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Chapter Text

Baldur's Gate isn't a quiet city, even in the dead of night, but the graveyards are insulated by respect and a healthy dose of fear for what their keepers might do with troublemakers. That, plus a long cloak with an ample hood, allows Vyuprax to visit her love's grave uninterrupted. Her reputation grants her some clemency — the rebel Mindflayer who saved the world can, at least, step outside its house without being cut down — but sometimes discretion is actually the better part of valor. And this is… personal.

The gravestone is nice. Well cared for, well carved. Candulhallow's reopened under a new name and management several years after the city was restored, in the same location, tucked into the lovingly reconstructed and just as shifty alleyway that winds past the wrought iron fence. Karlach thought it was appropriate. They never did send the bill, after the funeral ended. Vyuprax never did bother to pay.

I miss you. She kneels down, hands on the cold grass. It's not quite winter yet, not quite a full year. There had been snow, just a little, when they lowered the casket into the earth. I don't know how much longer I'll be myself. I can feel it all fading without you to anchor me. It grows easier every day to be cruel, to see the people around me as livestock instead of lives.

A good turn of phrase, that one. Years ago, she would have written it into a song, something mournful to play when the tavern lights grew dim and heartbreak weighed heavy. The tragedy of an illithid, too enamored with its past self to realize how little is truly left. These days, she doesn't sing, and her lute gathers dust in the bedroom she never uses.

When I go, I'll ask Lae'zel to kill me. She'll make it quick. It would be too cruel to make Shadowheart, though she would if I insisted. Wyll… doesn't have the heart for it, not with his first grandchild just born. I don't even know where I'd find Astarion or Gale these days. But I'm sure they'll turn up for the funeral. Maybe if I ask very nicely, Gale will even make sure I look… hah. Who am I kidding? I doubt any of them remember what I looked like before this.

The mirror doesn't shock her, not after almost twenty years of dead, black eyes and thin purple skin and tentacles. But sometimes she tries to remember what she used to see. A proud face, icy blue scales clouded with a perpetual permafrost, curling horns pierced and wrapped in the colors of her circus. Her eyes were yellow, almost golden, glittering with mischief.

I always wondered, you know. Whether it could have been different. Whether I could have done better. Been more clever, moved faster, stopped all this madness before it destroyed so much. She pauses, tentacles wrinkling up. Then again, maybe if I had, things would be more fucked up. You came so close to dying so many times, love. And we got more years together than I could have hoped for. I wouldn't trade that for anything. But if I could have just…

Vyuprax shakes her head and stands. She can hear the gravekeeper getting close, and her presence here, now, isn't exactly intended. It would be so very simple to charm the young cleric that's just beginning to round the bend in the path, overpower the mind in that fragile skull until her presence is erased. It wouldn't even be the first time. She can see exactly how it will play out; the fear, the twitching panic under her hold, the sedate blinking after she's located and removed the memories. The temptation to take advantage of what's already so vulnerable and feed.

Instead, she twitches a tentacle in a lazy approximation of the proper sigil-sign and calls up an illusion of a cat. It shimmers into reality on the other side of the path, lets out a mournful yowl, and steals the cleric's attention just long enough for a little bit of telekinetic flight to land Vyuprax safely beyond the fence. Her feet don't touch the cobbles — she's lived in Baldur's Gate too long to want them to — as she returns home.

A neighborhood backing up to the new park, with its sprawling forests and the odd misplaced owlbear, isn't exactly a farm and a mean old goat. Then again, a Mindflayer isn't exactly an ideal life partner, and they never quite felt it was right to raise a family. Karlach had made some compromises about her future plans after they got her engine truly, properly fixed, but the joy of leaving Avernus alive never faded enough to make either of them regret how things ended up.

Their house stands separate from the others, a rarity even in this nicer part of town. The brick facade has aged, gone from a fresh red to a dull, smoke-coated brown as years of city smog have written themselves onto the architecture. There's a new patch halfway up, scar tissue a shade too pink to blend in, after the dragon attack ten years ago tore right through their street. One of the windows facing the park has a spiderwebbing fracture through the glass courtesy of the neighbor's adolescent sorcerer and their unpredictable tantrums. Laying out on the doorstep, just as horrid and tacky and glorious as the day Alfira gifted it to them at the wedding, is a rug in the technicolor patterns Vyuprax used to wear so fondly. It is, in other words, home.

She locks the door behind her, drifting toward the fireplace. It lights with a thought, crackling and gnawing at the kindling and wood inside. Habit dictates that she settle into her armchair with a book, but she simply sits down, hands and tentacles unoccupied. Visiting Karlach always brings a certain melancholy, and no amount of distraction will cure the ache in her chest. Sleep is a rare treat, but tonight… tonight, she'll indulge.

~

Vyuprax wakes already halfway to panic, her limbs forced against her side by the confines of something. It's very nearly familiar, but as she tries to summon up the relevant memory, the response from her neocortex is sluggish. Almost as if she's been drugged — she doesn't taste the residue of magic on the air, so probably not a curse.

Outside, beyond the foggy pane of glass, is a great swathe of red and purple. Parts of the structure pulse and shudder as if under strain, like the death throes of a giant beast. Maybe that's what it is, and she's been swallowed up by a vengeful monster, except that makes no damn sense because she is clearly inside some sort of cage.

It should take less than a thought to open the door. No matter how hard she thinks, throwing every iota of telekinetic force she has in her not-insignificant stores at the physicality of it, she can't even make it budge. A further impact of the drug, dampening all her mental powers.

Fine. A lock, perhaps? It's been a while since she picked one, but she can surely shimmy a tentacle into the cylinder and—

She doesn't have tentacles. She doesn't have tentacles.

What the everloving fuck, she thinks, and then the glass shatters under the thunderous force of a much greater impact, and her vision goes dark once more.

~

This time, she's prepared. She reaches, physically, with her hand, for the dagger that lives strapped to her chest. Nothing. The clothes are wrong, padded fabric over what feels like leather — but if she's been Polymorphed or something similar, then the long robes and jagged armor she was wearing wouldn't fit right anyway. A bizarre tactic to neutralize her more powerful abilities, but an effective one.

No dagger, and likely none of her other equipment either. Time to open her eyes, then, and hope that whoever's taken her hasn't been looking to notice that she's awake.

First: the room is ablaze and she's free of her cage, sprawled out on her back on the floor. Second: this isn't just any room. This is a Nautiloid. The Nautiloid, in fact. The fragmented remains of the pod she's been forcibly expelled from sit just a few short steps away, and there's the pool full of tadpoles to her left, bubbling like the world's worst soup. If she forgot everything else from her journey, she would remember this.

Mindflayers don't have nightmares. Anatomically, they can't. The parts of the brain that allow such things don't work the way that they do in other races, too locked-down under her own control. Even if she could be having a nightmare, it makes no sense. Why this place, not the abyssal black of the shadow-cursed lands? Not the fear that ran down her spine in buckets as she faced down Myrkul's Apostle, or Bhaal's Slayer, or Raphael, or the Netherbrain?

A shudder wracks the membranes of the room, sending gushes of thick, acidic blood from the wounds carved by the wreckage. It ignites with violent enthusiasm where it touches the smoldering patches, a pleasant gift from the Githyanki and their dragons.

Dragons. Slowly, Vyuprax raises her hand in front of her face, and her heart does something strange and delighted in her chest when she sees scales. Twenty years with skin barely thicker than paper, twenty years needing to bundle up against the cold, twenty years envying Karlach's tail. She's herself again, claws and fangs and horns and all.

The noise that escapes between her teeth isn't quite laughter. Moving her mouth to make sounds is a foreign act now, and doesn't get it right, but the sound rings triumphant through the chamber. Rough around the edges, catching on her tongue, the most beautiful noise since she last heard Karlach laugh.

Not a nightmare, almost certainly not some elaborately staged play. The details are too correct. This is her body, exactly as it was; discolored scales on her left thumb from a stupid bar fight, chipped back fang, callouses, everything. She didn't even remember all of this until now.

So, best to act as if this is real. Somehow. A strange trick of fate, or an interfering god, or a spell gone wrong. One way or another, she's been thrust back to this moment. Whatever the cause, she can determine it better once she's off this rapidly-crashing vessel. Which means finding Lae'zel and Shadowheart.

Which requires standing. Easy enough. She's done it plenty of times. Just… not in the past two decades, since hovering became more efficient. But she can do this, surely. Instinct will take over. One foot flat on the ground, then the other. Her center of balance is so different like this, the counterweight of her tail — gods above, she never realized how much she missed having that — dragging it low. But even as the Nautiloid quakes around her once more, she stays upright.

"Got it," she mutters, and then nearly falls over with shock at the realization that she spoke. Out loud, with words. "Fuck, do I really sound like this?"

The vibrations of it make her nose itch, resonating through her sinuses and throat like a bell being rung directly against her skull. She has a voice again. She could sing again.

And, because there's no reason not to, she does. It's an old tune, something about a river, and she's surprised by how easily her voice takes to it as she crosses the room. The better part of music is muscle memory, and clearly she's been given exactly what she had when she was stolen away. The high notes are a stretch, but her domain has always been the low, rich tones, almost matching the tenor thrum of the Nautiloid's pulse around her.

As she steps through the ring of muscle that divides the two chambers, the smog of Avernus pours in from outside to choke her with grimy memories. Too many nights spent half-asleep, watching for the inevitable ambush. Weeks of devil blood and worse caked onto skin so persistently it felt like it would never come loose. The bland, sour taste of imp brains in her beak as she accustomed herself to a new way of feeding.

A voice pierces her mind. Help us, here, hereoverherehelpus!

The larval intellect devourer. Us. A shockingly loyal ally, right until the Netherbrain's final spasms sent it to its death. She can't just leave it here, trapped in the skull of someone far past saving. It's only a brief detour, one that will be worth it for the extra help.

The platform rises sluggishly, so much slower than direct telekinesis. Karlach used to ask why they even had stairs, when Vyuprax was impatient and simply flew between floors. But now she waits, swishing her tail back and forth and reveling in being able to do that at all.

When she reaches the corpse, limp and sprawled across the chair, she expects a pang of hunger at the sight of so much exposed cerebellum. Her mouth waters preemptively, even, but there's no reaction from her stomach. Not even a twinge.

"Hello, little one."

You've come to save us! Us' voice whispers and slides through her thoughts, jubilant. From this place, you will free us!

I will, just let me work, she replies. Tries to reply. It's different, projecting her mind without the innate talent for it. Less like speaking, more like trying to shout while underwater.

But it seems to get the idea across, because Us holds still as she gently, carefully pries it loose from its calcified prison. The body twitches once, a final muscle contraction, as its brain separates from the nervous system and becomes a new thing entirely.

We are free! Thank you! Many thanks, friend. Friend who saved us, friend who freed us.

Vyuprax tries to return the gratitude that washes over her in broad, eager strokes, like the slobber of an enthusiastic dog. Us shudders in her hands, tensing, and for a moment she's concerned she's done something wrong. Then the thin, whiplike cords of ganglia sprout from within the tissue, legs following shortly after. Its own kind of ceremorphosis, complete. She sets it down on the ground, where it scampers off toward the platform.

The Helm! To the Helm we must go. We should hurry to the Helm, friend.

Outside, then, onto the walkway. The air is full of dragons and psionic missiles, burning hot with the flames of the Hells and the hatred of the Githyanki. Either that temperature is more acute here than it was on the battlefields of Avernus, or regaining her taste for the cold came with a corresponding loss of heat tolerance. It'll be interesting to see which it is.

Vyuprax isn't so lost in that contemplation that she can forget what's about to happen. Two more steps, three at the most, and Lae'zel will launch herself down from some outcropping above. With any luck, she'll quickly realize who Vyuprax is, and they can make their way off this damned vessel and toward some answers.

One step.

It's been so long since they last saw each other face to face properly. The wedding had to be delayed twice — once to accommodate the unfortunate timing of a pan-Gith peace conference, once because of what turned out to be unrelated cult activity — so that Lae'zel could even make it, and that had been a scant few hours. It was worth it, of course, to see both her and Xan in the flesh. But Astral Realm projections can't give hugs, and it's going to be damn hard to resist the urge right now.

Two.

She hears the squelch of a boot finding secure purchase on flesh, and tilts her head back just in time to see the graceful arc of Lae'zel's leap. The Githyanki lands with her sword, an inferior relative of the truesilver blade she took into battle with such pride, pointed squarely at Vyuprax's neck.

"Abomination," she hisses, eyes narrowed. "This is your end!"

Which is not according to plan, though Vyuprax doesn't have time to really think about that. Splitting, squirming pain lances through her skull, and her vision clouds with images stolen from Lae'zel's eyes. The sensation is one she knows all too well: the work of a tadpole that, by rights, should either be long since integrated or gone.

"Shit," Vyuprax mutters. This is bad, this is bad, and Lae'zel is talking but she can't quite process any of it until she hears…

"Vlaakith blesses me this day!"

This isn't her Lae'zel. It's the same face, the same body, the same easy confidence as she slings her sword across her back. The same sharp grin that overtakes her previous expression of terrified fury as she says, "Together, we might survive."

But her Lae'zel — the warrior she fought monsters and would-be gods alongside, the strategist and diplomat and father, the friend she would have trusted to put her down when the inevitable fate of all Mindflayers struck — hasn't spoken Vlaakith's name in that tone of worship in twenty years.

Words. She should be saying words. That's what she's good at. Lae'zel is expecting a response, and patience may be a virtue but it isn't one that woman properly internalized until well into the act of parenting.

"You don't recognize me?" is what finally comes out of Vyuprax's mouth, in quite possibly the greatest display of idiocy she's managed since her time as a professional fool.

Lae'zel nods sharply. "I saw you in one of those pods as they inserted a tadpole into my own eye. You suffered the same fate. We will be ghaik, Mindflayers, within days. Unless we escape and are cleansed."

"Lead the way, then," Vyuprax says. It's diplomatic and means that Lae'zel turns away to do just that. Which means that no one, save perhaps Us, sees the look of panic that surely overtakes Vyuprax's face with the growing realization that she was wrong.

She had been operating, however briefly, under the assumption that everyone had been affected by the same spell. That all those infected with the parasite would know what happened. That she wouldn't be alone. But as Lae'zel strides ahead, and as Vyuprax follows suit, it becomes clear that such an assumption was foolish at best.

It doesn't change anything, fundamentally, about the immediate future. She still needs to rescue Shadowheart and get the Nautiloid to Faerûn, if nothing else. From there, gather the others. See if they've all truly forgotten. And then… go from there.

For now, though, there are imps to deal with. The approach of two Illithid thralls drew their attention away from their grotesque meal of corpses, and they aren't taking kindly to the intrusion. One of them hisses a curse in Infernal, the kind of thing she's heard more times than she can count.

The fight is hardly worth the title. Vyuprax draws her rapier, the weapon sitting comfortably in her hand, and runs it through the closest imp. Lae'zel takes out the second with a swing of her blade, and Us tears into the third before it can even get into the air.

"Little bastards," Vyuprax sighs. "They never know when to leave things be."

She kneels to loot the imp bodies more out of habit than expectation. It's a pleasant surprise to find a handful of coins and a spare crossbow, bolts and all, between the infernal corpses and the dead human they had been feeding on. Normally, none of this would be worth the effort, but right now, she'll take anything.

"You have a bow, right?" she asks.

"The Githyanki do not send their warriors into battle unarmed," Lae'zel says by way of reply.

"Good. I have literally no idea what my magic will be like right now, and this won't be our only fight before we get off this ship. I'd rather keep my distance if possible, at least until we get our hands on some proper scale mail. This leather is cheap garbage and I am feeling extra vulnerable right now."

The only response Lae'zel gives to her rambling is a huff of breath and an even faster walk toward the web of artery and sinew that allows them to climb further up. It's staggeringly different from the banter they usually shared, the back and forth of cheerful insults that only honed Vyuprax's one liners to pair with Vicious Mockery. She'd even given Lae'zel a nice lead-in that time, the opportunity to point out that if she were a true warrior she would take the hits head-on rather than dancing and dodging around them.

It's fine. Vyuprax digs her claws into the fleshy wall as she scrambles up the netting and relishes the thought of it hurting the Nautiloid in some vague, undirected form of vengeance.

They reach the next chamber soon, the circular space dominated by an ominous, red-tinged mass at the center. There's a control panel in front of it, some bodies surrounding it, but those barely even rank in comparison to the pod. The sounds coming from it are muffled, but Vyuprax would know Shadowheart's indignant shouting anywhere.

"We don't have time for stragglers," Lae'zel sneers, and Vyuprax opts to very politely ignore her.

"I'll get you out of there," she promises, meeting Shadowheart's dark, panicked eyes through the glass. "Give me five minutes."

Her memories of this place and its layout are resolving into greater clarity with every second; even without enhancement, dragonborn live so long that twenty years isn't nearly enough to forget details. So she locates the corpse with the rune slate easily, pocketing it alongside a pair of health potions.

"Why are you bothering with this?" Lae'zel asks. "She is weak. We need to hurry."

"She's not weak," Vyuprax says. "We were both taken for a reason. So was she. Besides, we need all the help we can get right now."

If Lae'zel has some objection, she doesn't voice it while they head back to the main chamber.

The slate fits neatly into the console beside the pod, activating it. In response, it probes at her psychic presence, looking for a command. It's unfair, of course, that Vyuprax even needs to do this. By all rights, she should be able to operate the controls without trouble. Her mind, her memories, are all the same. But her brain is that of a dragonborn. It simply isn't built for the same level of psychic power. She's eaten a few, when the cult of Tiamat decided to make moves on her city once again, and though delicious, they were no match for a Mindflayer.

As if jostled by the prodding, her tadpole shivers to life once again. It pours borrowed power into her mind, and she pushes the concept of open toward the controls with every ounce of it. Compared to what she used to be capable of, it's a drop in a lake, but right now, it's more than enough to open the pod. The door unlatches with a hiss, and Shadowheart tumbles out.

"Need a hand?"

Shadowheart hesitates. Then again, why would she trust a strange dragonborn to provide selfless aid? Not to mention her paranoia surrounding Githyanki.

"I'm not going to bite," Vyuprax says. "Neither is Lae'zel, probably, no matter what she says."

Behind her, Lae'zel snaps,  "You do not speak for me, istik."

"You're right, I don't," she agrees easily. "But again — we need all the help we can get, and it's not productive to spend time squabbling over our prejudices right now, when we have bigger problems. So why don't we all set aside our differences for the moment and focus on getting out of here?"

"Very well." Lae'zel sighs.

Finally, Shadowheart allows herself to be pulled to her feet. Vyuprax wants, so badly, to linger and give her hand a comforting squeeze. But it took multiple life-threatening battles and a crisis of faith for Shadowheart to allow hugs, and Vyuprax would rather remain attached to all her appendages. She releases her friend's hand the moment she's upright.

"Thank you," Shadowheart says. "I half expected to die in that damn thing."

Then her eyes go wide, and she suddenly turns back to the pod, sticking her arm inside desperately. A moment later she pulls back, tucking something into her pack. Without seeing it, Vyuprax knows what it must be. The Astral Prism.

Fucking hells below, she's going to have to deal with that situation, isn't she?

Shadowheart turns around once again, clearly expecting to be interrogated. Instead, Vyuprax bows toward the next sphincter.

"Ladies first," she says.

There's an obvious wrinkle to Shadowheart's nose as she approaches, and an equally obvious refusal to let Lae'zel see any discomfort. Shadowheart fancies herself a mystery, but her tells make her an open book to a knowing eye. Were she any less skilled at reading people — at reading these people — Vyuprax would probably miss it entirely, or else dismiss it all as haughty elven disdain.

It hits, as Vyuprax watches Shadowheart pass in front of her, why she looks wrong. Her hair is inky black, not the pale shade of moonlight that it's been ever since Shadowheart turned away from Shar's cold, cruel embrace. In the flickering, strange light of the Nautiloid, it hadn't been obvious at first, but now it's impossible to ignore.

The horrible thing is, fundamentally, the fact that Vyuprax knows she can't just tell her friends that their goddesses are using them. They're both too loyal, too proud, too entrenched in a lifetime of servitude to be broken free by anything short of overwhelming lived evidence — and even then, it took time. A stranger they met mere minutes ago won't change anything. But despite knowing that, a long-dormant part of her wants nothing more than to grab each of them by the shoulders, meet their eyes, and… fix it. Rescue them preemptively from the pain of betrayal that will come, inevitably, if they stay on this path.

"We're approaching the Helm," Lae'zel announces. "Once inside, do as I say."

"Who put you in charge?" Shadowheart snaps. "I'll trust my own judgment."

…then again, maybe a little bit of lived experience wouldn't hurt.

"Both of you, stop it," Vyuprax says sharply. "There's going to be imps in there, not to mention the devil and the mindflayer. We're going to need to cooperate."

As both half-elf and Githyanki turn to look at her with expressions of shockingly identical suspicion, Vyuprax realizes that she should have, perhaps, not said some of the things she did. The sphincter between this chamber and the Helm is most certainly shut.

"How do you know what the Helm contains?" demands Lae'zel.

Shadowheart's eyes narrow. "I was about to ask the same thing."

There's any number of excuses she could give here, surely. An hour ago— twenty years from now— before, she would have been able to think through the consequences of each of them, and calculate the most optimal answer to avoid questions and guarantee cooperation. Here and now, with a tadpole-addled mind still processing all of this, Vyuprax does what she does best. She opens her mouth and wings it.

"I'm… clairvoyant. Blessed with visions of the future, ever since I was an egg." Perfect. Great work, brain. "That's how I know that your name is Shadowheart, and that we're about to walk into a fight between a Mindflayer and a devil commander with a flaming sword, and that in about three minutes a red dragon is going to swoop in and roast this place to a crisp if we don't get our asses in the Helm to teleport ourselves away. Now, I will happily answer all of your questions after we have prevented a deeply unpleasant, but remarkably quick, death via my kinfolk. Okay? Okay."

She doesn't wait to let them reply, or argue, or whatever they're about to do. She just marches into the Helm, Us following at her heels.

The nerves! We must connect the nerves, friend.

The transponder lies at the far end of the warzone that is the Helm. In between, several Mindflayers are losing very, very badly to a pair of devil commanders and their imp soldiers.

Is this what I looked like? The tentacles writhing and slimy, the eyes cold and dead. No kindness in the features except that of the inevitable end of all things. Exposed cerebellum quivering with every pulse of psionic force, like some sort of torn-open corpse kept breathing and twitching by necromancy. How did Karlach stand me?

As she stands there, stuck in place by some new, dawning horror of self-reflection, two of the Mindflayers finally take down the more injured commander, though he gets as good as he got. When that tangle of bodies hits the floor, all that remains is a single Mindflayer, the other commander, and a handful of chattering imps.

She needs to hurry. The dragons are swooping lower, closing in with every pass, their great wings already blacking out the burning light. Another minute, maybe less, and whatever bold, idiotic servant of Vlaakith is circling the Helm will ensure that no one survives the next few weeks.

"Cover me," Vyuprax calls over her shoulder. Then, as she begins to run, she pushes a thought to Us. Keep those imps busy. I'll be back for you, I promise.

It isn't a perfect plan. Her leather armor is truly awful, and this version of her body is less trained than she would like. One imp gets a lucky hit that gouges right through to her sword arm, the pain sharp enough that she has to stop for a breath. She can hear its little friends chattering and laughing behind her, gurgles of gleeful Infernal.

"Gonna keep this one's skins for armor!" one crows.

It's a stupid waste of time, especially now, but Vyuprax twists to send a crossbow bolt right through the skull of the imp in question, on principle. It hits the floor with a startled cry and then goes silent. A half-second later, Lae'zel downs another with her bow, letting Us finish it off. Shadowheart is hanging back, picking her way through the unsteady terrain of the ship with more caution as she flings radiant golden flames at any imp that gets too close.

Then Lae'zel gasps in pain, and Vyuprax stops in her tracks mere inches from the mass of tentacles she needs to reach. She can't help it — this is the sound of her friend wounded near to death. Halfway across the Helm, Lae'zel sinks to her knees under an onslaught of imps. They're weak individually, but with so many of them ganging up on her, they've managed to get in close and impede her arms, impeding her ability to fight back. Us is trying its best, but it can only do so much against flying enemies.

Shadowheart stands a few feet away, her mace held hesitantly in her hands. She's watching with an expression somewhere between fear and… vindication.

The anger bubbling in Vyuprax's chest is an unfamiliar sensation. Life as a Mindflayer was full of cold, calculating logic, rather than true emotions. She felt things, of course; happiness, fear, a contentment close enough to love. But it isn't until this moment, with a fury deep enough to build frost on her fangs, that she realizes what she was missing. The intensity of it, the logic that runs through blood rather than brain. There are rules, lines that aren't crossed, and one she has always held above all others is that you never, ever let your own suffer if you can fix it.

"Shadowheart!" Vyuprax snarls. There's no doubt in her mind that her voice carries the distance. Even the devil, busy trying to slash at its prey, looks over. "Help her, now."

Shadowheart flinches, and a moment later, Lae'zel is wreathed in a brief glow of blue light. The spell gives her enough strength to shake off the clinging imps, struggling back to her feet. Hopefully it's enough to survive their oncoming crash.

Vyuprax turns back to the transponder. The great body of a red dragon is perched on the tentacled bow of the Nautiloid, merciless yellow eyes staring back at her own through the membrane of glass. It opens its mouth, already aglow with flame. She grabs two tendrils at random, somehow certain they'll do the job. For good luck, she thinks of Faerûn.

And, just as fire overtakes her vision and everything begins to go an ashen shade of black, she connects the nerves. Reality becomes sickening and twisted. For what she sincerely hopes is the last time for a while, Vyuprax slips into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Maybe it's the overwhelming smell of dead fish. Maybe it's the sharp jab of a boot into the tender flesh of her stomach. Either way, Vyuprax is once again woken abruptly and unpleasantly, groaning in pain as every sensation in her body begins crowding for attention at once. Her sword arm is still sliced open, her head is throbbing, her tail is squished under her body at a deeply uncomfortable angle, she's tired, and if she doesn't get the taste of sand and seawater out of her mouth in the next five minutes she's going to throw up. She opens her eyes with extreme reluctance.

The sky is a painfully bright shade of blue, though the corpse of the Nautiloid does a good job at blocking out most of the sun. Shadowheart's face soon obscures the rest, brow furrowed as she frowns down.

"Oh good, you're alive," she says. She doesn't sound overly thrilled about this fact, which is fine, because Vyuprax isn't too happy either. "Do you know where we are?"

"A beach. Near enough to Baldur's Gate, if I had to guess."

"That's quite impressive, given that you just woke up. Another vision?" The acid in her tone could chew through rock.

"Something like that," Vyuprax says. She forces herself to stand, ignoring the pain that lances through her arm as she braces herself against the ground. "Are you alright?"

Shadowheart blinks, taken aback. "I'm fine. Better than you look, at least."

Vyuprax sighs. "Yeah. That fall hurt more than I expected."

"Hmm." After a look that is clearly a once-over to assess any wounds — ever the cleric — Shaodwheart sighs. "We need to find a healer, and not just for your scrape. We might have escaped, but we still have these little monsters in our heads."

"We're working together, then?" She knows the answer, but it can't hurt to have Shadowheart say it out loud.

"For now. We need each other, and we both know what's at stake."

"In that case, there's something I need to make very clear. I don't care if you don't like me, or any of the other allies we might pick up along the way." A lie, but that tender part of herself isn't useful now. "What happened back there, you letting Lae'zel get hurt for no reason, is not going to happen again. If we're working together, I'm going to be doing everything I can to keep you alive, and I expect that same respect from you. Not just for me, but for anyone we're fighting alongside."

An expression of discomfort passes over Shadowheart's face, pursed lips and tense shoulders. She clearly considers saying something, then catches herself. Finally, she nods.

"Good. Then let's move on," Vyuprax says. "We should try to get some supplies before we go any further."

They wander the beach for a while in a companionable sort of quiet, gathering up the freshly-dead fish and what few resources can be found on the even-more-freshly-dead fishermen. Waterskins, a scant couple of gold pieces, a knife crusted over with saltwater blood. It would almost feel like a waste of time, with so many other worries, but they're going to need to eat. Ultimately, it's cheaper to forage than to buy, and there's plenty to go around here. As Vyuprax is plucking stalks of mergrass from the tide pools, folding them up before sliding the bundles into her pack, Shadowheart breaks the silence.

"I owe you," she says. "For saving me, when you could have just as easily run past my pod. I… thank you."

"Of course. If I could have saved the other victims, I would. No one deserves that fate." Against their will, at least. It was easier to swallow, somehow, when it felt like ceremorphosis was her choice. Easier to justify when it was necessary to save the world.

Shadowheart hums an agreement. "I don't know much about what's going to happen, but I doubt it'll be pleasant."

"If the stories I've heard are any indication, it isn't," Vyuprax says. "But we should have some time to get them removed. Do you think this is enough for a few days?"

"Provided we don't pick up too many more strays, yes. We've got plenty of fresh water, which is good. Probably means there's a settlement near here."

Less than an hour's walk, in fact, Vyuprax thinks with a smile. "Good point. Let's see if we can't find it."

She stands up, shouldering her pack carefully to avoid jostling her bad arm. The pain is beginning to fade, though not as fast as she'd like. It should be easy to play a quick tune on her lute and get back some portion of vitality, but… it's been a long, long time. Her hands and lips might remember, but her mind still fills with the old, familiar feeling of stage fright. It's only a small scratch, really. She'll manage until they can rest properly.

To do that, they'll have to go through the Nautiloid. The chapel that looms over the beach is locked tight, and with her arm in such a state, Vyuprax isn't sure she can pick the lock. Besides, the place will be crawling with looters soon enough, and she'd rather not pick that fight right now. Intellect devourers are much easier to squash, at least at a distance.

"Be careful," she warns. "I don't think we're alone out here."

Shadowheart obligingly slows her steps, sticking to the darker areas. Even in half-plate, she's always been quiet. Vyuprax follows suit, tip-toeing delicately around the wreckage.

Sure enough, there's a pair of wounded intellect devourers squabbling over a piece of imp cerebellum. Without a Mindflayer to lead them and so far away from the influence of the Elder Brain, they're aimless and discoordinated. It's easy enough for Vyuprax to get their attention with a well-aimed crossbow bolt.

Shadowheart finishes off the more wounded one with a blast of fire, but the second one screams as it runs straight for Vyuprax. Telepathic pressure lances through her skull like a knife, making her eyes water.

Traitor! Liar! Thief! the creature shrieks.

It's close, too close, and she panics. A Thunderwave tears itself out from her throat, a bass roar that leaves mist hanging in the air for a moment as the miniscule ice crystals she exhaled evaporate instantly. The intellect devourer is flung backwards, hitting a section of wall with a wet thud and then falling still.

She freezes. Even magic is different like this. Not as effortless as it once was, not as refined. But this belongs to her. This is what it used to be, before she traded instinct for pure control. It makes her uncomfortable, her body clashing with her mind. But this is hardly the time or place for interrogating that.

The third and final member of the little group, summoned by its companion's dying cries, is still clambering over the wreckage when Shadowheart lunges forward to squish it flat with her mace.

"Good work."

Shadowheart rolls her eyes. "Don't patronize me. They were half dead."

"Still," Vyuprax says.

She kneels down to dig her claws into the brainstem of the nearest intellect devourer. It snaps off in her hand easily enough, and she tucks it into her pack. Onto the next one. The motion is familiar, even if the lack of accompanying hunger is still bizarre. She can feel the squish of reinforced grey matter under her fingers, but that's all.

"What are you doing?"

Snap. "It's an ingredient for alchemy. Good for increasing mental fortitude, especially against Illithid psionics." Snap.

"...I see." Shadowheart crosses her arms. "Do you plan to pick fights with any Mindflayers soon?"

"Hopefully," Vyuprax says brightly. She stands back up, brushing sand off her trousers. "There's one I've got my eye on."

It hasn't escaped her notice that she only has the wounds she gained on the Nautiloid; no broken bones, no burns, not even a bruise on her tail from falling out of a crashing airship. The Emperor helped her. By all rights, she should owe it the benefit of the doubt, at least — but she's had a very, very long time to ferment her grudge, like the fine Waterdhavian wine Gale keeps below his tower.

She had trusted it, initially. It had taken the form of an old colleague, a fellow acrobat from her days at the circus. Even after the truth came out, she had been willing to follow most of its advice. It would take a particularly shameless hypocrite to begrudge anyone the right to disguise their true form, after all. But even then, Vyuprax hadn't been a fool. She was cautious, taking the Emperor's words with a hefty helping of salt. Not because it was a Mindflayer, or not just because it was a Mindflayer.

But its total betrayal, going so far as to work alongside the Netherbrain after being so close to freedom… that, she begrudges. If it had been willing to compromise, to work with Orpheus rather than against him, then maybe she could have—

And that's normally where she cuts the train of thought off. There had been, in her home with Karlach in Baldur's Gate, no point in turning over the past like a stone, searching for something new and changing on the underside. Now, once again in the wreckage of her old life and staring down the future, she should be able to do something about it. A kinder, more foolhardy person might hope for cooperation. She just wants revenge.

"Lofty words for someone with intellect devourer goop on their face," Shadowheart says, eyebrow raised in perfect sarcasm.

All of her dignity flies out the window as Vyuprax scrubs frantically at her mouth. She'd gotten so good at being a tidy eater, never letting the cerebrospinal fluid leak onto the rug, and all it's taken is being thrown back in time for all her manners to vanish.

"Did I get it?" she demands, but Shadowheart has already turned away and begun the trek up the hill.

Vyuprax scampers after her, quickly reslinging her pack over her shoulder. As she catches up, she hears shouting.

"Hello? Anyone? A little help!"

Up ahead, emerging from a violently purple hole in reality, is an arm. A very familiar arm. If the voice weren't clue enough, she would recognize those robes anywhere.

"Hello!" Vyuprax calls. "Give me just a minute and I'll have you out of there."

The first time, she had tried to yank him out, only to fail miserably until Shadowheart stepped in to help. This time, surely, she can do a bit better. The portal is pure magic, Woven between the Astral and Material planes by Mystra herself to stop the collision from detonating the bomb in Gale's chest. All it needs is a little bit of gentle coaxing to relax, and he'll be out in no time.

Vyuprax reaches a hand out, not quite touching the portal proper. She still isn't quite sure how to find the middle ground of her own magic now, but if she nudges here and pulls there, then…

"Ow!" Gale yelps. "Whatever you're doing, stop that immediately!"

"Shit, sorry," she mutters. "Not that, then."

And with her arm in the state it's in, she doesn't love her odds of pulling him out by force. This would be the point where she asked Karlach or Lae'zel to lend a hand, but she can't really do that now. Slowly, Vyuprax looks over at Shadowheart.

"Shar guide me," the cleric mutters.

Purple gloom pulses around her, wreathing her hands in night. Shadowheart steps up to the portal, grabs Gale's arm with both hands, braces her feet against the rough dirt, and tugs. Vyuprax stands uselessly at her side, though she soon has the wherewithal to grab onto Gale again and pull as much as she can. Between the two of them — she's choosing to consider this a group effort — Gale comes tumbling out of the cliffside face-first, landing in a heap on top of Shadowheart's boots.

He quickly stands up and brushes himself off, running a hand through his hair to fix its state of disarray. It's shorter, shot through with fewer streaks of grey than Vyuprax is used to, and his face is less wrinkled. The last time she'd seen him had been the funeral — or rather, a few days after, when he had invited himself over for dinner. The company had been nice, even though she had needed to eat beforehand. Gale had never been the most subtle about showing his concerns, but he had always tried to be accomodating.

"Thank you both," he says, smiling slightly. "I'm Gale of Waterdeep. Apologies, I'm usually better at this."

He grabs Shadowheart's hand in a shake before she can step away, then takes Vyuprax's. She smiles back.

"Vyuprax. I'm usually better at rescuing people, so I think we're even." Then she pauses, widens her eyes, and says, "I've been to Waterdeep a few times — you aren't that Gale? The wizard?"

His smile takes a rueful turn. "One and the same, I'm afraid. Normally, you would never find me in such a predicament, but…"

"You were on the Nautiloid, too?"

"Indeed. So I take it you both received a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region?"

Vyuprax doesn't remember many exact turns of phrase from her journey, so many years later, but this one always stuck. It was just so quintessentially Gale, the way he managed to word things in the most abhorrent passive tense possible. Hearing him say it again, exactly the same, is uncanny.

"You could say that," Shadowheart agrees. "You wouldn't happen to be able to remove it?"

Gale grimaces. "Unfortunately not. Perhaps if I had access to my tower and my library, though I must admit, arcane medicine has never been my forte. We may have better luck if we can locate a healer. Unless one of you has any talent in that area?"

"Not to that degree." Shadowheart raises her eyebrows and glances over.

"Oh, no," Vyuprax says. "I've got a lot of talents, but that isn't one. I could have a go with a needle or a good stick, but I don't think that'll end well."

"No, probably not," Gale agrees. "This situation will require a bit more finesse. I take it you're aware that this parasite is no ordinary worm?"

"We ran into a Githyanki who warned us it would turn us into Mindflayers, yes."

"And not quickly, either," he says. "The gestation process is, by all accounts, excruciating."

Perhaps that's true of the normal parasites — she remembers the screams of Baldurians as their bodies warped and twisted. But her own change had been more like waking up from a deep, dreamless sleep. One breathless, gasping moment, and then it was done. Maybe existing in an in-between state had eased the journey, or the tadpole the Emperor provided had been altered to make the process as appealing as possible.

"A Githyanki, though, you say?" Gale continues. There's a light in his eyes that means he's just had a brilliant idea, though whether it'll actually work is another matter entirely. "I've heard rumors that they have some technology for preventing further Mindflayer spawning. Perhaps if we could get in contact with them…"

"You just said yourself that this requires skill," Shadowheart says quickly. "I would rather take my chances with a properly trained healer first. Besides, who knows if we'll even be able to find another Githyanki around here. They're not exactly common."

Vyuprax bravely resists the urge to say anything to the contrary, instead settling for, "Either way, we'll likely do better together. Gale, do you want to join us?"

"I was just about to suggest the same thing!" He claps a hand on her shoulder with enthusiastic familiarity. "How does the saying go? A parasite shared is a parasite halved."

"Something like that," she nods. "Any objections, Shadowheart?"

And, though she sighs, Shadowheart's answering, "The more the merrier, I suppose," only sounds a little sarcastic.

They make their way back toward the corpse of the Nautiloid from there, Vyuprax leading the way down what must have been a path to the beach before the crash. It's become littered with debris, but not so much as to be impassable, even as Gale stumbles slightly.

She has two ulterior motives here. The first is obvious — if memory serves, and if he hasn't wandered off, then Astarion should be somewhere around here. The less time he spends unaccompanied in this state, the better. As for the second…

They have to crawl through a wound carved in the side of the Nautiloid to make further progress. The fire and sand have dried most of the exposed flesh, leaving their impromptu doorway less viscous than she had feared, but it still leaves streaks of ooze on her scales as she pushes her head through to the interior.

There, laid out in the center of the chamber, is a Mindflayer. Crumpled and beaten, almost dead, clinging to life.

"Careful," Shadowheart hisses. "That thing's got to be dangerous."

"I know," Vyuprax replies.

She gets closer anyway. Gale and Shadowheart hang back at a safe and reasonable distance, judging by when she stops hearing their footsteps. But her focus is all on the Illithid before her.

It struggles to rise up on a forearm, tilting its head to meet her eyes with its own orange ones. The telepathic connection it establishes is sloppy and inelegant, a brute-force entry to her mind. It hurts, but more like a headache than the needle precision of the Emperor's probing or the smothering weight of the Netherbrain. This thing is too injured to do much more than the bare minimum.

She just needs to get a little information. There's every chance this strange situation was brought on by Mindflayer interference. If she can just get a glimpse at what it's thinking, then maybe…

Yield.

Her legs buckle, and Vyuprax finds herself kneeling beside it. Its eyes are burning holes in her skull and she can feel her body leaning closer and closer, the sensations dulled and fuzzy. Cotton has been pulled over her brain. She wants to lean further, embrace it, drown in this feeling and never come back up for air.

It's beautiful. Karlach always said she was still beautiful, always looked at her like she meant it. This is what she must have seen; the elegant curves, the oilslick colors that dance over soft skin, the depth in those eyes.

The first tentacle begins to wrap around her face, and… No. This is wrong. She's been on the other side of this equation before. She knows how this ends. The spell snaps and she recoils, snarling in surprise. That wasn't supposed to— she's better than this—

"Fuck you." Vyuprax scrambles to her feet. The questing tentacle peels off her scales with a sickening wet sound. "Fuck you, fuck this, fuck all of this."

Her boot lands on the Mindflayer's face with a satisfying crunch. Again. And again. And again. Until it stops crunching at all, until her trousers are filthy with a silvery mix of blood and brains, until her chest is heaving from adrenaline and exertion.

"Are you alright?"

She jumps. At some point, Gale had snuck up behind her. Shadowheart is closer, too. They both look concerned.

"Fine," she says. "Just… taking out some frustration."

"Quite understandable," he nods. "I must admit, I was worried you were going to be in need of rescuing."

Vyuprax hisses out a breath. "Yeah. It hit a bit harder than I was expecting."

She gives the corpse one last nudge with her foot, rolling it so that the ruined face is no longer looking at her. There's still a puddle of fluid soaking into the membranes of the floor.

"Let's keep going," she says.

And they do. If either of her friends has anything to say about what just happened, they don't bring it up. Good. Her stomach is churning with an unpleasant mixture of shame, embarrassment, and fear that she doesn't particularly want to interrogate right now. And her arm still hurts like hell.

It's a significant relief, then, to emerge from the ship and see Astarion. He, of course, looks exactly the same as he did when she last saw him. The funeral had been at dusk so that he could make it. Karlach had always been much closer to him, and she wanted him there.

It's a little difficult for Vyuprax to summon that good will knowing that he's about to try to stab her, though. Best to stop that before it gets started.

"Hello!" she calls, louder than is strictly necessary.

He jumps slightly, turning toward her.

"Shush!" he snaps. "I've got one of those brain things cornered. Can you kill it?"

And herein lies the tricky thing. Astarion is a paranoid bastard, and reasonably so. She would greatly prefer that he trust her — they were never best friends, even at their closest, but they did have a mutual understanding. The easiest way for him to trust her, at least right now, is to let him think that he's getting one over on her. Revealing too much knowledge risks spooking him, and she doesn't want him going off on his own.

However, she would really like to not get stabbed, and her patience for the day is already depleted.

"Where?" she asks, tilting her head and squinting and not moving an inch. "I don't see anything."

"Over there." Astarion gestures toward the tall grass. "Come look."

Slowly, she takes a single step closer. Then she stops. This is a gamble, but if she can play it right, it'll be much simpler.

"If you're going to try and mug me," she says, "can you at least be direct about it?"

He freezes, eyes widening. "You— what do you—"

Vyuprax quickly raises her hands, empty palms forward. "I've just got a bit of a knack for this stuff. Anyway, if you want information, just ask. No need to threaten anyone."

And then, as carefully as she can, she reaches out to the tadpole and forces the connection to spark. There's flashes of Baldur's Gate by lamplight, of Cazador's palace, of starvation and desperation. She almost wants to know what he gets in return.

It makes Astarion recoil. "What was that?"

"That," Gale says, "was a Mindflayer parasite. We've all had the pleasure of acquiring one. And if we're not careful, we'll end up just like those monsters that implanted them in us."

She can see Astarion processing it, the subtle shift in his expression. Realizations dawning.

"That certainly explains things. Apologies." He smiles, aiming for disarming. It doesn't quite land, but she'll let it slide. "I thought you were working with them, when I saw you running around on that ship."

"That's reasonable," she says. "If I'd seen you, I would've tried to rescue you, too. I'm Vyuprax. This is Gale, and Shadowheart."

"Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me."

"Really? So was I."

Probably. Her memories of everything before the tadpole are fuzzier than they had been the first time around, muddled by the impromptu insertion and another twenty years. But she must have been, because she would have just left the crew…

"We must move in different circles." There's a barely concealed sneer on his lips as he says it. "Now, do any of you know anything more about these worms?"

Gale chimes in, happily chattering away as they begin moving. It's not a formal invitation, per se, but Astarion follows, and when he's exhausted — or simply exhausted with — Gale's knowledge, he keeps following.

Vyuprax finds herself leading the way again, walking beside Shadowheart. It could very nearly be pleasant. The afternoon sun is beginning to sink from its apex, the air is cool with the beginning of autumn, and the sea salt on the breeze is just heavy enough to smell.

When she fell asleep, she had been alone, mourning. A monster. And really, this isn't a great improvement; the world is in peril, her friends don't remember anything, and she can't even fly anymore. But it's hard not to get excited about what's to come. Whether she wants it or not, this is a second chance. An opportunity to do better.

Now, she just needs to take it.

Chapter Text

Lae'zel should, if Vyuprax recalls correctly, be suspended in a cage not too far from the Emerald Grove. Captured by tieflings, indignant, but otherwise unharmed. With a little smooth talking, it should be easy enough to send the tieflings on their way and rescue her. Then, perhaps, they can finally bed down for the night. With five people, shifts will be easy enough to negotiate, and Gale was always the best cook out of them.

Gods, it's been so long since she ate real food. The sooner they can get settled and start a fire, the better.

The first indication that something has gone wrong is the eerie silence as they follow the path uphill. There's no sign at all that anyone is up ahead — no bickering about what to do with their prisoner, no chatter, not even the creak of wood and rope.

"Astarion," Vyuprax whispers. "Can you check ahead, please?"

He blinks. "Are you serious?"

"Something's wrong. Just… trust me."

"I'm not your errand-boy," he says. But, blessedly, he darts ahead. Silent as the grave.

Shadowheart watches him go, vanishing around the bend in the path. Then she turns, frowning.

"What is it? Your little visions aren't accurate enough?"

"I don't know," Vyuprax admits. "I— hopefully, it's nothing."

She can't stop her tail from lashing back and forth, dragging against the dirt. Maybe she's imagining this. Maybe the tadpole is addling her mind.

"There's no one here!" Astarion calls. "Just a corpse in a cage. A bit gruesome, honestly."

She doesn't bother explaining — she just breaks into a sprint. Up the path, around the bend, stopping as soon as she can see the situation.

Still tethered to the rope that would have suspended it in the air, the wooden cage rests on the ground. Inside…

They must have shot her first, that crossbow bolt through the arm to stop her from fighting back, before lowering the trap to the ground. That's the only way anyone could have managed to plunge a dagger into Lae'zel's neck so easily. It's still there, the full blade buried neatly in the one place left unprotected by her silver armor. They were probably too afraid of her to try and pull it back out.

As if in a trance, not quite processing what she's seeing, Vyuprax steps forward, close enough to push her arm through the bars and touch bare skin. Lae'zel always ran cold, but never this chilled and clammy.

Further away, Shadowheart scoffs. "Serves her right."

Panic and disbelief begin to crawl up her throat as the reality of it all sets in. This isn't how it happens. This isn't what happened. Without Lae'zel, they never would have made it through Rosymorn, through the shadow-cursed lands, through any of what's to come. They have to fix this.

"Shadowheart, bring her back," she demands.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have to— she can't be— just bring her back."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Shadowheart snaps. "Do you really think I can do that?"

Vyuprax whirls, her fangs bared. "I know you can! And if you can't, then I'll get fucking Isobel to do it, or—"

All at once, her brain catches up to her mouth again. She can't get Isobel to do it. She can't go pleading to Aylin for her mother's interference, either, or even Alfira with her penchant for healing. By the time any of them could help, it would be far too late.

But.

But.

There is one person she can get to.

Deep breath in. Out. She doesn't make eye contact with any of them as she gathers herself back together. Then she turns back to the cage, slicing the ropes holding it together apart with her claws.

"I'm going to the temple."

"Are you feeling alright?" Gale asks, in the very delicate tones of a man who thinks he's dealing with someone on a precipice.

"We need her alive. The temple back there is home to someone who can help with that. You lot can either help me or continue up the road to the Emerald Grove. They might let you in before it gets dark." She laughs. "That'll probably fuck things up even worse, but what the hells."

It's going to be a pain to drag Lae'zel's body the whole way, but she doesn't want to risk anything happening. Anything worse. So, with a little bit more straining than she'd like, Vyuprax manages to pull Lae'zel— the body— Lae'zel out of the cage. Then, methodically, she begins to strip off the silver half-plate. Right now, it'll just add unnecessary weight to a body that will already be difficult to move. They can come back for it later. She does make sure to take the sword.

"You're insane," Astarion marvels. "That worm must have scrambled your brain."

"She thinks she can see the future," says Shadowheart, sotto voce. "Admittedly, she was right on the Nautiloid, but…"

"I can prove it however you want me to," Vyuprax says. Just the boots, now. Lae'zel will skin her alive for this later, but that's a price worth paying. "Or you can think I'm crazy. I don't really care. If you're not coming, though, get moving. They close the gates to the Grove at sundown."

"As little as I enjoy the prospect of sleeping out here, I can't deny that I'm curious as to the nature of your clairvoyance, and I would hate to see you get eaten by something unpleasant," Gale says. "Count me in for… whatever this is."

Shadowheart and Astarion are both silent. That's fine. She didn't really expect them to come, not so soon after meeting them. They're both too suspicious to—

"Oh, alright," Shadowheart sighs. "But only because I owe you for rescuing me."

Despite the fear, warmth blossoms in Vyuprax's chest. "Thank you. Really."

"Don't start," she snaps.

"You can't be serious," Astarion says. "Follow the mad dragonborn into the creepy temple? Do none of you have any self preservation at all?"

Vyuprax ignores him. He'll come around eventually, but she doesn't have time for that right now.

She shrugs one of Lae'zel's lanky arms over her own shoulder, then starts on the other. Before she can finish, Gale is beside her, helping to prop up the Gith between the two of them. Their height difference makes it tricky — Gale is a good six inches taller — but it's enough to lessen the weight.

As they begin to walk, slow but steady, she can't help but notice that Astarion is following behind at a careful distance.

"So," Gale says, eventually. Still with the careful voice, like he's afraid she's going to start foaming at the mouth any minute now, but distinctly curious. "How long have you been seeing the future?"

Shit. "Since I was a hatchling," she says. That was what she had said on the ship, wasn't it? Something close to that. She needs to keep her story straight.

He hums, brow furrowing. "Interesting. And what is it like? Flashes? Visions? Omens?"

"More like… reading a book for the second time. Or seeing a play over and over, multiple days in a row. I just know how things are supposed to happen." Except, clearly, she doesn't. "Some things are more detailed than others. Like you lot. I knew Shadowheart's name, I knew Astarion was going to try and stab me if I got closer, and you… I'm excited for when I get to meet Tara. I've always wanted to see a Tressym."

"Well, I'll certainly see what I can do," Gale says. He sounds just a bit surprised. "She can be a little… temperamental, with new people. Now, how much do you know?"

Bringing up the orb here would be a gamble. It would prove that she's telling the truth, yes, but it would also expose a rather sensitive secret. She'd rather allow trust to form naturally, where possible.

"It doesn't usually extend too far," she says, which is a nice non-answer. "A few days at most. But I can sense the shape of things beyond that. Lae'zel is necessary. She wasn't meant to die there. I think her connections will be important to us getting rid of these tadpoles."

She can almost hear the gears beginning to turn in his head. An hour at most, and he'll be scheming up some way properly to test the extent of her 'powers'.

"You do realize the implications this has for our free will, don't you?" Gale beams. "This might well prove that fate is far less flexible than previously thought. Oh, those diviners at Luskan are going to have a cow."

"I haven't really ever thought about that," she says, mostly honestly. "It's just… how it is. And usually, I see things working out for me."

"Fascinating."

He doesn't have the chance to ask any more questions, for better or worse. They come around a bend to the place where the upper courtyard of the temple meets the hill, and Vyuprax holds out her hand to signal a stop. She lowers Lae'zel to the ground, careful not to jostle her too badly.

"There's some thieves up ahead," she warns. "Three… maybe four out here, and then another half-dozen inside. We won't be able to convince them to leave, not without a fight."

"Did you already know that, or did that information just appear?" Gale stage whispers. He's trying to be quiet, but it isn't quite working.

"Both, sort of? I knew it, but it wasn't relevant, so I didn't know it as clearly." It's as good an excuse as any. "Look, that's not what matters right now. We need to go in with a plan if we want this to be fast. Part of the floor is going to be weak, we might be able to take advantage of that. I want you to stay on this side of things, Gale, and Shadowheart and I will deal with anything up close. I'd rather not kill them, but they might not give us any other choice, so be ready."

They both nod.

Astarion frowns. "What about me?"

"I thought you wouldn't be taking combat advice from the mad dragonborn," she snipes, unable to resist. "And besides, someone needs to watch Lae'zel's body. I'll give a shout when we're ready to head inside."

"Fine," he mutters. If he has any further argument, he limits it to the expression of disdain he pulls.

"Good." Vyuprax turns back to the others. "Let's go."

Shadowheart slips easily into the lengthening darkness of the evening, only the faintest glint of her armor visible. Gale is a bit more conspicuous, trying to move in a crouch that clearly isn't working for his knees. She can't help but distance herself from him a little, moving ahead to match Shadowheart's pace.

Through the crumbled walls of the temple, she can see the quartet — hah, she was right with four — of would-be treasure hunters. A halfling lounging on a crate with a crossbow on the nearest overhang, a woman pacing on the other, and a pair of men down in the courtyard. Above them, a block of stone hangs from a rope. It's almost too easy.

"Gale," she breathes. When he turns to look at her, she points wordlessly at the rope, then mimes an explosion.

"Got it," he says, at a volume that is still more appropriate to a theatrical setting than an ambush.

But, thankfully, the halfling doesn't seem to hear them. Gale creeps closer, closer, angling himself to get the perfect line of sight. And then, all at once, he strikes. The rope snaps in a burst of fire, the stone plummets down, and half of the enemy goes with it as it shatters the ancient stone under their feet.

That gets the halfling's attention. It's too late, of course. Vyuprax is already there, her rapier finding purchase at his wrist to send his crossbow flying with a quick twist. He retorts with a slice from a dagger hastily grabbed from his belt, which — naturally — lands overlapping her pre-existing wound, deepening it and hurting like hell. She winces, taking a step back.

"Duck!" Gale calls, and she does before she even has time to think. A moment later, a volley of glowing red darts shoot across the gap between the two balconies and right into the chest of the mage on the other side.

Really, truly, she doesn't want to kill these people if they don't have to. So, instead of shoving the halfling off his stupid crate and onto the hard stone below, she settles for balling her offhand into a fist and decking him right across the face. There's a satisfying crack on impact, and then he collapses, thoroughly unconscious.

A moment later, she watches Shadowheart do something very similar to the mage, albeit with a sharp kick to the head instead. That one might hurt a little bit more in the morning.

"Astarion!" Vyuprax shouts. "Come on!"

She shakes her right arm out, in a vague hope that it will make the pain stop. It doesn't. There's no way she can keep fighting properly like this. A rest and some of Shadowheart's magic might do the trick, but she isn't going to waste time and precious spells when they still have a ways to go.

As if to taunt her, the strap that runs across her chest and holds her lute in place on her pack chooses this moment to slip, sending the instrument sliding down to settle at her hip. Clearly, fate has a sense of humor. She has a solution, if she wants to take it.

It's only been fifteen years since she last played. Barely anything. Vyuprax sits down on the crate, slinging her bag off her shoulder and taking her lute with it. Left hand along the neck, the wood warm under her fingers. Right, hesitant and hurting, on the strings.

The melody starts off simple enough, just a repeating phrase. Her fingers stumble, yes, but they don't stop. Muscle memory kicks back in. She speeds up, allows herself to experiment, pulls in fragments of other songs, weaves it all together with that same phrase. It isn't coherent, and she would never perform it anywhere, but it's still beautiful.

Somewhere between the notes, in the fractions of seconds as her fingers move between strings, the music reaches back into her heart and pulls. This is what she was missing, this is what she lost when she gave herself up. The ability to lose herself in the music like this, not worried about the details or what's going to come next. Just playing, playing, letting it all flow free. And when the music returns, so does the magic.

Not clamped down under her control like it used to be, but not fully wild. She doesn't demand anything, just asks, and it answers with more than she could have hoped for.

The song ends as it began, the melody simple and unassuming. But it's done its job. Her arm is healed, and something deeper is repairing itself.

There is, rather suddenly, applause. Gale makes a one-man standing ovation, beaming.

Naturally, she bows.

"Yes, yes, very impressive," Astarion sighs. "I wouldn't have minded some help dragging this corpse over, you know."

"Sorry." She slings her lute back over her shoulder, then moves to help him carry Lae'zel. "I appreciate it. Here, lift her legs so she doesn't bump the stairs."

He rolls his eyes, but they get Lae'zel down to the courtyard proper without making her situation any worse. Not that it can get much worse than being dead, but hopefully, that will change soon.

"What's the plan, oh glorious leader?" Shadowheart asks.

"Honestly, I don't think we need much of one here," Vyuprax says. "We'll head in, deal with the rest of the people in there, and then… I think we'll need to throw some skeletons in the river, but that won't be very hard."

The flat look she gets in response would sting, if she weren't currently floating on the high of her first proper performance in years. "No brilliant strategy to offer?"

"It's an enclosed space and they're opportunists, not tacticians, so no, not really. I think there might be some barrels of wine, which we could blow up if we don't want to enjoy ourselves later this evening."

As expected, Shadowheart wrinkles her nose at the thought of giving up some perfectly good alcohol — or maybe at the lack of concern. Vyuprax shrugs back. All things considered, there were enough interesting things in this tomb that it's hard to remember the specifics of this battle. The odds of it posing any real challenge are slim at worst.

"Astarion, you can stay out here if you'd like, but it would be nice if you came along. We'll be outnumbered either way, I'd just prefer it to be a bit less overwhelming."

He heaves a put-upon sigh. "Fine."

"Great!" She nods to the door at the far end of the courtyard. "In that case, put those lockpicks to use, please."

His eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised that she knows he's carrying them. But he does as he's asked, dropping into a crouch in front of the door to work it open. Vyuprax resists the urge to hover — her own skills are rusty, but looming over his shoulder won't help. She settles for positioning herself such that she'll be the most visible person to whoever's inside.

After a minute's work, the door swings on silent hinges. Shadowheart immediately presses herself against the wall and Gale ducks behind her.

Vyuprax leans forward, her nose twitching at the smell of smoke and dust. But there's no one in the room, just a hall with empty chairs at an empty table. Slowly, she takes a few cautious steps down the stairs, glancing around. She can see remnants of food left on the plates, breadcrumbs and fragments of cheese and a puddle of what is probably beer still soaking into the wood. Ancient tomes lie in disarray on the bookshelves, clearly perused and then dismissed as worthless.

"Clear," she whispers. "But stay quiet. They're probably further in."

Smug and lazy on the stolen fruits of their labor, hopefully. If they can catch them off guard, even better.

She doubles back to help bring Lae'zel in, leaning her up against the wall as delicately as possible.

As he follows her, Gale scoffs at the food on the table. He doesn't voice any further opinion, but his disdain for their taste in cheese is palpable. If it isn't Waterdhavian, it might as well be dirt, and he's never been afraid to say as much.

The towering door into the next chamber — gods above, she forgot how dramatic this place was — is cracked open, just a hair. Through the gap, Vyuprax can make out the faint sounds of conversation.

"They've been out there for over an hour." A deep voice, soft around the edges.

"And? They've got keys. They'll come back when they're ready. I'm going to sleep." Higher, raspy, like the speaker's a bit too fond of cigars.

Worried about their compatriots. Well, she can fix that.

"Plug your ears," Vyuprax whispers.

She makes sure her friends have actually listened, even Astarion, before she turns back toward the door and slides her lute down into position. Her fingers settle without trouble. This is an old spell, an easy one. They're already resting, full of warm food and good drink. All they need is a nudge in the right direction, a reminder that they really are tired. Their bodies will do the rest, albeit faster than they might otherwise.

One by one, there's the soft sound of people collapsing to the ground. Four in total - not exactly the overwhelming odds she had feared. Still, better not risk another fight if they don't have to.

The last few notes of the melody hang in the air for a moment before Vyuprax finally tightens her fingers against the strings to cut them off. She nods over her shoulder to her friends. Shadowheart rolls her eyes, but dutifully uncovers her ears.

This door opens much less agreeably, letting out a persistent squeak that rings out across the high stone ceiling. But, thankfully, the spell holds. None of the bandits wake.

"There's a switch somewhere behind that door," Vyuprax says, jerking her head toward the far side of the room. "Once we find it, that'll open the path to the final chamber."

Astarion nudges the nearest bandit. "How long will they be asleep?"

"Not very, if you keep touching them," she retorts. "But left alone, they shouldn't wake up until morning. I just… helped them along."

"Very efficient," Gale says. "I'm impressed you got all of them in one fell swoop, as it were."

"I've had a lot of practice."

Admittedly, the last time she cast that spell, it had been on Wyll's children when they were still young. But bandits are, frankly, no comparison for a pair of sugar-fuelled tieflings.

That had been one of the last times they'd all been together, a celebration of her and Karlach escaping Avernus for good. After the kids were put to bed, they'd stayed up into the early hours of the morning, drunk off their asses. Gale must have lost a small fortune at cards. The only reason anyone eventually took pity on him was the rising sun forcing Astarion to retreat, and even then, Shadowheart had egged him into a few more rounds. It had been… nice. Comfortable.

Vyuprax bites her cheek to keep from saying anything more. No point in getting sentimental about it now, not when none of them remember.

The button is easy enough to find; a single brick out of place, hidden by the statue it sits behind and the years of slow collapse afflicting the wall it belongs to. It pushes in with a satisfying click, and the door grinds open.

After they're all inside — including Lae'zel — and the door has shut itself again, Vyuprax leads the way into the crypt proper. Even the air feels ancient, heavy with dust and rot. Moss has grown over much of the floor, gathered around puddled water from the stream that flows beyond the broken wall. There's no sunlight streaming in through the gaps, not this late, but the faintest glimmer of the moon illuminates the hollow space.

Swiftly and methodically, Vyuprax begins gathering up the piles of bones that lie across the room. If she didn't know better, it would be easy to mistake them for unlucky victims or former residents of this resting place. But, unfortunately for them, she's all too aware of their real purpose, and she does not have the patience to deal with bullshit skeleton wizards right now. So, instead, she hauls each pile over to the stream and drops them in with a cold sort of glee.

"Good luck getting back up here," she mutters. A skull grins at her as it sinks and begins to float out toward the ocean.

"Is that necessary?" Gale asks, a touch reproachful.

"Pick up one of the bones," she says, "and look at the magic."

He does. And then, just as quickly, he drops it like it's burning hot.

"That's some very powerful necromancy for a random crypt." Of course, he doesn't sound upset. Just curious, and more than a little bit suspicious.

"This isn't a random crypt."

Once they've met Withers, she can let him answer the questions that she's sure Gale has. Or not. Withers was never the most forthcoming. At least when he avoided giving actual responses, it came off as suitably ancient and wise, rather than vague and annoying. Usually.

She'd quite liked Withers, at least for a while. He'd saved her from her own stupidity more than once. When things began to settle, he vanished. If any of them had cared enough, they likely could have sought him out, but… there had been an unspoken agreement that, whatever he was, he deserved his rest. And then Karlach died. And no amount of searching, scouring ancient temples, translating tomes written in the language of the gods, none of it turned up a single clue about where he went or how to find him again.

After that, Vyuprax lost some of her fondness for him.

The last set of bones go into the stream with a splash that is a bit more aggressive than it needs to be.

When she turns back around, Shadowheart is staring at the statue that keeps watch with empty sockets. Her eyes are narrowed, her arms crossed.

"I recognize this," she says softly. "This is Jergal. One of the old gods."

"This place must pre-date the splitting of his domain," says Gale. "Interesting. Very interesting…"

Vyuprax lets them ponder that. Around one side of the statue is the door, along with the button to open it. Despite herself, she hesitates. If anyone will remember — or perhaps know, since nothing she remembers has happened yet, however the fuck this situation works — it's going to be Withers. Maybe he can answer some questions. She doesn't necessarily want to hear them and she really doesn't want to hear him talk around what could be an answer.

But Lae'zel's dead body is laid out in the middle of the room on the floor. And, for better or worse, Withers is the only one who can fix this.

She pushes the button. The door opens with a death rattle of stale air. Nothing left to do but wake a sleeping god.