From the chaotic strands of red hair that evaded the cage of her up-do to the high-heeled platform shoes that complemented the side-opened nightgown perfectly, everything about her called to him, screamed to him, drove him crazy.

The wine wasn't exactly helping, either.

Gale of Waterdeep, wizard extraordinaire, was drowning in it — savouring every sip, every glass, every bottle, just in case it could make him forget the fact that he followed her after all. That, time after time, he had the option to leave yet he was still here. And he had no one to blame but himself.

No one forced his hand, no one threatened him to travel with them or to remain at camp when they came back. He knew what they were about to do before any of it happened because she came looking for him, to ask for his opinion. Something that he didn't fully believe was a common occurrence until he experienced it in his own skin. Every night, without fault, she made sure to reserve some time for him: To ask about his day, to check on his condition, to listen to anything she could do to make his stay more comfortable. It didn't matter if he had been with her on the road, following her every step and maintaining conversation with each of their companions, she always had time for them when the night fell.

It was confusing and difficult to know that she was the same person who just raided the Emerald Grove and killed every tiefling and every druid, children included. He told her it was easy to play believe with The Cult of the Absolute, use the power of the tadpoles and turn themselves into the True Souls the cult wanted them to be. It was a logical choice if he kept his head cold. But was it worth it? Instead of decimating a cult that played with the lives of the people who had the bad fortune of being in their way, they became a part of it. Yes, every one of them knew that their objective was more important, that they would destroy the cult once they could find the source of the tadpoles in Moonrise Towers, they were just flattening the way to cut the head of the vermin.

He wanted to believe that he was at this party on this hideous night because of that promise.

He knew he was lying to himself.

He needed no more than to look at her, laughing casually surrounded by goblins, her left hand bloodied and covered by rags — a small price to pay for the brand of the Absolute, the definitive proof that she, that they, were part of them — to confirm that there was no turning back. He hadn't seen her wear that white nightgown before, without a doubt he would have burned her naked back into his soul and his eyes would have roamed without permission for the entire length of her legs. At least he had something to thank this damned party for, even if he was in no mood to bring his desires to the light.

The others didn't hold back, his mind too eager to remind him of the fact. They didn't usually have the time, the energy or the means to host an event like the one they had the pleasure of indulging in tonight so it was selfish to ask them to be more… what? considerate? Towards him? Or towards the people they just sacrificed?

The wine tasted like blood and mud and betrayal. Those people had trusted them to make their lives a tad better despite the misery and desperation that they felt. They were their last chance to a new life and… they thrust a dagger to their throats and watched as they bleed out. He was feeling sick, unable to exist in his body a minute more. The bottle slipped his fingers and it was all too late when he called on his magic to stop it. Maybe his magic couldn't bear with him either. He could almost see Mystra laughing at him from the Astral Plane, delighted with the fact that her words were truer by the minute and that he was utterly lost without her.

She was probably less overjoyed to hear that she had a replacement in his darkest dreams, in his sweeter nightmares.

"Everything alright Gale?"

It wasn't her voice that made him almost jump to find two black and red orbs piercing his stare right back. It wasn't the deep smell of a bottle freshly opened nor the genuine tone of concern that the words threw in his direction. It was the blast of undiluted, raw magic that shadowed his companion wherever she decided to go. It left him breathless and panting, the orb on his chest famished, pushing him to let it devour every last drop of such magic.

He hoped with time the feeling would make itself smaller, accustomed to her presence, her movement, the torrent of magic that possessed her. That was her. Because that was the first of his problems: She was a river of magic, a current running wild outside its channel. She had complete control over it — for someone less knowledgeable in the magic arts she could have been another wizard, just like he was. But he could see past all that. He could see the lightning of her soul, the way magic answered her without question, how his dear Mystra could do nothing to revoke nor even hinder her access to the Weave. She had everything he always needed. She was everything he always needed.

There existed an elaborate name for people like her. He was certain to have read it inside one of the millions of books collected in his Waterdeep tower, but he was unable to call upon such a name from memory alone. He only recalled the name people gave them on the streets, the more common name for an extremely uncommon group of people. A sorceress.

He had met only another sorcerer in the short span of his life and it hadn't been a pleasant experience, to say the least. The man was lost in his own mind, the magic riding free outside and inside his body, the person that he probably was nowhere to be seen. The price of such rough power was never simple.

And then there was her, wrecking all his knowledge in one, precise hit. The bright red of her eyes searching his — waiting, worried. For him.

He snatched the bottle from her hand, not missing the shock of her skin so dangerously close to his, and drank. He only stopped to breathe for a moment before drinking again. When he finally extended the bottle back to her he received a shake of her head and a small, knowing smile that shared with him a sadness he wasn't aware where it came from.

"I don't think I need to ask but if you need to vent, I'm here. If you need someone to blame, you know who. This was my choice. I may have consulted the group on their opinions but, in the end, the decision to do things this way was mine."

He wanted to argue that everyone should carry that guilt, that he could have tried to stop it, that any of them could have voiced their concerns louder, himself included. That instead of thinking with a logical head about what was practical, he should have been clearer in the fact that he was against killing so many innocents. But it was too late. His hatred — towards her, towards the rest, towards himself — spoke for him.

"And yet, here I am. Drinking in your company."

She flinched, he could see. The belief that she was heartless crumbled when she reacted like that. The matter that she liked to play with people and that she begged to be played back, regardless of who the other side was, seemed harder to swallow. The group had any and all kinds of rumours and opinions about their newfound leader and he liked to listen to them all without feeding them. He liked to search for the truth that those words hid while talking to her. She was raised by Lolth's cult, he knew it wasn't easy to leave those teachings behind and search for something better and he knew that she had been trying long before the Nautiloid kidnapped them because he had the displeasure of meeting other Lolth-sworn drow a long time ago and they were more blood hungered than the Githyanki. He respected her for it and, on another occasion, he would have just shut up. Not tonight though. Tonight he wanted to make her feel at least a tithe of the unsavoury feelings that plagued him.

"It makes me sick to even share air with you."

His words were hard, his stare harder. She stepped back, the breath of her lungs catching, pausing, as if she could somehow stop breathing.

"Was it worth it? All those lives? All those children? The trust you betrayed? The sin we now carry inside because of you."

She seemed to expect his criticism, her arms wrapped around her torso, her gaze glancing over the rest of the camp.

"You don't seem to understand, Gale. You seem to imply I acted out of bloodlust or that I found on it some twisted source of pleasure."

Her voice slid like silk, a permanent edge to her words that reminded everyone that if she was being kind one moment, she could turn into your worst torturer the next. Her tongue clicked, indicating a disappointment in how her companion had misunderstood her.

"I would do almost anything to remove these things from our heads. If I have to bow to the Githyanki, I will bow. If I have to search every nook and crack of the damned Moonrise Towers, I will tear it apart. And if I have to drag your ex's ass over here so that she can help us, you can bet your connection to the Weave that I will."

She said the last part as a threat, her nails brushing his dishevelled beard, her eyes following their path until they reached his chin and changed their focus to his own brownish orbs. He wanted to shake her hand away. He wished to stop leaning into her touch every cursed time. He needed to grab that wrist and shove her under him till she learned not to mention his ex in his presence. His body demanded that he trapped each one of her words with his lips, his hands, his cock… unless she was pronouncing his name.

He reminded himself he was a gentleman — as hard as he found the search for the will to continue being one at this point — so he focused on stabilising not only his breathing but also his connection with the weave. He was angry at her, he made a point to remind himself. Furious. Her touch turned his own threads of the weave upside down, each one moving in a different direction yet all of them facing the same way.

"I will lie, I will betray, I will fuck and I will kill anyone if that brings us closer to removing the tadpoles from our heads. I will use anything and anyone, our little worm friend and our dream visitor included. It's not a matter of pleasure or morals, I have learned to use everything to my advantage because everyone will use me for the same reason. I'm fighting for all of us. You are welcome to your own opinion, you are welcome to hate me, you are welcome to leave and even more welcome to stay. Just know that if you decide to stay it will be under those conditions."

He really thought about leaving. He might have been compelled to assimilate that the logical and easiest solution was to raid the grove — he had no one to blame but himself, not even her — but he could divide their paths before interlacing them even more. He could move away from her warmth and her cold, from her kindness and from her selfish decisions, from how in her voice possibilities that he would never have considered suddenly seemed the most obvious choices and from how he hated himself after it. From how he hated the person he became when they were close.

"I ought to just… leave. Nothing good can come at your side. I despise you. I loathe the person I am with you."

She sneered, looking away, and shrugged. If any of his words affected her, as he wanted to trust they did, she didn't demonstrate it.

"Nothing good, huh? I'm inclined to disagree."

She used one of her hands to hide part of her smile, a side glance in her eyes that conveyed every suggestion her words did not. He should run away or even towards her, but this middle point of looking and imagining and feeling guilty for it… Every second was exasperating.

"Go ahead, leave. I want what is best for each one of you. See if there is a place for you away from us. Away from the artefact. Just don't come looking for us when that beautiful beard has been replaced by tentacles."

The pensive look on her face told him two things: One, she wasn't entirely against the whole tentacle thing and he felt utterly confused about such a revelation. And two, she had won the argument before it even started. He had nowhere to go. He was alive — and tentacle-free — exclusive thanks to the artefact — if the information they've gathered until now was to be trusted. He had no choice from the beginning. Each time she said she would approve of them leaving her she was conscious about their choices. Turn into a mindflayer or stay. It wasn't even a choice — not for him. He needed to stay alive, for the good of a lot of people. He drank the rest of the bottle of wine in one sweep gulp before throwing the bottle beside her foot.

"I can't even think about putting some distance between you and me without the certainty or ceremorphosis. Great."

She was growing tired of their discussion, her fingers gripping the opposite arm with the same force her words were thrown at him.

"You aren't without sin, Gale of Waterdeep. Blame me about this, blame me about the tadpoles even if that brings peace to your heart, but it was your lust for power that brought you here in the first place. I have done nothing but satiate it so that the rest of the group wouldn't chase you out. So that you can keep living a relatively normal life. So go ahead and mourn the people who died today so that we can live. I might mourn with you, I might cry for them once alone, but I won't regret, even for one second, doing the best to stay alive."

She absentmindedly caressed her bandages, another sacrifice in the name of this so-called life. He didn't even understand the need to remove the tadpoles. There was power to be gained there. Power that could bring him closer to Mystra. Power that, with the right training, maybe could stop the hunger of his orb. They've talked about this before, always with the same conclusion. Use it, yes. Maintaining it, no. Maybe he was used to living in constant fear of exploding to give little worms too much thought. He wanted to believe they could be an asset, just like the otherworldly dream figure had told them. He wanted to abuse the power of the artefact for as long as they could.

"Have a good night, at least. We can talk more tomorrow."

She turned away from him and he felt it was too soon — too sudden. He had so many questions yet to ask, so many words to recite just so that others couldn't take his place. He didn't feel brave enough to be alone.

Wait — he wanted to shout, to join his hand in the opposite one to make her look at him again.

He was even more afraid of spending more time with her.

"Enjoy your night, Stengah of Menzoberranzan."

He was granted a last smile, one that promised to do just that, before she started her motion once again, swinging her hips all the way to the vampire's tent. He knew the feeling that ambushed him there because it was hardly the first time he experienced it. He was accustomed to the sour taste in his mouth watching her most honest smile pointed towards anyone else. He had been the lover of a goddess, for crying out loud, if there was a sentiment that was burned on his skin, it was jealousy. Possession. Yet just like his goddess before her, she was a free spirit. She didn't ask for permission to take what she wanted, she didn't walk around eggshells with the expression of her desires, and she always did precisely what she wanted. And tonight, it seemed from what little he could hear, she had the same craving for 'fun' as their pale mutual companion.

He wondered if he was still looking at them as a form of torture — his mind having decided that he was due for punishment, his eyes cooperating without so much as a blink to relieve him of the sight. Her arms moved to surround his neck after displacing the bangs of her hair behind her ear, the sexiest smile he had ever seen — yes, even more so than Mystra's, as much as it pained him to think it — adorning her red lips and a soft movement of her head to the side, her fingers playing with her partner's white hair.

He assumed her blood would call to Astarion in a similar way as how her magic called to him. He could only daydream of being in his position, being offered everything he could ask of a person, every pleasure he could imagine, his fingers tracing the curve of her neck, the arch of her hip — and lower. He could only yearn to be the one biting his lower lip and murmuring everything he wanted to do to her right to her ear — feeling her shiver at his touch.

And yet.

Yet.

He hated her — hated himself for wanting her more than he had wanted anything.

More than he wanted to satiate the hunger of his orb, more than he needed Mystra's forgiveness.

He coveted her so fiercely that he felt desperate to claim her. A vain notion — he doubted anyone could.