It was the smell that stopped them. A pungent stench of decomposing bodies, blood and ashes. They spotted the first corpses as they approached the village.
"Horned ones," Lae'zel analyzed coldly. "Were they attacked on their way to the Grove?"
Nymuë gagged. She understood better how miserable the tieflings were now, and their reluctance to leave the druids' home. From the start, the odds had been against them.
The priestess and the warrior gathered up the bodies, while Astarion watched the horizons. A movement caught his eye beyond the trees, followed by a smell, metallic and sickly sweet. As they both move towards its origin, the dark elf had to cover her face.
Instead of a goblin, they found a man dressed in worn leather, crouched beside the remains of a boar. He was so engrossed by the carcass that he barely raised his head at their approach:
"Ah, strangers," he greeted them, "forgive the aroma. Powder of Ironvine: an old hunter's trick, and most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me."
"You're a monster hunter?" Astarion asked. "I'm surprised. I thought all Gurs were vagrant cutthroats... "
Nymuë glanced at him briefly. The rogue's tone was affable, but his mockery was obvious.
"Ah," the stranger replied, "another follower of tavern legends! What have you been told? That we're a mystical and dangerous people? That because we travel the land, never settling in one place, then we steal your chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters? I wish I'd have half the power that your people impute to mine. But alas, I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer... and monster hunter. You can call me Gandrel."
"What are you hunting, exactly?" Nymuë asked.
Knowing that a beast was prowling around wasn't reassuring, especially with their parasite already to contend with. Her comrade didn't seem to share her concerns, however, as he went further:
"Something terrifying, no doubt. Dragon? Cyclops?"
He pretended to think:
"Kobold?"
"Nothing so dramatic. I'm hunting for a vampire spawn."
The dark elf waited, but the next derision was long in coming. When she looked at the rogue, all traces of irony had disappeared.
Instead, she saw fear.
"I fear he's gone to ground."
Gandrel leaned over the boar; it looked to be in good shape, if it weren't for its obvious death. There was no sign of injury... appart from two holes, at the beginning of its neck.
"He died a short time ago, two hours at the most," the hunter said. "It's been drained of blood."
"What interest do you have in this vampire spawn?" Astarion asked.
"It's a sacred mission for the head of my tribe. She sent me here to capture the beast and return it to her."
"And bring it where?"
"Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there."
Despite his fake smile, Nymuë felt the high elf tense up. His hand was only inches away from his dagger. When he moved, the young woman pretended to stagger. Her arm collided with her companion's fingers, and their eyes met. A warning.
"Do you feel well?" Gandrel asked gently. "I have a tea that might help…"
"She's doing wonderfully," Astarion interrupted, "but it's getting late. Have fun tracking your monster."
The man nodded, judging that it would indeed be wise to seek shelter before nightfall. When he reached the main road, the bloodless body lay like a macabre tableau between Nymuë and her comrade. Both of them stared at it for a long moment.
"I had the impression you were about to attack that hunter," she finally commented. "Not a fan of the Gurs?"
"Hardly. They've given me my fill of unpleasant surprises. This Gandrel may not have looked like it, but his people are real crooks."
"Are they the only ones? You have been sorely lacking in honesty since the start of our journey. So why not take advantage of this aside to show a modicum of sincerity?"
"Oh, because I'm the one who's being dishonest here? Darling, you pretend to be the friendly drow of the neighborhood, ometimes a leader, sometimes a hero... But I don't buy it. Your mask changes according to the role you think you should play. You dream of being acclaimed by the crowd, don't you? Only an idiot wouldn't see that."
"And then, there you are."
"Don't flirt, you're not my type. But I must admit I'm curious about your latest sham... The tadpole. You loved it, didn't you? So there's a hint of corruption beneath this virtue-baiting."
The young woman glowered at him. She didn't know which annoyed her more, Astarion's insinuations or their veracity.
"The vampire spawn," she continued, "is he an acquaintance of yours?"
The winning hand changed sides, as the rogue interrupted his taunting.
"You seemed preoccupied with his search. A parasite capable of influencing weaker minds... I'm sure your undead friend would love that, too."
His furious expression was priceless when she turned on her heels to join their comrades. Shadowheart and Lae'zel had finished searching the tieflings.
"Where were you?" asked the first. "A man crossed the bridge a moment ago. He told us that he had met our companions."
"A monster hunter, yes," Nymuë replied. "He's chasing prey in the surrounding area."
"What is he hunting?"
The dark elf swivelled slightly towards Astarion, who had remained behind. His ruby eyes seemed both tense... and worried. She turned her attention back to Shadowheart:
"Nothing he could find."
The entrance to the village, a large, half-collapsed stone arch, was guarded by two goblins. Who was more surprised, the creatures or the travellers, no-one could say; the adventurers expected to find the place completely empty.
They had already grabbed their weapons when one of the goblins pointed at Nymuë. He stood to attention:
"Hail, Your Serene One! All drows are welcome in Bogrot!"
"And their slaves too," the second confirmed.
"Their what?" Lae'zel roared.
The dark elf didn't react to this sudden deference because - as with Andrick and Brynna - a luminous symbol had appeared around the creatures' left eye. Their parasite remained silent, but the sign was the same: a skull in a triangle, struck with a hand across the forehead.
The young woman reflected: if the goblins were in league with the cultists, the very ones who had named them " true souls", the situation could turn to their advantage. She decided to test her hypothesis:
"Long live the Absolute!" she chanted.
The goblins slammed their spears into the ground, enthusiastically repeating her hymn. With a gesture from her, they stopped just as quickly:
"Where are our troops?" she asked authoritatively.
"In the main camp, Your Suzerainry."
"Suzerainty!"
"Yes, that. Minthara will be happy to receive one of her kin. Are you from Moonrise?"
Nymuë nodded, continuing her masquerade. Was there another drow around, in the very heart of the goblin camp? That would explain their military strategy… Curiosity and doubt seized her. She had never met any other dark elves before, and hadn't particularly sought out their company. Something told her that this wouldn't be a very pleasant experience.
"As if a single drow wasn't already a pain!" Astarion whispered. "You can go a lifetime without meeting one, and now they're multiplying."
The young woman smiled when she heard him yelp: Lae'zel's foot had just crushed his.
"Only my sister will be there to welcome me?" she continued.
"Priestess Gut will be able to show you our new recruits, Your Great."
"Greatness!"
"Watch the road, you!"
"There's nothing but pebbles!"
"Well, keep an eye on them! What was I saying?" the goblin growled. "Ah, yes. The priestess takes care of the new ones. She puts the mark on them, and so the faithful recognise one another. And then there's the boss, Dror Ragzlin! He too will be able to give you a report, Your Majesty."
"Are these the only true souls in the camp?" Nymuë asked.
"Yes ma'am! The others, they're in Moonrise for you know what."
"What?" Shadowheart asked at once.
"Huh? Oh, uh... I don't know either. I'm not a true soul."
"There, boss! The rock! IT MOVED!" the other shouted.
The companions entered the village, while the subordinate was slapped across the face.
Most of the houses were empty, the years and looting having won a battle long abandoned. A few goblins were scouring the area, but they quickly moved aside at the sight of Nymuë.
"So the goblins worship the dark elves..." Shadowheart thought aloud.
"Proof that they aren't that primitive," the concerned replied mischievously.
"That might be useful," Lae'zel interjected. "If they admire you, we could destroy them from the inside. As vexing as I am to be considered one of your subjects."
"Not to mention that they seem to honor this new deity... The Absolute," Astarion added. "Thanks to our tadpole, we could even take care of the most suspicious."
"It mostly means that we can look for Halsin without necessarily starting a fight. And if the archdruid turns out to be missing, we can always continue our journey to the mountain pass without exhausting all our resources."
"Let's not forget that we know the names of their leaders," the priestess said. "Goblins aren't creatures that are quick to strategise. If we realise that weapons are the only solution, we know who to eliminate first. Without leaders, they will quickly disperse."
"Then, we have a plan," the dark elf concluded.
Seeing an herbalist's shop and a forge in the distance, the adventurers decided to split up and explore the place. They had little hope of finding anything among these ruins, but it would have been a shame not to seize the opportunity. Nymuë and Shadowheart went one way, Astarion and Lae'zel the other. Unsurprisingly, the shop was empty, the medicinal herbs rotten, and the potions stolen ages ago. The priestess found a few interesting books which she stuffed into her pack. As they prepared to rejoin their comrades, she pointed out a monument a few steps away. It looked like a religious altar, but the statue of the deity had collapsed. Unless it has been desecrated.
Nymuë had always had a conflicted relationship with her faith. As a child, the incessant insinuations about her origins prompted her to learn more about the cult of Lolth. The little she found out made her blood run cold: the Spider Queen was a cruel and capricious goddess, feasting on the blood of her enemies as well as her devotees. She reigned supreme over the dark elves, and had quickly become the object of night-time anguish for the inhabitants of the surface. Her followers were encouraged to betray each other, to plot, in order to appropriate the crumbs of power she deigned to leave them. The more insidious the treachery, the denser her web became. The young woman had tried to get closer to the pantheon of high elves, the so-called Seldarin gods. But if they had heard her prayers, they had hardly seen fit to answer.
Shadowheart didn't seem to share her doubts; in fact, it was with passionate interest that she sought to identify the allegory. The dark elf had once tried to find out the origin of her beliefs, but the priestess was discreet. After all, her religion was her own business.
Suddenly, she let out a cry. Her right hand emitted a bright glow, so strong that she withdrew her glove as if it were burning her. A wound pierced her palm, a clear, dark hole made with a red-hot iron. When Nymuë gestured towards her, the priestess stepped back:
"Don't pay attention to that," she gasped. "It's nothing."
"You could have told us about it. You would have been healed."
"It's not recent," her companion replied cautiously. "For as long as I can remember, I've always had this wound. It hurts me from time to time, but it always passes quickly, so I can manage. It's just... something I have to live with. No need to make a big deal about it."
"So it's of magical origin?" Nymuë asked.
"It has nothing to do with our tadpole! And I told you, it's a simple abrasion."
Shadowheart crossed her arms, frowning; there was nothing more to say. Yet, her eyes kept returning to the ruined statuette, as if it had been the cause of her pain. As she approached, Nymuë recognised the half-moon emblem of Selune, the Moon Maiden. A much-loved deity in Faerun, symbol of light, "She-who-guides in the dark"...
But it was anger that was distorting her comrade's features, not veneration.
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked wearily.
"I will respect your silence," the dark elf replied. "But I'd rather hear it from yourself."
"If we go on together, I might as well let you know, I suppose. I worship Shar, the Mistress of the Night and Lady of Loss. I assume you've heard of her?"
Nymuë wrinkled her nose, searching her memory. From what she could remembered of Revan's lessons, when she wasn't openly falling asleep, Shar was Selune's sister. Constantly in competition, the twins were portrayed alternately as sworn enemies, or two sides of the same coin. No light without darkness, and no night without moon. Their... disciples, on the other hand, were less poetic and took their idol's interests to heart. The conflict between Shar and Selune was as old as the world itself, for, according to the myths, it was at the very origin of Toril. "In the beginning, there was only Shar and the Void. Then, Selune created light...".
"I know of her connexion with Selune," the dark elf replied cautiously. "But I know nothing about her divine kingdom."
"My lady Shar is the Night Singer. Most fear the dark, like children; because in darkness they see their fears reflected. But Shar teaches us to step beyond fear, beyond loss. In darkness, we do not hide... we act. Pain, hope, the promise of better days... All of these are heavy cloaks that bend our backs and burden our hearts. Many people break before they embrace Shar's truth. There's often suffering, death even."
It was perhaps the first time the priestess had been so vehement, and her faith in Shar filled her with a fervour that set her green eyes ablaze and exalted her voice. It went beyond mere piety: it was zeal, pure adoration. As if realising that she had let herself go, Shadowheart immediately regained her composure:
"There, you know the truth for what it's worth..."
She was sizing her up, almost defiantly. If Selune was popular, her sister was considered an evil deity. The young woman understood her comrade's discretion: such beliefs were rarely welcomed with open arms. Nymuë would have laughed if Shadowheart hadn't looked so serious. Who could have thought that, one day, someone would fear her reaction to religious matters?
"I don't judge you, Shadowheart, if that's what frightens you," she said. "In the eyes of the world, I'm a Lolth follower. Her background leave much to be desired. You can pray whoever you want, I don't care. In fact, divine intervention would even be greatly appreciated in our situation."
"Most people are afraid of my Lady," the priestess murmured, barely containing a smile. "But I think I did well by joining you. Most agreeable company."
"I am curious, however, if you'll allow me. What inspired you to worship Shar?"
"She took me in when no one else would. Without her, I wouldn't be alive. She's my mother, she nurtures me, cares for me, loves me."
The dark elf's thoughts drifted back to Revan. Her work at Baldur's Gate had never been a source of joy, let alone pride. She followed her mentor on his missions, and offered her services whenever she could. She had learned a lot from him... for better or for worse. Yet, she knew that if she had to do it all over again, her choices would be the same. For Revan had saved her when she was weak and miserable, when the rest of the world would have finished her off without a second thought.
Her hands grasped Shadowheart's - still dimly lit- and squeezed. The priestess raised their palms to the sky:
"My faith protects me. I will pray that you can find something to believe in your turn."
END NOTES :
As you can see, I've mixed the scenes of the boar and Gandrel, because I thought they went well together.
Playing as a drow allows you to get information about the Absolute from the goblins in advance in Act 1. You don't even have to use illithid powers!
Have a good week and see you soon.