"How do you feel?" Shadowheart asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity and concern, as she settled onto one of the fallen logs near the campfire. The smoke drifted lazily across the clearing where they had set up camp for the night. It carried with it tiny floating embers that glowed like fireflies in the darkness, before vanishing forever.
Ishta turned from her task of stirring a pot full of fish soup hanging over the crackling fire to look at the Cleric. Her brows furrowed slightly as she internally assessed her own state. "Fine. Much better than I thought I would, given the circumstances," she replied cautiously, "How about you?"
"I feel the same," Shadowheart said with an uneasy shrug, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "Other than the occasional mental exchange, it's almost as if we're not infected at all."
Her expression turned thoughtful as she continued to stare into the dancing fire. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the sounds of the night and the gentle bubbling of the soup.
"It's so strange... do you remember the voice? Aboard the ship?" Shadowheart's voice was softer now, almost as if she were speaking to herself.
"Hard to forget it," Ishta responded, her tone laced with a hint of bitterness.
"The voice said I'd become a 'beautiful weapon'. What do you think that means?" Shadowheart's question hung in the air, heavy with implication.
Ishta chuckled lightly, attempting to dispel the tension. "Maybe it was a compliment."
"Hah! Adorable. But your timing is awful." Shadowheart's laughter was short, a mere exhale of breath, her eyes still focused on the fire.
"My timing—Oh! Gods, sorry, that wasn't meant as a pass at you," Ishta quickly clarified, her cheeks reddening.
"I know. I was only teasing. Trying to lighten the mood like you did on the beach," Shadowheart said, a small smile playing on her lips.
"If you learn anything from me while we travel together, please don't let it be my penchant for ill-timed humour," Ishta replied, shaking her head with a wry grin.
Shadowheart's expression sobered. "Whatever the Mindflayers' plans were, those Dragons spoiled them. That doesn't make our situation less dangerous."
"Either way, we can't take the lack of symptoms for granted. We have to find this Nettie as soon as we reach the grove tomorrow," Ishta said firmly, her eyes meeting Shadowheart's with determination.
Shadowheart nodded. "Agreed. Well, I've said my piece—Get some rest. Goodnight, Ishta."
"Wait, one more thing before you go," Ishta called after her, her voice carrying through the still night air. "What's the story behind that little box you carry? It looked like an artifact of some kind."
Shadowheart's demeanour shifted instantly, her face closing off as if a door had slammed shut. Her eyes, previously warm in the firelight, turned cold. "There's no story. Not one that you're entitled to hear anyway," she replied curtly, her tone brooking no argument.
"Sorry I asked," Ishta muttered, her voice barely audible over the crackling flames as she watched the Cleric's retreating form disappear into the darkness. Turning back to the soup, Ishta carefully slid the pot off the stick holding it above the fire, the metal sizzling slightly as it met the cool air. She placed it down on a flat rock nearby, its surface smooth from years of weathering. Ladling a spoonful of the hot, savoury liquid into a wooden bowl, Ishta stood up, feeling the strain of the days travel in her limbs. She walked over to the log Shadowheart had just vacated, the wood still warm from her presence, and sat down with a tired sigh. The log creaked softly under her weight and she glanced over at Gale's tent.
It took Ishta a moment for her brain to register the fact that there were two Gales standing opposite each other outside the tent. She tilted her head and smiled slightly at the sight of the Wizard keenly examining his mirrored self, as if trying to decide which one looked better.
"Soup's ready, Gale," she called out to him, her voice cutting through the evening quiet.
Gale looked over his shoulder and called back, "Be with you in a moment," his tone distracted.
Ishta blew air through her cheeks in annoyance. "Stop preening and come and eat. It's getting cold," she insisted, her tone taking on a sharper edge.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Gale made the mirror image vanish, its shimmering form dissolving into the cool evening air. He walked over to the campfire, the flickering flames illuminating his face. Ishta handed him another bowl from a small stack of various utensils piled near the seating area, her fingers brushing his as she passed it. She shifted slightly on the log to make room for him. Gale served himself, the steam from the soup rising to mingle with the crisp night air, and then settled beside her with a contented sigh.
As Ishta brought the bowl to her lips and took a sip of the soup, the rich flavours of meat and the herbs she'd gathered earlier filled her mouth, providing a momentary comfort. She closed her eyes, savouring the warmth that spread through her, a small smile playing on her lips.
She was about to take another mouthful when Gale suddenly spoke up, breaking the comfortable silence. "Ceremorphosis. What does it make you think of?" he asked, his voice thoughtful, almost musing.
Ishta paused mid-sip and glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Until quite recently, nothing at all," she remarked, her tone dry.
"Ah, yes. The good old days," Gale said with a wistful smile. He held up his hand, counting off on his fingers with deliberate slowness. "Day one: fever and memory loss. Day two: hallucinations and greying skin. Day three: hair loss and blood leaking from all orifices."
"Gale… I'm trying to eat," Ishta complained, her face twisting in disgust as she lowered her bowl onto her lap.
"Ah, sorry," he said, looking genuinely apologetic as he dropped his hand. "My point is this: our orifices remain blissfully unbloodied. Our heads remain clear, and our blood temperature normal."
Ishta looked thoughtfully into the fire, the dancing flames reflected in her eyes. "It's been two days since the crash… we should be having a fever by now. Greying skin even. Is that why you were indulging in a spot of vanity back there? Checking for visible symptoms?"
Gale nodded, his expression serious. "Yes. That and I always like to look my best... handsome devil, aren't I?" His lips curved into a roguish smile.
Ishta laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. "You really don't know what modesty is, do you?" she teased, shaking her head.
"I'm afraid not," Gale replied playfully, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Then he sobered up, his demeanour shifting back to seriousness. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Any expert will agree: this is... abnormal."
Ishta raised her bowl in a mock toast, her eyes meeting his. "Long live the abnormal."
Gale mirrored her gesture, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I'll toast to that. The pragmatic in me, however, sees only the silence before the storm. Something to sleep on. We should get some rest."
"Get some rest, the man says… not sure I can after that lovely word picture," Ishta joked, her tone light but her eyes betraying a hint of underlying worry.
"Not the prettiest of transmutations," Gale agreed, taking a sip from his bowl. "But we must stay vigilant. These are unusual times, and our survival hinges on our awareness."
Ishta nodded, her thoughts turning inward. She finished her soup, savouring the last warm mouthful despite the grim conversation. The fire crackled, sending sparks into the night sky, and she found herself mesmerized by the fleeting embers. With a sigh, she set her empty bowl aside and stood up, giving Gale a nod before making her way across the camp. The campsite was looking decidedly more structured than the previous night's ramshackle affair.
While on the road, the group had been fortunate enough to come across a merchant who was selling various useful wares, most notably bolts of rough-spun cloth. Ishta had traded all of the bandits' spare weapons, armour and a pouch of silver for enough material and linen thread to make tents for everyone. With tools from her leathercrafting kit, saplings cut from the forest, and a little transmutational magic from Gale in the form of the Fabricate spell, every member of her band now had their own personal tent, complete with a cot bed to sleep in. They might not be the best-looking structures around, but there was something to be said for the privacy of four walls and a closable door-flap.
The night air was cool against her skin, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves around her as she made her way over to where she could see Astarion's tent silhouetted against the moonlight. This was the second night he hadn't joined the rest of the group for a meal, and Ishta was almost certain he had pilfered some of the food supplies that first night. Not that she minded all that much, as she planned to go hunting later on in the evening anyway. Still, she wanted to check in on him.
Walking around the front of Astarion's tent, Ishta saw he was lying back on his bedroll, propped up on his elbow, staring up at the sky with a contemplative look on his face. The night air was cool, and the distant hoot of an owl added to the serene atmosphere. Ishta silently watched as his eyes tracked a shooting star across the horizon. She softly moved to stand over him, her shadow casting a long, slender line on the ground. She gave him a brief smile as he glanced at her, his lips twitching upwards in response.
"It's quite a sight," he murmured, then added quickly, "The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin."
Ishta raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a wry smile. She gazed up at the mass of twinkling lights and gave a small sigh. "They are beautiful tonight," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper.
"I can see the stars from Baldur's Gate, of course, but not with such clarity," Astarion reflected, his tone wistful. "It got me thinking. Reflecting on what tomorrow might bring when we find the grove. Will the healer know how to bring the worm under control? Will this little adventure of ours be over?"
Ishta smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Awww. Will you miss me?" she asked with a mocking and sarcastic tone.
"Ha! Why not?" Astarion shrugged as he laughed, rising to his feet with a graceful fluidity that belied his earlier contemplative mood. He gave her an admiring look, his eyes scanning her face. "You've been to the Hells and back. Survived the crash. Survived everything that's followed. I'm not easily impressed by people, but you're stronger than I gave you credit for."
Ishta shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm just trying to survive. The same as you."
Astarion tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as he appraised her. "Yes, we're more similar than I thought..."
"Well, I didn't come here to be insulted," Ishta said, feigning hurt with an exaggerated pout.
Astarion stepped closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes, his smile broadening. "Then why did you come here?" he asked, his voice low and suggestive, as he leaned in slightly.
"To see if you'd sprouted tentacles yet," she replied, taking a step back, her tone light but her eyes serious.
He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that filled the night air. "Ah, yes. I saw you getting a lecture from our magical friend. We're all doing surprisingly well, given the circumstances. I'm not taking anything for granted, of course. First sign of change and I'll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours. I am open to suggestions. Knives, poison, strangulation—whatever you'd prefer."
Ishta laughed, her voice ringing out in the clearing. "Oh, how thoughtful of you. Don't make me choose, though… there are too many good options!"
Astarion tilted his head, a mock-serious expression on his face. "Well, that's a little dramatic, don't you think? Come on, humour me," he urged her, "If you had to choose...?"
Ishta's smile faded slightly as she considered his question. "If there was no hope left? Dagger—quick and painless," she said, her voice steady despite the gravity of her words.
"A classic!" Astarion declared, a spark of admiration in his eyes. "One good thrust to the heart and you're gone." He mimicked a stabbing motion to emphasize his words, then put his finger to his chin in an exaggerated thoughtful look.
"We need a good blade, of course. Don't want to waste time hacking and prodding with a dinner knife—"
He paused when he saw Ishta fold her arms and raise an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.
"Well, I'm getting ahead of myself," he added quickly, his tone turning more serious. "This is all a worst-case scenario, obviously."
Ishta grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, obviously. How about you? How should I kill you?"
Astarion laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "Ha! Oh, my dear. I'd like to see you try."
He gazed at her for a moment, a half-smile playing on his lips, his eyes reflecting the starlight.
Ishta rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "You can stop staring."
Astarion blinked, a look of mild surprise crossing his face. "Was I? I just... I just need to get some air. Clear my head."
Ishta nodded, her expression softening. "Goodnight, Astarion."
"See you in the morning. Sweet dreams… darling," he replied, his voice low and intimate.
Ishta turned to leave, but not before throwing a playful remark over her shoulder. "Boot… arse… remember?"
Astarion chuckled again, shaking his head as he watched her walk away. "How could I forget?" he murmured to himself, a fond smile lingering on his lips as the night continued to envelop them both in its serene embrace.
In the depths of the ancient forest, under the silver glow of a crescent moon, Ishta moved silently among the trees. The canopy above allowed slivers of moonlight to pierce through, casting a dappled pattern on the forest floor. Her keen eyes, accustomed to the darkness, scanned the underbrush for any signs of movement. The air was cool, carrying the faint scents of pine and damp earth, mingled with the musk of nocturnal creatures and night-blooming flowers.
Ishta felt a profound sense of peace as she ventured further from her companions' camp, on the hunt for game. The soft rustle of leaves underfoot, the occasional hoot of an owl, and the distant croak of frogs were the only sounds that accompanied her. Each step she took was deliberate, her feet barely making a sound on the forest floor. She was acutely aware of her surroundings, every sense heightened and attuned to the night.
In this moment, she felt an unparalleled oneness with nature. The forest was her home, a living, breathing entity that she was a part of. The stars above, twinkling through gaps in the foliage, seemed to watch over her, guiding her path. The gentle breeze caressed her face, whispering secrets of the ancient woods. It was in these solitary hunts that Ishta felt most connected to the world around her. As much as she appreciated the company of her newfound companions, Ishta was never truly happy unless she was alone with only the hunt on her mind.
Her bow was ready in her hand, an extension of her arm, while her belt quiver was stocked with arrows, their fletching carefully chosen for silence and precision. She moved with the grace and stealth of a predator, each movement calculated, each breath controlled. Her mind was clear, free of the worries and chatter of the day. Here, in the quiet of the forest, she could simply be.
As she crouched low, her eyes caught a glimpse of movement—a wild boar foraging among the roots of a large, twisted oak. Ishta's heart quickened, but her hands remained steady. She nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring, her muscles taut and ready. The world seemed to hold its breath with her, the sounds of the forest fading into a hushed stillness.
Suddenly, another figure entered her line of sight, and it took her a confused moment to recognize it as Astarion. Curious and cautious, Ishta lowered her bow slightly, watching him from the shadows. He had his back to her and was only wearing his undershirt and trousers, with no sign of a weapon anywhere on his person. His attention was firmly fixed on the same boar she had spied, and Ishta began to feel a deep sense of unease in the pit of her stomach; something about this was off.
As Astarion slowly pulled his shirt over his head and laid it to one side, Ishta's eyes widened, her pulse quickening. She watched in frozen fascination as the muscles across his toned shoulders and back rippled as he crouched down low and tensed up. A chill ran down her spine as her eyes focused on a group of strange symbols carved onto his back, widening as she recognized them to be Infernal script. The feelings of alarm grew steadily stronger, her instincts screaming at her that there was something very wrong here, yet she remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from the pale elf before her. In the moonlight, he looked for all the world like an otherworldly, ghostly feline about to pounce.
Then, with an unnatural burst of speed that made Ishta flinch, Astarion sprinted forward and threw himself across the body of the boar just as it spotted him and tried to turn and run. Time seemed to slow while she watched in horror, her mouth dry and her hands trembling as Astarion wrapped his arms around the boar's neck, locking them together with an iron grip. He opened his mouth wide, revealing glistening fangs that shone like two ivory daggers in the moonlight, and bit down into the boar's throat. The beast's almighty squeal of fear and pain pierced the night, its agonized cry echoing in the forest. The squeal intensified while it thrashed around, trying desperately to escape his deathly grip. The sounds of the dying animal pierced through Ishta's skull, making her drop her bow and clasp her hands to her ears. A wave of fear and long-buried memories surged up, threatening to drown her.
The air became abruptly silent, and Ishta looked up to see Astarion bent over the now-still body of the boar. The sounds that came from him made her stomach churn with revulsion. The loud gulps and swallows sounded like those of a parched man taking his first drink of water from a well, intermittently punctuated by gasps of breath between each painfully long mouthful. Her body trembled in an overwhelming whirlwind of emotions as a single word rose to the front of her brain—Vampire.
A deep, intense anger crept across Ishta's heart, filling her veins with a white-hot rage. Her vision blurred with fury as she slowly backed away from the scene in front of her, concealing herself deep within the shadows. She knew better than to try and attack a Vampire that would be at full strength after feeding. Even with his back to her, there was no way she would be able to get a clean heart shot; his resilience would be at its height and a prolonged fight could draw the attention of the other companions back at camp and put them at risk. No, she needed to bide her time and wait until his guard was down.
With this in mind, she tucked herself deep into the undergrowth, the foliage pressing against her skin. She focused on slowing her heart and breathing rate, to avoid potentially being detected by the Vampire's now heightened senses. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig seemed amplified in the tense silence. The forest around her felt like a living entity, with her own senses heightened to an almost painful degree. She knew she had to be patient, to blend with the shadows and wait for the perfect moment. The predator before her was no ordinary foe, and the consequences of a misstep could be deadly.
After what seemed like an eternity, Ishta saw him pass by a little way from her hiding place. He was wearing his shirt again and looked to be headed back to camp. A fresh wave of anger flooded her mind, as she reflected on how well the monster had fooled them all. She seethed at the thought of this loathsome creature just casually waltzing around her camp, leeching off her kindness like a parasite, all the while laughing at her. Digging her nails into her hands, Ishta furiously tried to work out how he had managed to do it. 'I've spent over a hundred years hunting these monsters for Mielikki's sake!' she thought in frustration, 'How much damage has this accursed tadpole done to my brain if something as simple as day walking is enough to throw me off the scent?'
The thought was a disturbing one and only served to strengthen her resolve to find a healer and be rid of the pest as soon as possible. However, there was another pest to deal with first…
It was well past midnight by the time Ishta snuck back into camp. She had stalked her prey to the edges of the clearing, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and fury. She waited, hidden in the shadows, as the vampire entered his tent, her breath slow and deliberate. The campfire flickered and crackled, casting dancing shadows across the forest floor, but Ishta remained unseen, a ghost in the night.
When she judged enough time had passed for him to reach the deepest phase of either trance or sleep, she moved. Each step was silent, her movements fluid and precise, honed by years of practice. She crept past the campfire, its dying embers barely illuminating her path, and reached the entrance of the Vampire's tent. Pausing, she pressed her ear to the rough fabric, listening intently. The only sound was the steady rhythm of deep breathing. Satisfied, she drew her dagger, its blade glinting faintly in the dim light, and slipped inside the dark interior.
The air inside the tent was thick and oppressive, carrying the scent of earth and fresh blood. Her heart raced as she stepped lightly over to the still form lying on the cot bed. Each step was deliberate, every muscle in her body tense with the fear of being discovered. She gripped her dagger tightly, her knuckles white, and stared down in savage hatred at the face of the sleeping monster. The elf's features were deceptively serene, a mask of innocence that belied the horrors he had no doubt inflicted.
Her hatred burned hotter, fuelling her resolve. Her breath came in shallow, controlled bursts as she raised the dagger. Her hands were steady, though her pulse thundered in her ears, as she aimed it over the heart of the man below her and closed her eyes.
"No!"
Ishta's eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice, sharp and urgent. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Had he seen her? But no, his eyes were still closed, and his body was twitching violently. His breathing was growing steadily faster, loud, ragged gasps that filled the space of the tent. Ishta tensed her muscles, preparing to plunge her dagger down before he could wake.
"Stop… No more, please, I beg you."
The plea was cried out in desperation from the depths of whatever nightmare Astarion was experiencing, and Ishta's hand wavered as his words washed over her. Echoes in her own mind replied, bringing with them memories she had spent a lifetime trying to forget. Memories of countless nights spent screaming in agony as blades and fangs tore into her. Of grasping hands that clawed at her body and caressed it in equal measure. She could feel the pain, the sensation of cold steel against her flesh, the mocking whispers of her tormentors.
The suspended dagger trembled as Ishta struggled to suppress the torrent of emotions and memories that rose like a flood. Her breath hitched as she mentally pushed the wave back down, forcing herself to steady her shaking hands. Gazing at the twitching man in front of her, a sense of curious disbelief filtering through the anger, she wondered, 'How in the hells can a Vampire have a nightmare? They are the nightmare!'
The desire to know deepened the more Astarion continued to twitch and jerk; obviously, whatever he was experiencing was intense, and Ishta tried to ignore the urge to find out exactly what that was for herself. However, the opportunity to use the tadpole was too tempting. She sighed silently, cursing her insatiable curiosity as she closed her eyes and reached out to connect with Astarion's mind.
The images that assaulted her mind were like a physical blow, making her reel backward and clamp her hands to her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Phantom pain shot through every nerve in her body as her mind blended with Astarion's. She found herself looking through his eyes, seeing what he saw and feeling what he felt. Flashes of chains and whips, rusty blades, broken bones, and burning flesh, of countless nights spent in cold darkness stretched out on a rack, writhing in agony. Each image was a vivid, visceral experience, bringing with it the acrid smell of blood and the bitter taste of despair. And at the back of it all, a name—Cazador.
Ishta's body spasmed violently as her own memories surged forth to greet his, a torrent of images and sensations intertwining until she could no longer discern where Astarion's ended and hers began. Cold hands, ghostly yet oppressively real, touching her/him, torturing him/her, as the cruel, echoing laughter of Cazador/Haro'kon filled her ears. His/their sadistic delight in her/his screams pierced her soul. The monstrous faces of their captors, once distinct, melded into a single grotesque visage that loomed over her/him, inducing a primal terror so deep it felt as if his/her very essence was being shredded.
The twisted features of this abomination sprouted multiple, writhing tendrils that wrapped themselves around his/her limbs, slithering over, under, and into her/his body. The sensation was invasive and unbearable, like living chains of despair. Ishta's knees buckled, and she collapsed, silently retching as the nightmarish landscape overwhelmed her mind, engulfing her in a suffocating ocean of inky black anguish and fear. Each beat of her heart thudded like a drum, echoing the torment that coursed through her mind.
Gritting her teeth, she dug her nails into the skin of her arms, the sharp sting a desperate attempt to anchor herself to reality. But the memories held her fast, an unyielding tide that refused to release its grip. In a moment of sheer desperation, she reached out further, seeking the centre of the churning black whirlpool of distorted images and sensations. In her mind's eye, she saw a lone, kneeling figure hunched over amidst the chaos, hugging himself and trembling while a spectral hand holding a wicked-looking blade carved Infernal runes into his bare back. The sight of the silent tears falling from his tightly closed eyes sparked something deep inside Ishta, and the fierce, white-hot rage began to rise once more.
With newfound determination, she delved into the darkest corners of her mind, drawing upon the strength of what lurked there—ancient, primal, and raw. Focusing all her attention on the spectral hand, Ishta reached out into the dreamscape with her own metaphysical arms, gathering the swirling mass of memories and emotions into herself. She held onto them tightly, using the sheer force of her will to contain all the pain and suffering, shielding the trembling figure from their assault. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if he looked right at her, a glimmer of recognition and hope in his eyes.
Keeping her eyes locked with the image of Astarion, Ishta unleashed a mental blast of pure hatred and defiance, aiming directly at the spectral hand. The dreamscape around them rippled and twisted under the onslaught and then abruptly shattered into a thousand shards of brilliant light. Ishta gasped as the mental connection was severed, thrusting her back into the stark reality of the present.
Quickly looking over at Astarion, she was shocked but relieved to see that the experience hadn't woken him. His body had stopped twitching, and his breathing had slowed to a calm rhythm; her intrusion into his mind and the subsequent destruction of the dreamscape apparently ending his nightmare. Ishta slowly stood up, lifting the dagger she still held in her hand, her mind a tumultuous sea of conflicting thoughts as she stared at her reflection on the blade's surface.
Vampire-Slave. Deceiver-Survivor. Evil-Abused. Killer-Puppet. Monster-Victim. The words tumbled over and over in her mind, each one crashing against the other akin to violent storm waves upon jagged rocks. Every instinct and belief Ishta had carefully constructed over the past one-hundred and twenty-six years of her life slowly eroded away like crumbling stone as she stared down at the now peacefully sleeping elf. Her hands trembled as she lowered the dagger to her side, her previous thirst for blood and vengeance tempered by a new emotion—one that both disgusted and frightened her: empathy.
She savagely shook her head as if the feeling were something she could dislodge from her brain, but it stubbornly clung to her thoughts, refusing to be ignored. The idea that she could feel empathy for a Vampire made her skin crawl. Her entire being recoiled at the thought, yet the more she gazed upon Astarion, the more his nightmare imprinted itself into her memory. Slowly, insidiously, her mind began to betray her, fighting less and less against the unwanted feeling.
Sighing in resigned frustration, Ishta slowly returned her dagger to the sheath on her belt and turned toward the tent entrance. Her hand hovered over the fabric of the door flap as a final protest rose in her chest, one last weak attempt to justify turning back and finishing what she had come here to do. 'He's the enemy!' she screamed internally, her heart pounding with conflicted anger and despair.
Firmly, Ishta pushed the thought down and exited the tent, striding toward the forest with purpose. Each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of her internal battle. As soon as she passed the boundaries of the camp, she broke into a run, the need to escape her own turmoil driving her forward. The branches tore at her face and arms like accusing fingers, leaving stinging welts, but she ignored the pain, focused only on escaping the tumult of emotions swirling within her. She ran until she thought her lungs would burst, each stride pounding the ground in time with the thudding in her chest, her heartbeat echoing in her ears like a war drum.
Collapsing against a sturdy pine tree, Ishta gasped for breath, her vision blurring with tears. She gripped the trunk, her fingers digging into the rough bark as if trying to anchor herself to the present. Pressing her face against the tree, she focused on the rough texture scraping against her skin, a grounding sensation amidst the chaos inside her mind.
Memories of Astarion's torment flashed before her eyes—the spectral hand carving runes into his back, his silent tears, the look of utter despair on his face. The mental anguish she had felt in the nightmare, the urge to protect him, clashed violently with her long-held hatred for his kind. The internal conflict was tearing her apart.
Rising to her feet, she faced the tree, every muscle in her body trembling with pent-up rage and frustration. She clenched her fist so tightly her knuckles turned white, then drove it into the hard, unyielding surface of the tree. The impact sent a shockwave through her arm, a jolt of pain that momentarily eclipsed the turmoil in her mind. She drew her fist back and slammed it again, feeling the wood beneath her knuckles shudder under the blow.
With a guttural cry, Ishta raised her other hand, driving both fists into the trunk in a relentless, punishing rhythm. Each strike was fuelled by her fury, her pain, her helplessness. Chunks of bark and splinters of wood flew out from beneath her fists as her attacks intensified. Her hands bled, the raw skin tearing with each impact, but she didn't care. Blood began to seep from her knuckles, mixing with the dirt and sap on the tree, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. The physical pain was a distraction, a way to channel the storm of emotions that raged within her. She struck the tree again and again, her strength waning but her determination undiminished, each blow a desperate attempt to make sense of the empathy she now felt for Astarion.
In that moment, she was a tempest, a force of nature driven by conflicting desires. She wanted to destroy, to tear down everything in her path, to obliterate the source of her pain. Yet, underneath the fury, a quiet, insistent voice whispered of shared suffering, of understanding, of a connection she couldn't ignore. It was this voice that scared her the most, for it threatened to unravel the carefully constructed armour she had built around her heart. With each strike against the tree, Ishta felt a piece of that armour crack and fall away.
Finally, exhausted and broken, Ishta fell to her knees, her forehead resting against the battered trunk. Her breaths came in ragged sobs, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. She had fought so hard to maintain her hatred, to cling to her beliefs, but now they lay in ruins around her, eroded by the raw, undeniable connection she had felt with the Vampire Spawn. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting a gentle glow over her bruised and bloodied form, as if offering a small measure of solace. Turning round and leaning back against the tree, Ishta gazed up at the patterns of light, and a bitter smile crept across her face. Tilting her head forward, she began to chuckle; a low, mirthless sound that contrasted sharply with her earlier outburst. Looking back up at the sky, she bared her teeth in a savage grin and whispered, "Well played, fate… well played."