He woke with a start. The smell of smoke, but not his own. As he opened his eyes, he half expected to feel his new tentacles, or an overwhelming desire to consume cerebral tissue. Yet, he didn't. He felt…strange, but like himself.

Well, he was a hell of a strange bastard.

Eyes open, and he saw. The crack he'd made in his cage had expanded and snaked along to every corner of the amber screen. Glassy chunks had been blown off around the original impact and some were resting beside his feet. Low rumblings were churning through the…dungeon, its chitinous foundations groaning like a beast in pain.

The mind flayers were under attack, it seemed.

Then he remembered. The way he had surrendered to that damned illithid's suggestions, how his body had molded to its command as he was infected. What ran through him was not anger, but an unholy concoction of emotions he'd sworn off long ago. No, he decided: If it was not anger that came to him, he would nurture it. Nothing else would bring him back from the brink. These creatures would feel the Black Lotus's wrath.

Once again, he focused his energies. Every breath was a stoke to the fire, a hearty coal to the deepest energies of his spirit and all that was living. He became a living inferno. Soon flames wafted off of his skin and the sharp, chitinous fangs that had bound his hands and feet were nothing but melted debris. Forward out of his cage did he slip, but he didn't stop there. All of his energies focused singularly on that little vermin hiding in his skull, nibbling on his brain. His temperature rose higher, higher, higher than it had ever before. Any second he expected it to be gone. Nothing so small could threaten the Black Lotus: He'd charred devils with his fire and this would be no different. Even if he burnt to a crisp himself, he would not be controlled.

Yet…nothing happened. He coughed up a cloud of smoke and his energies faded, his temperature lowering, but…he still felt the tadpole. There, just…observing. Sitting. No, it was probably engorging on his brain matter already, making a treat of his greatest memories and wishes. Making…diagrams of just how it would mutilate the skin he'd spent so long worshiping. Each thought felt like it had an interloper in its midst: The sanctity of his mind was violated with every word.

This thing was…

No. He couldn't think about that now. In truth, though he had recognized his infector as a mind flayer, he had little to no idea about the specifics of their parasites. The time he had. The symptoms. Perhaps he had a few hours, or perhaps a number of months would pass before he succumbed. A cure was possible, though he had no idea what form it would take. If the fire failed to purge his little companion, he couldn't imagine any cleric's spell would fare better. Still, it was worth a shot.

Even if it wasn't, well…

He'd take as many of these brain biters with him as he could. Then he'd fling himself from the highest tower he could find, laughing and screaming as he denied the gods another tragedy.

Finally, his attention left his person and spread out to his environment. He was in the same room as before, though many of the pods had been opened. One in particular seemed to have been forced, like his, and blood stained the rim of the seat and the path out. There was only one exit, through a…door which resembled flesh curled around a central point.

But before he left, he needed his blades—his instruments, named utanakan. Those lovelies had cut him out of situations much hairier than this one, and he would not abandon them at the bottom of some illithid dungeon. He glanced up and down and around, ducking his head in every corner of the room, his pulse thrumming with anticipation and sanguinary intent and whatever other emotions he didn't name. Yet they weren't there. No matter where he looked—they weren't there.

Oh, now they were really dead. Infecting him was one thing, but to take his blades—his pride and joy?

He'd pair with their livers, even if he had to do it with his bare fists and feet.

How crude their deaths would be—how inelegant. It would be a heresy against the spirit of combat.

Whatever. That's what they deserved.

Cracking his knuckles, he turned to the strange door at the room's mouth. It resembled an otherworldly sphincter, though not one he'd have ever wanted to explore. He would have kicked it open if it hadn't…responded to his presence and folded away.

Beyond was an active battlefield. The halls of the illithid's lair were overrun by imps and devils of all kinds. Brains crawling on sickly legs were swarming about and clawing at the devils while humanoid thralls and a couple of mind flayers fought a losing defense. A flaming hole in the roof revealed a red sky above and the air smelled of brimstone.

Hell, then. He didn't really know how he got here, or why Illithids would be interested in homing in it, but it suited him just fine. There was sure to be magic powerful enough to remove the parasite somewhere, even if he needed to tease it out from its possessor—while they kicked and screamed.

No contract would be signed—no mere devil would claim his soul. Hell didn't know what was coming.

Even better: Here, he could take out his frustrations in the best way he knew how.

A mad cackle escaped his lips as he charged forward, leaning forward like a wild beast, his arms cutting through the air like fine blades. A thrall and a devil turned to him and found their jaws broken by a fist and an elbow before they saw their killer. He lept and landed with a kick that sent one of those crawling brains flying and a combination of fiery fists beat a drow's ribcage into a pulp. A shift in the air caught his eye and he ducked under a devil's spear, pushing it so it slipped into the drow's eye, then he broke the shaft and kicked the devil into oblivion when it tried to flee. An imp launched a blast of infernal energy but he dodged and pounced at it, grabbing by its legs and smashing its head across the temple of its master. He was nearing the room's center, where the mind flayers were fending off armored devils. A sane man would have chosen a side but he let out a whooping war cry that stole both groups' attention. A drop kick broke the breastplate of one of the devils and a trip threw one of the squids into a stomp. A second Illithid raised its hands but its elbow was broken at the joint by an uppercut as he grabbed it, and used its back to block a slash from a greatsword. A devil tried to fly away—he grabbed its ankle and slammed it into the chest of his last ally. The final mind flayer attempted to levitate up and let out a cone of psionic energy, but the Lotus jumped, snatched its tentacles and pulled it straight into a knee that shattered its skull.

Turning and turning. A cavernous breath. He searched for more enemies but found none. Every point along his limbs hurt and they were stained with dirt and blood of all colors. After a short inspection, he saw that cuts and bruises he didn't know he'd sustained lined his arms and the side of his torso. Slime from the last mind flayer's cranium stained his trousers silver and a piece from a devil's rib was stuck into the bottom of his right sandal.

How clumsy, he thought. No art to it. Just straight violence.

Without his blades he was more than capable. Years of martial training and thousands of hours of kata had conditioned him into all forms of combat. His fists were an instinct and his feet scions of death, but even they were crude compared to his blades. Fighting without them only stoked his frustrations.

If this was all these squids had to offer, then he wasn't impressed. Perhaps he had taken them by surprise, but he had expected more psionic blasts—maybe a few mind tricks—especially after what the first one did to him. Then again, when the first had controlled him he'd just woken up, and perhaps the pod had increased his susceptibility. It might have been a more mature Illithid as well. Either way he would make sure it didn't happen again.

Still, this was easy. Too easy. These weren't the greatest enemies the so-called Absolute had to offer—they couldn't have been. Not after they managed to knock him out, almost without a fight. Not after they seeded him with their bloody, brain-eating parasite. There had to be more.

A primal, hair raising roar drew his eye. He stared out of the hole in the ceiling above and saw something fly by. Something reptilian, scaly. Red. Another few seconds and he saw it.

Was that a dragon?

Perhaps he was right about one thing: There was greater prey.

Despite everything, he smiled. If nothing else, this would be a good fight.

They had put him on some sort of flying ship, tentacled and writhing like a deep sea monster. He figured it out as he passed down a hall, one that the dragons had ripped open, revealing the grand expanse of the Hells, streaming below them. Great swathes of thundering skies and inferno stretched into the distance, a veritable swarm of devils forming as they assaulted the invading vessel. At least four dragons were swooping up and under the ship, spouting fire and biting through its hull, tearing into the defenders with their claws and jaws. There were riders atop the dragons, holding onto scales unharnessed as though they were riding a wave. Green skin, thin. He didn't recognize the species.

The ship quaked from the travails of battle. Not just because of the dragons—the Lotus was giving those flying beasts a run for their money. His fists sundered muscle and bone and his knees smashed brains and hearts. Those that weren't persuaded by blunt force were burnt to a crisp in a blaze of spiritual fire. Devils and squids alike met their end against him—he didn't care who. They were in the way—and they'd caught him in a bad mood. Any doorway that didn't yield to him met the same fate as their owners. Failing that, walls were knocked down or scaled as he punched and kicked his warpath in random brushes across the ship. Where was he going? He didn't care. Long as blood and bone wet his knuckles he'd leave the questions for later.

They'd taken his blades, his dignity, and maybe even his future. For that, they more than earned this ritual dance. This would be his send off party if nothing else, before the gods claimed his black soul. They'd been waiting for so long, he imagined that they were already fighting over who would get the honor of pressing him into servitude. At least it was better than mental slavery to some giant brain. He never studied these Illithids, nor had he seen one in person before today, but he'd heard enough about them to know that he didn't want to be one. The idea of his jaw being desecrated by those tentacles, his skull breaking and his handsome face reforming to make way for a nondescript aberration…he'd prefer to be a groveling larva in the deepest pits of the Abyss. At least then he'd have a chance at becoming a Balor, maybe carving his own place in the realms.

As he cleaned up another devil raiding party, wiping the remains of an imp's brain from between his knuckles, he caught a blip of movement in his peripherals. A platform above—something was hiding there. He pretended not to notice and walked in the opposite direction, keeping his ears open for when the enemy struck. Once he reached the room's threshold he heard the sound of feet landing on floor, a slight clink of metal, barely audible past the rumble of attacking dragons. This he pretended not to hear either, even when he felt the air shift as it raised a blade. Tap, tap, tap went its feet, probably thinking itself the greatest padfoot to have ever graced the realms. Just as it came within striking distance he shuffled forward and turned on his heel, letting loose a gout of flame from his mouth. The creature rolled away and scampered back, the fire licking its calves as it stumbled just out of range.

It was one of those creatures that were riding the dragons, though its kit was different. To his eyes, it appeared female, though he'd dealt with enough strange species to know he should never assume. Its appearance was a unique one to say the least—human and yet not quite. Yellow irises and slit pupils like a cat, black diamonds in twin cascades about its eyes, with streaks like those of a paintbrush under her eyes and leading around into her hairline, a diminutive, upturned nose, red hair in a ponytail, and yellowish-greenish skin. It wore some sort of silver armor with red gems embedded into the chest, and in its hands it wielded a longsword of alien make. Its sharp teeth were bared.

He considered attacking, and it seemed like she was thinking the same thing, but her last attempt filled her with a newfound awareness of his danger. Her eyes were flicking this way and that, considering angles of approach. He didn't bother to think about it—whichever way she came, the only thing she would find was death.

Though his curiosity won out, if only for a moment.

"You, creature," he said, his voice smooth and accented, the syllables rolling like silk. "What are you? You are neither Devil nor Illithid, by my estimation."

She didn't answer. Instead, she raised her sword, her eye twitching. Circling to his right. An experienced warrior then, to move away from his dominant side. She must have been watching him for a while to have figured out he was a lefty, especially since he hid it well these days. He raised his fists and circled in parallel, observing but not acting.

There was a strange aura around her. An…energy. He reached out, seeking to explore, and found she was not its originator. It was something inside of her.

She was infected.

Somehow he latched onto that energy. Jumbled thoughts entered his mind. Images of his allies, true Githyanki warriors charging into battle. How they were…consumed by the Ghaik. How he was captured and—

They weren't his thoughts. They were hers.

He saw how she had beaten her way through the pod, cutting up her wrists and ankles in the process. How she had been slinking through the ship since the battle began, picking off Devils and Illithid servants, licking her wounds and trying to think of a plan. That was when she saw him, this mad pugilist who jumped into battle against overwhelming odds—and somehow won. After observing him, she saw what initially appeared to be the markers of insanity were actually those of great courage and skill. His lust for battle was worthy of a Githyanki. Thus, he was worthy prey to prove herself against once more—to redeem her capture.

Wait…how long had she been following him?

Almost since the moment he woke up. Damn. He must have been losing his touch if he let someone so…unsubtle stalk him for so long.

"Gith…yanki?" he asked. "I think I've heard of you. People of the Astral Plane, or…something to that effect. Correct?"

"Chk. I will not reward your ignorance, istik," she spat. Her voice was low and growling. "You are no thrall. What business do you have here with the Ghaik?"

He furrowed his brows. "Ghaik?"

"Illithid, istik!"

"Ay, I see. I'm…infected, like you," he said. He tried to keep a straight face, but a hateful expression leaked through. Admitting such a thing to a stranger: He really was a fool.

After a moment, he nodded towards a nearby gap in the hull.

"Those your friends?" he asked.

"They are Baht t'Vlaakith—dragon riders. They are more than allies, they are ascended—warriors of the Lich Queen herself." She scowled, realizing she had been coaxed into an answer. "What did you do to my mind, istik? Ghaik magic?"

"I don't know. It just happened. I think it's something to do with the worms in our heads."

She didn't seem to believe him. Or, at least, she didn't enjoy the answer. "You carry the parasite. Then you will become Ghaik." She deepened her stance, bringing her sword in line with her head.

"No sooner than you will. Careful casting stones here—they might fly right back."

She scowled. "What?"

He squinted. "Nothing. A turn of phrase, nothing more." With a tentative step, he closed a bit of the distance between them. He could see the tension in her limbs, ready to spring out. "You fight Illithids. We need not quarrel, especially if your people are mighty enough to tame dragons. Perhaps you would know of a cure?"

She didn't respond.

"We can help each other. We're both infected, so why not?" Another step, and he uncurled his fists in a sign of placation. "I know nothing about this parasite, to tell the truth. If you enlightened me, I would be grateful."

For a long moment, she stared at him, her eyes burning holes into his neck. This man, this…instrument of death and destruction. He'd tore through Devils and Ghaik alike with his bare feet and fists—seared their flesh with a strange fire. Just in the time she'd been following him he had taken down almost three dozen adversaries, all while sustaining minimal injury, and often combating whole groups at once. She'd personally seen him slay five Ghaik—she'd counted.

It was impressive, she had to admit, even if he wasn't Githyanki. A…human, she thought, though the other races often looked the same to her.

Humans were always ugly, and this one was especially repulsive to her. His fat head was cut in sharp lines, with a jaw that jutted out like ceremonial armor. His fat nose and lips puzzled her to no end, though she supposed a being so simple would need more air—stupidity was expensive. His deep black skin made him seem like a Devil to her, but his dark eyes resembled a pack animal's, their irises a deep brown. His torso was bare and his lower body was covered by some sort of deep purple, silk trouser, tied off with a red sash around his hip, his feet supported by a pair of straw sandals. His ears were pierced, both with a number of rings around their rim, some with embedded gems, and there was some sort of golden band around his right bicep—she didn't imagine it helped in combat. Typical human foolishness. His body was large—too large, and she was amazed he didn't stumble in melee, with so much muscle holding him down. On his back, while she had watched him from afar, she'd spied a complex tattoo curving down its length. A vine, with red flowers in various stages of bloom, with a purple flower in full spread at the bottom, large and at the base of his lower back. All across his body were the marks of his current battle, and countless from the past, but the blood and ash obscured many of them.

Still, no matter how ugly he was, he was a great warrior. Perhaps…

She stopped circling, slowly rose to a neutral stance, and lowered her sword.

"There is a cure known to the Githyanki, istik. We need to find a creche."

"What is a creche?"

"A Githyanki settlement, training ground, or…nest. It is there we shall find purification—zaith'isk. We may fight together until we find one," she said. "We have a week, perhaps a tenday. Perhaps less. If we fail, we become Ghaik." Her eyes narrowed, lowered and lingered on her sword. "I will not let that happen."

He smiled through the blood and soot. "Neither will I. I'd rather die than be a slave to those things."

"Then we are agreed." She nodded, the final notes of aggression leaving her form—though that didn't mean she liked him. There was still a certain…hostility. "For now, you are an ally."

"Now is better than never," he said, smiling. He closed the last distance between them and extended his hand. "Daedalus Reeve."

"What? Is that supposed to mean something to me, istik?"

He kept his smile up. Its ease belied the required effort. "My name, friend. It is unwise for allies to fight back to back without exchanging names."

Her eyes narrowed as she considered his words. It didn't take long for her to reach her final conclusion.

She grabbed his hand, almost trying to crush it in her grip. His skin was warm, hot even—so hot that it was almost unpleasant.

Almost.

"Lae'zel. That is my name."

"Lae…zel. Lae'zel. I'll remember it well. I've heard great things about you Githyanki and your skills."

In truth, he hadn't. He hardly knew they existed before today—but she didn't need to know that. The most he'd done was read about Vlaakith, their leader, and a bit of the surrounding history. He was always more interested in people than peoples.

They could ride dragons—that was all he needed to know.

She almost seemed offended. "Enough flattery, istik. We have a battle to fight." Raising her sword once more, she turned to the door. "We must ground this gh'ath, this…ship. If those dragons bring it down, we are dead."

"Why not hitch a ride with your friends out there? Wouldn't they gladly accept a 'fellow warrior' of…Vlaakith? Maybe they could take us to their creche."

"Chk. That is not how this works, istik. If we got in their way, they'd burn us like any other Ghaik servant. Besides…you are not worthy to stand where they would take us."

He shrugged. "Apparently, you aren't either."

She swiveled back towards him, her eyes flashing with anger and her sword pointing at his chest. "Say that again, k'chakhi! I'm sure it was clever!"

His smile didn't drop, and he raised his hands in mock surrender, cockiness radiating from his eyes.

"All I'm saying is that, if you could have, you would've left with them already—instead of allying with a mere…istik."

"Think what you like. It makes no difference," she said, lowering her sword back and turning, though he could see the frustration painted across her face—alongside something else. "We should keep moving—to the bridge of this gh'ath. That is our only path to survival." She began walking, perhaps expecting Daedalus to fall in line after her.

"No."

She halted, and swung her eyes back at him like the blade of her sword.

"What?"

"We're not doing that—yet," he said, crossing his arms. His smile fled and was replaced by a calm but serious expression, a certain danger in the air about him, like one wrong move and you'd be cut.

She seethed. Her arms swung out restlessly.

"Why?"

"Two reasons. These…Ghaik have something of mine. And, well…they won't get off so easy."

"...what are you saying?"

He cracked his knuckles, an unsettling smirk teasing at the edge of his lips.

"I'm going to kill them. All of them."

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

"...Are you mad? They'll all die whether you try or not. The Bahti outside will bring this…ship down within the hour."

"Yes. Quite angry—boiling, in fact. The only thing that could douse me is a nice, big pool of Illithid blood. Understand?"

He really was insane. She'd traveled far, delved into the deepest depths of this strange world just for the chance to bag the head of one Ghaik, let alone the five he had already taken today, or the unknown number that remained aboard this doomed vessel. It was illogical. Foolish.

Almost…admirable. Not quite—almost.

"Perhaps we will…find your…things on the way," she suggested. "I imagine some distance still lies between us and the helm."

His smile returned, like another edge to his sharp aura. She couldn't tell if its source was mania or another, deep-rooted madness. "My thoughts exactly. Don't worry. If these…trash are the best the Illithids have to offer, then it won't take long."

His confidence bordered on arrogance. Still, he'd almost proven its truth already.

"Fine, then," she said. "Let's be off."

Lae'zel stormed off blade in hand, running through the nearest door almost before it could fold in. Even in her haste she was glancing back at Daedalus constantly. A measuring look, almost to make sure he was still there. It wasn't long before he tried to overtake her. They were neck and neck for a while, both unwilling to concede the front position of their wedge, but a group of thralls forced their competition into another form. Daedalus ripped through them with savage glee, his fists rearranging already deformed faces and sending teeth flying, as well as bits of bone. Lae'zel was having trouble keeping up. With every thrall he slew she struggled to take a head of her own, but his pure speed meant that he soon formed their van, and she was relegated to protecting his flank. Two thralls would fall to a swift cyclone of elbows and knees, and another would circle around to try and surround him—only to catch the end of her blade. Her warrior pride soured at the idea that she, a purebred and thorough trained Githyanki, would play second fiddle to this human, but her dissatisfaction would have to wait for another time. What mattered now was escaping—rituals of dominance were meant for when true danger had passed.

The ship was teeming with enemies to fell. Lae'zel tried, multiple times, to steer her companion away from the battle's heart, yet he always seemed to find it. She'd linger on the edge as he dove in, thinking, waiting, wondering if it was better to strike out on her own. Then she would remember her companions. Those from…before, and the fate that had met them before she had been captured. What just a few Ghaik and their dozens of servants had done to them. The countless horror stories she was regaled with during her training, in her childhood, and how they had suddenly come to life.

Then, she would white knuckle the handle of her blade, the leather straps squealing as she bared her teeth. She would use him to get out of here, find a creche, and then she could leave.

This humiliation was only temporary.

And she would rejoin the fight, strategically weeding out the enemies on the rim as he carved a bloody hole into the gh'ath's very heart. He struck with a fury she'd never witnessed before, reveling in combat as though he was born for the sight and sound of roiling blood, taking almost as much as he was giving but hardly caring. A glancing blow from a devil's trident would be met by a stunning kick to its liver, and then a finishing slam into the wall. One Illithid tried to sneak up on him, spreading its tentacles and releasing a blast of mental energy, but Daedalus tanked it and slipped behind the Ghaik, grabbing its waist and arching his back as he threw it behind him, letting it hit and slide down a pillar before beating its skull in with his heel. A devil saw the flames rolling off Daedalus's body and laughed—only to be burnt alive as a burst spilled from Daedalus's mouth and melted the fiend's skin.

Still, there was a certain dissatisfaction in him. A tension, as though there was something missing. Whether it was dissatisfaction with his own performance, that the revenge he sought wasn't as satisfying as he'd assumed it would be, or perhaps that something was missing…well, she didn't know. Perhaps it was all three. What she did know was that his impatient discontent was the most frustrating thing of all.

What she wouldn't do to wipe that frown off of his face—how well her fist would suit his jaw.

She repressed the thought. Later, she reminded herself. There would be plenty of time later.

Soon they came to another circular chamber, filled with a ring of pods just like the room they'd been caged in. Outside the door had been a small band consisting of a single Ghaik and a few intellect devourers, as Lae'zel called them—those crawling brains taken from the victim's unworthy of consumption. They'd been licking their wounds after an ambush by a few Devils, and were entirely unprepared for what came for them. It took less than twenty seconds to take out the trash.

Wiping his face with his arm, clearing off the layers of dirt and sweat, Daedalus took an uncharacteristic pause and peered into the chamber. His fury abated, if only for a moment—his eyes thoughtful.

"Hurry, istik! We don't have much time!" Lae'zel called, already trying to move on.

He held up a hand to her. "No. We'll glance inside. There may be more survivors."

"And why should we care? We need to get to the helm, not worry about dead weight!"

Daedalus looked at her. A calm confidence cooled his fire, one that almost spoke of authority.

"If they are dead weight, then we abandon them—but there may be someone worth saving. We may need all the help we can get. Who knows, maybe one of your squad is in there?"

She exhaled sharply. His mental intrusion had been less than welcome, and now he was holding it over her head? The nerve. But he didn't move, and neither did she. His gaze became knowing—expectant. After a moment, she shook her head.

"Fine, but be quick about it."

"Good. Wait here, watch out for enemies. Yell for me if they come."

Bloody istik, commanding her. Whatever. She placed the blade of her sword on her shoulder and stood close to the wall, watching both sides of the hall and trying to ignore him as he slipped inside the room.

It was almost exactly the same as the place of his own imprisonment, the difference being that all of the pods were intact. Whether due to a malfunction, or a successful infection, most of them were wide open, save for a few. Some were unoccupied, but one in particular carried a quite vocal inhabitant.

"Hey! You! Get me out of this…thing! Help!" cried out a female voice, subdued through the thick skin of the pod in which it was kept. She was on the far side of the room, just a bit to the left. Daedalus's eyes locked onto her at once, and he approached with a deliberate slowness anathema to her panic. "Don't just stand there! Get me out!" she screamed, desperate, her hands pounding on the amber screen. Somehow she had divested herself of her restraints, but the scorch marks on the inside of her pod showed that she had failed in the second step.

Daedalus drank in the sight of her for a moment. At first, it was a warrior's survey. She seemed some sort of magic user, whether divine or arcane—especially since she lacked the strength to have busted the pod open in the end. Perhaps she had the ability, but whatever spell she could have used would've hurt her as much as the pod. She wore an armor of a design he had never seen, but felt vaguely familiar. A cleric, he guessed by the artful, almost mythological flourishes, though he knew not which sect she belonged to. Sweeping lines of silver with an almost shadowy hue. Almost…unsettling in its design. Then—his eyes widened, just slightly, when he got a good look at her.

Dark hair, with bangs that rested just above her eyebrows and were flanked by twin locks on the fringe, a circlet resting underneath. Some sort of complex braid was tucked behind her, capped by an almost regal tie, like a silver tongue of flame, but he couldn't see its length. Her ears were pointed, though he couldn't tell if she was an elf or a half elf—he'd never been good at telling the difference, especially since he'd never seen either before he came to Faerûn, five years earlier. Her eye color was uncertain through the orange filter of the amber, but he guessed that they were gray, or perhaps a very subdued green. Her face was…well…stunning to say the least. Pale skin. A nicely shaped nose, high cheekbones, a jaw that cut and curved in a quiet boldness…those lips…

Beyond his penchant for killing, he was a deeply sensual man, with accolades by the dozen and a deep love for everything beautiful. For years such things had been denied to him, and that only made him delve into them with a multiplied fervor. When his mind had been otherwise dominated with thoughts of gutting ugly, otherworldly creatures, such a sight was a pleasant surprise.

Not that he showed it. It would have taken an experienced eye to have discerned his reaction. On the outside, he remained equanimous.

"Who are you?" he asked, taking a final step so he was just before her pod.

She blustered and slammed her fist once more against her cage.

"We can save the introductions for when you get me out!"

He raised an eyebrow. A feisty one, then.

By the flame, he was an absolute fool. And he loved it.

"As you wish," he said, keeping down a smile as he pressed his left hand to the front of her pod. It glowed with heat, and soon the surface began to sizzle beneath his palm. It bubbled and popped until the central point ran thick like a hot syrup, and began to stream out both directions of the hole he was creating. The woman's eyes widened and she pressed herself to the top corner of the pod, tense as she cringed away from her liberator and the sweat-beckoning energy he was summoning. His right hand came up and positioned itself opposite his left, evening out the temperature so that the entire screen was on the threshold of falling in. "Push it with your feet," he said. After a moment's hesitation, up came her legs and she tentatively pressed on the melting surface. It yielded to her, and fell forward to the ground beside Daedalus, its last vestiges the strange smelling liquid that had emerged. With careful placement of hands and feet, she crawled out and jumped over the melting mass of her cage's door, landing just a few feet from Daedalus.

Her skin was red—either from exertion or the temperatures she had just endured. Probably both. Though she was trying to hide it, her breath was quick and shallow. Pushing up and off her knees, she stood steadily, if with a hint of weariness.

"I suppose…I owe you thanks," she muttered.

Daedalus shrugged, finally allowing his smile to emerge. Cocky, but grounded by the seriousness of their situation.

"You do," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Well…thank you. Truly. I…well…I doubt I would have gotten out without you."

"I appreciate your sincerity, though I would prefer to take my thanks in the form of information. Who are you? How were you captured? And…" He reached out, trying to replicate what happened with Lae'zel. She had the same aura, and he felt the same, strange call of connection between his parasite and hers. For now, he held off from using it. Lae'zel hadn't reacted kindly to his intrusion and perhaps this woman wouldn't either. "...How were you infected? When?"

She took a half step back, her heel brushing the half-molten liquid behind her and then repositioning as she winced in pain. Her body half turned away, her eyes hovering around his but not quite meeting them, seeming to look through him before returning a moment later.

"My name is…Shadowheart."

"Shadow…heart?" he asked. "I've never heard a name like that before. It's certainly not elvish—unless I'm mistaken?"

"No…you aren't."

"Where does it come from, then?"

She exhaled. "Look, we can talk about that later. If we get out of here, I mean."

"When we get out of here," he corrected. His eyes flashed up and down her form. "You didn't answer my other questions. When were you captured, and how?"

Another silence. After a long second, her eyes met his—the contact just a bit too steady.

"I don't know exactly when I was captured to tell the truth…but…I don't think I was infected long ago." Her eyes widened, just a bit. "We aren't going to become one of those…things, are we?"

"We might. Don't worry, I don't want tentacles any more than you do. We'll spare that pretty face yet." He looked at her, gauging her reaction. Her expression was one of half confusion, half fluster, perhaps a little bit of embarrassment—though maybe that was his own imagination. A bit of mischief entered his expression. "You still haven't answered my questions, by the way, but I know avoidance when I see it. You don't want to tell me. It's fine by me—I have a long list of secrets myself—but I need a guarantee from you, if you are to work with me. A promise that you won't stab my back the first chance you get—or any other after that."

He could tell she was a bit taken aback by his forwardness. For a second, she was entirely unsure what to say.

"I'll…make that promise. Gladly," she said. "Though…perhaps it's a bit foolish to think a stranger would always keep to their word…not that I won't, mind."

"More than foolish, but I have a weakness for elves. Besides, it won't be me who suffers if you decide to pull a dagger," he said, his face all innocence but his words laced with intention. He didn't let her linger on his exact meaning, though. "Come. We have a friend outside that door, there. We're going to fight our way off this ship."

"Apologies, but…I haven't gotten your name."

He paused—suddenly thoughtful. It only took a second for him to retrieve himself.

"Ah, yes. My name is Daedalus Reeve. Peace be upon you," he said, and he outstretched his hand.

She took it, her grip vague in its intention. Not strong, but not weak either. Measuring. She noticed the heat of his hand at once, but tried to hide her reaction to it. He barely noticed.

For just a moment, he let the contact linger. Normally he would have been a bit more forward, but now wasn't the time. When he pulled his hand away, he turned towards the exit.

"Let's go, then. We don't have all day. Wouldn't want to start vomiting calamari, would we?"

"No, we wouldn't," she sighed. "Lead the way,"

He took off jogging towards the door. When he glanced back at her, though, he saw she was still by her pod, her back to him as she sheepishly picked something up from a small shelf, one he hadn't even noticed in his rush. When she finally turned back to him, she seemed surprised to find him watching.

On her belt, newly added, was some sort of…orb…or perhaps that wasn't the right word. It wasn't a sphere. Instead it resembled a…star, its body composed of black iron with what appeared to be engravings upon it, its surface consisting of many triangular planes fitted together. Daedalus didn't know the name of this shape, but he knew it had one. Mathematicians were always obsessed with naming the obscurest things. He couldn't tell what language the engravings were in, especially at this distance. Red highlights lined the edges between the iron pieces, and led into red spikes at all of the end points. It was ornate, certainly. Whatever it was, it had to have been valuable—not even considering the face she was making then. It was like she was trying to hide her own fear, waiting to see what he would say. Oh, how she must have been trembling inside, to have been caught in this way.

His mischief multiplied, and an almost mocking quality entered into his aura. Yet, he said nothing, only eyeing her expectantly as he nodded for her to follow. Whatever that was, he would find out later. And oh, he looked forward to finding out.

Despite her worry, she still followed him towards the door. She was about two dozen feet behind him when he emerged from the room. Lae'zel was tense, and she jumped at the sound of his footsteps.

"Finally. What took you so long?"

"Interrogating our new friend. Lae'zel, meet Shadowheart."

Daedalus motioned towards their new companion. As both his and Lae'zel's eyes fell upon her, there was a moment where time seemed to stop. Shadowheart froze, a slight panic entering her expression as she spotted the Githyanki. It left quickly, and she stitched on a face of pure impassivity. Lae'zel didn't seem to notice, or perhaps she assumed Shadowheart to be the timid sort. Daedalus knew better. The way she turned slightly away, the side with the object half hidden from Lae'zel…she hadn't reacted that way with Daedalus. She was worried that Lae'zel knew something about it—that she would spot her…artifact and call her out for it.

The things you can learn, if only you paid attention.

"Shadowheart?" Lae'zel hissed. She'd been confused by Daedalus's name, but this one seemed to downright offend her.

"Yes. Is there a problem?" Shadowheart asked, grimacing.

Lae'zel squinted. One could see the many calculations running through her mind, wondering how in the Hells such a name was possible—perhaps also why someone had the gall to give the name to their child.

"I think what our companion is trying to say is that you have a unique name," Daedalus interrupted. "But I like it. It has a certain…flair to it. Anyway, we'd best move on."

"Move on?" Lae'zel said. "We hardly know what she can offer us. Why take her at all?"

"She's a cleric," Daedalus said. "The gods may be fickle, but the spells they grant rival any wizard's. She'll be useful."

Shadowheart looked him up and down, hiding her surprise well but not enough to conceal it from his discerning eyes.

"I…am. I'll help in whatever way I can—long as we can get out of this place."

Lae'zel gave a quick huff and turned away. "Fine," she said, and already she was marching down the hall.

Shadowheart looked at Daedalus, as if to ask why he was traveling with such a being. He smiled and shrugged, though the answer didn't seem to assuage her doubts. Not that he particularly cared. Sometimes it was best to keep your allies on their toes, just so you knew where they stood.

It definitely was that thing on her hip, he thought. Or, at least, that's what was likely. For all he knew she had a bad history with the Githyanki, but that explanation felt incomplete. Why did her body language make it seem like she was hiding the box, if the only problem was Lae'zel? Lae'zel didn't notice, but he imagined that box was the reason Shadowheart had been captured, or perhaps she happened to have been taken while she was trying to retrieve it. Chances were it was linked to the Githyanki, or perhaps the Githyanki were hostile to Shadowheart's god in some way. Perhaps they simply opposed whatever mission she'd been on. A mix of all three was also possible. But what was that thing? Why would a cleric have need of it? Her god, he thought—that was the most likely explanation, though it offered little relief for his manifold questions. He still had no idea what it was, the specific reason why she wanted it, or even who she worshiped. Still, he had plenty of guesses, and there would be time to coax the real answers out of her once they made their escape. For now, he was content to flash her a knowing look—just so she knew that he had noticed.

He loved to watch people squirm—especially when they were as attractive as her.

And oh, did she squirm. The best marks were the ones who were skilled at hiding their discomfiture—those who were used to passing unseen. Being found out for such beings was the highest terror. Daedalus had dealt with those types enough to recognize Shadowheart as one almost instantly.

So enthralling was his new companion and her mysterious artifact that he had almost forgotten about his bloodthirst—the revenge he had vowed to take. After a long stare, though, his eyes caught on the chitinous walls of the ship, and he remembered the tadpole stuck in his skull.

No, he wasn't sated yet. This was a mere diversion. A welcome one, but he would not let himself be sidetracked.

He'd have to make up for it. The floor would run thick with Illithid blood.

Without warning, he took off running after Lae'zel, soon overtaking her. Shadowheart jogged on their tail, her armor clanking as she worked to keep up with the two mad warriors. It wasn't long before they encountered a cluster of Cambion, picking the bones of dead thralls and intellect devourers. Daedalus had enough of a history with Devils for them to make a fine substitute—blood was blood. Lae'zel moved to avoid them but Daedalus screamed out in anger, gathering their attention. All at once they screeched towards him on leg and wing, brandishing swords, spears and bows while imps let loose bolts of flame.

Shadowheart watched the exchange in consternation. It was a chaotic mess of limbs and infernal steel, Lae'zel fighting off Devils on the outer ring while Daedalus cackled from within the fight's center, blood spraying and fire spewing in random intervals and directions. Once or twice the cleric assumed him dead, only for a small sign of his continued struggle to appear. A fiery fist, or a foot smacking across a Devil's jaw. Shadowheart threw bolts of dark energy when she could, aiming at center mass or across wide wingspans. Still, she spent more time watching the combat and waiting. Why he was initiating exchanges like this when they were limited on time was beyond her.

But it ended quickly. No more than a minute and close to a dozen cambion and imps laid dead, their mutilated bodies splayed on the floor. Flames enveloped Daedalus's body and gave his form the swaying effect of a mirage. With a sudden jolt of his arms and an exhale the fire was extinguished, and he launched himself down the hall in search of further prey. Shadowheart thought to cast Healing Word but he fell out of range before she could begin the incantations.

This man was mad, she thought. Entirely and utterly mad.

But he might have been the only thing that could get her out of there—the only thing that could ensure she'd complete her mission. And, if that Githyanki caused issues, perhaps he'd opt to protect the woman he had called pretty. Such was the folly of men.

Though, for some reason, his looks from before made her feel as though she was the one in the throes of folly.

If nothing else, she could slip away when she was out of danger. All that mattered was getting to Baldur's Gate. If she succumbed to the parasite, then…

Well. That was a conundrum.