an offer.

“Darling?”

“You haven’t had breakfast yet, didja, buddy? C’mere.”

Get stronger and shut up, he thought, but not shared it down their connection. .... Probably. He didn’t particularly care if Astarion heard him.

Insulted or not, the vampire thought for a moment, then, as Strike pulled his hair off of his neck and over one shoulder, he was by him, immediately.

“Well... Since you offered your delectable self, darling~”

The bite hurt. The good kind of pain, Strike thought with a grateful sigh. Icy cold shards of agony that cooled down his heated mind, and when Astarion gasped into the little puncture wounds, the drow’s hands grabbed for his waist.

Over his shoulder, through the white curls, he could see most of their companions, dealing with Astarion’s eating habits in their own ways. Wyll has awkwardly turned to ask Karlach something about horn care, something she was very excited to reply to. Gale’s face went darker red, and his empty bowl must have suddenly became the most interesting thing in existence. Shadowheart looked bored, probably just waiting for her turn to cast a healing spell, and Lae’zel... Lae’zel was staring. Intensely. Interested.

Astarion dug his fangs deeper and Strike couldn’t help but let a little gasp escape him, and just like that, Lae’zel’s eyes widened with an emotion that was far more than familiar to the drow. Want.

It made him grin, but not as much as Shadowheart grabbing Astarion by the collar of his shirt and yanking him back did.

“Just as much as you need,” she reminded the vampling, who was still panting and bloody around the mouth and very much not listening. But he was much happier and agreeable for the rest of the breakfast, which Strike felt earnt him some approval from the rest of the camp.

In the end, Strike figured they had multiple birds to kill with one well thrown rock. Or a particularly bouncy arrow. Gandrel has gone to the same direction the shady Zhentarim has pointed them to, and to where the note found in Kagha’s chest was directing. So, a smaller team to go observe this nice looking meadow, since Lae’zel insisted on not being left behind in the camp – if by some chance, something attacked them, her bow was still quite lethal. And if they had to run, well, Karlach would be able to carry her.

Meanwhile, Strike, his cleric, rogue and Wyll had to figure out a way to approach the goblin camp, which was far more likely to turn ugly, so...

“In, out, see if that lady Gur mentioned is an actual threat to Astarion, check for suspicious stuff about the snake lady, and grab some wood on your way back for the Zhent. If we’re not back by dusk, go to the grove and we’ll see from there.”

“Keep your guard high, soldier.” Karlach looked worried for them. “We got this.”

They parted ways, smaller group heading south, larger going north. Hopefully to regroup again soon.

Wyll claimed to have known of a spot where they could get a better look at the goblin camp – a village just east of it, with a high vantage point and friendly people, but by the time they got to it, the young man’s face has soured already.

The village was slaughtered, most likely days ago. Corpses thrown out of it, torn apart and gored by gnolls and something bigger alike. Scavenged of clothes and limb, flies feasting on their spilt insides... So much violence, so much death, spilt blood and mindless murder. The sight was gruesome. Horrific.

Strike found himself hardening in his breeches, despite the apathy he felt from the view.

He hoped nobody noticed, but truthfully, everyone was focusing more on the slaughtered villagers than his crotch in particular.

“Doubt they’ll be of any help now,” he commented, noting the look of cold anger on Wyll’s face.

“No. They won’t be.” The young man murmured, voice laced with icy fury that was oh ever so intriguing.

“Quite well organized for a group of goblins, I must say.” Shadowheart noted, scowling in disgust at the smell. “Perhaps this is where the drow we heard of get involved?”

Strike kicked away a torn up hand, one that was too small to be even able to lift a weapon yet, and now never will. Part of him wondered what its owner looked like when they died. Part of him knew; those small hands raising, as if they could defend the body from the upcoming blade.

Another part of him wondered why he felt nothing about that.

‘Ambush’, Astarion’s voice suddenly said in his mind, and it must have been in all of them, because they all looked up – but Strike saw it first. A goblin woman, standing high on one of the crushed buildings by the entrance.

His eyes met hers, and for a reason he didn’t know, words escaped his lips just as Wyll pulled his rapier out of its holster.

“I can see you.”

“Ha! Betcha can. And now we-“ Laugh, look, and all of a sudden, something was different, as if a wind pulled another way when she saw him a bit better once she fixed her mask. “Hey, you! You a drow?”

Strike lifted an eyebrow, just waiting to see what it will be this round. For the first time since he woke up, though...

“A drow, in the sun? This one’s got a touch of the Absolute on him!” She was clearly startled, jumped back as she yelled towards her comrades, and while Strike felt the confusion of his companions... He didn’t move. It was a play, out of nowhere. A game of pretend without pre-writen roles, and oh, oh, he enjoyed those despite not remembering when he’d last play.

“Of course I do,” he lied through his teeth, arms crossing over his chest.

The goblin bowed. Clumsily, yes, but she bowed, and a wave of comfort washed over Strike like a blood bath. “My deepest apologies, your lordship. Forgive me, me eyes mistook you for a, uh. Something else!”

“Do you deserve to have them, if they’ll lead you to threatening your betters?”

Wyll gave him the oddest look, but the threat was so simple, the easiest thing in the world for Strike to think of. The goblin squeaked, bowing deeper, a hand raising to cover those beady little eyes.

“N-no, your greatnest, please! I’ll- No more trouble from us, saer, I swear!”

And with the most pathetic stumble on her knees, she moved out of their sight. Other goblins gave a quick bow as well as they jumped out of their hiding spots, before scurrying away as if to not anger the apparently terrifying drow.

“... Darling. Have you perhaps forgotten to tell us that this is your cult?” Astarion asked, bewildered look in his eyes betraying how genuinely surprised he was by the way the interraction went.

“Could’ve said something earlier, yes...” Shadowheart took a breath of relief after having been expecting a fight that never came.

Strike shrugged, his eyes never leaving the goblins – to make sure none stayed close enough to eavesdrop.

“This will give us advantage for when we make them pay for what they’ve done here.” Wyll was surprised, but quicker to move on and take the cards they were dealth with; Strike appreciated that in the young hero. “We can cleanse this... rot, from inside out.”

“... Yes.”

“Go ahead, your lordship,” Astarion mocked, slightly amused by it as he bowed to the drow as well. “I think I’ll prefer to stick to the back this time.”

“This time?” Shadowheart’s smile was musing, dropping in a  moment when Wyll suddenly pushed her aside.

“I hear shouting – someone might still be alive.”

“And isn’t that curious.”

“We have to help them, Strike.”

“...”

“Strike!”

“Oh. Yes, sure.”

Wyll was right behind him as Strike started walking, through the door, past the ruined houses of the people that have been so unkindly evicted. Goblins stared at them, yet avoided eye contact. Heads bowed in respect, yet staring when they thought he didn’t see.

It was never this easy to walk with his head held high. Not as far as he knew, at least.

The surviving victim was a deep gnome, tied to the spinny wing of a windmill. Screaming as he went around in circles and goblins cheered, and despite Strike practically feeling Wyll shivering with righteous disgust at his side, he didn’t rush in to help. He needed to look confident, cruel.

And, admittedly, the scene he just walked into as if he owned the world, was quite amusing.

He felt the goblin on his right stare and stop his hollering, from the corner of his eye noticing how the creature reached for his bow... then stared some more, and its hand lowered.

“How long has it been up there?” Strike asked, genuinely curious if the centrifuge would’ve already give the gnome a brain bleed.

“Uh. Um. Coupla minutes, but, uh.” The goblin looked to those behind him. Someone shrugged. “.... You are blessed, right? You a drow? True soul?”

No, maybe, first time hearing that title.

“I promise by the Absolute, next one who doubts me is losing their spleen.”

Strike wasn’t sure if goblins were aware of what a spleen was, but they were able to recognize a threat of bodily harm when they heard one. He scowled down at the creature as if it was the most worthless thing he’s ever seen, and it must’ve worked, because it started to bow (poorly) as well, fear creeping into its voice.

“P-p-pardon, saer, I’ll.. We’ll be leaving now, you can have the pipsqueak-“

Strike wanted to ask him something, but the creature ran away, as fast as its flat feet could carry it.

He felt so at home, standing tall and calm just in case someone was watching while Wyll ran around the windmill to find a way to stop it.

“So very generous of you,” Astarion commented, a curious raise to his eyebrow as they stood by and observed how the gnome slowly stopped spinning. “Rescuing a gnome, of all things.”

“We have to ask someone about what is happening, don’t we?”

“And,” Shadowheart commented, once the gnome came to a full stop, “I don’t believe the hero in our midst would be as permissive of that as one of us might be.”

“Cut- Cut me loose already!” The gnome squeaked, so visibly dizzy from the spinning... Strike stepped towards him without a thought, just to see the way the small man’s skin turned such dark purple where there was most of the blood, in his face and ears.

He wished to see the death that would happen.

And yet, still, he pulled down the bindings.

They watched the gnome waddle around in circles as his head no doubt spun; at least until Wyll came back to grab him by the shoulder and help him stabilize.

“Whooh. Whew.” The gnome shook his head, then pushed Wyll’s hand off of him as he looked over everyone else, and once his eyes found Strike’s, his entire face dropped even more than it already was.

“You alright there?” Strike asked, wondering if he should crouch like Wyll did... But Wyll did so to help the guy... He remained standing straight and simply enjoyed the way the smaller man had to crane his neck so far back to see him.

“Oh, just. Just brilliant,” there was something pleasant about the tone of his admittedly whiny voice. “From the pot and onto the fire! Oh, alright, just do it already.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t you think I know how this goes?? You’re a drow, I’m a gnome. You saved me, and now, you’re going to enslave me.”

Astarion laughed. “I like the idea, he’s a clever one~”

“This isn’t time for jokes like those, Astarion,” Wyll crossed his arms with a sigh, and Strike couldn’t keep a grin from his face.

“Yes, Astarion,” his agreeing earned him an offended frown from the elf. “Not the time for such jokes. And you,” he looked back to the slightly confused gnome, “I’ve no need for slaves in the moment. You’re free to go, if you don’t mind answering some questions first.”

He wouldn’ve let the man go even if he just decided to run in that moment, but, well... He didn’t need to tell him so, did he?

The gnome blinked up at him, brows furrowing an attempt to understand. “That’s it? You’re just..?”

“You know, I’m getting real tired of all the drow shit I get. I’ve been nothing but kind for the last few days.”

“Sure,” the skepticism was clear in the gnome’s huff, “That’s why you went around ordering these, these ruffians, as if you were the Absolute himself.”

“... You’ve got a point.”

“Just- uh! I must be on my way already, getting captured already took so much time off of me, I can’t-“ He was already moving away, much to Strike’s annoyance, but before he could even say anything, it was Shadowheart who has stepped in front of the smaller man. And the look on her face wasn’t one to challenge, which clearly, the gnome understood, as he’s turned back with a full-chested sigh. “Ask away, then-“

“You know anything of this Absolute deal?”

He must’ve thought Strike was questioning him to figure out if he knew too much and will have to be killed – silly thing, as if they needed a reason.

He shook his head. “Not a clue. I was on my way from Baldur’s gate, trying to find a friend, but- I really need to be going, if you will.”

“Thought deep gnomes lived in the Underdark.”

The gnome scoffed, arms crossed as his spine straightened to look alllll the way up at Strike. “Prejudice is still alive and well, I see. I’ve lived in Baldur’s Gate for years, I’ll have you know! And you don’t see me going around and asking why a bloody drow would be out here, Much less helping out gnomes.” He paused for a moment. “Which, do not misunderstand me, I am grateful for. You can have my bag of supplies, if you want – bloody thing is too heavy anyway, I wouldn’t be caught had I not been weighted down.”

“Are you sure you will be safe?” Wyll asked, the good hero that he was, earning another suspicious look from the now impatient gnome.

“Safer than here, for sure. Now, if that will be all-“

Strike nodded, hinting the gnome to leave; before the temptation of tying him back to the windmill would’ve gotten too great. His palms were itching to grind that face in the stone wall.

“Till we meet again.”

“Hopefully not. My bag is in the basement of this mill, if those... savages didn’t do something to it, that is...”

And off he went, through a crack in the wall that was probably made when the goblins devastated the village. Strike found himself hoping to meet the guy again; but when wasn’t he? One of the main things he’s learnt about himself since he woke up first, would be that he truly enjoyed putting his nose in other people’s business.

“Don’t you think we’re being too nice to people, darling?” Astarion asked later, leaning against a wall and not bothering to help others scavenge the place, once it turned out to not have much more than some (admittedly wonderful) food supplies. “I didn’t expect us to be like that.”

Strike threw him a questioning look, still crouching by the ridiculously heavy backpack the gnome has abandoned to them. “Like what?”

“You know. Running in towards danger. Saving gnomes. Very un-drowlike, in my humble opinion, at least.” The vampire kept checking his nails. “Don’t get me wrong, I do so very enjoy being treated with respect by those filthy goblins due to your heritage, oh great leader, but-“

“It’s certainly better than having to fight through all of them,” Wyll cut him off. He was packing potatoes into a crate, for them to grab it later when the goblins will hopefully be done for. "And you of all people truly shouldn't be so quick to assure someone must be a monster because of what they are."

"I don't even know if I've ever been to Mens- Menz. ... Menzobrazza- .... to Underdark, buddy."

"... that pronunciation proves your point better than your argument does, I suppose."

Shadowheart was done dealing with her old battle injury, it seemed; the odd wound on her palm that sometimes flared up. She didn’t like talking about it, and Strike only tried a couple of times to prod her mind for answers before she threatened to stop healing him on the almost hourly rate. It wasn’t a good idea to not be on decent terms with your cleric when you’re physically destroyed, so, Strike agreed to let her have the privacy of her mind. He was perfectly able of waiting for her to drop her guard again before trying some more, after all.

“Speaking of surprises, Blade of Fronties, following along in parading around as a false cultist? Not exactly my idea of a hero,” she teased, earning a shrug from Wyll.

He was so obviously still furious, knuckles whitening at the memory of all those people above them, dead and murdered. “I am no fool, Shadowheart. In our current states, best thing we can do is to keep up the charade, and then find a way to eradicate them where they sleep in their nest.”

“Ruthless. I might even start to like you.”

“I’m flattered. One day, the feeling might even become mutual.”

Wyll was going for a strong contender for being Strike’s favorite, the drow thought. If only it wasn’t for that pesky moral codex... But he’s never met a man without a breaking point. In recent memory, that is.

Astarion laughed, before noticing that they were done; most of the food repackaged to be easy to grab on their way back, or once they got Karlach from whatever picnic her, wizard and the gith were currently having. The vampire stretched out his arms, and Strike thought of a particularly smug cat.

“Ready to go back and be the big evil culty drow, darling?”

“I was born ready,” Strike grinned, already going to the ladder. “... as far as I know.”

Astarion’s laugh suddenly sounded weirdly strained again; must’ve been the nerves.

The camp was right ahead of them, just a short walk away. It was heavily guarded, with dozens of goblins crawling around the place, some ogres, some wargs... The wind pulled their way, bringing with the smell of sweat, rot, wine and meat, noises of blabber and curses and crude, off-cue singing.

Strike could feel his companions’ apprehension as they walked behind him, and if it was understandable, to a degree – if they wouldn’t be believed, they were very much dead, with how they were about to walk into the enemy’s nest. It made sense to be concerned. It did.

And yet, Strike couldn’t find it in him to worry, not when the role of someone superior to the creatures fit him so well, like a slick, second skin he put on unknowingly.

They approached.

The cultists bowed.

The doors swung open for them like mother's arms for her long lost child, and Strike felt right.

Chapter Text

Strike hated the feeling of his knees touching the floor, his hair falling over his face as his head bowed in submission. He hated the feeling so much he needed a moment to even process why he was kneeling – the agonizing pressure on his back as the voice in his mind forced him to obey.

It was awful. Vile.

And yet, the usual redness of his mind was gone, replaced with a different type of pain that he nearly welcomed.

Kneel, the voice has said. Kneel, for the Absolute!

It would’ve been so easy to. Make the pressure in his head stop. Through the pressure, there was a vision, people high above him, fleeting images of faces and pale eyes and a quick and easy smile that laughed and commanded and wouldn’t it just make so much sense to-

Just as quick as it happened, it was over, and Strike found himself thrown from the vision right back onto the harsh stone of the path there were on.

“What- what in the sweet Hells was that?” It was Astarion who could speak first, and a vague part of Strike’s brain threw out a thought that maybe the vampire spawn would be the most used of violations in the brain matter.

Wyll has scrambled to his feet, still slightly shaky, yet offered the vampire a hand to pick him up – or so Strike assumed from seeing their boots move, as he was yet to move from his folded over position. His head wasn’t alright.

Elf. No, half elf? Bearded elf. Must be a half. A woman. Pale. Another man. Handsome. Was he? Younger. For sure, than the elf. Half elf?

“Strike?”

Oh, how good it was to be your healer’s first priority, even with all the implications that brought. Shadowheart’s reluctant touch didn’t startle him, even more, it helped him ground himself as he hummed out a response.

“Can you stand up?” She sounded nervous, and that was what got him to finally look up, see her oddly worried face go even paler as her eyes flickered down. “You- well.”

“You’re bleeding, darling.” Astarion jumped in, while Wyll brushed some road dust off of his shoulders. “Need a hand with that? A tongue, perhaps?”

Strike did feel an odd pain in his hand – but when didn’t he? He was quite sure his nerves there were twisted to hells and back, judging from all the scarring he could see. He never was able to fully extend all fingers.

But as he looked down, he really should have noticed, because his palm was pierced through, by whatever thing he was clutching. With a little ‘whash’ noise, the numerous needles on it pulled themselves back inside, and as if it were innocent, the metal ball laid upon his bloody hand. Strike’s fingers twitched around it.

Wyll stepped closer, using his body to block the goblins behind them from seeing it – the creatures were a little interested in the True soul that just fell the moment they set a foot on the bridge, but not interested enough to step closer.

“That is the thing that flew in front of you, I saw it,” he said, quiet enough for the goblins not to overhear. “What is it?”

“Not a clue,” Strike shrugged. “Just found it.”

“Does it truly matter where it came from?” Shadowheart piped in, that paleness still to her face. “We are being observed.”

Strike just... stared at her, for a moment or two while she healed him. She was nervous. Clearly not about his wound, not when she was healing far worse just a day or so ago. But the spiky ball...

“Shart’s right,” he declared, before slipping the thing in the bag he had strapped over his shoulder. “We can try to figure out where it came from later. Seems it’s not going to explode just yet – we’ve more pressing matters to attend to.”

She seemed relieved. And for the first time, did not object to the nickname.

Strike was suddenly thrilled to have a little chat with her about the mysterious ball, and exactly why it was hers.

“Shove over, drow coming through!”

Gaining access to the main court was just as easy as it was to get there, and Wyll has muttered a quick household prayer for their luck to continue. Strike was quite confident it will; it wasn’t like he would suddenly stop being a drow, after all. Acting was a different thing, of course, but... He felt equally sure of himself in that way, too.

The smell of meat in the air was delightful, by far the best thing he’s been around in a hot while. He had nothing against Gale’s cooking, of course, the wizard was... well, a wizard to be able to feed them all on their limited supplies, but this struck a nerve in Strike in the best way. Smelled like home, whatever that was. Mum’s cooking, like in those stories when you’re brought back.

A human bard was put on a table, a nervous wreck reciting praises to what Strike could assume was the goblin leader, while the other creatures smacked at his feet in ways that made the man dance. His eyes found Strike’s across the field, almost pleading. The drow waved, and turned away.

“He’s not half bad,” Wyll commented, the first trace of a smile on his lips since the moment they saw the villagers. It was wiped away quickly enough, though, when he heard a terrified squeak of what looked like a bear cub being prodded by sticks of cheering goblins.

Strike had to grab his arm before the hero would go do anything stupid, and it seemed both of his other companions had the same idea as he did see them flinch towards him before the drow got him. “Later,” he hissed. It earned him a look of such defiance that he wondered if that was what Wyll’s devil patron was used of seeing, but after keeping the eye contact for a few stubborn moments, Wyll apparently remembered just where they were, and reluctantly looked away.

That was good. What was bad was that he looked right towards the fire, where the meat was roasting to the point of being slightly burnt, and something in his face sickened.

Perhaps it was the very clearly humanoid hand on one of the pieces.

Strike’s mouth watered at the smell, the delicious popping of the boiling bubbles of fat right under the crispy skin, and for the second time today, he wondered what exactly was wrong with him.

“Want a slice, your drowship?” The stocky goblin next to them asked, ale in one hand, a meat cleaver in the other. “’m ‘fraid’s not quite done yet – but do come by later? If that’s what please ya.”

“... Yes. Yes, later.”

He felt like Wyll was too shocked to stab someone in the moment, but still appreciated Shadowheart, as disgusted as she was, to step next to the young man just in case.

We’re burning this whole place down, Wyll hissed in their shared mind, and surprisingly, Shadowheart agreed far more enthusiastically than Astarion did.

Strike tuned them out. “Say, slave,” he started. It was the right choice, it seemed, because the slightly drunk goblin didn’t even blink so it must have been the way True souls were meant to talk to their inferiors. How fun! “With your prisoners, have you taken in a druid? Named Halsin, if that’s any help.”

“Druid? Those’re ‘em tree huggers, eh?”The goblin scratched at his chin with the meat cleaver.

“A tall elf.”

“None of ‘ose, milord. Yous’ the only tall elf ‘ve seen all tenday. Ugh. Drow, I mean.” He quickly corrected himself as Strike lifted an eyebrow, as if in a warning. “We, uh, all we’ve got was this one dwarf,” he poked a nice chunk of flesh with the cleaver, “couple ‘a human lads, ‘nother few that died out ‘ere, n a nice big warbear the lads had.”

“A warbear?”

“Fiesty beast. Took ten of ours to drag it in. But, heh, we’re gonna break ‘ts will till its ours, right?”

“... Right.”

Strike wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to say next, so... staring at the goblin as if he was expecting something was the plan. And it worked out! The drow has been told he has what Gale so politely called ‘unnervingly intense’ eyes. And from watching how the goblin was starting to awkwardly struggle, Gale was, as he tended to be, correct.

“You, uhh.... your, drowness, are- are you here to see the other one?”

“What do you think?”

He was practically squirming; Strike was having a great time. The atmosphere, the entertainment, the respect... If only Wyll wasn’t there as a pernament reminder of what they came here to do.

“You- do want to meet her? The other drow? True soul?”

“Obviously. Do you expect me to beg for her location?”

“N-no, of course not, saer! She’s in there, just by the hall, past the priestess; you can’t miss her voice!”

With pathetic bows and oversized feet stumbling, the filthy creature scurried away, and Strike gave the tempting meat on the fire one last look as he turned back to his companions.

“I guess we’re meeting the drow in charge, ey?”

“...”

“Wyll. I promise we will enact justice when needed,” Strike avoided promising anything too certain – currently, they didn’t exactly need to do anything rash. “Aight? Just... Keep a cool head. Remember everything you’re mad about, for later, yeah?”

“...” Wyll sighed. “I... Am aware. It would be suicide to do anything, but... gods, this is vile.”

“Overcooked, too,” Astarion popped into the conversation, pale arm sliding over Wyll’s shoulder. “I would much prefer it fresher, but you can’t exactly expect good taste from a horde of goblins, can you?”

Wyll looked annoyed, but... Strike could appreciate the vampire stepping in to redirect the young man’s ire. With Shadowheart complaining about the design of the original temple (Selunite, if Strike’s mind didn’t wrong him, which wouldn’t be the first time), they walked inside, to meet this drow in charge.

Smell of a different kind of burning flesh hit them the moment they walked further inside, but this one came from people burning brands into their palms, and not an awfully wonderful smelling –if slightly immoral- roast. The line was long, and noone paid them much mind, so they just kept going, by the path across a giant spider pit, and they got there just in time to see a man fall down and into the aforementioned spider pit.

Shadowheart and Astarion both automatically reached for Wyll, but the young man simply stared ahead, at the faces of the two goblins that have pushed him. No doubt, memorizing.

“O-oh!” One of the goblins squeaked upon seeing Strike. “We treat the spiders real kind here, saer! Feed them the fattest prisoners, I swear!”

The man they threw inside wasn’t that fat, Strike could complain, but he was slightly more confused by why they were so quick to assure him that.

“Mhm.” He peeked into the pit, watched the giant spiders start to tear at the flesh of a man who must have died on impact from the unfortunate fall. Good for him. “They seem happy.”

“They do? I-I mean, thank you, your majesty! Only the best for them!”

And off they went – it was becoming apparent that the usual goblin protocol for meeting a drow was to kiss their arse, and then run away as quickly as possible.

“Must really like spiders.”

“Don’t be so confused,” Shadowheart nudged him, as if reading his mind. Perhaps she was. “They think you like spiders.”

“Me??”

“... Spiders. Lolth. Drow. Remember?”

“Not much, actually.”

She rolled her eyes, and Strike grinned, just as they’ve heard a powerful, raspy voice behind them.

“I do not wish to hear another word from you, worthless creature.”

Must have been the lady they came to see; the goblin chef did mention a voice they ‘couldn’t miss’. Just around the corner, a small walk away, they found her; a short drow woman with a pointy face and light hair pulled into an immaculate bun. And berating a goblin with a string of words Strike himself could give her an expert’s nod of appreciation for, had there not been just... something, something that made him uneasy about the woman.

“For every hour you spend without getting me that location, I will take something from you. A finger. A bollock. A limb.” With every word, she stepped closer, and suddenly, Strike knew why the goblins were so eager to not talk to drow too much.

He stepped forward, just as the goblin muttered apologies, something about being no good without his limbs. “You have under an hour before next,” the woman cut him off. “I’d suggest you get going.”

He ran off like the wind, almost knocking into Astarion’s legs on the way out, had the rogue not dodged in just a nick of time – but the commotion was enough for the drow woman to notice them. Strike, more specifically.

“A true soul?” She looked up. And up. And yet, somehow still carried herself as if she was seven feet tall. It took her a few moments, her eyes narrowing, as if she was trying to decide what exactly Strike was... It wouldn’t be the first time, anyway.

Luckily for them, she’s settled on the race that was most useful to them, and sneered.

“Do not think that makes us equal, jaluk. Are you here to join the hunt?”

Hatred exploded in Strike’s chest like a smokepowdered fire.

It wasn’t the word itself, even if he knew what it meant. A male drow. Someone beneath her. He loathed that look in her eyes as redness of his violent mind for a moment took away his words, froze the smile on his face.

“Speak, while you still own your own tongue.”

Mentioned tongue licked the suddenly dry corners of his lips, as Strike forced words out of his throat like a man to a gallows. “What hunt? Specifically.”

She scoffed, those red eyes looking him over some more, as if looking for whatever was wrong with him- no, she was prodding, her mind reaching into his own in a way as violating as it was cold, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around her throat and choke the audacity out of her. His brain being a mess at least did them something good this time, though, because he could tell she didn’t see much, not more than the red.

She pulled away with a scowl, something mocking in her eyes that riled him up like nothing he’s quite felt before.

“We’re searching for a grove of druids,” she stated, voice slower, as if she were talking to someone slow. “Worshippers of a false god. We’ve captured some, yet those useless beings are unable to drag the location of their hideout out of them.”

She looked him over once more. His companions were practically ignored, after a first glance.

“Perhaps you could give it a try, jaluk. I’ve my hands full with orders from above, but even a male like yourself should be able to do better than a couple of goblins.” She said the slur and the last word in the exact same tone. “Get to it.”

When she turned away, Strike wanted to bash her head in with whatever he could grab first- until that whatever became Astarion’s hand around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks when he took a step towards the drow.

He didn’t even notice himself moving.

Astarion’s lips were pressed into a thin line, red eyes meeting Strike’s. “Torture sounds fun, doesn’t it, darling? Right up your drow alley.”

There was something pleading in his smile. As Strike glanced to the side, he could see Wyll gripping the hold of his rapier, Shadowheart’s gaze glued to the drow woman; neither of them were sure if they were going to have to fight, but they weren’t willing to be caught off guard.

But no, Wyll was right earlier, and Astarion was right now. Starting a fight would be suicide.

And torture did sound fun.

“I don’t remember telling you to take your time, True soul,” the woman, still back towards them and leaning over a desk with what seemed like maps, said in a warning tone, and Strike felt his smile twitch at the corner.

“My apologies, ma’am. I’ll be right on it.”

“Take your slaves with you as well.”

“Of course.”

The torture victim sounded young and amusing, in that beaten up, crying way. And yet, the sight didn’t stop Strike’s companions form being annoyingly getting into his business.

“Are you okay?”

“What was that about?”

“You seem... off, Strike.”

“We’re keeping up with the charade until we can safely leave,” Strike shook Shadowheart’s hand off of his shoulder, letting go of some of the coldness that snuck from his soul to voice. “Try blending in while I see if the prisoner guy’s seen Halsin, they must be the people who got left behind earlier.”

Wyll didn’t seem convinced. “You won’t... actually torture the man, will you?”

“Nothing too bad,” Strike lied, “I’ll see if I can get him out without fucking us over. Promise to do the same though? Don’t stab anyone for some light cannibalism?”

Was it even cannibalism if they weren’t of the same race? .... Probably.

Reluctantly, Wyll nodded. “But we must leave soon; have to warn them in the grove.”

“I think they might have noticed already that they’re being hunted by goblins, buddy.”

“They didn’t know they were being searched for. That... should work in our favour; now they can know that they won’t be safe even if they simply kick out the tieflings. That is good.”

“Good?” Astarion sneered. “I’m sure they’ll agree with you.”

“They’ll stand better chances if they work with the refugees!” For the first time in the day, Wyll looked hopeful, that determination for good carving itself into his face in that way that made even Strike want to believe him. Hero of the people, and all that. He hit his fist into his open palm. “We only need to convince them of the danger they are in, and we might stand a chance. Much better than dividing, at the very least.”

Cute. Annoyingly positive, but Strike couldn’t deny that he liked that about the young man, especially when he did take people’s selfish nature in account. It almost eased the boiling rage he was feeling, bubbling deep in his chest every time he thought of the drow woman and her mocking eyes.

“Decent plan, Blade. But we gotta survive this first,” he smiled, “So go out there, don’t be heroic, try to find out anything useful about this place or the Absolute, and we’ll meet back up before we leave. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Astarion didn’t seem quite convinced. “Will you be alright in there, darling?”

“I’m a drow, ain’t I?” the mentioned drow replied through grit teeth and strained casualness. “Should be in my blood.”

His companions left. Strike felt his expression drop like a weighted corpse in a river, and he turned to meet this poor man that he was supposed to torture.

When he cast magic, it felt like second nature. A beautiful feeling deep inside that he was able to grasp at so effortlessly, like breathing, like a blink. It came to him on its own.

But if magic was his second nature, then causing pain was his first, because from the moment he laid eyes on the poor young man, he knew how to work the lithe body like an instrument.

Tendons played onto like strings of a harp until they nearly snapped, clawed fingers running down a bare chest, dancing amongst the bruises as they blossomed. Screams of the flesh a melody to his work, eyes rolling up into the man’s head until his voice was hoarse from screams and vomit and sobs.

Strike hasn’t said a single word to him since he started.

“W-whew.” It was the whistle of one of the goblins that still stood watching that reminded the drow of where he was, and it took a few blinks before he properly came back to the thought at hand.

Speaking of hands...

“Knew this was gonna be gorey, but, eh, don’t think I’ve got the stomach for much more, to be honest.”

“Then leave.” A commanding voice said, and it took Strike a moment to recognize it as his own. Power came so easy, even in his technically weak state, it seemed. “I told you – I don’t try. I get results.”

What was I?

“P-please, please, don’t- don’t leave, no-“

The poor kid was still crying, the momentary relief of the agony wringing him right out of the last tears he had left. Must’ve been really bad, if he was begging for the goblins to stay.

His plead turned to a scream again, as Strike snapped the last of his fingers with a move so clean it was nearly clinical. Ten fractures, one hand. He wasn’t likely to ever hold a sword without shaking again, and a bitter part of Strike remembered his own damaged hands, and felt justified.

“R-right away, your drowness. Eh, em... Enjoy, you’re doin’ great.”

“Leave.”

They were gone in a blink.

The boy kept crying.

“... Where is the grove you came from?” Strike found himself asking, holding the messed up hand in his own, almost gentle in how he petted the back of it.

“Please...”

“Answer’ll do you more good than begging, buddy.”

“...”

“Well?”

“It’s... It’s down the-“

Strike has reached towards his face, and the whole human flinched away so hard he must have bit his tongue, in pure fear. And as right as that felt like, there was still that promise Strike has made to Wyll, and he truly, despite it all, did not feel like having to argue with the righteous hero – not when he believed that he could have his cake and eat it as well.

“Shh.” His finger rested over the boy’s lips, shutting him up before he’d have to live with the knowledge of betraying his people. “I’m not one of them. Aradin sent me.”

“Mh- huh?”

“You know Aradin, right? Sniveling little face? Lovely opinions on tieflings and drow?”

“Y-yeah, yeah, I know Ara- you’re here to save me??”

Poor thing. Confused and desperate, and Strike couldn’t even blame him for it.

“You know a way out of here? Other than the main door, ‘course.” He asked, seeing those big brown eyes widen in terror and hope that were both equally tempting to rip away.

In utter disbelief, the boy nodded. “There’s.. A way we came here to. Small rock area. There- There weren’t meant to be this many goblins here, I swear. We was just- we was looking for some... artifact, we never- we didn’t know a pack of goblins could be so... efficient... Please-“

“You got a name, by any chance?”

If the kid knew a way out, that made Strike’s decision on being a good person much easier, logistically. Sure, he didn’t want to waste his healing potion, but... it was mostly his fault that the guy needed it.

“L... Liam.”

“Cute. What artifact were you looking for?” He kept his tone casual as he got up, to unlock Liam’s other wrist, and then his legs.

The human was watching him with those big wet eyes and a trembling lip every step of the way. “No idea, I- I swear. All I know is that it was called the Nightsong. A-and that some wizard in Baldur’s Gate is offering plenty of gold for it.”

“Came here for gold?”

“Y-yeah, Brian had instructions, but... they said they were going to ea... eat him..” His voice trembled. “... Please. I don’t want to die.”

“Mhm, that’s why you’d give out the location?” The boy fell down to his knees when he was freed, clutching his utterly massacred left hand and holding back a whimper of pain. “... Want a health potion?”

He even uncorked it for him, before watching him greedily drink it down. It wasn’t strong enough to cure his hand fully, and Strike didn’t expect it to be, but at least it wasn’t going to be a complete disadvantage on his way home.

“Sure hope you’re right handed, Liam.”

“I am, thank- thank you.” He still looked confused, in so many emotions that he didn’t know what to do with them. “Did... Did anyone else...?”

“Was Brian a dwarf?”

“... yes..”

“Then no, noone else made it. Other than the bear, I s’ppose.”

“Oh...”

Strike would’ve expected Liam to get the Hells out of there already, but there was still this reluctance on his face, apprehension, as he nursed his injured hand close to his chest and stared at his torturer savior with those big eyes.

“Well? Whatcha waiting for?”

“... Why did you help me? Aren’t you... you know.”

“Got some tiefling blood in me,” Strike lied, because if he thought of the word jaluk one more time, he was going to stomp someone’s skull in. “And as I said. Aradin and Zevlor sent me. Am on your side.” He thought for a moment. “Sorry ‘bout... yknow.” He waved towards the torture racks. “I had to get the goblins out of here.”

“... Thank you.”

“Strike.”

“Wh-?”

“My name.” It did feel almost natural at this point. “Tell them we’ll be back soon – we’re checking here for any other victims.”

Not the reason in the slightest, but neither Liam – nor the Grove – needed to know about the feeling of homeliness he felt around here, nor some of his companions’ thoughts regarding helping them.

Liam’s turned, took a few steps away, as if still surprised that he was actually saved. He got to the small crevice in the rocks, barely big enough to jam his body through, before he turned back to look at the not-quite-drow that just so unconventionally rescued him.

“... The bear’s our archdruid, Halsin. He turned before they jumped us. If... If you want someone to save, you- you really should him.”

Strike lifted an eyebrow. “Will keep that in mind.”

“Thank.. Thank you. Strike.”

What an unnatural thing to say.

Just as Liam pulled his body through the hole, Strike heard a sense of movement behind him. He could hear the goblin that just came back and saw him let a prisoner go, he heard him take a breath to shout before the voice ever left his throat.

And it never had the chance to sound out. Strike threw a spell of holding at him like a whip, yet another that came to him as naturally as breaking a knuckle.

“Useless, pathetic creature,” the drow woman, whos name Strike now has learnt of to be Minthara, ranted, as the squealing goblin was executed.

“You step away for one moment, and they manage to let a human get the best of them,” Strike shook his head, so deeply disappointed. “I’d expect that, but blaming it on their superiors...”

“Silence, jaluk.”

Strike’s eye twitched.

Minthara kept pacing around the room, almost an entertaining sight, had her breathing not bothered him as much as it did. Even more when she turned towards him again. “Have you learnt anything before that vile thing screwed up?”

Strike kept quiet. She did tell him to do so, after all.

It took Minthara a few moments to recognize what he was doing, and she clearly didn’t find it as funny as the man tended to find himself.

“Do you consider yourself amusing?” Before he could answer, her fist was around his shirt, and gods, was she strong, shoving him against the table behind him. He had almost a foot of height on her, but the way she gripped him made his chest ache and brain itch with shame of knowing that he should send a lightning straight through her skull for daring to do this, and also knowing that if he had, he would be killed on spot. “Truly. Do you think insubordination is humorous?”

“... No, mistress.”

“Pah. You haven’t grown in Mezoberranzan, have you?” Her fist pressed down harder, and Strike felt himself let out a hiss of sharp pain – both in body and mind.

“No, mistress.”

“I could tell from the moment I laid eyes upon you. No true Mezoberranzan male would carry himself with such cockiness. Enough to forget your betters, even.”

She released him, stepped away. Strike wanted... He wanted to not be there. To not be weak.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Have you learnt anything?”

He stood back up straight, rubbing the sore spot on his chest. “... Approximate location. Not enough for a full, centered attack, but should be enough to scout them out.”

“Very well.” She huffed. “You’re not as useless as the goblins, then.”

“Or as a true Mezoberranzan male, I’ll assume.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to hit him, but then, she threw her head back for a mocking laugh. “Hah! Two thirds of those are pleasure slaves, only worthy of their beauty. It  makes sense for you to develop other talents instead.”

Strike forced a grin to his lips, a quip to throw back, even if the simple implication of being grouped in with so called pleasure slaves made bile stick to the back of his throat. Being reminded of his fucked up state of body didn’t help, either.

“Perhaps it’s nurture over nature.”

“Doubtful. I’ve yet to meet a drow male who could even attempt to impress me. No matter where they came from.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Her eyes looked him up and down. Slowly. Considering.

“Very well.” She decided. “You and your slaves can scout out the grove tomorrow. Succeed, and I will consider allowing you to try.”

She did seem to think that was amusing, judging from her smile. Strike smiled back, bowed his head in a matter of respect.

“It would be my honor.”

His hands itched to clench into fists and punch until that proud smile shone with broken teeth and blood.

Noone was happy about having to sleep over at the goblin camp, surrounded with goblins and all the smells that that brought, but noone could think of a reasonable excuse to give to Minthara that would let them leave without a suspicion.

Shadowheart especially looked miserable; at least until they started drinking, which seemed to cheer her up the slightest bit. Wyll was hiding barely concealed fury under a tight smile, but has apparently managed to somehow talk his way into freeing the human bard they saw earlier, and was currently with the goblins, haggling to participate in whatever sport it was they were doing with the owlbear cub. Strike was sure that it wasn’t for the love of animal abuse and that he should probably go talk to him, but he was, in all honesty, in too bad of a mood to care.

After Shadowheart has caught him up with everything they’ve found in the camp – an ilithid corpse, the other goblin leaders, a cell with a bear, the goblins’ weaponry – she was off to grab a few drinks, and Strike has reclined to sitting in the courtyard, at one of the watch towers.

His head hurt. He wanted to hurt someone. It was why he has pulled away from others, alone above everyone with a bottle of wine he stole from Minthara’s office.

And yet, Astarion still found him.

“You look terrible, darling.”

“Don’t I always.”

“Slightly worse than usually.”

“Call Baldur’s mouth about it.”

The usual smile waned on the vampire’s lips, and he crouched next to the pissed off drow.

“... I thought you’d like this place.”

“Me too.”

And he did, he truly did... But every time he as much as thought about the damned woman, he-

He took a few deep gulps of wine, absentmindedly passing the bottle to Astarion, who shared a quick sip before returning it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as the sun fell. At least the view of the sunset was almost enjoyable, something kind in the way the sky dyed itself pink and orange and then purple and blue. Perverse in a way the peacefulness of it mixed with the goblins’ (and Shadowheart’s) rowdy singing from below.

Strike had almost managed to tune out the vampire’s presence, when a cold hand found his own on the ground, and their fingers brushed against eachother. He spared Astarion a glance, eyebrow lifted, only to find a suggestive smirk curling those pretty, pale lips.

“Tremendously boring, if you’re not in the party mood,” he practically purred, and Strike could tell where this was going.

“Too many people,” he replied, setting the vampire up for a decent innuendo, as he worked to finish up the rest of the bottle.

“Ah, interested in something more intimate, darling?~”

And there it was. Strike let him wait for a response while he drank, gulped down the rest of the wine, and with the buzz killing the horrific headache he was building up, he threw the bottle off of the tower. It hit someone. Someone laughed. He couldn’t care to look; his eyes were on the pretty vampire, that was, for some reason, offering himself up all over again.

He almost wished he had it in him to bother with questioning it.

Astarion moaned into the kiss as he was shoved against the wall, somewhere by the roof, somewhere where they were almost alone, under the stars.

“Ah- we really should get a bed one of these days, dear.”

“Don’t you like the stars?”

“I get tired of looking at them.”

Strike shut him up with a bite on his lips, mostly intentional, only barely drawing blood – more the offended glare he got from the vampire.

“We ask before we bite.”

“Nibble.”

“That wasn’t a- mhhn!~”

It was a blur. Strike was vaguely aware of the motions, of the way his hands fit around Astarion’s wrists, of the way too performative moans the vampire was letting out. Of the slightly panic in pretty red eyes when Strike smacked wandering hands away from his ass. Drunk and angry and upset and hurt, there was no way in Hells that he was going to let himself be taken again, and when he explained that through sloppy kisses and slurred speech, Astarion seemed to relax a little, and nod into his hands.

He was so pretty, Strike kept finding himself thinking.

Pale white skin stretched too tightly over fragile ribs, white curls that caught the moonlight just right. Milky white thighs that just begged for him to get between them, and those slender hands with sharp nails that dug into Strike’s back, pulled at the dozens of old scars he wasn’t even aware of until then, and the drow laughed.

Of course there was more. Of course they felt like whipping scars. Of course every time he learnt anything more about himself, it was just a new way in which he was weak.

He was vaguely aware of fucking into the elf, unsure if there was any lube involved, but if it was, neither of them was complaining. There was a bite, the ice cold pain that came from a vampire’s bite, and Strike retaliated in pleasure by biting down into the cold shoulder of his favorite cadaver. He felt Astarion choke back a whimper once his hands started to grab at the vampire’s back, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, Strike remembered that his companion didn’t want anyone touching him there. He held into his hips instead, and the thighs around his waist relaxed ever so slightly.

It must have lasted for quite a while, but Strike wasn’t sure. He didn’t particularly care. He finished in a haze, locked in with the vampire’s legs wrapped tightly around him, and while still holding onto the pretty thing, reached a hand between them to help Astarion reach his finish as well.

He held him as they laid on the floor, heated from Strike’s body heat and it alone.

“.... Are you alright?” Astarion’s voice was slightly choked still. Raspy.

Strike hummed a response into his hair. He wasn’t sure. Wasn’t fully present. But he did like to hold onto the soft corpse.

They laid there for a while, listening to party that was still happening a hundred feet away. Strike’s rolled over to lay on their clothes, and Astarion half laid over him, huddled up by the taller man like real lovers would be. Cold fingers kept playing with Strike’s chest, and while a part of him loathed being touched right after sex, another part craved it, so he didn’t do anything to stop him.

He could fall asleep like that, he thought, wishfully. He so enjoyed sleeping when he could.

“... Strike?”

And yet, Astarion had to talk. The drow sighed, an arm still wrapped around his companion. “Hm.”

“I was thinking.”

“Oh gods.”

Astarion smacked his chest, and Strike let out a chuckle.

“I was thinking,” the elf repeated, “That despite all their... disadvantages, I do think these goblins have a much better chance than the grove.”

“....”

“So perhaps... we should simply join with them? For real? We have certain power as these True souls, after all. Especially with you being... well, you.”

“... so there it is.”

“I’m merely saying-“

“That you think you can tell me what to do, just cause I fuck you?”

Gods, Strike was tired.

He shoved the vampire away.

He was too annoyed to even bother to enjoy the shocked pout on his face.

“Darling, I wasn’t-“

“Oh shut it.” Strike groaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as his headache returned tenfolds. “Astarion, you’ve told us that you used to be a whore before we met. You really think I wouldn’t maybe notice that you’re jumping me because, oh, I don’t know, you want something?” He huffed. “Until now I just wasn’t sure what it was.”

Astarion had the gall to look offended.

“Is it so impossible to think that maybe I just enjoy pleasure?”

“Then go after Shadowheart. Gale. Lae’zel, Wyll, I don’t care – don’t think I’m fucking stupid though.”

Offended, or perhaps hurt, in some oddly panicky way, if he thought about it more... But Strike felt annoyed and mean and he could not care less if he hurt his companion’s feelings.

“You’re a rogue, not a prostitute, act like it. I don’t need you powering through having sex with me just so that I would do what you want with the group.”

Because he was the leader. That was the only good thing to come out of this whole thing, he bitterly thought. The realization that he was very much considered enough of an official leader that Astarion thought this would actually work. Still, he was genuinely upset that the vampire thought that this would work on him. He got up to get dressed, his exhausted body protesting, but he didn’t have any desire to sleep by the vampire’s side again. There was plenty of alcohol left at the party.

Astarion sat there, naked, silent and visibly upset, although not exactly angry.

“Durge, can you just-“ He’s stopped himself, hand pausing in the air where it tried to reach for him. “- Listen, I-“

“We’re done, I don’t need a pity fuck just because you think it’ll get you somewhere. Hells, you don’t need to pity fuck me for it, because it’s not going to happen.” His hands shook slightly when he buckled up his belt. Gods, he needed a drink. And then some. “I’ll tell you straightforward, okay? No matter how well you take me, your opinion doesn’t matter any more than any of others’, and it sure as Hells doesn’t matter more than mine. Got it?”

Astarion remained still, his eyes finding Strike’s. His mouth opened once, twice, but... Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed up, and all the softness iced out of his expression. Gone was the sultry look, gone were those big, pleading eyes. Gone was the mask of allure he was trying to wear just for him.

“... Got it.”

Strike thought he looked better that way, really.

“Great. See you tomorrow. We have shit to do.”

He left him there, felt the red eyes stab at his back and felt something in his mind shout at him that he forgot something, something important... But when hasn’t he?

He had bitterness and annoyance and a ruined afterglow to drown. A grinning Shadowheart offered him a bottle of something he couldn’t care to read the label of, and the goblins cheered.

Perhaps the night was still salvageable, after all. He didn't see Astarion for the rest of it.

Chapter Text

How familiar, to wake up and not know if your flesh is touching your bones.

It took a while for Strike’s mind to clear up, with the sharp pounding inside of his skull that for once did not feel like it was caused by whatever red fog he was used of.

“Pathetic.”

“Fuck off,” he groggily told to the voice chastising him, so used of the judgement in his mind – not of the very real, very much not imaginary kick to the ribs, though.

He curled over with the sheer force of the steeltoed boots having a brief yet meaningful meeting with his internal organs, a sharp breath escaping him. He’s rolled to the side, and did not make his situation any better with how the sun was now practically stabbing him through the eyelids. He was laying on the sticky floor of the temple that goblins took over. That much he remembered. Then something with anger, then wine, gods, lots of wine, dancing with Shadowheart...

No wonder his whole body hurt, usually it was walking alone that made his joints ache in the morning.

“Jaluk. I will not ask again.”

Oh right, the voice above him.

He slightly removed his arm from where it was, blocking the sun from hitting his face too harshly, and there she stood, the dark shadow of the drow lady from the day before. Her form was at least providing some shade as she leaned over him, hands behind her back.

“What?” She leaned to the side. Sun blinded him like a spell. “Fuck!”

“Try again. Better.”

“Fucking- Ow?! Mistress??”

“A slight improvement.” She leaned back into the way of the sun, and Strike glared up at her through the pounding headache that was not helped in the slightest by the light. “But I must say, if this is you attempting to impress me, I pity those you aren’t.”

“Har, har.” Before she could kick him again, he managed a deep breath, a moment, to clear his mind... Enough to sit up, and not immediately vomit. “How may I be of service, oh, mistress?”

The downcurve of her lips didn’t indicate a good mood – but at this point, he couldn’t really imagine Minthara in any sort of a mood that wasn’t downright murderous. Or getting on his nerves, specifically.

“Your behavior is casting a poor light on our entire specie, True soul,” she so kindly informed him, just as his vision started to clear.

They were outside, by the waning campfire. All around them laid goblins, passed out in what was hopefully beer, but more likely urine, tables were turned over, someone put a decapitated head of an owlbear on a thick stick that has long since fallen over...

Sure looked like a party.

“Then I guess it’s good you’ve had no expectations of me.” He groaned as he got up, on unsteady feet, back to towering over the short woman. Not that that meant anything. “Permission to leave the camp, then? Ma’am?”

“In a matter of few hours, at most,” she shut him down, easily. “I am still awaiting response from the Moonrise towers. After I receive the orders, you shall be approved.”

The new word got Strike’s ears to perk up. Moonrise? Sure sounded like an important place. He noted the word down in his mind, to ask about later, when his companions and him had some privacy again. Speaking of, actually...

“Understood.” He looked around – Shadowheart was nowhere to be seen, upsettingly. But he could quickly spot the white tuff of hair of his vampire associate, where Astarion was crouched over a passed out goblin, and surely not robbing them. Wyll stood nearby, most likely keeping watch; he gave Strike a nod when he saw the drow looking at him.

“Sober up before you embarrass us any further.”

“Will do, ma’am,” Strike hissed through a tight smile, “the moment I find my cleric. My apologies for behaving like a lowly male that I am.”

If she recognized the sarcasm, she didn’t seem bothered by it, the humiliating words enough to finally bring a smirk to her face. The need to strangle the life out of her started to slowly crawl its way back to the front of his mind, through the fog of the hangover.

Minthara turned on her heel to leave; not before casting a glance down at Strike, around his hips... no, his hands, and the disapproval returned.

“Have you not gotten your brand yet, True soul?”

“I’ve just arrived, mistress.”

She clicked her tongue. “Go, then.”

“Right away, mistress.” Strike bowed, if only to hide the way he could feel his right eye twitching in frustration. He could figure out what that brand is –and where to get it– when she wasn’t breathing down his neck.

Finally, Minthara left, back into the depths of the desecrated temple, the back of her head the most tempting target for a half empty bottle Strike has just snatched from an upturned table next to him. He weighted it in his hand, really thought about it... and then sighed and took a deep swing from it instead. After smelling it, and making sure it wasn’t full of goblin piss, of course.

“If it isn’t our esteemed leader,” Astarion’s smug voice cut through whatever thoughts were swirling in Strike’s head as the elf and the hero approached. “Back at the bottom of a bottle, so quickly?”

“It was basically empty to start with,” Strike rolled his eyes and put the (now) empty bottle down once more. “Any news?”

“Sure thing,” the elf shrugged. “We’ve learnt you’re a terrible dancer, yet oddly excellent when it comes to leading a party. Then again, the party was only a group of drunken vermin, but...”

“Any real news?” Strike’s turned to Wyll instead.

The young man appeared completely sober, if unrested, arms crossed as if to contain the urge to start an attack on the sleeping goblins.

“They’ve left for a... raid, of some sorts. An hour or so ago. Kicked themselves awake and were gone.”

“For the grove?”

“I don’t think so; did the drow in charge not give us the duty?”

Strike rubbed at the bridge of his nose – the world was too bright, and his stomach kept trying to crawl its way out of his throat. “Duty’s all ours, buddy. We’ll be on our way in a bit, just. Ough. Just for her majesty to get some reports from the higher ups. Anything else?”

“You’re not that terrible of a dancer.”

Strike paused, peaked at Wyll through his fingers. The young man shrugged with the smallest smile.

“.... Thanks. Now. Has either of you seen Shart?”

“I don’t think she likes that name.”

“Then she can show up and stop me from saying it. Where is she?”

“Ah.” A gossipy grin appeared on Astarion’s lips, as he put a hand to his hip. “About that~”

Shadowheart wasn’t exactly happy to see them – or to be woken up in her state. Hair a mess, makeup smudged, and the only things protecting her modesty being a blanket over her hips and muscular arms that wrapped themselves around her from behind.

Wyll’s decided to wait outside the repurposed jail cell, out of some sense of decency that both of his elven companions lacked. Strike crouched in front of the cleric and whoever it was she was with.

“Go, away,” the grouchy woman hissed. She didn’t seem to enjoy being quite literally poked awake.

“Cmon, buddy,” Strike grinned, “not gonna introduce us to the poor victim?”

The man groaned something, a pleased smile on his face as he buried it deeper into Shadowheart’s hair. Upon a closer look, their colleague had a decent taste – not that old, human man, with white hair and plenty of scars decorating his body.

“You’ve done better than I expected,” Astarion smugly commented. “I was almost worried for you to leave with a goblin, or worse.”

“Why don’t you two go plow eachother, rather than bothering me?”

Ah.

Right.

That happened, also.

Strike didn’t exactly regret it, but it did explain why the vampire was even snarkier with him than usually.

Shadowheart cursed them both out in common, then elvish, then a few words Strike could vaguely recognize as infernal of origin, before she turned around in the man’s arms, hid her nose into the crook of his neck.

“Shart. Shart. Sha-“

“Stop it.”

“Give me a heal and I will, aight?”

A single, annoyed, bloodshot eye looked at him.

“That’s all?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Wake me again before I’m ready and you won’t have to hope,” she grumbled, but still, reached out to touch his hand when he offered it to her. A quick spell of restoration, and oh, his hangover was gone.

“Love you, buddy.”

“Begone.”

“Love you lots.”

He gave her a quick pat on the head, then escaped before she could turn around far enough to actually throw a fireball his way. Astarion followed their leader, wisely.

“Feeling better?” the vampire asked, smile quickly waning now that he was alone with the drow.

Strike couldn’t care less. The sun on his skin didn’t feel like an assault anymore, and the day looked beautiful – he had better things to do than deal with bitchy elves. “Much. You?” But still. Extending some courtesy could prevent any (however ironic in phrase) bad blood in the group.

“Oh, I’m feeling fine! Probably on the account of not drinking myself into a coma, but that is just my uneducated guess.”

“I don’t judge you for drinking an entire boar, am I?”

“That is not the same thing, darling.”

Strike chuckled. “If you say so. Speaking of, though – you alright waiting for breakfast ‘till Shadowheart feels better? Would hate to go back to her before she remembers to use the restoration spell on herself.”

He’s already started walking off, before he realized Astarion wasn’t following him, and looked back at him over his shoulder. The spawn looked... confused, for some reason.

“’starion?”

Red eyes blinked. “... You’re still willing to feed me?”

“I don’t think anyone else would let you. Except maybe Wyll? You can also ask him if you think you’d do better with two sources, but-“

“N- No, I mean- You’re still willing to do it?”

It took Strike a moment to realize what he meant, and the answer came out as a nasty snort. “Oh! You think, just ‘cause I said I won’t fuck you anymore?”

The tips of Astarion’s ears painted themselves a delightful red, the slight shock turning well into an annoyed embarrassment. “Well-! How was I supposed to know??”

“You think I’d hold feeding you over your head? For sex, of all things?” Hilarious, in so many ways. As if the sex was that good in the first place. ....Well, the vampire gave wonderful head, but... “... c’mon, buddy. As if it’d do us any good to have you starve until you beat someone up again.”

Astarion stayed quiet, for a long moment, he just stared at the drow’s face, as if to find where the trick was.

Strike tried a different approach. “You’re also way more useful to us when you’re fed and happy, ykno? I’ve seen what you can do with a blade or a lockpick. Not that shit at bows, either.”

“.... Thank you. I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t.”

“Heh. Good.”

Priestess Gut was a short goblin of a respectable age, with a voice that Strike would almost find attractive had he not kicked that thought to death the moment it crawled out of some odd corner of his brain. There was a line of goblins waiting for her services, but they all scurried out of the way as Strike approached her, Wyll in toe.

The deeper they were in the temple, the more the young man seemed on edge, his hand almost glued to the handle of his rapier, thumbing the tip in a nervous gesture.

“You shouldn’t do it,” he muttered under his breath, for the third time. And for the third time, Strike whispered back that he didn’t really have a choice, with it being a direct order from Minthara.

“The other drow,” Priestess greeted him, the first goblin not to trip over themselves with the urgency to bow to him. She only lowered her head respectfully, and Strike found himself returning the gesture. “’ve not received your brand yet?”

“It’s why I came here for, priestess.”

“Very well. Hand out.”

As if his hands weren’t fucked enough, he bitterly thought, but it wasn’t as if he could find a reason to have it put somewhere else. He went on one knee, to be leveled with the goblin, and set out his right palm for her to take.

It was quick. It hurt. The smell of burning flesh made him swallow a thick glob of spit.

“There we go,” the priestess let him go, and he was faced with his massacred palm, red and sore and aching, already scarred fingers twitching outside of his control. He sucked in a sharp breath to regain self control, and managed a smile towards the priestess. A mistake.

Their minds bonded in a flash, and he was suddenly a goblin, looking up, up, at a handsome smile and dark eyes that commanded obedience. He issues an order. You follow. It’s so easy to just follow, is it not? It makes so much sense, does it not? The Absolute. The Absolute. The man’s face morphs into one of a god, speaks words of your goddess, The Absolute-

He shook himself awake and back into his own body, face to face with the goblin’s wide open eye.

“.... Oops?” He suggested, feeling Wyll right behind him. The feeling of a grip tightening on a handle as if the hand was his own.

Priestess Gut seemed... serene. Confused, yes, but her eye narrowed, and by the grip on his injured arm, she pulled him closer. Strike tried not to blink unnaturally. His tadpol squirmed in recognition, and pieces fell into place.

They’re all fucking tadpoled.

“You’ve some weird shadows in your head, luv,” the goblin finally said. “What’s happened to that head of yours?”

Same thing that happened to you. And everyone here.

“I’ve heard the call of the Absolute,” he smiled, closed off his mind from her prodding thoughts. “Whatever the shadows are, Her light shines brighter.”

Priestess thought for a moment, then nodded, and closed his fist for him, held his hand as if to bless him, in a way.

“She’ll take care of you. Of us all. For the Absolute.”

“For the Absolute.”

Strike kept the smile on the whole way out. Down the hallway, to the darker part of the temple, a small place where he was alone after he excused himself to Wyll. The smile stayed on all the way up until he fell to his knees in front of the chasm, and proceeded to throw up everything that filled his stomach in the last few days.

Tadpoled. All of them.

Voice of a false god that spoke through tadpoles in people’s brains.

And the only reason they weren’t under the same influence was... what? Luck? The thing Shadowheart brought?

The object was in Strike’s hand, covered in the excess flakes of skin that the branding took off of him. Was it that? The spikes of it were pulled back to its center, instead of piercing through his flesh like the last time, and he wondered what about this things allowed it to hold his life (or at least, the remaining fractures of his mind) in its unexisting hands.

Minthara, tadpoled. The goblin leaders; gods know how many of the goblins. Was that just what a True soul meant? They didn’t seem aware of any tadpoles, or that would’ve come up, so... They weren't mindflayers yet, none of them. That was good. But that also meant that whatever was in the object, probably wasn’t protecting him and his companions from transforming, but instead... what, the mind control? Was that it?

What was it?

His mind was racing at a pace it couldn’t keep up with, a headache blooming right behind his left eye all over again, and he groaned into his uninjured palm. Old him would’ve been able to think normally, he bitterly considered. And now, if he thought too hard, he good a bloody migraine.

“Am I interrupting?”

Strike was ready to throw something at the voice that snuck up on him, until he realized that the only thing available was the object that was most likely saving his life, so he restrained from doing anything but stashing it back into his bag. He didn’t recognize the voice, but once he turned to look, he did recognize the man; scarred human with white hair that he’s seen with Shadowheart just earlier.

“Make an educated guess, buddy.”

“Forgive me; I simply had to come admire you from up close, dearest.”

“... eh?”

Now the man had his attention, and Strike sat around to face him fully.

The man smiled, and chose to sit on the floor opposite of the drow. He wasn’t much more dressed than before; in a long skirt, and a shoulder piece that did absolutely nothing to cover him up.

“Such a beautiful tapestry of pain has been woven into you,” he explained, “I could not help myself but to see it with my very own eyes.”

Strike looked down, at his grotesquely scarred wrists, and frowned. “You could say so, I s’ppose. You’ve got a scar fetish, or...?”

“Nothing like that. It is pain, you see – and I’ve heard you’re quite a master of it yourself.”

“Ah, you mean with the prisoner?”

He nodded. “I’ve been invited here to help with such manners, but, these goblins... Tsk. They do not understand, in their brutality. It is only pain and suffering for the sake of itself, nothing more. Greater.”

Strike was suddenly learning things he never intended to learn about Shadowheart’s taste in men.

“A-huh, I see what you mean,” he lied.

“Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Pain without death is a waste, and the only people who’d think otherwise are cowards or followers of-

“Loviatar’s teachings?” Strike asked when it suddenly clicked for him, and the apparent priest’s eyes shone bright as the night sky. “I’m afraid I do not follow them myself, in this life.”

“Ah, but you do know them.”

“Intimately,” it was a strained joke. He’s found no love from the scars that marred almost every inch of his skin, or from the countless thickened breaks of his bones.

“As it should be. Pain, intimate, and loving.” The priest nodded to himself, or to Strike, or to his goddess, if she was listening. And just then, out of nowhere, his gaze met Strike’s, and did not move away. It was almost unnerving. “Forgive me, but... That look in your eyes. Something terrible has happened to you, has it not?”

“Wow, how can you tell?” He was being sarcastic, it was obvious he went through something – but the priest didn’t seem to pick up on it.

“I see the same look in the mirror. Dearest.”

Dearest.

He wanted to not take him seriously. He really did. But something about that... understanding, that look he had to him... Strike sighed.

“You’re not with the Absolute, are you?”

“As much as you are.”

So, he knew. And did not say anything, to anyone.

“If you try to tell anyone, I will kill you.”

“Matters of the Absolute are none of my concern,” the priest shrugged. “I only come offering salvation, however shortlived relief. If you’ll choose to accept Her blessings, that is.”

Shadowheart’s tastes maybe weren’t that bad, after all.

Strike remembered the feeling of Astarion’s hands on his back just the night prior, and of all the fresh scars they revealed. Perhaps, he thought, the odd priest might have had a point.

“... I could use some relief, actually.”

“Wonderful, dearest. Wonderful.”

As he followed the man deeper into the temple, Strike couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter at the somehow familiar petname.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

“That the best you can do?”

Gods, did it hurt.

Every lash of the priest’s scourge ripped skin and bruised ribs, heavy metal digging into fatless flesh wherever it could. And yet, Strike was hard, and, more unusually, blissfully empty of mind.

“That’s it, dearest! Feel it, embrace it!”

There wasn’t anything else in his head other than the feeling of his skin tearing, and gods, Abdirak – was that the name he gave him? Did it matter? – was right, this was exactly what he needed. It was so similar to when Astarion drank from him. Strike was dipped into a red sea of pain and oh was it so calm under water.

“More,” he breathed out, hands bracing at the wall in front of him. His hands were shaking, he could see them. His poor, shaky, fucked up hands that he knew for a fact were not like this before whatever happened to him- “More.”

Another hit. Another gasp of pain, another yearn of ecstasy. Nothing but pain. Nothing but an order that went fulfilled immediately.

Abdirak was saying something, shouting in perhaps shared enjoyment, but Strike couldn’t care enough to understand the words he was saying as he fell over to his knees, right before another blow came, and it hurt so right.

He’s bitten his lip at some point. Could taste blood.

More blows wailed upon his back, more and more, and the world spun around him until it was a beautiful, clean nothing.

It was over once his feet were slick with blood he was kneeling in, and his body shook too much for a hit to land properly. It was disappointing, but... he knew he was going to have to come back to himself at some point.

“There you are,” were the first words he was aware of; Abdirak, kneeling in front of him, lovingly caressing his cheeks as if to bring him back to his own, ruined body. It was easy to focus on his touch, his rough hands. “Oh, dear one. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Wh-“

“That was positively divine; on a personal note,” Abdirak smiled. He didn’t move away when Strike reached out for him. Touched his face in return, traced a scar, then the second, third... When he slid a finger over the one on the priest’s lip, the man pressed a grateful kiss to it. “Ah~”

Like a beast possessed, Strike kept touching him. Again, another, he didn’t even realize he’s moved in until Abdirak’s head hit the wall behind him, and the human moaned.

“Dear one-“

“Don’t stop,” Strike breathed out an order, crowded the priest against the wall, skirt piling up around his hips as the drow moved to right between his legs. They were both hard; equal in arousal at pain, and Strike could appreciate that, the first honest lust someone felt towards him since he could remember. “Don’t you dare.”

When he kissed him, Abdirak whimpered, his cock twitching against Strike’s. When Strike’s claws pierced through the pale skin wherever he gripped with shaky hands, Abdirak moaned and praised him and asked for more, demanded more, and oh, could Strike gift it. It was fast and rough, blood as lube, itching grip on the priest’s throat pulling out all those pretty noises of raw desire. Praise in Strike’s ear and legs around him, Abdirak’s touch needy and intimate and loving in a way it caressed the open wounds on his back, and when it was over, Strike felt the heavy weight of his hurt fall off of him like boiled flesh from bone.

For the first time in forever, he could breathe.

Abdirak blessed him, with a kiss and a prayer, when Strike was still inside him. His goddess apparently didn’t mind, even “enjoyed the show”, according to the priest, and therefore the blessing was to stay – the drow felt warm in his chest, feeling of a deity blessing the shell of who he was. A godly pat on the head, if you will.

“You were magnificent,” Abdirak sighed, dreamily touching the gruesome bite where Strike dug his teeth during his climax. It almost took a chunk of his shoulder out, and the drow would apologize, had the priest not been so obviously into it. When it happened, he gripped his hair and held his head there, ordering feverishly to bite down harder; and who was Strike but to deny such a request?

“You were... with my colleague, last night,” Strike mumbled, head resting on the bare chest that was now so marred with his very own clawmarks.

“Your colleague is a brilliant artist of pain herself, dear one. Although I would’ve hardly compare her to yourself, who seems to have given as well as taken.”

“Heh.”

He was most likely never to see the man again; and honestly, that was more than fine with Strike. It wasn’t that he was particularly attractive, anyway. It just felt so good to be wanted, truly, and to not have to think about anything.

“But I am eternally grateful for you to allow me to be your first.”

“.... what?” Strike blinked himself awake, leaned up on his elbows, just to make sure he heard the priest correctly. “I don’t know if you realized that, but you weren’t- I’ve had sex before you, buddy.”

Just last night, actually. The guy tried to pityfuck me into submission. Can you imagine?

“Other matters of flesh, dear one,” Abdirak purred, his hand moving to caress the torn up skin of Strike’s back once more. They were both covered in blood from there at this point. “I’ve rarely gotten the honor of working on canvas as properly untouched by another as yourself.”

Strike was pretty sure he should feel insulted.

“There is hardly anything untouched on me, actually. Dunno if you noticed, but my whole fucking back, for example-“

“I said properly, and by another.”

The confusion must have appeared on Strike’s face, because Abdirak laughed, softly, and pulled him back in, brushed a clump of hair off of his face.

“I can tell the origin of pain, dearest,” he explained as he caressed the thick, gnarly scar that mutilated the shineless scales of the sorcerer’s cheeks. “Like these. Markings of anger, not pain. This,” his touch moved lower, to the gash crossing Strike’s throat, “a footstep of murder, opportunity. No thought of pain, anywhere.” Lower, to the Y-shaped crown jewel of the collection on his chest. “Curiosity, perhaps wonder. But nothing of intent to hurt, nothing to revel in pain.”

Strike wanted to say something, but words got stuck in his throat at the hint of anything of his past being revealed to him, for the first time he could think of. Anger, opportunity, wonder; more than any thing he could know of himself before. Feelings someone felt towards him – whoever it was he used to be.

“And these...” Abdirak’s gentle touch reached his back again, searched between the torn up skin for a piece that was unmarred, only with those scars Strike learnt about last night. “Oh, dear one. These are of your own hand; anyone skilled with a flog could tell you the angle.”

“M- mine?”

“You were loved, once, dearest.” Abdirak smiled, and the drow felt tears swell in his eyes. “You truly, devotedly, knew love.”

The priest said it so, so convinced – and Strike didn't cry because he would know he was right. No. He searched through his mind, his wretched, broken mind, for the slightest clue of what love he had that could mark him so deeply...

And there was nothing.

Whatever it once was, it was love lost. Along with the person he used to be. He would’ve mourned, had there been anything left to mourn.

Chapter Text

Minthara was annoyed. Strike didn’t feel like pretending to be surprised, so, he waited as patiently as he could for her to finish reading whatever it was that made her eyebrows scrunch closer together.

“Stop tapping your foot before you lose it, jaluk.”

... As patiently as he could.

 “Something wrong, mistress?” He inquired to chase off the itch that didn’t seem to allow his body to stand still for more than a minute. “Bad news?”

Her ears twitched in annoyance as she looked from the parchment to him, only to find an almost empathetic look on the male’s face. She scowled.

“Hardly. The True Souls in the towers did not even forward my last request to the Chosen before rejecting it. I understand he is busy with the preparations, but would it kill them if-“ She paused her vent, eyed him over again, then suddenly turned the paper that he’s already given up from reading through the back right towards him. “You tell me this isn’t an insult worthy of an execution, had she not been higher in rank than me, for now.”

Slightly surprised, but not complaining, Strike took the letter in his overly shaky hands. The handwriting was sharp, aggressive, ink dark as the night and all the dots on i-s so harsh they almost pierced the paper towards the end.

Minthara, usstran’sargh wael. Dosst xundus zhah kaezlen ulu lil malla lueth lil Quarvalsharess.

Dos quarth goln, nau nindyn sarhtlinl. Nind phuul streeaka phindar del z’ress lueth sargh. Xun dosst ilindith pholar dosst honglath lueth ulu ragar lueth elgg lil ogglinl izil dos dosstan tlu neirtarr jivvin quui’elghinn izil lil rothe dos phuul. Elendar kyone.

Aluve, Z’rell.

It was the most inconvenient time for Strike to learn that he did not, in fact, understand drow.

“Well?” Minthara was apparently just as patient as he was, but he was nice enough to not point out her tapping foot.

“That is no way to speak to a woman of your might,” was the answer he’s settled on, shrugging as he returned the letter. “It’s not even an unreasonable request from your end.”

“Exactly. And yet, to have the gall....”

She was furious, and Strike was right in a punching distance. But he thought he could pick up easily enough on what she was upset about, at least... He didn’t flinch when Minthara threw her sword onto the metal table with an echoing slam.

“Tell me, jaluk-“ How peculiar, that he would understand this word, and not the others. “I’ve not asked yet. What breed exactly are you?”

“Breed?”

Her wave hinted at his... everything, really. “No self respecting drow would produce offspring that would turn out like whatever you are. Have they escaped Menzoberanzzan in shame, I wonder? To have you not put down like the usto you turned out to be?”

Freak. Why was it only the insults?

Strike could feel his teeth grind against eachother as he forced a smile to his face, and let the woman keep humiliating – they were so close to leaving. Pride would do nothing but kill them right before escape.

“I wouldn’t know, mistress,” He said, and it wasn’t even a lie. “Don’t remember my parents.”

“Ah, then they must have been killed before they’d run away. Good.”

I am going to break your neck to the point where you are looking at your own arse, iblith.

Another one he knew, it seemed.

Minthara was thankfully amusing herself by looking him over like one would cattle on the market, rather than peeking into his mind the way she probably could, and Strike was still tired enough from his session with the Loviatar priest that happened just a while before she summoned him. So, when she gripped his hair and pulled to force him to bend to her height, he was able to not headbut her the way his mind suggested, and instead, simply let out the tiniest gasp.

It would be almost arousing, if she was anyone else. Perhaps Shadowheart.

“You’ve eyes like our prey,” she noted, tilting his head to the side as if to take a better look. Her other hand reached upwards too, forced a thumb between his lips, and Strike parted them before she had to put in any real force. Really like a bloody cattle, he bitterly thought, and the temptation to bite down has never been stronger.

“Teeth, almost. As defiled as this makes your bloodline, we might as well use it for our advantage.”

She let go of him right before his mouth would snap close, which was good. It was less good that she ‘let go’ by pulling down first, so instead of being able to stand up, Strike found himself falling over. Pain exploded in his knees when they hit the ground – yet it was nothing compared to the rage that filled him once he looked up at her, and she grinned down at him as if he were some lowly slave.

Not him. Not to her.

An armored boot came up to his crotch when he tried to stand up, and perhaps Minthara thought he was starting to shake out of fear, perhaps arousal, rather than the suddenly violent desire to pull apart her insides.

“You will go out,” she stated, seemingly amused by their situation, as her heel dug down on his cock, and he whimpered from effort it took him to keep his hands only gripping at her ankle. “Find the non-believers, and use that hellblood of yours to gain their trust. The horde is filled with hellspawn and those unwanted – certainly they will recognize kinship within you.”

Strike’s mind was filled with the sounds of bones snapping. There were two in the lower leg.

“Once you’ve been let in, you shall give us their location, and let us into their keep. We’re to slaughter anything that thinks it can fight back; enslave half of those who bend head in surrender.”

Three in the ankle.

She put down more pressure, and just as suddenly as she shoved Strike into the red of his mind, she pulled his head out of it like from water, and there was a smile of genuine amusement on her lips.

“After all is done, perhaps I shall allow you to attempt impress me in a more standard way for your kind, jaluk.” She held him under the jaw, the short nail of her thumb roughly caressing the scar on his cheek, the one that cut through his scales the worst. “Even if it hardly an honor you deserve, don’t you agree?”

Twenty two in the skull.

Strike blinked rapidly, forcing his vision to sharpen, his brain to process what the drow woman was actually saying to him.

“H-aah?”

He couldn’t do much more than breathe out loudly; any attempt to move his tongue in a way that’d make words kept turning into all the worst slurs he couldn’t think of.

Minthara laughed.

“Walls here are thick, yet they echo, mutt. I’ve gotten quite an earful of you and the Loviatar priest.” She titled his head up higher, watched the way his eyes shut close when she applied more pressure to his crotch. “You’ve charm of a wild bulette about you. Utterly unappealing, quick to jump without a thought, mouth working faster than the mind  – yet there is something attractive about imagining either of you leashed at my feet.”

She looked down with a lifted eyebrow, and only then did Strike realize just how harshly he was gripping her leg. As if he had enough strength to shatter something.

“Eager?” she sneered, “Keep that enthusiasm for when that night comes; I will gladly remind you of your place until then.”

She stepped on him harder just to prove her point, before her foot was on his chest and she kicked him backwards. World spun, and Strike was left on his back, staring at the ceiling and uncertain if the blood dripping through the stones was real or only in the fury of his mind.

His body was heavy. And hard. Gods, he was hard. It was one thing with Astarion, but when the elf made him feel as hot as he was right then, that didn’t mix the horrid ache in his chest; anger gripping at his gut and lung and making it hard to breathe without gasping.

Minthara’s shadow fell over him as she leant further with her hands behind her back, and that leer in her smile; it hit Strike that she must’ve been thinking she was actually flirting, in whatever way that was for a female drow with such a lowly male. The thought did something unspeakable to his stomach, but he managed to force his eyes to move just enough to find hers just as they narrowed when she returned to business at hand.

“Get to work, jaluk,” she told him, flirtations gone, and Strike preferred it that way. “I won’t suffer more failure.”

You will suffer much more than failure for daring to-

“Yes, mistress.” He had to swallow down a gulp of bile that threatened to bully its way out of his throat, but thankfully, his stomach was empty, and Minthara didn’t seem to mind about just how twitchy his own smile was.

He could feel her gaze burn humiliation in his back when he got up and stormed out of the room.

“Ah, done schmoozing your way with dear Minthara? You two’ve been there for such a long time~”

“Astaion?”

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Strike didn’t need to see it to be able to imagine the way the vampire’s smirk froze up at the harsh tone, but no more snark came his way, and he was fine with that. Fine. He was fine.

“Is everything alright?” Asked Shadowheart, a glimpse of real concern in her voice as she reached out for the sorcerer’s shoulder; and promptly gotten shaken off of him. “Strike-?”

“I’m fine. We’ve got permitted to leave – let’s do so before they find something else for us to do.”

Astarion and Shadowheart looked at eachother, and Strike closed his mind off before either of them could even attempt to use their tadpole connection to try and see into his head. He didn’t need either of them to see him the way that he was there.

But they were heading off to the exit, past the goblins that were still (poorly) cleaning up the aftermath of the last night. Some waved, some shouted a farewell or a remark about the party – they liked him, Strike realized. The drow True Soul who could get down and dirty with the rest of them.

He really did like this place. He liked the goblins.

Too bad it was all going to have to burn, because the simple idea of doing as Minthara ordered him turned his hands to trembling fists. Strike didn’t know much about himself, that was more than clear – but he was no dog to be kicked around by a master, of any sort.

Perhaps his companions could feel the bad mood waving off of him like a particularly heavy odor, because they did seem to get the hint and not know quite surely what they were supposed to do; but before Shadowheart could try speaking again, Strike was stopped by a massive arm of an ogre that stood by the gates.

“Just a moment,” the creature said, surprisingly eloquent of tone for his kind. “Show us your brand of the Absolute, if you will.”

Strike felt his eye twitch as he shoved the hand the size of his entire torso away from himself. “Shouldn’t you be checking people who walk in?”

“Boss goblin say check brand,” piped up another ogre, second of the three, and much more ogre-like. “You go through here. We check brand.”

“I am a bloody True Soul,” the sorcerer hissed, arms crossed as he glared up at the most well-spoken of the trio. “Or do you think they’ve just let me wander around without making sure I’m in the right place?”

“No talk, Chock.” The apparent orator slammed his mace over the head of the dumber one – it made a fascinatingly hollow noise, escorted with a pained yelp. “Forgive my brothers. And myself – should have guessed a drow-thing would not be a prisoner. How regrettable, though, that your meat must go unsavored.”

“Food?”

“Food?”

The other two perked up, only to be immediately smacked down with the same force that would break a grown man’s spine, but only bounced off of them.

“No food! Friend.”

Strike felt Shadowheart and Astarion both cringe deeply over their shared connection, and Wyll – who was suspiciously quiet, to think of it – take an uncharacteristic step to the side. But as annoying as the ogres were, they were at least interesting, and once proper respect was shown, Strike felt his anger give way to a sliver of intrigue.

“You’re quite well spoken for an orge, buddy.”

The creature grinned, scarred tongue swiping the back of his protruding teeth. “Am I not astonishing? A robust diet makes for a shrewd mind, you see. I am a gourmand...”

“Lump ate ringlet,” one of the ogres helpfully added. “Lump speak long since.”

“No talk!”

Another slam. Strike would be almost impressed with the ogres’ durability, had it not been somehow expected. The ringlet thing, though... When he tried to reach forward to peek into the giant’s mind, nothing happened.

No tadpole.

No brand, to think of it, either.

“Couldn’t help but notice you’re not exactly in uniform,” he commented, “No branding tool big enough for you?”

“Pah. I’ve no business with the Absolute, or gods, any gods at all! Only masters I follow are greed... and gluttony.” Lump tapped on his generous belly. The bones hung by his belt rattled. “Goblins sate my need for gold, everyone else the one for flesh. It is a grand deal they’ve offered.”

That explained the half-eaten corpses by the blighted village they’ve seen a day ago, Strike thought, easily imagining the way Wyll’s lips pressed themselves into a tight line of disgust. The warlock snuck into his mind, now that Strike’s let his mental guards down slightly.

We should go, Wyll has said, and Astarion chimed in with a flash of agreement.

They really should go and stop wasting time with the ogres.

But Strike thought back to Minthara and her smug confidence, and shoved his companions out of his head.

“They have you stand here to keep guard against nobody that would actually dare walk into the camp? What a waste.”

“We will be sent out next time, they said. When we go squash their nonbelievers.”

The grove-

I know, Wyll.

“Sure, a few starved refugees are definitely going to fill your stomachs.” The way he rolled his eyes was theatrical, but it did the job – Lump’s smile died off, and then slipped right back on as he picked up on where the conversation was going.

“They must be... skin and bone,” he nodded, leaning onto his mace as if it were a walking stick. “How I failed to consider so.”

“Your goblin bosses would have you chew on horns for a lick of flavour.”

“Mmmhm. And what would you suggest, True Soul?”

“When the time comes, aim your blows at ones who deemed you stupid enough to fall for their cheapery.” A smidge of panic from at least one of his companions, that Strike decided to promptly ignore. He was sure of this. But if he was wrong, he did just expose them for being frauds, so... “Flesh in droves, friend. All right in there.”

He hinted behind himself, at the goblins he has come to enjoy the company of so; but oddly enough, did not feel bad for condemning to death. Lump’s gaze rose to look over the humanoids, at all the living flesh that was offered... other two needed a few moments to get the memo, and look up too.

“They have gotten plump in last weeks,” Lump finally grinned, beady eyes winking down at the traitorous True soul. “And there is such... delicacy, in a bite so small, yet wiry.”

“Smaller races do pack more flavour on a smaller frame,” Strike agreed before he could think about the words that left his mouth, but by then it was too late to back off. “It gets diluted on lankier muscle.” He felt Shadowheart glare at the back of his head. “.... Or so I’ve heard.”

At least Lump seemed delighted upon hearing that.

“Ah, a fellow connoisseur? I should have known, one expert to another.”

“I wouldn’t call myself an expert or anything, just-“

He didn’t need to make up a whole new lie. That was good. The reason for it though was that Lump pulled what was obscenely clearly a severed hand with half a forearm still attached, from the satchel on his side, and held it out to Strike’s face.

“... Oh.”

Short, stubby, wide fingers. Thick wrist. A dwarf.

A dead, cold, roasted dwarf.

Strike was stunned for a moment.

“Convinced a goblin to share some of the goods late in the evening,” Lump told him as he shoved away one of the other two, who has reached for the carcass. “Have a share, friend.”

Strike didn’t even want to know what his companions were thinking in the moment, even if he felt the wave of outrage come from particularly Wyll’s side.

“You’d waste your best parts on me?” His throat felt tight. “There really is no need for-“

“But I insist.” There it was. The silent threat. The challenge in Lump’s eyes, in the way he was offering the meat. “To honor this new... friendship, of ours. One expert to another.”

“... Friendship. Hah.”

It wasn’t like he had a say in the matter, did he?

But what when the threat felt more like an excuse as Strike finally reached out, and took the severed hand into his own. The weight was lesser than one would expect. It was because the fat burnt off of the meat when it was spun over the fire, his mind told him, and he made a choice not to think about the source of such knowledge any further.

He took a bite from the fleshiest part of the forearm. Far larger than he probably should’ve, but he told himself he needed to be convincing.

It wasn’t revolting. The taste was one a less sane man would maybe call good, even. The chewed bite of flesh slid down his throat and rested in his stomach with the same ease and comfort Gale’s best broth would, and without thinking, Strike took another.

Lump seemed satisfied after seventh, once the sorcerer’s teeth scraped against the bone. The other two ogres were positively drooling.

“I knew that despite our differences in statue, we are kin at heart,” he nodded approvingly

Strike looked up from the flesh, feeling the grease staining his mouth and cheeks all the way up to the nose. He managed a grin. “At gut, more like it.”

Lump laughed; a belly-deep snort, empathized with a friendly smack on Strike’s back that nearly sent the drow flying.

“I’ll see you at the feast, friend. We will look to sparing you a juicy thigh. Perhaps a glute.”

“So generous of you, buddy.” He handed off the remains of the hand to one of the other two – the greedy creature grabbing it instantly and going to suck the marrow out of the broken bone. Lovely. “Am looking forward to it.”

“Travel safe. Friend.”

With a wave from the ogres, Strike stepped forward, wiped the grease from his face with his sleeve. His companions followed. They didn’t speak a word until they were way out of the earshot of anything even slightly resembling a goblin.

“You know,” Shadowheart was the first to break silence, once they were almost at their camp, “That was perhaps the third most disturbing thing I’ve seen you do since the nautiloid, Strike.”

“Yeah? What were the first two?”

“Eating that fish raw. And fraternizing with a gith.”

“Which of those is top?”

“The gith. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” the drow sighed. Oddly enough, he was feeling far better than earlier; as if all of the rage laid low with his surprisingly decent meal.

Wyll didn’t seem to agree; he was chewing on his bottom lip, glancing at Strike with obvious worry in mind, but Strike’s reassured him in his mind more than enough by now to hopefully avoid any spoken out conversation. Astarion was silent.

“So, we are helping the grove?” Shadowheart asked, which seemed to finally pull Wyll out of his worrying spiral.

“Was that ever a question?”

“No, it wasn’t, and yes, we are.” Despite the fact how much better Strike was feeling around the goblins. The deepseated gut feeling around Minthara made him want to help the weaker side, if only to not see her victorious – she was way too damn sure of herself. And of him being willing to roll over and do as ordered by some drow.

Shadowheart eyed him from the corner of her eyes, as if she knew that the temptation was certainly there, but...

“I’m just making sure we’re on the same page, Wyll.”

“... Ah. Of course.”

“Does anybody else smell blood?” Astarion suddenly butted in, shoving his way in front of the others. “From the camp.”

Strike bit down the obvious vampire joke when Shadowheart gave him a warning glare, because really – there was blood in the air. Lots of it. They didn’t need to look at eachother before they started running towards their camp.

“YOU.”

Good news, Lae’zel was alive. Neutral news, she was furious.

Everyone was alive, surprisingly. Alive and covered in blood, both theirs and of something else. All of their outfits were covered in moss and dried mud up to their thighs, Gale especially looked as if he’d been rolling in mud for the entire two days since they last saw him. Karlach’s head was in her hands, Gale’s robes were gashed as if he fistfought a sixarmed gnoll, and Lae’zel’s leg was worse than ever, even as she limped towards the new arrivals.

“You- kainyank k’chakhi is’tark!”

Strike didn’t understand a single word, but since he’s heard all of them previously used to refer to Shadowheart, he felt quite comfortable in guessing that they weren’t exactly positive.

“Whoa, slow down.” He lifted his hands in surrender, took a step back as she approached him with fury and her very large sword. “What happened to you?”

“Chk! What hasn’t happened?!”

Strike glanced to Gale for help, but the wizard was propped up by a tree and just barely conscious; his pale, almost corpse-like complexion did not suggest he was going to be much of an explainer, for once.

“Mud coming to life! Lies, trickery, hunter turned ra’stil! Shep!”

“Sh-eep.” Good to know that Gale was still, in fact, alive. Even if his voice was far weaker and pointer finger not fully extended.

“Sheep!” Lae’zel’s screech betrayed nothing but genuine outrage. “This entire realm is full of lies and deceit and should be razed to the ground in Vlaakith’s will!”

Strike would almost be humored by the whole thing, if he didn’t think the woman would slice his head off of his shoulders if she caught even an upwards twitch of a lip on him. “I don’t- I thought you just went to check that location? And for wood?”

“Did you know of the crone that lived in those lands??”

“A hag,” Karlach muttered, still holding her head as if whatever damage she suffered was more of a mental kind.

“Well, your hag’cha tsk’in’va,” Lae’zel hissed at her, before she turned back to Strike. “And so can you. Did. You. Know.”

“There was a hag in there??”

The first feeling Strike felt, was... actually, disappointment. And a thought that he would’ve loved to meet an actual hag. The next feeling was Lae’zel’s hand on his chest as she pushed him over, so mad she was practically spitting.

“And you call yourself sarath??”

“A-“

“A leader, istik. Strike. What failure of a leader sends his best warriors to worthless death without even knowing of it??”

“You killed a hag?”

She crossed her arms. “Tas’ki. Of course we’ve won – that Gur proved useful in battle when it came to his own life. But our peril would be much lighter our leader had the slightest clue of how to run a squadron.”

“Wood?”

“In Karlach’s bag.”

“Notes?”

“Checked. We’ve acquired proof of the elf collaborating with what Gale identified as shadow druids.”

“... Well. Good job, buddy. And you all lived.”

For a moment, Strike thought she might punch him. Luckily, Karlach let out a trembling sigh, and finally turned her head enough to look at them. There was a nasty gash over her eyebrow where her piercing has been ripped out.

“And... and you, soldier? How’d it go?” She seemed slightly shaken up, but trying to pull herself back together. “Did you find the druid?”

“In a way,” Astarion unhelpfully replied. “Did you say the Gur hunter – who, need I remind you, is trying to kill me – was with you? Is he dead??”

“The Gur deserved his life to keep,” Lae’zel spat, “Not what we might say for others in our charade of a unit.”

Strike felt his headache coming back. “We found the druid, but couldn’t help him just yet. We’ll be able to free him once the Absolute forces are spread more thin; we take them half at the grove, and it should be easy to wipe out the rest.”

“The grove? You wish to help the grove?”

“Lae’zel, I promise it’s-“

“Pa’vrylk!” The sudden sharpness in her voice was deafening. It drowned out whatever smug comment Shadowheart had on the tip of her tongue – that, and it certainly helped that her sword was suddenly up and pointed right at Strike’s throat. “I’ve had enough of your so called leadership. Your lies, like everything else in your vile realm. You’ve promised to go to the Githyanki creche for the cure, if the healer can’t help – I do not see the healer anywhere.”

The tip of a blade touched the scar where Strike’s throat was already slit once before. He’s been here before. Last time, it didn’t seem to work out.

“...”

“Speak.”

“... We will still go to the creche.”

“We will be ghaik before!”

“We aren’t going to turn!”

Silence rang almost louder than the blood rushing in Strike’s ears. The blade dragged out a droplet of blood when he shouted. It was definitely getting impressive that Lae’zel was able to keep holding up a sword of that weight with a completely extended arm.

“... I don’t think that’s how it-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake, has any of the goblins turned yet, Astarion?”

“What do they have to do with-?”

“They’re tadpoled! The whole True Soul thing? Tadpoles! Didn’t you feel the connection when we were there?”

Shadowheart, Astarion and Wyll thought about it, but Strike’s eyes were on the gith. For a moment, he saw it, the uncertainty in the way her arm trembled, those big eyes softening in thought – and then she hit him with the hilt of her sword straight to the chest.

He fell, getting quite tired of people shoving him around, and when Shadowheart took a step closer to get Lae’zel away, the sword was already turned right at her.

“Hiding behind your healer, leader?” The sneer on the gith’s face was one of pure disappointment. “I thought you a warrior when we’ve first met; how pitiful, for you to turn out this weak.”

Weak.

There was something instinctual in the way his body calmed down under that look. Different than with Minthara, who looked at him like at an entertaining hound at best. Lae’zel thought he was better than what she saw now, and it was up to him to prove which image in her mind was the true one.

That he could do.

He’s done it before. In another life, to another warrior – but he’s done it before.

“Calm yourself before you end up hurt, gith,” Shadowheart’s voice was ice cold with her threat, and really, Karlach was standing up, perhaps to deescalate, and Astarion was reaching for his bow, to do the opposite. Wyll stayed calm, but his brows furrowed in concentration; if Strike had to guess, he would throw out a spell of Hold person as his first choice, in this situation.

“Kainyank. To follow a leader who needs you and the vampire to stand behind of. Am I meant to believe we’re not heading for the creche, for the cure, for any reason other than him fearing the kith’raki?”

Strike’s done this before. Got up, back on his feet, calmer than he’s been in days.

It was a beautiful thing, for his body to for once work with him, instead of against.

“Step down,” he sighed. His words brought the attention of the rest of the camp, and Shadowheart was immediately in his mind, asking him if they should attack all at once. She was just a bit overtly enthusiastic, but Strike shook his head that suddenly felt so clear. “All of you. We’re not going to be fighting over a misunderstanding.”

“There you go again,” Lae’zel sneered. “Avoiding battle.”

“No, avoiding doing what you’re accusing me of. Just you and me.”

She lifted a brow, and, reluctantly, let her sword leave Shadowheart’s neck. The cleric indeed looked like she wanted to attack from behind, yet held herself back and stepped away.

“I yearn for battle, istik,” the gith informed him coldly, but already, a slight smidge of disgust was lacking from the look in her eyes. “If you wish to declare yourself leader, do not expect me to obey without you deserving respect.”

“And how can I do that, Lae’zel?”

He knew the answer before she gave it, in a manner of a lifted sword that once more pointed at him. Not to threaten though, this time. To challenge.

“Githyanki have a term, jhe’quith dvenzir,” she stated. “Culling of the weak ones during training, so that they do not burden others with their incompetence when on actual missions. A proper jhe’quith dvenzir has been long overdue for this troop.”

A duel.

There was no logical reason that Strike should accept; he knew the state of his own body. He knew what a fighter Lae’zel was, even injured.

But magic tingled in his fingertips, and he’s done this before.

“Very well,” he said. “Jhe’quith dvenzir it is.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure?”

“For the seventh time, yes. Can we just- ouch??”

Shadowheart frowned as she tightened the bandage around Strike’s hand too much. It did feel better now, to have some support around his wrists, even if it did lesser his mobility – not like the horrific pain of moving his hand too wrong didn’t do that anyway, though.

“You’re about to fight a bloody gith warrior, in your condition. I’m just checking to make sure that tadpol didn’t eat off too much of your brain already.”

“Har har. Thought you didn’t think this highly of Gith.”

“I don’t think quite highly of a goblin, either – it still doesn’t mean I fail to acknowledge that they can prove dangerous if I let my guard down.”

“Think I’m letting my guard down? You wound me, Shart.”

“I will, if you use that name again.”

She rolled her eyes, but Strike could feel it, the worry in her mind, reaching out to him as if asking for reassurance. How cute, she was scared for him. Or she just didn’t want to deal with a Githyanki for a ‘leader’. Who could guess which was true, anyhow.

As if reading his mind, Astarion chimed in, leaning on the log next to the two. “So what is your plan, if our gith friend wins? Bow your pretty head and surrender? Let her march us all to their so called cure?”

“I’m not planning on losing.”

“Oh, pardon me, then.” The vampire rose his hands in theatrical surrender. “Failed to consider the option of simply not making a plan.”

“I told you my plan,” Strike hissed, a twitch of annoyance still boiling in him. “And it’s to win. Got a problem with that?”

“... Not at all, darling.”

“Shadowheart?”

“I’ll assume you know what you’re doing,” she shrugged. “And patch up whatever remains of you, if you lose.”

“Your immense support means the world to me.”

“It should.”

“Does that mean you are, uh... ready?” Wyll asked, slightly awkward, and it took Strike a few moments to realize that they all have been speaking in elvish, not common; Wyll did an admittedly good job of trying to keep up, but he switched back to common, when he couldn’t remember the last word. “I’m a tad rusty,” he smiled at their questioning looks.

“For someone who’s been chasing monsters around Avernus for the last seven years? Yes, it is. Horrible accent, too.”

“Are you offering to instruct me, Astarion? How thoughtful of you.”

Wyll was clearly humorous, trying to lift the mood, and Strike could appreciate that in the man; especially with how speechless Astarion always got for a moment, when his mean jabs were met with intentional kindness, instead of hostility. Too bad that Strike had better things to do than sit back and watch those two interact more – he could see Lae’zel across the camp, testing out her leg brace while leaning on Gale (whom Shadowheart’s healed when he politely reminded them of his condition, right before passing out). Karlach was cleaning up the campfire so that they could have a proper, arena-like space; the tiefling looked excited for a friendly match, but uncertainty still hung low over the camp.

Not for long, it won’t have to.

“Ready?” Strike called out, saw how the Gith tested out her stability, and seemed much more sure of herself on both feet with the new brace.

“Ready.”

“Aight. You can use your sword, I can use magic.”

“Those terms are... acceptable.”

The sword was almost as tall as she was. Astarion grabbed Strike by the shoulder right before he could step closer, and when the drow looked back with annoyance, he was almost taken aback by the nervousness on the rogue’s face.

“.... Listen, are-“

“I’ve just told you, I know what I’m doing.”

“You’re a wreck, darling.”

Strike’s lips pressed together in a tight line, and he shook the grip off of him. “No idea why you all trust me as a leader then, if i’m such a wreck.”

Wretched thing, pull yourself together.

He didn’t look back, only picked up the wooden staff Gale generously let him borrow. It had a nice weight to it. His hands knew what to do to spin it.

Lae’zel stood opposite to him,

“Done with your pampering?” She asked with a lifted brow, and Strike did not feel the insult he thought he should’ve.

He waited for Lae’zel to move – to the right, with her stronger leg first. He stepped to the right as well, to circle eachother, as the world suddenly calmed down, and Strike has been here before.

“We finish when one surrenders or dies,” she declared, and it sounded right.

“When one surrenders or faints,” Wyll shouted from the sides, warningly, and they both sighed in sync. “Right?”

Begrudgingly, they agreed, but Strike was already in the zone he didn’t know would feel so familiar.

Double handed sword, he thought as he observed her, information spilling to his mind from a corner that felt as easily accessible as opening up a book. All thoughts he’s had before. Double handed, needs to be swung to get momentum first. Part of him doubted that Lae’zel would straight up sever a limb from him and would probably go for the attack with the sword’s flat side, but he was not going to risk contact with it either way.

Lae’zel was watching him likewise, and to hint at the attack, Strike tightened his grip on the staff. He saw her nostrils flare right before she attacked, charged forward, and he realized he knew what he was going to do from the moment he agreed to the battle.

He lifted the staff, as if he was going to defend himself, but when Lae’zel swung her sword down (flat side first, how thoughtful), it only hit the ground, and the whiff of mist left behind from his spell. Strike’s own hit got her from the back, right into her injured leg, and she yelped in pain.

He underestimated how fast she was able to turn despite the pain, and with the motion she already had from the movement, the only way he could get out of the predicament without getting several ribs shattered (still with the flat side) was to simply drop back and fall. The sword swished over him.

“Htak’a!”

Lae’zel’s hair whipped around her face, grimaced in pain and fury, and from the ground, Strike took the opportunity to cast another spell while she was lifting her sword again. Not an attack, that, she could block – but she couldn’t quite block the near invisible mage hand that grabbed at her hair from behind and pulled. It was enough to get her off-balance, just enough time for Strike to roll over his shoulder, in a move too easy to not have been practiced, even if his knees buckled now as he tried to stand up from it.

There was something so utterly frustrating in realizing that he knew what he was doing. He knew how to fight, clearly – it was his ruined body that was not able to follow his instincts.

He was going to find whoever did this to him.

He was going to fucking hurt them.

Lae’zel made the mistake of reflexively attacking the unseen force grabbing her, but since it was a mage hand, nothing happened, other that she turned her side towards Strike, and paid for it with the butt of his staff slamming right into the soft part under her ribs.

Judging from the scream, githyanki had kidneys at the same place as everyone else.

“Shka’keth,” she hissed, and only another misty step saved him from getting the handle of her sword right in the face. “Fight like a warrior!” she shouted after him, where he’s once again avoided her across most of their improvised arena.

“Fight like a winner,” he challenged back, out of breath, but the few seconds he got out of putting the distance between them let him think. Lae’zel was angry, hurt, and very interested in hurting him, now. That was good. That lead to mistakes.

And also to her finally using the actual blade of her sword, however unfortunate that was for him; that is, if she ever managed to land that hit. He’s managed to just barely avoid it, rolling to the side when she came at him flying with an unfairly majestic jump and the blade straight to the ground. She landed on only her good leg, clever girl, but the sword dug itself into the ground and needed to be pulled out with more force than one would expect of a woman of Lae’zel’s statue. Curse that Githyanki build.

The next attack was too quick for him to avoid, the fury in Lae’zel’s movement got her turned around and the sword flew straight for his head. Lifting the staff between them was the only thing he could do in time, and when the weapons collided, his left wrist let out the most vile crack under the sudden pressure put on it.

His elbow gave in, and only another misty step let him escape yet another bad head injury, but in the back of his mind, a counter reminded him that that was the last of his stronger spells. He couldn’t avoid her anymore.

Clutching his damaged wrist, a mental timer hit him; he had to finish this fight, and finish it fast.

He wasn’t even sure of what spells he knew, but they came so easily to hands, even if he had to cast them injured, and when Lae’zel was next upon him, the blunt side of her sword hit the invisible barrier of his momentary magic shield, just above his back. The force of the impact sent tremors up Lae’zel’s hands, Strike could hear the clank of her teeth, and he knew that it was the only opportunity he was going to have.

Lae’zel yelped upon the bright light that flashed in Strike’s hand, colouring her vision with obscenely bright spots that she just couldn’t blink away in time.

Her next hit missed the mark. Strike’s stepped out of its way, used his staff to hit the back of her knees, and the gith fell, cursing him out in both her language and his.

There was no time. He felt his body screaming in exhaustion.

Still on the ground, she swung almost a full halfcircle, and he had to jump over the blade’s murderous path, just barely avoiding becoming the second crippled member of the team – and he would be far more useless than Lae’zel was, if he lost his feet – and immediately giving it right back.

“Ardē,” he didn’t need to scream the verbal component for it to work. He could hiss it, through grit teeth and pain of moving his clearly at least sprained wrist.

Flames engulfed the woman just as she was picking herself up, her eyes now clear and hateful and in pain; he had the perfect view to see them widen as the fire reflected in them for all but a moment. Someone audibly cringed. Oddly enough, it sounded like Shadowheart. It smelled like burnt hair.

But it wasn’t enough. Lae’zel was strong, in armor, and smart enough to roll over in the dirt to extinguish the flames that scorched the leather of her outfit and threatened the underclothes beneath it. Her brace burned and she reached down and ripped it away before it could do even more damage to her already fucked leg, leaving behind only a light burn mark that now matched that of her hand.

“Strike, maybe-“

Wyll called out, took a step forward, but it was Astarion who grabbed him by the shoulder.

“She’s not surrendered, darling.”

“Nonsense, don’t you see she’s-“

Lae’zel’s roar got them both to shut it, and all eyes were back on the young woman, as she picked herself up, using her sword as a support to lean on as she collected herself, most of her weight on her good leg. Her hair was a bit shorter. Charred. Her bad leg was bleeding, stitches undone, but, keeping her focused gaze trained directly on Strike, she reached down, muttered a healing spell of some sort, and the blood stopped, for now.

“Good,” Strike heard someone utter, and realized only when tasting the smell of burning skin on his tongue that it was himself. Something was enthralling about the look in Lae’zel’s eyes, one that matched the fire that failed to hold her down.

He felt pride of a man seeing his pupil flourish, and it hit him a bit too late that he was not her teacher, and in fact, the one all that focused fury was focused on. And gods, while Lae’zel seemed to have caught her second wind, Strike was pretty much on his last spells. Exhausted. Hurt. His knees threatened to give in but some odd sense of habit didn’t let his head hang anyway but high.

“Chk,” Lae’zel spat, ash and spit mixed on the ground between them. “What happens when you run out of your dirty tricks, gish?”

Oddly enough, the last word did not sound like an insult; it didn’t carry the usual weight behind it.

Strike suspected Lae’zel was using a quick time between the attacks to be able to catch her breath (as he was doing) or to simply strategize from which side to hit him next (much more likely). His legs felt weak and heavy at the same time, he truly doubted he was able to avoid her any more, so he just smiled back, and indulged her.

“I’d assume I win before that.”

“Tsk’va. You fight same as everything else in this foul land.”

“Same as harpies?” He let a grin cover his increasing panic. “Same as hags? They all seem to have a number on you, Lae’zel.”

“Yes, they have,” she nodded, straightened herself up, shared weight on both her feet. She was covered in sweat, her nostrils flared at the shot of pain that no doubt ran up her injured leg, but she stood tall, proud. Sword in both hands. “And all their trickery still did not bring them victory.”

Gods, he couldn’t move anymore. He was about to collapse.

Strike smiled wider, reached into whatever depths of his magic that he could, and pulled at the last remaining strings for one final spell. He could misty step away again – but what then?

“Shame for them, then,” he replied with a dry mouth, not even sure where he was going with this, but... He could feel the others’ eyes on them. He could see Lae’zel’s eyes on him.

He’s been here before, and he had no right to fail.

“But my tricks are better,” he’s decided to finish with, and Lae’zel scowled, then charged.

“Vlaakith gha’g shkath zai, tsk’in’va!”

If he’d move, his knees would buckle, he’d fall and be done for, he knew that. So he stood tall and seemingly fearless and when Lae’zel was just about to reach him, and she swung her sword upwards, he took the snippet of a moment when it was turned right to the sky.

He lied, earlier. He was out of tricks to throw at her.

All that was left was brute force.

“Perurē.”

Lightning snapped from the sky and straight into the tip of her blade, in less than a blink traveling down her blade and into her ungloved hands, through her arms, her armor, the rest of her body.

Her attack never connected. She fell to her knees, convulsing in a way that seemed so familiar.

Strike held his hand up, felt the spell hand him the reigns of lightning in his palm, and it was like intertwining fingers with an old lover. Familiar. Comforting. Brutal.

And incredibly, not enough, for Lae’zel stood up, again, gods, was she wonderful, she walked through the pain and the contracting muscles and almost made it right to him, and Strike did not move. He couldn’t. Not that she knew that, though.

Earlier he wasn’t able to think enough, to focus on anything other than not actively dying, but now he could remember the mage hand, still floating uselessly behind them. It grabbed Lae’zel’s sword, threw it away, just in front of Karlach’s boots. Right, there were still others around them.

“Yield,” a cold voice that couldn’t be anyone’s but his own said, and Lae’zel spat in his face. It carried a tingle of electricity. It was followed by a headbutt to the face, and Strike stumbled backwards, tasted blood of his broken lip and it riled him up more than the whole fight.

He found himself wearing a grin again.

It was a miracle he was able to stay upwards, and he only caught a glimpse of Lae’zel with his blood on her forehead, before he shocked her again.

“Yield.”

She got back up. He shocked her again.

He couldn’t do this forever.

It took two more shocks before she stayed down, and yet another to make her curl up in on herself. Enough to let Strike step closer, as unsteady as he was on his feet, but the adrenaline of having her writhe in agony underneath him... It pumped through his veins, painted the sides of his vision in red that made purple with the blue flashes of the lightning he’s harnessed.

“Lae’zel,” he called out, heard her hiss in defiance, still. “Shkath’zai,” he tried, pulling together the words she’s used sometimes to greet Gale or Karlach around camp. He hoped it meant something good, but even if it didn’t, he got her to look up, up at him.

She was quite literally foaming at the mouth, but she’s not bitten off her tongue – something he’s realized quite too late that was a realistic possibility of giving someone in metal armor essentially electroshock therapy. She must have bitten on one of the exposed belts of her arm guards to prevent that; Strike felt a sickly wave of affection wash over him when he saw the bitemarks there.

“I’ll need you to yield, Lae’zel,” he told her, lightning still wrapped around his hand like a leash, but he didn’t tug on it. “You lost,” He hoped she’d believe him.

She didn’t.

It wasn’t that he let his guard down, not at all; he saw the tackle coming. He just couldn’t move out of the way in time.

She got him underneath her, to the ground, and when her hands wrapped around his throat, the next shock of lightning that went through her got them both.

Familiar type of pain, though. Strike felt oddly at peace – not much left to loose, now that he was left only with magic that hurt them both, at mercy of words that Lae’zel hasn’t choked out of him yet.

“You claim we should trust you,” she snarled through grit teeth, “Yet you march us away from cure. Claim we won’t turn.”

His damaged wrist protested so hard the pain blinded him for a moment, but when he came back to it, he was covering the back of her hands. Felt them shake, not just from electricity, not from rage. The wide blown pupils of her eyes betrayed an emotion Strike’s come to learn he knew better than any.

Poor thing was so terribly afraid.

She didn’t squeeze down hard enough to hurt him, only twitched when his thumb pet over her skin.

“We won’t turn,” he said, found his voice calm as a river, despite it all. “Something is keeping us from turning.”

Her lip trembled.

“Let... Let me show you,” he could feel it, the way she was so desperate for a solution, for a guiding hand, and he was all but willing to extend it. “Like on the ship.”

“I won’t- You will not use ghaik parasite on me.”

“I will. You just have to let me.”

Her grip tightened, then loosened again. Strike knew when he had her.

“I... I will not be ghaik,” she said, anger there to cover the fear that her claim carried. “I will not.”

“You won’t. It won’t hurt you.”

He risked it, released the lightning, and she didn’t seem to notice. He needed his good hand to reach up, gently pry her hands off of his neck. Sit up, slowly as not to snap her out of the uncertainty that made her sit still in his lap and wordlessly beg for reassurance.

“May I?”

He hesitated before touching her face, and, as if something arose in her again, she balled the front of his shirt into a tight fist.

“If you do anything, gish-“

“Nothing that I wouldn’t warn you of.”

A moment. A breath so close, they shared it. Then she nodded, and Strike kept back a smile. He did so like to win. It made the world feel right for a heartbeat.

He opened his mind to her, let her see him, first – see herself as she was in his eyes minutes ago, let her feel the respect that he felt when she got back up, again and again. Then spun it further back, to her challenge earlier, he searched for the moment when he realized she wanted him to prove himself, dug out the emotions of that thought and presented them to her on a pink platter of brain matter. And at last, back to the goblin camp, all the realizations he found there. Minthara. Goblins. True souls, the Absolute, the artifact that saved them from whatever control of mind they would’ve been under otherwise.

Lae’zel could see in the eyes of the goblin priestess and feel the same connection she has just allowed Strike. And with Minthara-

He let her out of his mind before she’d feel anything more, any of the more unsavory feelings he’s had around the drow, but it seemed it was plenty enough already, anyway. The poor girl was clutching the fabric of his shirt so hard the seams were digging into his back. Panting, confused.

Strike’s hand on her cheek.

“See?” He asked, and kept his hand there to use shocking grasp if she tried anything else that could kill him, despite how unlikely the chance.

“The artifact,” she swallowed, shook her head as if to collect her thoughts now that they were hers again. “That- that belongs to githyanki.”

“Belongs to us, now,” Strike brushed the thought off as he brushed burnt ends of hair off of her face. His abdomen muscles were screaming at him to stop sitting up, but his only other choice to sit face to face with her was to lean on his injured wrist, which... yeah, no.

“It keeps us safe. It’ll keep us safe until we get to the creche, and then we’ll see what to do next.”

He didn’t need her to start another fight just yet.

Her lips pressed into a tight line, she sniffled, and at last pushed his hand away, much to his relief. He could lean onto it now, keep himself up straight – he unfortunately set it on a protruding rock by his side, but kept the discomforted look from his face.

“... I will not be ghaik, Strike,” she repeated, determined. Scared.

Strike comforted in the only way he knew would suffice. “If you start to turn, we will kill you. On the spot. While you’re still you.” He's told her those words before, back when her leg was first injured, but now they held weight behind them. The comfort of knowing that he could gift what he was offering.

Relief  hit him like her sword earlier, a glimpse down her now more open mind connection, and she shivered all over.

“Now you know I can beat you, if needed,” he added, hinted at the terrible state she was in. Both of them, true, but... She didn’t need to know just how close to losing he was for the entire fight.

“I’ve gotten you down at the end.”

“Because I had to make you yield,” he lied, “if I had to kill you, I wouldn’t stop.”

That finally seemed to convince her, because her gaze hardened once again, and she took a moment to think, before nodding. “... Very well, then. I yield.”

She let go of his clothes, stood up – incredible that she could still do that, because if it was up to Strike, he was quite comfortable staying at the floor. She’s picked up the staff he’s dropped at some point earlier, since it was closer than her sword, and while an image of her bashing his brains in with it crossed his mind momentarily, she only used it as a crutch.

“... Do not make me regret trusting you,” she said, cold and tall and might, and trusting him. “I will follow you to the battle at that... teethling grove, but I expect a leader worthy of following.”

She extended her hand out to him.

Strike stared at her, and all at once, red fell over his mind.

Trust you. She trusts you. Pretty girl. Scared girl. Blade to the eye and she would fall. Something sharp. Something heavy.

His hand was resting on a rock.

Heavy. Bash her. It. Splatter that brain that dares to demand from you, You, dig out the worm she is so scared of, kill kill, grab and swing and kill for-

“What a fight, soldier!

Karlach clasped her hands together, and the smack was sharp enough to cut through the heartbeat in Strike’s ears. Her laugh chased the rest away, and he blinked himself away, found himself white-knuckling the rock and feeling sick to his stomach.

Lae’zel was still staring at him, sight cock to her brow.

Feeling bile piling up in his throat, Strike let out an appropriately embarrassed chuckle. “Ah, sorry... Still kinda dizzy.” At least that wasn’t a lie. “You got me good a few times, Lae’zel.”

He did reach out for her still extended arm, and she noticed far before him that it was the injured hand he used. She grabbed him above the sprain, on the forearm, and pulled him up with all the ease of someone who knew their own strength so very well.

Her expression was the same as always when she looked at him, but softened around the edges; cleared of that doubt and hostility she seemed to carry for him until now.

“You’ve proven yourself adequate, Strike,” she replied, sternly. “Quick of wit and sharp of tongue. Even if it cannot replicate language of the gith.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Shkath zai. For honour.” She looked at her burnt hair, and scowled. “But it makes sense you would be unfamiliar with the word.”

“I was fighting a githyanki warrior; trying to win a fight the right way would be a death sentence, hm?~”

The flattery made the corner of her lips twitch upwards, and Strike knew he had her in his palm, the way it should be.

“Your deadliest weapon continues to prove itself as your tongue, sarth. It would be a tragedy for us all if you lost it.”

“Heh. And what insult does sarth stand for?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve said it earlier. Leader. Do not expect me to repeat myself often.”

He did remember. He just wanted to hear her say it again. Victory had such a nice ring to it.

It wasn’t all good after it, of course. Shadowheart was less than amused with all of Strike’s injuries, and Lae’zel still refused to let the cleric actually heal her, so she downed a third of their supply of healing potions – just enough to get her muscles to stop spasming, and to fix the burns of her hands and leg. The hair was unsolvable, sadly, but Gale was delighted to offer help with a blade to even out a decent cut.

Lae’zel seemed more uncertain with others, but she looked at the wizard’s own hair, and his skills with a knife when preparing dinner, and declared him trustworthy enough; even if the whole process went much slower than it should, with Astarion offering mostly unasked for (if helpful) advice.

Strike sat aside, watched Karlach and Wyll attempt to make dinner while Shadowheart healed him, and he tried to not think about the conversations from the other side of the camp. He was jealous, he realized. He didn’t like to think about the abhorrent mess of his own hair, its clunks and scuffed knots serving as the perfect reminder for everything that’s happened to him and that he couldn’t remember.

Shadowheart asked him if he was okay. Strike said he was tired.

“... If you say so.”

She was re-wrapping bandages on his wrists, a quiet and pleasant work, when Strike asked her what was on his mind for so long.

“How come you have a gith artifact?”

He spoke in elven, even if Wyll nearby had a rough grasp at it, he was currently busy testing out if he can make eggs on Karlach’s outstretched palms.

Shadowheart’s hands stopped for a moment, then continued. She didn’t look at him.

“... It is a secret.”

“I think we’re at a point where we can stop having those. Especially if important. Especially if Lae’zel will skin you one day for it.”

“Psh. She can try.”

“She might.”

Quiet voices, casual expressions; they both knew the game they were playing. It was Shadowheart who finally conceded,

“... I worship the Dark Lady.”

Shar.

... Should’ve seen it coming, if he thought about it.

“Me and a few others, we were sent on a mission to retrieve it,” Shadowheart continued, carefully, massaging the pain deep inside of his palms. “We had our memories erased, before, and.... I am the only one left. I must reach Baldur’s Gate with the artifact. That is all I know.”

“And you get your memories back?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

The silence dragged. Karlach was rejoiced when she realized she can clasp her hands together and shake them to make an omelette. Wyll’s tail was wagging as he wiped a tear of laughter from his good eye.

“... Do you have nothing to say of that?” Shadowheart finally asked, when Strike was yet to even look at her. “You’re taking this all suspiciously well.”

“I ate a dwarf’s hand today and liked it, buddy. I can cast no judgement on who you worship.”

“... You liked it?”

He shrugged, finally cast her a glance. He just caught concern be replaced with a lifted brow. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Although, perhaps you should tell others. I don’t think they’ll want to kick you out of the group or anything.”

“And if they will?”

“I won’t let them.”

She laughed, but he meant it, and they both knew it. It felt good. His word held power, not just during incantations.

He realized Shadowheart’s hand was still fiddling around his, and without a thought, clasped his fingers around her. She didn’t pull away. She had small hands.

Breakable.

Strike squeezed her a little tighter, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“... You think I could be a sharran, too?”

“No offense, but, no. With what you call humor, we  would’ve purged that personality out of you in your first tenday.”

He sighed. “Thought so. Just hoped there might be an easy way to get my mind back, ykno?”

“There’s nothing easy about Shar’s-“

“I know,” and he realized that he did know, he could recall Shar’s doctrine. Not from the perspective of its pupil, though. “Still easier than not even knowing where to start though, innit?”

“... True.”

They stayed there for a bit, and Strike closed his eyes, listened to the pleasant voices of his companions, to the heart of a woman beating by his side that held his hand and trusted him enough to share her secrets. He wished he had anything to share in return.

Today was long. Exhausting. He didn’t bother with dinner, and simply let himself drift away as he stared into the warm fire over which his companions shared broth.

Fire.

Fire.

Burning hair. Lae’zel looked cute with her almost symmetrical shoulder-length cut.

Strike’s dream was full of fire and red – but not the red that tended to drown his mind in itself. Brighter, hotter.

Hot enough to burn gold.

His hand gripped a knife.

A knife?

He dragged his thumb over the decor on the handle, to the sharp blade, and a cut it left on his skin forced his eyes to flash open and take in the dream-not-dream he was having.

A feast was spread in front of him, golden plates, golden cutlery in his hands, everything from cakes to fruit to meat just there for the taking, bottles of wine his empty stomach was just aching to grab, it looked so good and inviting and-

Strike felt the hair on the back of his neck stand.

Something terrible lingered in the air. He knew that, because he didn’t hate it. It was a feeling so familiar to the one of the goblin camp, a comforting wisp of depravity echoing through the rich red walls. The comfort clashed with just how nice it looked, and he knew something laid waiting.

“Much better place for a meeting than some... middle of nowhere, am I right?”

The smooth voice slid over Strike’s ears like a blade on a bone.

Chapter Text

“Much better place for a meeting than some... middle of nowhere, am I right?”

Strike didn’t have the slightest idea of where and with whom he was, but it tended to be that way, recently; he was learning to roll with the punches life threw at him.

The man sat opposite to him was slightly older, and very well put together, but there was something about his sly smile that didn’t sit quite well with the sorcerer. Perhaps it was the outfit that should’ve been far too hot for the temperatures of the place, perhaps it was the fact that he was far too smug for his own good. Perhaps it was the fact that there was music playing, and Strike couldn’t pinpoint the source of it.

So, he did what he did best, and relaxed his posture as if he was meant to be where he was.

“Middle of somewhere, that’s for sure.”

Through windows he saw nothing but more of the red, a faraway shape of mountains, and while he would have argued that that seemed even more in the middle of nowhere than their camp was-

“You most certainly could claim that,” the man mused, those eyes staring into Strike’s as if he saw right through him, and the drow struggled to keep up appearances when shivers were running down his back like that. “No offense to your earthly accommodations, of course; but I did believe what I have to say merits some privacy, as well as some more... let’s call it refinement.”

“Slight offense taken, but we do do our best with what little we have on hand... up, there?”

It was a guess, but it seemed like the right one, because the man let out a soft chuckle, and moved over, to pour Strike a drink. Wyvern whiskey, if he judged from the lava-like bubbles on the surface.

“You’ve done an admirable job,” the man condescended, as if Strike wasn’t sleeping sitting up on a wooden log, “But we’ve more important things to discuss, over your imperfection of home decor. What would suit the occasion?”

He wandered out loud, but something told Strike he already knew exactly what he wanted to say, and so, the drow took a careful sniff of his drink, and then a sip. It was already hard to poison Wyvern whiskey, but something told him that if the odd man wanted him dead, poison wasn’t the path he’d have chosen. It burnt his tongue and all the way down to his stomach, but the heat was pleasant, and Strike powered through the pain with a steamy exhale from his nose.

“The words to a lullaby, perhaps?~”

Oh gods.

A bard.

The music was suddenly starting to make sense, and the man went on to recite, in that admittedly nice and melodic voice of his, “The mouse smiled brightly; it outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, and that-“

“Love, was that.” The words left Strike’s burnt tongue before he had to think about them, as a verse he knew from heart wrote itself in his mind. He took another painful sip. “Cormyr?”

There was a blink of surprise from the man, a quick flash of displeasure, before he smiled wider, and sat back.

“Ah, you’re familiar. They do know how to write them over there, don’t they?”

“Apparently. And let me guess; am I speaking to the fox? Is this where you’re going, buddy?”

“It is reassuring to see your wits haven’t left you along with your past, pup.”

Strike paused mid-tip of the cup.

He tried to play it off cool, but as he slammed the cup onto the desk, whiskey spilled and burned his hand, and he knew he failed miserably, but the revelation came so out of nowhere he almost-

“You know me??”

Despite the drink, his throat was suddenly dry.

The man’s smug expression made him want to strangle him.

“Easy, now! No need to reap havoc over my house, ah... Strike? Is that what you call yourself now?”

What you call yourself now.

Not before.

“... Who are you?” Strike asked, neigh, demanded, felt his grip on the cup tighten until his injured wrist ached with the pull of his tendons. “How do I know you?”

“Can one truly know another, when he barely knows himself?” the man mused, enjoyed himself, and right when Strike’s hand started to move by itself to throw the cup in his face, there was a swish of fire, and just like that, his potential target was a foot higher.

A devil, his mind helpfully supplied the explanation to what the person he was speaking to was. Tall and deep red and with majestic wings and a duo of horns, so elegantly curved. So sharp at the tops. Warm brown of his eyes was now an intense gold, burning down upon him, and Strike couldn’t help but wonder if this is what people see when they look at him. A stare just a tad too intense, he was told.

But there being a devil, that meant...

“... Are we in Hells?” He asked, his voice just a bit higher than he wanted it to be, but his throat was strained and mind racing.

“My name is Raphael,” the devil introduced himself with a smug bow of his head, “Devotedly at your service.” Somehow, Strike doubted that. Raphael waved his hand around them, to all the golden decor and food that the drow now trusted even less than before. “And we are in my home; The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed, lavishly. Go on,” he hinted at the food. Strike’s plate was suddenly full, all by itself, and he had no intentions on touching it. “Partake. Enjoy your supper! After all...” He’s leant in, head resting on manicured hands, smile expressing nothing but amusement at the situation. Strike couldn’t shake the upsetting feeling that he was at the wrong side of this interaction. “You’re not known to be a creature of restraint, are you, Strike?”

“... I wouldn’t know,” Strike finally responded, glanced at the food, and then back up, at this Raphael. “Am I?”

“Ha! Truly darling, that you’ve still kept the mask you wore when I’ve seen you last.”

“Enlighten me of such,” he strained a smile, “please.”

The situation was not good, Strike had to remind himself, despite his initial instinct of wanting to walk around the table and shake the devil by the tail to get any answers out of him. But no, he had to think. Analyze.

He was alone, in a devil’s domain. Unarmaed, except with utensils (and something told him he could make decent use of those, against a different opponent), and with the devil having a significant hand over him – if he was telling the truth in the first place, he had to remember. Lying to an amnesiac was exactly something Strike himself thought he would’ve done, if their roles were reversed.

Raphael let out a pleased sigh. “It is lovely to hear you grovel, I will not deny; but an information such as this should be worth far more than a simple plea.”

Unfortunate, because even that one word left a bitter taste on Strike’s tongue, but he had a feeling he’s sunken far lower before, perhaps for less.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, another sip of his magically full-cup again, and the sharp burn was enough to kick his face into a more controllable mess once more. “And what would that more be? Purely theoretically, Raphael.”

“What is cost my soul can buy, asked a lost hound, to a fox.” Raphael asked, in a voice so poetic that Strike saw what was coming before the first rhyme. “To give life? To take? To rip belief and tear mind, to pile gold up to throat or gift blade to eye? Rewrite a tale lost, begged the hound...”

He stared, his voice trailed off, and Strike recognized a challenge when he saw one, even if he wasn’t in the mood to be mocked like this.

“...”

“Come, you’ve been so quick to interrupt my verse earlier.”

It wasn’t a poem Strike would’ve known, and he was pretty sure the devil was making it up as he went, but that put some pressure off of him for perhaps not getting it right. He could see what the devil wanted from him, in either case.

“... Rewrite a tale lost, begged the... hound,” he repeated, ignored the headache that was already building and that the whiskey failed to aid. “but what use is past to the soulless, even if found?” He forced another smile. “I’m not a fool enough to trade my soul for whatever trick you’d consider a truth, devil dearest. Tempted, for sure, but... Don’t have plenty of me left. Can’t afford to give away when so much was taken already.”

Perhaps he should’ve stopped drinking.

Raphael laughed at him.

“You did hold yourself just as firmly when we’ve last sat here, pup. But there is something else I could offer, is there not?”

“A way out would be nice. I’m not a prisoner, am I?”

“Of course not,” the devil waved his hand, as if the idea alone was preposterous. “Nobody in my House of Hope is here by any will than their own. You’re a guest, and when we’re done, you will be free to return. I am nothing if not generous.”

Generous.

Strike found it in him that he didn’t believe a devil to be capable of such a thing, the thought as if engraved in his very bones. Everything had a price, and the drow knew he had nothing to pay with.

“We should be done soon, then,” he sighed, as if he wasn’t on the very edge of his nerves with the constant violin plucking grating at his ears. “I’ve just said i’ve nothing to bargain with, Raphael. So unless you just wish to toy with me and my missing past any longer... That doesn’t make you come off quite trustworthy, by the way.”

There was something incredibly catlike in the way Raphael titled his head and let his smile widen; and Strike was suddenly thinking about a dog, grabbing a feline by the neck and shaking it until its guts fly out of a torn belly. He smiled back.

“Trustworthy?~”

“Couldn’t you share something, if we were such good pals, hm?”

That grating laugh, once more. Strike’s hand tightened itself around his once again full cup. “A relationship such as ours has no need to be described in any terms, does it? It is hardly of importance; at the end of it all, isn’t only one thing better than a devil you don’t know?”

One that is dead? Dehorned, dewinged?

“A devil you do.”

It took Strike all of his inner strength and willpower to not point out the obvious innuendo, and so partly, he was relieved that he hasn’t emptied another cup of whiskey – it was already eating off at his self control, but a tingle of blood where he bit his tongue sobered him up a little.

Clueless, Raphael continued. “Was I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a savior? That I am for certain, now.”

Strike didn’t bother to stop a mocking snort from leaving his nose. “A savior? A little late about that, buddy.”

“Perhaps. But when I’ve last seen you, you haven’t seemed to be as deep over your tadpoled head, were you?” Golden eyes narrowed. “Although even a year back, you played just as hard to get as you do now, pup.”

“You know about- a year??”

That was something. A date. A time he could point at, that there was a him before whatever happened to him took place.

He saw Raphael’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, and a sharp pain shot through his palm; as the drow looked down, he was vaguely aware that he had jumped out of his chair and slammed his hands to the table, and one of the glass platings shattered. Grease and sauce of the meat coated the fresh cut, the shard still embedded in deep, but Strike only saw a flash of red before his eyes were back on the devil.

“My, my...”

“You’ve seen me a year ago?”

“It seems even the holes in your brain have failed to tame that temper of yours, pup. Take a seat again, hm? Let’s remain civilized.”

The threat was there, but Strike found himself moving. He wasn’t sure what it was about the time specifically, he already knew Raphael said he had known him, but that one information, that one something, overflew him with raw, hatred like despair.

“Tell me!”

His head was pounding with the ache behind his eye. His hand was bloody when he lifted it. The redness of Hell was abruptly cut with hot white flash of lightning, one that hit Raphael square in the face, then exploded around to scorch the ugly painting and curtains behind him.

The force of the spell was strong enough to knock Strike backwards, and he nearly retched – when Raphael was suddenly behind him and slammed him face first onto the table, he did retch.

Gods, he hated this.

Something within his chest was screaming at him for allowing this to happen, but he was weak, too weak for his trashing to affect Raphael in the slightest. The devil’s hand covered the entirety of the back of Strike’s head, held it down and firm against the mess of the food and sick on the table.

“Lash out in my home again, I’ll have you leashed,” Raphael snarled above him, fury just as sudden as it was with Strike; but perhaps it was both of them that had it boiling just under the surface at any time. “I see you’ve not come to your mind enough to be reasonable yet, you wretched creature. Foolish of me to come offering salvation.”

Strike wanted to respond with something, anything, but all his crimson fogged brain could produce was what he was pretty sure was a slur, because Raphael growled, and ground his face into the sick and food mess further.

Pathetic worm. Dog shoved into a pissed on carpet.

He should’ve been better than this.

“Madness is nought but denial of reality; it seems i’ve forgotten how much you excel in it,” the devil continued, more mocking than angry, now that he had the quite literal upper hand, and the thing underneath him writhed. “But go on. Have it your way, with your head so full of thoughts that you barely have space for your own. Try to cure yourself, beg, slaughter, rape and steal, do everything you can to chase salvation I wished to offer. Destroy any hope you’d ever dare have, and when you’re nothing, when despair cuts you to your marrow, I will allow you to come knock on my door again.”

His clawed thumb pressed down, down, found the spot above Strike’s ear, where he knew his skull was fractured from whatever destroyed his brain all those months ago.

A year, he found himself thinking, as a vile shudder took over his body, and the weight of the devil on top of him crushed at his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. There was food up his nose and mouth and the smell of retch that assaulted him whenever he tried to take in air.

How does one fall this low in under a year?

“... Poor pup,” the devil suddenly mused, and the weight let go, ever so slightly. “The way life treated you, tsk...” The caress of Strike’s cheek was mocking, clearly, but the drow couldn’t get himself to close the one eye that wasn’t squished against a concerningly sharp utensil. He caught a moment where feralness left Raphael’s features, just a flicker of madness before the distinguished gentleman was back. The devil brushed back the few locks of hair that escaped his neat hairdo and fell onto his face. He smiled back down at the mess of the drow.

“...”

“I will accept your apology any time now, pet.”

“....”

“Any time, now.”

The pressure threatened to crush his skull, and so, Strike swallowed another mouthful of bile, along with his pride, and uttered a “...I’m sorry,” of surrender.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even stand against the one who was rubbing his weakness in his face, metaphorically and unfortunately, very literally.

“Ah, so you do know how to behave. Good boy.”

Even if Raphael had let go of him, Strike felt like he wouldn’t move from the table. Perhaps, the shame could’ve swallowed him, if he just stayed there long enough. That sly voice sent a shiver up his spine, even more so, when the devil finally released his grip of his skull, and instead, petted down Strike’s sweated neck.

“Despite it all, your luck seems to have not run out completely just yet,” Raphael continued. Strike finally closed his eyes. He felt sick. He didn’t want to be there. Anywhere. “But it will, soon. Soon.”

He felt the big shadow cover his form, felt enormous wings to envelop them both.

“I will be there, when it does. Let us have our next conversation in a more civilized manner, shall we? ”

The devil’s mocking hum echoed through Strike’s head long after the heat of Avernus stopped warming his skin, and he found himself on the wet grass under the poorly put up blanket that he generously called a tent.

He didn’t bother moving. Just curled up, closed his eyes, and took the horrific nightmares he knew were to follow as the rightful punishment that he deserved today.

Oddly enough, there wasn’t many of those; mostly just pleasant nothingness, darkness of a dreamless sleep.

Strike woke up with his face pressed into a scratchy, slightly smelly fur, and the odd feeling was almost enough to jolt him awake. If that hadn’t done it, then, well, the flat tongue licking generously at his hand would’ve.

“Wh-“

There was a dog.

A white mutt with big dark eyes and a tail meekly hidden between his legs, as he laid curled up by Strike’s side.

The drow could hardly believe it, there was something so, so unfamiliar about it all.

Without moving his eyes from the dog, he reached behind himself, felt around until he found his bag, and with the same point of focus, took a swing from the potion he needed to make sense of the situation.

“... What are you doing?”

The dog’s ears lowered in discomfort, but his tail gave a pathetic, hopeful wag that swept the ground.

“I’m sorry, you were... crying, I thought you might wanted a friend?”

“That’s- ... I wasn’t crying. I have an eye issue.” His cheeks felt oddly crackly, more dried dog saliva than tears. “I mean, what are you doing here?”

“O-oh! Right!” The dog’s head lowered; poor thing really looked like it wanted Strike to like him, and the drow had no idea on what to think. “Your friend told me to come here, said your pack will take care of me, if I’ll wish.”

... Fucking Wyll.

Strike groaned, finally fully sitting up, if only to cover his eyes and rub the bridge of his nose between two fingers. His headache was back, with full force, and memories of last night’s.... visit made him want to retch again, but just as another shiver shook his corpse, he felt a reluctant nudge by his side.

“- I’m not crying,” he assured the mutt, and saw his tail wag once more, in a way that did not feel like something he’s seen before.

“I know, but, if you want a friend, I can-“

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”  He couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this all was wrong, but he couldn’t place it.

Despite his sharp tone making the dog’s tail lower even more, it insisted, put its big head on his lap, as if he was meant to... what, pet it?

Its fur was softer than that of a gnoll.

“You’re pack of my friend. We’re in the same pack now, I would like to help, even if you smell scary.”

“... I do, huh?”

Sulfur and whatnot... He could imagine.

Reluctantly, Strike reached down, and petted the thing behind its ears. It was odd. Not unpleasant, though. Just...  odd.

“... You have a name?”

“Scratch. It’s what my master used to call me. You can too, now.”

It was kind of pleasant. Strike slowly started to feel tense muscle of his shoulders relax, ever so slightly.

“Very well, Scratch. Uh... Welcome to the pack?”

The tail wagged more, and the soft pat pat pat of it against the floor caught the hurried rhythm of Strike’s heart and calmed it down.

Not everything could be peaceful for more than an hour or so, unfortunately; Strike, Wyll, Karlach and Shadowheart have headed off towards the spot where they were supposed to meet with Amos, while the other three cleared up the camp and investigated the now mostly-empty village for anything that could be useful in their upcoming battle. Scratch was excited to go with them, prompting Lae’zel to immediately doubt him a warhound at heart, and Astarion to joke about eating him, but Strike was (mostly) sure they both understood the pet was just that, a pet.

He hadn’t said anything to anyone about his late night adventure. Partly because it was humiliating. Less partly because he had no idea how his companions would’ve reacted to learning he apparently used to have a nondescript relationship with a devil, and truly, he just wanted time to think everything through.

... Eventually. For now, he just wanted to not think about it.

Of course, after they’ve only barely left the sights of their camp, something already went wrong – mostly the giant clouds of smoke they could see from just the direction they were heading towards. Karlach was the first to run, and everyone else had to keep up, so Strike wasn’t exactly in a great mood when his shit physical condition caused his companions to leave him slightly behind.

He arrived at the scene last, a decent building, fully on fire, with corpses of drow, goblin, elves and humans thrown all around like toys after a child was done playing with them.

Strike was still catching his breath when someone already pointed an arbalast at him, a young woman with sand colored hair and tear blinded eyes. Her hands and voice were both shaking as she shouted at him.

“Another drow, don’t- don’t you have any mercy?!”

“I just got here!”

“Bullshite! If your brethren left you behind, that’s not-“

“Are there people still inside?” He shoved the arbalast away; turned to the building, just in time to see Karlach pull out her axe to smash through the door. “... oh no.”

“Y-you’re note with-“

“Lady, are there people still inside?”

She looked to a corpse of a man in armor that matched her own, then back up at Strike, and then towards the building... then nodded. “Counselor Florrick, a-and some soldiers, our people, good people, and yours-“

“My people are there and trying to help yours,” he barked at her, shoved her aside, so that he could join others by the doors just when Karlach bashed them down.

The building was on fire even inside. There was no life on the first floor; they would have to go up, and Strike felt some of his exhaustion wash away with a discrete tap of Shadowheart’s hand on his shoulder. He threw her a grateful nod, then turned back to the fire, and at last, his mind worked fine. How good was it, to distract himself by proving he was good at something?

Karlach was waiting for his input, he could tell.

“Any plans, soldier?”

Wyll was absolutely pale in the face, and before Strike could’ve said anything, the young man has already charged into the flames.

“.... Fuck,” he cursed, and just like that, they were going forward. “Karlach, get Wyll, Shart, you and I are going to find survivors. Can you keep us from burning alive?”

“As long as you're not covered in oil, I suppose.”

“Great, now move, move, let’s go.”

With a proper plan and decent chances, Strike followed his cleric right into the Hell that has opened in front of them.

Good thing he had practice last night, he bitterly thought, just as another door exploded with heat.

Chapter Text

Thank Shar for Shadowheart, because without her, Strike doubted the elf they pulled from the flames would’ve gotten away with as little injuries as she did. Especially after the floor collapsed under them, and even his quickly cast Feather Fall didn’t help much when they – albeit very softly – landed on a pile of burning cinder.

They stood outside, catching their breaths, while Shadowheart cast a healing spell on everyone involved; it healed the second degree burns on Strike’s legs and the heavy scratch in his lungs, leaving only charred clothes behind. The elven lady was in a similar condition, black from ash and smoke with clothes charred, but alive.

The building was starting to collapse in on itself behind them.

“Fuuuuck.”

Surely, Wyll and Karlach were fine in there.

They better have been – Strike was going to kill Wyll when he saw him again, and he needed him alive for that.

“Counsellor! Are you all right!?” a flock of Fists ran towards them, one of them with a bow raised, arrow aimed right at Strike’s head. “Step away from the drow!”

I am going to pull your guts through your ears if you don’t fucking stop with the

He didn’t need to speak, Shadowheart has stepped in front of him, but even that turned out to not be needed when he looked at this apparent counsellor. Her eyes were wide for a moment when she looked him over, as if only realizing his lineage now, unclouded by the inferno, but she hid the moment almost well with a cough and a raised hand.

“Stand aside, soldiers. Without these strangers, I would not be standing here with you right now.” Once the bow was reluctantly lowered, she turned to Strike with a softer look to her. “Your boldness is a blessing – I’m in your debt.”

“Gonna pay it back with an arrow to my face, buddy?” he intrigued bitterly, but still reached to shake her hand when she offered it. “Name’s Strike.”

“Counsellor Florrick of Baldur’s Gate. Forgive my people; they’re on edge, they’ve just been through plenty.”

One of the fists looked away, a tremble to her lip that made her oddly adorable to some strange part of Strike’s brain. “It was a massacre. Goblin slaughter, under the leadership of a drow – it was brutal, we... My poor Jacek...”

She was about to break into tears, but her dignity was saved by a shout up ahead, and Strike felt a wave of relief wash over Shadowheart’s side of the tadpol bond. Karlach and Wyll, coughing and slightly overdone but alive, with a barely conscious blonde man limping next to the Blade.

Strike nudged Shadowheart discreetly, and she was already on it, going to check up on the two’s injuries, when suddenly something much more interesting happened.

Wyll’s expression became hard to read, but he still carefully handed the blonde man off to two Fists before he practically ran up to their rescue.

“Counsellor, I didn’t know you were here, we couldn’t find father inside, I-“

She took a step back when he approached too fast, before some type of a recognition hit her, and she could see under the horns. “Wyll? By the Maimed God, what’s become of you?”

The young man’s tail drooped, Strike could feel a stab of hurt from him. “A... A tale to be told at less dire times, I fear. Please, is my father still there? Is... Is he-?”

“He’s not dead,” she reassured him quickly, before the feeling of dread could properly settle in. “I’ve seen it myself, drow grabbed him and disappeared into nothing while we battled the flames. Alive.”

Wyll sighed from relief, then flinched when he felt a clawed hand weigh down on his shoulder as Strike stepped forward. “Forgot to tell us somethin’, buddy?”

“I’ll... Will do in a moment, alright?” The devil man looked back to Florrick. “Why would the drow want him? The matriarchs of Menzoberranzan could hardly have much of a use of a surface man.”

“Perhaps because he is Ravengard? Don’t ask me to understand the logic of und- dark elves,” she quickly corrected herself, “but... Wyll. I know you must hold little love for your father. But please, the city needs him. I’ve not much resources out here, but you, and your companions...” she looked back to the house, just as the roof fell into itself, and inkblack smoke clouded the sun. “... You’ve proven yourselves adequate, and that is besides the legends of the Blade of Frontiers. Please, Wyll. Find him.”

Strike doubted that Wyll would ever refuse to help someone, but his own father....

He knew the name, Ravengard. Ulder Ravengard, hero of war, son of a blacksmith. Important man in Baldur’s gate, whose son left years ago.

... Huh. Peculiar.

He didn’t feel like he knew Ravengard, anything he could think of him was exactly like how he could sometimes remember things he might’ve read in his past life. An empty fact that occasionally floated up to the dark sea that was his mind.

“I’ll do my damned best, don’t worry,” Wyll was already reassuring the counsellor he apparently knew, right as Strike’s smile grew strained and he found himself digging his clawed fingers into the leather of Wyll’s shirt.

“Can you give us a moment?” He asked, noting the young man’s confusion, and thoroughly ignoring it.

He didn’t wait for the elf to give her permission, because he wasn’t truly asking for it, as he more or less dragged Wyll off to the side. Shadowheart and Karlach followed.

“I’m sorry for not being fully honest, Strike-“

“Again.”

“Again,” Wyll nodded, following along as the drow marched them out of sight of soldiers. “But my father made me an exile years ago, when he learnt of my pact with a devil – I wanted you to know the Blade, not a boy who’s long gone.”

There was a smaller area just out of earshot, with some barns and scared cattle. Good. He could feel Karlach grow a little worried.

Wyll was still speaking. “I should’ve told you. But, despite it all, I am not about to let him suffer at the hands of his captors, so-“

Good enough. Nobody could see or hear them there; Strike grabbed Wyll by the front of his tunic and shoved him towards a wall. He caught Karlach’s shout of protest, but it was as if the world zoomed in, focused on the way his shadow fell over the younger man and made his red eye glow in it.

“Don’t ever fucking run ahead like that again, Wyll,” Strike found himself hissing. The air still smelled of burnt hair, and realizing that it was a lock of his own did not make his mood any better. Wyll grasped for the hand that was grabbing him.

“Wh-”

“That solo bullshit you did back then?” The drow’s hinted back towards the building behind them. “You don’t fucking do that with me, none of that heroic rushing into the fire without a fucking plan, understand??”

“Strike!” Karlach’s voice made his ears twitch, but she didn’t get to him to pull him off of the bloody hero – Strike made a mental note to thank his cleric for having his back like this, always. There was a reason why he always brought her with him.

“For fuck’s sake, Karlach,” he snarled back, “If he’d take a fucking second before charging in, we could figure out that that door was about to explode, couldn’t we?? Shart almost fell from a second floor cause of it. Hells, if we wouldn’t have ran after you,” he glared back at Wyll, saw the shame in his eyes, and twisted the metaphorical knife harder. “Florrick would’ve been dead, buddy. Yeah? Cause you ran off to save someone else without knowing where anyone was, and you needed backup to get out everyone.”

“... You’re right.”

“Of course I fucking am.” He could see that Wyll was sorry, ashamed, and then took a deep breath when he felt the younger man’s hands on his wrist tremble. “.... Look, I get it. You heard your dad was in there and panicked. You’re a good man, Wyll.” His voice fell into a softer understanding with practiced ease. “Good hero. But you’re working with a group now, yeah? Aren’t we capable enough to be trusted with helping you? You can’t do shit like that on your own without fucking us over eventually if we’re meant to be a team.”

Cut first, then bandage.

Wyll thought for a moment, then his body relaxed from the moment of panic when he was first shoved around, and he stood up straighter.

“Yes, I... I understand. It was reckless of me to do – I’m sorry. I’ve been reliant on only myself for so long, I didn’t even-“

“You’re fine. It’s not a bad trait to have, and noone died. This time.” Strike let go of him as he let more of his tiredness show. There was still anger bubbling in his gut, but he knew it had more to do with everything else that was currently going wrong for him; Wyll wasn’t fully at fault. “Just... Fucking trust me, okay? We can do that type of stuff as a team. I can’t stand for that type of-“

Insubordination.

“... Recklessness. Capeesh?”

“Yes.”

He could step away from him now, glanced back to Karlach with her axe still on her back and the woman not in an agrressive position; so all was good, and he figured that little outburst of his was easily twisted into something positive.

“Now. Wyll Ravengard, ey?” His smile slipped back on, and with a slightly embarrassed chuckle, Wyll joined him.

“Well... Not anymore, but, I suppose so. Again, I should’ve been more transparent from the start.”

“Not the worst sin to commit, buddy. But don’t worry, we’ll look for your father, and then you can rub how cool you got into his face all you want.”

“Heh, hardly is that the reason – but thank you.”

“Strike.”

It was just then that Shadowheart, now that the drama was over, hinted towards a well hidden mark by a boarded off door. Zhentarim hideout; right, the reason they were actually here.

Why not get that quick reward from Amos for their trouble?

Turned out, Amos was not with the Zhentarim, and if he were, their leader would’ve “pulled those fat fingers off of him knuckle by knuckle.” Charismatic lady.

Having Wyll with them turned out to be a good thing once again, because the older gentleman thief recognized him from when he saved them from the gnolls a few days ago, and so, the Zhentarim group leader, Zarys, didn’t have them executed on the spot.

Her and Strike caught up quickly once Wyll identified him as their leader, and stood by the railing as she offered him a bottle of cheap wine. They overlooked the giant cave they were in, watched the Zhents pile up barrels and barrels of smokepowder and rig mines....

“Someone kidnapped a duke right from our bloody doorstep,” Zarys spat, “I don’t plan on letting the Fists put blame on us.”

“So just wipe it all away?”

“We hardly get attached to places, friend. In the end, only our people matter.”

“And gold?”

“And gold.”

They took a sip, as part of Strike’s mind focused solely on the barrels rather than the conversation.

“... How ‘bout Amos?”

“Bastard, no good arse. Joined us a few years ago, hardly a pleasant lad to work with, but it’s good to have him ‘round in a fight.” Her eyes cast downwards, before her brows furrowed in anger once more. “Or so we bloody thought. He didn’t want to go on that delivery, told me all smug ‘n’ up his own cock how he wasn’t going to help us if something happens. I called his bluff, and yet...”

Fun guy, really. Strike very much enjoyed his company, but he thought it wiser if he kept the thought to himself.

“What kind of a warrior just leaves a battle, his people out to die??” Zarys continued in what felt like a vent – she must’ve been overly stressed with so much bullshite happening all around. Strike could relate. “From what Rugan told me, the bastard didn’t even pull out a sword, just did some shite with the gnolls, and left!”

“He said he was going to come back here, know anything about that?”

“Probably saw the Fist settle up here; they only arrived a few days ago. Must’ve left already.”

“... Any idea where to?”

“Baldur’s Gate would be my best guess, we’re also headed there. .... Listen, if you manage to take the head off his shoulders, I’m willing to pay you handsomely for it. Just if you happen to run into him before we do.”

“Sure, I’ll try,” Strike lied, “but say, Zarys. Question.”

“Yes?”

“Think you could spare a barrel of smokepowder or two?”

Perhaps Strike was a negotiator of some sort in his previous life, he thought. A merchant, or maybe just a swindler. He managed to barter for three barrels, a crossbow that Karlach was very excited for, and a stray artist that he bought mistakenly thinking him a prostitute for a moment. It was the sheer audacity of a man directly pleading him to buy him that got him to consider it, just to see what’d happen. And, if they got both Astarion and the artist alive to Baldur’s gate, perhaps then the vampire could finally see himself for once.

But that was for another day.

They returned to chat with Florrick, promised her to search for Ravengard, and she in turn told them she’ll meet them in Baldur’s Gate, where she could apparently find someone who “will know what to do about this”. Strike asked if she wanted to cash in that debt she owed him by letting him keep some of her soldiers, but she refused; something about how people aren’t things to be trader and borrowed, he supposed. She did agree to let them keep the armor and weapons of those that fell, so, not a bad trade for her life, all things considered.

Because oh did Strike need more firepower.

It was when they met back in the camp with the rest of their team that he told them of his plans, once they explained away why all three of them were covered head to toe in spiderwebs. They agreed, and, even tired as they were, they’ve headed towards the grove, this time, all seven of them, plus the dog. They packed the whole camp, left no traces behind.

It felt good to walk into Zevlor’s office with Shadowheart and Lae’zel, a whiff of aura and power raising Strike’s chin up more proudly than ever before.

“Have you spoken to Kagha?” Zevlor asked. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “The ritual is near complete, we can’t-“

“My people are speaking to her right now,” Strike reassured him, just as a fireball shook the grove. Seemed like Gale was in his element. “We’ve found proof she was trying to sell out the grove to some shadow druids; didn’t get too invested in that, truth be told. Point is, she’ll be no issue soon – we can plan for the offensive.”

Zevlor seemed like he was going to start protesting, but he sighed, and stood up. “Elaborate.”

“Your people aren’t fit for the road, and there is no way they’re going to beat goblins in a fair fight. Goblins outnumber us six to one, even if we do get the druids to help, and their siege strategy is perfect for what they use it for. Basically, we’re fucked.”

“... I am following so far, yes.”

Strike strolled past him, had Shadowheart pass him the battlemap Astarion swiped from the drow lady’s table back at the goblin camp, and spread it on Zevlor’s desk. The old tiefling stepped forward with peaked interested, as Strike marked the camp on it.

“Grove’s got only one entrance, right?”

“And the beach.”

“Right. Since it’s been cleared of harpies, we can have an emergency evacuation ready there, in case shit goes sour, but, I’ve six people and myself that can fight, you have what, twenty?”

“Perhaps eight, that have ever held a sword before.”

Not ideal. But could work.

“... Aight. Here’s the plan, buddy.”

“Yes?”

 “We let them come over, make them think we’re going to put up a pitiful fight with the very best that we have left. Our chances are less than shit. They know that.”

“... And then?”

Strike smiled at him.

“Then, we slaughter them.”

The afternoon and evening of that day were more than exhausting, but Strike has not felt this much in his element since he woke up, with perhaps the exception of when he fought Lae’zel, or commanded around goblins as if they were his to do so.

He wasn’t lying to Zevlor; their chances were shit. But not non-existent, and that made the whole thing so much fun.

Kagha, much to his surprise, survived the little intervention he’s sent her way. Apparently, switching sides in the last moment and quite literally stabbing her evil cult druid leader in the back was a sign of good faith, even though Strike still wouldn’t trust her to keep her on the defense course, no matter how much remorse she’s shown. Tieflings also wouldn’t trust her, it was just bad for the morale – so he sent her off with his second team, Astarion, Karlach and Wyll. He did think it would be much easier to fight using them too, but Strike wanted to eradicate the goblins at their heart while their forces were split, and a small, precise team that could wipe out the goblin camp one by one while their majority was out, seemed like a good idea. Also, they still needed to save that bear that claimed to be Halsin, and Kagha was quite desperate to prove herself worthy again.

Astarion looked as if he wanted to say something before they left, but Strike didn’t have time for him. He could try turning a little pack of refugees and pacifistic druids into something akin to soldiers overnight, if he wanted to – Strike was busy. And so, Astarion threw him a backhanded remark that he’s forgotten about in a minute, and off he went.

Shadowheart managed the supplies and distribution of healing potions, Lae’zel limped her way around and tested out if people were fit for a fight or not, Gale proved himself quite a decent teacher while he taught everyone who couldn’t fight the simplest cantrip or two, if they felt even the smallest string of the weave. The last wasn’t because it would make them any more useful, not in the slightest, they were at best canon fodder, but Strike felt they would be less likely to panic and become an active liability if they felt like they weren’t completely and utterly helpless. A color spray wouldn’t do much to a goblin about to slice your throat – but feeling like you could use it, especially as your first connection to magic, could mean the difference between freezing up and dodging.

Meanwhile, Strike and Zevlor spent the time planning.

Zevlor liked the idea of smokepowder, but he suggested burying it, which Strike very much approved off; with the help of some bear-shifted druids to dig holes, it was easy enough of a task. While they were at it, everyone who could lift anything came to pile up as much heavy objects as they could on their side of the gates, effectively blocking them off entirely (Strike saw that making the door genuinely unusable made Zevlor feel more at ease – silly man, did he think Strike was going to betray him last minute? He didn’t like Minthara enough to do such a thing). They both knew that the door was their only safe guard; if the goblins broke through, it was pretty much a game over, and Strike had no intention of losing.

They had extra weapons from the Fists, they had people who were barely warriors but could throw a molotov or shoot an arrow if they needed to. Strike toyed with the idea of boiling some oil to pour it on them if anyone brought a ladder, but it felt like too much of a risk for too little of a reward, so he left that one in the drafts.

Using ropes, the people setting traps outside were pulled back over the walls, and then everyone was in. The stage was set.

Strike sent a message to Minthara over their shared mind connection, as frail and weak as it was on this distance, it seemed to work when he could feel her bloodlust echo back his own.

“They’ll be here by the morning,” he hissed through a headache, collapsing on the chair in Zevlor’s so called office. The old tiefling solemnly nodded.

“Our last stand it is, then.”

“It’s only the last one if you plan to sit down after it, pal.”

“... I suppose you’re right.” Zevlor was cleaning his old armor, and briefly, Strike wondered what it was that the paladin saw in his own reflection in it. “I’ve yet to thank you for the help, Strike.”

“Help me when we’re celebrating, how ‘bout that?”

“I will hold you onto that. But still. May I ask, why? If you have that connection to them, if they trust you?”

There were plenty of answers. Strike was truly, sincerely, having fun with this. He liked that people listened to what he told them to do. Something deep within him was reveling at the idea of piling goblin corpses up to the top of the gate. But there was one answer that felt more final than others, and that was...

“I don’t like their leader.”

Zevlor thought about it, gave him a long, hard stare, that Strike could feel more than see, before the paladin shrugged and set his armor down. “Darksighted as it might be, I trust an enemy of my enemy more than I could a man with no reason to do good beyond his own sense of justice. I suppose I should feel lucky for whatever god threw you our way.”

His hand patted Strike’s shoulder warmly as he passed him.

“Okta and young Dekarios have prepared a warm meal for everyone, I’m going to join them.”

“Have fun. Good to see they’re not letting the sense of doom settle.”

“You and your people have been immense help for that.”

“Couldn’t do much without you guys’ spirits.”

For the first time in a while, there was a trace of a smile on Zevlor’s lips. “If Eltruel didn’t break us, what more are some goblins going to achieve?”

A massacre, Strike didn’t doubt it. But he didn’t need to remind the old paladin of that.

Zevlor left him alone to go over the plan again, figure out what positions on the walls would be best suited for which warrior, when a blade suddenly pressed to Strike’s throat, and he froze up.

He knew that knife.

“... Thought we worked our issues out.”

“Letting your guard down, sarth?”

His hand found her waist behind himself, just barely touching her, yet the threat all the same. “I can shock you again.”

“Chk.” Lae’zel tilted the knife other way, just as her other hand snuck its way around Strike’s side, in a manner far less threatening than the blade. “Always prepared. Always another trick on the ready.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I have not been sure of what you were when I first met you. A man of more scars than memories,” her blade traced the thick tissue that circled his throat, where it was once slit. Her other hand’s fingers moved to toy with the lacings of his shirt, and Strike started to realize where this was going. “Are those scars signs of a weakling, each a different loss? Or are they proof of strength, to survive something far beyond reason?”

“You also have scars, remember?”

“Yes. Some are a reminder of the weakness I’ve overcome. And some are memories of battles most glorious. Which are you full of, Strike?”

“Can I assume you’ve already decided, soldier?”

There was a moment where he thought he might’ve terribly misunderstood the situation, before he felt her nuzzle her nose into the crook of his shoulder, felt her inhale at his scent, and the surprising softness of her cheek made him harden a little in his breeches.

“I was foolish to not consider your silver tongue a weapon before. You’re ruthless in how you wield it, you plan a battle like a master of the field. I’ve seen it in our battle, you’d tear the horns off one dragon just to plunge them into another.”

Oh, do keep talking, love.

“You’ve gained my respect, sarth, and more still, my yearning.” His shirt has fallen undone, exposing his chest to the warmth of the torches around them, and Strike gripped at the fabric of the gith’s pants to pull her flush to his back. “When I come near, you reek of old blood on your hands, that never washes out,” her voice was sharp in his ear, her teeth even sharper when she scraped them down his skin. “Your odor alone makes my neck sweat and hair on the back of it stand at attention. I want to taste you.”

She dragged her tongue over his neck, and Strike parted his lips to let out a moan of pure filth when she reached down and cupped him through pants.

He felt a little smile form against him, and that was the final straw, he grabbed for her knife wielding hand and twisted the wrist until she let go of the blade. She let him do it, to a degree, he knew that; but she didn’t seem to mind being backed against the stone table in the middle of the room.

“To be honest,” he grinned, caging her in with his arms on each side of her, a hold she could so easily get out of if she wanted, but didn’t. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since I saw you gut that worg when we first got here.”

Before her leg injury, gods was she glorious. She still was, but right then, in a different way.

“Sate me, and I will sate you,” she retorted, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and Strike let himself be pulled into a kiss.

She felt small under him, deceptively so; when he ran his hands over her body, it was all lean muscle and raw power. His teeth broke her lip and she gasped, held onto him, lifted her hips so that he could pull her pants down, and with them he lowered himself onto his knees for her.

“Hm?~” The fighter rose an eyebrow in a question, but a small grin betrayed a challenge she was offering; one that Strike returned with glee.

“Silver tongue, remember?” he purred, and she willingly spread her legs for him. Strike thanked his lucky god that he found himself actually be good at what he promised, because in not long, she was grabbing at his hair and grinding his face closer to her soaked cunt. Her moans were pretty, the way she arched her back and exposed her throat was wonderful, and when she shoved him over and climbed on top to ride, there was nothing but violent desire in her eyes.

It felt good, to be wanted. Right, to have someone look at him that way.

He flipped them over again so that he was once again towering over her as he rutted into her, to enjoy the way her legs wrapped tightly around him to hold him close, the heat and the sweat and the gross human nature of it all, one living body slopping against another, and Strike felt himself slowly loose track of his mind.

When his hands clasped themselves around her neck and squeezed, she forced them apart herself when it got too much, she laughed and kissed and bit him again – and something deep inside of Strike berated him for it when they laid together to rest, and her chest still rose with breaths.

He slept restlessly that night, clinging onto the wiry, warm body that he wasn’t strong enough to kill just yet.

Chapter Text

“We’ll all be slaughtered back here. Like pigs, waiting on a butcher’s knife. We need to act!”

“Quiet! Some of the children might hear you!”

“Oh, perish the thought they overheard a little honesty once in their short liv-“

“Rolan.” Strike slid between the two bickering siblings, vaguely familiar with their names from the time they briefly chatted when he first got to the Grove and convinced them to stay. He had his doubts about that, now; not the happiest that the first thing he had to deal with at the asscrack of dawn was settle more fights. He still held the bread bun he grabbed for breakfast in one hand, half eaten, when he was called over for help. The curse of being reliable, he figured; even if a part of him thrived like this.

A pretty big part, really.

“Yes?” Rolan, with his pretty, pointy face and pretty eyes asked, as defensive as he was the first day the two met.

“You’re a wizard, right?”

“The finest, thank you very much.”

 “Think you can help us at the gates?”

“Obviously. Me and your wizard spent half a night writing scrolls for your little makeshift army – I’ve already been more help than these troglodytes.”

Strike doubted it, but hey, if it meant more manpower... And not leaving someone who could be at risk of playing hero with the vulnerable people in the back. He smiled.

“Great. You can join us there, I could use another caster. You two,” he hinted at the others, armed with bows and bravery alone, “stay back with the others.”

“But-“

“We need some fighters there, just in case, and we can’t put that many people on the gates that we would be elbow to elbow. Just- listen, aight?”

The girl, Lia, if he remembered right, glared at him for a moment, then scowled, and turned that glare to Rolan as she grabbed her bow from the ground.

“There you go, Rolan. The glory of dying first is all yours. Happy?”

“Exceedingly so. But I won’t be dying.”

“It would be really embarrassing if you do,” Strike agreed, returning the look the other sibling gave him, and was already on his way to deal with other hopefully metaphorical fires that were starting.

Rolan’s smile wavered ever so slightly with nerves.

Strike has slept good last night; Lae’zel utterly exhausted him, then woke him up with a firm voice and her armor already halfway equipped. He could appreciate the functionality of it all; have a good fuck and don’t let it make anything weird between them. She still listened to his orders, as long as he could explain why she should’ve. She still gave her valuable input when she felt it was required, and as a warrior, she was as useful as ever.

The night was short, but nice, and Strike woke up two hours before sunset with an itch in his mind that for once felt good.

There was blood coming, he could smell it in the air, in the heavy atmosphere of the almost-doomed tieflings.

Everyone managed to force at least some food down their anxious stomachs, the supplies for a potential evacuation were packed and handled, the kids were gathered and convinced into staying in the inner sanctrum, with Alfira, who volunteered to keep them occupied. Strike kind of doubted that she could take them, but at least a majority seemed to like her poor retellings of Balduran’s stories, and as long as the kids kept out of the line of fire, Strike didn’t care more.

He’s just set Rolan to help with traps on the sides of the gates, gone through the plan with Zevlor again, and finally, finally, took a moment to sit down.

He’s stolen a bottle of wine; not the whole thing, just... enough to calm his head. Enough to help him focus.

“Drinking before a fight, hm?”

The voice was teasing, not accusing, and Strike opened his eyes with a sigh. He hasn’t seen this tiefling before, not that he could recall – a tall lady with a tight ponytail, and a mischevious smile.

“One for courage,” he grinned back, tipped his bottle as in a toast, and she sat next to him, behind the barrels he has used as a partial cover for the moment.

“Courage. And here I thought you were hiding from responsibilities.”

“Just for a few minutes,” he passed her the bottle, and after a slight hesitation, she took a swing. A deep one, but only one. She returned it.

“... Courage. Didn’t think we’d be able to muster it, to be honest. But with how you and your people have picked this place together?” She thought, then chuckled. “... Well, I still think they’ll kill us. But at least we can put up a fight.”

“We won’t lose.”

“But we might die,” she finished the thought, “We came all the way through Avernus, though. We might not look it, but we’re tough. Who knows, some of us might even make it to Baldur’s Gate.”

“I’ll see you there, then.”

Because no matter how the tides turned today, Strike wasn’t planning on dying. Or losing the battle – he didn’t have a real backup plan for it, because he wasn’t going to lose in the first place. The thought didn’t make sense.

The girl laughed, reached for his drink again, and he moved it out of the way in a manner easily considered playful.

“... If you’re that sure, why don’t we make a bet?” She suggested, leaning partly over him to grab the bottle, but Strike had the advantage of a much longer reach and probably some underlying issues with alcohol that he wasn’t ready to address -  he was motivated enough to not let her have it anymore.

“Yeah? What bet?”

The grove suddenly shook with a sound of an explosion, but it was no reason for alarm. Strike could hear Zevlor calming his people down; Lae’zel and Gale were on the beach, testing the range of explosives at a safe distance from everyone else.

“If we both make it to Baldur’s Gate, I’ll buy you a drink, hun.”

“Heh. Sure.”

“But you have to share another right now.” Her hand was on his chest, most of her upper weight on him before she leaned back on the balls of her feet, hand still extended for the bottle. “No need to have our glorious leader drunk off of his arse as he’s commanding the tropes, is there?~”

“I’m not going to get drunk, I was just-“

“Strike!”

Another’s voice cut through the moment they had, and Strike felt his eye twitch in annoyance as he looked down from the top of the gates. He recognized this tiefling, that one friend of Wyll’s that was helping the children train, and who helped Alfira gather the little shits.

“Yeah?”

“The druids! Those bloody-“ Asharak cursed in infernal, furious out of his mind over something, and Strike’s annoyed expression dropped into a more serious one. He handed the whole bottle to the girl as he stood up.

“Save the rest for the party after. And do stay in one piece,” he told her, and she gave him a small toast.

“I’ve a debt unpaid. I will.”

The thought was almost comforting. Something normal, expected, that could now await him in Baldur’s Gate. Strike let himself be happy for all but the time it took him to get down the ladder, because then he was with Asharak, and they sprinted to the druids’ circle to see what the bastards did now.

“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR NOW, RATH!”

The voice that answered was not Rath. It was some other, sniveling druid, whose face Strike wanted to see laid out on that stupid rock the arseholes have used to hole inside.

“Go away! There’s nothing in here for you – for any of you!”

Strike pounded on the door, only managing to rough up his hand, but he was angry enough to consider throwing one of his smoke powder barels right at the bloody stone and using heads of the druids to throw at goblins.

“You whiny little shits,” the drow hissed, felt a sparkle of electricity dance between his fingers. “We have a plan, damn it! We need you!”

“I said go away! You people have endangered this sacred place long enough!”

“These people are going to fucking die on your goddamn doorstep!”

“Then this sacred grove can be a comfort to them in their final moments!”

“...”

Asharak was practically shaking by his side, hand on one of the kids’ shoulders. The other tieflings were there, too, standing around the sanctum and wondering why they weren’t being let inside yet. Alfira seemed scared, everyone seemed scared or confused or angry, and they had every right to be!

Strike was sure they couldn’t all hear them well, not with the gathering crowd that was talking to itself, but it wouldn’t last long for the speculation to spread, and-

“Oh gods, we’re going to die-“

“No, stop that.”

It was all slipping between his fingers, but Strike has been grasping for straws since the moment he first woke up. How bloody lucky.

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, just... to think. He had to think.

From the corner of his eye he noticed someone watching him closer than others, a little tiefling child with a cloth wrapped around one side of the pace, but she was attentive. Noticing. Reminded Strike about the kid Zevlor warned him of.

She almost disappeared into the crowd before he reached her, but he was faster and bigger, and when he grabbed her by the arm, he saw the group of orphaned children tense up instantly. One of them had a hand in some adult’s pocket.

“Mol?” Strike guessed, eased his grip not to hurt the girl, as she glared up at him.

“None of my kids did anything, before you ask.”

“I know.” He crouched to her height, ignored Asharak behind them when he called for him as the crowd got louder. “Listen. You’ve some sort of a hiding place, don’t you?”

She didn’t seem to have expected that, and she rose her hand, to stop the other kids from moving closer. She looked him over. Calculating.

“... Your lady friend saved one of my kids from the harpies,” she stated. “Where were you?”

“Killing goblins, outside.”

“Thought a drow’d work with them, then.”

“Thought you wanted your kids to live, then.”

Her eye flashed towards the children, then back to him, and there was the slightest tremble to her lip as she straightened her back. Cute, having to look tough to keep others calm.

“... We have a secret cave. It’s-“

“How many entrances does it have?”

“It- ... Two. One’s just for us, other is hidden.”

“Take your kids there,” he thought for a moment, “And Alfira. She’ll help you keep them calm. Block off one exit and keep the other as hidden as possible, and do not come out at any cost until the fighting is over. Understood?”

She has yanked her arm away from him, stood a little taller than him now that he was crouching, and the brat dared to look almost too proud to take the offer.

“And we’re supposed to just put all our trust in you? I heard the druids, they won’t help. We’re all alone.”

“Mol.” He gripped her shoulders. She failed not to flinch. “You’re responsible for your kids, aren’t you?”

“... They only have me. We take care of eachother.”

“Then accept that for now, you’re bloody kids, and they’re scared, and you need to be brave for them and help them hide. Yeah?” He thought for a moment. “And, I’ll pay you a hundred gold if you manage to keep everyone inside until you hear Zevlor or Asharak or Rolan call for you.”

“... Hundred each?”

“Don’t push it.”

She loooked back to ‘her’ kids, then scuffed, and shook Strike’s hand where he had offered it.

“Don’t die out there,” she huffed. “You owe us.”

“Keep your kids safe,” he replied. “And destroy the other entrance, if you can. Goblins are small like you, but they’ve got strength of a grown men and will tear you apart. We’ll do my best so that none can make it through, but if they do, no need for you to die because we were too weak, innit?”

He could smell it, the fear on her skin, in the faint stench of her sweat – but she nodded, and puffed out her little chest before leaving. The kids obeyed her, just like how Zevlor said they do; and Strike hoped she could keep Alfira and the other children away from where they could get in the way.

Now, for the adults.

He has just put on a smile, tried to explain about how the plans have changed and how they should go to the room Zevlor took as his own – but then, he felt the pain in his brain, of Shadowheart alerting him that the goblins were here.

Their time has ran out.

“EVERYONE WAIT HERE,” was all he could do, yell, leave them out in the open with only the mountain to shield them. “FOLLOW ASHARAK TO THE RAFTS IF WE’RE BREACHED, OTHERWISE STAY THE FUCK HERE!”

He heard their voices, their terrified questions, but before he could erupt again, he could see Dammon and Rolan’s siblings rush to calm the others down – good. Good. He grabbed Lia when she moved past him by the shoulder and pulled her close, fury bringing something to his face that the tiefling tried to flinch away from, but Strike didn’t allow it.

“If you’re breached,” he hissed, right in front of the gate full of rats, “I want your dying words to be a death sentence for the fuckers in there. Tell goblins they’re in the cave. We’re not letting them live to justify their actions if they doom us.”

She went pale, but, there was the same spark of anger, and she nodded.

Good.

Fucking good.

The druids went quiet inside, too, and Strike ran to reach the entrance before the first rays of sun would’ve.

The stench of unwashed goblins was there already by the time Strike reached the ladder. Shadowheart has given him a hand to pull him over the edge, and then they pulled the ladder up with them. Zevlor looked ready to pop a vein of concern right there.

“Where are the druids??” he asked, quiet enough for the enemies not to hear, and Strike felt his eye twitch again.

“Not coming.”

“... Gods above.”

“We’ll manage.”

“But-“

“Zevlor, we’ll manage, or there won’t be anything left to regret anyway.”

The old tiefling bit his lip, then, the shakiest of tired smiles appeared on his exhausted face. “Your courage is catching, it seems. Or perhaps I’ve finally lost my reason.”

Finally, someone who didn’t need to be forced into not giving up. Strike sighed, smiled back. Hinted to the small group of warriors they had. “Rile them up, buddy.”

And as the paladin went to do just that, Strike finally got up and was able to see the threat they were dealing with.

Ah. They were pretty fucked, it seemed.

Giant spiders. Worgs, goblins. Ogres. A singular drow who stood above them all with her hands behind her back and a smug smile on her face, utterly convinced of her victory as she stared over them all, allowed them to have a moment to gather their troupes while her own army barely restrained their lust for their blood.

They stood at the verge of their demise. A brutal ending, if only one more thing went wrong.

He heard a pop of a bottle opening behind him, as Shadowheart pushed it in his hand, and kept one for herself. Potion of speed, just as they arranged. Gale was at one side of the gate, stretching his arms to loosen the consequences of his less than ideal posture, and Lae’zel kneeled there with pressure off of her injured leg, her warbow, and more arrows than there were goblins. The tieflings were in their positions. Rolan was stood to the side to defend their exposed left flank. Strike saw sweaty faces that grimaced in determination, shaky hands that gripped their weapons, he heard Zevlor’s speech of fear and fight and truly, truly, he felt like it was all set up as best as he could’ve done.

Strike felt himself stiffen in his breeches as his heart beat faster.

Whether it was a bad thing or not, he was having fun, and even more so when he felt Minthara penetrate his mind with a mocking laugh.

‘Such a pretty speech’, she had grinned, ‘almost brings a tear to my eye. Now kill him while hopes for victory still stain his tongue, jaluk. Seal their fate, bring us victory in the Absolute’s name.’

His eyes met with Minthara’s, then glanced down to the army, and most especially, the ogres in it. Lump, his two, and another, whom he didn’t know. Strike grinned back, just as he realized it has all gone quiet but the rush of his blood in his own ears.

Waiting.

For them.

‘Unfortunately for you, mistress’  he rose his potion up as in a toast, and just for a moment, relished in the confused curving of Minthara’s brows. ‘I’ve come to learn I don’t care for victories in names of others.’

Her face twisted into rage that he missed when he drank the potion, felt his tired body spring to life, a new type of energy rush through him in a way it hasn’t in gods know how long.

“Kin at heart, my friend!” he shouted with confidence he had no right to feel, and before Minthara, or anyone could understand what he had meant, Lung grabbed a barrel by his side, and threw it right at the woman’s face.

She got knocked off of the cliff she stood on, she rolled to ease the damage of her fall, and she managed to stop just before she’d touch the warding glyph Shadowheart has left there earlier. Her eyes widened at the glint of what she had just noticed, and realizing that midfall, then stopping before she’d activate it... It was impressive, Strike had to have give her that.

Not enough, through.

By the time she looked up and screamed at her people to attack, Strike has already thrown the empty potion bottle at them. Minthara saw it fly.

She was too far to do anything but stare, right when the bottle hit the center of the glyph, and the ground exploded into her face.

Chaos broke loose.

For the first time since he woke up, Strike felt like himself; whoever that might’ve been.

Mirror image.

Blur.

Now wait.

The tieflings threw everything they had at the approaching enemies, but Strike kept back the order for more literal fire; he could see the goblins with suicide packs of smokepowder, he kept an eye on the lines of explosives. Their biggest problem were the spiders, which were able to jump high enough to immediately breach them, but because of the few moments the unexpected start of the battle gave them, the tieflings were able to get on them quick – Gale put two down with a spell of sleep, for Zevlor to slaughter in one viscious smite, and Shadowheart managed something similar with a command and two tieflings with swords. Rolan sent a spider flying back to the goblins below, then threw around acid vials as if they were spells of their own.

There was blood. Screaming. Strike watched it all from the corner of his eye, his gaze trained down onto the advancing goblins with bombs.

They were getting closer.

An arrow swished right by his cheek. He didn’t even feel the need to flinch away.

Someone fell, on his left. Shadowheart was sprinting around to be able to keep everyone alive.

Closer.

Zevlor was shouting something, something about goblins being thrown at them, but everyone had their own positions, and when Strike thought he heard someone aim a bow at him from behind, he trusted the frenzy of blade and loyalty that was Lae’zel to keep any arrow from his back.

Closer.

Minthara was fighting three ogres by herself, they had swarmed her when the glyph’s explosion threw her backwards, but Strike couldn’t even look up to see her suffer; he had a job to do, he couldn’t miss the exact moment.

The next time, an arrow did hit him; it grazed him across the shoulder, and he hissed, and stood still, because it was almost there, almost, almost.

An explosion by his side. A stab, a swish of a blade, someone screaming, someone he knew. All the emotions of his companions that rained through his mind for for once, for once, he could shut them out completely. Calm as a river in his focus, he counted the steps, kept an eye on the burning ropes..

Closer.

Clo-

There.

 “ Ardē .”

He dropped the fireball straight down, like letting a cup slip between his fingertips to mock someone who cared for it. It hit the exact spot of one of the hidden barrels of smokepowder, ignited that, ignited the ones the flames of the first one reached, ignited the ones the goblins carried, the stashes of firewine that were hidden in the bushes just far from the exit to not affect it. The wine exploded from the blast, splattered everything around them with itself, activated spike traps and the other two glyphs of warding that Gale and Rolan had prepared earlier, on the vertical wall of the cliff Minthara stood at. Back when she thought she had a chance.

It was devastating. The chain of explosions and fire shook the ground, scorched the ground, filled the air with a stench of burnt flesh and victory. The flames reached high enough to lick at Strike’s boots as he watched the momentary inferno he’s unleashed, with glee of an artist who's revelling in the applause his hard work has just earned.

Screams of the applause quieted down, and the world was quiet once more.

It was easy to take care of the remaining goblins, a few arrows and stabs, and nothing more – who knew. Sniveling on the ground, they were just like any other mortal. They weren’t fighting anymore, not after dirt itself became fire and breath became smoke infested pain. The tieflings have dropped the ladder to climb down and take care of those that remained, most importantly of all, the ogres.

Them, and Minthara herself.

Strike stepped over a corpse of a burnt bugbear to approach her, raising his hand to keep the tieflings and his own companions in the back, as he stared down at the woman through the clouds of smoke.

“Impressive you lived this far,” he commented, head cocked slightly to the side as he watched her attempt to stand up, and fall right back. Her left arm was clutching her spilled guts to her stomach. Her right tried to reach for her weapon, but he stepped on it, and pulled it away with his foot. “Don’t I remember something about me chained at your feet, mistress? How’d that go again?”

Oh, it felt good, to have their roles reversed to what they should’ve been.

She glared up at him with those hatefilled eyes, blood and dirt covering her face and lip, where a bit of flesh was torn off by the explosion.

“Jaluk,” she hissed, slipped in her own blood once more as she attempted to stand up again. Strike kept her down with a swift kick to the ribs.

“Nah.”

“You- you betrayed the Abso-“

Another kick. The discomfort of the tieflings was palatable in the air; at least of those that didn’t enjoy it almost as much as he did. He couldn’t bother to tell who felt what, not really.

Minthara laid on the floor, finally having given up her fight, and so, Strike crouched down with her. She tried to snap away from his hand when it reached out, but she couldn’t, she couldn’t do shit when he caressed her bloody cheek, brushed a sweaty lock of hair behind her ear.

“I didn’t betray shit,” he told her, intimately, like a pleasure slave she thought she could have him as. “There’s nothing to betray here.”

He felt the artifact he got from Shadowheart burn behind his belt, and the thoughts of his companions were wiped clean from his mind. All that was left was red; the red of Minthara’s wide open, terrified eyes, and the red that slowly crept towards the edges of his vision.

“Your people at the base are dead, buddy. Your Moonrise towers won’t suffer your failure. Your goddess didn’t help you. And you’re going to die for her. For nothing.”

She couldn’t stop him if she tried, when the hand on her face started to warm up and the air crackled with flashes of lightning, a spell so engraved in Strike’s soul that he barely needed words to cast it. She could just lay down and couldn’t do shit to save herself – so when Strike stopped, it wasn’t because of anything that she had done.

It was Lump, who had crudely pulled him back by the shoulder. The ogre was clearly struggling to keep up his semi-pleasant smile; probably explained by the bloody stump that was once his right arm, and the gutted corpse behind him that was once his friend. The other ogre was crying on the ground, both of his legs shattered at the knees – like her or not, Minthara did some horrifically impressive damage to the three of them, before the explosion.

“Our agreed payment will barely suffice, friend,” the ogre smiled through grit teeth. “I am afraid we must ask for more, due to... circumstances.”

Rolan grabbed for his scrolls, but Lae’zel suddenly had him by the hair, a blade to his neck to stop him and everyone else form moving. Strike could hear her hiss at the young tiefling to not do anything stupid, to “Let him work,” and he felt almost touched by such an expression of blind trust.

He smiled at the ogre.

“Sure thing, my friend. Buddy. What’d you want?”

“... Healing. Food. Any gold found at their camp.”

“Only fair,” Strike lied, and reached his hand out towards Lump. “Anything else?”

He didn’t need to keep it up. The crying ogre wasn’t smart enough to understand what was to happen, but Lump wasn’t as lucky. Clever creature’s eyes expressed nothing but that raw, violent hatred as they turned white from the flash of Strike’s lightning bolt, and Lump the enlightened died the same way any other ogre would’ve.

“Shi- Strike!”

Minthara had ran, and only Shadowheart’s shout alerted him of it; he didn’t even need to look around for where she had gone to, only had to follow the path of Lae’zel’s arrow. It hit the ground right by Minthara’s feet, but the woman managed to avoid it, and kept running, holding her guts in one arm to keep them semi-contained.

“... Shit.”

“Strike, we have to-“ another explosion sounded out, and with sudden alert, Strike and others looked back towards the grove. It came from inside.

“Move!” The drow ordered, despite not really having to – the tieflings were already running towards the source. He exchanged a quick look with his companions (and by the Gods, did Gale look awful again) and saw the question before they would’ve even asked about it. “Who cares if she gets away, it’s not like she can bring back reinforcements in time. That matters more.”

Neither of the women seemed to agree, but it didn’t matter. They took off, to hopefully not find everything they just pretended to fight for lay dead and slaughtered on the ground.

There was a small group of goblins that broke in through the beach, nothing for a few warriors, but for a group of civilians? Certainly a tough break, even if Dammon, Lia and Cal put in their hearts and souls to defend them. Strike was certain even the brave ones would’ve died had the druids not broken out of their hiding hole and took care of them – by the time they got there, they could see goblins snatched up in spiked vines, snares, and torn apart by bears.

Lots of injuries from a first glance, but nothing lethal; Cal was probably going to lose an eye, and Damon wasn’t going to be putting any pressure on his leg anytime soon, but what mattered was that nobody died.

Zevlor punched a druid in the face.

“Wh- We fought!” The man shouted as his nose spluttered blood, and Strike grinned at him over Zevlor’s shoulder.

“It’s why a punch is all you’re getting, buddy.”

He couldn’t say much more; not when Zevlor suddenly turned around and pulled him into the deepest, warmest hug Strike’s ever felt.

“They all live,” the trembling man breathed out, only squeezing tighter. “They all- I thank whatever gods have sent you our way, a thousand times over.”

“... heh.” Strike sighed, allowing his suddenly tense body to relax into the embrace. He suddenly felt exhausted. “Don’t thank the gods, buddy. I’m right here.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

The drow wasn’t completely sure on what he was supposed to do in that situation, so he just... hugged him back. The old paladin’s relief was near overbearing. Strike gripped him closer and tasted the familiar scent of burnt flesh that surrounded them both.

Despair had a way of hanging over people like a weighted blanket, smothering you until you could barely breathe. Or so Strike observed; he himself didn’t seem particularly affected by it. Happiness, though? Happiness was new. Same heavy blanket, different type of a chokehold.

Strike found himself be much less resistant to it than he was to despair.

The grove celebrated at the place where Strike and his team have set up camp a few days ago, by the river, seeing as the lands were finally safe enough for such a thing, if only for one night. Nobody wanted to be holed up in the grove anymore.

It was nice to see all these people relaxed, though, after they spent the day packing and taking care of their wounds. At one point towards the late afternoon, Strike’s other team returned from massacring the rest of the goblin camp, Astarion with a drunken sway of an overfed vampire, and Karlach and Wyll carrying everything semi-useful they could’ve robbed from the place. They told of the secret entrance to the Underdark they’ve found in the depths of the temple, and Strike put a pin in that thought for the day after – they had all deserved a single evening of no worries.

Kagha has apparently gotten yelled at by the grand druid and has therefore only congratulated them on their victory, before retrieving into the Grove for a much needed cleanup, along with other druids. The party was for tieflings, Strike and his team, and that vagabond bard Karlach has picked up somewhere along the way. And Scratch, of course. Strike snuck him a piece of ham when noone was looking.

“Hey, Astarion.”

The vampire looked surprised when he was pulled to the side, but he covered it up quickly, with the same bored glance of disapproval that was pestering his face ever since their last night together.

“If you think I will-“

“I’m not thinking you will do anything, buddy. I think you have done it already,” Strike rolled his eyes. “Hand it over.”

“... Hand what over?”

“The Silvanus thingie.”

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“I know it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. C’mon, just. We don’t need the bloody thing.”

With a pout, Astarion produced the statue, and just like that, Strike and him didn’t speak anymore. What was the point? The elf was useful in battle, yes, but Strike wasn’t particularly interested in dealing with his personal brand of issues when there were plenty of other ones to worry about.

Besides, the bards pulled out their instruments, Dammon broke open a barrel of wine, and the party had started.

It was a bit of a blur very quickly, Strike realized while dancing with whoever it was that dragged him to the dance floor. The melodies were chirp, the rythm fast, and despite his body hurting all over, he found himself enjoying the music. Learning he was actually quite a decent dancer was all the better, and a drink after drink disappeared into him until the world spun in a way that didn’t need to make sense. Another song ended, and he left his dance partner -was that Lia? He was quite sure it was Lia- with a gentleman-y bow and a smile, to hunt for more drinks and a break.

He found both by Zevlor’s side, the old tiefling slightly reclused to the side and chatting with the second biggest elf Strike has ever seen. Zevlor introduced him to the grand druid Halsin, and half drunkenly, Strike shook his meaty hand.

“Sayyyy, you ever met anyone named Amos? A relative, perhaps?”

“Can’t say I have,” the druid had kind eyes. A handsome smile when Strike swayed on his feet a little, and the elf helped him stabilize. “I wish to thank you for everything you’ve done here, but it might be better to wait for your mind to be able to remember it.”

“Pshhhh, you’ve no idea of what things I can forget,” Strike huffed, and while the elf joined him for a laugh, he politely refused a drink himself.

“I’m terrible at holding my liquor, forgive me.”

Whatever Strike wanted to say in turn was forgotten when the sounds of splashing water and giggles reached them, and the drow sighed into his half-full cup.

“... Should probably get ‘em out before someone drowns, lemme just-“

“No need,” Halsin cut in. He was so terribly gentle with his hands on Strike’s shoulders as he somehow still firmly put him down, to sit next to Zevlor on a blanket covered log. “You’ve done enough for us today. Enjoy yourself, please. We’ve plenty to talk about soon, but for tonight, allow me to make sure wine doesn’t take more victims than goblins did.”

Handsome smile. Warm.

Strike grinned drunkenly up at him and let himself be fussed over, he got his hair brushed out of his face and when he went to take another sip from his bottle, he needed three full gulps to realize it was sneakily replaced with plain water. Halsin was gone before the drow could mouth a complaint about it, and so he just stayed there, as Zevlor sat down next to him.

The old man was smiling, watching Strike dump the rest of the water on the ground. Neither spoke until the stream was gone.

“What a night, ey?” Strike asked, leaning back and almost falling, only saved by Zevlor’s firm hands on the small of his back and shoulders.

“That it is,” he agreed, softly. “... You have no idea how good it feels to see these people smiling. The singing we could probably do without, but, even so. Thank you.”

Yeah. It was nice.

Strike leaned to his side, found his head resting against the older man’s shoulder, and it eased the pleasant dizzyness enough to let his mind clear a little.

He could see them, the happy, drunken people. Rolan putting on some sort of a magic show, Lae’zel and Gale seated by Gale’s tent with a book that the wizard pulled out of seemingly nowhere. Astarion and Shadowheart, finding a place in a tree above it all, sharing a bottle and, knowing them, complaints they didn’t really mean. Karlach, dancing with Dammon who has put on his thickest smithing gloves and apron, and the barbarian looked downright giddy to be able to hold hands as she twirled him. Wyll, standing with them, slightly awkward, less energetic, but okay – Strike remembered that the man was worried about his appearance being unsightly, but Alfira seemed to have explained it well to the others, because nobody looked at him like at a devil in their midst. Just another oddity, perhaps. Asharak seemed to have finally dropped the stick from his arse after Lakrissa has kidnapped him for a dance; it was definitely the first time Strike saw a smile on his face.

All in all – they were happy.

Despite the horrors, future and past.

Yeah, he liked these people. Perhaps almost more than he liked the goblins, even.

Strike sighed contemptly into Zevlor’s neck, shielding his eyes from the flickering light of the fire that suddenly burned a little too brightly for his tastes. The tiefling was suddenly so still underneath him.

“... You’re always just thanking me, buddy,” the drow hummed, scooting just a bit closer while his drunken mind finally caught up with what it might’ve wanted. “And yet. You did so much today, too.”

His lips brushed against Zevlor’s skin when he spoke, felt the pulse of the vein in his neck, the gulp of spit as the old man tried to figure out how to react.

“Any idea how I could thank you?~”

Perhaps this night still had a chance to get even better.

They didn’t get far, just a bit further into the forest, Strike almost falling multiple times as Zevlor held his hand and lead him through the bushes. The tiefling was nervous, shifty, and the drow found it just so sweet how unsure of himself the former paladin was about something as simple as sex.

He was strong, at least, even if Strike was taller – Zevlor pushed him up against a tree and the part of Strike that would’ve usually protested seemed to have quieted down with the wine. He was still high of the power of today. Zevlor’s skin still smelled of burning, and Strike laughed as he dropped to his knees for the paladin. So cute, that he was hard already. He wondered when the last time someone touched him was, and from the way Zevlor’s hands gripped at the drow’s hair, it must have been a hot while.

“By the watching gods, you-“

“Sure hope they aren’t watching, actually.”

Strike grinned as he lazily nuzzled his face into the paladin’s crotch, enjoyed the scent of burnt flesh that clung to the leather and was not going to leave easily.

“I- You- How drunk are you?”

“Enough.”

Enough to crave to feel another’s flesh against his own. Enough for the world to spin around him and for his body to feel like it belonged to another. Zevlor choked on his own moan, but when Strike reached for his belt to undo it, the paladin’s morals got the best of him, and he stumbled out of reach.

“S-shit, I. I can’t, I’m sorry. It’s not...” He was drunk, too, but not nearly as much as the drow was, unfortunately. “Not when you’re like this. By the gods, what am I doing-“

“... Fucking up a perfectly good head you’d get?”

He could see something twitch in the old man’s breeches at the thought, but still, still, the paladin stepped away. “I’m sorry, really, I just...”

So much about morals, Strike would’ve rolled his eyes had he not feared he would get vertigo from it as Zevlor stumbled away. Perhaps to have a guilty wank, who knew – but if he were truly worried for the drunk sorcerer, he would not have left him alone in the woods like that.

Bloody paladins.

Strike leaned backwards until his head rested against the tree he almost got fucked against, closed his eyes and wished for another drink – when just like that, one appeared.

“That was... rough to watch.”

Lakrissa grinned down at him, an obvious sway to her stance, and Strike moved aside so that she could join him on the ground, once she passed him the bottle she had with her. Wine, not water. It filled his head with a pleasant warmth once more.

“Sorry for ruining a show. Pervert.”

“Me?” She laughed, her speech slurred just enough to match Strike’s own. “I went out to drown a sorrow, not to watch my elder rut against our hero.”

“Sorrow? For what, goblins?”

Noone else died today. Strike was quite proud of that, he had every right to be.

A smile died on Lakrissa’s lips, and she gladly took the bottle he offered her back. “... Not... Not really, a sorrow. Just. I don’t know. I wished to dance with Alfira today, but....” she shrugged.

“The other bard?”

“Such a nice girl,” Lakrissa sighed. “I can’t even be mad at her; her and Alfira have so much fun chattering about music and all.”

She passed the bottle back, and playfully, Strike elbowed her in the ribs. “Hey, at least you got rejected for a person, rather than religious guilt. Or man’s own hand. Or both.”

“Hah. Yeah. Now that would be humiliating.”

“You’re the one sitting with a fellow reject.”

She was pretty, Strike thought as their eyes met, and she leaned closer to him.

“Too bad. Now we’ll have to make do with eachother only.”

It was her who moved first, kissed him, straddled him, and Strike grabbed for her waist to make sure this one doesn’t leave, too.

The sex was a blur. A fun, wet, horny blur, but a blur nontheless. Her hair reached down to her waist when loose, and Strike found himself mouthing at her pale grey chest to pull more of those pretty moans out of her. He took her on the grass as she clung to him, clawed at the scarred mass of his back, and didn’t ask any questions about it. She looked even prettier in the moonlight, then.

It was fun, quick and messy, and Strike sighed in content once he finished and laid on top of her.

“Pup,” she called him, caressed his hair, and he purred into her heaving chest.

“You still owe me a drink,” he reminded her, leaving a lazy kiss next to a bite on her breast, and she gave him a light pull on the ear for it.

“After all that?”

“None of that was a drink.”

“... Seems we’re destined to meet again, then.”

“Mhm~”

“You’re sweet, you know that?”

“Tell that to the goblins. Oh wait, you can’t.”

She laughed, cupped his cheeks, pulled him up for a kiss on the lips that felt almost deceivingly soft.

“You’re sweet to have helped us. You stayed.” She kissed him again, on the cheek, on the nose. On the forehead. “You didn’t have to, but you pulled us through. Hells, we might even make it to something akin to a home now.” Another to the lips. Strike felt weak in her gentle grasp. “Really. I mean it.”

He didn’t know what he could even say to that. So many possible explanations for why she was wrong – but a kind touch felt foreign and nice, and he couldn’t find it in him to correct her. Not when he just barely understood himself why it felt so wrong.

He fell asleep curled up against her, her soft breaths and beating heart lulling him into the darkness his dizzy mind was inviting him in.

Lakrissa woke him up some time later, just to twist from under him. She kissed his forehead and fetched him a bottle of water, left him there to sober up a little before he could return. He so vageuly remembered telling her that she should still try for that dance with Alfira.

Sleep took him again. There was music in the distance still, the flickering lights of the fire.

For once, no nightmares came. Strike woke up before dawn, just at the brink of it – there was no sun yet to rise, just the slightest creeping of it on the horizon. Not a single bird chirped yet.

Strike reached up to rub the sleep out of his eyes, and the scent of copper hit him hard enough to sober him up.

His hands were bloody.

His hands were covered in blood.

He looked around himself, to all sides, to everyone who was dead asleep still around him, because he felt it in his gut that if he looked down, something horrible will happen.

Something horrible did happen, though.

Right there, in the middle of the camp, in the middle of everyone, laid a gored body of a young girl that he barely recognized. The bard, the dragonborn bard Alfira sang with. Her throat was slit to the bone. Her guts pulled out, her eyes gouged, and there was Strike with blood on his hands.

And he couldn’t remember.

Everyone was around. Anyone could wake up then and there, see their hero and how he’s just- what, killed her, in his sleep?

Not killed, something vile whispered in his head, and he could just barely recognize his own voice. Gored her. Massacred. Pulled her apart right there, in front of all.

He couldn’t even move, just sat on his knees, a heavy weight in his bones that prevented him from even attempting to think about what to do rationally. They’ll know. They’ll wake up and they’ll know and then they’ll put you down, like a dog, a feral hound, unless you slice them while they sleep, and then noone will ever know what you-

“Oh, darling.”

It was a soft voice that pulled him out of the red frenzy of his mind, only enough to be able to see the figure in front of him that put itself between himself and the girl. The corpse.

Astarion’s expression was unreadable, cold red eyes finding Strike’s panicked ones, as he reached down to cup his jaw, lead the beast to look up at him and not at the corpse. The girl.

“You poor, wretched thing,” the vampire whispered, and Strike lost it. He grabbed for the leather of Astarion’s pants, buried his face in it, hid, hid from the shame, and broke down in the most violent of sobs his body could produce. Astarion froze up for a moment, before Strike felt a cold hand on his hair that pet him as his body convulsed, half retched, half cried.

“What have you done?”

Chapter Text

We have to move her.

Strike.

We have to move her.

They’re waking up.

“Strike.”

It took a sharp tug on his hair and an even sharper whisper for the drow to realize that the voice in his head was Astarion’s, not his own.

The vampire looked blurry when he looked at him, tears clouding his vision in a way that felt so disgustingly unfamiliar. Strike blinked away the blur, only to be faced with the unreadable expression of the person who caught him.

“We have to move her,” Astarion repeated coldly, hinting to the gored up body.

He didn’t question him. Didn’t alert anyone.

Strike swallowed, and got up on his shaky knees to follow the man currently much more clear of mind than himself.

She was light, for a dragonborn. They had to shove her guts back into her stomach so that they didn’t leave any behind. Astarion did that, then told Strike to grab her under the arms, while the vampire gathered her legs and tail.They couldn’t lift her up all the way, but, just enough to get her to the river.

Blood still dirtied her. It dyed the water dark red around her. Droplets of halfdry blood melted away by the water, ink in a cup, a spill almost beautiful in the contrast of grotesquness of its source.

“Ma—th---blood, --rge,” Astarion’s voice interrupted him again, but it was hard to focus, when the blood coated his hands and face and mind and made him feel so, so heavy. Astarion grabbed his face. Harshly. His nails dug into Strike’s face until his vision was forced to center on a different shade of red that the vampire’s eyes carried.

“... huh..”

“The blood, darling,” Astarion repeated, shaking him slightly. Strike felt as if his brain sloshed around in his skull, hitting itself against the cage of the cranium. “Magic it away.”

He turned his head to make him see it, the snail-like trail of red they left across the camp, around the sleeping tieflings and other people that considered Strike a saviour. Karlach was snoring somewhere. Everyone was passed out and drunk, but the first rays of sunshine were starting to creep over the walls of the Grove nearby.

“Strike.”

“Ah.”

A swoosh of his hand, and the trail was no more. Another, and the circle that marked where the corpse used to lay disappeared, too.

Something twisted in Strike’s gut, the feeling of wrongness, and he saw the corners of his vision paint themselves red... before Astarion pulled him forward, towards the water, and the drow followed where he lead.

They wandered into the river thigh deep, with the corpse, Astarion nervously looking around to the camp, and then gave the girl a push to head down with the stream. Strike followed. There was a certain relief in having a head so numb to it all, so much that he couldn’t even worry about when it will all come crashing down.

They went half an hour alongside the river, until the pull of the water got too bad, and Astarion grabbed Strike’s hand to lead him closer to the shore, and away from the waterfall they were waddling towards.

Water carried the girl over the edge, and like flame in a storm, she was gone.

Strike felt catatonic, simply let Astarion do whatever he wanted – he couldn’t get himself to care when the elf stripped them both of their clothes and made him stand in the shallow water. Strike’s shirt was so caked with red that it was no doubt ruined, but that came in handy, because the elf bunched it together and used it as a makeshift sponge to clean them both of the various half-hardened bodily liquids.

“....”

He was small, standing in front of him, Strike noticed, as Astarion pressed his lips together in a thin line and worked his ‘sponge’ over Strike’s bloodied torso and arms.

“... I... I don’t know what-“ He had started, once his tongue slowly stopped feeling so heavy and fuzzy in his mouth, only to be cut off by a wet cloth pressed to his mouth.

“Do you feel bad about it?” Astarion asked, his face still unreadable, wet curls of his hair falling over his face in a way that was still just so pretty. “Slaughtering the poor girl, just like that?”

Did he?

Strike thought about it, he really did.

There was the shock of it happening, for sure. The panic of realizing that he’s done something without even remembering a single detail other than her panicked eyes and mouth that opened in a soundless scream once her throat got torn open. But as hard as he tried to find anything more deep within himself... Strike couldn’t find sorrow anywhere.

He didn’t say anything, and that apparently spoke louder than any words could, because Astarion shivered. The makeshift sponge lowered itself, and the vampire wearily leaned his forehead against Strike’s collarbones, letting out a deep, shaky sigh that he didn’t need.

It took Strike a few tries before his hands registered his brain’s command, and they lifted, to reluctantly hug the vampire.

There were scars on his back, too.

“... I’m sorry.”

“... Are you?”

No.

He should be. He really should be.

“I... I don’t remember anything, Star. I went to sleep, and just... poof. Gone.”

There was a hollow laugh from the vampire, before he pulled himself away, and sniffled.

“Let’s... Let’s just clean you up first, before we talk about what in the sweet Hells happened.”

“Okay.”

“okay.”

Astarion washed him thoroughly, even if Strike’s matted hair refused to cooperate and stop acting like a singulartiy of knots; but it was so bad already, a bit of more blood didn’t make a difference. The vampire got everything else, though. The gore that was caked under Strike’s nails, the small red scratches up his arms and chest, where the girl tried to defend herself so helplessly. The considerable amount of blood that covered his jaw, mouth, lips and neck, where it dripped down after a particularly ferocious bite.

The vampire cast a firebolt to set a small bunch of twigs on the shore aflame, so that they could sit by the makeshift campfire and wait for it to dry their clothes before they’d return – Strike’s idea, as his brain was slowly starting to work more like it was supposed to.

Astarion sat with his arms around his knees, staring into the water.

“... Why’d you help me?” Strike finally asked, at last able to think properly again. The lack of blood helped, even if he suddenly felt even more exposed than he did when literally nude as well. “What do you want?”

“Can’t I just help our dearest leader out of the goodness of my heart?”

“You tried to fuck me so I’d ally us with the goblins,” Strike reminded him. His headache was returning, ever so slowly, and he groaned into his now clean palm. “Doubt you have no reasons. It’d be stupid of you, that... that was risky.”

“To say the least,” Astarion sighed. “What in the hells were you thinking, killing a bloody bard? Everyone was right there!”

“I wasn’t thinking. I... Don’t know, Ass.” He really, truly could not remember. “... Check for yourself, if you want to.”

“Eh?”

By now, they were both more than decent with their newfound powers of telepathy through the tadpoles; Strike opened his mind for the vampire, and reluctantly, Astarion reached forward to dive into the

red.

Silent screams. Flailing hands that will never pluck a strune again. Pretty throat that your kiss ripped open, her heart dying in your hands. Your hands, that pool the blood of her open stomach cavity in the palms of themselves, then bring it up, and you drink, you drink like an sinner gulps down holy rain that falls onto your face and tongue.

Your own joy, straining against the restraints of your breeches, an invisible force that leads your gaze to the open wound of her throat with an intent you know you would’ve followed through with if only there wasn’t something that’d stop you. You would’ve. You swallow and can taste the stem of your brain, the idea that blossomed like rot, a homely voice telling you that she is wet and ripe for you. You know you could do it. You don’t. In a way, this is worse; you stare into her eyes as they die out, you feel your own roll back into your head, drown in the near divine type of ecstasy that ripples through you and-

Astarion shoved himself out of Strike’s head at a much later moment than Strike would’ve expected, as he watched along his own flashes of memory play out the same way they would’ve for anyone else.

Gods, that was vile – and the worst, most disturbing part was, Strike still couldn’t find a trace of actual disgust within himself. It was all reflected solely on Astarion’s face.

“.... I... I think something’s wrong with me.”

“You think,” Astarion choked out, amoment of actual horror in his eyes, before the shock subsided. “You bloody think?”

“I thought it was the tadpol, at first,” Strike confessed with a sigh, and just like that, at last, his tongue untied, and for the first time since waking up, he spoke of his true thoughts out loud to someone.

He told Astarion about the violent, needy thoughts that popped in and out of his mind just under the surface; told him of how they sometimes tied his gut in knots and tried to guide his hand to bash someone’s face in with a rock the moment they annoyed him. Told him of how arousing it was to imagine wrapping his hands around a throat and strangling the life out of it.

Astarion listened.

All in all, he took it well, even if he didn’t seem to know just what to say.

“And I thought at first maybe we all feel like that, yknow, because of the tadpoles – Shart mentioned that she maybe found the idea of eating a brain more appetizing than before – but it’s not... It ain’t mindflayer stuff I think about, I know that much,” Strike finished with a sigh. “Don’t think others struggle with shit like that.”

Astarion stared.

The river washed past them, fire was starting to dwindle as the sun crept over to them, and the air grew warmer.

Finally, the vampire’s lips parted, a few times without catching the right word, and then finally, “You... you really don’t know anything of your past, do you?”

Strike shrugged, looked away as he hugged his knees closer to his chest. His hair was still uncomfortably soaked and heavy, uncomfortable against his back, but his annoyance waned when he felt Astarion move, until he sat down next to the drow, and leaned his own damp head against his shoulder.

“... I’ve lured in people to my master, for him to kill them,” he suddenly spoke up, staring straight ahead onto the water when Strike threw him a questioning look. “Women, men. Children, sometimes. Those I’d just grab and carry while they screamed and cried. All to their certain deaths. And so often, I’d...” he sighed. “I’ve never been allowed to eat, myself. You were my first; all Cazador fed us were rotten rats and bugs.”

Cazador, huh.

Strike has never heard the name before, but Astarion said it with such intense hatred of a vengeful slave, it almost made him feel bad for him.

“Your master?” He asked, even if he didn’t need to.

“A vile bastard, through and through.” The vampire’s fists clenched. “... but what I wished to say, was, that I know what it’s like, to urge for someone’s blood. Gods’d know, if they cared, how difficult it was to keep a hold of oneself under Cazador’s boot. What it turned all of his spawn into. It killed us more than than dying itself did, I think.”

A true vampire; Strike knew quite a bit about vampires, he realized that a while ago. Whoever his past self was, must’ve been interested in the topic.

“Well, we work pretty well together,” he offered, noted just how confused Astarion looked for a moment. “We have an actual monster hunter, Karlach is unbiteable, and I’d say I’m pretty good at going against the odds – want us to kill him when we reach Baldur’s Gate?”

“... You’d do that?”

Strike shrugged; it did make sense, after all. “You’re only free cause of the tadpole, aren’t you? So the moment we free ourselves of that, you’ll probably just go back home to him, like it or not. Don’t think some of our companions would stand for that, buddy.”

“.... Would you?”

“Pretty sure you just saved my arse, ykno?” He hinted towards the river, and the girl that was no longer there. “Not sure what your goal is, but if that is what you wanted...?”

Astarion looked lost for words for a moment, then buried his face in his arms. Might’ve been overwhelming, Strike figured. Especially with everything else he’s just told the vampire.

The feelings of red were so far from his mind, now that he was sitting there alone, with a corpse and someone else’s problems to deal with rather than his own. Just like before; but now, Strike understood that the need didn’t disappear – instead, it rather laid low. Felt far away, and yet, yet...

“... I don’t want to lose it like that, again,” he told the vampire. “Not like... ... We have enough other people to kill. I don’t like not knowing what I do.”

 “Others might not be as understanding as I am, you know?” Astarion suggested, something sly in his voice, all of a sudden, and Strike understood blackmail where he saw it.

He met the elf’s gaze with his own, eyes narrowing with a new wave of defiance.

“Which one of us will they belive killed her in cold blood, buddy? The vampire who’s already snapped at someone? Or me?”

“...” Astarion stayed still, his lower lip trembling before his face hardened. “I was just going to suggest we keep this between us, you- bastard. Don’t need to bloody threaten me all the time, you know?”

Strike doubted it, but he allowed a dishonest smile to slip back onto his lips, and he immediately felt more like himself. “Sure I don’t, buddy. Nothing but good intentions on your part, ey?”

“In case you hadn’t realized, our glorious leader is the only reason we and that whole vagabond of nobodies survived against our much better opponents,” Astarion hissed. “The gith and the cleric would’ve carved eachothers’ throats out by now had they not both been somehow infatuated with you, monster hunter and the devil would never have trusted me on my own, and the wizard is so clearly hiding something that I can’t even begin with him. I might not like it, Strike, but I need you to get to be free of this bloody parasite. I don’t want the whole group to shatter with whatever shit would start if they knew you like I do. Now. There, do you have your reason? Selfish enough for you?”

“Yeah.” Strike felt his own eyes soften. It was all true. It felt good to hear; and to know where Astarion actually stood.

With newfound appreciation, he wrapped an arm around the vampire’s shoulders, and pulled him in, for something akin to a hug.

“Fuck, buddy. You could’ve just said so.”

Astarion has stilled at first, but then relaxed into the touch, and let his face hide against Strike’s chest. “Couldn’t have just trusted a stranger,” he sniffled against his skin, “could I?”

Strike sighed before leaning down to press a kiss on the damp bedhead of white hair. “Fair enough. Let’s just... yeah. Keep it together until we figure this shite out. Then get you away from that Cazador guy of yours.”

“... Tell me if you feel you’re on the verge of... you know. Fucking another corpse. Or whatever it is your bloody brain tells you to do.”

Strike chuckled softly. “Yeah? You gonna volunteer instead?”

“It helped with the last bard, didn’t it?”

Oh. Right.

“... Guess we got lucky back then.”

“Yeah. Guess we did.” Astarion slowly pulled away, but Strike gently caught the back of his head and pulled him back in, close to his neck before the elf could protest. “Have at it, buddy. Would make for a decent excuse of where we went.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get a hungry vampire to take a bite from you, but when he pushed Strike down to get a better access, and Strike felt the sun finally reach his face, he sighed in content of the warming body above him.

It would be okay, he told himself, and whatver laid deep within him.

Nobody would find out about the girl; he had enough time to make up a reasonable excuse for her disappearing, now that he could think clearly again. There were to be plenty of people to slaughter on his path, soon.

He held Astarion close, the one person who understood the urges that seemed to drive him, and let him indulge in his own. At some point amongst stolen beats, his heart fluttered with newfound affection for the vampire.

“Had a private dance in the woods again?” Shadowheart’s smile was all but teasing when they came back, and Strike appreciated it, it made it easy to match one in return.

He grinned right back, letting her catch his lightheaded stumble, and a wave of restoring magic cleared his mind and closed the wounds on his neck. “I love you.”

“You love getting healed, you mean.”

“Couldn’t you tell? I only get hurt to feel getting better again.”

“A-huh.” She rolled her eyes, pushing away from the hug he just so playfully yanked her in. “In either case, you’re terribly late. Tieflings are already heading off.” She shoved a bunched together shirt in his arms. “And do cover up, leader. Not that I’m complaining, but it’d do you no good if you catch a cold.”

“I’ll deal with it,” he promised with a wink, and then let her return to packing up her tent. They were going to move soon.

He ran into Karlach right after getting dressed – or, more accurately, she ran up to him, the biggest smile in Fae’run on her lips. “Strike!”

“Whoa there,, yea?”

“You won’t believe this,” she gleamed, “You remember Dammon, right?” behind her sat the tiefling blacksmith, whom Strike did, indeed, remember. His leg was bandaged up from where that goblin slashed it, but he seemed to be already doing much better, despite the crutch. He waved at the drow. Strike waved back. Karlach continued, besides herself. “I was showing him all the things we picked up that could be cool for a blacksmith, yaknow, and turns out we found some infernal metal, and he fixed my engine!”

“Your- your engine?”

“This bad boy,” she proudly knocked on the ribs on her chest, those that always kind of showed due to the flow of the heat beneath them, “Dammon tuned it up last night; it aint perfect, but he says by the time we meet again in the Gate, he could think of a way to fix fix it!”

Strike had a hard time following her ramble, but if he picked it up right... “You think you’d be able to touch someone then?”

“That’s the idea! We just gotta find more of the metal, and it’s not the hardest thing to find, so-“

“Oh Karlach, that’s amazin- wait, were you doing that drunk?”

Her grin showed all of her teeth. “Hey, if it turned out okay, what’s the harm?”

“... Don’t- wait till at least he is sober again next time, kay?”

“Sure thing, soldier.”

She laughed, and off she was, probably to tell the good news to Wyll and Lae’zel, whom Strike saw sorting through which weaponry they were to take with them and which to leave to the tieflings.

Strike went off to find something for breakfast and to watch Astarion attempt to steal as much stuff as he possibly could from the grove before they left, and then get in an argument with some of the children that happened to be doing the same thing – it was entertaining, if nothing else.

At least until a small hand tapped his shoulder, and he turned to be faced with a due of tiefling women, one of which still wore his own lovebites on her neck.

Alfira seemed upset. Strike’s mind lazily suggested him an image of her in the position of the other bard, but it was easy to ignore. For now.

“Have you seen Quil anywhere?”

“Who?”

“O-oh, right. The dragonborn bard? White scales, beautiful voice.”

Strike swallowed another bite of bread, but the lie was almost concerningly easy to roll off of his tongue. “No, sorry.” He was ready to be asked about her, anyway. “Maybe she left early? I heard she wasn’t here for long, anyway.”

“I suppose she was in a hurry...” Alfira seemed sad about it. Lakrissa looked as if she was struggling to put on the same face as she wrapped an arm around her friend.

“Come on, maybe you’ll see her again in Baldur’s Gate?”

“I just want to prove that she’s not a thief!”

Strike’s ears perked up. “Why’d she be one?”

Lakrissa rolled her eyes. “Someone stole that stupid statue from the grove again. They’d insist on searching the whole camp if master Halsin wouldn’t have told them that he had it and will be taking it with him. Most of our people claim it had to have been Quil who took it, though.”

“He’s coming with you??”

“With you, I think? Go ask him.”

And really, Strike was going to go do just that, right after he packed up his own things; not that it was much, but he did have to move the statue he confiscated from Astarion last-

It wasn’t there.

Huh.

He was pretty sure Quil didn’t have it on her when he-

Next to him, someone cleared their throat, and Strike didn’t have to look to recognize Gale.

“Had a nice party, buddy?” Strike asked him, still sorting through his meager posessions as if the statue was suddenly going to appear amongst a pair of pants and some alchemy supplies.

“Yes, but, uh. Strike. Mind if I have a word with you?”

“In a bit; you seen that statue thingie anywhere? Heard druids are pissed off, I was going to return it today, but-“

“As a matter of fact, I have seen it.”

“Ah, great. Where-“

He turned, and was faced with a very guilty looking Gale, and more importantly, no idol.

“... Gale?”

Before Gale even started speaking, Strike felt another headache forming, but this time, he embraced the new issue at hand with all the enthusiasm of someone that was desparate for problems that weren’t his own. And yet, he still wasn't ready for the actual confession

"What do you mean, you ate it."

Chapter Text

“So, you’re going to explode?”

Karlach sounded astounded.

“Really something it might’ve been better to know before you level this entire godsdamned group, darling.”

Astarion too, but in a slightly less generous direction.

“Well, I-“ Gale sighed, but after all, it was his idea to confess to the entire group when Strike asked him about it. “... I’ve not considered the possibility you all would be most pleased to share camp with such a potential liability, had I not shown any upsides to keeping my less than stable self around.”

Strike rubbed the bridge of his nose as he let the wizard go through what he’s just told his leader in private minutes ago. Gale was a magical bomb. Gale was a former Chosen of Mystra. Gale used to do Mystra. And it didn’t seem like it worked out that well in the end.

“If I may ask for an elaboration,” Halsin, the newest member of their little group, stood at the side with his arms crossed, apparently not noticing the few glances Wyll and Shadowheart have thrown at those exact arms. “You said you’ve eaten the sacred Idol of Silvanus?”

Gale’s cheeks flushed a tad further, and his hands rose a few times as he struggled to find an appropriate answer – new for him, really – and then settled on a simple “... I’m afraid so.”

“The thing was huge,” Astarion gasped in false scandal, palm over his nonbeating heart, “Gale! I’d never expect you to be able to fit such a thing, really – I can’t help but wonder how you’d put that thick wood in you whole...”

“I’m certain at least one side of a human could fit it,” Shadowheart suggested with an almost teasing grin, and Gale turned two shades darker.

“N-no?? I absorb the magic of it, and then the object was destroyed, I can assure you I haven’t-“

“Oh we’ve all heard of that excuse, darling,” Astarion cut him off, waving dismissively. “But let’s move on from your apparent affinity for suspiciously shaped statues. When will you be leaving?”

“Leaving?” It was Karlach who piped up again. “You’d have him leave, just like that? After all we’ve been through?”

“You’d have us debate that??” The vampire protested, his voice getting to that high pitch it tended to hold. “That Netherese jack-in-the-box should be a blip on the horizon by now!”

Astarion had a point, as unlikely as that was, Strike thought. Gale was, per his own admittance, a massive risk to keep around. He’s told them of the magical orb in his chest that consumed magic and was apparently requiring more and more of it every day, which was even why the wizard finally confessed to having been snacking on trinkets he’s been finding around the path while they traveled. The orb was unstable, Gale was unstable... But who was Strike to judge him, when he could still feel the warmth of that bard’s blood singing allure in his mind?

“Perhaps- perhaps I should leave,” Gale said, a look of such sadness carved into his face that Strike almost found it in him to feel sorry for the lad. “Put as much distance between us before it detonates.”

Karlach huffed. “C’mon. We all’ve got our secrets; if having a dangerous otherworldy object stuck in your skin is a good reason to leave, Gale and I should both go.”

“Gale is one of us,” Wyll agreed. “And we all have our secrets. We’ve dealt with worse odds. ... Or, well. Probably will do so soon.”

“Of course we will, if we drag a self immolating wizard with us on an already dangerous road!”

“Astarion, please. We all accepted you being a vampire, didn’t we? After you actually attacked someone.”

“That is not the same thing! Nor is your engine, you’ll only explode yourself, not every godsdamned-“

“Strike.” Lae’zel’s voice was cold when it called out for him, and the sorcerer finally bothered to look towards someone. The girl stood tall and stone-like; but there was a smidge of hurt he could feel through their unstable tadpol connection. “What are your thoughts, sarth?”

“Gale’s staying with us,” was the decision Strike mouthed before his mind could’ve even caught up with it, but once he said it, it sounded right.

The camp erupted with protests from their vampire in particular, and Gale himself, who was trying to insist on him leaving being the correct choice, and the drow just felt his headache got worse before the day’s even properly started.

He rose his hand to shut them up, and surprisingly, it worked. That admittedly helped with the ache, just a smidge.

“Gale’s a powerful wizard, we’ve so far not even noticed his addiction, so it can’t take that much to keep the orb at bay – we’ll find enough magical items to keep that covered, I imagine. And from now on, Gale,” he looked to the mage, who was simply reeking of relief and conflicted concern. “You are not to be involved in any serious battle we might have, have I made myself clear? I want you to stand to the side and provide support, if needed. Last thing we need is to have your corpse explode on us all.”

The wizard looked guilty to feel so relieved, so Strike threw him a more friendly smile, and a wink.

“I’m also not ready to return to Shadowheart’s cooking. Any protests?”

He looked at each of the group; Astarion seemed unamused, but ended up shrugging, claiming that he wasn’t going to rub it in their faces if it turns out that he was right. “Not because I wouldn’t be justified,” he added, before anyone could misunderstand. “Just because we will all be dead when that happens.”

Karlach and Wyll were approving, Shadowheart... did not appear to particularly care, Halsin looked concerned but quiet, and Lae’zel... Well, Strike could still sniff that relief on her, which was almost sweet. He knew her and the wizard were close, often Lae’zel moving to Gale’s tent in the evenings to share meals and discuss the differences between the Astral Plane and Fae’run. It must not have been easy to accept that someone she liked the company of (and respected as a warrior, Strike had to remember) would be such an unreasonable risk to keep around. Very cute, that she rather put the burden of making the less wise decision on Strike’s shoulders. Absolved herself of guilt, in a way.

“Great, so it’s decided,” Strike clasped his hands, leaning back against the log he was sitting by, in a circle around the died out campfire where they were having the discussion. “But, Wyll was right about all of us having secrets. If we’re to travel together, we really should just come clean with them at this point, shouldn’t we? So we can avoid those surprises next time?”

He could feel panic wave from Astarion, the anxious twitch of the vampire’s mind rushing towards him like a bull, but the sorcerer shut it out of his mind before the effort of it would show on his face.

He wasn’t an idiot.

There was no need to talk about the bard again. It wasn’t going to change anything.

“I’ll start. A few nights ago, a devil spoke to me when I slept.” Strike continued, noting just how quickly the energy of the group turned – especially with Wyll and Karlach. “Told me that for my soul he can give me back my memories, which I rejected,” he added quickly before anyone could suck in enough breath to protest, “but more importantly, offered me a way to remove our tadpoles.”

“Wh- Tell me you said no, Strike-“

“I told him to suck it,” he reassured Wyll, and saw the monster hunter sigh in relief. “But he said he’ll be back, so we might want to keep an eye out for sleazy men named Raphael. He had a human form, so if you’re ever approached by a brunette that’s suddenly smugly reciting poetry at you, don’t sign anything he gives you, aight?” He nodded towards their gith. “We’ll try Lae’s way first, it seems like our best option.”

They all agreed – except Astarion, Strike suspected, but he should be able to talk to the vampire in private, and then simply ran through their other so called secrets. Lae’zel proudly assured them that she was above petty lies, Karlach agreed, Wyll shrugged and said that his secrets are already out in the open, and Shadowheart... Shadowheart avoided Strike’s gaze as hard as she could, until he called her out.

“Anything to share with the class, buddy?”

“... hm?”

“Shart.”

“Don’t call me- ough. Fine.”

Before she could confess, Wyll piped up, with the shyest of smiles. “You worship Shar, don’t you?”

She looked ready to smite him, but he chuckled awkwardly, and tapped at his forehead. “Shar’s ringlet. I didn’t think it was such a secret, if you wore it so openly.”

“Know much about wearing your mistress’ symbol, devilboy?”

A quick religious debate and a Karlach flare up later, they’ve figured it through, and Strike sighed, with all the secrets except his own out on the table. It should be easier to plan things now, when noone was really hiding anything, hopefully...

And just when they were about to leave, Halsin cleared his throat.

“If we’re confessing to our dark moments already-“

Shadowheart’s worship of an evil goddess was very quickly moved on from once the druid uttered the words ‘Shadow Curse’. He fit in so well, Strike couldn’t help but think as his headache built up. Fit right in with all their other warcrimes.

It took a while to convince Lae’zel to leave her people alone for a while, and even for that, Strike had to heavily reference her injured leg – if she waited for it to heal, she wouldn’t need to explain to her superiors how that happened, nor that she’s been relying on a bunch of istiks to survive for the last couple of weeks. He was going to find another excuse perhaps later, if they found the path they needed through the Underdark.

Underdark... It was Shadowheart’s idea, claiming that they could use Strike’s apparent heritage some more, even if he somehow doubted he would be as convincing to drow as he was to goblins. Upon his confession about not being able to speak Undercommon, she simply said that she spoke it, and refused to elaborate.

Worst case scenario, they were going to have to masquerade her as a drow lady. Worst case scenario in the mountain pass, they were going to have to fight off an entire creche of githyanki, and if those were at all like Lae’zel, Strike preferred to take his chances with the drow.

They headed to the goblin camp, as Kagha has claimed to have found a passageway the last time they were there, slaughtering goblins; they had to step over piles of corpses and Strike couldn’t help himself but admire the wonderful job Karlach, Astarion, Wyll and Kagha did there. It was comparable to that village goblins pillaged, so perhaps this was what some might call a poetic take on justice.

He did compliment them out loud, though. They deserved that much.

In the treasury, Gale found a bag of holding, much to everyone’s delight, and they proceeded to immediately fill the thing with all the gold, food and supplies they could find, while Strike took it to himself to do the less pleasurable task of finding the two goblin leaders, and carefully breaking their skulls open to dig out the still squirming tadpoles.

Finding the right spot between fused bones of a skull was as easy as finding the magic within him, making it all a quick, near bloodless ordeal, but as his mind tended to do when he used it too much, his vision was starting to pulse, but he brushed it aside. It was fine. He liked being good at things.

With all eight of them (and Scratch helping), it was easy to grab everything they could in a matter of an hour or so, and then off they went, through the priestess chambers to the supposed entrance to the Underdark.

There was a riddle to pass, and Strike easily stepped aside to let Gale and Halsin figure it out; his head hurt, and the pain added to annoyance of not being able to just think like they could. He knew he should’ve. He did.

He sat by the wall and waited instead, with a bottle of watered down wine he’s taken from their bag earlier (and ignored Halsin’s concerned look when he noticed), when he felt a familiar cold body sit down next to him.

He waited for Astarion to speak up first. He did.

“... Before we left,” he started, not even looking at Strike as he simply leaned his head onto the drow’s shoulder, “I thought about those... creatures you killed.”

“Gonna need you to be more specific, buddy.”

“Ogres.”

“Rings a bell.”

Astarion lightly punched him, and Strike grinned. He didn’t really feel like opening his eyes just yet – the world felt too bright, even in the dimly lit temple.

“When they were feeding you that dwarf – which was, by the way, disgusting –“

“Ass. You eat people.”

“I bring some elegance to it, but no matter that,” the vampire lifted a finger to silence his leader’s lips before it’d turn into an argument, “I happened to remember what one of them said, about the, ah, more clever one.”

Rock grinded against rock and it grinded into Strike’s eardrums and head. From what he could hear over it, Gale has just figured out that something on the floors was able to move.

“.... mhm?”

“Well,” Astarion continued, “The creature mentioned something your friend Lug-“

“Lump.”

“Whatever ate once.”

“Did you go digging through a dead ogre, buddy?”

“You are not allowed to get on my case about disrespecting the dead.”

“Talking about yourself, or-?”

Astarion smacked him, again, and Strike almost laughed. If only there wasn’t that horrible pounding behind his eyes, he’d...

“But yes, I ‘dug through a dead ogre’. Got you a little something.”

Something cold and metallic tapped onto Strike’s nose, and it was intriguing enough for him to open his eyes. They needed a moment to focus, but they did, and it was a... broken, but incredibly well polished headband. The ogre’s stomach acid has cleaned the gold up more than any spell ever could.

“...”

“You like it?”

“I dunno if I’m one for jewelry, Ass.”

“Just try it.”

And so, he did just that – one of the sides was broken, so he had to maneuver it a bit before it stuck in place, but the moment he did...

Strike’s mind cleared up.

The fog was gone, the migraine as well, as his brain no longer strained to process all the information it received through his senses and the unending flow of thoughts that poured through it. He felt like himself, even if just in the moment.

Strike looked at Astarion with wide open, bewildered eyes, and the vampire has never looked prettier than when he laughed at his shocked expression. He had the cutest smile lines, engraved in his cheeks from when he was alive – the drow felt as if he’s just seen him for the first time.

“You keep letting some thoughts slip up on our connection, darling,” the vampire explained, grinning. “Shadowheart noticed it, too. It was her suggestion that maybe your brain damage is interfering with your processing abilities. You have been incredibly whiny about it, mind you.”

Yes, that made sense; but gods, so much more made sense now. Strike could feel everyone, their presences, the tadpoles in their brain, and the world made so much sense in the whole.

Astarion’s smile waned when he was not given a response yet.

“... You do like it, right? Because it was Shadowheart’s idea if you don-“

Strike hugged him. Tightly.

His hands were trembling.

Astarion froze up initially, but quickly relaxed in his hold, slightly awkward as he patted the drow’s back.

“Thank you,” He whispered, practically overwhelmed with the sudden lack of overstimulation from all of his senses.

The cold floor underneath him. The softness of Astarion’s hair against his face. The scars under his armor, so thick he could feel them through the fabric of his shirt. The fact that he could feel what shape they were and map it out in his mind, the way he could hear Karlach humming to herself and was able to recognize the melody as a fisherman’s tune from south of Baldur’s Gate. Shadowheart and Halsin were speaking in elvish and he didn’t even need to think about it before his mind translated the language.

“Fuck, Astarion, thank you.”

The vampire chuckled. There was a surprised tone to it, one Strike could properly read now, and the realization of that only made him hug him tighter.

“W-well... You’re so welcome, darling,” he replied, finally putting his arms around the drow to return the embrace properly. “It was all my idea, just so you’re aware. But we need our leader in best shape possible, don’t you agree?”

Yes, he’d agree.

It was still so incredibly.... gods, Strike has never liked the man more. Not even the night before. Getting a piece of his lost self back was so much more meaningful than helping him in a moment of equally lost control.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Karlach shouted out, a smile to her voice. “Stop snogging, we’re on the move!”

There was a sound of a wall sliding away, and really, the gate forward has opened. Good on Lae’zel for being the one to turn the heavy rocks per Gale’s instructions; Karlach has apparently tried to help too, judging from the scorched edges of one of the rocks that nearly wiped away the pattern of the riddle.

Strike noticed he couldn’t wipe the smile from his face even if he tried; it was so easy to see something and connect it with a meaning!

His body still hurt as per usual when he got up on his feet, but it was so much better to now have one part of him that felt like it finally got aligned properly.

They descended into the Underdark, and Strike still couldn’t recognize shit.

Not that they didn’t already heavily suspect he wasn’t from there, but still. It’d be almost disappointing, had he not been this giddy when they got there.

The three hundred feet of a ladder that they had to descend down of were a pain in the knees for both him and Gale, and so, after about thirty of them, the two spellcasters didn’t even need to speak to agree on the solution; Karlach screeched when they first fell past her. A whistle to make Scratch jump with them, then a quick Feather Fall, and they had time to spare at the bottom of the drop while the others descended down the ladder. It gave them time to inspect the headband, Gale identifying it as a slightly weakened headband of intellect, and Strike had to agree; but letting go of it for even a minute started to bring his headaches and the brain fog back, to which Gale expressed his sincere condolences, saying he couldn’t even fathom a brain injury that would take away his sharp mind.

“Lovely. More Selunite crap,” Shadowheart commented once she joined them and took a look around. They did land in just another Selunite outpost, it seemed. She saw Strike with his headband though, and smiled. “It suits you.”

“Thank you, really. You’ve no idea how... yknow.”

“I do. And I don’t even need an item for that.” She winked. “I do think you might not want to wear it on your head, though. It might irritate scars there.”

“Yeah, it’s broken anyway... Might just put it on a necklace or something. Just the main part, I mean.” He sighed, absentmindedly letting Scratch lick at his hand while he pet him.

“Ah, would you like some help with that, darling?” Astarion elegantly slid down the last couple of dozen feet of the ladder, instantly swooping in as if wanting to be more useful than he already always was, and then immediately proving himself as such when he picked a lock on the gates that allowed them access to the rest of the Selunite outpost.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad place, and there was something pretty about the warm darkness around them, and how it was broken with all sorts of natural lights. And one less natural, a bright crystal that stood tall at the top of a Selune statue and-

“Shit!”

Strike had to agree with Wyll on that one, when they watched the crystal incinerate a giant minotaur that was trying to break in through the locked main gates. For now, they’ve decided to leave this door alone.

It was late, anyway. The outside was quickly proving to be dangerous, and they couldn’t know when they were to reach a safer zone next, so dining surrounded with dead Selunites it was. Once the fires were lit up and Gale started cooking. Scratch was tired from the long day of walking, and has found himself a nice spot by the fireplace, where he rested; one eye and ear still attentive for any scrap of food the wizard might drop. Halsin did his best to help with the dinner and making the space a bit more comfortable and warm, and his smile did a very decent job at keeping the morale up, while Lae’zel sat herself near them and focused on sharpening her arrows while she listened to the two chat amongst eachother. Shadowheart was in the main area, throwing little rocks at the Selune’s statue’s head – she seemed like she was having fun, so noone bothered her.

Astarion did good on his offer; he had a convenient little box of sewing needles on him, and with some thinly cut fabric, got to work on making a decent hold for Strike’s new accessory – normal rope would probably irritate his newly grown, tender skin of scars, so wider, softer fabric it was. And Strike watched him work as they sat together on one of the stone benches, the drow’s head in the vampire’s lap. It was nice, he figured, to just sit down, watch Astarion’s clever hands work, and simply focus on those little movements and what they were for.

“Hey, Gale!” Wyll shouted out at one point, making the wizard flinch as he looked up from the stew he was making.

The warlock was a floor higher, leaning far over the balcony as he raised something that Strike at first thought might be a decapitated head. Just a helmet, his mind quickly corrected itself, as it should.

“We found this!” Karlach peeked up behind Wyll, practically caging the smaller man against the railing, his back to her chest – his sudden blush did not escape anyone with eyes (and darkvision), but it was more than understandable. “Feels magical enough – you wanna eat it??”

Gale was, for once, speechless for a moment; silly man, did he really not think they’d offer any help with his condition? They fed Astarion, they gave Strike more healing than to anyone else, they gave Lae’zel explanations for things normal to Fae’run that she didn’t quite get.

“I’m quite, ah, quite full in the moment. Magically, I mean,” he quickly added, a grateful smile to his lips – it suited him. “But if it’s okay with everyone, I’ll have it when the need calls.”

He looked to Strike, as if for permission, one that Strike easily handed out.

“Just ask someone before you eat a boot or whatever,” he waved his hand in dismissal, not even bothering to get off of Astarion for the conversation. “Yknow, in case if someone really wanted a specific item. Should be fine that way, yeah?”

Some people agreed, some said nothing, which was not a refusal, and so, it was arranged. Strike couldn’t help but notice Gale appearing a bit more cheerful as he returned to cooking.

Dinner was almost ready by the time Astarion was finished with his little project, and Strike has just tried the reworked headband – now amulet – on for size; it was much more comfortable, and it still worked just as fine. He could’ve hugged the vampire all over again, and he was considering it, when Karlach’s excited voice rang through his mind.

Soldier, come out, you gotta see this!

.... Out??

She only replied with a clumsily send image of a hole in the wall, one that was easy to see then, and him and Astarion headed for it, to see what their barbarian and warlock have discovered.

It was statues, of drow, modeled in such odd ways, as if they were terrified when posing.

Very randomly placed statues, as well, just in the wilds...

Wyll was looking at one from up close, a thoughtful curve to his brows, while Karlach slapped an arm around the shoulders of a different one.

“Look at them,” she laughed, “They’re so tiny compared to you. Hells, to anyone; never really seen a drow from this up close before!”

“I think they’re slightly shorter than average elves,” Wyll nodded, still thinking... Strike could catch the string of concerned thought that the warlock shared through their connected mind, and they came to the same conclusion at the exact same moment.

It was just a blink before the statue Karlach was holding came to life, and the drow stabbed her right in the gut.

She screamed, punched the man so hard he stumbled off of the edge of a small cliff they stood on; and just then, a singular, giant eye rose itself behind her, from behind the ledge.

“... Fuck yeah,” she grinned, reached for her axe, and Strike could admit to share some of that enthusiasm.

The battle was fast, so fast, and Strike could admit to have been having an absolute blast. The spectator roared, Wyll immediately shrouded it in darkness so achingly cold that even being there damaged it, Strike threw a string of lightning over it that hit one of the statues behind it as well and practically reduced it to dust. Astarion’s arrow hit the creature straight into one of its smaller eyes, blinding it with a ground shaking screech of agony.

Wrinse, repeat, get stabbed from behind when another statue came to life and you didn’t notice it because you were looking at just how stunning Karlach was when she jumped through air and sliced off one of the spectator’s remaining tentacles with one smash of her axe.

They had nothing else to fight this whole day; Strike had so much fun when throwing his best at the creature.

It died almost too quickly; Wyll hit it repeatedly with two quick bursts of force, and Karlach got it beautifully, straight in the main eyeball with a mighty smite. It screeched, fell, died, and three of the drow were left alive.

Not that they were exactly conscious enough to be grateful; Astarion and Strike quickly rummaged through their clothes, gathered what they had that could’ve been useful, and they were heading back just in time to see the rest of their group watch from the sanctum.

“Great help in the battle, darlings,” Astarion sarcastically commented, and Lae’zel scoffed at him, with her arms crossed.

“If you weren’t able to take a beast so meager, I would’ve slaughtered you myself. I’ve seen things you can achieve, Astarion.”

“You would’ve slaughtered me, had I died? Lae’zel, dear girl – how ever would you achieve that?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Same way I can kill an undead spawn. Or do you need a demonstration?”

Astarion went paler, and with a choked up chuckle, reassured her that he’s more than fine like that, as he climbed back up through the cracked wall with the others.

“I’ve seen those three fight already,” Halsin smiled, his hand warm on Strike’s shoulder, “But I understand now how the goblins at the grove went down so easily.”

“Eh, that was more strategy than brute force. But thank you.”

“Force of mind and force of magic.”

“... heh. Thanks. Hey, Gale? Think a spectator’s edible?”

“We have a perfectly decent pork right here, Strike.”

“But, is it?”

“I am not helping you learn that!”

Shadowheart slid next to him while they were eating, just a few minutes later; the pork was admittedly delicious, and the meal so hearty Strike could cry over it. His cleric chided him for forgetting about his stab wound, which... fair enough, and then healed it with a warm touch of her hand, only leaving a nasty hole in his tunic before she returned to her own bowl of broth and bread. Right after she healed Karlach too, of course; a task she seemed very excited to get to.

The air was almost uncomfortably cold against Strike’s now exposed skin, and he hated the feel of the scuffed edges. His solution presented itself in the only person without his own bowl, who was sitting next to him, bored.

“Hey, Ass?”

“Hm?”

“Think you can you patch that up for me?”

“... I suppose, if I have to~”

“You can also just teach me, if that’s preferable? Im a quick study.”

Astarion’s smile froze up on his lips for a moment, before he replied, an odd strain to his voice. “And make you no longer reliant on my services, darling? I don’t think so.”

“Fine, keep me helpless and dependent then,” Strike sighed dramatically, before grinning. “I knew vampires are cruel, anyway.”

Astarion looked like he wanted to say something, something more, but he didn’t, and Gale brought out an honest to gods dessert in the form of a crudely made apple cobbler, and Strike didn’t have it in him to care much more.

Today was a good day.

He didn’t intend to ruin it by acknowledging the horrible feeling of someone watching them from afar.

Chapter Text

“Foolish, to leave a perfectly good blade out for anyone to take.”

“I’m not quite sure, Lae’zel. It has its charms.”

“A blade does not need charms.”

“It’s a ritual,” Halsin commented, cutting through the leisure bickering between Wyll and the unamused gith. When Strike looked at him strangely, he shrugged. “I’ve spent some time amongst the drow in my youth. It’s a way to spite Lolth by offering your blood to honour the weak. She’s hardly a fan.”

Well, if that was the case... Strike hardly needed a blade to cut something open, his claws were sharp enough once he dug them in his arm to draw a few droplets, smear them over the pretty blade they’ve found stuck in stone. The bigger issue was finding a bare spot amongst the scars, really.

The inscriptions on it glowed, the handle warmed, and just like that, it slid out of its prison like from butter, heavy in the drow’s hands.

“... There we go. Lae’, you want it?”

She took it when he handed it over, weighted it, took a test swing that Wyll jumped backwards from.

“As a backup weapon, it will suffice.”

“Great. Where were we?”

Shadowheart grabbed his wrist, an annoyed scowl on her face as she peeked at the injury. “You know what would be even greater? If you wouldn’t go rub your open wounds onto any rusted metal you find.”

“It’ll be fine, Shart, don’t waste a spell on a literal scratch-“

“Woof?”

“No, not you, buddy. Of course I’d want her to heal you.”

The dog barked happily, then pranced off to track down where the rest of their crew went off to – an explosion sounded out from across a chasm, and Strike got a pretty good clue about where they might be.

He didn’t even need to look at the others to agree that they were to go there.

Astarion has apparently climbed up to a hidden crevice, and under him, an explosion of bombs destroyed the ropes he’s used to climb; he stood above it all, shouting down something at Karlach who remained awkwardly under him.

“I’m sorry!”

“And the thought that your bloody tail could’ve ignited a bomb didn’t cross your mind?? Gods!”

“I said I’m sorry!”, she cried out, but there was a barely held back laugh under the apology; Strike didn’t offer Astarion the dignity of not laughing at him, not when he saw the scorched behind of the vampire’s pants. “Hey, soldier.”

“I leave you for ten minutes, and you’re already causing earthquakes?” he grinned, watched how Astarion crossed his arms with a pout before he headed further into the hiding place he’s found. “What’d you do earlier, anyway? Felt the ground shake all the way over there.”

Karlach gave him a confused look. “We didn’t explode anything earlier, this was the first.”

“A bulette, if I had to guess,” Wyll chimed in. “Their territories are vast; we might be okay, as long as we don’t, well.” He looked at the remains of the explosives. “Do any more of that.”

It was just then that a heavy crate fell from the rock shelf, shattering with all the loudness of several pieces of metal armor that hit rocky floor. The sound echoed around, and they all looked up to where it came from – Lae’zel with her bow on the ready – only to be faced with Astarion’s fluffy white head and an annoyed frown.

“Oops.”

“Do this again and I’ll come after you!” Karlach shouted at him, only to flinch and cover her mouth as her voice joined the echo. “.... sorry,” she added, in the smallest voice ever heard from her.

“... Let’s try to keep quiet, aight?” Strike sighed, gave her an encouraging (and very brief) pat on the thick wrap around her bicep. “Try to catch anything he throws into the bag.” She nodded, and he turned away, back to the others. “Anyone seen Gale or did something eat him already?”

“Perhaps that was the source of the earthquake?”

“Not funny, Shadowheart,” Wyll sighed.

“A little bit?”

“... A little bit.”

That made her smile more than her own bad joke did, but Strike was slightly worried for their explosive wizard to be out of sight; luckily, he found him quickly. Easy to follow a man whose mind you could catch glimpses of as long as you focused a little. Gale was crouched a few dozen feet away, holding a napkin over his nose and inspecting an odd looking mushroom.

“Whatcha got there?” Strike asked, intrigued as he joined him by the thing. He liked Gale, his constant rambles about a million and one things that he found interesting. Strike could relate, especially now, when his mind was finally almost at peace.

“Timmask,” Gale cheerfully informed him from behind the napkin. “We mustn’t touch them, but if I recall correctly, you’ve a particular affinity for the alchemical?”

“You can make confusion grenades out of their spores,” the knowledge came to him easily, and it was odd since the mushroom itself didn’t ring a bell in his mind. The name, though? Tinmask spores. Handle with care, keep in airtight bottles, and by the gods do not let them spill before their essence is pulled from them.

“Precisely,” Gale nodded, seemingly enthusiastic about it. “Would you require any help, harvesting them?”

“I don’t think I have anything to refine them with,” Strike sighed, but he was tempted – he just didn’t have a clue on how to approach the task his wizard has suggested. “Doubt we’ll need those types of weaponry anyway, when either of us can simply cast it.”

“Ah, of course. Some other time, then.”

They got up, cringed at the shared ache in their knees, and carefully backed away, to return to the rest of the group, who was now trying to grab things Astarion threw down at them before they would fall to the ground and perhaps make some unwanted noise.

Strike was sure the vampire was throwing loot as randomly as he possibly could on purpose. Then a necklace hit Shadowheart in the face, Astarion laughed at her pained yelp, and it couldn’t get any clearer.

“You bastard!”

“Shadowheart, please,” Karlach tried to calm her, rushing over to check up on the Sharran’s injury – a small cut over her eyebrow, right where the sharp metal broke skin. “We’re supposed to be quiet.”

“Yes, Shadowheart!” Astarion grinned down at them, leaning onto a structure right by the ledge with one leg smugly crossed behind the other’s ankle. “Be more mindful!”

A slightly blushing cleric shook Karlach off of her, glared up at the vampire, and Strike had half a mind to warn him, had the situation not been this entertaining. Even Halsin didn’t say a word as he heard Shadowheart murmur an evocation spell.

Everyone saw the glowing golden maul appear behind Astarion, except him.

He noticed it a moment later, when it slammed itself into his back, and crudely shoved him off of the platform he was peacocking from.

The vampire landed right next to Lae’zel, who has gone out of her (and his) way to not catch him, simply stared down at him when he yelped upon hitting the ground.

The golden weapon flew down to Shadowheart’s side, and she give it a little fistbump before it disappeared with Karlach’s booming laugh.

“Do you have any idea how much that hurt??” Astarion complained, then some more, when Lae’zel grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him on his feet. His knees wobbled for a moment, but then he was fine, and he reached up to fix his hair and play off his companions’ laughs and (in Halsin and Wyll’s cases) poorly concealed chuckles.

“Are you alright?” Wyll bothered to ask, however amused he was by the situation, and Astarion huffed when the devilkin tried to reach for him.

“Don’t touch me,” he warned, and seemed almost surprised when Wyll’s hand lowered itself, but he cleared his throat to hide that expression. “Akhem. Anyway. If someone is done being childish, I cleared the loot up there, we can-“

The world shook around them.

Everyone froze.

The rumble has paused.

“....”

“... Maybe it’s just an echo,” Karlach suggested, right before the ground exploded from under her, and she was sent flying into darkness.

The bulette almost got them, much closer than that beholder did; Strike nearly considered forgiving Minthara for comparing him to one, the thing was a beast.

Took the four of them much longer than he’d prefer to admit to- .... four?

“Oh shit.”

He counted heads over the dust that was just now settling at them after the beast kicked it up; Lae’zel was climbing off of the bulette’s corpse after she delivered the finishing blow, Wyll was offering her a hand that she surprisingly took to make the drop a bit easier on her leg. Halsin, whose bear form got quite a nasty wound that tore open his side when he got up to grapple the charging beast, stood by the ledge.

Astarion, Gale, Karlach, Shadowheart, nowhere to be seen. Not even Scratch’s barking was heard.

“Anyone seen what happened to others??”

The bear made a noise that lured him over, and thankfully, his most loyal cleric was hanging off of the ledge, feet dangling above the seemingly endless dark underneath them.

“... How’s it hanging, buddy?” Strike said, to cover up his moment of relief upon seeing her in one piece, and leaned down to offer her a hand to pull her up.

“I’ve been better,” she scowled, but indeed did reach up – the bear wrapped his paws around Strike’s thighs, to prevent him from falling as well, which was probably a good idea in hindsight. “Bloody thing knocked me off the moment I hit it.”

“Should’ve done more distanced attacks, then.”

“It jumped at us!”

“And the others?”

She panted slightly when her she’s managed to climb to safety, and her palms were scratched down to the point of bleeding from how suddenly she’s had to drop her whole body weight onto sharp rock, but other than that, she was fine, and Strike gave her a pat on the shoulder as he got up.

The bear turned, leaving behind a much more naked and still bloody Halsin, and Strike momentarily forgot about their potentially dead companions. Just momentarily, of course. Halsin spat out some bulette flesh and reminded him of the actual concern at hand.

“I saw them fly over right when I, ugh,” he looked down (so did Strike. And Shadowheart.) and gripped at the admittedly nasty wound. “... when I transformed.”

Shadowheart rubbed her hands together to heal them, and immediately moved over to help the druid, who looked up to Strike for any idea on what to do next. The drow was already on it, focused on his tadpole to sense others, anyone...

Did you die?

....

..........

...............-

A while ago, darling.

Astarion was always the easiest to reach, his mind like a well worn boot when it came to intrusions, and Strike let go of the tension that held him. They must’ve been okay, if the vampire could crack jokes like that, but Strike still pushed further, further into his buddy’s mind, this time actually hesitating until Astarion opened up with permission, and for a moment, he could see through the vampire’s eyes.

Gale, catching his breath. Scratch, licking at the wizard’s hands to calm him. Karlach, cheerful as she proudly liften their bag of Holding that she’s just found. From the angle he could tell Astarion was able to stand, and none of them looked harmed; when the vampire looked up, Strike could see the light from their own platform, a tiny speck far above.

Feather fall? He intrigued, once he’s returned to his own body, and felt a flash of memory snap through Astarion.

... I suppose Gale does have his uses, yes.

And you wanted to get rid of him! Apparently his playful outrage registered well through the messy tadpol connection, because he could feel just how unamused Astarion was. Can you make it back up here?

Not straight up, no. Especially with the bloody dog.

Find a way, then. We’ll find shelter; Halsin’s injured.

Astarion probably tried to say something back, but the tadpol in Strike’s brain squirmed, and the discomfort made him cut the connection short – the creature has calmed down, and the pressure behind his eye slowly eased itself.

“They’re fine,” he told the others, and noted the clear relief in all of them; especially interesting in Lae’zel, of all people. “They also have all of our things, including most healing potions, we should find a place to shelter and take care of Halsin.”

“I’ve done my best,” Shadowheart commented, hinting down at the injury that has at least stopped bleeding. “Not much I can do about clothes, though. Or internal bleeding.”

“Great,” Strike rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Okay. If we can find any more people here I think we can be fine. Or some Rogue’s morsel, I could whip up a healing potion from that...”

He felt it more than heard it, when it happened.

The song, the presence that surrounded them from all sides that weren’t a fall straight to death.

Lae’zel and Wyll have moved the fastest, stepped in front of the injured druid and exhausted cleric by his side, weapons drawn – but Strike knew it before he even saw the threat; they were hardly in shape to fight straight away. He was fine, really, only having had thrown a spell or two at the bulette before it was taken care of; but Lae’zel looked tired after having just rained a storm of cuts upon it, and he could tell by Wyll’s stance that the man was reaching for a cantrip rather than a spell.

So instead of blindly throwing a blast of lightning at the threat, he carefully lifted his hands up and turned to face them; only that there wasn’t much face to, well. Face.

The humanoid looking mushroom looked at him through two tiny eyes, glowing like fireflies in moss, its form slinking closer while half a dozen others surrounded them, and that humming melody washed over them.

Stand down, Strike told his companions, risking awakening the slumbering tadpol, and they did just that; Shadowheart held down the druid, who wasn’t able to hear him. The next voice that rang through Strike’s head wasn’t his own, and it didn’t quite speak to him rather than sung him a picture of his own corpse, wrapped in vines and rot.

“Sheesh,” he shook his head to get the threatening image out of it. “No need to try and scare us, buddy, I’m not here to fight you. None of us.”

The creatures looked towards Lae’zel. She begrudgingly let Wyll lower her sword for her, and Strike stepped to the side to cover more of the creatures’ view of them. The mushroom things stared at him, now. He stared right back.

There was something about them, something, something... Perhaps fear. Perhaps sadness.

They were oddly beautiful in it.

“Listen,” he took a cautious step forward, watched how they all reacted the same, but most importantly, how none attacked. Good sign. All good signs. He’d hate to lose a companion in a pointless fight, even if there was a chance they could win it. “Our friend is hurt,” he stated, kept his voice calm, soft, even. “All we ask for is passage.” The melody in his mind calmed itself, questioned, wrote him pictures of drow and mushroom flesh beneath their boot... “Not a drow,” he quickly lied, “I don’t even speak the language. Ever seen a drow look like this? I’m from the surface.”

The bluff worked, because the melody changed, stopped the warning grip it had around his throat, and turned into a new tune, much more welcoming, even if still cautious.

“Come,” the song said, and Strike held back the joke that immediately crossed his mind. “Follow.”

The creature he was speaking at has turned away, and he followed, sparing his companions only a glance to confirm they were behind him. Wyll has helped Halsin walk by letting the druid lean some of his weight onto him, Lae’zel eyed the closest two mushrooms with immense distrust and a hand on the hold of her sword, and Shadowheart unclipped her cape to tie it around Halsin’s waist when her eyes met Strike’s.

What is the plan?

Strike shrugged, turned to follow the shroom. They were willing to listen to him; and from his experience, that tended to be enough to succeed.

The walk to the mushroom colony was quite long, especially with an injured Halsin, and during it, their songs fed Strike the tragedy they’ve experienced just hours ago, as they walked past the fallen corpses of both the creatures, gnomes, and dwarves. Escaped gnome slaves, they told him. Seeked shelter.

Didn’t get that far.

Strike knew that they were going to have to help them even before he felt Wyll’s righteous resolve simmering behind him; something told him that slaughtering dwarves would be much more fun than spilling metaphorical blood of fungi. His stomach growled at the notion, and he firmly shut that thought down.

He’s figured by the time they arrived that the mushrooms were some type of a hivemind, which was great news; meant he only had to convince one to not kill them, and they were good! And seeing how the apparent head of the colony was kneeled by a corpse and was digging through it when they first saw it, well, they already had plenty in common to start with.

“flesh talker,” the creature acknowledged him, and Strike gave it a polite half-bow, which it seemed to appreciate. The song swirled around him, unfamiliar, wordless, and yet, it planted the creature’s name right on Strike’s tongue.

“Sovereign Spawn,” he greeted in return as he heard Halsin practically collapse on the ground behind him from exhaustion. “Heard you had a bit of a dwarf problem?”

Spaw stood up, eight feet tall, and Strike congratulated himself on his really good idea of not starting a fight with these things earlier. “they broke our peace, the duegar,” Spaw’s melody, furious and sorrowful, sang, “they killed our young. we laid waste to many. but intruders remain, lakeward.”

“Ah. And you want us to take care of that, buddy?”

Its head didn’t move, but Strike could sense the resolve in the air around him.

“you will find invaders near lake’s shore. cleanse the Rot. prove your namesake.”

“My- my namesake?”

“flesh talker wears the name. strike. prove so. cleanse the Rot. aid the Circle.”

“Sounds like an easier fight to win than this,” Shadowheart agreed, and Spaw only hummed an agreement, a warning.

Strike didn’t like that the thing was able to read his mind, or that they’ve been observing them for long enough to hear what he was called, but it hardly made sense for the shrooms to be the ones he has felt last night.

He had time to figure that one out later, though.

“Very well,” he agreed, “We’ll clean up your rot; I just want safe passage for my circle.”

“you, and how many.”

“Three people, one dog, everyone I have with me now. Others should come after us; talk to the one that smells kind of like decay and magic and tell him we're here.”

Spaw itself didn’t look at his companions, but its other selves did, and so, Spaw mimicked Strike’s nod.

“destroy the Rot, and flesh talker earns a name in the Circle.”

Good enough. “We’ll head there right away.”

Spaw returned to its work, and Strike observed it for a few seconds; the way the creature’s ‘hands’ disappeared within it, and then the corpse lifted itself as more and more fungi covered it, piloted it like a puppet on myconid strings.

“If I die here, destroy my corpse,” Shadowheart commented, but she seemed ready for another fight, the quick rest and slow walk over there did her well.

Lae’zel and Wyll likewise, but Halsin was still a (mostly naked) wreck, and assured them that he was going to be okay waiting back. The mushrooms lead him to sit down just far away from the corpses to not disturb them, and he was next to the first non-shroom they’ve seen; a short gnome lady, writhing in pain.

“... You got this?”

“Don’t- drow-“

She hissed something that sounded insulting, and Strike just sighed, but Halsin reached out to place a caring hand on her feverish forehead.

“I’ll do my best,” the druid promised. “Good luck out there.”

And so, they’ve headed off; Lae’zel leaning onto Wyll since her injury was slightly agitated from the walk, but she seemed fine otherwise. At worse a little annoyed.

“We keep offering help to those that are weak,” she commented, not protested, and Wyll gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“I know you don’t mind it as much as you claim to, Lae’zel.”

“Pah.”

“Or look at it that way,” Strike cheerfully suggested, “If it continues like this, by the time our adventure is over, we’re going to be really good at killing short people.”

They managed to collect another mushroom’s help on the way to the lake; a wide creature named Glut, that seemed like a bit of an outsider, and very willing to spill blood with them. The downside was that the moment they were spotted, an invisible dwarf called out for his leader before Lae’zel had a chance to silence him with an arrow through his throat.

“You’ve a bloody rotflower for company?!” a particularly mean looking dwarf shouted, right when Wyll’s eldrich blast knocked him off of his high ground.

Rotflower, Strike thought absentmindedly, as he finished off the one that was choking on his own blood from Lae’zel’s second arrow. He liked the word.

Glut marched past him in battle, quite uncaring of whom it had to shove to get down, closer to the corpses, corpses that it bragged about being able to breathe life into – only for them to explode first, as the main duegar awakened them into zombies of his own, and Strike realized that it wasn’t just the stench of death that laid heavy in the abandoned town they were in. No, there was necromancy, and something in his soul churned at the nasty reminder of this magic’s existence.

It smelled fucking vile.

Skin burned under his hands when he grabbed one of the zombies and electrocuted it, freshly made boils forming in the shape of his palm; when Glut pushed past him, and the bulk of the mushroom shoved both Strike and the undead off of the ledge.

The landing hurt, and the sorcerer found himself practically fuming; he could channel the momentary rage into a burst of daggers that he could kick the zombie into; the swirl of bladed pieces of magic sliced the thing to pieces.

It felt good to put the cursed thing back to its rightful rest, but the moment passed away quite fast when the necromancer himself grabbed Strike by the hair and shoved him face first into the very same cloud.

“Bloody fucking sun-scum, I’ll show you-“

Strike’s arms lifted to cover his face before it got lacerated any worse than it already was, but he heard himself scream, and the spell waned, just in time for the duegar to kick him in the gut hard enough for everything he’s eaten last night to come rushing up his throat.

Rotflowers must’ve gotten to his head, he heard a thought, but not one that was his – his own were nothing but burning red humiliation in the moment, it couldn’t have been his. He reached for the stray thought he didn’t think, grasped for its strands, and there it was, a flash of the axe rising above him, the symbol that swung on the dwarf’s hefty chest.

“Wait-!”

He lifted his hands, the symbol burnt into his flesh matching the one the necromancer wore.

“What the- A true soul??”

The axe didn’t fall.

Strike got a moment to gather himself, stop the ringing in his head, and proceeded to blast the confused dwarf with a lightning so strong it got him from rare to medium in a split of a second.

Clothes burned. Skin burned worse.

He let go of his axe when Strike tackled him, pinned the still twitching bastard down, grabbed him by the throat and unleashed another shocking grasp straight into the choke that by itself wasn’t strong enough to do him in.

His screams sounded red in the drow’s ears, painted his vision with flashes of white lightning and red pain.

Red eyes on him.

He could feel them, the same shiver up his back from the night before.

From the corner of his eye, through the blight of fury, he could see it – a small figure, melding with shadows of the lake.

Its red eyes didn’t leave him.

Something about them made him feel violated, afraid, a tremble that traveled down his hands and lifted them so that the next blast of power went straight for the demon in the dark.

It’s pleased shrill didn’t die out even when its body twisted and convulsed and died, splashed off into nothing.

“Strike!”

He grabbed for the hand that touched his shoulder, it took him a full second to recognize Shadowheart’s face and the concern on it.

“Are- are you alright?”

His hand was wet, and when he looked to it, there was dripping blood from where his nails dug into her arm; he let go of her, only now noticing just how hard he was panting. His chest heaved, heart pumping as if it wanted to burst out of it – he looked back towards where the creature was, but all he saw were the waves of dark waters, still crackling with electricity.

Nothing to see there.

The fine hair on the back of his neck still stood straight up, though.

“... y- yeah.” He took a deep breath, then two, tried to calm down his body’s unreasonable reaction to... whatever that was. “Thanks, Star.”

“... Do I look like-“

“Shart.” She crossed her arms at the nickname, but Strike could tell that she was even more worried than before. “I meant to say,” he repeated, “Shart. I know Astarion’s not here. And you don’t look alike.” It took all of his willpower to manage a smile. “Perhaps if you went blonde...?”

“Not funny.”

“Not that I think all elves look the same, of course.”

“Even less funny.”

“Sarth,” Lae’zel joined them, covered that barely splashed up to her shoulders, with Wyll and Glut closely behind them. “We have an issue.”

“Eh? What now?”

She hinted at the bulky mushroom, and Strike threw his leg over the duegar’s chest to sit with both on one side, like on a very short chair, as he listened.

The shroom’s voice rang through his head in a way that induced a headache, and he spent most of its plea rubbing his temples to push through. He wasn’t even sure what the thing wanted. Something about vengeance, something about death, uprising... Strike didn’t mind being helpful when it benefited him, but he wasn’t a bloody saint.

“I don’t care,” he finally cut Glut off, much to the surprise of his companions. “Spaw let us all in. I’m- We are not compromising that. You’re a bloody liability.”

Glut picked the wrong people and by far the wrong moment to try to start an uprising. It seemed to understand that.

The hatred that veiled off of it wrapped around Strike, a song meant to be sung by many turned into a sad swan solo of a creature that knew it was going to die, and as the drow stood up to incinerate it, its fat finger pointed at him.

“death doer. you shall, never again, know home.”

It sounded like a curse. Had Strike been a man of faith, he might've cared.

He saw the dark part of the water where the thing was before, felt the heavy weight as if its laugh still clung to his shoulders, choked him, clawed digits at his cheek, slimy tongue in his ear that he couldn’t shake the feeling of.

Glut died unceremoniously, alone and hateful, clinging to the last impossible strand of hope for vengeance it could’ve had, that turned out to be false.

The weight on Strike’s chest lifted itself, and he could breathe again.

“... Are you okay?” It was Wyll, sweet Wyll, who had asked this time, who didn’t wait for an answer and instead pulled him into an embrace, and Strike didn’t quite know how to react. This hug didn’t feel suffocating, not nearly as whatever it was that haunted him.

He managed to return the gesture before his brain threw up the most horrid idea of what it wanted to do to the young man, and then pulled himself free with a much less strained smile as he looked to his companions.

Astarion.

He wanted to talk to Astarion.

He would understand.

“Sorry,” he shook his head, as if to sober up. “Bastard did somethin’ to me, I guess. Confusion, or... I don't know. Something. Did we get everyone?”

“... Uh..”

“No,” Lae’zel helpfully cut Wyll off and hinted at the dwarf Strike had just been sitting on.

“Oh, shit, my bad.”

The necromancer somehow still lived. Burnt, breathless, with a crushed throat and a probably paralyzed spine, but he lived, and a rotten idea brewed in the back of the sorcerer’s mind as he glanced down at his own sliced up forearms, tasted the bile of near-vomit on his tongue.

“Heyyyy, buddy,” he smiled, crouched down to where the dwarf could see him better. He looked furious, defiant. Do your worst, his eyes said. Or perhaps that was what Strike wanted to hear, but it didn’t matter.

He could still try his best.

“Shrooms up there need some folks to breed their new kids in; y'know, to replace ones you killed?” His grin turned more honest as he watched the realization settle in, the way the necromancer’s eyes grew wide. Terrified. “Nod if you’d like to volunteer.”

The dwarf grew stiff as a board, but Strike has already grabbed him by the jaw, forced his head into an up and down motion, and then laughed in his face as it teared up in genuine horror.

The dwarf’s legs were soon to decay, Spaw noted when it inspected its victim. If they cut off blood circulation, he would remain alive for the process without a sepsis killing him; but the mushroom didn’t quite understand it.

“while this one draws breath, the Rot remains,” it noted. It almost looked surprised when Strike put an arm around its shoulders, had it had a face to emote with.

“He’s practically dead,” Strike reminded it, “It doesn’t matter. Think of how your people suffered under his axe, how many deaths of you he’s seen. Only right he sees just as many births, no?”

The music has shifted since they’ve returned, the dwarf’s choked grunts of pleas for death bringing on a new melody to the song of the Circle. Still melancholic, but now streaked with hope.

“I say do it,” said the little gnome lady, now in a much better, much more vengeful condition, thanks to Halsin. “Let the grey face what he’s done.” She then turned to Strike, looked all the way up to where his and Spaw’s eyes were. “It’s a good start. But there’s plenty more guarding my people – don’t suppose you could help them?”

“Lady.” He could feel his eyelid twitch. “I just went through all that shit, only for another mushroom – no offense – to try and kill me. I’m bloody drained.” But he could see Wyll nearby, the worried, uneasy look in his eyes that he wore ever since Strike decided to ‘spare’ the duegar’s death. “... Just give us a night, will you?”

Wyll's face relaxed, ever so slightly.

The gnome nodded. “There’s no danger the duegar will return to the base and report anything, anyway. Good job. I mean it.”

“Sovereign Glut has not returned,” Spaw noted, seemingly content with letting Strike hold onto it. “why have you slain it?”

“It was scheming to slaughter you circle, buddy. You’re welcome.”

The cloud of spores around the drow tightened, grasped for his throat, dug through his mind... and then, Spaw reached out, put a fungi imitation of a hand onto his cheek.

“Peace Bringer,” it called him, strange kinship weaved through its notes, in the way they caressed Strike’s face, chest, lungs. “Kin Spirit. the songs we sing now carry your spirit. freely you have given to us, and freely you may take – i’ve another boon to ask of you. but rest, first.”

“Th- thank you. Sovereign.”

“Kin Spirit.”

“Kin spirit.”

“now. to transform the Rot. to Revive.”

Spaw turned to the by now hysterical dwarf, and with slightly shaky hands, Strike picked up some bandages and a scalpel. Mushroom limbs just wouldn’t cut it for a task so precise.

The dwarf couldn’t feel the pain in his legs anymore, but perhaps that made the mushrooms taking over them just that more horrific to experience – he sure screamed like it was.

It wasn’t the best moment for the rest of Strike’s little group to join them, hours after all the fighting was done. They looked badly beaten up, but he’s grown to expect that of his people; of course they didn’t merely hike, of course not.

Scratch ran up to him to greet him, but Strike didn't trust himself in the moment with his hands near the pet’s throat, so he lifted them, laughed, told the pup he didn’t want to dirty his fur with blood on his palms. Karlach looked disgusted at the state the dwarf was in; Astarion looked more disgusted with Spaw himself. And Gale was practically jumped by Lae’zel, who demanded to know if he was nearing his point of combustion, which, in her words, probably meant that she was worried for him.

“We leave you alone for six hours,” Astarion scowled in disbelief, “And we find you impregnating a half dead dwarf with truffles. Darling. How.”

“Long story; wanna go somewhere private so I can tell it?”

Strike practically grabbed him, already heard the vampire start to complain about blood on him, when the drow pulled him into a welcome hug.

“Please. I see things but they’re not there.”

He whispered in his ear, and it was then that Astarion saw under his usual easygoing debauchery. The trembles in his hands. The violence in his touch. The quake in his voice, the plea.

Astarion embraced him sultrily, cupped the back of Strike’s head like one would hold a lover. Somewhere, Karlach pretended to gag.

“Ah, you’ve missed me so?~” the vampire purred, played it up, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry, dearest. I’ve got you.”

Strike breathed out in relief when Astarion took his hand, intertwined their fingers, and lead him away from the prying, judgemental eyes of people who wouldn’t understand.

Chapter Text

To his credit, for all of his flaws; Astarion did listen, and Strike was grateful for it.

His group has been given a small, room-like space behind a rooted wall, and have dropped what little they carried there, as it was the closest thing they could get to a private area in the colony. Strike found himself able to lift or drop the rootage however he wanted to, if he only focused on the spores in his lungs and the song in his mind, so it was by far the best place for them to talk, and so, they did.

“How long has it been?” Astarion asked, sitting down by Strike’s side on a rolled out bedroll as he watched the drow take another swing from a bottle.

“Couple of days, maybe? I just keep... feeling it, y’know? A thing watching us. Me. In the corner of my eye.”

“And you’ve never hallucinated before?”

Strike shrugged, avoiding catching the vampire’s eyes. “I see blood, sometimes. Where I know there’s none. But it’s not- It’s not like that. I don’t know. Maybe it is.”

“... Maybe.”

They sat in silence, and Strike drank until the bottle was finished, but he didn’t feel much better after, the way he tended to. His hands still trembled – even when Astarion took one of them in his own, and the drow spared him a curious glance.

“Do you feel particularly inclined to killing anyone we know, darling?”

“... You know you don’t have to-“

“I know.”

“I won’t- I don’t think I’ll snap at night, no. I just feel like shit, but my head’s fine.”

But he thought he felt fine at the tiefling party as well. Gods, it felt like that was ages ago, and not a couple of days. Astarion sighed, then took the empty bottle away from Strike, carelessly dropping it on the floor – before he slid onto the drow’s lap with all the grace of a feline on a prowl.

“I mean it,” Strike repeated himself, but did nothing to stop him, nothing to pause the way his own hands ran up the pretty vampire’s legs. “You don’t have to fuck me into complacency. Or to get me to feed you. Or anything.”

“I know,” Astarion reassured him, the slightest smile playing on his lips as he cupped Strike’s face, and pulled himself closer. “I don’t hate this, darling. I have found myself rather enjoying our previous trysts, believe it or not.”

He hardly could, but what, when the beautiful man ground his hips down onto his, and when his sharp nails dug into the scars of Strike’s face...

“Ass-“

“Look into my head if you don’t believe me. You already do that, anyway.” His lips were so close that their breaths mixed – Astarion had no need to breathe in the first place, other than to speak, like now. “I like you well enough to find this,” his hips rolled again, and Strike felt his heartbeat quicken, “more than a decent way to pass time. Find a distraction of some sort. Alright?”

“... Heh. That what you call it? A distraction?” It was nice, now that the annoying facade has seemed to mostly slip away at last. “I’m hurt, Ass.”

“As if you don’t prefer it that way.” Astarion teased, and then kissed him, and his lips were cold and sweet and so incredibly welcome on the drow’s heated skin.

Perhaps it was a good idea, Strike decided as he grinned into his buddy’s mouth, grabbed a hold of his waist, and pulled him close, close enough for the corpse to feel a heart against his chest. A nice distraction, for them both.

“You sure you wouldn’t enjoy, ah, a mycology lesson from Gale instead?” He cheekily asked when he had to pull away to breathe, and noted the slight flush to the vampire’s ears. “I’m certain he’s got enough knowledge to distract you plenty~”

Astarion’s trained sultry smile was gone before it could even properly settle on his face, instead replaced with an ugly snort that Strike immediately took advantage of to kiss again.

He liked the vampire, he really did. He liked the admittedly terrible personality that hid under those pretty gestures and silky hair.

He liked that he tasted of blood.

“mmm... Didn’t even ask what you guys were doing on the way here,” he asked when he thought of it, while peppering a line of kisses down Astarion’s neck to where his collarbones lured him, from above the hem of his tunic. “Killed many?~”

“Oh...~” Astarion let out a sigh of lazy pleasure, hands in Strike’s hair to hold him close as he kept up with the gentle dance of his hips against the drow’s tenting breeches. “Nothing special, really. A fish cult.”

“Fish cult?”

“Nothing to worry about, darling. We put them down, obviously. Poor creatures, so mislead, ah-!”

Strike bit him, grinned up at the accusatory frown that followed the yelp, and almost as an apology, licked at the pained area; it was just where Astarion’s neck and shoulder met, and clearly, the vampire has eaten well today, judging from all the blood that dribbled out of him.

Good for him.

And good for Strike, because the metallic taste brought his cock to full hardness, and when Astarion ground against him again in revenge, his eyes fluttered close with pleasure.

“W-we, mnh- we also found this, tower...”

It was cute, how he was affecting himself as well, stealing words out of his own mouth; Strike wanted more of it. It was certainly doing a decent job of keeping him distracted from the heavy feeling in the back of his mind.

He flipped them over, laying Astarion down onto the bedroll as he towered over him, and pulled at the vampire’s shirt to get it to expose his stomach.

“Wh-“

“Keep talking, buddy. Am all ears.”

Astarion rolled his eyes, but when Strike dug back down to kiss him some more, he did continue.

“Tower, full of some weird machinery – you’d love it. I think. We brought some things we thought you’d find use for.” He thought for a moment, watched as the drow’s affection reached to the waistband of his pants, and then as he started to undo them. “We probably would’ve died if not for Gale insisting on looking through every book he found, really. Do not tell him I said that, but I am quite happy we didn’t kick him out to go explode on his own.”

“Heh. Ain’t you happy your opinion’s not the main one we’d listen to, then?~”

“... Darling.”

A cold hand in his hair stopped him, and Strike looked up, just when he has hooked his fingers around the sides of Astarion’s underwear. The vampire’s smile has disappeared, uneasy as it flickered back.

“... don’t tell me you’re offended.”

“I refuse to flatter your already enormous ego even more by engaging with that thought – no, I wanted to say-“ He paused for a moment, bit his lip, suddenly weirdly unsure about something... but just as Strike started to pull away, the vampire took a deep, uneeded breath, and told him. “I’d prefer your mouth stays away from my more important bits. If you don’t mind. .... Much.”

Strike stared at him for a moment, saw the way Astarion practically deflated into himself – the way his eyes, face, turned to the side, the way his lips parted as if he were about to take his boundary back... but there was no need for that, really. The drow has moved up, pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth and softened his voice, to reassure him.

“Sure thing, Ass.”

He visibly relaxed under him, and the sight was much better, much more welcoming as the vampire wrapped his arms around Strike. The mood lifted. Strike was almost able to forget himself again.

It worked, it definitely worked, to have something pretty to rut into when Strike’s mind drove him mad.

Astarion made all those pretty little gasps as he fucked him, arse up and face down, another bedroll folded under his front to make sure his chest and arms wouldn’t get rubbed raw against the ground. His pants were off, his pale skin flushed a delicious shade of pink of a well fed vampire, and while his shirt remained on him, it’s bunched together and left his lower back completely exposed to arch underneath the drow.

It wasn’t the first time Strike found comfort of drowning his thoughts in sex and alcohol and pain, but oh, what, when it was such an effective combination?

It didn’t quite work today, though.

Not for the lack of trying; they’ve gone twice now, first with Astarion clinging onto him, second then from behind, and the vampire remained enthusiastic and so, so-

“Fuck, Star~”

The drow groaned, letting himself bend over, on all fours over his favorite corpse. He leaned down to kiss at the sweaty back of Astarion’s neck, to drag his tongue over the flushed ear, to drag out more of those pretty noises... He did notice the vampire was much quieter than he was their previous times, none of those louder moans or squeaks.

“Having fun?” Strike panted, nuzzled his face into Astarion’s hair while his hips slowed their movement to a slower, grinding motion.

His head felt hazy. Full of fog – but he didn’t quite hate it, not when it hid whatever things lurked deeper within it.

“Mmh...” Astarion hummed something where his face rested on his forearms, and angled himself enough to show a side of his face to the drow. He was red, sweaty, slightly teary-eyed; but not in any distress. A stray thought made Strike reconsider just how real those moans their first time were, especially when Astarion reached up to pull him into a ridiculously sloppy kiss.

“Ass-“

“Come on, ah,” Astarion was twisted kind of uncomfortably to be able to look at him, but luckily for both of them, he was flexible enough for it. A fucked-out smile stretched his lips when he planted them to Strike’s again, still tasting of the drow’s own blood. “Dearest~”

Something snapped. Something primal and needy and wanting, and Strike found himself slamming the elf down by the back of his neck with a completely newfound vigour. He fucked him hard, enough to practically punch more breathy groans out of him, holding him down as he took him. It didn’t last long, the force made Astarion arch deeper underneath him, the new angle lead to the vampire messily orgasming onto the bedroll, and the drow couldn’t take it much more when the shivering body around him clenched like a vice and milked him for all he was worth.

He just had enough thought left to collapse to the side, instead of directly onto Astarion, and waited to come back to himself.

It was slow but steady, and when Astarion’s uncertain hands moved to touch upon his chest, Strike wasn’t nearly as annoyed with it as he was the last time.

“... Sorry, Star,” he sighed, eyes closed to stay in the pleasant dark of his afterglow just a bit longer. “Dunno what happened there.”

It felt great, but he figured he was probably a bit rougher than what they’ve agreed to.

Astarion curled up at his side, and Strike wrapped an arm around him, absentmindedly caressing his side as they both took in the moment.

“It’s okay, darling,” the vampire hummed, rested his head on Strike’s bicep. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Fuck you do,” he had to agree, “... But still. Any comments?”

“Come up with your own praises, bastard.”

Strike laughed, then turned just enough to kiss the slightly damp head of hair. “I meant negative ones, buddy.”

“Oh.”

He went quiet for a while, and Strike took the time to relax, as much as he could... it didn’t last, unfortunately. He felt eyes on him again. It made him want to put his clothes back on, he hated the lecherous feeling on the back of his neck.

“I suppose...” Astarion’s small voice broke him out of the uncomfortableness, and for his sake, Strike looked to him; only to find the vampire staring straight ahead, absolutely avoiding glancing his way. Cute. “... You could’ve pulled out. Before you finished, I mean. It’s not the worst thing, of course, but the cleanup is more than annoying, so...”

“Ah, shit. Noted.”

It only took a quick spell of prestidigitation to clean them both up, even the bedroll, before it would’ve gotten too dried to be disappeared this well.

“... Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he didn’t fail to notice how Astarion threw a leg over him then, and the cuddle got even closer... If only it wasn’t for the uneasy feeling in the air that didn’t let Strike relax any further, and with a sigh and a nuzzle, he pried the vampire off of him.

“Do you feel better?” Astarion asked as he watched him stand up to fetch his clothes, leaned on one elbow and so pretty and debauched, in just his sweaty shirt and bruises... But instead of lust, Strike felt an odd desire to cover him up. Something was watching.

He doubted it deserved to lay its beady eyes upon such a sight.

As he threw Astarion his pants, he thought about it, and almost lied... but Astarion gave him the graces of not lying about his comfort, so perhaps, Strike should’ve done the same. “Not really. Sorry.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, kinda? It worked in the moment for sure, and thanks for that, some reprieve from it was nice, but. I think I still feel it.”

“... Have you talked to your fungi friends about this? What if something is watching us? Underdark’s hardly the safest place in the world.”

Strike appreciated the return to normalcy as they both started to put their clothes back on, and talk about something more practical. “Yeah, I asked Spaw, but it says they’ve not felt anything around here but us and their other guests. Could also be the Circle itself, I guess they are always watching, but...”

That didn’t explain the feeling  from before they even found the Circle, or the creepy vision by the beach.

“... Maybe it’ll get better once we leave Underdark. Hopefully in a day or so.”

“Ahuh.”

Astarion didn’t sound hopeful, but neither was Strike, so, it didn’t particularly matter. While the drow was jumping around to pull his breeches back on, the vampire was already dressed, and has picked up some book he’s found gods know where.

“Flumph Mating Rituals?” he read the title out loud, then chuckled. “Too bad we haven’t read that earlier, we could’ve tried out some tips...”

Strike has headed off to their bag of holding that Karlach has dropped by earlier, to see all those ‘things’ Astarion said they brought for him to inspect. There really was some cool objects, pieces of machinery, a collar – perhaps for Scratch? If he’d like it better than his current one – some books that got him pretty intrigued...

“What mating rituals?” he asked absentmindedly as he dug through the bag.

“Flumph. Haven’t you seen it earlier?”

“Probably belonged to that dead guy we found in here earlier – which reminds me, you should try on his armor, it looked your size. And had a real neat hood to go with it, if you feel like doing something more incognito.”

“And cover up all this? .... I’ll consider it.”

Ah, there was more new things in the bag, something soft when it brushed against Strike’s fingers.

“The book’s bullshit, anyway. Flumph reproduce asexually.”

“Wh-?”

Whatever Astarion wanted to say, it suddenly didn’t matter; not when Strike pulled out the soft thing, found an admittedly pretty, bright blue flower – and dropped it as if it bit him.

“Strike??”

Hollow.

Gods.

It hit him like a whip, a blast of cold that extinguished something, something important.

Strike practically fell away from the cursed plant, his heartbeat suddenly drowning every other thought and noise in his ears, when he grasped desparately for the magic in his chest and found nothing, nothing, he was empty and powerless and hollow and-

The blanket felt like it was choking him, but the pillows underneath his head were certainly nice.

“Strike?”

As nice as the hand in his hair.

“Shit, he’s waking up!”

Karlach’s voice tore through his head, and before the overtly bright light allowed for shapes to make sense in Strike’s vision, there was another, larger shape, that shooshed others away.

Strike was, unceremoniously, on the ground.

“What-“

“You’ve had a seizure,” Halsin informed him, warm hand pressing to the drow’s forehead as if to check for his temperature. “Astarion said it was because of the Sussur flowers?”

Memories slowly started to crawl themselves back together, and yes, Strike could recall it, the fucking plant that took away his–  He sat up so fast the room spun around him, but it didn’t matter, not when he could –

The familiar warmth was back, right where it belonged, filling his chest and preventing it from collapsing in on itself. Strike couldn’t recall the last time he’s felt relieved enough to almost sob.

“Careful,” Shadowheart warned him, and it was only then he found that he must’ve been resting his head on her plush lap earlier. It looked like she was up for most of the night, bags under her eyes and a stressed out look in them...

... Night?

“... How long was I out?”

Halsin’s voice came out unsure. “Eight hours.”

“Seizures rarely last more than a minute.”

“You were in a horrible state, and have not slept properly in, how long?”

“What did you do to me?”

The druid looked uncomfortable, but then, almost defiant in his decisions. “A potion of sleep. For your own good.”

Strike wanted to strangle him.

He didn’t – only because the man had over a hundred pounds on him, and because people were around.

Probably for some moral reason too, but he didn’t have the brain power to think of one; Shadowheart handed him his new necklace before he’d have properly realized it was gone, and the relief of putting it back on was almost enough to calm his fury.

“The fuck kind of a druid drugs someone against their will??”

“I admit, it was unwise, but to my defense,” Halsin’s voice remained steady, calm, it sounded like it made sense and Strike loathed him for it, “you were convulsing. Rambling about collars and murder and all sorts of things – nobody wanted you to suffer like that.”

“You were also threatening us, darling.”

Astarion piped up; he was wearing drow’s leather armor, and Strike couldn’t help but appreciate how it looked like on him. In the part of his mind that wasn’t angry, that is.

There was a partly healed gash on his face, too, one that the vampire pointed at.

“You very much slashed at my face when I rushed over to help you. All in all, we were quite lucky your magic was snuffed out at the time – even I can recognize incantation for a lightning bolt when it’s screamed at me.”

“... I did that?” He couldn’t remember a single thing other than the panic. “... I want those flowers burnt.”

“Well, you’ve not been informed yet, but we are on our way to go hunt down another sorcerer, so perhaps-“

“Gale.” Strike interrupted the wizard, with a smile so strained it made even a man who never ran out of words pause. “I. Want them. Burnt. Capeesh, buddy?”

“... I suppose we can deal with our target in the old fashioned way as well-”

“Bashing his head in!” Karlach’s determined shout broke through the intensely heavy atmosphere, as she hit her fist into an open palm. “You think you’re good enough for the road, soldier? Or, well, the boat?”

“I don’t think he should be-“

“I’m bloody fine, Halsin.” The drow hissed, found his footing – he felt okay. The uninterrupted sleep certainly helped, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He snatched at one of the bottles of water they’ve stacked by his sleeping area, and as he was drinking it, he could notice that most of his team were getting ready for the road... He didn’t like the thought that they were thinking of leaving without him.

But then again, it wasn’t as if they could, not when they were dealing with the cult of the Absolute – it was Strike whom the mysterious spiky ball liked most of them all; good luck stealing it from him.

He dug through their minds and very much noticed the attempts of it, felt the guilt... At least they felt guilty about it.

All but Halsin, of course – the tadpoless fuck. He only looked at him with a frown that dared to be so bloody worried that Strike just had to turn away and ignore him or he feared he would’ve dropped some even more worry-worth insults.

“Alright.” He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Catch me up on this mission. Who’re we hunting?”

Spaw wished them luck as they left, and in a sign of good faith – and because he didn’t want to deal with more people than neccessary – Strike left him the majority of his own ‘Circle’, electing to take with him only the less annoying members. Shadowheart, Astarion, Karlach. Lae’zel was left behind due to her still healing leg, Gale should not be put in dangerous situations, and Wyll... Wyll looked just as worried as Halsin did, and Strike hated that look in their eyes.

He was fine.

Shadowheart said that it must’ve not been his first seizure ever, seeing how quickly he’s recovered from it, and that, for someone with brain damage this obvious, he went remarkably long without triggering one, so Strike expected to be fine.

Especially after they found this Nere guy, and he’d be allowed to let loose whatever carnage he woke up with, eating away at his heart.

Find this Nere, slaughter more duegar, free some slaves... If this truly was the Absolute’s doing, then it should’ve been easy to gain access, at least.

And they were getting good at killing short people.

“We look the most evil as a group,” he explained to his little team of three, getting a raised eyebrow out of both Shadowheart and Astarion, as they glanced towards their beloved tiefling. “I said we look like it.”

Karlach laughed. “Don’t worry, soldier, I’ve worked for such pieces of shit you can’t even imagine. I can look mean and scary, no problem.”

“Right, Zariel, was it?”

“Nah. You can expect devils to be that way; my old boss before that, though? Shitstain I should’ve seen coming.” She spat. “I wonder what he’s doing right now, actually. Really wish he’d be laying dead in a ditch somewhere, but that type of cockroaches are stupidly hard to kill, from my experience.”

They’ve reached the shore by then, and Strike hopped onto the boat with Astarion, to see how hard it’d be to steer as Shadowheart and Karlach kept chatting.

“... Sorry ‘bout your face,” Strike muttered privately, and Astarion gave him a pat on the hand, that... surprisingly, felt nice. Made him feel a little better.

“It’ll heal, darling. It’s already much better than it was.” The vampire’s smirk waned. “... It was quite a spectacle, though. Are you sure you’re alright?”

No. Yes. Never. Strike fiddled with the steering pole as he thought. “Rapha- the devil, he said I was held somewhere, for a year. I can’t think of a better way to restrain a sorcerer than with that bloody-... ... I don’t want it near me again.”

“I understand.”

And he did, he probably really did.

Strike managed a bit more of an honest smile, and just leaned forward, to nudge Astarion’s head with his own in a manner that was probably a bit more animal-like than he’d have preferred, but it felt natural enough.

“Oi! Don’t get another seizure!”

The boat shook as Karlach jumped upon it, and Astarion gasped in feigned outrage.

“Are you implying I was the reason for it?”

“Hey, who knows! One moment he’s snogging you, next he’s spasming – we don’t know!”

“Excuse me, unlike some people here, my touch is perfectly safe!”

“Hey!”

Strike finally grinned, for the first time in the day, and exchanged a look with Shadowheart, before they sailed off into the darkness.

They found plenty of slaves still alive, luckily for them; and it turned out, it was an Absolute operation – to pass through, Strike only had to flaunt ihs perceievend bloodline, and the brand on his hand.

It seemed they’ve arrived there at a bad moment, though; True Soul Nere, the source of the myconids’ pain, was well and truly fucked. Buried alive in a cavein, and the duegar – both Absolute cultists and not-quite-yet-paid mercenaries – were very inclined to get him out of there.

The gnomes were ruthlessly whipped, left and right, and under the swelting bruises and cuts, Strike vaguely recognized a familiar face amongst them; the same little guy they’ve saved from the goblins. It seemed like he’s found his place amongst his peers, after all; similar to how Strike found his own.

Barcus glared at him from under a sweated brow, and Strike just gave him a wink that could’ve been perceived in any way the gnome was willing to believe, and they did not speak, because Strike was listening to the overseer who blabbered about the trouble they’ve had.

“You have nothing to explode this with?” he suggested, and she scowled.

“We would’ve used it already, if we had it.”

“I see.”

Gods, was it hot in that room. Must’ve been the lava – the temperatures made Strike undo the lacings of his shirt, and he didn’t fail to see the gnomes and duegar flinch at the sight of his scarred self. Not his companions, at least. They’ve gotten used of it.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, True Soul.”

“In Her name.”

She slammed her fist to her chest. “In Her name.”

There really wasn’t much to do, not in the very near proximity, at least... But apparently there were enough of trading to go around, for Strike to spent a big majority of their money on potions and better weaponry. It wasn’t like the traders were going to live much longer, anyway. The money on their corpses will be worth just as much once they fall under the same arrows they’ve just lended to him.

Astarion seemed to like his new equipment, he noticed. The hood covered his distinctly silver curls, and the mask of it hid everything but his eyes, and so, their rogue was able to slip into the darkness completely unseen like never before.

Through their tadpoled connection, Strike could sense his enjoyment – the vampire felt happy, to have the choice to disappear, not attract attention.

He also used it to his advantage as he took out the spying eye that floated around, so, really, the hood was for everyone’s benefit.

Strike’s figured out quite a while ago that he was quite decent at reading people, at finding their weaknesses, what drove them apart, and with a handy elf that snuck around joyfully and reported back his findings, he quickly found himself in negotiations with some unhappy (and unpaid) mercenaries. Half of the money, they said.

He smiled and assured them that that was something he had all intentions on upholding.

They did have their last remaining smokepowder on them, Karlach victoriously found it in their bag of holding, and as she planted it on the ground by the cavein, the gnomes ran off, and Strike rose his hand.

It really was that easy, he thought.

A flick of a finger, a word, and the rock gave way to his will.

“At last!” True Soul Nere was a drow, Strike knew that before they freed him, but he was hardly expecting the voice that came from the well-dressed, sweaty, distressed man.

“Useless worms,” he hissed at the gnomes, lifted his hand, and Strike felt a bond through their minds, their tadpoles recognizing eachother, connecting. He felt Nere pluck at the strings of his inner magic, the same exact way Strike did – so different from Gale, or the duegar necromancer, or anyone they’ve come across yet.

For a moment, Strike felt an understanding unlike any other, someone else perform the same way he would’ve, that beautiful instinct of what he was mirrored in another...

And then a woman screamed as her flesh boiled alive in lava, and Strike had to snap out of it.

“Fu- Stop it!”

It was only Karlach’s equally burning rage at his side that made him remember the reason they were there, to save the people this Nere was just killing.

The drow sorcerer glared at them in disbelief, said something that Strike couldn’t quite tell, from the excited rush of his heart, because Nere called for blood, oh, just what he had in mind since he woke up – he lifted his own hands, and lightning rippled from them towards the pretty man who danced this dance by the same steps that he did.

It was a massacre.

Not for Strike’s people, not really. They’ve been through far worse.

Astarion was a lethal force, jumping from shadow to shadow to pick off anyone foolish enough to think their back unneeded to protect. Shadowheart kept the remaining gnomes alive, her golden spiritual weapons helping Karlach in close combat with those most heavily armored; she must’ve killed at least three by giving them the same fate Nere gifted that one gnome.

And Strike... Strike rained fire and hell indiscriminately. The duegar mercenaries were in the way, and Karlach could tank a fireball or two. Nere gave as well as he took, which made Strike’s heart flutter whenever their minds linked in the chaos – but then he got distracted by an enlarged duegar trying to get a giant battleaxe lodged into his brain, and he had to take his attention off of his fellow True soul.

By the time the berserker was a twitching corpse on the ground and Strike was able to turn back, Nere was on the ground, with a viscous looking Astarion looming over him.

Attractive, what else could the man say?

Tragically, it turned out they’ve slaughtered most of the duegar that were technically on their side, all but their leader... Strike glanced towards the gnomes, smiled. Gave them a jerk of his head towards the downed duegar, and with all the fury of slaves that still bled from their torn up backs, two of them rushed forward, slammed themselves into the much heavier dwarf, and shoved him over the edge into boiling lava below.

Someone broke down crying. Someone ran into someone else’s arms. Barcus was looking at them in utter disbelief, and Strike only grinned at him, covered in blood and ashes of what used to be their torturers.

The day has gotten infinitely better.

But it was another sound that drove his attention in the end. True soul Nere, on his knees, with Astarion’s hand in his hair and a blade at his throat, and his eyes were wide and terrified.

It wasn’t because of the death that loomed over him, no. Strike’s seen this exact look before, on Minthara, right before she-

“... hey there, buddy. Nere.”

He couldn’t help it, he walked over, crouched by the trembling man, and ignored Astarion’s questioning look.

“Wh- How-“

“You with me?”

Those eyes finally found Strike’s, and he could see outrage attempt to reason over fear.

“I can’t- I can’t hear Her voice,” Nere hiccuped, as if it truly settled in only when he said it out loud. “What’s going on? What have you done to me??”

The artifact burnt in Strike’s pocket.

Nere wept, and Strike did not give out the order to kill him.

Chapter Text

“Impossible. I should slit your throat for speaking such bl- ngh!”

“Come now, darling. You must be aware of your situation.” Astarion was smiling under his hood, watching a droplet of blood join the mess on his blade where he pressed it tighter against the pretty drow’s neck.

The little noise Nere made was quite adorable, but Strike chased that thought away in favor of something much more intriguing – that is, a True Soul, freed from the mind control, and conveniently also not nearly as tempting to kill as dear Minthara was.

“I don’t need to lie to you,” he repeated, cocking his head as he observed the way the drow’s eyes fluttered around the cave, the people around him, dead and alive. “I could just have my assassin kill you then and there, if only I wasn’t feeling so gracious.”

“Yeah, about that...?” Karlach piped up, shaking her head wildly to get the growl of her rage out of her voice. “Thought we were here to-“

Strike cut her off before she could mention the myconids. “To free the gnomes, yes. And now we can also free our fellow man of the mindflayer leash – unless he enjoys skipping happily into an embrace of tentacles?” He directed his last question to the drow himself, even though Nere could not quite respond, with how Astarion’s yanked his head back by the hair, and even breathing harder caused the blade to threaten a serious injury.

The drow glared.

Strike smiled at his distress. Let him process as he subtly checked up on everyone else.

Behind them, Shadowheart was tending to one of the gnomes; from the corner of his eye, Strike could see the older man’s partner cling onto him with worry and relief, as if either of them was going to die the moment they separate again. The older one was the one in the cavein with Nere, if he recalled correctly. Inhaling poison was nothing a spell of Strike’s cleric couldn’t help with, and so she wasn’t even fully paying attention to her patient – Strike caught her eyeing them from the side, but as she tended to do so well, she kept her opinions to herself, and trusted him to know what he’s doing. Good.

Barcus, the gnome they’ve saved from goblins once before, also behaved, even though Strike suspected it might’ve been more out of fear than anything else. He kept back the crying one, when he looked like he was going to say something at their (for now) saviors, and Barcus’ forehead wrinkled in worry of what was to happen to them next.

Nere wasn’t dying yet.

But he was scared, and confused, and lost, and Strike could detect his thoughts and read the panic and fear swirl into eachother in a way that sent a delightful shiver down his spine.

“Look, Nere,” he tried again, “Don’t try to fight, and he’ll loosen the grip. Yeah? You’re clearly outmatched.”

Karlach has clumsily reached to him in his mind, echoes of a question of why, but he brushed her off, and a simple trust me was enough for her to stop overthinking it and do just that, she stepped aside and kept her axe in a lowered hand, just as a precaution.

Being inside the poor man’s mind, Strike knew when he agreed without needing to hear it, and he nodded to Astarion to release him. Of course the vampire didn’t obey without his own flare, that was, shoving Nere’s head forward until he fell to all fours, but it was permissible. And, it let Strike reach out and cup the drow’s cheek before he had time to recover and catch his breath, before it was taken away in a wave of

visions.

Mind flayers. Tadpole, squirming, screeching, an intrusion at his sclera, the discomfort of an eyeball being pushed aside for the beast to crawl its way into a mind. The squirm of violation, squirm, squirm, feeling right behind an eye that he only feels now, when it can’t hide-

“No!”

Nere gasped as he forced himself out of the shared vision, one that Strike wasn’t even quite sure which of them it belonged to.

“No, you can’t- That didn’t-“

He needed a moment. Then several.

Strike stayed in a crouch, let himself watch the way the drow’s mind raced against itself in failing attempts to rationalize the truth, and then, how it gave up.

“I- I don’t understand,” Nere finally said. His hand lifted, floated above the symbol on his chest – and then clenched itself close. “I’ve been following those... those wretched beasts?”

“You and plenty of others. I guess they usually hide the memory of the insertion.”

“... How did you stop it? You, a mere- ... a True soul?”

 Strike shrugged. “I’ve an item that seems to protect us from this so called ‘Absolute’s’ influence. S’ppose it shut up yours too, from the proximity.”

“... Ah. I... see.”

Poor thing. He was so deeply buried in his own distressing thoughts, that he didn’t even think twice when Strike stood up and offered him a hand to help him get up, he merely accepted it. Heavier than he looked – when they stood side by side, Nere was a tad shorter than Astarion, the top of his head reaching just to under Strike’s chin, and the thought of pulling him closer slid over his mind once more.

“Gonna need you to tell me more about the cult, though,” he warned him, and sent Astarion a reminder to move and take any potion or weapon the drow might’ve still carried. “So far I’ve only heard of its name and general activities.”

“..Yes, that. That makes sense.”

“And the slaves are free.”

“That vermin? But-“

“I can demote you from a guest to one of them at any point I want, buddy.”

“... Very well. Gnomes,” Nere called out, as if his word carried any weight anymore, “You are slaves no longer!”

“Monster!”

The crying one sobbed, as if he was going to charge at the drow, and Strike shot Barcus a glare over his shoulder. The more familiar gnome helped, grabbed his friend by the shoulder and kept him there, and the mourning creature started to sob into his chest.

“Meerna... He killed Meerna, he-“

“Ouh. Uh, yes. Just. I’m sure they’ll kill him fast.” Barcus gave the man the most awkward pat on the back, as his eyes found Strike’s, and the unsureness of his own reassurance all but reflected in them. “... Right?”

“We’ll figure that out soon.”

“Stickpit is also still missing,” a woman said, deeply distressed and holding it together just a bit better than her friend did. “He- the slavers took him lower, towards where they...” her lip trembled, “Where they disposed of the corpses-”

Nere looked like he was going to say something potentially unkind, and so, Strike cut him off before any slurs could get involved in the situation.

“You three;” he said to his people, “check the area for those, kill any duegar still alive. Bring any other slaves back here.”

“And you?”

“I’ll talk to our guest; drow to drow, ykno?” He gave a surprised Nere a pat on the shoulder. It appeared that that was the exact moment when the cultist first realized just how the other male towered over him, and he gave him an odd look, which Strike promptly ignored for the time being.

Astarion didn’t seem convinced. “And just leave you alone with...?”

“If I die, the artifact will stop protecting him,” Strike lied through his teeth with a smile. “Surely I’ll be alright. Now go, would get real awkward if someone gets killed cause duegar heard the commotion here.”

Nere understood, he knew he did. It wasn’t like he had much choice, in any case. Strike’s trio left, the lady gnome went with them to search for her friend, and the two drow were left with the other reluctant gnomes that did not matter in the moment.

“... Well? Wanna show me around?”

Nere thought for a moment, then nodded. “It would be better to not discuss such matters in front of these... creatures.”

Something told Strike that Nere picked the kindest word his vocabulary could come up with in the moment.

The temple was much grander than it looked originally, and Nere’s people have only discovered that much of it – the drow told Strike about the infernal creatures they’ve found, something he’s been warned about before arriving, even if it was nothing like what he expected. Ruins and skeletons, left behind by some monster that was locked in a Sharran temple they were trying to reach.

Bitterly, Nere confessed to failing at his quest to open a path through the Grymforge, but with that, Strike’s learnt of a much more important detail; the name of general Thorm. The Absolute’s favorite. Its Chosen.

The man lived in Moonrise towers, a location Strike’s heard of before, when Minthara ranted to him about the leadearship that lived there, so clearly, they were on the right way to their (hopefully) found cure, except for the very small issue the drow explained.

“The land around Towers is blighted by a death warping curse,” he frowned as he stepped over a corpse in a distinctly Sharran armor. “General Thorm has entrusted me with a lantern that allowed me safe passage through it, alas,” he paused for a moment, his lips pressed in a thin line. “... Alas, mine has been stolen couple of nights ago.”

“Stolen?” Strike tilted his head. “By one of the slaves?”

“... By a traveler.”

“You allow travelers?”

“He was a merchant! Affiliated with our causes!”

He really did have a delightfully whiny voice. It lured Strike to choke it out of him.

“It matters not,” Nere decided, arms crossed and cheeks oddly flushed for a moment. “The lantern is as good as shattered; I’ve lost access, and I do not wish to step foot back into that horrid curse any time soon without it. ... Or with.”

They made their way to where Nere’s private chambers were, hidden behind an illusion spell that masqueraded as a wall, and they both pretended to not be very aware of how alone they were, there. Nere has backed to a wall, quickly and keeping an eye on Strike’s every move, removed his heavy overcoat in favor of a much lighter set of clothes. Strike did his best to look busy with the maps of the area and to not stare at the drow – he didn’t think Nere would risk attacking him, but he really did not want to have to elaborate on the fact that his source of magic felt quite drained after the fight.

At least the drow stopped sweating so severely, the smell was previously overpowering.

He slipped into a role of a good soldier easily then, practically reporting to Strike of his last mission, of how one could, theoretically, come to the Towers safely, the layout of the land outside...

It must’ve been a good half an hour before Shadowheart’s voice rang through her leader’s head, and he lifted his hand to stop Nere’s report.

“They found supplies,” he told him, “What’s the last time you fed your slaves well?”

“Pah. As if they deserve-“

“What is the last time?”

“... perhaps two nights ago. Before the cave-in.”

“Feeling like lunch?”

Strike smiled, and Nere was not given a choice to say no.

For the comfort of gnomes (one more now, they found the so called Stickpit) and everyone having to witness the scene, Nere ate his share far away, just in the field of vision. The gnomes were practically starved, and Shadowheart and Karlach have also worked a bit of an appetite from the fighting –  on the contrary, Astarion looked like a very pleased feline, almost overfilled and cheerfully complaining about the aftertaste of duegar blood.

“... Strike?” Shadowheart asked him, quietly, as Barcus got in an argument with the oldest man, something about another gnome that wasn’t there.

“Hm?” Strike hummed a response through a full mouth of upsettingly dry cheese and bread. He missed Gale. It’s barely been a day.

“Are you planning on keeping him?” She lifted an eyebrow. “I can see your tastes lean towards the blonde and pretty - and terrible - but I’m not sure if-“

“Oh gods no,” Strike replied after he’s stopped choking on the last bite. “I’m not- fuck you.” She hit him over the back to make him pause coughing. “I’m not collecting a bloody harem, Shart. It’s. I dunno. Practical.”

He was sure he could find a reason she would believe in a few moments, but since she knew that too, she let him not even bother with it, and so just sighed.

“If you say so. But I would like to remind you that our supplies, and companions, are still with the mushrooms, and I don’t believe your friend Spaw will be exactly thrilled at this.”

“I said I’ll take care of it, didn’t I? Just keep these people in check – I still have things to discuss with him.”

"... If you say so."

“I do.”

They all watched how Nere pulled himself out of whatever deep thoughts he was drowning in, he stood up and wandered closer to them. They all ignored how the gnome hands started to shake with anger and desire to bash the drow’s skull in for what he’s done.

He cleared his throat, but Strike let him speak first, bathing in the uneasy feeling that filled the air.

“... Akhm. You.”

“Got a name, buddy.”

“Strike.”

“Yes?”

At Strike’s side, Astarion has stilled. There was a cautious shadow to his glare, observing the pretty drow as the man stood with his hands behind his back.

“I’ve realized I owe you a... favor, if you will.”

“No shit.”

Nere’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, and Strike grinned.

“... Follow Nere, if you will.”

“Gonna kill me where we’re alone?”

“It appears I lack desire to return under the mindflayer whip. You’re safe.”

Good, because Strike was still fuck out of spells. Perhaps something simple, if push came to shove...

“Very well, then. I’ll follow Nere.”

He quite gladly left his terrible sandwich behind and instead grabbed for a half empty bottle that must’ve been a few decades old, judging from the dust on it – better than nothing.

“Have fun~!” Astarion called out, only to receive a smack on the back of his head with Karlach’s sandwich. “Ouc- the hair??”

“Would you prefer I burn it off?”

“I’d prefer you not hit me at all, however surprising that might be, darling.”

“Aw, still sore from that dwarf earlier?”

“N- ... Yes, actually. In tremendous pain.”

“A, fuck, now I feel bad!”

Keep an eye on them, Strike told Shadowheart’s mind, and she reacted with a thumb up and a slight smile, watching their vampire and barbarian bicker.

Nere’s idea of returning a favor was, apparently, not sex – Strike wasn’t sure if he was disappointed by that, or intrigued, but he made a mental note to stop following sketchy elves to remote locations, no matter how pretty they were.

Not that the lesson was going to stick; so far, he’s not had a reasonably bad experience come out of it, and when Nere lead him to a massive cavern of lava and machinery of the legendary Adamantine forge, it once again proved to be an unfairly sound decision to follow the candy trail.

“We didn’t intend on putting it to work,” Nere explained as he pressed a lever, and the entire platform underneath them started to drop. “It just sat here. But Nere believes you might find use of it.”

“Adamantine, huh?” Strike watched the air paint itself a darker orange, the magma pools deep underneath covering them both in a fresh layer of sweat as the ground disappeared high above them. “Didn’t think it was really meltable.”

“The temperatures must be sufficiently high; it is potentially the only one of its kind in the world.”

“So this is Nere’s favor? Just a fancy sword?~”

“... Do you wish for something more?”

The sudden change of tone threw Strike off-guard, with how used he was of his companions returning the playfulness – something in Nere has shifted, just like before, when he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the garbs of his fake goddess. That wariness. Being on guard.

Strike would be lying if he were to say he didn’t enjoy it ever so slightly, the tinge of worry that laid between them. He briefly thought about what Nere would’ve done if he were to suggest that something more, but it was just that, a thought, nothing more. Nothing less.

“Sword sounds fine, actually. You were right, I’d love to see this thing work.”

The tension eased, and Nere went to get a piece of ore that seemingly remained from the last time this place was used. For a small man, the drow was able to move it and the heavy mould just fine, surprisingly defined muscle bulging under his tunic. Strike let him work, because this was Nere’s favor. And, because there was no way he would be able to lift that with any dignity the way the other sorcerer could've.

“Step there, according to the instructions, this whole area will flood... Then Nere shall turn the valve, and you’ll have yours.”

“Noted.”

Strike stood where he could have a better view of the heavy hammer dropping, and there was... something. Something within him, that felt excitement about this thing. He felt as if he should be taking notes of the process.

Nere turned the valve, the rusted wheel screeching under his hands, but as it turned halfway through, the lava came, Strike stood on a small island above an entire lake of it, the hammer started to move-

And then, Nere screamed, and through the heat-blurred air, Strike finally saw it, the thing that dragged itself out of nowhere. A massive metal beast – adamantine, he could tell it was adamantine – that stood five times Strike’s height, with raw fire pouring through its limbs and making them move, right onto the smaller sorcerer.

Strike’s world narrowed to the golem.

Nere’s spell didn’t do shit to it, other than made it stumble slightly backwards, dip its foot into lava.

Shit design, a critical voice commented in Strike’s head; not quite an intruder, not quite a memory, merely a thought in a voice that he didn’t know. Adamantine’s melting point is all around it.

Not much two exhausted sorcerers would be able to do, though.

Golems are simple, Strike remembered, a book long forgotten, a scribbled note on the page in neat handwriting. Golems protect; they’re easy to trick, that’s the problem with them. So many ways to improve the design.

“HEY!”

He called out to the thing while the plan still wrote itself out in his head. He could misty step, if needed. He had perhaps a spell or two left in him.

That, and the anvil was positioned right between them.

The construct slowly turned its head towards Strike, and the drow felt like he knew exactly how he could’ve drawn a diagram of its many metal parts.

“Here!”

It moved faster than he expected it to, on him in only a few long steps, it stepped over the anvil and Strike sent it right back with a blast of thunderous damage, a reflex from deep inside.

He screamed in Nere’s mind to turn the damn valve, just when the golem caught its ground and started to move again, soon to be off, off of the thing, Strike prepared himself to misty step out of the way and... and figure it out then, but just like that, the golem’s joints brought themselves to a screeching stop.

Behind it, he could see Nere, blood on his sleeve where he fell, but hands raised to focus on whatever spell that was keeping the construct still – Strike felt a thrill of watching cornered prey, and still used his last spell to teleport over to the drow.

“Can you do another?” He asked as he rushed to the lever. Nere, pale in the face and sweating buckets, shook his head. The golem’s hands started to move again already, the spell waning... “Help me, then!”

Magic blinked away. The golem moved.

But not fast enough.

With both of their strength (most of which was, realistically, Nere’s) the drow just managed to put enough weight onto the lever to force the rusted thing to move, and with the roar of a thousand thunders, the hammer fell down onto the construct.

The noise was deafening, booming as it mauled its way straight through Strike’s ear drums and brain, and he fell over, grabbing at his suddenly overtly sensitive ears.

His head rung.

The thing was dead -deactivated- though, and besides the very end... He would’ve classified that as fun, he decided, to distract from the pain in his head. There was a hand on his shoulder; it took a moment too long to recognize it as Nere’s, but as Strike glanced towards him, the drow looked terribly pale still.

“Are you alright?”

“Y- fuck, that was loud.”

“... I suppose.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“I could’ve been told in advance tha-“ There it was again, the little shift in behavior, and Nere’s hand pulled itself away as if it got burnt. The drow bit his lip, looked down. “... My apologies.”

Strike couldn’t help but roll his eyes at whatever the man was doing, before he sat up properly – they were surrounded with lava, and the guardian was a squashed torso and limbs between the hammer and anvil.

“... Thirsty?”

“Huh?”

He shrugged at Nere’s questioning look, and pulled out the dusty bottle that somehow survived the whole ordeal. “Seems we’re gonna be here until the floor clears. Want a drink meanwhile?”

“... Thank you.”

He sat down by Strike’s side, reaching out to take the bottle and open it with a dagger from his pocket. Then, Nere downed two thirds of it in one go, before Strike could even think to grab it from him.

“Wh- moderation, buddy,” he scolded him, snatching the bottle away before the greedy thing would empty his whole treat. “What happened with the great and mighty Nere, anyway? You weren’t acting like this before.”

Nere finally looked at him again, a bewildered look on his face as he’s snapped from whatever state he was slipping into.

“I- Have you not felt the slightest worry, over Her- It, the Absolute, being an impostor??”

“Never really believed in it, honestly. I just kinda woke up tadpoled and knowing of it.” Poor thing. Strike couldn’t help but notice just how much smaller he looked like this; something utterly pathetic about the just so recently proud and viscous True soul. .... “Ah.” It clicked for him. “Is True soul Nere different from Nere?”

There it was, a tremble to the drow’s lip, before he buried his face in his hands and let out a wail he must’ve been holding in since he first accepted his harsh reality.

Strike took a deep swing of the bottle and let him scream it out.

“I was weak,” Nere finally whined, his eyes wide open in raw disbelief, “I betrayed Lolth, I- I turned my back to the Weaver, and it was for- for what? To be mindflayer feed??”

“Can’t you go back?”

“No??” it was the first time Nere managed to make Strike feel like he’s just asked an incredibly stupid question, but despite the annoyance he would’ve usually felt upon it, the poor man’s religious crisis triggered... something. An understanding, a sympathy. A sliver of whatever those were supposed to feel like, perhaps. “You’ve no clue what happens to my kind that dares abandon Her, do you?”

“Your kind? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I’m also-“

“You are not a bloody drow.”

He glared at Strike. Defiantly – as if there was anything to be defiant about, Strike wasn’t-

“... Don’t know what else I would be, Nere.”

“Have you always been male?”

Strike briefly thought down to his prick. “... Feels pretty homegrown, yeah. Why?”

“Then you are no drow male.” Nere sniffled, as he hugged his knees. “You carry yourself like a matriarch- Gods, them, they’ll never...”

Oh.

Right.

Images of Minthara, standing tall and dominating and wanting, crossed Strike’s mind, and he finally understood.

He’s completely forgotten of the drow culture, of the positions a jaluk would have within it – judging by his brief and unpleasant employment under that drow woman – it made sense that Nere would’ve succumbed to the desire of a better.

“All the same under the Absolute, huh.”

The drow’s laugh was hollow, his face hidden in his arms. “As if. The very first thing Nere was taught here was that that was a lie. ... Lolth will never forgive me..”

“You were mind controlled.”

“I was weak enough to let it happen.”

For the first time in a while, Strike wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect Nere’s silly misery to affect him, so few things have managed to do so, so far. But he found it in himself that he wanted to comfort the pitiful man – it wasn’t his fault that his goddess didn’t protect him, and now would’ve blamed him for his failures he couldn’t have fixed.

He let him have the rest of the bottle.

They sat in silence, watching as the lava cooled down around them and pretending that Nere’s shoulders weren’t shaking with choked-off sobs. He was muttering to himself, something, something, going through all the reassurances that it was going to be okay, when it wasn’t.

An odd emptiness filled Strike, slowly like a glacier.

“... why did you spare Nere?” The drow asked out loud, then had to repeat himself, because Strike barely heard him the first time.

“Spare you? Earlier?”

“Yes.”

“... I don’t know. I haven’t met a sorcerer before.”

“Never?”

“Not in this life.”

He didn’t want to look back at the drow, even when he could feel his eyes on him, wet and glistening and so, so used of being that way.

“... My memories before the mindflayers are gone. I don’t.. I don't know, I- Felt for a moment like I found kin, when I saw you, I thought you’d understand. The... the feeling, within. You know?”

Silence rested a few moments more, before Nere sniffled once again, reached up to wipe his wet face dry with his sleeve. “H-hah...” a sigh of a momentary relief escaped him, when he must’ve focused on the same calming source in his chest. “Nere always... Always thought that that why She has chosen him. The only thing Nere’s had his own.”

They were alike.

Strike wished he were happy about it.

“...”

“....”

“..You could travel with us,” Strike offered, and knew it was fruitless even before he finished speaking, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Safe from the mindflayers, as long as you’re close.”

“And Lolth?”

“Would she just-“

“Yes.” Nere shivered. “The fate for those who fail her is... horrific, deserved.... Even the soul spiders would just execute Nere, for failure, gods, vith, Nere failed...”

His fate was signed the day he was born, Strike figured, and the thought tasted bitter.

The lava has disappeared by then, at least enough to leave spots where the floor wasn’t to burn through his feet; he got up, almost in trance, to walk over to the anvil. It’s ejected the mould out, but the golem’s quick insertion of self seemed to have broken off a piece of it. Instead of a sword, the weapon was more of a dagger; one that fit nicely into Strike’s scarred grip.

“... We came here to kill you. I did, at least.”

Nere didn’t react much. Not that Strike was looking at him, he handled the blade and felt his insides get pushed aside to make space for the empty void of discomfort at the situation, the silent anger that bubbled within.

It wasn’t fair. Lolth didn’t seem to give a shit about a pitiful drow male – unless it was to punish him, apparently. It wasn’t fair.

“Look at the bright side,” he told him as he walked back, watched the way Nere’s eyes were fearful and broken. Neither because of Strike, but because of the bloody- “At least it’ll be quick.”

Fear, sadness, and then, the oddest of them all; when Strike crouched down to murder him, Nere pulled himself closer, practically hugging his to-be killer. Murder to bring relief, of all things.

“I pray we do not meet again,” the drow, the sorcerer breathed out, his warm face buried into Strike’s neck, right before the blade sunk hilt-deep between his ribs.

Nere coughed up blood, yet swallowed down any noises of pain; it felt as natural as walking, to find the gap between bones where a dagger of that size dug itself comfortably through his heart. Strike twisted the knife still inside, and so, they remained together, more intimate than any lovers ever could be.

If he closed his eyes, he could feel it, the warmth of magic within Nere’s chest, almost reaching out towards his own, and he figured this was the reason the drow went for a death this up close – perhaps his last comfort before Lolth collected his soul to punish his existence for eternity.

"Praise be," he sighed, despite being unsure whose praises he felt the need to sing, only that it was not the spider queen.

There was comfort in the arms of a dying man. A taste of home.

Strike felt the soft touch of Nere’s magic wane before his breath did, he knew it was gone then, and just like that, he was alone with his own thoughts.

Except, his thoughts have come to life again; he knew it was there, he didn’t need to see it, but he did, over the corpse’s shoulder. The impish creature was positively beaming with pride and affection that made the murderer’s skin crawl.

Nere’s corpse smiled at him as the imp squealed out an overjoyous greeting. 

Chapter Text

Something twisted in Strike’s gut, the way Nere’s mouth twisted into a smile that should not be.

“Milord, oh, jubilant day!”

It was the size of a gnome, but looked more hellish, crusted skin tightly wrapped around its skull, beady red eyes bearing up at him from the shadow of its hat. And a smile, a smile that spreaded its lips, oversized hands of claws that reached out for him and-

Strike slapped the touch away, before it could reach it.

There was a knot in his throat.

“Who-“

“I followed you, milord! Found your vile self at last, oh, I thought I’ve lost you, were it not for the stench of that bard, my dear, dear Master!”

It was practically squealing with delight of seeing him, and Strike hadn’t the slightest clue on how he was supposed to respond to such raw joy – before his mind processed what the thing has said, and it stopped him dead in his tracks.

“... You know me?”

Words were hard to utter, to string together, when such a tightness gripped at his chest and refused to let go.

“You know me??”

“But of course, my vile, rotted Master!” it was wrong, an odd creature, somehow looking both elderly and eternal, with its sweet voice of a fragile old man that sounded nothing like how it wore its own skin. “Ou, I have noticed your precious mind has been quite lost, has it not?”

It knew him. It knew of who, what, he was- Strike felt his hands tremble around the corpse he still held onto, its waning heat.

“Are- are you one of Raphael’s tricks?”

The creature had the gall to look offended, hand on its chest as it gasped, wailed. “I know of no such name, Master! Oh, you’ve truly been so lost, you do not know Sceleritas Fel anymore?”

The name did not ring the slightest of bells, but the creature did not carry with it a scent of the Hells, so Strike swallowed the initial unease, in favor of the overwhelming thought of someone that knew him. And of the girl he’s slaughtered, his sins that he thought river would’ve washed away.

He shook his head, and the implike thing for a moment looked near-ready to cry.

“I don’t even know myself, I-“

“Well!” It’s trembling lip was gone in a blink, and it clapped its hands together. “What is a mere butler compared to Your might, then? Poor Master, to have forgotten such glory he once was, oh, I wish you’ve done better...”

“What do you mean, you’re my butler? Am- was I some noble?”

It bowed to him, dramatically and deeply, taking a step closer and shortening the distance between itself, and Strike and his drow’s corpse.

“I am the dirt at your feet, your eye in the dark; the most unprincipled servant a fellow of your fine breeding could ever hope for. I searched for so long, Master, every nook and crevice for where your cadaver might’ve gone – how luckily for us all, for you to have slaughtered that bard in such a magnificent way.”

It’s been following him ever since, it seemed, and Strike felt that shiver squirm down his spine again, at the feeling of those eyes, watching him from everywhere and nowhere at once.

It saw the bard.

It saw everything.

“... Did you cause me to kill her?”

“Oh goodness, such fine work could never be done by a wretch like me!” It smiled wider, those freakishly beady eyes adoring as it reached for Strike’s hand, and despite his every instinct, he couldn’t flinch away. “The way you’ve mauled her, Master, dear lord, it was as utterly despicable as I’ve always known yourself to be.”

It really was so happy to see him.

The feeling was new. And wrong.

“You’re- Sceleritas,” it made an uncomfortably pleased noise upon hearing its name from his lips, and Strike wanted to recoil within himself. “I killed you last night. At- At the beach, right?”

“Oh, yes, you have, and how I’ve missed you!”

“But how-“

“This reunion is not about your most adoring butler, my liege, it is about you, yourself!” It reached even further, stepped even closer, its hands were on Strike’s face and it cupped him, the way a doting nan would her favorite child. “How we worried at home, that you’ve lost all that made you you – how ecstatic we were to learn your true nature prevails despite it all!”

It was so much. So much and not enough.

Strike felt a sickness of wine in his gut start to rise back whence it came from.

“That girl- I don’t even remember killing her, it’s not like I-“

It squealed again, its touch on his cheeks cold and dry, mummified flesh that kept touching him. “You always were proficient in these acts, Master; so easy in your might, so special, you can slaughter even in your most peaceful sleep! Oh, how I’ve missed you, how-“

“Stop it,” he at last managed to shove against it, push it away, and it got easier to breathe when its suffocating presence took a step out of his personal space.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale. The world smelled of fire, sweat, and Nere’s death.

Strike grounded himself through the touch of Nere’s corpse stealing his own body heat where he held it, inhale, exhale; if the creature, Sceleritas, was his servant, then it worked for him, and he needed to pull himself together.

It waited for him to collect his thoughts, its head cocked in raw affection that made him more uneasy than the persistent smile on Nere’s dead lips.

“... You’re going to tell me everything you know about me, Sceleritas.”

It sighed theatrically, as if so wounded by its answer. “Though I would adore to regale you with your past triumphs, milord, I cannot. I am forbidden to interfere; our betters will not allow it.”

“Our betters?” No, no, he needed to know, he needed to- “You work for me!”

“And I am so eternally pleased about it, Master! But I am afraid in your state, you are still on probation,” it playfully shook its finger at him, and Strike felt like a dog with its tail between its legs from the wave of shame that flooded through him. “But do keep in the direction you’re headed, I am most certain your redemption form that little blunder that took your mind will be simply exceptional.”

“But-“

“You’ve strayed from your home, Master,” it scolded him again, like one would a child, and Strike felt that way – when Sceleritas moved to hold his face again, he let him. The repulsive feeling this time brought comfort, the smallest bit, to the sudden sorrow Strike knew he held for the missing parts of himself, but could ignore on most days.

“... Home?”

“Your home, your family, that loves you oh so dearly,” it assured him gently. Its clawed thumb brushed over Strike’s eye, and only then did the drow realize that hot tears have blurred his vision of the butler. “None of that, milord. You have always struggled to conduct yourself properly without me. It is all but my very own fault to have taken so long to find you, but fear no longer – I’m sure you can tell, you can’t help but be a prodigy spree-killer. It is your perfect nature. You cannot forget what you were best at, Master, you’ve shown plenty of your true self so far.”

Home.

Family.

Strike did not realize how heavy those words could feel in his heart, not until he was assured that he had once known them. Yet heavier still was the feeling of nothing, of no memories stirred, of nothing that rested where his thoughts of them once must’ve been.

Someone was waiting for him, the imp has said.

... But why did they not find him, if they loved him so?

A sudden flash of pain shot through his head, and he flinched away from the loving hold to grab at his temples – Sceleritas’s expression did not change, only its voice turned more sweet, more... more.

“Oh, poor Master. So long without guidance, so lost that you would try to stay your own might...”

Gods, it hurt. Its voice was not drowning the pain, only coursing through it, and when Sceleritas’ hands were on him again, something within Strike snapped, the full force of the need he’s last felt this strongly when his mouth was full of Quil’s throat.

It was Sceleritas’ cheerful scream that made him realize what he’s done, the way he was holding the creature by its puny neck, the way he couldn’t squeeze hard enough to choke it.

“Yes, yes!,” it cheered, “Spill more blood, Milord! Be yourself! Be-!”

Its neck snapped under the move that felt to the man as easy as breathing. The crunch was vile, yet the smile, the pride, it never left it, the cheering never stopped, even when he shook it. Its head flopped around in a disgusting manner, before it snapped itself right again, and the thing moaned-

The murderer found himself yanked back, by a force of himself that he didn’t know, and his hands brushed against something else.

Something dead.

Or was it?

The drow’s eyes were wide open, looking at him. Smiling. His chest raised, fell, the way it shouldn’t, and his eyes were another pools of red in the centre of the bloodied edges of his vision.

Nere smiled at him, laughed, in undeath or death or life, and the urges to ruin him guided the beast over to him.

“Go on, Master,” a voice encouraged him, it intertwined with the screams for violence in his head, as Nere’s face got closer, as scarred hands wrapped themselves around its throat and choked the airless lungs shut.

“There you are.”

Desire, to maim and to hurt and to have, clouded what little clarity there was before, because Nere was laughing, the pale haired thing that people thought him to be like, it kept laughing, up at its better.

A heat of shame and embarrassment burned its way through his mind, his loins, and perhaps the hand on the back of his head was Sceleritas, perhaps it was his own, but it pushed him down all the same, and the grip on Nere’s throat replaced itself with that of teeth.

Blood burst into an eager mouth, and the world exploded in vicious red.

Special, yes, special. Violent, wretched thing.

Nere was no longer smiling – perhaps, he never was. Strike has certainly not seen a smile on the living drow to compare it to.

Do what you do best, does it not feel better, after? Precious boy, darling death.

The pain was gone, it was, and it replaced itself with that hollow void that threatened to consume him, if only it had not felt so familiar.

His hands felt... heavy. The itch in them was gone, perhaps satisfied, perhaps so normal it could hide, but Strike... Strike sat there, still looking at Nere’s whitened eyes, his wide open, slacked mouth.

The head laid six feet away. Strike was still straddling his body.

Be true to yourself, vicious lord.

He couldn’t look down, at what he’s done with the sorcerer’s corpse. He knew it, could feel the heat on his barren skin, the wetness on his roughly undone pants, but. But.

If he looked, it might’ve become real.

If he looked, he might’ve realized he could not find the disgust he desperately wanted to feel, the one anyone else would’ve.

Sceleritas was gone, even if Strike still could’ve felt the touch of its hold on his shoulders; yet when he reached up to brush it away, his bloodied hands found heavy cloth instead.

Such a good boy – a treat for doing so well.

He couldn’t remember the butler putting the cape onto him, but the weight of it was as comforting as the hollowness in his chest, and so, Strike stood up.

He didn’t look at Nere’s corpse when he dragged it to the ledge of the platform, and then kicked it off of it. He could lie to himself and think it was to make sure Lolth could not desecrate him, but what, when the desecration was already so thorough she might’ve not even wanted it anymore?

...

It did not matter. The body disappeared in the boiling heat below, and Strike had one less sin to atone for.

The blood, darling. Magic it away. It was Astarion’s voice that finally found its place in the murderer’s mind, and the relief of it was as overwhelming as it was wrong – but Strike appreciated a reminder, the same way he got it the last time, with the girl who sang so sweetly. A swish of his hand, and he was clean of blood, another, and he had gotten rid of incriminatory stains on his breeches. He collected Nere’s head by the hair, almost as in a trance as he returned back from the drowning heat of the forge.

He got what he came for. And noone needed to know.

“Soldier, heya! We were starting to get worried about just what kind of head you were getting from the bastard!”

“All went well?”

“Can’t believe this was the great Nere’s favour!~”

Words of his companions slipped off of him like blood from oil, but Strike couldn’t bring himself to react. Not now; not, when he lacked something that he thought made him a person.

“... Strike?”

“This path is fucked,” he told them, shook off Astarion’s hand when the vampire’s sultry smile faded in favor of concern. “We’re going through the mountain pass.”

“Are you.. are you okay, lad?”

“Get on the boat.”

“Seriously, what’s-”

“Tieflings went through the mountain pass as well,” Shadowheart jumped in, cut off Karlach before the barbarian attempted any more serious prodding at the man who truly did not want to exist just then. “Perhaps we can catch up with them.”

“We will risk our luck here,” said one of the gnomes, not that Strike could bother to care for his name in the moment. Or his fate. “We, uh, have someone to find, in Moonrise.”

“You have someone to find, Barcus – and you’re delusional about him being still alive,” another one corrected him. “We must go to Baldur’s gate. Again – thank you for freeing us.”

“Think you could give us a ride to Thulla, at least?”

Strike shrugged, already heading off to the boat; he wanted out. Out of the temple, out of the dark.

“... Is that a yes, or...?”

“As long as you don’t breach our weight capacity, darlings.”

“Hah. Funny. ... But thank you.”

Nere’s head was heavy in Strike’s hand, but he didn’t let go, he could feel its jaw swinging open about with how it had not stiffened up yet. He could drive the boat with one hand, avoiding the looks of everyone aboard, the atmosphere that weighted on them all so thickly every attempted joke of his companions fell flat.

It was a long, quiet ride.

All three of his people attempted to look into his mind at least once, and Strike shut them out so firmly he saw then flinch. The blood red cloak floated gently in the breeze behind him.

“the drow sought to shatter our Circle. now his flesh may feed its growth.”

Spaw cradled Nere’s head in its limbs, and Strike couldn’t help but think for a moment that that is the kindest of fates it could’ve gotten.

“Peace Bringer,” the myconid called him, its soft song swirling through the emptiness in Strike’s chest, and for a moment, a blink, when it touched him, he felt better. “Kin Spirit, dealer of death. you have brought this Circle life. know, so and now, our song carries your tune amongst ours.”

They danced, the mindhive, and their song wrapped around him, penetrated ever pore and opening, and Strike inhaled with lungs full of spores.

“you’ve found no home amongst us. yet may our Circle’s songs aid you with your own.”

Perhaps this was the best Nere could’ve gotten. The thing that he used to be, at least, before...

The song of the grateful myconids drowned out the voice of red in Strike’s mind – and when it quieted with distance upon their departure, it was a miracle he managed to not break down in vicious tears when the hollow feeling returned.

The sun did not help his thoughts; it burnt too brightly and too hot on his scarred skin, and Strike almost immediately wished to return to the calmed darkness beneath them. The goblin corpses were rotting by the time they passed them, and then, the path to the mountains was not much more pleasant.

Astarion tried to talk to him, attempted to lure him into the woods on the first night they slept outside again, but Strike could see through the seductive wink that the vampire wished to talk to him... Or perhaps to fuck him better again, but the thought of another hands on him, of another body beneath him, filled him with repulsion. How could fucking the pretty man help, when every time he even thought about it, all he see was the way Nere’s chest opened for him to dig his hands in wrist deep in throats of perverse passion? How could he keep those thoughts to himself and not drop them on the elf who had been trying so hard to help him get better?

Shadowheart tried to look into his head, more than once, but to no avail each time; Karlach’s awkward jokes failed to strike up a conversation, Gale was not speaking to him since Strike shut him down when the wizard tried to excitedly inform him of the friendly mindflayer they’ve met in the Underdark, Wyll’s attempts at casual banter fell flat, and Lae’zel did not seem to care much, putting her in the very top of Strike’s currently favorite companions. Halsin made the wise decision to leave him alone, too – but the drow did not fail to see the druid glance at him whenever he brought out another bottle of wine. Even Scratch stopped trying, when Strike snapped for a moment and shouted at it to stop trying to sneak into his tent at night all the time.

It was rough few days, not only because of the climb into the mountains and the increasingly steep terrain, it was the atmosphere. Strike very much knew that it was his fault to be souring it this badly, but he couldn’t find it in him to care enough to fix it; he was exhausted, so much that just the idea of putting on a facade of any sort threatened to tear him up from the inside. It was mostly thanks to Wyll and Karlach that the rest of the camp still talked to eachother and at least attempted to act normally, and he could appreciate that, if nothing else.

They left him alone, after the second day of travel.

“Lae’zel says we’ll probably reach the creche in two days,” Shadowheart informed him on the third night, when she brought him a bow of admittedly great looking broth. The group was having dinner, Astarion was out on the hunt, and Strike was nursing a bottle of Baalor ale in his own tent, away from them.

“Good.”

“... Eat while it’s still hot, Strike.”

He’s heard that the gith and her had a spat last night, one that he couldn’t be bothered to disrupt, and it was Wyll that separated them – it explained the coldness in her voice, or perhaps, she was just as pissed at him as everyone else probably was.

She left then, joined others by the fire; it was getting quite chilly at this height when the sun was gone, and so, Strike spent most nights wrapped up in his new cloak, the constant reminder of what he didn’t want to think of and the only warm embrace he felt like he could stomach.

He could hear Gale laugh at something, and then Karlach’s loud snort, Astarion’s voice as he told of gossip that Strike couldn’t focus on enough to not forget immediately.

It wasn’t like he wanted to be this way. He wanted to break out of the strange, hollow mood that was eating him from inside out, but for the first time since he woke up in the nautiloid, he couldn’t. He curled up in on himself, pulling the cloak to his chest as he took another sip of his ale. It didn’t make the feeling go away, but it made it easier to stomach, the smallest of reliefs.

Wretched thing.

He needed to pull himself together, he thought, before his companions realized that perhaps they would’ve been better off without the dead weight that was supposed to be their leader. Gods, would’ve they replaced him already? With who? His mind briefly flashed to Wyll, to the charming, good, sweet Wyll, and then immediately drowned his smiling image in viscera and gore of sudden anxiety.

They wouldn’t have done that. ... would they?

He was being more than useless, practically dragging himself along with the rest of them on their travels. His body hurt, he could barely keep up with most of the others, he has managed to piss off each and every one of them by being straight up unable to interact the way he knew he should’ve, it was so easy to make them like him, but he couldn’t even muster to-

... He had the artifact, he had to remind himself. It liked him, it returned to him.

But he truly needed to snap out of the spiral soon.

For the night, he emptied his bottle, and it was thankfully able to drown his thoughts and knock him out for at least a few hours of the night.

It was the same dream as it has been since he met the impish butler. World, drowning in red. Lakes of gall, pulsating heaps of expired flesh, a dead world of dead people, and himself as one of them, a face in the pile that looked up at the blood red sun as it burned its last. Pale woman in golden armor, trying to reach him through the fog, too thick for her voice to penetrate, even as her screams grew louder behind a barrier, every night that Strike could not force his dream self to move.

He’d wake up in cold sweat and sickness after it each night, but today, it was worse. Lae’zel stood in front of his poorly made up tent in the early hour of just before sunrise, her face serious, arms crossed.

“Awaken.”

“... what.”

He was groggy, hungover, and he needed a minute to process what the horrific growling noise was and that it came from his own stomach. Lae’zel glared at him even sharper, noticing the full bowl of cold broth at his side, and scoffed at it.

“Finish that, sarth. Then join us; we require a conversation.”

She spun on her heel and left then, leaving him alone to slowly work through the tasteless broth and whatever decided to lay upon his mind.

A conversation, huh. Strike knew he was right, they were done with him – a good thing about the heavy weight of nothing in his chest was at least that the acceptance of inevitable felt about the same as before.

He still took his time to finish the meal and get up, though. It wasn’t like being annoyingly late would’ve changed how they must see him by then.

He emerged in a while, perhaps hoping that Lae’zel didn’t mean everyone by saying ‘we’, but no; his entire group was out there, waiting for him. He supposed getting over with it would be the best, anyway, and clung a bit tighter the the suffocating safety of his cloak.

“Morning, soldier,” Karlach greeted him, from where she sat, with Gale on a log they were using as a bench. There was stiffness to her voice, and Strike couldn’t blame her for it; he still couldn’t find it in him to do more than halfheartedly nod into her direction.

Gale looked... fine. Not angry, but Strike knew he hurt the wizard’s feelings when they last spoke. He was holding a cup of still hot tea, probably a good idea in the chilly morning; the same was true for Shadowheart and Wyll, who were on the other side, sharing a blanket to not have to sit directly on cold, wet grass. Scratch has joined them, his head in the cleric’s lap, his big, worried eyes turned up towards the drow. Astarion was up, leaning on a tree and pretending very poorly that he was not at all affected by whatever was happening; hells, even Halsin was apparently with them now, seated on a chair they’ve no doubt stolen from the goblin camp a tenday ago. Lae’zel stood front and center. Smart of them, to put their most straightforward as the face of their decision.

Would it count as mutiny, if they’ve merely realized their leader has lost it, Strike briefly wondered, before he sighed.

“So what’s-“

“You’ve not spoken more than three dozen words since we left Underdark,” the gith stated bluntly. “You do not give orders, you do not make decisions. You’ve relinquished control of your warriors.”

“...”

“I am to soon introduce you to my kith’raki, Strike. I cannot call you jhe’stil and not risk mockery.”

“Jhe’stil?”

“... Gale.”

“Superior,” the wizard chimed in to help translate, and Lae’zel nodded.

“You are not superior anymore.”

Strike expected that. He couldn’t even hold it against them, when he truly could not pull himself out of a rut of gore and nightmares that plagued him, the purrs and touches of the butler that he still felt eyes of sometimes.

“You’ve been losing your mind since, ah,” Astarion joined, paused when he caught himself thinking of the wrong moment – Strike was surprised the vampire hasn’t told everyone about Quil yet, honestly, “Since that drow, at least.”

“The drow?” Karlach huffed, “what about that stupid plant that almost killed him?”

Strike felt like he was shrinking into himself, and the numbness... it only spread, really, shut away the slightest smidge of a thought the he might’ve cared.

“I did notice you also reacted oddly calmly about the devil that whisked you away in the night,” Wyll sighed, before taking a sip of his tea.

“And everything that happened regards to the goblins. Not that I wish to go in specifics.” He wouldn’t have guessed that it would be Shadowheart that nailed his coffin shut, and yet, there she was.

“... I’m sorry,” Strike finally said, without any real feeling behind it. “I don’t... I don’t know. I can try to do better, but-“

“You can try to stop dealing with it by yourself, fucker!”

“Karlach!-”

“Ah shit, sorry-“ the tiefling flushed, calming down the flames that escorted her little outburst and nearly took Gale’s eyebrows with them.

Wyll continued. “What I think Karlach is attempting to say, is, you’ve been remarkably well adjusted since we’ve met – and it was perhaps naive of us to believe that you aren’t affected at all by what’s happened to you.”

“... what?”

Those did not sound like words of a dethroning mob.

“You’ve lost your memories, your identity, your body is in a state that makes it near miraculous for you to keep up the way you do,” Halsin was the one to reply to him, with a deep sigh that painted out frown lines of his forehead. “You’ve taken an immense weight to shoulder, with putting all those lives and decisions onto yourself – honestly? I could not believe that you have not snapped sooner.”

“I happen to know what it’s like to lose familiarity with your own face,” Astarion added, a bit shyer than one would expect, even with how expertly hidden it was beneath his more cocky disinterest as he looked strictly at his own nails. “And it is already bad when I know I will never see it again. I cannot decide though if that is worse, or better, than having every reflection be a constant reminder of what I’ve become.”

“...”

Strike couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, and something at his core started to revolt at the idea of what they were presenting, but he wasn’t given time to retrieve back into the hollowness – Lae’zel has grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him to the chair in a way that felt very final.

Halsin has gotten out of it before, and then the drow was seated in it, confused to a degree that would’ve been comical if it happened to anyone else.

“You are not leaving camp today, sarth,” she told him decidedly, and from his side, Wyll gave him a much warmer smile and a pet on the shoulder.

“Thought, uh. Thought we were in a way?”

“It is why we have scouting teams.”

“Oh yeah,” Karlach nodded, “We’ll find the actual creche, come back, and then we can go there tomorrow when you feel better, yeah, soldier?”

“But-“

“You’ve no right to refuse.”

“... Aren’t I your sarth, lae’zel?”

She scoffed at him, but over her shoulder, Strike could see Shadowheart crack the tiniest little bit relieved smile.

Strike could almost return it.

Karlach, Gale and Halsin have left for scouting, despite Gale complaining about his bad knees that were unfit to tread this many climbs, and in the camp, Strike’s learnt what the others had in mind, since none of them was able to actually deal with others' problems without being a massive hypocrite.

It was stupid. It was unimportant.

It was a mission to detangle the gross clumps of his hair, something that Lae’zel took on like a military conflict. Wyll had experience with a different hair type, Shadowheart claimed to have done hair before, Astarion was, well, there, and Lae’zel had the same intensity she had for actual battles – Strike couldn’t help but mention on multiple occasions how worthless their efforts were, because he was doing just fine, until he got threatened by all four of them into compliance.

It took combs, fingers, water, oils, a well wielded knife; Strike’s hair was a matted mess, more alike fur of a neglected dog than hair of a person. It was stuck together in massive chunks that moved like solids and pulled painfully on the drow’s scalp, but he quite literally could not remember when he did not have them, so he could not see the whole fuss being worth it of wasting an entire day of life.

But, he wasn’t getting demoted, or removed from the group for being a liability. If this made them happy, then...

It took seven hours to work through his entire head, since they wouldn’t agree to just cutting it short and getting it over with, and for the first time... maybe ever, Strike was able to run his fingers through his hair.

It was nice. Much more breezy. The cuts were uneven, since some parts just straight up could not be salvaged, and the damage to the hair was obvious and irreversible until it grew out again, but he did feel a little better after the ordeal.

And then, Astarion handed him a mirror, and Strike froze up.

He blinked. The man in the mirror blinked too,

He touched his cheek. The man in the mirror did so, too.

It was such a stupid, small thing, and yet, as Strike stared at a reflection of a man who finally looked like him, hot tears clouded his eyes, and with a complete loss of dignity, he broke down sobbing in the middle of the camp.

Nobody mocked him. There was no laughter, no nothing, and the whole thing was so overwhelming that he could not stop, no matter how hard he tried to choke down his sobs.

It was Wyll who had hugged him, being the least surprised one. Strike flinched, but the young man’s touch this time did not feel invasive and violent; he hugged the hero back and wept for every piece of himself that he’s lost, and didn't have the thought to bury until he got one back.

Chapter Text

The type of emptiness that filled him after a violent cry was different from the usual. Strike didn’t hate it, not exactly – it reminded him of the way wind smelled, right after a storm. Cleaner.

The group let him cry himself out in Wyll’s arms, and they did not say a word until it was over, and Shadowheart stood up to put leftover porridge from breakfast over a fire to heat it up. Wyll told Strike of the ruined convoy they’ve found a day ago, and of necromanced beasts they had to fight; Strike felt a tingle of annoyance that he wasn’t informed of a battle sooner, but he took it as a good thing. Feelings were starting to slowly creep back into him, and when Wyll handed him over the letters they collected from Absolute cultists’ corpses, he was able to actually put a thought to the task at hand for the first time since they’ve left Underdark.

More word of Ketheric Thorm. They were on the right path.

Shadowheart brought them all bowls of hot porridge and some honey while Strike discussed the next step with Wyll and Lae’zel, and then they ate together as they waited for the others. Astarion was quiet, unusally so, but he’s seated himself right next to Strike, and it couldn’t have not been a coincidence that his knee was pressed against the drow’s for the entire duration of dinner.

They were just finishing, when the rest of their group returned, and Karlach started things off by fracturing Strike’s shoulder blade with an excited bump of her fist.

“Look at you! Knew you were a handsome fuck under that wool!”

“Thanks,” Strike wheezed through a smile, and she laughed before dropping a heavy bag of something bloody to the floor. “... What’s there?”

“Dinner.”

“We just ate.”

“And you’ll eat more, soldier. We’ve all seen you not touching poor Gale’s cooking since we got here – isn’t there some saying about mountain air building appetite?”

It was easy to grin with her, even when she ruffled his hair to a degree it made Lae’zel jump up and go check if it was still easy to untangle it back.

“It suits you,” Halsin commented, much more reserved than others, but still friendly. As Strike looked up from between Lae’zel’s fussing grip on his face, he could see a smidge of... something, in the druid’s expression. Something pleasant. Not quite pity.

“Don’t think there’s many people that could pull off a dead sheep for a haircut, obviously it’s better,” Strike attempted a joke, already crouching down to see what this dinner was, but Astarion was faster than him.

It was just a dead boar. A huge one, at that.

Astarion looked delighted when he was allowed to drink it to his heart’s desire, before it was taken to be skinned and prepared for their actual dinner. And breakfast. Lunch, potentially. Wyll suggested Strike helps with the preparation of the boar, and much to the drow’s relief, he was as skilled with this cadaver as he was with any other.

They had a plan, at least, for the next day; the scouting group has, well, scouted out the creche, found the Githyanki, and attempted to find a way inside – no luck just yet, but it was for the better, anyway, when it was just the three of them.

“Oh well. If you’ve gotten yourself slaughtered, Gale would still bring the whole creche down, wouldn’t he?”

“Do not joke about such things, kainyank,” Lae’zel hissed at the cleric, offended enough to pause chopping herbs for the wizard.

“Who said I was?”

Strike got about ready to watch it play out, when he felt a hand brush against him; Astarion didn’t quite hold his yet, but he offered it, those pretty red eyes on the drow in a question. They relaxed with relief when Strike did take to squeezing his hand back, and a familiar little smirk showed itself in all its sleazy glory.

“This will take forever,” the vampire hummed, getting up on his tippy toes to be able to rest his chin on Strike’s shoulder, with a dramatic sigh. “Want to retrieve to my tent, dear leader?”

Why not, really.

It appeared that Gale had the situation under control, anyway; when Strike looked back to the camp fire once the two started walking, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of the wizard, deeply focused on the cooking, walking straight through the tension with a request for Shadowheart to go find some edible roots. Lae’zel gave her a victorious huff when Gale praised her on just how finely the herbs were chopped.

Astarion tugged on his arm, and Strike remembered to follow, feeling much lighter at heart even with the conversation that he was expecting to happen.

There was not that much talking to start with, surprisingly. Or not. Astarion had gotten him to sit down, before he made himself comfortable in a straddle, and his lips found Strike’s right away.

Gods, he was so warm when well fed.

Strike missed that touch, however badly it made him want to recoil when a flash of another pale elf snapped itself through his mind. Nere was still warm when he-

“W-“ he pushed at the eager thing, followed the kiss despite himself, his hands gripping Astarion’s arms and putting distance between them all at once. “Fuck, wait-“

Astarion didn’t just pause, he froze up, and Strike needed a moment to think to relax his hold on the vampire.

“... Sorry.”

“... Not in the mood?”

He wasn’t, he was, he thought down and decided that his quickly stiffening cock was good enough of an indicator that he very much was in the mood. When wasn’t he, anyway?

“No, it’s not that, just... .... Do you want something, again?”

Astarion had the gall to look offended, and Strike quickly corrected himself, caught the vampire’s hand to press an apologetic kiss to the back of it.

“Just asking.”

“Can I not have my own desires?” Red eyes narrowed, unmoved by the gesture, even as he used the same hand to cup and caress Strike’s cheek. “... Not everyone can just take whatever they want when some needy cultist throws themselves at them, you know.”

“You mean Nere? You think I-?”

“Oh, or should I beg a little better? Darling, if you were into pathetic mewling, you could’ve just asked! I can be such a needy thing for you, is that what you want? Can say please and oh and anything, just tell me ~please~ how desperate of a toy you wan- ah!”

The perversion of Nere’s death flashed something ugly deep within Strike. He only realized it when he heard the little yelp of pain from the man on top of him, and it took him a blink or two to realize the cause of it was the way his grip on the pale wrist has tightened.

“S-sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-“

“He didn’t throw himself at me,” Strike sighed, let the tiredness slip into his voice. “He wasn’t interested. Not that I was,” he added, when he saw the vampire’s brows furrow in question. “It was just... kind of obvious.”

“Oh.”

They remained in silence; Strike’s head felt heavy, buzzing, still screwed from the emotional imbalances of the last half tenday, and so, he rested it against Astarion’s chest. The cold skin usually cooled his own, but with the chilly mountain air, and the vampire’s belly full, he was almost as warm as Strike himself, and in a way, perhaps that was almost nicer. Pointed nails pricked at his scalp when the rogue ran his hands through his leader’s hair, and that was a nice feeling for certain, one that allowed Strike to close his eyes and almost relax... had it not been for the weight of a question that hung in the air above them.

The drow let out a long breath as he wrapped his arms around his companion’s waist.

“Ask away.”

“... You... reeked of him when you came back, darling.”

“And? Jealous?”

There was no playful retort, not even a smack on the head, even when Astarion was in the perfect position to do so; no, his voice stayed low, small, as if he were crossing some type of a line by even saying what they both feared out loud.

“Did... Did it matter, that he didn’t want you?”

There it was.

Strike didn’t want to move. Astarion couldn’t.

The thought has been haunting him, since the moment he’s come back to it and reality dawned on him.

He had little desire for the drow; it would’ve been fun, maybe, if Nere had actually lead him to a secluded place to drop to his knees, but he knew he wasn’t bothered by realization that that wasn’t the case – but neither of them had a choice when Nere was dead, and Strike wasn’t himself. Or perhaps, it was the only time Strike was himself... It came so naturally, after all.

There was still added weight on his shoulders, from the cloak he got as a praise for what he’s done, and it felt even more suffocating than before. It reminded him of the butler’s claws on him. His praise, how right it felt, how welcoming the corpse’s cooling embrace was, how defilement was part of it all, and Strike could not have risen his head in that moment even if Astarion had lifted a dagger to plunge right into his back.

He’s done no such thing. Perhaps, he should’ve.

“... I mean, he was a bloody drow, I’m sure he was, ah, you know, used of it. Everyone needs our little ways of letting some steam off, right? I won’t tell anyone if you’d-“ Astarion has already started doing percieved damage control; he didn’t have a heartbeat, but somehow, Strike knew exactly what a heart powered by fear felt like to have this close to him. He could hear it, little war drum in his head, and he spoke out to stop both it and the pitiful apologies of a man who thought himself to be in danger.

“I killed him. ” He said, quietly, a breath shared just between them. “And he accepted death as his mercy. He feared Lolth, when I did it.”

Astarion’s frozen up before, but then, his tensed muscles softened, ever so slightly.

“Not you?”

“No.”

The caressing returned, but it felt... more affectionate, this time. Less like trying to keep a feral beast tame, and Strike could breathe a little easier.

“... I don’t like it when you’re scared of me,” he mumbled into the vampire’s chest, only to hear his hollow, high pitched laugh in return, before a kiss fell onto his hair.

“You make that slightly difficult, darling. I’ve seen what you’ve done to that bard. .... I can imagine what you’ve done to dear Nere.”

“I’ve just told you I-“

“Killed him, yes. I believe you. Could not help but notice you’ve been avoiding your usual jokes of necrophilic nature, though.”

“...Oh.”

“It’s,.. eh.” Astarion sighed, with his full chest, before his hands moved down to cup Strike’s cheeks, and finally bring his face to look up at him. “We all have to lie sometimes. For our own sakes. I understand.”

His kiss was sweet, and forgiving, and Strike felt himself almost melt into warm hands with those sharp claws that scraped so nicely against his scally cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter,” the vampire said, so, so close, “the drow wasn’t important. Noone saw you. Right?” He angled Strike’s head a bit to the side, made him look into those pretty red eyes, and, as if enchanted by them, the murderer nodded in his hold. “Good. So... So we’re alright, then. You just have to keep it together for our more sensitive friends,” he kissed him again, open mouthed and dry, practiced, and something in Strike’s gut clenched at the thought. “And when you need to let out those, ah, urges of yours again, you can have a corpse noone will question right~ here~”

“no.”

“... Dearest, I’m hurt,” his smile when he pulled away was teasing. Shaky at the corners. “Do you need to have soulless husks so badly, when you could-?”

“No, I mean-“ his head was spinning, but Strike shook off the pleasant fog that was filling it with lust, and took a moment to try string his scattered thoughts into words. “I don’t want to- don't, ugh, use you. Not like that, I-“

It was the same, to be lost in lust for violence or lust for blood, Strike found himself stumbling through both, blindfolded and roped forward by a noose of desire. It was hard to express, he was exhausted, so, when Astarion prodded curiously at his mind, he let him in, just enough to explain as all his wretched feelings swirled around them.

Astarion was beautiful. Strike thought so, always, but a part of him thought him beautiful for his paled lips and postmortem bruises, his cold hands and pliant body, the way it knew he would fall apart so obediently with a threatening hand around his throat. It was the same part that found a pile of a slaughtered village erotic, the same part that lead him to dream of holding Nere’s decaying head by its eyesockets and rutting into the severed neck until his essence splurged from its mouth – Strike woke up from those dreams sweating, shameful and hard, screaming at Scratch to leave before the worried dog would come too close and know.

What an awful feeling, to lust for complete submission of death, and for Astarion to be a quite literal object of such desire. It would’ve been easy, that same part of him always thought, to have the vampire at his back and call, to simply order and have him obey the way he was supposed to, but while the thought felt right, the drow was sick from the taste of it. He liked the rogue, he really did. The shitty jokes, the skills, the way he laughed.

The way he reached for Strike’s hand all on his own.

From the outside of their enclosed world, the wind brought by a booming laugh, droplets of Wyll’s voice, the screech of a knife getting sharpened. A whiff of homely cooking, Shadowheart calling out only for a happy bark to respond. Voices and faces and flesh that swirled together into viscera in the reddest of dreams, and yet, only like this made Strike shiver and swallow down bile before it would come spewing.

He liked these other people, too. He liked that they liked him, that they followed and trusted; it broke something he didn’t know was cracked when they stepped together out of worry for him, not fear or hatred. He was still stuck on the realization, could not deal with it, but-

Astarion pulled out of the proceedingly more frantic mind, and when Strike blinked himself back to reality as well, the vampire was looking at him. Not disgusted. Softer, perhaps. Definitely surprised, as well, but who would not be?

“... Do you not like it?” He then asked, head cocked to the side and staring, in some type of wonder that Strike could not even begin to understand. “To just take, whatever you want? Even though you could have it?”

Strike couldn’t find words for it, so he didn’t say them, only allowed Astarion to read his face for whatever could possibly be hiding on it that wasn’t stripped bare within his mind already.

“Many people’ve had me before,” the vampire continued, as his hand caressed Strike’s cheek with a knuckle, then moved down, to his neck. The broken and badly healed crack in the collarbone. The clasps of his cloak. “Thousands, even. I’ve seen every filthy desire you can imagine – I know what it looks like, when someone wants me.”

The cloak slid from his shoulders.

“You do.”

He did, he really did; every part of Strike wanted the vampire, to have, to fuck, but there were disagreements in just which way he was even able to want another.

It would’ve been fruitless to deny it, so he didn’t, he nodded and let Astarion absentmindedly undo the lacings on his tunic as he kept talking.

“Oh, I know, darling. You’re hardly subtle, but I cannot blame you, you poor thing.”

“Astarion-“

“Hush.”

His tunic has fallen open, but the other still did not stop. His claws were so gentle when they caressed the drow’s scars, and then moved back up to press a finger against Strike’s lips to silence him. It worked. He barely dared to breathe.

“You’ve said it all already,” Astarion continued, hands moving again, touching Strike’s chest, ribs, the way his throat was slit in another life, they shrugged his tunic off of his shoulders and he let them, unable to move his eyes from the other’s face. “You want me to be this broken thing that’s yours. Others too, perhaps. You want that and you don’t know if you want to want it. I’ve just seen the inside of your head, remember?”

“...”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t, not when he was yet to see any glimpse of disappointment, hatred, fear, on the other’s face.

“I’m flattered, really.”

He shouldn’t be. Something was also very much wrong with him, but Strike didn’t say it, not when Astarion turned to remove his own shirt as well, for the first time really dropping that one last barrier between them.

“I’ve seen how you get around death,” the vampire continued, sitting down firmer right over Strike’s hips, and they both could feel just how hard he’s been this whole time. Astarion did not look surprised; he only lifted the monster’s head up by the chin, and brought it closer to his own. “Don’t think you’ve been through a single bloodshed without having fun with it, at least from what I’ve been around - and even with me, right now, you’re holding back from doing just such horrible things, are you not?”

There was some unrecognizable emotion in his eyes as he stared at Strike, but it wasn’t terror, nor anger, and so the drow was lost on his guess.

“...”

“Are you not?”

His fingernails dug into the sides of Strike’s jaw, and his eyes fluttered close with the sudden burst of affection that exploded in his chest. He practically breathed out his response, a little yes, unsure if he’s even spoken it out, but Astarion smiled.

“And why is that so?”

“Ass-“

“Come on, love. We both know you could’ve made me do anything. I’ve been made to do worse. Why don’t you?”

“I don’t-“ Gods, words were difficult, but for the first time in a long while, not because of the red in his mind. It hurt, to be faced with someone who knew, knew of the horrible things he’s done, who understood, and still held him close.

I don’t want you to hate me.

I don’t want to be alone.

Perhaps, if he were of clearer mind, or asked just days ago, his answer would’ve been the same, but for different reasons – he needed this group to like him, to trust him, because he needed them to make up for the consequences of his failure, for survival and revenge. Doing things like showing what he supposed was empathy were the easiest way to do so with most people, he wanted Astarion to enjoy their time together because having a companion with his skills actually want to do what he ordered was worth much more than any pleasures of flesh, but now... He thought back to Nere, to the bard, to what he’s done and to the hollow hole in his chest where remorse for it all should’ve been.

And Astarion knew about all of it, and still, somehow...

“That’s good enough,” the vampire has said, and Strike realized he was perhaps exposing some of his thoughts out loud – or perhaps his mind was being invaded, but it hardly mattered. Astarion’s seen his worst thoughts already. And he was still touching him.

“I don’t hate sharing your bed, darling,” he said, pressed another kiss to Strike’s mouth, ate up the half-sob that escaped the drow. “I would’ve stayed even if you give me a choice. I don’t hate you.”

Gods, the undead felt so alive right then.

“You don’t have to give me anything tonight though. You can just be good, this one time. Let me have you.”

“But-“

“Because I want to.”

Strike wasn’t sure if he nodded or not, but then Astarion wrapped his arms around his shoulders and kissed him like he understood, and it didn’t matter anymore.

It’s never been like this before. For Strike, at least – he had no idea whether Astarion was just pulling another trick out of his admittedly limited bag of tactics, and he might've been a willing fool, but it did not looked like he was.

It was slow. It was nice. Not the storm of lust or a drunken stumble that they’ve had before; Astarion took his time, told him what to do, and Strike’s head was empty of everything but the want to listen. He wanted Astarion to have fun. He went on his knees to see that smile, there was something so relieving about not having to fight against the need to hide a part of who (of what?) he was, when the vampire knew exactly which gut his hands have dug themselves into days ago, and he let them hold him all the same.

There wasn’t much sound, either; they were still quite close to the others, could still hear occasional words and noises the wind brought from the campfire, so Astarion let the drow muffle his gasps and groans into his shoulder, behind his hand, against his mouth.

“Stay still.”

“You’ll hurt me like this. Ease up.”

“Open.”

“That’s good.”

“Mind the claws.”

“Better.”

They didn’t talk outside of it, just the calm commands, the immediate attempts to comply. Astarion’s barely let out a noise himself, the closest to it was a sharp intake when he sat down on the sorcerer’s cock, and he needed a few moments to collect himself. Strike held him by the waist and watched him start to move slowly, methodically, trying to find an angle that brings him most enjoyment. The drow could’ve stayed there for a century, where he didn’t have to think and didn’t have to drown his entire mind in order get rid of the noise in his head. It was easy. It was nice.

He hugged the vampire close, let his face rest in the crook of the other’s flushed neck. Hands that knew how to hurt so well caressed carved flesh on Astarion’s back, and Strike loosely though to remember the scars, ask about them later. He wasn’t told to stop touching there, so he didn’t, an odd enjoyment found in the simple act of petting over them, trying to read without seeing whenever he needed a moment of distraction from Astarion’s rolling hips in his lap.

He came with a gentle hold on his throat and a full bodied shiver, his orgasm somehow draining him far more than those from sex less intense, and Astarion has stopped moving for the duration of it to merely held him and let him tremble into his chest.

“S-shit... sorry...”

“You’re alright,” the vampire hummed, pet his hair again. “... Can you finish me off?”

“Mhm .”

He didn’t expect Astarion to stand up and cross his own boundaries by gently pulling him closer by the hair, but Strike opened his mouth all the same when the vampire introduced him to his own flushed cock.

“No biting.”

“Says you.”

The vampire’s paused, as if he had to double check that what he’s heard was a joke, before he rolled his eyes at it, and a slightly relieved smile stretched his lips. “I would’ve asked for permission. You did not get it.”

“Yessir..”

He could tell Astarion was nervous, but it turned out it was for nothing; Strike didn’t even particularly dislike the feel and the taste, he enjoyed the drag of claws on his scalp, the warning pull of his hair whenever his fangs got too close to skin for comfort. Astarion’s had to bite his own lip to keep quiet, finally, a few shimmering droplets of sweat have even appeared under his ruffled hair, and then he thrust himself root-deep in the madman’s mouth when he finished with nearly violent trembles of his hips.

How warm it is, to be wanted, Strike thought when he was tenderly pushed away enough for Astarion to catch his breath.

And then, when the vampire sat down, he allowed for his sorcerer to gather him in his arms, cradling him like would a valued possession... or a cherished lover, friend. He would’ve liked to understand the difference.

“... That was... good,” he commented, and Strike only mumbled an agreement into the white curls.

“You 'lright?”

“Me? Darling, you were the one in some odd space of mind.”

“You’re used of being in those. It’s why I’m asking.”

He went quiet for a little while. Strike used that as an opportunity to go and wrap the vampire’s dingy second blanket around the both of them.

“I’m alright,” Astarion finally said with a sigh, and moved to cuddle closer to the other.

The most random thought of relief rolled off of Strike’s shoulders, one he didn’t even know he carried, but he’s stopped being surprised. The night was exhausting, as was the last month, but he felt emotionally so drained it was almost akin to peace.

“... Can I sleep with you more often?” He asked quietly when they rearranged positions, so it was him who was holding onto the other while Astarion absentmindedly caressed the scars on his back. “Not sex, doesn’t have to be. Just...” Sharp nails scratched against an old scab, and Strike’s eyelids fluttered shut with a purr of comfort. “.. this is nice, I mean.”

Astarion didn’t answer at first, only pulled the blanket up higher, kept touching him, which was a reply all in itself.

Strike was dancing between sleep and consciousness when Shadowheart has popped by, but he didn’t have the will to figure out how he should act, so he didn’t bother moving, or opening his eyes.

“Hey, if you’re done fuc-“ Her voice paused when the drow heard the front of the tent open; she must’ve peeked in.

“Busy, darling.”

Astarion laid propped up on the bunched up cloak as if it were a pillow, held a book in one hand, pet the sorcerer with the other while Strike had his head on the vampire’s chest and his arms around him. He wouldn’t want to move for the end of the world in that moment, really.

“... Dinner’s ready.” Her tone has softened to just above a whisper, as if not to wake him.

“Our mighty leader is, ah, indisposed, if you will. Apologies.”

“I can see that.” But she lingered, and Strike didn’t need to look to be able to imagine the way Astarion’s eyebrow has raised.

“Anything else?”

“Just... Do you think he’s, you know. Okay?”

“Is any of us?”

“Astarion.”

The vampire chuckled, his touch moving to where it scritched behind the drow’s ear, and completely unwillingly, Strike felt a rumble deep within his chest emerge from it. It would’ve sounded almost exactly like a purr, had it not been escorted alongside an odd clicking noise he couldn’t tell the source of.

“Doing better,” Astarion finally said. “I think.”

“... Good.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself, darling, I’m sure he’ll be back to ordering you around soon enough.”

“You know that this isn’t why I worry.”

She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, then; her wound must’ve been acting up again.

Whatever it was the two have said next, it was spoken through tadpoles. Strike could feel the psyonic wave pass above him, but he couldn’t find it in him to bother to try to spy on it; the conversation parted their mental walls for just an inch though, and he could feel a whiff of affection from them both wash over him.

Gods, it felt nice. The purr returned, and he almost unwillingly nuzzled into Astarion’s warmed skin as a halfsleep took him in its loving embrace.

Shadowheart has returned at one point, very briefly. Strike found himself underneath a thicker blanket. A hand smaller than Astarion’s brushed hair off of his face.

He’s dipped his head in and out of a dreamless sleep for a while, until the darkness took him fully – the absence of red, of anything, it was comfort that Strike hasn’t felt ever since he first felt the Butler’s beady eyes on his back.

He floated in the nothing, nonexistent and okay; until something reached out, grabbed for him, pulled him deeper and suddenly, he was a person again, and the world was painted like a bright night sky.

“Finally, I find you,” the woman said, exasperated and familiar, but Strike couldn’t place where he’s seen her before. “Can you hear me?”

“... Who are you?”

She laughed, a distressed, hurried noise. “Had it been tendays, days ago, we would’ve had time for introductions; but our time is running quickly. There is little left.”

Strike looked around them, at the dream-not-dream surroundings, then back to her. “Seems like time isn’t much of a thing in here, buddy.”

“You’re both right and wrong, but in your world, outside, we’re free falling to a point past return. I have been trying to reach you, but...”

“I’ve seen you before.”

Through the thick red fog of his dreams, a different presence in the world where all was dead. Her voice has never reached him before, though.

But she looked familiar even then; with her eyes that were almost just as pale as her skin, striking behind thick, dark lines that painted her lips and eyelids all the same.

“Do you know me from before?” Strike couldn’t help but ask, stepping closer, reaching out, touching the golden locks of hair that awakened something akin to affection deep within him. Perhaps it was because this wasn’t real, but he didn’t feel the sudden urge to grab her, demand answers; part of him just felt warm at the sight of her.

“No,” she shook her head, but didn’t avoid his touch on her cheek. “But you have to listen to me. I’m the one who’s been protecting you from the mind flayer parasite. I’m the reason you don’t hear the voice of the Absolute; I trust it you’ve connected the dots behind it by now?”

“Something is controlling the tadpols,” he nodded, “and the infected hear that voice of compelment and think it a god.”

“Very good. And without my protection, you would’ve been just another slave beneath its whip.”

Strike’s eyelid twitched at the suggestion alone, so he pulled his hand away from her before a temptation would grow too large, but the woman in gold armor noticed all the same.

“... I can protect you from the tadpol,” she said, “I cannot protect you from yourself. But you are my only chance at saving myself and Fae’run; you can go where I cannot. I must rely on you.”

“To stop the Absolute?”

“To-“

Her eyes flashed open, as if she heard something that Strike couldn’t, and before he could ask of it, she grabbed him by the shoulders, much stronger than she appeared to be, but it somehow did not surprise him.

“They’re here – you must listen,” she hissed, eyes wide and panicked in a way that Strike wanted to reassure that it will be alright, even if he did not even know what the threat was yet. “I am the only thing keeping you and your group safe, Strike. You are about to be lied to; you need to trust me. You need to keep me safe, if you want to keep a hold of your own mind.”

“You’re-“ It hit him just when she looked around them in another flash of urgency. “The artifact?”

“Yes. Do you understand? You must protect me. I am the one who protects you from that evil; do not trust those that tell you otherwise. Please. For your own sake, if not mine – if you fall, I lose my only chance to stop this disease from spreading further.”

“But how-“

“We’ve run our time out.” And he could feel it, a wind blowing, pushing him away, from her, from a dream, and she still looked so desperate as her hair whipped around them. “Remember what I told you; you need to trust-“

And the wind blew harder, her words got lost in it, Strike’s footing disappeared beneath him, and he whipped himself awake.

When he sat up, he nearly got himself impaled on the silver sword in front of him.

The githyanki warrior that held him hostage was not Lae’zel; a man he’s never seen before, but who looked even a bit younger than she did, if the way he jumped back from a sudden movement was anything to tell by.

“S- Sit still, ghaik!”

Strike’s mind raced the way it hasn’t in a hot while, but he felt completely sober for the first time since Nere as the situation painted itself out for him.

Astarion was behind him, grabbed by another gith – useless on his own, if he thought they were completely overpowered, which it certainly looked like. There was morning light behind the younger gith, the tent having been cut open, and outside, there was much noise. Lae’zel was shouting in her language, but so were others – Strike could guess from the few words he’s picked up on that she wasn’t nearly as upset as she would’ve been had any of their other companions would lay murdered already.

The artifact was in the pouch on his belt. Three feet away, in a pile of his clothes on the floor.

“Let me speak to your kith’rak,” he said, before his mind even caught up with his tongue, and the gith spat.

“Chk. T’rac! Hta’vin’iisk’ gi’ghaik-“

“I wasn’t asking.”

Perhaps, the youngling’s Common wasn’t nearly as strong as Lae’zel’s, or perhaps, he didn’t deem it worthy to be understood by someone he deemed as good as dead – when he lifted his sword, the look of someone going for the kill was more than universal.

Strike had no weapons. Not that he could use them against a bloody gith, that was the first thing Lae’zel has ever taught him.

The second was that silver carried electricity incredibly well.

Bite her , he hissed into Astarion’s mind, and the terrified vampire obeyed him more out of instinct than reason; his own assailant wasn’t expecting it, she shouted, the boy standing over Strike made the mistake of looking up – and then he couldn’t see anything anymore, when the drow grabbed his sword by the blade and sent through it flash of raw lightning that threw him fifteen feet out of the tent.

The sword’s cut through Strike’s palm and then crashed hard onto the ground in front of him, he could already hear the commotion outside, the screams of the other gith as Astarion savaged at her neck like an actual animal; they didn’t have much time, but at least his thoughts made sense in how they connected now. Strike’s rolled over to Astarion’s bag, dug through the many stolen trinkets and potions that have gone mysteriously missing, until he found the one he was looking for. It took just a few seconds, escorted with the agony next to him, splatters of blood from a torn artery, but it felt so natural to act quickly with this type of background music.

He downed the potion in one gulp, and almost immediately felt its full effects; strength pouring like relief over his withered muscles, and oh, he was himself, more home in his own body than he’s felt in such a long time.

“Hey, is’tark!”

There was a dozen of them; no way in Hells that Strike’s small group could beat them, at least now without casualties that he didn’t want to afford. His first priority when he stormed out of his tent was Gale – his walking extinction was fine, if detained, a gith behind him holding his fists closed so that he was unable to cast anything. A bruise was forming on his face, but it didn’t seem lethal, so, Strike moved on.

Everyone else was also alive. He could see Karlach, bleeding from her side, and Wyll that’s been ruthlessly manhandled by his horns, but Strike had his eyes almost immediately focused on Lae’zel, and the way she was prostrated in front of who was clearly the gith in charge, both of her arms grabbed by others as she struggled in an argument.

Until just moments ago, that was. Strike could understand it; first the screams, then the youngling he’s sent flying, and now he emerged, the boy’s silver sword in hand, still steaming from burnt flesh as he met the kithrak’s glare with his own.

“Ah,” the man smiled. “You must be this leader our child speaks of.”

“One and only,” Strike smiled back, did a little bow as Lae’zel’s voice poured a river in his mind to tell him just who this man was. “Ch’r’ai W’wargaz, if I may guess?”

“Vlaakith’s justice in flesh.” He didn’t bow back, only nodded his head in what was almost amusement.

“I’d say I’m honored, but you seem unfamiliar with the word.” Lae’zel helped him find it in Tir, unsure of the reason but clearly trusting in him to use it right. “Shkath?”

Ch’r’ai huffed a laugh. “I know honor, istik. It is your specie that tends to-“

“Then why, the fuck, are you bitching at my soldiers?” Strike’s smile remained, even as he lifted the heavy sword he couldn’t use up, towards the other person in charge there. “Come on, ch’r’ai. You talk to me. What do you want?”

Chapter Text

Where are you.

Strike’s command for a response was sent silently, with a stone-like stillness in his body as he kept the silver sword pointed at the gith, who remained slightly amused by him.

That was... that was good. Good enough for now, at least.

“Very well,” Ch’r’ai smiled, right back at him. “Leader. Is it a common courtesy on Fae’run to face your betters in your birth attire?”

A gush of wind against his (in the moment ironically named) privates reminded Strike that he’s left his clothes back in Astarion’s tent, but that was easy enough to play off.

“A tad extreme, I admit, but could you have a better proof I am not hiding anything from you?”

Shadowheart, for fucks’ sake, would you-

We’re about to be ambushed, she finally responded, and a flash of her sight snapped itself through Strike’s eyes, of a duo of githyanki stalking nearby a small pool of water. The gith-

They got us here, too. Is Halsin with you?

“I cannot argue with that.” The gith kept his hands behind his back, in a manner that would almost look relaxed, had Strike’s people have not still been manhandled by his forces mere feet away. “We’ve heard much of you, istik. How there is so much goblin blood on your hands that it soaks their children’s nightmares”

Yes. Are you alr-

Have him shift into something they won’t suspect, then surrender yourself.

Surrender?? But-

Gonna need you close, Shart.

Strike shrugged, in fake humility. “Cannot be a true story; there must be children left to dream, for such a thing to happen.”

He felt reluctance from his cleric, but just like Lae’zel, even if she had doubts in his plan, she didn’t have them in him, and so, he could guess that that was exactly what’s happened.

Ch’r’ai mused at his answer, and Strike focused more on him, smiling back without letting his sword drop, even as his muscles started to slowly ache more. He could see the way other Gith observed him, watched for strength that he could claim his own only with help of a potion.

“However entertaining it is to converse with you; to business.”

“Lets.”

“I suspect you plucked something precious from the ghaik ship. Something that belongs to us.”

Ah, the artifact. The woman in his dreams did warn him of it, and while Strike had no intention of trusting the Gith... In his mind, Lae’zel urged him to give it.

“To you?” He cocked his head, glanced from Ch’r’ai to the others. “Didn’t see your name on it, funnily enough.”

“To Vlaakith, I meant. Our goddess Herself.”

“... Her name wasn’t on it, either.”

“Strike,” Lae’zel hissed.

Ch’r’ai appeared less amused as he took a step forward. “It belongs to Vlaakith and Her children, istik. I do not expect you to be familiar with the Grand Design, however-“

“Oldass ilithid plan to rebuild the world in their image,” Strike cut him off, something about the name ringing more than familiar. Like another thing he’s read about, in the life he couldn’t remember. “Or, well, the universe. All of them.”

“... So you do understand the importance of what we’re doing, here. Hand over the weapon.”

“I don’t know where you’re expecting me to be hiding it right now, buddy. That shit’s got spikes, I haven’t exactly stashed it up my-“

A commotion from the trees interrupted his argument –which was, probably, for the best, seeing how the warrior’s eyelid has begun to twitch– as two more Gith dragged a struggling Shadowheart out of the forest, and Ch’r’ai turned towards her.

“Ah, the thief. We believed we’ve cleared the world of your pestilige when we’ve last met.”

Ooops.

“Ch’r’ai, please,” Strike quickly interrupted, taking a step aside to get between Shadowheart and the gith. “Your attention shifts quicker than a flame, it seems; no wonder you’ve failed to find the ar- weapon until now!”

The warrior finally frowned, brows furrowing. “And yet,” he hissed, “I’ve found it now.”

“Now, yes, when I’ve practically delivered it to your doorstep. I’d find it too, if someone just dropped it in front of me.”

Which was pretty much how Strike acquired the silly thing, but...

The tensions were beginning to rise, with all of Strike’s companions equally wide-eyed; even Astarion, who was brought out of his tent by the still bleeding gith, holding the vampire by the hair and a blade at his throat.

Strike sighed, before Ch’r’ai could ever gather the anger to have someone important killed. “Look, mighty W’wargaz-“

That is his name, Lae’zel practically screeched in his head, and the drow decided to politely ignore the mixup of a title and a name that he’s made.

“– we both wish for the same thing.”

“Oh, do we.”

“I am not exactly excited for the ghaik to take over my world, no. But,” he made a point, finally letting his sword drop, as if he was extending a peace branch, and not suffering from muscle exhaustion, “Here’s the thing. The weapon has chosen me to carry it. Not the thief, not a gith, not even a warrior as loyal as Lae’zel of creche K’liir, me.”

Shadowheart and Astarion were wrenched to the others, shoved to their knees by the much stronger Githyanki force, and Strike tried his best to find a way of how to talk his way out of this one without losing anyone. W’wargaz was listening, at the very least, and other gith seemed more uncertain than hostile; he supposed that that was as much as he could hope for, before he could get them in just a bit of a better situation.

“So, as the one chosen for carrying your weapon, I believe it would be best had I handed it to Vlaakith herself, and noone else.”

“... Do you not trust me, istik? Believe me capable of retrieving it myself, where all I must do is give an order and your soldiers will end headless?”

“I serve no force higher than myself. You do. I will have to insist on defending the weapon from all but your goddess herself, as you would do yourself, I hope.”

He couldn’t exactly pray for this to work, since he wasn’t sure to whom, but he truly had to focus to make sure his hands didn’t shake with anxiety as the gith took his time to think it over.

In case of a worst case scenario, he sent out a warning, for his companions to prepare for a fight, for Karlach to ignite for a moment of distraction – but it thankfully turned out to be unneeded, as Ch’r’ai W’wargaz sighed.

“Very well, then, Chosen. We will lead you to Her.” He paused for a moment, then looked down, that same smirk once again easening the sharp edges of his face. “But I will extend to you the dignity to re-dress yourself, before you meet our Queen. She will not need such a display of, ah, honesty.”

“If you insist,” with a matching smile, Strike bowed again, and stepped backwards to the tent, while telling his companions to not let their guards down.

The Gith waited as he hurried up with his clothes, which gave him an extra minute or so to grab another potion, perhaps more; his mind catalogued them quickly and (hopefully) correctly, which elixirs worked well with others, and which overpowered effects of already consumed ones... He made a swift work of it all and chugged down the ones he thought could be of any help, since it seemed like they were about to have to bring down an entire Creche of at least Lae’zel-leveled fighters. Heroism, Peerless focus, see invisibility... It’ll have to be good enough, he thought as he shook from the sudden over-explosion of tastes in his mouth. He stashed the others in his bag, along with the artifact, that burnt softly against his hands.

“Trust me,” he whispered to it, and with reluctance, the spikes of it retracted enough for him to be able to fit it at the bottom of his bag. He hadn’t the slightest intention to surrender it, but how he was to get out of giving it to a goddess was a different story.

He opted for only taking his new adamantine blade with him as a weapon, slightly unwilling to part with it, and his cape – its weight against his shoulders calmed down his raging heart, and when he slipped on the necklace Astarion’s so nicely sewn for him, his mind calmed as well.

“Alright, W’wargaz, buddy,” he clasped his hands together as he emerged, big smile on his face upon seeing his companions be allowed to stand on their feet again. “Lead the way.”

Really hope you’ve got a good plan, Wyll remarked in his head, and Strike assured the young man that yes, sure he did.

Or at least, he had bought himself enough time now to actually come up with one.

The path to the monastery was quick enough, and Strike’s managed to negotiate for feeding Karlach a potion for her wound – he would’ve suggested Shadowheart cure it, but alas, he preferred to keep the attention off of his beloved thief. A potion seemed like a worthy price to pay for it.

He’s shut off his companion’s probings of his mind for the whole journey, his own throwing around information and potential plans, and balancing doing so with a chat with Ch’r’ai; he’s learnt more of the Grand design, although nothing felt like an exactly new information.

They were lead deep into the monastery, and as Strike mapped out as much of the area as he could, he had to admit to himself, that if they had to face the whole small army of Gith that lived there, he would’ve had to deal with at least half of his fr- people’s casualties, which felt unreasonable to expect. Not when everyone was this useful in their own way.

Not when their care from last night still felt fresh in every swoosh of his hair.

Lae’zel limped with her head high, proud despite the waves of worry and conflict that poured from her side of the tadpoled bond, Astarion has pulled his hood over his head in a way that seemed to calm down his anxiety some, Wyll and Karlach kept close to their wizard to protect him in case of worst happening – Strike had a suspicion that their worry did not lay just around the explosive consequences of the wizard’s death. Gale himself was clutching his bag of scrolls, quite worried but prepared, and Shadowheart... She kept close to Strike, her head hung low from all the ugly glares the Gith kept throwing her way.

He wished he could assure her that it will be alright, but... she had to have known that already.

“That is far enough,” W’wargaz said, stopping after they’ve just entered the area the Gith populated. “We do not require more istik inside our home; your soldiers will have to remain here, Chosen.”

 “And I am to entrust my people to you?”

“We are both showing exercises of trust,” the warrior smiled back, just as calculating as Strike was under the politeness, no doubt. “Do you wish to take any with you?”

“Lae’zel of K’liir,” Strike picked, immediately, much to his girl’s visible pride. “She’s protected the weapon and its Chosen with nought but loyalty; she deserves to be in Vlaakith’s audience.”

And, he wanted to keep her close, now that they were surrounded with people who could easily sway her away from his side.

“Noone deserves Her audience,” W’wargaz reminded him, but still, entertained the drow. “But yes. Our child should be greeted by Her as well. Anyone more you’d request?”

“The thief.”

“Oh?”

“May she face Her judgement, not that of Her servants.”

Shadowheart looked to him with clear worry in her eyes – one that Strike ignored, spotting the obvious cells that surrounded them. The chain links in them.

“That is an understandable request. If that is all-“

“And him,” Strike cut in once more, hinting at the masked Astarion, much to... everyone’s surprise, really.

W’wargaz chuckled at it, no doubt remembering just which tent Strike and Astarion have both emerged from earlier, and in what state of undress. “Is there a particular reason you wish for your elf to follow?”

“Well-“ It was easy to play unease, Strike knew just how to make his own smile strained enough to be nervous. “I’d, uh. Feel more at ease, if he is by my side.”

“Due to personal attachments?”

“He is... dear to me.”

Astarion’s face, even behind the mask, looked about as confused as it could be, and those of the rest of their companions followed, but Strike kept his eyes on the Gith and the rejection he could smell from a mile ahead.

“Your lover will have to wait here with the others, I’m afraid,” W’wargaz shut him down, and the drow let a realistic enough show of unease slip over his face. “Take it as our assurance, that you will not attempt anything less than honest.”

“Come on, buddy,” Strike paused, then surrendered. “But.. okay. Just- stay safe, aight, love?”

He threw the most worried look he could manage at Astarion, and with it, spoke directly into the vampire’s questioning brain.

Got the lockpick kit on you?

Wh- Oh. Oh! Yes.

Hold onto that. Wait till I say something.

Yes.

... and look more sad, fucker.

Oops, Astarion dutifully fixed his face in a state that looked less like a malicious grin; good thing that his mask was covering enough of his face for the slipup to not be visible.

“I’ll be fine, darling,” the vampire dramatically sighed, “That goes for you too, do come back to me in one piece...”

“Will do my best.”

Chances were small, but Strike did want to assure that his rogue was put in with the others – it was right in front of him that the group of four was put in the same cell, and that was all he needed. During the distractions of the poor lovers, Gale managed to pass his bag of scrolls over to Shadowheart, without a single Gith noticing.

As him and his much smaller group walked forward then, and now that he’s gotten W’wargaz to do at least some thing that he wanted, he could feel both of the women’s confidence rise as they followed him.

This was good.

He could work with this.

A part of him was even for the challenge, just like at the Grove – and look how that’s ended.

“So, it is found.”

He wasn’t sure of what to expect from a Goddess, but it wasn’t the surge of hatred that shot through his chest when she appeared, and Lae’zel fell to her knees.

Massive, intimidating... demanding respect, and every single fiber in Strike’s body fought against it.

“You are allowed to look upon me; you are invited to kneel.”

It wasn’t exactly an invitation, Strike somehow doubted that, but he found a dozen thoughts before he found one that would not get him obliterated where he stood.

“You will obey,” Lae’zel hissed at him with more fury than Strike’s seen from her in tendays, and it was that thought that he allowed to lead him down to his knees, his back straightened up to look upon her as he was so generously allowed.

Something was wrong.

Something that he couldn’t quite place, but... It was off, the whole thing...

Vlaakith spoke to Lae’zel first, not him, and it struck a nerve just how loyal his soldier was, how entranced by the woman-thing in front of them all – she called Lae’zel’s name and the praise sparkled in his girl’s eyes as she was promised purity and cleanse... It took a lot of willpower to not let that sudden hatred show on his face, and yet, Strike refused to lower his head in anything that could be even mistaken for respect.

When her face turned to meet his, he found those burning hot eyes and did not look away.

“You carry that which is ours, istik,” she called for him, and he felt the ball in his bag shiver, burn up. “You walk with our own; yet, you walk with a thief all the same. Tell me, which you place yourself as, thief? Or kin?”

“I place myself as my own man, ma’am,” he forced himself to say, the highest title he was willing to give despite himself. “The weapon has found me, nor a thief or gith.”

She huffed, moved back fast, with a surge of power that made the room tremble – all the gith bowed their heads lower upon her raised voice, her raised hand that pulled the trembling object out of Strike’s bag and above itself, and he nearly surged forward to grab it.

“This weapon you carry, istik – it is corrupted. Defiled.” Strike could see the way Lae’zel’s eyes widened with desire to obey, and he mentally cursed the entire situation. “An agent of the Grand design has infested it; you shall go within. Kill it. Cleanse the Prism,” her barely existent lips curled into a smile, “And I will cleanse you, and your allies. My warrior, my Lae’zel, do this, and ascenscion awaits you.”

It’s not your fucking-

“Yes, my queen,” Lae’zel breathed out, blind in this devotion, her leash that pulled her into whatever her dried up Queen offered, and Strike would’ve been more upset, had he not been using the momentary distraction to mouth a –potentially unwise– spell.

Only Shadowheart saw him. All the Gith had their heads down, Lae’zel had eyes only for her Goddess, and mentioned Goddess never noticed when Strike slid into her brain with the same ease he would’ve done for any mortal.

All he found was fear.

Oh, the Undying Queen feared the one in the Prism.

When she turned to Strike next, his first genuine smile played on his face, and he bowed much, much deeper.

“I live to serve, oh, my queen,” he swore, devotedly enough to feel a wave of confusion from both of his companions, even Lae’zel.

She didn’t seem to notice, and he exited her mind before she would’ve. He wasn’t faking his enthusiasm, anyway; when Vlaakith praised Lae’zel for how well she taught him, and then opened a portal into the prism, he genuinely could not be more eager to get in there and meet the one she feared so.

The woman stood in the same place as in his dreams, but this time, he stood there with Shadowheart and Lae’zel at his side.

“So, have you come to murder me?” She asked, more tired than afraid, and Strike placed his hand on Lae’zel’s shoulder just as she pulled her sword out.

“Sarth, what are you doing?” Her voice betrayed confusion, desire to make her queen proud, for the cure... and Strike shook his head, much to her sudden rage. “Chk! You cannot be serious, k’chakhi!”

“Lae-“

“No! No! You’ve heard the Queen – why do you refuse to cure yourself of the disease??” She shoved herself away from him, aimed her sword at the woman in golden armor, who raised her brows and her hands all the same, in surrender. “THAT is the cure, Strike!” she swung the sword towards her, but, did not attack. Not yet.

How sweet, that she felt she had to convince him first.

“Listen, Lae’zel, the queen-“

“Vlaakith ordered for its death!”

“And why has she not killed it herself??” She froze up when the drow surged forward, hands on her arms, feeling the tensing muscles underneath as he spoke down to her. “Listen to me, soldier.”

She did. Despite it all, despite her faith – she did.

Strike lowered his voice to one just soft enough. “Have we not seen the prism, how it protects us? Has it not stopped our transformation, just as I swore it would?”

“I- I am not ghaik. I will not be-“

“And you aren’t.” His grip on her eased, enough to still be firm, but more caring. “Vlaakith promised a cleanse, and I – and her –“ he hinted towards the woman in gold, “promised what you live right now. And now I’m promising you that something with this is not adding up here.”

“... The Queen... She must- she must be testing us. Me, my loyalty.”

“Lae,” Strike took a deep breath. “You are the most loyal and worthy person I’ve met, and yet, I implore you. Let’s hear the lady out first. Okay?”

He certainly fucking hoped his prism ally had a good point to make. Shadowheart stood behind him, though; so he felt a little better for the unfortunate scenario in which he would need to shove the gith off of the platform. He felt strong enough, in the moment, and the endless chasm was right behind her with how he held her..

“...” Those big, conflicted eyes were on his own, as if trying to find the deceit, or perhaps something she couldn’t trust, and failed to find any. “Damn it,” she finally swore, in common. “I hate it when you speak truth. I will permit the infestation to speak, before we cleave its head in two.”

“Thank you,” Strike sighed, in relief of not needing to lose a companion he’s grown to so genuinely like.

He let go of her, and she put her sword back into its holster over her back, turning to face the woman with her arms crossed. “You. Speak.”

“I knew I’ve put my trust in the right people,” the woman nodded, a sliver of a smile reaching her mouth as if she understood that the outcome of this has been decided long before they even got there.

“Do not push it.”

“Yes. Of course.” She paused for a moment, as if to pick where she should start, she found Strike’s gaze, and turned back to Lae’zel directly. “Your Queen is lying to you, Gith.”

“Chk.”

“Have you ever spoke to one who received your so called cure? Have you ever seen one who got blessed enough to experience the zhaith’isk?”

Strike had no clue of what that was, and his cleric has appeared to be the same amount of confused when he looked to her, but Lae’zel sure seemed to understand, with how her tightly crossed arms faltered, how unease danced over her face.

“...”

“Have you?”

“They’ve... Been relocated, to a different creche.”

“They were murdered, Lae’zel. Vlaakith does not know a cure for this infection. She pretends she does – but she knows nothing of how to destroy the mindflayer empire. She wishes to kill me because I know the truth, and she feels nothing more than reveal of her deception.”

“Tsk’va. Vlaakith does not lie to Her faithful.”

“Her faithful more than anyone,” the woman assured. “And if the ilithid empire ever returns, she would be incapable of stopping them. She is lying to her own people, for if you ever learnt of her impotence... Well, what would’ve happened?”

Lae’zel has never looked more conflicted, except perhaps when Strike got her to surrender their battle – he stepped up closely behind her, as a reassuring presence to help her process what seemed more and more like truth. Or to have an easier aim if he had to put her down, were she to choose poorly.

“There... would’ve been a revolution,” she finally admitted. “A mutiny. End of her rule.”

“Exactly. So, she fears me. For I have the power to protect from ilithind mind control... I suppose she hoped to extract it from my corpse, were you foolish enough to slay me.”

“Would we not turn, without you protecting us?” Shadowheart chimed in, apparently seeing the situation for what it was, and settling herself on Lae’zel’s other side. “In the case of your death – what happens to those you protect?”

The woman chuckled, sadly. “You would’ve all turned, yes; which is why Vlaakith has her tropes ready, to slaughter you upon your return. Ghaik or not, you’ve spared me, so they will kill you nontheless.”

“And she never had any intention on letting us leave,” Strike noted, rubbing the bridge of his nose... He should’ve seen it coming. In a way, he did, which is why he wanted his lockpick right there with the others, but he really hoped that they were fine, and weren’t killed immediately after they left their sight, but he couldn’t feel their tadpoled connection.. “... Is the creche still standing?”

“Huh?”

“The creche. Is it still there?”

The woman’s brows furrowed. “... Yes, it is. Why do you-“

“If Gale is alive, others should be, too.” Gods, what a relief. The one oversight Strike might’ve made... “Good. I’m sure we can fight our way out.... Somehow.”

Lae’zel did not look convinced, but she also wasn’t nearly as stubborn as before, and Strike could appreciate that; he threw the golden woman a thankful nod as his gith thought about it all.

“Vlaakith... She must- This must be a test. Or, you are lying. You must be lying. Vlaakith bears the full might of Tu’narath’s arms, and the covenant, of the great Mother Gith!” she scoffed. “We must speak to the ch’r’ai, Strike. Speak to Vlaakith, she must-...“

explain herself, rang unsaid between them, a desperate demand for the world to make sense. Strike planned to be there when it crashed completely, but for now, he just agreed.

“A’ight. And if they try to kill us...?”

“They won’t.”

“And if they do?”

“... then-...”

“We show no mercy,” Shadowheart decided, in a rare moment of comradery. “mactē virtutē.” She Blessed all three of them, even Lae’zel, who’s hands were shaking...

Before they balled into fists, and that familiar fury settled on her face.

“No mercy,” she nodded, turning to the woman. “And when you are confirmed to lie, nothing will save you from my rightful wrath.”

With a small smile, the golden woman bowed her head, hands behind her back. “I will await your seeing, Lae’zel. And you,” she looked to Strike, “I am glad I’ve chosen you.”

With the world falling apart underneath them, they were sent back to whatever truth awaited them.

The moment they returned, W’wargaz awaited them sword in hand, and Strike could read the room immediately. The execution room, in this case.

“Ch’r’ai, please, summon Vlaakith, there is much we-“

“Vlaakith has declared you hshar’lak, ghaik wretch,” he spat on poor Lae'zel's plea, as the other gith surrounded them, and Strike saw Shadowheart reach for her mace with pure focus in her eyes. “Make this easy for yourself, lay down your neck for the blade of our Queen.”

Lae’zel’s lip trembled.

Strike almost felt sorry for her.

Then she grabbed for her sword, and charged upon W’wargaz with a roar of a stone heart shattering.

Chapter Text

How’s it going?

Peachy, darling, bloody PEACHY.

Ah, they started killing you?

Might not speak the tongue, but they did get the point through, somehow!

Strike almost laughed, had he not had to misty step out of another swing of a sword that would’ve shattered his spine had it hit him. And he thought fighting one Lae’zel was a bitch!

‘s everyone alright?

We’re handling it.

Astarion’s thoughts were scattered, he offered a look into them and Strike made the mistake of peeking – he saw Karlach tank an arrow to the shoulder before tackling a young gith with all her fiery weight, he saw Wyll embrace an approaching trio in a cloud of ice and darkness, he saw Gale rain fire on the distracted trio, he saw his own, Astarion’s, hands dart out of darkness to slip two blades under the ribs of a screaming archer. All well and good, but he didn’t see the see the much more pressing issue of a githyanki warrior pommeling Strike in the face with the bottom of his sword, before going for his head with the blade.

“FUCK!”

He managed to raise a magical shield around himself in the last moment, the force of the attack visibly resonating through the gith’s entire body.

His almost obeyed his instinct of frying her with a bolt of lightning, but in the last moment, he saw Shadowheart fighting another right behind her, and so, instead, a different spell came to mind. A pattern slammed itself over the entire area of the fight, and nearly every gith within, paused in its steps.

Shadowheart looked surprised, noting the frozen enemies, but then she saw Strike and understood. W’wargaz was fine, as well, and his eyes found the source of the momentary issue as well.

Whelp.

“Trickery of the mind; you even fight like a ghaik!” W’wargaz shouted, turning to shove one of his paralyzed men, and Strike searched with progressing urgency, for both a way out and a good comeback.

“And you, uh, fight like a bitch!” It’ll have to be good enough, because he did find something in the other priority, as the prism he carried sprung to life and pulled his back towards a small room on his left.

Does our esteemed leader need help? Astarion asked in his mind, and for a flash, Strike saw the corpses of the soldiers around him and the others.

They sure were doing better than Strike’s group, but the esteemed leader’d say he had a decent excuse with the fucking ch’r’ai at hand and his own body as a disadvantage.

We’ll live, he decided, just as he spotted Shadowheart grabbing Lae’zel’s arm to force her out of the hypnosis, and he waved his hand at them to get closer to him. The moment they were out of the way, he finally sent out the lightning that’s been itching in his fingertips. The gith closest to him screamed in agony before she collapsed, and two others failed to move out of the way behind her – one fell, the other managed to pick himself back up, just in time for Lae’zel’s arrow to find its way through his throat.

The main gates burst open with more Gith. Strike almost rethought his previous claim.

“Hold them back!” he ordered immediately when his girls reached him, now completely backed into the small side-room. If he was mistaken...

Find a way out, take as much shit as you can, he commanded Astarion and the others, if only to distract himself from the sense of doom that threahened to cloud his mind. He was fine. They’ll need more food, once they got out of here, it was why he asked for it – because they were going to make it out.

He needed to focus. His bag kept pulling itself towards the empty wall at the back.

“Strike!” Shadowheart shouted, a moment of actual terror in her voice as the githyanki with wolves approached, closing in, closing, W’wargaz looked so fucking smug...

“Head in the fucking game, Shart,” Strike hissed to snap her out of it, summoning a cloud of daggers right at the entrance to their chamber, just close enough to his cleric for at least one to hit her – it seemed to have cleared her mind, because she made the smart choice to step back, and be useful.

Lae’zel looked like her bad leg was causing her a lot of trouble, but she was able to shoot out of the chamber, she aimed a small bomb directly into their spellcaster... From afar, a much bigger explosion shook the whole place, from a battle that was clearly going much better than this one.

Focus, Strike had to focus.

Statues. The statues were odd; clearly in the right places, clearly not turned the right direction. There was a flat wall behind them, and Strike sure as hells hoped that the prism’s hunch was correct, because they were rapidly running out of other options.

Somewhere behind him, the Gith shouted in disgust as Shadowheart raised one of their fallen soldier’s corpses from the dead to fight on their side.

Statues, statues... click.

They were attached to the floor, but able to rotate – Strike felt quite lucky for having the foresight for that potion earlier, because there was not the slightest chance he would’ve been able to move the heavy thing by himself otherwise.

You sure you’ll be alright? We just saw a bunch more run into your direction-

FUCKING PEACHY, ASS!

The statue turned, turned, clicked in place, and there was the other one left, and Strike made the mistake of glancing to the battle.

The wolves have descended on the zombie, tearing it apart, W’wargaz was far too close, there were five more Gith with him and more incoming... then the first one stepped a foot too close, and the entire floor exploded.

It startled Strike enough for the blades to disappear, the loud noise ringing through the walls; Shadowheart looked to be barely keeping it together, but she threw him the most distressed smile he’s seen on her yet.

“GLYPH,” she shouted, her voice still barely registering through the ringing in Strike’s ears.

“Tsk’va!” Lae’zel cussed, picking herself from the ground. “Give a warning before you summon a thunder!”

But behind them, the gith were already picking themselves back up, and Shadowheart looked up in horror... only for their gith to grab for her bag, inadvertently pulling her closer.

If Strike had the time to pay attention to such things, he could swear he saw the cleric blush, before Lae’zel screamed in her face to use her bloody scrolls, and they both put their mind back to the rapidly losing battle.

Thanking whatever god that was watching at them – not Vlaakith – Strike managed to turn the second statue, and there it was, a secret door behind the wall.

“Move it!”

He was already halfway through the hole himself, only waiting for the women to get through, but Lae’zel hesitated. She slid back inside, to one of the statues, and her companions could only watch as W’wargaz’s blade pierced directly through her stomach.

Shadowheart screamed.

And yet, with what Strike could only assume was pure stubbornness, one he’s experienced first hand already, Lae’zel kicked at her former superior, surprising him enough to push the sword out of her, and, bathing in blood and sweat, she shoved the statue off of its pedestal.

W’wargaz swung at her again, but she was gone – misty stepped through the quickly closing door, right into Strike’s arms.

The door slammed itself shut behind her.

“So godsdamned stupid,” Shadowheart hissed, quickly pressing her hands to cure the horrible wound on their fighter’s gut. “That was so- you could’ve died!”

“We’re- sfff-“ Lae’zel panted, cussing at the awful feeling of her guts stitching themselves together. “Hta’zith! We are far from saved yet-!”

Strike held her, looking back to the wall she’s just turned their door into. He could hear the gith behind it, muffled shouting, trying to get in. “You bought us some time,” he reassured his girl as he cupped her face, brushed away tears of pain that smudged her make-up. “Good girl, Lae’. Really.”

With the adrenaline somehow calming, the poor thing sniffled under just some reassurance, but then nodded. “We must go, sarth.”

“Right away, soldier. Can you walk?”

“I can- oh Vlaakith’cha tsh’in’va, fuck-“

As Strike gave her a quick lookover, she did not look in the best condition; the action has torn up the half-healed stitches of her bad leg, Shadowheart was too exhausted to do more than just the bare necessities for the cut that went through her stomach and back on the other side, and not to mention emotionally...

He swooped an arm under her legs, and picked her up.

“Str- sarth!”

“Executive decision, sorry, buddy,” he told her with a breathless smile as they started booking it down the stairs. “If I have to, I’ll throw you at them. Aight?”

“... Understood.”

They found some kind of an underground cave, with a nicely decorated hall with no walls that lead towards... well, away from the horde of murderous githyanki, which was in the moment good enough, and with enough traps to almost send them flying, had Shadowheart not noticed them in the right moment.

The ceiling above them shook with the Gith attempts to break down the door, not the best circumstances for the very tired Shadowheart to attempt to disarm the strange machine.

“Can it not go faster?”

“I am no bloody Astarion,” she barked at Strike’s impatient foot tapping, the tool slipping out of the slit in metal once again. “Stay quiet, unless you want to do it yourself!”

“Sorry, sorry..”

Lae’zel has quieted down, simply allowed Strike to hold her. Poor thing, having to deal with... all that, Strike assumed would be hard.

“... You alright?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed, absentmindedly pressing a kiss to her hair. “But you will be. Yeah?”

She didn’t respond. But she did allow her head to wearily rest on his shoulder, and for her eyes to close.

It was only a moment that they’ve had to breathe, because when Shadowheart disarmed the trap, they heard something collapse behind them, and a victorious githyanki cry.

There wasn’t time to disarm the next trap; they just barely managed to jump over it, and Strike felt his entire body protest with the force of the landing under Lae’zel’s extra weight, but a rush of adrenaline sent them forward, forward, Shadowheart used a scroll for another warding glyph behind them, Lae’zel practically climbed over Strike to shoot Shadowheart’s crossbow over his shoulder – incredibly, she even managed to hit something, judging from the scream of pain.

And then, they reached a dead end.

A giant room, at least, but no exit, and the only thing in it was some type of ceremonial mace, floating in the middle... Lae’zel cursed out loud, Shadowheart shouted for her goddess to help, and Strike, Strike’s mind raced.

It couldn’t be the end. He couldn’t die in a place like that.

A place that had so many secrets, so many traps leading up to it, in the very center of a temple.... It had to have been important. There was no other way.

“Shart,” he felt a calm fall over him, a practiced type of a thrill of an impossible situation. “Here.” He carefully passed Lae’zel over, she now stood with a big portion of her weight supported by the cleric, and they both watched as his feet carried him over to the glowing mace.

“What now?” It was as if he’s been there before; not in the room, that was unknown, but... the feeling, fighting an impossible battle, the thrill of a challenge, the goal of the mission... “Strike!”

The Githyanki were nearing in, hot on their heels, and yet, Strike felt dunked into a pool of calm and excitement all at once as the warmth of the mace’s glow reached him. He looked around; there were safety measures here, to protect it, no doubt. Giant pieces of machinery, safely tucked away, for now, and there was an almost manic type of a thrill that twisted his mouth into a borderline deranged grin as he grabbed the mace’s handle.

Something moved, immediately.

Most importantly though, a portal, that lead to the roof of the monastery – his soldiers didn’t need an order to understand, they’ve limped their way towards it already, just as a beam of pure sunlight cut through the room.

.... Hey, Ass? Found that way out?

Yes, it’s a bit of a climb, but Halsin’s-

The building’s going down.

.... Heh. Uh. Darling, I think I misheard you.

You should hurry.

.... WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THE-