Yes, I am naming chapters of the story after Metallica songs.
(Neverwinter Nights 2 and characters referred to obliquely are the property of Obsidian. Faithless, Jesperth, Rilada, and the bath house wench are mine.)
The bath house was mostly empty when she arrived, as most of its patrons were at home or at their daily business. She was slightly relieved. It increased her chances of getting a private bath without having to pay an arm and a leg. Not that money really mattered at this point anymore. With the amount of gold stuffed in her magic holding bags, she could have probably bought the damn place. Still, old West Harbor bred frugality was a hard trait to exorcise, and even now, she railed at the idea of having to pay outrageous prices for something like a simple bath in solitude. She felt it a natural right.
She waited at the marble counter for the day attendant, her ragged fingernails gently scraping at the polished surface as she looked around the room. The walls and floors were inlaid with a mixture of marble, granite, and slate, occasional broken up by a mural or mosaic. Lush plants, some with heady smelling large blooms, sat in different corners, and some even had vines creeping along the wall, giving the place a feeling of an old elven temple. A melange of odors drifted from the main doors into the bathing area, from soap and simple, common cleansing herbs to the cloying scents of exotic oils and spices, most of which she could not name. This place was several steps up from any of the bath houses she had used in Neverwinter, excepting probably the ones in Blacklake, which she never entered anyway. Yet according to Jesperth, this place was the "commoners" public bath.
Everlund was a completely different horse from Neverwinter, she was beginning to realize. Far cleaner, for starters, she had noticed as Jesperth rode them past the gates. The cacophony of foul odors that assaulted her nose when she first stepped into the Docks District almost made her reel. Yet here, the smell was quite tame by comparison, and she wondered if it was due to a better sewage system. There was also a more varied mixture of races, with only one out of every two people she saw being human; the rest were mixture of everything from pure elves to half orcs, and few people seemed terribly bothered by the fact. Most noticeable of all, was that people wandered about with a sense of optimism and contentedness, traits she had seen little of in Neverwinter, where the atmosphere had been of war recovery and new fears of war looming.
A door swung open and an immaculately groomed half-elf in light gauzy robes stepped out to greet her. "How may I be of service to you today?" she asked as she stepped behind the counter, carrying a couple clean linens on her arm. She had the faint scent of water lilies and apple blossoms on her.
Faithless said quietly, "A private bath." And make sure when I leave, to drain the water and have the local clerics perform an exorcism on it, she added silently. The half-elf looked op at her in polite surprise, and quirked her eyebrows as she gave the dishevelled tiefling a once over.
"Indeed! A private bath you say?" the attendant inquired. "Even the smaller standard ones with no attendants or massages and oils will cost you seven gold. You could use the communal pools for a fraction of the cost, and there are few enough people here at the moment that you could bathe in relative privacy."
Faithless wasn't in a mood to haggle, and plopped down seven gold pieces in front of the girl. "Nothing fancy; just soap, scrubber rags, and linens to dry with. I do hope they are included in the price, as well?"
The half-elf nodded as she saw the gold pieces sparkling in the early afternoon sun that filtered through the clouded glass dome. "Of course. You also receive your own wooden comb and a teeth cleaning set." She took the gold coins off the counter and deposited them into an adamantine container, and turning toward the main doors, said: "If you will, my lady, please follow me."
The attendant led her past the communal area into a corridor and opened one of the doors, motioning for her to enter. Faithless found herself in a small stone room with an oblong hole in the floor. A stone bench, a full length mirror, and a wooden table were the only furnishings, along with a small potted shrub. She sat down on the bench, and looked up at the half-elf, and asked, "How long will it take to fill?"
"A couple of minutes, no more," the girl answered. She turned on her heel, and as she faded out of the doorway, she said, "I will bring you your sundries shortly."
A couple of minutes? To fill a hole that sized? They either have a hidden army of unseen drones, or the staff here has permahaste cast on them, Faithless thought as she began stripping off her pack and harness belt. A moment later, she discovered neither was true. She heard the sound of metal on stone scraping coming from the floor bath, and as she peered down, she saw a small gusher of very warm water issue from a hole in the bottom of the bath. Wow! Some system! Didn't see that one coming. She wondered if it was some sort of remarkable feat of engineering, or a magically fueled water delivery. The attendant soon returned with a stack of cream colored linens and a few smaller items on a tray, then vanished, closing the door tightly behind her.
The tiefling stripped off armor and clothes and recoiled at her own smell, which was far worse without clothing to absorb it. She stared over at the mirror, debating whether or not she wanted a full body examination, then decided against it. She could imagine fine enough without visual confirmation. Most of it she could see anyway without a mirror. She waited for the bath to fill, and when the bubbling finally died off, she lowered herself slowly into the steaming water with a sharp gasp, then a sigh.
The bar of soap was impressively thick and large, and as she lathered it roughly in her hair, she wondered if the attendant had thought that in her state, she would need a bigger than average chunk. The soap was quite rich and powerful, and had a strong smell of lemons. She was expecting a standard bath to simply have a gritty bar of evergreen tar soap, and was quite surprised when she didn't. She dunked her head under water to remove the soap from her hair, then ran the bar through her locks again.
Stepping out of the water, she lathered and scrubbed vigorously with the mitt the attendant had brought, flinching a few times as when she passed its rough surface over a still tender bruise. Grime, sweat, dried blood, old skin and scab scraped off and disintegrated into the lemony foam as she worked the roughed, soapy mitt over her body with slowly increasing fury. After rinsing in the bath once, she stepped out and began the assault on her bare skin anew. She repeated several times before she finally stopped, realizing she had rubbed several patches of skin red and raw and they were beginning to sting. Lowering herself back into the water, the burning became intense.
It's not that easy, and you know it, Faithless told herself as she immersed herself into the warm, steaming water, surfacing with a wide eyed gasp. Soap can only clean skin deep. Skinning yourself alive won't wash away the deeper buried rot and filth. And that's what's eating you alive. That reek that persists even when your nose is blocked. The stench that your existence has become, that chokes you even in your sleep.
She tried to clear her mind and focus on nothing, but memories betrayed her once again, fresh and raw. Even the mild burning of her irritated skin failed to distract the flood of thoughts that came, unwanted. The entire universe is built on the fabric of insanity. A sick cosmic joke. More so than even the cynics and sages realize. And long ago, in this cackling asylum called 'reality', some supreme powers got together and chose me to discover and witness this truth for myself. Long before my great grandparents were even twinkles in their fathers' eyes. Araman seemed to really dig the set-up enough that he didn't fear the oblivion my sword would bring as he defended it. He was too stupid to realize that bringing the heavens crashing down into the hells would probably be the best damned thing that happened to the planes. And I don't even believe that would happen if the Wall was ever successfully destroyed. If it were true, and the Wall was the thread which bound the fabric of the planes together, then it's a garment unfit to wear and needs to be destroyed so a new one can be tailored.
Just stop it. Stop thinking about it. Thinking just does not suit you, girl. Especially in this case. You are likely to drive yourself crazy, if you haven't already started down that highway. You can't do a damn thing. You never were meant to. Find a wizard and pay for memory oblivion spell. You just might survive if you do. The other alternative is to accept what you have seen, what you have done, what you have experienced as truth, and then go completely mad. Which seems more and more plausible.
The billowing crests of the soapsuds had turned and ugly shade of brown, and Faithless decided she was about as clean as she was going to get. She pulled herself out of the bath and wrapped herself in the drying linens. To forget and be forgotten, that's paradise, he had told her in a tone that made her uneasy. Now it began to make sense. Except you were wrong, nature boy. Neither happens like you expect it. It's not really oblivion. I really wish I could forget. I might now already be forgotten, if I'm lucky, but the forgetting myself part still eludes me.
On the way to the baths, she asked Jesperth to drop her off at the nearest clothier, since she was pretty certain what she was wearing was beyond salvage. She pulled the parcel out of her pack and began slipping on new underclothes first, followed by a dark steel grey tunic and charcoal trousers. The material, coarse linen, felt strange on her skin. In Rashemen, she never wore anything less than thick wool, and had forgotten how light clothing could feel. She ruffled through her bags of holding for a pair of boots, and found ones to suit for now. As she slipped them on and began strapping and buckling, she wondered just how many pairs of boots were piled in the magic bags. It had always been a particular quirk of hers; any boots she found, she hoarded, as if the world might experience a sudden famine of footwear any day. She never understood why she had this particular habit, and decided it really wasn't important. Her unusual hobby saved her from having to buy a new pair.
As she reached over for her belt and harness, she stared over at the pile of discarded clothing and tattered armor. The leather tunic had once been powerfully enchanted and magically enhanced by Safiya, and had taken an unbelievable amount of abuse without faltering. It survived most of her ill fated assault on the City of Judgment, but ultimately it could not survive the wrath of the Wall and the desperate battle in her soul against the very heart of hunger. If anything beyond residual enchantment remained in it, she would be surprised. The thing was gouged, ripped, frayed in a few places. Her old boots fared little better. She found she wasn't particularly stricken over the loss. They served their purpose, and they were relics of Rashemen, a place she wanted as much physical and psychological distance from as she could get.
Examining her wyvern's hide belt and strap assembly, she was amazed to discover than despite the devastation done to her armor, the entire assembly was intact, and with the exception of the dried blood, grime, and filth on it, it seemed no worse for the wear. It possessed no enchantments except for the trace ones contained from the wyvern itself, as well as innate properties of the adamantine and darksteel buckles, clips, and rings, yet it had survived what highly amplified near invulnerable armor couldn't. She caressed the leather in near reverence, and choked back what threatened to be more tears as a bitter irony dawned on her.
She remembered the crisp day in late Marpenoth when he had brought it to her. Though he claimed total ignorance of the fact, he had given it to her conspicuously close to her nineteenth birthday. Just some old scraps left over from the hide he had worked to make new boots with, he declared, and instead of wasting the leftovers, decided the Great Knight Captain of Crossroad Keep could use a new belt/harness/scabbard assembly befitting her lofty new station. Though he tried to casually shrug the item's creation off as boredom, his voice had an undercurrent of something else, and his eyes shifted around as if nervous that she might not like it.
The craftsmanship and detail was exquisite, and a lot of work and care had gone into its making. Duskwood scabbards, darksteel hardware clamps, adamantine buckles and fasteners. Leather dyed a deep, dusky midnight purple. Simple, stylized spirals and swirls interlaced by primitive looking lightning bolts were tooled in a motif through the whole assembly. Despite his claims to the contrary, this was not created as an afterthought from wasted hide. A lot of skill and care had been put into it. As she looked at him and smiled, she saw in his face the truth of it: it was a labor of love.
She bit her lip hard as she turned the belt in her hands. It took a brutal thrust of her will to suppress the tears that threatened to blur her vision. The irony of the whole thing clung in her throat like a thick, acidic, syrupy ooze. You managed to make something that survived everything that the King of Shadows, Rashemen, the Fugue Plain, and the schemes of a deceased god could throw at it. Why weren't you made the same way, ranger?
For a moment, bitter anger sprang from her gut, and she almost cast the entire assembly into the pile of discarded memories that lay reeking a few feet from her. She stopped herself, and shook her head in dismay at the thought. This is something else the gods never managed to take from you. Do you really want to give them this last little bit of yourself because you can't deal with the reality it reminds you of? And in the act, are you willing to consign this last little piece of him to oblivion? With a deep, shuddering sigh, she set the harness down, picked up the wooden comb that sat on the bench, and started the arduous task of combing the tangled rats' nest that her hair had become.
She hastily finished the rest of her grooming, and removed the daggers, rapiers, tools, and other items from the belt and harness. Kneeling beside the bath's edge, she submerged the harness under water and used the remainder of the bar of soap to wash the crud off. On her way back to Jesperth's house, she would find a weaponsmith and pick up some proper maintenance materials for weapons and armor. For now, she just wanted to get the worst of the grunge off her gear so she could wear it again. When she was done, she blotted it with the linens and replaced her weapons and gear. It was still damp, but at least it was clean.
Fastening the final buckle and mounting her pack, she turned one last glance toward the pile of ruined clothing and the grey-brown sludge in the bath, and bid them both a less than fond farewell as she left the bath house to wait for Jesperth outside.
Later that evening…..
They sat around the low table, seated on garishly colored cushions. Jesperth and Rilada had both prepared the evening meal, a bean stew with fresh bread, and both were watching in quiet amusement as Faithless devoured her second helping with the same ravenous abandon she had destroyed Jesperth's pastries with.
"What did I tell you about this one, Ril?" Jesperth asked his wife as he finished off the remnants of his first bowl of stew. "An appetite that would make a dragon pop, eh?"
"Indeed," Rilada's silken, husky voice agreed. She had paused to watch the tiefling with a curious intensity that reminded Faithless of the githzerai cleric she had once travelled with. "Hunger the likes of which I have never seen before. When Jes told me you had a rather…healthy appetite, I thought he was trying to slyly get me to prepare a larger meal so he could eat the rest." She glanced at the table and waved a slender, graceful hand over the pot and two loaves. "Hunger such as yours should not be denied, certainly not in this house. Eat as much as you like, dear girl. I can see shadow of famine in your flesh."
The tiefling's eyes shifted away from the soft, calm, yet intensely piercing gaze of the elf woman. She had admitted that Rilada was far from what she was expecting when Jesperth said he was bringing her home to his wife. In fact, quite the opposite. Thinking she would be greeted by the pillar-like buxom frame of a healthy half-orc or even human matron, she couldn't help staring in open surprise when the willowy, graceful form of an elven beauty turned from her meditations on a stack of cushions and smiled serenely at tiefling and half-orc as they came through the door.
Rilada was something of an enigma. She possessed that otherworldly, nearly ethereal beauty certain elves possessed.. Long, silken hair the color of midnight was left free and unadorned, and it often trailed behind almost as insubstantial as a shadow. Skin the color of moonlight was veiled by a wispy, lilac colored gossamer wrap that merely tinted her naked body, rather than cover it. Large, almond shaped aquamarine eyes possessed what the gith called "between planes" gaze, or, as it was known in the Realms, the "thousand mile stare" that is often associated with fatigue or boredom. Yet Rilada seemed neither bored nor exhausted, but instead, seemed to be looking through everything, instead of beyond it. As if everything around her was constructed of thin illusion rather than solid matter. Even more interesting was her demeanor. She lacked the condescending hauteur often associated with delicate elven beauties in the presence of "lower races". Her whole bearing was calm, warm, and curious, and through it all, a trace of universal amusement at everything.
Faithless felt slightly ashamed at herself for staring so openly, though neither Jesperth nor Rilada seemed particularly offended or upset. I have no room to talk, she chided herself. My own mother fell in love with some mysterious mongrel of the lower planes. In a lot of people's eyes, a half–orc and elf are far more tolerable, because at least they are natural. Not so for whatever great grandparent of mine it was who crawled out of the abyss to fuck some unsuspecting or twisted human. Though possessing a faint trace of tanar'ri in her veins was not something that have ever really bothered her, she knew there were people in the world that thought her existence an abomination.
She ate another spoonful of stew and followed it with a bite off her chunk of rye bread. The bean stew was seasoned with some unusual herbs and spices, but it was fresh and filling, and her digestive system was happily taking it down and keeping it in. She couldn't help smiling as a memory rhyme from her West Harbor childhood crept into her thoughts. Beans, beans, they're good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart… She giggled to herself, and saw Jesperth raise an eyebrow.
"Sorry," Faithless said. "Private joke. Don't worry, I'm not planning on attracting Cyric's mob to your doorstep." If I can help it.
Jesperth grinned. "Oh, I wasn't worried about that. I figured what happened back on the road was just the result of shock and stress. Perfectly understandable in your state. No, I actually wondered if you planned on sharing whatever just tickled your funnybone."
Faithless shrugged. "Oh, just some silly outhouse humor from when I was a kid. Not really worth mentioning. Especially as we're eating." She ladled another serving of stew into her bowl.
"I see." Jesperth eyed the large red beans as he watched her shovel another spoonful into her mouth, and his grin became wider. "It wouldn't happen to be a certain poem about a certain legume and certain bodily function, would it?" When her face turned red and she lowered her eyes, smiling, he laughed heartily. "Well, if you are worried about that, Rilada has a mess of potions and preparations to fix that up. You name it, she cures it."
The elf woman was eating her stew quietly, but she didn't appear bothered or offended by the references to impolite body function. That serene, calm face still ate delicately, and her lips held the faintest suggestion of amusement on them. She looked up at the tiefling, and nodded. "Beans, like all things, have a duality. I shall give you an elixir as soon as you are finished, if you feel the need for it."
Trust me, you both will feel the need for it after I'm done murdering this stew pot, Faithless wanted to say, but instead, she just nodded, finishing her meal quietly. She started to take her dishes to the washbasin, but Jesperth put a firm hand on her arm.
"No, no need for that," Jesperth told her. "Washing up is my job around here, and I won't have you taking it from me. It's my favorite part of the evening actually. Gives me a chance to practice my singing voice while Ril does her evening salutations." He winked and glanced over at the elf. "Though how she manages to meditate with all that jackass braying coming from the kitchen is a mystery to me."
Rilada turned and kissed the half-orc gently on the cheek, and stroked his chin. "The sound of your voice when you sing, my love, might cause our neighbors consternation, but in my ears, it is the sound of sweet milk being poured upon the alter of bliss."
Jesperth ran one of his large, rough hands through her tresses and nibbled the tip of her ear. "Ahh, Rilada, when my mother said love was blind, she didn't mention it was deaf as well." He stroked her head, then got up to clear the table. "I'll get started on my bardic aspirations, and leave you two to your own business."
Rilada, after watching him for a moment, turned to the Faithless. "Come, if you please," she said as she lifted herself from the cushion. "My sanctuary is near the back door." Her gossamer gown flared and drifted behind her as she turned and walked towards the back door that led to a communal courtyard, disappearing into an archway right before it.
Faithless followed the elf into her sanctuary, which turned out to be a store room that had been converted into something resembling an apothecary, temple, and infirmary combined. Two soft cots sat head to foot on one wall. The opposite wall was dominated a cabinet and shelf containing jars, bottles, and boxes of various substances. Two exotic looking plants in alabaster pots stood in opposition at the far end of the room, and in the center of the room, a simple woven mat faced an empty wall.
Rilada motioned to one of the cots. "Seat yourself and be comfortable, Faithless, so that I may see you and learn of your ills." After she sat herself down, the elf knelt before her and took the tiefling's calloused hands into her own, turning and inspecting them. She turned her focus upward, and studied the tiefling's face, gently massaging her hands and arms while she did it. Faithless felt the muscles in her arms and hands become warm and relaxed.
"Tension," Rilada said, her voice seeming to drift somewhere else. "Your body is wrapped around your soul like choking ivy, and your spirit is being strangled in between the two." One hand reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from the girl's face to study it better. She frowned. "How long before today since you had food?"
Faithless remembered the squirrel she had killed a few days prior. "About four days."
"And before that?" Elven eyes did not waver.
"A very long time." Faithless paused, and then decided there was no point lying. "Four months."
The frown deepened, but Rilada nodded. "I see. Remarkable, indeed, that you can still draw enough breath to tell me this, if that is the case. You must have had some other way to sustain yourself."
Problem and solution right there, elf woman. Faithless looked away. "I suppose you could say that." She did not elaborate, and Rilada did not press her for further details.
"As you wish," the elf said as she stood up. "While serious, I sense your malnourishment is but one ill that haunts you."
Really? I could have told you that. Shrugging, she replied, "It's really not that bad. Nothing that Jesperth's cooking can't fix."
Rilada smiled, but her penetrating stare remained. "It would return the color of the living to your flesh, and add substance to your bones. But little else could it provide, and you are in need of much more than a full belly and a chorus of belches."
Faithless sighed and scowled. "Look, healing unguents will do me fine, if it's not too much trouble, ok?. And maybe some bandages. I can apply them myself, so you can get back to whatever it is you do about this time." Why in the Nine Hells did elves have to drag out even the most simple of tasks?
The elf's gaze intensified, but retained its patience and calm. She said nothing, just stood there, looking through instead of at the tiefling. An eternity seemed to pass, and Faithless began to feel naked. The elf was using no magic, at least as far as she could tell, yet she felt as if the scroll of her life was being read aloud in a packed courtroom. There was no trace of malevolence or power in the Rilada's eyes, but the feeling that the elf was aware of a greater truth that was frightening in its simplicity. The scrutiny made her feel as if she became little more than a fading whirlwind of dust, and though she started to feel uneasy, she could not provoke the urge to shift away.
Rilada broke the stillness by turning to browse through the shelves. She selected a jar, three small bottles, and a box of bandages, and gave them to Faithless. "This vial contains the digestive aid to help mitigate any after effects of dinner. And this one contains the essences of several good food plants to provide extra nourishment." She indicated the vials in question, and continued. "This salve should be spread on any wounds you have. It will heal them without scarring. And this…" She indicated the final bottle, "will mildly relax your muscles so rest will come more easily." The elf regarded her for a moment. "Of course, if you wished it, I could provide therapeutic massage. It is known to heal more than just the pain of tired muscles. But I sense you are eager to rest tonight, and I shall hinder you no more." Bowing lightly, she turned and went to sit on the mat in the center of the room.
Faithless watched her for a moment, getting ready to thank her, but the elf seemed oblivious to her surroundings, so she gathered the items and retired to the spare bedroom Jesperth had showed her earlier.
Once in, she stripped off her clothes and got to work on the various bruises, scratches, and tender wounds preparing to scar over. The salve smelled fresh and herby, not at all the sharp, pungent medicinal balm she had expected. It cooled everything it touched, and she could feel the burning and irritation drown in waves of sweet, soothing bliss. She rubbed some on her face to take care of the wounds there, and after drinking the digestive and nourishment potions, she decided to risk self examination in the small oval mirror on the wash stand.
It was dark in the room, and only a single candle flickered, so the light was lower and kinder than the midmorning sun had been. The right side of her face was in shadow, but she could see the wet unguent glisten. Turning her head, she examined both sides of her face. The crap that had been washed off in the bath house had been hiding a few new surprises from her. A dark gash descended from her hairline to midbrow, and she decided it was bad enough to need extra salve and perhaps a bandage. The thick rime of filth that had crusted to her horns was gone, and she was now able to see she had a good sized chip in the left one. Inevitably, however, it was the large, ragged red gash on her sternum that drew her full attention.
That's where it all began. The mystery scar on my breast that's haunted my life since it passed through my mother into me. Once a thin, silvery pink ridge about two inches in length. It was there I felt the funny tingle whenever I stepped over the black spot before the wheat fields. It is the place from where I felt that force of inescapable fate whip you down the Road of the Blade. It the true hand that wielded the Sword of Gith. Because beneath that scar of mystery, the heart of both wielder and wielded once sat in an uneasy but inevitable truce.
Now, the angry, snaking rift of a jagged, carelessly stitched serpent bisected her breasts. The shard was gone. Ripped from her chest by curled, withered hands that should not have been there. They hadn't even bothered to put her in full sleep when they did, for she was semiconscious enough to be aware of and remember the cold, calculated vivisection later. The large scalpel that ripped through her breast bone savagely. Cold hands that carelessly pulled her flesh apart and sharply prodded around her insides until they located what they sought. The sight of the bloody shard being lifted out triumphantly. And the whole time, she could feel it going on, but her body was completely frozen by spells and restraints. She could not even scream, as her neither her vocal cords or lips could move. Under normal and more humane circumstances, the primitive surgery should have killed her. She remembered crying out in her mind for a swift end.
But it wasn't so mercifully easy, because those who were cutting her open like a freshly downed elk had uses and plans for her, and those did not involve a quick trip to the afterlife. During the whole procedure, they had sustained her with magic, keeping her alive long enough to retrieve the shard and replace it with something far worse when they abandoned her in the dark, rune filled chamber of Okku's barrow. Though only the shard was meant to be taken, the yawning void she felt beneath her breast was evidence that something far deeper than an extraplanar piece of silver had been ripped from her that day in the Plane of Shadow.
Now, beneath the five inch long gash, she felt nothing at all, just a hollow wind. She rubbed some of the salve over the wound, but she felt no cool, tingling touch of healing herbs; not even the brush of her fingertips as they traveled along the edges and outline of the vicious wound. She didn't register a heart beat, though she still could feel her pulse elsewhere. She abruptly covered it with a bandage that she wound a few times around her breast, and drank the last potion before she crawled beneath the quilt and snuffed the candle.
She could feel the last potion work her muscles into lazy submission. Her eyes closed, and as she drifted off into sleep, her body felt refreshed and whole.
Her mind and soul, however, were not, and as her body rested and renewed itself, the deeper wounds in her psyche burst open and oozed out the festering pus of nightmares and memories that infected her dreams like a plague.