I have Divine Remix, and so Bay is a Painbearer or Ilmater; I've had a lot of fun developing her, but I'm not sure I'll ever write a whole chronicle of her adventure.
"I prayed to Ilmater once," he says; she has peeled his armor away, equipped herself yet again with cool water and bandages and a thick paste that passes for an antiseptic. Cespenar had it, she says, when he asks, but that is all. Imoen and Edwin have sequestered themselves in the corner by virtue of being the only ones who understand why the other is so put out by what they're seeing, and he can feel their glowering.
Bay says nothing; she only pauses long enough to give him a glance that says to continue, before she continues tending to his wounds. The bard and the Halfling exchange tales a few feet away, close enough to hear their idle chatter, but far enough not to make it out, and he's sure that if he keeps his voice low, his confession can fall on his sister's ears, and her ears alone.
Not that they're really siblings anymore, or that, in being siblings, they would have any form of intimacy. But he is drifting already, lost, without even his fate to bind him in place, and he needs something to hold onto.
"That was the day Reiltar found me," he continued, "And I thought Ilmater had truly heard my prayers."
She nods, and he wonders if somehow, she understands what he means, what he's saying. She's seen the scars on his back, on his chest, on his arms. She knows which ones she herself inflicted – her fingers have been lighter when she touched those than the others, as if in the face of her own power for destruction, even she hesitated.
It's her hesitance that reminds him they should hurt, but they do not.
"Your god has a twisted sense of humor," he says, and when she turns to dip the cloth in the water and wring it over the stone floor, he swears he sees the quick twitch of a smile.
She does not smile as often as she used to, as much as she did when she struck him down, but now her smiles mean something. They are not a mask or a pretense. Whatever she was trying to be before, she has either given up, or achieved it when he's been too dead to stop her.
"I don't think He has a sense of humor at all," she replies, "I don't think He is what makes religion so powerful."
Sarevok considers her, quietly. There is a long pause before he asks, "Then what does?"
She is almost done; his wounds have stopped hurting. She rinses the cloth out one last time, and rings it dry before folding it neatly and setting it on the top of her pack.
"It takes away the doubt," she says, after she's thought for a moment, "And the fear. You don't have to figure out what you're supposed to do, because you've already been told. You don't even really have to figure out how to do it, because someone else has already figured it out. You can just do it."
Sarevok feels a laugh bubble up in his throat, disdainful and disgusted. It comes out as a snort, and there's another quick, sly grin on his sister's face. She returns to packing up the tools of her trade, an arcane, complicated mishmash he could never make sense of. Wizardry, thievery – these weren't so hard to understand. But putting all your faith in someone else – even in the darkest times, he could find no way to do something so delicate. He'd waited for months in purgatory until he'd felt her call, her anger.
It's hard to remember she feels pain, but it's hard to forget the taste of it. He's left with a sour coating over his tongue, and an uncomfortable feeling that he's missing out on something he's too afraid to reach out and take.
"You're no longer a hollow puppet for the Martyred One," he says, "Have you grown since you left Candlekeep? Did Gorion's death free you? Should you be thanking me for killing him?"
It's cruel and he knows it, but there's no reaction on her face. She's used to people who lash out when they're in pain. The thought should rile him further, but he's not angry to begin with. He's empty, burnt out.
She reaches out, resting her hand on his cheek, "Gorion was never the one keeping me trapped. I've forgiven you for what you've done. But I do miss him, and what was done hurt. Don't bring it up again, brother."
Her hand is gone, leaving behind only a chill, as if she were a ghost. She stands, not gracefully, but not clumsily either, and turns to walk away. Imoen pounces on her immediately while Edwin glowers from the other side of the admittedly quite small room. Bay shakes her head at whatever protests Imoen is making.
Haer'Dalis slides down beside him. Sarevok is in no mood to speak to strangers, and in one miracle or another, Haer'Dalis seems to have nothing to say. They sit in silence. Haer'Dalis scratches notes onto parchment and then scratches out the notes.
Sarevok watches Bay.