Welcome!
I hope you like/spare a moment for this, my first Baldur's Gate fanfic. Inspiration came in the form of the release of EE, but this is based on the original...with a few of my own changes here and there, so you may notice a few minor alterations to characters etc (eg, I always liked the idea that Imoen's hair was naturally pink...), as well as plot additions, twists and so on, naturally.
Thanks to the rather dark nature of the SoA material - and a morally ambiguous/sometimes psychopathic Charname (cheers for doing that, Irenicus) - the rating will probably rise to M eventually.
Anyway, onwards! Let me know what you think. :)

Prologue: Voices in the Dark and Things Best Left Unvoiced

All there was…pain. Pain, and all the forms of suffering that there could, or would, ever be. A cage of iron digging in to raw skin, and manacles full of burning magic to stop any movement with hundreds of tiny needles forced into her skin beneath their too-tight press. He had blindfolded her again, but her eyes burned as if open and staring straight at the sun. He had taken her mask, baring her facial markings, and without it she felt more naked than if he had stripped her bare. That had come later. And then his cold gaze as he watched, talking all that time, had been just as terrible for it meant that everything would be remembered.

She knew that once there had been something else; many something elses, in fact. But for now all she knew was that manifold pain and suffering, for not always did such horrors need to be brought on by physical pain. Her captor knew that well.

He had removed her blindfold for the first time – oh those eons ago – only after he had left her alone in that cage for hours…maybe days. No food or water, nowhere to relieve herself. When first she had awoken, shivering and blinded, caged and manacled, she had screamed for help, demanded answers – where was she, who was he, why was he doing this, why was she captive? Why, Why, Why… And at the last she had cursed him, cursed all of Faerûn and wept bitter tears of frustration, horror and agony as she realised how her cruelly spiked manacles had shredded her skin as she thrashed.

Only once she had spent her rage and strength had he entered the room; the creak of a metal door, and the pad of a pair of light, evenly paced footsteps. She had heard the rumble of something else following him, the grinding of stone on stone – the tell-tale pounding of heavy footsteps made it clear to her that he had a golem at hand behind him, always. The clang of the door. Ah, the Child of Bhaal has awoken. He had paced around the cage as he talked in that deep, sombre tone, clipped and precise. He had all but rambled, of her heritage, of its 'untapped power'. Of her father the god Bhaal and his millennia-passed rise to the portfolios of Murder and Death. He had speculated on the heritage of her mother (such peculiar markings mar your face, Child of Bhaal. What manner of creature whelped you?) and on the form Bhaal had taken to sire her. His tone was cold and dictatorial, but never angry.

His first spell had wormed into her mind without warning, shattering her thoughts like a hammer on thin glass. She had screamed and writhed anew until blood poured from her wrists and her mouth. He had not seemed to respond, only to express calm disappointment. And then he had left her. The next day he tried his 'spell' again and when she fought it he had sighed and opened the cage door, reaching in and plucking the blindfold from her.

The light was dim, but after so long in the darkness it took her several painful moments for her to adjust, seeing the blurred form of her tormentor and the backdrop of the dark, stone room. A few tables, arrayed with many…objects, not yet visible through her fogged sight, and the hulking form of the golem by the dark splodge of the door in the far wall.

You do not understand, do you, Child of Bhaal? Her captor had sighed, her epithet a mantra on his lips, with its own special rhythm and…reverence. You hold so much potential within you, but you do nothing with the boon fate has dealt you. And you rant and rave at me, who could unlock this gift for you. He might have scoffed, if his tone had not been so cold. And as he spoke, her unwilling vision cleared. Once it had, she wished it had not.

She had been staring past the man before her, determined not to meet his eyes when she could see so poorly, and slowly the long tables in the room had become clear. Upon them, laid out in neat rows upon pristine metal trays, were scalpels and tweezers of all sizes, carving knives, saws…as many knives as the most twisted torturer could name, and other implements she doubted had names in the tongues of the Prime Material Plane. Perhaps seeing her dawning horror, the man before her turned, looking over his shoulder to follow her gaze. He grunted an affirmative.

You do not understand. But you will, and they are some of the tools with which I shall begin the…process.

He had gestured imperiously to the hulking clay golem waiting by the door, speaking a command phrase, and the automaton had rumbled into movement, crossing the room in three quick, grinding strides to pluck the cage from its current alignment, tipping and twisting her confining structure until she lay on her back, her captor by her side. Only then did he turn back to face her, and she took in the visage of her tormentor for the first time. Dressed simply in a plain tunic and trousers, he was small for a human, muscular for an elf. He wore no badge or adornment, no insignia by which she might learn of him. And his face…was a horror. It appeared that at some stage the skin had been removed, and then reattached with metal wire stitches – a gap existed between the separated skin such that she could see the glisten of red muscle and tissue beneath. But his face did not appear fake; it fitted too well. He was bald, the skin of his scalp and neck terribly scarred, cracked and oozing in places. And he watched her horror without surprise or apparent blame with his thin, pale lips curved in a little smile displaying incongruously perfect teeth. But his eyes were expressionless, pale grey and staring steadily back at her.

Ah. You, who are so marred yourself yet you look upon me with horror. Trust me, you will learn. We should begin. You will learn. The words sent a shudder of fear through her, familiar from a different voice – from dreams of creeping fear and encroaching darkness which she would rather endure for a decade than face this. Than know what they were about to begin.

After that, her hell had not abated. Every horror of reality and the mind, of the flesh and of the soul; he used them all. And over time, as his spells wormed ever further into her being, there had begun a change. It was hardly tangible, but rather a shift in consciousness. The blossoming of something which, at first, had felt golden and warm, but beneath that glow lay a darkness so powerful that the nightmares it brought had chased any semblance of sleep from her. Still, it crept at the fringes of her consciousness, something warm and golden promising release in its depths. But fear kept her from it, and no, the darkness in her had not ended; just as did her torment, it only grew.

Until…

A great rumbling had begun some time ago, the cage swaying sickeningly as the walls and ceiling shrieked and buckled around her. Blindfolded, manacled, crouched once more upright in her cage, she hung limp and longing for the stone to bury her. But more than that…begging all the gods that her captor died first. After a time, however, the deafening cacophony had faded, as if moving further distant from her stone room full of blood, and horror, and memories…and knives.

"Elatharia! Elatharia!" a familiar voice cut through the darkness without warning. No hint of the door opening, no footsteps on the bare cold stone.

The cell door groaned open, a cold hand settled on her shoulder.

"Wake up. Come on," a hint of desperation, maybe even despair, in that high voice which was so glorious to her senses in that moment, "We've got to get out of here!" Even whispered with such urgency, that voice made her think of summer sunlight, the lulling crash of waves, and the smell of dusty old tomes. Candlekeep…

"I-Imoen?" her voice cracked on the word, creaking up through a dry throat raw from screaming and lack of water. Her sister, after a fashion. And as the gentle fingers pulled free the blindfold, she knew it was her sister. No illusion, no transmutation, no lie could ever copy her sister's goodness. And goodness welled up from Imoen in waves. It had something to do with her heritage.

Still, Elatharia scrambled back reflexively as she blinked into suddenly conjured light, illuminating the macabre room. Old habit crumbled at the sight of the fragile figure leaning towards her. Before her was not her disfigured captor but a familiar, dear form. It was taking longer than normal for her eyes to adjust to the light; it was brighter than her captor's.

"Hey, I know it hurts," Imoen crouched down beneath the orb of summoned light with one furtive glance over shoulder, flicking her tangled pink hair from her eyes when she looked back and tried to smile. The look did not really reach her eyes, which looked too big in her face now. Even so, the deep sea blue of them was as uncannily beautiful as ever. But she was thinner than she had been, and paler. Her feet and legs were bare, clad as she was only in a short black slip. She did not appear recently harmed (though their captor's healing methods were as clever as his tortures; wounds would close and vanish only to be remade) and she was clean but for her bare feet. Her hair looked tangled from sleep or agitated messing, as vibrant as ever. A cold fear crept through Elatharia's heart as she tried to regain her words, listening to Imoen mutter gentle nothings as she fiddled with the locks of the manacles.

Elatharia's eyes flitted back to the dress Imoen wore. Slit at each side and thin as well, it looked to be some kind of night dress. It fitted her newly-thin frame well. Too well. Like it had been made for her, a sharp contrast to the soiled roughspun sack Elatharia wore, the younger girl's clean, pale skin at odds with her own dirtied form. Knotted pink hair as opposed to matted, rancid black hair. The dried blood hopefully disguised the strands of gold which had begun to appear after Sarevok died. But nothing could be done about the markings on her face.

When the manacles slipped free, Elatharia ignored Imoen's sympathetic hiss at the sight of the pins inside, fresh blood blooming and slipping down her icy white arms. Instead she caught her little sister's chin in her fingers, turning Imoen's face to her own, staring into those blue eyes and seeing for herself the change. It took just that one look to see the loss of the curiosity and wonder and to understand that she had surely suffered as much as Elatharia, in her own way. She's your little sister. You have to be strong for her. Rage for all that had passed pushed aside her pain, and she pulled Imoen into her arms, clinging to her with a ferocity which the other girl shared, apparently unbothered by the grime upon Elatharia.

"He will pay for this," the elder sister growled when they drew apart and Imoen helped her clamber from the cage, "And we will get out of this."

She ignored the burn in her limbs, swaying a moment before letting go of Imoen and looking around, forcing her thoughts to the present and trying to remember what survival instinct she had in her. For a moment she stared dumbly into the room, grey and silver and nothing else in the bright white glow of her sister's conjured light. Some distant part of her remembered that she had been the one to teach Imoen that. Stupidly, she patted at her rough, shapeless dress for a moment, at her hair, her face. And then she remembered. With a wave of her hand, a twist of her wrist, she reached into the weave and changed the shade of the light to dull orange. A sidelong glance at her staring sister.

"It's more like his light. We don't know who might be watching outside the door," she pointed out, looking about the room for something. Something to cover herself, something to arm herself with which wasn't acquainted with her own skin…

"He hasn't let you out of here once, has he?" Imoen asked softly, keeping one arm around Elatharia's waist, "There's a way out, plain as…day. But there's no way to it while his spell shields are up. Except…something's happening. Someone's broken in, and they're attacking him and his golems! I found Jaheira and Minsc – they've gone to look for supplies."

"H-he took the others?" Elatharia's heart jolted and she looked once more at Imoen, who nodded solemnly, "What about Khalid…and Dynaheir?"

"He's…he's dead." Imoen's eyes flickered back to Elatharia briefly, her expression terrifyingly still, "Irenicus…our captor…he laid him out on a table and said 'do you see' and cut and said 'do you see?' And then he brought Jaheira to watch him die. And made me look at it all. And then…and then he did the same thing with Dynaheir. Oh, Minsc's screams…"

Her voice broke as tears spilled onto her cheeks, her face momentarily crumpling with grief and misery, but when Elatharia touched her arm, automatically seeking to comfort her sister even beyond her own horror and grief which swirled in her empty stomach, Imoen took a breath and mastered herself. She nodded to the doorway.

"He kept some of our things…in his quarters. I got them when he left to fight the new men," Imoen twisted about to show a cloth bag on her shoulder, "I've got our spellbooks, some of our old rings, and Gorion's enchanted cloak you kept. I woulda brought you something to wear, too, if I'd thought…"

"It doesn't matter," Elatharia tried not to snap, taking the bag from Imoen and slinging it over her own shoulder automatically, trying to straighten up when her sister's gaze flickered back to her warily, "I don't need to be clean until we get out of here. Do you know where we're meeting Jaheira and Minsc?"

"Yeah, not far," Imoen seemed to swallow a lump in her throat, nodding a little too forcefully as she crossed the room and moved to the open door. Its unknown darkness sent a chill through Elatharia, who had not seen that it was open before.

Feeling as if her joints were grinding as surely as the golems' and her head pounding so hard that the walls seemed to pulse around her, Elatharia followed Imoen, the light bobbing along behind them. She touched a hand to her sister's arm, catching her eye before they stepped out into that unknown corridor, keeping her voice hushed now as she spoke.

"You heard me before? I promise you, we will get out of here," she vowed.

Imoen just nodded, so young and lost in that moment. For all they had fought and suffered in Baldur's Gate to overthrow Sarevok, Imoen was so young. Barely nineteen. Elatharia was not much older, but she felt responsible. She was a Child of Bhaal; trouble followed her. If she had not deduced that Imoen had been tormented much as she had, she would have assumed her nature was the entire reason for their captivity. And Imoen? Gorion had said she had a far more glorious heritage, which showed in the silvery sheen of her beautiful eyes and the pink shade of her hair. She was an aasimar, one who bore the blood of a deva, solar or planetar. And now she looked upon her adoptive sister with a mixture of hopeful concern and shadowed fear.

"We will," Imoen agreed at last, again with that failed smile, "That's why I came for ya, remember? But you should know: we're in some kind of underground complex, and it's full of…terrible things. Not just rooms like…yours, not just automatons like his golems. He had whole rooms of…jars. Full of things. He's hunting for something, trying to make something and find something. We were part of that," again that guarded look, a careful glance down the hall, and a pat of Elatharia's hand, "We should go, right?"

"Right. Lead on, little sister."

Imoen did not smile, and Elatharia did not try to. They clutched each other's hands and stepped into the corridor, their light following and illuminating their path.

Outside of her room the corridors were dark, of plain hewn stone, uniformly formless except for the evenly spaced and unused torch brackets. Imoen's light led the way and the sisters crept through the eerie silence, past ominous metal doors, and dark unknown passageways until the glow of torchlight could be seen under the closed door ahead. The familiar boom of Minsc's voice could be heard from within, and for a moment the pair relaxed.

Buoyed by hope, they sped up along their course, only to collide with a dark figure rushing the other way, from around the corner beside them. Both parties leapt back with a yelp and bared steel gleamed in the conjured light from this previously unseen figure.

"Stand aside!" this new man snapped, his accent clipped and unfamiliar even to the young scholars of Candlekeep, that fortress whose wealth lay in its unending depth of knowledge, "I will not be denied my freedom!"

"Freedom?" Elatharia squinted past the light when he did not immediately make for them. Neither had prepared any spells, and both clutched little daggers that Imoen had unearthed from their bag. The man was indeed dressed in discoloured sackcloth clothing much like her own, though the beautiful pattern-welded katana he brandished between them looked anything but harmless. He held it with the practiced ease of its true owner, "You were a captive here just as we were?"

"You do not serve the bastard Jon Irenicus?" the man sounded hopeful and surprised, lowering his katana – though Elatharia continued to inch in front of Imoen. After a moment he stepped into the light, sheathing the blade in its incongruously decorative scabbard at his hip. Seeing his distinctive high cheekbones and almond eyes, glinting black in the light, she finally placed him as Kara-Turan.

"We do not," she agreed warily, lowering her knife as Imoen did hers.

"This place is under attack; it would be wise to escape together," the man ventured, and before Elatharia could speak Imoen was nodding.

"We need all the help we can get," the younger girl said, "We have two more friends waiting in the library," and she nodded to the closed door ahead.

"Then I will be glad to join you," the man looked – and sounded – intensely relieved, "I am no stranger to battle, and we could help each other." His calm smile proved to Elatharia that he had not been subjected to the same horrors as she or her sister, "With my weapon returned to me, I am more than happy to join with you. I am Yoshimo of Kara-Tur. And you are?"

"Imoen."

"Elatharia. Both of Candlekeep."

"Then let us away, friends."

"Right you are," Imoen agreed, looking a little pleased at least to have found a new helper as she voiced her agreement, and Elatharia could only nod as they moved for the door ahead. Yoshimo looked confident with that sword, and his wiry but muscular frame belied his profession as some kind of combat expert trained in stealth.

Imoen stepped through first into the library, followed next by Elatharia and last by Yoshimo, who allowed the girl to warn their other companions of his arrival amongst them, closing the door carefully behind himself. Beyond all was bright golden firelight and row upon row of books. At the centre of it all crouched Jaheira amongst a mismatched mess of arms and armour, papers and potions. Minsc loomed by her side, gigantic and muscular as ever, bald head tattooed unflatteringly with purple swirls. He had a black eye, and a long cut on his bare arm. It looked like they had been looking for armour, and had only managed to find a sleeveless leather jerkin which would fit his broad frame, otherwise he wore only loose sackcloth trousers, his large feet bare. Now he turned his expressive face towards the newcomers, and a blank look turned joyful, though he had done nothing to wipe away the tears streaking his cheeks. Dynaheir was gone, and she had been his to protect in the eyes of the Rashemi.

"Elatharia!" the berserker cried with such ebullient glee, so at odds with his massive frame…and adult years, bounding over to the Transmuter and lifting her into a crushing hug. Crouched upon his enormous shoulder, the hamster Boo squeaked accord, "Boo said evil would not prevail against one such as you, and I am glad to have listened!"

"Thank you. I…ah…won't ask how Boo evaded capture."

She tried to smile up at his tattooed face with at least a measure of the relief and gratitude she felt, but it was hard when she could see him curling his nose at the smell clinging to her, his – rather unobservant – eyes latching on to the black marks across her cheeks. They were a birthmark, but one her companions were unused to seeing. Squeezing his arm, she turned her face away lest he see the hurt in her eyes.

"I'm sorry about Dynaheir, Minsc."

She sensed his face fall. His heavily accented voice, not given to long strings of words or displaying any emotions beyond a hatred of evil and a perpetual enthusiasm for seeing happiness everywhere, was broken and quiet when he answered.

"Minsc and Boo have failed our Dynaheir. Our captor slew her as we watched, and we could not stop him." His fists curled at his sides and he turned away, for once not knowing how best to display his anger.

Elatharia tried to speak, but no words rose past the lump in her throat. A glance to Imoen showed her pink haired sister was watching the exchange with Minsc from across the open area in the centre of this library, blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, her chin trembling. She tried to smile to Elatharia, but looked away instead when only tears spilled and no smile would come. Yoshimo was carefully staring through the grate in the door, avoiding an intrusion upon this most awful of reunions.

That left Jaheira, the half-elven druid kneeling in the middle of the room, still sorting through the scavenged items with a focus that belied her desperation to avoid the needed communication with Elatharia. The weapons and armour looked ill-matched, as if scavenged from many different sources. No doubt they had come from many different…captives, in truth. Elatharia felt the blood drain from her face at the thought, and tried to steel herself for the ferocious druid's behaviour. Khalid was dead, Jaheira had watched it happen and the druidess was well known for channelling even the smallest amount of discomfort or unhappiness into overwrought aggression. But now did not seem the time to respond to something which had made the relationship between the two half-elves – Jaheira and Elatharia – very strained at times.

Right now, the druid was studiously refusing to look up at the sight of the Transmuter, even knowing the horrors that must surely have passed in the dungeons. For her part, Jaheira looked in a similar condition to Yoshimo and Minsc; dirty, dishevelled, but without the vacant stare or suspiciously unmarred skin of one who Irenicus had tormented as he had Imoen and Elatharia. For Jaheira there had been the horror of Khalid's torture…and a lashing, from the look of the unhealed red welts curling over her shoulders from her back, just visible from the neckline of her scavenged jerkin. Her hair had been pulled sharply back into a few blonde braids, and her expression was set into something blank and hard.

"We have found a bow that will do for Imoen, but the arrows are severely limited. Any clothes will be ill-fitting, but you have not had a chance to memorise any spells, I assume, so a little armour might keep you safe," the druid began abruptly, a little too fast.

Jaheira raised her head only briefly, her narrowed grey eyes flashing dangerously as she stood with a gesture towards the pile at her booted feet before moving as if to turn away, hefting a spear to rest against the crook of her elbow as she sought to look anywhere but at Elatharia. She had dressed in a worn leather jerkin over a rough shirt, tattered leggings tucked into boots so battered that a hole gaped at each scuffed heel, so large that they buckled around her narrow ankles. She looked thinner than before, like Imoen, bruises at her wrists suggesting she had been manacled – unlike Imoen. The chain about her neck, from which hung her wedding ring, now bore an additional golden band. Khalid's ring.

"J-Jaheira," Elatharia's words caught in her throat, just as they had with Minsc, and the druid's shoulders grew rigid, still turned away, "He was…a good man. And we will have our vengeance."

The druid whirled on her, grey eyes glistening with tears and nothing but rage upon her angular features.

"And if you continue to simper and whine he will have died for nothing. You do not know anything about pain, or grief, or…or love," her expression flashed with a new pulse of rage when Elatharia blanched and Imoen stepped up, palms out in a calming gesture. The druid's chin quivered, her hands shook…but she was not finished, "None of you know! You will all forget him when we have escaped but I…I will never live again. So I will have vengeance. You will help me find this man, this Irenicus, and I will drive my spear through his black heart because you owe me this, and you will not speak to me as if you care, or as if you know," her voice grew deeper with her wrath, eyes lingering as Minsc's had upon the markings marring Elatharia's face as if she saw Bhaal before her, not a young woman who had endured…everything, "Now pick up some things and let us move out. He died because of you. He should not have. It should have been you."

The druid's cold, hard tone was as the bare stone around them, and the others watched her in haunted silence for several long moments. Those words had stung like a whip, and inside Elatharia the golden light amongst the darkness unfurled just a little from where it coiled in her deepest thoughts. She began to quake with rage, not grief, not guilt. Just rage. With a snarl, she lunged for a blade in the pile of things before her, but Imoen caught her wrists immediately, as if she had been expecting it. When large blue eyes met Elatharia's green ones, there was a long look between them. As if the younger sister understood. None of the others had been looking, all too torn up with their own grief to watch the aftermath of Jaheira's speech. Did the druid really care nothing for Elatharia's suffering? For Imoen's? Or did she not understand?

Had Irenicus dissected your husband alive he could not have suffered as I have. If not for his determination that I live to suffer again, I would have died from my wounds a hundred times over. But the words did not come, instead Elatharia knelt there, braced by Imoen, breathing in great rasps of pained air.

"Let it go. Let it pass. You know how she is, she's just grieving. She doesn't mean it," Imoen tried to soothe her, "She doesn't blame you. If she blames you, then she blames me, too."

But the anger settled to a low seethe, and with a grunt Elatharia pulled away, rising to her feet slowly, glaring daggers at Jaheira's back. As if sensing her stare, the other half-elf tensed again, looking over her shoulder coldly. The Transmuter's answering words came out in a hard snarl.

"I offered you kindness because no words would do for what has befallen. And in return you had only evil words for me. You are not the only one who has lost, or suffered. Get in line, druid. We all need to work together to get out alive."

Jaheira eyes grew cold at her tone but the druid straightened up and nodded, staying silent while Yoshimo, Elatharia and Imoen filtered through the things she and Minsc had gathered. There was little of use for them, though Yoshimo came upon his own torn up leather jerkin and pulled it on with a relieved smile. For her part, Elatharia found that kneeling was more painful than standing – it caused her limbs to ache and her head to throb. They did at least find something to bind her bleeding wrists with, though Jaheira did not seem in any mood to cast a healing spell over them.

Once all was ready, Elatharia turned to see Imoen staring blankly at the far door. She was rubbing at her arms and blinking away tears, swaying a little on her feet. And if there was anything to make the Transmuter push aside her own pain, despite the shaking of her legs and the judgemental eyes of Jaheira at her back, it was her sister's distress.

"You know the way out of here?" she asked as gently as she knew how. Imoen jumped when she put an arm around her sister's waist but did not pull away. After a moment she looped her arm around Elatharia's shoulders and they leaned heavily against each other – weary, in pain and afraid.

"Yes," Imoen agreed after a moment, "And I don't think he's coming back after this attack. The way…isn't pretty. There are things…in the tanks," her eyes lost focus for a moment but she nodded, "I know the way. Let's go – I…just want to go home, Elatharia? Can we go home?" she sounded almost delirious and there was little to say after that.

Jaheira's eyes had grown more hateful after her argument with Elatharia. But she had done as she was told, stalking ahead down the corridors with the summoned light to guide her and Minsc, following Imoen's instructions. The two sisters stayed in the middle of the group, one clutching a dagger with their spellbooks in a bag at her shoulder, the other holding a bow with only ten arrows to her quiver. Yoshimo brought up the rear, his katana flashing silver in the darkness that bloomed in their wake. No one asked why the youngest member of their group knew the way. Her apparent freedom, her state of dress…there was too much fear of the truth.

As they walked through the cold stone passageways the distant clash of steel, of thunderous magical explosions, grew ever closer. Imoen's grip on Elatharia only tightened and for her part the Transmuter's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throbbing temples. They passed the shattered door of a forge and paused to stare at the chaos created within. It looked like whoever had broken into the dungeons had been here to destroy anything that continued to function in the place. The duergar Irenicus had employed – no doubt to create his twisted weaponry – lay dead across the blood-slick floor, embers scattered and smouldering around them from the furnace. Most of the instruments in the room had been thrown on the fire.

Shuddering, Elatharia had turned to move on….and seen Jaheira staring wide-eyed into the next room, her mouth open but failing to form any vocalised words. Before anyone could stop her the druid stepped inside though Imoen cried out for her to come back.

"Oh no, no, no," the younger sister groaned, darting after Jaheira with her summoned light bobbing after her. Elatharia glanced up at Minsc for some explanation but the ranger was humming to Boo and looked oddly grey. Yoshimo just shrugged.

Once she followed her companions, however, Elatharia understood. This large room had once been host to rows of huge liquid-filled tanks guarded by chained goblins slaves from the looks of the dead bodies scattered at their bases. Only…the attackers of the dungeon had shattered the tanks and from them had poured not only viscous liquid but things. Most were humanoid in shape but twisted, stinking now in the open air, their skin raw or charred. A few were more healthy in appearance, all of them similar or even identical as far as Elatharia could tell – they were elven from their fragile forms, female, with long golden hair slick with the liquid in which they had been kept.

Following her sister and Jaheira it was hard not to gag at the scene and the smell, but as she rounded the next shattered tank – this one utterly empty and with no sign of a body before it – she realised the scene could get worse. There, at the centre of it all upon a broad wooden table, lay Khalid. The ruin of his body was too terrible to dwell over, though Jaheira had dropped to her knees before him and was taking the sight in as if it were her duty. Imoen was trying to pull her back, telling her that whatever she saw now of Khalid should not be the way she remembered her husband.

"Let go, child!" she exclaimed, wrenching free and whirling on both sisters as Elatharia joined Imoen. Tears were flowing thick and fast over the druid's cheeks, her chest heaving with sobs and her words twisted with her misery, "I will have the heart of the man who did this to my love!"

"Can…he not be brought back?" Elatharia suggested into the silence. It seemed a reasonable enough request – they could gather enough money…somehow…and have priests resurrect him. But Jaheira gaped at her as if she were mad.

"No," the druid told her coldly, "Not all things may be solved with magic, girl. Though it is surely a sentiment you share with our captor."

"Jaheira…" Imoen wanted to be reproachful but did not quite have the heart in this situation.

"No more words," the druid interrupted sharply, drawing herself up and steeling her gaze, "They will be of no use now. We must make our way out quickly – in case whoever did this returns," she looked at Imoen as if daring her to disagree, "And we will grieve when we are free."

"Very well," Elatharia agreed, eyeing Jaheira distrustfully. The druid's temper seemed unpredictable, "Though I still think you are just giving up."

The druid gave her a level stare, sending one last glance and a muttered prayer Khalid's way before pushing past the sisters. Imoen's gaze was still fixed upon Khalid but Elatharia found herself looking past him, to another shattered tank within an open cage.

"It looks like something escaped," she noted, not sure whether to feel relieved, hopeful or afraid, "Come on, we should go."

She had just managed to pull Imoen after her when a raw voice cut through the stinking air, making both of them jump. Jaheira and the others paused at the door, expressions twisting from incredulity to wary fear.

"Ahh…who be thee? Servants of the master?"

Imoen recoiled with a shout, putting a hand over her mouth as if she might be sick, her hand shaking. A chill ran through Elatharia as she turned around to see what Imoen was looking at – and beheld the one unbroken tank in the room. The twisted form of a man drifted within the jar, his withered hands braced against the glass and his chin only just reaching above the liquid to make his plea. His eyes rolled behind thin but leathery skin which sagged from his bones grotesquely. His feet kicked limply in the fluid in which he drifted.

"Please! Release me!" the creature cried, "I, Rielev, have only ever served you! I…I no longer wish to come back!"

After they spoke with Rielev, the twisted form half-seen in the fog of his container but his torn voice all too audible, they had learned of the true depths of their captor's evil. His claims to help those who had once served him had never been fulfilled. And there most of them lay, dead in the aftermath of the attack on the complex.

Death is…pretty. Imoen's eyes had been vacant as she said it, staring into that tank as if she was watching Rielev's soul depart. Horror had almost overcome her at the realisation of what she had said, but Elatharia had taken her hand and promised her it was just this dungeon, that it was not her, not Imoen. But…she did not admit that she had felt it too.

After that a numbness had come over Elatharia, that same delirium that seemed to be working on Imoen as well. There was a subconsciously imposed blankness behind her eyes, forcing her to think only on how to escape, to ignore the pain in her starved body and the memories that now cut through to her mind in flashes limned in gold. The slash of a knife, the ring of steel, the timbre of that cold voice, a splash of blood… Something about the bodies in that room of tanks had made her skin crawl and her throat dry. The world pulsed with the golden light of Bhaal for every moment longer in that dungeon, impairing thought and lending a dreamlike edge to everything she saw and heard.

Regardless, the group continued on at Imoen's mumbled directions. In spite of her dazed state Elatharia did not miss the trepidation on her sister's face as they turned a corner and climbed a set of stairs. The door ahead was torn from its hinges, blasted outwards to lie along the top few steps. Its inner side was smooth as if newly painted, decorated with thin golden scrollwork. The room beyond was a scene of utter chaos, plush carpets torn up and scorched, elaborate tapestries pulled from their hanging places, armchairs and couches overturned. Several large wardrobes had been shattered along the walls; elaborate female clothes spilled from them along with boxes full of doubtlessly expensive jewellery.

Yoshimo had stalked forward even while the others lingered in the doorway. The Kara-Turan thief was twitchy and watchful, with a fixed expression of calm curiosity. Not a man to keep at your back, but he had thought to suggest that they take the boxes of jewels and put them in Elatharia's bag. At least they would have something to sell once they got out. No one had the heart to suggest aloud that they might not make their escape; Elatharia doubted any of them failed to think it.

Imoen hung back when the others entered the opulent room but rushed to Elatharia's side and pulled her back when the Transmuter moved to pass through the elaborate archway set in the far wall. She got only a glimpse of a high four-poster bed in a vaulted room. Though one of the curtains hanging over the bed was torn there was little chaos in there. Both sisters had jumped in shock at the sight of the elven woman standing just by that bed, her long golden hair sticky with that same viscous fluid in which Rielev had drifted.

She was stooping to pick up a pink shift from the ground when she saw the two sisters. Then her face had twisted in rage and she had rushed them, wearing armour that looked like it had been pulled free from a duergar's corpse and wielding a stolen knife. She had shrieked at Imoen, babbled words that were almost incoherent. We are not her! I am not her, and he will not have me! You will not give me to him! We are not her, though he created us in her image!

Minsc had managed to restrain her, but when she started to flail and eventually took up the idea of flinging her sword at Imoen a golden wrath had overcome Elatharia. She had stepped up to the struggling woman and cut her throat with her own flung blade. It was a mercy. She would have killed us. Jaheira's eyes had held judgement even as the impersonal rage had subsided and the sword had clattered from her fingers. Imoen had trouble looking away as Minsc staggered back in surprise from the body, attempting to persuade himself that the mad woman had been a force of evil that needed to be stopped.

After that Elatharia could not stop shaking, unable to shake the confused fog from her thoughts, but on Imoen had led them, through a small side door. Momentarily they were blinded by the bright light and the birdsong – for a moment they thought they were free and Minsc let up a cheer. Then Jaheira had hushed him angrily, pointing at the stone walls behind the trees, at the conjured sky and piping above it.

Only Imoen had been unsurprised by it all, stepping forward with familiar steps that none of them dared think too long on. For a moment only the birdsong reigned in this place…and then the dryads came. They begged for release, handing over their acorns to Jaheira to plant in the lands above. Their eyes had been sad as they watched the two sisters, one of these slender female forms with hair like moss and leaves reaching forward and touching Imoen's cheek sadly. He has touched you as he has touched us, has he not? But he is dead inside, for all his study and his consideration. We are here to make him feel…but he feels nothing at all.

Imoen had barely responded though the words made Elatharia's stomach roil. Suddenly her sister had requested water from the dryads and they had smiled in that oddly inhuman way of theirs – too knowing, their large mottled eyes too old – and they had insisted the group eat and drink before risking the few remaining rooms, telling of the battle that had occurred between Irenicus and the intruders.

As they sat in silence, Imoen had slipped an arm through Elatharia's, leaning her head on her sister's shoulder as they tried to take in the forms of incantations in their spellbooks. It had felt good to have one unconditional ally with Jaheira so lost, Minsc so dulled and quiet, and this unknown newcomer Yoshimo dogging their steps.

Though the rest and the nourishment should have made their advance to the surface easier, Elatharia hardly felt it. Her eyes were on Imoen, or the next dark unknown corridor, her heart pounding and her thoughts so empty that no coherent thoughts would stick. She felt her surprise and fear as a distant thing when they came upon the bodies of those men who Yoshimo termed with surprise as 'Shadow Thieves', the building's attackers. He urged for caution when the clamour of battle sounded ever louder ahead of them but Imoen failed to listen and ran ahead, forcing the others to race after her burst of speed – which, by rights, should not have been possible in a body so frail.

It was as if she had known how close they were. The next set of double doors hung wide open and before they could think they were at the surface, almost blinded by the hot sunlight of a city wholly unknown to them. Their exit was greeted by a roar of rage and a huge blast of magic from somewhere ahead that almost threw them from their feet. With a mighty crash the tunnel behind them collapsed and even as Jaheira and Yoshimo shouted for them to make a retreat, unable to see who was fighting who in this blinding spell battle, Imoen had looked back at Elatharia, framed like an angel in the light. She had begun to smile, her hair a soft pink, blue eyes at last joyous and glittering, silhouetted by a pure blue sky and the shining orb of the sun…but then they had heard his voice, and the girl's head had whipped around. In a flash she had sent a host of magic missiles fizzing his way and chaos had reigned. The cowled men surrounding Irenicus had turned on Imoen as well, wrapping her in a globe of invulnerability to drag her from her friends before any attempts could be made to stop them. And just like that, with a smug look of one who had planned for this, Irenicus had agreed to go if Imoen went too. And the depth of the girl's horror filled her face.

Elatharia had tried to reach her, kicking and biting anyone who made a grab for her, but to no avail. It had come to shouted vows. I will save you. I promise you, Imoen. I promise you.

Then the host was gone, Irenicus and her sister with them, leaving a crowd of confused bystanders and dazed, dust-stained merchants staring at the four who had escaped the dungeon. As Elatharia's thoughts caught up with her Jaheira dropped her spear and screamed her agony until she knelt weeping on the ground, Minsc trying to comfort her past his own pain. Elatharia had just watched as the strangely garbed city watch dispersed the bystanders back to their stalls in this great bazaar, full of strange smells, colourful tents and stalls all arranged around the arc of tiered stone buildings. Yoshimo had come to her side as the watch paused, stopped in their advance of the group by a man in black who rather visibly handed their leader a purse of coin.

"These are Amnish soldiers, Elatharia," Yoshimo told her softly at the man approached them, "We are in Athkatla now, the capital of Amn."

"That's a long way from Baldur's Gate," she mumbled numbly, looking up at the endless blue sky, already feeling sweat trickling down her back from the blazing heat of the sun. Tears stung in her eyes and her limbs were shaking so badly it was a wonder she could stand. She ground her teeth, pushing past the ache in her chest that Imoen had left. She would get her sister back; she would save her - and there would be vengeance.

"I'm to take you to Gaelen Bayle in the Slums," the man said abruptly, his accent heavy and momentarily impenetrable, watching the pair before him with dark eyes veiled by heavy brows. In spite of the heat, he seemed entirely comfortable in his loose black trousers and shirt. A dagger hung on one hip, a longsword from the other.

"And who is that?" Elatharia demanded warily. The man before her smirked in that sudden, hard way that said he did not care one bit for her or her friends.

"He's a…spokesperson for the people who matter in this city. They've a business proposition for you, Elatharia of Candlekeep."

"How do you know my name?" she recoiled reflexively at that, wishing for her mask when the man kept staring in distaste for a few moments too long.

"Never mind that. The Shadow Thieves know everything, miss. Now come along. Time might run out."