Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All he feels is heat, the briefest sensation of falling, and then the sudden crunch of the floor beneath his feet. Eyes open, slowly adjusting, focusing. His gaze moves from the cracked floor beneath him to his clenched fists. Now he is awake, alive, but who is he? Attempting to recall anything, anything at all, results in no memories forming; only his name "Ryoumen Sukuna" A name that reverberates throughout his entire being, throughout his soul: a name befitting a king. Pressing his fingers against his temple, all that’s left in the deepest recesses of his mind is his name and a headache. For now that is enough. Who he may have been, what he may have been, is irrelevant. A sinister smile forms from ear to ear, he is alive and he has been unleashed.

Now self-assured he looks up and finally understands the situation he’s in. Fleshy red walls encircle the room, pulsating as if they are alive. Each wall resembles a fleshy membrane more than any kind of man-made structure. The left most wall has been engulfed in flame, smoke blocks the sight of the outside. At the room’s center an ornate bowl stands; made out of a thick, dark metal with a cloudy glass-like structure acting as shield for whatever yellow liquid fills the bowl to its brim. Billowing gusts of wind scatter embers that singe the edges of Sukuna’s clothes. Behind him stands an alien-looking pod, constructed from the same dark metal as the ornate bowl, likely what held him captive.

With his bearings gathered, he takes a long, deep breath. Breathing in the smoke and taking in the chaos. He cannot help but form an involuntary smile, he chuckles, small at first but escalating into a vile cacophony of laughter - a display of pure devilish elation. And then nothing. Intense, visceral pain, replaces the vile laughter. Something writhes behind his eyes, pushing on his brain, extreme pressure on his skull. Every synapse firing in his head, adrenaline pulses through his body. Sukuna stumbles, his strength escapes him. Unable to even carry his own weight he grasps around him, desperate for something to anchor onto. As he falls he catches himself on the large bowl, placing his entire weight onto it.

With the pressure gradually subsiding the King of Curses gains some semblance of clarity, thoughts become more coherent and he notices what the bowl contains: a caustic brine with small creatures lining the bottom, no bigger than his ring finger. For a brief moment the sensation flares once again. “Those…things are inside my head…” Sukuna quietly says to himself with a low growl, the idea disgusts him. Whatever captured him has defiled the sanctity of his body, he has been infected, and that will not be tolerated. Anger festers within and he grips the bowl, cracking the metal in his hands, the glass shatters - falling into the brine. From the corner of his eyes Sukuna spots an ember; it flutters and falls through the cracks of the bowl, gently resting on the liquid’s surface. Sizzling can be heard, ever so quiet, with his eyes focusing he can see bubbles rising. The bubbles turn to sparks, and sparks erupt into an amber fire, speeding along the brine’s edge. It races towards Sukuna, the flames grow in ferocity and the heat can be felt dancing along his face - although he feels his strength has waned, Ryoumen Sukuna is not so weak that a single cinder will be his end. His reflexes are sharp enough to see the incoming fireball, his body sturdy enough to endure the shock wave, his arms quick enough to cover his face. Concussive force pushes his body off the ground, chunks of shrapnel pelt his body. Blazing fire singes his skin, scorching his hair. Forced backwards he crashes into his pod, its glass shatters and litters the floor.

For the briefest of moments he checks himself over, looking for any damage, and there is none - he arrives from the explosion unscathed. More than that, he is focused, awake. Sukuna cracks his neck, rubs his shoulder and slicks his hair back while taking one deep breath. Completely composed he scans the room once more, with no distractions he takes a more thorough approach. No two walls look the same, his pod and the bowl were unmistakably artificial, but the walls appear to be organic. Alien technology can be found sporadically across the room; on top a jagged black table a tablet is found with characters carved into it, whatever language it may be is lost on the warrior. Along the floor are metallic sheets, clearly some form of pathway which coalesces on the far northern wall. Closer inspection shows the wall to be different to the others. Thicker around the outside, seemingly thin in the middle, rather than the pulsing of the other walls, this one twitches. Placing his finger on the wall leads to little activity, it flinches but doesn’t move regardless of the pressure pushed onto it. Sukuna thinks about how he wishes for it to open, and as if responding to his thoughts, the fleshy wall retreats into itself, showing a way forward.

The following room is much larger - wide open, with even more unidentifiable technology sitting unused against the walls. A notable stink of sulphur permeates the room, even more potent than the stench of bloodied organic walls. On the eastern side fire burns along an open path carved out of whatever creature this may be; severed veins and the unmistakable sight of burnt flesh can be seen. In the distance the rough shape of mountains can be made out, however they seem to be moving away at great speed, any more detail is lost to the smoke. Sounds of explosions, however faint, can be heard going off along the far end of the creature. Approaching the path a gnawing is felt in the back of Sukuna’s mind, the sensation of something tickling his head. Nearing the exit makes that gnawing sensation become less and less ignorable, he scratches the back of his head in an attempt to drown out the noise, eventually it begins to feel deliberate, like something is trying to communicate. Closing his eyes and focusing causes a voice to ring through Sukuna’s mind. Small and weak, speaking with the cadence of a child. Words aren’t exchanged, instead projected into his head. Something calls out, does it seek help? If so they are calling out to the wrong person.

Scouring the room, at this stage that voice has long since stopped being ignorable, the King of Curses comes across a corpse. A curious thing: the cadaver sits on a surgical chair, its skull cap removed exposing the brain beneath. Sukuna takes a step closer, with his hand on his chin he examines the corpse. “You’ve come to save us from this place.” The voice speaks.

“My, what manner of creature are you?” Sukuna replies with cold curiosity, for whatever reason Sukuna cannot help but feel the strangest sense of nostalgia.

“Yes! You’ve come to save us from this place, from this place you’ll free us!” Its voice shrinks, “Before they return.”

“They?” Sukuna questions, his interest has been piqued “And who are ‘They’?”

“The enemy…. So many enemies….” the brain continues, its voice grows quieter still.

Sukuna releases a small chuckle. “Interesting. How many?”

“Too many to know.. More-” The brain tries to eke out another word but with a wet snap, Sukuna casually plunges his hand deep within the brain. Screams of agony rip through the King of Curse’s mind as he maliciously twists and turns his hand.

“You may have piqued my interest but I will not be taking orders from a corpse." Sukuna’s wry smile grows wider as he torments the brain, making sure to give it tenfold the agony he experienced as he awakened. The body jerks and spasms something akin to death throes as the brain writhes in pain. “Whoever these enemies may be, you can count me amongst them, Brain.”

Tentacles sprout from the brain, wrapping around The King of Curses’ wrist, trying desperately to pull his arm away but with no strength left to fight back. Their screams grow quieter and quieter, the brainmatter grows colder. When he feels life has finally been snuffed Sukuna pulls his bloodied hand out of the corpse. “Disgusting little thing.” he says, examining his blood soaked hand. Without so much as a passing glance he thoughtlessly wipes the blood on the corpse. As pathetic as it was, the Brain gave rise to a certain sense of excitement in the King, an anticipation for the conflict in the near future.

Stepping onto the still flaming flesh that makes up the floor, the outside view begins to reveal itself. “Interesting!” Sukuna reiterates with an invigorated shout. He watches large, red dragons soar the skies; perching along the vessel, hot flames fired from their mouths melting through the walls. Smaller winged creatures, numbering in the thousands, evacuate towers in the distance and flock the ship. Where he stands, the vessel, is a creature of gargantuan size. Larger in scale than anything he has ever witnessed, it travels the sky just below the clouds. Subsiding flames show the degree of damage along the creature, the red flesh charred along its surface and large holes carved out of its carapace. Outside the environment is equally surreal: crimson red liquid flows through rivers outside, red mountains scrape the sky with lava flowing in the place of waterfalls. Lakes are a deep blood-like red instead of a more familiar blue. Even the skies are an unrecognisable yellow hue, the dark-brown clouds could easily be mistaken for intensely thick smoke. Even the mountains take an unrecognisable appearance: angular, oddly shaped.

More interesting than the landscape to Sukuna, is the vessel he stands on. He had only speculated as much earlier, but now it is clear that every wall is the muscle and sinew of a creature so colossal in size it borders on the unbelievable. The very place he stands is a festering wound created by the numerous dragon attacks. Examining the ship shows the extent of the creature: tentacles spanning miles extend far in front of it; smaller tentacles exist along the sides of the creature, some with wings. Its innards have been fused with the alien technology that kept the King of Curses contained. This thing breathes, Sukuna can feel it, and yet nothing about its inside seems to support life - it is artificial.

As fun as unravelling each mystery as they appear may be, now is not the time to be revelling in the chaos, progress must be made. Continuing along the freshly created path something feels amiss. A presence felt, an itch on the back of Sukuna's mind. Not like the brain, something far more tangible. He can feel someone’s eyes on him, he’s being watched, he can feel the bloodlust. He turns to face whatever had their eyes locked onto him and is met with a blur as the figure jumps from the high-ground. Soaring over his head just as the dragons do, landing before him with a silver sword drawn - poised to strike. “Abomination. This is your end.” hisses the figure through their sharp teeth. A woman, her skin leathery with a yellow-ish green hue. Her body is adorned with ornate silver armour. Sukuna’s knuckles crack as he clenches his fist, anyone would see the sword as a threat but for the King of Curses it is an invitation. He chuckles however before words can escape his mouth his head throbs, pulses, pressure encapsulates his entire skull. With no input his mind communes with hers, a vision plays in his mind: The red wing of a dragon, a silver sword - and the flash of Sukuna’s own tattooed face as seen through this woman’s eyes.

Anger swells in Sukuna’s stomach. The woman is the first to break the silence. "Tsk'va. You are no thrall - Vlaakith blesses me this day! Together we might survive.” Spoken with relief as her expression softens and she lowers her sword. The stern expression on the King’s face does not falter, the word 'together' doused the fire in Sukuna’s veins.

“Do you think it wise to sheathe your sword?” Sukuna says, the mixture of disappointment in his voice and his furrowed brow causes the woman to flinch. “Do you think there is an ally in me because we share an affliction? Don’t make me laugh, fool.”

“We carry Mind Flayer parasites.” She spits with a commanding tone and a furrowed brow. “Unless we escape, unless we are cleansed, our bodies-” Before she can finish the sentence she finds herself grabbed by the shoulder and shoved to the ground, pushed aside as if weightless. His strength, his gall, it completely caught her off guard. She tries to scramble back to her feet but a bolt of fire shoots past where her head would have been. As she follows the path the fire flew she sees three imps; small devil looking creatures, maybe slightly taller than her sword is long, flying several feet off the ground with the flap of their wings. Facing Sukuna once again it's clear he had already moved on, his focus has entirely shifted to the appearance of these little devils, his face containing a sinister smile.

Sukuna glances back at the woman and begins to walk towards the enemy. “We? It is you who needs to understand your position, woman.” He says with authority. “I’m not here to hold your hand so you can find your cure."

Another bolt of fire is shot through the centermost Imp’s hand, the King of Curses deftly ducks beneath the fire and with one swift movement he steps in, striking the imp in its stomach. The feeling of his fist colliding with another being is very familiar, but his body feels sluggish. Another imp charges him, scimitar in its hand. It slashes the air, each attack narrowly avoided. A wide arcing swing leaves the creature wide open. Seizing the opportunity the warrior grabs its sword-bearing arm, followed by grabbing it by its legs with his off hand and lifting the little devil above his head. Smiling, he lowers the creature, and with a loud snap Sukuna breaks its back across his knee and discards it..

Even unarmed Sukuna fights with ruthless efficiency. He doesn’t wield a weapon because his body has been honed far sharper than any blade, the woman cannot help but watch slackjawed. Slowly standing, she observes the conflict, a rare feeling of respect for someone outside of her kin fills her mind. Had it not been for the urgency of this situation she would be content to just watch, but it is no time to be sitting on idle hands. "K'chanki" she quietly says to herself.

Wind from the flapping of wings caresses the King of Curses’ back, he turns to face the imp, only to catch a glimpse of a sword skewering the creature. “I am Lae’zel. Proud Githyanki warrior of Crèche K'liir, and you will address me as such.” she declares to Sukuna, demanding his respect. The King of Curses answers, not with words, but with a chuckle and a cocky smile.

One Imp still lives, attempting to discreetly crawl away, Sukuna grabs the dropped scimitar. Standing over the dying devil, he holds the sword above the creature. “Lae’zel of Crèche K'liir… You may be worth keeping alive.” The King declares, dropping the sword and impaling the imp, blood splatters across his boots, its life finally snuffed.

Lae’zel gives an acknowledging nod, one that Sukuna doesn’t reciprocate, instead he surveys the room. Toward the far right corner another fleshy membrane extends from a caved-in pathway above, down to the floor below, perforated with holds. Giving it a tug, the membrane seems strong enough to support their weight, the holes provide ample footholds, allowing for a way forward. Climbing up into the upper level reveals a corridor that is capped on the opposite side by another one of the walls that opens at a thought. The entire ship shakes as they take their steps through the corridor. “We must make our escape soon, with each dragon attack the faster the Nautiloid falls.”, the Gith says

“Nautiloid?” Sukuna replies inquisitively. “What exactly is this place?”

The Githyanki fighter isn’t surprised by his confusion. “We stand aboard the Nautiloid, a ship piloted by the Ghaik, by the Mind Flayers.”

“I take it these ‘Mind Flayers’ are responsible for my capture… And what of the dragons? Led by your people? The … Githaynki?”

“That is correct.” Lae’zel confirms in a proud tone, shifting to disgust as she talks about the Mind Flayers. “My people were once enslaved by the Ghaik and we have since dedicated our lives to their ruination. We have tracked this Nautiloid through the hells to retrieve what has been stolen from us. Currently we travel the skies of the first layer of hell: Avernus.”

Sukuna quietly chuckles as they reach the end of the corridor. Out of all places to awaken, hell is only appropriate. “Hell you say.” Spoken with clear amusement, “Ha! I can think of nowhere more suitable.” Lae’zel waits for The King to open the fleshy wall, but he pauses before it. “Let me get this straight, Lae’zel of Crèche K'liir. In the process of retrieving what was stolen: You find yourself infected with this parasite, just as I have; knowing you are here, your people continue their attack on this ‘Nautiloid.’ They must not have high hopes for you, woman.”

Lae’zel scorns his words, although she understands the truth in what he says. “As it should be.” The Gith plainly replies. Sukuna’s ear pricks up, he expected resistance not agreement. “Should I die on this ship, or find my jaw splitting and sprouting tentacles because of this tadpole, it means I was never worthy of bearing Vlaakith’s name.” She hisses through gritted teeth. “There are protocols in place should one of our own become infected with an ilithid parasite. Once we have escaped, I shall direct us to my kin’s nearest Crèche where we shall be purified of this parasite. I will put in a good-”

“You fight to appease your people.” Sukuna interrupts, disappointment fueling his words. “You truly are a fool.” The wall opens as his gaze meets it and they move forward.

The room is similar to the one Sukuna awakened too, only larger with more pods along its walls. At its center surgical chairs surround a machine of unknown origin. People are sprawled out on the chairs, breathing but dead to the world, completely unresponsive. One pod holds a woman wearing gothic, silver armour, pounding on the glass pleading for help. Despite the racket she’s producing, neither Lae’zel nor Sukuna cared enough to give a passing glance, her begging means nothing to either of them. “Ignore her.” Lae’zel unnecessarily insists, “We are nearing the helm. Once inside, do as I say.”

“You best not make a habit of making demands of me, brat.” Sukuna replies, shutting down the Githyanki’s attempt at demonstrating authority. As if no words were shared, The King continues walking.

All Lae’zel can do is watch Sukuna’s back as he takes steps towards the exit, towards damnation. As fast as she blinks she involuntarily grabs The King of Curses’ arm. "Kainyank" she asserts, her tone as firm as her grip. However Sukuna does not turn. He only looks at her from the corner of his eye, he is not amused. “I will not allow an istik to walk us to our deaths, you will listen to what I say. The Ghaik are not to be-” He rips his arm from her grip, not allowing her to finish.

"Our deaths?" He refuses to hide the disgust in his voice. “Our?" You follow me like a lost child, you have been abandoned by your people, and yet you see yourself as my equal? I would laugh but you have become considerably less amusing.”

“What forces lie beyond that door far exceed-” she tries to explain.

“And?” Sukuna interrupts once more, now squaring up to the Gith, her heartbeat is nearly audible. “You are confused, brat. Do not mistake my confidence for arrogance. What lies beyond that door is of little consequence to me - in fact, I invite whatever enemies I may face to try and strike me down, that is my nature.” He leans in close, his voice almost a threatening, low whisper, “Should you count yourself amongst those who stand in my way…”

Lae’zel tries to speak but Sukuna’s presence stops her. Giving into this pressure is unbecoming of a warrior, she knows this, but she stands before a monster not a man. She maintains eye contact, at first out of fear; in her soul she feels that averting her gaze would spell her death. But that fear is utterly intolerable. Sukuna feels her subtle shift, in her focus. Lae’zel is prepared to fight, prepared to kill, in this short interaction she has taken her first steps towards rising to The King of Curses’ level. "Oh...?" Sukuna whispers, the Gith has shown him something interesting. He was already anticipating a fight, perhaps the Githyanki fighter will be the one to provide it.

Ever so slowly he raises his arm, coiled like a snake, the smallest twitch and he goes for her throat. He is so close to giving into the temptation. Does she stare him down out of defiance? Is she too frightened to move? Sukuna so desperately wants to find out.

Before he can find his answer the ship violently shakes, shouting can be heard from the next room over, snatching Sukuna’s attention away. Lae’zel calls out but words will not reach him as the path to combat consumes his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Beyond the fleshy door violence in abundance envelopes the helm, Sukuna’s widest smile yet menacingly creeps across his face.

A Devil’s greatsword cleaves the air, bathed in flame, narrowly avoided by a slender, tentacled monster. A crackle of purple magic surges across the battlefield; psionic energy unleashed by the monster pushes the devil back. It regains its balance, stunned but unwavering. On the far end of the helm a second war is fought; another slender, purple monster grapples with a devil. Its tentacles constrict and suffocate its enemy, using its horns as a handle in order to leverage it into position, forcing it to kneel while the monster embeds its teeth into the back of its head. Each time the devil jerks and spasms its strength fades until it falls limp onto the floor. With no time to savour its victory, the monster is stormed by four imps. Each scratch the monster’s flesh, creating sparks as their nails smack against its armour, one lucky imp slits the monster’s throat, killing it where it stands.

Lae’zel observes the battle with an unwavering feeling of focus emitting from her. Her voice nearly being drowned out by the chaos she explains: “Those purple monsters: they are the Ghaik, The Mind Flayers, the same creatures that plague our mind. The devils they face are Cambions, half-fiends from this layer of hell.” Sukuna heard her words but paid them no heed, he steps in front of Lae’zel, bearing a terrifying smile.

The Mind Flayer stands with the height of one and a half men, skin a deep purple, with four long tentacles in place of a mouth. Rows of sharp teeth seen at their center. Claw-like finger nails embedded on the end of their elongated digits. Their heads are large, alien, their brains so swollen that they are partially exposed on either side of their skull. Pulsating.

Sinister laughter erupts from The King of Curses. “Good! Good! This is what I'm here to see!” he declares to the room but is ignored. The Cambion, standing around 7 foot tall, wielding muscle in place of armour, gives Sukuna a passing glance however his attention immediately snaps back to the more immediate threat; The Mind Flayer, equipped with a purple robe with black metal armour protecting its chest.

Another blast of concentrated psionic energy hits the fiend. A familiar gnawing feeling pulses through Sukuna and Lae’zel’s head; just like the brain but the voice is magnitudes louder. “Thrall. Connect the nerves of the transponder. We must escape. Now." The King of Curses clicks his tongue as the monster attempts to command him. The Githyanki’s eyes look to the transponder; it looks like two brains, one above and one below, encased in a slimy chitinous material . Squid like tentacles twist and reach around the air beneath and above them. ‘Connect the nerves of the transponder?’ Lae’zel thinks to herself, concluding that the Ghaik must mean to connect the transponder’s tentacles in order to pilot the Nautiloid.

Sukuna releases a bone chilling chuckle, “I’ll fillet you, Squid, I am no thrall.” His step forward is interrupted by imps charging across the helm, aiming for the duo. Right now the Devil and the Squid are within spitting distance, but they are only concerned with each other. The King of Curses will make himself known. The two warriors both engage with the Imps: none survive a couple of strikes from either fighter and every incoming attack is effortlessly avoided. Even as fire hits The King’s skin the damage is negligible, unlike the Cambion’s flaming sword, the heat from it can be felt across the room - how incredibly tantalising. On the other hand the young Gith remain attentive to the waves of imps, cleaving through each of them as they appear. Claws scratch her armour and fire chars the ends of her hair, but no attack strikes true as she maintains her concentration. While Sukuna swats each one away like flies, concentrating on the Mind Flayer’s fight instead of his own, the Githyanki fighter weaves through the Imp’s ranks, disappearing into the battlefield.

The Cambion’s clash with the Mind Flayer releases enough energy to shake the room. Each swipe from the Fiend's sword sends a hot wind across the helm. Every blast of mental energy crackles in the air. For the King of Curses, their battle is a veritable feast, one he simply must participate in.

Attempting to capitalise on his lapse of focus, a particularly brave imp closes in on Sukuna’s blindspot; its claws inch ever closer to his neck, but never makes contact, it has underestimated its enemy. Grabbed by the arm, the winged creature yelps in pain, its bones creak from the strength of The King’s grip.

Slowly lifting the imp to his face, Sukuna gets close and whispers: “You are not enough to satiate me.” In an outburst of fear it tries to dig its long claws into the warrior’s chest but he remains unmoving and unbothered by it. Stamping his leading foot, Sukuna pivots and whips his arm with full force, whacking the Imp into its allies like some kind of improvised flail. The Winged Devil crashes into another Imp, and then another, again and again, releasing a bloody mist every time until the battlefield was left with a mess of broken imps across the floor. The King of Curses lifts his flail to his face once again, it still breathes, “For something so fragile, you sure cling to life.”

With the appetisers out of the way it’s time for the main course. Sukuna whistles to the Cambion, both monsters glance to the thrall, met with a still breathing, battered, imp hurdling towards them. Without remorse the Cambion slices through its impish ally, cutting it in half.

Now their attention is cemented on the King of Curses. “That’s it! You’re beginning to understand who the real threat is! Come at me!” Sukuna proclaims with a wide stance, trying to provoke the two into attacking. Both flinch at the declaration, both feel the aura of hate emanating off of their common foe. The Mind Flayer hesitates the most, confused by the prospect of a rogue thrall.

Each step forward makes both his enemies step back, caution deeply embedded into the both of them. Sukuna revels in their fear as he builds up to his assault. He watches them: analyses every muscle twitch, every flick of their eye, their breathing, their stances. Easiest to read is the Cambion, he’ll be the first to crack, if his large build and flaming sword wasn’t enough to tell, then his frustrated expression makes it obvious. On the other hand it is impossible to read the Mind Flayer. Its face is too alien to make any sense of, all he can surmise is the weariness of the creature, is it fear or is it caution that comes from a thrall’s rebellion? It spoke using its mind, it is possible that the Squid is reading his thoughts now. It attacked the Devil by unleashing psychic waves, no incantation, no physical tell, with such an enigmatic enemy it is imperative to maintain concentration otherwise he will be caught off guard.

One more step forward, and the enemies are forced back, that is until the Cambion cracks under the pressure, predictable - and immensely satisfying. The flames along his greatsword flaring, charges past the Mind Flayer, moving like a ball of fire “Yes! Finally!” The King of Curses shouts in reply, bracing himself for the devil, yearning for the attack.

But that attack will never come, fire erupts from the other side of the helm, the Nautiloid violently jostles and shakes, the floor shifts and tilts. Even the Mind Flayer stumbles to the ground; bellowing gusts of wind catch the Cambion’s wings, pulling him away from the fight. Sukuna frantically looks around, barely maintaining his balance, he catches a glimpse of a dragon poking its scaly ancient head through a hole a few paces from the transponder, smoke still flowing from its nose. Lae’zel sits by the transponder, grasping on the sides of the machine, desperately trying to shield herself from the dragon’s eyes.

Both Lae’zel and Sukuna lock eyes from opposite sides of the room. Fearful focus on her face, contempt on his. Together they trace the dragon’s movements as it scans the battlefield. Explosions ring out, startling the beast and rupturing the already strained equilibrium of the Nautiloid, the nose of the vessel dips even more. For the Gith this is a perfect distraction; she quickly reaches for the tentacles that make up the control panel. The wrath of the dragon does not scare her anymore than the fury of the King of Curses, Sukuna tries to call for her to stop, only to draw the ire of the dragon. With some measure of intelligence the dragon recognizes he calls out to the other; its long neck slithers and curls to face the fighter tugging at the transponder’s tentacles.

Lae’zel’s gaze moves from the frightful sight of the dragon, back to Sukuna. She had held a degree of hope that the dragon would view her as its kin, but she would not be so lucky. The lizard lifts its snake-like neck and inhales, preparing to melt through the silver Githyanki armour. It lowers its neck; molten saliva drips from the corners of its lips, a shrill, metallic sound rings, and a breath of fire spews as its mouth opens. Lae’zel pulls the tentacles with all her might, nerves sprout from them and wrap around each other, heat like she has never felt before kisses her skin and then… Nothing.

No fire. No Dragon. Nothing. Lae’zel looks around, tries to get her bearings, but all she sees is Ryoumen Sukun’s vindictive rage, and a scornful glare that looks through Lae’zel’s soul. Anger that burns hotter than the dragon’s fire. Frustration bubbles up in the King of Curses’ gut. The Gith’s fear betrays her defiant expression. Sukuna tries to shout, tries to curse the women, but the violent shaking of the Nautiloid cuts him off. Amplitudes worse than before the floor tilts, the vessel gradually becoming more vertical as it descends. Sukuna tries to keep his balance but his strength utterly fails him. The ship’s descent gives rise to violent gusts of wind, working in unison with the force of the ship’s descent to keep both the King and his Mind Flayer captor pinned to the far wall. Try as he might no amount of strength will free him, he is shackled to the Nautiloid as it falls from the sky.

By his side the Squid sits lodged beneath thick steel-like rubble. While Sukuna squirms, the Mind Flayer remains resigned to his fate. It simply watches the King of Curses, its expression remains alien, eerie even, unaffected by its near certain death. “What is it? Speak if you must speak.” Sukuna says to the monster, his tone scathing, yet the creature does not respond - maintaining its blank stare. The Warrior feels a tinge of something elusive in the back of his mind, something in his head changes, shifts. The Tadpole?

“Do you mean to manipulate me?” The King’s tone becomes far more aggressive. He twists and jerks his body with an increased ferocity. The Mind Flayer’s eyes follow the warrior. “You were right to be weary of me, Squid.” He says as he finds the strength to resist the pull of the wind, “I will tear those tentacles from your skull.” And with a final tug he forces his body off of the wall, fear consumes the Mind Flayer, it tries to free itself but to no avail. A creepy smile washes over the King of Curses’ face, not a smile of joy, instead fueled by rage. His knuckles creak while he forms a fist. “You think yourself so powerful, but look at you! Trembling at the sight of a thrall, the pleasure i’ll feel in taking your life will be-”

Leveraging himself away from the wall gave the current enough space to pull his body, and with nothing holding him in place, Sukuna is victim to the force of the descending nautiloid. His body leaves the ground, sending the warrior careening across the helm. He tries to anchor himself on the environment but nothing can withstand the forces acting on the Nautiloid, everything he tries to grab hold off cannot withstand the force of the ship’s fall. For a single moment he manages to grab a cracked portion of the Nautiloid’s shell, holding himself suspended in the air. His eyes meet with the Mind Flayer once more, and his festering frustration bleeds to the surface, he has been deprived of a meal. The feeling fades, a smile taking its place as he lingers for a second. “Don’t think this is the last you have seen of me, Squid.” he says, releasing his grip and resigning himself to the fall.

Experiencing a strange peacefulness as he drifts away from the burning wreckage, the true scale of the Nautiloid comes into view. Flames arc the sky, following the path of the vessel. The ship was much longer than he had realised, and he sees the full unobstructed view of the creature: a collosally large cephalopod. Sukuna does not resist the fall, instead choosing to cross his arms and fall like a rock. Letting the wind blow through his hair as he falls through the cool night sky, contemplating everything that just happened. Hell, its stink and its devils; the Nautiloid, seemingly constructed out of flesh and sinew; dragons, the Githyanki, the woman, the Mind Flayers. Not to mention the uninvited guest squirming behind his eye.

When he turns his body in the air he recognises nothing of the scenery. No rivers of blood, no strange architecture, no desolate mountains or flowing lava. It is too dark to make out any details, the only thing he can make out is the rapidly approaching ground.

Inexplicably his consciousness begins to leave him and his strength fades from his body. Already resigned to take the fall, now he has even less choice in the matter as his mind drifts into sleep. His eyes close, the hellish stink of sulphur a distant memory, and Sukuna feels an uncharacteristic sense of calm. The floor approaches, he expects a thump, but there is nothing.

Chapter Text

All he feels is a gentle breeze on his skin, the sensation of sand moving through his fingers, and the still fresh smell of smoke permeating the air. Eyes slowly opening, adjusting, focusing. He sees the cracked chitinous shell of the Nautiloid, frayed veins and shattered stones all dotted along the floor. His knuckles slightly bloodied from his fights aboard the vessel, however upon looking himself over for damage he finds nothing more. He tries to recall what happened, but is met with no memories. He remembers the Nautiloid but nothing between the fall and waking up.

Embers fall through the sky, dissipating into black ash before reaching the ground. To his right a river meanders, opening into the sea. Sun reflects off the water’s surface, beneath the salty brine sits shards of metal debris, separated from the ship. The crash uprooted all the, otherwise, verdant vegetation - trees left splintered and grey, their leaves either stripped or singed.

On his right the smouldering shell of the Nautiloid blots out the sun, its large hull hums as it creaks and settles into the ground. The once serene environment is crushed beneath its weight, its tentacles lay on the surrounding rocky structures, cracking the naturally formed pillars as they rest. Shards of dark metal jut out of the sediment amidst numerous craters created by the crash’s impact. Viscera paints the ground and the Nautiloid’s viscous pink membrane seemingly fused with the beach’s sands.

Behind him the sea’s gentle sway swishes against the gargantuan structure. Without a doubt, what artificial life the creature had is now gone. In front the vessel’s tentacles form an organic arch, granting the path onwards shade. The King of Curses once again looks over his body, perplexed how he can remain unharmed amidst the same destruction that ravaged the coast. Clenching his fists he can feel his blood course his veins, he can hear the soft beating of his heart and his steady breathing. More than uninjured, he has been reinvigorated, like he has had the best nights rest of his life. Brushing the dust off his clothes he takes his first step forward.

Despite the enormous corpse covering the coast, life is felt everywhere around the warrior. Aside from the smoke, the air is fresh, slightly salty from the sea breeze, but clean nonetheless. A smile slowly creeps across his face. These are not the hells, but such fertile lands are bound to contain people, bountiful fruit to be harvested. And if that woman, that Gith, was anything to go by there will be plentiful powerful fighters to cull. His smile slowly starts to fade as a slight pain shoots through his head, as if his mind is being moved in two different directions. That damn parasite. In his excitement it was easy to forget that burrowing behind his eye, however it serves as a useful reminder. Burying his head into his hand, he sweeps his hair back slowly and chuckles softly to himself, experiencing a strange combination of frustration and excitement. Slicing through whoever he must to remove this parasite will be a good way to ease the tension he feels.

Within the shadow of a tentacle arching overhead, lying a few paces north from where Sukuna awoken, is a vaguely familiar woman. Light from the falling embers flickers on her armour which is formed from layers of different materials. At its base is steel chainmail, which extends just before her knees like a metal skirt. The next layer is a leather cuirass with purple fabric extending down from her waist, stopping alongside the chainmail. Covering her chest and her shoulders is ornate steel, shaped in an elaborate pattern, at its center is a crest that the warrior does not recognise. Her ink-black hair is held in a ponytail, kept together by a metal hair ornament which has been shaped into the same pattern as the armour protecting her shoulders - shaped somewhat reminiscent of flames. Across her forehead is a circlet with a black gemstone being held in the middle. On her face a scar extends from the ridge of her nose to her right cheek; just as her face is scared so is her armour, clearly well worn. Lying on the floor beside her is a mace and a shield, from their condition it's clear they have also seen their share of battles.

Her slumber is almost statuesque, like something from a fairy tale, seeing her so defenceless slightly raises the King of Curses’ heartrate. That Githyanki woman, those devils, the Mind Flayer, they have all left him so very unsatisfied. Unknown to him his hand is autonomously raising to her neck, it would be so easy to snatch her life away from her, his lingering bloodlust from having his meal taken from him is almost too much. His train of thought subsides, how she remains asleep next to a flaming carcass perplexes Sukuna enough to quell his need to kill. Perhaps she is the source of his drift into sleep as he fell from the ship. There is too much he doesn’t know, killing her will bring no answers and even less satisfaction.

Suddenly her eyes snap open and she sits up with a jolt, perhaps she felt his possibly murderous intentions. A whisper leaves her mouth, “I’m alive… how is this possible?” Suddenly she snaps into a panic, frantically looking around, searching for something while never once acknowledging Sukuna’s presence. He watches her every move, contemplating what he shall do with her, she even turns her back to him - lunging to grab something on the ground and promptly trying to shield it from his view. The warrior catches a glimpse of what she tries to conceal, although it means very little to him. The object is oddly shaped, almost like a die with 20 sides, each face containing letters of an unknown language and spikes extending from where each face meets. The seams of it, and the symbols, glow with a subtle orange magic. Noticing his gaze the woman immediately stows the artefact. She finally acknowledges Sukuna, caution sown into her words, “You.. You were aboard the ship…” She says with her eyes darting away as soon as they meet his. “You and that Gith.” audible disgust in her voice, none too keen that he allied himself with someone of her ilk.

“I’m not too sure I like your tone, whelp. So what if I was? Are you going to draw your weapon because of my proximity to some woman?” Sukuna replies. At any other time he would have relished any opportunity for combat, but after the nautiloid his appetite for lesser opponents has been all but lost.

“Believe me, I am not concerned about your relationship with the Gith. She’s- Agh!” her voice cuts out mid sentence as they both feel pressure wrap around their minds. Their tadpoles communicate with one another. Sukuna feels her anger, her confusion and her resolve. She, likewise, feels what he does. His lingering frustration, tempered by his immense confidence. He holds no fear for his fate, it almost feels to the woman that he knows he will free himself from the parasite. She has seen his mind, she knows he holds no cure, no solution, and yet there isn’t an ounce of concern within him. Wincing through the sensation of their minds touching, she breaks through the silence. “You’ve got the same problem as I do. That thing in your head, I can feel it.”

With a click of his tongue Sukuna replies. “Everytime I feel that tugging in my head it’ll be another Mind Flayer head mounted on my wall.” He turns to leave but is stopped.

“Wait!” she desperately calls out. “These tadpoles are a symptom of a much greater problem. It won’t be long until they turn us into Mind Flayers. You and I need healers.”

The King of Curses pauses for a moment, thinking on what she said, she certainly seems to know more than he does. “What do you know of these Mind Flayers?”

“Not much, but enough to be afraid.” She responds. “They infect people with their spawn, these tadpoles, and once they are ready they’ll tear right through us. You have felt what they can do, there will be no chance to resist, one moment we’re walking along the path and the next…” She furrows her brow and sighs, she knows the consequences of the parasite but speaking them aloud frightens her. As she looks around she takes in the sight of the Nautiloid and the ravaged surroundings. “We need a healer. From the looks of things there won’t be much luck out here but-”

“What is this ‘we’ nonsense?” The King of Curses scoffs, turning his back to the woman, “The Gith fed me the same drivel. Every fool I have happened upon after awakening in the hells has tried barking orders at me, it has started to become tedious."

The woman brushes the sand from her chainmail as she slowly stands. “Wait,” she repeats with a far softer tone, “I am a healer, a cleric. Not one of such renown that I can deal with a Mind Flayer parasite, but a healer none the less.”

Folding his arms and raising a hand to his chin, Sukuna considers not just her words but also her intentions. Stripped of power, stripped of memories, Sukuna is a stranger to these lands - to this world. While he regains what he’s lost, a healer can only serve to benefit him. Meeting her gaze with a furrowed brow, “Fine.” he answers, “I understand what you’re getting at, I suppose you think your odds are better with me.”

“Or perhaps I just want someone to share my final moments with.” She jests, but it doesn’t land. “In an ideal world I would manage it on my own, but given our…” she pauses to gesture towards the crashed nautiloid, “Circumstances, I think it would be best for us to stick together. I doubt that we’ll be the only ones to survive the crash, and I'd rather avoid testing my mettle against any Mind Flayer thralls by myself.”

Sukuna rolls his shoulders as he turns away, his joints click with each rotation. “How boring.” he murmurs to himself. “Fine. If you insist on clinging to me, then so be it. Though do not delude yourself. You stand to benefit more from this temporary alliance than me, if you don’t make yourself useful...” His brow furrows and his voice transforms into a low grumble, “The parasite will be the least of your concerns.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, your disapproving tone notwithstanding.” She says while she watches Sukuna continue along the wrecked path. “My name is Shadowheart, by the way.”

The King of Curses doesn’t answer, questioning the idea of giving his name. Not out of pride, as if the woman is unworthy to hear it, but for some reason the notion of him being unrecognised is a strange feeling. “I am Ryoumen Sukuna.” he says, breaking away from the pause created by his unknown past. “You say you’re a Cleric? You derive power from a god?”

“I do. Although, if it’s all the same I would prefer to keep my relationship with my god to myself.”

“Oh? Your god? Mighty arrogant of you. I couldn’t care less about your god or your relationship to it.” His words are devoid of enthusiasm. “What interests me is how your power works.”

“Careful. Swords have been drawn over kinder words than those.” She replies half in jest, the veiled threat puts a small smirk on Sukuna’s face. “Never come across a cleric before? Either your memory is worse than mine, or you truly are out of your element.”

“Nevermind my past.” He bluntly replies. “Are these lost memories another symptom of these parasites?"

“Not in my case, and I would wager it's not in yours either. Our degree of memory loss is too different between us, and my circumstances are rather… specific.”

“Where’s your divine intervention now, Cleric.” Sukuna says with a playful smile. However his provocation is met with no response, glancing back to Shadowheart he finds her averting her eyes, twiddling her thumbs. Realisation glimmers through the warrior's mind, there's an element of truth to his teasing. “What’s with that look, woman? Is forfeiting memories a form of worship in these lands?”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes. “You seemed eager to avoid talking about your past, yet you try to pry into mine.”

Sukuna simply clicks his tongue in response, gleaming anymore information seems to be more trouble than its worth. Once his eyes reunite with the path ahead he suddenly stops walking. The path continues up a hill which has been consumed by the Nautiloid, the only way forward is through the ship’s shattered shell, over the flaming ground.

“What is it?” asks the Cleric, her eyes unable to see through the shadow cast by the ship. The King doesn’t answer, he only subtly nods in the direction of the opening through the shell.

“Time for you to demonstrate this ‘divine’ power, Cleric.” Sukuna utters with a cocky strut into the darkness. Shadowheart watches his back as he steps into the unknown, as she climbs the hill she sees shadows scamper and move across the hull from the corner of her eyes. Following the warrior with her grip tight around her mace, she cautiously scans the room. The King of Curses never alters his course, never slows, his vision never breaks from the exit. Meanwhile Shadowheart’s grip on her mace strengthens while she carefully watches the shadows.

The ruined Nautiloid isn’t a pretty sight. Shadowheart’s view from her pod was limited to say the least, and yet it is clear that she was not missing anything. Each surface seamlessly blends into the next, if it wasn’t for all the damage the hull sustained, it would be very difficult to tell the walls from one another. The rays of sunlight shining through the gaps in the shell only deepen the darkness of the shadows. Flames linger, fueled by the broken Mind Flayer technology, slowly dying out.

At the room’s center her eyes reconnected with Sukuna’s back, as if appearing from nowhere, a blur lunges towards his side. She mumbles a prayer, extends her hand, and fires a radiant bolt of divine light that intercepts the attacker. Its body thumps onto the ground in front of the King. He glares down at the creature; a brain swollen to the size of a dog, four thick legs protrude from its base with thick, black claws at their tips. Tooth-like spikes line the center seam of the brain and five or so small tentacles extend from random parts of what makes up its body. Its flesh still burns with a golden fire, twitching and stumbling as it tries to stand. It succeeds in finding its balance, the warrior follows the creature with its eyes as it retreats back into the shadows.

Rhythmic tapping of claws on the metallic flooring alerts Shadowheart to more approaching enemies. She turns and parries the incoming brain, her attempt to swipe back at the brain barely misses. Softly whispering another prayer, a golden shine emits from her body. Another brain charges, however her golden blessing gives her the insight to smack the creature before it reaches her. It winces from the blow and the other brain rushes at the Cleric, its claws crash against her shield. She shoves the creature back and with an incantation spoken sacred fire erupts from the brain.

Sukuna continues to walk through the dilapidated vessel, not observing the fight but intently listening to the clashing of Shadowheart’s mace and the sounds of her divine magic. Reflecting on the creatures he reaches the conclusion that they must be the same variety of brain that tried to communicate with him when the ship was soaring across Avernus.

With one swipe of her mace she bludgeons a brain, followed by expertly dodging an attack from the other, retaliating with another swing of her weapon which clips the creature. Across the room, the third brain reamerges from the blackness, its sights set on the towering warrior. It stands on highground, watching, judging the distance. With all its strength it jumps at the King of Curses, but there is no reaction. Sukuna doesn’t stop, only continues his jaunt towards the exit. The brain is coated in golden fire, launched from the cleric’s palm. It thuds to the ground like a ragdoll. Dead before it ever reached the floor.

Sukuna finally reaches the opposite end of the wreckage, upon turning around he sees the havoc the cleric has wrought. Shadowheart stands, panting and tired, above the charred remains of the little monsters. “You have… Made your point…” She says between laboured breaths. “I take it I have proved myself worthy... Not that the dispatching of a couple of intellect devourers is particularly worth praise.”

The King of Curses cannot help but form a nearly imperceptible smile. “And praise isn’t what you’ll be getting from me, Shadowheart.” He says with an ounce of respect as he turns his back to her.

Reaching the other side of the Nautiloid’s remains, they both step through a large hole in the creature, finding themselves back onto the rocky path. Air on this side is far fresher as the wind isn’t being blocked by the Nautiloid. Even the greenery is far greener. There are still plenty of trees stripped of leaves, uprooted and smoking, but the shrubbery is healthier for the most part. Whatever putrid smell contained within the vessel fades more as they continue following the path north, only the ever present smell of smoke remains. On this side, marshland can be seen just beyond the river, the first example of life untouched by the ship’s crash. The humidity of the marsh creates a haze that shields the other side of the river from view. Shadowheart remarks that the Nautiloid almost made her nostalgic for the little bloodsuckers hiding in the grass.

Within the bushes along the path a man plants himself, crouching as if he’s hiding from something other than the duo. Both Shadowheart and Sukuna feel a suspicious aura from the man. Not only is his silver hair clearly visible both through the foliage as well as above it; he’s also wearing a flamboyantly decorated, purple puffy overcoat embroidered with a golden stitch that reflects the sunlight. His pale skin and hair contrast with the dark shell of the Nautiloid. Under her breath Shadowheart comments “Not exactly the most conspicuous place to hide.”

Never slowing their stride, they continue along the path, Sukuna walks past the man as if he never existed, Shadowheart cannot help but glance back as she passes him. “Hold on,” he calls out, “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered." His voice has a distinctly elegant cadence. The King pays the man no heed, never breaking pace, completely ignoring him.

The figure is stunned by the brazen indifference to his plea. He sighs and mutters, “I was hoping for a kind soul, but this will have to do.”

Chapter Text

Before he sees anything, before he hears anything, he feels it - bloodlust. Like tens of thousands of pins prodding the back of his neck. For Sukuna there is no feeling more enticing, the anticipation of a knife’s blade, enough to make him salivate.

Turning, he sees the attacker, focus on his face and fury in his scarlet eyes. A wonderful expression. Sukuna slips his hand under the aggressor’s blade, grabbing his wrist and stifling the attack. The foe’s fury is replaced with confusion as he’s forced off balance. The King drives his fist deep into the attacker’s stomach; his eyes roll back and he spits blood as air escapes his lungs. With his off hand the warrior grabs the figure’s throat and uses the enemy’s wrist as leverage as he throws him back down the path.

Sukuna stands above his foe, twirling the disarmed dagger in his fingers. The man looks up at him, utterly distraught. “I commend your attempt.” Sukuna offers a rare word of praise. “Although not your choice in target. Very few have the gall to approach me, even fewer follow through.”

The praise flies over the attacker’s head. All he feels is wounded pride and a potentially cracked rib. All it took was a single glance and his target knew exactly how to disarm the situation. “Well… Shit,” was all the man could think to say. After releasing a large sigh, he finds the strength of will to stand. His dejected expression is clear as he looks towards his two would-be victims. “Listen, I know how this looks. How about we start this again, more amicably this time. My name is Astar - argh!”

Invisible forces squeeze tightly around each of their minds. Amidst the maelstrom of confusion Sukuna and Shadowheart see through unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. The memory lingers for only a moment before it fades from their minds.

“What was that? What’s going on?” he asks with panic fueling his words. “They took you too. I saw it during… whatever that was. You were on that ship. Those… tentacled… things. Whatever they did to us created that link.” He tries to take a moment, taking long deep breaths, watching the shaking of his hands slow as he calms. After a moment's consideration he speaks again, now far more composed. “Let’s try this again, shall we? I was ready to go at this alone but we… We could use each other."

“You could use us, you mean.” Shadowheart interrupts, uninterested in the musing of a man happy to see her on the sharp end of his knife. Sukuna says nothing, only watches. His shifty eyes, his curt smile, something about this man isn’t quite right.

“We can use each other, darling. Something more cooperative, with less knives at our backs. I say we have better odds figuring this out together. Perhaps we could find an expert, find a way to control these…” he gestures to his head as he tries to find the words. “Brain worms.”

“Control? I want this thing out of me as soon as possible.” The cleric interrupts with a furrowed brow.

The man lets out an exasperated sigh. “Well yes, of course. But first things first…” Shadowheart’s disapproval doesn't change so the figure looks past her and to the King of Curses. “So? What do you say?”

All the warrior feels from this conversation is boredom washing over him. “I say you have become far less entertaining when I confiscated your toy.” Sukuna lets out a deep sigh and kicks the dagger back to the man. “We? Us? Each other? Everyone is so desperate to be joined at the hip. It makes me sick. Grow some backbone.”

The King turns away unamused, and continues to tread along the path ahead. A bewildering gesture for the man, he looks to the cleric for some form of reassurance, but she has none to offer. “Come on then.” She says, gesturing for him to follow. “Plenty of work to be done. You can set up our camp. Water my plants, launder my clothes. Perhaps if you’re lucky, you can chase down any stragglers that run at the sight of us.”

“Oh it would be my pleasure, darling.” He says as he struggles to catch up to the group, following like a lost pup.

Shadowheart and the man talk as they catch up to Sukuna. He listens to their conversation, the pale elf introduces himself as Astarion. Previous to his entanglement with the Mind Flayers he was a magistrate in Baldur’s Gate, the most prominent city in these lands. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him that someone who works in the courts would be quick to pull a knife to someone’s back. Astarion’s history, his propensity for violence, his false smile; the elf looks through the world with the eyes of a predator. Eyes just like The King’s own. However while Astarion stalks, Sukuna ravages.

On the topic of their pasts, Shadowheart laments her lack of memories, she doesn’t remember the specifics of her past. All she remembers is Baldur’s Gate and the mission she was given that led to her capture. From the conversation it is clear to Sukuna she made the conscious choice to forfeit her memories. If it’s for her people, or for the god she serves, either way it’s a pathetic display of obedience being disguised as a show of dedication.

The winding path runs forward in parallel with the fallen Nautiloid. The ship's tattered remains continue to obstruct the path, eventually to such a degree the naturally formed path forward is impossible to traverse. The only alternate path available is through a large hole in the Mind Flayer’s cracked shell. Stepping into the vessel’s atrium, Astarion is in awe at the scope of it.

“You know, I don’t remember the inside of the Nautiloid. I remember the beast putting the tadpole up to my eye, the nasty little thing… And then nothing. Just waking up along the river where you saw me.” Astarion mentions while taking in the sights of the smoking wreckage. Sukuna notes that Its muscle-like walls no longer pulse, the creature truly is dead.

“You weren’t missing much.” The Cleric answers, “All I saw from my pod was that one and his Gith friend ignoring me.”

Sukuna looks over his shoulder with a smirk on his face. “And I would do it again.”

Astarion, thoroughly engrossed by the grotesque innards of the destroyed Nautiloid, unknowingly bumps into Shadowheart as she stands staring motionlessly ahead. Heavy tension wells up within the Pale Elf’s stomach, “What is it?” he asks, however he receives no answer. Only met with an eerie silence. Even Sukuna, as threatening as he is, stands unmoving. The elf tries to look past his enormous frame. On the floor, trapped beneath smouldering rubble, a Mind Flayer lies. Its luminous yellow orbs stare up at the group. Emotionless, yet hopeless.

“Even while injured the beastie could still be dangerous, be careful.” Astartion thinks out loud, not following his own advice as he slowly approaches the monster. It is an interesting sight, very few people in history have seen an alive Mind Flayer, and here one is, its purple skin wet with its own blood and slime. Even after being abducted by one, whatever memory he had of his Ilithid captor has been well and truly scrubbed from his mind. He can’t help but be curious. The slight movement of its chest as it breathes, the scrapes on its skin, it looks so vulnerable - Astarion cannot help but feel compassion for the creature.

Compassion? No. He should be furious… Shouldn’t he? He is furious, he holds hate in his heart for the monster, and for that he deserves to be punished. He should be whipped, and beaten, forced to kneel before it. Astarion should be devoting his entire life to the monster. The elf extends his arm towards the Mind Flayer, he must help it, he has to. He must make amends, he must protect it. Just as his fingers are about to meet the smoking debris, ready to free the creature, his body is yanked away and tossed to the ground. Sukuna stands above him, his presence snaps Astarion’s mind out of the malaise. Looking up at the King of Curses he sees the twisted smile carved onto his face.

“You mock me even as you die.” Sukuna speaks with a menacing, low growl. “Trying to pollute my mind as if the hatred etched into my soul could be so easily forgotten.” Every step forward he takes causes the Mind Flayer to flinch. “Did you forget my promise, Squid?”

“Death is too good for it.” Shadowheart’s voice is heard as she is freed from the monster’s manipulation. The Pale Elf sits in silence, his breath taken from him as he comes to the realisation that his thoughts were not his own.

Sukuna thumps his boot squarely onto the monster’s chest, placing so much pressure that the Mind Flayer’s breathing becomes noticeably strained. In one hand he grabs one of its tentacles. “What’s wrong? Where’s your pride?” He playfully teases, gently pulling on the tentacle. “Come on, resist! Fight back! Try and command me once more, make this fun for me!” The Warrior commands as he presses his foot even harder into the creature’s chest. Wrapping the tentacle around his arm, the King gives a sudden tug, the Mind Flayer’s head jerks but its body remains still. ‘Perfect’ Sukuna thinks to himself.

The King of Curses glares deeply into the Mind Flayer’s helpless eyes, and gives a smile just for a second. Pulling on the tentacle, he gradually increases his strength. Blood starts to seep out where the tentacle meets its face. The Mind Flayer struggles, but its broken body is devoid of strength. Psionic energy rattles the room but the agony it feels doesn’t allow it to concentrate its power.

One final tug and with a wet snap all the resistance stops. Ropes of thick, dark blood drop from the severed tentacle in Sukuna’s hand. The defaced Mind Flayer lies in silence. Life has escaped the monster.

The King of Curses looks down on it, disappointment on his face, its death has given him no pleasure. When he looks back to Astarion and Shadowheart they both immediately clock his unimpressed expression. Yet, Astarion’s face is anything but unimpressed - he is notably enthused.

The Pale Elf, stunned, stands and cleans the dirt off his clothes. Life hasn’t been terribly kind to him. He’s been forced to murder, he’s seduced and slaughtered, he’s seen monsters and now he walks with another. “How terribly amusing…” His voice breaks the silence. The unease he felt is second to the relief he now feels knowing that, this time, the monster is on his side. Sukuna sees the coy smile on the sly elf’s lips, curiously enough his smile isn’t directed at the warrior, instead he is eyeing the corpse.

The party make their way through the Nautiloid’s carcass, each trying to put what just happened behind them, all for different reasons. However, Shadowheart’s mind lingers on the sight. She saw how much Astarion enjoyed it, once he was composed he was practically salivating at the sight of the monster’s blood. Not to mention how Sukuna’s own bored expression spoke to her. He wanted more than what the Mind Flayer offered, he wanted a struggle. “You seem to have enjoyed that more than he did, Astarion." Shadowheart exclaims with an accusatory tone.

Astarion scoffs at her remark, “Darling, are you sure you’re not a thrall? Of course I enjoyed it. Every time I see a Mind Flayer dead, the better I’ll sleep.” He deflects the comment, although he’s fairly certain he understood the insinuation. Finally approaching the opposite side of the Nautiloid, sunlight bathes their skin once more. Weaving back onto the cracked path, the serenity is refreshing for them all. Although one thing sticks out to the group. “Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but I was hoping for that smell to- ugh!”

Astarion trips, stumbling to his knees. Beneath his foot is the corpse of a small stocky man, a goblin, their legs entangled in a thick rope. Two more lay sprawled along the floor, pools of blood formed under each of their bodies, still fresh. Sukuna gives the elf a sharp glance and clicks his tongue. “Get up. I’ve known you for less than a day, yet I have seen you caress the ground on three occasions.”

“Ugh! Hells!” Astarion shouts, kicking the body away and panicking to his feet. “I can’t believe I'm saying this but I am beginning to miss the city…” He grumbles, once again brushing the dust off his otherwise sophisticated clothes.

“At least we’ve found the source of the smell.” Shadowheart adds, giving a gesture towards the elf. “A sultry magistrate sleeping with the goblins.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, still trying to get the dust off his clothes. “Oh hardy-bloody-ha.”

“What are these… things?” Sukuna asks with no attempt to mask the discontent in his voice, going so far as to kick their body like a child trying to pass the time. It is quite the peculiar sight for the warrior; their bodies have the proportions of children, yet their faces are old and wrinkled. Sharp teeth, pointed ears, large noses, and their arms and armour are all crudely put together.

“Dead.” Shadowheart gives a dry reply, “And not our problem.”

Sukuna offers an acknowledging grunt in response and Astarion lets out another exasperated sigh. “First Mind Flayers, and now a pack of goblins… What do you think? Killed by the crash?”

“No.” Sukuna asserts. “The ropes. The net. They were caught in traps and executed.”

“Brilliant, now we just need to add goblins and their killers to the list of things we need to avoid.” Astarion responds with palpable sarcasm. “Where there’s one goblin, there’s 10 others, dirty buggers multiply like rats.”

“You’re not seeing the forest for the trees, Astarion. Traps mean people. People means civilisation. Civilisation means…” Shadowheart leaves a large enough pause in hopes that the Pale Elf can connect the dots himself.

The elf rolls his eyes once more. “Yes, yes, a healer. No need to patronise me. Forgive me if being in the middle of… Wherever we are, doesn't exactly strike confidence in me.” Cogs turn as he looks over the bodies again, assessing the traps that had cost the goblins their lives. Sukuna notices his inquisitive expression and eagerly awaits for his conclusion. “Not the best put together traps, are they?”

“How do you figure?” Questions the cleric.

The elf crouches down and inspects the knots. “A bit crude, no?” Putting the rope down he continues by flipping the corpse over with his foot. Arrows are embedded in their chests, the shafts snapped in half as the goblin fell to its stomach. “And the arrows…”

The King tries to hurry him along, “Get to the point.”

“Well, they’re far from accurate, and there’s a lot of them. We aren’t dealing with hunters. To put a finer point on things, it’s all a bit… amateurish.”

The cleric lets out a sigh of her own, putting her hand on her hip and scratching the back of her head. She understands that whoever sets traps like these aren’t likely to be very useful when it comes to the parasite. “Perhaps whoever the traps belong to can at least point us in the right direction, although that idea doesn’t exactly inspire hope in me either.”

“Enough.” The warrior declares in a tone rich with authority, turning away to the group and taking his next steps along the path. “I’ve wasted enough time as is…” He mumbles under his breath.

The path meanders north from the crash-site; the hum of the Nautiloid remains while untouched nature starts making its return. Evidence of the crash fades the further down the path they hike. No flaming trees, no harsh shards of black metal, no viscera, no gore. Even the lingering smell of the hells has begun to dissipate, although the faint scent of smoke still tickles each of their noses. At no point does the burgeoning beauty of the landscape ahead even register to Sukuna, not with that parasite living in his head, he is far too focused to notice the scenery.

In spite of the warm glow of the sun’s rays, a faint purple glint illuminates the path around the bend. An odd sensation settles in amongst the party, the air feels almost charged. In fact the wind flows unnaturally, it pushes dust and detritus along the path, as if being guided towards something. Energy vibrates the air, the charged air begins to feel like electricity causing their hair to stand on end. The feeling only intensifies as they turn the corner and see what was just out of sight.

Chapter Text

Emerging around the bend, the light’s source reveals itself. All the surrounding air is being pulled into a vortex of purple and black magic, materialised onto the side of a boulder. Its center is devoid of light, the speckled dots of energy are reminiscent of stars, as if looking into the night sky. Encircling the black hole are sigils, written in an unknown script, glowing with power. Violent buzzing rattles the air, nearly drowning out the sounds of the gusts it creates.

The King of Curses ponders the portal, hand on chin, as he takes a closer look. Violet sparks zap the air between him and the portal, the energy flowing from the vortex is almost mesmerising. Not because of the power, but because even with his exceedingly limited knowledge, it’s clear it appears to be malfunctioning.

Shadowheart is similarly enwrapped by the magic vortex. She is far more qualified to give an analysis than Sukuna, however she is likewise stumped. Extending her hand towards the magic, it bites back, a shock runs through her finger before she could touch it - the surprise almost hurts more than the pain shooting through her arm.

Unexpectedly, a hand draped in purple fabric, slumps out of the portal’s center. From the other side of the magic, a man’s voice echoes out. “A hand? Anyone?” The voice asks with a politeness that doesn’t quite match the present circumstances.

‘How curious.' Sukuna thinks to himself. “Who are you?” He asks, his hand never leaving his chin. “And what is this? Is this your doing?”

“I’m just another traveller stuck between realms. Apologies, but perhaps it’ll be easier to have this conversation while I am not currently trapped within a boulder.” The voice answers, trying as politely as he can to rush him along.

The Warrior isn’t quite satisfied with his answer, continuing to contemplate the sight, paying no heed to the potential urgency of the situation. Try as he might, he can’t make heads or tails of the magic. With a sigh, he finally removes his hand. “Your present circumstances don’t exactly exude competence.” Spoken with a harsh, but practical, tone.

“Be that as it may,” Shadowheart comments, “this is no spell I know of. The fact he’s alive at all means he must be a rare talent.”

Her comments intrigues the King of Curses, his lips curl into an all but imperceptible smile. “Oh? Very well, you’ve convinced me.” He announces with mild amusement.

The Warrior grabs the arm, an initial tug reveals the portal to be tugging back. The cleric closes her eyes and extends her hand towards the vortex, whispering a few words of prayer under her breath, which seems to be quelling the noise of the vortex. The King increases his grip and plants his feet; with one more yank he pulls the man from the magic, throwing him aside as if he was weightless.

Astarion, with his people-pleasing smile, helps the man to his feet as he uses his wooden staff to support his weight. “Hello!” He says enthusiastically,” I’m Gale of Waterdeep. Apologies, I'm usually much better at this.”

“At introductions?” Sukuna asks skeptically.

“At magic.” He exhales, catching his breath. “Say, but I know you, don’t I? In a manner of speaking. You were on the Nautiloid as well. I take it you were also on the receiving end of an unwelcome insertion in the ocular region, were you not?”

Sukuna’s eyes look through the wizard. Curious about his so-called talent, he certainly speaks with the confidence indicative of a master of their field. His appearance is well-kempt, even in spite of how he was found. His purple robe is well put together, sophisticated yet still practical. Poking just above his collar is a tattoo on his chest, appearing to be some kind of orb, however its meaning is lost. His brown hair is kept shoulder length and swept back, with a well trimmed beard atop his chin.

“I was on the Nautiloid.” The King confirms after a moment's deliberation. “And a short time ago I tore a tentacle from my Mind Flayer captor’s head, its blood still fresh on my clothes.” Spoken in a cold, matter of fact tone, designed to provoke a reaction from the wizard.

Gale’s eyes fill with a spark of inspiration, not fear, he isn’t intimated by Sukuna in the slightest. “Fascinating… And here you stand, here we all stand, not a tentacle in sight. By all rights, we should have undergone ceromorphosis long ago. A fact, I dare say, should frighten us all.” Spoken like a professor enlightened by new research. “Say, do any of you happen to be a cleric? Doctor? Surgeon? Uncannily adroit with a knitting needle?”

“You seem to know enough about our condition to realise it’s beyond most cleric’s skill.” Shadowheart answers with a touch of suspicion in her voice.

“Most. Not all, if you’ll allow me the optimism."

Astarion stands with a bewildered look, Sukuna is just about ready to leave and no one has asked the obvious question. “Right, right, this is all well and good.” Astarion sighs, “But can we please acknowledge the pulsating purple elephant in the room? What in the Hells were you doing stuck half-way through a boulder?”

“Right! Excellent question! And one I’ll take great pleasure in answering.” The wizard replies with renewed enthusiasm. “As I fell from the Nautiloid, I spotted a glimmer of light around the approximate location of my impact. Recognising the light as magical in nature, I reached out to the weave inside it. One minor miscalculation, amidst the chaos of the fall, and instead of finding myself with safe passage onto the ground - I found myself sitting inside a magical plane between dimensions.”

Everyone shares the elf’s bewildered expression, everything the wizard described flew over all of their heads. Sukuna nudges the cleric and asks if she understood any of that, all she could think to say is that he is a rare talent indeed.

“Unbelievable, I think I may be the only normal one here.” Astarion says under his breath.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?” Gale continues, his voice shifting from excited to focused. “I think you’ll be quick to agree that we need a healer, it would do us all a world of a good, should we look for one together.”

“Not as quick as I’d like, mind you.” Shadowheart laments.

“Although my power may have waned since my ilithid infection, based on your collective puzzled expressions, I believe my mastery over the weave will make me quite the valuable asset.”

The King considers his words, admittedly he doesn’t need as much convincing to accept the wizard as he did the other two. One question plagues his mind however, “What is this ‘weave’?” He asks.

“In a word: magic.” Gale answers with a dramatic pause. “Created by, and embodied by, the goddess Mystra. The weave is the unseen threads that make magic possible. Wizards, such as yours truly, tap into the weave and…” He gestures towards the vortex, “I believe you understand the picture. There will be a time for a clearer explanation; should you allow me to stay.”

Sweeping his hair back, Sukuna contemplates his proposal for a moment. “Very well, come with us, Wizard, and try to make good on my exceedingly high expectations.”

Shadowheart firmly grips the cuff of Sukuna’s sleeve, in a quiet tone she asks: “Are you sure this is a good idea? We know next to-”

Sukuna’s eyes pierce through the cleric. With a low, deliberate growl, he threatens. “Remove your hand.” His words form a tight knot in her stomach. She backs off, subconsciously bowing, there’s slight reverence in her movement. “The Wizard has done more to entertain me in this brief discussion, than you and that elf have the entire time I've known you, brat.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Perfect, now they’re talking like I'm not even here.”

Shadowheart keeps her head low, keeping her eyes fixed on anything but Sukuna himself. When her eyes meet him once again, his uninterested expression offers little comfort. “All I mean to say, is that we are in a precarious situation and-”

“I understand perfectly what you’re trying to say, and I don’t care.” The King answers, his apathetic tone marks the end of the discussion. He extends his hand towards Gale and gestures for him to follow. “Come, Wizard. You’re with us.”

“Excellent!” The wizard celebrates, electing to ignore the clear hint of tension between the two. “I shall see to it that you don’t regret my inclusion into your motley crew. Pulling me out of that stone was an act of foresighted kindness, one I will make great effort to repay.”

“You can repay me by giving a more detailed explanation of this ‘weave’.”

“If that’s what you want in the way of thanks, then it will be my pleasure.” Gale responds. “Although, might I suggest that we wait for a more… Appropriate time. With these ilithid tadpoles, time is of the essence and it’s best that we make the most of what precious daylight we have.”

“Precious indeed…” Astarion hisses, almost as if what Gale said lingers on his tongue. “Anyway, you have seen your introduction, I say it’s time we see to ours. I am Astarion. Rouge, magistrate, charmed.” Spoken in a more refined, and far less sinister, voice. He then gestures over to Shadowheart, who seems to have given herself distance from the others. “As you may have figured, the one brooding is our cleric: The lovely lady Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes and scoffs, “Ignore him, and forgive my unease, but I still can’t bring myself to trust you.”

“Ah, the way I see it there are no apologies necessary. You are right to be wary; between the Nautiloid, and turning up god knows where, I would expect nothing less.” Gale answers in earnest, his softened expression speaks to Shadowheart, but he doesn’t manage to shift her guarded demeanour.

Finally the Pale Elf looks to the leader of the pack, who stands firm with his arms crossed, clearly ready to leave. Astarion can’t seem to find any words to describe him. “Franky I’m not terribly sure what this one does… Other than maim, of course.”

The King of Curses’ eyes roll over Gale’s, his gaze alone places immense weight on the wizard’s shoulders. “I can introduce myself, elf. I am Ryoumen Sukuna.”

Gale takes a quick moment to assess his new found allies. Shadowheart, while withdrawn, seems reliable. A healthy amount of skepticism is useful in these situations. Astarion seems to have his sardonic tendencies, but is otherwise quite the personable man. What’s worrisome is his eyes: they look for opportunity more so than companionship or camaraderie. Sukuna’s eyes are unsettling, however. Focusing to an eerie degree, he doesn’t look at you, he looks through you.

“Well, in any case, it’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

Without another word, the King of Curses turns his back and continues to walk the path. Shadowheart and Astarion continue to acquaint themselves with the new addition to the party, the sounds of their voice eventually dim, drowned out by Sukuna’s own thoughts. Drifting into a silent reminiscence of everything up until this point: The battles fought, faces seen, enemies made and powers experienced - trying to absorb whatever information he can.

Even his memories betray him. Combat has been etched into his body, but at best, all his addled mind can recall are feelings from a lifetime ago. Before the tadpole, before the hells, before his awakening, he cannot shake the faintest sensation of loss. Perhaps the sensation comes from his memories being stolen, or perhaps they are indicative of something earlier, something from his past.

A clearing in the path opens, giving a needed reprieve from the shackles of his mind. Ahead is a structure; built from cracked, grey bricks. Moss clings the dusty, weathered masonry. Weeds sprout through the cracks, and most of the structure stands a shell of its former glory.

Standing atop a wooden crate, looking down into the ruins, stands a figure half the size of a man. Knife sheathed by their side, and their hands on their hip.

The short, stout man scratches his groin, gives a congested snort, and launches a wad of spit into the lower level of the ruin. Shade covers him, the looming shadow of the King of Curses consumes his entire body. Trying to turn and face the warrior, he finds his entire body lifted off the ground, held by the scruff of his neck like a stray cat.

“Who the fuck are you?!” The small man shouts, helplessly thrashing about. “Put me down- ugh!”

Sukuna turns, short man in hand, holding him up to the rest of the party. “Is this a Goblin?” He non–chalauntly asks, expression blank.

“I ain’t no fucking goblin, twat!” Yells the tiny man, reaching for Sukuna’s hand but his grip doesn’t falter.

Astarion cannot help but laugh, Shadowheart exasperatedly rubs her temples, and Gale is flummoxed for once as words escape him. “Ah,” he finally answers, “I am fairly certain that one’s a halfling.”

“Certainly has a goblin’s mouth.” Shadowheart interjects.

The King raises the halfling to his eyes, studying the man as if he was a creature not a person. The little man is equally enraged as he is humiliated. “At least the one of ya has some common fuckin sense.” The man spits his, wetting Sukuna’s face.

Sukuna is none too pleased with the little man’s spittle. Hoisting the halfling over the box he stood on, dangling his body over the wall’s edge. “W-what are ya doin?” He pleads. “Put me down!”

The King’s grip tightens, blood pools around his nails as they dig into the halfling’s neck, he releases a small amused chuckle. “Kuku… And where’s that common sense now, brat?”

Realisation takes hold of the little man; he’s being held above certain death. “You… You’re a fucking psycho!” The halfling shouts, his erratic thrashing increasing in tempo but not in effectiveness. “Help! Someone hel- Ugh!” Sukuna’s grip traps his pleading words in his throat, air only barely escaping his lungs.

At the ruin’s entrance, just out of earshot, stands a man inspecting the ruin's door, sword at his hip and shield stowed on his back. On the opposite side, a woman clad in a green robe, holding a staff similar to Gale’s, inspects the plantlife creeping along the cracked brickwork. Chatter can barely be heard, at this distance it sounds like nothing more than whispers.

“Are those your allies?” Sukuna asks, alleviating his grip ever-so-slightly. “What is it you’re doing here?”

The halfling tries to squeeze out an answer, but the pressure on his neck doesn’t make it easy. “Yeah… We was just looking for some… Easy money…”

“Doing what, exactly?” Astarion follows up, his voice cool and almost seductive.

“Robbin’ graves, dick hea- argh!” Another sharp squeeze stifles the insult.

“Odd place for a cemetery,” Gale posits, “Any idea whose graves you’re robbing?”

“Oh for the love of… Hells if I know. Ask the ones inside, or better yet, ask a bloody historian.”

Their leader lessens his grip, the halfling has been all but drained of his usefulness. However, for the little man, being taken out of Sukuna’s vice is a cause for worry, not relief.

“How many of you are there?” The King asks with a growl.

“I… I don’t know,” he says, flinching at the sight of the ground below. “Ten? Twelve…? I’m just the lookout, I don’t know nothin’. P-please just put me down.” His tone shifts from anger to a sincere sadness.

Shadowheart leans over to Astarion “That’s a lot of people to rob some graves.” She notes.

Astarion raises an eyebrow, “Hm… Must be some graves.”

Time pauses for the halfling, he senses his death is near. From this point, it doesn’t matter what he does or how he tries to frame it, his life is over. It would be impossible to free himself, and even if he did, to what end? Either he falls to his death, or these four monsters kill him.

He looks up to Sukuna, fear in his eyes. “Please don’t kill m-.”

All the halfling feels is the sensation of wind flowing through his hair, and then sudden silence of death.

His allies recoil at the slap of his body against the floor, they rush to investigate, but a second shadow falls from the high-ground.

Sukuna lands, the force ruptures the floor beneath him, the aged bricks crack and shatter. The man guarding the door snaps to the warrior, he draws his sword with confidence and dons his shield.

He thrusts his sword towards the King, but his blade stops short as the warrior catches the attack. Blood from his palm drips across the metal. The man looks up in disbelief; from the corner of his vision the back of Sukuna’s fist flies at him. With his shield he blocks the blow, but the force still leaves him rattled.

On the other side, two more of the halfling’s allies jump to action. With a point of his staff and an incantation muttered, Gale conjures a large puddle of grease under their feet.

Shadowheart sees the bunched up enemies, with an incantation of her own - she throws a bolt of fire and ignites the grease beneath them. The explosion shakes the weathered rock, the force sends the grave robbers flying, flames consuming them both. One survives, but remains trapped within the smoke.

From inside the smog, a hand helps the survivor to his feet. A playful aristocratic voice cuts through the ringing in the survivor’s ears. “My, that does look painful.”

The man tries to catch a glimpse of the voice, only for a dagger to be plunged through his chest.

The King of Curses watches their battle from afar, his amusement written on his face. His mark thinks he can catch the King off guard, but he is sorely mistaken. Instead of his sword striking true, he is cracked across the face with a ferocious haymaker. His unconscious body falls limp to the ground.

Red light flares, Sukuna squints, the woman with the staff stands atop the high-ground across from him. Three crimson projectiles are launched from her palm at incredible speeds. Too fast to avoid, the warrior is at their mercy, he attempts to block the attack, yet nothing hits him.

At an arm’s length away, a nearly transparent barrier cancels out the attack. With a quick glance, Sukuna sees Gale shielding him, and offers an acknowledging nod accompanied by an unsettling smile.

The enemy wizard is struck by a blast of icy magic, unleashed by Shadowheart; the Pale Elf sees the opportunity, and rushes the slowed enemy. He pounces at her like a predator, his speed far too great, and he cuts her down with little resistance.

As the action dies down, everyone reconvenes around the King of Curses. He’s not satisfied, not yet. This was just the antre, what really entices him are those inside the ruin.

“No weapon, no magic. You’re quite the force to be reckoned with, colour me impressed.” Gale says, but Sukuna didn’t hear him, instead he quietly walks to the ruin’s wooden door. Placing his hand against its grain, feeling what lies beyond it.

“Perhaps we can remedy the ‘no weapon’ part, should we loot these ruins.” Shadowheart adds.

An amusing comment for Astarion, “Oh, Shadowheart.” He chuckles condescendingly. “You sound less like a cleric every time you speak.”

Everyone’s eyes fall onto Sukuna. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to, his next step is clear to everyone. Stepping back, he waits for a beat, and kicks the door with all his strength. The sound of the door being blown open rivals that of Gale and Shadowheart’s earlier explosion.

Excitement lies beyond the shattered door, one by one they all step through the destroyed doorway.

Chapter Text

Everyone walks through the shattered doorframe, stepping over the splintered planks that once made up the door, and even over the corpse of one of the grave robbers. Not one soul amongst the group gave the man’s death an ounce of thought; at most, he was a poor guard and not worth mourning.

If you ignore the stagnant air, innumerable cobwebs, and dust coating every surface, the first room is surprisingly well-lived in. Along one wall, a hearth heats the entire room, making the craggled stone walls seem somewhat inviting. Not too far from the fireplace sits a long wooden table, dressed with fine silver cutlery, chalices, and enough food to satiate a sizable group.

The Pale Elf approaches the table, more enamoured with the cutlery than the charcuterie. Sukuna tears a chunk off a rather hearty loaf of bread, and leans against the edge of the table, watching the dancing of shadows beneath the door to the next room. Taking a bite of the loaf floods his mouth with the bitter taste of mold; nonchalantly spitting it out, he mutters ‘disgusting’ to himself, electing to pick up a log of cured meat in its place.

The meat is dry and old, far from fine dining - but at least there is some indescribable flavour. He instead focuses on the sound coming from the room beyond. It’s faint, far too quiet for the others to hear, but there are definitely sounds of shuffling and small whispers emanating from the next room over.

On the opposite side, Shadowheart and Gale examine the mountains of books, looking for any hidden gems that the bandits may have missed - although the caked-on layers of dust indicate that every book has been left untouched.

Hung between two bookshelves is a weathered silver plaque that piques the cleric’s interest. Brushing off the cobwebs and wiping away dust reveals the hidden text; she tries to read the message but is unable to identify the language. “A dead tongue…” She quietly mumbles to herself, a hint of curiosity in her voice. “It must have been centuries since anyone last used these halls.”

Gale pokes his head over her shoulder, also trying to decipher the words. “Hmm, certainly not a language I’m familiar with,” he says softly, mirroring the cleric’s intrigue. “Ah, if only walls could talk, right Shadowheart?"

“If the walls could talk, they’d be speaking a dead language.” she thoughtlessly replies, taking the idiom a step too literally, focusing too heavily on running her fingers along the spines of the books left standing on the shelves to register what he said.

Gale chuckles sheepishly and gives a slightly dejected look as his attempt to build a rapport goes nowhere. “I suppose you’ve got me there.”

Astarion scoffs as he listens to the pair, trying to stow whatever small trinkets he can get his hands on. “Please, I think you’ll all agree we have more pressing things to worry about than some old books. Besides, had there been anything worth taking, they would have taken them.”

The cleric, still enraptured in her own little task, disagrees. “I’m not confident these people can read, let alone understand the value of a good book.”

“Hey now,” Gale jokingly injects. “I have it on good authority that wizards can read, and I spied at least one in their ranks.”

Their leader stands; he doesn’t issue any commands, just moving is enough to alert the others. Sukuna subtly signals to the lever on the left-hand side of the door. Astarion stands by and rests his hand atop the switch. Gale and Shadowheart both unsheathe their weapons, preparing themselves for the inevitable battle.

The King nods, and Astarion lowers the lever. The mechanism in the door clicks as it unlocks, and it slowly creaks open. On the opposite side, a large man hears the scratching of the door’s rusted hinges. He tightly grips the hilt of his large wooden club, and all his allies beside him ready their weapons.

Two men draw their swords, and a wizard in the back grasps her staff in both hands. Besides their brutish leader, another woman loads an arrow into her crossbow and takes a few cautious steps back. As the door squeaks and the joints rattle, the man inches closer and closer.

The sudden, loud sound of metal clacking against the floor, accompanied by wet gurgling, draws the man’s attention. His eyes dart back, and he sees him. Ryoumen Sukuna, a monster, is standing at the center of the room. Dark, red liquid drips from his fingers; an aura of hate floods the air, and the very room shrinks from his immense presence. The two men by his side choke, blood seeping through the gaps in their fingers as they desperately grasp at their throats.

Sukuna stands surrounded, and yet it brings a smile to his face.

The barbarian stands in stunned silence, horrified at the sight of his men so easily killed, but the woman beside him is composed enough to cock her crossbow and take aim. Before the bolt can hit, Sukuna vanishes and appears from across the room. Cracking her across the face with such force, her head ricochets off the stone wall behind her.

The brute rallies himself with a war cry loud enough to ripple the air and attacks the King of Curses. Sukuna avoids the first swing, blocks the second, and catches the third before it reaches him. Behind the King, a woman’s voice exclaims, “Perurē" Sukuna tries to meet the sound’s origin, but lightning strikes through his body before he can turn.

Every muscle tenses and contracts, his insides burn, his bones creak, and agony radiates through his spine. He can’t even breathe; the best he can manage is exhaling smoke as he grunts in pain.

Charging forward, the berserker’s club thuds against Sukuna, causing him to wince; the large man lashes out, wildly swinging his weapon. The King of Curses ignores his injury, ducking and weaving beneath every attack, deftly avoiding each strike. His enemy slows, and Sukuna quietly mutters under his breath, “Grit your teeth.”

At the apex of his adversary’s swing, the warrior pivots and smacks the marauder with an open palm. His jaw makes an unsettling click, and the man staggers backwards; his legs wobble before giving out, causing him to fall to his knees.

The berserker exhales, as he tries as hard as he can to mend his dislocated jaw, blood dripping from his nose; all while Sukuna watches calmly, slowly catching his breath. He can still feel the lingering ache in his fingers from the lightning, and there is still a tightness in his chest that strains his breathing. He scans the room and sets his sights on the woman who struck him, only to find a blade sunk into her chest. With utter shock written on her face, the last thing she sees is Astarion’s sinful smile as he appears from the shadows behind her.

Shadowheart appears through the open door; by placing her hand on her chest and whispering a prayer, she bathes their leader in a radiant light. The burns on his arms fade, the stiffness in his chest alleviates, and the aching in his hands vanishes. It’s a pleasant feeling, soothing, yet oddly familiar.

The warrior looks to the cleric, and despite not saying a single word, Shadowheart believes she can understand the minute changes in his otherwise stern expressions. She interprets the slight shift in his stoic eyes as a sign of approval - whether accurate or not

His enemy, with shaking hands and a bloodied nose, pulls a red vial from his pocket. He lifts the concoction to his mouth and takes a deep swig. Its red liquid drips from the corner of his mouth, each gulp as loud as the next. Throwing the container to the ground, he grabs his loose jaw and forces it into place. It makes another deep click, and he recoils in pain.

Gale points his staff toward the angered man, magic flaring from its tip. However, Sukuna lifts his hand to deny the wizard his input in the battle; his expression is subtly hopeful, pleased at the prospect of a second round. The Wizard of Waterdeep is equally reluctant to withdraw, as he is confused.

“You’re a tough nut to crack.” The King of Curses taunts as he shifts from a lowered guard into a battle-ready stance, as if inviting the man to attack.

The grave-digging marauder wipes his nose and spits a thick globule of bloodied phlegm and shards of broken teeth onto the floor. “Your death ain’t gonna be a pretty one, asshole.” the brute replies, his hand firmly planted on the shaft of his club.

“Kukuku,” Sukuna chuckles, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Steam exhales from the bandit’s nose as he charges like a bull; he winds up a large, telegraphed swing. Light flashes as he’s struck midattack, and his follow-through misses. “Good! That’s the spirit!” The King of Curses calls out. The berserker yells as he swings again, only to be parried and nailed with a right cross. “Faster!” Sukuna shouts with a smile, “Come on, you can do it!”

The beast roars and solidly plants his feet before unleashing a ferocious attack with all his remaining strength. Countering the blow, Sukuna buries his fist deep within the enemy’s stomach; the force reverberates throughout the room, and all air escapes the barbarian’s lungs. His eyes bulge, and a cloud of blood shoots from his mouth as he doubles over and wheezes in pain.

Arms slowly wrap around his neck; Sukuna whispers an inch from his ear. “Come on, stop being so predictable. Show me your anger, curse me, give me more.”

He squeezes his arms far tighter, creating a secure lock around the bruiser’s neck. The King of Curses stands, lifting the barbarian with him. He digs his nails into Sukuna’s arms, he jerks about trying to free himself. Blood rushes to his head, his eyes are bloodshot and strained; no air reaches his lungs, and he drifts into unconsciousness.

With one final, harsh twist, a deep, unsettling cracking rings out, and the man’s lifeless body drops to the red-stained floor, drooling bloodied spit between the bricks.

Silence besets the battlefield; everyone looks towards their leader, and yet no one knows quite what to say. Gale is the first to speak, with subtle weariness in his voice, “I’m impressed, although I don’t think toying with the man was entirely necessary.”

“Who cares, it was a bloody good show.” Astarion replies rather flippantly.

Sukuna takes a long, deep breath as he runs his fingers through his hair. His expression says it all: he is unimpressed, unsatisfied, bored. “One disappointment after another. Honestly, I’m beginning to have doubts about this place,” he replies, walking through the room of corpses.

The elf and cleric follow, unperturbed by the conflict; Gale, however, is reluctant. His newly appointed leader’s ruthlessness leaves him hesitant to continue. He heard the story of the Nautiloid and the subsequent slaughter of their Ilithid captor, but being witness to the same brutality applied to fellow men leaves an unsavoury taste.

Shadowheart sees the contemplative wizard and has a good idea of what he feels - she has felt the same. “Just be thankful he’s on our side, I know I am,” she asserts as she turns to return to the others. She then whispers, affirming to herself more than to her ally, “The sooner you accept that, the easier this will become.”

Gale attempts to step forward, slowly and unsure, but a tight pain grips his chest. His tattoo glows as an ancient magic stirs within. He grasps at his chest, trying to exercise what little control he has; beads of sweat form on his forehead, and he just about manages to quell the curse.

Shadowheart hears his strained breathing and turns to see the man panting; the light from his tattoo fades before she manages to notice. “Honestly, what’s the matter now?” She asks callously, rolling her eyes at the sight of the doubled-over wizard. “If you’re getting in a panic over how a barbarian kills a few bandits, I don’t think you can do this.”

“Don’t worry, I assure you there is more on my mind than Ryoumen Sukuna,” Gale answers between laboured breaths. “I know as well as you do, ruthlessness like his can be just as much an asset as my magic.”

It is clear that he hides something, but the cleric cannot figure out what he alludes to. “What could be so pressing? We all share the same tadpole,” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“My problem may lie deeper than that, Shadowheart,” Gale answers with an oddly resigned tone. The cleric’s less-than-impressed expression quickly tells the wizard that his words might be sending the wrong message; he meets the cleric’s eyes and, with an enthusiastic smile, reassures her. “Not to worry, you have my word that my problems are my own and they won’t be getting in the way of our escapades.”

Shadowheart, still as guarded as ever, makes her doubt known. “Right, see to it that it doesn’t. We have enough on our plates without needing to worry about a weary wizard.”

“Ha, true enough. Now then, that’s enough of that, let’s reconvene with the others - I believe there’s a grave with our names on it.”

Shadowheart chuckles softly, “You sure have a way with words, Gale.”

Further into the crypt, Astarion takes the lead of the party. Not out of a newfound motivation, but because the crypt is full of traps designed to deter people just like them - and Sukuna doesn’t seem to care. Haphazardly tripping the traps as he walks headlong into the ruins, the Pale Elf, preferring not to tempt fate, walks ahead, keeping his wits about him as he preemptively disarms the traps. It also serves to benefit the elf, giving him ample opportunity to score first dibs on all the loot he happens upon.

Shadowheart carries a dusty, deeply eroded book that she picked up from one of the many shelves dotted around the place. The fact that the grave-robbers were too money-hungry even to notice the books has proved a blessing for the cleric. The book she carries is just one of a series; each one contains the same message inside.

No words of wisdom, no ancient knowledge, no story of any kind, just a long list of names. One book after another, all the same thing; some names crossed out, some too difficult to read from the book’s age - most are just ordinary names. At first, she speculated that each name connected to the crypt; however, there are too few tombs to fit a list of this size.

One particularly ornate and well-hidden book, capped with a sturdy, arcane lock, did have names she vaguely recognised. After some deciphering and the recollection of long-since-forgotten memories, she understands these names to belong to dead gods. Many names are unfamiliar, a few crossed out entirely, with the last three obscured beneath so many strokes they have become completely illegible.

For her own sake, she decides it’s best to keep that book to herself; the fewer questions directed at her, the better.

Eventually, the party reaches the ruin’s final chamber, where they all experience sunlight for the first time since entering the tomb. Over many decades since the crypt’s construction, water from a nearby cave eroded the brickwork, causing the entire left-hand wall to cave in. The sounds of the river’s flow and the subtle taste of the sea’s salty spray give a nice respite from the otherwise dry and cold air of the ruins. For now, pillars support the weight of the atrium, protecting what’s left from collapse.

On the opposite wall, a large statue depicting a skeletal figure wearing a long cloak stands, watching the entire room. The stone statue holds a scroll that extends far beyond the length of the already tall sculpture. Cracks along the ceiling bathe the statue in warm light, allowing plants to grow. Roots girdle the wall behind it, and bright green vines straddle the grandiose effigy.

The King of Curses gives Shadowheart a command look, “Cleric, you serve gods, is this one of them?”

Shadowheart closes her book and examines the statue; its quill, the scroll, the statue certainly feels like it holds a divine aspect; however, trying so heavily to decipher the meaning of the long lists of names has left her head empty. “Well… They seem to embody death in some capacity, although I’m not too sure who it is,” she speculates.

Everyone is enchanted by the statue, except Astarion, who continues to scour the room in hopes of finding whatever loot he can get his hands on. The party’s chattering echoes off the walls, yet the elf’s ears tingle at the faintest sound of something clattering in the dark. His sharp eyes scan each wall, but he finds nothing, except one shadow that appears to be growing. He leers at the shadows, the clacking becomes louder, and the shadow grows bigger.

Maintaining his fixed gaze, he tries to warn the others, “Uhm, I think you need to,” but his voice cuts out; more than that, all sound cuts out. His voice, his breathing, the sound of his feet shuffling, everything becomes silent.

Sukuna turns, his arms crossed, only to be met with a blue light flying towards him; he instinctively raises his hand to block the projectile, but the force blows his whole arm back. He feels his muscles stiffen, growing colder by the second. He sees Shadowheart from the corner of his eye, recoiling; he can’t hear her yelp but can see the grimace on her face and her shoulder covered in frost.

Everyone readies their weapons, the King steps forward, and two enemies present themselves: Skeletons, draped in purple robes. They rush the party with swords in hand - Astarion blocks a slash aimed at the wounded cleric, who returns fire with a smack of her mace.

The party forms a defensive circle. Shadowheart and Gale both stand behind their leader with frustration etched into their faces; without their voices, they cannot cast their spells.

More enemies appear from the shadows, now totalling five skeletons, the two with swords, as well as three more holding staffs. Around the party, a translucence barrier contains them. Sukuna suspects that it is the source of the silence.

One sword-wielding undead charges at the elf - Astarion prepares to parry the attack, but the King of Curses has his own plan. He grabs the rogue by his collar and yanks him back, the skeleton’s sword swishes past the Pale Elf, close enough to trim his hair. It tries swinging once more, but Sukuna catches the blade and tears it from its bony hands. With a swift kick, he pushes the monster away and bludgeons its skull with the sword’s hilt.

With no hesitation, Sukuna launches the sword across the room, striking through the centermost staff-wielding skeleton’s exposed chest. The entire party hears its bones shatter against the ground.

“Finally..." Shadowheart and Gale say in unison; the cleric unfurls a scroll, and the wizard gestures with his hands to focus his magic. “Tormentum!" They shout simultaneously, shooting six crimson darts from their palms. The missiles weave between the pillars, crackling through the air and striking the skeletons - shattering their bones with each impact.

The bones all rattle as they collide with the ground. One solitary skeleton remains, dragging its half-destroyed body towards the group; Sukuna crushes its skull to dust beneath his foot, snuffing out whatever cruel life it held.

Something behind them shifts; the uncomfortably loud sound of stone scraping against stone echoes through the dead halls, and everyone’s hair stands on end. Candles around the base of the statue erupt with a green flame; Sukuna, in a rare moment of cautiousness, picks up the discarded sword.

The air seems to grow far colder, and a chill breeze runs through the entire chamber. Everyone’s grip remains firm. A shadow peaks out from around the corner, slowly approaching. The candle’s green flame extinguishes as the figure, cloaked in mystery, floats around the bend and stands in front of the statue.

“So he has spoken, and so thou standest before me. Right as always,” the figure says with an incredibly raspy and dry voice. “What a curious way to awaken.”