The forest clearing was oppressive, cloaked in a darkness that even the starlight failed to pierce. The moon's absence felt deliberate, as if it, too, had turned its face from what was to come.
Astarion shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his boots crunching against dry leaves. The stillness of the air pressed down on his chest, amplifying the unease he couldn't shake. He glanced at Onyx, who stood like a shadow beside Ashara, his golden eyes unblinking as he observed her movements.
Ashara knelt before a rockface, her knife scraping against the surface as she carved intricate symbols around a circular scratch. Each stroke seemed calculated, purposeful, though Astarion couldn't begin to decipher their meaning. The sharp scent of disturbed stone mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest, an odd contrast to the tension humming in the air.
He envied Zevlor. The tiefling had earned a reprieve, resting back at their makeshift camp in the abandoned village of Moonhaven. The goblins who had once occupied it were evidently part of the raid on the Emerald Grove. Now, Ashara and her group had clamed the ruins as their own, taking shelter in the blacksmith's basement after freeing Zevlor from his chains and patching him up.
His gaze flicked to Karlach, her broad frame illuminated faintly by the glow of her infernal engine. She was fiddling absently with her makeshift prosthetic, the sharp, crude spike lashed to her forearm with leather straps. It was a pitiful solution, but in her words, "So long as I can kill goblins with it, it doesn't have to be pretty."
Despite her ordeal - and the raw pain that lingered beneath her tough exterior - her high spirits remained frustratingly intact. Astarion couldn't decide if he found it admirable or maddening. Ashara on the other hand, had been fascinated to learn of Karlach's unusual physiology, almost wearing the tiefling out with questions. In the end, Onyx had stepped in to temper her enthusiasm and allow Karlach breathing room.
Astarion couldn't help but feel there was almost a paternal nature in the way the huge wolf treated Ashara. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly how old - or rather young - she really was.
Ashara's knife stilled, her work complete. She turned to face them, her eyes sharp and reflective as polished sapphires. "Are you still sure you want to do this?" Her voice was low, almost reverent, as if she were asking for something far greater than their consent.
Astarion folded his arms, raising a brow. "Maybe I'd be able to answer that if I knew what 'this' was."
"I already told you," Ashara replied, her tone maddeningly calm. "We're going to kill the goblins in the grove."
Karlach grinned, her teeth flashing in the dim light. "Sounds good to me. So long as you're not making any deals with devils, I'm in."
Ashara's lips quirked into a sly smile. "No devils, I promise."
Astarion narrowed his eyes at her, his distrust thinly veiled. After a long moment, he shrugged with exaggerated casualness. "Well, I didn't have anything else planned for tonight."
Ashara's grin widened before she turned back to the stone. Without hesitation, she drew the blade across her palm, the sound of tearing flesh faint but sharp. Blood welled up, dark and viscous, and she pressed her hand against the center of the carved circle.
Her voice rang out, strong and clear. "Fenrir, Lord of the Wild Hunt. Your servant summons thee."
Astarion stiffened as an unnatural silence fell over the clearing. The air turned biting cold, and he instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword. The stone beneath Ashara's hand began to ripple, as though it were water disturbed by an invisible breeze.
As she removed her hand, tendrils of thick, blue smoke seeped from the circle, curling and twisting like living things. Frost crackled across the grass, spreading outward from the stone in jagged, intricate patterns.
A shape began to coalesce in the mist - a skeletal visage with glowing blue eyes that burned like cold fire. Astarion's throat tightened as the skull of an immense wolf solidified, its icy gaze sweeping over them with the weight of something ancient and incomprehensibly powerful. When it spoke, its rattling voice seemed to echo not just in the clearing, but within the very marrow of his bones.
"Name thy Pack."
Ashara's voice didn't waver. "Ashara High Forest, Onyx of Icewind Dale, Astarion of Baldur's Gate, and Karlach of Avernus."
As each name was spoken, the skull turned its gaze upon them. When those frozen eyes met Astarion's, it was as though death itself had locked its sights on him. The chill reached into his bones, and his breath caught. The eerie light from the apparition reflected off Ashara's hair, making it glisten like the feathers of a raven.
Beside him, Karlach whispered, her voice low and strained. "You as freaked out by this as I am?"
Astarion forced a smirk, though his teeth ached from clenching them. "I'll let you know once my teeth stop chattering."
The skulls gaze lingered on them for another heartbeat before it spoke again.
"Name thy Prey."
Ashara straightened, her bloodied hand dripping as she pronounced, "Dror Ragzlin and the horde he leads. They desecrated a sacred grove and slaughtered innocents - refugees, druids, children. Their blood cries for vengeance, and nature demands balance."
The skulls jaw opened wider, releasing a cloud of frosty breath. "Then vengeance will be had this night. Go forth with the might of Fenrir at thy side."
Shapes began to emerge from the swirling smoke - spectral wolves, their translucent forms shifting and rippling as though caught between worlds. They were massive, their eyes cold and unblinking, and they moved with silent menace. Astarion counted eight of them, each nearly as large as Onyx but far less welcoming. The clearing was now a battleground of shadows and ghostly light.
Ashara bowed low to the ground, her voice low but firm. "I thank thee, my lord."
The apparition of lingered a moment longer, its glowing eyes surveying its chosen hunters. Then it dissipated, leaving only the spectral wolves and the sharp chill of its presence behind.
Astarion exhaled shakily, the tension in his chest loosening but not disappearing entirely. They had summoned something far beyond mortal understanding, and for the first time since meeting them, he wondered if he'd made a mistake in joining Ashara's little 'pack'.
The grove was a tapestry of shadows and flickering torchlight, its silence fractured only by the distant raucous laughter of goblins carousing in the lower levels. Ashara moved with practiced grace, her boots brushing soundlessly against the dirt path. Beside her, Astarion mirrored her movements, his form sleek and poised as a predator's. Two spectral wolves padded alongside them, their translucent forms shimmering faintly in the gloom.
Ashara glanced sideways, catching Astarion's gaze before he quickly looked away, his mouth tightening in a faint scowl. She bit back a smile, amused by his discomfort. Of course he was rattled - any sane person would be after seeing Fenrir.
She remembered her own first encounter, the way her knees had threatened to buckle under the weight of his gaze. That bone-deep dread never truly left her, but now, it was tempered with purpose.
Ahead, two goblin guards patrolled with lazy indifference, their weapons resting carelessly in their hands. Ashara's smile faded, her expression sharpening. She crouched slightly, raising her bow and nocking an arrow in one smooth motion. Astarion followed her lead, mirroring her movements with silent precision. They loosed their arrows at the same instant, the twang of bowstrings barely audible over the rustling leaves.
The projectiles flew true, striking the goblins with soft, wet thuds. The guards crumpled silently, their bodies hitting the ground like discarded rags. Ashara nodded in satisfaction, allowing herself a brief moment to admire the clean, efficient kill.
Astarion's skill with the bow had been a pleasant discovery, born of necessity when he unearthed a shortbow buried beneath debris near the grove's gate. It wasn't much, but he wielded it with a confidence that made her wonder what he could do with a finer weapon. She resolved to find one for him as soon as possible.
Lowering his bow, Astarion leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "So. Fenrir seems... intense. How exactly did you find yourself under his patronage? And, for that matter, who even is he?"
Ashara stifled a laugh at his relentless curiosity, shaking her head as they moved further into the grove. The path sloped downward, the glow of torches painting jagged shadows against the walls of the cavernous interior. The sounds of revelry grew louder - a chaotic mix of jeers, laughter, and the occasional crash of overturned mugs.
"Most people only know Fenrir as a myth," she began, her voice low and steady. "A long-forgotten god who roamed Toril long before the likes of Helm, Lathander, or Mystra. His favorite form was that of a colossal wolf. He was the living embodiment of primal magic - wild, untamed, chaotic."
"Was?" Astarion pressed, his steps silent as they crept closer to the sounds of revelry.
They reached the edge of the torchlit levels, peering down into the chaos below. Goblins and bugbears lounged around makeshift tables, shouting and cackling as two ogres wrestled in the center of the cavern. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, spilled ale, and charred meat.
Ashara's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene. "Not anymore. Legend says he went mad after losing his mate. He rampaged across Faerûn, leaving devastation in his wake as he hunted her killers. The destruction was so catastrophic that he earned a new name - World Eater."
Astarion shot her a sharp look, his lips parting as if to interject, but she pressed on. "It took the combined might of Silvanus, Mystra, and Jergal to imprison him, deep in the frozen wastes of Cania - the eighth circle of hell."
"Lovely," Astarion muttered, his voice dry as he darted a glance at one of the spectral wolves pacing beside him. Its glowing eyes seemed to pierce through him, unnervingly intelligent.
Ashara suppressed a smile. "But you can't cage something as wild and powerful as Fenrir forever. He found a way to send fragments of his soul back to Faerûn, seeking to atone for the harm he caused. He searches for those he deems worthy, granting them the ritual of the Wild Hunt to fight against corruption and evil."
Astarion's gaze flicked to the wolf at his side, one brow arching. "These ghostly hounds of his," he said, gesturing faintly, "they're what? Pieces of his fractured soul?"
Ashara shook her head. "Not those. They're just manifestations of his power. The soul fragments gained a sentience of their own and became known as... the Fenris Guard."
Astarion's head snapped toward her, his jaw dropping. His voice, sharp with disbelief, rose above a whisper. "You're telling me that giant, obtuse furball of yours is the soul of a god?!"
She winced, placing a finger to her lips. "Keep your voice down," she hissed. "And yes, Onyx is a part of Fenrir's soul."
Astarion stared at her for a long moment, various emotions flickering across his face before settling on bemusement. "And there I was treating him like a glorified pack mule."
"You're lucky he likes you." Ashara chuckled, the sound soft and brief. "Fenrir may have a fearsome reputation, but he's surprisingly tolerant and even friendly once you get to know him. He's more involved in mortal affairs than the other gods, which doesn't exactly endear him to them."
"Then why," Astarion asked, his voice tinged with scepticism, "have I never heard of him?"
Ashara shrugged, the motion fluid and unconcerned. "He's not supposed to be able to have any influence outside of his prison, so he doesn't like to draw too much attention. The others have their temples, statues and adoring worshippers. He just has a few faithful followers that wander the realms, quietly doing what needs to be done."
"And you?" Astarion pressed. "How did you become one of his faithful?"
Before she could answer, a faint flare of blue light illuminated the sky above, casting fleeting shadows across the grove. She smiled grimly, drawing her bow again. The signal. She glanced at Astarion, her smile deepening. "I freed a giant, obtuse furball from a cage."
Astarion's lips curled into a grin. "I suppose that's simpler than a ritual sacrifice," he quipped, his gaze hardening as he nocked an arrow alongside her.
Ashara couldn't help but laugh softly, the sound quickly drowned out by a sudden eruption of shrieks and explosions tearing through the night. The signal's second phase had begun. With a nod to Astarion, she raised her bow, her eyes fixed on the ogres below.
The string sang as she released it, and the arrow flew true, striking one of the ogres square in the shoulder. Astarion's shot followed immediately after, piercing the other ogre's throat. The massive creature staggered, clutching futilely at the shaft, before collapsing into a heap.
Below them, chaos erupted. Goblins scrambled for cover as the two spectral wolves leapt down from the ridge with unnatural grace. Their ghostly forms rippled with energy, each step leaving a faint frost behind. They moved like shadows, tearing through the goblins with silent efficiency. Blades and clubs swung wildly but passed through the wolves as if striking smoke. The goblins' screams were quickly silenced by sharp, snapping jaws.
Ashara darted to the side, her feet barely touching the ground as she loosed another arrow, catching a goblin archer mid-draw. Astarion matched her movements, his every shot calculated and precise. They moved as a deadly pair, their reflexes making them seem more like wraiths than mortals.
"Keep moving," Ashara said, her voice barely audible over the din of battle. She fired another arrow, her sharp eyes tracking targets with unerring focus. The goblins below were thinning, but more sounds of fighting echoed deeper in the grove.
Astarion nodded, loosing an arrow into a bugbear that had charged the spectral wolves. The creature collapsed with a guttural cry. "After you," he said with a flourish, already moving toward the sound of more combat.
Ashara risked a glance at him, impressed despite herself. His skills with a bow rivaled her own, and his smirk suggested he knew it.
They navigated the uneven terrain with ease, slipping between shadows as they advanced. The deeper they moved into the grove, the more the chaos seemed to intensify. Ashara spotted Karlach in the center of the fray, a beacon of ferocious energy. Onyx was at her side, lunging at any enemy that came too close, his teeth flashing like silver. Around them, six spectral wolves wove through the battle, sowing terror among the goblins and bugbears.
Ashara's sharp gaze caught the moment a spectral wolf yelped in pain as a blast of magic struck its side. The wolf staggered, its form flickering like a flame caught in the wind. A second firebolt hit it, and with a mournful howl, the wolf exploded into a cloud of blue smoke. Ice crystals erupted outward, catching a cluster of goblins in a deadly frost. They screamed, clutching at frostbitten limbs as they fell.
"Magic can hurt them," Ashara muttered, her expression darkening.
"Duly noted," Astarion said, his eyes narrowing as he picked off a goblin mage from the ridge. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen again."
Ashara fired an arrow at another caster, her shot silencing the goblin mid-chant. Below, Karlach was a whirlwind of destruction, swinging her axe in one hand and jabbing her spiked prosthetic into the chest of a bugbear with the other. Onyx lunged at a goblin trying to flank her, his massive jaws snapping down with a sickening crunch.
The battle's tide was turning, but the chaos deepened as a booming voice rang out across the grove.
"Release the worgs!" Dror Ragzlin's roar carried over the din, full of fury and desperation.
Astarion glanced at Ashara, his expression half-amused, half-concerned. "Do we have to be concerned about that, or—?"
Ashara tilted her chin toward the commotion behind him. Astarion turned just in time to see a dozen worgs barreling into the battle - but not toward them. The massive beasts charged the goblins with unbridled ferocity, their snapping jaws and guttural growls adding to the confusion.
The goblins' panic was almost comical. One bugbear bolted past them, a worg snapping at its heels as it shouted, "Bad dog! Bad dog! You're supposed to be on our side!"
Astarion barked a short laugh. "Well, that's what you get for crossing the wrong god's soul."
Ashara's focus remained on the battlefield, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. The goblins were breaking, their ranks scattering as they tried to flee. Most were run down by either the spectral wolves or the worgs, their screams fading quickly into the night.
Her attention snapped to the far side of the clearing, where Dror Ragzlin fought like a cornered beast. Three spectral wolves circled him, but he wielded a heavy, jagged blade that glowed faintly with enchantment. Each swing sent crackling energy through the air, forcing the wolves to retreat before darting back in. One wolf lunged, but Ragzlin's blade struck true, and the creature dissolved in a burst of smoke and ice.
Ashara's jaw tightened. Slinging her bow over her shoulder, she drew her sword. "He has an enchanted weapon," she said grimly.
"Lovely," Astarion replied, already unsheathing his own blade. "Shall we?"
They moved in tandem, their steps silent and purposeful as they approached Ragzlin. His eyes snapped to them, narrowing with fury as he bellowed, "You! You traitors!"
Ashara's voice rang out, cold and steady. "Dror Ragzlin, the Wild Hunt will claim you this night for the crimes you have committed."
With a roar, Ragzlin lunged at Ashara, his blade arcing toward her with murderous intent. "I will bring the Absolute your heads!"
Astarion leaned casually against the splintered remains of a broken cart, the wood creaking faintly under his weight. The night was heavy with the smell of blood and charred flesh, a macabre perfume clinging to the grove. He took his time cleaning his blade, each slow pass of the cloth leaving behind a gleaming surface that reflected the muted torchlight. His eyes, however, were fixed on the slack-jawed visage of Dror Ragzlin's severed head sitting on the battered table beside him.
"You know," he began conversationally, tilting his head as if expecting an answer, "it's never a good idea to turn your back on a very large and very angry direwolf in the middle of a battle."
The head, of course, said nothing. Its lifeless eyes stared blankly into the void.
Astarion sighed dramatically, as though disappointed, flicking a speck of dried blood from his sword. "I mean really, what were you thinking?"
Ashara walked by, brushing her hands on her leather armor, her gaze flicking to him with mild exasperation. "Astarion, stop talking to a severed head and help us shift this pile of stones."
He arched an elegant brow, gesturing theatrically. "But we're having such a lively discourse."
Karlach, kneeling beside a mound of rubble piled against the cliffside, paused to glance up, her lips quirking into an amused grimace. "You've got issues, mate."
Astarion smirked back, unrepentant. "I have an abundance of issues, darling, which is precisely why I take whatever fun I can get."
He nudged the head with the tip of his sword, watching as it tipped and rolled off the edge of the table. With a sudden burst of inspiration he called out, "Here, boy, fetch!" before kicking the head with all his might.
It sailed through the air and landed a few yards away. A worg lounging nearby perked up, its ears twitching. With a guttural growl, it bounded after the grisly object, tail wagging like an overeager dog.
Onyx, lying nearby and licking at a wound on his foreleg, lifted his head and let out a low growl of disapproval. "We're not keeping them," he muttered, "It takes too much energy convincing them not to attack you."
Astarion pulled a face, wrinkling his nose. "Gods, who'd want them anyway? Foul creatures."
Onyx huffed, his tail thumping lazily against the ground. "Useful, though."
Astarion's lips curled into a sly smile. "Not nearly as useful as a soul fragment from a forgotten god..."
Onyx froze mid-lick, his eyes narrowing in clear annoyance. After a moment, he gave what could only be described as a wolfish shrug and returned to tending his wound. "True."
Irritated by the wolf's calm dismissal, Astarion pushed off the cart and sauntered over to Karlach and Ashara. Both were hard at work pulling stones from the rubble, their faces streaked with dirt and determination. He tilted his head, eyeing their progress with detached interest.
"There had better be treasure buried behind this mess," he drawled.
Karlach didn't look up. "Of a sort," she said, her voice tinged with effort. "Wyll hid some kids in a cave beyond this tunnel right before the battle. I'm just hoping the gobbos didn't find another way in."
A flicker of unease rippled through Astarion, but he buried it beneath a layer of practiced indifference. Folding his arms, he leaned against a nearby rock and said lightly, "Unless they had access to water, they're probably dead of dehydration by now."
Karlach's head snapped up, her expression thunderous. "You gonna help, or just stand there pissing me off?"
The raw anger in her eyes gave him pause. With a theatrical sigh, he knelt down beside her and Ashara, his long fingers prying at the stones. "Fine, fine. You didn't have to ask so nicely."
Together, they worked in tense silence, the occasional grunt of effort breaking the quiet. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they unearthed a narrow tunnel leading into the cliffside. The opening was barely wide enough for a grown adult to squeeze through.
Karlach straightened, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed the opening. "I'm too big for that. But you two scrawny elves should manage just fine."
Astarion bristled, drawing himself up. "Scrawny!"
Ashara, indignant, added, "Elves!"
Both Astarion and Karlach turned to stare at her. Astarion raised a bemused brow. "You do know you're a moon elf like me, don't you?"
Ashara flushed, the tips of her ears reddening as she looked away. "Sorry, I forgot."
Karlach tilted her head, intrigued. "Pretty important detail to forget..."
Ashara fidgeted, her fingers picking nervously at the dirt. "I was raised as a human. I didn't know I was an elf until after my adoptive father d-died. Later, I met some wood elves who were... condescending when they found out I didn't know anything about my heritage."
Astarion scoffed, his tone dry. "I'm sure they were."
Ashara's voice tightened, her discomfort clear. "I didn't like them much, so I decided I didn't care to be thought of as an elf."
Without another word, she dropped to her knees and began wriggling through the narrow tunnel. The darkness swallowed her quickly, her voice drifting back faintly. "I'll check it out."
Karlach whistled low, her gaze following Ashara's retreating form. "Wow..."
Astarion shrugged, brushing dust from his hands. "Unsurprising. Wood elves can be arrogant pricks at times."
Karlach smirked. "Probably why I thought you were one at first."
Astarion opened his mouth to retort, but a sharp cry from within the tunnel froze him in place.
"Astarion! Get in here, quick!" Ashara's voice was sharp with urgency.
Without hesitation, Astarion dropped to his knees and slid into the tunnel, the cold stone pressing against his ribs as he edged forward.
Each breath echoed faintly, the sound bouncing back in hollow whispers that gnawed at his nerves. When the passage finally opened into a cavern, he paused, squinting against the weak moonlight filtering through cracks in the rock.
The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and decay. Water trickled down the walls, carving jagged paths through the stone. Crates and boxes lay scattered, some smashed open, their contents spilling out like abandoned secrets. But what drew his attention most were the bodies. Goblins lay sprawled across the cavern floor, their weapons discarded and their lifeless eyes staring into nothing.
Astarion closed his eyes, his hand tightening on the hilt of his dagger. He steeled himself for what he was sure would come next. Dead children. It was inevitable, a brutal truth in this world. He'd seen countless bodies over the centuries, their stillness no longer disturbing him as it once had. But no matter how detached he became from death, a child's lifeless body always unsettled him. A weakness he had never been able to cast off entirely.
Drawing in a measured breath, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Ashara kneeling beside a body. The tiefling woman wore bright, colorful clothing now darkened with a bloodstain across her chest. Astarion recognized her instantly: Alfira, the bard who had sung so sweetly after Wyll helped her with her composition.
But something struck him as odd. Unlike the goblins, whose corpses were left carelessly where they fell, Alfira had been carefully arranged. She lay on her back, hands folded over her lute, as though in quiet prayer. Moss dotted with tiny flowers framed her head like a delicate green halo, a tender tribute that seemed almost out of place in this blood-soaked cavern.
Ashara reached out tentatively, her fingers hovering near Alfira's arm. Before she could touch her, a blur of motion launched from the shadows, slamming into her with surprising force and a shrill cry.
"Don't touch her! Leave her alone!"
Astarion reacted instinctively, his dagger flashing in his hand as he sprang forward. He froze mid-step, however, when the "attacker" came into view - a small, dark-haired tiefling boy, fists clenched and pounding against Ashara's arm with all the fury his tiny frame could muster.
Ashara stared down at the child, her expression a mix of surprise and confusion. She grasped his shoulders firmly but gently, pushing him back just enough to stop the assault. "Hey! Stop that, I need that arm for later."
The boy glared up at her, his tear-filled eyes a volatile blend of fear and defiance. "She's resting! Mol says we need to let her be at rest!"
Astarion relaxed his grip on the dagger, arching a brow. "Mol's still alive? Why am I not surprised."
The boy froze, his gaze snapping to Astarion. Recognition flickered across his face, softening his expression. "You were one of the nice people who saved me from the harpies."
Astarion tilted his head, lips quirking into a faint sneer. "Oh... that was you, was it? I vaguely recall a child surviving the chaos that day. What was your name again?"
"Mirkon," the boy replied, his voice wavering.
Ashara's tone softened as she met his gaze. "Are there any more children down here, Mirkon?"
Mirkon sniffed, his small hands balling into fists. "Just me and Mol. Goblins got in through the other tunnel. We buried the others near the stream - where it's soft." His voice cracked, and his gaze drifted to Alfira. "The bard lady was too big. We couldn't move her from the rock."
Astarion caught the way Ashara's eyes shimmered, tears threatening to spill as she released Mirkon's shoulders. The boy turned back to Alfira, adjusting a patch of disturbed moss near her neck with a reverence far beyond his years.
Intrigued despite himself, Astarion crouched beside Ashara, watching the boy's careful movements. "Did you make this for her?" he asked softly, surprising himself with the gentleness in his tone.
Mirkon nodded, his small fingers trembling. "I couldn't find any proper flowers. Mol says it's too dangerous to go outside and get some." He glanced up at Astarion, his expression solemn. "But graves are supposed to have flowers, aren't they?"
Astarion's throat tightened. He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes... they are."
Ashara placed a hand on Mirkon's shoulder, her voice warm with encouragement. "But this looks just as nice. You did a good job, Mirkon."
The boy smiled shyly at her, pride flickering through his tear-streaked face. Then he turned back to Astarion, his expression shifting to something brighter, hopeful. "Have you come to save us again?"
Astarion's heart clenched at the innocent trust shining in the boy's eyes. He glanced at Ashara, who was watching him intently, her expression unreadable.
"Well..." Astarion began, his tone breezy despite the unease in his chest. "We killed all the invaders, so I suppose we've already saved you, in a manner of speaking."
Mirkon's eyes widened, his face lighting up with a mix of awe and relief. "All the goblins are gone now? It's safe to go out?"
Astarion leaned back slightly, keeping his expression light. "Safe might be a bit of a stretch, but you don't have to worry about goblins or bugbears anymore, at least."
The boy stared at him for a moment, tears brimming once more. Before Astarion could react, Mirkon threw his arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. The unexpected embrace froze him in place, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air as if they didn't belong to him. His mind scrambled for a response, but none came.
"Ashara," he said, his voice strained and almost panicked as he closed his eyes. "There's a small child hugging me."
"I can see that."
His eyes snapped open, glaring at her. "Get it off me. Now."
Ashara reached out and tapped Mirkon lightly on the shoulder. "Mirkon, I don't think Astarion likes being hugged."
The boy pulled back reluctantly, his red-rimmed eyes wide with curiosity as he sniffled. "Why don't you like hugs? Are you like Donni?"
Astarion avoided the boy's gaze, focusing instead on smoothing the creases in his jerkin with meticulous care. "I have no idea who Donni is," he said, his tone arch, "but I'm quite certain Ashara here adores hugs."
Mirkon's gaze swung to Ashara, who gave him a soft, encouraging smile and opened her arms wide. "I love them," she said warmly.
Without hesitation, Mirkon threw himself into her embrace, wrapping his small arms tightly around her neck. Ashara's arms encircled him, pulling him close as his quiet sobs broke the heavy silence. Astarion watched the scene, a faint prickling of something uncomfortably close to guilt brushing against his conscience. He pushed the feeling aside with a practiced ease, straightening and brushing dust from his knees.
"I'm going to see if I can find Mol," he announced, already turning away.
Ashara glanced up briefly, her arms still wrapped protectively around Mirkon, and gave him a slight nod. He turned and strode deeper into the cavern, his footsteps echoing faintly in the oppressive stillness.
The flickering light from a torch illuminated a patch of freshly turned soil. Small clumps of moss and fragile flowers were arranged in careful patterns, marking what were unmistakably graves. Astarion froze, staring at them blankly. A cold wave of unease surged through him, twisting his stomach, but he forced the sensation down, locking it away with the rest of the emotions he had no use for.
At the far end of the cavern, a makeshift shelter caught his eye, cobbled together from broken boards and strips of tattered canvas. Scattered around it were the remnants of past meals - gnawed bones, empty jars, and the faintest trace of smoke where a fire might once have burned. Despite the signs of habitation, an eerie silence hung over the place, oppressive and thick. Astarion's steps slowed, his chest tightening with a sense of foreboding.
As he reached the shelter, he hesitated. A sinking dread coiled in his gut, clawing at his resolve. Steeling himself, he pushed back a flap of canvas, and the sight within made him draw a sharp breath.
Mol lay on a makeshift bed of fur and straw, her small body still beneath a tattered blanket. One of her eyes was covered by a haphazard bandage, while the other stared hollowly at the dark ceiling above. She was frozen in a lifeless gaze, the spark of cunning and resilience that had once defined her snuffed out.
Astarion knelt beside her, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek. Her skin was cold, the chill seeping into his fingertips. He sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, and pulled back the blanket covering her. The yellowed bandages wrapped around her chest told a grim story, the putrid stench of infection confirming it. She had been dead for at least a day, maybe longer.
Gently, Astarion brushed his hand over her face, closing her unseeing eye. The action, simple as it was, made a wave of sadness crash over him, unbidden and unrelenting. This time, he didn't fight it. He sat on the ground beside her makeshift bed, running a hand over his face as if to wipe away the weight of his emotions. But they lingered, heavy and suffocating.
"Damnit..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. There was no one here to see him falter, no one to witness the cracks in his carefully crafted facade. For a brief moment, he let himself feel it all - the grief, the anger, the crushing guilt.
His mind conjured the image of the children cowering in this dark, damp cave, hearing the echoes of battle above. He imagined their terror when the goblins found them, the screams that must have rung out. The thought of their final moments brought a sickening wave of nausea, and with it came another memory, one he tried so hard to bury. The terrified cries of two Gur children as he dragged them from their beds under Cazador's orders. Their fear, their pleas, their tears - it all came rushing back, hitting him like a blade to the chest.
Rage flared, molten and consuming, directed not at the goblins, but at Cazador. At Durge. At every monstrous figure who had perpetuated the cycle of cruelty and death that now seemed so endless. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as he stared down at Mol's lifeless form.
"I'll make him pay for this," he whispered, his voice trembling with the force of his anger. "I'll make them all pay. I promise."
Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, forcing the anger and sadness back down, burying it deep. He straightened his posture and wiped a hand over his face, erasing any trace of emotion. His mask was firmly back in place as he turned and made his way back to Ashara.
When he returned, she was still cradling Mirkon, the boy's small face buried against her shoulder. She glanced up at him over the top of the boy's dark curls, her expression questioning. He met her gaze and shook his head slowly, the meaning clear in his eyes.
Ashara's face fell, her shoulders sagging as she rested her cheek against Mirkon's head. She held the boy tighter, her sorrow reflected in the way she closed her eyes, as though willing herself to hold it together.
After a while, Ashara rose, her hand still resting lightly on Mirkon's shoulder. The boy clung to her fingers as though they were the only tether keeping him steady in the world. Astarion cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "We should go," he said, his voice quieter than usual.
Ashara smiled gently at Mirkon. "Come on, Mirkon. Let's go see our friends. They'll be happy to meet you."
The boy hesitated, his small face scrunching in thought. "What about Mol? She said she wanted to spend the day in bed and didn't want me to disturb her, but I don't think she'll be mad if I tell her we can leave."
Astarion exhaled slowly, a breath that felt heavier than the moment called for. His gaze darted to Ashara, who met his eyes with a silent shake of her head. He forced a tight smile, though it felt brittle at the edges.
"Mol is..." His words faltered, but he quickly recovered. "She's still not feeling well, but she told me to take you out for some fresh air and a proper meal. She'll join us later."
Mirkon seemed to accept this, nodding slowly. "Okay. But can we bring her some food too? She hasn't eaten much..."
Ashara's hand tightened on the boy's shoulder. "Of course. Now, let's get moving, little one." She stood and guided him toward the tunnel, kneeling to crawl through first. Mirkon followed closely, casting a hesitant glance back at the shelter before disappearing into the passage.
Astarion lingered for one last look at the dismal cavern. His gaze flicked to the patch of graves, to the makeshift shelter, then back to the tunnel. His fists clenched again before he ducked into the narrow space, following the others.
When he emerged on the other side, the fresher air carried a welcome sense of escape, though his relief was short-lived. Mirkon had stopped abruptly, cowering behind Ashara's legs. His wide eyes were fixed on Onyx, who approached with deliberate, measured steps, his golden gaze locked on the boy.
Astarion leaned casually against the rocky wall, brushing dirt from his jerkin. Folding his arms, he watched with detached curiosity, wondering how Ashara would handle the situation.
The massive wolf stopped a few feet away, his head lowering as he studied the trembling boy. Mirkon clutched Ashara's hand tightly, his small body pressed against her for protection.
"It's okay, Mirkon," Ashara said, her voice steady and soothing. "Onyx is a friend."
What happened next left even Astarion momentarily stunned. Onyx, the embodiment of primal ferocity and lethal grace, dropped to his belly and rolled onto his back, paws flailing in the air. His tail thumped enthusiastically against the ground, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth as he panted like a playful puppy.
Karlach let out a delighted laugh, dropping to her knees beside the wolf. "Oh, who's a good boy, then?" she cooed, rubbing his chest with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Onyx's panting tongue flopped out further, and Astarion resisted the urge to snicker at the absurd display. But it worked - Mirkon let out a small, tentative giggle, his fear melting into cautious curiosity. He peeked out from behind Ashara's legs and took a tentative step forward, his small hand outstretched.
Onyx rolled back to his feet slowly, lowering his head and stretching his nose toward Mirkon's hand. The boy flinched at first but then, emboldened by Ashara's quiet encouragement, placed his hand on the wolf's snout. His small fingers traced the fur along Onyx's head, his touch growing more confident with each stroke. The wolf leaned into the touch, his eyes half-closing in contentment.
Ashara beamed at the boy. "See? He's just a big old softy."
Mirkon's grin stretched across his face, his earlier sadness momentarily forgotten. Ashara climbed onto Onyx's back with practiced ease, then reached down to offer Mirkon her hand. "Here, let's get you up."
The boy hesitated, then took her hand. He gasped as she lifted him onto the wolf's back, settling him in front of her. She wrapped her arms securely around him, steadying his small frame.
Astarion pushed off the wall, brushing the dust from his sleeves as he fell into step beside them. Karlach joined on the other side, her axe resting across her shoulder. Together, they began the slow walk out of the grove.
The carnage was mercifully obscured in the dim torchlight, the bodies reduced to vague, indistinct shapes that didn't seem to trouble Mirkon as he clung to Onyx.
Sidling closer to Onyx's head, Astarion smirked, his voice light as he drawled, "That was a beautiful sight. Truly, a shining example of a ruthless and dignified warrior in his prime."
Onyx huffed, his eyes flicking toward Astarion before returning to the path ahead. "Dignity is a small price to pay to see a scared child laugh."
Astarion's grin widened, the sharp edge of his humor returning. "Would you do that for me sometime? Preferably when I have paint and a canvas handy."
Onyx's ears flicked as if to dismiss the comment. "You're an artist?"
"No," Astarion admitted, a faint chuckle slipping through his otherwise sardonic tone. "But to immortalize that ridiculous display, I'd happily pay for lessons."
Onyx let out another huff, clearly unimpressed, and turned his attention back to the path ahead.
Astarion's grin lingered as they continued walking, his mood lighter despite the lingering shadows of grief trailing behind them. For now, at least, there was something resembling peace.
