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They were making camp on the banks of the shores of the strange sea, deep within the underdark. Hemlock had bonded quickly with the myconids they had met on the road, and when Soveriegn Spaw had told of the destruction the Duergar had wreaked, his rage was as one with theirs. The team had made quick work of them. Tomorrow, they would return to the myconids with the good news. But for now, it was time to rest
Their time in the underdark, breathing in it's powerful spores, was having quite the impact on Hemlock. He could feel his power growing, his connection to the world around him stronger than ever before. Back at the myconids colony, he had seen their sovereign breathing new life into the corpses of their enemies, harnessing them as food for the spores to flourish and grow, but also as moving vessels for their will. Traditional necromancy, he was undecided on, but this?
It was beautiful.
And so, on the banks of that beach, he gathered up the corpses and set to work. Closing his eyes, he could feel the life of the thousands of tiny spores within him, surrounding him, moving in tandem. Symbiosis. He placed his hand on the first duergar corpse, and focused.
It took some time and several failed attempts, to finally find the spark that was missing. The spores he had subsumed from the myconids were gradually finding a balance with those he already held within him, mingling and settling, until they finally took root. Mycelial networks stretched their roots within him, connecting his brain with the collective, and at last he felt it. True unity, with the strange and powerful life that hid in these deep caverns. As he laid a hand on the next if the of the duergar, the fungus spreading from his hand did not simply consume the flesh. No, he felt as roots dug deep into the muscles and flesh, burrowing and connecting. Slowly, the corpse raised a hand, as the fungus overtook its face, dead eyes subsumed by beautiful new life.
Perfection.
The process was mastered. And one was not enough. The feeling of it was delicious and Hemlock wanted more. He cast a glance at the rest of their fallen foes from the battle before. Several had already been consumed by mushrooms and rot, rooted deep into the earth below. The land would flourish in years to come, from their blood. A few though, still remained. They could work, but...
His minds flicked to the little treats he had tucked away, dragged along on their travels in the hopes he would find an end more deserving of them than the gentle decay of nature's wilds.
Yes. They would do nicely.
It was sone time later that Astarion came to find him, concerned when the tiefling was not among the group cooking dinner for the night. Emerging from the cave they had set up in, he found Hemlock surrounded by three strange, mushroom encrusted undead, and drew his dagger in an instant. As he snuck closer though, he realized they were not attacking. No, in fact, they seemed to move under his command. One was short and stout, clearly one of the duergar they had defeated that day, but the other two?
And as he stepped closer, the remains of a familiar face caught him by surprise.
"Is that- the Ghur, who came after me, back in the swamp?"
Astarion's voice shook Hemlock from the near trance he had been in, communing with the life that thrummed now through his creations. He turned, the eerie light from his eyes fading back to it's usual twinkle.
"Astarion! Yes, I made sure to keep the neck clear of fungal growths so that we can still see where you tore his throat out." Hemlock smiled, the pride in his voice clear. It had been a rather impressive kill. "The other one is Khaga, if you're curious."
"And where exactly did they come from?"
"Oh, I had Lae'zel drag him back to camp, and I stopped in to pick up the snake's charred remains on our way back through the village. They've been in one of the trunks Karlach carried - I don't think she even noticed the weight, honestly. And I have enough control over the process of decay to stop the smell from becoming a problem."
Astarion raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Quite the feat of dedication. And here I was, assuming that raising the dead was tantamount to reason for a druid?"
"Oh, I'm sure those back at the grove would agree. Many chose to revere only the kinder parts of nature. But death is crucial to the cycle. Without rot and decay, life could not flourish. I commune with the fungus around me, spread it's spores to grow in those I kill. In return, it has grown powerful enough to... Make them useful, for a while. They will return to the earth in time."
He laughed at that. "Well, I suppose that explains why you got along so well with the myconids then! You certainly don't need to convince me, love. We can always use an extra meatshield of two. And these ones won't complain so much."
Hemlock chuckled. "Good thing Lae'zel isn't around, she might have your neck for that."
"I would like to see her try!" He scoffed, spinning a dagger in one hand. "But I must ask... There are plenty of dead duergar around that you might have used. Why go to the effort of bringing these two so far?"
For several long moments, Hemlock simply looked upon the fungus infested corpses standing before him. They were barely recognisable, under his work, but the memories that they held carried great weight.
"He threatened you. Called you a monster. I could hardly let him rest peacefully."
Astarion falterd for a moment, a strange vulnerability in his eyes, before he caught himself. "A charming thought, darling, but I'm no damsel in distress."
Hemlock's face turned dark, eyes glowing bright in the shadows of the cavern "I know. This was for me, selfish creature that I am."
He walked over to the more skeletal figure, fungus barely holding the charred bones together. With one hand, he reached out, clenching, and they contorted, snapped, and reformed into some abomination of lumbering death.
"It's not the suffering I would wish to inflict, but seeing their wasted bones serve a better purpose than in life offers me some small solace."
He circled the other, handing it a dagger and puppeting it as it drew the blade across its chest. Reaching into it, he pulled out the shrivelled heart within, scarlet fronds of fungus growing from it like blood vessels.
"My power has been growing. I can tell this isn't the end. One day soon, I shall ensure Cazador meets the same fate." He turned back to Astarion, holding out the heart. An offering.
"You have my word."
"I-" Astarion's eyes were wide, shock, awe... And was that fear? Hemlock didn't have time to dissect the expression before he turned away. "I should go. Scout the area before we rest."
He didn't wait for a reply, pulling his hood up and vanishing into the shadows that filled every crevice of this place. Hemlock watched him leave, frozen.
With a gesture, he dismissed the newborn zombies to guard their camp, and slunk back to his tent. Foolish of him. The power, the joy, of feeling a million spores take root and come to life under his command, had been intoxicating.
It had not been the urges speaking, of that he was sure. They were commanding, like whispers of some foreign voice, telling him what to do. The words he had spoken were entirely his own. And perhaps the truth of his darkness had been too much, even for one he thought to share his inclinations. Or perhaps it was just that he had overstepped their little game, the depths of his devotion too much for Astarion. He knew it was not shared, loathe as he was to admit it.
No point in dwelling. Tomorrow, they would return to the Myconids, their safety ensured. Offer his new creations as a gift, to help them rebuild their ranks. Astarion would forget the incident, or he would not. That was his choice to make.
Hemlock would not force his hand.