Chapter 15 – Figure Eights Fore and Aft

Olivet Ingen Ailil stood proudly before the great column of Bhaal, a massive bloody skull carved deep into the stone nearly twenty feet above him, on the far end of an equally bloody dais hidden within the Undercity ruins. His posture was not meant as an insult though. Rather, Olivet had always had the habit of adopting an arrogant pose whenever he found himself in the presence of divine icons. Subconsciously, it was just his way of challenging them to impress him; something no manner of otherworldly power had ever done. It's what he liked about his reciprocity with The Mask. They each lent one another aspects of themselves, influence and abilities that the other lacked, but they did so under the complete agreement that there was no particular love or devotion between them. Olivet did not worship The Mask nor did The Mask have any especially good faith in him. Oddly, this mutually agnostic stance had served them both quite well for many years and he saw no reason to upset such a beneficial balance.

But Bhaal wasn't what Olivet was thinking about just then. Instead, he found his thoughts consumed, most unexpectedly, with, of all things, a vampire spawn. And not just any vampire spawn; but the one called Astarion. He'd observed the battle with Cazador Szarr from a safe distance, wholly expecting his lord-ally to triumph and the captive spawn and other vamplings to be consumed in the infernal Mass. He would have then stepped in to bargain with the new Vampire Ascendent as to the ultimate fate of Témalíre and their next steps. As it had gone on, he wasn't even actually all that surprised or upset when the elder creature had made a further bloody mess of her as a result. He'd always found the vampire aristocrat rather easy to sway and she only needed to be a little bit alive at the end for his plan to work. So, as long as she was still breathing, he saw no reason to curb any especially violent appetites.

But then, Cazador had fallen. Not just fallen, been stabbed into a bloody pulp by the pale elf with red eyes and a fine profile. That elf had then raced to the side of his former paramour, taken her down from her hanging-tree, and then cradled her shattered body with such tenderness it had stopped him cold. When the others had then gathered around, including a bear-druid and a gith, he had quickly retreated into the gloom still unseen. He had no doubt now, given the taste of the magic on the air that had followed, that her company had saved her. That Témalíre still lived, somewhere. But he still couldn't get the image of that sleek, young, vampire out of his mind. Nor the way he had looked at her, lying unconscious in his arms.

Astarion. Témalíre's new mate. No, not just that. Her lover. Her love. Her true companion.

He had to admit, she knew how to pick them. Astarion was, what Olivet noted with some irritation, shockingly lovely. A strong jaw with aquiline features, skin as luminescent as pearls, a dashing smile, and a body fit for the harem. It was no wonder that Cazador had favored him so. But now the stupid whiny bastard was dead by his own childe's hand, and he was short one powerful and very well-connected pawn. It also meant that reclaiming Témalíre was going to be much more difficult now and he had yet to decide if he was going two for one. Kill the vampire spawn or keep him? He certainly wouldn't mind having Astarion caged in his bedchamber alongside her.

A growl, and then an unhinged giggle, echoed throughout the vaulted chamber.

Orin circled the central table again and again, slightly leaning over it as if inspecting some unseen structure hidden in the gigantic slab of hewn rock.

"Yes, YES!" She was saying to no one in particular. "I will take the bear-elf. Halsin he is called. So much flesh. Big as a butcher's ox. So much meat to slice, slice, slice! I will take him. I will take his shape. They will not know. I will follow them then to their hiding lair. So much blood, my father's cups will overflow!"

Orin's deranged enthusiasm was, of course, not without purpose despite the jumble of apparent nonsense that continued to tumble out of her. For the last several hours, the Chosen of Bhaal had been performing some sort of divining ritual with the entrails of three of her (former) temple custodians. Using the whispers of dark magic the great skull afforded her to attempt to locate the band of fighters who had felled Cazador by tracing the remnants of his blood tracked through the city. And she was doing this because Olivet, to his shame and unease, could no longer see Témalíre.

He didn't understand it, and that worried him. From their very first meeting on the deck of a long-forgotten ship decades in the past, Olivet had always been able to mystically track Témalíre's location by the arcane use of her name. Something The Mask insisted he be able to do for any powerful or potentially troublesome retainer connected to him, since he had a habit of working mainly with pirates and other dregs of the sea. It was something he, naturally, had never told her he could do, and it was a gift that had been especially useful to him as of late. Not to mention ever since he had learned that it was she who had become the hero praised across the realm, she who had risen against the Absolute and slain the Chosen of Myrkul.

Olivet grit his teeth unconsciously. The Témalíre he knew was no hero. Since when had his clever privateer turned into a champion? How was it possible that she, SHE, had defeated a centuries-old necromancer and seasoned war general like Ketheric Thorm? Or gathered allies with names that held such renown already? Who was this elf-maiden, and why couldn't he see her any longer, no matter how many times he inscribed the letters?

Orin giggled maliciously, took another turn around the altar, and hissed. "I see, I see! Break them first. They will not know one from the other."

But Olivet didn't hear her since he wasn't really listening anyway. He could only ruminate further on the vision that had come to him the last time he had meditated on her name.

There was a camp in this distance. A wilderness camp, carefully arranged in a small clearing next to a glacial deposit of large, grey, boulders. The trees overshadowed the circle of tents, all arranged around a central campfire not far from the clear waters of a pebbled river wash-out. He could faintly hear the sounds of laughter bouncing merrily through the trees as figures moved back and forth through the firelight. He could smell roasting meat and bubbling broth through the smoke of aged hardwood, no doubt scavenged from the forest floor. He could feel her there though, so he focused his mind and moved closer to the commotion.

Olivet perceived himself floating past the heavy tree trunks, and silently over the fallen leaves. Two women's voices, low in pitch, joined in a kind of battle chant while the voice of man admonished them not to accidentally burn dinner with their mischief. He pushed closer, intent on seeing what Témalíre had gotten herself involved in, and with whom. Though, he took note that he didn't recognize this place at all. It wasn't anywhere outside Baldur's Gate he was familiar with, and he couldn't feel the salt of the sea on the wind. She was far from the coast, and that alone was unusual for her. For a moment, he thought he heard her voice. She was encouraging someone to dance, or perhaps to sing, he wasn't sure, but the jollity was clear. She was happy, the sound of her was lighter than anything he could recall. He followed the familiar notes and made to approach.

But then, he turned and was met by a withered man blocking his path.

"You…are not welcome here."

The voice was rasped and airy, like words escaping through the holes in his mummified throat rather than being formed by his tongue, which did not appear to move when he spoke. The undead fellow was sitting on a large stone, flattened by eons of weathering. In his lap, he held a long scroll of unraveled parchment and appeared to be scratching a quill pen across a list. Or, it looked like a list anyway. The letters were unrecognizable and the language indecipherable. But as he finished blacking out one of the entries with sooty ink, he then began to write something else next to it, beginning with the flourish of large, cursive "L."

"Turn back, vagrant. Thou art not welcome in this place." He repeated in a flat monotone.

Olivet scowled. This was only a scrying vision, not an Astral projection. How could this…thing…even know he was there?

"Who are you?" He demanded of the obstructive spirit.

"No one." It replied. "But I knowest thou."

A dawning horror began to creep, ice cold, into Olivet's mind. He knew this creature somehow, with its papery brown skin and gold filaments holding moldy bones together under a tattered cloak too threadbare to reveal even a hint of its original colors.

"Olivet Sael Nightstar, called Argentaamn. Chosen of Mask, Lord of Shadows. Avatar of the Nameless and the Taken. Eyes Tainted Red. Unseen, because thou claimest no Netherstone for thyself. Revealed, because thou seekest all three united. Thy Name alone leadeth the fearful astray."

"How?" He murmured, stepping back from the speaking husk. "How could you possibly know that? Those names have been stricken from all memory."

"Yes." Withers replied. "But not all that is written."

He had awoken from his reverie in a sweat. Confused and shaken, which was not a sensation he was much accustomed to. And he didn't like it.

Unfortunately, Olivet was pulled from his second reverie by the feeling of sharp fingers sifting through a lock of his long, black hair.

"Pretty thing." Orin sighed, wrapping the strands around her finger and tugging. "Your eyes would be such a feast, plucked and skewered at my hearth." She giggled again. "What shadows they hold, so fine to drink up. More trouble with your little lovely, my succulent moon-skin?"

He really hated her, to be honest. But funnily enough, not nearly as much as he hated Enver Gortash. As it was, he almost missed Cazador. At least he knew when to keep his fangs to himself.

"She'll turn up. She always does." He answered, waving off Orin's touch with a bored slap. "And if not, then you ought to be able to catch up with her and her band once you're on their trail or when you take the druid. Just be sure not to give it all away with some sick slip. They turned Ketheric to ash in his own domain. Don't underestimate them."

"Ohh, the poor bear's already caught his paw in my trap." She smiled demurely, flicking through the words as if she were trying to seduce him with the image. "All that's left is to snap the jaws shut and revel in his cries of betrayal. But that is hardly your concern, isn't it whisper-smith? You have a lordling to try and unseat."

"Gortash is a tyrant. And an obvious one at that. With or without the Absolute, his schemes wouldn't net him a particularly long life, no matter how many Patriars he throws in to the cauldron. Let him have his coronation, or whatever pomp and circumstance he demands. He'll be a banquet for his own crows soon enough."

"Mmmm." Was his answer, by which it was unclear as to whether Orin was agreeing with him or was imagining herself murdering him. Again.

"So, stop playing with your food and get to it. Témalíre won't be long to someone's doorstep. She knows about the Crown of Karsus, the stones, and the Brain. She'll have figured out that the Absolute is a puppet of the Dead Three which means that it's just a matter of which one of you to kill first. Gortash will certainly be bargaining to ensure that it's you."

"Awww." She chuckled, dragging her fingers around his shoulders in a mockery of affection. "Who knew you lusted after me so. Your loins tingling with the very thought. What would grandfather say?"

Olivet rolled his eyes and tried not to simply shove her off. "I have stood before the Murder Tribunal just as you have, Orin. And found worthy, I might add. Admirable, by the words of Sarevok himself. I don't have time for this drivel."

"Oh yes." Orin dug her nails in the flesh of his neck, causing him to curl his lip and glare at her. "Grandfather does so delight in your…. creativity. He once spoke of your finesse in the moment of slaughter as that of a maestro composing a great symphony. A true artist on the cusp of glory. But…" She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and licked along the curve of his ear. "You lack passion. There is no pride in your accomplishments, no triumph in your victories. No fear that you will not be able to rise to even greater mastery than the one before. And thus, there can be no worship. No adoration to father Bhaal. No wonder your mate would sooner lie with the dead than with you."

He snapped and grabbed the laughing caricature of a woman by the throat. "Shut your mouth, you obnoxious whore! You're a Netherstone down and your last ally sits in a castle and commands his machines to grind you into rat food. And if it weren't for me, you'd have lost control of the Netherbrain already. One more slight like that and you'll be wallowing in the filth of your own failure for every Unholy Assassin to see."

With a slow, indignant breath, Orin stepped out of his grip and back towards the ritual dais. "Very well, bright little twinkle. Sprig of House Nightstar. We will play together later. I must go and put on my best dress so that I may finish the dance you started." With that, she turned her ring and vanished in a cloud of ashen flakes, leaving Olivet standing alone in the heart of Bhaal's sacred circle. He glanced up at the great stone skull one last time. It did not speak to him, nor even acknowledge his presence, but then again, it never had. He was merely a useful means to an end in this bloody place.

Pausing to pull some manner of globule from his hair, Olivet then frowned and headed for the stairs that would take him back into the Undercity. Once outside of Bhaal's immediate gaze, he would be able to reignite one of the arcane circles hidden in the rock to return to Cazador's dungeon. He still, unfortunately, had some unfinished business there, some of which involved peeling the elder vampire's congealed remains off of the polished marble so that The Mask might grant him an audience with his condemned ghost. Compelling vampires to divulge their secrets was just so much easier when they were completely dead, and he had questions about a certain someone recently untethered from the Crimson Household.

As he left the temple, he took note of the shadows, eyed the other devotees with his usual suspicion, and took care not to leave any particular evidence of his passing. It was his habit, after all. But what he didn't see, what his arrogance did not care to point out to him, was that there were three sentinels standing at the end of the upper walkway, when there had been only two on his arrival. He did not see that the third wore black armor with drow spider-silk stitching. Boots that cast no sound as he walked, and a hood that made his outline especially difficult to discern against the lightless cavern walls. And he certainly didn't see the pale face that turned to watch him go, with a glint of red that no one in the devotional ecstasy of murder would find strange.

Astarion turned back to the other guards, both of whom clearly did not care one whit that he was standing there and that they didn't know who he was or where he had come from. The Black Gauntlet and the Unholy Assassin merely continued to argue about the best way in which to poison a particularly wary target; a conversation they had been having since he'd arrived. With a snide kind of smile Astarion joined in.

"So." He interrupted. "How then would you, let's say, poison that one that just left? He seems like a particularly swank prize."

The Black Gauntlet grinned soullessly. "That's Olivet. Olivet Ailil of the Merchant accolades! But poison is not for him."

"Oh? And why not?"

"He is immune to such indignities. A gift from his Patron. He cannot be killed in any way that would be…what do they say…bland? Forgettable? If he is nameless at the moment his heart stops it simply starts again. He cannot die in obscurity. Do you not see it? That is why he walks so freely among the devoted of Bhaal. Speaks so coarsely to the Daughter of Murder. To die here would be to fall as a single drop in an ocean of blood. No, no, his name must die with him."

Astarion nodded, as if everything that was said made perfect sense to him. In his mind, however, he began to formulate a new plan. He was here on reconnaissance, to see what information he could garner while the others investigated the chambers of the Murder Tribunal Olivet had mentioned to Orin just moments ago. Astarion would need to rejoin them soon to tell them what he now knew, but the prospect that Olivet was fated to die spectacularly or not at all had him pausing thoughtfully in the middle of the lion's den.

If Olivet needed to go…theatrically. Well, he could arrange that. He could certainly find a way to get everyone's attention at just the right moment, if nothing else. There was, after all, a circus in town.

And…

Astarion stopped and tilted his head almost comically as he realized that one of the Unholy Assassins currently standing proudly overlooking the cult below had a severed head tied as a trophy onto the back of his belt. A severed head with flame-orange and blue-striped hair, thick white face paint, and the barest hint of a ruffled clown collar still stuck to the remains of his neck, attached with dried blood and ribbons.

Well, hello Dribbles.

For a moment, Astarion wondered if he had the adequate skills to pick-pocket an entire head. It had to be reasonably heavy, and it wasn't like it was going to fit in his pouch. But then he thought, 'Oh what the hell.' He'd never won anything at circus games before. No teddy bears or goldfish, and Lyric would be so pleased with his thoughtful gift. Maybe he'd even wish her a nice Heart-Song's Day and add some chocolates to the mix.

Luck had been on his side lately. Maybe it was time to test it.