It was wonderfully mad of him, wasn't it? As Kazzy-Goroth rampaged though Spellhold in the guise of a certain great red wyrm, he wondered to himself: could Tiax have done better? Probably not, he smiled to himself, even as his harrowed eyes surveyed the wreckage and ruin. The smell alone should have been enough to make him empty the contents of his stomach, only, he knew better than to eat before such an assault.
Through the broken cells and shattered halls, he roamed, searching, hoping, doubting. She wasn't here. Why wasn't she here? For once in her life, why hadn't she listened? But she never did, did she, and now, she was probably dead.
Passing between corpses, some with their faces deformed in grotesque grins, their vacant eyes wild, and others in hideous pain, perhaps fear, he entered another chamber. The sight of the towering tubes left him recoiling. Then the savage realisation struck him: could not Kazzy-Goroth be cloned once more, only, this time in the shape of another? If from the severed claw its form had been regrown, what possibilities might the vats hold? They did not seem so very different from the one with the she-elves, whose faces looked so alike to that crude sculpture Prism chiselled out of the Nashkel rock…
And yet, there was no sign of cloning here. What else could his former captive have used the vats for? Perhaps it was better not to ask. Through the telepathic bond, he called Kazzy-Goroth back to him, and after straining, the hulking monstrosity begrudgingly obliged. It was time to take a leaf out of Sarevok's book. His captor's former encampment in Athkatla might have been buried under mounds of rubble, but he remembered the she-elf's face: who could not? Such beauty. Such madness. And Kazzy, being the shapeshifting fiend that it was, as his familiar, could share his thoughts. The next step was to find an artist, have Kazzy pose, copy the original, and then find some bounty hunters and an information broker. Even if the she-elf was dead, someone might know who his captor was.
Maybe he should post a few of Imoen too: alive or gods help you. Chasing and being chased was getting tiresome.
The great wyrm came bounding over, much as Ruffie had to Albert, or whatever its name was, all those months ago. A slight creasing of his lips reminded him that not all his memories were bad, even if most of them were bizarre. Well, if he was mad, it was only because the realms had made him so.