Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Breaking glass. Splintering wood. Cracking stone.

“Milord, please-“

“Will you just shut up for once?!”

Something is thrown, striking the far wall with a crash.

“I don’t want her! I don’t need her!”

“My dear lord, she was made for you to-“

“-I fucking know what he says she was made for! I don’t fucking care!”

Orin listens in from behind the thick stone wall, anger and despair bubbling up in her chest in equal measure.

“Milord, if this is about the Baneite-“

“-His name is Enver. Have some godsdamned respect.”

The words are spoken in a low, dangerous growl, like an agitated animal.

“But sire, lady Orin-“

“-I don’t give a fuck about Orin.”

The words pierce Orin’s heart like a dagger made of ice.

Her hands ball up into fists, hatred welling up in her chest, thrashing about in her guts like a living thing.

She’s heard more than enough- she storms off like a gust of chilly wind, her mind already made up about what she’s going to do now.

-Orin shakes her head, trying to banish last night’s visions from her mind.

There’s nothing there worth thinking about. None of it will do her any good.

Just a nightmare. Nothing more.

(The voice in the dream sounds so familiar. Why does the words it speaks hurt so much?)

She stuffs the remainder of her and Minthara’s belongings into their final gift from the Ironhands- a bag of holding, to help them cart everything around- and gets ready to break down their tent.

Minthara pauses just before exiting out into the world, putting a hand over her chest and wincing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing much, I am just-“

Her face flushes a bit as she presses both of her hands against her spidersilk-bound breasts.

“...A little sore, that is all.”

...Right. Orin thinks she remembers something about it being normal for one’s breasts to be painful when a baby is on the way.  Especially, she imagines, when the armor she wears must be compressing her body in very sensitive areas.

Still, Orin works her arms around her to give her chest a cheeky squeeze before withdrawing her hands again.

“We’ll find you something new to wear soon,” she promises. “Something more comfortable.”

(Something hopefully able to comfortably hide a pregnant belly...)

Minthara nods, turning her head to kiss her cheek.

“We best get going. The day will not wait for us.”

Wyll bids one last farewell to the gnomes as they gather around the waypoint Gale has created in the heart of the myconid colony, ready for their departure.

Everyone is a little bit hung over, but otherwise alright.  Some coffee and greasy breakfast food perks everyone up enough to get moving without too much complaining.

Out of the corner of her eye, Orin sees the shell of what used to be Nere stumbling about, little more than a slave to the myconid colony he had once tried to exterminate.

She sees the grim look of satisfaction on Minthara’s face as they pass by him, finally confident that he will not harm anyone again.

(That he will never be able to harm her again.)

“I hope you have learned to mind yourself,” she says, with a note of dark amusement.

In a flash and an instant, they stand once again in the hollow remains of Grymforge, cautious yet determined to keep moving.

“The gnomes said the elevator up ahead would take us where we need to go,” Wyll says, already heading toward it.

“Let’s hope Dammon’s not far off,” Karlach remarks, giving her chest a few thumps with a grimace. “my engine’s not doin’ so well...”

“We’re heading in the same direction they did,” Wyll reminds her. “We’ll find him. He swore he would be able to help us once we crossed paths again.”

“You still got the Infernal Iron we found?”

“Sure do. It should be more than enough.”

“Aces.”

The iron grate in front of the elevator pierces their eardrums as it’s pulled open, revealing a rusty, ancient platform and series of chains inside.

“We sure this is safe?”

“Hm? It seems safe enough, doesn’t it?”

Karlach stares up the huge, yawning chasm of the elevator shaft and shivers.

“If you say so...”

Scratch whimpers, shoving his snout into Orin’s hand.

“I’m worried,” he whines, ears laid flat against his head. “That thing looks scary.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Orin reassures him. “It’ll just be a quick ride, don’t worry.”

It’s a tight fit with everyone plus the owlbear cub squeezed in, but they manage it, and Karlach pulls the rusted lever they assume controls the device.

There’s a metallic shriek and the clanking of gears, then with a heavy groan, the elevator slowly starts to rise.

Scratch whimpers at all the noise, keeping close to Minthara’s side. The cub huddles up, trying to make himself as small as possible.

The oppressive heat of Grymforge fades as they ascend, giving way to an uncanny chill.

After far too long cramped into the elevator, they come to a stop.

The metal grate opens with a creak and a groan, revealing a dark room that reeks of mold, coated in dust and totally silent.

Everyone stays huddled close together, worrying they might get lost in the dark.

It seems unbelievable that anyone else might be here, but a robed figure approaches them before too long, arms outstretched in a friendly gesture.

“Hello there!” the old man says, with a cheerful smile and a wave of a withered hand. “Could you spare a moment to indulge an elderly traveler?”

Before Orin can ask this stranger who he is, Gale shoves past her, brown eyes wide with shock.

“Elminster?!”

The old man grabs him in a tight hug, looking a mix of relieved and delighted.

“Gale, my boy!” he declares, patting him on the back like he’s greeting an old friend. “It has been far too long!”

“What are you doing here?” Gale asks, blinking rapidly as if he still can’t believe his eyes.

Elminster breaks off the hug, his smile giving way to something far graver.

“She sent me, Gale.”

Gale’s jaw drops; he shakes his head slowly.

“...But why?”

“The gods are not blind to this situation, my boy.”

“If the gods know, we would definitely appreciate a little divine intervention,” Orin can’t help but remark.

“That is my purpose- in a roundabout sort of way,” Elminster reassures her, before turning his attention back to Gale. “She has a plan for you to deal with the Absolute- and a path to forgiveness for you.”

Gale takes a step back, almost falling backward.

“...Mystra would consider forgiveness?”

Elminster nods.

“Waitwaitwait, hold on a moment,” Astarion butts in. “What do you mean, deal with the Absolute? What does Gale have to do with any of this?”

“...The orb.”

“Correct.”

While they speak, Orin stands there wondering if maybe the tadpole has finally eaten whatever is left of her brain, and that’s why she feels so stupid right now.

“If you were to activate the orb at the right moment, the Absolute would be completely wiped away. Once you reach its heart, you know what you must do.”

Orin expects Gale to argue- the way any rational person would doubtless argue against being told to end their own life.

Instead, though, Gale just nods, looking like a puppy who’s just been scolded.

“I understand.”

“I knew you would.”

Elminster utters some incantation, and a burst of bluish light settles over Gale’s body.

“There. That should keep you going until you reach your target. I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Elminster. I’m glad she chose you.”

Just like that, with no further fanfare, as if he hadn’t just dropped such grave news on everyone’s heads, Elminster vanishes into thin air.

The silence is only broken when Astarion clears his throat.

“...So that’s it, then?” Astarion asks, in an unusually somber tone. “You’re just going to blow yourself up because some old codger told you to?”

“He didn’t,” Gale corrects him. “Mystra has.”

“And you’re going to just do it because she asked you to?”

There’s an unspoken anger bubbling up beneath Astarion’s calm facade, and Orin can tell it’s about to erupt.

“It seems the quickest solution to all this, yes?” he asks. “The absolute will be wiped out. And I along with it. A small price to pay, in the grand scheme.”

The very next second, Astarion slaps him across the face hard enough to send him reeling.

“I never thought you could be this stupid!”

His voice cracks in a thoroughly inelegant way, the hand he struck him with shaking.

“Are you not even going to think about any of us?! Did you maybe think none of us want to get blown up with you?!”

What about me? Is the unspoken question Astarion doesn’t dare to say aloud.

“I won’t let you do some stupid suicide mission just because some celestial bitch tells you to! So put that idea out of that swollen head of yours before I cut it out!”

He turns on his heel and storms away, refusing to look at or speak to Gale anymore, even though Gale tries to say something in his defense, though the words die on his tongue.

“...come on,” Orin urges everyone. “We need to keep moving.”

Nobody breathes a word as they approach a pair of rotting oak double doors lined by weakly flickering torches.

Their faint red light illuminates warnings scrawled onto the walls in dust, dirt, ink, and even blood.

TURN BACK one message declares.

IT ISN’T TOO LATE TO LEAVE says another.                                                                                                                                             

HOPE DIES BEYOND THESE DOORS

THERE IS NOTHING HERE WORTH DYING FOR

RUN.

“Well, that’s not concerning in the slightest,” Shadowheart murmurs, in a weak attempt at a joke.

Written in peeling white paint on the doors is yet another message, barely legible- obviously written by someone in a great hurry.

KEEP A TORCH HIGH. KEEP A BLADE CLOSE. DO NOT STRAY FROM THE LIGHT.

OAKFATHER HAVE MERCY ON US ALL.

Breaking the rusted lock keeping the doors chained shut is a trivial matter- everybody grabs a torch for themselves before they steel themselves for what lies ahead.

The silence is tense as they reluctantly head onward, the doors parting with an unsettling shriek.

The world they step into is eerie and totally alien.

The ground is cracked and warped, as if it had burst open somehow. Dead trees tower overhead like silent monoliths of nothingness, bare branches reaching out into the endless expanse of pitch-black sky like skeletal hands reaching out toward the abyss above.

The darkness is like a living thing, greenish fog swirling all around them, searching, wanting. A chill settles over Orin’s skin, seeping down into her bones, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

The silence they step into is uncanny, all the normal sounds of nature, of life, snuffed out.

Orin grabs onto Minthara’s hand, squeezing it as they step forward with nothing but their torches to light the way.

“...I’ve never felt so cold,” Karlach remarks, with a shiver.

“It feels like we’re being watched,” Astarion agrees, red eyes darting around anxiously. “Hunted. I don’t like it...”

“Smells scary,” the owlbear cub whimpers. “Don’t like...”

“It’ll be alright,” Scratch reassures him, though he sounds nervous, too. “Just stay close.”

As they walk, Orin sees a decayed hand jutting out from a patch of brambles, the rest of the body eaten away to bare bones.

What had eaten them she can only guess, since there’s no trace of anything living as far as she can see...

Their torches create a small circle of illuminated safety, but it feels an awful lot like floating along in a piece of driftwood in the middle of a vast ocean with a storm on the way.

“...So where exactly are we supposed to go?” Karlach asks.

“Moonrise Towers is said to reside at the heart of this, er-“

Minthara trails off, realizing the word “town” may not quite be fitting here.

After clearing her throat, she continues.

“If cultists have been living there, there should be some sort of road leading to it, at any rate.”

Gnarled tree branches and decaying logs serve as makeshift bridges over great, yawning fissures in the ground, descending down into unfathomable nothingness.

It’s unnatural. Disturbing.

Whatever happened here can’t have been pleasant...

"This is Lady Shar's darkness," Shadowheart remarks, holding a hand up toward the sky in awe. "it's as though part of the Shadowfell was dropped to our plane..."

"Why would she do something like that?" Lae'zel asks, for once sounding more intrigued than snarky.

"I couldn't say. But it's hers- I can feel it.

“Halt!”

Orin is jolted out of her thoughts, head snapping toward the source of the voice.

The woman tries to sound commanding, but really just ends up sounding like a frightened child.

“Who’s there?!” she demands.

They step out into the open with their hands in the air to show they’re not a threat.

Orin desperately wants to introduce herself as an escaped lunatic, but  she has a feeling that wouldn’t help them here.

“Easy,” Wyll urges. “We aren’t here to hurt anyone.”

“Hard to believe. What are you doing here?!”

Looking around, Orin notices the torchlight reflecting off the silver medallions on each of their chests.

Fishing around in her bag, she pulls out the identical pin she found on the unfortunate drow corpse in Grymforge.

She holds it up to them while keeping her free hand still in the air, trying desperately to appear nonthreatening and hoping she’s succeeding.

“You’re Harpers, right?” she asks. “I found this at a place called Grymforge- it’s yours, isn’t it?”

They don’t answer her, but they also don’t try to correct her, so she keeps talking.

“Harpers are supposed to be the ones you turn to when you’re in desperate need for help- when nobody else will stand up for you. Well. We’re desperate. Don’t you think it’s fate that we ran into each other?”

The strangers look at each other with skeptical eyes, then back to them- still wary, but a bit more optimistic now.

“We’re not trying to hurt anyone,  just looking for other people,” Karlach adds. “Some tieflings, shoulda passed through here before. You seen them?”

An older man with long, gray hair offers them a relieved smile.

“We’ve more than seen them,” he says. “You’re coming from the Emerald Grove, then?”

“We are- we would have come with them, but we got a bit sidetracked,” Wyll says, nodding the whole while.

“Thank the gods-“ Another woman with dark skin and cropped short hair breathes, her voice heavy. “You have no idea how rare it is to find a friendly face out here.”

Orin is only really half listening, watching as something just beyond her line of sight moves.

There’s a strange breeze, sort of like breath on the back of her neck.

The curly-haired Harper seems to have noticed too, her face losing its color.

"Yonas,” she urges, “move in-“

The words aren’t even fully out of her mouth before some unseen force yanks the man backward, into the fog and brambles to thick to see through.

“Yonas!”

An echoing laughter rings out, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Meg?!” she hears him call out from somewhere within the shadows. “Where are you?!”

“Yonas?! Can you see our torches?”

“I- I can’t see anything- I think something’s wrong-“

Something is wrong, indeed.

Very, very wrong.

Every single instinct in Orin’s body is screaming for her to run, to get as far away from here as she can, but her body simply won’t obey.

Strange, shapeless things start to close in around them, creeping just out of sight, as if mocking them.

“Follow my voice! Come back to the light!”

She can’t quite see them, but Orin swears pairs of disembodied yellow eyes are burning into her soul...

“Meg, is that y-“

A crack, a crunch. A horrible scream that dies off into a gurgling sound.

Then, the unnatural silence returns.

The remaining Harpers shut their eyes tightly, allowing themselves a moment of mourning for their fallen comrade.

Orin thinks her heart might burst from her chest from beating so fast.

A thin, painful wheezing breaks the silence, decayed plant matter crunching underfoot as someone- rather, something- emerges.

“There you are...”

The voice sounds familiar, but profoundly wrong at the same time.

“...Yonas?”

The shambling figure that approaches them superficially seems like Yonas, sure. But when the torchlight falls upon his face, it’s clear something has gone deeply wrong.

His features are warped, sunken eyes emitting an eerie off-white glow.

He holds out his warped, twitching hand toward her, an inhuman smile warping his face.

He speaks in a thin, breathless voice, each word coming out like they cause him great pain.

“Come...join me...”

“Shit,” one of the Harpers mutters, stumbling backward as the shell of Harper Yonas tries to grab her.

Another strikes him across the back of the head, sending him staggering sideways.

“Yonas, what are you doing?!”  he shouts.

All they get in response is a bone-chilling howl.

A ring of luminescent golden doves surround Shadowheart as she motions for the others to stay close to her.

Orin’s mind still screams at her to run, but she knows there’s nowhere she can run to.

“Vith-“ she hears Minthara utter, the split second before her hand is wrenched from Orin’s grasp.

Pulled by the ankle by tendrils of pure shadow, she quickly vanishes into the darkness.

Orin doesn’t allow herself to hear the others shouting for her to stay in the light before running  after her.

Chapter Text

The darkness is like a living thing, forcing itself down Orin’s throat, choking her. It feels like the life is ebbing out of her, stolen away by the shadows that swirl around her.

She ignores it even though it’s hard to breathe, groping her way through the shadows, desperate to find her lover, to spare her from the unfortunate Harper’s fate.

“Minthara!” she shouts, unable to see a thing.

After a moment, she hears the familiar voice that eases her terror.

“I am here!”

Orin pushes toward the sound, dagger in hand, driving it into anything with the bad judgement to get in her way.

There’s a burst of light, and a terrible scream as something- maybe someone- is struck with divine energy.

Then another. And another.

Using the bursts of light to find her way, Orin sprints onward, slashing through the gnarled vines that reach out to try to grab her.

She leaps forward, and finally her hands grab onto Minthara’s once again.

Minthara pulls her in close, unable to suppress her trembling.

It’s only then that Orin realizes she’s bleeding from several gaping wounds, where something has cut clean through her armor.

“What the hells just happened?!”

“I-I do not know. Are you hurt?”

Orin shakes her head, wishing she felt more confident.

“...Is she well?” Minthara asks her, pressing a hand to her belly as they stumble back, following the faintest flicker of torchlight through the fog.

Orin can’t really get herself to fully focus, but she’s able to rally herself enough to channel her tadpole.

Their baby’s mind is still there- though panicked, and clearly in distress- probably normal, given the situation. 

“She’s alright,” she promises. “A bit spooked, but alright.”

“Good.”

That horrible laugh rings out again, alongside a horrible, raspy voice.

“Join...us...” it hisses, as though right up against Orin’s ear.

“...What was that-“

“It’s so much better in the dark...”

“So much better...”

“Come into her embrace.”

“...Her embrace...”

“Ignore them,” Minthara urges her, half-dragging Orin forward.

Before Orin can reply, something seizes her by the shoulder, wrenching her away and throwing her onto the rocky ground, knocking the wind clean out of her.

“Fuck-”

The shadows close in around them in a ring, glowing eyes flashing in the dark.

Orin’s hands curl up on themselves, a tight feeling building in her chest, the blood humming in her veins, whispering for her to let the monster within her out to play.

Though it would doubtless be helpful in these dire straits, for some reason she can’t seem to let the beast inside her out. It’s like something has drained its strength.

There’s a shriek that pierces her eardrums, and a burst of golden light as Shadowheart sprints toward them. The golden doves scorch the approaching shadows, and send the rest scurrying.

“Good, you’re not dead,” she quips, with a half smile. “Are you still good to walk?”

“We’re fine, yeah.”

Shadowheart seems remarkably intact in spite of everything- perhaps what she said about this darkness being the work of Shar is true after all. At least, something is protecting her from the shadows.

Minthara swings her mace at a lunging shadow, causing it to explode in a burst of white light.

“Is everybody else alright?” Orin asks.

“I mean, they’re still alive. That’s something.”

As they approach the others, the curly-haired harper tries to console her sobbing companion.

“But Yonas-”

“-There’s no saving him anymore, Meg.”

Astarion wipes blood from his nose, cursing under his breath. Gale puts a hand to his chest, out of breath and covered in a tapestry of bruises.

Lae’zel has a deep gash across her cheek, and Wyll seems dazed, like he’s been struck upside the head with something heavy.

Despite that, he helps another of the harpers to his feet, eye darting around to look for any further danger.

The world outside their small circle of light is eerily empty once again.

“I think that’s all for now,” Karlach says, in a wary tone like she doesn’t want to jinx it.

“Well done,” the curly-haired one breathes, looking up with a smile of relief. “Thank you- I thought we were done for...”

“Glad to help,” Wyll reassures her. “Now, where did you all come from?”

Another of the surviving Harpers points to a faint light in the distance.

“This way- come on, it’s dangerous to stay out here.”

“Lead on.”

Orin loops an arm around Minthara’s waist as they limp along, keeping her eyes firmly forward.

Minthara cringes with every step, teeth clenched tight, trying to keep her bearings. Orin feels her stomach churn, an icy cold settling into her bones and making her shiver.

(She’s felt cold before. But she doesn’t remember ever feeling this cold in her life.)

Minthara’s breath rattles uncomfortably in her chest, and she moves in a shuffling, hunched-over sort of way like she’s been repeatedly punched in the stomach.

It’ll be alright, she tells herself. Once they get to wherever the harpers came from, she and Minthara will be able to be patched up. Then everything will be alright. They just need to go a little further...

Up ahead, there’s a shimmering, translucent dome of light covering a large building flanked by a few smaller ones.

The decaying, faded wooden sign at the gate bears a simple message:

LAST LIGHT INN. LAST REST STOP TIL BALDUR’S GATE.

While it must have been cozy in its prime, right now it’s battered, sad, the main building seeming to be rotting off its frame- a corpse of its former self.

As soon as they cross over that threshold, they’re met with a dozen or so  harpers with their weapons drawn.

“Hold it right there-“

“Easy,” Meygan reassures her fellow Harper, hands in the air as she steps between them. “They’re with us.”

“Truly?”

The Harpers don’t dare to believe it, not lowering their bows.

“We’ll see about that- hands off your weapons, keep ‘em where we can see ‘em.”

They’re lead forward with a dozen pair of distrusting eyes on them. They keep their mouths shut and follow, not wanting to get into any trouble.

“Jaheira!”

The name rings a bell- a bell that sets Orin’s nerves on edge, her jaw clenching tight though she can’t tell why.

They’re met by a woman who, while outstandingly unremarkable in height, seems to tower over everyone around her. Her sharp, hazel  eyes narrow as she glares at them, giving them a skeptical up-and-down glance.

“Holy fuck!” Karlach shouts, eyes wide in awe. “That’s Jaheira- the Jaheira!”

Though the name still nags at something in the back of Orin’s mind, she can’t put her finger on why.

Jaheira only nods in response.

There’s a strange rumbling, then thorny vines spring forth from the barren ground, wrapping themselves around their legs and pinning them in place.

“What the devil-“ Astarion utters, looking outraged.

“Hey, what are you-“ Karlach utters, but trails off without finishing.

Orin just sighs in defeat.

“I wish people would just say hello for once,” she grumbles.

Jaheira answers her with a cheeky smirk.

“Hello.”

“We aid your people, and this is our thanks,” Lae’zel snarls.

“All too often a ploy to take advantage of the desperate.”

She opens a leather bag and pulls out a glass bottle, where an illithid tadpole thrashes about in an attempt to break free.

“This is why we’re here,” she says. “I don’t know what’s going on with this, but I do know that they seem to recognize their own.”

Since Orin is the closest to her, she approaches her and holds the bottle up.

The tadpole’s thrashing intensifies, and Orin can hear small, high-pitched, frantic noises from the creature, as if it can tell what she is.

Jaheira glares, pulling a scimitar from her belt.

“You should never have come here, True Souls,” she growls.

“Hold on-”

“We aren’t like the others! Please just listen!” Karlach implores. “It’s not what you think!”

Based on the ice cold look in Jaheira’s eye, she is thoroughly unconvinced.

Before she can raise a hand to any of them though, another voice rings out.

“What are you doing?!”

A small tiefling child bursts out of seemingly nowhere- the cheeky one with a messy ponytail and a makeshift eye patch- the one called Mol, if Orin remembers right.

“These guys are the ones who saved us!” she insists, stepping between Jaheira and the others.

“They are the ones who protected the Emerald Grove?” Jaheira asks, thin eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Sure did! And this one-“ Mol says, pointing toward Orin, “-saved one of my friends from a lady with a snake! Not such bad company, either.”

“Yeah, and she almost took my bloody eye out!” Alfira snaps, approaching with her fists clenched to mask their shaking.

She turns to Jaheira, voice wavering though she tries to stay brave.

Don’t trust that one.”

Orin feels her blood go cold as Alfira glares daggers at her, while Mol throws herself in front of her.

“She tried to kill me. I didn’t do anything to her and she would’ve killed me if the others hadn’t stepped in!”

“I’m sure there was some sort of explanation, you can’t kick her out for it!” Mol insists. “She’ll get killed out there!”

“Why the hells should I care about that?! She wanted me dead!”

“I’m sure if you listened to her there’s gotta be a reason! She saved Arabella, there’s no way she’d do that on purpose!”

If Orin had the energy, she might cry at the earnestness with which this child argues her case.

 “She’s way too unpredictable, you can’t-”

-A sudden sound cuts off Alfira’s argument. A deep, animal groan of pure agony.

Minthara drops to her knees, arms wrapped around her middle.

“Soldier?” Karlach calls out, brow knit in concern.

When she tries to speak, all Minthara can muster is a weak croak.

Scratch whines in worry, pawing at her. 

“Friend?” he whimpers. “What’s wrong...?”

Jaheira glares at her, perhaps thinking this is some sort of act.

“What’s going on?!” Orin asks, yanking at the vines keeping her in place, desperate to get to her lover. “Minthara! What’s happening?!” 

Minthara tries to say something, but suddenly cries out, doubling over, all the muscles in her body heaving at once as she vomits up a fountain of half-congealed, blackened blood onto the barren ground.

A few of the Harpers recoil, disgust and worry on their faces.

Judging by the way every drop of color drains from Jaheira’s face, she must be catching on that this is no ploy for sympathy.

The vines abruptly release their grip, allowing Orin to rush to Minthara’s side and drop to the ground beside her.

“What’s going on?!” she yells again, though she isn’t even sure who she’s yelling at anymore.  “What’s happening?!” 

Minthara blindly gropes around until she finds Orin’s hands, gripping them tightly as she draws sharp, shallow gasps of air that sound and look painful.

Her grip is deathly cold, her lips turning a startling blue color from lack of oxygen as she fights for every breath.

Orin looks up at a petrified Shadowheart.

“Help her!” she screams, her voice cracking in an undignified manner.

When Shadowheart can’t make her body move fast enough, Orin turns to Jaheira, far past the point where she would consider begging to be beneath her.

“Shadowheart’s a cleric! She can help- I can go if you want- I’ll go back out into the shadows if you can’t trust me, please just help her!” she pleads, vision blurry from tears and panic. “Minthara’s not infected, she won’t be any danger, please-”

She shakes her head, the words spilling out before she gets a chance to think about them. Minthara vomits once again, the blood that comes up mingled with something that looks like black, slimy gravel.

There's no way to keep their secret anymore. Not if it costs her life.

“-She’s pregnant!” she implores, feeling like her heart is about to break free from her chest as she clutches her lover close to it.

The stunned silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife. Hot tears spill down Orin’s cheeks as she screams, without any care for how she must look like a madwoman.

“I don’t care what you do to me, just help her and help the baby, please!”

For a split second, she’s terrified she won’t be believed. That this woman will take her declaration as yet another trick.

Jaheira takes stock of the situation. She approaches Orin and kneels down, grabbing her shoulder and locking eyes with her for what feels like a thousand years, staring like she’s looking for something.

Whatever it is she’s searching for, she seems to find it.

“Lower your weapons,” she says, getting to her feet and dragging Orin upward with her.

Once Orin is on her own two feet, she grabs Minthara and hoists her upward- when she does, Minthara screams like she’s had a red hot poker shoved into her guts.

It’s only then that Orin realizes the blood pooling at her feet, leaking through the thin gap where the leg of Minthara’s armor meets the rest of it.

Jaheira turns from one harper to the other, locking eyes with each of them so there’s no ambiguity in what she’s demanding.

“You- get water boiling. You, get clean rags. You, find the highest proof liquor in the building and get it to me now. You, find extra blankets. You, get a fire going. And be quick about it.”

She passes Minthara off to Shadowheart, still keeping remarkably levelheaded.

“Get her inside- and you-“

She points at the Harper closest to the inn’s entrance.

“-Get Isobel. Tell her it is important!”

She leads them to a room with a row of beds, still barking orders at everyone they pass.

(This is clearly not her first crisis.)

One of the Harpers returns with the requested alcohol; Jaheira pulls the cork out of one of the bottles immediately, the astringent smell cutting through the air. She unceremoniously dumps a good portion of it into her hands before passing the bottle to Shadowheart, rubbing her hands together to disperse the spirits over her hands and up to her elbows.

Shadowheart follows suit, looking incredibly uncomfortable the whole time.

A woman with a short crop of silver hair clad in dark robes comes flying down the stairs.

“What’s going on?” 

Jaheira shakes her head and grabs Isobel and Shadowheart by the wrists to bring her into the room, shutting the door behind them to grant Minthara some privacy while they work.

Orin slumps down onto the dusty floor, cradling her head in her hands, listening to her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Chapter Text

Everyone sits around awkwardly, unsure of what else they’re supposed to do or what they’re supposed to say.

(Nothing can really prepare you for this sort of thing, after all.)

The tieflings whisper amongst themselves while occasionally casting concerned glances at the dirty, battered travelers sitting around licking their wounds while waiting to hear word about their unfortunate companion.

The frantic voices on the other side of the door are muffled enough they can’t quite make out what’s being said, but they already know it’s dire.

Orin’s heart throws itself against her rib cage, trying to burst free and run away from it all.

If only it was helping...

After what feels like an eternity, the door opens, and Jaheira steps out- her face pale, her hands stained with blood.

She doesn’t pay any mind to it, folding her arms and standing in front of them to glare at the men.

“Alright,” she says, looking about ready to murder all three of them. “Which of you is responsible for this?”

They look at each other, then at Jaheira, all looking confused before it dawns on them what she means.

After a bit, Astarion points at Orin.

“She’s the only one the drow’s been sleeping with,” he says. “And I don’t think she’s impregnating anyone-“

He glances over at her with a raised eyebrow.

“-Are you?”

Orin shakes her head, hugging her knees to her chest.

“...it’s not mine,” she mutters.

She feels the others’ eyes boring into her, confusion and dawning dread filling the air.

(Surely they must have already known, considering their short time together, that the child can't possibly be hers. But nobody wants to consider the alternative.)

“Whose then?”

Orin shrugs.

“One of the ones that raped her,” she answers, flatly, figuring there’s no point in hiding anything at this point. “When they had her captive. But as far as I know those bastards are all dead, so there’s no real way to ask them which of them they think it was.”

She doesn’t look up to see Jaheira’s expression, but somehow knows it must be one of shock, mingled with a deep regret for asking.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, shaking her to rouse her from her stupor.

“Come.”

Not having the energy to argue, Orin obeys.

She’s led into the room Minthara had been taken to- the first thing that Orin notices when she enters is the overwhelming smell of blood and infected tissue, like a sanitarium that had been left to decay for a decade.

The shredded remnants of Minthara's beloved spidersilk armor lay strewn across the floor, cut away in their haste to get her taken care of.

Orin gets led behind the privacy screen put up to give Minthara a little dignity, and it’s clear that she’s in bad shape.

Her face bloodless, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, lips grayish, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, she looks like someone on the brink of death.

When she sees Orin, she reaches out toward her, the words she tries to speak coming out as a thin wheeze Orin can’t make out.

Naked. Exposed. More helpless than she's been probably since the day she was born.

It’s hard to imagine anything more pitiful.

Dropping to her knees beside the bed, Orin takes her hand, nearly recoiling at how icy, deathly cold it is.

She looks up toward the pretty, white-haired young woman (Isobel, she thinks Jaheira called her) with what she’s sure is a pathetic expression.

“What’s wrong with her?” she asks, biting back sobs. “What’s happening?”

Isobel shakes her head, wiping the sweat off Minthara’s brow with a damp rag even though it doesn’t do much, and offering her water she refuses with a feeble shake of her head.

Shadowheart is mixing up something or other on the little table nearby, looking about ready to faint.

“Alright, this may be a bit uncomfortable,” Isobel warns, laying her hands over Minthara’s abdomen. “Just try to breathe and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Once she has Minthara’s nod of consent, Isobel starts feeling around, pressing down on her abdomen, looking for...something.

“Do you remember when your last period was?” she asks, trying to keep her voice calm and mostly succeeding.

Minthara shakes her head, eyes still shut tight.

“Sometime before I left for the surface,” she gasps out, her voice raspy and weak. “I do not know how long it has been...”

Isobel frowns deeper still, and she lets out a sigh of what might be frustration.

“Alright...”

She presses one hand right above Minthara’s pubic bone, and the other a few inches below her ribs, like she’s measuring something.

“How far along?” Jaheira asks, seeking out Minthara’s pulse in her neck and counting along in her head.

“A bit hard to tell,” Isobel answers. “Anywhere from fifteenth to seventeenth. But she’s dilated at least five centimeters already, and I can’t stop it at this point- I’ve been trying.”

“I guess it can’t be helped, then.”

“What does that mean? What can’t be helped?” Orin demands, squeezing Minthara’s hand tight.

“It means the little one’s set to make an early appearance.”

“What- but it’s too early, it can’t-”

“Just hang on,” Isobel assures her. “We’ll do everything we can to fix this.”

Minthara bites down on her own tongue to keep from crying out, face screwed up in a rictus of agony. She rolls onto her side and curls up into a tight ball of misery, breath coming in short, quick bursts until, after thirty or so seconds that feel more like thirty years, it finally passes.

“Here.”

Shadowheart brings over a tin mug full of something that smells sharply herbal and deeply earthy, strange silvery steam rising off it.

“This should help the pain a bit,” she urges, helping prop Minthara up just enough to drink without choking. “And keep things moving along.”

Minthara barely manages to avoid throwing it all back up the moment she’s drank it.

“I know it’s not palatable but please try to keep it down,” she urges.

There’s a strange look on Isobel’s face as she watches on.

“Do you have a problem?” Shadowheart asks her, with a scowl.

“No problem, no,” Isobel answers. “I’m just a bit impressed- I figured a Sharran would know more about killing babies rather than saving them.”

Shadowheart glares at the other woman.

“Lady Shar’s church takes in unwanted children all the time,” she snarks, in an icily calm tone. “I have delivered more than a few in my time.”

“Those poor souls must have been desperate to trust her, then. Or delusional.”

There’s a weird, bitter note in Isobel’s voice- an unspoken anger despite keeping her tone soft.

“I never saw any of your goddess’ followers stepping in to help-“

“-Is this really the time?” Minthara manages to gasp out, still somehow managing to sound annoyed even with more important matters on her mind.

That’s enough to have Isobel and Shadowheart both looking rather sheepish.

“Right...”

Isobel busies herself between Minthara’s legs; Minthara doesn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed about how exposed she is, though she flinches when she’s poked and prodded in uncomfortable places.

Even though she tries to be as gentle and reassuring as possible, all of Isobel’s efforts ring resoundingly hollow.

Orin grabs a chair and pulls it up to the bedside, determined to be here no matter what happens.

Despite that determination though, the terror gnaws at her like a living thing as she watches the other three women fuss over her lover, doing their best to keep her stable and lucid.

“...Is the baby- I mean, it’s so soon, how can-”

Despite everything, Isobel smiles, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze to try to comfort her.

“I’ve been told I was early, too,” she says. “Far too early. My father said nobody expected me to live. But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

She takes a deep breath to steady herself.

“You underestimate how stubborn drow are,” Jaheira says, with a hint of mirth in her tone. “I have seen one survive the sorts of things you would never expect a living being to live through. I do not expect their young to be any different.”

Isobel nods, bit grimaces as she does, like she’s willingly accepting a lie.

“Don’t lose hope.”

Orin wants to believe it, and decides to hold onto that feeling, however faint.

After all, hope is all they have right now...

All the muscles in Minthara’s abdomen contract at once, stealing her breath and draining what little color is left in her face. She nearly breaks Orin’s hand from crushing it so tightly, but Orin endures it, knowing that no matter how much it hurts, her lover is hurting far worse.

Everything starts to blur together as the minutes drag into hours, the wearing down of the candles on the dresser and the ever-growing mountain of bloodied towels and bedding marking the passage of time.

Orin can do nothing but stay at Minthara’s side, offering empty words that give no comfort with each and every wave of pain that strikes her, each one coming faster than the last.

Each contraction is more vicious than the last, stealing her breath and causing her body to contort in unnatural ways as she thrashes about from the agony of it all.

Pleas for mercy warp into pleas for death that turn into her babbling in her native tongue, her voice growing weak.

All the healing potions and incantations between everyone in the room seem to do nothing to alleviate her suffering- clearly something far beyond labor pains are tormenting her.

Shadowheart murmurs a frantic prayer under her breath, hands hovering over Minthara’s head as she does, begging for any sort of favor that might help the situation. As she does, Jaheira coaches Minthara on how to breathe through the pain, doing what she can to help her bear it.

Mingled with Minthara’s babbling, Orin makes out a word that keeps coming through more than the others.

Ilhar.

Though Orin usually can’t tell what any of the words in Minthara’s native language mean, this is one she understands, because Minthara has told her what it means before.

Mother.

She supposes it’s normal to want your mother in this situation- even though she can’t really imagine her mother to be the sort of woman to rush to comfort her child, no matter how miserable they are.

Surely, though, it must still be better to have that cold comfort rather than none, right?

“I think it’s ready.”

Isobel gives Jaheira a worried look, but then steels herself.

“Stay with me,” she says. “I need you to push for me when the next contraction comes, alright?”

All of her usual strength and confidence evaporated like an over-boiled kettle, Minthara can only whimper in reply.

“No more,” she pleads, to nobody in particular. “I cannot...take any more...”

“Please bear with it,” Isobel urges her, trying to be as comforting as she can. “Just a bit further.”

Orin feels her grip go slack, and she’s never felt more helpless in her life.

She shuts her eyes and presses her lips to the back of Minthara’s hand, wishing she could take the warmth from her own body and give it to her.

Jaheira sighs, leaning over the bed with a stern look.

“I have never known drow to give up easily,” she tells her. “Rally yourself, woman. You are not finished yet.”

Her words seem  to  spark  a  second  wind  within  Minthara, perhaps out of spite;  her  grip  grows  stronger,  and  her  eyes  focus  themselves,  becoming  closer  to  her  normal  self just for a few moments.

She  grits  her  teeth  and  braces  herself,  leaning  into Orin for strength.

When  the  next  wave  of  pain  hits  her,  she  musters  up  a  deep  breath  and  pushes as she’s been told to do. Her breath catches in her throat, her nails bite into Orin’s skin, eyes squeezed firmly shut like that could help her bear it.

Her body goes limp once the worst is past, stealing whatever respite she can get before the next contraction.

Orin feels useless, but she stays at the bedside, trying to offer her water between each round of pushing and offering whatever empty words of encouragement she can.

Even though she keeps her voice steady, she can’t stymie the pool of dread growing in her stomach.

She tries to reach out to the baby again, but no matter how she searches, no matter how her parasite tries, there is nothing within Minthara to reach.

Her heart sinks, realizing what must have happened. But she can’t bring herself to say a word.

“Just a bit more- push on three, alright?”

Hardly having any energy left, Minthara musters up enough strength to follow Isobel’s instructions.

There’s a terrible crunching sound when she clenches her jaw hard enough that her teeth must be cracking. She leaves bloody claw marks on Orin’s wrist from her grip, then lets loose with the sort of guttural, bone-chilling scream of one mortally wounded.

Through that scream, a second cry joins in, shrill and ear-piercing.

At first, Orin is relieved, thinking that, maybe, in spite of everything, there’s a chance everything might be okay.

But then she sees the way Isobel’s face turns green, and smells the putrid smell of death.

Shadowheart sprints toward the nearest empty bowl and gags, unable to keep her meager stomach contents down.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Isobel holds the bloody, squirming mass of blankets in her hands, staring down with the sort of wide-eyed horror of the deepest sort of revulsion.

Orin manages to stand, though the world spins around her as she does so. She holds her hands out, not sure what she should be doing.

“Let me-“

With stiff, mechanical motions, Isobel hands the bundle over to her.

It continues to cry- a harsh, discordant sound that does not sound like an infant should.

Holding her breath, Orin shuts her eyes and allows her parasite to reach out.

Surely, if the child is moving, if it’s breathing, there must be something there, right...?

Sure enough, there is- but not what Orin had expected.

Swirling darkness, deep and impenetrable.

Rot and ruin, crumbling to nothingness all around the edges of its meager consciousness.

At the center of the maelstrom of nothing, there is but a single, overpowering thought.

Hunger.

Hunger, not for mother’s milk, but for life.

To consume life. Destroy it.

The tiny hand that reaches out from the blankets is warped, deformed, wrong, covered in necrotic flesh and putrefying tumors. 

Orin dares to peel back the blankets, needing to see for herself so she can accept the reality.

The baby’s skin is paper-thin and translucent, covered in a spiderweb of black veins that pulsate with thickened, congealed blood.

Its heart is a shriveled, rotten thing that beats weakly, quivering as it struggles to pump the viscous fluid.

(The heart she had so happily listened to, just the night before...)

Its face is contorted, misshapen, nearly unrecognizable as an infant at all. It thrashes and tries in vain to bite her, to claw at her, despite being far too small and far too weak to do anything.

She looks to Isobel, then to Jaheira, and finally to Shadowheart, chewing on her own tongue and trying to keep from bursting into tears.

“...What do I do?” she whimpers, while the baby continues to try and attack her with all its feeble might, still crying all the while.

The helpless look on the other women’s faces tells her everything she needs to know.

She thinks back to Yonas, the unfortunate Harper the shadow curse claimed.

“There’s no saving him anymore...”

With trembling hands, Isobel takes the squirming thing away from her, intending to put it out of its misery.

It’s the only humane thing to do at this point.

She wraps it back up as best she can, trying to make it look presentable.

With a forlorn expression, she pulls a chair up and sits beside Minthara, holding the bundle up to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, choking back tears.

Minthara looks up at her blearily, as if confused.

“...Would you like to say goodbye?”

Reaching to touch the bundle of cold, bloodied blankets, Minthara regards it with a look of  forlorn longing.

She grits her teeth, taking great, rattling gasps of air.

“Take it away,” she pleads, screwing her eyes shut as if pretending hard enough would mean none of this is real.

Isobel obliges her plea, taking the child to the opposite side of the room, head bowed as she starts to murmur a prayer.

“Fairest Moonmaiden, Lady of Silver,” she begins, her soft voice barely cutting through the incessant wailing. “Have mercy on this innocent soul. Take them in your embrace and end their suffering. And let their heart rest easy from your arms.”

A flash of bluish-white light bursts forth from her hands. There’s one final terrible, ear-piercing shriek as the thing in the blankets is consumed by it, reduced to nothing but ash in an instant.

Jaheira shuts her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose and leaning against the rickety wall for support.

Orin finally succumbs to the tears she’s been biting back, stroking Minthara’s face and mumbling all the apologies she can think up.

(She promised everything would be alright. She promised, but there’s nothing, nothing she can do...)

Minthara reaches for her with a trembling hand, grabbing Orin’s wrist and speaking in a broken, raspy whisper.

“...I am sorry.”

Her body is so deathly cold, the same sickly blackish veins that had infested the child blooming across her ashen, sweat-slicked skin, radiating outward from her belly.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Orin reassures her. “This isn’t your fault...”

It’s mine, she wants to say, but doesn’t have the nerve.

Laying her head across her lover’s chest, she can hear her heart beating weaker by the second, each breath more difficult than the last.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening.

That she’s dying.

“Hey-"

She waves her hand in front of Minthara’s face, gives her a little shake, trying to rouse her.

“Hey, come on, don’t do this,” she begs.

Minthara manages to half-open her eyes, but can’t get them to focus, and it doesn’t last before her head rolls to the side, too heavy to hold up. She mouths something, maybe another apology, but can’t muster the breath to speak.

The other three women rush into action, doing everything they can possibly think of to salvage the situation, while Orin stays frozen, like her blood has all been replaced by ice.

“You said we were going to stay together,” she reminds Minthara, who can’t possibly hear her at this point. “You can’t just go-“

She grabs her frigid, limp hand in both of hers and squeezes it, anger mingling with her fear and despair.

“What about your mother? What about Menzoberranzan? You were supposed to show me the Glimmersea, remember? There was so much you wanted to show me...”

Nothing in response, of course.

We were supposed to stay together. You promised...

Helpless, terrified, Orin squeezes her eyes shut and presses Minthara’s icy hand (the hand that had always been so warm before) to her lips.

As stupid as the thought is, the imagines if she could will her own life into her. Will her breath into her lungs, do something-

-With that thought, suddenly the world starts to spin, the corners of her vision going dark.

She hears Minthara cough and splutter, jolting back into consciousness as if yanked out of deep water.

...Has the ringing in her ears always been so loud..?

“The hells just happened?” Jaheira demands, sounding amazed but also a little scared.

“I don’t know. She just-“

Shadowheart throws her hands up in confusion.

“-Whatever it was, I won’t question a miracle.” Isobel says, barely loud enough to be audible as she grabs Minthara to steady her as she vomits up congealed blood and bilious remnants of the various concoctions that had been forced down her throat, leaving a reeking puddle on the old wooden floors.

Orin stands up to get out of the way, though her legs wobble dangerously, like her muscles are made of soggy bread.

Minthara tries to get up, gaze wandering to her though her eyes can't entirely focus. Isobel forces her back down again, shaking her head.

“You shouldn’t move too much. Here-”

Isobel uncorks a small glass bottle full of a pearlescent, milky fluid.

“Potion of angelic slumber,” she explains, when Minthara gives her a skeptical look.

Minthara glares at her, not trusting after everything she’s just endured.

“You need to rest. Please.”

Still wary, but too exhausted to argue,Minthara relents, and swallows the entire bottle at once.

It goes to work right away, slumping down onto the stained mattress again.

“There we go. That’ll give us some time.”

“...That was sudden,” Jaheira remarks, the lines in her brow deepening in puzzlement.

“What now, then?” Shadowheart asks, her voice weak.

“We let her sleep,” Isobel answers. “And keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t get worse again.”

"I don't suppose there's anything else we can do," Shadowheart agrees, sounding exhausted.

The other three women are so busy seeing to Minthara that they don’t notice Orin’s state until she hits the floor, the world finally, blessedly going black.

Chapter Text

Orin puts her hands on the swell of Minthara’s belly, smiling like she hasn’t felt herself smile before.

She feels their baby kick within her, and a warmth wells up in her chest.

Minthara pulls her in close, nuzzling the crook of her neck with a dreamy sigh.

She says something in Drow, and even though Orin doesn’t know what the words mean, she can feel the affection behind them.

-Suddenly, the very next moment, she’s kneeling in the hollowed-out remains of Minthara’s torso, clutching her necrotic heart in her hands and sobbing.

Instead of a bed, they’re lost in an endless sea of blood, stretching out forever in every direction.

Though her insides are completely missing, Orin swears she can hear their child crying from a location she can’t pinpoint.

“My poor little lady. You tried your best- I did try to warn you, but I know milady has always been stubborn.”

Orin whips her head around, but can’t locate the source of the smarmy voice echoing all around her.

“Don’t you worry. Your father knows how to take your pain away, if only you will hear him.”

“...What do you mean?” she mutters, gathering up the decaying remains of Minthara and hugging them close to her chest.

“To indulge your killing urge, in the way milady deserves- your father is even offering you a prize in return.”

“A prize?”

The withered little form of her so-called caretaker appears, leathery wings fluttering, clawed hands curled up in front of him.

“But of course- your father loves to encourage his children, after all.”

Orin squints in skepticism, dragging herself to her feet.

“What’s the catch?”

“Nothing too intensive, milady- after all, it’s only one life.”

With a wave of his clawed hand, Cruor summons up quite a familiar figure.

“A cleric with a face as pretty as the moon,” he explains, gesturing toward the reflection of Isobel. “She is simply too precious to live.”

Orin looks from this woman- the one who helped save Minthara’s life- back to her butler.

“Why? What did she do?”

“Why, my dear lady- the worst crime of all, of course. Nothing at all!”

“But-“

“-Your father is beginning to worry, milady. He only wants what is best for you, but it seems you have gone quite far astray. This death will show him that you have not forgotten his path."

Orin isn’t sure if she wants to cry or to scream. Maybe both.

“Why now?” she growls. “I just-“

“-Your father knows about the tragedy that has befallen you, milady,” Cruor interrupts. “But do not worry- he has a plan for you. He always has.”

The world around her shifts in a dizzying blur, her middle suddenly heavy, swollen, something squirming about within it. She drops to her knees, clutching at it, glaring at the imperious little wretch in front of her.

“You can do far better than a patchwork family and a secondhand child, anyway. Your father has so much better planned for you.”

Those words send a sickening surge of rage up Orin’s throat; she lashes out at him with her beloved dagger, slicing clean through all the blood vessels and tendons in the slimy little creature’s neck.

Head flopping limply to one side, he collapses into the sea of blood as a laugh echoes all around her.

“Be true to yourself, milady.”

The world swims slowly into focus as Orin drags her battered body upward, squinting in the dim light of a single candle on the dresser.

The images her mind conjured for her swim in her mind, but she tries her best to ignore them, trying her best to write them off as yet another nightmare.

Jaheira is sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room, watching her with a hawkish stare.

“Welcome back,” she says, in a tense but polite voice.

Orin lets out a groan in reply, shaking her head and trying to get her bearings.

“You gave us a bit of a scare, you know. Your friends will be happy to see you well.”

Orin shrugs, her own health the last thing on her mind.

“...And Minthara?” she asks, her voice coming out coarse and full of gravel.

Jaheira sighs, her chair creaking as she leans forward.

“She will live,” she assures her. “She is still resting for now. I think she needs it.”

“Alright. Why are you here, then?”

“I am an old woman. It’s my job to fuss over the cubs.”

Something about her tone lets Orin know there’s something else. Something this woman is hiding. But Orin doesn’t have the energy or mental capacity to press the matter.

“Why am I the one who needs fussing over?”

“When you hit the ground you started seizing so badly I thought someone was going to end up dying here after all,” Jaheira explains. “A bit too much excitement, it seems.”

Throwing the blanket off her, she realizes someone’s dressed her in some dusty, moth-eaten pajamas and decides not to think too hard about how that happened.

She stands up, then nearly falls flat on her face.

“Careful,” Jaheira says, grabbing her to keep her from falling.

Orin swats her hand away like her touch burns.

“Don’t touch me-“

Jaheira rolls her eyes, reaching to shove Orin back onto the bed in spite of her demand.

“You weren’t exactly in top shape, yourself. You need to-”

“I said don’t touch me!”

The words come out wrong, warped, more of a roar than proper speech.

A bolt of pain splits her head, her guts roiling like a living creature is thrashing around within them.

She feels her bones creak dangerously, her teeth turning into razors, the monster inside her fighting to get out.

A growl works its way from deep within her chest and she can feel herself ready to burst, ready to turn into the beast that so terrifies the others...

Not now she pleads to herself. For the love of all the useless gods, not now-

Kill them. Kill them all. Build a throne from the bones of these useless creatures, show them what you truly are-

She drops to the ground and curls in on herself, fighting against the beast with all the willpower she has.

Bleed them hurt them break them killthemkillthemkillthemall

It’s hard to breathe, hard to think. She claws at her arms, at her face, blood pouring down into her eyes, blinding her.

The pain keeps her here, keeps her grounded, and allows her to tame the beast for long enough to choke it down.

No more.

No more death. Not when the blood of what should have been their child is still so fresh in her mind...

That thought is enough to regain her faculties, steady herself and force the monster down, though it goes down kicking and screaming in protest.

Kill them-

I won’t!

When she is fully back to herself, after some more wrestling with her own mind, she looks up at Jaheira through the haze of tears in her eyes .

“...Where is she?” she asks, bracing herself in case the answer is unpleasant.

“Same place you left her,” Jaheira answers, much to her relief. “She’s had a number done on her, so she’s still sleeping, but if she is anything like other drow I’ve met, she will be fine.”

Orin nods, relieved that, at least, she hasn’t lost everything.

She grabs a rag to wipe her face, and the other woman is kind enough not to question her further.

“I want to be with her,” she says, standing up in a daze.

“Of course.”

Jaheira still has the same stoic expression as she always did, but her hand is gentle as it grabs her shoulder and leads her along.

Orin keeps her head down, but still feels the eyes of everyone fixated on her- maybe with pity, maybe with disgust, she doesn’t know and doesn’t want to.

The room still reeks like blood and decay, despite someone having done their best to mop up the mess.

Minthara’s bed is still hidden behind the folding screens from before; a few beds away from her, staring blankly up at the ceiling while mumbling to himself, is a man who looks more than a little worse for wear.

“...How long has he-”

“-He came in while you were asleep,” Jaheira answers, pulling her along. “His name is Art Cullagh. Other than that, we are just as confused as you are.”

She pulls up a chair for Orin and sets it by the bedside.

Minthara is very much unconscious and perfectly still, the only indication she’s still alive the steady rising and falling of her chest as she breathes.

Curled up on her stomach, also fast asleep, is a slightly pudgy hairless cat that purrs away in contentment.

“Do not mind His Majesty,” Jaheira says, “it seems you are not the only one who took a shine to her.”

The cat cracks an eye open as Orin sits down, letting out a low, warning growl even as he continues to purr.

She notices that before she notices Shadowheart sitting across from her, hands clasped as she murmurs prayers Orin can’t hear.

“Why did you never say anything?!” she snaps, sounding torn between feeling guilty and being angry. “Surely even if she had wanted to keep it secret, if it’s something like this it would be better for us to know!”

“I figured she had had quite enough of people doing things to her she didn’t want them to do for one lifetime,” Orin answers, in a flat, matter-of-fact way.
 
 Shadowheart has the color and fight drain from her face. She pinches her nose and lets out a frustrated hiss.

“...Shit,” she mutters under her breath.

“We were going to tell everyone eventually,” Orin continues, even though she’s still annoyed and wants to be much crueler. “It’s not like I was happy about it, you know.”

She gives Minthara’s hand a squeeze and grits her teeth.

“I just wanted her to be happy,” she whimpers. “We were going to raise it together. We were going to try to make something good out of all of this mess. I promised her...”

She trails off, the guilt too much for her to bear.

Shadowheart looks confused, which gives way to a guilt of her own.

“...Lady Shar’s darkness caused this,” she admits, speaking what’s already known aloud. “I don’t understand... There must be some explanation for all of this...”

“-No offense,” Orin interrupts, “but no matter what the explanation is, the end result is the same, isn’t it? So I don’t really care.”

“I-“

“-Please just leave.”

Shadowheart wants to argue, that much is evident, but Jaheira gives her a look that shuts that down.

“We’ll leave you to it, then.”

Orin nods out of politeness, and Jaheira and Shadowheart leaves her in peace.

The cat fixes her with a skeptical glare.

“Hiss!” he snarls- if he had any hair, it would undoubtedly be bristled. “I say, hiss!”

“...What’s got your whiskers in a twist?” Orin grumbles, really not in the mood to argue with a cat.

“This is my territory! And y ou’re in it!” the cat replies, tail swishing in irritation.

Orin huffs, resting her head on her arms and watching Minthara’s face as it occasionally twitches in pain.

“...I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here,” she tells him, feeling stupid for talking to cat. “So don’t be cranky with me about it.”

The cat harrumphs indignantly, but curls back up on top of Minthara while setting to work grooming his front paws.

“I suppose as long as you aren’t like the cleric,” he huffs, between fastidious licks.

“What do you mean?”

“She is a liar!” the cat declares. “She promised me a bit of milk! But do you see any milk? Do you?”

Orin glances around the room for a bit.

“...no?”

“Nor do I! Disgraceful!”

Orin might find the cat’s plight adorable, if she wasn’t currently having the worst day of her life.

The worst she can remember, anyway.

She stands up to find some water to soothe the fire in her throat, finding a clay pitcher standing on the dresser and drinking the entire thing in great, desperate gulps. The cat continues to groom himself, seeming content as anything.

(At least someone here is having a decent time...)

Her stomach clenches to protest its emptiness, yet she’s never found the idea of food less appealing.

The man in the bed at the end of the room has gone from mumbling to half-singing, now.

"Thaniel and me are climb, climb, climbing up a tree. We, we see what we see and do just what we please, together waiting for the sun forever.”

Not the best song. It’s a tuneless sort of thing, though Orin suspects it’s the best he can do given his current state.

“We see shadows, they get darker, but our hiding place is brighter. Monsters snuffling and stalking, in the shade where we are walking.”

Wait...

Thaniel.

That name rings a bell.

Her mind is thrown back to the abandoned Selunite enclave, crawling with goblins. To the small fey boy she saw when she was thrust into Halsin’s memory.

The name Halsin uttered when she took the child’s shape, trying to distract him long enough to stop him from mauling her.

“We are fearsome, black and red. We are living, they are dead. Two of us safe 'til the end."

If she stays here any longer, she might drive herself mad.

She doesn’t want to face the others, but she leaves the room anyway.

Everyone falls silent when she emerges, stopping what they’re doing to fix her with concerned stares.

Orin ignores it, approaching the neglected bar to grab a hunk of bread and cramming it into her mouth before she can think too hard about it.

She sees a familiar, smug face out of the corner of her eye, chatting with Astarion and Gale while Mol looks on with a puzzled expression.

Orin wanders over, wondering whether she should be annoyed or worried.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

Raphael snaps his head around, all of his attention turning to her.

“Ah, there you are- I was wondering when you would grace us with your presence.”

Raphael grins at her, putting his hands on her shoulders and putting on such a show of appearing sympathetic that he couldn’t look more fake if he were made of wax.

“I heard about what happened,” he says. “And here I’d finally picked out the perfect gift for the baby shower. What a shame.”

Orin yanks herself free of his grip, growling at him like a rabid animal.

"Lay a claw on me again," she snarls, "and I'll mutilate that noisome mask of yours until even the lowliest lemure in Avernus wouldn't so much as glance at you from disgust."

Raphael puts his hands in the air, smirking at her as if he’s mocking her.

“No need to be so prickly,” he tells her, in the same sort of voice one uses when playfully chastising a child. “I’m not looking to offend anyone.”

(Despite acting like he’s not afraid, the tense posture he takes and the way he takes a step backward says otherwise.)

He turns toward Gale and Astarion once more.

“I’ll get back to you, vampling,” he says, with a nod and a wink at Astarion in particular. “Just as we agreed.”

“You better,” Astarion snarls.

Raphael vanishes in a cloud of sulfurous smoke, leaving nothing but the reek of brimstone and cherry behind.

Mol clears her throat, breaking the silence.

“Sorry about the uh- y’know. I’ll uh- get going,” she says. “Bye-”

She scurries off, desperate to escape the tension.

Orin is the first to speak.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing important,” Astarion answers, clearly lying through his fangs. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

Gale fidgets in obvious discomfort, both at the lying and at the unspoken weight of everything that’s happened.

“...Are you holding up alright?” he asks, speaking the same way one would when addressing a fractious animal.

“Aside from everything going to the hells in a handbasket in a matter of hours?” Orin snaps, even as she feels guilty for meeting Gale’s good will with vitriol. “Yes, other than that I’m fantastic, thank you.”

She must look as horrid as she feels, because even Astarion doesn’t have so much as a snappy retort for her.

Not that they have much time for that- a ruckus coming from upstairs interrupts before anyone can say anything more.

She follows the sound up the rotting staircase, the others following close behind her.

Voices rise up as they move- Isobel’s first, sounding frightened.

“Marcus, what are you-“

She yelps, and there’s a thud as something hits the wall.

“The more you struggle the worse it’s going to be for you,” a man’s voice informs her.

“Marcus, no! What’s gotten into you?!”

Everyone breaks out into a run, a shard of ice stabbing Orin’s heart.

There’s another thud and shattering glass.

“Stop it!”

There’s a flash of light from under the door, and Wyll charges forward, throwing his shoulder against it and throwing it open.

A man far larger and bulkier than Isobel has her up against the wall, pinning her by her neck with a rather intimidating looking club. Half of his face is bright red, his beard scorched in places from where she’d hit him with divine energy.

“General Thorm wants you alive,” he informs her. “He didn’t specify alive and well. So please don’t make this more difficult for yourself than it needs to be.”

“What in the hells do you think you’re doing?!” Wyll demands, brandishing his rapier and forcing himself between the man and Isobel, breaking his grip and allowing Isobel to flee to a safer distance.

Their minds connect, and Orin recoils as this man’s thoughts invade her own.

True Soul, he says, with an air of familiarity. Excellent timing. Ketheric needs her alive- do you think you can manage to restrain yourself?

For a moment, Cruor’s honeyed words of violence swim through her mind.

The urge to kill Isobel flashes through her mind, but only for that second.

“Piss off!” Orin snarls in reply, startling him by saying it aloud.

Isobel gives her an odd look, but that only lasts a moment before it clicks in her mind what’s going on.

“Marcus-“ she says, holding her hands up to keep space between them. “Whatever he told you, whatever you think the Absolute is, you’re wrong-“

“No, Isobel.”

A pair of rotten wings spring forth from the man’s back, missing giant swathes of feathers, more a bony frame than anything. 

He lets loose a roar that makes the building shake; windows shatter as shrieking picks up, a small horde of shriveled creatures with leathery wings descend upon the inn.

Bedlam breaks out downstairs, of course.

Marcus lunges forward, grabbing for Isobel, but does not get to her.

Instead, his hand closes around Orin’s wrist, having put herself between them.

Red-hot pain shoots from her fingertips up her arm as her hand contorts, fingernails sharpening and extending into claws, arm warping and growing a hardened carapace as she feels fangs blossoming inside her mouth.

Finally, after being beaten down and repressed and bitten back, Orin allows the beast within to fully take over, embracing the agony that overtakes her as she takes on the monster’s shape.

She allows herself a moment to revel in the expression of terror on Marcus’ formerly smug face before lashing out to bite him, grabbing a mouthful of decaying wing and tearing it away.

The scream Marcus lets out doesn’t even sound human.

Orin throws him out of the bedroom, demolishing the railing in the hallway outside and sending both of them plunging downward.

A couple tieflings and a few harpers scatter to get out of the way, and Orin’s bulk leaves a sizable hole in the floor of Last Light.

“Let go of me!” she hears Mol shout, as she’s carted off into the sky by one of the flying ghouls.

She tries to break free to grab it before it can fly away, but Marcus cracks her upside the head with a heavy club.

Snarling in fury, she lashes out with her spiked tail, catching him in the gut and flinging him across the bar, slamming into the far wall and shattering shelves of glasses and a half dozen wine bottles.

Still dazed, Marcus picks himself up, charging at her with a howl of frustration.

Strangely, Orin feels mostly in command of her own cruelty, now. She seizes one of the winged horrors by its ankle, spinning the wretched thing around before swinging it at the man as he charges at her.

There’s a quite satisfying crack as their skulls collide.

Marcus drips like a sack of potatoes, spasming a few times as he tries to get up.

Orin doesn’t give him the chance.

She wants to kill someone, and Marcus is as good a candidate as any.

Crunch. Squish. Scream.

Then, Marcus is blessedly silent, along with the monster she’d beat him with.

His blood tastes wrong somehow, like milk that’s begun to go sour.

Her other companions, along with the harpers, help to dispatch the other flying monsters swarming about, with arrows and daggers and a few well-placed spells.

There’s a loud thwack, a burst of light, and the final ghoul falls in a writhing heap of bright white flames.

Minthara stands, exhausted but victorious, brandishing a heavy, leather-bound book in one hand.

She glares down at the monster, eyes narrow.

“...Did your mother never teach you not to wake people when they are sleeping?” she grumbles, rubbing her eye with the heel of her free hand.

If things were different, Orin would laugh at the absurdity of it all.

As it is, she lunges forward when Minthara sways and tips over, managing to muster up enough control of her body to grab her before she can fall.

She feels the eyes of the others burning into the back of her head, but it doesn’t matter now.

Minthara leans on her as though nothing has changed- as though Orin is not currently a twitching, slavering monster.

Crimson eyes peer up at her with a mix of concern, exhaustion, and deep longing.

Even through her thick carapace, Orin can feel how cold her hands are as they touch her.

Orin lowers her head to be closer to her; Minthara presses their foreheads together and lets out a shaky sigh.

(With how cold her hands are, Orin wonders how her face can be so feverish.)

“Well done, ‘che ssin,” she breathes. 

The words are enough for Orin to regain full control of herself, the world spinning as she returns to her normal shape, shrinking down so she can properly embrace her lover.

“...You shouldn’t have gotten up,” she scolds, though her heart isn’t really in it.

“Do not fret over me,” Minthara insists.

Even as she says this though, her voice is weak, and Orin sees the blood running down Minthara’s leg, staining the hem of her moth-eaten nightshirt and dripping onto the dusty wooden floor.

She scoops Minthara up to return her to bed despite her continued protests, and Isobel follows, joining Orin in gently scolding her for getting up so soon.

She forces her to lay back down, blue light enveloping her hands.

“Te curo,” she murmurs, the blue light sinking into Minthara’s body.

Minthara winces, then relaxes as the magic does its work.

“There. Now, if you get up again we are going to have words, alright?”

“I do not like to sit idle, but I suppose you are not giving me a choice.”

“-Isobel!”

Jaheira sprints up to them with a wild-eyed look of panic.

“Are you alright?”

Even as Isobel nods, she breaks out in a dry, hacking fit of coughing.

“-I’m fine,” she insists. “But Marcus-”

“..Marcus has been with us from the start. If the cult had someone on the inside, this will not be the last time they target you.”

“I know...we’re in more danger than I knew...”

Isobel blinks back tears, running her hands through silvery hair.

“This is a disaster.”

“We will have to worry about that later,” Jaheira sighs. “There is precious little we can do besides lick our wounds and rally ourselves for tomorrow.”

Through all of this, the man called Art Cullagh continues to mumble, occasionally bursting out into that strange song.

The air is stale and rank, and Orin feels far too warm. Once Minthara is settled once more, she excuses herself to head outside, where the chill wraps itself around her like a living thing.

She isn’t sure how long she’s out here, but it certainly can’t have been a short time; she hears the voices of the people in the inn patching each other up, speaking in hushed and anxious tones that gradually die away as they finally settle down to try to rest.

Nobody comes looking for her for a long time- perhaps they’re afraid to. Or perhaps they want to give her space to breathe.

Either way, she’s left alone outside until she hears someone clearing her throat behind her.

“Do you mind company?”

Orin shakes her head, so Jaheira sits beside her, a bottle of wine in one hand and a pair of glasses in the other.

She hears the pop of the cork and the liquid being poured, but keeps her gaze fixed on the sky.

“Traitors among us,” the woman says. “A child taken. And yet, all I can feel is relief.”

“...Relief?”

“If Isobel had been taken, everyone in this place would be dead,” Jaheira answers, bluntly. “It is her magic that protects us. To think she could have been taken- I do not want to think about it.”

With that, she hands Orin a glass of wine, to which Orin gives her a skeptical glare.

“They will always tell you that alcohol is not the answer to anything,” Jaheira says. “They are correct- but if you have enough of it, you may find yourself less troubled by the question.”

Orin still doesn’t get it, but accepts the glass, copying the older woman’s gesture as she holds hers aloft.

“To your good health,” she says, before taking a drink.

Orin follows suit, taking a great mouthful of the sharp red wine.

“Well over a century old and it hasn’t lost a hint of flavor,” Jaheira remarks, in a weirdly jovial way.

There’s a weird, metallic sort of aftertaste to it that makes Orin want to argue that, but she decides maybe the curse has done something to it.

It’s not worth the bother, anyway. And she certainly wants a fucking drink after everything that’s happened.

“People, however-“ Jaheira continues, a more abrupt demeanor taking over. “-They tend to lose more than flavor when a tadpole gets into their skulls.”

Orin stays silent, nursing her wine and staring at the endless abyss of the sky.

Jaheira drops all pretense, the next words coming out in a tense, accusatory way.

“Answer me, and do not lie- the tadpole is changing you, is it not?”

Orin nods before she can really stop herself.

“It’s giving me new powers. Making me stronger. I think. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

Jaheira hums, letting her words sink in before continuing.

“How is it you are able to act on your own despite the tadpole?”

“This artifact- Shadowheart probably still has it. There’s someone- something- in it that says it’s protecting us. We don’t know more than that.”

Orin doesn’t expect the older woman to accept this, but for some reason she does.

She nods, though she’s still tense.

“I have never heard of anything like it- although, I’ve never heard of anyone using illithid tadpoles to create a cult before, either. It is a time of firsts, it seems.”

Orin drains the last of her wine, feeling numb inside.

“I suppose that just leaves one more question.”

“And what’s that?”

Too quickly for Orin to react, Jaheira grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her forward, pressing the blade of her scimitar against her throat.

The cold metal bites into her flesh, and she can feel the blood running down her neck.

Jaheira’s eyes are as sharp as her blade, glaring at her with a mixture of anger and- surprisingly enough- fear.

“-Who exactly did you kill to earn that Slayer skin you wear?”

Chapter Text

“-What are you-”

“Do not play coy with me. I know what you are.”

Jaheira speaks in a hushed, frantic tone, her hands trembling even as she keeps her blade at Orin’s neck.

“Enlighten me, then,” Orin demands, voice breaking as she tries to keep from shouting. “Because it would be news to me!”

“You can drop the helpless act, Bhaalspawn. You know it as well as I do.”

“...Bhaalspawn?”

Jaheira blinks, guard dropping a bit in her confusion.

“What are you talking about?!” Orin demands, grabbing Jaheira’s wrist but making no move to pry her blade away.

“How could you not-“

Frustrated and beyond confused, Orin points at the massive scar that begins at the top corner of her forehead and makes its way down her brow and across her face, nearly all the way to the curve of her jaw on the opposite side.

She can’t help but laugh, even though the situation is far from funny.

“My brain is mostly mush at this point,” she informs the older woman. “Dunno if any of them told you, but my memory is fucked. So if you could enlighten me, I would appreciate it.”

She says this with a tight, forced smile, even though it’s not really funny.

Jaheira doesn’t look like she believes her, but her tone is slightly softer as she speaks.

“The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sewn from their passage...So sayeth the wise Alaundo.”

Somehow, the words sound familiar. Like a dream only half-forgotten. Orin can’t identify what sort of feelings it stirs up inside her, but she doesn’t like them.

Or, she’s fairly sure she doesn’t.

“So what does that mean?” Orin demands.

Jaheira’s grip loosens a bit.

“It means you are one of the progeny spoken of. A mortal child of the god of murder. That is what a Bhaalspawn is. That is what you are, I am sure of it- in fact, I suspected it from the first moment you set foot here.”

Even though Orin doesn’t want to accept this, thinking about it makes almost too much sense.

The nightmares. The killing urge. The twisted blade that always finds its way back to her hand.

Vague memories of Bhaal swim in her mind.

The god of murder. The most vile sort of deity that only the most lost, desperate, miserable souls think to worship.

Her breath catches in her throat, her heart racing with the knowledge of what this must mean.

There is nowhere she can run, nowhere she can go, that will be safe. Nowhere she can flee to to escape her rotten bloodline.

Jaheira must be able to sense how this news has affected her, because she releases her grip at long last.

She lowers her blade; when she moves to stand up, Orin grabs her to keep her in place.

“Do it.”

“What-”

Orin lowers her head, like a prisoner awaiting execution.

“I can’t carry on like this,” she pleads. “Every moment of every day, my rancid blood whispers to me- kill, kill, kill again. Nothing I do can calm it, nothing makes it go away. I can’t even sleep without blood drenching my dreams. I don’t deserve to live.”

The words spill from her mouth like vomit- she can’t even try to choke them back.

“Mind never quiet. Every fiber of my ruined body yearning to reap death in this world. I can’t control it- this foul urge possesses me entirely. The monster I turn into, I can’t control- it frightens me. It excites me, which frightens me more...”

Her hands shake so badly that she can barely clasp them in front of her, the tremors running up her arms as she begs.

“I don’t know who I was. Or what happened to me. All I know is the longer I’m around, the worse things get for everyone around me. If you killed me now you would be doing me a kindness.”

The silence that follows is worse than any rebuke she could possibly receive.

She braces herself for a blow that never comes.

“...In another life,” Jaheira says, “with another of your kind- we found a better way. I would like to find it again.”

Jaheira sits down in the dirt across from her so they can look each other in the eye when Orin lifts her head.

“What do you mean?”

“One of my dearest friends was one of your kind. They became so much more than their father meant for them to be. You can do the same, if you want it badly enough.”

Rather than a blade, Jaheira offers her hand.

“Come. You will catch a cold out here.”

Such a bizarre thing to be worrying about, considering their circumstances.

It’s nice to not have a scimitar at her throat, at least.

Jaheira  pushes her toward one of the makeshift beds crammed up along every possible flat surface of the inn.

“Rest,” she insists. “I’ll keep watch.”

“...To protect me, or to protect the others from me?” Orin asks.

“Come morning, I suppose you will have the answer.”

Come morning, Orin hasn’t slept worth a damn, but she doesn’t have the luxury of even allowing herself to feel tired.

It’s very early morning- or, at least, Orin thinks it’s early morning. Without the sun to keep time, it’s hard to tell.

Everyone buzzes with electric energy, gathered around Jaheira as she fills them in on the day’s agenda.

“-Isobel’s protection spell will protect us from the lesser effects of the shadow curse,” she explains. “But there are places where the shadows are deeper- hungrier. We will need a way to get through them- and we believe we have found one.”

The harpers gather around in wonder.

“There is a lantern, carried by a drider who seems to be leading cultists through the shadows. It is our best bet- so. Find the caravan. Get the lantern. Return here and we will see what makes it tick.”

That’s as good a plan as any- that is to say, it’s any sort of plan at all.

Now that they have their marching orders, there’s not a lot of point wasting time. Everyone crams a quick breakfast down their throats, arms themselves with whatever weapons will last the longest, and gets ready to head out.

She feels wholly unworthy to be among them, knowing what she is.

But since she's here, maybe she can be useful...?

Orin dares to poke her head into the room where Minthara is trapped, stepping in and quickly shutting the door behind her to grant them some privacy.

Well. Privacy from everyone besides Art, that is. And the cat.

Even though she undoubtedly looks better than before, Minthara looks absolutely dreadful. She’s still ashen, deep bruise-rings beneath her eyes announcing that sleep has done nothing to relieve her exhaustion.

She sits in her bed, propped up by a few pillows, brushing her hair with the sort of laser-guided focus typically reserved for more monumental tasks. His Majesty is curled up in her lap, still purring away.

(Where has Scratch gone, she wonders? He must have run off to hide somewhere...)

“Hey.”

Minthara doesn’t look up from her task, but makes a small sound to acknowledge her arrival.

“...How are you feeling?” she asks.

“I will be fi-“

“-Oh for fuck’s sake- I asked how you’re feeling now. Can you answer that question instead of trying to pretend everything is okay?”

The brush freezes halfway through Minthara’s hair. For just a moment, her lower lip starts to tremble, and there’s a flash of something hard to define in her bloodshot eyes before she buries it down once more.

She sets the hairbrush down and wraps her arms around her middle, fists clenched tightly to mask their shaking.

(Orin almost regrets asking, but she has to know.)

Her voice comes out in a tense, mechanical way when she speaks again.

“Hollow,” she answers.

“...What do you mean?”

“There is stillness inside me where I once felt life. A hole in my heart where I once felt hope. A gaping void of possibilities that will never be, now.”

She grabs fistfuls of the blankets and screws her eyes shut. His Majesty hisses, hopping off the bed and bolting away.

“I am not sure if it is sadness, or if it is anger. Or perhaps it is merely regret that I was not strong enough to endure long enough to save her.”

Orin shakes her head, pulling into a tight hug before she can allow herself to doubt.

“It isn’t about being strong enough,” she insists. “Don’t say that.”

Minthara makes a noise somewhere between a whimper, a sigh, and a groan.

“It’s not your fault,” Orin says, wishing she had something more profound to say.

She holds her close, shoving her vile urges down, forcing herself to play the part of the lover who will care for her beloved without wanting to gut them.

Minthara makes another strange sound, clinging to her.

“...If not my fault,” she says, “then whose?”

“Ketheric Thorm.”

Both Orin and Minthara jolt from surprise, not having noticed Isobel standing in the doorway.

She steps in and shuts the door again, taking a moment to cough once again before speaking.

Her expression is hard as she looks up  sharp, angry look in her eyes discordant with her soft, gentle face.

“He is the one responsible for the curse on this land,” she explains. “He is the one who caused this.”

Her rage turns into a rock in her throat, trying to choke her.

“...He was a good man, once,” she says. “A Selunite, like me. He had a family. He oversaw this town fairly. But now...”

She shakes her head, running her hands through her shock of white hair.

There’s a heaviness in her words, like there’s far more to this story than she dares to tell.

“This curse- this darkness, what happened to you, everything- it’s all his doing. He is the one to blame.”

(Why does it sound like she’s mostly trying to convince herself...?)

Orin nods, burying her face in the crook of Minthara’s neck.

A growl rumbles in her chest, her blood humming with the promise of death.

“We’ll get him back,” she reassures her lover, in a low growl promising vengeance. “We’ll make him pay for this. I swear we will.”

“No mercy,” Isobel encourages her, her voice steel. “He must be held accountable for all this.”

Orin lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, allowing herself to kiss the top of Minthara’s head.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

There’s a weird look on Minthara’s face when she says that.

“What’s wrong?”

Minthara almost seems ashamed when she answers.

“...I wish I could go with you.”

“I do too,” Orin reassures her. “But you need to rest. Let me handle this, it won’t take long.”

That doesn’t offer Minthara any comfort, and her expression of bitter frustration as Orin leaves is nearly enough to make her lose her resolve.  She even tries to get up to follow Orin out, but blanches from the pain and sinks, defeated, back onto the bed.

None of her companions can look Orin in the eye as they gather just outside the inn, Isobel standing in front of them.

She folds her hands and bows her head murmuring a quick prayer.

“Let your moon be our light, and we shall let our sword be your shining symbol.”

She raises her hands, still keeping her head bowed.

“Macte virtute.”

A soft warmth settles uneasily over Orin’s unworthy body, making her shudder, as though the magic itself is disgusted with her.

No time to worry about that, if they want to be there before that caravan arrives, though.

“Good luck,” Isobel urges them, as they strike out into the darkness.

The Harpers take their positions, bows at the ready, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead.

What little conversation there is to fill the air as they wait happens in hushed whispers, everyone too frightened to dare be too loud.

“You think Dammon will have it ready when we get done here?” Karlach asks.

“He swore he would,” Wyll reassures her. “Don’t worry, he’ll come through for us.”

Suddenly, the fog is penetrated by a new voice- quiet at first, but growing steadily louder as it gets closer.

"Your numbers grow more and more by the day, Majesty," they hear, in a soft voice that speaks in a frenetic, anxious sort of way. "They should keep to the light- unless they want to become shadows..."

"Oi, we ain't all got ten legs!" they hear another voice protest.

"...Patience, Majesty. You bless us with patience..."

The voice feels oddly familiar.

Orin glances at the Harper nearest her, then jerks her head toward the approaching sound while mouthing let me.

The Harper nods, and Orin creeps forward.

A strange figure emerges, flanked on either side by about a half-dozen goblins and a few half-orcs.

An enormous set of spider legs extend outward from the rounded abdomen of a large, grayish spider. Instead of a spider's cephalothorax, however, a drow's torso and head sprout up from the abdomen, which holds the glowing white lantern the Harpers came to retrieve.

A drider, just like they had been told. An utterly mad one, judging by his constant muttering.

The light of his lantern reflects off the shiny carapace of the spider half of him, in a way she might find charming if she were seeing it under different circumstances.

His face would undoubtedly be handsome, were it not twisted by Lolth’s cruelty, covered in bits of exoskeleton and scars that look like the poor thing has been clawing at his own flesh.

The feeling of familiarity tugs at Orin's heart, and she can't keep herself hidden any longer.

She clears her throat and stands up, despite feeling the scandalized stares of the Harpers and her companions at her back.

The drider comes to an abrupt halt, whipping his head around until his gaze finally finds her.

"...A stranger in the dark, Majesty?" he mumbles. "But where is her lantern...?"

"The fuck are ye doin'?!" one of the goblins demands, though he doesn't register that they've spoken.

Holding his lantern aloft, he kneels down to be at eye level with Orin, seven eyes blinking at her while she tries to keep a straight face.

He squints at her, tilting his head to one side than the other. He pushes his un-brushed white hair out of his face, enormous pedipalps curling up in front of him in an uncomfortably puppy-ish manner.

"It couldn't be, Majesty," he mutters. "...Could it? But they told us she was gone..."

He leans in uncomfortably close- so close she can make out every detail of the myriad little scars littering his face and neck.

Then, after far too long of that, the drider breaks out into a grin.

Orin thinks she can feel his parasite reaching out to hers- or perhaps she's just sensing the screaming remnants of a long-shattered mind echoing around her tadpole.

"It is her, Majesty!" he declares, straightening back up. "We thought the kind one had gone, but Majesty has led her back!"

Orin blinks a few time to clear her mind, trying not to feel too guilty that he apparently knows her, but she can't return the favor.

"...kind?" she dares to ask, looking out of the corner of her eye at the others.

Her companions look just as baffled as she is.

The drider sticks the lantern in the ground to keep it steady and takes her face in both his hands- his hands are cold, colder than death, and trembling as he speaks with adoration, tears welling up in each of his eyes.

"The others are not good to us," he tells her, sounding for all the world like a frightened child. "They call us monster, call us freak. They shun us, just as we had been shunned before."

He kneels further still, as though he's trying to bow.

"You were not like them. You called us beautiful. Brought us here. Entrusted us with Majesty's light. Told us we were adored, until you were taken from us..."

He shakes his head, and it's clear, to Orin's horror, that he's trying very hard not to cry.

The others he had been escorting look at each other and squirm in discomfort, having realized it as well.

"Speak," he urges her, straightening himself back up, taking hold of his lantern once more,  and trying to be dignified. "You are Majesty's voice- your word is our command."

Orin stares at the ground for a moment. Then back at the Harpers. At her companions, who watch with held breath.

Then, she looks at the ones he had been leading, and an idea takes shape in her mind.

"You're leading heretics," she tells him, making a subtle gesture toward his makeshift caravan. "They seek to destroy Moonrise. We are to get rid of them. In Her name."

He’s such an earnest thing she almost feels bad lying to him...

"What...?"

"They are the enemy. They cannot take a single step further. She won't allow it. She wants you to get rid of them."

By the time the caravan realizes what she's saying, the drider has already drawn a sword and turned toward them with a glare.

"Villains in the dark," he mutters, breathing heavily. "You dare? You dare?!"

His voice rises to a shrill scream as he lunges at them.

Orin watches with morbid delight as, despite their vain efforts to defend themselves, he eliminates every single one.

Squish. Crunch. Squelch. Scream. Until they're nothing more than sacks of meat left bleeding out into the cracked, hungry ground.

Lovely. Perfect. And she didn't even have to lift a finger.

Unable to keep the grin off her face, Orin cradles his head against her chest and coos praise at him.

"Very good. You've done well."

She glances up at the others, who stare on with puzzled and frightened faces.

The Absolute’s lantern-bearer. He could be useful, right?

It seems she’s not the only one thinking this- she feels another presence that seems familiar, and the voice she’s heard before.

Just be careful with this one, the voice urges. Even without the tadpole, his mind isn’t all there.

Just like that, something changes.

All of the drider’s eyes blink in unison, and he glances around like a child who’s just awoken from a nightmare.

His breath starts coming in quick, panicked gasps as he pulls away from Orin.

He sees the truth, now. He won’t like it, but he seems fond of you. Perhaps he will listen.

The drider starts to whimper, clutching the sides of his head and murmuring frantically to himself.

The others approach warily, the way you approach a wounded animal.

“Easy,” Wyll urges him. “You’re alright- what’s your name?”

“...Kar’niss.”

“Well met- nobody here is going to hurt you, alright, Kar’niss? You’re safe.”

Kar’niss glances at Orin for reassurance.

Orin nods, giving her most convincing smile.

“It’ll be alright,” she reassures him. “Nobody here is angry with you. We’ll take care of you.”

Flickering through from Astarion’s mind, Orin feels him wondering if it’s really safe to take a drider back with them. But Orin figures if having  a vampire (and herself) around hasn’t gotten anyone killed yet, surely it should be alright.

He feels her thought and snickers, apparently seeing her point.

“Follow me,” Orin urges him, taking Kar’niss by the hand. “You’ll be just fine.”

It feels like taking the hand of an old friend, long forgotten but still familiar...

Chapter Text

To say the harpers are startled to see a drider strolling up to Last Light Inn would be a comical understatement.

He gives an awkward little wave as they walk past, ducking so he doesn't bash his head in on the door frame of the inn.

Jaheira looks up, opens her mouth to ask what the fuck is going on, closes it again, and shrugs it off, figuring it’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened here.

Kar’niss is about to speak, but suddenly freezes, and everyone else freezes with him.

In the stillness, they hear the sharp notes of a lyre, the notes dancing around each other to weave the gentle melody of a lullaby.

A haunting, melancholy lullaby, true. But a lullaby nonetheless.

After a few seconds, Kar’niss starts to hum. Then, he starts to sing, barely loud enough to be heard.

It’s a bit off-key, like he hasn’t sung it in awhile. But familiar to him all the same.

"Tlu naut stre

L'olath orn sslig'ne dos

V'dri ssussunel

Tlu venorik

Jhal tlu honglath

Tlu honglath

Ol orn tlu al..."

-Must be a well-known song among drow, for him to know it so intimately.

"Ah, someone finally recognizes that tune," Jaheira half-laughs. "She's been playing it for hours, it's almost getting old."

Orin follows the sound of the lyre to the room with the row of beds, where her suspicions are confirmed about the she Jaheira had been referring to.

Minthara’s fingers draw out the haunting melody from her lyre’s strings with the easy confidence of one who’s played the tune a thousand times.

She doesn’t even pause her playing as she looks up, greeting Orin with a small nod.

“I assume it went well?”

“It did.”

The room is a bit crowded with everyone trying to cram their way in there to see what’s going on- especially when Kar’niss somehow manages to get the bulk of his spider-half through the door.

“So you retrieved the lantern you were after?”

“Well...that and something else.”

It’s when she notices Kar’niss standing awkwardly that Minthara stops playing, her face turning to stone.

She sets her lyre down, eyes never leaving from the drider who does his best to make himself small, shivering like he’s terrified.

“...What is that thing doing here?”

Kar’niss flinches and slinks backward, shrinking like he wants to vanish.

Orin steps between them, feeling the tension mounting.

(She remembers Minthara's tale of the driders in Lolth's temple, and her unspoken threat if any dared to touch her. She doesn't want to try her luck.)

“-He’s here to help us,” she reassures her. “It’s fine.”

Though Minthara looks deeply uncomfortable,, and her nose wrinkles with barely repressed disgust, she nods in understanding.

“This is Minthara,” Orin says, turning to Kar’niss again. “She’s very special to me so be kind to her, okay?”

Kar’niss nods his understanding, not daring to say a word to her.

“Minthara, that’s Kar’niss,” Orin explains. “He’s going to help us out.”

(There’s an unspoken plea not to freak out in her words.)

There’s a tense moment of silence as the drider and the drow stare each other down, not sure what to make of each other.

A soft whine pierces the quiet, and Scratch appears from under the bed, poking his head up and resting his snout in Minthara’s lap.

He stares at everyone with wide, sad eyes, and it’s hard not to feel sorry for him, even if he doesn’t say a word.

“Now that’s out of the way,” Wyll says, clapping his hands together. “How about you let us get a look at that lantern and see how the hells it gets you through that curse?”

Kar’niss hands over his lantern with a bit of hesitation.

“Majesty blesses this to grant us safe passage.” he explains.

Everyone gathers around it, squinting in confusion.

Nothing happens for a bit, but then the lantern starts to shake, a tiny tapping coming from within.

Then-

“Oh, help, oh dear! I’m trapped, I fear!”

Everyone recoils, startled.

“What-“

“Oh, me, oh my! You have to help me, or I’ll die!”

Straining her eyes to see through the white light.

At the center of the lantern, she can just barely make out a tiny humanoid shape.

A pixie...?

“Why are you in there?” she asks.

“This lantern only lights the way when I am hurting night and day!” the little fae declares.

Kar’niss shakes his head, horror dawning on him.

“But- we had no idea-“

“Woah, an actual pixie?!” Karlach shouts, wide-eyed in wonder. “What’s your name?!”

“My name, I say, is Dolly thrice. Now, won’t you free me from this vice?”

Everyone ponders their options for just a moment.

Pixies are tiny fae creatures, who are sometimes helpful, sometimes mischievous, sometimes malicious.

The lock is fairly basic- probably due to the “fuel” in the lantern needing frequent changing. It’s a trivial matter to break it.

The pixie bursts free, stretching her little arms out and laughing.

“Gods!” she declares, dropping her distraught act immediately. “I thought I was gonna die in there with nothin’ but that mad drider n’ me own farts for company!”

Kar’niss frowns, pointedly looking away from her.

“Well, ya did me a good turn there, didn’t ya?” Dolly says, tiny hands on tiny hips. “Whadda I owe ya?”

Orin chews on her own tongue, fighting the sudden impulse to snatch the tiny creature and crush her.

“-The shadow curse is deep,” Wyll says. “Can you help us through it?”

“I can,” Dolly answers. “But will I...”

She pretends to ponder it for awhile.

“-Sure,” she finally says. “Why not?”

With a wave of her hand, a cloud of sparkling dust settles over everyone in the cramped room.

“There!” she declares. “Protection from the shadow curse- what more could a dingus want?”

She tosses a silver bell in Orin’s direction, which she just barely manages to catch before it falls.

“Just ring that if ya fuck up and need it again. Now I’m gonna piss off-“

She vanishes in a small puff of light and glitter.

“I can’t believe it,” Astarion breathes, bouncing a bit from glee. “That was a pixie! An honest to goodness pixie!”

“Curious little thing,” Wyll remarks. “Never had the pleasure of meeting one myself.”

“We were not told,” Kar’niss insists. “We were told it was Majesty’s power that lit the way...”

He sounds terribly guilty, even if none of this was his doing.

“Can you lead us to the tower?” Wyll asks Kar’niss, in such a gentle voice.

Kar’niss nods without hesitation.

“We will show you the way.”

He clings to his lantern, little more than an inert piece of metal, now.

“There’s no time to waste, then.”

When Orin stands up to leave, Minthara grabs her wrist.

“What’s wrong?”

“I do not want to sit idly by while you charge into a den of wolves,” she insists, the fire in her eyes reigniting. “I am coming with you.”

“You’re hardly fit to walk, let alone that far,” Shadowheart reminds her.

The look Minthara gives her in response would be enough to make a tarrasque scurry away in terror.

Though it takes a monumental effort, she rises from her bed, gripping the headboard for support as she forces herself to stand upright.

“I am not fragile,” she hisses.

“Have you gotten a look at yourself?!” Shadowheart snaps back. “You look like you’re fit to drop dead any moment!”

“With all due respect,” Minthara retorts, her tone making it clear that she means no respect at all, “you will have to understand that my deference to your opinion will be lacking from now on.”

Shadowheart returns her glare with equal venom, but Minthara isn’t deterred.

“I understand now why Sharrans admire darkness- it must be difficult to find any light with your heads so far up her back end. It’s a wonder you do not suffocate.”

The other woman doesn’t even get the chance to retort.

“Shar is only fortunate that she is a goddess, so I am not able to strike her down myself. Now either make yourself useful and find something suitable for me to wear, or get out of my sight before I lose my patience.”

Shadowheart opens her mouth, closes it again, then turns on her heel and storms off in a huff.

The others filter out after that, with Astarion muttering something about Minthara still having some spice left in her.

The room feels hollow now, with only Art’s mumbling to keep the silence from growing too heavy.

Not sure what to do with herself, Orin gets a basin of water and some soap so she can help Minthara clean up, since she’s already heart-set on accompanying them.

“Here, at least let me help you with this.”

Minthara at least concedes that much, trying to look like she’s not struggling with the buttons of her night shirt.

Orin grits her teeth to keep her urges in check, wringing a clean rag out in the water, rubbing the cheap soap into it, and starting to wash her.

She starts with her face, cleaning off the sweat and grime from their ordeal.

Scratch lets out a soft, keening whine, nudging Orin with his cold, wet nose.

“What is it?”

The dog whimpers, shaking, ears laid back and tail tucked between his legs.

...The pup is gone, aren’t they?”

Orin can’t bring herself to answer him, which only makes the poor creature despair more.

“Is...is it my fault?” he asks. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Just leave us alone,” Orin snaps.

As soon as she’s said it, regret floods her heart. Before she can apologize though, Scratch hangs his head and skulks out of the room.

And Orin thought she couldn’t feel any worse...

Shoving that feeling aside for now, she forces herself to focus on her task, bringing the rag across Minthara’s shoulders next.

“...This is kind of like when we first met,” she can’t help but remark. “At the grove.”

Minthara nods.

She had also been weak then. More vulnerable than she would ever admit. It already feels like so long ago...

“I only wish we could have met each other in more favorable circumstances.”

Those words echo off the walls of Orin’s mind a thousandfold.

“...If we’d met in different circumstances,” she says, hesitantly, “would we still have gotten together?”

Minthara doesn’t answer, which isn’t promising.

Orin tells herself it’s probably just because she’s still in pain, so coming up with an answer is hard.

She certainly must be- despite all the healing magic and potions poured into her, deep bruises still bloom across her skin in various states of healing, and her extremities are still so dreadfully, deathly cold.

Her breasts are still tender, swollen in preparation to feed a baby that will never be, now. She flinches with the slightest touch to them, so Orin doesn’t let herself linger long.

Her hand pauses as the rag passes across her belly, where a thin spiderweb of black veins throbs in time with her heartbeat.

It’s obvious that something’s deeply wrong inside her. Something profane, something rotten, something profoundly unclean festers within the belly where their future had once been nurtured.

Within her ruined mind, she feels the horrible, deplorable urge whisper at her.

It tells her that Minthara is so much better now. So much more beautiful. Walking the razor-thin line between life and death, the sweet smell of decay clinging ever-so-faintly to the skin seeming to already have succumbed to algor mortis. Despite that, the thrum of blood beneath her skin is still as fierce as ever.

She had been beautiful before, of course. But now she is so very, very perfect. Alive and dead simultaneously- the best of both worlds.

A feast laid bare for her, ready to be devoured.

Her mouth waters, her heart races. She can hear the song of electricity crackling through her nerves, the writhing and pulsing of her innards as they do their work to keep her alive.

Despite everything, Minthara still trusts her. It would be so easy to pin her down, to break her open, to pry her rib cage apart and devour the bits of her shattered heart.

“My love?”

Despite her dire condition, Minthara still sounds so worried for her when she calls out to her, jolting her out of her lurid fantasy.

“...It’s nothing,” Orin insists; instead of sinking her teeth into tender flesh like she so dearly wants to, she instead leans in to lay a kiss across her abdomen, forcing herself to be kind despite her lips trying desperately to curl back and bare her teeth. “I’ll talk to you about it later, alright? I swear.”

Minthara frowns, obviously wanting to pry further, but eventually deciding it won’t do her any good.

Orin pulls her hair up and out of her face, wishing she could do better than a simple knot at the back of her head, but too short on time and expertise to do better.

There’s a soft knock at the door, drawing their attention away.

Isobel’s smile is tight and forced as she enters, carrying a clean set of clothes, some nondescript black robes and a sturdy pair of boots.

“Here we go. I hope these fit- we seem about the same size, so it should do for now.”

She sets them on the small table at the bedside, giving the pair of them a nod. Orin starts to help Minthara dress, keeping an eye on the other woman as she does.

Her own robes, bearing the telltale signs of Selune, hang open, like she hadn’t finished dressing herself before bringing these down.

Orin can’t help but notice, even though she’d tried not to stare, something odd on the young woman’s chest.

Something between the third and fourth rib on her left side, peeking through the unfastened undershirt beneath her robes.

A ragged wound, not quite healed, angry and obviously painful.

A stab wound, she can somehow tell. One made with obvious murderous intent. It would have pierced her lung, surely. Fatal, unless one was incredibly lucky.

Oh, her blood sings with the thought of it, the urge whispering for her to lunge at her, to hurt her, to end her-

-Isobel waves her hand in front of her face, frowning. As she does, she can feel Minthara’s icy hand touch her warily.

“Are you alright?”

Orin shakes her head, putting as much distance between the two of them as she can.

“I just- I’m sorry, I-“

She flinches, a lightning bolt of pain piercing her skull.

Isobel gives her a pitying look, wordlessly moving to do up the various fastenings of her underclothes and robes as if she’s just realized she’s left herself one deep breath away from baring all of herself to the entire inn.

“Jaheira talked to me,” she says, looking so infuriatingly friendly. “I suppose you’re thinking about killing me right now?”

Orin doesn’t answer, but she imagines the look on her face gives her away.

“And yet you’re hesitating,” Isobel continues, as if she doesn’t believe Orin will do it.

Or perhaps she’s daring her to try.

The urge within her starts to scream, not wanting to talk, wanting to maim, wanting to kill...

She chokes the feeling down, and, as quickly as it came, the feeling passes.

Isobel nods, giving her an awkward half-hug.

“There we go. There’s the real you. This... condition of yours doesn’t own you, does it?”

Orin swallows the bile in her throat, and forces herself to nod.

“I’m doing my best,” she finally answers.

“That’s all I can ask.”

With a bit more help, Minthara is able to get dressed, just in time for them to hear a commotion from outside the inn.

“What the hells-“

Orin strains her ears to try to make out what’s going on, but even the decaying walls of the inn muffle things too much to make any sense of it.

"I guess we better see what's going on."

Looping an arm around Minthara’s waist, she helps her limp outside to the source of the ruckus.

The first thing she sees is Dammon standing by his makeshift forge.

He’s smiling, but that smile is stained by a deep melancholy. He’s got soot smeared across his face and hands, and he leans against his forge as his shoulders sag from the exhaustion of a hard day’s work.

The next thing she notices is Wyll.

He has the same sort of expression as Dammon- like he’s unsure whether to be excited or scared.

Karlach is the next thing to catch her attention, zipping around the area and capturing anyone she can in a hug.

A hug.

So, that’s what they had needed Dammon for before...

She scoops Astarion up into the air despite his indignant yelp, hugging him with enough force that Orin can hear his spine popping.

“Gods, you’re so cold!” she shouts, swinging him around a bit before finally relinquishing him and hugging Gale next. Gale reciprocates with an awkward shoulder pat, grimacing from being squeezed too tight but unable to spoil her mood by objecting.

“I can’t imagine why,” Astarion grumbles, though he doesn’t have the heart to be properly annoyed.

The quartermaster is her next victim, though she accepts the affection with much more enthusiasm.

“Oh, this is the best day!” Karlach shouts as she scoops the owlbear cub up and cradles him like an oversized baby, much to the cub’s delight. “The best day! Oh my gods, you’re so soft I can’t take it! Scratch, c’mere boy!”

The dog barks a few times, overjoyed at Karlach finally being able to pet him properly. Karlach sobs for happiness, and all of Scratch’s sorrows seeming to be forgotten for the time being.

Despite everything, Orin finds herself smiling along with her, her joy positively contagious. 

The corners of Minthara’s mouth twitch upward a few millimeters as she reaches for a shovel leaning against the ramshackle shed where cattle are being kept, using it to ambulate on her own, however feebly.

Orin’s attention is so preoccupied with that, that she doesn’t notice Karlach has her sights on her until she’s airborne, being spun around as Karlach laughs with joy.

While Orin doesn’t have the heart to return the hug, she doesn’t move to pull away, allowing her to crush her for the solid twenty seconds it takes before she’s released.

Minthara lets out a squeak as she’s scooped up next, her makeshift crutch clattering to the ground.

“I’m so glad to see you up and about, soldier!” she declares, making a point to be as gentle as she can be, in her own Karlach sort of way.

Minthara cringes in pain, but concedes to giving Karlach a small pat on the back in acknowledgement.

“Alright, we ought to get going,” Wyll finally says, gathering himself and forcing himself to perk up. “It’s a long walk there.”

“Ah, right-“

Karlach sets Minthara down once more, muttering a halfhearted apology.

Seeming to have forgotten her predicament, Minthara takes a step forward, turns gray, and plummets downward as her knees give out under her weight.

Orin sprints to catch her, but is beaten there when Kar’niss breaks her fall, scooping her up without thinking twice about it.

For a split second, Minthara’s face is one of utter disgust. But something, perhaps the strangely sincere look Kar’niss gives her, or the flash of fear on Orin’s face, gets her to swallow her pride.

“We will help,” he says, still as earnest as anything. “We can carry my lady’s beloved to Moonrise Towers.”

The thought of being carted around by one of Lolth’s abominations is clearly not appealing to her, but Minthara must realize it’s the best option.

At the least, he has the ability to carry her comfortably while keeping both hands free in case they need to fight.

“...Very well. If it is the best option," she sighs, not arguing further.

Kar’niss seems satisfied with that, and helps finagle her around so she’s seated on his back- or, rather, the spider thorax that comprises his lower half. Which is something like a back, Orin assumes.

Minthara fidgets, unsure of what to do with her hands. Eventually, she settles for resting them awkwardly on Kar’niss’ shoulders to keep herself steady as they start to walk onward.

(Orin can’t help but think she’s allowed this a bit too easily, but tries to brush it off. She must still be tired, right? Certainly if she were her normal self, she would have far more objections.)

Thin rings of torchlight keep the shadows at bay. Minthara squirms in discomfort, though whether it's from her predicament or her mode of transportation is anybody's guess.

The path ahead is uncertain, but at least they have a destination.

Her ears perk up as a strange sound echoes around them.

Faint, barely audible- at first she assumes it's her mind playing tricks on her again.

But she notices Minthara looking around too, and realizes she's not the only one.

Still so soft, so distant, but unmistakable.

It almost sounds like a child giggling...

"Hey, don't fall behind!" Wyll calls out. "Pixie blessing or not, you don't want to get caught out here unawares."

Orin snaps back to reality, shaking her head and banishing the sound.

"Right," she mutters, picking up her pace. "Coming."

(She still swears she can hear that noise...)

Chapter Text

The uncanny chill in the air bites through their coats and cloaks; Orin wraps hers around her and shivers, wondering if, perhaps, the armor underneath ought to cover more.

Minthara clings to Kar'niss warily, like she's afraid to fall off.

Nobody has much to say until Astarion clears his throat, which immediately sets Orin on edge, knowing he's probably got something weird to say.

“So...if I’m allowed to ask, how does one become...you know...”

Astarion makes a vague gesture at Kar’niss.

“-That?”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit rude to ask?” Gale mutters, though it doesn’t do much good.

Still clinging to his now-inert lantern like a lifeline, Kar’niss is silent for a few moments, before finally answering.

...We were a drow, once,” he says. “Firstborn of our house. We do not remember the name, now.”

He starts to shake, a tremor running through his voice.

“We were trained to fight. Tasked to protect. Younger sisters, many sisters...”

The metal of the lantern’s pole creaks with the force of his grip.

“Accident...many dead...failed, we failed...the spider queen was so very angry...”

He manages to gather himself a bit, and shrugs.

“We do not remember much more. But then we became this. We found this place.”

He looks toward Orin with adoration in his eyes.

“She found us wandering in the dark. Saved us from the curse. Now she has come to save us again...”

Orin squirms in discomfort, feeling like she hasn’t earned the praise.

Minthara is somehow even more ashen than before.

Perhaps she's worried that same fate awaits her. But now isn't really the time to ask about that.

A gentle, milky glow ahead alerts them that they're close to their destination.

“So that’s Moonrise Towers, eh?” Astarion asks.

The enormous stone building looming ahead of them would once have been grand, beautiful, a monument to something great. But it’s cracked, now. Hollow. Crumbling, broken, the old Selunite decorations faded and falling away. As if the masonry itself is rotting.

"It is."

“Let me down,” Minthara orders, when Kar’niss comes to a stop.

“But-“

“-I am not so fragile that I am completely unable to walk."

Hesitantly, Kar’niss kneels so she can get down, grabbing onto Orin to keep from falling over.

“If you’re sure," Orin mumbles, gathering her into her arms, terrified she'll shatter if she falls.

Orin wraps an arm around her waist and takes her hand- almost more for her own peace of mind than Minthara’s.

Slowly, painfully, they cross the threshold of soft white light and make their way to the stone staircase and enormous oak double doors of the towers.

“Halt!” a guard declares, holding his quarterstaff out as they approach.

The ones who are able put their hands in the air; Kar’niss hangs behind the rest, trying to make himself as small as possible.

As soon as he and his companion lay eyes on Orin, however, their entire demeanor shifts. They take a step back and squint at her like they don’t quite believe their eyes.

Their tadpoles collide, sending a shiver down her spine.

“-A-apologies, True Soul,” one of them mutters. “Welcome back.”

Back? Orin has to wonder, but chokes the question down.

The other one regards Minthara with puzzlement.

“Who is-I  mean- she isn’t a-”

-He clears his throat, maybe thinking better of finishing the question.

Minthara answers anyway, even though it seems to take a great effort to even lift her head.

Others might not be able to read her expression, but Orin can.

There’s fury in those crimson eyes- but not the white-hot anger Orin knows far too well. It’s an icy sort of anger, the calm rage that foretells danger.

Even so, she speaks in a perfectly level tone.

“-I am one seeking answers after an unfathomable loss,” she says, leaning against Orin as she does. “I was told I would find them here.”

The guards give her a grimace of sympathy and step aside, the doors swinging open.

“In Her name,” the older guard says.

Scratch stops for a moment as they pass, turning toward each of the guards with an expectant expression.

Each gives him a little pat on the head, which gets his tail wagging and his tongue lolling out happily.

He follows Wyll and Karlach as they go in one direction, nose in the air as he takes in all the exciting new smells.

Spying a rather intimidating-looking bugbear overseeing a stockpile of weaponry, Lae'zel makes a beeline for him, and Shadowheart follows while muttering something under her breath.

Astarion follows Gale when something or other catches his eye, and Orin helps Minthara forward while ignoring the eyes that bore into her in a mixture of fear and awe.

A set of enormous double doors hangs ever-so-slightly ajar; curiosity getting the better of her, Orin nudges Minthara forward.

Nobody pays them any mind as they enter the next area, where something of a makeshift trial appears to be taking place, with a quite familiar figure at its center.

Of course, someone like Halsin is hard to miss. Especially when accompanied by goblins, he’s absolutely massive despite his efforts to shrink down into nothing.

An intimidating half-orc woman is shouting at him, looking like she’s got half a mind to strike him down right there.

“After all the Absolute has done for you!” she declares, indignant. “After you were given the chance to make something of yourself, this is how you repay her?!”

“It is my failure,” Halsin assures her, hanging his head in the deepest shame. “The duty had been entrusted to me, and I failed. I do not expect to be forgiven.”

The man seated on an ornate stone throne leans forward, glaring with piercing, ruddy brown eyes that seem to see everything.

“Good. If you did, you would be an even bigger fool than I took you for.”

The man sounds more bored than anything as he speaks, the rumbling baritone of his voice commanding the attention of all who hear it.

"We are too close to the new beginning. I have coddled your failure long enough. You were tasked to find the Absolute's weapon, and you not only failed, you cost us dozens of able soldiers."

"That is my fault," Halsin concedes, managing to look so small despite being so large. "Whatever punishment I am given, I will accept. But please, do not harm the others for my failure-"

"-Enough!"

The orc woman lashes out with more psionic power, cowing everyone on trial. Minthara flinches and recoils, but remains standing.

"The Absolute has given you too many second chances. But Her grace has limits. And yet, after that you dare to make demands of Her?!"

As she continues to rant, the man seated on the grand throne locks eyes with Orin, a flash of recognition in them.

His stern expression softens just a fraction as he tilts his head at her in curiosity.

“I did not expect to see you here again,” he says, almost sounding surprised. “And you brought a friend, no less.”

Not having the foggiest clue who this man is to her, Orin only nods.

He seems even more surprised by that. He looks her over a few times, tired eyes seeking to confirm whether she's actually there. Once he is satisfied she is, in fact, real, he gives a not-quite-smile in her direction.

“Since you’re here,” he continues, returning to his curt, businesslike tone, “perhaps you can assist True Soul Z’rell and I in this matter.”

He leans against the arm of his throne, making a broad gesture at the room.

Halsin doesn't meet her gaze, an expression of pain written across his face.

“You have seen what these creatures are capable of, and you are aware of their...inadequacies. What say you about the failure druid and his pitiful excuse for an army?”

The goblins turn their heads to face her- but the moment they see Minthara, realization lights up in their eyes...and in hers.

(It seems not all of the goblins who planned to raid the grove lost their lives, after all.)

Yes, Minthara recognizes them all too well. And they seem to realize what that means for them.

“Please,” one of the goblins whimpers, though he must know it's a futile effort. “We’s real sorry, we ain’t mean to-“

“-We’ve been nothin’ but loyal!”

“Quiet!” Z’rell bellows, cowing him immediately with a lash of psyonic power. "The facts suggest otherwise- you failed to retrieve the artifact! You failed to protect the other True Souls! Failure on failure, and you try to cry loyalty to save your own hides?!"

For just a moment, Halsin glances back at them, already resigned to his fate.

He seems exhausted, ragged, defeated. A shadow of a man who has given up a long time ago.

Orin looks around at the others, who look just as puzzled as she is.

But the man is waiting for her to say something. She can't just keep her mouth shut.

Before she can say anything, however, Minthara puts her hand in the air.

“If I may speak, General?”

Her tone is perfectly conversational, as though they were discussing the weather, or some boring trade deal.

General Thorm- or Ketheric, or whatever the hells his name is- gives Orin a quizzical glance with a raised eyebrow.

Feeling stupid, Orin nods along.

“If anyone is fit to pass judgment, it’s her.” she says.

Ketheric ponders that for a moment. Then, satisfied, he gestures for Minthara to continue.

“What do you suggest, then?”

With all the dignity she can muster, Minthara straightens up and manages to make a few steps toward the throne under her own power, though she never lets go of Orin's hand.

“It is less of a suggestion,” she says, in a carefully controlled way, “but more of a question, if I may.”

“Very well.”

Minthara regards the cowering goblins with an icy indifference.

“After the way I was treated by your followers, I found myself wondering about something, and was hoping you could enlighten me. How does the Absolute regard those who would violate the bodies of others without their consent?”

It takes a few heartbeats for the meaning of her words to settle in.

When they do, Ketheric’s face turns to one of unadulterated rage.

"What are you implying?"

"I am implying nothing, General," Minthara reassures him. "It is an honest question- I wish to know whether the sort of degeneracy I witnessed is acceptable among your goddess' ranks."

He stands from his throne, the platform allowing him to tower even over Halsin.

The goblins cover their heads in terror, still pleading for mercy in both their own languages and Common.

If they were doomed before, they must certainly realize they’re well and truly fucked now.

“...The Absolute does not look kindly upon such barbarity,” he says, in a carefully calculated way, holding a heavy, ornate warhammer with both hands as he approaches the prisoners. “And neither do I.”

In a panic, one of the goblins picks up a halberd that had been laying on the floor and swings it as he steps forward, embedding the blade into Ketheric's neck.

Thick, blackened blood sprays from the wound, his head hanging limply to one side.

Then, right before their eyes, the gaping wound heals itself, his head righting itself as he stares at the shivering goblin.

"That was not a wise decision."

Taking aim at the goblin that dared to attack him, Ketheric crushes the snivelling goblin's skull in, sending them crashing to the ground in a spray of blood, brain matter, and shards of shattered bone.

He looks toward Halsin when he is done, the look in his eye one of pure malice.

“My opinion of you was not a high one,” he declares, “yet somehow you still manage to disappoint me.”

“Though it pains me to come to his defense,” Minthara interjects, “The darthiir's only crime was one of ignorance. He was not one of the ones who partook in the depravity. Your True Soul Nere was the main mastermind behind the debauchery, and Orin already aided me in doling out a suitable punishment."

Ketheric gives a single, terse nod.

"As I would expect her to."

He doesn't take his gaze off Halsin, who now has a measure of confusion mixed in with his sorrow.

“What a shame for you, then, that your ignorance will cost you everything.”

Ketheric looks past him, now acting like he isn't there.

"Take him below. Make sure he is dealt with properly."

A pair of guards approach and grab Halsin by the arms; he allows himself to be led away without protest, head hung low, not daring to meet anyone's gaze.

Knowing their fate won't be much better, the goblins whimper, still cowering around the corpse of their former comrade.

With the butt of his hammer, Ketheric tilts Orin’s chin up, looking her over with what might be curiosity, or possibly simple boredom.

After regarding her for a few moments, he addresses her.

“You won your brother a pretty sizable bet, you know,” he remarks, a note of amusement in his voice. “Gortash was sure you’d never be able to find a toy you wouldn’t break.”

Orin doesn’t respond, and Ketheric doesn’t wait for one.

“Dispose of the goblins as you see fit,” he says to Z’rell, as he departs. “Or better yet, take advantage of Orin’s particular brand of creative genius. That should send a message to the rest of our soldiers- we are not a group of savages who drown themselves in debauchery. We are soldiers. We are Her army."

"Of course, my lord."

He leaves as casually as anything, only slowing to say one final thing.

“-You  left  a  lot  of your things behind when  you  and  your  brother  had  that  falling  out,”  he  tells  her, passing her a tarnished, well-used key.  “I  left  them  in  the  bedroom  to  the  left,  near  the  library. Try not to make too much of a mess, will you? Your brother has been insufferable since you've been gone; I expect you to behave better, as the older sibling."

Orin decides she doesn’t want to know what that means.

Not that she gets to think about that for long, now that the man has departed.

The goblins prostrate themselves in front of Minthara, grovelling for forgiveness that she does not have in her.

“W-we didn’t mean nothin’ by it-“

“Yeah, we was just goin’ along with what Nere said-"

Z’rell rolls her eyes, lips curling over her tusks in a sneer. Them, she speaks as though the goblins have not,

“Well, you heard what the general said. Do what you like- in the seat of the Absolute’s power, they’ll have to obey your every command. Have fun."

The very thought sends a rush up glee through Orin that makes her shudder in delight; Z’rell grins at her joy, and takes her leave.

"...Y-yer not gonna do anythin' drastic, are ya?" one of them whimpers, positively pathetic. "We was just- we didn't mean-"

"Spare me," Minthara growls, rolling her eyes as she does. "I do not need to hear another word from you."

She glances at Orin, a murderous gleam in her eyes.

"The general is right that you are the creative sort. What do you suggest we do with these creatures?"

As their begging grows louder and ever more desperate, an idea takes shape in Orin's mind.

"I've always dreamed of pools of blood deep enough to wash in," she purrs, distributing a dagger to each of them. "Now. Draw me a bath."

"What? But we-"

Of course, they can't resist her command- not with their brands.

Despite how they try to fight their own bodies, they drive the daggers into their own guts over and over, spilling their blood and entrails all over the stone.

Minthara watches with grim satisfaction, keeping her grip on Orin's hand.

Before long enough, the cries of pain and the sounds of metal in flesh die away into nothing.

"The Absolute's power is strong here, the voice of her dream guardian murmurs. "And Her army is led by an unkillable general. Fascinating..."

Fascinating is certainly one way to put it.

"If they have your belongings," Minthara says, pulling her from her thoughts, "We ought to collect them."

"...Yeah. Let's go."

Stepping over the gore and rapidly cooling bodies, they hobble along together until they find their way to the second floor.

Minthara regards the steep, winding spiral staircase with trepidation, trying to steel herself so she can start the climb.

“Here.”

Before Minthara can argue with her, Orin scoops her up and starts up the steps, trying to act like it’s no big deal.

"The last thing we need is you falling and getting hurt," she insists, as they climb up the stairs.

Minthara mumbles something against her neck, but doesn't argue further.

She knows Minthara is embarrassed, but her pride can take a little bruising so long as it keeps her in one piece.

At the top of the stairs she sets her back on her feet again; she wobbles a little bit, but manages to keep upright.

"Nobody is allowed to interrupt the general's prayers!" they hear Z'rell bark.

"Even you?" a far softer, calmer voice inquires, in a way that almost seems mocking.

As they round the corner, they see Z'rell's expression change from anger to one of intrigue.

“Excellent timing, True Soul.”

The quiet, curly-haired woman steps away, frowning at Orin as she does.  

Z’rell addresses Orin like an old friend, a manic glee in her eye as she approaches.

“The goblins,” she says. “Tell me how they suffered. Or better yet-“

Orin feels a shard of ice pierce her mind, drawing out the memory of the goblins’ dying gasps as they drove their blades into their own flesh.

“Oh I like that,” she purrs, delighted. “Efficient but inventive. Then again, you were always the inventive sort.”

Despite having gotten what she wanted, Z'rell continues probing her mind, searching for something else. Proof of her faith, maybe?

Faith Orin knows she doesn’t have...

Panic rising in her throat, she scrambles to throw up any shield in her mind. Something to distract Z’rell so she doesn’t get suspicious-

-Images flash through her mind of the chill of night, with only the stars and the moon overhead providing any light.

Her own hands, bound. Her skin slick with sweat, desperate gasps and needy moans escaping her as Minthara lavishes her with love in the form of a blade.

The thrill of rough hands on her throat, discordant with the gentle words whispered in her ear.

It’s hard to tell if Z’rell's expression is more one of surprise or excitement.

Orin’s face burns from humiliation, realizing what she’s done, but unable to pull it back.

“Now that’s a surprise,” Z’rell snickers. “I didn’t think there was a woman in the world who could win your submission. There really is a first time for everything...”

She hooks a finger under Minthara’s chin and lifts her head, looking her over like a judge inspecting a prized show horse. Minthara grits her teeth in indignation, but endures it without protesting aloud.

“I always knew you had good taste- even for a drow she’s absolutely delicious. I wonder if I could tempt you to share...?”

Minthara returns Z'rell’s smile, though it’s a smile that promises violence, rather than anything joyful.

“Touch either her or myself, and I will cut you,” she promises, in an eerily friendly tone. “I do not share, nor will I be shared.”

Z’rell harrumphs, deflating a little before regathering herself, returning to her flirtatious demeanor.

“I see why she’s so fond of you- you’ve got bite. Never say never, though- I can be quite convincing when I want to be.”

Minthara can’t suppress a flinch of fright, but masks it with a defiant smirk as she leans more into Orin for support- both physical and emotional.

“We shall see about that.”

“Indeed we shall. I don’t doubt She intends to make you a True Soul- perhaps then I could have the pleasure of both of you at once.”

Minthara grips Orin’s hand so tight she feels her bones start to crack.

"For now, sadly, we have other matters to worry about. General Thorm hasn't heard back from Balthazaar, and he's starting to get irked. If he hasn't sent word by morning, we'll need to send a search party. If you're up to the task, I'm sure your presence would get his attention."

"If I must," Orin answers, willing to say whatever she has to to get away from here.

Minthara is tugging subtly on her hand, wanting desperately to depart. So, she doesn't waste any more time on small talk, and they make their way past the library, trying to follow Ketheric's instructions.

Finally, they come across a locked door.

Orin pulls out the key Ketheric gave her; it’s clearly old, but it does the job, opening the door with a creak and a low, groaning sound.

“This must be the room he was talking about...”

She flips a switch that turns on a few small gas lights and looks around, frowning at how familiar it looks, despite also looking totally foreign.

There’s a decently sized, plush bed at the far side of the room, looking like it hasn’t been slept in in quite some time.

Maybe this had been her room at some point, though judging by the decorations it certainly had another occupant before her.

The dresser is covered in little tchotchkes that aren’t to her taste, the shelves lined with books she’d never read of her own free will.

Minthara sinks onto the bed with a groan, clutching at her middle and cringing.

“Are you going to be alright?”

“I will live.”

Living seems like a pretty low bar, yet it may be the best they get at the moment.

Orin opens up the chest at the foot of the bed, and is greeted with a strange sense of familiarity.

The chest is full of art supplies- some new, and others clearly well-used. Sketchbooks with worn-out edges, pencils ground down to nubs, bits of charcoal and old pastels, tubes of paint mostly used up, the remnants long dried out.

It makes her smile, the familiarity of the paper beneath her fingers as she picks one of the sketchbooks up and flips through the pages, wondering if she’s the one who filled them once upon a time.

Some pages are full of morbid drawings of mutilated bodies- people of all races dissected, torn apart, the insides removed and arranged in various gruesome ways.

Others are sketches of Moonrise itself- of the internals of the clock tower, of the throne Ketheric had sat upon, of the vast, winding corridors of what must be a prison laying beneath their feet.

“So,” she says, wanting to keep talking so her mind doesn't get too lost. “About Kar'niss...”

“What about him?”

“Are you going to be okay with having him around?”

“He has already proven his usefulness,” Minthara answers. “I will be able to tolerate his presence, so long as he does not expect me to sing with him.”

Orin can't quite suppress a snort as she continues to flip through the pages upon pages of drawings.

“Why is singing where you draw the line?”

“I am a woman of many talents- singing is not one of them.”

“Aw, what do you mean?”

Minthara tucks her knees under her chin and hugs them against her chest, trying to curl up enough to relieve some of the pain inside.

“When I was young,I had a much more pleasant voice,” she explains, sounding a bit bitter. “I do not know whether it was my demanding line of work, too much smoke breathed in on the battlefield, or a few too many blows to the throat during battle, but it is not up to the task anymore.”

“I like your voice,” Orin insists on impulse.

A wry smile crosses Minthara's lips for just a moment.

“That makes one of us.”

She sighs and turns her head away, staring at the crescent moons carved into the baseboards of the bedroom.

“...I used to sound like my mother,” she adds, in a faint, wistful sort of way.

There's a lot Orin wants to say.

She wants to insist that she does like her voice- in all its roughness, all its coarseness, all its gravel, all the little imperfections that make it the voice she had first become enamored with.

Would it do any good? Would it give her any comfort?

Maybe. But probably not.

Setting down one sketchbook and picking up another, thumbing through the smudged pages, chasing the faint feeling of intimacy the images give her.

More people- living people, this time.

There are a few drawings of Ketheric- seated overseeing some other trial. Removing dented, blood-soaked armor to reveal completely unwounded flesh beneath. Looking over his shoulder, countenance stern, eyes sharp, barking an order at someone unseen.

There's one of Z'rell, holding the severed head of an enemy aloft, grinning and cooing playfully at it, hands dripping with blood, gore splattered across her face.

Then, there are people she does not know.

A man with wild, dark hair and wild, dark eyes, with an unkempt air about and the shadow across his face men get when they haven't shaved in a day or so. He's resting his elbows on a table, leaning forward with an easy smile, speaking to another unseen person.

There's a few other drawings of him- usually leaning heavily on a cane, trying to make it seem like a casual gesture and not a necessity. Despite that, Orin can't help but notice she's drawn his right leg a bit crooked, like it'd been broken long ago and never healed quite right. 

Always with that same hungry glint in his eye, always with that same self-assured but hollow smile. All but the last drawing, which has the man's face scribbled out, the word LIAR scrawled across it in red.

And then-

Page after page, crammed full of the same subject.

A sharp-clawed, sharp-toothed, sharp-eyed dragonborn dressed in silk- robes designed to be practical and easy to move around him, but lavishly embroidered with gold thread.

She- if indeed it was she who drew this- has rendered each and every scale in loving detail, showing off the way they catch the light, in such a way he almost seems to glow.

A sketch of him pondering a naked skull, his sharp draconic features captured in full profile.

One of him hip-deep in what seems to be a pool of blood, wearing nothing but an expression of pure ecstasy.

...One of him with his head severed from the rest of his body, laying in his own festering innards, the words Brother Dearest written beneath it in an angry hand.

“What are you looking at?” Minthara asks, holding her hand out to emphasize her curiosity.

“I uh-"

She reluctantly relinquishes the sketchbook, shaking her head.

“I think I might have made these.”

“Hm?”

Minthara looks them over, first in confusion, then in fascination.

"...How are you certain these are yours?"

"Ketheric said I left my things here- I guess these are what he was talking about. And it just ...feels right."

"Hm."

Minthara flicks through a few more of the drawings, growing more fascinated by the minute.

"I should not be surprised you are the artistic type. I apologize you cannot recall more."

Orin shrugs.

"Not much I can do about it, I guess."

Someone knocks on the door hesitantly, and they hear whoever it is clear their throat.

"Come in?"

The door creaks open, and Kar'niss pokes his head in hesitantly.

"...My lady?"

"What's going on?"

"There is dinner downstairs," he answers. "The others were wondering if you would be joining."

Ah, it must be that time of day.

She glances to Minthara for her opinion.

"I am not particularly in the mood for a meal, but it might look odd if we do not attend."

"We'll be there in a moment," Orin says.

Kar'niss nods and departs again.

"Let's not keep them waiting too long."

"Agreed."

Minthara tries to hoist herself up from the bed, cringes, then scowls in frustration at her own weakness.

Orin starts rummaging around some more, wondering if there's something they can use to try to make things easier for her.

At first there isn't much- lots of dusty clothing that hasn't been worn in a long time, and little Selunite trinkets that don't mean much to her.

But then, buried at the back of the wardrobe, by the grace of whatever god still wants her filthy soul, she finds something.

It looks old, and judging by the coat of dust an inch thick, hasn't been used in ages. Still, the once-polished ebony cane still looks in good condition, and once she brushes the dust away she can see the silver filigree that decorates it.

A trio of moonstones decorate the offset handle, catching the dim light of the gas lamps.

Certainly not for Ketheric to use- it's a small, delicate sort of thing- meant for someone of a far slighter build.

"...You think this would be alright?"

Minthara glances at the thing, and her face flushes as she hides it in her knees once again.

"I had hoped to avoid needing such things for another few centuries," she grumbles.

"I'm sorry it's like this, but it really can't be helped. If I need to fight I'll need my hands free."

With an aggravated sigh, Minthara holds her hand out, still not looking directly at the cane- as though if she doesn't look at it it isn't there.

Nonetheless, it provides much needed support as Minthara stands, keeping her upright when the rest of her body is betraying her.

She really should still be in bed, but this is the next best thing if she's too stubborn to comply.

Minthara's hand is cold enough to raise goosebumps on the backs of Orin's arms as she takes hold of it.

"Come on," she says, "let's go."

Chapter Text

Minthara winces as she takes her seat beside Orin at one of the long tables set out for dinner, but tries to hide it as best she can. Orin gives her hand a squeeze, wishing she was more useful.

Astarion flounces up as cheerful as anything, having somehow acquired a new outfit, his hair still just a little bit damp.

"Well, isn't someone in a chipper mood?" Shadowheart can't help but remark.

"Well, there's nothing like a hot bath and a new outfit to make you feel like a new elf, is there?" Astarion answers, making a show of looking over his fingernails. "I clean up quite nicely, don't you think?"

Says the man who can’t even see his own reflection, Shadowheart snarks, just within her mind.

“I could do with a bath,” Karlach remarks. “Where’d you find it?”

“Oh, around thataway,” Astarion answers, mimicking the pathway with a series of hand gestures. “Past the kitchen, down the short staircase, follow the mural to the end until you find a black door. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, mate. Might be the first proper bath I’ve been able to have in a decade.”

Wyll hides his face behind his hand, trying not to look too flustered by the mental image of Karlach in the bath.

Shadowheart pointedly avoids any sort of eye contact with either Orin or Minthara as the food is served, and Lae’zel manages to look uncomfortable about it, but doesn’t call her out on it.

The stew on offer looks a bit...dubious in quality, but it smells inviting, and the bread offered is hot from the oven, with a thick, crispy crust and soft, fluffy insides that make her mouth water.

Minthara picks unenthusiastically at a bit of bread while people make conversation, trying to act inconspicuous.

"My brothers had the dreams, too. But they refused to follow..."

"If they heard Her call, they should have followed..."

"Perhaps they could not endure the peril. After all, I would have died were it not for the lantern-bearer."

"Still hard to believe that something like that could be so trusted by the Absolute..."

"We all have a place in Her design. Even the ones we once called monsters."

Kar’niss keeps to the back corner, head bowed, not speaking to or looking at anyone else. Orin occasionally glances at him, unable to help pitying the poor thing as she half-listens to the people speaking around her.

She feels the others prying into her mind, watching what had happened, and the fate awaiting the former archdruid of the Emerald Grove.

Astarion’s face grows uncharacteristically somber as the trial plays out in memory; he looks toward Gale, and they have some sort of wordless conversation that ends with the other man nodding in understanding.

After that, he seems a bit more cheerful- or at least, he pretends to be so.

Doing his best to act casually, Astarion slips his food, one bit at a time, under the table. Scratch gladly helps him dispose of it, tail wagging so hard it’s nothing but a blur.

While he makes himself busy chatting up the handsome half-drow sitting across from him and Gale, Orin gestures for Scratch to approach her.

He obeys, even if he hesitates a bit.

“...Are you alright?” he asks, softly.

(Poor thing. Even though she’s the one who hurt him, he’s still worrying about her...)

In response, Orin breaks off a chunk of bread and stuffs a bit of the unidentifiable meat from the stew into it before slipping it under the table for him, a silent apology for snapping before.

Scratch gobbles up the offered food, then peers up at her with love in his wide brown eyes.

“Are...are we still friends?” he asks, like he doesn’t even dare to hope.

Though it nearly physically hurts to do so, she forces herself to smile at the poor animal.

“Of course we are. You’re a good dog. I'm sorry I shouted at you."

Scratch’s ears perk up at being called a good dog.

“Thank you,” he tells her, nuzzling her hand before heading toward Shadowheart to get attention from her, too.

It’s been a long day, and there’s a longer night ahead. But she feels better knowing that she’s at least been able to make things right with the poor dog- after all, he hasn’t done anything wrong...

Laying in this unfamiliar-familiar bed, staring at the unfamiliar-familiar ceiling, Orin growls at her restless mind, unable to find rest.

Jaheira’s words play over and over in her mind, haunting her. Frightening her.

A bhaalspawn. A scion of the god of murder given flesh.

The thought makes her stomach churn.

Minthara can’t seem to sleep either; she has her hand up in front of her face, inspecting the sickly dark veins creeping across it, having spread from the epicenter at her middle- clearly, whatever is wrong with her isn’t going away any time soon.

“...Why don’t we take a bath?” Orin offers, desperate for something else to do. “The others will have taken their turns by now.”

The idea gets Minthara’s ears to perk up a bit as she raises her head off the pillow.

“That sounds lovely.”

The halls are mostly empty now, which Orin is grateful for.

The clock of Moonrise Towers rings out twice, signalling the  ungodly hour.

Somehow, she knows where to go as she leads Minthara along, keeping a grip on her hand so she doesn't lose her in the dark.

They head down a lonely, narrow corridor, the steady tap tap tap of the cane against the floor the only sound, a single candle the only light forward.

Finally, they reach the place Astarion spoke of- slick tile and polished marble lines the lavish bathroom, a dozen bathtubs built into the floor, each large enough for four people, easily.

“Here we go,” Orin mumbles, turning the knobs to run the bath.

Hot water pours from the silver faucet, just shy of scalding hot, quickly filling up the huge ceramic tub while she throws in whatever perfumed oils or fancy soaps she thinks will make it more enjoyable.

The prospect of a proper, hot bath after so long is such a delightful prospect that it almost helps Orin feel normal for a moment.

First, however- she desperately needs to wash her hair.

She tugs at the fastenings keeping her braid in place, trying to work out a few of the tangles as she does.

It isn't in the best shape, but somehow she knows it's been worse.

They don’t speak as Orin scrubs her hair clean, cursing under her breath every time she snags a stubborn knot trying to sort it out.

When she finally gets that sorted out, after what feels like forever, she goes to help Minthara as well, who’s clearly struggling to lift her arms enough to scrub properly.

Minthara leans into it, shutting her eyes and letting herself enjoy the simple close contact without feeling the frustration.

Hers is much simpler to deal with, considering Orin’s is far longer, but she imagines it must be exhausting in her current state.

She kisses the brand on her shoulder, wishing she could do anything to take it away. Minthara sighs as she scrubs the dust and grime out of her hair, rinsing it clean to reveal its true, pure color once more.

Once it’s clean and pinned out of the way, they get into the water together, determined to at least enjoy this much.

Try as she might, Orin can’t seem to get comfortable. She squirms in the bath, unable to settle into the hot water and growing increasingly more frustrated with herself.

 “Something is bothering you.”

Orin doesn’t reply in words, but the sigh she lets out tells Minthara all she needs to know.

"What is wrong? Speak to me.”

Orin shakes her head, scratching at her arms in a vain hope the pain will help ground her.

"I'm...I don't want you to hate me, I just..."

"I do not hate you, and I do not plan for that to change. So, speak. Please.”

Orin's nails bite into her arms, wounding herself rather than turning the vile urge for violence inside her on herself instead.

"I- how much do you know about Bhaal?"

"Hm?"

Minthara rests her head in her arms at the edge of the bath, eyes wandering around the room as she ponders.

"I was quite young when the Bhaalspawn Crisis occurred. I recall it threw the entirety of Faerun into disarray- even my mother was frightened by it. Bhaal tried to assert his dominion over us mortals, in the only language He truly speaks."

She speaks about it nonchalantly, as though recalling a story of no consequence.

"I was too young to properly recall it, but have heard the stories. After all was said and done, we were told the Bhaalspawn had been eradicated, and few dare to breathe the word again.”

Orin squirms in discomfort, but decides she can't hide this- not from Minthara, at least.

Not when merely being near her puts her in so much danger.

"...Not quite eradicated."

Minthara lifts her head, confusion written along the crease of her brow.

"What do you mean?"

Orin's hands start to shake, the deplorable urge to hurt humming in her blood.

 Cut her. Bleed her. End her.

"I- Jaheira told me. The thing I turn into. The feelings I can't control. They're not from the tadpole. Or from my injury or anything else."

Speaking the words feels something like sharing a diagnosis of some terrible, terminal illness.

She sinks deeper into the water to hide her shaking, but it doesn't really work.

"It's in my blood. His blood."

She chews on her lower lip until she tastes iron in her mouth.

Minthara takes the time to think carefully about what she wants to say next.

"...That would certainly explain a fair bit about you," she finally replies, sounding oddly calm about the whole affair. "Do the others know?"

"I don't know. I haven't said anything, but maybe they figured it out, too..."

The water sloshing about echoes back almost loud enough to drown out the ringing in Orin's ears.

"A vampire spawn, a Bhaalspawn, a Hellspawn" Minthara chuckles, "now, if we could only acquire a hagspawn, our menagerie of misfits will be complete." 

"This really isn't funny."

Orin's heart pounds in her chest, her blood racing with anxiety as she tries to put her feelings into words as they crash together in her head, and she blurts the next thing out before she has the time to think about it.

"If it's true- that means I'm dangerous. Even more dangerous than we thought. It's not safe for you to be around me."

Minthara's face falls.

"...What are you saying?"

Orin stands up on shaky legs, the monster in her chest clawing at her sternum to be let out.

"It means I can't do this. We can't do this. It's too dangerous, I'm too dangerous."

She nearly bites her tongue off trying to hold back tears.

"I'm sorry," she chokes. "I should never have put you in danger, I-"

Minthara grabs her wrist and yanks her back down with a startling amount of force, considering her current state.

She twists Orin's wrist as she pulls her close, her breath panicked and her eyes full of worry.

"After all we have been through," she whimpers, her voice catching and cracking under the weight of her panic, "you would leave me now?"

It's hard to tell whether she sounds more angry or more hurt. She looks alarmingly close to tears, but her eyes bore straight into Orin's fetid soul like she wants to burn her alive for even suggesting breaking up with her.

"Why?”

Something inside Orin, already wound up far too tightly, snaps.

"Because I don't want to hurt you any worse than you've already gotten hurt because of me!" Orin snaps, trying in vain to wrench her arm free.  "I don't want to lose control and come back around and find out I fucking killed you!"

"Why do you have so little faith in yourself?!" Minthara snaps right back. "You have not harmed me yet!"

"My father is the god of murder! How am I supposed to deny him anything?!"

Orin's tears burn like lava as they pour down her cheeks, her stomach twisting itself into knots.

"How can you be so sure I'm everything you want me to be? How are you not afraid?!"

"I am afraid."

Minthara finally manages to pull Orin back down into the water, seizing the back of her neck with one hand and her shoulder in the other.

Her fingernails bite into her flesh, her grasp freezing cold, but the fire in her eyes burning as strong as ever.
 
 “Vith'ez mal'ai , I have been in danger since I coughed fluid and cried out for the first time! Of course I am in danger, I am alive in this mad realm of blades and Weave and death, walking and buried! What grand fucking threat do you think you have over the rest of this world, Orin?!”

Minthara’s glare is manic, readable as pure fury if not for the glistening of tears she stubbornly refuses to let fall even now, her mouth having the quiver of someone about to fall apart.

Then, she shuts her eyes for a moment, takes as deep a breath as her battered body will allow, and speaks again, this time in a much calmer tone.

“If you truly want to leave me, then do it, I will just stay in this bath until I perish, but to have to gall to act like you are the worst thing in this world, like you are some void for me to fall into, like you have any more power to destroy me than the goddess who abandoned me or the billion other threats we are facing- that angers me beyond what words can even begin to express!”

And surely, she is livid- Orin’s tadpole recoils at the rage pouring off her as her voice increases in pitch and volume with each word.

“-I just wanted-“

“-What about what I want, Orin? What do you think will happen to me if you walk away now?! Do you think I will not drown myself in this water?!”

Her chest heaves with panic, the water violently ripples around her as she hums with radiant energy.

“If you are saying all this because of the child, just give me time to heal- we can easily conceive another once I am well. It does not mean I am deficient, it does not mean-“

“-Godsdamnit Minthara, it isn’t about that at all!”

“Then what is it about?! What changed so quickly that you would think to abandon me after you swore you would not?!”

“It isn’t you! I already told you-“

Finally, the dam breaks. Minthara’s next words turn into an incoherent mess of Common and Drow crashing into each other. Her mind lashes out at Orin, not with anger, but with a deep, dark sadness, a primal fear that sends Orin’s tadpole into a frenzy, barely able to comprehend it.

She doesn’t mean to, but Minthara’s mind screams at her, and she cannot help but hear it.
 
I need you

I love you

Don’t leave

Drown me right here if you have to, slit my throat,  just don’t say you don’t want me anymore-

“I have already lost too much! I am already-“
 
“Minthara!” Orin shouts at the woman, startling her our of her rant.

The other woman doesn't even seem to hear her.

Minthara’s eyes are screwed shut, fingernails digging into her scalp, staining starlight hair scarlet.

Orin tries to touch her, to apologize, but she doesn't get the chance. Minthara has grabbed the closest solid object to her- the wash basin still half-full from washing their hair- and swings it with surprising force.

Her vision whites out when it collides with her, something hot and wet gushing down her face as she curses, bits of porcelain shrapnel flying everywhere.

"Stop!"

She already knows she's bleeding before her vision returns, but that doesn't make her broken nose any more alarming.

The water and bubbles tinged pinkish, blood splattered across the marble floor, it looks a bit like a murder scene.

“Please stop- I’m sorry.”

Orin’s speech is a little off, like she’s muffled by layers of cotton. Minthara opens her eyes to see Orin’s nose freely bleeding into the bath, dripping though the gaps between her fingers, finally realizing what she's done.
 
 “Gods...I did not mean-"

"...It's alright. I think I deserved it.”
 
 Orin grabs Minthara’s hands and unravels them, carefully, one finger at a time. She scoops her up into a gentle hug, the pair shaking despite the water nearly being hot enough to burn.

“I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, please calm down, I’m just scared...”

Scared doesn’t seem nearly enough to cover it, but she keeps talking for fear that if she doesn’t she’ll do something awful.

I’m so fucking scared. I don’t want you to be another tragic story Bhaal ended before its time, I can't have you cooling on the side of a road somewhere while I dance around covered in your viscera singing murder-hymns about my father. I just want you to be safe.”

“Safe? Orin, I have never, once, in my entire life, been safe. That is a luxury I have never been afforded. I survived my first assassination attempt when I was still suckling at my mother’s breast. Now, I am a grown woman, and capable of choosing for myself what danger is worth facing.”

The sincerity is almost too much for Orin's heart to bear.

"I have chosen this for myself. Please let me choose it."

“But I can’t help but worry,” Orin insists, digging her fingernails into her palms. "I just- just promise me you’ll end me the instant I try to do anything. If I ever try to hurt you, don’t let me.”

Minthara’s voice sounds ragged and faint when she answers.

“If you do lose your mind, I will just let it happen. If you kill me it will be the kindest mercy the surface ever granted me. A death at the hands of my beloved. Maybe it would be a fitting irony for my last love to kill me as I did my first, but it would be a comfort still for it to happen that way. I will not go on without you. I-“

She trails off for a second, the words catching in her throat as she tries to force them up.

“-I love you.”

The words come out kind of like she’s admitting something shameful. Something dirty.

"Here. Let me..."
 
 Minthara’s hands start to glow blue as she lays them on Orin to start undoing the damage she inadvertently did. Orin's broken nose mends itself, though it's still left bruised and incredibly sore.

“I wish I could do more. But it seems this, too, is going to be out of my grasp for some time.”

She sinks back into the water up to her chin, like she’s trying to make good on her promise to drown.

“...You are not my first love,” she admits, again sounding like it’s something wrong to be saying aloud. “And you are not the only one whose god demands far too much of them.”

Orin’s heart feels heavy as she sits back down as well, listening as she pours her heart out.

“She was a cleric- a very beloved cleric of Lolth. And a beloved daughter of House Vandree. I was a much younger woman, then- I had not yet lain with another. I had not even been kissed...”

There’s a wistful nostalgia in her words- a longing for better times she can’t get back. Her fingertips ghost over her lips, replaying the past in her mind.

“She was my first. And I do believe I loved her. The year I shared my heart and my bed with her was one of the happiest of my life.”

Jealousy gnaws at Orin's mind like a rat at a shipping crate, but she holds her tongue.

“I should have known it would not last. But I was young. I was in love. When word came down from Lolth that she was to die, I could scarcely believe it. When the word came that I was the one meant to end her...”

Her hands curl and uncurl repeatedly, her gaze far away.

“It was the one and only time I ever dared to question Her will. Caught in Her Demonweb pits, I beseeched Her, offered up those that ought to die in her stead. But it did no good. Lolth told me Her will was final- and if I dared to question any further, She would make sure my entire house suffered.”

Her voice is weak, little more than breath nearly lost in the rising clouds of steam.

“She was everything a drow should be. She was ruthless. Perceptive. Ever watchful, ever wary. And yet, she trusted me entirely. Or perhaps she thought dying by my hand was as good a way to die as any. Either way, I took my last chance to lay with her, before I did as I was told.”

A shiver runs through her.

“I stayed with her as the poison did its work. I comforted her, held her in my arms- it took nearly an hour for her to finally expire.”

She tries in vain to soothe herself, still shivering as if she's freezing.

“I cried that day. I cried until my mother found me, still holding her naked body, still stained with the bloody tears she wept as she died.”

She takes Orin's face in her hands, urging her to come closer.

“It may be easier if I showed you.”

It's half plea, half invitation.

As much as it feels like a violation to intrude on Minthara's mind, Orin allows her parasite to worm its way into memory.

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“I did not want to. She ordered it, I could not refuse-“

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“...I know.”

The other woman’s voice is weak, and growing weaker. Her skin has the uncanny gray c ast of death, her breath coming in feeble rattles. Minthara holds her close, rocking back and forth on the bed, shivering and whimpering out all the useless apologies she can muster, trying in vain to comfort her though the comfort is less than worthless.

After far, far too long, she gasps out her last.

Minthara’s tears drip down onto her beloved’s face as she continues to apologize, over and over, until the words have lost all meaning.

She barely registers the door to her bedroom opening until someone clears her throat to get her attention.

She raises her head, feeling her blood turn to ice.

A woman stands before her, dressed in lavish silks with intricate spiderweb embroidery that shimmers as the light catches it.

The woman is a spitting image of Minthara, down to the exact shade of her moonlight-colored hair, braided in an ornate halo around her head.

She steps toward the dresser, grabbing the pitcher of water, a basin, and a clean washcloth.

She speaks in a calm voice that nevertheless leaves no room for argument.

“No more of that,” she says, ice cold and unflinching, completely unmoved by her daughter’s tears. “Get up- fix your face and I will have the body dealt with.”

The words ring in her ears as she rises to obey the command- of course she would , since her mother is speaking.

The older woman lifts her head up, her countenance stern.

“Lolth demands nothing less than your perfect obedience. Do not forget that- should you fail Her, you will break.”

Funny, Minthara thinks, even as she nods her understanding - because she already feels broken.

Her mother leaves, closing the bedroom door behind her.

And Minthara is alone again.

As she tries in vain to wash the blood off her face and her hands, she catches a glimpse of her own face, eyes red-ringed from crying, bloodless and defeated.

Even though her hands are shaking, she paints her lips and lines her eyes in the colors her mother has always said suit her best, chewing on her tongue to keep from crying more and spoiling it.

A phantom hand caresses her cheek, as cold and joyless as the grave.

“Well done, my little paladin,” an all too familiar voice coos, as if right against her ear. “ Very w ell done.”

Orin yanks herself out of the memory, unable to bear any more.

Minthara can't meet her eyes, gritting her teeth to keep her emotions under control.

“...I had not realized,” she murmurs, betrayal staining her voice, “that there was a reason Lolth insisted I be the one to kill her.”

“Why?”

“To send me a message.”

She takes Orin's hand in both of hers, running her fingertips around the curve of her wrist, the ridges of her knuckles, the smooth edges of her fingernails.

“That there was nothing I had- no one I had- that she could not take from me. Nothing so precious to me that she could not snatch it from my grasp, merely because she did not want me to have it.”

She shakes her head.

“Even though I did not understand it, I accepted it. But-"

She lays Orin's hand against her chest; her heart races so fast that Orin imagines it must be painful.

“-Then there was the Absolute- then there was Nere. And then there was you. And now...there is freedom.”

She buries her face in Orin's shoulder, leaning on her with all the trust she hasn't earned.

“I imagine Bhaal is much the same as Lolth in that regard,” she remarks, in a melancholy sigh. “I imagine he would not hesitate to snatch away something precious to you, merely to prove he could do so.”

With Minthara's ice-cold skin against her, she feels the urges within her start to murmur once again.

Gut h er. Ruin her. Devour her. Kill her.

She forces herself to ignore it, helping Minthara to finish washing.

“I understand more than you think.”

“But...”

Kill h er. Kill her kill h er kill h er-

“...What if he does decide that, though?”

“Would it make you happy?”

“What-"

“-Spilling my blood in your father's name. Would it make you happy? Would it bring you comfort?”

KillherkillherkillherkillherkillherKILLHERKILLHERKILLHERKILLHER-

“..I-"

“-At the moment, I seem to have become quite useless. My goddess, my oath- they mean nothing anymore. Dying by your hand is as kind a fate as any.”

KILLHERGUTHERBREAKHERBONESMAKEHERSCREAMSHREDHERFLESHMAKEHERHURTM AKEHERBLEEDMAKEHER-

“...I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

Minthara grabs the back of her neck, pulling her in close and letting out a shaky breath.

"Never speak of leaving me again," she declares, her voice cracking a bit. "The only way I am leaving your side is if one of us dies. Do you understand?"

"Alright. Alright, I understand. I'm sorry."

"You had better be."

That last bit may be a joke, but it really isn't funny.

Orin helps her out of the water, towels her off, and dresses her in the prettiest set of clothing she'd managed to scrounge up in this miserable tower.

With a bit of coaxing Orin gets Minthara back into bed. Having worn herself out with her outburst and by doing far too much far too soon, she’s asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.

Once she’s made sure her lover is comfortable, Orin decides to sleep on the floor instead, wrapping herself up in blankets and staring at the cobwebs under the bed as she tries to quiet her mind.

Finally, finally, exhaustion claims her as well.

"The Absolute is strong, here..."

Orin looks around the dreamscape the artifact’s strange resident lives in, frowning as she listens to her speak.

“Wave after wave of psychic energy, sending orders to the infected. It’s hard to keep up with it all.”

Orin hears the soft shuffling of fabric as the stranger sits down, letting out a heavy sigh.

(She figures this is better than her usual nightmares.)

“...Are you alright?” she asks.

“I am. Don’t worry- just focus on what’s ahead.”

“I worry about things, anyway.”

“I know you do.”

There’s a smile in the guardian’s voice.

“You took a strange route to get here,” she remarks. “It was very brave to help those people at the grove.”

Orin shrugs.

“It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“Not everyone would have helped.”

There’s a weariness in her voice as she speaks- a sadness that stirs something in her heart. An urge to comfort, contrary to every facet of her nature.

Automatically, she reaches out and gives her guardian a reassuring squeeze, and an awkward half-hug.

Awkward it may be, but the guardian still leans into it, letting her eyes flutter shut.

“...It’s been a long time since someone’s done something like that for me.”

“I guess you’ve been here for awhile?”

“I have. Far too long.”

Orin turns her gaze toward the swirling mass of stardust above them, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Watch yourself,” her guardian warns her, as the world around her fades to white. “The people here know you- that could be a bad thing.”

-Jolting awake, the chilling feeling that something isn’t right floods every single nerve.

Orin springs to her feet, finding the bed empty, and the secondhand cane gone.

“Oh for the love of Kol Korran’s cock-“

Still wrapped up in her blanket, Orin storms out to figure out where she’d gone.

The tower is eerily quiet, with most people having retired to sleep as well. Only a handful of guards mill about, and none of them dare to give her more than a nervous sideways glance.

She thinks she hears Minthara’s voice coming from a balcony just off a deserted hallway that must not see much use at all, judging by her footprints in the dust.

Minthara doesn’t sound distressed at all, and there’s another voice speaking to her- a man, it seems like.

Orin creeps forward, even though Minthara surely wouldn’t be upset at her for listening in.

“Who are you, then?”

“That depends on what I am required to be,” the strange man’s voice answers. “A guide. An omen. A lifeline. It matters very little- but before I became this, I was also a paladin.”

Orin can practically hear Minthara rolling her eyes at how vague he is.

“Why are you hear then?”

“I am called whenever I am needed. I felt the moment of your liberation. The moment you declared your oath meaningless.”

“...I did not know that was enough to break it.”

“It is, when the desire is sincere.”

Orin creeps forward a bit more, until she’s standing in the doorway to the balcony, but neither of them seem to notice she’s there.

The newcomer towers over Minthara, clad head to toe in pitch-black armor, twin flames blazing out from his helmet in place of eyes.

Despite his imposing appearance, the tone with which he speaks is kind, as though he’s comforting her.

Minthara leans all her weight against the balcony railing, blinking back tears as she tries to gather her thoughts.

(Even now, she does not let herself cry.)

“So that’s it, then,” she sighs. “My entire life, devoted to being a paladin. And it is all over, now.”

“No.”

There are a few moments of silence, and then he elaborates.

“There are those, like myself, who choose another path.  Liberated from our oath, free from any gods or masters. You have heard our name before.”

“...Oathbreakers.”

Minthara hisses the word like it’s some sort of vile slur- like she can’t imagine ever applying it to herself.

“It is not a term of shame,” the mysterious visitor reassures her. “It is one of freedom. Of pride.  Take comfort in your undoing- I, like you, abandoned my cause. But much can still be achieved.”

“How?”

“The light within you fades. But a new power awakens. The darkness will obey your summons. The dead will march to your rhythm.”

Orin shivers- and she sees Minthara do the same.

“Even now, the shadows gather around you. They yearn to be used. To be inflicted. Though born of a vile source, they can be used for good or ill- your oath will no longer bind you- your choices will be yours alone."

Minthara glances down at her shaking hands, then up toward Orin- seeming to have just noticed her standing there.

Unsure what to make of the situation, Orin just nods, silently encouraging her to do what she thinks is best. 

“...I believe I would like that.”

“Very well, oathbreaker. Now-“

Holding out a gloved hand, he grabs Minthara’s shoulder and coaxes her to kneel- which she does after a lot of hesitation.

“-Surrender. And be remade.”

Chapter Text

Minthara is wrapped in ash and flame, resting across her shoulders like a cloak, as if the fire is embracing her. The spark in her eyes as intense as ever.

Somehow, despite that, Minthara does not burn. Instead, she manages to stand, clutching her cane as she does, meeting the mysterious figure’s gaze without flinching. The flames sink into her skin, sending a shudder through her entire body.

“Good luck, oathbreaker,” the knight says, with a nod of solidarity, before vanishing into thin air.

The silence that follows weighs heavy on them before Orin manages to speak.

“...So what was all that about, exactly?” Orin asks, biting back the desire to scold Minthara for leaving without saying anything.

“I am not certain,” Minthara answers, gripping her cane like a lifeline. “I had been woken from my sleep by a voice whose owner I could not see. He bid me follow, so we may speak in private. I am not sure what coaxed me to obey, but I followed.”

She raises her hands up in a silent gesture of confusion.

“I did not mean to wander. I apologize.”

“You’re fine. Just- don’t do that again. You scared me.”

“Understood.”

A soft bark from the shadows gets their attention, and they both turn to face the source.

“Scratch? What’s wrong?”

The dog sits and scratches at himself, letting out a low whine.

“I think Astarion’s gotten into a bit of trouble.”

Minthara and Orin exchange confused glances.

“What do you mean?”

Scratch’s ears flit back and forth, tail swishing in a low arc.

“Well, he and Gale went downstairs to help the big man that smells like grass. I followed, but they sent me away. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“He must mean the druid.”

“Can you show us the way?”

“Of course.”

As promised, Scratch leads them downstairs, with Orin carrying a reluctant Minthara most of the way down.

(She’s pretty sure she didn’t used to be this light. She’ll have to nag her about eating more, if she’s ever going to heal.)

He lays his ears back and sniffs at a trail of blood smeared across the floor, down another set of stairs and into the depths of the tower- into the twisting corridors from Orin’s drawings.

“Oh what are they up to?” she mutters to herself.

“It better be worth the trouble, for their sakes.”

When they finally get to the bottom of the stairs, Orin sets Minthara back onto her feet, keeping her hands on her until she’s satisfied she won’t topple right back over.

The trail of blood leaves to a heavy metal door that creaks open as they approach it.

Scratch perks up as Astarion exits, looking unbearably smug. Gale follows close behind him, looking...significantly less so.

“Guess you couldn’t sleep, either?” Astarion asks.

“Never mind that,” Orin snaps at him. “What are you doing?!”

To answer the question, Astarion reaches into his pocket and pulls out a very round, very fluffy brown rat.

“You were down here catching vermin?” Minthara asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Vermin? Never- this is our little druid friend. I thought it’d be better if he were less conspicuous.”

The rat climbs up his shirt sleeve to perch on his shoulder, and gives them a little wave.

“...Alright then. How’d you pull that off?”

“Well-“ Gale starts, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “We um-“

“-All we had to do was hide a few bodies. It’s fine, darling.”

Gale clears his throat awkwardly.

“We should probably get him somewhere safe, then,” he says. “Before someone wonders where he’s gone.”

Minthara regards the rat-druid with a blank sort of expression.

“I suppose we better,” she replies, after far too long of a silence.

“Do the others know you’re doing this?” Orin asks.

“I don’t think so,” Astarion answers. “We tried to get Wyll and Karlach on board, but they were uh- otherwise occupied, so we felt it best to let it be.”

“What about Lae’zel or Shadowheart?”

“I anticipate Shadowheart would be unable to extricate herself from between Shar’s legs for long enough to be of any use,” Minthara sneers.

Orin doesn’t know whether she should laugh or cringe at that statement, so she avoids responding to it.

“Well let’s get going, then. We shouldn’t keep him around here for long.”

Considering the circumstances, Astarion is in remarkably good spirits. He walks ahead of the others while Halsin hides back in his pocket, peeking his head out nervously.

“I suppose even a paladin at part strength is better to have around than no paladin,” Astarion remarks, as if he’s discussing the weather.

He must be able to somehow sense Minthara’s confusion.

“I mean- we could do without the sulking, but I guess that’s just par for the course after a mess like that.”

He shakes his head.

“I swear to the gods, the things some people go through for the sake of procreation.”

“...What are you on about, exactly?” Minthara hisses.

Despite Gale swiping his hand repeatedly across his own throat in a vain attempt to shut Astarion up, he answers.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about. You don’t have to be coy about it- we all know what happened. Hells, I’m pretty sure people heard you screaming all the way in Chult.”

Minthara doesn’t acknowledge it at first, but Astarion continues despite the way she grows tense with agitation.

“You were already a cantankerous wretch before, but I underestimated just how miserable a person could be to be around. If you’re that keen on having a disgusting little parasite crawling about inside you, I’m sure we could find another tadpole somewhere around here.”

The final clack of Minthara’s cane hitting the stone announces her sudden stop.

She stands painfully still for a few moments, and it seems to dawn on Astarion that he’s just fucked up.

So, of course, he doubles down on this train of thought.

“-I mean, it’s not like it had much of a chance, did it? You were doing your best to drown the poor bastard in wine anyway, and carting around a massive belly would just make you a liability, so-“

“-If you are wise,” Minthara hisses, “you will be silent now, ssindossa.”

Strangely enough, Astarion seems to know what that word means; he recoils like he’s been slapped, and looks like he wants to say something back. But Halsin puts a paw on his neck, letting out a soft squeak- maybe reassurance, but more likely a warning.

Astarion shakes his head, jaw set tight, and picks up his pace, blowing past the others and stalking off into the depths of the prison.

“What did you-“

-Minthara raises her hand, a silent admonishment to let the matter die.

So, Orin does that, but makes a note to bring it up when tempers are cooler. Right now, she doesn’t feel like taking another divine smite to the face- which, given how her fingers are twitching on the handle of her cane, is a possibility.

There’s a row of neglected, filthy cells around the corner, illuminated by a few greasy torches that give off as much smoke as light.

Some of the cells house a handful of ragged, terrified tieflings, their eyes luminescent in the darkness. The others play host to a small gathering of gnomes, one of whom paces around like a caged animal, muttering frantically all the while.

“...You reckon that’s the one Barcus told you about?” Gale asks Orin, with a raised eyebrow.

“Hm? I suppose there’s only one way to find out for sure...”

Orin approaches one of the cages, the tieflings looking at her with wide-eyed confusion.

“You?” one of them asks. “From the Emerald Grove, right?”

Orin nods.

“What happened?” she asks. “How did you wind up here?”

The woman shakes her head, peering at her companion in worry.

“We’re not really sure ourselves,” she admits. “We were ambushed by the cultists. They rounded us all up- separated the adults and the children that couldn’t run fast enough."”

Her companion grabs her shoulder to keep her steady.

“Zevlor...” he mutters. “Something happened to him. He just...gave up. Let it happen...”

Orin wants to get more information, but before she can she hears a new voice behind her.

“Quit playing with the prisoners. They’re for Disciple Balthazaar’s attention only.”

Turning around, she sees another tiefling, this time dressed in the familiar garb of the Absolute’s followers, Her bright ginger dreadlocks stark against midnight skin.

“He’s going to be mad as a rutting minotaur if you mutilate another batch for him, so keep some distance,” she scolds, hands on her hips.

“-Balthazaar is the one who told me to talk to them,” Orin answers, before she can second-guess herself. “If you’ve got a problem you can take it up with him.”

The woman squints at her, then shrugs, apparently deciding it’s not her problem.

I’ve got enough to be getting on with anyway,” she huffs, turning on her heel and leaving.

The guards in the distance seem to follow suit, scurrying out of sight like they don’t want to incur her wrath.

Letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, Orin turns back to the tieflings.

“-Where’s Rolan?” the woman demands, gripping the bars of her cell. “We lost him, is he alright?”

“I- not sure. If he is he’ll still be at the inn. Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here.”

Orin isn’t sure where this surge of righteousness came from, but she knows the monster in her chest doesn’t like it one bit. And, judging by his cranky expression, neither does Astarion.

(She’s pissed off at him, though. He can deal with it.)

She steps over to the gnomes in the other cell, where the one in the center locks eyes with her intently.

You ordered that bitch around like you was the Absolute herself,” he declares, half amused, half nervous.

“I suppose I did.”

“How?”

Orin merely shrugs.

“Well, that’s a long story, and not one I even know all the details of. All I know is that a lot of people here seem sort of scared of me.”

“Yeah? I suppose I won’t question a turn of good fortune, then. Not when I’m talkin’ to a wolf among sheep.”

He points toward her with a sudden grin on his face.

“I reckon you and I were fated to meet- name’s Wullbren Bongle.”

It seems Gale’s hunch was right, after all.

“Wulbren, huh? I know a man called Barcus who’s looking for you.”

“Barcus, huh?” Wulbren scoffs, contempt dripping from his voice. “Didn’t think he ‘ad the stones.”

Orin glances over at Minthara, who crouches down to be closer to his level.

“Let us get down to business,” she says. “What do your people need?”

“Efficient. Good- we need to get the hells out of here, any way we can. Something to break the wall down. That headcase of a warden took our tools, but anything should work-“

“-I don’t think we’re going to need to worry about that,” Orin says, feeling the barest bit of a smile creep onto her face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Just trust me. I have a plan. I think.”

Wullbren raises an eyebrow at her.

“You think?”

“Just trust me. I’ll be right back.”

Minthara gives her a quizzical stare as she limps along beside her to the office the warden had retreated to.

“What do you want?” the woman snaps, not looking up from the stack of papers she’s rifling through.

“Do you have to give me such a sour face?” Orin asks, slipping on a cocky smile as a mask and hopes it holds. “It’s gloomy enough down here already.”

The warden cocks her head, looking a bit confused.

“I would think someone with your upbringing would be used to a bit of gloom.”

“I've gotten some more sunshine the last bit,” Orin answers, hoping she's doing a good enough job at playing her old self, even though her heart won’t stop racing. “I've found I actually quite enjoy it.”

“Is that so? Isn't it a bit odd to be back in this shithole, then?”

Orin just shrugs, making a show of sitting on the warden’s desk.

It feels right, somehow, like she’s done it many times already. At the very least, the warden doesn’t seem shocked by it, nor does she ask her to get down.

“It isn’t bad, just boring,” she sighs, as the warden sits in her chair and pretends to go back to her papers.

“Well what do you want, then?” she asks. “It seems like you’ve got enough company already- unless you’re looking for another three-way. If that’s what you’re after, I’m a little bit busy at the moment so it’ll have to wait.”

Orin blinks, then looks from Minthara to the warden while she tries to piece everything together.

She feels her face grow warm, and chokes down the embarrassment before she accidentally makes an ass out of herself.

“It’s nothing like that,” she says. “It’s more to do with the prisoners, and it’s something of an urgent matter.”

“Urgent, huh? Well let’s hear it, then.”

“I will need to borrow the prisoners, if you don’t mind.”

“Borrow?  What for?”

She takes a split second to think about what her old self might say.

“You could call it something like an art project.”

“Another one of those, eh?”

The warden manages to crack a smile, cocking her head in curiosity.

“You’re going to have to show me once you’re done. You’re in luck, though- the General has about had it with how uncooperative this lot is, so he was planning to dispose of them soon anyway. Just try to keep them in one piece and get them to Balthazaar whenever you’re finished.”

“Sure, whatever makes him happy.”

The warden hums in acknowledgement. Then, without warning, she rises from her chair just enough to plant a kiss right on her mouth.

“Maybe it’ll be less boring with you around again- or at least Ferinix will finally get off my arse. I’ll see you around.”

Orin sits there in stunned silence for a few seconds, her brain coming to a screeching halt and crashing up against the wall of her skull.

She doesn’t dare to try to speak, sliding off the desk and turning to leave before she loses whatever is left of her dignity.

Minthara follows behind her, frowning but saying nothing.

Orin pulls the lever that opens the cells, which open with a shriek that grates on her eardrums.

“Come,” Minthara orders, as the gnomes and tieflings alike emerge from their cells warily. “If you wish to live, you will want to put distance between yourselves and this place.”

Wullbren looks up at her with a befuddled expression.

“Got a Baenre over here helpin’ save my hide,” he remarks. “Next I’m gonna find a flumph with a mean streak in ‘em.”

“We do not really have the time for this sort of banter, we need to leave.”

“Eh? It can’t be as simple as waltzing on out of here, can it?” another gnome asks, frowning.

“As a matter of fact,” Astarion chimes in, in a curt, clipped sort of way, “we’ve already got that part covered.”

Gale nods, gesturing toward the door just down one of the winding hallways.

“We just need to get outside, so we aren’t seen.”

As Gale draws the sigil on the rocky ground, the prisoners look around, as if unable to believe it was truly that easy to be freed.

“Where do we go now, then?”

“We’ve got a safe place,” he reassures them. “It isn’t all that far from here.”

Minthara looks down at Scratch, who wags his tail and watches her expectantly.

“Make sure the others know where we have gone,” she tells him. “And tell them we will return.”

“Of course. Please be safe,” Scratch urges her, licking the back of her hand before darting off.

Gale finishes drawing the waypoint and looks around nervously. Halsin climbs onto the ground and returns to his normal shape in a burst of golden light.

“I don’t think anyone can see us,” he mutters.

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

The flash of purple light that follows transports everyone back a short walk away from Last Light- deliberately placed just in case someone somehow managed to follow them.

The rescued tieflings and gnomes chatter excitedly amongst themselves, while Halsin trails a bit behind the others, looking stunned.

That’s probably normal, all things considered. After all, he’d just been rescued from something undoubtedly worse than death, and had his entire world shattered in the process.

He shakes his head the way a wet dog does, but it does nothing to help.

Gale steps ahead of the others, to make sure the situation isn’t a complete surprise.

“Where’s Jaheira? We have a little bit of a situation.”

One of the tieflings sprints into the building, while a couple harpers run up to take stock of what’s happening.

“Hold on-" one snaps, keeping the gaggle of liberated prisoners back. “We've got a way we do things here.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Wulbren snaps right back.

“Easy- it's nothing major, we just have to make sure nobody here's infected first.”

Kill them. Her own voice urges her, a phantom hand caressing her face.

Halsin squirms in obvivious discomfort, looking like a panicked animal seeking out an escape route to dart away into the dark.

“He’s the only one with a worm, as far as we know,” Astarion says, jerking his head in Halsin’s direction. “But we’ve got him taken care of, don’t worry.”

(Still with that eerily flat tone. He must be upset.)

“We still need to check, just to be safe.”

The gnomes drag their feet and complain about it, but comply and line up alongside the tieflings.

Halsin in particular gets grilled with a thousand and one questions, making absolutely certain that he won’t pose a threat if they let him in.  He answers as honestly as he can, still looking like someone who’s just been woken from a nightmare.

Gut them. Kill them. Bleed them. Ruin them.

Jaheira emerges eventually, baffled and irritated at the interruption of whatever she’d been doing.

They’ll die for me. All of them.

“You’re back a bit soon. And you brought company?”

“Something happened. It’s a long story.”

“The strange tale gets stranger still,” Jaheira remarks. “I suppose this may as well happen.”

Gut her. Flay her. Make garlands of her flesh.

Orin wanders away, the ringing in her ears becoming unbearable, not wanting to hurt anyone around her.

She wants some space away. Wants to be anywhere else. Wants to stop existing all together.

Vaguely, she’s aware that Minthara is following her, but tries to ignore it in hopes she’ll leave her alone.

All she wants to do is be alone. Somewhere she knows she won’t be able to hurt anybody. But in spite of that, Minthara follows, even though every step clearly pains her.

Around the back, she finds a long forgotten door that happens to be unlocked. she opens it and tries to hide in the darkness- of course, to no avail.

Why must we deny ourselves? Are we not worthy of Father’s blessing?

“Please just go!” she begs.

“I will not leave your side.”

“Please, I just want to be alone!”

“Why do you shut me out?!” Minthara asks, the anguish in her voice piercing Orin’s heart. “Why am I not permitted to share in your burdens?”

Lay her bare on Father’s altar. There will be no greater expression of our love.

“I just-“

(Maybe she can lock herself up in one of these cells...?)

“-You have already seen all there is to see of me!” Minthara declares. “You have already seen me at my lowest, my most pathetic! What is there left to be ashamed of?!”

That takes Orin off-guard, so when Minthara throws herself at her, she doesn’t stop it.

Her kiss tastes like desperation. Her touch feels like mourning.

“Ust-nor,” she breathes. “Vaen-nor. Vallabha. Daxunyrr. Iiyola. Let me adore you...”

She leans her weight against Orin, breath shaky, icy hands trembling.

“Let me...”

Her knees buckle, and Orin barely manages to keep her upright as she struggles for breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“I do not know. I am just...”

Orin doesn’t think she wants to know what she ‘just’ is.

What she does know is that Minthara is in pain- quite a bit of it, in fact.

She wants to help, she wants to fix it, but she isn’t sure how-

“So what does Noblestalk treat, exactly?”

“A lot of things. Anything as severe as out-of-control cancers to  something as minor as a failing hairline. There is precious little it cannot treat.”

“...Fuck.”

“What?”

“I’m a fucking idiot-“

Feeling so stupid it physically hurts, Orin grabs and fumbles around in her bag for the noblestalk they had found what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been a couple days. At last, after a lot of searching and a lot of chanting I’m a fucking idiot under her breath, her fingers close around it.

It’s a little bruised up and spongy after so long, but she thinks it must still be good, right?

She breaks a chunk off it and shoves it at Minthara, silently pleading with her to take it.

Minthara obeys, though she still seems a little confused.

The face she makes lets her know the noblestalk is far from palatable at this point. But she chokes it down anyway, with a grimace and a great effort.

Her breath catches in her throat, jaw set tight, all her muscles rigid.

She shuts her eyes, clinging to Orin to cope with the pain until it passes. Orin guides her into a corner where they can sit together, grabbing some old blankets to give them some sort of comfort.

Eventually, it does pass, and her breathing evens out, She rests her head on Orin’s shoulder, sighing..

“...does it feel any better?” Orin asks.

Minthara takes a second to ponder it, then nods.

“Much. Thank you.”

Orin looks her hand over- it’s hard to tell in the darkness, but the blackish veins creeping across her skin do appear to have faded. And while her skin is still cold, it has a little of its normal color back.

Good. Maybe that will buy them some time- she’ll find a way to preserve the rest of it for when they need it.

She allows Minthara to rest her head on her chest, wishing she truly understood that that’s where the monster lives...

Chapter Text

The air in this cramped cellar is stale and musty; were it not for the shadow curse, Orin doesn't doubt it would be crawling with spiders.

Not that Minthara would really mind the spiders...

Orin holds her close, rocking her gently, trying to pretend that anything about their predicament is okay. Pretending that, just for these precious few moments, she's the normal sort of person capable of holding their lover without fantasizing about cutting them open.

Minthara runs her fingers along her arm, staring off into space and not saying much of anything.

It'd be nice, were their surroundings different. A nice inn, maybe- or, well, nicer than this. Some place warm and comfortable, where they could nurse Minthara back to health properly. Somewhere they could cuddle up with Scratch in front of a nice fire and just exist, without having to worry about any of this dire business...

She gets so lost in her daydream of better times that she doesn't notice Minthara's wandering hands until one is between her legs, the other one tracing a path along her hip.

“H-hey, what are you doing?”

“I thought I was making it fairly obvious.”

Orin wants to interrupt. To insist that it’s still too soon, that they shouldn’t do this, that it could hurt her-

-But gods above and devils below, is it hard to resist the way she’s kissing her neck right now.

"I would like to have you," Minthara says, already seeming out of breath.

"I-"

Orin tries to push her away, trying to get her bearings before she gets too overwhelmed.

Minthara frowns, pausing her persistent touching.

“...Do you not want to?”

Minthara asks the question with so much sadness in her eyes, like she’s worried she’ll speak the rejection into existence.

“N-no, I didn’t say-“

“Good.”

Minthara touches her with a hunger that almost frightens her. It’s rough, it’s primal, instinctual, starving for something she can’t put into words.

It feels too soon. Orin wants to tell her to wait, to hold off until she's better- or at least for some more comfortable surroundings.

Beyond any of that, she can't help but think this isn't about sex. Not really, anyway.

Her mind keeps going back to the warden, to the kiss that still burns on her lips. To the look on Minthara's face that, despite her silence, screamed one thing:

Jealousy.

True, red-hot, seething jealousy boiling her blood, eating her alive.

Her touches are possessive, insistent, desperate, like she wants to burn the memory of them into Orin's flesh forever. To mark her, to silently declare to the world this one is mine.

"Is this really a good place?" Orin asks, staring over Minthara's shoulder at one of the dusty, cobwebbed wine rack so she has anything else to focus on.

"It is as good a place as any."

It's hard to deny Minthara this request- or any request, really. So, as simply as thinking it, Orin’s armor fades away, leaving her stark naked, totally exposed for Minthara’s prying eyes and wandering hands.

"I have never needed anyone,” she murmurs, her breath hot against Orin’s skin. “Not until you."

She’s silent for a few moments after that, running her hands along Orin’s body with a quiet reverence. 

She purrs in delight when Orin touches her back, gingerly slipping her fingers beneath Minthara's waistband to find her soaking wet already.

There's a cheeky glint in Minthara's eye when she speaks again, a bit breathless as she grinds herself down onto Orin's fingers.

“So,” she says, almost hesitantly, “your shapeshifting abilities allow you to change your body however you like, correct?”

“I suppose so, why?”

One hand wanders between Orin’s legs, stroking her intently, while the other wanders upward to cup her breast, rubbing a thumb along her nipple to send a shiver through her.

“Must you alter the entire thing?” she asks. “Or could you choose which you would like to change?”

“Eh? I guess I’ve never thought about it before...”

Minthara’s eyes light up, circling persistently around Orin’s clit while she speaks.

“I would like to try something, then. If you are willing."

Orin nods, waiting for her to ask for whatever it is she wants.

(She would do anything for Minthara, in truth. If Minthara asked for her to carve out her own heart and gift wrap it for her, she would gladly do so.)

When Minthara leans in and whispers the suggestion against her ear, at first she isn’t sure she heard it correctly.

“...Come again?”

When she repeats it, her face grows hot at such a boldly lewd suggestion.

“You want me to...?”

“I do.”

“...Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Orin squirms, not sure how to feel.

“I uh...How do you want it to- I mean-“

“Surprise me.”

Orin isn’t quite sure this will work, but she shuts her eyes and thinks about...what that sort of thing ought to look like.

Images of dissected corpses and anatomical sketches give her a good enough idea of what she’s going for, so she holds on and tries to think of the elements that would make her partner the happiest.

The shape of it, the size, anything else she can think of (though she can tell her actual experience with such a thing is limited).

Once she thinks she’s settled on something she focuses on it, holding the image in her mind.

Sure enough, her body complies, and when she opens her eyes, the cock she had imagined for herself stands proudly between her legs, already hard and leaking enthusiastically.

Minthara grabs it with a bit too much enthusiasm, making Orin yelp and nearly jump out of her skin.

“So eager already,” Minthara chuckles, ghosting the pad of her thumb along the head. “I believe we will have a wonderful time together.”

Her tone is almost teasing, but it's nearly entirely lost in her hunger.

She strokes her erection with slow, deliberate motions, watching as Orin melts from the sudden, unfamiliar sensation.

"You are perfect. Every time."

Orin truly wishes she could believe that. Truly, she wishes she could see all that Minthara sees in her. Everything she needs her to be.

Minthara swallows up the melancholy sounds she makes, ghosting her fingers up Orin's arms and along her neck.

"Take me."

Orin didn't think it was possible for two words to be so intoxicating...

Minthara casts her cloak aside, already becoming overheated. Orin helps her get rid of the rest of her clothes, exposing her beautiful skin with all its beautiful bruises.

Her mouth waters, her body alive with longing. She runs her tongue down the other woman's sternum, pausing to lay gentle kisses against sore and leaking breasts.

Minthara shudders, but doesn't tell her to stop.

More.

She wants more.

Her greedy mouth wanders downward, over her navel, across the blackened veins she tries very hard to ignore, stopping once more at her hipbone before diving down between her thighs like a starving animal that's just been presented with a meal.

Minthara grabs fistfuls of her hair, gasping out filthy praises to her as she puts her clever tongue to work, ravishing her with all the affection she has within her.

She doesn't understand the dirty things Minthara calls her in her native tongue, but they set her belly alight all the same.

Her cock throbs with need, almost painful in its insistence, but she can't bring herself to touch it for fear she'll cum too soon and spoil the fun.

(This isn't for her, after all. This is for Minthara. Her lover. Her everything. She deserves as much as she can give.)

At least she isn't the only one embarrassingly turned on; Minthara's clit is swollen, flushed dark, sending little twitches through her body every time Orin's tongue washes over it.

She tastes like sweat and despair- if something like despair can have a taste. But her body responds with the same enthusiasm it always has, despite everything.

When she brings her over the edge (which doesn't take long at all), her legs shake and her grip tightens to the point Orin's scalp might well be bleeding.

She's pulled upright again before she can do much else, pressed against the cold concrete wall as Minthara straddles her, grabbing her erection in one hand and her shoulder in the other.

Orin shivers, looking up at Minthara warily.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"My love, I have never been more alright in my life."

She certainly isn't lacking for eagerness, considering the way her cunt drips over the head of her cock, running down onto her thighs and making quite a mess . But Orin still can't shake the horrible feeling that she might hurt her.

-That feeling, however, doesn't last long when Minthara lowers herself onto her with a single, swift motion, impaling herself to the hilt.

"Oh fuck-"

Orin throws her head back, hissing through clenched teeth as her ruined brain tries to make any sort of sense out of the onslaught of feelings coursing through her.

Minthara clings to her, shivering, jaw tight, nails digging into Orin's shoulders.

"Am I hurting you?"

"...No. I am well..."

Burying her face in Orin's neck, she takes a shaky breath.

"...Let me pretend everything is alright. Just for a moment," she pleads, raising her hips up and bringing them back down in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Just for a moment, let there be no tadpole, no Lolth, no Absolute, no Bhaal, nothing. Only you and I."

When they kiss, for a moment Orin wonders if Minthara can taste herself on her lips, and that thought thrills her more than it should.

It's certainly an easy enough request to indulge, with Minthara riding her cock like she's done so a thousand times already. The little noises falling from her open mouth are intoxicating, fueling the fire growing in the pit of Orin's stomach.

"I-is it good?" she asks, grabbing Orin's face, staring into her eyes like she's searching for her soul.

"It's- uh- um- different," Orin manages to choke out. "I uh-"

She groans, pressing her back flat against the wall and bracing her arms against the floor to keep upright.

"-It's a lot. But uh- is it good for you, too?"

"More than good," Minthara reassures her. "It is perfect."

Why does it feel like a lie...?

Despite her best efforts to ignore them, Orin can't prevent the bad thoughts creeping in at the corners of her mind.

The fact that, not two days ago, Minthara had nearly died right in front of her, bleeding out after losing the child she so desperately wanted.

That the future they planned had crumbled before them, reduced to nothing but a bit of ash in a bloodied swaddling blanket.

That, no matter how much Minthara begs or insists, she will never, ever be all the things Minthara needs her to be.

She could try as much as she wants, but she will never be able to truly soothe the deep wounds left in this woman's heart.

She isn't made for that. She is not made to soothe, to comfort.

She wasn't made for gentle things. For happiness.

Maybe it's better that the child did not make it. She can only imagine what a wretched mother she would have been- and how wholly unworthy to stand as a parent at Minthara's side...

It hurts, and it floods Orin's rib cage with the deepest sort of shame. Her eyes burn, and her vision goes blurry, a shaky breath escaping her before she can stifle it.

Minthara goes still, brushing her tears away, a frown curling her lips.

"Why are you crying?"

When did I start crying...?

"One of us has to," Orin answers.

"What-"

"Because you won't!" Orin snaps, wondering why she sounds so bitter. "No matter how awful everything has been, you won't let yourself cry. But someone has to cry, so I have to do it for both of us."

Minthara scowls, but her expression quickly softens. She opens her mouth, rethinks what she's about to say, then closes it again.

She presses her forehead against Orin's, letting out a shaky breath and groping around blindly for her hands.

"I-"

Her voice wavers as she struggles to put her emotions into words.

"-I have not cried in over a century," she admits, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Not since that night. I am...not sure I remember how."

There's a deep sadness, a defeat that stains her voice with every word. She presses Orin's hand against her face, rubbing her cheek against it like a cat vying for attention.

"I thought I could never again give my heart to another. I thought it had broken me. Until you. It...frightens me, a little. But I do not want to give it up."

It's Orin's turn to frown, even as Minthara starts to move again, in hopes the pleasure high will chase away the misery.

She once again wishes she were better at comforting. At being a person.

But there's nothing she can think of, no pretty words to make it better.

So, instead of wasting time with words, she grabs the back of Minthara's head and kisses her, hoping it will convey the things she wants to say, but doesn't have the words.

Minthara returns the kiss with enthusiasm, letting her eyes flutter shut and getting lost in it. Orin runs her hands through her hair, breaking it loose from the confines of the tie used to contain it, savoring the silky feel of it between her fingers.

"You're beautiful," she breathes, letting her hands wander to the nape of her neck, then down along her back.

"So are you."

Break her. End her. Ruin her.

Ignore it.

Gentle.

She must be gentle.

And so she does her best, forcing these hands that long to be claws to caress instead of cut. To force the mouth that longs to bite and tear to kiss and murmur praise instead, no matter how it sickens her.

She can't help but notice Minthara faltering in her rhythm, muscles straining with the effort- perhaps a bit too much to be doing so soon.

After pausing to wipe away the last stray tears, she takes hold of Minthara's arms and urges her downward.

Though she's a bit confused, Minthara complies, laying flat on her back and looking up at Orin expectantly.

"I trust you, love," she reassures her, even though it makes Orin's stomach churn to hear it.

Despite that, she doesn't want to fight the overwhelming desire to keep fucking her. To admire that body that is so perfect, so beautiful, so utterly delicious in every way.

Minthara whines impudently when she pulls out, needing to take a moment just to savor the sight of her writhing underneath her.

By all the watching gods, is she gorgeous.

The way her hair shimmers in the dim light like countless strands of spider silk. The way the thickly calloused skin of her palms is so much lighter than the rest of it, standing out starkly in the darkness. The slight ripple of muscle just beneath her skin, testifying to a lifetime of strict training. The way her perfect cunt flutters as the cool air hits it, as if protesting its own emptiness.

Longing to be used. To be filled.

By her. All for her.

It's too decadent of a thought to bear.

She rubs herself against the soaking wet folds of it, groaning at how blissfully good it feels. Minthara rolls her hips upward, breathlessly uttering curses.

"Do not...tease me," she pleads, reaching to touch herself before Orin grabs her wrists.

She pins her hands above her head, causing her to squirm and let out a keening sound of need.

The desperate way Minthara stares at her, chest heaving, face flushed, is enough to be intoxicating.

Bite her. Hurt her. End her.

Orin can't fully repress a shudder.

"...I want to devour you," she chokes out, her entire body trembling with the effort it takes to restrain herself. "I want-"

She leans down to lick a long, wet stripe along Minthara's throat, feeling the hum of electricity through Minthara's nerves, hearing the blood thrumming in her veins.

She feels her cunt quiver as she ruts against it blindly, drawing out more of those delicious sounds that vibrate in Minthara's throat and against her open mouth.

"-I want to hear you scream my name before I tear your throat out. I want to hold your heart in my hands. I want to devour you."

She represses the urge to bite, to claw, to rend tender flesh from delicate, birdlike bones, instead kissing across the cool skin of her collarbone and over her sternum.

Rather than be afraid, Minthara sighs dreamily at her words.

"I can think of no finer way to die than in your arms, my love. If it would make you happy, so be it."

It's almost like she's daring Orin to do it...

Do it. Grant her wish. Show her your love.

Orin chokes the voice down, wrangling the beast so she can properly enjoy this.

She aligns the head of her newfound cock with the entrance of Minthara's soaking wet cunt, pushing just the head back inside her.

Minthara moans, rolling her hips upward to meet her.

"Mercy-" she begs. "I cannot take much more of this-"

In truth, Orin can't take any more waiting, either.

She sheathes herself fully in the tight heat of Minthara's body, letting out a strangled growl as it threatens to suffocate her. Minthara bites down on her tongue to suppress a cry that would surely draw attention to their indiscretions.

"Fuck," Orin hisses, forcing herself to be still for a few moments so she doesn't spend herself too soon. "Fuck. Fuck..."

Finally, she releases Minthara's hands to grab hold of her hips, breath catching as she grants herself permission to lose herself in this.

(She doesn't think she could stop herself, even if she wanted to.)

Her movements are slow at first, careful, worried she might cause her lover pain. But rather than pain, Minthara lets out a soft, mewling sound of satisfaction as she cums a second time, like there's nowhere else she'd rather be.

The feeling of her lover cumming around her cock is nearly too much for her to bear.

(She wonders if it's possible for one to die of pleasure...?)

It's almost possible to tune out the monster in her heart like this...

She watches in a sort of wide-eyed awe as Minthara's body takes in the whole length of her again and again, the tight walls of her cunt clenching around her like they want to trap her there.

Swallowing her. Consuming her. Wanting her in a way she doesn't deserve to be wanted.

They should probably not be doing this- at least, not so soon, and certainly not like this. Fucking on the floor between the wine racks of some long-neglected basement like they're little more than animals- hardly the epitome of class or glamour.

...Fuck it.

Nothing in her life has ever been done the "normal" way, has it? So there's no sense fussing over the minutiae.

(Although, she would very much enjoy being able to take her lover in a bed, like normal people do. Minthara deserves that much, right?)

She buries her face in Minthara's breasts as she picks up her pace, without much grace or rhythm to it- only the blind, desperate desire for more of the pleasure she's getting from her lover's perfect body.

"Mine," Minthara purrs, teeth grazing against Orin's shoulder. " Jal usst. Ussta lilbh'iahin. "

Somehow, Orin doesn't have to ask her what the words she's uttering mean.

There's something about her desperate expression, in the way she clings to her, that tells her everything she needs to know, and everything she needs to do to reassure her.

"I'm yours," she promises her, taking just a moment to pause and kiss the back of that battle-scarred hand she adores. "Nobody from before matters. I'm all yours."

She doesn't allow Minthara to respond before she's moving again, letting herself get lost in the best sort of debauchery.

It's almost too much for her ruined brain to bear, and a fog starts to roll over her mind as she feels a knot growing tighter and tighter in her belly.

"Hey," she warns, though forming words is growing increasingly difficult. "I think I'm close-"

Minthara wraps her arms around Orin and holds her tight, thighs clamped against her sides.

"Good," she murmurs, breath hot against the shell of Orin's ear as she gasps for air. "Do it. Inside me. Give it to me, I want all of you..."

It's impossible to ignore that request; a few more frantic thrusts and she loses herself, sinking her teeth into her own hand to keep them out of the sweet, sensitive flesh of Minthara's neck.

For a few fleeting moments, her mind is wiped clean of all thoughts, everything consumed in a haze of pleasure as all of the muscles in her body contract at once.

"Good girl," she hears Minthara purr, the lilting sound cutting through the fog in her brain. " Very good girl."

It feels like Orin's run a great distance, her breath coming in heaving gasps as she gathers Minthara into her arms.

Minthara's breath rattles in an unpleasant way, but her expression when Orin looks her over is one of satisfaction- of a hunger finally sated.

"I could get addicted to this," she mewls, her words slurring together in her blissed-out state.

Orin manages to nod in response, disentangling their limbs enough for her to pull out.

The threadbare blanket they've laid out quickly gets ruined by the mess that spills out of Minthara's well-loved cunt; Orin swallows thickly, her throat suddenly dry as she takes in the sight beneath her.

Her lover, dazed and love-drunk. Her lover's body, slick with sweat. Her lover's face, flushed dark with desire, wearing an expression of pure contentment as she stares adoringly up at her.

Her lover's pussy, left gaping and red from their lovemaking, still shamelessly leaking white.

Perfect. All of it.

Coming down from their shared high, Minthara strokes her hair and coos reassuring words at her, telling her how wonderful she was, how good everything felt, how happy she is now.

It might be a lie when she calls herself happy, but it's the sweetest lie she's ever heard.

They get lost in soft touches and gentle kisses, forgetting the rest of the world until-

"-Is anyone in here?"

Orin and Minthara freeze, ducking down low to try to cover themselves.

Dammon's voice echoes off the stone walls, piercing through their quiet dark.

"Sorry to intrude, but Jaheira told me she saw you heading this way. If you've got a moment, I'd love to talk."

He rounds the corner, and Orin looks up to meet a pair of blue eyes that are currently wide-eyed in shock.

"I uh-"

He stumbles backward, covering his eyes and crashing into one of the wine racks in his haste to retreat, sending several bottles careening down to shatter on the floor.

"Sorry-" he chokes out, tripping then quickly scurrying to his feet as he leaves. "I'll just- come find me when you can, alright?"

The door slams shut behind him, leaving the pair of them still sitting there, blinking rapidly and trying to make sense of what just happened.

After having a few minutes to process it, Orin can't help but snort, and start to laugh as she wills her body to return to its former anatomy- which it does without issue.

Minthara doesn't join in with her, but she musters up a smile nonetheless.

"We should see what he wanted us for," she finally concedes.

"...I guess so."

Orin helps Minthara get to her feet and get her clothes back on, trying to forget the way their mood had just been ruined.

Minthara kisses the bloodied bite wound on her hand, as if it were enough to soothe it.

She still has a notable limp as they leave their hideaway, but she has to lean less on the cane to keep upright, now.

That'll have to do for the time being.

Chapter Text

Orin tries to pretend she doesn't want to die of embarrassment as she approaches Dammon, clearing her throat to pull his attention away from his work.

Dammon forces himself to smile, pointedly ignoring what he'd caught the pair of them doing.

"Thanks for coming to find me," he says, after clearing his throat a few times and rearranging his tools to avoid looking directly at them.

"Sure," Orin mumbles. "What did you need?"

"Well, uh- this may be a bit bold of me, but after I helped Karlach with her engine, I had quite a bit of that infernal iron left over, so-"

He leads them toward his forge, where a brand new suit of armor, still warm from the forge, lays ready and waiting.

"...I heard what happened," he continues, averting his eyes and kicking his feet around anxiously. "And I saw what'd happened to your armor. I know it's nowhere near the same, but I made this so you don't have to go without."

Minthara tilts her head, brushing a hand against the armor and examining the craftsmanship.

It's immaculately made, and seemingly a perfect fit for her. She fixes Dammon with a puzzled expression, which gets him to chuckle a bit.

"Isobel seemed to be around the right size, so I roped her in to get the measurements right- I hope it worked out. But only one way to find out, yeah?"

Orin helps Minthara into the new armor, fumbling a bit with all the straps and buckles, but managing it after a few failed attempts. Dammon keeps a polite distance, making it a point not to touch her.

The armor is, sure enough, a near perfect fit for her- and looks quite nice on her, as a bonus.

Minthara looks her reflection over in a bit of polished metal beside Dammon's forge, looking quite pleased.

"...It is not the armor I am used to," she admits, "but it is nearly on par with the smiths in Menzoberranzan."

"It's nothing compared to what my master is capable of," Dammon says, even as he flushes from what must be the highest praise he could receive from her. "He makes armor for full-fledged devils. But I did my best with what I had."

"It looks great," Orin says, finally managing to find her words.

"I'm glad you think so. I'm just glad I was able to help with this, since Karlach is..."

His voice trails off, as though he doesn't want to admit something.

"I thought you fixed her engine?"

"I- uh. Sort of. It's a little complicated."

Minthara's brow furrows.

"What do you mean?"

Dammon sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with a despondent expression.

"...I was able to patch her up for now," he finally admits. "Make it safe for her to touch people and all. But fact is, I won't be able to do any more than that. That engine of hers isn't meant to be on this plane."

He shrugs, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands- more for the sake of having something to do than them actually being dirty.

"The only way she's going to make it is if she goes back to Avernus. For good. But she's made it pretty clear that's not an option, so..."

He sounds so defeated.

Orin shakes her head, struggling to wrap her mind around the news.

Minthara is the one who breaks the silence.

"...If that is her decision," she says, "I respect it. I imagine it would be difficult to consider returning to the place that gave you nothing but a decade of misery."

Even as she says that, there's a certain melancholy in her words.

Dammon nods, then lets out a weary sigh.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

"You've done a lot," Orin assures him. "Who knows? Maybe we'll find some sort of miracle that'll help- it wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened to us."

"Yeah," Dammon mutters, like he's trying his best to accept the lie. "Just let me know if any of the armor doesn't fit- I like to keep busy so I'll be happy to make any adjustments."

"Thank you," Orin tells him. "For everything, I mean. At least for whatever time she's got left she'll be able to touch people..."

Dammon musters up a nod in response.

After a little more awkward small talk, they make their way back inside to look for the others.

Rather than Astarion or Gale, however, they're intercepted by an unfortunately familiar face.

"Hey, I was hoping you would be here-"

Alfira approaches warily, hands behind her back, eyes averted like she's shy about something.

"...You were?" Orin asks, taking a step back so she doesn't think she's about to hurt her.

"Yeah. I know we got off to a rough start, but Jaheira told me- well she told me it wasn't your fault what happened before."

She shakes her head, regathering her composure.

"That's not why I'm here, though. I've got something for you."

"Huh? What is it?"

Alfira hesitates a little, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.

"I just uh- after everything happened, I wanted to do something, so I-"

She finally reveals what she's got behind her back.

It's a stuffed bear, rather crudely made of a patchwork of rothé leather, spider silk and bits of flannel blanket. Bits of scavenged cotton fluff and feathers poke out from the gaps in the stitching, like the little creature is barely holding itself together.

"...I saved as much as I could, but a lot of it was too badly stained," she explains, holding the stuffed animal up for them to get a better look. "And Isobel gave me the ashes from...well. I put them in there...I thought maybe you would want a keepsake. To remember them, I mean."

Minthara frowns, taking the bear from her hands and regarding it with an indiscernible look in her eye.

For a long time, she doesn't say a word. She just regards the patchwork peace offering that stares up at her with a pair of shiny, mismatched button eyes.

Her throat works as she swallows her emotions down, before she nods and hugs the bear to her chest.

"...Thank you."

Alfira manages to sincerely smile this time. She acts like she wants to give Minthara a hug, but thinks better of it halfway through the motion and pulls back.

"I just-"

She turns from Minthara to Orin, looking so painfully hopeful.

"...I guess we can start over?" she asks, peering at her with a pitiful expression. "I mean- now that I know you didn't mean to...?"

Orin looks the girl over, wondering if she's gone mad.

Don't look at me like that, she screams in her own head. Stop trying to be nice after I hurt you.

"It might be best if you stayed away from me," she says, even though poor Alfira visibly deflates. "I'm sorry. But, uh-"

-She takes the bear when Minthara hands it off to her, jaw clenched tightly to keep her emotions in check.

"-Thank you. It's really nice."

Alfira smiles again, but it's strained and more than a bit uncomfortable.

"Well. I hope we can be friends someday," she says, before quickly excusing herself.

Orin stares at her feet, wishing she didn't feel so embarrassed.

"I feel like I fucked that up," she tells Minthara, wincing at her own ineptitude.

"I do not know what happened between the two of you," Minthara says, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze, "but I am sure you handled it as best you could."

There's something strange in the way she speaks that Orin can't quite place.

"What's wrong?"

The silence that follows only lasts a few seconds, but to her feels like forever.

"...I do not understand," Minthara finally answers, red eyes fixated on Alfira's peace offering.

"Don't understand what?"

The worry lines in Minthara's brow deepen as she finally looks over at Orin.

"They do not know me," she says. "They have no obligation toward me. Yet they are..."

She shakes her head in befuddlement.

"...They are being kind to me. What do they hope to gain? It is not as if I can provide them with any benefit at the moment."

Orin frowns along with her, scratching at the scar on her forehead.

"I don't think it's about trying to get anything from you," she says. "I think they're just trying to be kind."

Even as she says it, Orin's mind goes back to the first night they'd slept together, when her lover had confided in her as they had lain in each other's arms.

"I have never known anyone to do anything kind for me without expecting something in return."

Orin swallows her sadness and tries to be reassuring.

"Let's not fuss over that right now. We've got other things to worry about, right?"

"...Agreed."

Minthara straightens herself out and looks around at the people milling about in the inn.

"Where did the darthiir and the wizard go, anyway?"

"Hm? Um- probably talking to the man that got dragged in here- they think he knows something, I think."

Out of sheer curiosity Orin pokes her head into the room, watching as Halsin, Gale, and Astarion are huddled around the half-conscious man on the bed.

"There's got to be some way to rouse him," Gale murmurs, scratching at his beard as he thinks. "Something familiar- something he would know?"

Astarion tilts his head from one side to the other, then picks the man's wrist up to turn his hand over.

"What are you doing?"

"It seems our friend is a musician," he remarks.

"How would you know?"

"His hands-"

He holds Art's hand up to emphasize his point.

"You only get callouses like these from a long time playing the lute."

He strolls to the opposite side of the room as Orin and Minthara step in, snatching the battered old lute leaning against the wall.

"Maybe this would get his attention?"

He fiddles with the tuning on it for a bit before he starts to play a quite familiar melody.

Orin knows it within the first few notes- The Ballad of Balduran, a song every Baldurian youth knows by heart before they hit double digits in age. It would make sense that Astarion knows it, too.

"Surely, it can't be that-"

-Before Gale can finish his skeptical remark, the man shoots bolt upright, wide-eyed and drenched in sweat.

"Thaniel!"

Halsin steadies the man before he can try to climb out of bed, guiding him to lay back down.

"Easy, my friend. You have been in the Shadowfell for over a century, you should take it easy."

"But Thaniel, he's-"

"-For the gods' sake, just take a breath and tell us what happened will you?" Astarion snaps at him.

Art manages a few deep breaths, taking the water Halsin offers him and draining it in a few frantic swallows.

"I don't remember a lot. But when I got trapped in the Shadowfell, I thought I would die for sure. But then Thaniel had found me...he said it would be alright, even though he looked so scared. We got separated sometimes, but he did all he could. He's the only reason I'm still alive now..."

He runs his hands through unkempt, unwashed hair and shudders.

"He's still in there...he's still trapped, I can't believe I'm here and he's-"

"Don't worry," Halsin reassures him. "We will find him."

"How exactly do you plan to manage that when the Shadowfell is unfathomably vast?" Minthara asks. "Old age would claim you before you could even search a fraction of it- to say nothing of the creatures that make their homes there."

Halsin nods in acknowledgement of her words.

"Not only that," Art says, rubbing his aching eyes. "The landscape warps and shifts. It's hard to tell where anything is."

"Is there anything you can recall that might help us find him, then?"

Art rolls his head on his pillow, groaning in frustration.

"...Lavender," he finally manages to say. "Whenever Thaniel was near, I always smelled lavender."

"Thank you. We will do what we can, so rest easy."

Halsin takes a deep breath before looking toward the others.

"I know what must be done," he says. "We must find Thaniel if the curse is ever to be lifted from this land."

"We still have no idea who he even is- how is one child meant to stop all this?" Astarion asks.

"He is far more than just a child- he is a fae spirit, and the guardian of this land. He was my playmate when I was very young, and I swore that I would always protect him. It is time I made good on that vow."

Astarion nods, mumbles something about being right back, and makes a quick exit from the room.

"...What happens if we get him back?" she asks.

"The curse will finally be lifted from this land," Halsin answers. "It will finally be able to heal."

Orin nods, thinking about what this might mean.

Maybe if they can lift this curse, it will heal whatever's gone wrong inside Minthara. Maybe it'll help fix what's been broken.

...Only one way for them to find out.

"I'll do whatever I can to help," she finally says.

Halsin smiles, looking more hopeful than she's ever seen him.

"I do not deserve you, my friend."

As he says that, he grabs her shoulder to give it a pat of gratitude-

-the moment his hand makes contact with her, her mind is taken elsewhere.

She's much younger, and a good bit smaller.

Rough, large hands not unlike Halsin's grab her shoulders from behind, though they do not linger there. They run down her arms, briefly ghosting across her hips before making their way back upward.

They run over her belly and then over her chest, before one finally cups her face and lifts her head up toward a cracked and dusty mirror.

She cannot recall the features of the man in the mirror, but she can make out her own face- bloodless, joyless, maybe a little frightened, but still forcing herself to be still, for the sake of the fondness she somehow still feels for the person touching her.

"Sweet little lamb," a low, husky voice says, sour breath hot against her neck. "Father's beloved daughter. The fertile field to sow the next crop of His children..."

-Orin recoils, feeling a shiver run through her entire body and hearing the word don't come out in an involuntary squeak. 

Halsin gives her a strange look, but evidently decides better than to pry into her business.

Still, he looks...hurt? Confused, maybe. But also wounded, like her reaction sparked some old shame inside him.

Orin tries to mumble an apology, but the words don't seem to want to come out of her throat. Halsin shakes his head, giving her a sympathetic grimace, knowing something is very wrong.

Minthara grabs her and pulls her close, murmuring words of comfort while shooting Halsin a withering glare, as though he'd upset her on purpose.

She doesn't let Orin go until Astarion reappears, dragging a bewildered Shadowheart by the arm as Lae'zel, Wyll, and Karlach trail close behind.

"I figured we might need some helping hands for this little adventure," he explains, when Orin squints at him in puzzlement. "So I took the liberty of getting the rest of us over."

Despite the confusion, Karlach is absolutely beaming, bouncing up and down in silent happiness, while Wyll stands a bit sheepishly at her side. Scratch follows at their heels, wagging his tail with pride at having followed his orders.

"Can we try not to run off without telling anyone first?" Shadowheart grumbles.

"We do not answer to you," Minthara retorts, her voice dripping contempt. "Nor are we children who need constant minding."

Shadowheart scowls, but rolls her eyes and doesn't reply.

"What are we doing, then?" Wyll asks, wanting to get past the tension.

"Follow me," Halsin answers. "I will explain everything you need to know."

Before they go, Orin sets the stuffed bear down on the small table beside Art's bed for safekeeping.

"Here, then?"

"It is as good a place as any."

The others hang back and watch as Halsin climbs up onto a rocky outcropping and bows his head, murmuring a prayer Orin can't quite hear. While they wait, Minthara casts a small ring of dancing lights for the sake of the ones who can't see in the dark.

Nobody asks what he's doing, even though nobody is quite sure.

Once he's done, a small orb of whitish light swells up in front of him.

"What are you doing?"

"Thaniel is still trapped in the Shadowfell. I will enter it and retrieve him."

The orb of light flattens out into a broad, vertical disk that casts a soft glow across everything around them.

"Should we go with you?" Gale asks, pondering the portal with fascination and trepidation.

"No," Halsin insists, holding out a hand to keep him back. "This is something I must do alone."

"What are we supposed do do while your traipsing about in there, then?" Astarion demands, wrinkling his nose and sounding offended.

"I will need you to keep this portal open," Halsin explains. "I will be as quick as I can, but if this closes, there will be no way for me to bring him back here."

"That's madness, what if-"

"-It has to be me. Believe me, I am not just some old druid stroking the flames of his ego, it is vital this is done exactly."

Halsin seems so utterly convinced of this that it's hard not to go along with it.

Besides, if this is truly the best shot at helping her lover, Orin is pretty sure she'd raid the hells themselves to make it happen.

"Alright. I will return as quickly as poss-"

He gets cut off by the sudden, overwhelming, terrifying realization that they are not alone, and that something is very, very wrong.

The air grows deathly cold, a terrible cackling surrounding them as dark figures move in the corners of her vision.

"Already...?"

The shadows lash out without warning, incorporeal claws slashing through the frigid air.

Orin tries to duck out of the way of one that lunges for her, but its claws catches her shoulder anyway, sending her reeling from the pain.

Her foot catches on a rock, sending her careening backward as she lets out a curse.

She hears someone shout, feels someone grab her by the ankle, then a horrible scream cut abruptly short as she's dumped onto barren, rocky ground, bashing her head in the process.

Her ears ring terribly as her vision spins, as though she's been flung from a merry-go-round that's gone way too fast.

When the world finally starts to become properly visible again, she groans and looks upward to take stock of where she landed.

The landscape around her is nothing short of nightmarish.

It's as if something has sucked all the color out of the world, the crunchy dried grass and gnarled, dead trees all a sickly shade of off-white, the surrounding landscape in varying shades of black and gray.

She scrambles to her feet, unable to see the portal that brought her here.

What she does see, however, is a mummified, necrotic hand laying at her feet, hacked off cleanly at the wrist.

Orin picks it up and frowns at it, turning it over and pondering how weirdly familiar it seems- and how, despite its sorry state, a fresh smear of blood across the palm lets her know this particular hand is freshly severed.

Before she can spend too much time pondering, though, she glances up to see a mortified and furious Halsin glaring daggers at her.

"What are you-"

-He doesn't even get the chance to finish his question, because they're swarmed on all sides by cackling shadows, the eerie glow of their eyes the only light in the darkness.

No time for squabbling now.

The all-too familiar weight of the dagger in Orin's hand grounds her to reality as she readies herself for a fight.

After all, that's about the only thing she can do.

Chapter Text

For every shadow she strikes down, it seems like twelve more take their place.

Not knowing what else she's supposed to do, she fights to clear a path for her and Halsin to run, to try to make some sense out of the world constantly shifting and warping around them.

As  soon as they have room to breathe, Halsin shouts at her, his handsome face contorted with rage, teeth bared, hands balled into white-knuckled fists as he resists the urge to strike her.

"What the hells happened?!"

Halsin yanks Orin to her feet, panic and fury staining his voice in equal measure.

"I told you I had to come alone!" he shouts at her.

"It's not like I meant to come here!" Orin snaps back at him. "I got shoved in!"

"If this goes wrong, the curse will never be lifted!"

"I fucking know that! I didn't fuck this up on purpose- I don't ever fuck things up on purpose, it just happens and I can't stop it!"

She isn't sure whether she wants to laugh or cry more right now, so she does a bit of both, the sound echoing hollow through the barren landscape as trees sprout up and wither in sickly spirals all around them.

"Sorry I fucked it up. I guess we Bhaalspawn are good at that."

Halsin blinks, all of his anger replaced with something like concern.

"...You are a mortal child of Bhaal?" he asks, suddenly fascinated and more than a little nervous, even as he shoves a shadow off him and summons a beam of light to evaporate it, along with the dozen or so swarming behind it. "I heard there were none of your kind still living?"

"Yeah I heard that too. But Jaheira seemed pretty godsdamned sure, so if she says so, well-"

Orin shrugs, as if she's not one breath away from melting down entirely.

They can feel more shadows creeping up on them, so decide they probably better move.

Chilling laughs and icy groans surround them as they wedge themselves into the gap in a pitch-black cliff face while trying to make any sense out of their ever-changing surroundings.

"How are we supposed to find one child in the middle of all this?!"

"Thaniel is no ordinary child," Halsin reminds her. "He is the spirit of this land. Its protector. We will find him."

"But how?! We don't have Scratch around to go sniffing for a bit of lavender and this place never settles down!"

Orin groans, clutching at the sides of her head to try to stifle the throbbing pain within it.

"All I wanted to do was help Minthara!" She shrieks, swatting Halsin away when he tries to grab her, to calm her, to do something . "I thought maybe getting rid of this fucking curse would fix whatever's gone wrong with her, but now I don't even know if I'll see her again because of this stupid idea of yours!"

Deep down, she knows it's probably wrong to yell at the man the way she is, but the words spill out before she can even attempt to choke them back, the confused look he gives her only throwing more fuel on the fire.

"Let's get something straight here- I don't care about this fucking curse! Or about Thaniel or your fucking guilt complex or this stupid cult or anything else! All I cared about was finding Minthara's mother and getting this fucking worm out of my head so we could get her back to Menzoberranzan before she had the baby-"

"-Baby?"

Even though this is a bad place to stop moving, Halsin grinds to a halt, the color draining from his face.

"...So it's true then. She is-"

Orin shakes her head, a bitter laugh bubbling out of her.

"-Not anymore," she tells him. "Not thanks to this curse- you heard Astarion say it already. So don't try to act shocked about it now."

Her words drip venom and sarcasm- enough to make the man flinch.

She lashes out at a corpse that lunges at her without bothering to look back at it, slicing through it with her dagger and inciting an ear-piercing wail from it.

"None of it would even have happened if you hadn't let Nere put his disgusting hands all over her," she spits through gritted teeth. "You let him and Ragzlin and gods know who else have their way with her until this happened-"

"-I did not know."

Halsin's voice is weak, coming out more like a plea than anything.

"If I had known, I would never have allowed it. I could never have. You must believe me on that."

Orin growls- a low, animal sound from deep in her chest as she raises her dagger toward him.

She glares and lunges at him, the only thing she can reliably see through the fog.

She grabs the man by the neck and pins him up against a jagged cliff face, not caring about the perils all around them.

"Either you knew and you're lying to me," she snarls, "or you were stupid enough to not notice what was going on right under your nose. The first thing the goblins did when we rolled up into their camp was offer her body to us- I would be surprised if they never gave you a turn. With how much I've forgotten, you could have fucked her and forgotten about it pretty easily. Hells, for all any of us know it might've very well been your brat that bled out of her."

She drags him behind an outcropping of pitch-black rock, seeking any sort of refuge from the otherworldly cold. Orin shoves the man away from her and puts as much space between the two of them as she can, hoping she retains enough self control not to slit his throat when he might be her only way out of here.

Halsin looks ready to faint, like he can't really believe what he's been told, and really not wanting to consider what Orin suggested.

"...I understood she had been taken prisoner," he mutters, mostly to himself. "I knew that, I had seen her when they first brought her in. But I swear I never touched her. I didn't think anyone would..."

"-It doesn't really matter much what you thought. What's done is done, and she's the one who has to live with what happened to her. With what got stolen from her."

Pinning him against the rocks once more, she holds her knife to Halsin's throat, thinking about how satisfying it would be to slice through the thick muscles and sinews of his neck. Thinks about how his blood must taste like the sweet honey the color of his eyes resembles.

"I ought to bleed you dry for what happened to her. I ought to end your pathetic little life- I should have let the cult have its way with you for what you let happen. I should have told Astarion to let you rot."

Despite the threat, Halsin doesn't flinch or even try to shove her off him even though he could probably manage that quite easily, thanks to his size.

"Do what you must," he tells her, even as his voice wavers and fear flashes in his eyes. "But for what it is worth, I am sorry about what you and Minthara have endured."

Do it, the monster inside her purrs. Gut him. Punish him for what he let happen.

"I have never lost a child, so I will not say I understand what you are feeling," he continues, speaking carefully, like he's trying to calm a rabid animal. "But I am no stranger to grief."

Don't listen to him. Hurt him. End him.

"It is more painful than words can say. A bottomless pit of despair. I know it well- the feeling as if all joy has been sucked from the world, never to return."

He does not understand. He cannot understand. Cut out his prattling tongue.

He puts a hand on her wrist, but doesn't try to move it.

"You are in pain, child. I will not pretend I can soothe it with hollow platitudes, but please. We must keep our wits about us if we are to be free of this place, and if you are to return to her."

Orin lets out a great, shuddering breath, lowering her blade and shaking her head as she takes a few staggering steps backward, the monster within howling in indignant deprivation.

"...I felt them, you know," she whimpers.

"Pardon?"

Orin hugs her arms tight to herself, wishing it did anything to banish the cold sinking down into her bones.

"The baby," she says. "Through the tadpole. I felt their little mind. I heard their little heart. I felt the way they leapt for joy when their mother laughed. I felt how they perked up when she'd play music for them..."

Her heart aches so deeply she wishes she could die.

"I promised them I would protect them, even if it was from me, then-"

She chokes, stubbornly wiping away tears to keep her vision clear to face the endless perils around them.

"-I felt them die. I felt the way the curse warped them, turned them into something wrong. I failed them. And I felt it the moment I failed them."

She feels a giggle mix with a sob as they bubble up her chest, coming out as a sound that's barely even human.

"She wanted that baby so fucking badly ," she tells him, finally turning her head to see Halsin's agonized expression. "No matter how it came to be, no matter how scared she was about it, she wanted them so much. And she had wanted me to be there with her."

Putting a hand against her forehead, she isn't sure if it's gone ice cold or if she's running a fever.

Not that she has the time to worry about that.

More shadows. More fighting. Always more fighting. A dance of death that never ends.

It's hard to keep her footing, and part of her just wants to let the shadows claim her, but the thought of leaving Minthara alone, never knowing what became of her, is too much for her to bear.

So she cuts down one after the other, the occasional flash of lightning out of her peripheral vision letting her know Halsin is still living.

"I told her I would help," she says, unable to stop the words from spilling out of her mouth, even now. "We would say the baby was mine, we would protect them if Minthara's mother tried to hurt them. We would raise it together, whatever else we decided to do."

The screaming and cackling of the shadows nearly drowns her out, but still she speaks, not even sure if Halsin can hear her anymore.

"I thought maybe I could escape what I am. I could be happy, because she and the baby were happy. But I guess there's no running from what I am. I failed both of them."

There's the terrible, grating sound of bone on bone as her body starts to warp and contort in unnatural ways, her two arms splitting into four and sprouting their wicked set of claws.

Getting words out becomes difficult as her face splits and contorts into an alien shape, jaw splitting and blooming with its rows of jagged teeth. Still, she can't stop herself, even as her voice morphs into more of a roar.

"Why...couldn't I protect her?!" she demands, choking on every syllable. "Why couldn't...I save them? I just...I just wanted..."

She isn't sure what she wanted, anymore, her vision stained red and her mind only screaming for one thing.

Murder.

Sure, these creatures are a pitiful offering, considering they're already dead once-over. But it's better than nothing, and the screams they let out as her four sets of claws shred them to pieces are satisfying, at least.

Rip and tear. Crush and slice.

Beat. Bite. Kill. Kill more.

By the time she returns to her normal shape, she isn't the least bit satisfied. Not with living blood so close to her. But she fights the urge down.

Halsin does his best to keep up as she runs, helping her cut their path forward even as the ground warps and cracks beneath their feet. A beam of radiant light shot from his hands clears a way for them to keep moving.

"Why do I fuck everything up?!" she cries out, even as she never breaks pace.

She rakes her nails across the exposed skin of her arm, shivering, shaking, crying her eyes out as she draws blood.

"Why couldn't I do anything?" she wails. "Why wasn't it enough? Why couldn't I do anything to save the baby? And why-"

Shame rises up like bile in her throat, and she struggles not to vomit.

"-Why am I still almost relieved about it?"

They come to a stop once they've finally shaken the monsters, just for a second, to catch their breath.

Halsin looks around to confirm that, at least for the moment, they are alone.

He urges her to sit, despite them not really being able to afford a rest, keeping enough distance that he is not touching her directly.

"What do you mean?"

"...When she first told me, I asked if she could get rid of it," she explains, the admission burning her alive with shame. "I was scared. I wondered what her mother would say about it- if she would hurt her or the baby. I wondered what we would do if it ended up looking like him. "

She throws her hands up in the air, wishing she could choke on her own tongue.

"That's before having to wonder whose...you know. Which one took. Whether they would wise up and realize I wasn't really their mother. And whether it'd resent me for it."

"A biological parent is an accident of genetics," Halsin tries to reassure her. "To be a true parent is a choice. I am certain that they would understand."

"I feel like I still would've fucked it up..."

Somehow, in spite of everything, Halsin laughs.

"All we can do in life is our best. There is no sense worrying."

Orin just nods, standing up on shaking legs trying not to be nauseous from the world constantly spinning around her.

Before too long, something catches her attention. Something faint and fading, but enough to remove all other thoughts from her mind.

"What is it?"

"Do you smell that?" she asks, holding a hand up.

"Smell what?"

"Lavender."

"What-"

Halsin takes a moment to take a deep breath, a disbelieving expression dawning on his face.

"You're right- he must be close. But we must be more precise if we are to find him quickly."

Find him.

Now isn't that the tricky part?

With a burst of gold light, the figure of Halsin is replaced by the hulking silhouette of a cave bear, nose in the air to suss out the direction the scent is coming from.

If they can just make it a little farther...

Just a little farther, if they can escape the shadows a little longer...

Before she can second-guess herself, she thinks back to the words half-sung by the unfortunate Fist waiting back at the in, and the words start spilling out.

"We see the shadows, they get darker, but our hiding place is brighter- "

Halsin gives her as incredulous a look a bear can muster as they run, but the words seem to do something- the shadows shriek in discomfort, shrinking back from her as she sings.

Somehow- she doesn't know how- the words seem to hold the monsters at bay.

So, she keeps singing.

"Monsters snuffling and stalking, in the shade where we are walking- "

A shambling mound of something fetid and foul lashes out, but hits an invisible barrier that sets it alight.

Even with this thin protection, swarms of undead and shadows and darkness draw in ever closer.

The ice-cold grip of fear seizes her racing heart, making her voice crack under the weight of it, but she forces the words out anyway.

"- We are fearsome, black and red- "

"- We are living, they are dead -"

She and Halsin exchange startled glances, knowing who that tiny, feeble voice must belong to.

Halsin jerks his head in the direction of the sound, urging her to follow.

Rotten teeth and necrotic claws rain down on them, only held back by whatever magic is keeping them away.

" -We are fearsome, black and red! We are living, they are dead! We are fearsome! Black and red! We are living! They are dead ! We are fearsome! Black and red! We are living! They are dead! "

She keeps it up like a chant, like a prayer to a god she isn't sure can hear them here.

The voice sings along with her for as long as he's able, until apparently losing the strength to keep going.

The soft smell of fresh lavender surrounds them, cutting through the stale air of the Shadowfell. Clusters of soft purple flowers sprout up from barren ground- the only respite of color in the miserable monochrome landscape.

Humming the tune of the song a bit off-key, a small, familiar figure lays curled up in the middle of the flowers.

The one she'd turned into during the fight at the goblin camp. The small fey child with short, velveteen antlers and wide eyes that seem to see right through her.

It takes a great effort, but the boy manages to raise his head up and give them something like a smile.

He holds his arms out toward Halsin, who abruptly returns to his elven shape.

As the man wraps him in his cloak and pulls him close, Thaniel manages to croak out the final line.

"... Two of us, safe til the end ."

As soon as the words are out, the boy goes limp, his breath coming in awful, rattling gasps.

The flowers start to wither the instant his eyes shut, but whatever protection he offered keeps them safe as they search for the way back.

Wherever "back" means, with the world constantly shifting around them.

Somehow, while carrying Thaniel, Halsin is able to navigate through the desolate, nightmarish world around them, until he gets Orin's attention by clearing his throat.

"There-"

Sure enough, up ahead they see the glowing disk of golden light that promises to return them to the proper plane.

Good- if Orin never takes a trip to the Shadowfell again, she'll be happier for it.

Halsin tightens his grip on the shivering child, not allowing himself to look back at the barren hellscape behind them.

Finally, finally, they burst from the portal back onto the rocky platform they'd left behind.

"I've got him!" Halsin shouts, before really registering the state of their surroundings. Once he does, his face quickly falls.

It's, for lack of a better term, a total and complete clusterfuck.

Shadowheart is doubled over a seemingly unconscious Lae'zel, murmuring frantic prayers and healing incantations to close the gaping, necrotic wounds covering her body, makeup streaked with tears, chainmail armor badly torn, pale skin covered in cuts and deep bruises.

Wyll leans heavily against Karlach, clutching at a terrible burn on his side- seemingly a stab wound she'd seared shut out of desperation.

Astarion is, somehow, even more deathly pale than usual, clutching a limp, totally unmoving mess of bloodied purple fabric to his chest, red eyes staring out into nothing.

It takes a few seconds for her to realize it's Gale.

Or, rather, Gale's corpse.

Orin opens her mouth to say something, but she gets the wind knocked clean out of her when Minthara nearly bowls her over, snatching her up in a crushingly tight hug.

She's trying to speak to her, but the only noises that come out of Minthara's throat are strained not-quite-sobs and desperate gasps for air. Orin doesn't know what else to do but cling to her, staring at the empty husk that used to be Gale.

"...What happened?" she manages to choke out, as Lae'zel rolls over and vomits up bloody bile, forcibly brought back to consciousness as Shadowheart's healing magic does its work.

Minthara shakes her head, clutching her tighter still.

"It got real bad, soldier," Karlach whimpers. "We were starting to think you'd never come back..."

"What happened to Gale-"

Wyll shuts his one good eye.

"He'd tried to grab you when you fell in," he says. "He..."

He pantomimes slicing his hand off.

"Not sure what happened, it was just too hectic. But I think he must have bled out. Or he couldn't keep up after he got injured."

Astarion buries his face in Gale's graying hair, shoulders shaking violently with soundless sobs. Halsin bows his head, letting out a long sigh of despair.

"...Shit," is all Orin can manage to say.

She can feel Minthara's knees buckling under her own weight, so she helps her to the ground, trying to wrap her mind around what the fuck happened while she was gone.

"Hello!" a chipper, yet slightly mechanical voice chirps, snapping everyone to attention.

"Is that-"

"I am a projection of the wizard Gale of Waterdeep. If you're hearing me, this means that I have unfortunately prematurely perished."

"The hells?"

Glancing upward, Orin sees a translucent projection of Gale smiling at everyone, as though nothing is currently wrong.

"It is of the utmost importance that you listen to this message, else there will be catastrophic consequences. Now, you will need-"

"-That will not be necessary."

That voice again- the one that sounds like cold wind through an empty tomb. Like the night breeze rustling the grass in a lonely graveyard...

She looks up to see the familiar skeletal figure suddenly standing in their midst, a heavy, leather-bound tome in his withered hands.

Astarion finally looks up, his eyes somehow bloodshot despite his undead condition.

" I must stress the vitality of following these instructions ," the projection insists. "If the proper steps are not followed, the consequences will be-"

"-Enough."

Unfazed by the dire surroundings (or by the projection of Gale's constant yammering), the figure opens up his book and starts rifling through the pages, seeming more bored than anything else.

When he finds what he's looking for, an ornate quill pen appears in his free hand.

"By doom and dusk," he says, an eerie greenish glow emanating from Gale's corpse, "I strike thy name from the archives."

With a swish of his quill, he slashes through something.

"Rise."

With that command, Gale lets out a great gasp and shoots upright, clutching at his chest with his remaining hand.

...Remaining?

Orin's stomach drops, realizing whose hand accompanied her to the Shadowfell.

Astarion lets out a giant, shuddering breath, disbelief and relief etched into his handsome face in equal measure.

"Don't scare me like that!"

Gale frowns, still dazed as he looks around to get his bearings.

He looks down at the stump where his left hand used to be, and his frown deepens.

"...How ya feeling, soldier?" Karlach asks, warily.

Gale takes a few seconds to respond, like he's lost in thought.

"I..."

He looks from the stump to Astarion and back again a few times, taking in everything that happened.

"Well," he finally says, with a weak smile."Things were a bit rough there, but I think I'm all right now."

Astarion squints at him, taking a few moments for it to set in that Gale is making a joke.

"...Oh piss off, will you?" he snaps, even as a half-sob-half-laugh bubbles up from his chest. "Are you seriously making puns at a time like this?!"

Gale groans in pain, but does his best to pull him in for a hug.

"Glad to be back," he murmurs. "It could have gotten a bit messy if I hadn't."

Orin nods, Minthara still clinging on to her, her mind still racing.

"...What are you?" She asks the mysterious figure.

"The keeper of balance," he answers, as calmly as ever.

Before Orin can ask him what the fuck that means, the figure is gone.

As annoyed as she is, Orin can't even let herself feel that for now.

She isn't sure how long she was in the Shadowfell, but she figures it won't be that long before the people back at Moonrise start to wonder where they've gone.

Still, the tiredness is settling into her bones, and she desperately wants to rest before they do anything else. Besides that, Thaniel will need seeing to, considering he's still motionless in Halsin's arms, not responding to any of his attempts to rouse him.

"Can you guys get up?" she asks, helping Minthara back to her feet.

With a lot of hemming and hawing, and a lot of groaning and grunting, the rest of the party manages to get up as well, leaning on each other as they hobble back to the inn.

(Orin can't help but notice Minthara is considerably less injured than the others, but decides not to think about it and just be grateful for now.)

Last Light is mostly dark inside, with most people still being in bed this early. However, Isobel is still awake, tending to a fire while sitting on the floor of her bedroom, gray eyes staring into nothingness.

She gives them a bewildered look before shaking her head and sighing at the sorry state of them.

"You've got a habit of getting into trouble, don't you?"

Even as she says this, she ushers everyone into the room, having Halsin lay Thaniel out on her bed and grabbing extra blankets from the closet.

She tries to grab Gale to look him over, but he waves her off with a shaky smile.

"I'll be fine," he assures her. "I don't mind waiting, let's get him looked after first."

Isobel doesn't seem to like that answer, but she pushes Gale to sit down at least before she turns back to Thaniel as requested, kneeling at the bedside and getting straight to work.

While she looks the boy over, Halsin watches her, growing more and more visibly agitated the longer he watches.

Isobel gives him a sad look, cocking her head in confusion.

"Are you well?" she asks. "You've gone a bit pale."

"I-"

Halsin scratches at his scalp, shaking his head.

"-It's nothing," he lies. "What about Thaniel?"

Isobel frowns, brushing cropped brown hair off the boy's fevered forehead.

"The Shadowfell did something to him," she says. "Something strange."

"What do you mean?" Wyll asks her. "What can we do for him?"

"It's hard to say," she answers. "It's almost like..."

She starts to stand up, but then thinks better of it and sinks back down into her chair.

"...It's like something's torn his soul apart."

"So what do we do for him?" Karlach asks. "Poor guy's not gonna be lifting any curses like this."

"We must find a way to make him whole again," Halsin replies. "Return the missing part of him."

"Alright," Astarion says, watching Isobel like a hawk as she turns to patch up the stump where Gale's hand had been. "How exactly do we find the other half of him, then? Seems we'd need a miracle."

"Nothing's stopped us yet," Gale points out, sounding remarkably chipper given the circumstances. "We found the first half- maybe we'll get lucky twice."

"Lucky?!" Astarion hollers. "You just lost a bloody hand!"

"Ah, poppycock," Gale counters. "It's only a flesh wound- I'll be right as rain in a bit."

Astarion looks at him like he's sprouted a second head, before shaking his own in befuddlement.

"Unbelievable..."

In spite of their dire circumstances, Lae'zel musters up a smile.

"Something so minor will not keep a true warrior down for long."

"You should at least rest for a little while," Isobel points out. "All of you. You look dreadful."

Hard to argue with that- everyone else looks absolutely ragged, and Orin is sure she doesn't look much better after her unwilling excursion into the Shadowfell.

Halsin stays by Thaniel's side, fussing over him and trying to keep himself together. Isobel busies herself looking after the others' injuries, even though she looks ready to pass out herself.

The second she's out of her armor for their brief respite, Minthara wraps Orin up in a blanket and pulls her in close, petting her hair and murmuring things Orin doesn't understand.

For once, because of the sheer exhaustion sinking down into her bones, she lapses into a dreamless sleep, nestled safely in her lover's arms.

Chapter Text

If only a dreamless sleep could last...

This strange copy of herself walks in deliberate circles around her, holding her knife out toward her.

"Father grows tired of these games you play," she growls, teeth bared. "We are not meant for these dull affairs. We are made for so much more."

This twisted mirror of her, so right and yet so wrong at the same time, slips behind her and grabs her hips, pulling her in so her back is pressed flush against her chest.

"I grow weary watching these soft flesh-bags begging for the knife. Why must we indulge them?"

Orin opens her mouth to retort, to defend her new friends somehow, but her throat won't allow her to make a sound.

"Father has so much more in mind for us, but now-"

Her mirror-image has a dagger to her neck, running her tongue along her jawline and the shell of her ear.

Cold air hits her skin, and it's only now that she realizes she's been stark naked this entire time.

Her twisted mirror-image grabs a fistful of her hair and twists her head around so she can see the pair of them reflected in a pool of shiny blood.

All her rough, not-quite-healed scars are on full display, shiny in some places, rough and keloid in others. Deep bruise-rings sit beneath her eyes, testifying to far too much work done on far too little sleep.

She looks ragged. Rough. Battered and beaten, nothing like the polished, made-up version of herself holding her aloft, draped in gold jewelry and carrying herself so confidently.

"Look at it, all lost and wandering. Snuffling about in the mud with the piggies while our blood-kin soaks up all of Father's glory!"

The knife traces slow, deliberate circles around her right breast, just deep enough to draw blood. Her doppleganger's breath is hot and rank against her bare skin, coming in great, shuddering gasps.

The knife trails downward, leaving a bright red trail down to her pubic bone.

"Do not run from Father," the reflection starts to beg, half-sobbing as she does. "Father loves us. He has always loved us. He only wants us to be free..."

The reflection's free hand busies itself between her legs, sending disgusting jolts of pleasure through Orin's unwilling body.

She tries to squirm, but her body won't obey her mind as she's fucked by her own fingers.

"Shh,shh. Hush, do not fight it. Do as we say, and all will be well."

Abruptly, sharp nails rake along her insides, making her howl in agony.

"Father loves you so very much..."

Jolting back to consciousness, Orin already knows she hasn't slept anywhere near enough- probably no more than an hour when she feels like she needs a thousand.

She looks to her side, only to find Minthara is no longer there.

She gets up, squinting in the darkness as she tries not to panic.

No sight of her here- only half-sleeping harpers and exhausted tieflings.

She does her best to stumble through the darkness as silently as possible, the mounting dread that something is terribly wrong gnawing at her mind.

The silence is almost too complete- too perfect.

Lae'zel is still asleep on the floor, curled up around the Githyanki egg, like she's trying to protect it.

It's weirdly cute. But not what she's looking for.

There's a strange sound coming from an abandoned closet behind the dusty bar.

A low, pained sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

Orin's hand shakes a bit as she puts it on the handle, and opens up the closet while holding his breath.

She finds Minthara huddled at the far side of the supply closet, head bowed, rocking back and forth in a gentle, repetitive rhythm as she clutches something to her chest, wrapped in a blanket.

"...Hey. What are you doing?"

It's as if Minthara doesn't even hear her, lost in her own head.

Peeking out from the neatly wrapped blanket, Orin catches a glimpse of a round, flannel ear.

It's at about that time she notices Minthara's shirt is unfastened, hanging off her shoulder, even though she must certainly be cold.

Orin kneels down in front of her, waving a hand in front of unseeing eyes.

"Did you...swaddle the bear?"

Still no answer, though Minthara mouths something against her little blanketed bundle.

Maybe she's still asleep? Surely all the anxiety and strain the last few days have put on them could cause a random bout of somnambulism, right?

Orin shuts the closet door crouches down to be closer to her in the cramped space, and can hear that, actually, she's murmuring in her native language, just barely loud enough to be heard if she holds her breath and really tries to listen.

She cradles the hodgepodge creature against her bare breast gingerly, as if she's unsure how to be gentle with it.

(She can't help but wonder how many times Minthara has actually been treated gently, for her to be so unsure...)

Even though it feels like yet another violation, Orin wills her tadpole to work its way into her mind, wanting to understand, wanting to know- but most importantly, wanting to help.

Suddenly, she can hear a baby crying, as sharp and crisp as if it were really there. And, just as suddenly, she can understand what Minthara is saying- presumably to this phantom child.

"You must eat, little one," she says, sounding so heartbroken as she does. "It will be well, do not cry, you are safe."

Still, the crying rings out as harshly as before- the same sharp, discordant sound that came from...whatever thing Minthara had given birth to.

"You must eat," she says again, more desperately this time, tears silently spilling down her cheeks in her distress."Do not cry- you will feel better when you have eaten..."

She curls in on herself, holding the bear tight against herself as the wailing of a baby that isn't really there grows more and more shrill.

"I am your mother, listen to me...do not cry...do not cry..."

It would be so easy to kill her right now. To put her out of her misery, to end the poor woman's suffering...

"It is your fault, you know."

The voice startles Orin- she's heard it before.

It's the voice of Minthara's mother, coming from seemingly everywhere and nowhere at the same time, ice cold and dripping venomous judgment.

"She told you a hundred times, did She not?" the voice scolds. "She told you you were not ready. She told you, and you did not listen. If you would have minded Her, you would not be in this position. Now look at the state of you- what pathetic excuse for a mother cannot soothe her own child?"

"Forgive me," Minthara chokes, though Orin isn't sure if it's directed toward her mother or the child.

Looking through her eyes, Orin looks down at the rotted, disgusting corpse swaddled in the little blue blanket. Maggots swarm in the baby's orbital sockets, falling out of its mouth and nose as it cries, reaching out to her with necrotic, scabbed hands.

It's horrific. Disgusting. Disturbing, even.

So why does Minthara still look down at it with adoration...?

...She'll worry about that later.

Orin can't bear to see her in distress anymore.

"Hey, are you awake?" she calls out.

When Orin doesn't get an answer, she decides to take a risk and reach out to shake her shoulder gently, hoping to startle her out of her reverie.

With a sharp gasp and a jolt, Minthara's eyes come back into focus, like she's been woken from a nightmare.

She looks around the darkness, at Orin, and at the bear still in her arms.

"What-"

She touches her cheek, startled to find it wet.

"What was I...?"

"I don't know. You might have been dreaming?"

"I-"

Minthara sets the bear in her lap and fumbles to cover herself, still a bit dazed.

She tries to take a deep breath to calm herself, but cringes at the sharp pain in her chest as she does.

"I am not sure," she manages to respond. "I may have been."

She straightens herself up as best she can, then starts fumbling around to gather her bearings.

They can hear voices just beyond the door, as people start to move about.

"We are rested enough," she says. "We ought to head back to Moonrise before we are missed."

Orin nods, and they steel themselves to face the world once more.

A few of the tiefling children are speaking in hushed, worried voices while Karlach tries to calm them.

The curly haired one (Mirkon, right?) stomps his foot in frustration.

"Mol would do the same for any of us!" he declares. "We have to!"

"What can we do, though?" Silfy asks. "We can't fight those shadow things..."

Karlach kneels down, clearing her throat to get their attention.

"That's awfully brave of you, but I think you better leave this to the grownups, yeah?"

"But-"

"-She's right, Mirkon," Mattis says. "I mean- look at her!"

He waves his hand up and down in Karlach's direction.

"She's a proper adventurer, isn't she? If anyone can get Mol, she can!"

"I-"

Mirkon has the widest, saddest eyes as he looks at her.

"Please, bring her back? She's done a lot for us, we can't just leave her..."

Karlach stands up, grinning and flexing her muscles.

"Just leave it to Mama K!" she declares. "We'll get her back safe, so just sit tight and don't worry about a thing!"

She turns and waves Orin and Minthara down, still smiling as though all's right in the world.

"We ready to head out, then?" she asks.

"As ready as we'll ever be, I suppose."

"Great, Wyll's just talking to Jaheira, so it'll just be a minute before we're all ready to go."

Orin nods, though her mind is wandering elsewhere.

The first waking harpers mill about attending to their duties, taking stock of supplies and making what repairs they can to keep the rotting framework of the inn standing.

Minthara goes to speak to the quartermaster while Orin stands around feeling stupid, watching everyone go about their lives as if things were normal.

Out of her peripheral vision, she spots an ox that stands placidly in its stall, tail swishing in a low arc. A bit smaller than the others, but its coat is shiny, and its horns are sharp.

It looks familiar, somehow. Like she's seen it before, somehow.

Probably a silly thought, but she can't shake the odd familiarity...

She snaps herself out of her daydream, looking around to realize she isn't sure where Minthara went.

After a brief moment of panic, she spots the back of her head peering into an abandoned shed and approaches her.

"What's-"

-Minthara holds up a hand, then points toward what she's eavesdropping on.

Orin creeps forward and holds her breath so she can listen.

She hears Astarion and Gale, speaking in hushed tones.

"-Is something wrong?" Gale inquires.

"Wrong?"

Astarion laughs, but it's a nervous, obviously fake laugh.

"Nothing is wrong," he insists. "It's just-"

Orin dares to peek around the corner, seeing Astarion looking deflated.

"-I...I feel awful."

"Awful? Why?"

Fiddling with his fingers, Astarion shifts his weight around before continuing.

"See, I had a plan," he admits. "A nice, simple plan. Find someone in camp. Seduce them. Sleep with them. Play on their feelings so they couldn't betray me-"

Gale looks either confused or hurt, but keeps a mostly level head.

"So you slept with me because you thought you could get something out of it?" he asks.

"Of course! I needed protection- and seducing you was easy, quite frankly, so-"

The cavalier smile Astarion wore fades, replaced by something else. Something Orin can't put her finger on.

"-Imagine how stupid I felt when I actually started feeling something for you."

He rolls his eyes, as if the notion is ridiculous.

"Trust me. I wasn't happy about it. But..."

He lets out a heavy sigh, bowing his head in shame. When he speaks again, it's with a painful sincerity she hasn't heard from him before.

"You deserve something real. I want this to be something real, but-"

Minthara and Orin exchange puzzled glances.

Both of them realize this is not their conversation to overhear, but neither of them can help but listen.

"I don't think I know how else to be with someone," he confesses, turning his head away like a dog that's been caught doing something naughty. "But I couldn't keep it to myself, not after-"

-Gale laughs. A genuine laugh that must catch Astarion off guard as much as it does Orin.

"What's funny?!"

"Nothing!" Gale insists. "I just-"

Orin leans in nearly far enough to fall over and blow her cover.

"-I wish the timing was better."

Gale pulls at the back of his neck with a sigh.

"Time seems so infinite when you're young," he confesses. "A month is an age. A year is a lifetime. It's funny how much faster it seems to go when you realize how little of it you've got left."

"...You're not still entertaining the nonsense that old codger told you, are you?"

"I'd be lying to you if I said I wasn't. Especially considering I've already done the whole dying thing once now. But..."

He hesitates for just a second, before the words start tumbling out of his mouth, as if rushing to be spoken before he loses the nerve.

"Gods. If I had more time I would do this properly. Make some grandiose gesture to prove I mean what I'm saying. But I might not have that so I just need to get on with it, don't I? I'm in love with you."

Astarion looks like he's been struck upside the head, jaw slack, eyes wide.

"...You mean that?"

"I wouldn't lie to you. Not about something this big."

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, like a pair of love-struck teenagers instead of grown men.

"So...what now?" Astarion mutters.

"I don't know. What do you want, now?" Gale asks.

"I-I've never done this before," Astarion admits. "This whole being-in-love business, I mean."

He breaks out in a grin like Orin's never seen him wear before.

"Honestly," he giggles, grabbing Gale's hand in both of his, "I have no idea what we're doing. But..."

He sounds for all the world like a lovesick schoolboy, which is almost cute.

"...This is nice."

Gale nods, face bright red and eyes alight, even as he struggles not to cry.

"Damn you," he grumbles, though he isn't really complaining. "Damn you for making me care about living."

"Well pardon me for giving a damn, darling."

He can't keep the smile off his face, even as he says that.

Orin grabs Minthara's wrist and tugs her away, already feeling like they've intruded enough.

She isn't sure whether to feel glad for the two of them for finding each other, annoyed that it took one of them literally dying to come out and say something, or just amused that it's happening now, of all times.

Of course, none of them have ever done things the usual way. Why would it change now?

"You alright?" she asks, nudging Minthara to get her attention while she's staring off at nothing in particular.

"Hm?"

Minthara shakes her head.

"I am well enough. Do not worry about me."

That's a bald-faced lie, but Orin doesn't push her luck.

They wait at the main gates until the others arrive, and act as though they've heard nothing.

Gale is walking with an extra spring in his step, now, and Astarion looks like a massive weight has been taken off his back. Accompanying him is a very large, very fluffy candle-flame tabby cat that trots along with soundless footsteps.

The telltale trio of scars across his face are enough to let her know that Halsin has decided it would be best to remain incognito for the return to Moonrise. He swishes his tail at Orin in greeting, but doesn't make a sound.

Karlach somehow manages to be as chipper as ever, though she seems a bit jumpier than usual as they strike out once more. For his part, Wyll walks with a slight limp, but that's probably just from the fight they just made it out of.

That's what she tells herself, anyway.

Their waypoint takes them back to Moonrise Towers, in the little abandoned alcove where nobody ever wanders by. That lets them slip back in without anyone being any the wiser about where they've gone.

Shadowheart is quick to make her escape- possibly not wanting to endure Minthara's ugly looks in her direction any longer.

As everyone else goes their separate ways to look for any sort of clue as to what to do next, Orin and Minthara find themselves on the upper floors again, hoping to rifle through the library a bit.

Rounding a corner, she almost bumps straight into the person approaching from the opposite side.

She has the immediate instinct to run the opposite way, but Ketheric does not seem fazed.

"Ah, I was hoping to run into you," he says, in as close to a friendly tone as a man like him can probably muster. "Come-"

With a nod in Minthara's general direction to invite her along as well, he gestures down the hall.

"Walk with me."

After a quick glance back at Minthara, Orin follows.

Too nervous to look at Ketheric directly, she instead watches the near-completely skeletal dog that walks alongside him, head high, clearly on alert despite no longer having any eyes.

They travel down another one of those deserted corridors, waiting for him to speak.

"A few of the others have inquired after the former True Soul Nere," he begins, in a deadpan tone that's hard to interpret.

Orin scowls, nose wrinkling in disgust even hearing his name spoken.

"What about him?"

"Wondering why he has not returned. But I do not want gossip being spread amongst Her followers, so I have not told the others his fate. And I will not, if you do not wish it to be told."

Awfully thoughtful for a mass-murdering cult leader, Orin can't help but think.

"Tell them what you like," Minthara answers, face carefully composed. "It is no concern of mine if he is revealed for the filth he was in life."

"I thought as much."

Ketheric doesn't smile, per se, but he seems satisfied by that as he turns his attention back to Orin.

"I hope whatever you did to him helped get your impulses out of your system- I would hate for you and your brother to get into another spat at such an important time."

"I don't even remember what we were fighting about in the first place," Orin answers, without thinking.

Ketheric raises an eyebrow at her. Then, he puts the back of his hand against her forehead, his frown deepening as he looks her over.

(She must really not be acting like her old self, if even he's concerned about her.)

The dog approaches the pair of them, sniffing the air intently, her bony tail starting to wag just a little.

Ketheric watches his dog with a placid demeanor, like nothing in the world is wrong.

"I suppose Squire missed your company."

Orin nods along, watching the dog as she continues to examine them, glowing green eyes seeming to see everything.

"There is one more matter I would like to discuss before you go to find Balthazaar."

"And what would that be?"

"Marcus has not returned from his assignment."

Orin's heart starts hammering in her chest, terrified for a moment she's been found out.

"What's that got to do with me?" she asks, praying that she can keep calm.

"He was to retrieve something important to me. Someone important to me. But it is becoming clear he has failed."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Minthara perk up, possibly already thinking the same thing she is.

"Is that so?"

"She probably thinks I do not know where she's hiding. In truth, I had been waiting for her to come around and realize I only had her best interests in mind. I seem to have underestimated how stubborn she would be."

He shakes his head, letting out a weary sigh.

"It seems she'll need some encouragement to get her to come home. Of all people, I'm sure you can understand the importance of a relationship between a father and his daughter."

Orin decides she won't think too hard about that, at least not right now.

"She is holed up with a group of harpers in an inn on the outskirts of town. It will be hard to miss- since you are heading out anyway, can I trust you to retrieve her?"

Orin's mind starts racing as badly as her heart, the gears in her brain whirring away as she puts things together.

He was a good man, once. A Selunite, like me.

Now that she looks closer, she can see the similarities in their features- the same sloped, tired eyes, the same worry-lines in their brow, the similar angles in their faces that show even through a full beard.

(She wonders, for just a moment, why Isobel seems to want to hide this fact from everyone, but decides it's probably not her business.)

"We'll do what we can," she says, not wanting to pry any further, knowing it would probably just be upsetting for both of them.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Squire cocks her head from one side to the other, sitting in front of Minthara and peering up at her unblinkingly.

Minthara ponders her for a minute, then gives the creature a brief pat on the head.

In that moment, the undead beast becomes just another dog happily wagging her tail, seeming like she wants to say something but barely manages to restrain herself.

Ketheric keeps talking, but Orin suddenly finds herself having a hard time listening.

The ringing in her ears is unbearable, causing her entire skull to reverberate from it and drowning out all other sound.

Has it been bad this whole time? Did she simply not notice?

Suddenly, it feels like an ice pick has been driven into her skull, right behind her eye socket stabbing into her sinus cavity.

It's unbearable. Unendurable. Even her tadpole seems to be in pain, thrashing about in her brain tissue- she swears she can hear it shrieking inside her.

She sees Ketheric's mouth move, sees him look concerned.

She feels Minthara put a hand on her, but can't make out the question she asks her.

She feels her knees hit the floor.

She sees Squire approach her, pawing at her and letting out a low, concerned whine.

Sh doesn't get to think much more, because something like a strong electric shock goes through her, and the world goes blank.

Chapter Text

"Poor pet. Sweet pet. Look at it, hardly able to keep its head upright."

Orin glares daggers at this polished version of herself that dares to mock her, a contemptuous sneer curling black-painted lips.

She smiles and steps away, reaching out toward something Orin can't see.

Her heart sinks as Minthara materializes in her arms, completely bare and seemingly unconscious. Her middle is rounded and swollen, dark skin taut and covered in bright red stretchmarks and black, sickly veins.

She lets out a soft sigh in her sleep as the copy of Orin caresses the swell of her belly, cooing in a saccharine way.

"It wants its love to be happy, but happiness is not for her. Bringing more misery no matter how it struggles."

The twisted dagger that always finds its way into her hand traces a path along it, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake.

"Did it think it could protect?" the not-Orin growls. "Did it think it could save?"

Before Orin can cry out, beg for mercy, panic, the dagger plunges into Minthara's belly, something putrid and foul spilling out onto the ground.

Minthara finally wakes, eyes wide as she starts to choke on her own blood while Orin remains frozen in place.

"Only the blade can give salvation. You waste your time on this sorry soul who isn't even fit to be an offering to our Father!"

The copy-Orin digs her fingers into Minthara's slit belly, fishing around in her insides as Orin starts to hear a baby crying.

When her hand grabs onto something and pulls it out, however, there is no baby. Rather, a handful of squirming, half-rotted illithid tadpoles come spilling out of her insides.

With howls of indignant rage, the not-Orin throws the tadpoles at her- most fall to the ground limply, but a few hit Orin with a sickening squelch.

"Roll in the dirt more, piggy!" she screeches. "Make a joke of Father's blessings! The piggy crawls around fucking the vermin and pretending it can run!"

Orin's dream self grabs her shoulders, fingernails biting into bare flesh, eyes bulging, frothing at the mouth in indignant, blind rage.

She hurls Orin into the limp, decayed body of her lover, landing face-down amongst the tadpoles and a host of huge maggots, grown fat off Minthara's flesh.

When her copy comes back into her field of vision, she wears the form of Z'rell, speaking in her voice to mock her.

"Passed around amongst the rabble like a little toy rather than our Father's daughter. Worthless, wretched child. Rancid, hateful lamb."

She wears the skin of the prison warden now, cackling as she continues to circle her like a vulture.

"Best straighten your act up soon, before Father decides you're not worth the trouble."

Swarms of tadpoles and maggots crawl into every orifice of Orin's skull, crowding, fighting, biting until the cacophony is unbearable.

Through it though, somehow, she can still hear herself.

"Father's love is not limitless. Remember that."

-The bed she's laying in is soft. Warm. A welcome reprieve from the cold of the shadow curse.

Just a dream, she reminds herself, grabbing the pillow with shaking hands. I was only dreaming.

Orin's head feels like it's full of solid lead when she tries to lift it, the world swimming into focus with great reluctance.

She's back in that bedroom that she must have slept in during her previous life, tucked away in the bed in the corner with what seems like every possible pillow and blanket in the entire building.

"Fuck-"

"Good, you are awake."

Minthara has obviously been watching her for awhile, her brow knit in concern.

"What happened?" Orin manages to croak out, as she's given a glass bottle full of a reddish liquid that smells like cherry, but tastes more like the idea of a cherry- a cherry that really, really hates you.

"You began thrashing about and screaming," Minthara explains, stroking her hair and looking her over with a careful eye. "Foaming at the mouth so badly I thought you might be rabid. Some sort of seizure, I think."

Though her voice is level, she can tell Minthara is still worried.

"You have been sleeping for a long time. I asked General Thorm if this was typical for you, and he said it was not- but there was not much for it but to let you come back around."

"...Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Do not apologize."

Besides her episode, there's something else that Minthara is concerned about- she can see it in her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing, exactly. But-"

Standing up with a grimace and a grunt, Minthara walks to the dresser on the opposite side of the room, and returns with a neatly wrapped bundle, tied shut with a bright red ribbon.

"You had a guest when you were unconscious. And he left you a gift."

"Huh? Who?"

"He did not give me his name. But I suppose he would be a handsome man, if he put any sort of effort into grooming himself."

Setting the parcel down, she pantomimes tousling her hair with her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"I do not believe he knows what a hairbrush is, from the looks of him, and his clothing has certainly seen better days, from the smell of him. And whatever he does with his spare time left his fingernails stained black. But he had an easy smile and a confident demeanor, and quite the silver tongue. He acted as if he knew you, and told me this was a homecoming gift for you."

Minthara presses her lips into a thin line, lost in thought.

"In fact, now that I think about it, he looked quite like one of the people from your sketchbook."

"Hm."

Orin tries to think of a name, but all it does is make her headache worse.

Deciding she may as well, she opens the parcel and pulls back the brown parchment paper.

She's greeted by a brand new sketchbook with a neat leather cover and thick, sturdy paper that smells heavenly when she cracks it open to flip through the blank pages. Alongside it is a tin with a new set of pencils, a pack of fresh artist's charcoal, and an envelope sealed with a black wax sigil.

Breaking the seal on the envelope, she's greeted by cramped, immaculate handwriting.

It's a simple message, scrawled in black ink.

Welcome back.

Forgive me for not speaking with you in person, but I'd been told you were indisposed at the moment so I figured this was the next best thing.

I knew when Ferinix refused to tell me what happened to you that he hadn't been able to bring himself to kill you, but I'm still impressed you managed to find your way back here as quickly as you did.

I know we have never seen eye-to-eye, but I hope you and I can bury the hatchet from here on. After all, you and I both know there's important work ahead.

If you can't manage that, I hope you'll at least mind yourself while your brother is here.

Consider this package a peace offering of sorts; I know your father doesn't like you having these, but I figure what he doesn't know won't hurt him. It'd be a shame to let a talent like yours go to waste.

-E.G

Those initials don't ring a bell, but the weight of the art supplies in her hands is somehow comforting, bringing a faint smile to her face as she pulls out one of the pencils and draws a few tentative practice lines on the very first page.

Growing bolder, she draws a few crude shapes, the motions somehow familiar to her hand as she drags the graphite across the page.

It feels a bit like coming home after a very long time away.

Minthara watches over her shoulder, pulling an unpleasant face as she chews on something or other.

"What are you-"

"-Just a bit of that noblestalk. I took the liberty of preserving what's left of it while you were resting, but I did need to use some of it now."

She forces herself to swallow, even though it's clearly not palatable in the least.

"So it does help?" Orin asks.

"Very much. Although it does not seem to be a cure."

Orin nods, taking Minthara's frigid hand and kissing it.

"I wish I could do more."

"You already do plenty, my love."

Orin isn't sure she believes that, but she lets it go for now.

Besides, Minthara is kissing her now, and that's far more pleasant to think about than all the troubling business.

The healing potion has her feeling much better, and Minthara's lips are soft and inviting. Maybe if she gets lost in them she can forget everything else troubling her...

"What are the others up to?" she asks, when they break for air.

"I am not certain. I have not left this room since I brought you here, but I assume they are poking their noses where they ought not to, per our usual."

Orin nods and doesn't pay it any more mind, more concerned with how the kisses and soft touches distract her from the throbbing in her head.

Before either of them really register it they're undressed again, with Minthara's head between her legs, bowed like a worshiper at a holy altar, making full use of her talented tongue and fingers to send Orin's eyes rolling into the back of her head as stars pop into her vision.

(She's given up trying to dissuade Minthara from wanting this, whether or not it's too soon to be having sex. If it makes her happy, it isn't worth arguing- especially not when it feels so good.)

Her legs shake and her head spins when she cums, and she already has the feeling it won't be the only time.

"I do not think I could ever tire of your body, my love."

Minthara wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then works her way up Orin's body, leaving a trail of kisses all the way up to her throat and straddling her waist.

"I would like for you to alter your form the same we did before," she requests, as casually as if she were asking for a glass of water.

"Eh? Was it that good?"

"It was more than good. But enjoyment is not the sole reason."

"...What's the other reason, then?" Orin dares to ask- to which Minthara answers with little prompting, shamelessly groping at Orin's breasts as she speaks.

"I want to bear your child."

Orin's mind goes blank, unable to fully process what she'd said.

"...Come again?"

"I want your child," Minthara repeats, drawing her in close. "Yours. Mine. Ours. I want to do it properly, this time."

The declaration is so out of the blue that at first, Orin isn't sure what she's supposed to say.

(Or how long this has been on her mind for...)

"Properly?"

Minthara emphasizes her point by grabbing the back of her neck and kissing her deeply.

"I want my child to come to be because she was wanted. Not because of bad circumstance or spite or because I was not able to fight back. I want her to come to be because her mothers made love."

She speaks with so much earnestness that makes Orin's heart ache, grabbing Orin's hand and pressing it against her abdomen as she whispers her desires.

"When I feel her stir inside me for the first time, I want to know her existence was purposeful. That it was not merely ill fortune that created her. When I give birth to her, I want to know it is my choice alone. And I want her to be yours."

There aren't words for Orin to properly explain the emotions coursing through her after that.

Of course, part of her wants that, too. To reclaim what the Shadow Curse had stolen from them, to live the life they wanted, to be happy again, to have that to look forward to.

But another part of her- the rational one, the worrisome one, can't help but interject...

"...I'm not sure that's a good idea," she manages to get out.

"Why not?"

Minthara frowns, looking wounded.

Orin sighs, taking her hand and kissing the back of it to keep her mouth occupied with things other than biting.

"What if they turn out like me?"

"Hm? Beautiful? Strong? Observant? Cunning? Tenacious? Would that be such an awful fate?"

Orin snarls, baring her teeth.

She grabs Minthara and flips her over, pinning her to the mattress before either of them can register what she's doing.

"That's not what I mean and you know it!"

Her knife whistles through the air, embedding itself in the fabric of the pillow millimeters from Minthara's ear.

"I'm a Bhaalspawn! If I were- If I did that, I'd be passing that on, wouldn't I?"

She digs her fingernails into her scalp, shivering from fear as much as the cold.

"They don't deserve to suffer, but if they do it'll be because of me- I can't let that happen... I can't let them be like me."

"Would it truly be so bad?" Minthara asks, brushing stray hair out of Orin's face and gazing at her with adoration. "To be strong like you, brave like you- surely we could keep her on the right path?"

She doesn't think she's ever heard Minthara sound so sincere.

"Even in Menzoberranzan, we heard tales of Gorion and his ward- another of your kind. They broke free from their father- if they could manage it, surely you can do the same. And so can she."

Orin feels her voice crack as it forces itself out of her dry throat.

"-How can you be so sure?"

"Because she will be yours. And she will be magnificent, just as you are."

Orin wants to believe this- truly, she does. But she can't silence the nagging thought that it would be beyond cruel to bring a child into this world, knowing that it would inherit everything she hates about herself...

Besides that though, another thought chews at the edges of her mind as she lays gentle kisses across Minthara's skin, passing over the blackened veins that, while fainter thanks to the noblestalk, still throb along with her heartbeat, a constant reminder of what she's endured.

A reminder that, as badly as Minthara wants it- as much as Orin does not want to think about it- there's the very present possibility that this future Minthara wants may simply be out of their grasp.

At least, out of their grasp for a very long time.

The damage from the Shadow Curse runs deep, and it's hard to tell how long it'll take to heal- if it's even something that can be healed.

Saying that feels something like admitting defeat, though. So, she stays quiet.

It would do nothing but hurt her to say so, anyway.

And Orin can't lie to herself and pretend she does not want to at least try.

So, rather than that, she decides that it's better to indulge her- at least for now.

They can talk about the troublesome things later.

Minthara breathes obscene suggestions in her ear that Orin follows, wanting to do what she can to make her lover happy, touching her in the ways she likes, pleasuring her in the ways she prefers. Trying her best to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach as she does, even as her cock takes shape and throbs eagerly in anticipation against the hollow of Minthara's thigh.

She must not be able to entirely keep the worry off her face though, because Minthara stops to frown at her.

"Is something the matter?"

"I- Do you like it better?" Orin asks, suddenly self-conscious about her genitalia though she's never even thought to feel that way before.

"My love, do not worry about that for a moment," Minthara insists, kissing her neck and pulling her close. "I adore you no matter what form your body takes. You are beautiful. Always."

Orin freezes up, unsure what to feel.

"...Even when I'm that thing? When I'm-"

"-Especially then, love."

A kiss against her cheek is all it takes to put Orin's mind at ease.

"This current form suits its purpose, nothing more," she reassures her. "Now-"

She lays back against the pillows and looks up at Orin expectantly.

"I am yours. Come to me."

She parts her legs in invitation, spreading herself open with one hand and gazing at Orin with those hungry, desperate eyes.

Whatever reservations Orin has, it's hard to hold onto them with that sort of request.

She crawls forward and grabs her hips, taking a second to admire Minthara's body before sheathing herself within it.

Despite her hands being so deathly cold, her insides are still so blissfully warm and alive.

Minthara hisses through clenched teeth, arching her back and digging her nails into the flesh of Orin's back.

"A-are you okay?" Orin asks. "Does it hurt?"

"It does," Minthara admits, shaky breath burning hot against Orin's throat. "But it is alright. I want this-"

She nuzzles the crook of Orin's neck and purrs, in spite of the pain.

"-I want you."

Even with that declaration, it's hard not to feel guilty for causing her pain, even accidentally.

After all, Minthara has endured quite enough of it already, without her adding to it...

Still, even through this, little moans of pleasure mingle with her pained whimpers and shallow gasps.

"More-"

Orin obeys, driven on by the instinctual hunger for her lover's body and by the obscene sounds it makes every time she thrusts into her.

It's easy to not think too much like this- maybe it's better this way.

The sharp, pained noises she makes gradually fade away, replaced with the soft sighs and pleas of do not stop and breathless declarations of how good she feels.

"My love," she purrs, rocking her hips upward to meet each of Orin's frantic thrusts. "My perfect little monster."

Suddenly, she smiles, wraps Orin's braid around her neck, then yanks it taut, suddenly making it near impossible to breathe.

Using her hair as something like a leash, Minthara pulls her close, gasping her words out against Orin's open mouth.

"You are mine," she reminds her. "That means all of you belongs to me. And I want all of you."

Lean, well-muscled legs wrap around Orin's waist, urging her onward. Orin complies, the pressure in her hips unbearable even as she fights for air.

"You are...my everything," she breathes, though speaking is clearly becoming difficult. "If you dare try to leave me, I will kill you. Then I will hunt you down in whatever afterlife you wind up in, and I will punish you. So do not dare-"

All Orin can do is nod, not having enough air in her lungs to respond with any words.

"Good girl."

Fuck.

Every time Minthara calls her good girl like that is as powerful as the last, heating her belly up and sending her heart racing.

She releases Orin's throat, causing stars to erupt in her vision as oxygen floods her body once more.

Her climax is so close she can practically taste it, her breath catching in her throat as she wishes she had just a little more time to spend just like this.

"I'm not going to last much longer," she manages to gasp out.

Minthara nods, ghosting her teeth along Orin's neck and digger her nails into her shoulders.

All of her reservations are swept away in the tempest of better emotions, by the hunger sated by devouring her lover in her entirety.

"Can I-"

"-Yes. I want it. I want you."

The declaration is enough to overwhelm her, convincing her that, in spite of her reservations, she wants the same thing as her lover.

(Sure, she may not know if it's possible, but there's only one way to find out, isn't there?)

Seated fully inside her lover, she loses herself, riding out her orgasm while cursing under her breath. Minthara cradles her head against her chest, praising her endlessly.

"Good girl," she coos once more. "Thank you, my love. You did very well."

It seems a bit weird to be thanking her in this situation, but the thanks is nice, all the same.

When she tries to get up, to pull out, Minthara grabs her and pulls her in close again.

"Let's stay like this," she entreats, in a soft, longing sigh. "Just for awhile."

Orin relents, laying her head against Minthara's chest and trying to will herself to relax.

She wants to pretend everything is going to be alright.

As they lay there tangled together, Minthara suddenly seems a thousand realms away, staring at the ceiling while lost in her own thoughts.

"Is something wrong?"

"Hm? Not wrong, I do not think."

Orin props herself up on an elbow, frowning at her lover.

"What is it, then?"

Minthara rolls over onto her side and manages to sit up with a grunt and a great effort.

Fumbling for her cane, she manages to limp over to the dresser and pick up the letter from their mysterious visitor.

She folds it back up to examine the wax sigil, the furrow in her brow growing steadily deeper.

"I thought this symbol seemed familiar," she remarks. "I had been wondering where I had seen it before..."

She turns it around so Orin can see it as well.

It is not an elaborate symbol- just a simple, open black handprint. Unremarkable to Orin at first glance.

"What about it?" she finally asks, when her ruined mind fails her.

"If I were a gambling woman," Minthara replies, "I would say that this is the symbol of Bane."

Orin perks up, the name sparking something within her.

"That's the god of tyranny, right?" she asks.

"Tyranny, conquest, hate, ambition- all those delightful things."

Orin nods, but finds herself not really paying all that much attention as she becomes distracted by the lewd sight of her cum running shamelessly down Minthara's leg, without the other woman even seeming to notice it (or, if she does, she certainly doesn't care).

A lurid thought crosses her mind, just for a moment. Visions of Minthara, bruised and bloodied, with a heavy chain around her neck and shackles to keep her hands in place. perpetually naked, perpetually stuffed full of her love.

Her beloved pet, hers alone-

-She shakes her head, digging her nails into the palms of her hands to reject such a debauched fantasy.

"Do you know a lot about Bane?" she asks, desperate to think about anything else.

"Not much," Minthara admits. "But if that man is a follower of his, that means one of two things- he is either some petty lordling vying for whatever scraps of power he can get his claws on, or he is a relentless despot who will let nothing stand between him and what he desires. Either way, he may be a problem."

"Hm."

Orin's mind stalls on a thought before it fully renders, but once it does, all the breath leaves her body.

Leaping out of bed, she snags the sketchbook and the package of charcoal.

Flipping to a blank page, she starts to draw with a frenetic energy like she's been possessed. Minthara watches over her shoulder as the images swarming in her mind start to take shape.

First, the symbol she knows the best- a skull, surrounded by droplets of blood, in the upper corner.

Then, she smears the charcoal across her hand, pressing it against the paper to leave an impression of it, creating an approximation of the symbol of Bane.

On the opposite page, she sketches out another skull, though more simplistic than the last. Then she adds the fingers, emanating out from the skull as if it were the palm.

Minthara follows her train of thought, crimson eyes growing wide.

She takes the charcoal from Orin's hand and draws the final portion of the symbol of the Absolute- the triangle, pointing downward, that encloses most of the other two.

Orin cranes her neck to look at her, feeling her frown deepen.

"So, this is Bane," she says, pointing to the handprint. "And this is Bhaal. So what is-"

"-Myrkul."

In the upper right corner of the page, she quickly draws another (far cruder) skull, enclosed in a triangle she scribbles in in black.

She speaks the name in a hushed, frightened whisper.

"Who?"

"Lord of Bones. Crown Prince of Murghôm. The Deathless Lord of Death. Old Lord Skull. The god of decay, of old age, of exhaustion, of death. The final and most insidious of the Dead Three."

The Dead Three.

That moniker sounds far too familiar, though her brain isn't quite able to summon up a full picture of them.

"Are you sure?"

"I cannot think of anyone else it could be."

A surge of anxiety sends Orin's head spinning, and she has to fight back the urge to throw up.

"We have to tell the others," she croaks.

"Agreed."

Minthara fumbles to make herself decent, while Orin stands in the middle of the floor, hands shaking as her armor re-materializes around her.

"...What do the Dead Three have to do with mind flayers?" she asks, as Minthara re-dresses herself once more.

"I do not know. But it frightens me. There are strange forces at work here."

Orin nods along, wishing she didn't feel so afraid.

-Or at least that she could understand why.

Chapter Text

Orin stuffs a few of her sketchbooks into her bag, figuring she may find some use for them later.

Minthara grabs her hand and they set out to find the others-

-Only to find Ketheric's skeletal dog, covered in gold filigree, sitting patiently just outside, waiting for them.

"What the hells-"

Perhaps her tone was a bit harsh, as Squire bows her head a bit and whimpers a little.

"I mean, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with K- your master?"

The dog sits down, glowing green eyes staring straight through them.

"...I should," she confesses, head bowed low. "But I couldn't resist. You...smell different. Familiar."

"Hm? What do you mean?"

Squire sniffs the air to emphasize her point, unable to keep her bony tail from wagging just a bit.

"The Selunite magic on your skin," she continues. "That smell once filled this place, back when I was flesh. Before the bad times..."

A low, mournful whine escapes her before she can suppress it, her skeletal tail drooping.

With a bit of struggling, Minthara sits on the floor and holds her hand out for the dog to smell.

"What happened back then?" Orin asks, as Squire creeps in closer, sniffing Minthara's hand carefully.

The poor creature hesitates, turning her head as if to make sure they aren't being watched.

"...Master's laughter used to fill the halls of this place," she begins. "His and his beloved's. I remember back when I was living- and master's pups were new."

Orin's mind's eye conjures up visions of what this place must have looked like in its prime- the shouts and giggles of children playing, a happier version of the somber man she'd met before.

It must have been something to see.

Letting out a pitiful whimper, Squire half-crawls toward Minthara, laying her skeletal head in her lap.

"You smell like she did."

"What?"

"Master's beloved. When I was first brought to this place as a puppy. She was sad. Sick. I heard her and Master talk in whispers about a pup that had been lost before it was born. I was brought here to be with her, he said- to make her smile."

She lets out the long, heavy sort of sigh dogs do when they're upset; through the dog's exposed ribs, Orin can see her leathery lungs do their best to accommodate this, expanding as much as they're able.

"You smell like her," Squire continues, peering up at Minthara with the same adoration Scratch has done before. "Sickly. Sad. In pain. You lost a pup too, I can smell it."

Minthara doesn't answer, but absentmindedly strokes the dog's head as she tells her sorry tale.

(She doesn't need to answer, anyway. Squire already knows.)

"...After a time, master's beloved healed. She wasn't quite so sad, anymore. And I started to smell a new pup. They didn't know yet, but I did."

Her tail starts to thump against the marble floor as happier memories take the place of the melancholy.

"She was born early, but the healers were able to save her. Master's beloved said that Selune smiled on her, because it was a full moon when she was born."

"Isobel?" Orin interjects, before she can stop herself.

The steady thumpthumpthumping of Squire's tail against the floor picks up its pace as she perks her head up.

"You know her?"

"I- she's-"

"-She is a friend," Minthara answers.

-Suddenly, Squire is on her feet, her tail wagging so fast it might fly off her body.

"Where is she?" she asks, letting out a few short, eager barks. "I miss her- I haven't seen her since-"

She pauses, letting out a small whine.

"...I don't think Ketheric would want you to leave, would he?" Orin can't help but ask.

"Master told me when she was born that my greatest duty was to protect her," Squire insists, drawing herself up to her full height. "I...failed once. I cannot fail her again."

Orin can't help but feel terribly sorry for the poor dog as she nudges Minthara's hand with her head, seeking comfort in her sorrow.

"When he brought me back, Master said I had fallen protecting her. That I had done well. But I still failed..."

She lets out a small, mournful howl, tail drooping in despair.

"I still don't think your master would be happy if you came with us," Orin says, gently. "Isobel is fighting against the Absolute, after all."

"My only concern has always been to serve my master," Squire retorts, regaining some of her stern demeanor. "What happens to my master's master, I care not. Besides, he has instructed you to find her, did he not? I will follow."

Orin helps Minthara back to her feet, nodding her concession.

"Alright, let's-"

-Suddenly, Squire growls, crouching low and adopting a threatening posture.

"Vermin!" she barks. "Who dares to intrude?!"

She lunges forward, snapping at something in the darkness Orin can't see.

Orin sees a streak of black-and-brown striped fur for just a moment, before she feels the sharp pain of twelve very sharp claws digging into her skin, nearly sending her face-first into the ground.

"Ow, fuck!"

A great, warm weight rests on her shoulder, and she hears a loud, apologetic purring in her ear.

"Horrid beast! Begone!" Squire demands. "I warn you, my teeth are still sharp!"

Halsin's fluffy tail swishes about in agitation as he watches Squire from his perch on Orin's shoulder.

"Hey, take it easy," Orin urges. "He's not going to bother anyone."

"Those creatures always bother!" Squire insists. "Snatching up the warmest napping spots, swiping food from my bowl when my back is turned, punishing me with their claws for innocently sniffing around-"

"-Peace, friend," Halsin entreats her, still purring away all the while. "I am no thief, I will leave what is yours untouched."

The dog growls out a warning, still glaring distrustfully at him.

Despite that, she lowers her head and calms just a bit.

"I will follow," she tells Orin, as determined as ever.

"I see we're continuing to collect various bizarre creatures," Astarion chuckles, startling Orin as he approaches.

Scratch trots up to Squire, his rubber ball clenched in his teeth.

It hits the ground with a soft squeak as he bows playfully, tail wagging.

"Hello, friend! Would you like to play with me?"

"Play?!" Squire snarls, as though offended. "Do you think me some pup that is so easily distracted?"

Scratch whines, nudging the ball forward with his snout.

"...It's fun, though," he says, sounding hurt. "Do you not know how to play?"

Squire huffs, trying to keep her stoic demeanor even though she can't help it when her tail starts to wag.

"I know how to play," she gripes. "I just...have not, in some time."

Orin finds herself feeling terrible for the poor creature as Scratch continues to try to urge Squire to play with him.

She wants to say something, but she finds herself distracted by the familiar, eerie sensation of being watched.

Whipping her head upward, she sees seven wide eyes staring at her unblinkingly, flushing from embarrassment at being caught.

"Kar'niss? What are you doing?"

He climbs down from the ceiling warily, shrinking back and covering his head the same way she's seen Astarion do before.

Afraid of being punished. Being struck.

"I'm not angry," she reassures him. "What are you doing here?"

"...We heard our lady speaking," he admits. "We heard she had been ill. We wanted to be sure she was alright, we have been worried..."

"You don't need to worry. I'm alright."

"Anyway," Astarion says, jerking his head in the direction he wants them to go. "Z'rell's given us our marching orders, and a very convenient place to talk in private beforehand."

"Lead on, then," Minthara commands.

So he does.

Orin gestures for Kar'niss to follow as well, which he does, albeit reluctantly.

They're led to a bedroom that's absolutely full of corpses that look to be in bad shape, and smells about as pleasant as a bedroom full of rotting corpses could be expected to.

Everyone stands around awkwardly trying to avoid stepping in filth, watching warily as the others arrive.

Gale has a dead pixie and what looks like a broken copy of Kar'niss' lantern, inspecting them with a furrowed brow.

The faint glow of a scrying eye gets their attention, and Astarion manages to mutter a "do you mind?" at it before slamming the door shut once more.

Once the door is shut and locked again, Orin can't contain herself any longer.

"Things are worse than I thought," she blurts out.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this is more than just mind flayers. And the Absolute isn't what anybody thinks it is."

"How so?"

Orin pulls out and opens her sketchbook, wordlessly sharing what she and Minthara have discovered.

The others crowd around to see it, confusion turning to horror, realizing what this means without Orin having to say a word.

"Well, that complicates matters a bit, doesn't it?" Gale sighs.

"Just a little bit, yeah. You reckon that's why Jaheira's involved?"

"It's about to get a bit more complicated," Orin murmurs.

"How so, then?" Lae'zel asks, finally speaking up.

"Because I'm pretty sure I have more to do with this than just being on the mind flayer ship. Or- I used to, at least."

Everyone's eyes are on her, so she takes a deep breath and decides to get it over with now, to find out whether or not they'll hate her.

"I think I know how I was involved in all this," she continues, grabbing Minthara's hand and squeezing it for reassurance. "And why I'm the way I am. I was- well, am, I guess- a child of Bhaal."

For a brief second, all the air leaves the room.

After another, much longer silence, Astarion clears his throat.

"...I suppose that explains a bit about you," he quips, waving his hand vaguely in her general direction. "I mean- it was pretty clear there was something going on. I didn't want to pry, but-"

His flippant demeanor falters just a bit. He folds his arms and frowns, temporarily lost in thought.

"-Bloody hells. A Bhaalspawn. I think more parents scare their children with tales of your kind than with mine."

"I would say you would have been well within your rights to keep that to yourself," Gale interjects, rubbing at his chin with the stump where his left hand used to be. "How did you figure it out?"

"Jaheira was the one who figured it out, actually. But I figured if we're going to be dealing with these guys then we all have to know."

Halsin presses his fuzzy head into the palm of her hand.

"I am sure it wasn't easy to speak up," he reassures her. "But I'm glad you did."

Orin doesn't respond, waiting to see how the others will treat her now that the truth is out.

"It certainly would explain what you did to poor Alfira back in the day," Astarion remarks. "I suppose it was Daddy Dearest calling on you?"

Orin shrugs, though she knows in her heart of hearts that must be the answer.

"So, what does that mean?" Shadowheart demands. "Does that mean this entire mess is your fault, then?"

"I don't think so. But Ketheric acts like he knows me. And, well-"

She flips through the older sketchbook until she finds the drawing of the wild-haired, dark-eyed man who'd visited while she slept.

"-We've already run into one of Bane's followers, too. And he seems like he knows me, too."

Eyes bulging out of her head, Karlach snatches the sketchbook out of Orin's hands and stares at the drawing in disbelief.

Her hands start to shake as she stares, her breath coming in shaky bursts.

"That's Gortash!" she growls, jaw clenched tight. "What the fuck is he- why is he-"

Orin doesn't know what else to do other than shrug again.

"...Fuck!"

She throws the sketchbook back at Orin with enough force to send her stumbling backward when it hits her.

"Bane! Bloody hells- I shoulda known he was- that bastard!"

She swings her fist at the wall, but only succeeds in hurting her hand.

As she cradles her bruising knuckles, she keeps spitting out curses.

"Fucking Bane- I shoulda known he was that kind of scum, how did I-"

"-It sounds like he hid it well," Wyll tells her, putting a hand on her arm to steady her. "Don't blame yourself for it."

Karlach manages to nod, trying to catch her breath and mostly succeeding.

"So, Bane's got something to do with this mess," Gale says, the gears in his head visibly turning as he speaks, "And from the looks of things, our friend the general is in league with Myrkul."

He gestures toward the gold filigree around Squire's bony neck, forming something akin to Myrkul's symbol.

"So, Bhaal's representative would be-?"

"My brother," Orin answers, flipping to one of the drawings of him. "Or- everyone keeps calling him my brother."

"Hm. Can't see much of a family resemblance, I must say," Astarion points out, squinting at the drawing of a dragonborn staring back at them.

"I can't either. But I do feel like I knew him."

Shadowheart straightens up, looking either angry or afraid.

Or perhaps a bit of both.

"I don't think any of us agreed to partner up with Bhaalspawn. Let alone one who was involved in this mess."

"It's not like I wanted any of this either!" Orin insists. "I don't remember my part in this, I didn't even remember what I was-"

"It isn't like not knowing didn't just about cost that bard her eye. How can we be so sure you'll keep control of yourself? What if one of us wakes up with your knife at our necks next?"

"It hasn't happened yet," Karlach protests.

"How can we be so sure? If she's really-"

"-I would appreciate it if you would cease your inane prattling for five minutes."

Minthara's voice is level and deceptively calm, belying an undercurrent of venom that even the dogs pick up on, taking a few tentative steps backward.

"As far as I am concerned," she continues, "I would sooner take my chances with Bhaal than with the Nightsinger- especially considering Bhaal has not yet done me wrong, and Shar very nearly cost me my life."

"Lady Shar-"

"-She is no lady of mine. I owe her no such deference. Especially not after what her curse has done to me."

"It isn't like she did it on purpose!" Shadowheart snaps back, her face turning red from frustration. "It was a mistake, an accident! There has to be an explanation for all of this, or-"

"-Is that supposed to make me feel better?!" Minthara snarls. "Is the pain I felt and still feel because of Her curse supposed to sting any less because She did not intend it? Am I supposed to mourn less after birthing a dead child because it might have been an accident?"

Her voice rises steadily in pitch and volume the more she rants- and the more she rants, the smaller Shadowheart looks.

"Is the wizard's hand any less severed because it was not intended?" She continues, jabbing her finger in Gale's direction. "Was Orin's foray into the Shadowfell any less harrowing for any of us?! Is the fey child's suffering any less acute just because she did not intend any of it?!"

Minthara laughs, but there's no mirth in it.

"Of course she did not intend any of this. The gods no more intend to harm any random mortal than you or I intend to harm an insect we happen to trod upon. You'll find its life is still snuffed out all the same."

"If you would just listen-"

"-I have listened to you blither on about your beloved goddess for long enough, I would say."

Minthara's voice is frigid, the words spit out from between clenched teeth.

"Do you truly think your words can make this better? I know you Sharrans think each word you speak is full of hidden meaning and deep truth, but I am not so naive."

Shadowheart squares up like she's ready to fight, ignoring Lae'zel's silent efforts to get her to settle back down.

"I have performed countless interrogations, broken hundreds down to their most base components. I know well how hollow people's words can be. When you strip away the foolish pretenses and lies that comprise a person, most people amount to nothing at all. If you think you are special in that regard, allow me to dissuade you of that notion."

"What are you trying to say, exactly?" Shadowheart bites back at her.

(Though this argument feels out of the blue, Orin can't help but feel like it's only because it's been such a long time coming.)

"I am saying you appear to be under the delusion that you are more important than you are. In case nobody informed you- you are nothing. Your goddess is nothing. So your opinion on Orin's predicament is just as meaningless."

When Lae'zel tries to interject, Minthara holds her hand out to warn her to stay quiet.

"Let me make one thing clear," she growls. "Were you not in the same predicament as the others, I would have no qualms about leaving you for the shadows. We would see how much your lady truly favors you then."

"Are you for real right now?!"

"In all the time I have shared my bed with one of Bhaal's mortal progeny, I have not come to any harm. But the moment we ran afoul of Shar, I lost everything. Perhaps that is fitting for your Lady of Loss, but I did not agree to suffer mindlessly at Her hand."

"If you would just-"

"-Just what? Listen? It would only cost me precious moments of life I cannot get back, and cost you a few handfuls of neurons you cannot afford to lose, considering those seem to be in short supply for you as it is."

Finally losing her temper, Shadowheart lashes out, trying to strike her, but Minthara is quick to duck out of the way. She retaliates by swinging her cane, which connects with Shadowheart's skull with a crack that echoes off the stone walls, accompanied with a blinding flash of white light.

Shadowheart staggers backward, the breath knocked out of her as she's nearly sent toppling to the floor.

Lae'zel grabs her and steadies her, though she's too stunned to say anything in her defense.

"I will not stand here and be lectured by a blind child unwilling to acknowledge what is right in front of her. If you will not listen, you will keep your mouth shut. If that is too difficult for you, I would be glad to seal it  shut for you."

In spite of that warning, and in spite of Lae'zel trying to keep her back, Shadowheart tries to strike at Minthara yet again.

This time her blow connects, though not with its intended target.

Kar'niss doesn't so much as flinch as he takes the full brunt of the swing of her mace- admirable, considering it hits him square in the gut.

"No more," he pleads with her, standing stubbornly between her and Minthara. "Please. Fighting each other will not do any good."

With such a sincere plea, the tension immediately dissipates. Lae'zel doesn't say a word, but grabs Shadowheart's wrist and pulls her away, her expression difficult to read.

Taking a deep breath, Orin decides to try to push past the argument.

"None of this is important right now," she begins, with a heavy tone. "We know why Ketheric is after Isobel- she's his daughter."

Suddenly, Halsin freezes up, tail going rigid, staring at Orin as she speaks.

"That's why he sent Marcus after her. He brought her back after she'd died. I think she must've run after that, and now he wants to bring her home. What he thinks is home, anyway."

"If we help with that I'm pretty sure every other unfortunate soul in Last Light will die as well," Astarion says, with a shrug.

"Right. So what do we do? Tell her?" Orin asks.

"I've got the sneaking suspicion that she already knows," Wyll replies.

"I still think she might like her dog back," Karlach points out.

"I guess we'll have to let him know she wants to come along."

"We will also come," Kar'niss says. "We are to go out and guide more of Majesty's followers, but we no longer believe...if we may follow?"

"Of course," Orin reassures him. "You know the layout of the land here better than any of us."

Astarion claps his hands and straightens himself out.

"It's settled then! Let's get some supplies together and get a move on, shall we? Let's meet back up out front in an hour then?"

There's a few mumbles of assent, everyone trying to avoid another argument as they disperse.

Minthara is still silently seething with rage, and Orin is too afraid of rattling her further to say anything as they set off together.

Scratch and Squire follow, side-by-side, with Squire holding Scratch's beloved ball in her bony jaws.

It's only once they're apart from the others that she realizes that Halsin had vanished sometime during the argument, and she isn't sure where he ran off to...

"Hey, Scratch," she says, without thinking too hard about it. "Do you think you could sniff out where Halsin ran off to for me? He really shouldn't be wandering this place alone."

"Of course! Leave it to me."

Scratch sniffs around, then heads off, and Orin follows, with Minthara, Squire and Kar'niss  following right behind her.

Chapter Text

"Around here. Be careful though, he smells scared."

Scratch points in the right direction with his snout.

"I hope he's alright..."

Orin nods, helping steady Minthara when her legs decide to stop cooperating quite as well as they had been.

"Why don't you go on ahead?" She tells Kar'niss and the dogs. "Wait for me outside, we won't be long."

He hesitates, but nods anyway, and the dogs follow close behind as Orin and Minthara round the corner.

They find Halsin curled up in a tight little ball on a dusty old armchair, purring in a vain attempt to soothe himself.

Minthara takes a moment to cast a quick Silence spell, just in case that scrying eye comes trying to pry into their business again.

"Hey, what are you doing? You really can't be wandering here by yourself, what if someone finds you out?"

He looks up at her with as despondent an expression as a cat can muster.

"...Apologies," he murmurs. "I- I am not feeling well."

"Are you injured?"

"...No. Nothing like that."

Orin sighs and sits on the floor in front of the armchair, pushing stray hair out of her face and trying to keep her brain together.

"You're acting weird," she tells him.

"What do you mean?"

"When I told everyone about Isobel you started acting sketchy. You were weird around her before, too. You know something about what happened to her, don't you?"

Halsin gives her the saddest look she's ever seen, honey eyes full of regret.

He doesn't answer in words; instead, she feels his parasite tugging on hers. Inviting her into memory.

Hesitantly, she decides to accept that invitation.

Orin gets yanked into the past, seeing through Halsin's eyes all that time ago.

The world is blurry, red at the edges, and his body moves without him wanting it to.

There's the sickening sound of metal on bone, and the world snapping back into focus.

The weapon in his hands (he isn't sure what kind, anymore) is buried deep in the chest of a beautiful young woman.

A beautiful young woman with a crop of tidy, silvery hair and pale, bloodless skin, and a gentle face Orin knows well.

Her gray eyes stare at him, wide and full of tears.

She opens her mouth to say something- probably why- but it's only blood that spills out.

A sickly green color creeps across her veins- a deadly toxin that coated the blade, sealing the poor woman's fate.

Halsin relinquishes the weapon with a gasp, stumbling backward as his heart hammers away in his chest, droning away in his ears and drowning out all other sounds.

Isobel Thorm drops to the muddy ground while she stares at him, looking both confused and betrayed.

Beside her lay the still body of what was once a beautiful dog, its gray and white fur matted and filthy with clotted blood.

A much larger woman sweeps down from the sky in a flurry of feathers and silver light, scooping the fatally injured Isobel up into her arms.

No matter how this woman shouts, shakes Isobel, pours all the healing incantations she can into her limp body, nothing rouses her.

Isobel's life expires right there, in the middle of a beautiful, sunny day, cradled in the aasimar's arms as she tries in vain to revive her.

The taller woman, clad head to foot in silver armor, looks at Halsin with a piercing glare.

She shouts something- a lot of something, as a matter of fact. but only four words make it to his rattled brain.

"What have you done?!"

"...You killed her?" Orin asks, recoiling as her head starts to throb right behind her eyes.

"I did," he admits, shame staining every word. "I do not remember why. I just remember that I had lost control of my own body, and when I finally came back to myself, I had-"

Halsin curls in on himself, hiding his face with his paws.

"-It was my fault," he murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard.

"But it was an accident, wasn't it?" Orin asks. "You never meant to, did you?"

"That does not make a difference- the end was just the same."

...Right. He had been there for that argument.

Halsin stands up and starts pacing around, tail swishing around to try to burn off some of his nervous energy, even though it doesn't help.

"Ever since then, I have sought to right my wrongs. Lifting this curse is the only way I can hope to even begin to atone."

Hanging his head in shame, he turns his attention to Minthara now.

"This curse exists because she died," he begins. "And that is my fault. If not for that your child would not have died. There are no words for me to say how sorry I am. But I am- I am sorry for the pain this curse caused you. And I am sorry for what happened behind my back when you were captive. I should have paid attention, I should have been aware, then none of this would have happened. I apologize."

Minthara smiles at him- a hollow, joyless smile that leaves crimson eyes dead. She leans on her cane and bends over to be closer to eye level with Halsin.

"I do not forgive you," she answers, simply. Flatly.

"I do not expect you to," Halsin replies, even though he does sound sad to hear it. "I do not expect forgiveness, least of all before I've made amends."

"Good. That means you are not quite the fool I first took you for."

Halsin accepts this with a small nod.

"At any rate, our primary concern is still the tadpole- if lifting this curse aids us with that, then it is time well spent. Especially if it leads to the demise of Ketheric Thorm. In that regard, we have a common cause."

"Agreed. I will do whatever I can to help."

"Very well. We cannot waste more time, we must depart."

"Go meet Kar'niss out front," Orin advises Halsin. "We'll grab the others and meet you there."

Halsin nods, darting off to do as he's told.

It takes longer than they like to find the others- and far too much time navigating stairs.

Minthara already looks worn down, but asking her if she's alright would probably just annoy her.

Somehow, they eventually wind up going down a shallow staircase to something like a basement, where they hear Astarion and Gale arguing, though not with each other.

Along with Gale and Astarion's voices, she can hear someone else- a smug sort of voice with the same hint of an accent Minthara has- the telltale sign that someone grew up speaking Drow, rather than Common.

Normally they wouldn't pay it any mind, seeing as there are quite a few drow milling about.

Normally. Were Astarion not so obviously flustered.

No, not just flustered. Frightened. Angry.

Orin steps forward until they can see what's going on.

A couple tables are crammed full of every imaginable type of alchemical equipment, amongst a scattered handful of haphazard notes.

Astarion is tense like a cornered animal, lips curling back in a snarl, eyes darting around like he's looking for a place to run.

Gale stands between him and the drow the voice must belong to, who's standing and ogling Astarion the same way a cat might stare longingly through a butcher-shop window.

She holds her hand out to stop the others from moving any closer and listens.

"We really don't need it that badly," Gale says (Orin has no idea what "it" might be). "While the offer is appreciated, we're going to have to decline."

"Oh please. I've met my share of wizards- your kind like to play hard-to-get, but you can always be persuaded."

He's twitchy. Nervous. He keeps his one remaining hand on Astarion as a barrier between him and the woman, his discomfort a tangible thing in the air.

"It isn't something for me to be persuaded on- he said no. He's his own man."

"Oh, I'm sure he believes that. It's adorable, really."

Minthara steps forward then, perhaps realizing she'll end up grinding her teeth down to nothing if she doesn't speak up.

"What exactly is going on here?"

The other drow raises an eyebrow, smirking just a bit.

"A Baenre all the way out here? Well, at least you've been kind enough to wear your house crest on your neck so your enemies know where to cut."

Minthara doesn't acknowledge her barb; she folds her arms and glares at her, waiting for her to answer her question properly.

"-I assume he's your pet vampire, then? Wouldn't be the strangest thing someone from your house has taken to bed. Maybe you can help talk sense into him."

The woman rolls her eyes as though this entire affair is silly.

"My name is Araj Oblodra. I'm offering a once-in-a-lifetime deal here- a one-of-a-kind potion, and all I want in return is for the vampire to bite me. But he's being stubborn."

"I already gave you my answer!" Astarion snaps, unconsciously reaching for the knife at his belt even though his hands are trembling too badly to properly grasp the handle.

Araj ignores his outburst.

"The wizard is coddling him, but surely you could bring him to heel?" she asks, sounding giddy and giving Minthara a hopeful look. "I know our houses were never really friends, but I'm sure even you can understand a good business opportunity when you see one."

Time seems to slow to a stop as Orin watches on, taking stock of everything going on.

Gale looks like he's about ready to throw up from disgust, and Astarion looks so terrified she almost wants to kill this woman just for that.

She can tell, from the way he looks at Minthara, then at her, that if one of them were to tell him to give into her demand, he would do it.

He would despise himself, certainly. Be disgusted, absolutely. But, were he ordered to, he would comply, as surely as if it were coming from the master he'd broken free from.

And as for that woman-

Orin recognizes the hungry look in her eye as she stares at him.

It's the same nauseating way Nere had looked at Minthara- like a piece of meat, like a thing, not a person-

She feels her breath catch and her heart quicken, the monster in her chest urging her to lash out at her for daring to be so foul. For being so brazen as to leer so shamelessly at someone she cares about.

Cares. What a funny word.

(And how hypocritical of her to be so angry, considering the sorts of rancid thoughts kicking around in her mind,,,)

Through the ringing in her ears, she almost doesn't hear Minthara's answer.

"-The spawn can answer for himself," she says, in a terse, clipped tone that leaves no room for argument. "If he said no, there is nothing more to discuss."

Araj lets out an annoyed huff.

"A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it just because he's being insubordinate!"

"Spare me. Doing business with an Oblodra is about as well advised as attempting to domesticate a bulette. I will not let you waste his time."

"Oh, why do you care so much about one darthiir vampire spawn, anyway? Keeping his purse all for yourself?"

"Hardly. But even a faerie deserves better than to be forced to deal with fifth-generation harussin like you."

Araj balls her hands up into fists, evidently using all her self-restraint to not attack.

"...Ruura-gol nek," she spits at Minthara.

Minthara smiles in response- this time, there's the slightest twinkle of mirth in her eyes.

"V'ren kerol velve," she replies, in a perfectly jovial tone.

Orin isn't sure what to call the color Araj's face turns, but judging from her outraged expression, whatever Minthara said must be nasty.

"Hassin," she growls.

"If I am going to be insulted by a bitch," Minthara replies, significantly less amused this time, "I would hope she would have a better pedigree."

Before Araj can say anything else, Orin steps forward and clears her throat, finally making her presence known.

"He isn't the only spawn around here, you know," she coos, in a deceptively sweet tone.

Not allowing the other woman to even ask what she means, Orin grabs her and holds her knife to her throat, savoring the flash of fear in her eyes, and the way that smug look evaporates off her face.

"If you're so keen to lose some blood, I'd be glad to spill it for you. But I'd have a bit less self control than Astarion, so if I were you I would shut my mouth and not take the risk. Unless you're simply dying to meet my father."

Araj looks truly afraid, and Orin lets the shiver of satisfaction at her fear run down her spine.

(She doesn't have to clarify who her father is, based on that look she gives her.)

She digs the blade of her dagger into his skin just enough to draw a bit of blood before releasing her, feeling satisfied with herself as Araj grips the edge of the table to gather herself.

Gale takes that opportunity to grab Astarion's wrist and pull him away, muttering a few choice insults under his breath.

"We're leaving," Orin says, having had about as much as she can stomach.

The others follow without question, nobody saying anything as they make their way back up the stairs, feeling Araj's glare burning a hole in their backs.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Astarion lets out a shaky breath, shutting his eyes for a moment.

"...Thank you," he murmurs. "All of you."

Gale pulls him in close, rubbing circles along his back to soothe him.

"Don't mention it," he reassures him. "You're alright."

He nods, but his gaze is a million realms away.

Orin ends up carrying Minthara most of the way back upstairs, but she doesn't mind. Minthara rests her head against her shoulder and sighs, seeming like she wants to fall asleep.

In the huge area leading to the main doors, Lae'zel is finishing what seems to be quite a spirited conversation with the bugbear dealing weapons in the far corner, while Shadowheart stands awkwardly a few feet away, cradling her hand and cringing.

"Slaughter well, True Soul!" he declares, in a booming voice with a broad grin as she turns to depart.

Lae'zel says something in response, but Orin can't make it out.

Shadowheart spots Minthara and immediately looks away, refusing to acknowledge either her or Orin as they set out once again, after setting Minthara back on her feet and making sure she's steady first.

(She's forgotten to tell Ketheric they were taking Squire with them, but she figures she'll ask forgiveness later.)

Minthara pulls her hood up over her head, unable to totally mask the trembling in her hands.

The air outside is as stale, clammy, and unwelcoming as ever, but Orin has a sneaking suspicion it isn't just the cold that's making her shake.

She wrestles with her guilt as she sneaks her way into Minthara's mind.

It's wrong and she knows that, and she hates herself all the more for it. But she wants to understand. Wants to know.

(She wonders if- when- she gets caught prying, Minthara would be angry with her.)

When her parasite finds its way, she searches for the source of Minthara's discomfort.

It of course does not take her long to find it.

It gnaws at the edges of her lover's mind, drowning out all other thoughts.

The slimy look in Araj's eye- the terrified, helpless look in Astarion's.

The sting of the insults Araj threw at her- despite her outwardly mocking attitude, her words cut deeper than one would think.

Hatred at herself for not saying more. For not simply killing her- scum from a defunct house that nobody would ever even miss.

But she had hesitated- she can't tell why.

Orin wants to tell her that it was better not to start a fight. That it's alright, she shouldn't push herself too far, should save her strength for if they get into a fight and really need it. But that would be admitting that she's pried into her thoughts when she ought not to have, and she doesn't want to admit it.

Not yet, anyway.

Instead, she sticks close to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing a bit, to let her know it's alright.

"Are you well?" Kar'niss asks, sticking near Orin and looking around nervously.

"...I'm fine, yes. Thank you."

Minthara grabs her hand and gives it a squeeze, her eyes still staring off into nothing.

It'll be a long way back, seeing as they're looking for anything that might be of use so can't rely on their established shortcut.

Nobody wants to say much of anything, too afraid to leave their small circle of light despite the blessing the pixie had given them.

It's a bit nerve-wracking, the silence punctuated by the groans and giggles of the restless dead all around them.

"Oh will you shut up?" Minthara hisses under her breath.

"...Nobody said anything?" Karlach replies, raising an eyebrow.

"It is not you."

Minthara waves a hand in the air, glaring into the black mist.

"These creatures. Do you not hear them?"

"Besides the moaning, you mean?" Astarion asks.

"Not moaning. Muttering. Whispering. They do not stop- listen. Can you hear them?"

Orin shuts her eyes and tries- really tries- to make out anything specific amongst the moaning and cries of the shadows.

Try as she might, however, she can't make out any words.

"I don't hear anything," Astarion and Gale answer in unison, before glancing at each other with a look of vague amusement.

"Nor do I," Lae'zel adds, yellow eyes darting around in suspicion as her pointed ears twitch, searching for anything like Minthara indicated.

"We do not hear it," Kar'niss says, shaking his head and clutching his lantern closer.

Minthara scowls, drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

Orin looks everywhere else besides Minthara as they walk, trying to keep an eye out for anything important.

Though she can't make out any words, she swears she can hear a child's laughter.

Faint, barely there, but unmistakable.

She scratches at the shell of her ear, but the sound is still there when she's done.

Strange.

But she supposes she's experienced far stranger.

"...I can hear it, too," Squire tells her, barely above a whisper.

"What?"

"The shadows. The walking corpses. They speak, though the living cannot hear them."

Orin nods in acknowledgement, and decides she really, really doesn't want to think too hard about what it might mean that Minthara can understand them now.

(That child's laughter is still echoing all around her, and she wishes it would stop.)

Chapter Text

The faintest hint of lavender hangs in the stale air, which confuses Orin about as much as it gives her hope that, somewhere among the ruined landscape, the missing piece of Thaniel is still living.

Maybe even somewhere near them. It's hard to tell, but Orin isn't about to start singing again to find out.

Exhaustion weighs heavily on her mind, and it's hard enough to put one foot in front of the other, let alone burst out into song to try to find some missing fey boy's missing soul.

(She's pretty sure that trick wouldn't work a second time, anyway.)

The moaning and groaning of the undead around them is nearly enough to drive her to madness, until Wyll perks up, glancing at Karlach with a worried face.

"...Isn't that Rolan's voice?"

"Sounds like it."

Everyone picks up their pace, following the noise to its source.

Indeed, that full-of-himself tiefling wizard they'd met what feels like a lifetime ago is surrounded by shadows, doing his best to fend them off but clearly losing.

"Fuck, that's not good."

Karlach leaps into action without a second thought, brandishing her hammer and swinging at the closest shadow.

"Ah, here we go killing again," Astarion sighs, rolling his eyes even as he pulls out a dagger to get straight to work. He launches himself off a sheer rock face, landing with an obnoxious amount of grace on the cracked, dusty ground below them.

Everyone else follows, figuring many hands will make light work here.

"Need a hand, soldier?" Karlach asks, grabbing Rolan and hoisting him to a safer distance before a shadow can sink its necrotic claws into him.

He doesn't answer her, either too humiliated or too terrified to form proper words.

There's a hollowness in Orin's chest as she hacks her way through the shadow-cursed vines that spring up from the cracks in the ground. The nagging feeling that this is wrong, this is meaningless, that killing those who are already dead is empty. Joyless.

A part of her wonders how her dagger is able to cut through shadow, but decides it doesn't matter so long as the job gets done.

The shrieks and wails they let out as they expire again grate against her eardrums, the thrum of her heartbeat thundering in her chest keeping the tempo.

She watches for Minthara out of the corner of her eye, and what she sees as they fight causes a surge of confusion to mingle with her disappointment.

Though the shadows swarm around all of them and lash out with all the venom they can muster, they never strike out at Minthara herself. Even when one of their comrades explodes in a burst of radiant light, it's like they simply don't know that she's there.

...Or maybe that they think she's one of them...

Orin shakes her head, forcing herself to banish that thought.

Rolan curses up a storm as he does his best to help dispatch the shadows, though his combat skills are obviously lacking.

When all is said and done, everyone is a bit banged up, but largely unharmed, other than a nasty, rapidly necrotizing gash on Orin's arm.

She looks around at the others while Shadowheart tends to it, making a point not to say a word or even look at her.

Minthara leans against a dead, gnarled tree and gasps for air, clutching at her abdomen and grimacing in pain. Karniss rushes to her side, mumbling at her in their shared language, coaxing her to get on his back so she doesn't have to walk anymore.

"Damn it!"

Rolan digs his fingers into his scalp and growls in indignation, shoving Karlach away as she approaches to try to comfort him.

"I can't do a thing right!" he howls. "Not a godsdamned thing!"

"Easy soldier," Karlach urges him. "What are you on about?"

"Cal and Lia! They were captured! I swore I would protect them and I let them get captured! I swore I would rescue them and I can't even do that!!"

"Hey, take it easy," Karlach urges him. "Those guys are fine, alright?"

"They- what?"

"They're with the others, back at the inn," Wyll tells him. "We've been to Moonrise, we got them out. They're safe."

"You-"

Rolan looks at each of them in turn.

Then, out of nowhere, he curses loudly.

"Why is it always you?! Why can I not just- why can't I do anything on my own?!"

Wyll and Karlach do their best to try to console him; Orin doesn't pay it a lot of attention, though, too eager to get back to Minthara's side to make sure she's alright.

"Did you get hurt?"

"No, I am fine."

"Are you hurting? Do you need anything?"

"Not at the moment, thank you. I am just...tired."

Minthara says the word tired with so much anger it makes Orin's hair stand on end, but can't do much more than lean her weight against Kar'niss and shut her eyes to try to get some relief.

"-Rolan is lucky we found him," Orin mutters, watching Shadowheart try to get him to sit still for long enough to heal him.

"Wizards live their lives on borrowed luck," Minthara responds. "Were it up to me, I am not so sure I would not have simply kept walking."

Orin decides she'll ignore that bit for now.

While Rolan's injuries are being patched up, Astarion approaches, half-dragging a confused Gale along.

"Do you have a moment?" he asks, looking strangely serious.

"Hm? I guess so, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Astarion insists, glancing around anxiously before leaning in, his voice dropping low.

"I just uh- want to thank you. Properly thank you, I mean."

"What for?" Orin asks, scrunching her nose up in confusion.

"For what you said," Astarion clarifies. "When I was in front of that vile blood-merchant. For what all of you said."

Unconsciously, he leans against Gale and sighs.

"Just- it would have been so easy to bite her. To just go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of disgust, push myself through, and I could carry on just like before."

"We wouldn't ever ask you to do that," Gale tries to reassure him.

"I know that now , but-"

Astarion tries to smooth his hair back in an effort to pull himself together.

"-For two centuries, the entire purpose of my existence was to seduce anything with a pulse. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing- it never mattered. All I was good for was luring pretty things back for my master. You could have told me to do the same. Throw myself at her- what I wanted be damned."

The way he looks at them reminds Orin a bit of how the owlbear cub had looked at them when he first snuck into their camp.

Sad. Desperate. But hopeful, somehow. Despite everything.

"...But you didn't. And...I'm grateful."

He smiles just a bit- not the too-perfect one he usually wears, the one that's more teeth than anything- a shy, earnest smile.

Minthara tries to stand up, but cringes and has to sink back down again.

"I would sooner share myself with goblins again than see an Oblodra get her way," she insists. "Least of all with one of my own. If she so much as glances at you again, I will end her myself."

Astarion nods, looking relieved.

"Come on then," Wyll calls out, ending this moment between them. "Let's go."

Rolan is stubbornly silent as they walk, shivering even with a thick cloak on.

Orin hangs back to stay with Minthara, who barely seems to have the energy to hold onto Kar'niss to avoid falling off.

"I didn't think you had a soft spot for Astarion like that," she half-teases.

"It is not softness," Minthara insists. "We will not make it through this if we allow ourselves to be divided- we need each other, now more than ever."

That feels a little bit hypocritical, considering she and Shadowheart have been roughly two seconds away from trying to break each others' necks for awhile now. But Orin decides bringing that up wouldn't really help anything.

"If anything, I was too soft toward the Oblodra- I ought to have put her head on a pike to warn others with a wandering eye that Astarion is under our protection."

Orin nods, at least able to agree with that much.

The rest of the trip back to the inn is eerily quiet, nobody having anything to say.

Even the shadows seem quieter than normal, though that strange, persistent, childish giggling keeps ringing out every now and then, grating on Orin's very last nerve.

She wants to ask about it, but wonders if they'd think she's mad if she did.

Well. More mad than she already is, anyway.

Minthara says something to Kar'niss in their native language- and, strangely enough, he laughs. A genuine, heartfelt laugh that sounds quite nice to hear.

Orin almost wishes she understood what she said- and feels both relieved and a bit befuddled that he and Minthara seem to be getting on so well.

Maybe she'll ask about it later. Assuming nothing else catastrophic happens in the meantime.

The moment they're safely inside the inn, Rolan makes a beeline for the two tieflings standing around the fire, trying to warm up their hands.

"Have you two had fun relaxing here while I nearly got killed by shadows?!" he snaps, though the way his voice cracks gives away that he's not really all that angry.

"Rolan?!"

The woman runs up to him and nearly knocks him clean to the floor in her haste to hug him.

"Where the hells have you been?!"

"Me?! I was trying to save your sorry arses!"

Despite yelling all manner of insults at each other, the three of them pull each other into a tight hug, sobbing through their shouting.

Orin shakes her head and retreats to the room full of beds, looking for Isobel- or at least Jaheira.

Fortunately, Jaheira is sitting on the floor beside Art, rubbing the owlbear cub's belly and talking to him the same way a doting mother speaks to their baby. The cub hoots in delight as he flops around, soaking up all the affection.

"Hey, you got a moment?" Karlach asks, to announce their arrival.

"Hm? I suppose I do," Jaheira huffs, not even looking up from the cub or removing her hands from his feathers. "What do you need?"

"We need to talk to Isobel," Orin answers. "It's kind of important."

That gets Jaheira's attention. She stands up, in spite of the hoot of displeasure the cub lets out.

She spots Squire and raises an eyebrow in a silent question.

"We found her at Moonrise," Orin answers. "She knows Isobel and wants to see her."

Squire wags her tail and lets out an eager howl in response.

"It seems things are going to keep getting stranger around here," Jaheira remarks, with a resigned sigh.

"I guess so. Moonrise was...enlightening, to say the least."

"Is that so? What happened?"

"We watched him heal when someone tried to kill him," Orin answers. "Just like that."

"Gruesome, isn't it?"

Orin nods, staring at her feet to not look right at her.

"We thought he was dead over a century ago, but that does not seem to have slowed him down much..."

"He did bleed," Minthara says, with a wry grin. "All who bleed can be killed. We will find a way."

"I would like to borrow some of that optimism, it is in short supply these days."

Understatement of the century, Orin can't help but think.

Instead of voicing that thought, though, she clears her throat.

"So is Isobel available?" she asks again.

"...She is upstairs," Jaheira finally says, grabbing a bit of rope beside her to play tug-of-war with the owlbear cub. "Try not to startle her, alright?"

Karlach and Wyll join in on lavishing the owlbear with attention while Orin loops an arm around Minthara's waist to help her up the stairs.

Isobel's bedroom is illuminated with a ring of white candles, with her kneeling in the center of them. Her head is bowed, hands clasped, mouthing a frantic prayer Orin can't hear.

"Um- are you busy?" Orin asks, hoping that won't be enough to frighten her.

Isobel looks up from her makeshift shrine, offering them a smile in greeting.

"Do you need something?" she asks, standing up with what looks like a lot of difficulty while trying (and failing) to hide a grimace of pain. "You didn't get too badly hurt, I hope?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that. We just-"

Orin shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clearing her throat to ease some of her anxiety.

"We found something that I think you'll want to see."

"Oh? What is it?" Isobel asks, snuffing out the candles with a wave of her hand.

Minthara cracks the door open a bit more, and Squire creeps in slowly, glowing green eyes peering at Isobel like she does not dare to hope.

"She says she knows you quite well," she says, as Squire approaches.

Isobel tilts her head to one side and then the other, squinting at the skeletal hound before her.

"...What is-"

"Do you remember me?" Squire asks, even though Isobel can't understand her. "I've known you since we were both pups..."

With another great effort and a grimace of pain, Isobel sits cross-legged on the floor.

She holds her hand out, eyes fixed on the undead dog in front of her.

Her fingers curl in on themselves, save for one that points directly at the creature.

"Dolor," she declares, though no magic comes from her hand.

Squire immediately flops to the side, then rolls over onto her back, doing her best to keep her body still even as her tail thumps against the carpeted floor.

A shaky smile breaks out across Isobel's face, a spark of light in her tired eyes.

"...Well hello there, Squire," she chokes out, trying and failing to blink back tears. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

Squire barks and scrambles to get to Isobel, shoving her head against her chest, her bony tail a blur as it moves her entire backside with the force of its wagging. Isobel hugs her tight, half-laughing and half-sobbing.

"Where did you find her?" she asks, teary eyes wide in disbelief. "How did you find her?"

"At Moonrise," Orin answers. "She smelled your magic and wanted to see you."

Isobel pets the dog as though she were still flesh and fur, while Squire lets out soft, keening whines of happiness.

"I thought she- but how-"

Orin takes a step to the side to shut the door to grant them some privacy, then decides to come out and say what she needs to say.

"You're Ketheric's daughter."

It's not a question. Not an accusation. Merely a statement of fact that leaves the other woman with no room to deny it.

"...What gave it away?" Isobel asks, after a long silence.

"Uh, Squire did," Orin explains, sitting on the edge of the bed, careful to not accidentally jostle Thaniel as he sleeps. Minthara takes the armchair by the fireplace, standing even with the cane's assistance too much for her to bear.

Isobel rolls her eyes at the dog, pretending to be annoyed.

"I guess I can't be too mad at you, can I?" she asks, to which Squire nuzzles her hand in adoration.

"So," Orin asks, emboldened now, "if you were...well. If you died, how are you here?"

"I'm not sure," Isobel answers, with a heavy sigh as she struggles to stand again. "I don't remember much about how I died, to be honest. I remember it was a sunny day. Everything was normal. Or, I thought it was normal."

She grabs the iron fireplace poker off the mantle and prods at the logs in the fireplace, a pleasant crackling sound breaking the tense silence.

"There was...an incident of some kind. One of the druids from the nearby enclave had been afflicted with some sort of madness. My father said it was too dangerous, and that he ought to be killed to protect the rest of the town. But I...I wasn't alright with that. I thought, surely, I could help. I could fix it."

Squire stays glued to her side, leaning against her to provide whatever comfort she can.

"I found him before too long- surrounded by the same rotten stink of Sharran magic as that nasty little terrier of yours."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"The poor thing was so afraid. He didn't even seem to know his own name, and he didn't seem to even notice I was trying to speak to him. I walked up to him, I tried to comfort him, to lift whatever dark magic had been placed on him..."

She shakes her head, sighing.

"Next thing I knew, I was waking up. And my father was...different. Wrong."

She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.

"He frightened me, so I ran. I ran until I found my way here, and by then I'd pieced together enough to find out I'd been dead for a hundred years."

She grits her teeth, breaking out in a hoarse, dry coughing fit for a solid twenty seconds before she can continue.

"...He isn't the father I knew anymore. I didn't recognize him. I just..."

She sighs, hugging Squire close to her chest.

"I didn't want anybody here to know. I worried they might look at me different. If I knew my father would send someone after me, I would never have kept it secret."

Orin glances down at Thaniel's face, still screwed into a rictus of pain as he mumbles something incomprehensible.

"Thank you for bringing Squire back to me. She was my best friend for as long as I can remember. I can't believe it."

"That appears to be more Myrkul's doing than our own." Minthara says, finally finding her voice again.

"What? Myrkul?"

"The Absolute isn't a god in itself. It is the Dead Three, operating under the guise of a new deity to dupe its followers. And they are using illithid tadpoles to do it."

Isobel takes a moment to let that information sink in, still petting Squire while she cuddles up as close to her as possible.

"I suppose that explains how he brought me back. Moonmaiden help us, the Dead Three..."

"We'll figure this out," Orin assures her. "Whatever we have to do, we'll get to the bottom of this mess. We have to."

The words are more to reassure herself than anything else, but Isobel smiles at her all the same.

"Thank you. Sincerely. I only hope we can fix this before too much more is lost."

Her smile fades when Minthara stands up, leaning heavily against the cane they pilfered from Moonrise.

"...Where did you find that?"

"Hm? In the back of a wardrobe in the towers, why?" Orin asks.

Isobel shakes her head, running a hand through the fringe of her hair.

"That used to be mine," she explains. "Before I died. I don't think I need it anymore, but-"

She half-laughs, half-sighs.

"It's just strange to see it again, is all. I never used it much after I met Aylin- she was all too happy to carry me around anywhere we needed to go, you see."

"...Aylin?"

Isobel claps a hand over her mouth, evidently having said something she didn't mean to say.

"She's- well, she was-"

Isobel leans against the wall, hugging herself and giving Orin a strange look.

"...Tell me," she says, "do you believe in love at first sight?"

Though her brain has never been in top condition, Orin blinks a few times, finding her ability to form words seems to have vanished.

"I mean," she fumbles, "I guess I never-"

"-There is sometimes a sort of spark in a first glance that cannot be ignored," Minthara butts in, with a more genuine sort of smile this time.

Isobel nods, her words colored with nostalgia as she speaks.

"I still remember that day. An emissary of the Moonmother herself, come to this town. My father took me to greet her, and we were inseparable until I died. My father wouldn't tell me what happened to her..."

The poor woman slumps down, exhaustion written in the creases of her brow.

"...I don't understand," she whimpers.

"Understand what?"

"How She could let this happen. To me. To Aylin. When we had been nothing but faithful our entire lives, when we had given everything to her.

"Another fair-weather goddess who forsakes Her faithful at the first hint of trouble," Minthara scoffs. "I can unfortunately relate."

"It's not-"

Isobel trails off, never completing her thought.

"...If you happen to find out what happened to Aylin," she says instead, "please tell me. I...I would feel better, knowing."

"If we find anything, we'll tell you."

"Thank you."

Isobel looks over at Thaniel, her frown deepening.

"I hope this comes to an end soon," she murmurs. "For everyone's sake."

"We'll figure it out. I promise."

"Of course. Make sure you stop for something to eat first, though- one of the tieflings just cooked and I'm sure you'll need it."

Orin nods, even though she's honestly in no mood to eat.

Minthara doesn't argue against being picked up this time, wrapping her arms around her and letting herself be taken downstairs and wrapped up in a blanket so she can hopefully get a bit of rest before they leave again.

Maybe that's an improvement.

Hopefully.

She was hoping she could get her to eat, but Minthara falls asleep pretty much the moment she's situated, so Orin leaves it there, deciding to bother her about it later. She picks at her food with very little enthusiasm, unable to quell the vague nausea that saps all of the enjoyment out of eating.

She wishes she could sleep, too. But she's scared of what she'll see if she dares to close her eyes...

Chapter Text

Orin wants, more than anything, to sleep. Truly, properly sleep- something she can't really remember ever having done. Even her recent bout of involuntary unconsciousness did nothing to make her feel less exhausted- and yet, she's still too afraid to so much as close her eyes, for fear of what she might see.

She shakes her head and groans, the world coming in and out of focus as the exhaustion settles into her bones.

Minthara looks about that exhausted too, dragging herself along as they set back out into the shadow curse, gaze fixed on the endless stretch of pitch-black sky above, pulling her cloak tight around herself to banish the chill without much success.

(Maybe Jaheira will have something that might help, if she asks. If she could just find something to cope with the nightmares, maybe she could finally rest...)

They come across what must have been the scene of a bloody battle at one point, with the corpses of Githyanki and Flaming Fists alike strewn about.

Orin wonders what happened here, but doesn't want her imagination to wander too much.

(Bad things happen when she lets her mind wander.)

Lae'zel stops to pick up a discarded slate disk, bearing engravings of strange symbols Orin can't understand, but Lae'zel seems to. She scowls, but the expression quickly softens. She stashes the slate in her pack before bowing her head, just for a moment, in a silent recognition of her dead comrades.

(Based on their mummified state, these gith have been dead for a long time, but it seems decay takes far longer when there aren't the usual creatures around to help break a body down...)

She makes the mistake of peering over the edge of the huge fallen tree they use as a bridge to get over a yawning chasm in the ground, sees the swirling greenish-black abyss extending for what feels like forever below them, and fights the urge to vomit from the wave of vertigo that crashes over her.

Kar'niss puts a hand on her shoulder to steady her, and she tries to focus on that instead. She grabs onto him and tries to focus on walking rather than how badly she wants to throw up.

When they're on blessedly solid ground again, Orin immediately notices something odd.

Despite the desolation around them, despite the air that chokes them and swirls around them like a living thing, the ground in this one specific location blooms with life, a trail of wildflowers leading the way to a tiny, broken-down house.

Lae'zel picks a deep purple cluster of flowers and holds them up, turning toward Shadowheart with an unreadable expression.

"Are these-"

"-Night orchids," Shadowheart confirms, dark eyes lighting up and the barest hint of a smile gracing her lips. "I don't know how they're growing in a place like this..."

Lae'zel nods, handing the plant over to her. Shadowheart looks it over, her smile growing as she does.

There's a fondness in the look Lae'zel gives her, and that makes Orin happy, just a bit.

The smell of the flowers and the fresh grass is a welcome relief from the constant smell of stale decay all around them- but through it all, another distinct smell cuts through- one that gets Halsin to immediately perk up.

Lavender.

The familiar smell hangs in the air, discordant with everything else around them as they cross the crumbling threshold.

Sure enough, small clusters of cheerful purple flowers bloom through the cracks in the foundation of the tiny house, a small bastion of nature within this wasteland.

“Boo!”

Orin yelps and leaps backward as a small boy leaps out from the shadows, hands in the air, fingers curled to imitate claws.

The child laughs, jumping up and down in delight.

“I scared you! I saw it!”

“That’s him,” Halsin mutters. “It has to be.”

She supposes the child superficially looks like Thaniel- he has the same slight build and cherubic face, but something is...off.

Half his face is covered with creeping black moss, one of his eyes turned an odd, luminescent blue color, while the other, surrounded by rough scar tissue, is an ominous orange like a dying ember. He sports a pair of tiefling-esque horns, rather than the small antlers Thaniel has, and his hair is a stark white, though it seems to be cut in the same sort of way Thaniel's is.

Orin can't imagine who else would be out here in the shadow curse on their own, so she tries to play along with him to keep his attention.

"Just about scared me to death," she confirms, laying a hand over her chest to exaggerate her surprise for the child's sake.

The boy hops up and down in excitement, giggling in delight.

"I knew it! Nobody beats me at hide and seek! Nobody!"

He grins up at them, acting pretty much like she'd expect a normal, happy child would.

"My name's Oliver!" he tells them, holding his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "What's yours?"

Orin glances backward at Halsin, who shrugs in a go ahead sort of gesture.

"Uh- I'm Orin," she says, feeling stupid and more than a little worried.

She then points to each of her companions in turn to introduce them as well.

"This is Minthara, that's Halsin, that's Astarion, and he's Gale. Over there is Wyll, she's Karlach, that's Lae'zel and Shadowheart, and that's Kar'niss. The dog's name is Scratch."

"Scratch? Do you call him that because he likes a scratch behind the ears?"

"Hm? I guess so- you can pet him if you want, he's friendly."

Oliver takes her up on that offer; Scratch gladly accepts the scratch behind the ears, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling out happily.

"Not a lot of people come around this way," Oliver admits, still petting Scratch as the dog licks his face and lets out high-pitched, happy sounds. "And I hardly see any dogs around here. Not normal ones, anyway. I didn't realize they were so soft!"

Scratch barks and runs in circles around the boy, who giggles in delighted glee as he watches.

“Will you play with us?” the child asks, looking toward each adult in turn with wide, hopeful eyes.

“...Us?” Orin asks, looking around and seeing nobody.

“My new sister and me!” Oliver chirps.

As if on cue, there’s a small giggle in the air, the shadows coalescing to take the vague shape of a child-sized humanoid.

Its blank, white eyes stare at them intently, cocking its head from one side to the other.

It approaches Orin first, still staring.

"I-uh- what's her name?" she asks.

"Oh, she doesn't have one- she said her mummy hadn't picked one out yet."

It giggles again, circling around her before vanishing into the ground briefly, then popping up again in front of Minthara.

Something changes about it then- it stops giggling, something resembling a hand approaching something resembling a mouth like it’s sucking its thumb.

Minthara stares down at it, going paler by the moment.

“What do you mean that she’s new?” Halsin dares to ask, trying to keep calm and to keep his voice kind.

“She just showed up not very long ago,” Oliver answers. “She’s not really my sister, but I figure it's okay if I call her that, you know?”

“...Do you know how it- she, I mean- get here?” Orin asks, as the shadow starts to tremble.

“She said she lost her mummy.”

Oliver approaches the shaking shadow, patting it on the back somehow.

"She said she was still in her mummy's tummy, but her mummy got hurt really badly," Oliver explains. "So she got lost. She was really scared, so I told her I’d take care of her til her mummy came to get her. I know how lonely it gets out here by yourself."

Oliver frowns, but that frown only lasts a moment.

The tiny shadow continues to stare that unnerving stare, while Minthara stays rooted to the spot, eyes so wide they seem ready to fall out of her head.

To the shock of everyone around them, the garbled sounds coming out of the shadow's mouth start to form something intelligible.

"...mu...mmy...mummy...?"

Finally, after floundering for far too long, Minthara manages to speak.

"Do not-"

Oliver steps forward, looking confused.

"...Are you her mummy?" he asks.

This time, when Minthara speaks, her voice comes out in a bellow.

"No!!"

She lashes out at the tiny shadow, sending it flying backward away from her, shrieking very much like a small child that's been injured.

"Get it away from me-"

"-Stop it!" Oliver howls, a burst of frigid air surrounding them.

His cherubic little face is contorted with anger as she steps between Minthara and the shadow.

"-You're a bad mummy!" he shouts at her, throwing his arms out to shield this frail echo of what could have been. "Good mummies don't yell, and they don't hit! Why are you being so mean when she's waited for you all this time?!"

The darkness closes in around them like a living thing; Orin grabs Minthara and pulls her close, feeling her shake so hard her teeth start rattling.

"Good mummies are supposed to love their babies no matter what, aren't they?! Even if she's different she's still-"

Oliver doesn't get to finish his thought.

"This...thing is not my daughter!" Minthara cries, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. "It cannot be! My daughter is dead! She died inside of me! This is a sick joke, one of Shar's cruel tricks, I am not its mother-"

The shadow makes a sound that sounds an awful lot like crying, trying to get closer even as Minthara steps backward to try to get away from it.

She steps wrong, her foot catching on a gnarled tree root and sending her plummeting to the ground. She screws her eyes shut and clamps her hands over her ears as if everything would go away if she can only pretend hard enough it isn't real.

"Have I not suffered enough?" she groans, her breath coming in quick, frantic bursts. "Why must you mock me when I am already in pain?!"

The shadow lets out a sharp, keening cry, as if sharing her distress.

It tries to grab her, but Minthara slaps it hard enough to send it reeling, screaming as radiant energy burns it.

Scratch rushes to her side, whining and nudging her with his snout to try to snap her out of her panic.

"...Nobody's making fun of you," Oliver says, looking puzzled. "What are you talking about? Why are you so angry?"

"Shut up!"

Oliver recoils like he's been hit, too.

Halsin takes a deep breath, kneeling down so he can be at eye level with the boy, mustering up a smile even though it comes across as more of a grimace.

"We've actually been looking for you," he begins, getting the boy's attention.

"Huh? Looking for me? What for?"

"For something very important. Thaniel needs you. You need to come with us."

Oliver's face immediately falls.

"...Spoilsport," he grumbles, crossing his arms and pouting imperiously.

Halsin speaks gently, trying not to anger or frighten him.

"It's going to be alright," he tries to reassure him. "We only want to-"

"-I'm not going! You can't make me!"

"Hey, take it easy little guy," Karlach urges him, holding her hands out in a pacifying gesture.

"We're just trying to help," Wyll agrees. "You don't have to be out here all alone, you just have to-"

"I said no!!"

Another surge of frigid air, along with an invisible force that shoves all of them back.

"...I don't want to play with you anymore," Oliver snaps.

He grabs the little shadow and pulls her close, the pair of them vanishing through a portal of spiraling white energy.

Halsin tries to grab him before he can leave, but misses by milimeters.

"We have to go after him!"

"He will be comfortable where the shadows are deepest- that portal he left should bring us to him."

While everyone chatters amongst themselves to figure out what to do, Orin approaches her lover, holding her breath, afraid to speak.

"...Hey-"

A strange sound comes out of Minthara, cutting off whatever Orin was about to say.

That sound morphs into a sob as she starts to rock back and forth, shivering and fighting for every breath.

"-Is it not enough?" she chokes. "Is it not enough that I lost her? Is it not enough that she is gone? Must I be tormented with this...thing claiming to be her? Must I suffer this indignity? Must I-"

A harsh, hiccuping breath cuts her off, face contorted in anguish and agony.

Orin kneels down, trying to touch her, to comfort her, but Minthara swats her hand away, tears falling from wide, panicked eyes.

"Is it so terrible that I wished to keep her? Is it such an awful thing that I wanted to hold her in my arms? To make something worthwhile of all the indignity I endured? That I wanted to love her?"

She curls in on herself like a frightened child seeking relief from a nightmare, drawing blood as her nails dig into her temples.

"I-I did not mean to conceive her. I did not want to do it that way- it is not as though I sought it on purpose- I wish it was better, I wish I had a say, but it happened anyway. Is that enough for me to be punished?"

"Minthara, what are you-"

"-I loved her from the moment I first felt her. Even though it terrified me. I thought I may not know how to love her, but I wanted to try so badly...Am I to be punished for that? For wanting to try?"

"You aren't-"

It's like Minthara can't even hear her anymore. She bows her head and lets out a soul-chilling howl of grief that pierces the shadows like a blade.

All of her confidence, all her strength, the stoic facade she's been desperately trying to maintain shattering all at once.

She wails in despair, her voice echoing back a hundredfold.

All that spills out of her mouth are sharp, painful gasps and heaving sobs that rattle her entire body.

Pitch-black veins start creeping across her entire body, clawing their way across her neck, face, and hands like invasive vines, trying to choke the life out of her.

"Hey, hold on, you need to calm down a little-"

"-Calm down?!" Minthara shrieks, her voice reaching a pitch Orin didn't think possible for her. "How am I meant to be calm when I am being tortured with the ghosts of what I lost?!"

Orin feels helpless. Hopeless.

There are no words, no magic, nothing that could possibly even begin to heal what's wounded inside her.

So, Orin grabs Minthara in spite of her protests and holds her tight, even as Minthara thrashes about and claws at her to try to escape her grip. The pair of them get covered in Orin's blood as the gauntlets of her armor leave gashes in her pale skin, but she keeps her grip fast.

After a bit, her energy starts to fail her and she falls limp, still sobbing, still soaking Orin with the tears that are far overdue.

"-Am I not allowed to want?" She whimpers, her voice barely audible now.

"What-"

"-Everything, everyone I've ever dared to want have been taken from me in the end. Am I being punished for wanting?"

"No, no don't say that, it isn't that-"

"Then why? Why can I not keep the things I desire? Why..."

She buries her face in Orin's neck, too overcome to even finish speaking.

It hurts more than Orin can comprehend, wishing she could do something- anything- to take her pain away. To reassure her everything is going to be alright, even if it would be a lie.

"I'm here," she promises, even if it doesn't feel like nearly enough. "I'm here. It's alright, I'm not leaving you. I promise."

She tries to nudge Minthara into action, to get her upright so she's not sitting in the dirt, but the woman can't seem to will her body to move. She just lets out a low, heartbroken sound, burying her face in her hands to hide her shame at having broken down in front of everyone.

The blackened rot creeping through her veins sucks up what little light is around them, sapping her strength and what little warmth remains in her body.

(Orin wonders if it's as painful as it looks...)

If only she could help...

You can.

Orin startles, before realizing she recognizes the voice in her head- the guardian from her dreams.

You can share your strength with her. You've done it before.

Orin frowns, confused at first, but then remembering Minthara laying so still in that bed, on the brink of death, and her life force seemed to have transferred itself to her.

Her tadpole squirms in recognition, as if it's begging to be used.

Holding Minthara tight against her chest, Orin shuts her eyes and tries to concentrate. Imagines sharing her energy with her, taking her pain away somehow-

-as easily as a thought, the world starts to spin again, a deep, profound ache settling into her bones.

Along with that is the worst, writhing agony in her gut, like something with sharp claws is scratching at the inside of her belly trying to break out.

She'll have to bear with it for now. They have important things to do.

The blackened veins across Minthara's skin start to retreat, and she relaxes just a little.

Her body screams in protest as he stands back up, but Minthara is able to move with much less difficulty now.

She squeezes Orin's hand, with a look that says she knows what she's done, without saying it aloud.

Everyone watches Orin, waiting for her to answer.

"...Come on," she says, once she's caught her breath (has standing always been so exhausting?), "we need to follow Oliver before it's too late-"

"Right," Halsin says, with a nod. "Come on, we've got to find him."

(Orin only hopes she has the energy left to do that.)

Chapter Text

The portal Oliver left behind takes them somewhere where the shadows are even deeper and more foreboding than everywhere else.

Even with the pixie's blessing and Selune's protection it's hard to breathe, like the shadows are trying to strangle them.

"Go away!" Oliver shouts, his voice echoing all around them. "I don't want you around anymore! You're spoiling my fun!"

A horde of shadows rises from the barren earth, swarming them and attacking with necrotic claws.

"Let me show you my real friends!" the boy yells, with a manic giggle. "And my favorite toy!"

"Fuck-"

Orin ducks out of the way of a massive owlbear made of darkness that lunges at her, leaving a crater in the ground when it lands and nearly knocking her off balance.

She manages to bury her dagger in the neck of the creature, causing it to explode with a shriek and a burst of foul-smelling air.

She watches the shadow-Olivers burst all around her as the others take them down, each one howling in rage along with the real one who stands in the middle of the chaos.

"All I wanted was to play! Why did you have to ruin everything?!"

A maelstrom of chaotic energy swirls around them, stealing the air from their surroundings and freezing all their exposed skin.

"We aren't trying to ruin anything!" Shadowheart shouts. "If you would just calm down and listen-"

"No! You listen- nobody ever listens to me!! After all this time, why do I have to listen to anybody?!"

Oliver lashes out in anger, but it's clear that anger is not the sole reason he's shouting.

There's a deep, profound sadness in his words, in his eyes. A want to be seen, to be understood.

She wonders just how long he's been out here on his own. How badly he must be hurting, missing that other part of himself. Whether he can even understand what he's missing that's causing him so much pain.

"Why are you doing this?! I just wanted to play! All I wanted was to play! I just want to play!"

Gnarled, black vines burst from the ground, covered in thorns and moving around like they've got minds of their own.

Directed by Oliver, they snatch everyone up, pinning them to the ground and yanking their weapons from their hands. The thorns bite into Orin's exposed skin, sending electric jolts of agony through her entire body.

"If you won't let me have fun, I'll make you go away!"

In a burst of gold light, Halsin turns into a hulking, vicious-looking bear that thrashes against the vines to break free, thick fur protecting him from the thorns as the vines lash out and try to pin him down again.

"We aren't trying to hurt you!" he shouts, trying desperately to get the boy to listen.

"I don't care! Shut up!"

Minthara lets out a sharp cry of pain as she tears herself free of her bindings, bracing herself to lash out at Oliver as he rushes to attack her.

Before he gets the chance, though, a sharp shriek cuts through the air, and the shadow claiming to be Minthara's lost child emerges from the ground, stopping him in his tracks.

"What are you doing?!"

The shadow stands stubbornly between Oliver and Minthara, blank white eyes somehow managing to glare at him through the swampy air.

"Get out of the way!" Oliver shouts at her. "You're ruining it!"

The shadow does not budge, keeping a stubborn barrier between them.

Protecting her...?

"M...Mumm...y!" it declares, though every single sound takes it a great effort to get out. "M...my mummy!"

Oliver lets out a howl of rage and frustration, a downpour of oddly thick, ice-cold rain starting to pour from out of seemingly nowhere.

His summoned shadows evaporate into nothingness, leaving him standing there alone, as the sky cries along with him.

"He left me all this time!" he sobs, thunder rumbling all around. "I made it all on my own! Even when it was scary! Why did you only come to find me because he needed me back?! Was I not good enough? How come nobody ever came to try to save me...?"

The vines finally release them, retreating back in the broken, crumbling ground they sprang up from.

Orin curls up in the dirt, in too much pain and too worked up to want to stand up again.

Before she can choke it down, a sob bursts out of her throat, and then they just won't stop coming.

It's too much to stop, even if she wanted to.

That snaps Oliver out of his own crying fit, glaring at Orin through angry tears.

"-Why are you crying?" Oliver asks, between hiccuping sobs.

"Because it's not fair!"

Oliver scrunches his little brow up in confusion. He sits down beside her in the mud, more confused than angry now.

"What are you talking about?"

"None of this is fair!" she shouts, throwing her hands out to gesture at the devastation around them. "It's not fair that you and Thaniel got split apart. It's not fair this curse hurt and killed so many people. It's not fair Minthara lost her baby- it's not fair that she was out here in the first place when she should be at home being taken care of! It's not fair that Isobel died and started this whole mess!"

She's painfully aware of how childish she sounds, but can't bring herself to even care.

"None of it is fair but it happened anyway! It happened and I can't fix it so all I can do about it is cry!"

Oliver's frown deepens. He hugs himself to try to soothe himself, but it's clear it isn't helping much.

Astarion wordlessly saunters up, sitting on Oliver's other side and sighing, shoulders slumped like he's carrying a great weight. .

"I get it," he says, leaning back on his hands and talking like he's chatting with an old friend at a pub. "You've been out here on your own for a long time. It's pretty easy to feel like everyone important's forgotten you. Like the world's moved on without you. But that's only true if you let it happen."

"I-"

Oliver frowns, hanging his head and hugging his knees to his chest.

"-Will he even still want me?" he asks, his voice suddenly small. "I mean- I've changed. A lot."

"People change all the time," Orin tells him. "I've changed a lot from what I used to be. But I'm sure Thaniel misses you. You're still part of him, after all."

"But I-"

"-Changing is normal," Gale reassures him, sitting across from him to join in on this strange conversation. "I know it sounds hard to understand now, but it's part of growing up."

He waves his hand around in the fog, mustering up a faint smile.

"Staying the same forever might seem comfortable- and I guess it is. But there's a big world out there waiting for you if you'll just get out there and grab it. You don't have to hide in the dark anymore."

"He's right," Karlach chimes in. "It's a lot more fun when you've got friends around. Real friends."

"Real toys too," Wyll points out. "Those are a lot more fun than shadows."

Those words seem to make something stir inside the boy- he smiles a bit more earnestly this time, perking up just a little bit.

"...I wouldn't have to have pretend friends anymore? They'd be real? And they'd really like me?"

"If that's what you want," Astarion says.

"I do want that..."

Oliver hugs his knees against his chest, watching the little shadow child with a worried look as it approaches Minthara again.

This time, rather than backing away or attacking it, Minthara holds her arms up, her breath caught in her throat.

“...ulu uns'aa,” she murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard.

The shadow seems to understand- it reaches for her,  the shadowy tendrils giving their best attempt at a hug.

“...You really are her mummy, then?” Oliver asks, cracking a smile once again, even as he wipes tears away from his eyes.

Jaw clenched tightly, Minthara manages to nod, gingerly wrapping her arms around the tiny shadow.

“I told her you’d come. She thought maybe you forgot her. But I told her mummies never forget.”

Minthara doesn’t answer, too busy rocking back and forth with the hollow memory of her would-be child.

The shadow lets out a series of soft, cooing sounds, a lot like a baby does when it's content. It rests its head against her chest, and Orin swears it sighs.

"...I'll go," Oliver says, at long last. "Just-"

He holds his arms out toward Halsin in a silent demand to be held, looking exhausted and so very sad.

"I'm tired."

Halsin indulges this unspoken request, picking him up so they can get back home. Oliver rests his head against his shoulder and lets out a little sigh, shutting his eyes and finally looking calm.

"I'll set up a waypoint will take us back to the inn," Gale says, in a tone he forces to be chipper. "I would say we can all go for a good long nap after all this excitement, yes?"

Minthara gets to her feet on unsteady legs, carrying the tiny shadow with her. 

She doesn't say a word, too occupied with the little wraith that seems to fall asleep once it's settled in her arms.

It almost looks content, and that worries Orin for reasons she can't quite understand.

The sickly rain finally ceases, though the sky remains as dark and foreboding as ever.

"Are you still good to walk?" Shadowheart asks, when Orin wobbles dangerously on the spot.

"I think so."

She tries to take a step, but topples over; Kar'niss catches her and keeps her upright, though he keeps silent.

"Here we go."

Gale dusts the chalk off his hands and smiles.

"Alright, let's go, shall we?"

"Sounds good..."

Though the trip back to the inn only takes a few seconds, it feels like a million years. Orin wonders if it's possible for a person to be this overwhelmingly tired all the time and still continue living.

A little battered and soggy, yet still triumphant, they cross the threshold of Last Light inn.

The pleasant sounds of a lute playing greets them as they step into the inn once more, with Oliver fast asleep against Halsin's shoulder.

Art and Alfira are playing together, singing some old song that Orin doesn't recognize. All the same, it rings pleasantly in her ears, filling the inn with a cozy sort of feeling despite their gloomy surroundings.

The shadow starts to wander about, looking around with something like curiosity, taking in everything with those huge, blank eyes.

His Majestly lets out a loud, irritated meow as he bounds up to them, glaring peevishly at Minthara even as he rubs himself against her, purring all the while.

"Wretched woman!" he snaps, still purring. "How dare you depart without informing me? Unacceptable!"

Despite his indignance, he allows Minthara to pick him up, settling in and immediately starting to knead his paws against her shoulder.

"This isn't exactly the best weather to take a swim," Jaheira teases them, taking in their soggy yet triumphant state.

"We weren't doing it for fun," Astarion huffs. "We actually got a lot done, I'll have you know."

"I figured as much- our little friend perked right up not long ago, so you must have done something."

"Already?"

When Orin pokes her head into the room the music is coming from, she's pleasantly surprised to find Thaniel sitting at the foot of Art's bed, seemingly alert and in good spirits. He kicks his feet while idly watching the other two play, wide green eyes staring intently.

He glances up and sees Halsin, lighting up in a way that lets everyone know he's happy, even though he doesn't actually smile.

"I knew you could do it."

"So did I," Art says, properly smiling for the first time since he's awoken. "My entire time in the Shadowfell, all he ever talked about was you. No matter what happened, he knew you'd come through for us."

Halsin nods, setting a sleeping Oliver down in one of the open beds, careful not to rouse him. Thaniel climbs into bed with him, laying down and curling up like a cat settling down for a nap.

"It's been a long day," he says, shutting his eyes again. "I think we're all due for a rest."

"I would say so," Astarion groans, stretching out his aching limbs with a groan. "This hero business is exhausting."

Minthara nods in silent agreement, leaning against Orin and shutting her eyes.

"I would say you've earned it after all you've done," Jaheira says, throwing towels at everyone so they can dry themselves off. "We'll make sure someone is on watch so you don't get disturbed."

Nobody has the energy to even try to argue with that; Orin doesn't think she has it in her to fight if she wanted to.

She turns, tries to take a step, sways, and finds herself plummeting to the floor.

Halsin grabs her before she can hit the ground, murmuring something reassuring to her she can't quite hear through the ringing in her ears.

Even with that reassurance, however, her stomach lurches with a deep, visceral disgust that has her pulling away the moment his hand makes contact with her.

Once again, she feels much smaller. Afraid even though she has no reason to be.

She hears that rough, low voice growling in her ear, uttering obscene things that make her guts churn all the more as she once again fights back the urge to vomit.

Halsin backs off when he notices this, looking terribly guilty in a way Orin hates.

Minthara grabs her, murmuring comforting things to her as she leads her away, urging her to follow her outside and up a set of stairs leading to a cramped, dusty attic-sort-of-thing far away from the others.

The space isn't luxurious by any stretch, but there's a stash of bedding and night clothes tucked away in old, mouldering crates, and they've got some sort of privacy like this, so it's better than nothing.

They change into some of the clothing, which is threadbare and ragged, but still clean, and warmer than nothing.

The shadow stares at them all the while, cocking its head from one side to the other as they set up their sleeping quarters.

Occasionally, Minthara glances at it with a terribly sad expression, jaw set tight in a vain attempt to mask her pain.

"...Are you alright?" Orin asks, half-expecting not to get a response.

But, to her surprise, Minthara speaks.

And, to her shock, it's nothing like she expected.

"I am not," she answers, in a weak, fragile voice.

The shadow approaches her, cuddling up close; with a great, shuddering breath, Minthara starts to cry once more, and the shadow starts to cry alongside her.

"...It feels like a sick joke," she chokes out through tears. "All I wanted was to raise my daughter. I tried to protect her, but it was not enough. I had that robbed from me. Now I am confronted with this-"

She makes a frustrated gesture at the wraith hugging her, grimacing in pain.

"-This...whatever it is that used to be her. Or thinks it was once her. I do not know, but it hurts all the same. And I do not understand why I must be mocked by Shar and her darkness simply because I am grieving."

Orin sits down beside her, allowing Minthara to lean against her for whatever cold comfort that can give.

"I was prepared to do my best to care for her. I was willing to endure anything carrying and birthing her would entail."

She grabs her breast with a flinch of discomfort, drawing attention to the twin wet spots spreading across the thin fabric of her nightshirt- perhaps brought about by the shadow's crying.

The shadow lets out a sharp, sad sound, pressing its head against her chest like it's trying to nurse, even now.

"My body altered itself to care for her. To carry her. To be able to feed a child that no longer needs to be fed. Sometimes I swear I can still feel her move within me. Even though I know she is gone."

She shuts her eyes and hides her face in Orin's neck, while the shadow scurries away in fright at the sudden movement.

"The discomfort and pain, every unpleasant thing- it would be nothing compared to this. If I am meant to suffer, can it not be for the sake of something I desire? What is..."

She chokes the words out like they're trying to throttle her.

"...What is the point of going on if I am meant to be miserable? If every precious thing is stolen from me? Why could I not have perished in that cell if this is to be the rest of my life?"

"Don't say that-" Orin insists, grabbing her tight and biting her lip to keep from crying. "Please don't talk like that, it's going to be alright."

"When?"

"I don't know. But it has to be, right? Someday, somehow."

It feels like lying to herself- lying to her lover. But she isn't sure what else she can say.

Minthara lets out a shaky sigh, trying to bite back any further urge to cry.

"...I want to go home," she laments, squeezing Orin's hand so tight she wonders if the bones in her hands will shatter.

"What?"

"I want to go home. I want my mother. I miss my city, I miss my family, I want to go home. I want to go home, but I am afraid I can never go back again... I have changed too much, I am not the same woman who departed Menzoberranzan the day I went after my mother. Who I am now will not be welcome there."

"We'll figure something out," Orin insists, though she doesn't have the foggiest idea where to even start.

"But what do we do now?" Minthara asks. "How do we fix this?"

"We kill Ketheric Thorm," Orin answers, without a hint of hesitation. "We fix this curse. At least then we'll have gotten even with him."

"Oh, Orin."

Minthara laughs a cold, hollow laugh that rumbles deep in her chest.

"I could kill that man a million times over and it would not come close to satisfying the hate I have in my heart for him. If I could disassemble his wretched body bit by bit and leave his rotting carcass for the crows, scattering every last cell of him to the winds, it would still not sooth a single ounce of my loathing. There is no getting even with that man. But I hope when we are through with him Myrkul hollows out his bones and lets them be dust."

The thought sends a thrill up Orin's spine, a shudder of anticipation running through her.

She watched the way he healed right up after that goblin lashed out at him, after all. He could enjoy the caress of her blade forever and a day.

How terrible. How wonderful.

That will have to wait awhile, though.

For now, every single cell of her body aches with a deep, profound ache the likes of which she's never known. Exhaustion permeates every part of her, and all she wants to do is sleep...

Minthara wraps them both up in blankets, while the little shadow echo of their would-be daughter floats around the room, making soft cooing sounds while it watches them.

It looks like it wants to join them, but is perhaps afraid to do so- if fear is something it's capable of feeling.

Though she feels a bit stupid doing it, Orin holds her arms out toward the shadow, silently gesturing for it to approach.

The shadow obeys, crawling into the pile of pillows and blankets and settling in with them.

It's surprisingly solid when she touches it, though it's ice-cold and almost feels a bit damp.

Strange.

But Orin can't linger on that thought, considering her body is quickly shutting itself off from sheer exhaustion.

As terrifying as the thought of sleep is, she knows she can't keep fighting it forever.

Minthara is already dead asleep in her arms anyway, though she somehow still looks like she's in pain.

At least she isn't alone in that, considering every single part of Orin aches...

Below them, they can hear Astarion join in Art and Alfira's impromptu musical session, singing some melancholy tune that takes the edge off Orin's headache.

If only she could sleep, maybe she'll feel better.

If only...

Chapter Text

"Have you so completely forgotten who you are, daughter mine? Have you so thoroughly abandoned all you have been taught?"

"I don't want to hurt anybody anymore-"

"My poor daughter. You know you cannot escape who you are. Why do you insist on hiding?"

The voice speaks with a faux sweetness that makes Orin's blood boil with rage, but there's nobody around in this sea of rotten blood to lash out at.

"Just leave me alone!" she screams, her voice echoing across the barren hellscape. "I'm tired of this! I'm tired of you!"

"You are tired of your own family?"

The landscape shifts around them, and suddenly she's somewhere in the Underdark, surrounded by luminescent mushrooms in every conceivable color.

Blood drips from her hands, runs down her face, fills her mouth with a sharp, metallic warmth. The muscles in her arms ache, her jaw stiff and sore from overuse.

Laying in a bed of soft moss and glowing lichen is Minthara, pinned underneath her, glassy eyes staring sightlessly into nothingness.

Her body is split open from pubis to sternum, blood pooling in the cavity where her heart used to be, loops of intestine pulled from her abdomen, strewn about carelessly like macabre confetti. Giant, bloody bite marks cover her neck and shoulders, chunks of flesh torn away from the insides of her thighs, though her face is somehow completely untouched.

Looking up, she sees her other companions overhead, hanging from the caps and stalks of the enormous mushrooms blooming meters in the air. Each of them hangs from their own entrails, throats slit, gaping crimson voids in the place where their eyes used to be.

The familiar, hunched form of Cruor approaches her, hands clasped in a pleading gesture.

"Milady," he implores, "Your family is so very worried about you. They want you to be happy-"

"-If they want me to be happy they'll leave me the hells alone!" Orin screams. "I want to be free! I want to live! I don't want this!"

"I know you're afraid, milady," Cruor says, in the same sickly sweet tone that makes Orin's teeth itch. "But your father still loves you. You only have to return to Hi-"

"-How about you return to Him, you infernal piece of shit?! I never asked for any of this!"

With a slash of her dagger, the imp's head falls from his body, black blood spilling out to join Minthara's.

"You cannot escape me," the voice she assumes is Bhaal's tells her. "You will only hurt yourself by trying. You are not meant for this sort of false nobility. You are meant for far more- my child. My precious blood lamb. My heir."

"Fuck you!" Orin snaps, while the world sinks back into a sea of crimson yet again. "I didn't ask for you to meddle in my life, so butt out already!"

A cold, hollow laugh rings out in return.

"Your family will be here when you finally get this rebellion out of your system."

Orin comes back to consciousness with a startle and a stifled gasp.

Her heart races in her chest, so fast she wonders how it doesn't simply give out from all the strain.

Her hands won't stop shaking and she can't calm herself, even though there's nothing she can see around her that should have her so worked up.

The throbbing in her head is as fierce as ever, the ringing in her ears enough to drive her to madness.

The ringing is so terrible that it takes her a few seconds to realize Minthara is playing her lyre again, plucking out the notes to a strange, haunting melody Orin hasn't heart her play before.

Orin looks around her, frowning as she tries to ground herself in reality.

Thick cobwebs hang from the slanted ceiling, thick dust floating in the air from decades on decades of neglect.

Putting a hand to her forehead, she reminds herself that, once again, she was only dreaming. She hasn't hurt her lover, she hasn't done anything terrible, she isn't some mindless beast who's committed the ultimate betrayal.

(Not yet, anyway...)

She's here, and Minthara is here with her.

The music washes over her like a balm- just beneath the lyre, almost too quiet to properly be heard, Minthara sings to the tiny shadow resting in her lap.

Ele xun dos veldri?

Lerg usst, 'chev usst

Xun naut ul'nusst,

Usstan tlun ghil

Her voice is rough, hoarse, and sings in an unrefined way that betrays the fact it hasn't been used this way in quite some time. But it's sincere, and the words sound nice even though she isn't quite sure what they mean.

When she notices Orin is awake, she abruptly goes silent, covering her mouth with her hand and flushing dark.

"I did not mean to wake you-"

"-No, you're fine. I like it, actually..."

"...Truly?"

"I do. You don't have to be embarrassed."

Minthara scowls, just for a moment, but it doesn't last.

Then, hesitantly, she starts to play again, a bit more bashfully than before.

Dos ph'sreen'aur

Usstan tlun ghil

Ilhar zhah tah'entil,

ilhar zhah kyorlin

Ilhar zhah ghil...

"Is this another one of those prayers?" Orin asks, forcing herself to sit up and banish the dark thoughts from her mind.

"No," Minthara answers. "It is one I had created myself."

"Yeah? When did you write it?"

"Oh,it has been so long I do not quite remember. Around the time myself and a few others of my house were dispatched to deal with a false hydra that had spawned somewhere in the slums of Menzoberranzan."

Orin perks up, sitting up straight and squinting at her.

"But don't their songs make it so nobody can notice them?" she asks.

"Yes- but one must hear the song in order for it to work. There was a child who was as deaf as a stone- she saw it and pitched a fit until people believed her that something was wrong. So my mother tasked me with investigating the situation and making sure it was taken are of."

Minthara shrugs, as though it was not a big deal.

"A True Seeing spell was enough to reveal the creature to me and my hunting party- we were fortunate that it only had the time to sprout three heads, so it was not too difficult to kill the beast, once we saw it."

She looks quite pleased with herself as she tells the story.

"My first love had accompanied us, as a healer. She used a silence spell to quiet the monster, but before then, I heard its song. It has haunted me ever since, so eventually I took the time to write some new lyrics to go with the melody."

"I didn't know you did that sort of thing? Writing your own music, I mean."

"Most people would not know that about me. It is not a hobby I often announce."

"Why not?"

"My mother would have seen it as a waste of time. And I would rather have yanked Tiamat's tail than disappointed her."

"She would have been disappointed? Why?"

"She would have seen it as a distraction from my duties. I needed to know the hymns, the prayers, the mantras...anything else was unnecessary. But I let myself indulge from time to time, when I was alone. I suppose it comforted me to have something fully apart from Lolth or my family."

"I'm sorry to hear it. You should do it more if it makes you happy."

Minthara almost smiles, but can't quite manage it.

"Thank you."

She plays for a few moments longer before setting her lyre aside, rubbing her temples and letting out a long, shaky breath. Orin guides her to pay back down, stroking her hair to soothe her.

"You should try to sleep more."

"I know."

Minthara lays back on their small pillow mountain, pressing her hands over her eyes. She allows herself to be held and consoled with whatever nonsense Orin can think up, but doesn't move to return the gesture.

It takes some time and a lot of effort, but eventually Minthara drifts off to sleep once more, albeit fitfully.

Satisfied with that for now, Orin decides maybe wandering around a bit will help settle her mind. Maybe she can find some quiet place to draw for awhile, to see if that will distracts her.

Grabbing her bag, she makes her way down to the courtyard, where only a couple harpers stand watch, weapons at the ready. They fix her with wary stares as she walks past them, keeping her head down and trying not to make eye contact with them.

She walks back into the inn proper, where Jaheira is sitting in a chair by the fire, wrapped up in layers of blankets while watching the fire crackle away merrily. Orin approaches, wanting some of the warmth from the flames, and anything to distract her from her own mind.

When she notices Orin standing beside her, she makes a small sound of acknowledgement.

Orin nods in her general direction, eyes fixated on the embers casting a deep golden glow in a circle around the room.

After standing there for maybe a minute, Jaheira speaks.

"Dark dreams?"

Orin doesn't answer.

Jaheira doesn't need one, though.

"I can take a guess about what. The blood on your hands, perhaps. Or the blood in your veins."

The barest whimper escapes Orin's throat.

"Tell me-"

Jaheira's tone drops low, fixing Orin with a piercing stare.

"--What is it you feel when your father's dreams come calling?"

There are a lot of things Orin wants to say. A lot of questions weighing heavily on her mind. But they all seem to get stuck in her throat, the words frozen on her tongue.

“...How did you know?” she finally manages to ask.

“For all of the gifts Bhaal’s children inherit, a good night’s sleep is not among them.”

Jaheira says this with a sympathetic grimace, standing up to do something at the bar a short distance from the fireplace.

"I feel helpless," Orin answers, disgust twisting her intestines together. "Like he owns me, and there's nothing I can do about it."

"You are not the first of your kind to feel that way."

Jaheira speaks with a strange sort of certainty that makes Orin equal measures annoyed and curious.

“You seem to know a lot about us.”

“I am surprised you didn’t have your head filled with stories about the times I tangled with your father,” Jaheira chuckles. “He and I have been at odds for about a century now.”

Orin frowns.

Her stomach churns in discomfort, her addled mind pulling up half-formed memories of her supposed father and Jaheira.

Bile surges up in her throat, a half-remembered hatred making invisible bugs skitter beneath her skin.

“I don’t remember all that much,” she reminds Jaheira. “I know I’m supposed to hate you, I think. But not a lot other than that.”

“I suppose whoever gave you that scar is to blame for that one.”

Orin nods, figuring she must be right.

Jaheira fiddles with something that leaves a sharp herbal smell in the air, though Orin doesn’t look up to see what it is.

“...You said you knew someone else like me?” she asks.

“Abdel Adrian,” Jaheira answers, with a nod. “A Bhaalspawn that had been stolen away from their Father along with a few others, spared from being sacrificed in Bhaal’s name. Raised in Candlekeep. A good friend of mine."

Nostalgia colors her voice, a wistful longing for better times hanging on every word spoken.

"They never did manage to fully banish Bhaal from their life. But they were able to make something of themself. And They always believed others of their kind could do the same, if they wanted to."

Orin stares into the flames like maybe they hold the answers to all of their problems, letting the words wash over her.

“The more you resist him, the worse the dreams will become,” the older woman informs her, her voice solemn. “I still remember how our entire camp would be woken up by their screams… They told us about the horrible visions Bhaal would visit upon them- their unholy birthright, He would tell them. We came to take them as a blessing, eventually.”

“How the hells are they a blessing?”

“Because they are a reminder that even gods can be resisted. That you are not a slave to your blood, no matter how He may try to convince you otherwise.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Orin sighs. “It feels like no matter how hard I try, I can’t deny him anything.”

“That sounds like a load of rothé shit if you ask me.”

“What-”

“-Alfira told me exactly what happened to her, when she had the misfortune of running afoul of your Father. If you were truly helpless against Him, she would not be telling me her tale without a Speak with Dead scroll on hand.”

Jaheira forces a mug of something warm into Orin’s hands, taking a seat beside her on the floor with one of her own.

“You are what you are, Child of Bhaal,” she says, gently. “But it need not be all that you are.”

Orin stares into the reddish liquid in her mug, wishing she could drown in it.

“...Is it worth it, though?” she can’t help but ask, desperately hoping this woman has an answer for her. “I mean- it seems all I do is bring people I care about bad luck. Well, and myself bad luck.”

Jaheira takes a long sip out of whatever’s in her mug, mulling the question over.

“If you are asking if happiness is beyond a Bhaalspawn, it is not,” she finally replies. “If you are asking if it will be easy- it will not.”

Orin scowls, at last taking a sip of her drink- it’s pleasantly floral and fills her with a gentle warmth that takes the edge off her pounding head.

“Your path will not be a clean one, and I can make no promise that you will encounter no further heartache. All I can promise is that, should you choose to walk it, you will not do so alone.”

It's not very reassuring, but Orin clings to whatever faint hope she can get right now.

"I'm scared."

"Good. That means you have not yet given up."

The owlbear cub scurries up to them, bringing their conversation to an abrupt halt.

He shoves himself at Orin, shivering all over, hooting in distress as Scratch hurries to catch up with him.

"What's wrong?" Orin asks, petting the poor creature to try to calm him.

"He had a nightmare," Scratch explains, laying down beside the cub and nudging him with his snout.

"Miss mother," the cub whimpers. "Goblins kept me in cage...hurt me, scared me, crushed baby still in egg, killed mother-"

"It's alright," Scratch reassures him. "You're safe now, here with our friends."

Orin scratches around the scruff of the owlbear's neck, while Jaheira pets his giant head.

"We won't let anybody do that to you ever again," Orin promises him. "You'll be alright."

"She's right,"

The owlbear hoots appreciatively, cuddling close to her and laying his head in her lap.

"You smell very delicious," he says, "but I will not bite you. You are good friend."

Orin consoles him for a bit longer until he manages to fall asleep once more, curling up and resting his paws over his eyes.

Scratch curls back up and dozes off again as well, tail wagging even in his sleep.

Trapped between the owlbear and the dog, Orin rummages around in her bag until she finds her sketchbook and flips it to an empty page, sharpening a pencil and hovering over the page while contemplating what she wants to draw.

She doesn't think she wants to draw the sorts of things she used to- she does not want to tempt herself with the images of bloody violence that made up most of her previous work. She wants to do something different- something softer. Gentler.

Softer...

She turns her attention to the cub's sleeping face, so content and peaceful.

Her pencil starts moving, tentatively at first, sketching out the outline of his round face and fluffy body.

With a few more movements and a few more minutes, the cub's features start to take shape, the curve of his beak and the outlines of his feathers coming out as she works.

It's a welcome distraction, and she loses herself in the finer details of his downy feathers, the dim firelight playing off his talons, the little nub of a tail that occasionally twitches in his sleep.

When she's done with that, she draws Scratch next, trying to capture the softness of his fur, the tiny scar across his snout, the bits of fluff that jut out of his ears.

At some point while she does that, Jaheira dozes off back in her chair, wrapped up in a ratty old blanket, somehow not looking restful even while sleeping.

Even though she isn't sure if Jaheira will like it, when she's done with her drawing of the dog, she starts to sketch out the older woman, finding herself a little fascinated by the sharp features of her face, and the worry lines etched deep into her forehead that remind her of the ones in Minthara's.

That hatred that she's pretty sure isn't hers still simmers somewhere in her chest, but it's easier to ignore now. She distracts herself with the tiny gold baubles braided into her gray hair, the creases at the corners of her mouth and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes that tell her, despite whatever hardships lead to the worry lines, she's also had plenty of reasons to smile in her life.

Orin wonders whether, if she lives long enough to become an old woman, she'll be able to have the same sort of wrinkles on her own face.

Whether she'll be able to be happy someday. Truly happy.

She wants that. But she isn't sure if she dares to hope for it.

Something cold brushing the back of her neck breaks her out of her thoughts.

She stifles a yelp and whips her head around, only to be met with the shadow's wide, blank eyes staring into her, floating centimeters away.

"What are you-"

She trails off, memories coming back to the forefront of her mind before she can finish her question.

Memories of when things were better. Of her and Minthara curled up in their tent together, with her head resting in Minthara's lap and her hand on the faint swell of her belly.

"I'll be her mother too, you know. Do you think she'll like me, too?"

"I cannot imagine why she would not- there is nothing not to like."

She wonders if the shadow truly recognizes her as someone who wanted to be her mother, or whether it's just some trick caused by the shadow curse to torment her.

Do you like me...?

Searching the shadow's eyes, she tries to find any hint of recognition,any spark of intelligence, but only finds the same blank nothingness. It's impossible to tell whether it's aware at all.

(She wonders if this is how Mayrina had felt, searching the clouded eyes of the decaying husk of her husband for any hint of what he used to be, a shred of the love he once had for her...)

Still, the shadow reaches out toward her the same way a child would reach out toward their caretaker.

"Mummy," it murmurs, trying its best to form hands out of its amorphous body.

Orin sets her drawing materials aside, reaching her hand out for the shadow to grab onto.

It latches onto her hand with both of its own, making a string of small, happy noises.

Orin's vision blurs, but she blinks the tears back, desperate to not cry anymore.

"You're not her," she says, even though she's fairly sure the shadow can't understand her.

The shadow babbles away happily, seemingly oblivious.

"Stop it," Orin pleads. "Stop acting like her. Stop pretending to be her. You aren't her. You're just..."

She bows her head and stifles a sob- all the while, the shadow still clings to her other hand.

Orin doesn't know what the shadow just is. But she knows that even looking at it makes her heart ache.

Despite trying not to, she ends up crying yet again, chewing on her tongue and the inside of her cheek to keep quiet.

The tiny wraith touches her cheek, running tiny finger-like tendrils through the tears running down her face.

"...Mummy..."

It leans forward, pressing what might be its forehead against Orin's.

It's hard to tell whether the creature understands the words she's saying, but it speaks in a way that lets her know it, at least, seems to understand that she's upset.

"...Mummy...sad...?"

Her first instinct is to deny it, even though she doesn't understand why she would.

Instead, she musters up the energy to nod.

"...I am."

"My...mummy...sad..."

The shadow sniffles, in a very convincing facsimile of a child ready to cry.

"Sad..."

It clings to her for comfort, hiding its head in her chest and shivering.

It's cold enough to make Orin shudder, but she doesn't try to get the wraith to leave.

Despite knowing this creature can't be her child, there's still a strange sort of comfort in holding it. Something like placing an ice pack over a burn.

(How can she hold something made of shadow, she wonders...?)

She isn't sure how long she stays like this, curled up around the little specter, but at some point she must have nodded off, because the next thing she knows Karlach is shaking her awake, and someone at some point has draped a blanket over her.

"Up and at 'em, soldier! We've got a lot to do today!"

Orin's back screams in protest as she gets up off the floor, and she makes a mental note that she shouldn't make a habit of doing that.

The shadow floats in the general vicinity of Minthara, humming tunelessly while it watches everyone go about their day.

"...Had a bad night," Orin says, when Minthara's worried face silently asks where she had gone. "I just needed to wander a bit."

Minthara nods, staring into the depths of her coffee blankly.

"Good morning everyone!" Astarion chirps, practically skipping in.

"What's got you in such a good mood, fangs?"

"This-"

From seemingly nowhere, he whips out Minthara's stuffed bear, wearing the most smug grin imaginable.

No sooner has he produced it than Minthara has snatched it back.

"Why did you take it?!" she snaps, in a wild-eyed rage.

"Nothing sinister, calm down!" Astarion insists, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Just take a look at it, will you?"

She and Orin look at the stuffed animal, and it doesn't take long to notice what's different.

The rushed, sloppy stitching has been removed, the patchwork plush reassembled and sewn back up with surgical precision and cleaned up the best he could given their circumstances.

"What-"

"I didn't want the poor thing losing its stuffing at an inconvenient time," Astarion explains. "You left it on Art's nightstand, so I took the liberty of patching it up while Gale was keeping me up with his godsdamned snoring."

Orin examines the stitching, frowning at what seems to be spider silk comprising the thread now holding the bear together.

"...Where did you-"

"-Our Drider friend helped me with that. He told me not to worry about where he got it, and I'm honestly too afraid to ask at this point."

Minthara accepts this with an annoyed grunt of acknowledgement, tucking the bear into her pack once she's confirmed it's unharmed.

She doesn't say anything, but there's an unspoken gratitude that Astarion must be able to pick up on.

Breakfast is passed around, though Lae'zel is far more interested in fussing over the egg than in eating anything herself, and Minthara is more interested in testing her body's carrying capacity for black coffee than in solid food.

"Anyone have any idea about any leads, then?" Orin asks, wanting something else to think about while she makes more of a show of moving her porridge around than actually eating it.

After shifting her weight around nervously, Shadowheart answers.

(She looks...different today. She doesn't have that usual dark makeup around her eyes, and her jet-black hair is merely thrown back to keep it out of the way, rather than done up in its usual intricate braid. The night orchid Lae'zel found is tucked behind her ear, and she looks more defeated than anything right now.

Orin wants to ask about it, but she decides it's best to let it be.)

"...I might. But I'm not sure."

Minthara rolls her eyes, but keeps her silence.

Shadowheart scratches the side of her neck and continues.

"When we were at that forge in the Underdark, I found something. Dead people wearing armor. Dark Justiciar armor."

"Dark Ju-what now?" Karlach asks, blinking a few times in rapid succession.

"-Something like a kith'rak for those who worship Shar," Lae'zel chimes in, still running her hands along the egg's shell with a cautious sort of affection. "The most faithful and devoted among Her followers."

Shadowheart fiddles with the night orchid in her hair, not meeting anyone's eyes.

"It was something I always wanted to be- but that's not what's important. If La- Shar, I mean, is responsible for all this, then I wonder if whatever happened to the Justiciars has anything to do with what's going on now."

"Sounds like a decent lead," Wyll concedes. "But what should we be looking for?"

"Any sign of her symbology, or maybe a former cloister of Hers," Shadowheart replies. "If we're going to try to kill an immortal, we best know how, and there may be answers for how we can do that if we poke around places Her followers used to gather."

Orin isn't thrilled about deliberately looking for Shar or Her church, but she has to admit it may be their best bet.

"I don't have any other ideas," she admits. "Any idea where to start looking?"

"Not the foggiest, I'm afraid."

"I do," Squire says, tapping Orin's leg with a bony paw to get her attention.

"Eh?"

The dog sits down, tail wagging a bit like she's proud to have the answers.

"When my master turned away from Selune, the family followed," she explains. "Well, those of the family who had not already left her or fled the town. His nephew ran the House of Healing, near the towers. His sister ran the tollhouse by the river, and his son owned a tavern that should not be that far from here. If you were to look, I would begin there."

Orin relays what Squire said to those who can't understand her, and everyone suddenly looks a lot more hopeful.

"Alright then," Gale says, clapping his hands together. "Let's get wrapped up here and start looking, shall we?"

At least now they have somewhere to start.

Orin only hopes it pays off.

Chapter Text

Orin feels a gaping void in her stomach that only seems to gnaw at her insides more, even though she's pretty sure she's eaten enough she should be full.

Hunger, but she's pretty sure it isn't a hunger any amount of food could ever satisfy.

(She has a sneaking suspicion what it's a hunger for, but she doesn't like to think too much about that.)

She listens to snippets of the conversations around them, heart aching, feeling like she's tainting the others by even being near them.

Her ears hone in when she hears Minthara speaking to Jaheira, curious about what they might have to talk about.

"You look tired."

"I have not gotten around to fixing my face, is all."

Out of the corner of her eye, Orin notes to herself that Minthara does look tired.

That's normal considering everything, of course. But certainly not merely due to her not bothering with makeup.

"Do you think perhaps you ought not run around like a cockatrice with its head cut off so soon after your brush with death?"

"That's hardly any concern of yours."

"All I am saying is you ought to be careful. I know you want to be useful, but you will be no use to anyone if you wear yourself down to nothing and refuse to let yourself rest."

Minthara rolls her eyes, but Orin thinks she can see a hint of gratitude at her concern, mingling with her frustration.

"I do not need mollycoddling," she snarks, "nor do I need you fussing over me, darthiir. "

Jaheira doesn't so much as blink at her curt demeanor.

"It is my experience that the ones who complain the most about mollycoddling are the ones most in need of it."

"I can assure you I am perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"I do not doubt that- but it may be easier if you allow the others to shoulder some of the burden."

Orin decides not to interfere, instead grabbing her things and heading out to meet up with the others, but she still hears the rest of the exchange.

"You cannot boil an empty kettle, murr'lyth. You are exhausted, and frankly you don't do as good a job at hiding it as you believe."

Orin pauses for just a moment, hoping that maybe Minthara will relent and allow herself to rest properly.

"-I can mind myself," Minthara says, sounding tired even as she insists she's fine. "There is life in me yet, and I can rest when I am dead."

Godsfuckingdamnit.

"-I suppose I cannot tie you to the bed and force you to remain behind. But try not to get yourself killed, alright?"

Orin doesn't hear Minthara's reply, chewing on her tongue and half-wishing Jaheira would tie Minthara to the bed so that maybe she could start recovering properly.

She tries to draw for a bit to distract herself while she waits for the others, but quickly finds her attention drawn elsewhere.

"-I never asked for you to come running to my rescue, Barcus," she hears Wulbren snap. "Whatever happened there, it was your own damn fault."

"That isn't what's important!" Barcus insists, sounding desperate to get the other man to listen.

"Right- what's important is getting back to the Gate so I can fix what you fucked up!"

"I never-"

Orin listens in on the argument while she waits for the others to join them outside.

"-Save your breath and go home. I've got work to wrap up before heading back to the city."

"I'm just trying to-"

"-I said go home , Barcus! I don't need you here!"

She can practically hear the other gnome deflate at Wulbren's demand, and decides in that moment she doesn't care for Wulbren much at all.

Even though she wants to say something to Barcus as he comes sulking out of the inn, she has a weird feeling he won't want to hear anything she has to say about his friend...partner? Lover? It's hard for her to tell what's going on with those two.

"Ready to ship off, then?" Wyll asks, in that infectiously optimistic tone that Orin hates so badly.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she answers.

The air is still and stagnant like some long-forgotten soup as they wade through it in search of some kind of lead.

It's going to be another long day.

Orin can just barely make out the wording on the sign above the entryway of the pub they'd been pointed towards:

THE WANING MOON

Stepping inside, they're greeted with rows upon rows of alcohol of every possible description, lining every wall and countertop they come across.

"I suppose this is the pub Squire talked about," Karlach remarks.

"I wonder if we could drop in for a pint," Wyll remarks, in a half-joking manner. "For research, of course."

"I do not suppose there would be any Ulaver wine laying about," Minthara sighs. "I would kill for a glass of it right about now."

"Mother has a soft spot for that as well," Shadowheart remarks offhand.

Lae'zel raises an eyebrow at her.

"-I mean, not my mother mother," Shadowheart clarifies. "The Mother Superior. One of the few things I can remember is her complaining that it was so hard to find on the surface."

"Another drow Shar poached from Lolth's grasp, then," Minthara says, half-amused. "I would imagine it difficult to return to the Underdark to acquire any when any of her kin would be out for her blood."

"I suppose it would have been something like that. She didn't talk about where she came from- at least, not from what I recall."

"It's much more expensive on the surface than in the Underdark, as well," Gale chimes in. "My mother spent a small fortune for a bottle of it once- I wonder if she ever actually drank it..."

They make their way downward, taking in the sight of the dusty bottles of alcohol of seemingly every type.

There's a well-stocked bar on the main floor, with a strange figure manning it.

It might be ill advised, but Orin approaches him, wondering if he might be able to speak, and whether he knows anything worth getting from him.

"Um, hello?" she calls out, to get his attention away from wiping down the bartop, despite that not helping its current, sorry state.

The person(?) that looks up barely seems recognizable as a humanoid, warped as he is by the shadow curse.

His(?) entire body is bloated to many times its normal size, edematous and obviously painful. His belly is barely held together by a sloppy stitch-job, seeming fit to burst at any moment.

Perhaps he's aware of the thing he's become, considering the leather hood he wears over his face, with holes just big enough for clouded, bloodshot eyes to peer out from. He lumbers about with great effort as he gets out dusty tankards that me must intend to serve them with- as if this were still a functioning pub, and not some rotten shell.

His hands, swollen and misshapen as they are, move clumsily as he motions everyone over, speaking in a booming voice that echoes through the entire pub.

"Welcome!" he declares, in a tone that's probably jovial, but feels stained with something thoroughly uncanny.

Warily, everyone takes a seat on the rickety bar stools, regarding him with trepidation as he dispenses something that might be liquid into the assembled drinking vessels.

The man (if he truly is a man) lets out a deep belly laugh.

"Go on!" he urges, distributing the tankards full of some strange blackish substance that lets off clouds of greenish smoke, despite the container being icy cold. "Wet your whistle! Drink! Be drunk..."

"What is it?" Karlach asks.

"Only the best! Oblivion- and beyond!"

"...And who are you?" Wyll asks.

"Name's Thisobald," the man declares. "Son of Thorm- sot of Sword Coast!"

Orin squints at the contents of the tankard, wondering if drinking this is stupid or not.

Before she can decide, however, Minthara picks hers up, and with either an otherworldly amount of bravery or a frightening lack of disregard for her own safety, drains the entire thing in one go.

She slams it back down on the counter, eyes locked on Thisobald.

The man lets out another boisterous laugh, raising his drink in the air.

"Such a tiny thing, yet you quaff like men three times your size!"

"I am a paladin, I should expect to be able to handle a drink," Minthara replies, matter-of-factly.

"Paladin, eh? Such stories you must have to tell!"

He refills her drink and gets another for himself.

"Go on! Tell us tales of foes vanquished! Beasts bested! Realms conquered!"

Minthara thinks over what she might want to tell, sipping on her drink and frowning.

Finally, she seems to settle on a story, red eyes wandering around the dusty pub as she begins to speak.

"I am here on the surface because I am looking for my mother," she begins. "I chased her trail across the Sword Coast, interrogating anybody I came across who looked like they might know what became of her."

She lapses into this self-assured, easy tone like she's quite familiar with telling stories. Thisobald leans forward, already enraptured.

"It is what would be expected of me- my duty as a daughter of House Baenre."

"Oh? The duty to protect the family?"

"No, nothing so grand as that."

Minthara smiles into her drink, a throaty laugh bubbling up in her chest.

"My mother gave birth to me. Taught me to walk. Taught me to talk. And, one day- I will be returning the favor by teaching her how to die."

Her voice has the man transfixed, along with the zombified patrons of the pub, who shamble over to listen in as well.

"Of course, to get this far was already a dangerous proposition- as a daughter of a noble house, there have been many who sought to end my existence- so many I stopped keeping count."

"Horrifying," Karlach mumbles, but Minthara presses on as though she hadn't.

"She told me of the first attempt on my life- I was only a newborn, then. She shielded my body with her own, the would-be assassin's blade cutting down to the bone..."

There's a faraway look on her face for just a moment, before she focuses once more.

"I tasted her blood that day. And my mother has worn that scar proudly every day since. A reminder to all of what became of the one who sought to kill me."

She speaks with much more animation now, telling the story nearly as much with her hands as with her words.

"When I was much older, she did as many mothers in Menzoberranzan did, and attempted to take the life she had once suffered so dearly to preserve. When I was not quite one hundred years old, she crept into my bedroom as I slept. I do not know if she stumbled, if she hesitated, or if it was merely luck, but I woke the moment before she was able to slit my throat."

Thisobald rests his elbow on the counter and leans forward, fascinated. Everyone living looks on in abject horror.

"Oh? And what then?"

"I gave her another scar to match the one she earned protecting me."

She speaks almost cheerfully, as if this wasn't something terrifying she's just shared with everyone.

"Why not end her then?" Thisobald can't help but ask. "Lest she try another time?"

"I sometimes ask myself that question. But I think the answer is simple- she must meet her end at the right moment. When I feel it is right, I will end her life. And I will do it properly- not a moment before."

Her tone is perfectly level, but there's a flash of something in her eye- the cold determination of one heart-set on their course of action.

(It sends a thrill up Orin's spine and down to her lower half that she's glad nobody else can see.)

Thisobald's bellowing laughter shakes the rotting wooden frame of the pub.

"I'll drink to that!" he declares, raising a fresh tankard to do just that. "I'll drink to anything, really!"

Minthara follows suit, as though she were chugging some frosty glass of ale instead of whatever's in front of them.

Though Minthara's face contorts to let them know the drink is terribly unpleasant as she swallows another mouthful, she looks no worse for wear for it.

So, Orin picks hers up and takes a sip as well.

It's unbearably astringent, bitter as wormwood, and cold enough that it immediately makes her head hurt. When she forces herself to swallow, it hits her stomach like a ball of lead, a strange fuzzy pins-and-needles feeling filling her entire body.

She feels queasy after, but her mind stays steady. For now.

"...Since we've told you a story, why don't you do the same?" she asks.

"Ask your question- make your query," the man concedes.

"How did this curse come around in the first place?"

"Father Ketheric creates. Father Ketheric sustains," the man answers, suddenly growing quite somber.

"So- how did you turn into...what you are now?"

The man answers with a somber tone and a weary sigh.

"Father Ketheric's laughter," he explains. "Not joy, no. Never, ever. Only laughter."

He shakes his head, jolting himself back to his former, jovial mood.

"But no more of this talk- more stories!"

Everyone glances at each other in confusion, trying to figure out how else to entertain this man.

When Wyll opens his mouth, probably to share some tale of daring adventure, Thisobald suddenly shouts.

"-Hey, don't I know you?"

Orin looks up and sees Thisobald glaring daggers at Astarion, who looks more than a little confused.

"What? I don't-"

"-Yes, I remember. Pale face, snide mouth. Came in back when this place was new."

He slams his fist down on the countertop, incandescent with rage.

"Called me a porcine publican. Told you to never come back."

A memory slaps Astarion across the face, and he throws his hands up in a placating gesture.

"-Now now, that was a long time ago!" he insists. "I promise I won't cause you any trouble."

"-We'll make sure he behaves himself, don't worry," Wyll reassures him. "He's turned over a new leaf, see? Can we let bygones be bygones?"

"Hmmm."

Thisobald glares at Astarion in silence for a few moments, then shrugs his massive shoulders.

"If you lot have more good stories to tell, I suppose we can forgive."

"A good story, hm?"

Astarion scratches his chin, staring into his tankard.

"You want a good story? I think I've got one for you."

He forces himself to smile, but it comes across more as a grimace.

"I'm not sure if you could tell, but I'm a vampire spawn," he begins, daring to take a drink of whatever's being served and cringing. "So I got stuck luring whatever pretty things back to my master that I could. I didn't like it, obviously, but I did it."

He gets a faraway sort of look as he tells the story, drumming his fingers against the countertop.

"-This isn't a story I've told anyone before, so don't laugh at me-"

He pauses, maybe for dramatic effect, but maybe because he's debating whether it's truly worth telling- especially toward this man who's little more than a stranger.

"...Usually I didn't give a second thought to anyone I took back. I tried to make a game of it, so I didn't lose my mind. But one time, in the first decade or so of my enslavement, I...I met the most darling boy."

A nostalgic smile crosses his face for just a second.

"He told me he'd been dragged out to the Blushing Mermaid by his friends- that he was never the sort of person to go out drinking normally. He was handsome. Shy. He'd never even been kissed."

There's a bitter sort of nostalgia in Astarion's voice as the half-buried memories flicker across their minds' eyes.

"We laughed and joked for what must have been hours. He got drunk- I pretended to be. When he told me he didn't know how to kiss, I offered to teach him how."

He takes far bolder swallows of the strange drink now, sour face growing more sour still.

"I was meant to take him back to my master. But then he said he loved me...he just barely met me, but the poor thing said he loved me. I...I lost my nerve. I couldn't do it."

Their tadpoles link fully together just for a moment, giving them a peek at a pale-haired boy with bright blue eyes, flushed from too much alcohol and beaming as he mumbles his confession.

"...Rather than hurt that sweet man, I...I ran. I tried to hide, even though I knew it was pointless."

He hangs his head, running his hands through his hair with no regard for how he's ruining its perfectly set curls.

"When...Cazador caught me, he locked me up, on my own, in a dusty tomb, for an entire year. Before he did that, though, he made sure to show me that that poor man had been searching for me, and made sure to drain him dry right in front of me. I got to watch the life leave those beautiful eyes of his, and Cazador made sure to tell me it was all my fault."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"After that, it was a year of silent darkness. My fingernails falling off as I tried to claw my way out. Months of not moving at all, once I realized nobody was going to come for me. Knowing that what I did to earn that punishment was useless, in the end."

He shrugs, as though he hasn't dropped something terribly traumatic on everyone.

"Well," he says, looking back up at Thisobald. "How's that for a good story?"

There's a bit of silence, then- wildly enough- Thisobald laughs.

"And the only one left to tell the wicked tale!" he cackles. "What a delightful tragedy! I see you're more than a snide mouth and pretty face then, eh?"

"It would seem so."

Astarion manages to drain the rest of his tankard, a bit wobbly but seeming otherwise unharmed by the strange drink on offer.

Racking her brains for anything that might be worth telling to continue entertaining this...thing, Orin feels her head start to ache.

"...I wish I had something I could remember that was worth talking about," she mutters into her drink, not intending for anyone to hear her.

Despite that, Karlach apparently does.

"I'm sure there's a lot of stories locked up in that pretty head of yours," she says, chugging her drink even though nobody knows yet whether it's ill-advised or not. "It's just too bad someone took 'em from you. I'd still bet money it was Gortash who did it- he was always eager to crush any competition, and from the sounds of things you probably scared him."

"How did a sweet girl like you wind up tangled up with a Baneite, anyway?" Astarion asks, unable to restrain his curiosity.

"Oh, that's a wild story, I don't even know where to start," Karlach sighs, pulling at the back of her neck. "I was a wild kid, running through the streets of the Gate lookin' for a purpose in life, and a way to put a bit of money in the coffers."

She pulls a face and starts scratching at the swathe of scar tissue on her shoulder.

"A friend of mine said she had an in for me somewhere- an indoorsy type with lots of enemies, looking for protection."

She swirls the contents of her tankard about, staring into the depths as the sickly smoke continues to rise from it.

"He took one look at me and said I was perfect. And I liked that- I mean-"

White-hot flames flicker off her as she flushes bright red.

"I mean- not like that. Well, not at first- but you know. I liked it. He needed protection, I needed money. And he paid really well. Kept food on the table, paid the rent, finally had enough to actually get some nice things n' put away some gold for the future. He was pretty generous with the extras, too- took me for fancy dinners, bought me the first nice clothes I'd ever worn. Treated me well. And I was happy for awhile."

Thisobald refills her drink when he realizes it's empty.

"I thought he liked me. Really liked me. I know I liked him. I liked him a lot, actually. I trusted him with my life. I thought he did the same."

Her breath hitches in that way it does when someone's trying not to cry.

"...One day he called me to some urgent business, and of course I hurried over. Zariel was there waiting with him. She took one look at me and said I was perfect."

Her face contorts into one of bitter sadness.

"He didn't even say goodbye. Just shook her hand and let her take me."

Steam rises from the corners of Karlach's eyes as she starts to sob, engine glowing brighter as her composure crumbles.

"He never even said goodbye..."

Thisobald gives her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"A miserable story of betrayal," he says, with a sage nod. "I have comforted many who have had their trust shattered by one they cared for. That's what the pub is here for- to drown your sorrows with good company until your troubles float away."

"What about your troubles, then?" Wyll asks, trying to get to the point of why they're here to begin with. "You must have seen a lot- done a lot. You always listen to everyone else's problems, but who listens to the barkeep's? It must've been a long time since you've had a listening ear."

The silence that follows is only broken by the occasional groan of one of the zombies shuffling about.

"I know," Thisobald sighs, after a painful pause. "I know, I am knowing. But I cannot say-"

He shakes his head and stumbles backward.

"Cannot say, it is secret- she must stay in her cage-"

He claps his hands over his mouth, but it's clear he's already said to much.

"-She? Who's she?" Orin asks, her barstool shrieking as she leaps to her feet.

Thisobald can't answer. He just clutches at his gut and groans in agony, stumbling backward and sending bottles plummeting to the floor, where the sound of their shattering deafens them.

The stitches holding his stomach together finally give out, a spray of congealing blood, necrotic guts and the most putrid smell Orin has ever smelled flood the air in a deafening burst.

"Fuck-"

Everyone leaps up and stumbles backward to get out of the blast radius, shouting in outraged disgust.

The body of Thisobald Thorm is nothing but a smear of rotten viscera on the dirty floor, the building still shaking from the force of his explosion.

Karlach peeks through her fingers, letting out a whimper.

"...Poor guy," she sighs. "I think he was more lonely than bad..."

"Absolutely foul," Astarion whines, holding his nose and visibly heaving.

"P-please clutter our pardon," one of the zombies groans, fumbling for a mop and doing its best to try to clean up the gore. "The uh, the barkeep is uh- he is uh-"

It trails off, unable to finish the thought.

Seemingly unruffled, Minthara finishes the last of her drink and tosses the tankard aside, figuring it can't make the mess any worse.

"Pity," she sighs. "I was hoping for something stronger when he promised us oblivion. "

"Well since he wasn't of much help, maybe something else around here is?" Wyll offers. "The other uh, patrons don't seem to mind us being here, so maybe they won't mind us poking around a bit."

Orin is already doing just that, poking around for loose floorboards that might indicate anything that could be hidden beneath.

Luckily, she finds exactly that just behind the bar, where a cracked, nail-studded club and a dusty old ledger have been stashed away.

She perches on a part of the countertop that isn't splattered with Thisobald's remains and looks it over.

It's an unassuming leather book, smelling like ink and old paper.

But Orin has a feeling as she cracks it open that it's far more than that.

Chapter Text

Orin starts to read the dusty, yellowed ledger, leaning against Minthara when she gets up on the counter top with her, the wood groaning in protest under their combined weight, but holding steady.

For the Attention of Dark Justiciar Netasha is scrawled across the top of each page, which immediately grabs her attention.

She presses onward, searching for something worthwhile.

Morning, day fifteen: Szymon Nowak. Said Ketheric wouldn't hold onto Moonrise Towers for long at this rate.

"Interesting..."

"What did you find?" Minthara asks, peering over her shoulder.

"Some kind of logbook," Orin answers. "Something about Dark Justiciars, too, so it might be important."

She flips to another page.

Evening, day eighteen: Imanni Aatakni. Claimed it was unfair that the Thorms had "the cushiest jobs."

"Some kind of informant?" Minthara muses to herself.

"Probably. She must've worked here-“

“A pub is certainly a good place for an informant. A little alcohol would be enough to loosen up people's tongues.”

“I wonder what happened to her..."

“The shadows got her, undoubtedly.”

Orin turns to another page, where the writing becomes shaky.

Night, day twenty-two: Marc Jacobs. Benjamin Blanchet. Made jokes about the Thorms, especially Lord Ketheric. Said he was a "misery guts", a "weeping nutsack", and discussed exactly how his wife would have "liked it."

Minthara tries and fails to stifle a laugh in her hand, so it comes out as more of an undignified snort.

I know what Marc and Ben said was just plain awful, Lady Netasha, but they're some of my best friends, and I've never heard such talk out of them. They were upset over their wages being cut, and were the drunkest I'd ever seen by midnight. I know it looks bad, but hand over heart, you've never met two gents more devoted to our Lady – I swear it.

Below all that, a far more refined handwriting appears.

Our Lady of Loss would be proud of you, Madeline. Do not worry about Marc and Benjamin. Myself, and your two 'gents' are simply going to have a little chat. I promise.

Figuring this might be useful sometime later, Orin dives deeper into the ledger.

She flinches as she becomes acutely aware of a dull ache in her middle, like someone has reached a hand inside her and is squeezing something sensitive.

"Are you well?" Minthara asks, laying the back of her hand against Orin's cheek.

"...I'm fine; I think whatever was in that drink just didn't go down well."

She says that, but something about the way the ache radiates from her belly to her back seems different from a normal stomachache.

"-Hey, Minthara-" Astarion calls from some room a bit behind the bar. "Gale thinks he's found purple worm gullet, but we aren't sure- maybe you would know?"

"-I will be back," Minthara promises, kissing Orin's cheek and hopping off the counter to see whatever it was they'd found.

Orin flips through the rest of the ledger, looking for anything that could give them a lead.

Name after name of so-called traitors, painting a tale of what must have been a terribly paranoid atmosphere.

-Unknown worker from the Mason's Guild. Overheard saying Selune would triumph in the end, and that General Thorm would never win.

-Rowan Goldhammer. Said Shar "couldn't give two shits" because the Justiciars never bothered trying to find whoever murdered his sister.

-Sabine Pendergraft. Overheard saying she was planning to leave town with her daughter to "get away from that lunatic."

Perhaps these are all too old to be useful, but she tucks the ledger into her pack in case it comes in handy at some point.

Standing up causes a bolt of pain to shoot through her abdomen- thoroughly unpleasant and getting difficult to ignore.

She lets herself wrap her arms around her middle, wondering if anyone might have anything to help with the pain.

"Upset stomach?"

Orin yelps, whirling around to glare at Astarion, who looks smug as anything about having snuck up on her.

"What's it to you?" she grumbles.

"You just look more miserable than usual, that's all. I wondered if you might’ve drank too much of our portly friend’s swill.”

Orin rolls her eyes and decides she'll see if maybe any of the wine lining the shelves is enticing.

The only sounds for awhile are the zombies moaning and shuffling about, but then Astarion clears his throat.

"Do you want something?"

"I uh-"

Astarion coughs nervously, then leans over, tugging on Karlach's sleeve to get her attention.

"Copper for your thoughts?"

He whispers something in her ear, which makes flames briefly flicker off Karlach's head.

"You deal with it," he tells her, ducking away quickly.

Karlach stands up ramrod straight and stiff as a board.

"Um, soldier?"

Orin raises an eyebrow, wordlessly waiting for her to finish her thought.

"You, uh- may want to grab one of those rags and clean up a bit."

Orin looks down at herself quickly, squinting.

"What do you-"

"-Uh, not your front, hon. It's your uh-"

Karlach waves her hands behind her briefly, with a sympathetic wince.

"-Your arse, mate. You're bleeding."

"Eh?"

Orin reaches behind herself- sure enough, she touches something wet when she reaches behind herself, and her fingers come back bloody.

Well. That would explain why she's been so achy for seemingly no reason.

"...Fuck."

She backs up against the wall, her face burning hotter than Karlach's engine as the realization hits her.

She grabs a handful of the rags stacked on a shelf and sprints to find somewhere secluded so she can recover a little bit of dignity.

Barricading herself in a broom closet, she tries desperately to clean up, half-hearing the others talking outside the thin walls.

"-I don't suppose there'd be a clean pair of pants laying around somewhere here," Karlach remarks.

"Darling," Astarion chortles, "even if there's somehow a pair of clean knickers laying around this place, I doubt there'd be any her size."

He pauses for a bit before posing a question to nobody in particular.

"...Does she even wear pants under that armor? It hardly leaves anything to the imagination."

"I mean, she must? I can't imagine it'd be very comfortable otherwise."

The lower half of Orin's armor vanishes to allow her to try to fashion something to catch the mess with some of the rags, her face still burning from humiliation.

"Poor thing, this is the worst possible timing, too-" she hears Karlach lament, rummaging around for something from the sounds of it.

"Oh, she's tough; she'll be alright- might want to snag a few of these wine bottles though, she might want some."

"Good idea. Lessee-"

Cleaned up as best she can and re-dressed, Orin stays hidden for a bit, wondering if she has any of her dignity left after this.

She sinks to the floor and hugs her knees to her chest, wondering if she ought to take a moment to cry before facing the others again.

There's a cracked, dusty mirror across from her, leaning against the wall and throwing her exhausted reflection back to her.

She looks about as dreadful as she feels- bloodless, tired, haggard, dirty, frightened. She brushes her fingers over the ragged scar on her forehead, tracing its path across her face and wondering how whoever attacked her didn't take her eye out in their fury.

(And a little surprised whoever it was left all her internal organs intact enough to still be unlucky enough to get her period..)

Whoever it was, a nagging voice in the back of her head tells her she must have done something to deserve it. Whoever she was in the past, she must have been someone rancid. Someone disgusting.

"We did not deserve it."

She stifles a gasp- her reflection is suddenly speaking to her, as the made-up, polished, terrifying version of herself she must have been in the past.

Her reflection shifts into a kneeling position, pressing its hand against the glass and staring at Orin with a longing expression in milky eyes, missing the malice that colored the last interactions they've had with each other.

"We were betrayed," it says, in a heartbroken voice. "Wounded by an infiltrator. Knocked off our throne on the eve of our becoming! Stolen away as we were stolen before!"

Orin frowns.

"Stolen...?"

Suddenly, she's in a dark, cramped alleyway, where a stern-faced man with a shaved head and tired eyes glares daggers at the person Orin has sometimes seen in her dreams- donning the same austere clothes she remembers from those dreams and holding the hand of what Orin can only imagine is her younger self.

Her hair has been cut short and she's dressed in boys' clothes, clutching a stuffed owlbear to her chest with her free hand and looking like she’s been crying.

(How is she seeing herself from this angle if it's a memory, she wonders...is it even a memory at all?)

“I’m sorry, little one- but you haven’t quite gotten the hang of your shapeshifting yet, and we need to keep you safe.”

“-We’re wasting time,” the stern-faced man scolds. “Why do you want me to take her?”

"It isn't safe for her anymore- not in Candlekeep, anyway. I need to head back to the Gate and take care of things there- and I need you to take her somewhere safe while I'm gone."

"Where is it ever safe for one of us?"

"...I don't know. But we have to find somewhere. Somehow."

The scene shifts, and once again Orin is standing amidst a dozen or so dead bodies, with her mother hugging her close and reassuring her it'll be alright.

-Another time, another place.

Orin is an older woman now, glaring daggers at the man with the wild dark hair and wild, dark eyes and that quick, easy smile that sets her blood boiling.

He speaks to her like he's addressing a child, in an obnoxiously condescending tone that makes her want to claw at his face until it's nothing but scars.

She starts scratching at her arms, but the pain does nothing to distract her.

"All our lives, people have tried to separate us from Father," her reflection sobs. "It isn't fair, it isn't right! Father loves us, He has always loved us-"

The dark, cramped closet returns, and she's staring at this strange version of herself once more.

Orin shifts into a kneeling position, reaching toward the reflection's hand and pressing her own palm against it.

The her she sees in the mirror feels like a stranger- a ghost of someone she used to know, rather than herself.

Was she really like this, once? So beautiful? So polished?

All the reflection's anger from her nightmares is gone now, replaced with an overwhelming sadness, a desperation to regain something that can't possibly be reclaimed.

(Is it herself she’s speaking to, she wonders- or her Father, speaking in a voice He thinks she might listen to? Or is it merely her own shattered mind trying to make sense out of too many hard emotions? She isn’t sure she wants to know...)

"Please let Father love us," it pleads with her. "He wants to love us. We just need to return to Him."

“I-”

It feels stupid to speak to her own reflection, but it seems to be the only thing that has anything resembling an answer about herself.

"...I'm scared," she admits. "I don't know if I can."

"What is there to be afraid of?" her reflection asks.

"My friends," she says. "Minthara. I don't want to hurt them. I don’t want to hurt her..."

"Father will always need more to continue His lineage," the reflection purrs, leaning close (if close is something it can be). "When she is well, He will be happy to welcome her to the family, with any little lambs that come with it."

Orin thinks, only for a moment, that it seems odd that this version of herself is alright with Minthara being here now.

“I thought you hated Minthara,” she can’t help but mumble.

“We never hated her— Father merely worries she might be a distraction to our greater purpose. Father can accept her if we return to him.”

Her reflection certainly makes a tempting offer- she speaks in a low, desperate whisper, makeup starting to streak from her tears as she begs.

"What about the others, though?" Orin asks, to which her reflection laughs.

"Why do we let them suffer so?" she asks. "Our dear friends, all in so much pain, yet we let them live in agony?"

A ghostly image of Astarion appears next to her reflection, eyes wide and bloodshot, his handsome face streaked with tears. The reflection strokes his cheek, cooing sympathetically.

"He is so afraid. So, so afraid. Afraid of everything, afraid of everyone. Such a sorry way to live. Why not make him a pretty corpse? He'll be happier then..."

Astarion is replaced by Wyll.

"And this one- he follows so blindly, like a pup. He is so kindhearted, so pure- is it not sickening? How dare he pose as a devil with that sickly good heart?"

It's Shadowheart's turn now, looking as miserable as ever.

"And this one- the gods fight over her, but is she really that special? She's just a lost child stumbling about in the dark, unable to even think for herself."

And now Lae’zel is in her reflection's arms.

"And her? Wouldn't it be so sweet if she came all this way from home, just to die here? Wouldn't it be such a beautiful tragedy?"

It's Gale's turn to be paraded about, and Orin feels her heart start to ache from the pain of having her new friends shoved in her face and being told why they should be killed.

"This one- he would forsake his god for the ones he cares for- but we would never do that, would we? Our Father loves us too much for us to forsake Him..."

Karlach, now.

"And her- she's already as good as dead. No amount of love or friendship could ever save her. Not ours, anyway."

The reflection reaches out of the mirror, cradling Orin's face in its frigid hands and giggling.

"Show them our Father's love. Them and the little moon bitch, too. He will be so happy- and so will we."

“...I can’t,” Orin tries to say. “They’re my friends, I don’t want to lose them-“

“We don’t need to be afraid,” her reflection coos. “Our true self is nothing to be afraid of-“

"No!!"

Orin lashes out, shattering the mirror with her bare hand; glass embeds itself into her flesh, but she doesn't even feel the pain.

She screams things, but doesn't register exactly what.

She barely registers someone grabbing her, but howls and thrashes trying to break free, and she thinks she manages to scratch someone before she's abruptly yanked back to reality.

"My love, what is wrong?"

Minthara's voice is like a splash of cold water to the face, and suddenly, she's back in reality, all the fight leaving her body at once.

She goes limp, letting out a feeble whimper. She doesn't even have it in her to squirm while her lover picks the glass out of her hand so she can heal the lacerated flesh.

The others make a point of backing off to give them space, making awkward small talk amongst themselves to keep busy.

"Mrimmd'ssinss, what came over you?"

Orin shakes her head.

"I- I don't know. I'm- I can't-"

Minthara sighs, kissing each gash on her hand with loving care before setting to work healing them.

There's something strangely mechanical about the way she moves, even as she heals Orin's wounds, taking care that not even a scar is left behind. As though the emotion has been drained out of her until all that remains is the hollow actions.

"Thank you, I-"

Minthara raises her hand to indicate she would prefer Orin not speak.

“We ought to get moving,” she says.

There are murmurs of assent, but before they leave, they’re interrupted.

“-W-wait! Interruption the my forgive-“ one of the zombies calls out, shuffling toward them as fast as his decaying legs can manage.

“House the offers complimentary the special weekly, for the lady-“

He holds up a bottle full of some strange, almost luminescent green liquid; though the label is faded, Minthara lights up in recognition, grabbing the bottle while making a point not to touch the zombie’s rotting hands.

“Very well,” she says in response, to which the zombie mutters something unintelligible before going on its way.

“What is it?” Astarion asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Ulaver wine,” Minthara answers, returning to a clipped and businesslike tone. “I suppose they had it after all.”

“Does it always look so sickly or has the curse been messing with it?”

“It looks perfectly normal,” Minthara insists, grabbing his bag and stuffing the bottle in. “Come.”

Once more, they brave the clammy air; Orin throws her hood up and shivers, once again wishing her armor covered a bit more.

(If they ever make it out of this hellhole, she hopes they can find someplace warm to take a good, long rest after.)

“So the Justiciars turned out to be a good lead after all, hm?” Astarion remarks. “Let’s see if that little book takes us somewhere interesting.”

“It would seem so- we shall see if we can pick up the trail from the ledger and find something worth our time?”

"Sounds great."

Orin doesn't want to talk- fortunately, it seems neither does anyone else.

(She'll have to ask for something better than a rag when they get the time.)

"This is ridiculous," Astarion complains. "I swear the trees keep moving around-how is anyone meant to find anything in this mess?"

"I'm pretty sure it's on purpose," Wyll points out. "If someone gets lost here, they're more likely to fall to the curse. More fuel for the pyre."

"He's right," Shadowheart chimes in. "It's meant to trap people- like a spider's web."

"A spider's web is far less crude and far more subtle than this curse," Minthara snaps, bristling like the idea of comparing anything of Shar's to anything of a spider's is insulting.

Shadowheart doesn't respond, though she looks annoyed- or maybe sad.

Orin feels like they're pretty thoroughly lost, until she hears something up ahead.

A voice. But not just a person's.

There's a throaty, almost croaking sound accompanying the low humanoid voice- some kind of corvid, Orin would stake her life on it.

They approach carefully, figuring it's another cultist, or maybe a frightened lost traveller.

As they enter a thicket of dead, withered trees, they see a man standing in a chalk circle drawn on the rocky ground, glaring at the corpse of a stout dwarven woman who looks like she's been dead for more than a short time.

Wyll steps forward with his hands up to show he has no weapon in them.

"Hello?" he calls out.

The man's head whips upward, revealing a pair of pitch-black eyes like voids of nothing.

He's some kind of elf, true. But not like any other kind of elf Orin is familiar with. And she isn't sure how he's able to endure the shadow curse with seemingly no issues.

On his shoulder is a raven, though not an ordinary one. It's ghostly white, with sickly red eyes that feel far too knowing.

It lets out a caw, tapping the side of the man's head with its beak.

"Hold-"

The strange man that steps out of the fog looks them over with a skeptical glare, the white raven on his shoulder seeming to stare into their souls.

"We have not seen other Shadar-Kai out here," Minthara says, mostly casually. "Are you alone?"

"Never alone," he answers. "Quothe is with me, always."

The raven croaks in response, fluttering its glossy wings.

“Why are you out here, then?”

“Seeking to deliver justice.”

"You're doing some sort of ritual," Wyll points out, gesturing at the makeshift altar he's set up with fallen foliage and discarded fabric.

"Not a ritual," the man answers. "A trial."

"What is this woman's crime?" Minthara asks, curiosity piqued.

"Treachery," he replies. "Betrayal. Loss of life because of her actions."

"You seem awfully sure of that," Shadowheart remarks.

"Let me show you."

He approaches the corpse laid out on the altar, raising his hand in a vaguely familiar gesture.

"Cum mortuis in lingua mortua."

His endlessly dark eyes look down at the dwarf's corpse in contempt as it gasps and jerks back to life, sickly greenish light pouring out of its eye sockets.

"Who are you?" he asks, in a voice colder than the shadow-cursed air around them.

"...Madeline," the corpse whispers.

Orin perks up, the name far too fresh in her mind for her to forget.

"Where lies your guilt?"

"...Waning...Moon..."

"And what is your guilt?"

He-Who-Was speaks to the woman with nothing but disgust, face contorted with barely restrained anger.

"...Benji...Mark...friends of mine...reported...killed..."

He looks up at the others with a satisfied glint in his eye.

"You hear her confess," he declares, before addressing her again. "Why did you betray your comrades?"

"The General...Mother Superior...I was...afraid..."

"And you did this knowing others who you reported had been killed as well, did you not?"

The corpse hesitates, but then croaks out a feeble "...yes" before the spell's power wanes, rendering Madeline's body inert again.

Orin speaks up once the dwarf has gone silent.

"I think we've run into that 'guilt' of hers," she says, pulling the ledger out of her bag and holding it out toward the man. "Look for night twenty-two."

He-Who-Was nods, taking the ledger and opening it to the indicated spot.

"Fortunate that we ran into each other," he remarks, a half-smile curling his lips. "And you-"

He nods in Minthara's direction-

"-You are a fellow paladin, are you not?"

"I am. What about it?”

"Good. You will aid me in dealing justice."

Minthara bristles at his audacity to order her around, but folds her arms and waits for him to speak.

"And what would you have me do?"

"I will be the conduit for the traitor," He-Who-Was explains. "Hear what she can muster in her defense. Then decide on her punishment."

Minthara ponders the request, then, ultimately, she nods.

"Fair enough. On with it, then."

The man nods, offering a hollow smile before making a few signs with his hands, mumbling something in Elven.

All the muscles in his body seize up, a low groan escaping him before his eyes fly open again, this time with a far different demeanor.

He looks frightened now. Confused.

When he speaks, it’s a different voice- a woman’s voice.

“H-he said you were gonna punish me!” she whimpers, hugging herself and stumbling backward. “Please, I-“

It’s at that moment Orin realizes they’re speaking to Madeline.

“-We will speak, first,” Minthara tells her. “Then we will see what we will do with you. So-"

She holds a hand out in Madeline's direction, wearing a cold expression.

"-Speak."

Chapter Text

"I swear I didn't mean any harm!" Madeline whimpers, hands clasped in front of her as she begs for mercy. "Ben and Mark were just drunk n' whinin'! Netasha said she was just gonna talk to 'em!"

She sobs the sob of the truly guilty, barely able to keep enough breath to speak.

"-She swore she was just gonna talk to 'em! She said it was gonna be alright, she'd been my friend before all this happened, I didn't know she was gonna-"

She doubles over and wails, her voice cracking.

"I didn't mean for them to die! She was just supposed to talk to 'em!"

"You trusted her?" Orin can't help but ask, with a raised eyebrow.

"She swore- I-I didn't want no trouble, I just- I just wanted 'em to stop so they didn't get hurt!"

"Well, what happened then?" Astarion asks, trying and failing not to let on that he's eager to hear the gossip.

"…Netasha gave 'em a dagger each," Madeline whimpers. "Told 'em to stab, and keep stabbin' til she told 'em to stop. But she never told 'em to stop…"

"I see."

"I know what I done ain't ever gonna be forgiven, but please, I didn't mean any harm-"

"-What you meant is meaningless at the end of the day."

Minthara's voice is cold as the air around them.

She pulls a dagger off her belt and holds it out toward her.

"Wh-what're you—"

"—I have decided on how you shall atone for your transgression."

Minthara's face is still stone, but there's the barest hint of macabre delight in her voice.

Madeline takes the dagger with a confused expression.

"Go on. Make your apologies to the friends you betrayed."

Madeline seems to get what she's saying, but is also terrified to act on it.

"I-I'm sorry-"

After a second more hesitation, she drives the blade into her gut, breath gushing out of her body from the pain.

"Again."

Another stab, another gasp.

Minthara watches with a bored expression.

"I'm sorry-"

"-Again."

"I'm sorry-"

"Again."

"I'm so-"

"-That's enough!"

Against every impulse in her body, Orin reaches out and grabs Madeline's wrist before she can continue to mutilate her borrowed body.

"We were told to punish her," Minthara reminds her.

"I know that," Orin hisses. "But this is a bit beyond punishment, isn't it?"

Isn't this just you taking your anger out on someone convenient? she wants to ask, but doesn't.

The monster within her howls in indignation, demanding to be sated, but she forces herself to ignore it.

Minthara rolls her eyes, but there's that moment of hesitation that's all they need.

"-She didn't mean to get her friends hurt," Karlach says. "She was lied to."

"It seems to me her friends are no less dead for her ignorance," Minthara points out. "Her cowardice cost their lives."

"Everybody makes mistakes," Wyll retorts, quietly. "Sometimes, we make big ones."

He gestures at the vast expanse of devastation all around them.

"No amount of revenge will bring Mark or Ben back. This is enough. It won't make her feel any better, it won't make you feel any better, and it won't make anyone less dead. Let it rest. This is more than enough."

Minthara scowls, but only for a second or two. Then, her face softens.

"…I suppose you are right."

Minthara fixes Madeline with an icy glare.

"You have done enough, coward. Now, begone- and take your guilt with you."

"I-thank you, I'll-"

Madeline doesn't bother even trying to refute being called a coward.

The figure goes limp, and He-Who-Was regains control of his body, clutching at the bloody mess of his abdomen while letting out a half-laugh, half-groan.

"-I would have preferred to not bleed quite so profusely," he complains, "but it seems you got the point across."

"You told me to punish her," Minthara reminds him. "I wanted to send a clear message to the coward."

"I cannot argue with that."

He takes a moment to heal himself, then retrieves a set of gloves from a neat metal box.

Minthara accepts them with a puzzled expression.

"The murdered lay silent," he says, sounding almost giddy. "Thank you for being their voice."

Just like that, as mysteriously as he had come into their lives, He-Who-Was is gone.

"…Well that was fun," Astarion mutters. "But I think we should get back to more pressing matters, don't you?"

"Very well."

They leave the strange makeshift shrine behind, back to wandering the wastes left by Shar's magic.

"You seem awfully spry today," Karlach mentions, trying to sound casual as she walks a few steps behind Minthara. "I don't think you've even been limping for a bit."

"I suppose I am."

"Feeling better, then? What changed?"

"Whatever the barkeep served us," Minthara answers, though she sounds a bit uncertain about it. "I am not sure what was in it, but it seems quite useful. I only wish he had disclosed whatever it was before he up and died."

"Really? I just feel kinda queasy after that, to be honest."

Minthara shrugs, clearly not wanting to question a turn of good fortune.

"Maybe we should check out that mason's guild she mentioned in the ledger," Wyll offers. "If there was some kind of resistance there, there might be something interesting."

The groans and giggles of the restless dead carry across the landscape, piercing the silence when nobody has anything to say.

The thick clouds overhead seem maybe a bit thinner today, but it's hard to figure out if that's real, or just Orin's mind making things up so she has something to look forward to.

She supposes only time will tell.

By the time they finally arrive at the decayed remains of the mason's guild, everyone is so thoroughly exhausted that they decide they best take time to rest before they do any exploring.

They split up among the different rooms to grant each other some much-wanted privacy, and wish each other a good rest they know they won't receive.

Orin has gotten far better supplies to deal with her period courtesy of Shadowheart, along with something to help the cramping courtesy of a slightly mortified Gale.

Minthara stays stubbornly quiet, not acknowledging anything Orin tries to say to her.

She lays down, but is pretty sure she won't be sleeping much.

"Are you alright?" she asks, while Minthara tries to settle in, but can't seem to get comfortable.

"I am fine," Minthara snaps back, in a tone that indicates she is very much not.

Orin scowls, forcing herself upright and glaring at Minthara.

"Can you cut the bullshit for a second and just tell me why you're angry?"

Minthara sighs, shaking her head and cringing like she's in pain (which she probably is).

"I have a lot on my mind."

"So talk to me about it. We're supposed to be in this together, aren't we? You can't just shut me out and hope it goes away. That's not how this works."

"I-"

Minthara grits her teeth, and there's a flash of a deep hurt in her eyes, as well as a shame she doesn't want to admit.

"It is…nothing that can be helped," she admits. "But I-"

She shakes her head, sighing like she's trying to confess some horrible crime. She clutches her patchwork bear to her chest, so tightly the poor thing's stuffing might burst out of its seams.

"…I cannot help but feel a little envious. Even though I know it is ridiculous."

"Huh? Envious of what?"

"When you bleed, it is a reminder you are capable of conceiving a child. When I do, it is a reminder I may never again."

Oh.

Well, that might explain why she'd suddenly gone so cold.

"You've been bleeding?" she asks, trying to keep Minthara talking.

"Off and on. Perhaps not as much as I ought to be given my condition- but I do."

It feels strange that Minthara is making such an admission now- admitting that she may truly never have a child of her own, no matter how badly she may want to.

Obviously this has been bothering her more than she wants to admit. Or more than she would like it to.

"You said before you didn't need children to feel complete," Orin can't help but point out, biting down her frustration.

"I did," Minthara confirms. "And I do not. But what I need is not the same as what I want."

Orin scoots closer to her, wondering if she should touch her or try to comfort her.

"…And this is what you're sure you want?"

"I-"

Minthara shuts her eyes, taking a shaky breath. Like being asked the question physically hurts her.

"-I do not know," she admits, after fumbling with her words for too long. "I do not know if I am angry because I lost something I truly wanted, or if I am merely angry because yet another choice was taken from me."

She hugs the stuffed bear tight against her chest; a deep, unfathomable rage writes itself into every line on her face, yet her eyes hold an unbearable sadness that words can't hope to fully express.

"My entire life has been lived according to the expectations of others," she continues, leaning in automatically when Orin puts an arm around her. "My mother's, my goddess', my house's… my captors'. Even when I thought I was the master of my own destiny, in my heart of hearts I think I knew the truth. Every choice had always been made for me. Always, except…"

She touches Orin's hand, and there's an apology in the look she gives her.

"…Except this. When you hold me, when you touch my body, when I kiss you- that is something I choose for myself. I thought maybe…maybe she could have been something I chose, too. Even if I could not choose how she had been conceived."

Orin kisses Minthara's forehead for whatever comfort it could give.

"I love you," she says, rather than trying to think up any words that couldn't possibly soothe her.

The words feel foreign in her mouth and taste strange, but they're nice to say, all the same.

Minthara is strangely quiet for a few heartbeats after she says that, seeming to be lost in thought.

"…In Menzoberranzan, we do not truly have a word for love," she remarks. "The one we have, ssinssrigg, is more akin to lust or greed rather than a true, unselfish love."

She lets out a wistful sigh.

"Other drow- the ones who spurn Lolth- had to make one for themselves. Alurlssrin."

Unsure where this is going, Orin nods along, hoping she'll tell her something she can use to help.

"I would sometimes indulge in the stories those drow would commit to paper, even though I knew my mother would not approve. Reading their stories woke something within me. Envy, maybe. I am not sure."

She shrugs, fingers tracing the path of the crimson clouds swirling across Orin's pallid skin.

"My mother found out when I was maybe fourteen. Caught me dead to rights, holed up in my bedroom with some tale of star-crossed lovers that I had liberated from one of my older sisters' collections."

Minthara cringes, bringing a hand to the side of her head unconsciously.

"I do not remember exactly what she said to me when she caught me, but I remember her being more angry than I had ever seen her. I was bleeding from my ear for days from the beating she gave me."

Orin feels the phantom of those large, rough hands from her memory striking her and cringes in sympathy.

"That's awful."

"To me, that was simply what a mother did to correct her child."

Minthara cringes as she says it, curling in on herself.

"It was not until I discovered I was expecting a child of my own that I thought about how wretched it all was. To be beaten over stories— over fantasies of a love I thought I would never feel— it is hard for me to imagine doing such a thing to my own daughter. But I wonder if she might have felt the same way, when she was carrying me."

Their fingers tangle together, while Minthara tries to put her thoughts into tangible words.

She lets her eyes flutter closed, a note of longing in her voice.

"I thought I would never find that sort of love. I am glad I was wrong."

"…Are you sure I'm someone worth loving?" Orin can't help but ask.

"I am more sure than I have been about anything in my life."

"How?"

"Because it is something I chose for myself. So let me choose it."

Choice.

Of course, Minthara must be spoiled for choice when it comes to lovers. Yet, out of everyone she could have chosen, she somehow chose Orin.

How, she has no idea. but she's glad for it, all the same.

"Thank you."

Orin leans in for a kiss, which her lover permits without question.

Minthara smiles, leaning into the kiss with a dreamy sigh.

"My love," she breathes, as Orin helps her undress. "My joy. My everything."

Orin nuzzles the crook of her neck, stuffing down the obscene suggestions her deplorable mind whispers to her.

Her lover's voice right up against her ear sends a shiver down her spine, making her want more, crave more.

"It's alright even if it never happens," she reassures her. "I want to be with you. Whatever else happens, it'll be alright."

That gives Minthara the confort she so desperately craves, and she lets herself kiss more boldly now. Orin lets her hands wander, taking control of things in a way that somehow feels natural.

"Let me-"

Orin lays Minthara out flat on the bed roll, running her hands along the contours of her body with a quiet reverence.

"Trust me?" she asks, watching carefully in case she does something Minthara doesn't want.

"Always, love."

Stuffing down the urge to hurt, Orin kisses every inch of skin uncovered, paying attention to each new bruise and every faded scar.

She allows her teeth to ghost over the sharp protrusion of Minthara's hipbone, savoring the gasp it elicits from her lover.

At this point she's regained her (she assumes) former confidence for this sort of activity, so she doesn't hesitate before pulling Minthara's legs apart and putting her tongue to work.

Gentle. Slow. Just enough to tease and draw out more of those delicious sounds. Once she's had her fill of those gentle touches she moves more boldly, pondering the faintest taste of metal on her tongue but not allowing herself to linger on it.

"Straj, I cannot-"

Minthara's thighs clamp down on the sides of her head as she murmurs curses and begs for more.

Just before she's brought over the edge, though, Orin stops, pulling herself upright and giggling at the indignant look on Minthara's flustered face.

"On your knees," Orin commands her, letting herself smirk just a bit even though she isn't sure why she feels so smug.

Minthara bristles and acts like she's about to protest, but she ends up staying silent, giving Orin a quizzical glance before complying. Orin runs the pad of her thumb along the curve of her lover's lower lip, crooning her approval.

"Good. Now, open."

Once again Minthara complies.

Orin slips two fingers into her mouth, rolling her lover's tongue between them while she kisses the side of Minthara's neck.

"Good girl. I'll take care of you, alright?"

Minthara whimpers, craning her neck to look at her once her mouth is freed.

(It seems she isn't immune to the thrill Orin feels when she's called a good girl.)

"-What about-"

"-This isn't about me. Don't worry about a thing."

"I-"

"Shh. You don't have to think right now, let me take care of you."

Her voice comes out as a sultry purr, something that feels familiar yet strange at the same time.

Even in the dim light, she can't help but admire each curve of her body, the way the plum and mulberry bruises look so lovely blooming across sugilite skin.

(She bruises so easily lately. She should probably be worried about that, but she'll let herself worry later.)

How did she get so lucky, to have someone so beautiful to call her own?

Her fingers slip inside her lover easily, searching out the spots inside her that feel the best. That sets Minthara mewling in a delightful way, arching her back and rocking her hips into her.

So beautiful. So very beautiful.

They really should be resting, but the fire in her belly is far too great to ignore.

She watches with breathless awe as Minthara comes undone beneath her, keeping up the persistent rocking of her hand and pondering what she should do next.

What a stupid question.

She feels phantom hands on her shoulders, her own voice hot against her ear.

Fuck her.

The ephemeral hands of her other self reaches between her legs, and Orin swears she can feel it toying with her.

A pretty, empty vessel, waiting and willing to be filled. Paint the pretty flesh-thing white inside. Give her the lamb she so desperately craves.

Orin doesn't get to think too much about it before she wills her body to form the cock she's become quite accustomed to over the past few days.

Minthara mewls as she feels it press against her, eager and ready.

"Give it to me," she pleads, throwing her hips back trying desperately to get it inside her. "I need you-"

Do we hear her? Her body is ours- all we need to do is take it.

Orin kisses the faint lines across Minthara's back— scars from lashings long ago, she has to imagine— and groans in ecstasy as she sinks into her lover.

Whatever Minthara tries to say dissolves into a mess of garbled gibberish; she braces herself against the cold slab of stone in front of them, biting her bottom lip to try to stifle the sounds spilling from her mouth.

"Do not stop-" she pleads, throwing her hips backward to meet each of Orin's frantic thrusts.

There, see? She was made for this. Pretty little lamb, the butcher's favorite lamb. Take her the way she deserves to be taken.

Orin tries to ignore it, wanting to just enjoy this, wanting to love Minthara the way she deserves to be loved. But that doesn's silence the horrible thoughts in her mind.

The worm's spawn is out of the way. Her womb is waiting for better. We are better.

I'm not even sure if we can do that—

—We will try. It is the only way to know.

Orin loses her rhythm, a bolt of fire coursing through her nervous system.

It takes a second for her to register what's happening to her, but once she does she has to bite back panic.

"Damn it-"

Orin whimpers, agony coursing through her in lightning bursts, biting back a scream as Minthara finagles herself around to try to see what's wrong.

Bone grinds against bone. Skin splits open as her body starts to take the form of the Slayer, despite Orin's efforts to fight against it.

Why now…?!

She pulls away, scrambling to put distance between herself and her lover.

She sees Minthara mouth her name, looking confused and frightened, but she can't hear her over the ringing in her ears.

Not now, please not now -

Pleading with herself is useless, and she knows that, but she doesn't know what else she can do.

A second set of clawed hands shoots out, grabbing Minthara's arms and pinning her down.

Minthara yelps, eyes wide, body frozen in terror.

She doesn't try to fight or get away or even squirm, rigidly still like a prey animal hoping it won't be eaten if it doesn't move.

Orin's chest burns with every gasp of air she takes, her ribs cracking apart to make room for new muscles and ligaments. The corners of her mouth tearing as her face changes shape, lips shredding from the fangs that sprout in her split jaws.

She manages— only barely— to hold onto her faculties and not succumb to the desire to sink her claws and fangs into whatever bit of Minthara's flesh she can reach fastest.

She expects Minthara to panic. To cry out for help, to scream to wake the others. Maybe even to attack her, to try to get away.

But she doesn't do that.

Instead, Minthara gently pries an arm out of Orin's grasp, reaching to touch the monsterous new face staring down at her.

There's no more fear in her expression, only curiosity as she searches the Slayer's insectoid eyes— perhaps looking to make sure Orin is still there.

Once she finds whatever she's looking for, she visibly relaxes.

"My love," she breathes, as though Orin isn't a quivering monster holding her down. "You are beautiful."

Orin wants to respond, to ask if Minthara has lost her mind, but she is unable to speak.

"I meant what I said- I adore you no matter what form you take. You are exquisite all the same. So-"

Against all logic or sense, Minthara kisses her, mindful of the razors that have taken the place of her teeth.

"I am yours. Come to me."

…Really? Minthara is not only not terrified, she still wants to…?

It takes too much effort to keep control of herself, to keep from slicing her lover open, but Orin manages to restrain herself while Minthara takes hold of her head and guides her downward.

One set of arms grabs Minthara's thighs, claws digging into the fragile flesh just enough to draw a little blood. The other set grabs her waist, in a wordless admonishment to keep still.

The slayer's mouth boasts an impressive tongue, and she decides to put it to the obvious use.

Minthara lets out a low moan that warps into a groan of pain when she bucks her hips, driving the slayer's claws deeper into her skin.

Somehow, that doesn't bother her- to the contrary, she throws her head back, hips jerking as she abruptly hits her climax.

"Fuck-"

Her monstrous appearance doesn't seem to put her off any, judging by the needy noises she's still making despite having just came. She clings to the wrists of the set of arms holding her waist, eyes wide, mouth agape in a wordless plea not to stop.

Of course, Orin indulges her, taking full advantage of this form to pleasure all the places inside her that a normal humanoid could never hope to reach.

Her body trembles so violently her teeth chatter, skin so slick with sweat it's hard to get a good grip.

It doesn't take much to bring her over the edge again, with a whimper and a shudder.

And again.

"Gods, I cannot-"

-And again.

"Too much, please-"

Another.

And another.

Minthara starts to sob as her overstimulated body continues to jolt and seize up with every orgasm she's given.

It isn't perfect, but those desperate sounds seem to somewhat soothe the monster in Orin's heart, and she feels her rancid blood start to calm.

"Mercy, it is too much-"

Enough, she tells herself, trying to force herself to change back. This is enough.

A blinding pain courses through Orin's entire body as it regains its normal shape, its monstrous features retracting back and leaving her in her usual shape.

"There you are, love."

She pulls Orin in close, stroking her hair and the side of her face to soothe her as she tries to catch her breath.

Laying her head against her lover's breast, Orin shuts her eyes and tries not to hate herself for how close she'd come to seriously hurting Minthara.

Sure, this time she managed to mostly restrain herself, but what about next time? Or the time after that?

"I'm sorry-"

"Shh. You have nothing to apologize for."

Minthara's voice is slurred with fatigue, half-asleep already.

Good. She needs whatever rest she can get.

They've probably spent too long fooling around— even without the sun to keep time, she has a feeling the others will start waking up soon.

Though Orin can't quell her restless mind enough to sleep, she shuts her eyes and at least tries to relax a bit, too.

She'll help clean Minthara up before they leave, and try to help heal all the cuts and new bruises she's left.

For the time being, while Minthara drifts off, she reaches between her thighs to relieve the ache inside her that's still unsatisfied.

With Minthara's naked body so close to her, her smell clinging to her skin, it's easy to finish herself.

Still, a tiny voice urges her to bite. To hurt. But she forces herself to ignore it.

Sh'll let herself indulge in this for now.

Later, she can worry about whatever else is troubling her.

Chapter Text

The moment Orin has finally managed to nod off, a horrific, piercing shriek jolts her out of her rest.

Her armor forms around her in a flash as she bursts out of their hideaway, with Minthara following close behind her without bothering to fully dress herself.

They brace themselves for a fight, expecting shadows or some other monster to slay.

Luckily, there isn't a fight.

Unfortunately, what they find is much sadder.

The scream came from Karlach, who's now sobbing and letting off white flames and clouds of acrid smoke, curled into a tight ball on the dusty stone floor.

She speaks with a frantic, desperate energy, the words spilling out and tripping over each other.

"I don't want to go back!" she sobs, between deep, shuddering gasps of air. "Don't make me go back! Don't make me go I don't wanna go I wanna go home I just wanna go home don't make me go back don't let them take me I don't wanna go I don't wanna go I don't wanna go Idon'twannagoIdon'twannagoIdon'twannago-"

"Easy," Wyll tries to reassure her, unable to touch her with how hot her engine is running. "You're not going anywhere-"

Karlach takes a few great, hiccuping breaths, cooling off just enough that she doesn't scorch Wyll when she grabs onto him.

"We won't make you go back," he promises her. "You're safe, we're not going to let anybody take you anywhere."

Despite being the largest out of all of them by a significant margin, Karlach looks so unbearably small and scared while Wyll tries to push Clive into her arms while murmuring words of comfort.

Nobody knows what they should do, standing around in their night clothes and looking confused and heartbroken.

"Promise you won't let them take me back," she whimpers. "I can't go back, don't make me go back."

"None of us will let that happen. You won't go anywhere you don't want to go. I swear."

Wyll tries to sound sure, to sound confident, but everyone can feel the tremor in his voice that he can't quite suppress.

"Right," Gale chimes in. "If anybody tried, we wouldn't allow it."

"I know how wretched it is to be a slave," Astarion adds, in an unusually somber tone. "No, I'm afraid you're stuck with us, darling- nobody is taking you back to the Hells while we're around."

That gets Karlach to crack a smile. 

"...Thanks, mate."

"You're going to be alright. Come on."

Karlach grabs him and pulls him into a hug tight enough they hear his spine crack, sobbing into his shoulder, her tears turning to steam from the residual heat coming off her body.

He endures the heat even though it must be unbearable, rubbing soothing circles on her back while she hiccups the last of her tears away.

"With that out of the way," Astarion says, clapping his hands together to get attention on him, "I think I found something last night that would interest you, but uh-"

He pauses to grab a blanket and toss it in Minthara's direction.

"-It may be best to get those covered up, darling," he half-giggles, gesturing toward his own chest to point out Minthara's is bare. "Before you put someone's eye out."

Minthara looks down, confirming that, yes, her bare chest is completely exposed to the world, and quite…prominent due to the cold (though thankfully not leaking at the moment).

She throws the blanket over her shoulders, rolling her eyes even though she isn't all that annoyed (and probably more than a little cold).

"Well, what was so interesting that you had to show us, then?" Wyll asks, trying to steer everyone's attention onto something else.

"Oh, I couldn't really sleep, so I decided to do a bit of wandering and I found something. I thought you might be interested in it."

He whips out a stack of dusty old books and some yellowed papers that had been resting in the bowels of the guild hall for however long it's been abandoned.

It's pages on pages of meticulous logs, of names and dates and coordinated plans for resistance that had obviously gone very wrong somewhere.

"This must have belonged to that mason from Madeline's ledger," Gale remarks, scratching at his beard as they crowd around the pages.

Over and over again, Last Light Inn comes up as a sort of base of operations for their rebellion, with notes passed back and forth folded up and stashed between the pages.

"You think there's anything there worth looking for?"

"Might be, if the druid lets us poke around a bit."

"I don't see why she wouldn't- Jaheira wants our worm infestation taken care of as much as we do, and if it helps deal with this curse, so much the better."

"Right- everyone finish getting dressed and let's get a move on."

It feels good to finally be making some headway, maybe. And with Karlach starting to come back around to herself, they might have another productive day ahead.

They get dressed and pack up as fast as they can; Orin watches out of the corner of her eye as Lae'zel tries to teach Karlach some Githyanki war cries to lift her spirits- which Karlach tries repeating with mixed results. 

It's almost cute.

Orin watches the children run about as she enters the gates of Last Light, laughing and playing like they have no trouble in the world.

Halsin bounds after them in his bear form, frolicking around and making a show of falling over whenever one of the children manages to tackle him.

The ground in the courtyard of Last Light is full to bursting with flowers of every possible color and type, sprouting up everywhere their roots can find purchase. Cheerfully green ivy climbs up the walls and around the stone of the dried-up fountain, creating a small oasis of life in the midst of a barren ocean.

Oliver darts around creating more plants wherever he finds empty space, giggling and bouncing around in delight.

Scratch barks as he chases after him, tail wagging furiously and tongue lolling out happily.

The owlbear seems to have tuckered himself out already, curled up and napping in a patch of flowering clover. Thaniel is curled up halfway on top of him, dozing off as well.

A few harpers watch the scene with cautiously hopeful smiles, looking at each other with inscrutable expressions as they tend to their weapons and take stock of their supplies.

As she watches the oddly domestic scene, faint memories play about in the back of Orin's mind— different from the ones she's used to seeing.

She's young again, she can tell from how small her hands are as she reaches up into the branches of an apple tree that sways in the gentle autumn breeze.

Those rough, large hands she remembers beating her bloody, grabbing her in places they should not be grabbing, instead hold her aloft, gently supporting her as she plucks a pair of ripe, sun-warmed apples from their bed of vibrant green leaves.

"Well done, little one," that familiar, rough voice says, sounding kinder and happier than she's ever heard it.

She hands him one of the apples, which he accepts and gives her a kiss on the forehead in thanks.

The apple in her hands is bright red and shiny, sweet-and-tart juice exploding in her mouth as she crunches into the off-white flesh beneath.

-The face of the man (her grandfather or whoever he is) still doesn't materialize for her, but somehow she can tell he's smiling in that moment.

A genuine smile- something she feels like he never did much of.

A happy memory—

—So why does it make her feel so unbearably sad?

"Back so soon? Did you miss us that badly?"

"We're following a trail," Wyll tells Jaheira. "Mind if we poke around a bit?

Jaheira raises an eyebrow, but she nods in understanding anyway.

"I suppose it can't do any harm."

"Thank you, we'll try not to be too intrusive."

"-Mummy!"

The shadow of their would-be child pops up in front of them, giving them something that's probably meant to be a smile.

Minthara holds her arms out, and the shadow throws itself into them and cuddles up close to her.

"There you are- I hope you did not cause too much trouble while I was away."

The shadow coos happily, though aside from mummy and occasionally something that sounds like happy, it doesn't say anything intelligible.

Minthara handles it gently, but nobody misses the melancholy written into the lines of her face as she strokes its head as it dozes off against her chest.

Jaheira looks over Astarion's findings with a curious eye, looking more hopeful now.

"I wonder what else you might uncover in this graveyard of memories," she remarks.

"It seems to say there was something under the inn that could be useful to us, so there's only one way to find out."

"Let's not waste any more time, then."

Minthara looks back at Orin when she doesn't move to go inside with them.

"Love?"

"…Go ahead— I'll be there soon."

The others look confused, but they shuffle off inside without a fuss to start their search.

Halsin, however, hangs behind, fidgeting like he wants to do something but knows it'll be uncomfortable.

"What do you want?" Orin grumbles when he approaches her.

"Nothing," Halsin assures her. "I am merely worried about you."

"Don't be. I can look after myself."

"I don't doubt that. But sometimes a listening ear can work wonders."

Orin rolls her eyes.

"I'm not particularly in the mood for a lecture."

"I am not trying to lecture, I am trying to understand."

"What's there to understand?"

Halsin moves like he wants to put a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it halfway through the motion and pulls back.

"I know you hate me, but indulge me for a moment," he requests.

Orin raises an eyebrow.

"I don't hate you?"

Halsin looks genuinely confused about that.

"You've acted like I've burned you any time I've so much as touched you. And after what happened in the Shadowfell, I thought you must-"

"-For fuck's sake, it isn't anything to do with you."

Halsin blinks a few times in puzzlement.

"Then why-"

Orin balls her hands up into fists, relaxes them, then repeats the motion several more times to get a grip on her emotions.

"It's not- it's bad memories, is all. Or- I think it's bad memories."

She sits on a crate under the awning the oxen are sleeping under, and Halsin sits beside her.

"What kind of memory?"

"I'm not sure. I don't even know who he is.. But he was big like you are. And his hands…"

She trails off, shuddering as she feels the ghost of those rough, strong hands gripping her too tightly.

"Yours just remind me of that. It's not your fault. It's just-"

Orin's fingernails bite into the palms of her hands as she tries to speak.

"…It's hard. I don't understand what's going on, or what's wrong with me. I just know how I feel."

Halsin nods, folding his arms so he can't accidentally touch her.

"I understand. It's never easy to have bad emotions brought back to you."

"I'm glad you get it. I'm really not doing any of this on purpose."

"I know that. I just wish I could help."

"...Maybe it'd be better if you told me a bit about you?" she offers. "If I knew you a little more, it might be easier."

Halsin nods, pondering what might be worth saying.

"Well, I like to whittle."

"Hm? What sorts of things do you whittle?"

"Oh, odds and ends. Ornaments, utensils…"

Halsin trails off for a second, a sheepish smile on his scarred face.

"…And ducks. I like ducks."

"Ducks? Cute."

"They are. That's why I like them."

"Alright, what else do you like?"

"Hm? Well, I like wandering, and a nice pipe around a campfire. I suppose it wouldn't surprise you to hear I like honey-"

"-Yeah? You're lucky you know what you like."

"I am three hundred fifty years old, I've had more than enough time to get to know myself. You seem young, you'll figure it out."

Orin shrugs noncommittally, not wanting to talk about all the memories she's lost. 

"How about you, then? What does Orin like to do in her free time?" Halsin asks. 

Contemplating bloody slaughter sounds like the wrong answer here.

"I… suppose I like to draw," she mumbles. "I don't remember a lot from my past, but it feels right."

"Is that so? Perhaps you have something you could show me?"

"Show? Uh-"

Orin rummages around for her new sketchbook, opening it and showing the drawing of Jaheira and the animals that she'd done.

"These are wonderful," Halsin tells her, smiling at the pages as he flips through them. "Do you remember where you learned how to do this?"

"Hm? No, not really. Sorry."

"Oh? Can you think of anything else then?"

Orin rifles through her addled brain to try to find something, finding that Halsin actually isn't bad company.

Something pops into mind, and she says it before thinking too hard about it, even though she feels silly saying it. 

"…I have a mortal fear of krakens, even though I've never run into one."

"Heh. Well, they are quite fearsome creatures, but so long as you stay out of Umberlee's domain, you should have nothing to fear."

Orin nods, feeling herself smiling just a bit.

"Thanks. I-"

She fumbles with her words, frustrated that talking is so difficult.

"-I'm sorry," she says, with a heavy sigh. "I know you don't mean any harm. I didn't mean to have you feel like I hated you. And I shouldn't have gone off on you when we were in the Shadowfell. I know you were trying to help."

"I appreciate that," Halsin replies, with a nod and a sad look in his honey-brown eyes. "I think people tend to look at me and assume my feelings can't be hurt. But don't be so hard on yourself- you have endured much."

He's so kind, so friendly and forgiving, that it turns Orin's stomach and makes her want to kill him all over again.

"To be angry is normal in such times. I don't begrudge you any bad blood, but I do hope we can get along eventually. You seem like the kind of person I would like to get to know."

His hand hovers awkwardly over her shoulder, until she gives a nod to allow him to give it a few awkward pats.

Orin flinches a bit at first, but it doesn't trigger any more of those nauseating feelings.

"Better?"

"I think so?"

"I'll take that for now. Thank you for taking some time with me."

Orin absentmindedly nods, getting up and dusting off the back of her pants as she heads back inside.

Everyone seems to be in remarkably better spirits, perhaps because of all the plant life sprouting up from every possible surface.

"Just leave Isobel's room alone without consulting her first," she hears Jaheira warn. "She doesn't need to be disturbed."

In the corner, Kar'niss appears to be trapped, looking bewildered as the pair of tiefling girls braid clover and daisies into his hair while giggling and chatting with each other like it was just an ordinary day.

He glances at Orin with a look that silently says help me, discomfort written in every fiber of his being, though he doesn't have the nerve to ask the children to stop.

Orin giggles, just for a moment, until she spots a quite familiar face.

A ginger-haired little tiefling girl with bright eyes that she remembers too well from the Emerald Grove, tongue poking out in concentration as she works on an elaborate braid.

"…Arabella?"

The girl looks up, lighting up in recognition.

"Oh, hey!" she chirps, hopping off the stool she's perched on to run up and throw her arms around Orin. "I'm glad you're okay!"

"I- it's good to see you too," Orin says, blinking rapidly as she tries to wrap her head around what's happening. "How did you get here?"

"The spider guy found me," Arabella answers. "I got lost after we got attacked."

"The cultists?"

"Yeah, them. When it happened I heard mum yell to run, so I did. I heard them behind me- until I couldn't. So I kept running, until he found me."

"How did you stay alive?"

"Oh, that's easy-"

Arabella pulls away, holding her hand out; a small yellow flower sprouts up from her palm, surrounded by a soft amber light.

"Ever since I touched that idol thing, I've been able to do all sorts of stuff," she says. "It's kept me safe this whole time. Then he found me and brought me here, so I guess it's alright?"

Orin nods along.

"I'm glad you're alright."

"You too- I wondered what happened after you left with that scary lady who freaked Mattis and Silfy out so bad."

"Eh- oh, you mean Minthara?"

"The drow, yeah. Mattis talks about her all the time- n' so did Mol, before- well, whatever happened while I was gone."

"Does he?"

"Yeah, whatever she said to him stuck with him, I think."

Arabella seems in remarkably good spirits for all she's gone through, which Orin is grateful for. But one question still seems to nag at her, though it takes her a few moments to gather the nerve to ask.

"…If you head back out there," she says, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as she speaks, "do you think you could look for Mum n' Pops? I dunno what happened to them, but they must be out there somewhere? I don't wanna go back out there, but since you're already looking for Mol…"

"Eh? I mean, if I can-"

-Orin stops herself before she says something mean, realizing telling her that her parents are almost certainly already dead would be a bad move.

"-Yeah, I'll keep an eye out. If they don't find their way here I'm sure we can point them in the right direction."

"Really?! I knew you would, I knew it!"

She hugs Orin again, in a painfully trusting gesture.

"Thank you! Thank you so much!"

Orin gives her a pat on the back to acknowledge the hug, stifling the impulse to call on her dagger to drive it through the girl's heart.

Gentle. Careful. Arabella deserves that much.

There's a thump thump thump of Minthara's cane on the floor, which pulls her attention away.

Minthara has the tiny wraith resting on one hip like a real child, and is trying very hard to act nonchalant.

"We have found something interesting," she informs her, motioning with the handle of her cane for her to follow. "You may want to see it."

"Alright, I'm on the way."

Arabella skips back over to where Silfy is still busy fussing over Kar'niss, who still looks ridiculously uncomfortable.

He'll live, Orin decides. A little pampering might do him a bit of good, anyway.

Now, to see whatever's waiting for her down below.

Chapter Text

The air in the cellar of Last Light Inn is just as stale as Orin remembers.

"Whats going on?" she asks, as they approach the rest of them, and the shadow floats away to explore.

"That's what we're trying to figure out- nice of you to join the party."

Orin puts her hands on her hips and surveys the dank basement full of dusty wine racks, the dried sticky puddle of spilled wine still there from where Dammon had accidentally walked in on her and Minthara.

"There should be something down here, according to our friend from the Mason's guild. But where I'm getting stuck is where it's supposed to be, because all I see here is enough alcohol to drown a village and some moldy produce that's been sat here for gods know how long."

"Well, the landscape around here shifts quite a bit," Wyll points out. "Perhaps something fell, or maybe it's hidden somewhere."

"Yeah, let's take a look around. Mind giving the ones without darkvision a light, Karlach?"

"On it, soldier!"

Reddish torchlight floods the dusty space, and everyone fans out looking for any clues as to where they're going.

The walls are cracked and crumbling, and the're no shortage of crumbling crates and moldy burlap sacks laying around to get in their way.

"Do you think you could help me move this out of the way?"

"Sure can hon, where do you want me to put it?"

"Up on that shelf maybe?"

"Alright, sounds good to me."

Everyone starts feeling about and poking around, so Orin decides to do the same.

She half-hopes to find some hidden lever or button she can press that would make everything easier. 

Instead of anything like that, unfortunately, all she finds is the ragged blanket she and Minthara had dirtied when they snuck away together. 

Quickly, she kicks it away behind one of the wine racks, feeling her face burn hot as she tries very hard not to remember what they'd gotten up to here.

Orin's mind starts to wander once the evidence of their indiscretion is disposed of, drifting away to wherever it goes when her failing brain decides to grace her with glimpses of her shattered past.

"We're almost there- you're doing great."

She hears herself moan, the sound reverberating in her chest that feels hollow somehow.

She feels hands on her- large, scaled hands with wicked claws that nonetheless try to touch her gently.

His breath is hot against her neck, his body heavy as it presses into her.

"Relax," he growls against her ear.

He groans, hips meeting hers as he finally overcomes the resistance of her muscles and her body gives way.

There's a horrible ache inside her. A thick, hot intrusion splits her open so badly she can feel her flesh tearing from within.

She bites down on the pillow to muffle a cry of pain, her teeth piercing the fabric and giving her a mouthful of feathers.

It hurts-

"There. I'm going to go slowly, alright?"

It hurts it hurts ithurtssobadgodspleasemakeitstopithurts-

Her stomach lurches with every movement inside her, trembling hands twisting in the sheets as she tries to pretend it isn't happening.

It'll make Father happy, she tells herself, though it brings her no comfort. It'll make Father happy, I can endure this much for Him-

Bile burns in her throat but she tries to endure, knowing that she just has to endure long enough to finish this act.

A lamb all our own. A blessing from Father. Just a little longer…

Orin tries to put on a show, tries to pretend she isn't bleeding, tries to pretend she doesn't want to vomit.

It hurts

She arches her back and forces out another moan, hoping she's doing a good enough job of faking it.

GodsithurtsmakeitstopIhatethisI'mgoingtobesick

"-Are you alright?"

-Evidently she isn't doing a good enough job.

"I'm fine. Don't stop, I want it."

I'mnotfineIdon'twantthisIdon'tfeelgoodpleasestopgetoutofme

Lies on lies, but the thought of failing in her duty hurts far worse than the pain inside.

"Are you really?"

"It's fine, I'm fine, I swear-"

IthurtsithurtsithurtsIhateitIhateitIhateitgetoutofmegetoutofmegetoutofmegetoutofmegetoutofmegetoutofmeGETOUTOFMEGETOUTOFMEGETOUTOFME

A sickening lurch has Orin choking back bile.

The person on top of her goes still, letting out a heavy sigh.

He pulls out and away from her, retreating to the other side of the bed.

Orin turns around, feeling a confusing mixture of relieved and deeply hurt.

"I didn't say-"

"-You don't need to say anything. I can tell."

"But-"

"-It isn't worth it. I can't do it, not like this."

Shame twists Orin's stomach in knots.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't— if anything, I'm the one who should apologize."

Mindful of his claws, he lifts her chin and offers her a melancholy smile.

"I shouldn't have gone through with this. It was a terrible idea."

He sounds angry, but not at her.

Despite him saying he doesn't want to hear it, Orin can't help what spills out of her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers, grabbing onto his arm and fighting back tears. "It's my fault, I did my best but I still-"

"-I said enough."

He stands up and redresses himself in stiff, robotic motions.

"This is ridiculous. We don't need to do this. We shouldn't do this."

"But Father said-"

"-I don't care what Father or anybody else says!"

He rubs his temples in small,methodical circles to settle his temper.

"It doesn't matter. I can't do this to you."

She tries to say something else when he leaves, though her memory fails her as to what it is she says to try to coax him back, to try to do her duty, to try to not fail.

It doesn't do any good, and she's left alone with the ache in her belly and the sharp sting of knowing that she failed.

Yet, in spite of her shame, in spite of her longing, a not-insignificant part of her is relieved that he stopped. Relieved that it's over.

At least- over for now.

"—You alright there?"

Wyll waves a hand in front of Orin's face, snapping her out of her daydream.

"Hm? I'm fine, I just…"

Orin shakes her head to bring it back to the present.

"…Zoned out, that's all. I'm alright."

It's a bald-faced lie- and that must be obvious to him, since she's sure she looks awful and she can feel her heart hammering away painfully in her chest.

Still, Wyll knows better than to push the matter further.

"Uh, alright then. Anyway, can you get Basket out here for a second? We need to get somewhere small."

Orin nods and summons the little quasit, who glares at her and crosses her arms indignantly.

"What does Master want?"

"You're good at getting into tight places, right?"

"Very good, why?"

"Get in there and get the door open for us, will you?"

"Eh? If master says so, fine."

Basket does as she's told, squeezing into the small gap in the wall with a grunt and a bit of effort.

There's some shuffling about, some scratching, and a quite colorful stream of profanity from Basket in both Common and Infernal.

"What's going on over there?"

"Smells like old socks and mold in here!" Basket shouts back.

"Well just find a way to make a hole big enough for us to get through, will you?"

"Basket is trying, but rock is rock!"

Everyone stands around while they listen to her shove things about and continue to curse.

Orin listens in on the conversation that starts, even though she doesn't participate.

"Let me tell you, I cannot wait to get this curse dealt with," Astarion laments. "I can't wait to feel the sun on my skin again."

"Oh come on," Shadowheart retorts, rolling her eyes and speaking like she's scolding a child. "The dark isn't all that bad."

Astarion tenses up, a scowl crossing his face for a second before he composes himself.

"Maybe to you. You chose the darkness," he reminds her. "I had the light stolen from me. It's a bit hard to find comfort in something that's been my cage for centuries now."

"Really? It's rather comforting if you ask me."

Minthara opens her mouth to say something back to her, but Orin beats her to it.

"-A comfortable cage is still a cage," she says, though she's not sure where the words are coming from. "But people who never push their boundaries might never finds the bars to tell what they're missing."

Shadowheart opens her mouth, closes it again, then shakes her head with a huff, maybe deciding that putting her foot even farther in her mouth is a bad idea.

"…You've been spending a lot of time with that egg," she says instead, turning toward Lae'zel. "Do you think it'll ever hatch?"

Lae'zel catches onto her trying to change the subject, and indulges her by answering.

"It is normally not the job of a warrior to tend to the young," she says, sounding more uncertain than she ever has before. "I cannot tell, but it has changed. It is warmer now, and it has been stirring more. I believe it may, in time."

"Yeah? Should we start calling you Mummy, Lae'zel?" Karlach asks.

"Only if you wish for me to skewer you with my blade and roast you over the campfire."

Lae'zel makes that threat with a tentative smile to let everyone know she's only joking.

"It will be…strange, if it does," she admits. "I never saw myself as any sort of caretaker. Yet, when I touch it, it feels as if I am connecting with the future of my people. I want to see it well. I understand now why the varsh wanted so dearly to protect it."

There's something different in the way she speaks. None of her bluster or bravado. Just a softness she doesn't seem to know what to do with.

"…Have you given any thought to a name?" Minthara asks.

"Hm?"

"A child's name is not a decision to be made lightly. It is the first gift they will receive from you- have you thought about what it might be?"

Lae'zel frowns, yellow eyes wandering to some vague point in the distance.

"I…I have not," she admits. "I have never even dreamed I would ever be the one to be making such a decision. I wouldn't have the foggiest clue how to decide."

"We've got time," Wyll says. "I'm sure you'll figure something out eventually- after all, my father said he couldn't decide on a name for me until he held me for the first time. It'll come to you."

"Right," Astarion laughs, "I'm sure you'll find the perfect name for your little flayer-slayer when the time comes."

A loud bang is followed by everyone scrambling to get out of the way as rock and dust fly everywhere, with Basket standing triumphantly in the middle of the carnage.

"Basket found a way to open it!" she declares.

"…Thanks," Orin mutters, picking bits of gravel and cobweb out of her hair.

"Nyehehe, there's cool stuff in here, come see!"

Everyone climbs through the hole one at a time, proceeding warily and with weapons drawn.

Orin moves to follow the others, but Astarion grabs her wrist to keep her back.

"Do you have a moment?" he asks, in a way that makes it clear he isn't really asking.

"Hm?"

"It's kind of a serious matter, and I didn't want to get the others involved."

There's something in the tone of his voice that makes her wary, but she stays behind when he lets go of her wrist.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about earlier," he answers. "After Karlach's uh- episode."

"Alright, what about earlier?"

Astarion rubs his temples and shuts his eyes for a bit, heaving a sigh to gather his nerves.

"I know she's been prone to some pretty spectacular bruising after her incident, but do you mind telling me how she wound up with claw marks in some rather intimate places?"

Orin's stomach drops as it fully sets in what he's asking her.

"I- we were just-"

-Saying they were having sex when she turned into a giant monster feels like it'd make the situation worse, but she's having a hard time putting her thoughts together.

Despite that, Astarion seems to be able to piece the series of events together.

"Hm."

His expression is hard to decipher- maybe a little worried, maybe a little frightened.

"…Look," he says, after taking a few breaths to collect himself. "I'm not your parent, and it isn't really my business what you get up to in bed, but I just wonder-"

He drops his voice low so he isn't overheard.

"-Well. She trusts you. More than she ought to, I think. I just worry that something might go wrong if you aren't careful."

"What are you talking about?"

"Aren't you worried she's a little…fragile to be doing that sort of thing? She did almost keel over not long ago."

"I know that," Orin snaps.

"Good, so you know what I'm getting at. Do be careful, will you? I'd rather not have to peel you off her the same way we had to do with Alfira."

A surge of angry bile forces its way up Orin's throat, which she forces down with far too much effort.

"Do you think I don't worry about that every fucking day?" she hisses through gritted teeth. "Do you think I don't worry all the godsdamned time that I'm gonna do something to her that I'm not going to be able to take back?!"

"Look, I'm not trying to start any trouble, I-"

"-You don't get it, so don't act like-"

Astarion breaks out in an ice-cold laugh.

"You really think I don't get it?" he snaps, glaring at her like she's the stupidest person he's ever had the misfortune of speaking to. "Do you think I don't understand what it's like? How it feels to walk on a razor's edge, always feeling like you're one heartbeat away from losing control? Do you think I don't know what it feels like to be hungry?"

He presses a hand to his abdomen, his handsome face contorted in a rictus of pain.

"Every moment I'm awake— every second I'm breathing— is agony. For the past two hundred years I've been starving- I can drink until I'm full to bursting but the ache doesn't go away."

His voice wavers just a bit, but he forces himself onward.

"I still hear every single heartbeat, I can smell the blood in your veins right now. Every moment I'm around people, it's all I can do to keep myself from sinking my teeth into the nearest neck. When I lay beside Gale and he sleeps with all the trust in the world that I won't harm him, I'm driven to madness because I have to ignore my hunger- but part of me doesn't want to."

He swallows like his throat is full of sand, passing his tongue over sharpened teeth.

Now a few things make more sense- Astarion has always had a tendency to wander late at night, but she hadn't paid much mind, writing it off as insomnia or maybe nightmares of his previous life.

Crimson eyes lock on hers.

"I understand more than you think. I know it feels impossible to resist. I'm sure Bhaal is just as difficult to resist as Cazador- I felt so helpless to do anything against him for so long."

He grabs her hand, his grip iron and so deathly cold.

"But I know this- you must try. Not just for her sake- for yours. You can be more than He made you. I know you can."

She still isn't used to him being so sincere, so it takes her some time to fully process what he's said to her.

She nods, picking at the skin along the edge of her thumbnail in her anxiety.

"I'm… I'm trying."

"I know you are. So am I. Now-"

He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and shaking his head to clear it.

"-Let's just keep trying, shall we dear? I don't want either of us to end up doing anything we regret."

"…Yeah. Just-"

When she pulls her hand away from Astarion's, he lets her, though his stays in the air for a few seconds, fingers curling and uncurling a few times while he waits for her to speak.

"If you think I'm going to lose control in a way that I can't come back from, promise me you'll stop me. Put me down," she pleads. "Cut my head off, slit my throat, do whatever you have to do, just don't let me hurt anyone. Don't let me kill her."

Astarion blinks rapidly, as if she's just slapped him.

"What? Why me?"

"Because I know I can't trust anybody else to go through with it."

"Not even Minthara?"

"Fuck's sake, especially not her."

Orin sighs and grabs his arm.

"Just. Promise me. I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. Least of all her. Please."

Her eyes burn with the tears burning within them, smearing the features of Astarion's face into a white and crimson blur. But she refuses to let them fall.

"…I hope it doesn't come to that," Astarion says, hesitantly. "But if it does… you can count on me. I can't promise it won't be messy. But I'll do it."

"It doesn't have to be clean. It just has to be done."

Orin tries to force herself to smile, but can't force her lips to complete the motion.

"Thank you," she says, instead.

"No need. Let's get a move on before the others start to worry, shall we?"

He straightens up, pulling his shoulders back and slipping back into the persona of the charming rogue he's the most comfortable in.

The air becomes somehow more chilly and foreboding as they descend into a pitch-black cavern, tucked away beneath the inn for however many years.

There's a strange screeching sort of sound, along with the others shouting and crashing around.

"Oh bother," Astarion sighs. "Looks like we're off killing again, eh?"

Orin rolls her eyes and draws her dagger, ready for whatever it is that's waiting for them.

They hear chittering laughter and speaking in some language she hasn't heard before.

"Shit."

"What?"

"Meenlocks," Astarion says, breaking out into a run; Orin follows suit, in spite of her confusion.

"Mee-what?"

"Nasty little buggers. They spawn in wherever there's enough fear concentrated in any given location. I'm not shocked they're here."

Makes sense.

So does the thing about them spawning in from fear, considering the deep foreboding that crashes over her.

There's a flash, and a brilliantly blinding light floods the cavern they stumble into.

The shrieks grow more shrill; Orin squints against the light as she sprints into the fray.

Through the light, she can see a gaggle of strange, hunched over creatures, covered in scales and coarse, patchy hair, each of their misshapen arms bearing a set of large, lobster-like claws.

They scurry to try to keep to the little shadows that remain, which leaves them easy pickings for Orin to take out.

One of them catches her arm with its wickedly sharp mandibles, making her howl in pain as she grabs it to tear its head off in retribution.

Filthy thing, how dare it touch us?! How dare it sully Father's creation, Father's glory?! How dare?!

"Where are all these fuckers coming from?!" Karlach cries out, prying one of their claws out of her bicep and leaving a bloody trail behind as she throws it against the stone wall of the cavern.

Lae'zel skewers one through the head, then swings it around to catch the other in the gut and sending it flying.

Minthara reduces the top half of one of them to a fine paste with a series of vicious mace blows.

Though she fights as viciously as ever, Orin can't help but notice her stumbling with each blow, the way each breath comes with too much difficulty, and the sweat pouring down her face- far worse than is normal for her.

More than all that though, she notices how her eyes don't seem to focus, like she can't actually see in the bright artificial daylight.

That's probably not good. She'll make sure to force her to sit down once this is done, if nothing else.

A few more swings and a few more dead Meenlocks, and they're left standing amongst the corpses.

"…Good call on that Daylight," Wyll tells Shadowheart. "How'd you know it would help?"

"I've dealt with these things before, I think," Shadowheart replies.

"I have too, but I normally just take them out. Never thought to try sunlight."

"Heehee! Love to give the enemies the fisting!" Basket cackles. "Can Basket eat them?"

"Go wild," Orin tells her, shaking her head in bewilderment.

"Yes! Master is fun!" Basket squeals, immediately digging into the nearest Meenlock.

Minthara mutters a halfhearted shut up under her breath, shutting her eyes and swaying dangerously on the spot.

Karlach waves her hand in front of her face, but Minthara's eyes don't seem to register the motion.

"Soldier? You good?"

Minthara mutters something, but it comes out in an incoherent mess, with only "too bright" recognizable amongst the jumble.

Orin barely reaches her in time as she collapses.

Chapter Text

"Are you alright? What's wrong?" Orin asks, stroking Minthara's hair and trying to comfort her.

All she gets in response is a groan.

Minthara tries to cover herself as any bit of exposed skin starts to burn and blister like bacon on a hot skillet.

Orin glances at the burns, then at the orb of artificial daylight, then realizes what's happening.

"Turn that shit off!" Orin snaps, doing her best to shield Minthara from the light.

Shadowheart stutters, and the cavern is plunged into darkness as the sphere of artificial daylight evaporates into nothingness as quickly as a thought.

The effect is immediate- Minthara visibly relaxes, and her eyes manage to focus again after a few seconds and a lot of rapid blinking.

The relief only lasts a second, however, as Minthara turns gray, turns her head, and pukes up water and discolored bile.

"M-mummy…?"

The shadow creeps out of a small crevasse, quivering and far fainter than usual.

It grabs onto Orin and hides its face in her shoulder, shivering and sobbing while babbling incoherently.

In the midst of the mess, Orin thinks she can make out the word hurts.

The sunlight must have hurt it, too…

"You're alright," she reassures it (though it feels like a hollow gesture), patting it on the back. "You're fine, everything's fine."

The poor thing flickers, as if trying to maintain its shape is hard. Then, it releases Orin and seems to sink into Minthara, vanishing from view.

Karlach offers Minthara her canteen of water to steady her, which Minthara accepts and downs in large, desperate swallows.

Shaking hands fumble for the clasps of her armor and pries it off herself, gasping for air and flushed like she's overheating despite the clammy air all around them.

Orin helps her get it off; the stiff leather clothing underneath is totally saturated with sweat, black spiderweb veins pulsing rapidly just beneath her skin.

The tremors start to die down once her armor is off, but her breath is still raspy and painful to listen to.

"Should one of us go get Isobel?" Karlach asks.

"…No," Minthara insists, getting onto all fours to try to better catch her breath. "I will be fine…I just need a moment."

Nobody really believes her, but everyone knows her well enough to avoid pressing the matter further.

They look around, taking in all the faded Selunite trinkets layout around- remnants of an era long over.

Wyll picks up an old notebook and flips it open.

"What's this, then?" he murmurs. "More messages from our mason friend?"

"Looks like it. Or somebody who knew him, at least," Astarion answers.

Orin peers over his shoulder as he reads.

I have concealed the sacred relics of our revered goddess in the darkest corner of this place. Morfred, my loyal brother, seeks to forge a network of allies to stand against the oppressive reign of Ketheric Thorm. Sadly, fear has gripped the hearts of many, turning them away from our cause. I cannot truly blame them, for trepidation fills my soul as well - but I must put aside my own fears and reunite with Morfred in the bowels of the Mason's Guild. Together, we shall preserve what we can of the Moonmaiden's light, and hope that the banners of the faithful soon rise against that treacherous dog, Thorm.

"…That explains all this, then."

Shadowheart runs her fingers along the head of the idol of Selune standing on a small stone altar, frowning.

"There's always people standing up for the right thing," Wyll says, with a small smile. "No matter how dire things seem."

Halfway jutting out from the foot of the Selunite idol is a yellowed, crumbling paper.

Orin tugs on it carefully, managing to extricate most of it, though a chunk tears off and remains behind.

That House of Healing is not safe, it reads. No matter how badly wounded you are, do not go there. You'd be better off hanging yourself than setting foot in that hellshole.

Another place Squire mentioned. Perfect.

"That's not ominous at all," she mumbles, showing it to the others.

"Please tell me we're not still going there?" Karlach asks, almost begging.

"If it's got information we need to check it out."

"Bu- ah nevermind, it's not gonna make a difference, is it? Let's go find the creepy hospital thing."

Despite Karlach's trepidation they climb a series of gnarled, shriveled vines up out of the cellar, emerging in the hollowed-out remains of what used to be someone's home- the innkeeper's home, maybe? It's hard to tell after all this time.

Minthara shivers, but it doesn't seem to be from the cold, given her body radiates heat that nearly rivals Karlach's engine.

Strange, considering her hand is still so frigid...

Orin lingers behind when the others leave the house, wanting to speak to Minthara without the others prying.

"You don't have to keep going," Orin tells her. "It might be better if you head back and wait for us-"

"-I am capable," Minthara growls, with enough venom to make Orin freeze up for a moment.

"I-I never said you weren't," she reassures her. "I just-"

She fumbles with her words, not wanting to make her angry, but wanting to be truthful all the same.

"-I worry. What just happened was really bad. I'm afraid."

"Do you think I am not?"

"Huh?"

Minthara rubs her forehead, sighing.

"I am afraid too," she admits, face twisted in bitterness. "I am afraid I will never regain my strength. That I will forever be broken by what happened to me. That I will be nothing but a burden."

The hand clutching her cane shakes so violently it can barely keep its grip.

"I am afraid that this body I have spent decades upon decades honing and training will forever be ruined. That I will never be what I once was. The strength I had worked so hard for, the endurance I bought with hours of training, with blood and sweat and broken bones- I am afraid it will all be for nothing, now. Whittled away to pain and disappointment. That I will amount to nothing but a failure."

She shudders as she says the word failure, which comes out as though it's a dirty word.

"You aren't a failure," Orin insists, wanting to shout but not wanting to be overheard.

"How exactly am I not?"

Minthara's voice cracks just a bit, like she's choking on air.

"I failed my house. I failed my goddess. I failed my child. I failed myself. I failed you. How is that not enough to make me a failure?"

"You didn't fail anyone."

Orin wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but worries that if she tries Minthara will shatter into a thousand pieces.

"None of what happened was your fault," she says instead. "You didn't do anything, you couldn't have known this would happen."

Really, Orin isn't entirely sure about that, and the nagging voice in the back of her mind won't let her forget it, as much as she hates herself for it.

If she hadn't insisted on keeping the baby a secret- if she hadn't been so hellsbent on pretending everything was normal, like she didn't need protection when she was vulnerable, if she could have swallowed her pride for just a moment, not sworn Orin to secrecy-

-If the others had known, would things have been different?

If Gale had known, could he have conjured something up to protect her? If Shadowheart knew, would she have been able to heal her before everything went wrong? If Karlach or Wyll or Lae'zel or Astarion had known, would they have kept a closer eye on her so she never got hurt in the first place?

…If Orin had just said something sooner, would it have helped?

Would it have made a difference?

The questions are enough to drive her mad, and she feels her head start to throb, as if her shattered brain is protesting the internal interrogation.

They can't change what's happened. So torturing herself with could-have-beens is pointless.

"Let's just…worry about finding out how we kill Ketheric," she says. "He's the one to blame. There's no point in blaming yourself when we already know who's at fault."

"...Agreed."

They follow a cracked and warped trail down from the tiny house, staying huddled close together to stave off the cold as they catch up with the others.

Eventually, their path takes them to the crumbling remains of a graveyard, full of everything from old, cracked tombstones to graves only half-dug, coffins still laying beside them and waiting to be buried.

Seems like the town had been going about its business like usual right up to the day things went very wrong.

The graveyard is totally, eerily quiet- not even the groans of the dead seem to reach them here.

"Everything here gives me the willies," Karlach mutters, "but this place is extra creepy…"

Orin nods, grabbing Minthara's hand and holds it tight.

In faded, peeling paint, the sign hanging from the roof of the building looming in front of them like a giant wooden corpse reads House of Healing.

This is where they need to be, apparently. 

"Come on, let's see what we can find," Orin says, waving everyone over.

The others catch up quickly- except for one.

Astarion doesn't move an inch, staring intently at one of the tombstones.

Orin creeps up behind him, craning her neck to see what he's looking at.

It's a pretty nondescript tombstone, covered in dirt and dead moss to the point the words are barely legible.

Here lies Violet Goldhammer, it reads. Beloved singer. May her voice live on in our memories.

Their tadpoles accidentally connect, and faint images flash from his mind to hers.

A beautiful woman with straw-blonde hair with a soft curl to it, and deep purple eyes with a mischievous twinkle to them.

She sits down beside him outside the Waning Moon- a lively, bustling pub in its prime.

She gives him a bemused smile, which gets him to smile back even though he aches terribly from being thrown out.

Her hand is soft when it pats him on the head, though she seems put off by how cold he is.

She asks him something, but the memory is too faded for the words to be clear.

Orin's mind goes back to when he had helped Alfira finish her song, and he listed off his siblings like it wasn't a big deal.

She remembers Violet being one of them.

At first she thinks it must be a coincidence, but then remembers how Thisobald recognized him, even after all this time and the shadow curse addling his mind.

What a lucky boy you are, she hears, echoing in that cold, disdainful voice she's heard from his head before. You get to pick your new sibling out for yourself- who else can say something like that?

"You alright?" she asks, though she knows the real answer already.

"…I am," Astarion lies. "Let's go."

Astarion shakes his head and catches up with the others, stone-faced.

"Let's hurry and get this over with," he huffs. "I've never been a fan of hospitals."

Wanting to oblige that request, Wyll grabs the door's handle.

Fortunately, it isn't locked, and it opens with an agonized creak.

At the desk, sorting through the ancient, yellowing papers, is a woman who's clearly seen better days.

The old bell attached to the door tries to ring to announce their entrance, but it comes out in a sputtering, tinny sort of way. That's still enough to get the strange woman to raise her head.

Orin's first thought is to wonder if she can actually see anything, considering her headwear covers her eyes completely.

The rest of her clothing is the typical sort of garb a nurse would wear, though it's torn and filthy from decades on decades of neglect.

Her second thought is that her mouth full of blackened, broken teeth must be incredibly painful.

"Come in, welcome," she says, in a soft, timid voice.

"I didn't expect anyone to actually be here," Astarion remarks, looking around the dilapidated structure.

"Are we poorly?" the nurse asks. "Are we desperately poorly?"

It takes a moment for everyone to register what she's asking.

"Well, we're uh-"

Orin doesn't get the chance to finish that thought.

"-Oh, you poor thing," the nurse declares, stepping out from behind the desk and shuffling toward Minthara as quickly as her obviously broken leg will allow her.

Minthara takes a wary step backward, but the other woman grabs her wrist in a startlingly strong grip.

"Let me take a look at you," she insists.

Though whether she can actually see is up for debate, she seems to examine Minthara thoroughly, walking in circles around her while murmuring under her breath the entire time.

She touches the back of a necrotic hand to her forehead, then her cheek, and finally her belly, despite the full-body flinch Minthara gives in response.

"Poor dear," she says, shaking her head with a sympathetic grimace. "You should have come in sooner-"

She addresses the others in a much sterner tone.

"-One of you help her, please," she insists. "She shouldn't even be out of bed in her condition."

Minthara mutters a protest, but she allows Orin to wrap an arm around her to give the nurse some reassurance as she leads them along.

The pit of dread in Orin's stomach grows deeper the farther in they go, the words on the note playing in her mind.

You'd be better off hanging yourself than setting foot in that hellshole.

Moldy mattresses and suspiciously humanoid-shaped bundles of linens litter the floor, bloody rags and dented syringes with bent and rusty needles lining every flat surface.

Despite her trepidation, Minthara looks more curious than anything, and allows herself to be led.

"Master Thorm is the finest doctor you'll find in the entire Sword Coast," the nurse reassures them. "You don't have a thing to worry about."

"Thorm?" Gale inquires.

"Master Malus Thorm. Every sister here is under his tutelage to carry on his legacy."

Quite a dire legacy, judging by the remnants of bedlam all around them.

Despite that, playing along seems to be the safest bet to try to get more information about how they might kill an unkillable man, especially if the so-called doctor is related to the general.

"How long has it been since delivery?" the nurse asks.

"What?"

"Your delivery."

When she's met with an awkward silence, the nurse seems to figure she better elaborate.

"The birth?" she clarifies.

"How did you-"

Minthara cuts herself off, shaking her head and scowling.

(How she already knows feels irrelevant, anyway.)

"-About a tenday or so," she answers, her tone making it clear she isn't sure that being so candid is a smart idea.

"Live or stillborn?"

Minthara's breath catches in her throat.

"…Still," she finally answers, her voice little more than a breath.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

The nurse sounds genuine, but it's hard to tell for certain.

"Is the other parent here?"

"I am," Orin says quickly, before things get any more awkward (and figuring it isn't really a lie).

"Wonderful- the doctor will get a full history, right this way. Please be careful, don't let her fall."

She opens a set of double doors and gestures down a set of stairs.

The operating theater is surprisingly well-lit, all things considered, and impeccably clean despite the sorry state of the rest of the building.

A group of women dressed the same way as the one leading them watch intently as the grotesque remnants of what used to be a man speaks in a soft, sickly-sweet voice.

This man must be Malus Thorm, though calling him a man may be a bit too generous.

Bits and pieces of him are missing- not just flesh, but muscle and sinew and chunks of bone. The missing pieces have been replaced with tarnished metal, including his ankle joints that have been replaced with metal screws and plates that leave his feet jutting out at awkward angles, and his hands, that have been replaced with two sets of enormous, razor-sharp claws.

He doesn't seem to notice, more focused on whatever task he's demonstrating to the small fleet of nurses around him.

"The objection of the scalpel, sisters," he explains, his gentle tone discordant with the horrors around him, "is to soothe. For the scalpel, indeed, is an extension of Shar."

It's around this point that Orin notices the unfortunate soul strapped onto the rusty steel gurney in front of him, trying in vain to wriggle free from his bindings.

As the blade pierces his flesh, he lets out an awful gurgling noise, unable to properly scream.

"-See how the patient reacts when I but stroke the right nerve."

He drags the scalpel downward, and the poor soul on the gurney writhes and groans in agony.

"Hear its comfort. Hear the very melody of mercy."

He lets out a sick little giggle as he slices, finishing the stroke with a flourish.

"Now, sister-" he says, beckoning one of the shambling masses of necrotic flesh forward. "Show us the extent of your beneficence."

Taking a corroded scalpel off the metal tray in front of them, letting it hover over the patient for a second before slicing in.

Gurgling, agonized sounds emanate from the poor soul as her knife pierces flesh.

"Stop, stay your blade, sister- for it slaps where it should stroke. We can hardly hear the patient's sighs of solace!"

He speaks in the exasperated yet encouraging tone of a parent trying to teach their child some difficult task.

"Perhaps it is our unexpected audience that makes you quiver?" he asks, turning toward the others as they descend into the heart of the theater.

He motions for them to approach, the metal joints and gears holding him together squeaking and shrieking as he does. 

"Come, then- you are not sisters, but it matters not. All students are welcome."

The nurse that's been leading them leans in and whispers something in the man's pointed ear; he perks up immediately, an unsettling smile curly dry and rotting lips.

"Ah, my dear sisters!" he declares, stepping forward with outstretched claws. "Today we have a truly marvelous patient before us- come, miss- you have come to the right place for assistance."

Minthara obeys his gesture to approach, though she keeps one hand on her weapon the entire time.

Two of the nurses scurry to drag the man on the gurney away, bringing an empty one forward, which Minthara sits on with a bit of reluctance. Orin stands beside her, in case she needs to intervene, or anyone there tries to harm her.

"Here, sisters, you have the chance to observe a postpartum exam of the most extraordinary sort. Pay close attention, a chance like this does not come often."

The small fleet of nurses gather around, murmuring amongst each other all the while.

(Orin tries not to think too hard about how they seem to know what happened to her.)

"How many tendays' gestation were you when you delivered, my dear?"

Minthara bristles up like an angry cat at being called my dear, but remains stony and composed.

"…I am not entirely sure," she admits, rather than saying none of your fucking business like she clearly wants to.

"And am I correct to assume it was your first?"

"She would have been."

Malus nods, then turns to address his students.

"Observe, sisters- for what makes this patient so very special is nothing more than a blessing of Lady Shar- a show of her boundless mercy. Behold-"

The tip of one of his metal claws grazes itself along the exposed skin of her belly, the smile on his rotten face growing wider still. Minthara stays rigid, red eyes tracking every movement the man makes.

"-Note the coloration of the patient's veins, and note the particularly dark coloration in the lower abdominal region. This is the clue as to the patient's unique condition."

"What of my condition?" Minthara asks, in a terse, carefully controlled way.

"You had a traumatic delivery, did you not?" Malus Thorm asks, still in that soft, saccharine voice.

"What makes you ask?" Minthara replies, in a careful, distrusting tone.

"By all accounts, you should be long dead, my dear. Observe, sisters-"

He gestures to her face first.

"-From her pallor, one can ascertain that she has recently lost a significant amount of blood. As you can observe-" he makes vague gestures at her arms and shoulders, "-the patient was in prime physical condition at the time of delivery, and ideal child-bearing age, but even such a patient can still succumb to complications during childbirth."

His smile broadens as he carefully inspects every exposed bit of her body.

"There has been significant physical damage inflicted quite recently, as well- of course, unless the patient fully disrobes the extent of the damage is not plain to the naked eye, though a bit of magic may reveal the truth."

"I will be doing no such thing."

He continues as though Minthara hasn't spoken.

"-the trauma that seems to have been inflicted is something even an accomplished healer such as myself would not have been able to fully remedy. There is another factor at play- another power which sustains our patient where medicine and magic fail."

He grasps a marker in one of his clawed hands- despite the decades past, its black ink is as stark as ever as he draws his best version of a circle on her lower abdomen, encompassing the thickest patch of dark veins.

"The answer lies here, dear sisters," Malus explains, positively giddy at having such a fine specimen before him. "In Lady Shar's gift to our honored guest."

Minthara barely manages to restrain her disgust, though her hands ball up into fists all the same.

"And what would that 'gift' be, pray tell?" she hisses.

Malus speaks with a hushed reverence, still grinning that uncanny, untrustworthy grin.

"My dear, you have been imbued with a portion of the Nightsinger's essence. You, my lucky woman, carry within your womb a portion of the Shadowfell itself. Without Her blessing, you would surely have perished the very same day you gave birth."

Minthara glares at the man, though he doesn't seem to register that.

"Our Lady has blessed you to balance at the knife's edge of life and death. To balance regeneration and decay, to surpass the limits of humanoid endurace. And in doing so she delivered you and your child the most precious gift."

"Gift?"

Minthara is no longer able to conceal her temper.

"What sort of gift would that be? She is gone. She is dead. What kind if gift is snuffing out a life before it's even begun?"

"Dead? My dear, no- your sweet child is so much more than that."

As if sensing the tension, the shadow pokes itself out from within Minthara, staring at Malus with those blank, haunting voids that take the place of proper eyes.

"As you can observe, sisters, the child is blessed with the greatest and final gift of the Dark Lady. Do you know what that is?"

One of the nurses answers with a simple word.

"-Absence."

"Absence," Malus agrees. "No other word captures the heart of Shar so very perfectly."

He strokes the shadow's face with the back of his hand, in a gesture that might be sweet were he not so unsettling.

"It is the scalpel-led journey that leads us from pain to peace. "

He returns to the endlessly unfortunate soul on the other gurney, driving his blade into the right eye, then the left. The clearly distressed patient can only groan in misery.

"See?" he asks, gesturing to the hollowed-out eye sockets of his subject. "What is the light of eyes but the cancer that causes one to witness the laceration of being?"

He caresses the shadow once again, seemingly heedless to how it seems afraid of him.

"If light is the symptom, then darkness is the cure. For in light there is presence. In darkness, there is absence."

"In light there is presence," one of the nurses murmurs along. "In darkness, absence."

"The child has already embraced the dark," Malus explains, as Minthara grabs the shadow and pulls it closer toward her. "But you- see how the succor of Shar eludes you still?"

"I have never been afraid of the dark," Minthara growls. "It is my home."

"Then you are already well on your way," Malus says, with a manic glee. "But see how painfully present you still remain."

Orin steps forward, clutching her dagger in preparation for a fight.

"We do not wish to see you suffer so. Let us complete your treatment."

The man speaks in a tone that for all the world sounds caring and kind, though everyone knows he is anything but.

Minthara's free hand grabs Orin's, squeezing it tightly to reassure herself that she's still there.

"I saw how your assistants handled your last patient," Minthara says, doing a remarkable job keeping a calm exterior. "I fear they may make me worse rather than curing me."

Malus' smile falls, surveying his students with concern.

"Their cuts are as of yet streaked with imprecision, that much I must concede."

He sighs, scratching at his chin with one of his claws.

"How to steady their hands, I wonder…"

"Perhaps they ought to hone their skills on each other," Orin says, without thinking about it.

As soon as she's said it Orin claps her hand over her mouth, but Malus lights up at the suggestion.

"Ah, now there's an idea- for are we not all in need of a cure?"

He turns toward his ever-diligent students.

"Come, now, sisters- show each other the mercy of our Lady."

The women don't so much as flinch at the command. With scalpels and needles and bone saws they start to hack away at each other, rotten blood and muscle tissue flying everywhere.

"Ah, it brings me such joy to see my lessons so lovingly taken to heart!"

Silence falls over the hospital once again as the sisters finish bleeding out on the sleek floor.

"True peace," he sighs, utterly content. "See how sweet they look- now-"

Orin restrains her urge to get between this thing and her lover, but Minthara gives her hand another squeeze to signal her to wait.

Minthara makes a show of pondering Malus' offer.

Then, before anyone can register what's going on, she snatches a scalpel off the metal tray and drives it into the man's forehead, twisting it all the way around before yanking it out again.

He doesn't even get a chance to make a sound as he falls limply to the floor, dead on the spot.

"-Go see Shar yourself," she snarls, his blackened gore coating her hand and the scalpel's blade, a spray of it across her face and neck. "And when you do, tell her where she can shove her so-called mercy."

She grabs a towel from the tray and wipes her face as best she can, looking over the bodies with a cold expression.

"That was a whole lot of nothing," she sighs. "I was hoping to gain more insight about the General, not hear a sermon."

"Mummy!" the shadow chirps, seemingly oblivious to everything as it climbs onto Minthara's shoulder. "Mummy! Fun! Happy! Mummy!"

Minthara absentmindedly reaches up to pet its head, standing up and leaving the shadow's half-formed feet dangling in the air as it giggles in delight.

"Good riddance," Astarion grumbles. "That bastard was just like Cazador- utterly insane!"

Shadowheart surveys the carnage with wide-eyed misery.

"…This isn't right," she mutters.

"What do you mean?" Karlach asks.

Shadowheart fumbles with her words, growing more flustered by the second.

"Shar commands us to sow doubt, but never demand it. Her teachings can only be received by the willing."

"I do not recall being asked if I was willing when She stole my future from me."

Maybe Minthara didn't intend for her words to cut as deep as they do, but they clearly wound Shadowheart nontheless.

"This is ridiculous," Minthara huffs. "There ought to be something useful in this den of despair, correct? Perhaps the doctor will have something laying about to tell us how one is meant to kill an unkillable man."

She gets up and starts to hobble about once more, muttering under her breath in annoyance.

Wyll grabs a sheet and throws it over the man on the other gurney- at some point during the bedlam, he finally expired.

Maybe it's better that way. She isn't sure what sort of life he'd be living after whatever's all been done to him.

Orin leans against a wall and shuts her eyes, the throbbing in her head growing worse by the second.

It's so bad she feels the meager contents of her stomach trying to force themselves back out of her throat, the ringing in her ears reaching a fever pitch the more she tries to tune it out.

She slides down the wall onto the floor, curling up and fighting the waves of nausea that crash over her stronger and stronger each time.

Her body aches, yearning to change shape once again.

You're alright.

The dream guardian again- this time speaking in a far more comforting way than she's used to.

You've fought it off before.

I have…but can I keep doing it-?

Just breathe. It's just the tadpole acting up. Making you irrational. It'll pass, bear with it.

Just Breathe.

Breathe…

That stern-faced man with a shaved head sits beside her, a thickly calloused hand holding hers as she draws sharp, shallow gasps of air, her stomach roiling and her mind buzzing with a million awful thoughts.

"You're stronger than it," the man tells her- though she barely registers it in her state. "It doesn't own you. Breathe with me- it will pass."

He demonstrates what he wants her to do, taking long, exaggerated breaths for her to copy.

Orin clings onto this half-formed memory, trying to mirror the breaths the strange man had demonstrated. They're harsh and rattle in her chest, but she manages it all the same.

After a minute or two, the nausea passes, though the headache still remains.

She wishes she remembered that person's face. He wasn't the same person from her memories before- he's someone else. Someone far more stern, more jaded. But still, he sat with her in that memory, and he'd helped her.

She wonders if he's still alive. If he'd be proud of her for still trying.

"Soldier?"

Orin scratches at her scalp to banish the rest of her distracting thoughts.

"Sorry. Just starting to get a headache. I'm coming."

"Think it's the tadpole?"

A tiny part of Orin wants to tell Karlach to fuck off and mind her own business, but she knows she doesn't deserve that just for trying to be helpful.

"…I don't know. Maybe," she answers instead.

"Well let's wrap shit up here so we can all have a lie-down, yeah? I didn't sleep well so I'm dyin' already."

Orin follows her to wherever it is the others headed, though she feels sort of like she's floating just beside her body rather than inhabiting it.

"Yeah," she mumbles, "me too."

Chapter Text

The House of Healing is full of all sorts of odds and ends- old medical supplies, expired potions and medications of all sorts, still scattered about as though they'll be needed any moment.

Fortunately there aren't any more nurses or lingering shadows in the building- just a hollowed-out husk of a hospital and some corpses that the curse won't let fully decay.

"Aren't those-"

Astarion's startled gasp gets her to run in the direction of his voice.

In a spacious room that must have been the children's wing, judging by the scattered stuffed animals and building blocks, two bodies lay in a set of beds beside each other, glassy eyes staring blankly at the gaps in the ceiling.

Astarion approaches the bedside with his hand raised, giving the corpses a disbelieving look.

"Cum mortuis in lingua mortua."

The corpse jerks, then gasps, a sickly green glow pouring from its eyes and slack-jawed mouth.

"Let's start with something simple- who are you?" Astarion asks.

"Locke..." the man wheezes out. "Husband to Komira... father to Arabella..."

Astarion cringes, trading a defeated look with Gale.

"Shit…well, how did you two die?"

"Surgeon…sisters…said they…would cure…"

"What the devils were you doing out here, then?"

"Zevlor…" he gasps out. "Betrayed…ran…shelter…"

"He betrayed you?" Astarion asks, raising an eyebrow. "What happened? Where is he?"

The corpse remains silent. It doesn't seem to know.

"I…well. Would you like to know that Arabella's safe? She's at an inn with a gaggle of Harpers and Flaming Fist."

"…Glad…to hear…thank…you…

"…Our little idol thief has some truly terrible luck," Astarion sighs, as the spell's power wanes and Arabella's father's body goes limp once more.

"Fuck," Karlach groans. "How are we gonna tell her?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Astarion answers with a grimace. "Hells. As if she needed any of this…"

"Let's worry about that when we get back," Gale says, putting his hand on Astarion to coax him away from the bodies. "Let's see what we can piece together from what we've found."

They hastily cram anything they think will be useful into their packs, then take the waypoint back. 

All they want is a bit of rest, but all of them have a nagging feeling that rest is not for them.

Sure enough, the moment they arrive back at the inn Kar'niss scurries up to them, wide-eyed and worried.

Behind him they see Flaming Fists and Harpers panicking, muttering furiously to each other as they do.

The pale dome of light overhead flickers dangerously, causing the flowers Oliver and Thaniel had grown to immediately wither and die.

"What's going on?" Orin asks.

"The cleric," Kar'niss answers, with a shudder. "She isn't well. We were told to bring my lady back, but it seems fortune brought you back on your own."

Everyone hurries inside, past Oliver and Thaniel huddled up in the corner together, sharing worried looks.

Halsin is trying his best to comfort both of them, but it's clear he's not very confident himself.

Orin can already tell that the situation is dire. And she knows very well Thaniel and Oliver both are still too wounded to be able to stop anything, should Selune's protection fail.

As they head upstairs toward Isobel's room, they hear Jaheira's voice as she tries not to panic.

"Is she alright?"

"I don't know what happened," they hear a man murmur. "I just heard something fall, and I came in here and she'd collapsed."

"Shit- Isobel, are you well? What happened?"

Rounding the corner and flying through the doorway, they find Isobel in a pretty sorry state.

She had always had an unnatural sort of pallor about her, but her current complexion makes Astarion look like he'd just taken a nice seaside vacation. She looks gray, the dark circles under her eyes more like bruises than anything.

Jaheira tries to help heal her, but whatever is wrong with her, it doesn't seem to be the sort of thing healing magic can repair.

"I'm fine," Isobel insists, trying to push Jaheira away. even though it's a painfully obvious lie considering she can't even stand back up. "I just need a moment and I'll be-"

Isobel's words are lost in a groan as she gives up on standing and curls up on her side, shivering.

"Help her up," Jaheira barks. "Get her in bed, and have someone get something for her to drink."

The other woman nods and takes off running to obey the command. Orin grabs her and helps her get into her bed, even though the deplorable urge in her rancid blood cries out for her to end the poor woman while she's vulnerable.

"I said I'm fine," Isobel insists. "I'm just…I'm tired, that's all. Give me a moment…"

She trails off, cringing in pain and heaving like she wants to puke.

"…Keeping up this protection just takes a lot out of you," she finally admits. "I can't let up, but I'm…tired."

She coughs, and it's a harsh, dry, rattling sound.

The temperature in the inn drops notably, raising goosebumps on the back of Orin's neck.

"This isn't good," Jaheira mutters. "If her magic fails, everybody here is dead."

People crowd together and whisper anxiously, nobody entirely sure what to do.

While the others fuss and fret over what can be done, Orin rummages in her bag until she finds the silver filigree bell that the pixie they freed had gifted them.

She tucks herself into the corner of the room by the fireplace and decides it's worth a shot.

It lets out a merry little jingle when she shakes it, and just as she had thought, the tiny pixie she'd let out of the lantern pops up in a puff of glitter, tiny hands on tiny hips.

"The fuck do you want? You've already been blessed, haven't ye?"

"We need help," Orin explains, trying to think quickly before anything else can go wrong. "You already gave me protection from the curse, could you do that for the others here, too?"

"I could. But should I…?"

Dolly scratches her tiny chin.

"Tell you what," she says, after pretending to ponder for far too long. "How about we make a trade?"

"Trade? Trade what?"

"Oh, you know the rules. When you deal with fae you gotta pay up. So-"

She holds a little hand up.

"Let's get to business. I'll even be fair. I can help, if I may have one of your names?"

Orin may not remember much, but she remembers enough about fae to know that such a proposition would probably be a bad idea.

Before she can say that, however, she hears Minthara pipe up.

"-Baenre," she says, without faltering a single iota.

"What?"

"That is my name. If it appeals to you, you may have it."

"Isn't that-"

Minthara holds a hand up to silence Orin's protests. 

"Damn," Dolly chortles, looking almost concerned. "I thought you'd at least wanna think it over a bit. Now I feel bad."

She sighs and shakes her little head.

"What am I gonna do with you lot?"

She groans in frustration.

"Gods, it's no fun makin' a deal like that. Fine- but this is the only freebie you lot get, got it?"

She waves a hand, a cloud of glittery dust filling the air and floating through the inn.

"There. A nice little shadow-curse-barrier that doesn't need that cute little moon-loony to work. Happy?"

"Very," Orin answers, honestly. "Thank you for helping."

"Eh, whatever. Just don't go blabbin' to anyone that I did you a favor, I don't need anyone gettin' funny ideas."

Dolly vanishes again, leaving a cloud of glitter in her wake.

Minthara folds her arms, glancing over at Isobel and sighing.

"I suppose that resolves that issue."

"…Were you really just going to give her your family name?"

"Hm? It isn't as though I have much use for it anymore. It is not as though my name has saved me thus far."

"I guess. But it feels a bit reckless."

"When we may very well be dead tomorrow, I do not see a point in being overly cautious."

Even though Orin still feels like Minthara has been being far too careless with her own life (again), she decides not to dwell on it since it all worked out for the best.

She sees Jaheira slumped over at the bar, with a cup of some tea that smells sharp and a facial expression like she's just run a long way.

She gives Orin a small smile, in spite of everything.

"I do not know what you did, but I am glad for it. I couldn't imagine what would have happened if you weren't in that pixie's good graces."

Orin nods, trying to collect her scattered thoughts so she can ask what she needs to ask.

If Jaheira has been dealing with this curse for this long, maybe she might know something more about their predicament.

Hells, maybe she'll know something about how to deal with it.

It's worth a shot, if nothing else.

Before she can speak, however, Jaheira notices her hovering awkwardly around her general vicinity.

"Something wrong?" she asks. "You've got a vacant, tadpole-finally-ate-my-brain look about you."

"Hm? No, I'm fine, but uh-"

She fumbles with her words, her thoughts running into each other.

"-Is Isobel alright?" she asks. "It didn't seem like your healing worked very well."

"That's because there was nothing for me to heal," Jaheira tells her, pouring a generous amount of honey in her tea and stirring it around. "She's exhausted, that's all. That isn't something you can fix with a healing word."

"...Oh."

"Right. Since you had that pixie do us a favor it seems that's solved, so she will be able to rest. But I have a feeling that isn't what you want to ask?" 

"Well, I-"

"-We must speak," Minthara interrupts, giving Orin a look that says she's been thinking the same thing she is. "Privately, if possible."

Jaheira raises an eyebrow, but gets up and leads them into her bedroom and shuts the door.

Once she does she folds her arms and looks at them.

"Well. You wanted to talk. I am all ears."

After a quick glance at Minthara to make sure they're on the same page, Orin doesn't want to give herself any chance to doubt, so she launches into the entire sordid tale from the House of Healing, in probably too vivid detail.

Jaheira listens politely, nodding along but not adding anything until she's finished speaking.

"…How is that possible?" she asks, once Orin is finally done speaking. "Not merely shadow magic, or the shadow curse, but an actual fragment of Shadowfell?"

"That's what he told us."

"And it's…stuck inside her?"

"That seems to be the long and short of it."

Jaheira rocks her head from one side to the other, pondering everything she's been told.

"And you think what he said is true?"

"Partially," Orin answers. "I think he was onto something, but he was absolutely drake-shit crazy, so I'm not sure if he understood everything."

"Fair enough. What do you plan to do about it, then?"

"I wish to be rid of it, if that is possible," Minthara answers. "Is that something you're capable of?"

Jaheira squints, as if she's asking herself that question.

"…I may be. I'm not sure this is something that has even been attempted before, but I suppose there's only one way to find out."

"Good. I do not want this thing to continue to be a burden."

Jaheira jerks her head toward her bed, arms folded and face grim.

"Lie down, then," she says. "And take off anything that might get in the way."

Minthara blinks, and stares at her like she's stupid.

Jaheira half-laughs, still somehow not put off at all by her prickly demeanor.

"Well then, don't get bashful on me now. Let me take a look."

Minthara glares, but she removes her top and lays down as she's been instructed. Jaheira takes a moment to wipe the ink off her skin with a damp rag before they continue. 

"Alright, let's see just how bad this shadow curse is for someone's health."

A soft, golden glow surrounds her worn, well-experienced hands, the lines in her brow deepening as she places them gingerly over Minthara's middle.

"This will feel strange, but try not to squirm, if you don't mind."

Minthara glares at her, but remains silent.

She shuts her eyes and holds onto Orin's hand, trying to focus on each labored breath rather than being prodded at.

Orin grinds her teeth to try to vent some anxiety, but all it does is make her headache worse. She watches Jaheira's hands as they move across Minthara's abdomen, focusing on the soft hum of magic surrounding them instead of the ringing in her ears.

"How bad has the pain been?" Jaheira asks, growing more confused the longer she works. "And be honest with me."

Both Jaheira and Orin are surprised when she answers quite bluntly.

"Like there is a hive of kruthik chewing their way through my guts. Or like a lurking strangler has wrapped itself around my innards and refuses to let go."

Jaheira cringes in sympathy.

"I am not shocked. The magic seems to be tangled up in a few important things, so I would imagine it would at least be uncomfortable."

"It is beyond uncomfortable," Minthara reassures her. "I think I was in less pain when I was burned by a bulette's stomach acid fifty years ago."

"I'm surprised you still insist on getting up and running about with the others if it's that dire."

"I hate to rest while our enemies still draw breath."

Jaheira chuckles a bit, shaking her head in bemusement.

"You drow must be built differently than us surface dwellers," she laughs. "An old friend of mine dragged her battered carcass to places I would not even go to well. I thought she was merely a madwoman, but it seems like it's a trait you share."

Minthara opens her eyes, a puzzled expression crossing her face for a moment.

"You still consider her a friend?"

"Hm?"

"Viconia DeVir. You still speak as though she is a friend. I had been under the impression you had a falling out after you fought against Orin's Father."

Jaheira nods, a shadow of faded pain passing over her face, like an old injury has been suddenly aggravated.

"…It was less of a falling out and more of a fizzling out," she admits. "The same that happened with Abdel- we tried to keep in contact, but eventually it just…stopped. I am not sure what went wrong. But at least Abdel bothered sending a final message."

Orin perks up, the name familiar.

"What was the message?" she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

"It was a sending stone," Jaheira answers. "Family emergency. Heading back to Candlekeep after dealing with problems in the Gate. Sorry I'm leaving on short notice. Take care of yourself. Thank you. The next thing I heard was that they had been murdered."

It's not safe for her in Candlekeep anymore.

Orin scratches at the side of her head to keep in reality.

"I try not to linger on the past, so don't think I am sitting here weeping over it. Now, will you hold still?"

"Could you try not to make it feel like I'm being impaled on a manticore's cock?!" Minthara hisses back.

"I am sorry, but there isn't really a way to make this less unpleasant."

Jaheira forces herself to sound jovial, but she grimaces in sympathy as she does.

At last she seems to find what she's been looking for.

"There we are," she murmurs, the golden light sinking into Minthara's belly. "If I can manage to untangle this mess from the rest of you I may be able to remove it."

"What are you going to do?" Orin asks. "Just…yank it out?"

"That is more or less the idea, yes."

"Get rid of it," Minthara tells her, steeling herself for whatever's about to come. "I do not want Shar's taint infecting me."

"I will do my best. Fair warning, this is going to feel awful, so just bear with it."

Orin holds her breath. Minthara clings to her hand, doing her best to keep still even though whatever's being done to her is clearly excruciating.

Jaheira lapses into a stony silence as she works, murmuring things in Elvish and occasionally cursing under her breath.

"If I could just get a good grip on the damn thing, I might actually be able to pull this off," she says, after what feels like ages.

Looking determined but worried, Jaheira places a chunk of wood in Minthara's mouth; Orin is confused at first, but Minthara already seems to understand what it's for, her breath catching in her throat as she realizes what's about to happen is going to make their previous efforts feel like nothing at all.

Once that's done, Jaheira clenches her jaw, steadies her hands, and braces herself.

"On three?"

A nod of consent.

"Alright. One-"

The golden light shines through the skin of Minthara's belly, causing Minthara to jolt and gasp.

"Two-"

The black veins beneath Minthara's skin pulsate in a rapid, sickening rhythm. Minthara grasps Orin's hand so tightly her bones creak under the pressure. She bites down on the piece of wood between her teeth to stifle a cry, her breath coming in quick, anxious bursts.

"-Three."

Orin feels three of the bones in her hand crack under the pressure of Minthara's grip, and hears a crunch as the wood in her mouth splinters.

Jaheira has...something black and writhing clutched in her hands, intangible yet somehow putting up a fight as she tries to remove it.

She pulls with all her might and manages to move it a bit. 

She yanks. Minthara makes a low, animalistic sound of pain.

The thing slips from Jaheira's hands and vanishes.

Minthara starts to thrash about, mouth open like she's trying to scream though no sound makes it out besides a pathetic gurgling.

Frothy blood starts to bubble out of her mouth, dark veins clawing their way up her neck and across her face, blooming across her chest, blacker and more vicious than ever.

"Fuck, what happened?! What's going on?!"

Jaheira just gives her a helpless look, focusing all her energy on trying to heal whatever damage had been caused.

"Roll her over so she doesn't choke," she instructs her, managing to sound mostly calm in spite of everything.

Orin obeys, her heart hammering against her sternum. 

Blood and a litany of black, slimy something comes out when Minthara suddenly vomits, the black something squirming and throbbing like a living thing.

"The hells-"

Orin grabs the closest heavy object- a metal tray on the dresser- and smashes the thing until it stops moving while Jaheira fusses over Minthara.

(She's pretty sure it isn't actually alive, but better safe than sorry.)

"Fuck, hold on, we're going to fix this, just hang in there."

Jaheira works quickly, though she's clearly panicked too.

She uncaps a bottle full of a thick red fluid, holds Minthara's head steady, then forces the entire contents down her throat.

Minthara immediately tries to puke it back up, but Jaheira holds her jaw firmly shut until she's swallowed it and it's clear it won't come right back out.

That seems to settle things somewhat- or at least stop the internal bleeding. Minthara coughs and splutters, but the black veins retreat once more, and aside from her looking like death it seems they haven't caused any more damage.

"Whatever is going on here, it seems it's made itself quite at home," Jaheira groans, looking defeated. "If I try that again, it just might finish her off."

Minthara glares at her one last time, but she doesn't have the energy left to do anything but pass out.

She's thoroughly unconscious now, her body going limp and labored breathing settling into an easier pattern.

Jaheira lets out a sigh of relief, muttering a few choice curses as she gets up to grab some extra blankets and some towels to clean up the mess.

"So, all that and we didn't even manage to get rid of it?" Orin grumbles, deflating in defeat.

"It would seem not. I am sorry to disappoint."

Orin groans in frustration, laying her head on the bed and watching Minthara's chest rise and fall to reassure herself she's still alive.

"Is it just fucked then?"

"What do you mean?"

Orin almost doesn't dare to voice her concerns out loud.

"…She's been worrying about it," she explains, her breath hitching just a bit. "About getting better, I mean. But with this…thing inside her, that's not going to happen, is it? She isn't going to get better?"

Jaheira frowns, giving Orin a pat on the head as she mulls over what she could possibly say.

"I could not tell you," she finally answers. "Nobody else has been infected by this curse and managed to survive, so who knows? Maybe it will heal in time. All we can do is hope for the best."

"I don't know if I have hope left in me."

Orin speaks the confession in a bitter, despondant tone, ashamed of saying it aloud.

"It's not even about the baby thing anymore," she continues, though she isn't sure why. "It's everything. I don't know how much longer I can keep on going with everything going to shit around me."

Jaheira hums in acknowledgement, rubbing soothing circles on her back while she sulks.

"You have a lot going on right now. I won't pretend that it isn't hard, or tell you it won't keep being hard. But it is worth it to keep trying."

"Trying for what?"