The cold air of Moonrise Towers pressed against Astarion's skin like the chill of a crypt. The corridors stretched endlessly, their vaulted ceilings swallowing any sound beyond the faint echo of footsteps. His boots scraped the rough stone as he trailed behind Ishta, his thoughts circling his mind like vultures over a battlefield.
Her transformation had stunned him, shaken him in ways he didn't fully understand. But as the initial shock ebbed, awe began to fill the void it left behind.
The memory burned behind his eyes: the drow woman pinned to the table, Ishta's fangs bared, her eyes twin orbs of crimson fire. Blood, animated and alive, had twisted and danced around her like sentient ropes, their patterns shifting with her breaths, their sharp points a heartbeat away from death.
It had been terrifying - no, more than that. It had been magnificent.
Astarion's lips parted slightly as he exhaled, the breath ragged. He shook his head, trying to dispel the image, but it clung to him, seductive in its ferocity. There had been beauty in her savagery, a visceral kind of art. She had lost herself entirely, surrendered to her darkest self... for him.
Not because he'd been in danger - Araj had posed no threat to his life. The drow's sin had been simply the cruel suggestion that he was nothing more than a creature to be bought and commanded into satisfying her twisted fantasy. But this dismissal of his autonomy had been enough to tip Ishta over the edge. Her fury had erupted, not for her own pride, but for his.
The implications tangled in his mind as he stumbled forward, barely aware of where they were headed. His eyes remained locked on her as she moved ahead, her silhouette cutting clean lines against the jagged shadows of the walls. Her movements were fluid, unhurried, like she carried no weight from what had transpired.
Ishta came to a halt abruptly, gesturing toward a scaffold rising into the shadows above them. "The flesh tendrils look like they're coming from somewhere up there. I'm going to take a look."
He said nothing, only nodded, his throat dry. She moved toward the scaffold with the same measured precision, the muscles in her shoulders tight, the tension radiating off her like heat from a forge. Astarion stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, watching the sway of her hair, the sharp curve of her jaw as she glanced up at the structure.
His pulse thundered in his ears, a furious rhythm that refused to calm. Why? Why had she done it? She claimed not to want attachment, yet her actions spoke of something far deeper than mere loyalty. It wasn't duty - it couldn't be. The fury in her eyes had been too personal, too protective.
Astarion took a step closer, his boots muffled against the worn stone floor. "Ishta," he started, his voice low, almost hesitant.
She didn't turn, her focus locked on the scaffold, but her shoulders stiffened before she started to climb the first ladder. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, her tone clipped and brittle.
He paused, his hand tightening on the rung before stepping up after her. "Too bad," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "Because I do. You lost control back there. And I..." He hesitated, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "I want to thank you for it."
Her ascent stilled. Slowly, she turned to look down at him, her eyes - now their usual warm gold - locking onto his. They searched him, wary and uncertain.
"But... you didn't need to go that far for me," he added, his tone subdued.
"Yes," she replied, the word steady but laced with intensity. "I did."
Astarion stared at her, her conviction throwing him off balance. He felt the words clawing their way up his throat before he could stop them. "It would've been easy," he said, his voice low, almost to himself. "To just... bite her. To go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of disgust to force myself through. And then I could have carried on, just like before."
Her hand tightened on the railing, the faint groan of the wood breaking the silence. "You told me once," she began, "that the entire reason for your existence was to seduce anything with a pulse. That what you wanted, how you felt... none of it ever mattered."
His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his hands gripping the ladder more firmly. "Every instinct I have still tells me that," he admitted, his voice hollow. "That I'm still just a means to an end. Nothing more."
Her voice softened, but the edge of steel remained. "I know," she said. "That's exactly why I lost control."
She turned back to the scaffold, pulling herself onto the platform above with practiced ease. Astarion lingered, her words echoing in his mind, before following her. When he climbed up, she was waiting, her hand outstretched toward him. Her golden eyes met his, and something in their depths made his breath catch - an unwavering, almost painful sincerity.
"That bitch," she said, her voice firm but not harsh, "was asking me to treat you like Cazador would. To strip you of your choice - something I swear I will never do."
Her words stirred something deep and uneasy in him. He hesitated, searching her expression, seeing only a raw determination that made him reach for her hand. She pulled him up, her grip steady, and they stood face to face on the narrow platform.
"You didn't escape two centuries of degradation and torture," she continued, her tone softening, "just to be treated like an object to be bartered with."
Astarion's chest tightened, his throat dry as he tried to find the words to respond. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the weight she carried, the exhaustion etched into her features.
"It's... a novel concept," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Being respected. Seen as a person. And a little intimidating, if I'm being honest."
Her lips quirked into a faint smile, tinged with sadness. "Tough having to make your own decisions and set your own boundaries, isn't it?"
"Extremely."
The faintest flicker of amusement passed between them before silence settled once more. Then Astarion sighed, his hands gesturing vaguely at the empty air around them. "I just wish you'd apply some of these lessons you seem so intent on teaching me, to yourself."
Her brow furrowed, the shift in her posture subtle but telling. "What do you mean?"
"That day by the river," he began, his voice slow and measured, "when I... crossed your boundaries, you only partially transformed. And yet today, someone merely suggests my boundaries don't matter, and you completely lose control and unleash the full Vampire."
Ishta crossed her arms, her shoulders drawing in slightly. "What's your point?" she asked, her tone defensive now, her expression tightening.
He shrugged, his tone almost casual, though his eyes bore into hers. "Just wondering why you seem to value my feelings more than your own. Though I suspect it has something to do with that self-destructive streak of yours."
She took a step closer, closing the space between them. "Astarion," she said, her voice firm, "you've had a month of freedom after centuries of being controlled, manipulated, and abused. I've had nearly two hundred years to make sense of only a year's worth of hell."
She rubbed the back of her neck, the motion almost sheepish, though her expression remained somber. "I'm not over it, not completely. And I don't think I ever will be. But I'm far enough along to try and help someone else who's still finding their way."
Her words wrapped around him, steady and firm like a shield, and he found himself standing straighter, his chest feeling heavier and lighter all at once. He met her gaze, the storm inside him quieting just enough for her words to settle. She turned away, her attention shifting back to the faint pulse of light emanating from a crack in the wall in front of them.
The faint glow in the wall seemed alive, its rhythm almost mocking in its steadiness. Astarion's attention snapped to it, his earlier haze lifting like a curtain torn down by a gust.
"Wait... what are we doing again?"
He stepped closer, his pale fingers brushing the edge of the jagged stone. Peering inside, he grimaced. Red fleshy tendrils twined together like parasitic roots, glistening with a viscous, almost gelatinous liquid that oozed in sluggish droplets. He recoiled slightly, his lip curling. "Urgh, it's full of dripping... goo? Slime? Whatever it is, it's coming from higher up the tower."
He glanced sideways at Ishta and caught the spark of curiosity in her eyes, a light that was all too familiar. His stomach twisted in dread. "Please tell me you aren't thinking of reaching in there."
She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful as she studied the grotesque display. "I have a feeling this is connected to whatever's going on here."
"Wonderful," he deadpanned, taking a step back. "All the more reason not to touch it, then."
A grin spread across her face, one he knew too well. Mischievous, defiant, and edged with danger. "Well, now you've made me want to touch it even more," she said, her tone laced with that teasing challenge she'd wielded the day they met.
Astarion groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Gods... not again."
But before he could stop her, she extended her arm toward the crack. Her fingers slipped into the grotesque opening, and he winced, his shoulders hunching as if he could block out the sight.
"Ishta..." he began, but his words died in his throat as her breath hitched sharply.
Her body jerked, her back arching unnaturally as she gasped and lurched forward. Astarion's heart stuttered in his chest. Her eyes, wide and vacant, seemed to lose all focus, the warm gold washed away into a blank, lifeless sheen.
"Ishta!" He rushed forward, grabbing her shoulder. Her skin was cold, and she didn't respond. "What's happening? Speak to me!"
A faint, oily presence brushed against his mind. It slithered in like an unwelcome guest, probing and withdrawing before he could react. It left behind a nauseating impression - malevolent, smug, and utterly in control. His grip on her tightened, his panic surging. "Wake up!" he shouted, his voice rising, desperate.
The presence pressed against him again, heavier this time, like a predator savoring its prey. He felt it tighten around them both, a suffocating awareness that sent a chill racing down his spine. His gaze dropped to her arm, still plunged into the crack. His stomach turned at the sight - writhing red threads of flesh coiled around her wrist, pulsing in time with the malevolent rhythm of the glow.
"Damn it, Ishta!" he hissed through gritted teeth. He grabbed her arm, his nails digging into her skin as he pulled. The tendrils resisted, their slimy grip unyielding. He tugged again, his movements frantic, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.
"Why is it," he muttered, his voice tight with effort, "that when you tell me to do something, I refuse, and when I tell you not to, you jump straight in?"
He gritted his teeth, the words slipping out in a breathless whisper as he yanked with all his might. "We'd probably cancel out each other's stubbornness if we ever did get together."
With a wet, sickening sound, the tendrils snapped. Ishta's arm jerked free, and she collapsed against him, her weight almost knocking him off his feet. He stumbled back, catching her awkwardly, his back hitting the scaffold frame behind him. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her body limp and unresponsive.
"Ishta?" he said, his voice hoarse. He shook her gently, his fingers trembling against her arm.
The glow from the crack dimmed behind them as Ishta stirred in his arms, her shallow gasp cutting through the suffocating silence. Her body twitched against him, her muscles regaining life. Astarion held his breath, his grip firm but careful, until her golden eyes blinked open. The eerie emptiness was gone, replaced by a sharpness that brought an almost painful relief.
"What... happened?" she rasped, her voice weak but steadying with each breath.
He let out a shaky laugh, more relief than amusement. "Oh, nothing much," he said, his tone cutting despite the trembling in his hands. "You just decided to let some eldritch horror make you its chew toy."
Ishta's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles before she shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. Her movements were unsteady, and she grabbed his forearms for support, her fingers digging in as she drew in deep, shuddering breaths.
"Two things," she said, her voice still strained as she straightened. "One: don't ever let me do something that stupid again."
Astarion arched a brow, tilting his head in mock exasperation. "And how, pray tell, am I supposed to stop you, darling? Tie you to a chair?"
"Get creative," she quipped, her dry humor cutting through the lingering tension. Then her mouth curved into a grimace as she shifted her arm gingerly. "Two: I think you dislocated my arm."
His expression froze for a moment before he glanced at the offending limb. "Oh... sorry," he winced, before an irritated frown broke across his face. "Actually, no, I'm not. You deserve that for worrying me."
Her laugh was breathy, her grin returning despite the grimace of pain that followed. "Worth it though... I think," she said, shifting her arm gingerly. "I know what's lurking in Moonrise, but I'll need to confer with Lae'zel to make sense of it."
Astarion tilted his head, his curiosity piqued despite himself. "Want me to, uh..." He gestured awkwardly to her limp arm.
She nodded, bracing herself against his chest as he took hold of her wrist with one hand and her shoulder with the other. "Ready?" he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.
"Do it," she said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.
With a sharp motion, he wrenched her arm back into place. The joint popped audibly, a sound that made his stomach turn even as he felt the tension in her muscles ease. She grunted in pain, her fingers digging into his arm as she hunched forward, her breaths coming fast and shallow.
"Serves you right," he murmured, his voice barely audible, though he couldn't quite keep the edge of concern out of his tone.
She exhaled shakily, straightening as she released her grip on him. A faint smile tugged at her lips despite the sweat beading at her brow. "Come on," she said, rolling her shoulder gingerly. "We've got prisoners to rescue."
Astarion groaned, dragging a hand down his face as if to physically erase the idea from his mind. "Must we?" he asked, his tone petulant.
Ishta turned sharply, her glare cutting through whatever excuse he might've offered. He raised his hands in mock surrender, his lips curling into a lopsided grin. "Fine, fine. Lead on, fearless leader. But if you end up stuck in another wall full of slime, I'm leaving you there this time."
Her faint smile widened as she turned away, striding toward the scaffolding ladder with renewed purpose. He followed, his steps measured, the lingering fear in his chest settling into a low hum of unease. Whatever she had seen - whatever had reached out to her from that abyss - it probably wasn't done with them yet.
The air in the dungeon hung heavy, thick with dampness and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Ishta stood in the center of the torture chamber, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her weapon. Her breath was steady, but her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as her eyes locked onto the figure before her.
Minthara.
She hadn't expected to see the drow again, not after their violent confrontation at the grove. Yet here she was, slumped against a rough-hewn wall, her once-proud posture broken, her head bowed, silvery hair spilling over her face like a veil.
Two deep gnome cultists flanked her, their voices low and coaxing, like snakes whispering in the grass. The air pulsed faintly with the psychic energy of their torment, a dull, oppressive weight that pressed against Ishta's temples.
The prison break had been simple enough. Dispatching the woefully understaffed guards was almost disappointingly easy once the floating Scrying Eyes were neutralized. Unlocking the cells, guiding the captives to the underground river, and directing them toward the relative safety of Last Light Inn had been almost a breeze compared to how things usually went. Even the Ironhand gnomes had fallen in line without complaint. But Duke Ravengard was still missing, and now this.
Minthara's presence was a wrinkle in her plans Ishta hadn't accounted for.
A psychic connection crackled faintly in Ishta's mind, a fractured thread barely holding together. Minthara's voice, once commanding and strong, was now brittle, splintered by pain and humiliation. It brushed against Ishta like a ghost of itself, whispering words laced with venom and despair.
"You..." The word slithered into her thoughts, fragmented but unmistakable. "I did not expect to see you again, Xindite, least of all here. Come to revel in my disgrace?"
Ishta's breath slowed, her eyes narrowing as she steadied herself. She pushed back against the mental intrusion, her thoughts sharp and deliberate. "I wasn't planning to," she replied, her tone cool and cutting. "But it's tempting."
The rasp of fabric and steel broke the tension as one of the cultists shifted, turning to face her. The gnome's expression was placid, but her dark eyes gleamed with malice. "Come to observe, True Soul?" she asked, her tone eerily calm. "She is a lesson - none can rise so high that they cannot fall again."
Ishta's fingers tightened on the hilt of her weapon, her posture rigid as she measured the situation. "What are you doing to her?"
The cultist tilted her head slightly, her smile serene but utterly devoid of warmth. "We are erasing her."
The simplicity of the statement struck like a dagger. Ishta's stomach tightened, and a chill traced its way up her spine. The other cultist, standing just behind Minthara, spoke next, her voice soft, almost reverent. "She will not be utterly destroyed. What is useful shall remain."
Minthara's voice cut through the oppressive silence, sharp but faltering. "None of you will break me."
Her words carried a spark of defiance, but Ishta could see the cracks. Minthara's head was still high, her jaw clenched tightly, but her eyes betrayed her - a flicker of fear, raw and unguarded. Guilt twisted in Ishta's chest, unwelcome and sharp. She hadn't expected to feel it, but there it was, coiled like a snake, hissing that she had played a part in breaking the once-proud warrior.
Ishta took a step forward, her voice steady. "I've been instructed to handle this prisoner myself."
A groan came from behind her, low and theatrical. Astarion's dry drawl followed. "Someone get me a chair and some rope."
Ishta's lips twitched faintly, the ghost of a smile threatening to surface, but her focus remained locked on the cultists.
The first cultist stepped forward, her posture stiff with resistance. "No - this is our duty."
"Peace, sister," the second cultist murmured, raising a placating hand. Her dark gaze shifted back to Ishta, filled with a dangerous curiosity. "Let us observe the True Soul's methods. Perhaps we can learn from them." The gnome gestured toward Minthara, her voice like a blade drawn in slow deliberation. "Her mind is yours. Break it."
Ishta didn't respond aloud. Instead, she pushed deeper into Minthara's mind, steeling herself as her consciousness was pulled into the swirling chaos of the drow's psyche.
It was a storm - violent, chaotic, tearing through the fragile remnants of Minthara's defenses. Tendrils of psychic energy whipped through the void, and at the center, Minthara clung desperately to what was left of her sanity.
But the storm wasn't hers alone. Ishta felt it immediately - the looming presence, suffocating and vast, its psychic voice an oily vibration that seeped into every crack of her thoughts. It was the same entity she'd felt in the flesh tendrils, and its malice was unmistakable. The Absolute.
The presence wasn't merely observing - it was consuming. Every shred of Minthara's mind, every memory, every thought, was being ripped apart and devoured. Ishta pushed forward, fighting against the oppressive weight of the malevolent influence. Her mind sliced through the storm, her focus sharp as she reached for Minthara.
"I prayed that someone would come," Minthara's fragmented thoughts whispered, trembling with despair. "But there are no gods left to me. Kill me quickly, Xindite. Grant me that mercy if nothing else - do not let my mind be taken."
Ishta's thoughts struck back like a whip. "Maybe you simply chose the wrong gods to serve."
Minthara's presence flickered, a tremor of pain and disbelief rippling through her fractured mind. "This thing, that speaks inside me... it has all but destroyed me." Her thoughts grew sharper, a faint ember of resolve burning through the storm. "But... it fears you."
That ember caught Ishta's attention, and she seized it, fanning the flame with a sharp reply. "That thing is your precious Absolute. What it truly sounds like. It's an Illithid Elder Brain."
Minthara's presence quaked, a wave of recognition and horror tearing through her. "Whatever it is," she whispered, her mental voice steadier now, "I sense it. Somewhere below - furious, and hungry."
Ishta pressed deeper, her own resolve anchoring her against the storm. "Do you want the chance to make it suffer?" she asked, her words precise and deliberate. "To make it pay for deceiving you?"
The storm's relentless chaos stilled, the psionic winds trembling as if in anticipation. Ishta pushed forward, her mental presence steady, waiting. Minthara's fragmented voice came to her, heavy with desperation but lined with sharp resolve.
"Yes," the drow said, her words carrying the weight of her decision. "Even so, I cannot resist it while my tormentors live. Kill them, and I will follow you."
Ishta's grip on the connection tightened, her golden eyes narrowing as she studied Minthara's battered but unbroken spirit. "Give me your word," she said. "That from this day on, your blade will only hunger for the blood of the Absolute. Swear it on your oath as a Paladin."
Minthara's fragmented presence surged with newfound strength. "I swear," she said, her words gaining clarity and weight. "By the blood of my people and upon my oath of vengeance. Your enemies will be my enemies, and your allies will have nothing to fear from me."
The connection wavered as another presence intruded - a sharp, probing force that sent Ishta's senses recoiling. The cultists. One of them was observing their exchange, their thoughts laced with disdain and rising alarm.
"What is this?" the cultist's voice hissed aloud. "Pity? Rebellion? Blasphemy? Stand down, or we will put you down."
Ishta blinked, severing the connection as her focus snapped back to the dungeon. She straightened, her hand tightening on her blade as she stepped toward the cultists.
"How quickly can you run?" she asked aloud, her voice calm but dangerous.
The cultist's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you - ngh!"
The gnomes words were cut off by a sudden gasp as a crossbow bolt buried itself deep in her chest. The force of the impact sent her staggering backward, her arms flailing before she collapsed to the stone floor. Blood pooled quickly beneath her body, dark and viscous.
The remaining cultist froze, her shock paralyzing them for a precious moment. Ishta didn't hesitate. Her sword arced through the air, its edge catching the dim torchlight before it met flesh. The cultist's head hit the ground with a wet thud, her body crumpling in a graceless heap beside their sister.
The silence that followed was deafening. Ishta lowered her blade, its edge gleaming with blood, and turned toward the others. Karlach, Wyll, and Lae'zel emerged from the shadows, their faces reflecting varying degrees of surprise and caution.
Minthara stepped forward, her movements cautious, her silvery hair disheveled but her posture regaining some of its former strength. Her voice, though still hoarse, carried a steadiness that hadn't been there moments before. "The voice... silenced. And my abusers, dead. Her voice softened, carrying a weight of disbelief. "I didn't think anyone would come for me."
Karlach's expression hardened as she folded her arms, her fiery eyes narrowing. "Uh... you sure about this, soldier? She did try to murder everyone in the grove, after all."
Minthara's gaze shifted to Karlach, her chin lifting with defiance. "I did as I was commanded. As a servant of the Absolute. I answer to her commands no more."
Astarion stepped forward, his expression sharp and incredulous. "While I can appreciate the sentiment behind that... Ishta, this is absurd. You can't possibly be serious about helping this drow."
Ishta met his gaze, her tone even. "She swore on her oath to follow me if I led her to vengeance against the Absolute."
Astarion let out a sharp, humorless laugh, throwing up his hands. "Oh, well, that's all right then. Nothing to worry about in the slightest. Clearly, the word of someone who once tried to gut us all is rock solid."
Minthara's crimson eyes shifted to Ishta, cool and appraising. "I expected you to command more respect among your followers, Xindite."
Ishta arched a brow and glanced at Astarion, her tone dry. "You'd think that."
Wyll stepped between them, his tone urgent. "While we're standing around bickering, the guards could be on their way. If we're going to get out of here, we need to move. Now."
Minthara inclined her head, her movements smooth and deliberate. "Agreed. I will pretend the interrogators succeeded, and feign obedience. They will think me a thrall."
Ishta studied her for a moment, searching for any flicker of deception in her eyes. Finding none, she gave a curt nod. "If they suspect anything, we'll handle it."
Minthara inclined her head, her voice carrying a faint edge of dry humor. "I trust you will."
The group moved swiftly, the shadows swallowing them as they made their way toward the exit. The dungeon's oppressive air clung to Ishta like a miasma, but the faint sense of victory - the fragile alliance forged in the dark - propelled her forward. The Absolute would feel the sting of betrayal soon enough.
Once through the main hall and out the front gates - where only minimal resistance was met regarding Minthara's presence - the towers loomed behind them, dark and foreboding against the green mist, a silent witness to their escape. The soft crunch of boots against the rocky terrain was the only sound for a time, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the distance.
Minthara slowed, her steps faltering as she turned back to look at the monolithic structure that had been her prison - and her home. Her silvery hair, tangled and dirtied from her captivity, caught in the faint breeze as she stared up at the towers with an expression caught between longing and disdain.
"I last left Moonrise as a commander in the Absolute's army," she said, her voice steady but tinged with something heavier - bitterness, regret. "Obeying the voice of a god. I thought I had found a home... and a purpose." She paused, her shoulders stiffening before she exhaled slowly. "Now I leave as an exile. But you risked your life to rescue me - for that, I am grateful."
Ishta, standing slightly ahead of her, turned slowly, her eyes steady. She studied Minthara's face for a moment, weighing her words. "Open your mind to me again," she said, her tone calm but commanding. "There's something you need to see."
Minthara's head turned sharply, her gaze narrowing with suspicion. The faintest tension rippled through her frame, but after a moment, she inclined her head. "Very well."
Ishta closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, focusing on the artifact's power thrumming faintly against her mind. The Prism surged to life, its connection sharp and insistent, weaving their thoughts together in an instant. The barrier between their minds fell away, and Minthara was drawn into the memories Ishta offered.
Images cascaded through Minthara's mind like an unrelenting tide. The Prism, glinting with otherworldly light. The dream visitor, seductive and enigmatic, whispering secrets laced with veiled warnings. The protection of the artifact that shielded their group from the Absolute's dominion, keeping their minds their own and holding back the creeping transformation into Illithid monstrosities.
The revelation struck Minthara like a hammer, each piece of knowledge shattering what remained of her certainty. Her mind reeled, but she held firm, her focus hardening as she absorbed the truth. There was no room for denial. The Absolute's voice, once a godlike presence, now revealed its true nature: manipulation, control, hunger.
When the connection faded, Minthara staggered slightly, bracing herself against a nearby tree. Her crimson eyes glinted in the dim light, her expression unreadable as she turned to Ishta. "There is much we must discuss," she said, her voice steadier now, though a tremor of unease still lingered. "Do you have a safe place to camp nearby?"
Ishta hesitated, her fingers brushing the hilt of her weapon. She weighed her options, her gaze steady on Minthara's. "I'd say you're on your own," she began, her tone measured, "but I suspect the Absolute will get its claws back into you the moment you're no longer under the artifact's protection."
Minthara inclined her head, her expression grim. "Indeed. I fear that without you, I will not be able to choose my own path."
Ishta exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Then it's best you stay with us for now," she said, though the edge in her tone hinted at her own reluctance. "Certain people back at my camp might not take kindly to your presence if you show up unannounced."
Minthara's gaze flickered to Astarion, who lounged against a nearby tree with an air of bored detachment. Her lips quirked into a faint scowl. "I see your vampiric friend has helped himself to my armor," she said, her voice tinged with irritation.
"Well, someone had to put it to good use," Astarion quipped, his tone light but his eyes watchful.
Minthara ignored him, her attention shifting back to Ishta. "However, if you have a sword or a mace to lend me, I will fight at your side as best I can."
Ishta reached into her belt pouch, her movements deliberate. She drew out a small, ornate wooden box, its surface intricately carved with swirling patterns that caught the faint moonlight. Her fingers brushed over its lid before she looked up at Minthara, a faint smile curling on her lips.
"I can do you one better..."
"Where is Raphael? Spit it out—now!"
The Orthon's voice reverberated through the chamber like a thunderclap, shaking loose bits of dust and debris from the ruined marble ceiling above.
The sheer force of the sound made Ishta flinch ever so slightly, though she masked it quickly. Astarion, standing just behind her, leaned closer, his breath ghosting against her ear as he whispered, his tone dry. "So far, I'm not enjoying this plan of yours. Raphael told us to kill this thing, so let's stop chatting and get to the killing part."
Ishta didn't turn, but her shoulders tensed. Her voice was a low, sharp hiss as she replied. "I don't know if you've noticed, Astarion, but there is a giant Orthon in front of me, pointing a honking great big crossbow at my chest. But if you want to try and kill him, be my guest."
Astarion's lips quirked in a reluctant smirk, though he didn't respond. Ishta straightened slightly, directing her attention back to the towering war devil perched above them. Its hulking form dominated the broken ledge of stone and shattered marble that jutted precariously from the chamber's ceiling. Yurgir, Raphael had called it.
The Orthon's leathery red skin gleamed in the faint light filtering through cracks in the temple's walls, each ripple of muscle visible beneath its armor. The grotesque trophies of its conquests - skulls, cracked and grinning - hung from its frame, a grim testament to its carnage.
Jagged, curved horns framed its grotesque face, its eyes glowing like molten fire. Its massive crossbow - a hellish weapon of blackened steel and infernal runes - was trained unerringly on Ishta. Around it, a handful of merregons stood motionless, their expressionless masks and wicked halberds marking them as dutiful servants of their master.
Ishta tilted her head up, addressing Yurgir directly. "We met Raphael outside the mausoleum above this temple," she said, her voice steady despite the tension coiling in her every muscle. "But he could be anywhere by now. You say he trapped you here? There's nothing physically stopping you from leaving, though, is there?"
Astarion rolled his eyes. Of course, Ishta was going to try to reason with a devil. Why not? She had an infuriating habit of talking her way out of impossible situations - or at least trying to. And though he hated to admit it, he wasn't thrilled about the odds of surviving a fight against the hulking brute and his entourage of merregons.
Astarion cursed his own insatiable curiosity. If he had kept his mouth shut when Raphael first appeared, they wouldn't be in this mess. His thoughts flashed back to their earlier encounter outside the mausoleum.
They had been met by Raphael, whose smug grin and patronizing tone had set Astarion's teeth on edge from the start. The devil had rambled on about the dangers lurking below and asked them to deal with "an old enemy" of his, this Orthon. Ishta, ever skeptical of anything even remotely infernal, had promptly told Raphael where he could shove his deals.
But then Astarion had opened his mouth.
The runes etched into his back were a mystery he couldn't ignore, and Raphael's offer to translate them had been too tempting. When he'd pressed the devil for more information, Raphael's expression had shifted - smug and knowing, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse. He'd agreed to help in exchange for the Orthon's death, leaving them to descend into the depths of the mausoleum with a devil's bargain hanging over their heads.
After finding the 'lost' necromancer Balthazar and learning more about the relic Ketheric wanted found, there had been a quick but bloody battle with him and his undead minions. Afterwards, Lae'zel and Wyll had been sent back to Last Light to collect Shadowheart, once it was discovered that the temple they were now in was the infamous Gauntlet of Shar.
Karlach and the newly armed and armoured Minthara had stayed to explore more of the necromancers lair while Ishta and Astairon had gone looking for signs of the Orthon.
And now here they were, face-to-face with Raphael's "old enemy." Astarion's gaze flicked to the merregons, their faceless visors glowing faintly as they stood like statues, their jagged weapons ready to strike at a moment's notice.
He stole a glance at Ishta, her face calm but her eyes sharp, calculating. He couldn't tell if her confidence was genuine or if she was gambling everything on sheer bravado. Either way, they were in too deep now.
As the Orthon's gaze bore down on them, its clawed fingers tightening around the trigger of its massive crossbow, Astarion wondered - not for the first time - if his curiosity would be the death of him.
"My word binds me to this place," Yurgir snarled, his guttural tone heavy with resentment. "I agreed to a contract - one that hasn't yet been fulfilled. Either I fulfill the contract, die trying... or forfeit my freedom. If I leave this place now, I'll become Raphael's slave."
Ishta stood her ground, her golden eyes steady despite the towering presence above her. Her voice was calm, almost casual, as though addressing a merchant rather than a war devil. "Have you tried looking for a loophole in the contract?" she asked, tilting her head. "I could take a look at it for you. Maybe you missed something?"
Astarion resisted the urge to groan aloud, opting instead to reach out through their shared connection. His thoughts brushed hers like a pointed knife. "You do remember my deal with Raphael hangs on killing this thing and not setting it free, right?"
Her mental reply came quickly, carrying the faintest tinge of irritation. "Duh. I'm stalling for time while I try to reach Karlach and Minthara. I don't know how far the tadpole connection works, but I don't think they're close enough yet."
"Oh... in that case, carry on."
"So glad I have your approval."
Yurgir's fiery gaze swept over them, the barbed bolt on his crossbow glinting ominously. "Raphael is no foolish story-devil. His mind is different. Sneaky. Listen..."
The Orthon shifted on his ledge, the stone groaning under his weight. His voice took on a rhythm, deep and ominous, the words carrying the cadence of an infernal hymn.
"Spill all the blood sworn to the night; Silence all prayers, smother each rite.
Wander Shar's halls, hungry to slay; Leave no Justiciar alive to obey.
Leave none to hear it, then be set free; This song is your oath, swear, swear it to me."
Astarion exchanged a glance with Ishta. Her face betrayed nothing, but her golden eyes flicked toward him briefly. He shrugged lightly, an unspoken What did you expect? passing between them.
As Yurgir's deep voice rumbled through the final verse, Astarion's thoughts wandered to the corpses they had seen earlier, their lifeless forms an eerie testament to the violence that had already unfolded here.
"Well," he muttered under his breath. "That explains where all the Dark Justiciars went."
Ishta didn't respond, though he saw her lips twitch faintly in acknowledgment. Her focus remained locked on Yurgir, though Astarion noted the faint tension in her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes. He knew that look - she was piecing something together.
Yurgir finished his grim hymn, his deep, guttural voice trailing into silence that seemed to suck the air from the chamber. The faint clinking of the skulls adorning his armor was the only sound that followed, their macabre rhythm underscoring his next words.
"...That's it."
Astarion blinked, incredulous. He shifted his weight, his fingers twitching near his sabre, but Ishta's calm, measured response drew his attention.
"Your contract is... a song?" she asked, her tone laced with curiosity and just a hint of disbelief.
Yurgir's massive form bristled. His lip curled, baring sharp teeth as he jabbed a clawed finger toward his head, rattling the grisly skulls on his armor. "Parchment can burn. Oral agreements aren't worth the tongues they're waggled out upon. A song lingers," he snarled, his voice dipping into bitterness. "Raphael made double-sure of that. I can't forget the damned thing so long as my work's not finished. I did as instructed, but the song still rattles about in my head - the contract still stands, somehow. If I break it..." His voice dropped, his claw curling into a fist, "I will become Raphael's slave forever."
The Orthon shook his massive head, the motion sending the skulls on his armor clinking together like macabre wind chimes. His irritation burned in his eyes as he lifted the crossbow again, aiming it squarely at Ishta's chest.
"Anyway, enough prattle," he rumbled. "The lyrics are clear - all who hear the song must die. Time to die."
Astarion's pulse quickened. His mind raced, clawing for a way to stall. Anything to keep the Orthon's finger from pulling that trigger. The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them.
"The lyrics are a trick!" he blurted, his voice sharper than intended.
Ishta glanced at him, her golden eyes flickering with faint uncertainty. The Orthon paused, the massive crossbow lowering just slightly as his fiery gaze fixed on Astarion.
"What do you mean?" Yurgir demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.
Astarion swallowed hard, forcing himself to step forward. His posture straightened, his movements deliberate as he adopted a confident, almost arrogant pose. "Traditionally," he began, his tone smooth but measured, "songs are meant for an audience. Look around you. Your audience has been with you the whole time."
He gestured toward the merregons standing like statues in the shadows behind Yurgir. Their dark armor gleamed faintly in the flickering light, their faceless visors staring forward in eerie silence.
"Your followers have ears," Astarion continued, his voice gaining strength.
Pausing and glancing at the masks he added, "Presumably..."
Yurgir blinked, his clawed hand dropping slightly as he turned to face his companions. His fiery gaze swept over them, his expression a mixture of incredulity and reluctant consideration. "The merregons?" he rumbled, his tone dubious. "They barely have a thought to share among themselves..." His voice trailed off as he studied them more closely, the cogs in his mind visibly turning. "But they do have ears."
The chamber seemed to hold its breath as Yurgir's massive hand raised, his claws gleaming as he gestured sharply toward his infernal soldiers. His voice thundered with authority. "Kill yourselves - back to the hells with you."
Astarion's eyes widened, and for a moment, the chamber fell silent, the tension palpable. Then, in eerie unison, the merregons turned their weapons inward. The clash of steel and the wet, sickening sound of flesh meeting blade filled the air as they began to cut each other down. The room erupted into chaos as one by one, the infernal warriors fell, their bodies crumpling to the ground in heaps of blood and twisted armor.
Astarion stared, frozen in shock, his pale face lit by the hellish glow of the room. His mouth opened slightly, words failing him for a long moment. The last merregon collapsed with a heavy thud, leaving the chamber eerily quiet.
Ishta's mental voice brushed his thoughts, sharp with disbelief. "Holy shit!"
He turned to her, his expression caught between disbelief and faint amusement. "I honestly did not expect that to work..."
Her gaze flicked toward him, her lips twitching with faint amusement. "Neither did I. But I wasn't about to stop you."
Yurgir's growl reverberated through the chamber as he raised his crossbow again, his fiery eyes narrowing with renewed anger.
"I still hear it," he snarled, his claws tightening on the crossbow. "Seems your theory is wrong."
Astarion's mind raced, words hovering on the edge of his tongue, but before he could respond, Ishta stepped forward. Her eyes locked onto the towering devil, her expression calm but laced with an edge of calculated pragmatism.
"Displacer hearing is notoriously sharp," she said, her tone matter-of-fact, but carrying a faint note of sympathy. "I'm sorry, but you must kill her too."
Astarion's gaze flicked to where Ishta's attention had shifted, noticing for the first time the displacer beast lying in the shadows. Its sleek, black fur rippled faintly, its glowing eyes darting between Yurgir and the group. Its muscular body was poised but still, its long, barbed tentacles twitching nervously.
Yurgir turned his massive head toward the creature, and for a moment, his expression softened - only slightly, but enough for Astarion to catch the flicker of hesitation.
"...Kill Nessa?" Yurgir rumbled, his voice heavy with a sadness that seemed misplaced in such a monstrous creature.
The displacer beast let out a low, rumbling growl, her ears flattening against her skull. Yurgir's claws tightened on the trigger, his massive frame bristling with tension. "Stay very still, my beauty," he murmured, his voice low and almost tender.
The bolt shot forward with a deafening crack, piercing the displacer beast's chest. Nessa crumpled to the ground, her shadowy form collapsing in a heap of blood and fur. Yurgir stared at her lifeless body for a long moment before his head snapped back, his guttural roar filling the chamber.
"I still hear it!" he bellowed, his voice raw with frustration.
Astarion groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Of course you do..." he muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with exasperation.
But then his expression shifted, a sly smile creeping across his face as his crimson eyes lit with an idea. He stepped forward with the air of someone who had just stumbled upon the winning move in a dangerous game.
"And is that not the cruelest trick of all?" he said, his voice smooth and deliberate. "That snake Raphael was truly diabolical when he thought up this contract. For you yourself... have ears."
Yurgir froze, his fiery gaze snapping to Astarion. The Orthon's massive bulk shifted, his claws flexing as he processed the words. Astarion could feel the tension crackling in the air, the weight of the gamble he was making pressing against him like a tombstone.
Ishta moved closer, her presence brushing against his mind like a whisper. "Astarion, if this works... you deserve double measures of my blood tonight. Direct from the neck."
He didn't miss a beat. "I'll hold you to that, darling. I'm famished."
He cleared his throat and continued aloud, his tone gaining momentum. "Your contract will never end so long as you can hear the song. You are your own last surviving audience member. However..." He paused for effect, letting the realization sink in. "If you kill yourself, then the song ends, your contract is complete, and you will be reborn in Avernus. Free."
Yurgir's eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding his expression. His claws flexed again, his massive form radiating barely contained violence. "If you're wrong about this," he growled, his voice a low, guttural snarl, "I'll claw my way out of Avernus and eat you alive - contract be damned."
Astarion inclined his head with a faint, sardonic smile. "That sounds entirely reasonable."
Yurgir let out a low, guttural snarl, his massive hand moving to the hilt of the massive sword strapped to his back. The blade gleamed wickedly as he drew it, the air around it seeming to hum with infernal energy. He held it aloft, his fiery gaze shifting upward to the cracked ceiling. His lips curled into a sneer, and his voice dripped with venom.
"Nicely played, Raphael," he growled. "Bastard."
With a roar of defiance, Yurgir plunged the blade into his chest. The sickening crunch of steel meeting bone echoed through the chamber as his massive body convulsed. Blood poured from the wound, thick and dark, pooling at his feet as his legs buckled. He toppled forward, his enormous frame hitting the ground with a thunderous crash that shook the chamber.
The Orthon's massive frame lay crumpled, unmoving, but the stillness didn't last. Dark ash began to creep across his form, eating away at the infernal flesh as though the Hells themselves were reclaiming him. The once-imposing war devil, a force of muscle, rage, and fiery will, crumbled into little more than a shadow of what he had been.
Astarion's eyes remained locked on the disintegrating body, a strange mix of triumph and disbelief washing over him. Slowly, he turned his head, and his gaze met Ishta's.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, as if on cue, grins broke across both their faces, wide and unrestrained. Relief, raw and overwhelming, flooded through them, loosening the tension that had gripped their bodies.
Without thinking, they sagged against each other, Ishta gripping his shoulders as laughter bubbled up in her throat. Her eyes sparkled with exhilaration, her entire face lit with a joy that sent a jolt through him.
"That was amazing!" she breathed, her voice ringing with a glee that he hadn't heard in far too long.
He raised an elegant brow, carefully schooling his expression into something resembling indifference. "I have my moments," he replied, his tone smooth, as if this were all part of a carefully executed plan.
But Ishta wasn't buying it. She laughed, a sound so genuine it made his chest tighten, and before he could react, she threw her arms around him. The hug was brief, impulsive, but it hit him like a shockwave. Her warmth, her unrestrained laughter, the way she pressed against him - it sent his senses reeling in a way no victory had before.
"You were incredible!" she exclaimed, pulling back just enough to look up at him, her hands still gripping his arms. Her eyes sparkled, and her grin only widened as she continued, "I mean, that guy was as dumb as a rock, but still - you talked a devil into killing himself! Who even does that?"
The corner of his mouth quirked upward into a smirk, a reply forming on his tongue, but before he could speak, she broke away and stepped back. The loss of contact left him strangely cold, and he hated how much he noticed it.
Ishta was already turning toward the exit, her steps light with exhilaration. "I have got to tell Karlach about this," she called over her shoulder, her voice bubbling with excitement. "She's gonna love it."
Astarion watched her go, the glow of her joy lingering in the air around her. He hadn't seen her like this in what felt like ages, not since before they had entered these cursed lands.
She glanced back at him, her golden eyes catching the faint flicker of light from the chamber's torches. "You coming, or what?"
He straightened, letting his smirk return as he called out, "On my way, darling. Just basking in the victory."
Her laugh echoed faintly as she rounded the corner, her voice carrying back to him. "Ooh... see if his crossbow is still there. Karlach will love that too."
As soon as she disappeared, the smirk faded, and Astarion let out a long, shaky breath. His knees nearly buckled, and he bent forward, bracing his hands against them as he tried to steady himself. The adrenaline that had kept him sharp and steady during the ordeal drained from his body, leaving behind the sharp edge of exhaustion and the faint tremor of lingering fear.
"By the hells..." he muttered under his breath, his voice rasping in the silence. "That was tense."
He straightened slowly, brushing a hand through his hair as he let out a soft chuckle. His crimson eyes flicked toward the pile of ash that had once been Yurgir, then to the the infernal weapon lying nearby. A wry smile tugged at his lips, and he shook his head, still half-disbelieving.
"What a team we make," he murmured to himself, his voice tinged with both pride and disbelief. His eyes flicked to the shadows where Ishta had vanished, the warmth she'd left in her wake still clinging to him. "I almost feel sorry for Ketheric."
The smirk deepened as he turned toward the remnants of Yurgir's arsenal, his gaze settling on the crossbow.
Almost.