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Chapter Text

"You're a hell of a find, chickadee."

Revan's voice roused her from her sleep. Dawn was faintly illuminating the undergrowth, and the morning humidity made her bare skin tingle.

Nymuë clung to her dream, before the light of day erased it. Even now, she wasn't sure whether her encounter with the thief was the result of chance, or fate. Fifteen years had passed since she left The Shining Star. And so much had changed.

The young woman recalled the events that had led her to the clearing. She had joined Astarion in the forest; they had spent the night together. She straightened up, partially hiding her nakedness. With her fingertips, she drew a little dried blood from the hollow of her neck: the vampire appeared to have had a stimulating night.

She was surprised to see him just a few steps away. Half-dressed, Astarion was facing the first rays of the sun. His face was serene, and his hands—slightly apart—embraced the softness of the dawn. Nymuë wondered why he had stayed by her side after their lovemaking. Were they lovers now, friends, comrades? Her previous relationships had been marked by the ephemeral...

Her eyes fell on the back of her companion. The day before, her caresses had grazed the scars between his shoulder blades. In the morning light, she realised that she had underestimated the extent of the stigmata; three concentric circles were etched into his flesh, interspersed with discontinuous runes. The lines were stiff, sharp: chiselled with a blade.

The words passed her lips before common sense caught up with them: "Where do your marks come from?"

Astarion's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn to answer: "It's a poem. A 'gift' from Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas. He composed and carved that one over the course of a night..."

His voice dropped to a whisper: "... He made a lot of revisions as he went."

The dark elf was glad that her companion did not look at her. Her compassion would probably have been poorly received. Yet, her heart sank as she studied the lines engraved on his skin. A brief memory came back to her, a cargo she and Revan had gone to pick up. The two mercenaries had entered a warehouse, only to discover that all the crates bore annotations written in angular language. "The Hell's tongue," Revan had growled. "Who knows what material we're looking for, with such a confusing dialect!"

"Why was it composed in infernal?" she asked.

"Infernal? I... How could I know? The bastard was insane."

The rogue put his shirt back on: "Now, let's go. We've wasted enough time already."

Nymuë put on her personal belongings. What kind of man, she pondered, could inflict such treatment? And what could she deduce from the scars that Astarion didn't bear on his back? Anguish, resentment built up over the years...

The return journey was made in silence, far from uncomfortable. The dark elf preferred this familiar distance to an overly pronounced intimacy. As far as she knew, this night together meant nothing to Astarion. As for her? Her only truth was that, when she had felt alone, her footsteps had crossed his.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart were already awake. The former was training, and the latter gave them a dirty look. Whether it was a saucy pout or a side effect of the wine, no one knew.

Halsin was there, too; the festivities didn't seem to have tired him out. "I trust you enjoyed your evening?" he greeted them. "After all your efforts, it was well-deserved. It may be some time before you are afforded another such night..."

The companions gathered around him. "Amongst the goblins, I've revealed that a cure for you can be found at Moonrise Towers. But... it's complicated."

"Of course it is," Astarion grumbled.

"The journey is extremely perilous, even though you're well accustomed to navigating danger. To get to the Towers, you'll need to pass through a terrible place... a cursed place. Everything there is shrouded in shadows. You will not find life, light, or anything natural. Any who linger are twisted by the curse. They become shadow beings: tormented, dangerous souls."

"There must be a way," Nymuë said. "Otherwise, the Absolute's cultists wouldn't go there."

"You could go overland, along the Risen Road or through the mountains. Easier at first, but you'll run into the shadow curse eventually."

"The Risen Road?" Lae'zel repeated. "This is where my kins were spotted!"

Nymuë pursed her lips: 'overland', had Halsin specified?

"You could also go under," he continued. "There is a tunnel somewhere, in the ruined temple of Selûne. It leads to Moonrise Towers through the Underdark."

The musician closed her eyes, while her comrades let out an exclamation of surprise. The World Below held many risks, as deadly as a curse. "Long ago, a man called Ketheric Thorm built a secret stronghold deep down there, before rallying a whole army of Dark Justiciars... Shar whorshippers."

Shadowheart was immediatly curious: "We have to see this. This is no coincidence!"

"This entrance... Is this what Aradin and his lot were after?" Nymuë reflected.

"Precisely. They were promised riches if they retrieved a relic called the Nightsong... But first, they had to get into the Underdark and survive."

"In the end, the simple step of the goblins had stopped them," Astarion scoffed.

"Moonrise... It must have been a place connected to Selûne, before a sect settled there," Shadowheart muttered. "This Ketheric Thorm certainly was an important follower of Shar to build a fortress so close to two strategic enemy points. He must have intended to attack them simultaneously."

"Could the curse have stopped him?"

"That's what I believe," Halsin said. "If you can find this place, I'll wager it will reveal a more direct path to Moonrise Towers, and may even bypass the worst of the shadow curse."

"That's out of the question!" Lae'zel stormed. "We have wasted enough time already, we must find a creche!"

"Haven't you still understood that our situation goes beyond the usual procedures?" the priestess retorted. "Our tadpoles are protected by magic. If we don't discover the source of it, removing our parasites won't get us off the hook."

"Actually… it would kill you," the archdruid whispered.

A silence followed this revelation. Nymuë's mind was racing: who had modified their worms, and why? This went beyond the illithid cause, a sign that something else was at work. The night visitor had spoken of a 'fight for the fate of Faerun'. A fight... that they were losing.

"Purification won't save us, Lae'zel," she murmured to her comrade. "And I think deep down, you know it."

The warrior clenched her fists. Ghaik parasites were subject to a rigid protocol among her people; to allow oneself to be corrupted by a tadpole was a stain, a disgrace. The longer she kept this creature, the further away she was from the immaculate ideal she should become. But if the archdruid was telling the truth, and if this operation threatened all the Planes... then she would be taking the risk of letting the mind flayers fulfil their Great Design. And Lae'zel of K'liir would never, ever act like a coward.

"Tsk'va!" she roared. "Fine, lead us to the Towers if you want. I will not tolerate serving the interests of the ghaiks!"

Nymuë analysed her own doubts. From what little she knew, her parents had tried to flee the World Below in the past, only to die at the end of the journey. Going there was madness... One more in the long adventure that was theirs. The young woman turned to her comrades to announce her decision: "On our way to the Underdark," she said.

It took them just under two days to return to the temple of Selûne. Thanks to Halsin and the other druids, they had enough food for a whole week. The goblins' lair seemed empty of its former occupants, a sign that their last visit had paid off.

"Are we sure that the poison and the spiders really wiped them out?" Shadowheart asked.

"If any survived, they must have fled," Nymuë retorted. "The news of Minthara's death must have spread."

"In any case, they're no match for us," the gith warrior shouted.

Remained the enigma of the secret entrance. Before they left, Halsin had told them that the passageway was probably in the foundations of the building. As the cultists used it regularly, they hoped its research wouldn't prove so complex.

As they crossed the bridge near the inner courtyard, a thud was heard behind them. They drew their weapons, only to fin a man, standing alone. He was elegantly dressed, a maroon blue jacket embellished with gold threads. His brown hair was slicked back, and he watched the companions with... complacency. Where did he come from, and how? He didn't seem inclined to tell them. In fact, he approached them like an actor making his grand entrance: "My, my, what manner of place is this?" he wonders. "A path to redemption, or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning."

"What kind of lunatic is that?" Nymuë thought. The stranger paid no attention to the blades pointed at his throat, seeming to think about his next retort: "What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?

The mouse smiled brightly:

It outfoxed the cat!

Then down came the claw,

And that, love, was that."

He sighed, admiring the simple beauty of the rhymes: "They do know how to write them in Cormyr, don't they? Well met, I am Raphael. Very much at your service."

"Who are we talking to?" the dark elf asked. "To the cat, or to the mouse?"

"Neither. The fox, rather, hiding in a word. A silent observer, about to break the silence."

The stranger - Raphael - looked around with bored eyes, frowning at the sight of the ruined temple: "Of course, what I have to say merits some privacy, as well as some more… let's call it refinement. This quaint little scene is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes."

The landscape collapsed before their eyes, and the companions felt themselves being pushed backwards. Rubble became walls; mud, a marble floor. They landed in the center of a sumptuous setting, with a solid wooden table and several chairs. A feast awaited them, ready to be eaten. Raphael raised his hand: "There. Middle-of-somewhere."

Nymuë turned to her comrades, and saw the same anguish in their eyes. Lae'zel gripped her sword tightly; Shadowheart and Astarion looked around, realising that the dining room had no doors or windows. No way out... except for that man, playing with them.

"Where are we?" the rogue hissed.

"The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed... lavishly. Go on, partake. Enjoy your supper. After all... it might just be your last."

The dark elf saw him sensed their reaction. He had reached them with great pomp, before transporting them to an unknown place. He was their guest and their jailer, once again the main actor facing the extras. And now that everyone knew their roles, they could recite their lines.

"I'm getting tired of your little games!" Lae'zel spat.

"Are you not entertained?" he laughed. "Well, far be it from me to disappoint."

A whirlwind of flames enveloped him, reddening his skin and darkening his pupils... When the gale subsided, he was adorned with two black horns on his head, and a pair of wings. His sharp teeth gleamed in the middle of his crimson face; oh, the hero of the story had finally taken off his costume.

"What's better than a devil you don't know?" he whispered. "A devil you do."

He was a cambion. The dangerous offspring of a demon and a mortal. Ambitious creatures, hungry for souls, pacts... and more than capable of providing for themselves. Their boundless gluttony was only surpassed by that of men, whose appetites and greed always served their cause. Glory, power, wealth? The devils were inclined to offer them to you at the best price.

At least, for them.

"Am I a friend?" Raphael continued. "Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a saviour? That's for certain."

He stretched out his arms as if to hug them. He, their liberator, the answer to all their prayers. Between him and the nocturnal visitor, the benefactors multiplied around their little group... "But for what end?" the young woman wondered. What was so precious that a cult, a guardian and now a demon would take an interest in them? Overnight, they had become the first prize in a vast auction.

"Why help us?" Shadowheart asked suspiciously.

"Because my compassion is boundless! I stride among the needy, giving comfort where I can. And you're in dire need."

His clawed finger pointed at Nymuë, who had remained silent until now. "One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all... like that."

He watched for the effect of his speech: a panicked breathing, a frown... maybe a drop of sweat. The slightest hint that he had hooked his prey. Unfortunately, his booty of the day stayed resolute: "You're mad if you think I'll make a deal with a devil," Nymuë replied coldly.

She heard the approving grunt of Lae'zel, as well as the sighs of relief from Shadowheart and Astarion. With the parasite, their minds and bodies were already on borrowed time. There was no question of risking their souls too.

"And what is madness but a denial of reality?" Raphael resumed slowly. "Still, I've a feeling you'll change your mind. Before it's changed for you."

He made a careless gesture with his arm, brushing aside their desire to survive without his help: "Try to cure yourself. Shop around: beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled to the very marrow of despair… That's when you'll come knocking at my door."

He paused for a moment, savoring his own pun: "Hope. Ha! Such a tease."

"Your jokes have gone on long enough," the dark elf hissed. "Bring us back to where we came from, and don't dare cross our path again."

Raphael leaned towards them, as if to share a confidence: "All those pretty little symptoms, sundering skin, dissolving guts... They haven't manifested yet, have they?"

Despite herself, Nymuë's eyes fell on Shadowheart's bag, where was hidden her artefact. The cambion followed her gaze. "One might say you're a paragon of luck. I'll be there when it runs out."

A strong wind blew the adventurers away. When they rose to their feet, the temple of Selûne surrounded them once again.

"Bloody Hells!" Shadowheart cried. "Literally! Just when I think I've got a grasp on our dilemma..."

"So now there's a devil trailing after us?" Astarion shouted. "This gets better and better. He seems sure we won't find anything. And he might be right. We've had no luck so far."

"He's not," Nymuë said dryly. "We still have options."

"All he did was flaunted his paltry wings, as if he wanted to impress us," Lae'zel roared. "These creatures talk a lot, but they have no power apart from the one we give them."

"Perhaps, but he's playing with us. Caza..."

The rogue glanced suspiciously at the gith warrior and the priestess. "Someone I once knew liked to toy with people too. Let them think there was hope right until the end. Until he snatched it all away. Creatures like them don't play games, unless they know they can win."

"He's clever," Shadowheart approved. "My order uses the same tactics against Shar's enemies. You don't need a scourge or a rack to break people. Fear and self-doubt are sufficient. When actual pain comes, the victim's already done the heavy lifting for their torturer. There were no right answers with that devil, Astarion, and you'd better remember it."

The elf turned towards her, ready to reply harshly. His eyes met Nymuë's. "We are not his puppets," she smiled. "We'll show him."

"This devil is not the only one spinning a web for us," the priestess continued. "Who tampered our tadpoles and why? What do they have planned for us? If we find those answers, we might have a chance."

"Then let's stop chattering," the githyanki declared.

The companions entered the temple. Apart from the goblin corpses strewn about – victims of poison, for the most part - the place seemed... motionless. No noise, no movement. Who could have guessed that a great triumph had been celebrated here just a few days ago? On a platform, lay a goblin in full regalia. Her followers surrounded her as if they wanted to protect her until their last breath: no doubt the priestess Gut, the last leader of this disparate horde. Her personal chapel was a little further down the building.

Benches and sculptures filled the abandoned space, most of them damaged by the recent occupants. The adventurers followed the path between the seats, going deeper and deeper into the crypt. A cold draught reached them from below.

They landed in a vast room, lit only by a tiny opening in the ceiling. A ray filtered through the stone, illuminating a door on which were represented the different cycles of the moon. And behind it...

"How far does it go?" Shadowheart murmured.

A huge rope ladder tumbled down into the abyss, with the ground nowhere in sight. Hesitantly, the dark elf grabbed a stone and threw it: they heard no fall. "To the World Below," she replied laconically.

She felt her comrade's gaze on her: "Are you going to be all right? I mean... you have no idea what you're going to find down there."

"Neither do you. And I'm afraid there's only one way to find out."

Seizing the ladder, she carefully suspended herself in the air, silencing the anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

It was time to begin her long descent into the Underdark.