Hi everyone,
A lot of dialogue and setting up in this chapter. There'll be a bit of that in the next one too, and then things will pick up again from chapter 21 onwards.
Music recommendation: Baldur's Gate 3 Original Soundtrack - Last Light, by Borislav Slavov.
I wish you all a good reading!
Entering the sanctuary of the Last Light Inn was like emerging from the ocean after a long immersion. The weight on the adventurers' chests melted away; the shadows in their hearts dispersed. Even Shadowheart and Nymuë – who had been preserved from the darkness - felt relieved. Here, by some magic unknown to them, the neverending night could not reach them.
The tavern was full of activity. The village square was a busy place, with armour, swords, and bows being meticulously stored. Apart from two guards at the camp entrance, no-one was paying them any attention. A sentry swivelled towards the source of the gathering:
"Jaheira!" she shouted.
A woman turned around. The crowd seemed to organise itself to suit her fluctuations. She was the epicentre of this strange procession, the beating heart keeping the machine going. When she stepped forward, all the soldiers kept a respectful distance.
Her silver hair was strewn in braids; two scimitars, adorned with engravings, crossed in the middle of her back. Despite her semi-elven nature, her features were marked by age. In her wrinkles, one could read all the battles fought... those won, as well as those lost.
The companions hardly had time to introduce themselves. As they approached, Jaheira made a sudden movement to the ground. Vines wrapped around their legs, preventing them from retreating. The Harper's hand - lit by an intense golden glow - sent an unequivocal message: if they moved, the noose would tighten. Nymuë heard her comrades protesting. For her part, she was tired of yet another armed welcome:
"Sometimes, I wish people would simply say hello," she said.
Jaheira smiled: "Hello."
The warriors surrounding them drew their weapons. "Very good," the dark elf thought. "A protocol dialogue, then." She raised her palms as high as her vegetal chains would allow: "Easy. Give us a chance to earn your trust."
"You're about to," the Harper whispered.
From her pocket she took out a vial in which was floating... an illithid tadpole. The worm was squawking in its glass cell.
"This is why we're here, you see," the veteran continued. "It is a curious creature that hides all manner of secrets. But if there's one thing that we know..."
Her gaze locked mercilessly with the musician's:
"... It's that it knows its own kind."
The creature's squeaks intensified. Something inside it desperately wanted to pounce on the adventurers, to become one with their ruined minds.
"You should never have come here, True Souls," Jaheira hissed.
Nymuë opened her mouth: she had to make them understand, they had nothing to do with these cultists! If only this headache would stop pounding at her temples, then she could...
"Stop! Stop!"several voices cried.
A group of tieflings broke through the crowd. The musician was astonished to recognise refugees from the Emerald Grove! Emaciated, and dressed in rags, bad luck had continued to pursue them after the battle with the goblins. But they were still there, and very much alive. Few people could say the same in these lands.
"They're the ones who saved us!" exclaimed one of their defenders.
"They're the ones who protected the Emerald Grove?" the Harper questioned.
Another tiefling approached. With her purple skin and lute clutched tightly in her hands, the bard Alfira didn't flinch from the veteran's gaze.
"It's true. I'd pretty much trust them with my life!"
"True Souls with a mind of their own... How is that possible?"
The vines imprisoning the adventurers sank back to the ground. Nymuë turned to her comrades; her silent question earned her several obstinate frowns. None of them liked the idea of revealing their only asset... But if they wanted to make allies against the Absolute, they had to play the honesty card.
The priestess held out the astral prism to the audience: "We're escaping the cultists… with this."
The runes on the artefact flickered, and Jaheira cast a puzzled glance at her vial. The parasite floated peacefully in its prison, dormant.
"What in the Hells is that thing?"
"Something that had saved many lives," Nymuë replied. "Here's hoping you agree."
"Ah! Congratulations. You've earned yourself the benefit of the doubt. Hear me, Harpers! At ease."
The warriors sheathed their weapons, and the tieflings cheered in delight. However, the veteran hadn't finished with them yet:
"I'll not pretend to understand what your artefact is, but I'm old and wise enough to recognise a sliver of hope when it crawls out of the dark. Perhaps our interests are aligned: we seek to eliminate the creeping scourge that is the Absolute. There's food in the inn over there. Beds too, if you require rest. Aloe oil in the cupboard in case the vines gave you a rash... Settle in, then come join me for a drink. You may just be the godsend we've been praying for."
The musician heard Astarion growl in frustration: another group of desperate people asking for help! The young woman gave him a stern look. "Don't forget," she told him through their tadpole, "that the said desesperates have just saved our lives."
Even if the rogue didn't approve, he had the merit of keeping his remarks to himself.
"You're all right!" Alfira exclaimed. "Thank goodness, I was worried they'd got you too."
"I'm glad to see you've pulled through," Nymuë replied warmly. "This curse has no mercy..."
"The curse is probably not the worst thing about this area. These cultists are… awful. They ambushed us a few days ago. Even though we surrendered, it wasn't enough for them. They lined us up like dogs... Asharak was with the kids, telling them it was gonna be all right. Maybe that's why they picked him..."
The bard closed her eyes, struggling to hold back a sob. A refugee put a hand on her shoulder.
"How did you survive?" Shadowheart asked.
"Luck?" another tiefling suggested. "A whim? It just… never stops. Even Zevlor has abandoned us."
"How do you do it? How do you keep going?"
Nymuë glanced at her companions and found them strangely silent. No hymn of faith for Shadowheart. No valiant speech in the name of Vlaakith from Lae'zel. Even Astarion had no sarcasm to offer. For the first time since in a while, the dark elf realised just how adrift their group was. They were running from disillusionment to disillusionment, hoping at last to find a path out of the darkness at the next turn. One step at a time, never daring to stop long enough for fear of losing their way. But if it wasn't religion, devotion or vengeance that had given Nymuë her strength, what could it be?
"I'll tell you when I know," she answered mischievously.
She received a smile from a tiefling child, as well as a few amused sniffs.
"We're in the same boat, then," Alfira said. "That's rather comforting. Just be careful out there, all right? I can't handle anyone else dying."
The dark elf squeezed her hand, a gentle warmth filling her chest. It was strange in the midst of this vast chaos, to discover that there were people for whom she was welcome. It seemed even more unreal than their current condition... even if it was far from unpleasant.
The adventurers made their way inside the inn, which was also in a state of cacophony. The central foyer was occupied by numerous refugees, and smell of food reigned supreme. Some rooms had been turned into infirmaries. Only the upstairs remained empty of people, Jaheira's office having been set up nearby. When she spotted the adventurers, she invited them to join her.
"You know, even githyankis have heard of the great Jaheira," Lae'zel said. "Her exploits are legendary."
"Many bards sing of her deeds," Nymuë agreed. "Nevertheless, I would have preferred to avoid the death threats when we first met."
"I suppose facing a Bhaalspawn and Sarevok's rebellion is enough to make you wary..." Shadowheart guessed.
"It means that our dear hostess intends to dissect our intentions in great detail," Astarion intervened. "She's going to try to use us to her advantage."
"What's wrong with that if it serves us? It's not as if our chances of penetrating Moonrise are immense despite our parasites."
"People always ask for something in return. It's a constant."
The musician winced, but nodded. During their little exchange at a distance, the Harper had remained serene, taking a bottle of wine and a few goblets out of her secretary. She seemed almost... amused.
"Please, be welcome," she greeted them. "Have a drink. Here's to your very good health."
She smiled, but the expression didn't reach her eyes. Nymuë felt a tingling at the back of her head: "Don't drink," mentally ordered Shadowheart. "I smell klauthgrass in the wine. An herb much sought after by magicians... to elicit the truth."
The dark elf stopped her gesture and looked at her interlocutor; this time, Jaheira's smile seemed sincere:
"It doesn't spoil the taste, if that's what you're wondering."
"No, but it spoils my trust."
"Indulge me."
The adventurers put down their cups, and Nymuë heard the githyanki warrior spit an expletive. This tempered the respect she had for the Harper.
"You don't know what you're missing," she sighed. "Over a century old, and yet this wine hasn't lost a hint of flavour. Still no quite so sure about you, though. People tend to lose more than just flavour when illithids get their hands on them. I speak from experience. There's an air about you, something… alien. Answer me true and do not lie: the parasite... it's changing you, isn't it?"
Nymuë raised her eyebrows: their mysterious guardian had assured them of their protection against the tadpole, but... they also seemed to be the first to value its power. And yet, every time the worm took control, a part of themselves insidiously disappeared.
"It's trying to win us over," she replied honestly. "But for the moment, we're resisting its temptations."
"And you think you can go on like this for much longer?"
"Well see," Astarion hissed, beginning to tire of this interrogation.
"Look around you," she summoned them. "Good men, good women, stranded here, two feet in the grave. You already know some them; but if we're to survive, I have no choice but to trust you. Can I?"
"What happened to us being the godsend you've been praying for?" Shadowheart ironised.
"Any good leader must be able to show optimism in front of his men, despite private reservations. I have every reason to be cautious: I've traced people like you, people with parasites in their brain, all the way here from Baldur's Gate. The cult of the Absolute is spreading through the city: quietly, quickly and with unsettling deliberation."
She hesitated, studying a list of reports on her desk:
"We tracked them to this ancient village, only to be faced with a man we killed and burried over a century ago."
"Who was... Who is he?" Nymuë asked.
"General Ketheric Thorm. Remember that name: he's the leader of the Absolutists."
"Wait..." Shadowheart murmured.
She exchanged a stunned look with her companions: Ketheric Thorm was the man mentioned by Halsin, the one who had caused the shadow curse. A former Chosen of Shar...
"You know your history," Jaheira approved. "Back in the day, Thorm took to building an army of Dark Justiciars beneath this very village. Alongside the local druids, we made it our business to see him deposed."
"We know one of them," Lae'zel intervened. "Halsin of the Emerald Grove."
"That explains the rescue of our fellow tieflings!" the veteran smiled. "Alas, the general is returned. Not only does Ketheric Thorm live again, it seems he is no longer mortal. He has become, in fact, invincible."
"What do you mean?" Astarion asked.
"We met him on a road here, commanding an army of the Absolute. I put an arrow through his eye myself, only to watch him pluck it out like a splinter. He healed right in front of me, and chased us into the shadows."
The Harper caught her breath, anger gradually giving way to resolution:
"Things look hopeless, I know. But experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things seem, there's always hope. You are that hope."
"Wonderful," the rogue sputtered. "But hardly motivating, as far as I'm concerned."
"What do you have in mind?" Nymuë demanded.
"Protected by your artefact, you can infiltrate his forces at Moonrise Towers, posing as a True Soul. Find out what it is that makes him invincible, so we can strip him of his advantage. Once Ketheric is without his shield, the sword: together, we assault his towers, and put a final end to this blight."
"It's not too far from our own plan..." Shadowheart said.
"Oh yes, if you forget the part about a whole army!" Astarion scoffed.
"It's even better than our plan," Lae'zel agreed. "Say yes!"
"Need I remind you that we're trying to determine the origin of our infection, and not to play the hero?"
"Any cure starts with understanding the disease," Jaheira retorted. "Whatever magic Ketheric's using to control these tadpoles, it must be at Moonrise. Your options are just as limited as ours."
The high elf grumbled, feeling trapped. Nymuë put a hand on his shoulder: "We'll decide according to the scale of the threat," she murmured in his mind. "We'll survive this like everything else, you'll see."
He relaxed slightly, though still annoyed. The dark elf turned her attention back to Jaheira:
"We're on your side," she assured her. "We will stand up to the cult of the Absolute together."
"Despite the lack of guarantees, you're willing to put your life on the line to help us in our fight. This is to your great credit. In exchange, I promise to do everything in my power to ensure your survival."
"You're very kind," the rogue growled.
"Indeed I am. Until then, we'll keep drinking wine when we meet."
The adventurers walked away, unhappy with the outcome of the conversation. They had obtained the support of the Harpers, but once again their lives were at stake. Despite Jaheira's goodwill, they were still on borrowed time.
"This changes nothing," Lae'zel fulminated. "As long as we don't have any answers, it's all just speculation."
"At least we have a target now," Shadowheart pondered. "Ketheric Thorm... I don't know what to think of him. I should naturally consider any follower of Shar an ally, but this... this is not my Mistress's will."
"It would seem that he has abandoned your goddess in favour of the Absolute..." Astarion insinuated.
"So it's a good thing we've been tasked to eliminate him. I knew my Lady had great ambitions for me."
"It's all a big game of chess, with no king to take."
"That's because you have to play better games," whispered a voice behind them.
The companions jumped up and grabbed their weapons. From a shadowy corner, a swarthy-skinned man in elegant clothes came to meet them: the devil Raphael. The same one who had offered to rid them of their parasites a few days earlier...
Nobody seemed to have noticed the cambion. He moved gracefully through the crowd, without anyone brushing against him or touching him. Just as when they first met, he had emerged from nothing.
"You still have to learn the only game that really matters: the game of souls. Oh, but don't worry: it goes without saying you still have the unconditional freedom to choose the only option you have left."
Nymuë clenched her fists; was this cambion revelling in their doubts? This was the second time he had appeared as they faced a new obstacle instead of finding solutions...
Raphael smiled and turned his scrutinising gaze towards Astarion: "Now, let's talk about you. I sense there's something you want to ask me."
The rogue gasped, then nodded: "I do. I have a... proposal for you."
"A proposal? If you're hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey."
"This is serious business, devil!"
The dark elf's eyes met Astarion's and she understood what was tormenting him. He wasn't trying to negotiate his survival in the face of their parasite; he was suffering from another evil, just as dangerous. His scars. The painful marks that could - perhaps – serve as a means of escape from his former master. For what benefit would he gain from freeing himself of his tadpole, if the vampire lord were to control him again?
Unaware of the stigmata in question, Lae'zel and Shadowheart protested. The musician didn't like the idea of asking Raphaël for help either. It was like trading one scourge for another. On the other hand, who better than a devil to translate the language of the Hells?
The rogue expanded on his request: "My old... Well… A long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. They are a fragment of a contract... I'd like to know what the full contract says."
"Hummm..." Raphaël thought. "These marks are indeed very important to your master; but are they a love letter, a warning, or a deed of ownership? I could give you all the gory details..."
"In exchange for something," Nymuë guessed bitterly.
"Nothing much. I'm motivated to help you, you know. Scars often tell such wonderful stories, and I think yours might be truly exquisite..."
Raphaël's smile widened, giving him the look of a cat about to lick its lips. Astarion's impatience delighted him: the more desperate the prey, the higher the stakes. People like him and Lady Seri were ruining lives, content as they were to play with fate.
"Tell us what you want," Nymuë ordered.
The devil complied:
"Our heroes thought but of treasure ahead,
Did not consider the peace of the dead.
Through the dark they went creeping,
And awoke what was sleeping…
A new grave they dug, which they themselves fed."
"I wonder how long you've been practicing that little recital?" Shadowheart scoffed.
"Until it was perfect. I've grown quite fond of you, in my way. So you should be pleased that I'm warning you of the dangers of this... favour you're doing me. Like a dramatist, I can set the scene and prepare you for your role."
"Which is, exactly?" the musician asked.
"In the darkness near Moonrise Towers, there is a stage upon which a great drama has suspended itself in time. There, in the depths of the Thorm mausoleum, its actors dwell there still, mired in the languor of their long-tired scenes."
"What actors?" Lae'zel growled, annoyed of these mind games.
"A creature who, like me, is very much of the... infernal persuasion. Should it make its way out of its prison, a pestilence would be unleashed upon this realm... This beast and I go back a long way, and I think you have the talent to write for it an exceptional final chapter. If, however, you heed this warning: this opponent is carnage incarnate. Do not underestimate it. At best you will have the blink of an eye to strike, so attack first and aim true. Defy the odds, for they are distinctly in its favour."
"That's encouraging," Shadowheart sneered. "You're asking us to fight an orthon – a champion of the Hells! - in exchange for a translation? That's not a very fair offer."
"You're breaking my heart, priestess, for I am fairness made devil... Unfortunately, my offer is the only one you have. None of these dear tieflings would have the ability to decipher runes of such perfidy... Unless you want to wait for the next devil kind enough to cross your path, I'll consider us even when the beast is dead. Soon, all will be concluded."
Without giving the adventurers time to respond, Raphaël simply disappeared. The corner from which he had stepped was once again invaded by obscurity, and the conversations around them resumed, as if the intrusion had never taken place.
"You could have told us that you intended to trade with a cambion!" Lae'zel spat.
"So you could have dissuaded me?" Astarion retorted. "Certainly not. It wasn't a choice you had to make. And besides, you should know that I have no regrets: these runes were engraved on my skin for a reason. If I can't understand them, my former master will find a new way to dominate me."
"You knew about this, didn't you Nymuë?" the priestress asked.
The musician turned to her comrade, who was patiently staring at her. There was no judgement in her voice, only observation. For the first time, Nymuë wondered what her relationship with Astarion looked like. She had been so careful not to think about it that she hadn't considered that it might be a source of confusion for those around them.
"Indeed," she admitted.
"So you let Astarion negotiate - for all of us! - a fight to the death, without even asking our opinion?" the githyanki hissed. "The pleasures of the flesh have made you lose your sense of responsibility!"
"And your anger has made you lose your ability to think," the dark elf replied. "I'd remind you that I didn't apply for the position of leader, you're free to take it. Secondly, it seems to me that you and Shadowheart are much more inclined to forgive my 'mistakes' when it comes to maintaining the status quo between the two of you! A 'responsible' leader would have got bored of your bickering long ago. Do I make myself clear?"
Her three companions felt the blow: it was rare for Nymuë to be so pugnacious. Apart from a few outbursts here and there, she tended to be the voice of reason.
But ever since that famous night at the tiefling's party, the young woman had struggled to put her mask back on. That night, a part of her had been freed from her shackles. She had dared to express herself, to assert her desires rather than follow those of others. And since that side of her had been released, it has been difficult to being kept under control.
The musician closed her eyes, all too aware of the silent reproaches of those around her. Shadowheart spoke again: "Do you think this devil will deliver on his promise if we kill the orthon?"
"Between a devil and a vampire, I trust the devil any day," the rogue assured. "Besides, we're the epitome of prudence, aren't we?"
"I suppose we've faced death together enough times to rely on each other. It would be dishonest of me to reproach you for thinking of your own interests, Astarion, when the call of my goddess comes. You can count on me."
"If we must add a demon to our list, then so be it," Lae'zel grumbled.
She hesitated for a moment, before adding: "I trust our leader."
"Well, perfect!" Astarion exclaimed cheerfully. "When we get close to Moonrise, we'll just have to poke around a bit, and kill a few people! What do you say, darling?"
Nymuë stared at her comrades in turn, surprised by their sudden profession of faith. It was as if every time she felt discouraged or pained, they took a back seat to show her that she could lean on them too. Her throat tightened; without really knowing why, she felt almost ashamed of her anger. She murmured:
"I say neither this orthon nor Ketheric Thorm are ready for what's coming."
END NOTES
This chapter introduces quite a few things!
First of all, Jaheira's character, who I really like. Then, the deal with Raphael. As you may have noticed, I've combined the dialogue we have with him at the Last Light Inn, as well as the one near the Mausoleum, so that all the informations about Yurgir are transmitted at the same time.
As for the rather dry exchanges between the characters at the end of this chapter, it seemed believable to me that Lae'zel and Shadowheart wouldn't like the situation, given that Astarion never told them about his past. I'll develop this a bit more in the next chapter. In the game, all interactions take place through the player, but I've tried to make that a little more realistic in this story.
Thank you for reading and see you next week!