T/W: Brief implication of torture
The tears that once streamed down her cheeks have now dried, leaving behind the salty residue of despair on her skin. Her voice, a mere whisper of its former strength, barely carries through the cold, dimly lit corridor of Moonlight Towers. The relentless torment has taken its toll, both physically and emotionally.
At least Galure is no longer carrying her. The two Absolutists, each gripping an arm, guide her down a flight of stairs toward the ominous prison that awaits them. The cold, stone steps feel unforgiving beneath her feet, matching the cruelty of her captors. The weight of her own exhaustion hangs heavily on her, threatening to pull her into the abyss of hopelessness.
As they reach the bottom of the stairs and turn the corner, the wood elf's weary eyes catch a glimpse of two familiar faces within a cell. Red-skinned tieflings with black hair and yellowish-orange eyes—Lia and Cal. A spark of recognition flickers in her gaze, and despite the agony she endured, a desperate glimmer of hope emerges.
"Lia? Cal?" she calls out, her voice breaking through the oppressive silence of the prison. The words carry a mix of desperation and relief, a lifeline thrown into the darkness. For the first time since her capture, gratitude wells up within her—not for herself, but for the knowledge that Rolan's siblings are alive and seemingly well despite their confinement. She remembers the anguish in Rolan's eyes when he had informed him of their capture shortly after arriving at the inn. Her heart had broken for him then, and now, in the midst of her own suffering, seeing Lia and Cal alive behind those cold iron bars brought forth a sliver of hope—hope not for her own escape, but for the well-being of those Rolan cared for so deeply.
"Delphnye!" Lia's desperate shout pierces through the cold dungeon air, her eyes widening in fear as she catches a fleeting glimpse of the wood elf being mercilessly dragged past the cell.
Cal turns to Lia with a somber expression, a heavy understanding passing between them. "If Delphnye's been captured-"
The rest of Cal's words are drowned out as Delphie is forcefully thrown into the cell furthest away from the tieflings. The guards, seemingly indifferent to her pleas, endure the kicks and punches she aimed at them. In the chaos, they callously remove her scale necklace and circlet, symbols of her identity and strength, and the source of her power.
As the guards work swiftly to bind her arms and legs with unyielding chains attached to the cold stone floor, Delphie feels the weight of her powerlessness descend upon her once more. Her cries echo in the dimly lit cell, the chains clinking as they tighten their grip on her.
The heavy iron door creaks closed behind the departing Absolutists, leaving Delphie alone with the sinister presence of her mother. The air seems to thicken with an oppressive tension as the older wood elf steps into the dimly lit cell, her every movement deliberate and calculated.
The faint glow of torchlight casts eerie shadows on the damp stone walls, emphasizing the stark reality of Delphie's captivity. Allatou's emerald eyes, like shards of ice, bear into Delphie, unwavering in their intensity.
Allatou's gaze lingers on Delphie, a subtle smile playing on her lips as if she reveled in the power dynamics at play. The coldness of her demeanor contrasts sharply with the emotional storm raging within Delphie. The chains that bind her are not just physical; they symbolize the shackles of a past haunted by abuse and manipulation.
"My child, it didn't have to be this difficult," Allatou utters nonchalantly, her tone as cold and calculated as her emerald eyes that fixated on Delphie.
Delphie, amidst her tears, abruptly ceases her cries and attempts to pull at the unyielding chains that bind her to the cold stone floor. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of anguish and defiance, lock onto her mother. "You think I want to be here? What do you want from me, Mother?! I'm not up to your standards, so you throw me into the wild for a few years. Then you start the process over again. Meanwhile, while in your care, you're physically abusing me and letting men do what they want to me. Why can't you leave me alone?!"
The older wood elf, sighs, a heavy weariness etched across her features. "Delphnye, my dear. You have been chosen."
The weight of these words hangs in the air, mingling with the dank atmosphere of the cell. Delphie's eyes narrow in disbelief and frustration. Chosen? The concept feels like a cruel joke, a sick twist of fate that has plunged her into a life of torment and despair.
Delphie's eyes blaze with a mixture of anger and confusion as she confronts her mother's cryptic words. "What do you mean, chosen?" Her voice carries the weight of resentment, a defiant edge cutting through the air. "Chosen for what? To be your pawn in this twisted game? I want no part in it!"
The dim light of the cell flickers, casting shifting shadows on the stone walls as the gravity of their confrontation unfolds. Delphie's gaze bears into Allatou's with desperation, pleading for understanding, for release. "Let me go, Mother. Can't you see I was happy?"
Allatou's expression remains stoic, an enigmatic mask that reveals nothing of her true intentions. "Your purpose in this world is more significant than you can possibly imagine," she states with stern conviction. "Trust me when I say you will be happier than ever in a matter of days."
The cryptic assurance only fuels Delphie's frustration. She feels trapped in a web of uncertainty, her mother's words offering little solace. "Stop stalling. Tell me why I'm here!" Her voice, once tinged with confusion, now resonates as a growl, an animalistic expression of the turmoil within her.
The cold air in the cell seems to thicken as Delphie strains against the chains that bind her. Her mother's past acts of torment loom in the shadows of her memories, yet a deeper fear grips her—a fear of Galure, a fear that overshadows even the anguish inflicted by Allatou.
Delphie's mind races with thoughts of escape, her hands clenching into fists as she envisions breaking free from the bonds that hold her captive. The desire to confront her tormentors, to unleash the pent-up fury within her, fuels her determination.
Allatou, unmoved by the escalating tension, locks eyes with Delphie in a chillingly unwavering stare. A low, haunting chuckle escapes her lips, echoing through the damp confines of the cell. "All those years asking who your father is, and you really thought I was lying?" The older wood elf's amusement drips with a twisted satisfaction that sends shivers down Delphie's spine. Fear etches itself onto her features as she listens intently to the revelation that would shatter the very foundation of her identity.
"My dear, you are an extension of Bhaal himself. Your purpose is to unleash chaos in this world."
The words hang in the air like a sinister incantation, casting a shadow over Delphie's world. Her breath catches, and her eyes widen in disbelief. "That's not possible," she whispers, her voice quivering with a mixture of fear and denial. The revelation threatens to unravel the self she had fought so hard to become in the past few months. If she truly was an extension of Bhaal, the Lord of Murder, then her destiny is intertwined with malevolence. The very thought contradicts the person she aspired to be.
In the face of her disbelief, Allatou's expression twists into a sadistic delight. "Oh, but it is!" Her eyes gleam with a macabre happiness that sends chills down Delphie's spine. "You were a late bloomer, but you eventually gave in to your bloodlust. Here's the thing, my daughter: ever since you were affected by the illithid parasite, your power has grown immensely. I've been watching you since you arrived in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. I am so proud of you—"
Allatou's fingers, like talons, reach out to grab Delphnye's face, but the wood elf recoils in a mix of fear and anger. The transformation on Allatou's face is stark, a shift from pride to an unsettling mask of hatred that seems to deepen the shadows cast by the dim torchlight in the cell.
"You cannot resist the urge, Delphnye. You must claim your birthright," Allatou's voice assumes a stern tone, cutting through the air with a scolding authority that transports Delphie back to the haunted corridors of her childhood. It's a voice she had long tried to escape, the voice that had once held her captive in a cycle of torment.
Delphie's tears, briefly quelled, resurges as the weight of her mother's words bore down on her. "I'm not evil. I'm not like you!" Her cry echoes through the cell, a desperate assertion of her identity against the cruel destiny her mother sought to impose.
But Allatou remains unyielding. "You will be. It's in your blood. Soon enough, the urge will take over, and you will become a Bhaalspawn."
The revelation hangs in the air, a chilling prophecy that sends shivers down Delphie's spine. The very essence of her being, tainted by the blood of Bhaal, seems to be a harbinger of darkness, an inevitable descent into malevolence. Delphie, however, shakes her head in disbelief, unable to reconcile the vision of her future with the person she had fought so hard to become.
Rocking back and forth on the cold stone floor, Delphie clutches at the last shreds of hope. "Please, just let me go," she pleads, repeating the words as if they held the power to conjure a portal back to the safety of her companions.
"We're done discussing this, Delphnye. One way or another, you will ascend as Bhaal's chosen, and I will beat it out of you if I have to!" Allatou's voice, cold and determined, resonates in the confined space of the cell. The air crackles with the tension of their confrontation as the older wood elf thrusts her finger menacingly toward Delphnye's face.
Refusing to succumb to the intimidation, Delphie's eyes flash with defiance. In a daring act, she seizes Allatou's extended finger in her teeth and bites off the tip with a resounding crunch. The cell echoes with Allatou's cry of pain as she recoils, instinctively bringing a hand to her injured digit gushing with blood. A fiery slap across Delphie's face follows, an enraged response to the act of defiance.
As Allatou storms out of the cell, leaving behind an atmosphere tinged with violence, Delphie remains on the cold stone floor, shaken but not broken. Her tears well up anew as she clutches the ring on her finger, a tangible connection to someone she desperately needs.
She looks at the ring, her heart heavy with both the weight of her predicament and the yearning for connection. Tenderly, she caresses her own face, mimicking the gestures she has shared with Astarion during heartfelt conversations.
"I don't know if this is how the ring works, Dretri, but I'm here. I'm alive," she whispers to the empty air, her voice choked with a sob. In the quietude of the cell, where shadows danced along the walls, Delphie reaches out across the ethereal connection of the magical ring, desperate for the solace that Astarion's presence could bring.
"Please save me, Astarion," she implores, her words a whispered plea that echoes through the dimly lit cell. The ring, a symbol of their shared struggles and unspoken bonds, holds the promise of connection even in the face of the darkness that threatens to engulf her.
The journey back to the inn unfolds in somber silence, each step a heavy reminder of the absence that looms over the party. The weight of unspoken fears and unanswered questions hangs in the air, casting a pall over the group. No one dares to breach the solemn quiet until they reach the inn, where Shadowheart, holding back tears, recounts the harrowing events to Halsin and Jaheira.
The room is shrouded in a heavy silence, broken only by the echoes of Shadowheart's narrative. As she finishes, the gravity of the situation settles on them like a thick fog. The dimly lit inn seems to absorb their collective sorrow.
After a moment, Shadowheart, her eyes reflecting the turmoil within, takes a deep breath. With a determined resolve, she pulls herself together and steps into a leadership role. Her voice, though still tinged with the weight of grief, cuts through the quiet room.
"Okay, so Astarion, Wyll, Halsin, and Lae'zel will go to Moonrise and rescue Delphnye. The rest of us will go to the Gauntlet of Shar to finish the trials." Heads nod in agreement, and the group acknowledges the necessity of dividing their forces for the dual challenges ahead.
Among them, the vampire spawn feels an unusual sensation on his face—a delicate, intangible touch that sends a shiver down his spine. For a moment, he's transported into the realm of memories, feeling the presence of Delphnye as if she were there with them. His hand instinctively rises to the spot where the tingling sensation lingers, a gesture of connection, a silent hope that she senses it as well.
Shadowheart notices Astarion's distant gaze and calls his name, breaking him from the ephemeral connection. "Astarion? Did you hear me?" Confusion clouds his eyes as he reorients himself to the present, the lingering touch on his cheek a bittersweet reminder of the one they're all striving to rescue.
"Oh, um-" Astarion stammers, embarrassment flooding his face. The vulnerability he despises, a result of Delphie's influence, makes him acutely aware of the emotions coursing through him.
Shadowheart sighs, sensing his internal struggle, and pulls him aside. "Listen, I know you're worried about her. We all are, but we need everyone to be at their best. We'll split up in the morning-"
"No, no, no," Astarion interrupts, the worry now overriding any trace of embarrassment. "Shadowheart, we have to leave now."
The half-elf attempts to reason with him, her voice laced with concern. "Astarion, look around you! Everyone's hurt. Everyone's exhausted. If we leave now, we're all dead."
"She won't make it that long!"
"You have to trust me, Astarion!" Shadowheart pleads, taking a deep breath as tears well up in her eyes. "You think I want to wait until morning? Do you think this is easy for me?" She reaches out to grab Astarion's arm, a soothing gesture meant to comfort him. "I want to save her as much as you do, but we can't do anything until we-" Astarion, unable to bear the argument, rips his arm away and retreats to his tent without looking back.
Astarion lies curled up in his tent, the dim light barely illuminating the darkness that echoes the turmoil within him.
"I'm so sorry, darling." The magical connection of their rings has become a cursed link, and in the quiet of the night, he feels a searing pain in his back. It isn't his pain; it's Delphie's.
The sensation is agonizingly familiar—the sting of a whip cutting through flesh. He winces as each lash seems to mark his own back, a painful reminder of the torturous memories he had fought hard to suppress. The visceral connection brings him to his knees, a silent scream echoing in the confines of his mind.
The pillow beneath him is no longer just a cushion; it holds the lingering warmth and scent of Delphie's presence from the night before. He clutches it tightly, seeking solace in the memory of her touch, knowing that now, she is enduring a far more sinister touch of pain.
The image of her fearful eyes, wide with desperation, haunts him. Galure's cruel grip, dragging her away from him, replays in his mind like a nightmare he can't escape. The vulnerability in her expression, mirroring the vulnerability he had once shown to Cazador, cuts through his cold exterior.
Astarion wrestles with conflicting emotions—the burning desire to rush headlong into danger, fueled by the agony coursing through his own body, and the paralyzing fear that history would repeat itself. The echo of Galure's sadistic laughter lingers in his ears, a cruel symphony accompanying Delphie's suffering.
In this vulnerable moment, Astarion grapples with the weight of his own past and the newfound connection to Delphie. The pain in his back serves as a constant reminder of their shared fate, and as he lies in the tent, he can't escape the suffocating sense of helplessness that threatens to engulf him.