Ketheric Thorm must die—the last step to break the shadow curse, according to Thaniel. Siobhan had hoped rescuing Thaniel from the Shadowfell and reuniting him with Oliver would be enough, and they could finally get a respite from the oppressive darkness, but no. There's always one more thing to do, one more task to complete, one more person to talk to, or item to retrieve.
They trek back to the inn, bloodied and exhausted from defending the portal and fighting off Oliver's 'family.' Upon their return, they find Rolan engaged in a shouting match with one of the tiefling children, drunkenly demanding more wine, kept upright only by his firm grip on the bar. Scolding the man for picking a fight with a child merely turns his rage on her, and vowing to save his siblings and the other captives does nothing to lessen it. He slurs accusations at her until he falters and begins to weep.
There's nothing worse than being helpless in the face of the suffering of your loved ones.
His siblings had been two of the refugees captured and taken to Moonrise after the ambush on the road. If Siobhan hadn't encouraged the three of them to stay behind and help the tieflings at the grove, perhaps they never would have been taken, so she submits to the tongue-lashing without protest. She cannot deny that she bears some of the fault for their fate. Plus, she's more than happy to let Rolan take his impotence out on her if it makes him feel even a little bit better.
"He's wrong to blame you," Shadowheart frowns as they watch Wyll coax the distraught Rolan back to his dormitory to sober him up.
"Maybe," Siobhan sighs, wishing that her companions would for once allow her to accept the responsibility for her missteps. How can she even begin to atone for her sins if no one will let her?
"Have you spoken with Isobel yet? I know she wanted to talk to you." Siobhan deflects, not interested in debating the merits of her guilt.
Shadowheart grimaces. "No, but I suppose now is as good a time as any."
Their first meeting with the Selûnite had been contentious, with Shadowheart and Isobel's deities sharing a long history of bitter enmity, but the two eventually came to a tenuous peace. It wasn't long after that Isobel had requested a private audience with Shadowheart for reasons she refused to give, at least refused to give to Siobhan.
"What do you think she wants?" Siobhan asks.
A troubled look crosses Shadowheart's face. Before she can begin to speculate, the wound on the back of her hand flares. She hisses in pain.
"Whatever it is, Lady Shar isn't pleased with me for indulging her," Shadowheart winces, rubbing at the wound.
"Look alive," Wyll warns from behind them, back from the dormitory, tapping Siobhan's elbow.
Siobhan turns. He's glaring at something across the room and, at her frown, points at the subject of his hostility. Siobhan straightens in alarm.
"Seems Raphael isn't one to take 'no' for an answer," Wyll observes unhappily as the devil lounges elegant and bored at the lance board table, toying with the ivory Mystra, but there's a sinister glint in his eye.
The cambion had imposed his presence upon them once before, offering to help them with their infection in exchange for some unknown favor in the future. The party had rejected the offer unanimously, but Raphael had assured them that eventually, the day would come when they would regret their decision and promised the next offer he made wouldn't be so generous.
Siobhan isn't nearly so desperate, but apparently, Astarion is approaching his limit because at about the same moment that Wyll points the cambion out to her, she notices Astarion recognize him and head straight in Raphael's direction.
"I'll handle this," Siobhan says and, before walking off, adds, "Let me know how your talk with Isobel goes."
She doesn't wait for their replies and jogs over to Astarion and Raphael, heart thrumming nervously in her chest.
"Oh dear, your keeper doesn't leave much slack on your leash, does she, little vampling?" Raphael taunts. Astarion rounds on her with a scowl.
"What are you doing here?" Siobhan demands, shooting Raphael a dirty look, and softens when she addresses Astarion, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Now, if you could give me a moment, there's a few things I need to discuss—"
"But why the secrecy!" Raphael interrupts, "You're not ashamed of me, are you, Astarion? I was under the impression you'd already shown her the scars etched so lovingly into your back—
"Loving?!" Astarion hisses, but Raphael ignores him.
"Have you not told her you intend to bargain with me for their meaning?"
"You must know, then, their purpose if you're willing to offer a deal?" Siobhan asks, not letting herself be baited.
"Or," she sneers, "are you merely playing games with him, devil? Waiting for us to become desperate must be growing tiresome if you're showing your face so soon."
"Now, now, little mouse. Don't forget your manners. It's unbecoming." Raphael warns, wagging his finger at her as if he'd caught a child with their hand in the cookie jar, but his eyes burn, and hellfire glows behind his pupils. Siobhan surreptitiously wipes the sweat from her palms and prays Raphael doesn't notice her tremble.
"But I suppose you're right in a way," the fire dims, and his smile turns indulgent, "I do delight in playing games. My favorite, of course, is the game of ambition."
Raphael shifts his focus to Astarion now, ignoring her completely.. "What's more ambitious than a slave overthrowing his master, hmm? Learning the meaning of those scars could be the first step. Aren't you just dying to find out?"
Astarion nods.
"Then ask, vampling. Tell me your proposal."
"Cazador, a long time ago, carved infernal runes on my back and the back of six other spawn." Astarion pulls out the sketch Siobhan drew from his pouch and unfolds it carefully before holding it out to Raphael, "Do you know what it means?"
Raphael doesn't look away from Astarion as he takes the page. Once it's in his hands, Raphael's gaze flicks down to the drawing for less than a second before he looks back up at them with a feral glint in his eyes.
"How interesting," Raphael hums and taps one long finger against his chin, "I know it's something important to your master, Astarion . . . but is it a love letter, a warning, or a deed of ownership?"
Astarion bristles, nearly vibrating with impatience. Siobhan shifts slightly to press her shoulder against his, but Astarion flinches away.
"I could tell you, I suppose. But you'll have to do something for me first . . . let me think about it, and I'll get back to you." Raphael's smile widens at Astarion's dismay.
"You'll get back to me? This is important, devil! When?"
"Don't worry," Raphael consoles. The patronizing lilt prickles against her skin. "I'm motivated to help you. Scars often tell such wonderful stories. Isn't that right, Siobhan? Tell me, are you any closer to locating your dear sister? Would you like to ensure her safety? Astarion needn't be the only one to make a deal."
She doesn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, keeping her expression neutral and blank, "No."
Raphael tuts, "Pity. Perhaps you'll have a change of heart when I call on you next. I'll see you both soon."
One last parting smile before Raphael bows and then vanishes in a puff of smoke. Siobhan lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and the tension leaves her in waves. Astarion, however, seems more wound up now that Raphael is gone.
Astarion faces her, clenching and unclenching his fists, jaw tense as he grinds his teeth together, "I don't need you meddling in my affairs."
"That's funny; last I checked, that's exactly what you wanted from me. Or did you no longer want me to come with you to fight Cazador?" Siobhan crosses her arms and frowns. He seems off, not simply because of Raphael. Astarion's movements are erratic and restless, his skin sallow—paler than usual.
"That bastard did something to me when he carved those runes into my back. I will not have you getting in the way of finding out what they're for!" Astarion snarls.
"Who said I was getting in your way?" Siobhan retorts. That stops Astarion in his tracks.
"You're not going to tell me this is a bad idea?" Astarion asks cautiously.
"You haven't agreed to anything yet," Siobhan reminds him, "I doubt it'll be good—whatever it is he'll ask of you—but until then, it doesn't hurt to find out. If the price is too steep, we'll turn him down and find some other way to figure out the meaning of your scars."
"Oh," Astarion replies simply.
"Yeah, oh." Siobhan sighs and, after a moment, shakes her head. "Believe it or not, Astarion, I—"
Siobhan's head whips around, her ears twitching at the sudden but faint sound of wings beating in the distance. Astarion has heard it, too, eyes unfocused and head tilted in the direction of the sound as he strains to identify the noise. But the inn is loud; the children are laughing and racing around the bar. The harpers have started filing in to start dinner. Gale converses loudly with the cook, discussing how to develop recipes when one's ingredients are limited.
There's a loud thud from above and to her left. Isobel's room. Loud enough that everyone falters, chatter petering off.
They look up.
Suddenly, a bone-chilling roar echoes throughout the building, so loud that Siobhan claps her hands over her ringing ears. The sounds of wings flapping are thunderous now, coming from every side. A humanoid creature with black leathery wings descends through a gap in the roof, lands heavily a few meters away, and screeches.
Panic.
Everyone scatters either to hide or arm themselves as four more creatures flood in, attacking indiscriminately. Siobhan hears Shadowheart shout from the balcony near Isobel's room over the cacophony of terrified screams.
"They're trying to kidnap her!"
The Harpers struggle to muster their forces, caught off guard by the ambush, as the tiefling children bolt, looking for cover. Jaeheira and Halsin wild-shape into a panther and bear, respectively. Jaeheira pounces on the creature nearest them, maw closing around its throat.
"Wyll! Karlach! Help Shadowheart! Lae'zel, to me!" Siobhan orders, ducking as one of the creatures soars over her in an attempt to swipe at her with its massive talons. Astarion tosses her one of his daggers, which she catches, spins in her hand, and then plunges into the stomach of the creature Jaeheira is attempting to wrestle to the ground, jaw still clamped viciously around its throat.
Vines break through floorboards, twisting and ensnaring the winged beast once she strikes, giving Jaeheira the opportunity to finish it off.
Siobhan meets Lae'zel halfway, Astarion at their rear, and they sprint in the direction of the staircase when they all feel a tremor through the building as the earth quakes. Through one of the open doors, Siobhan watches in horror as the white and blue bubble surrounding Last Light wavers, undulating threateningly like it might burst. A wave of fear and despair washes over them. More creatures flood in.
"Get to Gale! Help the harpers!" She shouts at Astarion and Lae'zel, then misty steps to the top of the landing, yanking a bow out of the hands of a fallen harper and slinging their quiver across her body. She'd left hers in the dormitory. She'd erroneously assumed they were safe here. Foolish thought. They aren't safe anywhere.
Karlach and Wyll each are fighting their own monsters. Wyll's eldritch blasts knock the creature back away from Isobel's room. Karlach swings her greataxe through a leathery wing joint.
Siobhan fires an arrow across the veranda, and it strikes true, punching through a chink in the armor of a winged man locked in combat with Shadowheart. The protection around Last Light wavers and contracts violently before billowing open again, the perimeter no longer as large as it had once been. Isobel is in a daze, struggling to get to her feet, blood dripping down her face from a wound hidden beneath her white blonde hair, her clothes burned and spell damaged.
Shadowheart doesn't look much better, one of her arms held stiffly at her side, teeth red with blood from when the man backhanded her with his gauntleted fist. Her movements are sluggish as she begins to tire. None of them had had an opportunity to rest. Shadowheart must nearly be out of magic.
Siobhan nocks another arrow and marks the assailant, calling upon her connection with nature to enhance her precision. The magic washes over her, and her focus narrows in on another weakness of the man's armor. Like looking through a pinhole, the world around her melts away, and she waits.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Shadowheart dodges out of the way of another attack. The weight of his mace failing to connect with its target pulls him forward. He overcorrects to compensate, which gives her the opening she's been waiting for. Her arrow plunges into his torso just below his floating ribs where the leather buckles of his plate armor don't quite close all the way.
He staggers and falls, clutching the arrow protruding from his side just as Siobhan hears Gale summon a storm of sleet down below. She looks down over the balcony and sees ice coat the ground, which knocks the remaining creatures to the floor along with a few of the less nimble harpers. Halsin roars, standing on his hind legs, and crushes down on one of the prone creatures, rending it to pieces with his massive claws.
Siobhan nocks another arrow to finish Isobel's assailant off, but Shadowheart doesn't hesitate to bash the man's skull in with her morning star. There's nothing left of his head but a bloody pulp. Shadowheart collapses to her knees at Isobel's side and casts a spell. The Selûnite is engulfed in a thin sheen of shimmering black and grey. Shadowheart yelps in agony as the wound on her hand pulses with purple light, but she has cast the spell on Isobel just in time. Another creature flies through the balcony doors and slashes at her. The attack bounces off harmlessly.
Thwarted, it turns its sights on her.
Siobhan shoots at the creature that's bearing down on her, its inhuman shriek nearly splitting her eardrums, but it dodges. The arrow clipping its wing does little to slow it down, and before she can blink, it's upon her. Its talons close around her shoulders, knocking her bodily to the ground. She falls hard, the air leaving her lungs in a painful gust as its weight crushes against her chest. Talons cut through her cuirass as if it's made of paper and tear through her skin.
Blood sprays hot and sticky against her throat. The claws cut deep, scraping bones. Siobhan chokes through the pain, lungs struggling to inflate underneath the crushing pressure. It rears back to attack with its claws, but a gust of wind launches it off her body, and it smacks into the wall beside her with a shriek.
Siobhan looks to the side and sees it's Gale who's come to her rescue, eyes brilliant with blue light as he channels the weave with frightening precision. A bolt of lightning shoots from his fingertips, arcing and crackling, before colliding against the creature with a thunderous boom, leaving it in a sizzling heap. The air reeks of burnt flesh and ozone.
Almost as quickly as it began, it's over. The sounds of battle quiet. All she can hear is moans of agony from injured fighters and the terrified sobs of the civilians.
Gale crouches over her and pulls one of the few potions he carries on him out of his pouch, pressing the bottle to her lips. With his help, she manages to sit up and drink it, the wounds closing sluggishly and only to a point. The ingredients she'd managed to find in this place had all been of middling quality and potency, but they were better than nothing, even if the potions weren't as effective as she would have liked.
Through the doors, the protective bubble continues to waver—dimmer than Siobhan has ever seen it. She feels cold.
Caring for the injured uses up a frightening amount of her medical supplies. With both clerics out of commission, it falls to Siobhan, Jaeheira, and Halsin with their limited healing abilities to tend to the wounded. The elves, many times her seniors, are familiar with the concept of triage and understand the necessity of it, having seen exponentially more battles than she.
The lost causes are sedated to reduce their suffering as they pass away. The dead are buried and given final rights. Anyone well enough or sporting minor injuries is working, moving bodies, laundering soiled bandages, and cutting linen sheets to make more. It's hours before Siobhan finally has the opportunity to sit. She plants herself next to the door to Isobel's room to wait for Shadowheart while Jaeheira paces back and forth beside her as she has done for the past hour.
Siobhan tries not to think about the gashes across her chest. They throb and itch underneath the tight bandages. Siobhan would drink to numb the pain, but she doesn't know if she'll be needed again, so she just sits.
Eventually, Wyll joins her. Karlach and Gale remain with the tiefling children to distract them from the gore of a field hospital. Lae'zel stands sentry on the roof in case of another assault. Finally, Shadowheart emerges, arm in a sling, and the right side of her face is swollen and bruised, red and purple.
"Well?" Jaeheira asks impatiently as Shadowheart carefully closes the door of Isobel's room behind her.
"She'll live, but casting the protection over Last Light takes a significant amount of strength. To fully recover, she needs to rest and take a break from casting . . ."
"Which isn't an option, of course, unless we all want to fall victim to the curse," Jaeheira scowls.
"Exactly. Until we break it, this is the best she can do for now."
"Breaking the curse has become our first priority then. I don't think we can withstand another assault." Siobhan winces as she stands.
Wyll helps her up, "Well, we're heading to Moonrise anyway to save the tieflings and do reconnaissance on the cult. Might as well kill Ketheric while we're there. Should be easy enough."
"If only it were so simple. Ketheric Thorm has managed to make himself invulnerable. Until you figure out how to reverse or break whatever magic is keeping him alive, there's no chance of defeating him." Jaeheira frowns.
"Go to Reithwin town. There's a tap house there under the control of Thisobald Thorm. Before the curse and corruption of the Thorms, he was Ketheric's consigliere. He will know how Ketheric managed it, or at least the next place to look."
"Rest," Jaeheira urges them, "you must depart in the morning. Time is short. Once you've spoken to Thisobald, head straight to Moonrise and learn what you can. Rescue the captives. Return to Last Light. We'll start preparing for the assault on the Absolutist forces."
Siobhan tries to follow Jaeheira's advice, but sleep refuses to come. The wavering protection around Last Light is weak enough that the shadow curse finds ways to seep through. There isn't a single one of them that isn't affected by the bout of insomnia, nor the persistent and stomach-churning dread that pools in her gut. Siobhan gives Shadowheart the last of her sedatives. It's essential that she sleeps, at least if they want any hope of healing tomorrow.
In her restlessness, she seeks out Astarion, who's been notably absent ever since the fighting ended. She finds him at the docks, sitting with his feet over the water, seemingly doubled over in agony with his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen.
"Astarion? Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Siobhan rushes over to his side, gasping as the movement tugs at her bandages.
"Get away from me!" Astarion snarls at her, scrambling away from her outstretched hand. He's shaking, his face gaunt, cheeks hollow, eyes wild and pained. Feral.
"What do you need?" Siobhan backs off, keeping both her hands in view. Astarion's gaze drops to her throat, and his mouth opens. A desperate whine falls from his lips.
"Oh, gods. You must be starving. And all the blood everywhere—I'm so sorry. Come here. You can—"
"Are you fucking stupid?" Astarion snaps, retreating further, "You don't have enough for the both of us after that thing nearly tore you apart. I'll drain you bloody dry!"
Siobhan pulls the chain of the amulet around her neck out from under her shirt so that Astarion can see it, "Halsin gave this to me. It's an amulet of Silvanus. Lesser Restoration. Once a day, I can call upon its magic. I'm injured, yes, but not bloodless. You can eat, Astarion. You need to eat. Please," she holds out a hand again and beckons him. "it's okay."
Astarion stands there frozen in hopeful disbelief for a second before hunger wins out. He closes the distance between them in a few strides, pouncing, clutching her tightly to his chest, and pulling her head to the side before plunging his fangs into her throat. The pain knocks the wind out of her lungs, and Siobhan realizes now how careful he's been with her in the past. Astarion is beyond careful now.
He drinks greedily, draining her one desperate swallow after another. Astarion's frantic gasps crash against her throat, cold compared to the warmth spilling from her veins. When her legs fail, he sinks to the ground on his knees with her, moaning into her neck, almost sobbing with relief, lapping and suckling on the wound as her blood starts to flow more sluggishly. Astarion envelops her; there's no place where he isn't, and it is hard to tell where she begins and he ends.
Siobhan cradles the back of his head weakly, running her fingers through his curls as he drinks his fill. Something she's never been able to do before. A sweetness she's longed to give him but never could.
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay . . ." she whispers over and over again like a mantra.
It's been a tenday since he's eaten. Longer. Before the shadow curse, before the Grymforge, before the arcane tower even. Why hadn't he said anything? She had offered the night Elminster delivered Gale the news, but he had declined—something he'd never done before, now that she thinks about it. Why hadn't Siobhan noticed the deviation?
Gods, she's too easily distracted. There's too much to keep track of, and she's let Astarion's well-being fall through the cracks.
Siobhan's vision starts to blacken around the edges, but she lets him continue just a bit longer. It's the least she can do after letting him starve for so long. She has that amulet now, so he can have as much as he wants without consequence. As long as he doesn't kill her, of course. Siobhan struggles to keep her eyes open, her heart stutters in her chest, and she's so cold—numb.
Her fingers in his hair tighten, and she tugs gently.
"Astarion, enough." The words slur on her tongue.
Astarion's grip on her hardens, teeth still deep in her neck, but he stops swallowing.
"I'll feed you again tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that . . . I promise." Siobhan tugs again. This time, Astarion unlatches. His head falls against her shoulder, and he pants against her, shaking. Siobhan keeps her free hand against the punctures until the blood slows and then clots.
Astarion holds her like that for a while. Long enough that her legs fall asleep, prickling painfully, and her back starts to ache. Siobhan dares not move. There's something so desperate about the way he clings to her she can't bear to pull him away before he's ready. She's dizzy, weak, and exhausted, but she's holding him, and he's holding her, and it feels so good it very nearly hurts.
Oh, what it is to be held like this—to be held by him. Siobhan thinks she could do this for the rest of her life and never tire of it for even a moment.
Siobhan buries her nose in his hair, which smells of rosemary, bergamot, and something else, something specifically Astarion, and then presses her lips to his head. She kisses and caresses him until the tremors stop and his breath evens out. Eventually, Astarion goes still once he finds his composure. Siobhan freezes in response. Whenever he's taken by that stillness, Siobhan's struck with an awful, dreadful feeling that she's missed something important.
"Astar—eep!"
Astarion scoops her up like a sack of flour, and Siobhan holds onto him for dear life, one hand clutching the fabric of his collar and the other twisted into the fabric on his chest. The world spins, and she shuts her eyes.
"Let's get you to bed, shall we?" Astarion says, but his teasing comes out strained, an uneasy edge to his voice. She wants to interrogate him and tease out whatever thoughts swirling in his skull trouble him so— that he tries so fiercely to disguise, but the churning of Siobhan's stomach steals all her focus.
"Oh, don't jostle me so much; you're making me nauseous." Siobhan groans, pressing her face into his shoulder as he carries her back to the inn. The arms around her steady, no longer rocking her as much, and she sighs, relieved.
"You don't need to wait for me to offer, you know?" Siobhan mumbles against him. "If you're hungry, just ask. I don't want to keep forgetting—there's always so much going on. Just ask."
Astarion doesn't answer. Siobhan would open her eyes to check the expression on his face, but she's afraid that if she does, she'll empty the contents of her stomach all over the both of them. He remains silent until he tucks her into her cot. The wooziness overwhelms whatever affect the curse has had that's keeping her awake, and she starts to doze off. When Astarion turns to leave, Siobhan reaches out and grabs his wrist. He looks back at her.
"Promise you'll ask?"
Astarion stares. The tadpole wiggles behind her left eye, and suddenly, he's in her mind.
?
The question mark bounces around in her skull; with every collision, it takes on a different meaning. Questions her, questions her motives, questions the veracity of her offer— just ask?
Yesyesyesyesyes
Astarion kneels next to her and kisses her hungrily, tongue diving into her mouth, pressing and dragging his teeth against her bottom lip. Not enough to draw blood but enough to feel the sharp edges catch. Astarion breaks away, leaving Siobhan breathless and flushed.
"I promise."
"Oh," Siobhan exhales, more dazed than before, "okay. Thank you."
Astarion smirks down at her, "No, darling. Thank you."