The ancient temple in Grymforge loomed in silent majesty, a hushed remnant of Shar's dominion. Its grandeur had dulled over centuries, yet even in decay, it whispered tales of reverence. Flickering torchlight cast shadows that danced across the carved reliefs of Shar's visage - aloof, cold, and eternal. Its purple marble walls glistened like liquid twilight, embellished with carvings of gold that caught the eye like threads of sunlight trapped in stone.
Shadows curled around the chamber where the party had made camp, the air heavy with damp stone and the faint tang of ancient magic. Thick double doors surrounded by twisted roots stood at the far end of the room, a silent reminder of the journey into the cursed lands that awaited beyond them.
Astarion ducked into his tent with a weary sigh, his boots scraping faintly against the stone floor. The thick canvas flaps fell behind him, muting the sounds of his companions outside - laughter, the clink of metal, and the low murmur of conversation. The air inside the tent was warm, tinged with the faint musk of worn leather and wood.
He paused, head tilted back, and let out a low groan as he began to unbuckle the straps of his armor. Each movement sent a dull ache rippling through his muscles, a reminder of the day's many indignities. The first piece clattered to the floor, followed by another, and another, until he stood in nothing but his shirt and trousers.
The armor lay scattered around him like a shed skin, gleaming faintly in the dim torchlight filtering through the canvas walls. He couldn't summon the energy to care about the mess. There would be no careful arrangement tonight - no methodical polishing. Let them lie there like discarded remnants of a battlefield.
With a graceless thud, Astarion flopped onto his bedroll, sinking into the layers of fabric and fur. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, watching the torchlight dance across the canvas, its glow shifting like liquid gold. Then a faint rustling to his right caught his attention. He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand, and let his crimson gaze settle on his tentmate.
"You would not believe the day I've had today, my friend," he began, his voice dripping with theatrical exhaustion.
His companion raised their head, listening intently, their gaze locked on him as if the weight of his woes was the most fascinating tale they'd ever hear.
"First, we sail across a lake in a barge so flimsy I wouldn't have trusted it to ferry my least favorite shirt. I'm convinced was barely held together with spit and dwarven optimism." He gestured lazily with one hand, his wrist limp, as if the memory alone was too taxing to bear. "And Ishta - oh, you'll appreciate this - has apparently harbored a lifelong dream of becoming a pirate. Did you know this?"
Astarion tilted his head, as though expecting an answer. "Of course, you didn't. Neither did I. But now I'm not likely to forget it, because she didn't stop at merely fantasizing. Oh no, she serenaded us with sea shanties. Shanties. Now, let me tell you, Ishta is a creature of stunning contrasts. Imagine if you will, a panther with the soul of a strangled goose. Beautiful, yes. Graceful, certainly. But gods help us, her voice—"
He paused, pressing a hand to his chest as though he'd been mortally wounded. "How shall I put this? Imagine a cat trapped in a barrel rolling downhill. That would be an improvement."
"I was this close- " he pinched his fingers together for emphasis- "to throwing myself overboard. Thankfully, the gods intervened and sent a horde of Duergar to save my ears from further torment."
Flopping back onto the cot, Astarion draped one arm over his face as if shielding himself from the memory. The tent's fabric swayed gently with the air. "Anyway," he said, his voice muffled by his arm, "we were met by a group of Absolutist Duergar who had some... issues. They needed help freeing some Drow fellow, Nere, from behind a rockfall. Their leader or employer or...whatever. Doesn't matter. Yes, the Nere. The very one the mushroom king wanted us to, shall we say, permanently relocate. Lucky for us that Nere wasn't very far eh?"
Another beat of silence, and Astarion lifted his arm, peering at his companion with a mock pout. "Oh, come on. That was a good one. No laugh? Not even a smirk?" Swinging his legs over the bed, he leaned forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. "You're a tough audience, Scratch."
At the sound of his name, the dog perked up, his tail wagging enthusiastically as he padded closer. Astarion's crimson eyes softened, a rare flicker of unguarded affection crossing his face. He watched the hound settle before him, head tilted as though inviting him to continue.
"I suggested we leave Nere to rot - let nature take its course and all that. But of course, there were gnome slaves trapped in there with him, and Ishta couldn't possibly walk away from that, could she? And freeing the trapped ones wasn't enough either, was it?" He waved a hand vaguely. "No, she had to incite a full-scale slave uprising. All for the 'freedom' of a few miserable little gnomes - including the insufferable one from the windmill."
Scratch tilted his head, and Astarion chuckled despite himself. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you'd approve of her noble ideals. But let me tell you, her noble ideals nearly got me killed today. While I'm valiantly holding the line, I get clobbered by a Dwarf barbarian with a hammer the size of a small carriage."
He winced at the memory, rubbing a faint bruise on his cheek. "Gale found it hysterical, of course. Nearly killed himself laughing, which was rich coming from someone who once got knocked out by a goblin."
The memory brought a faint smile to his lips, though his eyes gleamed with irritation. The kind that only grew from being laughed at by someone he'd mercilessly mocked for the exact same thing. Scratch gave a soft whine, nudging Astarion's hand with his nose.
"You're the only one who truly understands me," Astarion muttered theatrically, scratching the dog's ears with a light touch. Scratch wagged his tail furiously, his simple joy pulling a quiet chuckle from Astarion. He sat back, his movements slow and deliberate, exhaustion creeping back into his bones. "Honestly, my dear boy," he murmured, his voice softer now, "if this is what it takes to be a hero, I think I preferred being a villain."
"Then, as if that wasn't enough," he continued. "Ishta decided we absolutely had to explore an adamantine forge. Did you know there was a mechanical giant guarding it? Because of course, why wouldn't there be. Wyll and Shadowheart snuffed it mid-fight - don't worry, Withers brought them back - but the rest of us were nearly pulverized too. Fortunately, I, in my infinite brilliance, used the forge's hammer to smash the wretched thing to pieces."
He leaned closer to Scratch, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. "And just when I thought I might finally get a moment alone with Ishta, some decrepit old wizard shows up, demanding an audience with Gale. Naturally, she dropped everything to go and speak with him. Scratch, I ask you, why do I subject myself to such madness? Why do I love that maddening, radiant woman so much?"
Scratch stretched forward, his nose brushing against Astarion's cheek before delivering a wet lick to his nose. Astarion jerked back, mock outrage written across his face. "Oh, you vile creature!" he exclaimed, though his scowl melted into a grin as he wiped his face on his sleeve. "You're no help at all."
He flopped back onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, draping an arm over his eyes again. "I'm just glad you can't understand a word I'm saying. That would be far too humiliating."
Scratch hopped up onto the bed and settled beside him with a contented sigh, his tail thumping softly once more. Astarion closed his eyes, the day's weariness finally sinking into his bones.
The rhythmic rise and fall of Scratch's fur under Astarion's hand was a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. He could hear the faint hum of conversation from the far side of the chamber, voices muffled by the heavy canvas walls of his tent. The tones blurred together, indistinct and meaningless, until Ishta's voice sliced through the din like a dagger.
"Like hells he is!"
The sharpness of her exclamation jolted Astarion upright. Scratch whined softly, startled by the sudden movement, and looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes. Astarion muttered a distracted apology, ruffling the dog's ears before swinging his legs off the cot, his movements quick and fluid despite the lingering ache in his muscles. Gripping the edge of the tent flap, he pulled it aside just enough to peer out.
The scene outside was lit in uneven hues by torches mounted along the chamber walls. Ishta stood at the center of it all, her posture taut with restrained fury. Even from this distance, Astarion could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fists clenched at her sides as though holding back an impulse to strike.
Beside her, Gale wore a rare look of solemnity, his usually verbose manner subdued. They faced the wizard Elminster, whose presence radiated an air of calm authority, but his expression was inscrutable beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.
Astarion's eyes lingered on Ishta, watching as her jaw tightened and she pointed back toward the passage they had come from. Her movements were sharp, her voice low but cold as ice. Whatever she was saying to Elminster, it left no room for argument. The old wizard tipped his absurdly large hat, his expression apologetic, before taking a few slow steps backward. Then, with an overly theatrical puff of smoke, he disappeared.
The scene was far from over. Gale and Ishta exchanged a few more words, their tones low and hurried. Whatever Gale said made her exhale sharply, her chest heaving with emotion as she clenched her fists tighter. Then he walked away, his head bowed in thought, passing by Astarion's tent without so much as a glance. He caught the briefest glimpse of Gale's expression - a flicker of something vulnerable, something...hurt. It was a look that twisted uncomfortably in Astarion's chest.
Astarion's crimson eyes flicked back to Ishta, who remained rooted in place, staring after Gale for a long moment before she finally began to follow. Astarion let the flap drop and stepped outside, the cool air brushing against his face as he called out to her.
"Well, well," he began, his voice dripping with mockery. He let a lazy grin curve his lips, though his eyes tracked her every movement. "What did the pointy hat want? Come to scold Gale for missing poetry night at the Waterdeep library?"
Ishta barely slowed, her gaze skimming over him like a stone skipping water. Her voice was sharp and clipped, cutting through his playful tone. "Not now, Astarion."
Her dismissal struck harder than it should have, like a slap masked as a brush of air. Astarion faltered, his grin vanishing as she walked past without a second glance. He turned, watching her go, the space between them yawning wider with every step she took. Something cold and bitter stirred in his chest - a jealousy that clawed its way to the surface, twisting his thoughts into a snarl.
His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced himself to turn away, retreating back into the tent like a wounded predator licking its wounds. The flap fell shut behind him, muffling the sounds of the chamber outside. The air inside felt heavier now, pressing down on him as he dropped onto the cot and let himself slump back against the thin mattress. His head tilted back, crimson eyes staring blankly at the canvas ceiling.
Scratch padded over to him, his movements hesitant but insistent. The dog pressed his warm head into Astarion's lap, his tail giving a tentative wag. Astarion's hand instinctively reached to stroke the soft fur. The familiar motion was soothing, though it did little to ease the tightness in his chest.
"Looks like I won't be talking to Ishta tonight after all, my friend."
Scratch whined softly, his tail wagging once before he licked Astarion's hand in a gentle, comforting gesture. The simple act tugged at something buried deep within Astarion, a mix of gratitude and melancholy. He sighed, his free hand resting on Scratch's back as he leaned his head back against the tent wall, his crimson eyes unfocused.
"At least you care," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant echo of footsteps fading into the chamber beyond.
"I don't care what Mystra wants, Gale - you are not blowing yourself up just so you can get back in her good books!"
Ishta's words echoed, reverberating off the cold, uncaring walls of the room they stood in. Once an antechamber, it now stood as a grim relic of the temple's forgotten worship, its purple marble cracked and stained, and its gold embellishments tarnished to the color of ash. Scattered debris - a broken chalice here, a shattered candlestick there - shared the floor with the remnants of ancient bones, their dry whiteness a stark contrast to the deep hues of the chamber. The air felt heavy, weighed down by the ghosts of rituals long abandoned.
Gale stood across from her, his arms folded, his brow furrowed in a mix of determination and something softer - resignation, perhaps. He leaned casually against a toppled column, as though they were discussing the weather instead of his potential death.
"This isn't really your decision to make, Ishta," he replied, a weak smile flickering across his face like a dying ember. "This task has been entrusted to me and seems to be the clearest solution to our problem. All I have to do is find the right place and time, close my eyes, and let go. Then the slate will be clean, wrongs will be righted, the Absolute will be gone..."
His voice faltered, the cheer faltering like a crumbling facade. Ishta saw it - the slow dawning in his eyes, the way his shoulders sagged under the weight of what he was truly saying. The bravado of his words was at odds with the flicker of fear and regret that he tried to hide.
"I don't understand," she said, her frustration boiling over into the sharp edge of her tone. "Can't Mystra just destroy the Absolute? Or what about Elminster himself? Why does it have to be you?"
Gale let out a sigh, his hand brushing over the folds of his robes. "I've no doubt she has the power to do so, but as for the permission... Ao would not look kindly on her meddling in mortal affairs. Divine intervention has a tendency to make things worse, not better. As for Elminster..." He chuckled lightly, though there was no humor in it. "He's saved the realms more times than legend can recount. But to take on a god, even a nascent one, is no easy feat - not even for him. My orb is the best chance we have, and only I can wield it."
His words landed like stones in the pit of Ishta's stomach. She took a step closer, her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms. "So that's it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, raw with disbelief. "You're on a suicide mission now?"
"Possibly the most spectacular one ever conceived," Gale said, with a flicker of his old charm, though it faded as quickly as it appeared. "But essentially, yes. I am living on borrowed time, in more ways than one. Perhaps... perhaps this is how it must be."
The certainty in his tone stoked a fire in her chest, the flames licking at her restraint. She closed the distance between them, her boots crunching over loose debris. "You're not blowing yourself up, Gale," she hissed, her voice shaking with barely-contained anger. "I won't let you."
He held her gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he sighed and stepped back, his hand brushing the wall for support as though the weight of the conversation had drained him. "Let's save such certainty for the moment such a decision is upon us," he said softly. "You may feel differently once we know what we're truly up against."
And just like that, he dismissed her. He turned, his movements slow and deliberate, as if his body carried the same exhaustion as his soul. She watched him walk away, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy with finality. "We'll find another way," she called after him, her voice rising like a desperate prayer. "I promise."
The room seemed to close in on her, its air suffocating and its silence deafening. Her anger, frustration, and helplessness churned like a storm within her, seeking release. She began pacing, her boots kicking up faint plumes of dust with each step. The cluttered remnants of the room blurred into meaningless shapes as her thoughts spiraled. Finally, unable to contain herself, she turned and slammed her fist into a nearby pillar. The sharp crack of impact reverberated through the room, followed by her muffled curse as pain lanced up her arm.
Clutching her hand, she sank back against the pillar, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool, unyielding stone. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to steady herself.
"Well done," a familiar voice drawled, its sardonic edge breaking through the fog of her thoughts. "You really showed that pillar who's boss."
Her eyes snapped open, and she turned sharply to see Astarion, his figure silhouetted in the doorway, one shoulder leaning casually against the frame, his arms crossed with an air of insouciance. His gaze, however, was anything but idle - it fixed on her with a pointed curiosity.
"Now is not a good time, Astarion," Ishta muttered, her voice low, strained.
Astarion raised a single, perfectly arched brow and stepped into the room, the heels of his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. "I can see that," he replied, his tone light but edged with intrigue. "What prompted this little outburst? Or are we simply lashing out at defenseless architecture for sport now?"
Ishta didn't bother to respond, her energy too drained for his games. Instead, she sank onto a broken piece of statue, her shoulders slumping forward as she examined her bruised and bloodied knuckles. The skin was split in places, a sharp contrast to her otherwise calloused hands. She flexed her fingers experimentally, wincing as pain lanced up her arm.
Astarion moved closer, his footsteps deliberate but unhurried. He lowered himself to sit beside her, his movements graceful despite the disheveled exhaustion etched into his features."May I?" he asked, extending his hand to her damaged one.
Ishta's brows furrowed in confusion, but she offered her hand cautiously. He cradled it with surprising gentleness, his pale fingers cool against her skin. His crimson eyes met hers briefly, a knowing glimmer flickering within them. "I had Halsin teach me this one," he admitted, his lips curving in a faint smirk. "It seemed prudent to learn at least one healing spell if we're both going to keep punching things when life gets complicated."
His voice was calm and his touch radiated quiet confidence as he murmured the incantation, "Te curo," his voice lilting in a way that seemed both reverent and dismissive of the spell's power. A soft green light enveloped her hand, warmth spreading through her skin as the jagged wounds began to mend. The sensation was almost irritating, like an itch beneath the surface, but it faded quickly.
She glanced at Astarion and offered him a small, genuine smile. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice quieter now, touched with sincerity.
But Astarion didn't release her hand. His thumb brushed over her newly healed skin in a slow, deliberate motion. The faint smirk he'd worn melted into something quieter, his crimson eyes lifting to meet hers with an intensity that made her hold her breath. There was a depth in his gaze that she wasn't prepared for - something raw, unguarded, and entirely too real.
A ripple of unease coursed through her, and Ishta pulled her hand back, the movement sharper than she intended. The flicker of disappointment that crossed his face was fleeting, but she saw it, and it struck a chord of guilt within her.
"You're a quick study," she said, her tone carefully measured. "It took me ages to master that one."
Astarion straightened, his mask of nonchalance snapping back into place with practiced ease. He leaned back slightly, smirking. "I think you'll find I excel at most things I put my mind to - except playing the violin. Never could quite master that one. I found a better use for the strings in the end."
The sly grin he gave her was disarming, and despite herself, Ishta found her lips twitching upward in response. "I'm sure you did," she replied dryly.
"Now," he said, his tone light but probing, "what were you and Gale whispering about earlier? Or is this yet another of his cryptic secrets?"
Ishta sighed, her earlier frustration resurfacing like a tide. "Not exactly." She hesitated before explaining, her words measured and laced with lingering anger. "Elminster came to deliver Mystra's instructions. Gale is to use the Netherese orb in his chest to destroy the Absolute—and ultimately himself along with it."
Astarion's eyes widened, his disbelief palpable. "What?! Is he insane?" He gestured dramatically with one hand. "Please tell me he's not actually considering that absurd idea."
"I don't know," she admitted, rubbing her temples. "I'd like to think not, but he seems in two minds about it."
Astarion's incredulous expression twisted into something more theatrical. "That would be a waste of a perfectly good cult that we could be controlling." He paused for effect before adding, "And a waste of a perfectly good Gale, I suppose."
Ishta shot him a reproachful look, but there was a flicker of wry amusement in her tone. "You don't actually mean that, do you?"
"Of course not," Astarion said quickly, waving a dismissive hand. "We may have our differences, but I don't want to see the wizard sacrifice himself any more than you do."
She narrowed her eyes. "No, I meant about controlling the cult."
He leaned back against the broken statue, a faintly wicked glint in his eye. "Of course I mean it. Just think - how many others are walking around infected with these parasites? Hundreds? Thousands? And they're not all goblin trash. Some of them are powerful, influential people. Whoever's pulling the strings at Moonrise Towers controls it all. But if we could wrest that control from them..." His voice dropped, smooth and enticing, like a serpent whispering promises in the dark. "Imagine the power we'd wield."
Ishta folded her arms, her expression skeptical. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
"I mean, I assume there's some... device controlling them. So we find it, murder some people, and..." Astarion hesitated, the confidence faltering for just a moment before he waved his hand dismissively. "Look, I'm not a 'details' person, all right? But turning up and causing chaos has worked out rather well for us so far."
She studied him, her expression softening as a faint sadness stirred in her chest. "Why?" she asked quietly. "Why would you want to control a power as evil as this?"
He stiffened, his posture growing more defensive. "Power is just a tool," he said, his voice colder now. "It's people that make it good or evil. And even they can be a bit..." He mimed scales tipping and balancing. "I'm just saying there's an opportunity here. If we control the tadpoles, we can keep ourselves safe - and perhaps liberate the world from this threat."
Ishta studied him, her heart heavy. Somewhere in the shadows of his words lay an unspoken truth, but she couldn't quite reach it. Instead, she nodded, though her thoughts were far from settled. "Let's hope we find a better way."
Ishta rose abruptly, her movements stiff as though trying to escape a weight pressing down on her. The tension in the air felt like an invisible tether, keeping her rooted even as she took a step toward the doorway. Before she could leave, Astarion's voice cut through the stillness.
"Wait..." he called, the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his tone making her freeze mid-step. "There's something else I need to talk to you about."
Her heart jolted, a quick flutter that sent unease rippling through her. His voice lacked its usual air of amusement or sarcasm, and the seriousness unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Slowly, she turned, her gaze meeting his. Astarion had risen to his feet, and though his posture was composed, there was a tension in the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers flexed subtly at his sides.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice quieter now, but cautious.
He hesitated, his expression flickering between determination and uncertainty. For a man who so often carried himself with unshakable confidence, the nervousness in his movements was striking. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before finally lifting to meet hers.
"Ishta..." he began, his voice faltering. "Would you... that is to say, could you ever... well..."
The words hung incomplete, like a fragile bridge suspended over an abyss. His crimson eyes held hers, searching for something, though she couldn't tell if it was courage or reassurance. Each pause stretched painfully, and the longer he struggled, the tighter her chest grew.
Please, she thought, the silent plea echoing in her mind like a mantra. Please, don't do this. Not here. Not now.
Her anxiety coiled tighter as Astarion's lips parted again, and she braced herself for whatever was coming next.
The tension shattered with an abrupt commotion from the hallway. The sound of hurried footsteps and raised voices broke the spell, and both of them turned sharply toward the doorway. Shadowheart appeared, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of torches beyond. Her expression was grave, her usually calm demeanor strained with urgency.
"Halsin went to check the area outside," Shadowheart announced, her voice clipped. "He heard screaming nearby."
Astarion groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exaggerated exasperation. "In a place like this, I'm sure screams are just the natural ambiance," he muttered, his irritation slicing through the tension like a knife.
Shadowheart ignored him entirely, her sharp gaze fixed on Ishta. "He says it sounds like there's a group of Harpers trapped in the shadows."
The mention of Harpers snapped Ishta into focus. Her pulse quickened, but not from the conversation she had just escaped. The air in the room seemed to shift, her unease replaced by a sharp clarity. Without a word, she strode past Shadowheart, her boots striking the marble floor with purpose.
Behind her, Astarion swore under his breath, the soft curse almost swallowed by the sound of her departure. She heard him following, his lighter footsteps catching up with her quickly. His earlier vulnerability was gone, replaced by a simmering frustration, though whether it was directed at her or the interruption, she couldn't tell.
Shadowheart fell into step beside her, her expression determined. The corridor ahead loomed dark and foreboding, the faint flicker of ghostly green lights casting erratic shadows across the cracked marble walls. Ishta's mind raced as she tried to push aside the lingering unease from her exchange with Astarion. There was no time to dwell on it now. If Harpers were in danger, there was no room for hesitation.
Strap on your swords and pass the champagne, we're finally heading into Act 2!
And yes... feel free to join the line of people wanting to kill me for dragging out this slow burn of a relationship. (Astarion is at the head of the line.)