Chapter Text
The day starts early, but uneventful. They pack up the few belongings they have, Lae’zel spends a little time sharpening her sword, torn between devoting the proper time needed to hone a used edge and wanting to press on as quickly as possible. The restless energy returns from last night, stronger with every moment of inactivity.
The walk back to the grove is short, and takes them past the trader from yesterday. She buys meat and healing potions, as does Shadowheart. The group are content to let Gale do the talking; Lae’zel personally couldn’t care less, but she is surprised that Astarion isn’t pushing his way into conversation. He has a charisma to him that the rest of them simply don’t possess.
“Well met!” Calls a voice from what Lae’zel might call a training ground if she were feeling generous. A handful of stuffed dolls, swords that look like sticks; it’s a mockery of the hard work it takes to learn to defend oneself. “Give me a moment, I wish to talk to you!”
It is the man who fought the goblins yesterday. He is training the young, though he is no sa’varsh, instead teaching yanki to fight like they have any hope in survival. He shares a conversation with one tiefling cub, Lae’zel fights to keep a sneer off her face.
“He is too old to be wielding a toy blade.” She mutters, her disdain evident. Six eyes find her face. “Do you not teach your young how to live?” She asks, incredulous.
“There’s more to life than combat, Lae’zel - at least, for a great many of us in Faerûn.” Gale responds cheerily.
“This is why you are all so soft. Without combat, there can be no life.”
“How old were you when you learned to fight?” Shadowheart sounds curious.
“Approximately six of your years, four of mine. We learn quickly, or we are felled by those that do. I am an exceptional study. When did you learn?” She asks, more out of challenge than genuine interest, though a part of her wonders about the Cleric’s capabilities. All three of her comrades have shown more strength and bravery than she was taught to expect from istik.
“I…don’t remember.” Shadowheart replies slowly. “A long time ago.” Of course, the half-elf would have many more years to remember than she. That might have some bearing on her proficiency; Lae’zel knows the wisest warriors are always the eldest.
“Apologies, I couldn’t interrupt the lesson. These times are asking a lot of our children that they have no right to face.” The man approaches. “The name’s Wyll. I must say, you four are a strange sight around these parts.” The man studies Lae’zel’s face, but says nothing more. They make their introductions, but are stilled by the now familiar sensation of memories that are not their own squirming in their mind.
He is like them. Ghaik-in-waiting.
“We are searching for information.” Lae’zel speaks for them now; their salvation is her promise to them, her duty as their ally. “My people have a cure for such an infection. Are there Githyanki nearby?”
Wyll frowns. “You know, I do believe Zorru was talking about, ahm, Gith, in the area.” Lae’zel hears the words he does not say, knows she must once again parley with those who would think her less than. “He’s a little further in, I can introduce you.”
Lae’zel regards the man for a moment. He is offering his assistance. He is infected. She holds her hand out towards him.
“I accept your help.” She says. He takes her hand slowly. Somewhere over her shoulder, Astarion laughs. “And I offer mine in return. Aid us in our search for a Githyanki Creche, and I will see that you are cleansed of the parasite.” He beams at her, a bright smile that feels genuine. Lae’zel feels unsettled by the man’s sincerity, especially after the last day accompanied by Shadowheart and Astarion.
“You should know that I have my own quest. You saw her just now; the one-horn. She is a devil’s soldier. There is so much innocent blood on her hands, and I am tasked with bringing her down. My priority first is hunting her; then I am free to aid you in your journey.”
“We do not have time to go galavanting across-”
“What she means is we’ll do what we can.” Astarion interrupts, shooting him a smile. “Lae’zel, this is the Blade of Frontiers here, a legend in these parts. I promise you, there’s no one you’d rather have watching your back.”
Wyll’s reaction to the name is more interesting to her than the name itself. His smile shrinks, and he shrugs one shoulder. He seems to be trying to be smaller.
“Titles are given by those who don’t know finer details. My friends call me Wyll.”
“Well that’s good to know.” Shadowheart replies. “If we ever become friends, I’ll know what to call you.” Despite her words, her tone is relaxed, easy. A far cry from how she speaks to Lae’zel. She will watch this particular istik closely, Lae’zel decides, lest she fall foul to the dark side of the moon.
“Be done with the pleasantries.” Lae’zel says. “Let us speak with this Zorru.”
Unfortunately for him, Zorru does not want to speak to her.
“By Mordai’s eyes, another one! My friend’s blood not enough? Come to rip me open too?”
She ignores her petty desire to roll her eyes, and allows her disdain for such a coward to drip venom in her voice.
“In creche K’liir, a formal greeting begins with a bow.”
“Is this monster with you?”
Not one of her allies speaks in his defence. Good; she accepts and appreciates their loyalty to her methods. The tiefling bows.
“Lower.” She spits. She folds her arms over her breastplate, her gaze unyielding. Slowly, he sinks to his knees, hands trembling. She feels one of her ears twitch in satisfaction as he cowers.
“You saw another Gith. Where?”
“On the road to Baldur’s gate, near the mountain pass. Saw us ‘fore we saw it. Jammed its blade through Yul’s belly, straight to the other side.”
“No twisting? Kin must have been in a hurry.” There’s no real need for her to push him like this; it is childish to vent her personal frustrations with the people of this realm during an interrogation. “The map. Show me.” He cranes his neck, not daring to leave the floor, and points at a spot on the map. She passes it to Gale who marks it with some ink he has stored in a jar in his robe.
“Up.” She spits at Zorru.”You can keep your innards.” Astarion chuckles behind her.
“Not going to eviscerate him? I was hoping for a show.” She ignores the tiefling scurrying away from her to regard the elf from head to toe. He fidgets, and her smile turns predatory.
“Cool your blood. I’ll indulge you soon enough.”
“What does she mean by that?” Wyll mutters to Gale, who only strugs. Astarion laughs again.
“Oh, you are a delight. You know, I’m starting to think this little adventure of ours is going to be fun.”
“Careful Astarion,” Shadowheart replies. “I’d hate to find out what her idea of fun was.” But there’s a twinkle in her eye that Lae’zel can’t match to her words.
The group moves to walk back up the hill when the sound of metalwork hits Lae’zel’s ears. She twists, looking for the source of the noise. At the bottom of the hill is the workshop, a red tiefling hammering at an anvil.
“Wait. I wish to see his collection.” Without waiting for the others, she turns and strides towards the tiefling. To his credit, he does not flinch when she announces her presence.
“Are you trading, or merely crafting?” She asks. He looks from her to the collective behind her.
“Trading, for a friendly face. And seeing how you folks saved our hides yesterday, I can’t imagine anyone friendlier.”
“Chk. We are not friendly. Our bond is of battle, not brotherhood.”
“Is there a difference?” He replies with a grin. Lae’zel doesn’t know how to reply. It doesn’t seem he was looking for an answer though; he continues. “The name’s Dammon. If you know what you’re looking for, I might be able to help. Though I’m lacking right now - this forge isn’t quite what I’m used to.” She discusses weapons with him for a while; she is impressed with his knowledge, she had not expected to meet a smith she could trust here.
She hesitates in her decision, but ultimately comes away with a small knife, plain in appearance, but Dammon assures her it can ignite on impact.
The knife she gives to Astarion. It is an act of grace, she must show her allies she is willing to trust them, that they might learn to trust her in turn.
“You have two hands.” She says as she hands it, grip first, to the elf. “And you are fast with a blade. You should be twice as fast.” He looks stunned; she likes that it is an easy emotion for her to see. His eyes go wide, his jaw slack.“I- don’t know what to say.” He says. He looks at the knife like it is something far more valuable.
“I believe thank you is customary.” She arches an eyebrow. Astarion barks a short, surprised laugh.
“Yes, I do believe you’re right. Thank you, Lae’zel.” She nods, satisfied, and they begin the walk out of the grove. Shadowheart passes her.
“Do you require a new weapon, Shadowheart?” Lae'zel's eye is drawn to the crude mace strapped to the cleric's pack; she cannot imagine what possessed her church to send her afield with that and a shield, as though she had any right to be facing foes in close quarters.
“I have my mace.” Her brow furrows as she looks to Lae’zel. “I don’t know how to use anything else.”
“Then you must learn.” Lae’zel stands firm and elaborates. “Did you select the mace? Who gave it to you? It was the wrong choice; to wield it, you must always be close to your enemies. You are far too important to the tides of battle to risk putting in the middle of a fight. You would do better with a longer weapon; keep your opponents at a distance.”
“I’ll…think about it.” Shadowheart says. Her cheeks are dusted pink. “It is far more important, I think, that I actually know how to use my weapons, than whether or not they’re the best tool for the job.”
Shadowheart cannot see her comments for what they really are; a promise to adhere to the rules of her handshake. If she dies before they reach the Creche, Lae’zel will have failed. And Lae’zel does not fail.
“If your sa’varsh had done their job properly, you wouldn’t have to choose.” Lae’zel remains by her side as they walk; she does not believe the cleric has accepted her point. “The wizard has not the strength for metal, so he carries a staff. The…thief, I believe, though he will not say such, must strike quick and leave quick, so he carries knives. The blade of frontiers is as much a showman as a warrior, so he wields a rapier. The right tool for the right job.”
“I would prefer something that let's me keep my shield.” Is all Shadowheart has to say in response, and Lae’zel knows she’s won.
“You should learn to fight without the shield anyway.” Lae’zel replies. “You may not always have one to hand.
“Maybe.” Shadowheart concedes. “I do like the weight of a mace in my hand.”
They manage to have a civil conversation for a long stretch of road. Occasionally Wyll weighs in on the merits of weapons that require a little more finesse, like the glaive or his own rapier. Lae’zel does not challenge these opinions; he does not have the strength she or Shadowheart have, and so he must adopt a different style of combat. Astarion has much to say on the topic of killing, though he does not seem to have a preferred weapon, and Gale and Shadowheart trade stories of magical combat.
The group are in high spirits, considering the circ*mstances, when they stumble across three people in the path. Two are crouched on the floor, where the third lies, hands clutched to his abdomen. They are calling out to him; he is injured, and Lae’zel judges that he will die.
“You’re a True Soul. You can’t die, please stay with us.”
“I don’t think he’s conscious. Can you hear us, Ed?”
A branch snaps underneath Gale's foot. Theawoman's eyes lift at the sound, and find Lae'zel's.
“Halt, not a step closer!”
“She might be a healer, Bry.” The man is soft, reasonable. He will be an easy mark, if this turns to violence.
“She might be a bandit.” This woman may well be the cause of violence.
“W-wait.” The dying man locks eyes with them, with her. She feels a squirming behind her eye. Another infected. How many of them are there? She holds his stare; her mind flashes with his memories. His siblings, new recruits of…something, but she cannot get a clear picture through his pain. He keeps an eye on them, he protects them.
For a moment, the desperation of his love for his siblings tears at her throat, threatens to cost her her breakfast. Then it passes.
Protect them. His voice, in her head. The tadpoles are…telepathic?
Her blood runs cold. This is a symptom she has never heard of; it must be new trickery. The ghaik must be evolving.
“She is a True Soul. Mind her. She will- she…”
She hears the man gasp his final breath, and feels his mind shut off. He is gone.
“What’s a true soul?” She hears Wyll whisper behind her.
“Edowin. Ed, please!” His brother calls out, sinking to his knees again before the corpse. She remembers finding her Gith brother on the beach, Shadowheart’s horror when she laid claim to what was his. What was wrong with this realm, that cannot accept death as a universal truth?
“He’s with the Absolute now.” The woman replies, voice reverent. Lae’zel is positive that isn’t true, but doesn’t get a chance to point this out. “You’re a true soul, like our brother. Edowin. Do you have orders for us? We were reporting to…” She trails off.
“Why are you out here?” Wyll asks suddenly. Lae’zel acknowledges his interruption with a nod and a step back; in truth, she is grateful not to have to navigate what feels like a trap in disguise. She suspects he, at least, would be upset if she ran them both through and went on her way. “The wilds are dangerous.” The woman glances from Lae’zel to him, but once it is clear she will allow this man to speak for her, the woman turns the same awestruck tone towards him.
“We know that all too well. But the Absolute sent us out here. We were looking for survivors of that ship that crashed to the west when-”
“It was an owlbear.” The man interrupted. “We found a cave, thought someone might be hiding inside. Only there was an owlbear and her cub. Almost butchered us all before we got away. Only…only Edowin waited for us to get out first. He got the brunt of it.”
“Chk.” Lae’zel cannot keep silent. These feeble Faerûnians - if a beast could pose a threat to Githyanki, they would simply eliminate it. That is what they’ve been doing with ghaik for millenia. “You would let this animal take your brother and live? Have you no honour? No shame?” The pair glance at each other. “Your brother gave his life to protect you, and you would not bathe in its blood in vengeance. I would be shamed to call you brethren.”
“Lae’zel!” Her name is harsh in the voice of whoever speaks; she could not tell in that moment, only that it is not Shadowheart. “Peace; they’ve just lost -” But the woman interrupts him - Gale, she realises.
“She speaks true.” She says to her kin. “We have failed him. While that beast lives, his death is in vain.”
“Aye! Let us claim its head for Edowin.”
“For Edowin!” And they run off. Lae’zel blinks; she wonders if she will ever get used to these people surprising her.
“Well.” Gale says, after a moment of silence. “I do wish we had learned what this Absolute and True Soul business was all about, but given that it sounds related to our belated ceramorphosis, I can’t say I’m particularly unhappy about the proceedings.”
“I think that was handled rather well, all told.” Astarion adds. “Shall we go and watch the result of that delightful conversation?” Lae’zel frowns.
“You would be entertained watching them kill a simple beast?” Astarion’s grin is all teeth.
“Oh, my dear. You know little of our local fauna, don’t you?” She does not comment; her lack of knowledge is evident, and the only reason she even has the four of them following around. “I have a feeling you’re going to love this.”
They follow after the pair’s footsteps down a rocky path and across a stream to a cave. Wyll is the only one who voices any concern, and is easily silenced. Even from the entrance, they can hear groans and shouts from the siblings.
“After you.” Astarion says with a smile, gesturing to Lae’zel.
“You first.” She says, without a trace of the chagrin she feels. “I cannot see in the dark.” Astarion shrugs, and leads the way. She catches Gale rolling his eyes, and hears him mutter under his breath; immediately, the room appears lighter. She nods to acknowledge his efforts. He smiles.
What they find in the cave is nothing short of a massacre. Neither body is recognisable for who it once was. Bloody claw marks dot the stone, mingling with water in places. In the middle of the carnage sits a truly magnificent beast and her young. Lae’zel notes the proud, almost regal face of an owl, the claws that would dwarf her head, the thick feathers that would block ranged ammunition.
“Incredible,” Lae’zel breathes, her eyes widening. “I’ve faced horrors beyond comprehension, fought eyemongers and wraiths. Yet in this creature is a raw majesty I’ve never seen.”
The blood pool on the ground grows. She sees the owlbear tighten into something of a ball, her baby nestled against her side.
“She is dying.” Lae’zel observes. She steps forward, chest tightening with an unfamiliar weight. The tension is alien, yet it compels her. Before she can move closer, a hand grasps her arm.
Shadowheart, again.
“If she’s that injured, she may be more dangerous.” She says quietly. “Better to leave them alone.”
“She would be a magnificent huntress, and her cub a force of nature, had I not intervened. She will face a slow and painful death. From one warrior to another, I must help her.” Lae’zel doesn’t know where the words spring from, but as Shadowheart’s face relaxes, and the whole group move to stand, she knows they were the right ones.
The huntress receives a quick and painless death, and the five leave the cave to the sounds of her cub feasting on still-warm flesh.
