Siobhan is not an adept liar and isn't very intimidating, either. So, when she fails to persuade the goblins to let them pass unharmed, she gives in to the temptation of exercising the power of the illithid tadpole to aid them. The effect is instantaneous, as is her regret. Siobhan gets the distinct sense that the creature wriggling in her skull is pleased, almost relieved, at having the opportunity to impose its psionic will over the branded goblin. A hunger that's finally sated. On the other hand, Siobhan is filled with the uneasy feeling that something was lost and sacrificed in exchange. A piece of her bartered away with no hope of ever getting it back.
But taking the easy route, the non-violent route is the least she can do after the nightmare of the day prior. Siobhan can't, in good conscience, force her companions into another fight when a small sacrifice on her part could spare them from risking their necks needlessly once again.
Some of her companions disapprove of her choice to use the tadpole to secure safe passage. They don't try very hard to hide it. But no one openly complains. She thinks it's because they're relieved to avoid another fight, especially once it's clear how outnumbered they are. Sure, they probably could have defeated the goblins. They certainly have the firepower to do so. But everyone is tired.
None more than perhaps herself. She is still not fully recovered from letting Astarion drink from her the night before. Despite the potions Astarion fed her that morning, Siobhan feels as if she's on the brink of fainting. She has to focus on keeping her gait even as if the ground beneath her doesn't feel like it's pitching and rolling like the deck of a ship at sea. Her breathing is labored, every inhalation somehow insufficient to feed her aching lungs. Mechanically, she understands what's happening. Despite the health potions curing most of the physical damage incurred, they hadn't replenished the blood Astarion had taken. With less blood comes less oxygen, thus her symptoms.
Without Shadowheart casting a spell of lesser restoration on her (or drinking a potion that could impart a similar effect), Siobhan has no choice but to wait until her body makes up the deficit naturally. She, of course, cannot ask the cleric for her assistance without explaining why she needs her intervention and exposing Astarion is something Siobhan is unwilling to do. It is his information to share when he so chooses. As long as he does not pose a danger to the others, Siobhan has no right to disclose his . . . condition without his consent.
So, she says nothing as she picks through the bundles of dried herbs and abandoned bottles in the collapsing apothecary for salvageable ingredients. The hanging wispweed is desiccated beyond use, the stalks turning to dust between her fingers. She finds a glut of rouge's morsel, some dried and carefully stored in a small burlap pouch, the rest ground in a fine powder and kept in glass bottles, ready for finishing into salts. She discovers a small amount of dried balsam in a box no larger than her palm under the counter behind a tarnished copper scale. The bag of what, at one time, she assumes were hyena ears, she gives a wide berth. The sweet smell of decay makes her mouth water in the way it does before one vomits from nausea.
Her best find is a ledger, mercifully undamaged although yellowed with age, that contains an entry that describes a cellar beneath the apothecary where the proprietor kept the rare plants. The potential of finding viable ingredients (away from the elements and carefully preserved for long-term storage) is temptation enough to devote most of her time searching for the entrance.
After packing away her finds, including the copper scale she hopes to restore with a paste of lemon juice and salt, she combs the building for a wooden hatch or hidden door. She tires often, and the waves of nausea triggered by maintaining her gaze fixed on the ground for extended periods end with planting herself on an overturned box in defeat, head cradled in her palms.
"Find anything good – oh!" Wyll interrupts her misery, footsteps crashing loudly over the fallen edifice as he approaches.
Siobhan dares to look up at him from her hands, which she regrets at once, the room spinning sickeningly.
"You're looking a bit green, there, friend. Feeling alright?" He asks kindly.
Siobhan grimaces, "Oh, don't worry about me. Stumbled across some rotting animal parts. They're rather ripe, is all."
Her excuse is plausible and not altogether untrue, which is why she thinks Wyll accepts it in the end, but he does hesitate, his scrutiny startling enough that it motivates her to stand.
"See? I'm fine. How are the others? Find anything worth mentioning?"
Wyll nods and relays the discovery of a forge in the basement of the large building on the other side of the village as well as a maze of subterranean tunnels and caves, the entrance to which is hidden at the bottom of the well they had marked as their rendezvous point. There seemed to be debate as to whether or not it was worth exploring further, Wyll and Lae'zel opting to alert the others before venturing on.
"I've already spoken to Astarion and Shadowheart and they don't seem too keen. Although I can't blame them. It looks like there may be an infestation of phase spiders, but it doesn't seem like anything we can't handle. It's always best to clear out monster nests before they grow unmanageable.
"What of Gale? Karlach?" Siobhan asks.
"Well, you know Karlach, she'll never turn down a fight. Gale thinks it's worth investigating in case any magical artifacts are squirreled down there."
Wyll did not need to tell her that Lae'zel is firmly in the 'do not explore' camp as anything that delays their progress in finding a creche is, by default, a waste of time.
"So, I'm the tie-breaker, then?" Siobhan smiles wanly.
"As tends to be the case these days," Wyll teases good-naturedly.
She recalls what Astarion had said to her this morning, that the others had collectively made her the leader for some reason. She agrees with him that it's odd they defer to her when she lacks the obvious qualities suited for the role. But perhaps the reason is more straightforward than he thought. At every significant fork in the road, somehow Siobhan is the swing vote, and the others, whether they were aware of it or not, had yielded the ultimate responsibility to decide to her by mere inertia.
It is not a role she is used to or one she's comfortable taking on. Following is more manageable; the stakes are lower when others aren't relying on you to guide them and keep them safe. She's not confident she's done so competently, her missteps as frequent as her successes.
Siobhan is undoubtedly not as competent as the leader of her nossë, her clan, Domnhal, had been when she still traveled with them. Domnhal had been imposing, self-assured, and decisive. There had been no room for dissent under his authority, but then again, very few occasions called for it, and even fewer occasions for them to want to. It wasn't until near the end that her absolute trust in him had been shaken. Siobhan had considered leaving. And even then, the decision had been made for her, the nautiloid plucking her from their camp at the edge of the High Forest.
She wonders if the nossë is looking for her and if any of the others have also been snatched. In one week, she'd already found six others that had been on the ship with her, taken from all over the sword coast and even other planes. Could one of her siblings be nearby? Wandering, for the first time, alone and afraid?
Her lungs constrict painfully at the thought, but there is no way to know if any of the others had been taken and if they had, if they survived the crash, and where they could be. Without more to go on, she couldn't expect her companions to search for someone who may not even be there.
"Might as well clear out the phase spiders since we're here. I agree; letting the infestation get out of hand wouldn't do. Could pose a problem for us in the future," Siobhan says finally to Wyll's approval.
It's unclear how long the village, now known to them as Moonhaven from the sign at the gate, had been in this state before the goblins occupied it, but it is obvious that they aren't the cause of its blight. Perhaps the spiders had scourged the population and retreated to their nest once their food source dried up. With the influx of fresh prey, it was not outside the realm of possibility that they would return to hunt again.
Siobhan stows the fruits of her labor away in her pack and then stands, brushing the dust from her breeches, before she follows Wyll to where the others have gathered. She's reluctant to abandon her search for the hidden cellar but resigns herself to putting it aside for another time.
As expected, Astarion and Lae'zel are unhappy to find themselves in the minority, Astarion more so.
"Oh, wonderful! I was aching to skulk around a grimy spider-infested hole. One would think there's a rare and powerful artifact down there worth the trouble, but no. We're going down there for pest control!"
Wyll is unimpressed, "You'll be singing a different tune when we don't have to worry about getting overrun with hungry phase spiders as large as bugbears. Do you know what they do with their prey?"
Astarion rolls his eyes, "Do enlighten me, Oh brave Blade of Frontiers."
"It's quite unpleasant," Gale interrupts, leaping at the opportunity to lecture, "phase spiders' venom has a paralytic agent that subdues their prey. Once paralyzed, it's quite easy for them to gather their victim up, shift through the ethereal plane to their nest, and encase them in a silk cocoon for later. The unfortunate wretch can live for weeks as their organs slowly liquefy."
"Liquefy?" Karlach asks, looking a bit ill.
"Easier to digest large prey when all their bits are broken down into an organic slurry," Gale clarifies cheerfully.
"Chk. Imagine how weak one must be to be bested by a mere insect. I triumphed over more formidable monstrosities as a youngling," Lae'zel says disdainfully, "I will not be subdued. We'll crush the pests swiftly and get on with our quest."
"That's the spirit!" Wyll grins.
"Extinguish your enthusiasm, istik. You may think this an amusing diversion, but we continue to waste time we do not have. Our lack of symptoms thus far should not be a comfort," Lae'zel hisses in response, teeth bared.
"Our bones should ache, our mouths should bleed, yet we thrive. It is madness. That we've yet to seek out a creche, where I know there is a cure for our condition, is the height of folly."
"Don't get the gith started on this again," Astarion begs.
"No, she has a point. I have been wondering about that as well," Gale frowns. "It is . . . abnormal that none of us are showing signs of ceremorphosis. Perhaps the consequence of a different variant of illithid worm? Or something more sinister, the calm before the storm?"
"Maybe we're just special," Shadowheart sighs, the edge of cynicism in her tone undercutting the inherent optimism of her comment.
"Unlikely," Gale disagrees, failing to recognize her sarcasm, "It's not obvious that the illithids were discerning in their kidnappings."
"No?" Shadowheart presses the cynicism falling from her expression as a thought occurs to her.
"The goblin at the gate called us True Souls, as did the cultists on the road. The one that died was a True Soul himself. How long had he been infected with a tadpole? Surely longer than we have. He wasn't in the crash."
"Fair enough, but Karlach here may have never been snatched had the githyanki not chased the nautiloid to the infernal plane. Lae'zel, too, had she not been one of the githyanki in pursuit. More likely, we were selected by chance. Opportunistic not deliberate." Gale counters.
"So, what came first?" Siobhan asks, "The True Soul or the tadpole?"
Gale hums, stroking his chin between two fingers, thinking, "Ah, I see what you mean. Are we True Souls because of the infection, or were we infected because we're 'True Souls'?"
The conversation lapses as the group uneasily considers the mystery of their infection—an already complicated situation may be more complex than they initially thought. It was one thing to know the executioner's axe was hanging over their heads and quite another not knowing when it would fall or why it was there to begin with.
"Let's get on with it then, shall we?" Siobhan sighs. "There's still more I want to investigate here before we move on, and the day is running short."
She turns to Astarion, who is still moping, "Perhaps we'll find something down there worth your while."
He graces her with a facsimile of a smile, full of contempt, "I very much doubt it, darling."
Astarion trails after Siobhan like a shadow while they pick through the maze of cave systems underneath the village. Travel is slow, the party snagging in the sticky webs that cover what seems to be every available surface. They have to extricate someone every hundred feet from the tangle. The first boon they stumble across is a set of drowish boots, enchanted to grant the wearer protection against becoming enwebbed.
Siobhan gives the boots to Astarion and charges him with scouting ahead. He's the most adept at sneaking, so he doesn't protest. But really, she can't stand the way he's breathing down her neck every time she stops to investigate something or leaf through an abandoned journal. She doesn't know why he's suddenly decided to stalk her every step, but she assumes it must be related to letting Astarion drink from her. Maybe he wants to stay close to the only person who knows he is a vampire.
Or, she thinks grimly, maybe he wants to keep a close eye on his meal ticket.
Once she has the space to breathe, Siobhan learns from one of the journals of a tome of necromancy hidden in a cellar. Perhaps the same cellar she had been looking for in the apothecary? It also described a keygem hidden here in the tunnels, something worth keeping an eye out for.
The entry isn't detailed enough for Gale to discern which book of necromancy it refers to. Still, she expects that they can determine its value once he has the opportunity to investigate it further.
The number of desiccated humanoid and animal corpses confirms her suspicion that the spiders played a significant role in the village's fall. More concerning is the collection of a few fresh corpses, goblins, as far as she can tell—the decision to clear out the nest revealing itself to be the correct one. Any one of them could have been caught unawares and spirited away had they not discovered the nest so soon and committed to taking care of it as quickly as possible.
When Astarion returns, he gives a full report of what they are up against as well as an efficient route through the maze, as web-free as can be helped. Scattered throughout are a few Ettercaps and a handful of adolescent phase spiders. The geography of the cave system is ideal for dispatching them quickly. The real challenge lies in the egg chamber: A massive cavern surrounded by yawning ravines into a seemingly bottomless void; the carpet of webs they had struggled through on the way in is twice as thick, making the terrain even more unmanageable.
And the cherry on top? The Phase Spider Matriarch. A monstrosity the size of five grown men surrounded by three adult Phase-Spiders, guarding her clutch of eggs. The clutch itself contained no less than twenty unhatched spiderlings, and Astarion had been unable to destroy any of them.
"The Matriarch hardly ever lets the eggs out of her sight. There was no way to get close, not on my own," Astarion says, "I do have some good news. She's perched up on her web; it's at least fifty feet high. She's massive; if we can knock her down out of that web, she'll hit the ground hard. Enough to do serious damage. There's also a fair share of places where we can get the higher ground, ambush them from above."
Siobhan considers his report and then nods, "Okay, here's the plan. Karlach, Lae'zel, I want you to do crowd control. Once we attack the Matriarch, we'll be swarmed by the attendants. I need you to keep them off Gale and Shadowheart; they will focus all their energy on the Matriarch. Once she's distracted, Wyll and I will come out of our hiding spot and flank her. Hopefully, we won't draw the attendants' attention, but Wyll has his rapier if we do. Astarion, while we have the others occupied, I need you to destroy the clutch, and I need you to do it without alerting the Matriarch. What does everything think?"
It's a decent enough stratagem, the others agreeing without protest. After they clear the tunnels of the Ettercaps and the stray phase-spiders, everyone follows Astarion as he leads them to the egg chamber. Siobhan is closest behind him, and he takes the opportunity to chat with her.
"Who knew you were such a tactician," Astarion croons in sotto voce so the others can't hear, shooting her a look that's impressed enough to border on insulting.
"I'm not totally useless," Siobhan frowns.
He seems surprised at her assumption, "I don't think you're useless, darling. Quite the opposite!"
Siobhan quirks one eyebrow, hoping to communicate her disbelief. Astarion smiles at her indulgently.
"Well, you've proven to be quite the ally. Traversing Avernus, surviving the crash – I might not agree with every little detour we take. Still, you've handled everything better than I expected . . ." Astarion trails off, looking thoughtful, and Siobhan finds herself wondering again if he's sincere.
"Thank you for such a ringing endorsement," she mutters sarcastically, highly sensitive to the fact that his compliment teeters on the edge of insult.
"I'm serious, Siobhan," Astarion fixes her with a piercing stare that makes the tips of her ears warm—the intensity startles her. He's slowed enough, so they're walking side by side.
"I'm not easily impressed by people, but you're stronger than I gave you credit for."
He sounds honest, but not enough has happened for his opinion of her to shift so radically. The honeyed words are dissonant against the backdrop of every sneer, every complaint, every spiteful moment they've had together since they met.
The only thing that came to her mind that could explain his change of heart was her decision to guard his secret and let him drink from her. But it can't possibly be that simple. Nothing about Astarion is simple.
"I thought you didn't like me . . ." The words slip out of her before she can stop herself. The sentiment behind them embarrassingly childish.
Astarion laughs. He leans in so that their cheeks are inches apart, close enough that his breath tickles her nose when he speaks, "Don't sell yourself short, darling. You have your charms."
She looks at him again, and with a jolt, she realizes she's finally caught him in a lie. The smirk on his perfect lips, pink with the vitality of her blood, is too practiced, too composed. She can't tell for sure, but she suspects he hasn't meant a word he's said. Not her strength, not her competence, not her usefulness, and certainly not her charms.
What is it that he wants, then? She's already given him her blood. It's not as if he legitimately finds her desirable. So, what else is there? What is the point of this exercise? Is it boredom? Is he looking for a plaything to help pass the time?
"You're too close," Siobhan whispers, the words catching slightly from the lump in her throat. She doesn't know why it stings so much, but it does. She feels small.
If Astarion notices her mood change, he doesn't call attention to it. He pulls away, taking the lead once more. It isn't long before they arrive at the egg chamber, and Siobhan can focus entirely on the fight, the present, on staying alive and supporting her companions, on something other than twisting in her gut.
For the first time, the party moves like a well-oiled machine. Hits land, spells find their targets, and enemy blows are intercepted or diverted. A well-placed firebolt incinerates the web the Matriarch is standing on, and she plummets, colliding with the cavern floor below with a sickening crunch. She's dazed long enough that the party gets the upper hand and keeps it.
Siobhan is glad that her chosen perch goes largely unassailed, so she doesn't need to reposition constantly. She wouldn't have had the energy to scramble to a new location if the spiders had decided to target her, still bloodless after her donation.
A donation she finally sees is well worth the trouble. Astarion is a terror, dipping in and out of the shadows to fire an arrow or plunge his twin daggers into a spider. The clutch of eggs is a pile of ash long before the Matriarch realizes her children are in danger. When she finally does, it's much too late. Her screech of rage reverberates against the stone, echoing through the depths. It isn't long before she succumbs to the onslaught, the corpses of her children at her feet.
The victory energizes the group, the misery of yesterday a fading memory. After combing the rest of the caves for valuables (where Siobhan finds a glowing dark amethyst amongst other baubles), they surface, most everyone in the mood to celebrate.
Even Lae'zel unbends, allowing herself to drink and smile, if only a little. Wyll prances around the campfire breathlessly, crowing and regaling everyone with a play-by-play of the fight, embellishing the size and number of enemies they felled as if they hadn't all been there. Shadowheart is almost shy when Wyll showers her with praise that Karlach quickly echoes. She buries her nose in her wine glass, and it's hard to tell if her rosy cheeks are from the teasing or the wine. Astarion, on the other hand, preens as he's showered in compliments, the others having noticed his sudden prowess in combat. But it's not a performance; he seems genuinely pleased with the others' acceptance of him and his place in the group dynamic.
At one point in the evening, Gale puts on a drunken light show, the colors flashing and twisting in an admittedly incredible display. The goblins don't bother them, cowed after Siobhan's strong hand earlier in the day. And what a long day it has been. Siobhan is content to leave the others to their frivolity, desperate to escape, if only to get some much-needed rest. Astarion, however, has other plans. Not long after she's slipped away to her tent while everyone is distracted, he appears, ducking his head through the tent opening, holding two tin cups full of wine in each hand.
"Look at you sneaking off. We haven't even had the opportunity to toast you for our success today," he offers her one of the cups, smiling charmingly.
"It's been a long day. I'm tired, that's all," Siobhan replies. She hesitates for a moment and then takes the wine, cradling it in both hands without taking a sip. Astarion flinches slightly, the movement so subtle Siobhan almost misses it. They both know the reason she's tired but refuse to acknowledge it.
The following silence is awkward, Astarion shuffling from foot to foot nervously. Neither of them really have anything else to say.
Siobhan still has not taken a drink, and Astarion frowns at her, "It's not poisoned, you know."
"Oh!" She looks down at the cup, "Yeah, of course. I know that. I- I don't really drink alcohol. It tends to get me into trouble."
Astarion grins conspiratorially, taking the opportunity to invite himself all the way into her tent to sit across from her, "Really? What kind of trouble?"
Siobhan feels her cheeks warm, "No! Nothing like that, I— I tend to embarrass myself. You know, no filter, loud, obnoxious, then I get all weepy. I'm not a very pleasant drunk, unfortunately."
"Well, that's no fun," he pouts, and Siobhan can't help but smile a little.
Astarion looks pensive for a moment before smirking and holding up his cup, "Well then, if you won't get absolutely pissed with the rest of us, then how about just one little toast between you and me?"
Siobhan hesitates again, and Astarion pins her with that intense gaze he seems to always have in his back pocket. Looking at her as if she's the only person in the world.
"A little sip can't hurt," he coaxes.
Siobhan's resolve breaks, and she gives in, "What'll we toast to?"
"Hmm," Astarion says as he looks up in thought. His head is still slightly angled up when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye and smiles. Finally, he faces her and then scoots closer so they can clink their cups together.
"How about to us?"
The suggestion startles her, and she follows his lead unthinkingly, her tin cup colliding with his for a moment before she takes a drink, "To us."