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Just why Mazikeen even bothered to take on a minefield of exploding mushrooms is beyond her. Who would care if a dimwitted and bumbling dwarf got himself blown up? Certainly not his wide. But damn her for having a conscience. And fetching a mushroom that could help restore memory loss seemed like a reward far too valuable to pass up.
“If you set off so much as one of those mushrooms, I won't be running to your rescue,” Lae'zel threatens. Safe and far enough away from the field of green explosive fungi, the Githyanki warrior tosses her a second scroll of Misty Step.
Mazikeen catches it, careful not to move from her current position. “My bag! Please!” The old dwarf—Baelen she recalls—begs. “Stop your squabbling and maybe I'll toss it to you,” she grumbles, gathering the leather pack into her arms. A few items slip out, but she could care less. Eager to get out of this minefield, she tosses it towards him, a bit harder than intended. With a loud “oof” Baelen falls, barely reacting fast enough to catch his sack full of belongings.
“Was that really necessary?” Wyll tuts.
Mazikeen wasn't in the mood to argue, or to go out of her way to be overtly kind to someone getting on her last nerve. “He’s lucky I didn't throw it at the mushrooms.” She watches as the dwarf fumbles with his pack. With shaking fingers he pulls out a Scroll of Misty Step, and with a quiet mumble, he vanishes in a plume of mist, appearing on the opposite side of the bridge near her companions.
“Thank the gods,” Mazikeen grumbles under her breath. She was seconds away from killing the dwarf herself. She's fully prepared to follow out of the disastrous minefield of explosive mushrooms. But a peculiar plant blooming from one of the nearby rock walls catches her eye. By no means is it easy to reach, but the almost floral pattern of the blue mushroom is unmistakable.
Noblestalk.
Her knowledge of mushrooms in the Underdark was practically nonexistent. But considering how desperate Derryth was to get her hands on it, it must be incredibly valuable. And there was no way she was leaving empty-handed after all the trouble she went through.
Her eyes glue onto her target, hands raising above her head as she prepares to Misty Step once more. “ Et Alibi !” In a puff of smoke she's teleported away, appearing less than a second later near the valuable mushroom.
“What are you doing?!” Wyll hisses, “A mushroom is not worth risking your safety!”
Leave it to the Blade of Frontiers to be the one most vocally concerned about her well-being. The bulbous green fungi sizzle and pulsate behind her. She's way too close for her liking. But all she needs to do is pluck the noblestalk from the cracked wall and Misty Step back to the safety of the bridge. Easier said than done, of course.
She stretches forward, too afraid to take another step. Mazikeen reaches, her fingers grasping at the precious mushroom just out of reach.
Her foot shuffles, enough for her to tug the fungi from the wall, but also enough to agitate the bibberbangs surrounding her. A small one explodes first,wafting a plume of spores into her face. She coughs, wincing as the spores burn her nose and throat, coating her lungs in a sickly stinging pain. Poison. The spores were poisonous.
“Get out of there!” She can hear Astarion shout from across the Craig. “Now!”
He didn't need to tell her twice. “ Et Ali —!” But before the words can even fully leave her mouth, a sudden explosion behind her pushes her forward. Mazikeen catches herself, quickly trying to move away from the self-destructing mushrooms.
The combination of gas and combustible ore in the rocks made for a dangerous combination. Fire mixes with poisoned gas, burning her eyes and lungs with every breath. She can hear the panicked cries of her companions calling out amidst the repeated explosions, but can't discern just what they're saying. Her ears ring and her vision blurs. Just how many toxic fumes did she inhale?
The booming explosions fade. A thick cloud of spores lingers where dozens of bibberbangs once were, gradually falling to the stony ground.
Hot, much too hot. Pain, pain —Mazikeen collapses, clutching her chest. Daringly she cracks one eye open, staring down at the singed fabric of her trousers and the blistering flesh beneath.
“ Et Alibi !” Amidst her choking breaths and her own heart pounding in her ears, she swears she hears Astarion utilize one of his own spells to reach her. Her suspicions are confirmed once she feels a hand tugging at her own arm, pulling her to her feet. She wants to thank him, but the moment she turns her head to look at him, she's coughing and wheezing again.
“One foot in front of the other, darling.” The vampire encourages, swinging her arm over his shoulders. She does her best to comply, stumbling alongside him as he guides her through the dissipating fumes. The edges of her vision go dark, her chest trembling as she struggles to pull air in through her mouth. “..star…ion…” Hoarse, and barely above a whisper, she isn't even sure if he comprehended her.
But everything goes black.
Bits of conversation and stimuli filter through Mazikeen's comatose state. While the burning in her lungs and the pain radiating through her injured leg took precedence, she could also sense that she was being carried. The voices of her companions, several choice words and arguments between them grated against her clouded ears. She wanted to tell them to quit their squabbling, but lacked the strength to even open her mouth.
She fades into a dreamless slumber once more.
At some point the burning in her chest fades, quelled by a wash of chilling magic that spreads out from her chest all the way to the tips of her toes and fingers. Her chest still aches, but no longer does every breath feel like her lungs are on fire.
“...done what I can. She….rest….check up….later.”
She would recognize that soft-spoken voice anywhere. Shadowheart…Astarion must've brought her back to camp. Or dragged the cleric out to wherever they were. She tries to focus on listening to her surroundings. Aside from the ambiance and various wildlife noises attributed to the Underdark, the unmistakable sound of a crackling fire and buzzing conversation seems to prove her former assumption correct.
The ground beneath her is much softer than her usual bedroll by the fire, she realizes. Neither can she feel the cool night breeze on her skin. She attempts to move her numb fingers, brushing over a semi-familiar texture of rabbit fur. Her tent…they had placed her in her tent? She couldn't name the last time she actually slept within the darkened fabric walls. Always moving from one place to the next, most nights she passed out next to the fire, obtaining a few hours of shut-eye before one of her companions inevitably awoke her. Aside from an occasional twitch her body refused to rouse. So she does the only thing she can.
She listens.
The hours pass mostly in silence, leaving her alone with her pain and scrambled thoughts. They should be making progress—finding a way out of the Underdark and into the Shadow Cursed Lands. All of them were on borrowed time. She can only hope that she doesn't sprout tentacles in her comatose state.
The conversations of her comrades were always just out of earshot for her to pick up on any topics. But by the way things sounded, Lae'zel was growing ever impatient with each passing day. Gale, caring as he was, had been assisting Shadowheart in a search for some sort of antitoxin for the bibberbang fumes. The others remained quiet for the most part. Karlach visited often, assisting Shadowheart with changing her bandages (apparently she was covered with them). But it seemed that Astarion was her number one visitor.
It certainly surprised her. Granted their flirtatious advances weren't a mystery to anyone in camp, but apart from a casual sexual relationship, nothing else existed between them. At least, that's how Mazikeen perceived things.
Brief at first, said visits usually consisted of either assisting one of the others with changing her bandages, or keeping watch to ensure she didn't well.. .die in her sleep. Oftentimes he simply sat beside her, likely reading a book or tailoring the various rips and holes that accumulated on his clothes throughout their journey. But occasionally he would humor her in conversation, talking aloud and filling the silence with something of substance. And though she couldn't answer verbally, she appreciated them all the same.
The flap of her tent rustles, accompanied by a low side and shifting footsteps. Her trained ears had grown accustomed to the sound, and she didn't need her eyes to know that it was Astarion.
“Good morning, darling~!” Energetic and sing-song, his voice chases away the silence that had plagued her for the past several hours. "I do hope I'm not interrupting a lovely dream, but you'll be glad to hear that I've managed to peddle an antidote from that enlightened hobgoblin at the mycanoid colony.” Carefully the vampire spawn steps over her still body. Kneeling beside her, he removes the cork from the bottle in hand, daring to take an experimental whiff of the concoction inside. “Oh,” He grimaces, “Apologies in advance, darling. I can only hope this doesn't taste nearly as bad as it smells….”
The unconscious magus heeds is warning, mentally steeling herself. His hand, cold but firm, coaxes her from the warmth and comfort of her blankets and pillows, just enough to where she can properly swallow. She feels the cold rim of the bottle at her lips, followed by the taste and almost gritty texture of the potion. It's foul, just as he predicted, and had she been properly able to move, Mazikeen knows she would be grimacing and choking on it. The only saving grace is that it cascades down her throat smoothly in her paralyzed state.
She jolts, as if an electric current passed through her whole body. Every nerve is set alight and she opens her mouth to cry out. But all that leaves her lips is a hoarse sound that leaves her throat dry and scratchy.
“Mazikeen?”
It's the first time she can recall him actually saying her name, and even more so, the first time he sounds genuinely concerned.
But she can move. She can move again. The realization lifts a weight off her shoulders. Her limbs weigh her down like lead, and she swears she could very well break a sweat by just trying to lift her arm. Astarion's hold on her shifts. Gently he coaxes her back down and discards the now empty potion bottle. “Easy, darling,” He warns, “Give the potion a chance to work before you hurt yourself further.”
She heeds his words, focusing more on controlling her facial muscles rather than moving anything else. Her lids fight against the lingering paralysis. Color and light begin to filter through the curtains of her lashes before she finds herself staring up at the familiar ceiling of her tent. Her vision wobbles and blurs, coming together almost agonizingly slow. But she manages to turn her head, gaze falling on the other sole occupant of her tent.
“Ah, our fearless leader finally awakens from her long slumber.” He extends his arms in a dramatic fashion, a fanged grin tugging at his lips. “It's been utter chaos without you, sweetheart.”
She swallows, cringing as the motion scratches her parched throat. The horrid aftertaste of the potion lingers, only serving to make her current discomfort worse. Her mouth opens to speak, and although she forms the word, it comes out barely above a hoarse whisper, “Water.”
Astarion obliges without hesitation. He presents a canteen and assists her into a more upright position, bringing it to her lips. Relief comes the moment the first wave of the cool liquid hits her tongue. With a newfound strength she lifts her arm and grabs the canteen herself, greedily gulping down as much as she can. Not a drop is left by the time the horrid taste is chased from her tastebuds. With a deep breath she leans away, automatically trying to prop herself up on her own. Her muscles tremble from the weight of her own torso and an aching pain lingers throughout nearly every inch of her body.
“Not even five minutes and you're already trying to jump back into action?” He tuts, but inches away to give her some space.
“How—” Mazikeen clears her throat, “How long…?”
“Two days,” He answers without skipping a beat, though his tone is anything but relieved. No, judging by the look on his face, Mazikeen concludes that he's rather irked by her current state.
She nods. Her skin burns and her muscles ache in protest, but she forces herself up into a sitting position. The blanket from her bedroll falls to her waist, and for the first time, she's able to gauge the extent of her injuries.
Even with Shadowheart’s skills and the healing potions they had on hand, bloodstained bandages still covered parts of her hands and arms. Her clothes had been stripped away to make room for the strips of linen wound tightly around her torso, likely holding cracked or broken ribs in place. But the worst she can tell is her leg. Beneath the blanket her eyes can make out the outline of a large bandage tightly wrapped around red and blistering flesh. “What about the noblestalk?”
He scoffs. “You nearly get blown to smithereens and the mushroom is what you're most concerned about?” But ultimately, he sighs and concedes, “ Gale has been all too eager to take charge of the valuable fungus. But honestly, there are other ways of making a decent heap of coin that don't involve choking on toxic fumes.”
Her brow lifts quizzically, though the muscle movement is quickly followed by a sharp pain in her face that makes her hiss through her teeth. Immediately her hand flies to her face. Her fingers brush over a taut and rough texture that isn't skin, and the warm feeling dribbling down her cheek hardly alleviates her growing worry.
“And now you've gone and torn your stitches,” He tuts, gesturing towards what she can only imagine is a pitiful sight, “I'm afraid your road to recovery isn't off to a great start, sweetheart.”
She shoots him an irritated scowl. Curse her stubbornness and lack of self preservation. Had she been more on her toes, or quelled her curiosity before she even stepped foot near those explosive mushrooms, she wouldn't be in this mess.
Digging around in his own collection of supplies, Astarion presents a silver needle and a spool of thread. “Our dear cleric may be skilled in healing spells, but her skills when it comes to stitching is atrocious .” He inches closer to her, gesturing for her to lift her head a little. She lets him. “Apologies my dear, but this will sting a bit.”
Mazikeen heeds his warning. The prick of the needle is nothing compared to the ache in her limbs and the sensitive burns beneath her bandages. She sits still, allowing him to close the wound stretching all the way from her nose to her ear. She can only hope that the scar won't be all that noticeable once it heals. But beneath the early morning ambiance and dim lighting of her tent, her mind can't help but wander.
Their little group of vagabonds had been traveling together for several weeks now. Between the lot of them, a handful she considered friends, and the other simply reliable allies or acquaintances. For a good portion of their journey Mazikeen had kept him at arm's length. While meeting him with a knife pressed to her throat certainly didn't leave a good impression, his honeyed words were a double-edged sword that she could've easily impaled herself on had she not been careful. Yet try as she might, he managed to worm his way under her skin. Their occasional late night trysts were proof enough of that. But now, in this very moment of him tending to her wounds and doting on her like she's somehow special to him, she can't wrap her mind around.
Her gaze drifts off to the side. “I didn't do it for the money you know.”
The cool metal of the needle pauses against her cheek for a moment. The stretch of silence is unnerving, and she debates asking if he heard her. A foolish question considering his adept hearing. His answer is filled to the brim with skepticism and disbelief. “Not for the—then what on earth for? Don't tell me you were trying to obtain it for that soursop peddler in the mycanoid colony?!”
Her jaw clenches. Although he's shown his distaste for charity before, she can't recall him being this outwardly upset about it. Her brow begins to furrow again, pulling at the newly sewn stitches. “No. I wanted it for myself.” The selfish admission would've upset at least a few of her companions. But from what she gathered, Astarion was the least likely to chastise her for looking out for her own skin.
Threading the last of her stitches, Astarion sighs and sets his supplies aside. Mazikeen can see the unasked question in his eyes, and answers before he even opens his mouth. “She said it could cure memory loss.” Her fingers fiddle with the thick bandages around her right hand. Another silent pause stretches on uncomfortably. Is he angry?
Astarion scoffs, and it takes her a moment to realize that she voiced the question aloud. “I'm not angry with you I just…” He stops himself. With a restless gaze his shoulders stiffen.
The tadpole burrowed into her brain squirms, longing to connect and to pull the answer from his mind by force. No , her own mind is adamant. If he chooses to open up to her, that's his choice, and his alone.
“While I understand your motivations it was still an objectively stupid thing to do.” Like a mother hen he scolds her. His honesty, though harsh, is a breath of fresh air in contrast with his usual honeyed lies meant to lure her to his bedroll. “You sell yourself short. Without you this whole group would fall apart. I just…want you to remember that the next time you debate blowing yourself up to smithereens.”
She blinks. Genuine compliments aren't something she comes across often, especially from him. And in all honesty, she isn't quite sure how to take it. The magus settles on a nod. But her? A linchpin in their chaotic group? She doubts it. All of them are perfectly capable without her.
“Now, as much as I enjoy your company, rest would be better suited for you. You've inhaled enough toxic spores to nearly melt your insides.”
“I don't want to sleep.” The words rush out before he can even make a move to leave. And as soon as they register, shame and embarrassment creep up her spine and bleed into her injured face. But in that moment, all she can think of is the paralyzing darkness and how much she doesn't want to be alone in it again, even if her body longs to give in and forget the pain lingering in her limbs for just a little bit longer. “I um…some company would be nice.”
Astarion reads her like an open book. As impassive and strong as she often appears, the fear in her voice is unmistakable. Yet oddly enough he has no desire to tease or chastise her for it. “Alright,” He settles down beside her once more, pushing aside any of the remaining supplies he had brought. His arm lifts automatically and she takes advantage of his wordless invitation, shifting closer to his side. It can't be that comfortable, he concludes. Stripped down to nothing but her undergarments and a few bandages, he's the last person to provide the warmth that she's probably looking for.
Mazikeen can care less. Despite the lingering aches and pains, and the gooseflesh pickling along her skin, she finds comfort in Astarion's company. He doesn't probe or argue, nor does he dote on her hand and foot or shower her with kisses and sweet nothings. He just listens, content to stay by her side through a vulnerable moment that she wouldn't dare show to anyone else. And to her, that's enough.