Chapter 6 – As The Crow Flies

The painting was called "Hellish Landscape" and to be honest, Lyric couldn't have agreed more. But whether it was because the canvas was actually depicting a real place in Avernus or because it was just a hellish mess artistically was unclear. It also didn't help that the massive work, which must be close to ten feet across by her estimation, was so ungainly huge that it had to be suspended from wires anchored in the ceiling. This meant that the heavy gilt frame tended to sway whenever the old manor shifted, causing the garishly bright reds and oranges to fade in and out of the firelight. With the imps on its margins dancing along, the whole scene was becoming just this side of a lurid fever dream with pornographic curves and too many mountain caverns made to look like gaping mouths.

But this was Hell. And there was an awful lot of velvet in it.

The intimate dining room surrounding her was in shambles. Lyric was still sitting in her assigned chair, in the ridiculous dress she had been given, but the dinnerware was at her feet and at least half of the butter knives were currently embedded in the far wall. A series of plates were in unrecognizable pieces all over the carpet, while the actual meal she'd been served was quickly turning to charcoal in its new setting in the middle of the fireplace. A dollop of mashed potatoes then slithered down the curtains in a slow parade of defiance until it too ended up on the rug in swirls of yellow and beige. Needless to say, she didn't think that Cazador had found her dinner conversation to be especially pleasant.

She was alone though. Correctly ascertaining that the prim vampire was especially meticulous about his appearance and the ways in which he expected others to conduct themselves in his presence. Unlike what might be usually expected of an aristocratic lord, Cazador did not need others to sit in awe or wonder of him. He did not need to be loved or fawned at. But he absolutely assumed, in almost blind arrogance, that he would be feared and respected. So much so that he carried out his cruelties as if he'd never put a single hair out of place or be forced to endure a single speck on his immaculate cravat. In short, a very bad conceit to hold for someone who couldn't see himself in a mirror. As a result, Lyric had decided to spend their brief engagement demonstrating for him just how disruptively powerful bad manners could truly be. Now, servants could be heard racing back and forth in the hallway beyond, arguing as to who should immediately attend to their distraught master and who should brave the dining room with her in it and start cleaning up first.

Lyric expected the spawn to arrive at any minute. They ought to, considering. While unarmed, she wasn't bound, nor were the windows bolted. Even the door sat slightly ajar, looking out into a series of thresholds that would certainly take her to the city outside eventually, should she try to run. But she remained rooted to the spot. Something about this whole evening had put her off. Some pall still weighed her down and made her hesitate, despite all her ranger's instincts screaming for escape. Lyric couldn't quite pin it up, but she just had a sense, a terrible foreboding deep in the pit of her stomach, that told her if she tried to leave, something much worse would befall her. Or that something meant to come about on this night was still waiting for her to make an obvious mistake. Cazador might be haughty as all hell, but he wasn't stupid. He must be prepared for her to try and slip away amidst the chaos no matter who or what had caused it.

Which is why she was completely startled when there was a gentle knock at the door.

A man stepped in. No fanfare. No announcement. And as simple as that.

Her world and all her ruminations, in that moment, stopped; the hellish landscape grinding to a halt as all eyes turned to regard a silhouette on the horizon. The devils quieted their shrieking and the fires burned reverently lower. The clock on the mantle went silent as the time between seconds stretched out into an infinity. The ringing in her ears became the ominous and persistent sound of the officer's whistle announcing the captain on deck, and it was enough to drown her soul in despair. The master and commander had finally arrived.

"I know that Lord Szarr set the invitation for 7 and that should make me fashionably late as they say. But I see that I am right on time."

For how long had she heard that low, soothing voice in her nightmares? How long had that looming shape haunted her every waking hour? How long had this demon possessed her?

Olivet Ingen Ailil stepped into the light, and it nearly fled from him. But though it wished, like her, to be anywhere else but here, none could look away when he called all the creatures in the shadows to attention.

Olivet had always been handsome, but the years since her departure appeared to have only treated him even kinder. His long blue-black hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, in the side swept half-fishtail style often favored by mariners. His coat and boots were of very fine quality but not ostentatiously decorated; as Olivet had never really been known for outwardly displaying his wealth or risking the loss of fine accoutrements to the sea should he be aboard ship. His face was angular and tilted away from her, highlighting the neat lines between his chin and the tips of his sharply pointed ears. But his deep blue eyes regarded her coolly and his posture was on guard. In all, he cut quite a dashing figure that, given their immediate surroundings, only made her feel even more like a petulant child about to be thoroughly scolded.

With slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the room, picked up an as-yet unsoiled chair, and placed it across from her. When he sat down with a quick flourish of his coattails, Lyric tensed.

"I have to say, Témalíre, that of all the ways I thought this evening might go…this was pretty close to the top of my list. The potatoes on the ceiling are a nice touch though."

Lyric offered a mirthless smile. "Yeah, well. You should see the other guy."

Olivet looked her quickly over and returned the smile. "Nice dress."

"Fuck you."

"Ah, there we are."

Lyric then watched, body pulled taut as a bowstring at the cheek, as her tormentor casually leaned over the table to fetch a wine glass and a bottle of dry oak-aged Callidyrran. As he poured himself a drink and set the bottle next to the edge nearest to where he was resting his elbow, she noted that he also pushed several silver forks away much further than mere tidiness required.

"Why are you here, Olivet?"

"I was invited."

"Vampires require invitations. You don't. Unless there's something you'd like to tell me?"

He chuckled. "Oh, a great many things. But not that. As you can see, I remain, as before, mortal flesh and blood."

"Then you keep dangerous company."

He eyed her again, this time in a way that made her fingers go cold and numb. "I've always kept dangerous company, lovely."

"But a vampire lord? That doesn't seem like you. Too unpredictable. Too likely to turn on you. Unless…" He paused mid-sip in curiosity as she went on. "…you're already in league with something much, much, worse. The only way you would ever accept this kind of alliance is if you went into it knowing you were punching down."

Olivet set the glass back down with a soft clink. "One thing I have always loved about you Témalíre, is your keen insight. And I mean that sincerely. I've never met anyone, before or since, who could divine hidden motives and minute details the way you can."

"They didn't call me Six-Tell for nothing."

"Precisely so. And that's why I agreed to this theatrical little dinner party in the first place. Amusing as it is to sit by and watch Cazador throw a fit about the wallpaper, I came to see you."

"Well, shocking as this might be," She stated flatly. "I have no interest in seeing you."

"Does that mean you're going to throw the lentils at me, or do I at least warrant the consideration of a whipped dessert?"

"I fucking hate you."

"I know, but that's hardly important right now. With the army of the Absolute bearing down on us, we both have far bigger concerns to discuss than the resolution of our little lover's spat."

"I am not your lover."

"Oh, that's right." He chuffed, rather gleefully. "Seems I am not the only one who is bedding down with vampires these days. Cazador tells me that you've taken up with his spawn, Astarion is it? Finally found someone who is cold enough for you?"

She could have screamed. She could have torn him apart with the blunt sides of her teeth, but his gaze glittered with the promise of an unthinkably savage malice. He wanted this confrontation, and he wanted every bit of fury he could wring from her. So, instead, she willed her heartbeat to slow and her mind to focus. She had already faced one great Chosen of Death and survived to tell the tale. She would survive this one too. Even if it killed her.

"Trading insults is beneath you, Ailil. You're here because you want something. So, what is it?"

He sighed and leaned back comfortably in his plush chair, toying with an idle strand of golden thread on the armrest. "As convoluted as this is going to sound, I already know that you know those who drive this army. Your deeds at Moonrise Towers have preceded you. You faced Ketheric Thorm and have delivered him into the hands of death for a second time – no small feat by the way – so you know that the Chosen of Myrkul, Lord of Bones, has fallen. Since, after all, it was you who slew him. This means that you must also already know that two more avatars of the Dead Three remain. Here, within the walls of Baldur's Gate."

"Gortash, Chosen of Bane, and Orin, Chosen of Bhaal."

"See? What did I say? Brilliantly deduced as always."

"Is that what you've done, Olivet? Turned yourself over to the Lords of Darkness and Murder? Gotten a right proper patron for your less than public hobbies?"

To her surprise, and consternation, Olivet Ingen Ailil openly laughed, his throat catching on his breath as he tried to stifle the sound. "Wouldn't that have been wonderfully predictable," he snickered. "Heir of Argentaamn Nightstar, Merchant Commander of the Seas and Pirate King; a dutiful worshipper in the House of Gore! No, no, my dear, I am afraid this is where your considerable senses fail you. It is Cazador Szarr who has seen fit to traffic with the Generals of the Absolute in his search for his wayward child. A child that he requires for the completion of his Ascendant ritual. Another piece of the story I suspect you already know about as well. But once done, will secure his and his inner circles' safe passage on the next ship out of the harbor."

"And you'll just…what? Hang out in the upper quarter until this whole thing blows over?"

Olivet took another breath and carefully stretched his neck, side to side. "I am no devotee of Death, Témalíre. Death is merely a means to an end, despite my enjoyment of certain…prior aspects. The necessity of Death's assault upon the Sword Coast cannot be overstated however, and Baldur's Gate must be its epicenter. Called here to shield the ever-growing gloom. You've said it yourself before; what I do is all in service of maintaining the mask."

Some loose connection in her mind suddenly sparked, and Lyric could clearly hear that last word repeated in his voice over and over again. Could see his image and illusions in the visions she had explored in the Elf-Eater's Hecatomb. Could hear Astarion's half-joking comment that Olivet sounded much like a dancer in a masquerade who is constantly trading costumes with everyone else at the ball just so that he would be impossible to reveal at midnight.

"Mask."

"What?"

Lyric looked up from her hands with an expression of dawning terror. "Don't…don't tell me that…that's how you've gone unnoticed all this time? Why no one ever connects you to the atrocities you commit? Why no one, in any class or caste, suspects you? Wait, no. You, a cleric? Some kind of…war priest? No wonder you don't fear the dead or the undead but…that can't be right!...Can it? You…you've made a pact…. with Mask. Haven't you?"

Her mind bubbled over with memories of the stories from her youth and books secretly read in the waning hours of the night. Mask was a near-forgotten god of shadows and intrigue, a saint of sorts for lone wolves of ill-repute. She recalled more specifically though that Mask had once held an alliance with Bane as they worked in tandem against both Selûne, whose light tended to reveal their scheming faithful, and Waukeen, the goddess of merchants and honest trade. But Mask had lost much of his power long ago in a battle with Cyric, the adversary of Mystra. Since then, or so she had been told, the ardents of Mask could only be identified, ironically, through their ability to go unnoticed when they wanted to. In the consistency of their inconsistency, taking on forms and lives that suited their purposes but also discarding them just as easily. In the fact that their movements made no sound and left no trail.

In a flash, it all made sense to her. Their battles against the Absolute's mysterious pilgrims, drawn from the unknowing and the deceived. The suppression of the Moonmaiden and the Merchantfriend; one whose light revealed all things concealed and the other who appeased the desires of caravan guides, entrepreneurs, and wealthy trading company owners with only genuine freedom and fairness. To the elevation of the Dead Three, who had failed to accord Mask his rightful place at their side and his entitlement to a share of their power. It also followed that Shar's growing desperation to consume all in darkness was because she too saw the coming of the void and fed on all the buried secrets. Even the capriciousness of Mystra now came together, as she had demanded the ultimate sacrifice of Gale in order to wipe the Great Design from the world and burn away the heavy fog that had settled into everyone's eyes.

But the sound that abruptly roused her from further descent was the sound of Olivet softly clapping.

"Well done, my love. Well done." He said, his tone almost tender as her gaze flicked back to where he still sat. "I can't tell you how pleased I truly am that you finally understand. I would have taken the time to explain it all of course but I'm afraid the hours have become rather short. It really will make this so much easier for you in the end though."

Lyric couldn't help but to clench her jaw, the screech of her teeth grinding together like nails on a chalkboard in her ears. "Make what easier, Olivet?"

"Not just yet, dear-heart." He stood and offered her his hand in a dignified, gentlemanly manner. "First, let us take leave of this mess. Cazador's household has informed me that this estate has quite the magnificent ballroom and, not only do I wish to see it, but I would also love nothing more than to have one last dance with you. One more beautiful moment holding you in my arms, just as you are."

She stared at his hand, but the images pouring through her weren't of the kind she anticipated in such a moment of revulsion. Instead, Lyric found herself unexpectedly thinking of Astarion. What was more, it was a memory from a day that had happened several weeks ago. She had awoken very early in the morning and had been unable to find him. Unable to even discern his tracks in the sand outside their tent. It had then taken considerable contemplation-before-coffee to finally discover that he had snuck away, rather far outside of camp, to a small clearing before a ridge of birch trees. Relieved, she had started to call out to him, when a sudden movement in the grass caught her eye and she froze. Astarion though, tracking the waves in the meadow sedge, had raised one hand up over his head and then…. thrown a ball.

In an instant, Scratch popped up out of the ragweed and went bounding happily after it, ears and tail trailing pollen in the wind.

Astarion had gotten up and stolen away, just so that he could go and play fetch with the dog without anyone else noticing.

How she missed him now. How she missed them both. With the night caving in around her, the reality of never seeing her soulmates again was crushing. But she would hold onto them, deep in the secluded places of her heart, until the very end.

Astarion could feel the anxiety pulling at him as the manor slid closer. The streets of the Lower Wall were bustling, voices hawking goods and shouting news from every side-alley and corner, but he could barely hear them. The only thing filling his senses now were the familiar lines of the Szarr estate and the doors of the south tower that he knew would still be open at midday. He had one objective now. The others didn't matter.

Even with Shadowheart dourly trudging alongside Lae'zel, Halsin could feel the dread and disquiet sloughing off of the younger elf into a brine of miserable doubt. It was obvious to the druid that Astarion was expecting the worst, or that they could come to find that the worst had already happened. And furthermore, that he didn't know how he was going to react to it.

Though he also knew their present circumstances were hardly the time for his usual jovial attitude, Halsin still felt it might be helpful to diffuse some of the tension. At least, before they all found themselves in a fight to the death among a hoard of undead.

"So, Astarion." He said, trying to find a good medium between sounding too cheerful or coming off as too serious. "Once we make it through all of this, we should celebrate. Properly. I think we've earned it."

Astarion only responded with a slightly backward glance and a more pronounced scowl.

Halsin, as was his nature however, barreled on. "I'm envisioning something wonderfully fun. Something we can all take part in! You, me, Lyric, what do you say?"

Astarion didn't even turn around. "I would say that depends. Are you envisioning the scene where I make love to her on a bearskin rug?"

Shadowheart suddenly snorted so indignantly that it actually made Lae'zel smile.

Tension, apparently, diffused.