"How is the hand?"
Sephiria sighed, sitting on the balcony outside her bedroom in Duke Silvershield's summer home. It was a beautiful estate, a little less than a six-hour ride east of the city, settled beside a babbling creek, fixtures of marble and burnished copper making it gleam in the setting sun as it looked over a (distant enough to avoid the smell, obviously) large farming community that served as one of Entar's many business ventures.
It was also, not coincidentally, a community that was surrounded by two layers of high stone walls and populated entirely by employees of the Silvershield Consortium. It was not lost on Sephiria that gilded it may have been, this country home and the community surrounding it were also essentially a small, self-sustaining fortress, and that she and her party were very much not free to leave until the Grand Dukes determined they were not a danger to their precious city.
She probably should have been upset by that, but Duke Belt was the high priest of Helm in the city, and he had re-attached her hand essentially as a courtesy. It still didn't move half so well as she remembered and the arm constantly hurt unless she kept it in a sling, but it was on her body again. She could tolerate a gilded cage after that kindness.
She leaned on the brass balcony, looking out over one of the distant farms, watching the tiny dots of the workers heading in for the evening, and winced as the movement jostled his arm. "I would prefer to be alone, Acherai."
"You let Imoen visit."
"She's my sister."
"And I…"
"Do not say it."
"Oh, come now, we fought a mad demigod together! Even if you can't call me a true sibling, we're surely at least as close as the annoying cousin who visits only at Midwinter Feast," the elf drawled, pulling up a chair and grinning. "What have you to still be depressed about? We won. You avenged your father. And so far as my contacts in the city can tell me, you're actually well on your way to not ending up in prison."
She arched an eyebrow. "You have contacts now? You're not even from Baldur's Gate, how do you have contacts after… what, two months?"
"You'd be amazed how easy it is to get on a thief's good side with a few free drinks and a few deftly picked purses. Also, I killed a man named Eldoth who it turned out had almost more enemies than I could count? Essentially anyone in the city who had a daughter loathed this person."
"Ah. So, you're able to make friends quickly because you are a bad person?"
"I prefer to think of myself as social. Also, I can visit the city, because I am not wanted for murdering a public figure you… I believe Imoen would say 'gallumphing ox?' She's a dear, truly."
"… I still find it intensely disturbing that you two actually seem to get along."
"I admire anyone who can get into my room without me noticing. Though I still haven't figured out why she only took my boots and put them on the roof…"
"She honestly doesn't need a reason beyond boredom."
"Well, at least she, unlike some I could name, is capable of positivity. The Dukes were slow to come around, but frankly at this point Entar has provided so much evidence they have to accept Sarevok was planning to kill them. All that we're missing is his actual body at the scene of the crime, and that's hardly your fault. Who knew that we disintegrate on death, honestly? You could try to be a little happy that things turned out largely for the good."
"I don't feel like they did, Acherai. And it bothers me that you don't understand that."
"Surely you don't feel bad about killing Sarevok," the elf said, his face curling into something between confusion and disgust. "The fact he didn't give you much choice about it aside, he was trying to essentially kill everyone in the entire region. You're a paladin, smiting obvious villains is literally your entire job. And if this is about Tamoko, well, let's be blunt: she wasn't all that much better, despite our alliance of convenience."
"That isn't the problem," she hissed. "Of course he was evil! Of course he needed to be stopped! I am judged by Torm, thief, not by you, and his grace remains! I stood for what I believed to be right, and my god has not found me wanting!"
"Then why…"
"Because it's not over!" she snapped, tears now openly glistening in her eyes. "Because in the end, whatever our reasons, whatever the right or wrong of it, we did what Bhaal wanted. He doesn't care how it happens, he doesn't care what we want, he just wants us to kill each other, and we did. We lost allies and… and yes, we lost siblings on our path to this place, Acherai, and it was for nothing! I did what had to be done, for the good of everyone in this entire world, and in the end the will of Bhaal was well-pleased. Because… because in the end all I did was kill, damn you. I couldn't save Kivan, I couldn't save Tamoko, and I couldn't even save Sarevok. I didn't save anyone. I just killed them, just like Bhaal wanted for me. Torm hasn't forsaken me. But he should."
Acherai blinked. "… Are you quite done throwing a tantrum, or shall I wait?"
"How dare…"
"No, no, you listen to me for once. Since the day we met, you've clearly been under the impression that you are the main character in some romantic novel about chivalry, where all the villains are clearly marked, purely evil, and get securely locked up in a suitably intimidating dungeon at the end of the story whilst the hero rides off into the sunset. Well in a shocking twist, sister dear, life quite never works out that way, and the fact you have a bloody existential crisis every time reality slaps you in the face with that idea has gotten old! People die, every day, and sometimes it's because the only way to get what you want is to kill someone who wants the opposite. Sometimes there are no good options and you need to do something you regret because it was just the least awful path available. And sometimes you just lose, and your only option is to roll over and die, or to roll with the punch and try to claw your way back from it."
Sephiria sat again, raising her good hand to her forehead. "I… gods, man. I'm only just twenty summers. A year ago I had never been outside the walls of a library. I'm not like you. I can't shut my heart off, I can't stop thinking about it all, I… I can't do this. I can't."
"Well, destiny or fate or the gods clearly disagree, because you already have done it. You fought a mad demigod, and you won, and saved the whole Sword Coast. And now you're falling into depression because you didn't do it well enough," he said. "Get over yourself. So you aren't some perfect storybook heroine? Well guess what: nobody is. Ninety-nine percent of people placed into your shoes this last year would have died before they got half so far. You did the best job anyone in your place could have done, so don't waste it by falling apart now. Learn, get stronger, and keep moving forward."
Despite herself, Sephiria chuckled, a low sound with a small sob under it. "When did you become a motivational speaker, then?"
"Possibly it's one of my divine powers."
Another chuckle, and a rueful shake of the head. "I… you have a point, fine. I shall try to be… firmer in my convictions. But I had a point too, 'big brother.' This is not over, not remotely. Sarevok wasn't the last child of Bhaal who will want to try to ascend the throne. He might not even be the strongest."
"More fools them, trying to anchor themselves to the legacy of a dead parasite of a god," he said with a shrug. "With luck most of them will kill each other, and we'll only have to deal with a few. If not… well, I for one refuse to be anyone's food, be it 'father' or 'brother.' I'll do what I must."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what else will be done beyond 'what you must,' Acherai? My brother who is so very good at making contacts in the underworld, who moves on from deaths and sacrifices so very quickly to keep on his path forward? What is he moving towards, I wonder."
He smiled. "I shall worry about the crisis at hand, first. From there… well. This is a wide world, full of opportunities for a man willing to see them. I think I've found a good position, for the moment, and a good alliance despite the drama to it. The future will see to itself, and I shall make do."
"As for me," she said softly, "I will do what is right, where I can, and defend those important to me. If I can, I'll defend the world. So long as our purposes do not cross in this… yes, I suppose we have an alliance."
The elf's grin did not shift in the slightest. "Well then, sister dear, look on this as a win. Bhaal wants us all dead, no? And surviving is perhaps what I am very best at. So in that sense, I'm the finest ally you could ever hope to have."
And as he turned to leave her to her thoughts, she frowned slightly. Quite unbidden, those thoughts were solely on the nature of blood ties, and the nature of alliances.
And on how both things could be so very tenuous.
Imoen pondered the situation before her, wheels turning in her clever mind, and after ten minutes of processing her situation, she sprung on the key point.
"So what you're saying is, I need bat poop."
"That is entirely not the only thing I am saying, child," Dynaheir said, rubbing her temples and wondering vaguely if the girl had suffered a similar head injury to poor Minsc. "I note, in fact, that you are quite explicitly studying a spell I told thee was too advanced. Fireball is, while quite loved amongst combat evokers, so far beyond thy non-existent abilities that attempting to cast it might well cause thee to explode thine own hands."
"Right, but. See. It's the spell I want to cast, on account of if I'm gonna be hanging around Seffie much, I'm apparently gonna be killing gods, and plinking them with a shortbow isn't really cuttin' it." Imoen said, blinking innocently. "So, how's about we skip the loser stuff, and go right to the big booms, huh?"
"Imoen. Mastering the arcane is a process of quite some time, and I will be neither thy last nor thy greatest teacher. Be fully aware that an attempt to, erm, 'skip the loser stuff,' will almost certainly end in the vaporization of thyself long before any spell of power 'tis crafted."
"You're makin' this very hard on me, you know."
"Yes. Because 'tis a difficult profession, and I am becoming increasingly convinced thou art choosing it on what I can only describe as a whim."
"… No. No, ain't a whim anymore," Imoen said, closing the book. "I need power, an' I need it fast. You didn't see him, Dynnie. Sarevok. At the end. He was… we got lucky, we got real, real lucky, and still almost all died. If I'm going to stay with Seffie, and I am, through thick and thin, I need more. I need to be better."
"And thou will, child. You have a gift for the Art, and a keen mind despite its eccentric nature. Thou have it in thy reach to be a mage of power, indeed. But I shan't lead thee on a path to such power that ends in thy own death. That will help neither thy sister, nor thyself."
The younger girl sighed, but it was a dramatic gesture clearly made more to draw out laughs than express actual frustration. "Well, okay. I guess ya have a small point there. I'll settle for bein' the worst mage ever, and learn something lame like… this pig grease spell, really? There must be something more-"
She was interrupted, then, by a knock on the door of Imoen's bedchamber, where the two women had been sitting. Assuming it to be her sister, she stood and walked to the door, to find a scruffily bearded man in black leather that looked to be about 100 years old, despite the man himself being probably thirty or forty. Maybe. He was scrawny, short, and pale, so it was difficult to be judge; he might have been a very hairy teenager with bad nutrition, now that Imoen looked at him.
"You Edwin Odeisseron?" he asked, without any introduction.
"Wh… no. He actually, erm, I hate to say it, but our group ran into a pretty big disaster, and he…"
"Died? Figured. You got his corpse anywhere? I needta raise 'em."
"… What? Look, man, I don't know-"
"Name's Vink. Just Vink," said Just Vink. "Edwin Odeisseron owes a debt to my patron, for services rendered during his tenure at the Academy of Shapers and Binders in Thay. I need to make sure he pays, with interest."
"… He's dead."
"And I'm gonna raise him. You don't get Thayans, lady: Nothing alleviates him of his debt except payment in full, and that very much includes his own death. So just tell me where you left his corpse, I'll go take care of it and let him know a five-percent service charge is added to his debt. Easy-peasy."
"I… you're a priest?" Imoen asked. "No offense, but what god would like… work with you?"
"I don't wanna talk about it. Look, you know where Edwin is or not? I'm in a hurry."
"We, uh… we kind of left him in the sewers… under the market district, I think…"
"Eh, not the smelliest place I've ever found him. Later, kid," Vink said, closing the door in her face.
Imoen opened it almost immediately, and he was just gone. She looked both directions down the hallway, and found nothing.
She blinked a few times.
Dynaheir patted her pseudo-apprentice softly on the shoulder, and said, "Well. Look at it this way, child. Thou shall clearly never be the worst wizard we know."
The Elfsong Tavern was surprisingly cozy considering it was most famous for being haunted, Acherai couldn't help but notice.
Reportedly a ghostly voice often filled the Baldur's Gate inn, singing a wordless song that struck a chord most profoundly with any visiting elves. Stories abounded of elven travelers coming from entirely different countries simply to hear her voice, being blessed by the experience with a spiritual reminiscence on the path of their life, seeing all their joys and sorrows in a new light.
She hadn't sung a note in any of the times Acherai had visited over the last few weeks in his trips to and from the city. He supposed he should take that personally, but the wine was high-quality, and the house meals were consistently good, so he was willing to accept the implicit judgment of a tavern-ghost that he wasn't 'elf' enough to deserve a serenade.
"Well, it's done," Kagain said, sitting down across the table with a tankard and a plate of something's ribs that were still a little bloody. "Can't say I enjoy goin' into business fer a Duke or an elf, but me old guard business is officially relocated t' the Gate an' under the ownership of Entar Silvershield, with Acherai Moonshadow signed on as a junior partner. Doesn't feel right, it doesn't."
"How much money are you being paid to be the general manager?" Acherai murmured, idly toying with a strand of Viconia's hair as she lazily reclined against him in the booth. Her hood was pulled back, and not one person was making any move to ask her to leave.
Sephiria wasn't wrong. Acherai was good with making friends.
Kagain smirked despite himself. "More than I ever seen in one place in me life, which is why I don't mind doin' some things that feel wrong. Gimme another ten percent, and I'll send a runner south ta Amn and hire on some folks fer special projects that does lots of stuff what feels wrong. Mostly they does it with a whip that has razors tied to it."
"Even if you were worth a ten percent raise, this isn't the time. You rather prophetically have the first contract on defending iron shipments from the Cloakwood once the mines re-open, you know. Don't want to ruin your reputation before we're even done making it. Stick to nice, strong, stupid native-born Baldurians, at least until the general rabble are able to get through their heads that they only think they hate Amn because the Iron Throne was telling them they did with big words."
"Worth a fifty percent raise, pale prissy elf bugger," Kagain muttered venomously before taking another swig.
The elf rolled his eyes. "Viconia, do you suppose I should remind the greedy dwarf that he is my employee, and such talk leads to consequences?"
She shifted her head to nip lightly at his neck, before purring, "Perhaps we could slice him open and bind him in the spider pits until they lay eggs in his wounds. That's what my mother did to dwarf slaves who didn't bend the knee fast enough."
"We don't have a spider pit, darling."
"Surfacers never consider the essentials."
"This is why nobody likes elves, ye know. Dark 'r pale, yer all bloody crazy," the dwarf said.
"Oh, do calm yourself, friend. The wilds are full of bandits, trade is about to start moving again, and if the rumors are right some wild-eyed lunatics are trying to start a crusade in the north? The business of providing men with large swords and no morals is about to be booming, and you are now a provider of such in one of the biggest trade hubs on the coast. Life is good."
"Could be ten percent better, is all I'm sayin'."
"And it will be, little man. We're only just getting started. This city is an oyster waiting to be cracked open. Sarevok's power base will become our power base."
"And when Sephiria grows tired of you threatening her misplaced sentimental morals? Or when others of your siblings choose to come try their luck, as their blood shall surely push them to do?" Viconia murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "What then, oh conquering lord? What will you do when destiny comes knocking on the gates of your newly built castle?"
"The thing they don't tell you about destiny, dear heart, is that if you try hard enough and are ruthless enough, you can kill it just like anything else. And I am a child of murder… among other things."
The sheer hunger in his smile made even her heart beat faster, and she was pulling him toward the stairs to their rented room before without ever making a conscious choice to do it, all other thoughts forgotten.
There were places in the Realms where no good can possibly come from, and this was one of them.
Cold, dank, lit only by small glowing balls of faerie fire that floated in even spaces along the walls and cast a pale, ghostly blue glow over a scene that could only be called a nightmare. Rows and rows of cages, each one containing something that had once been alive. A few still twitched, lying cramped on bare stone painted with their own dried blood. Most were very still, flies buzzing around them.
At least many were still recognizable as humans, or halflings, or an oddly large number of elves. This was far more than could be said of the room with the bubbling glass tanks, each one containing what could best be described as a malformed, twisted lump of flesh floating in the translucent liquid.
Some of these still twitched as well. The notion they were alive brought no comfort.
In the surgical theater at the heart of the complex, a man washed blood from his hands in a small basin, speaking loudly to be heard over the half-coherent sobbing and whimpering of the much younger, golden-skinned man on the table, the new stitches on his torso still glistening with blood. "I do want you to know that I take no pleasure in this. Unfortunately, sedatives would skew the experiment; I do not truly believe you sufficient for my purposes any longer, but it would be amiss not to push you to your absolute limits and be certain. You will, if nothing else, help to refine the process and prevent future waste. I understand if this is not comforting."
"P… please just… please… I just want… please, please kill me…" the golden-skinned sobbed, though a mouth that was coated in blood and lips almost too swollen to part for the words to pass. The words had a soothing, almost musical tone to them despite his clear agony, a common trait in his kind.
"Eventually, yes. But not until I have learned all I can," the dark man said, splashing water on his own oddly scarred face, then picking up a towel to wipe the sweat and blood from it. A few droplets clung to the stitches that ran up and down the sides of his head and spreading around him completely, leaving him looking as though he had been made from two different people sewed together into a single, intensely wrong being.
Leaving the test subject for the golems to return it to its cage, he stepped out of the lab and into a more personal quarter, pulling off his boots so as not to track gore onto the carpet, and sat before a very different basin of water. This one was polished platinum, inlaid with patterns of a forest carved along the edges in gold, an intricately carved sapphire the size of an egg set into the bottom of it below the perfectly still surface of the pool. It was a beautiful tool, not merely valuable and intricate but practically humming with magic even while at rest.
He hated it with every fiber of his being, but he was not a wasteful man by nature.
He waved a hand across the water, his fingertips just barely grazing the surface enough to set ripples in motion, and the spark of magic snapping from his skin into the cool liquid. "Show me."
The pool shifted, the water swirled, and where his reflection had been he saw images in quick succession.
A fire giant, huge even by the standards of the barbaric race, at the head of an army of his kind as they ripped a mountain village to splinters and devoured the hapless fools who had called it home.
A young drow, flickering into existence only for a few seconds before wards of power pushed back against his scrying and turned the water to milky white mist.
A blue dragon, roaring its triumph as it flew away from the corpse of a smaller bronze dragon it had ripped apart, blood still soaking its azure scales bright red.
Spiked armor, ripped asunder in some ancient cave, old curses still hissing around it.
A pale elf intertwined with a drow woman, letting the world slip away in what he thought was a moment of triumph and celebration.
A young woman with a thick mane of red hair, staring mournfully at a sunset and wondering if there would be anything left of her, when she reached the end of the long road she saw ahead, as a younger girl in pink babbled something inane in a vain attempt to cheer her.
He smiled slightly, an expression that twisted that scar tissue and stitches lining his face in horrible ways, as the light of the scrying pool reflected against black eyes that seemed like bottomless pits set back in his head.
"Decisions, decisions."