Author's note: So, um... I decided to... continue? I don't know if I'll be able to update regularly, and where this will actually go, but... let's give it a try. I hope I'll be able to add a new chapter at least once a month or so.
Nimloth of Thay and Zhenta - thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate them, as well as every fav and follow. It is still a bit new to me, knowing that someone out there is reading the story I write, but it is nice to know that 'Moretriel' was to your liking ^_^
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Chapter 2
N'Tel'Quess
.
She coughed, trying to take another breath through the wet cloth. The dust was lingering in the air around them like a suffocating spell, clinging to their skin and clothes, burning their lungs and biting their eyes. The deafening rumble of crumbling rocks already ceased, replaced in her ears by an annoying, ringing sensation – she shook her head, trying to get rid of it, but with no effect.
The mage was unconscious again. The way to the surface must had drained him. There were a few moments when she had been almost sure that they had lost him, and even now she could not help but worry about his condition. Somehow, the pale sunlight that was seeping through the clouds of dust was making him look more frail, thin and colourless than the shadows of his underground prison.
"Auntie, I wish ya could teach me this!," Imoen coughed and laughed simultaneously. Her face was almost unrecognizable under the layers of grime and dust, and her hair resembled a greyish pink mop – but her smile was as wide as ever. "Awesome trick...!"
Jaheira was slowly getting to her feet a few paces away from them. Her frame was somewhat shaky from fatigue and she staggered while standing up, but when her husband caught her by arm, she only shook her head. She whispered something into his ear, briefly squeezing his shoulder, and then took a step forward, this time more steady.
"We need to move," her voice sounded weary, but the firm, decisive tone was still there, along with the well-known, determined frown. "The spell damaged those rocks nearby. The ground is unstable."
They loaded the unconscious wizard onto the warrior's shoulders and together they moved away from the remains of a small, natural cavern, leaving the collapsed tunnel behind them – hopefully, along with the memory of kobolds.
The sun was beginning to set. For some time, they were treading the scree in silence, not even having the strength to speak to each other, focusing on their surroundings instead. The landscape around them looked unfamiliar – large, eroded mountain masses were stretching towards the south in a jagged arch, their barren slopes easing into the bottom of an equally barren valley. The thin grass that was growing there was yellowed and windswept, mostly giving way to extensive screes and heaps of rocky debris.
Vaire turned her face towards the sunlit sky and smiled in delight, at the moment not overly concerned with their current location. 'The sun! The sky! The air!' She raked her hand through her hair, letting the wind sweep through her dusty braids and graze along the sensitive skin of her ears. Sighing in elation, she felt her spirit soaring with happiness so overwhelming that she could barely restrain herself from bursting into a song – or shouting to the high heaven.
She sincerely hoped that she would not be forced to explore any mines, caves or dungeons anytime soon.
"Where are we?," Imoen slowed down and began to dust herself off, but mostly to little avail. "We couldn't get far from the mines, right? 'Though this place looks, um... unlike those mountains 'round the town."
"H-how so?," Khalid raised an eyebrow at her.
"The colours are all wrong, duh...," she huffed, waving her hand towards the landscape before them. "There's barely anythin' green here, an' those striped rocks look like... clumps of a giant honey cake or somethin'," she paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "Wait, ya can see that, right?"
The warrior smiled barely noticeably and nodded.
"S-such striped rocks are t-typical for southern foothills," he explained. "That ragged p-part of the m-mountain range on your right... Those are the m-mountains we've seen from the mining site. This p-place must be north-east of the mines."
"So we're... how far from Nashkel?"
"This has yet to be d-decided," he replied thoughtfully. "We were underground for – for almost t-two days, and now we may need to b-bypass the mountains. This may t-take three or four days, d-depending on the route."
"Let's figure that out later," Vaire tried to wipe her face with a dusty cloth, but ended up smearing the grime all over her forehead and cheeks. "The twilight is drawing near. Let's find some place to rest."
"Soon," Jaheira turned her head towards her, not slowing down. "For now, we need to get as far from that tunnel as possible. More kobolds may roam the area. No need to risk yet another encounter today."
Vaire could not disagree with her, glancing at her companions. The weariness was taking its toll on everyone. The young rogue was barely dragging her feet across the rocky ground. The druid looked plainly exhausted, her sun-tanned face paler than ever, her usually bright and alert eyes dimmed. That tremor spell she had used to collapse the tunnel clearly stole whatever energy she had left after their battle with Mulahey and his minions.
Khalid, on the other hand, seemed no worse than he had been earlier – he carried an unconscious elf on his shoulders as though he weighed nothing, although she had already noticed that the warrior was simply really, really good at hiding his tiredness. And Xan...
'Ah, not so unconscious anymore, apparently.' Vaire caught a glimpse of blue eyes behind the crumpled strands of his dark hair. He seemed to be staring into space, but after a moment she realized that his eyes were actually focused on something.
She followed his gaze and found herself looking at the sky over the western horizon, where the setting sun was casting golden and orange hues upon the mountain slopes, painting the landscape with bluish shadows and fiery highlights.
.
Sometime before the nightfall, they found a promising spot under an overhanging rock, reasonably elevated and sheltered from the wind. The ground there was hard and uneven, but there was more than enough space for them to set a small camp. To everyone's delight, the nearby rock fissures turned out to contain some fresh water that apparently had accumulated there after the last rain. That enabled them to clean themselves from grime and dust – or at least from the worst of it, considering the circumstances.
They dared not to make a fire.
Imoen was first to go to sleep – she practically fell onto her bedroll and promptly buried herself in it, covering her head with her pink woollen cowl and muttering something about 'blasted rocks pokin' at her back'.
Jaheira scowled at her in silence, sitting cross-legged on the ground and carefully cleaning her armor and weapons. Imoen's black leathers were piled up in the same place where the rogue had shed them, still dusted and covered with grime.
"I can take the first watch alone," Vaire raised her head, refastening her belt. She had gotten out of her leather cuirass, bracers and boots to clean them, but now she was eager to put them back on. Since that first attack in the woods near the Lion's Way, she was spending most of her nights with her armor on, with her spellbook on her lap and with her sword laying nearby. "Let her sleep. She can take the morning watch with you."
Jaheira let out an annoyed sigh.
"As you wish," she nodded, moving a cloth along the edges of her ankheg shell buckler. "But she is careless. She needs to learn to take care of her equipment before it gets mold on it."
Soon, from behind the nearby rocks, slowly emerged Khalid, supporting the mage who was heavily leaning on his arm. Even cleaned and clothed in fresh garments, Xan seemed to look only a tad better than previously – his face was almost translucent, his sunken eyes were framed with shadows and his gaze was so utterly despondent that one could think that the elf was counting hours to his own execution.
Vaire glanced at him, a shadow of worry crossing her face. She had heard tales about seasoned warriors and battle wizards whose minds and spirits had been permanently damaged by imprisonment and tortures. She had never met one – and she sincerely hoped that this was not the case with the elven mage – but he looked... like one of those elven shadows that accordingly to some legends, wandered among the ruins of ancient elven kingdoms.
As soon as the wizard had been seated on a spare sheepskin spread on the ground, Jaheira began to examine his wrists, palms and fingers. A grimace of pain was flashing through his face now and then, but he did not utter a sound during the entire procedure.
"You probably already know what I'm going to say now," she muttered, letting go of his hands and reaching for her bag to retrieve a roll of bandages and a jar of salve. "You have a few broken bones that already began to heal in the wrong position, not counting fractures and sprains. Your fingers need to be realigned before any further treatment."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"Are they... Are they ever going to be functional?," he uttered in a choked whisper.
"Yes, but healing them to perfection may take some time," she said matter-of-factly. "Half-healed, old injuries are usually slow to respond to the healing spells. You should have your fingers somewhat functional by tomorrow, but I warn you, they won't be very flexible at first. In around two tendays, though, they should be as good as they were before."
"Two tendays?," his tone suggested that for him, it was an equivalent of two centuries. He looked down at his hands, his face twisting briefly in a bitter grimace.
Jaheira gave a slightly impatient sigh.
"Do you want me to proceed, or would you rather consult a town's priest?," she asked plainly. "I am a sylvanite druid and a practiced healer. I can help you, but I'm not going to force my help on someone who doesn't trust my abilities. Decide."
The mage was silent for a moment, looking at her with an unreadable expression.
"Have you ever treated a similar case to a favourable outcome?"
"I have," the druid nodded. "A few times, actually."
"Sh-she has."
The elf turned his eyes to Khalid who sat a few paces away from them, wrapped in his old cloak and keeping an eye on their surroundings. The warrior slowly took off the glove from his right hand and rotated his wrist to one side, then to another.
"This one was once n-not better than yours are n-now," he gave the mage a lopsided smile. "Two fingers c-crushed, the rest broken and b-badly healed. A few days later, I could hold my s-sword with them. Jaheira is a very s-skilled healer."
Xan still looked hesitant, but ultimately, he gave a small nod.
"Please, do what you can," he said to the druid in a resigned tone.
Vaire, who was observing them from above her spellbook, shifted uncomfortably. She suspected what was going to happen next – and truth to be told, she did not want to watch. Unfortunately, as soon as she finished that thought, the healer called her.
"Come here. You may learn something useful."
She blinked, sending the druid a disbelieving look.
"You know, this is probably not the best moment for a lesson...," she began tentatively.
"On the contrary," Jaheira interrupted, not even looking at her. "You are also a spellcaster. You should know how the treatment of such breaks and sprains looks like. Come here and bring your hairpins, we'll use them to make splints."
'Oh, great.'
She never felt particularly inclined to pursue a career of a healer. Back at home, she had been given only a basic first-aid training and she had been convinced that in case of an emergency, a reasonable supply of healing potions and antidotes should be enough to survive the trip to the nearest temple.
Jaheira had a different approach, though – and a rather poor opinion of the survival skills of anyone who was not a druid or a ranger – so at every given opportunity, she was engaging Vaire in her healer's activities, teaching her how to treat various injuries and how to manage without spells or potions, if necessary.
She had also tried that with Imoen, but so far, the pink-haired girl proved to be exceptionally good in getting her way out of such lessons.
When Vaire approached them, Jaheira already finished applying her numbing salve onto the wizard's hand.
"This should instantly dim the pain," she said and briefly flexed her own fingers. "Try to relax. Turn your head to the side if you prefer. This won't take long."
His eyes widened when the druid seized his wrist.
"On three," she announced briskly. "One..."
"Could you give me a mo-"
"Two."
...and 'three' never came. Jaheira was one of those healers who believed that catching the patient off-guard prevents him from becoming all tense and stiff in anticipation of pain.
Vaire had some serious doubts about that technique.
The wizard pressed his face to his shoulder and uttered a muffled wail of agony – and she slightly averted her eyes, wincing in sympathy. For a while, she could hear sounds of joints popping back into their places and then a few quick, sickening cracks of bones being re-broken and realigned, punctuated by even more heart-rending moans.
"Is that salve of yours even working?" she muttered.
"Give me two pins," the druid requested, glancing at her. "Have no worry, it is working. He would faint from shock otherwise. And now, watch..."
She obediently observed how to properly secure the pins with linen straps, creating a makeshift splints. She needed to admit that the druid worked really swiftly – splinting and bandaging was finished in no time, only the patient looked more miserable than before.
"There," the druid gave a satisfied nod, reaching for the salve. "To the second one."
"I would...," the mage whispered weakly. "I would prefer to faint first."
"Maybe you could give him a numbing potion?" Vaire suggested.
"I would give him one, had we any left," Jaheira frowned. "It wouldn't work as miraculously as you may think, though."
"Why?," she shook her head in disbelief.
"P-potions don't r-really h-h-help with this k-kind of p-pain," she heard the warrior's silent voice, his stutter a tad worse than usually. When she turned towards him, she noticed that he was staring into the distance, his expression closed off, his face shadowed by some unpleasant thoughts... or memories.
"T-t-trust me on th-that," he added solemnly, not looking at them.
"We are almost done. No fainting", Jaheira gave the patient a firm look, adjusting her grip. "On three. One..."
...and of course, 'two' never came. This time Vaire actually forced herself to watch how the druid was realigning a finger after finger, her motions quick, but perfectly precise – the whole thing looked almost easy when she was doing that. The wizard's reactions were no better than previously, but somehow, despite his earlier declaration, he managed to endure the entire procedure without fainting.
"Two more pins," the druid looked at her. "Can you produce some ice?"
"I can freeze a wet cloth with a cantrip."
Soon enough Xan was nursing his freshly bandaged fingers with a cold compress, his face relaxed in an expression of pure relief. The healer gave him a dose of regenerating tonic and began to gather her things.
"Tomorrow I'm going to treat you with a healing spell," she rose to her feet. "That should repair everything that won't regenerate through the night. Your fingers are going to be shaky and prone to spasms for some time after, but this is something that can be dealt with later."
He looked at her with a serious expression.
"Thank you," he said silently. "I have heard that in these lands, seldom a defenceless stranger is met with kindness. Your generosity won't be forgotten, I assure you...," again, that barely perceptible, half-depressed, half-bitter note. "...although I may not stay alive long enough to repay you in any way."
"Don't mention it," the healer's tone was dismissive and somewhat weary, since she was already turning towards her bedroll. She undoubtedly needed her rest, just like her husband, who was preparing to join her.
Vaire wasn't really surprised by the mage's pessimistic display of gratitude. Injured, unable to use his magic and his sword, forced to rely on people he knew next to nothing about... It was not a situation to anyone's liking – especially not to someone who apparently preferred to work alone, depending on himself and eventually on others of his kind.
'Evereskan,' she reminded herself. She had never met one, and a Greycloak to that, but she had heard that elves from such secluded realms were even more wary of strangers than others.
Putting the casket with remaining hairpins back into her bag, she ran her hand through her hastily washed hair. They were still half-braided, stiff and matted with the memory of dirt, and they were in dire need of proper brushing.
'That's it,' she decided.
She retrieved a comb and a brush out of a small, embroidered satchel and walked a few paces away from the camp, absentmindedly tucking loose strands behind her ear.
Wrapping her greyish-green cloak tighter around her body, she seated herself in the same spot where the warrior sat a only a while ago – a perfect place to spend the watch, partially hidden behind rocks, but with a good view on the nearby part of the valley.
She was about to remove the first hairpin from her already loose bun when she heard a soft sound somewhere behind her. She turned her head.
The wizard was looking – no, he was staring at her with a shocked expression. A compress had slipped from between his fingers and was laying next to him, but for some reason, he made no move to pick it up, as though not even noticing.
Her eyes widened slightly.
Had he seen something in the darkness?
She discreetly looked around, searching the area for any signs of danger. Her right hand instinctively went to the hilt of her sword, her other one already moving towards the satchel with spell components. She could not see anything suspicious, though. The night was moonless and the shadows in the mountains were always particularly dark, but her eyes were keen – there was no trace of movement anywhere, only the wind was sweeping over the neighbouring scree, raising small clouds of dust here and there.
She glanced at the mage.
"Is anything amiss?," she whispered... and blinked.
To her utter confusion, he was perfectly composed now, as though nothing happened. He slowly placed the compress back between his palms, not even looking in her direction – in fact, he was apparently trying to look anywhere but at her.
"No," there was a strained note in his voice. "No, nothing is amiss. I just..."
His eyes, colourless in the darkness, darted to her face once more – or maybe rather to her -
'Oh.'
She gave a small, relieved sigh, immediately relaxing her posture. Seriously, for a moment she was convinced that he had seen something from the lower planes in front of him.
"Just noticed those, you mean?," she cocked her head to the side and briefly touched the elongated tip of her ear, giving him a small smile. "I had no idea they look so terrible, you know. Judging by your reaction, one could think that I've just grown a pair of horns."
"Forgive me. I had no intention to startle you," he subtly inclined his head in a gesture of apologetic acknowledgement. He lowered his gaze and turned his attention back to his hands, seemingly unfazed, but she already caught a glimpse of wary curiosity in his eyes.
'Ah, let's get it over with...'
"It is all right. I have already noticed that some people are confused by those ears of mine," she began, brushing an invisible dust from her knee and trying to sound casual. "I am usually taken for a half-elf, but from time to time, someone more observant takes a look at my ears and suddenly becomes all perplexed about what to think about me. Especially the elves," she forced a smile, but somehow, it came out slightly bitter. "Instead of asking, though, they just send me those... furtive glances. I suppose it is understandable, though. In some way, I am an elf... and yet, I am not one."
His gaze was again on her, so she straightened her back and slightly raised her chin, just enough to look a bit more confident than she was at the moment. Her eyes remained focused on her lap, though.
"I have been fostered by a human," she continued. "I have been raised mostly among humans, without any contact with..."
She paused for a heartbeat. Sometimes she had a problem with that part. 'With her kin?' 'With her people?' Were elves even her people, since as far as she knew, most of them would not even call someone like her a Tel'Quess?
"...with elven culture," she finished. "For that reason, I am mostly ignorant about your ways. I managed to learn a few things about your customs from books and tales, and I know the basics of your language, but I am aware that it is not much."
'Not enough,' she corrected inwardly.
She braced herself for eventual questions, still feeling slightly awkward. She should probably get used to such situations, but...
Back at home, she had been perfectly comfortable with being who she was, since no one there seemed to care about what she was. Sometimes she had heard a joke or two about her ears, or even a few crude anecdotes from the dwarven guard, but they had never bothered her really in any way. She was used to being acknowledged as a person – a daughter, a friend, a student, a companion – not as a representative of a specific race.
She was just... Vaire. She was convinced that her blood or her ears should not really matter to anyone, since it was not all of her.
But outside of her home, things were apparently different. Every time some other elf confronted her about her heritage – and she had met nearly a dozen of them by now, mostly merchants and travellers – she was usually being treated with concealed pity or distrust, or she was openly looked down on, like she was...
'...not enough.'
She forced herself to finally meet the wizard's gaze. To her relief, his face was a perfect picture of calm, almost cool indifference.
"I see," he nodded solemnly, looking at her. "I admit that for a moment, I have been wondering... But again, forgive me," he suddenly interrupted himself mid-sentence, shaking his head. "You should not feel obliged to explain anything to anyone."
"I prefer to call it 'clearing things up'," she shrugged. "I know that I am something of an oddity among the elves, and I know that some elves tend to be... a bit wary of the ones like me, so...," she trailed off.
The mage was silent. His expression did not change and thankfully, he did not seem interested in asking any questions, so this was probably a good moment to either end this conversation or to change the topic.
She quickly looked around in search for inspiration and almost instantly found one.
'How very convenient.'
"My cantrip is dissipating," she pointed at the slightly damp compress. "I should probably strengthen it. If I may...?"
.
The frozen cloth was blissfully cold against his bandaged hands. His fingers were still swollen, but the pain finally subsided – at least to the point when he was able to forgive the druid that she had deceived him with that old 'on three' trick.
How strange was his fate. He had been dying only a while ago, and now... Now he was not only alive, but also relatively clean and maybe even not permanently damaged. His blade, his cloak and his travelling bag – everything had been returned to him and no one had tried to rob him ('...yet...'). He had been given water, he had been fed and taken care of. When he was summing things up like that, the whole situation sounded nothing short of a... of a...
'...miracle.'
He sighed heavily. He had little faith in miracles. Well, perhaps some benevolent deity had mistaken him for one of their favourites and smiled upon him once or twice in his life – but he had learnt that gods were quick to notice and fix such mistakes. He only needed to wait.
In the meantime, though, he had a lot to think about.
His hands were useless for now, so without his spells and his sword, his mind was his only weapon. He had acquired a lot of new informations – and now he needed to sort them out, he needed to determine how to make use of them in the best possible way. The iron crisis and the cyricist's role in it. The connections between Tranzig and Tazok, two names he had heard while being a prisoner. The exact role of his current company in the recent events. Their possible affiliations. Their trustworthiness. The probability of being betrayed by them, abandoned to death, sold to slave traders, murdered...
...and on the top of that, only a few moments ago he realized that this young woman he had already labelled as ('...Moretriel... no, wait... what an absurd thought...') a zenar-bhen was actually a pureblood elf. Seldarine, those few tendays spent at the bottom of the mines had clearly damaged his brain – there was no other explanation, or at least he could not see one.
Now he had even more to think about.
He discreetly watched her from beneath his half-closed eyelids, still baffled at his own ignorance. She was sitting with her back turned to him, attending to her hair and apparently unaware of his attention. She was most likely convinced that he was already in a reverie, since after re-freezing his compress some time ago, she bid him a good night.
After combing her hair and dealing with a few particularly stubborn knots, she began to brush it with unhurried movements. She turned her head to the side, her eyes shut in quiet contentment.
It was not very polite to observe a barely known elven woman during her brushing ritual. In any other circumstances, he would probably turn his eyes elsewhere, but... it was not like he was observing her out of idle curiosity.
His gaze slowly traced the line of her profile, pausing at every curve and analysing proportions, searching for a familiar pattern. Now it was practically easy to discern her true heritage. Her features were finely chiselled and undeniably elven, with a hint of barely perceptible softness that betrayed her age – she was clearly young, surely no more than one hundred years old.
Humans were unaccustomed to pay attention to such details, so it was no wonder that they were usually taking her for a zenar-bhen. And elves... He supposed that they might be initially misled by her behaviour, just as he had been, but sooner or later, they were bound to notice the difference. Her ears were not the only feature that betrayed her heritage, even though she might be convinced otherwise.
She was still brushing her hair, apparently not planning to finish anytime soon. The view was certainly ('...beautiful...') pleasant to the eye, but the rhythm of her movements began to slowly soothe his mind into a dream-like state, so ultimately, he decided to close his eyes against the distraction.
'An oddity.'
It was extremely rare for an elven child to be raised away from her kin. It was... It was unheard of, actually. Of course, sometimes children were losing their parents too soon – such tragedies were unavoidable in those uncertain times – but no elven community would allow a human to foster an orphaned elven child.
He wondered briefly how she had ended up being raised by humans. One of the probable explanations was that the elves had no knowledge about her whereabouts, or even about her very existence. Her human guardians had made a grave mistake by keeping her instead of making an effort to return her to her kin... but now it was too late.
She might be young, but she was clearly not a child anymore. She grew into N'Tel'Quess, into not-elf – a stranger among her own. He felt a pang of compassion at the thought.
She clearly knew that she was not a true Tel'Quess. 'Your ways,' she said earlier. 'Your customs.' 'Your language.' And that half-bitter, slightly broken smile – the smile of someone who was given a shard of glass and now tries to convince the world that holding it doesn't hurt.
She had mentioned wary glances, but the consequences of being N'Tel'Quess went deeper than that. Was she even aware of them? She would never find a home in any elven enclave. She would never be fully accepted in any elven community. She was doomed to live as an outcast... although probably not overly long.
There were a few stories about such individuals known in Evereska – stories composed mostly of second-hand memories and gossips, told around the tavern tables in lowered voices and listened to with a mixture of disbelief, horror and pity. None of them was a happy one. None of them ended well.
Elves raised by humans were said to be like unbalanced blades – chaotic, unpredictable, sometimes even suicidal. They lived in a state of a permanent identity crisis. Their nature made them ill-suited for living a human life, but at the same time, they were unable to live like the elves, unattuned to the elven spirituality and unprepared for the prospect of centuries stretching before them. They usually spiralled down into the madness and ended their lives shortly after, torn apart by their inner dissonances...
His thoughts paused for the moment.
Could she be already... insane? In his profession, dealing with various kinds of insanity was sometimes inevitable, but after his recent encounter with that mad cyricist, he would really prefer to avoid the company of people who were mentally unstable.
He cracked his eyes open and for a few heartbeats stared at the back of her head, as though searching for an answer. He had caught a few glimpses of her personality earlier , but it was certainly not enough to form any decent opinion about the state of her mind. He would need more informations for that – although given her choice of a career, he suspected that if she was not insane, then she was at least somewhat suicidal already.
'Adventurer.' He cringed inwardly. He really did not like that word.
On the other hand – since she was apparently searching for adventures – she was doomed to die soon. Statistics were inexorable. One of the most typical consequences of such a lifestyle was dying at a young age, usually during the first few years of living on the road.
He closed his eyes again, thinking that perhaps her ultimate fate would not be as utterly tragic as those unfortunate souls from the tavern stories. Considering her occupation, she was most likely going to meet her end before succumbing to any kind of madness induced by her identity issues. Such an end would be surely ('...bitter...') better than the alternative.
Having disposed thus of her future demise, Xan turned his thoughts to other matters he needed to deal with.
He had a lot to think about.
.
Something startled her out of her sleep. She blinked and shivered, instantly wrapping the cloak tighter around her frame and trying to determine why she was so terribly cold. The night was pretty much warm for that season of the year – and yet she was practically chilled to the bone, as though... as though someone has walked across her grave.
She looked around. Where was everyone? Why could she see all those empty bedrolls scattered around the camp, but no trace of her companions anywhere?
A sudden fear seized her.
She was alone.
She was all alone here – in those strange mountains in the middle of nowhere. Something was telling her that it was not a good place. She could sense it, she could almost see it within her mind... It was a place where things made of shadows were creeping and crawling across the barren hills. It was a place where dead ones were squirming in their underground cradles, their bodies bloated and restless like grubs...
'Feed me!'
She immediately turned her head to the side, but caught only a glimpse of a tiny black tail vanishing inside the pile of Imoen's leathers. Something began to rummage through them, making sickening, hungry noises.
'Feed me!'
She grimaced, but remained silent, trying to ignore that whiny, mewling voice. Somehow, it always sounded like a bad imitation of her own.
The rummaging and noises stopped after a moment. Something darted from under dirty pieces of armor, then hopped onto the Imoen's bedroll and quickly hid inside, worming its way under the woollen covering. She could not see it anymore, but she could sense that it was restless, like a kitten that is up to some mischief.
Suddenly, the ground beneath her opened like a giant wound.
Before she could even properly scream, she was falling down – first through the darkness of mining ramps and shafts, then through the underground tunnels and caves, moving across their walls and floors with a dizzying speed. Everything was empty, though. Even the levels that should be still full of kobolds seemed silent and... dead.
What had happened to this place?
'You know,' Something whispered into her thoughts. 'You happened.'
She was diving deeper into the earth, dragged by some invisible force. Darkness and shadows and torchlights were swirling around her now, clinging to her clothes and sticking to her skin like that accursed cave mud she could not get rid of. She gave a frustrated cry, feeling unable to do anything about it.
Another rocky wall. Another passage. And suddenly, the fabric of her dream stretched beneath her presence like an enormous sheet and caught her mid-fall.
Everything around her went still.
She realized that she was standing in a familiar cave now. The place had to look like a luxurious chamber once – but now the heavy curtains hanging from the walls were mostly torn and singed from the magical fire, the furnitures were either damaged or smashed to pieces, and the carpets were stained with ashes and blood... The battle was definitely one of those messy ones.
The pretentious throne standing on the podium in the far corner of the cave was probably the only thing that managed to stay relatively untouched.
She turned her head to the side and...
No, that couldn't be.
'Mulahey?,' she whispered, narrowing her eyes at him.
The creature did not respond, standing motionlessly a few paces away from her, apparently unable to move. He looked more like a corpse than like a living thing – a bloated grub that should bury itself in the ground long ago – but his eyes were still burning with the madness that apparently had been bestowed upon him by his god. His battered armor was covered with fresh blood and his throat was split open, the gaping wound even more raw and red than she remembered it to be.
'Feed me!'
She gave an annoyed sigh and glanced behind her. Something was sitting on one of the cushions scattered around the floor, trying its best to look and sound like a helpless, hungry kitten that needed to be taken care of.
She knew better, though. She shook her head and turned her attention back to Mulahey.
Only then she realized that she was holding...
...a sword?
Where did that come from? With a perplexed frown, she examined the weapon that had materialized in her hand only a while ago. Its shape was vaguely familiar and would probably remind her of her own blade, but at the same time, it seemed to have a foreign quality to it. Its handle was unpleasantly coarse and felt... not right, as though the whole thing was ill-balanced or ill-suited for her grip.
'Feed,' Something purred encouragingly, approaching her side, but as always, cautiously keeping out of her range. 'He is here for us. He is ours to feed upon.'
She noticed that it moved more slowly now, almost dragging its hind legs behind it. They suddenly became malformed and too long for its little form, twisted outwards in a way that should not be anatomically possible. The sharp angles of knee joints were all wrong. The view was utterly disturbing.
She looked back at the apparition of Mulahey and after a moment she could feel that his thoughts were slowly seeping straightly into her mind. He was apparently waiting for her. He had been anchored to this place by whatever force deemed it necessary and he was cursing his fate, judging by the furious gleam in his eyes. He was waiting for her to...
Her eyebrows rose.
...to kill him...
...again?
'Does he not deserve it?,' Something lazily flicked its little tail. 'Have you already forgotten about all those murdered miners? Have you forgotten about that poor elven mage?'
She frowned.
She remembered, of course.
'Let us make this one here... pay for that,' Something purred, kneading the ground under its front paws with kitten-like impatience. As for the contrast, its deformed hind legs began to twitch and scramble hideously, as though in preparation for a jump. 'Let us kill him again... this time more slowly... and perhaps a bit more painfully...'
Wait.
Was it repeating her own thoughts?
Well, there had been that one moment in the mines...
The memories were swirling in her mind now, making her anger flare up. She remembered – oh yes, she remembered! The corpses of innocent people... The elven mage at the verge of agony... Even those kobolds, tens and hundreds of creatures deceived into becoming tools of a madman... She gripped the handle of the sword more tightly, suddenly finding it coarse like a piece of an old bone.
Mulahey's hateful eyes were boring into hers.
She clenched her teeth, preparing to strike, although...
...somehow, this felt wrong – just as that blade felt wrong in her hand.
And the longer she was looking at the cyricist's unmoving form, the less angry and the more absurd she felt.
He was not attacking her. He was not even moving. Was she supposed to stab and hack at his motionless body? Was she supposed to widen that mortal wound she had given him, even though it was already wide enough?
She blinked. This would be pointless. He was not even her opponent anymore. He had been already defeated and slain. He was just a corpse now – a restless corpse, but a corpse nonetheless, for gods' sake...
She stepped away from him, letting the sword clatter to the floor.
She was neither a necromancer, nor a gravedigger to deal with corpses.
Something wailed loudly in disapproval, but she decided to ignore it completely.
Mulahey's form began to slowly fade into the surrounding shadows and soon it vanished completely, leaving only a faint trace of surprised – and perhaps also a tad thankful – thoughts behind it.
She allowed those thoughts to brush against her mind. Their current was so subtle that she could barely sense it – but somehow, it was strong enough to wash away that persistent darkness that seemed to cling to her.
It was a good feeling.
It was a good decision.
She turned away...
...and backed off in spite of herself.
Something was perched at the armrest of the abandoned throne. She noticed that its deformed hind legs were now even longer than previously and they were apparently still growing – the skin on them was undulating, as though there were worms wriggling beneath it.
'You ungrateful brat!,' it hissed accusingly, half-jumping, half-tumbling down onto the floor. 'Do you think that you can starve me endlessly? You are weak now. You are weak and alone.'
She was about to defiantly shake her head – but to her horror, she found out that she was not able move her body, as though suddenly paralysed with a spell.
'No father. No family. No home to return to,' Something began to slowly crawl in her direction. It was bigger than she could ever remember it to be – not a hungry cat anymore, but an emaciated mountain lion. Its abominable hind legs were dotted with spikes and black scales now, but they were still twisted and useless like two parasitic limbs.
She wanted to die at the very thought of that thing getting anywhere near her.
'Nowhere to go. Nowhere to belong,' the voice still resembled hers, but it was becoming strangely distorted. 'You are not enough. You will never be enough. But we will... change that.'
For some reason, the word 'change' made her scream internally with fear – that deep, dark, primeval kind of fear that was reducing a person to a puppet sewn from fight-or-flight reactions. She could not fight, though. She could not fly, either. She could only continue her desperate, but dreadfully silent scream, watching the creature of her nightmares crawling towards her across the bloodstained carpets.
'You will learn to feed me,' Something snarled, showing its unnaturally human teeth.
It launched its deformed body towards her legs.
'You... WILL... learn!'
.
She awoke with a start.
As always, the nightmare immediately seeped out of her memory, leaving only a few fragmented, blurred images of underground corridors and caves. Her body, though, was not as quick to forget. Heaving out a shaky breath, she buried her face in her hands and focused on her breathing, waiting for her heart to slow down and trying to ignore the fact that she was visibly trembling.
She silently laid back, adjusting the coverings of the bedroll around her and hoping that this time, no one had noticed anything. The night was still dark – her sister was sleeping soundly, the druid was clearly also asleep, judging by the rhythm of her breathing, and Khalid... He had taken the watch after her, but apparently, he had found a new watching spot and he was sitting a bit further from the camp now. He had a really good hearing, but there was a chance that from that distance, he had not heard her. Good.
She swiftly reached to her bag to retrieve a half-empty bottle of a calming draught.
Waiting for the trembling to subside, she suddenly remembered that there was one more person with them now. She briefly glanced towards the mage who was sitting in the exact same position as earlier, leaning against the rocky wall with his legs drawn to his chin, wrapped in his grey cloak. She supposed that he was still in a reverie, but since he was an elf and his senses were much more -
Oh, nevermind.
She gave a tired sigh and rolled onto her back, staring into the darkness. Even if he had noticed – so what? It was not like he was seeing her awakening from a nightmare almost every night, unlike the rest of her companions.
They were beginning to worry about her. Imoen was especially concerned, since she was the only person here who knew about her previous nightmare episodes, the ones that had been tormenting her when she had been fourteen or so. Jaheira seemed to suspect that it was not a new problem and that its roots went deeper than the recent stress and grief – she had not confronted her about that yet, but Vaire sensed that it was only a matter of time.
She closed her eyes.
There was nothing to worry about. She was not even remembering those nightmares. They were bound to subside in time, just like the ones from her youth. Perhaps they were even the same. They certainly felt the same, somehow.
She could only hope that for now, no one suspected her of going insane or anything like that.
.
* N'Tel'Quess - non-elf, 'not one of the People', a term used also in relation to elven outcasts
* Tel'Quess - elf, 'one of the People'
* Tel'Quessir - elves
* reverie - a dream-like state, an elven form of sleep