Wyll faced grave consequences for refusing to hunt down Karlach. His patron, Mizora, who tasked him with the mission, explained that he broke their pact since Karlach reached the criteria by lacking a beating heart, a loophole the warlock hadn't anticipated. His refusal earned him a pair of long, twisted horns, a visible mark of his defiance and Mizora's punishment. Wyll now viewed himself as a monster, his once proud and confident demeanor now marred by self-loathing and shame.
Despite his internal struggle, his companions rallied around him, offering support and understanding. Skye, in particular, felt a pang of empathy for Wyll. She saw beyond the horns and recognized the pain and regret in his eyes. To her, the horns didn't look bad; they actually paired quite nicely with the rest of him, adding a rugged charm to his already striking appearance. She admired his courage in standing up to Mizora, even if it came at such a personal cost.
The following morning, they set off to the mountain pass, where the crèche awaited them on the other side. The path ahead seemed straightforward, but just before they could pass through, each member of the party felt an excruciating pain in their heads, dragging them to the dirt beneath them. Writhing in agony, they were shown a vision by a voice in their minds: three figures appeared—an armored elf, a younger man with a quick, easy smile, and a pale woman with paler eyes. The voice, authoritative and insistent, commanded them to aid in the search for the Prism, the very artifact Shadowheart clutched close to her chest.
As the pain intensified, Shadowheart, with a mixture of desperation and determination, pulled out the Prism. It shone brightly, enveloping them in a radiant red aura. The light's warmth and intensity drove away the pain and silenced the intrusive voice that had tried to control them.
In the aftermath, Shadowheart, usually guarded and secretive, revealed a fragment of her true self. Reluctantly, she admitted her devotion to Shar, the goddess of darkness and loss. Her confession hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the morning's chaos. Yet, neither of the air genasi judged her. Skye and Misty understood that they all harbored their secrets and dark parts within themselves.
Lae'zel, however, was less forgiving. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she quickly accused Shadowheart of stealing a Githyanki relic. Tension crackled between them, threatening to escalate. But Skye, with her usual calm and composed demeanor, swiftly intervened. She placed a gentle but firm hand on Lae'zel's shoulder, her voice steady and soothing, diffusing the situation before it could spiral out of control.
The group, still shaken by the morning's events, agreed it was best to set up camp for the night.
Later that night, Skye was visited in her dreams by a strange man who looked eerily similar to Astarion. He told her she was transforming, which caused her to panic. Yet upon hearing his voice, the man sounded familiar and it was then she realized he was the one who saved her and Misty during the escape of the nautiloid. He promised to protect her from the tadpole's influence, but she was skeptical. It was very convenient that this strange man showed up out of nowhere to "rescue" her from turning into an abomination. Maybe it was all in her head. He did look like Astarion for some reason. Weird.
However, upon the strange man telling her to embrace the tadpole's potential, she quickly recoiled. Something wasn't right. Yet he didn't say much more besides losing a battle for the fate of Faerun.
With a sudden jolt, she was pushed to consciousness, gasping for breath as she awoke. The night was still, and the campfire crackled softly nearby. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried to shake off the remnants of the dream.
Sitting up, Skye glanced around at her sleeping companions, her mind racing with the implications of the encounter. She couldn't dismiss the strange man's words, nor the eerie resemblance to Astarion. Was it all in her head, a manifestation of her fears and doubts? Or was there a deeper truth to his warning?
After a few days of travel and mischief, the party finally made it to the crèche. Inside, the hall was illuminated by stone braziers mounted along the walls, casting flickering shadows across the room. The air was thick with tension, and the scent of burning oil mingled with the faint metallic tang of weapons. Various githyanki stood among the braziers, their eyes sharp and wary. Each wore armor similar to Lae'zel's.
Yet, the group's arrival did not go unnoticed. The githyanki stared at them with a mix of caution and suspicion, their hands hovering near their weapons.
One gith in particular stepped forward, her gaze hard and unyielding as she addressed Skye directly. "Sentries, to arms! Istik. State your purpose. Quickly."
Lae'zel met the woman's gaze with an equal measure of apprehension. "Stand down, gish. Is it not Vlaakith's command to welcome her faithful?"
The gith's eyes narrowed, her stance remaining defiant. "I expected no visitors, faithful or otherwise. Why have you come?" She crossed her arms over her chest.
Skye exchanged a determined look with Lae'zel, trusting that her companion knew what she was doing. Lae'zel turned back to the gith, her eyes burning with determination. "We seek the zaith'isk. Show me the way."
The room fell into a tense silence, the crackling of the braziers the only sound. The woman studied Lae'zel intently, her piercing gaze sweeping over the rest of the group, assessing the strangers in their midst. For a fleeting moment, a hint of fear flashed in her eyes. "You are infected?" she asked, her voice tinged with both suspicion and alarm. Her hand moved instinctively towards her weapon. "A ghaik thrall is something to eradicate, not reason with."
Lae'zel's eyes widened, her usual confidence faltering. "The faithful may be purified," she pleaded. "This is Vlaakith's protocol!"
The woman glared at them for a long, tense moment, her face a mask of conflicted emotions. The shadows danced across her stern features, emphasizing the hard lines etched by years of discipline and duty.
"Chk. Fine," she finally spat out, her tone laced with disdain. "Let the ghustil carry out your fate. Report to the infirmary at once. And step carefully. Crèche Y'llek watches you." She pointed down a corridor, her eyes narrowing as she issued the command.
With the gith's words granting them passage, they were allowed further into the monastery. The air inside was heavy with an ancient stillness, the stone corridors lined with relics and artifacts of githyanki heritage.
As they wandered through the dimly lit hallways in search of the infirmary, Astarion and Misty lagged slightly behind. Their eyes were drawn to a large, ornately framed painting of a noble-looking gith. The figure in the painting stared expressionlessly ahead, her stern features framed by elaborate armor.
The two delinquents exchanged a mischievous smirk. It was clear they had connected their tadpoles to communicate silently. When Lae'zel walked ahead, focused on their mission, Astarion and Misty seized the opportunity.
With a quick glance to ensure they were unobserved, the duo ran up to the painting. Suppressing giggles, they began to draw on the gith's face, adding a mustache, monocle, devil horns, and other exaggerated features. Their laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, echoing softly in the vast hallway.
Their fun was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared. The mischievous pair froze, their eyes widening in alarm as they slowly turned around. Skye stood behind them, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
The air genasi's disapproval was palpable, her gaze stern and unyielding. She mouthed silently for them to come to her, her eyes narrowing slightly in warning. Reluctantly, the two shuffled over, their playful expressions quickly replaced by sheepish grins.
As soon as they were within reach, Skye grabbed both of their ears, her grip firm but not painful. "Really?" She began to pull them along, their protests and attempts at excuses falling on deaf ears. "We're here on serious business," the air genasi continued, her voice stern. "We can't afford to make enemies or draw unwanted attention."
Misty managed to break away from the group once again as she heard discord coming from another room. The sounds of a heated argument and the unmistakable tone of reprimand piqued her curiosity. As she quietly slipped through the doorway, her eyes widened at the scene unfolding before her.
In the center of the room stood a githyanki man, his posture rigid with authority. He was waggling his finger admonishingly at a young boy who was only a few years older than her. The boy stood weakly, his body marked with fresh cuts and bruises.
"K'chaki!" the man exclaimed, his voice echoing harshly off the stone walls. "We are training to fight ghaik. You think they will hesitate?"
The boy, his face pale and strained, stuttered as he tried to explain himself, "They won't need to, if we keep killing each other for them! It's—it's stupid! Orph—"
"Silence!" the man shouted, cutting him off abruptly. He looked over his shoulder and noticed Misty standing in the doorway, her eyes furrowed in concern and anger.
"It seems your childish prattling is attracting an audience," he sneered, turning his attention back to the boy. "You fight again. This time, daggers only. And to the death as instructed." His gaze swept around the room, lingering on the faces of those present. "Who wants to challenge this sniveling istark?"
Misty's heart pounded in her chest. The tension in the room was palpable, and the boy's fear was almost tangible. She could see the other githyanki warriors in the room exchanging looks.
Before anyone could step forward, the young genasi felt a surge of defiance. She couldn't stand by and watch this cruelty unfold. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the room, her eyes blazing with determination. "Leave him alone!" her voice rang out with a fierce conviction. The words echoed off the cold stone walls, silencing the room and drawing all eyes to her. "You've made your point."
The githyanki man's gaze snapped to Misty. His expression hardened, and he approached her with deliberate, measured steps. The air between them crackled with tension as their eyes locked in a heated exchange. The man's eyes were cold and unyielding, but Misty stood her ground, her small frame brimming with defiance.
For a moment, it seemed as though their standoff would continue indefinitely. Then, with a begrudging sigh, the man backed off, his eyes narrowing in disdain. "I suppose your inane spewings have distracted enough from my lesson," he said with a hint of reluctant acknowledgment.
With a sudden, brutal motion, the man smacked the boy in the neck with the hilt of his sword. The boy cried out in pain, collapsing to the ground. The man's expression remained cold and unfeeling as he looked down at the fallen child.
"Go whet the swords," he ordered gruffly. "I want them sharp enough to peel a ghaik's eyeball just by looking at them."
The boy scrambled to his feet, his body trembling as he scurried to fulfill the harsh command. His gaze flicked toward Misty, a glimmer of gratitude and hope shining through his fear. Misty's heart ached for him, but she knew her fight wasn't over yet.
The githyanki man slowly turned his head, his eyes meeting Misty's once again. There was a glint of challenge in his gaze, and he sneered as he spoke. "I hope you prove as weak as this should we meet on the battlefield, istik."
His words were a cruel taunt, a final shot aimed at undermining her resolve. With that, he turned and walked away.
As soon as the man was out of her sight, Misty hurried over to the boy who had begun to follow the harsh orders given to him. His shoulders were hunched, and he worked with a weary resignation, his movements slow and deliberate. When he noticed the young girl approaching, a small, hesitant smile slowly spread across his face.
"That was amazing," he said, his voice soft but full of admiration. "I've never seen someone talk the sa'varsh down from a rage like that."
Misty's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and relief at his words. She stood beside him, her gaze softening as she took in the bruises and cuts that marred his young face. "Well, he was wrong!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with conviction. "Nobody should have to go through that. Are you okay? He hit you pretty hard."
The boy shrugged, trying to downplay the pain. "I've been worse," he said with a faint smile. "My name's Varrl." He returned his attention to the task at hand, the metal of the sword catching the dim light as he worked to sharpen it. "He's always telling us how we have to be ruthless, that death is the only mercy we deliver."
He paused, glancing back at Misty with a thoughtful expression. "But you...you showed compassion and kindness. It's something we don't see often here. You're just like—" He hesitated, his words trailing off as he looked away, a hint of something he couldn't quite articulate flickering in his eyes. "Nevermind."
Misty placed a gentle hand on Varrl's arm, causing him to pause his whetting. Her touch was light, but it carried a sense of genuine curiosity and concern. "Just like who? Are they here? I'd love to meet them!"
Varrl's eyes darted around the room, checking to ensure no one was watching. With a swift, cautious motion, he grabbed Misty's wrist and pulled her into a nearby alcove. The small, dimly lit space was barely large enough for the two of them.
"I speak of... of Orpheus," the boy whispered, his voice trembling with awe and excitement. "The true prince..." He leaned in closer, his eyes wide and earnest. "He's so strong, and—and wise. And he rides a comet. A comet!"
The young genasi's eyes widened in fascination, and she couldn't help but giggle at Varrl's enthusiastic description. "A comet? That sounds incredible!"
Varrl nodded vigorously, his face lighting up with a bright, infectious smile. "Yes! He's everything we're told to forget. We're forbidden to talk about him. They say Vlaakith knows if you even think his name." He pulled out a small, round slate from beneath his armor, its surface etched with intricate, circular symbols. The slate was worn but well-cared-for, and Varrl handled it with a reverence that spoke volumes.
"I found his book... part of it, anyway," he continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I read it all the time. He's unbelievable." He traced a finger over the symbols on the slate.
The young genasi leaned in closer, her curiosity piqued. "Do others here read these stories?"
Varrl shrugged, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "I don't think so. No one I've met. I drew his symbol where I thought someone might see it and recognize it. But nobody did." He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I must have the only copy."
Misty cocked her head, her curiosity piqued. "How did you get the book then?"
The boy's expression turned contemplative as he took a step closer to the young genasi, lowering his voice even further, as though the very walls might overhear. "A group of warriors came. Outsiders, on a mission for Vlaakith herself. Sa'varsh Kethk made us clean their armor, and... I found it inside one of the breastplates."
He paused, a mixture of reverence and frustration coloring his voice. "I wish I knew who it belonged to. I have so many questions!" His eyes lit up. "Hopefully one day I'll find them."
Misty listened intently, her mind racing with possibilities. The significance of what Varrl had uncovered was evident, and the fact that it was hidden so well spoke volumes about its importance. After a moment's thought, she asked gently, "Do you mind if I show that book to my friend? Maybe she can help."
Varrl's eyes widened in fear, his body tensing. "You want..." he stammered, his voice trembling. "But—"
The young genasi placed her hands gently on his shoulders, her expression earnest and reassuring. "If you could get killed for having it, maybe it's best if it's in the hands of someone who can do something about it."
As Misty gently withdrew her hands from Varrl's shoulders, he was lost in thought, weighing her words with a conflicted expression. The gravity of the situation was not lost on him, and after a moment's hesitation, he extended the slate toward her with a resigned sigh. "Fine, take it."
Her reassuring smile was warm and sincere as she accepted the slate, carefully tucking it into the pocket of her trousers. She could feel the weight of the object, and with it, the burden of Varrl's trust and the potential it represented.
"It's stupid we can't read it," Varrl said, his voice tinged with frustration. "It's just a story, it's not even true." He shook his head in exasperation, clearly struggling with the conflicting emotions. "I'll do my best to forget what it said. Thank you for taking it."
Misty paused, her hand resting lightly on the alcove's entrance as she prepared to leave. She turned back to Varrl, her expression thoughtful and gentle. "Don't forget what it says," she said softly. "Maybe it's not just a story. Maybe it's the truth."
The young genasi dashed through the monastery's corridors, her heart pounding as she heard a thunderous explosion echo through the stone halls. The ground beneath her seemed to tremble with the force of it.
As the smoke began to clear, Misty's eyes widened in shock. Her companions emerged, their faces etched with irritation and urgency. Skye, her face set in a determined scowl, was the first to spot her. Without a word, she grabbed Misty's wrist, her grip firm and insistent.
"Wait! What happened?" Misty's eyes darted between her friends.
Lae'zel, who had a stern expression of focus, cast a brief, piercing glance at Misty. Her eyes, hardened by the chaos, revealed no trace of the emotions swirling within her. "The ghustil is a traitor," she declared with grim resolve. "She tried to kill us. We must report this to the kith'rak."
Misty's eyes were wide with urgency as she pulled her arm free from Skye's grasp, her small frame darting in front of Lae'zel. "Wait, Lae'zel. This is really important! I found this and I think you need to see it, too."
With a sense of determined purpose, Misty reached into her trousers and retrieved the slate she had secured earlier. She held it out to Lae'zel, her hands trembling slightly with the weight of the discovery. "Please, take a look. It might be important."
Lae'zel, momentarily halted by Misty's plea, took the slate from her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. She studied the markings etched into the surface, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Tir'su markings. Ancient," she murmured, tracing the intricate symbols with her eyes. "I recognize them, but I can't make sense of... no, wait."
Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, the familiar symbols starting to take shape in her mind. "The texts are enciphered," she continued, her voice a mix of disbelief and realization, "but there's a Common speech translation beneath, carved in a different hand. It's a story about Orpheus."
At the mention of the name, Skye and Astarion exchanged puzzled glances. "Who's Orpheus?" the older sister asked, her curiosity piqued.
"A traitor," Lae'zel spat, her voice filled with disdain. "A dead one. This text is heresy. I can hardly bear to read it, let alone speak it." Her eyes hardened as she looked back at the slate, the disdain in her gaze evident.
As she reached out to return the slate to Misty, the young girl's eyes were filled with desperation. She gently pushed Lae'zel's hand away. "Please, Lae'zel. What does it say?"
The gith let out an exasperated sigh, her eyes rolling as she resignedly held the slate back out. "Very well. I will read it to you."
She took a deep breath and began to read aloud, her voice steady but tinged with irritation. The text unfolded a tale of Orpheus' rebellion against Vlaakith. It described how he led a defiant uprising, rallying his Honour Guard and red dragons against Vlaakith's forces. The narrative painted Orpheus as a grand figure, one whose challenge against Vlaakith was portrayed in dramatic terms. However, his rebellion was ultimately crushed by Vlaakith's knights and their formidable wyrms. The astral sky, the text noted, was set ablaze during the final battle, marking Orpheus' tragic end.
Lae'zel finished reading and spat the name with a mixture of disdain and scorn. "'True Heir,'" she echoed bitterly. "'Glorious Prince.' Chk. There's no greater crime than to exalt the pretender called Orpheus." She tossed the slate aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist, and Misty watched, her eyes wide with shock, as the slate clattered onto the cold stone floor.
The noise of the slate hitting the ground seemed to echo through the chamber, amplifying the tension in the air. Lae'zel's expression was a mix of frustration and disdain as she turned to Misty. "Disregard this drivel," she said sharply. "Gith declared that Vlaakith should be queen. Orpheus would have ceded control to the ghaik."
Skye's gaze met Misty's with a deep concern. "And if it's true? What if Vlaakith really betrayed Gith and seized the throne?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper but laden with intensity.
The question seemed to ignite a spark of fury in Lae'zel. Her eyes blazed with a fierce, almost tangible rage as she turned to face Skye. "She did nothing of the sort!" Lae'zel snapped, her voice sharp and filled with indignation. Her gaze shifted to Skye, who had placed a reassuring hand on her sister's shoulder.
The githyanki's scowl deepened as she looked at the air genasi, her rage barely contained. "Thank your good fortunes I am a tolerant woman," she growled, her voice dripping with menace. "Or I'd have sliced off a few toes for suggesting such heresy."