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Artemesia had been through plenty of scrapes in her day, many of them even (deniably) self-inflicted, but being abducted and forced to host a worm in her eye was decidedly the Worst Thing to Ever Have Happened to Her. It even beat out growing up as a street urchin, stealing apples to survive and dodging both the Flaming Fist and the Guild.
When she woke up on the wrecked beach, the worst headache ever pounding away in her skull, she had two thoughts:
1) How on Torril was she still alive?
2) If her lyre hadn't survived the crash, she was going to flay the next squid she came across alive.
Luckily, her spider's lyre had indeed survived. Apparently whatever force that had deemed her worthy enough to be saved had also extended the same mercy to her instrument.
Shadowheart, the half-elf with a sharp edge in stark contrast to her almost sweet-looking face, had survived as well. The two of them dispatched of a few crawling brains, and Art discovered she was a cleric when the woman reached over to heal her wounds with divine magic.
"Helpful, that," Art said, then teased, "I think I'll keep you around, so long as you don't expect me to convert."
Shadowheart just leveled a steely look at her.
After that, they met a new face; a pale elf with a wicked dagger which Art had to pry away from her neck. With a quick flick of her reflexes, she was able to disarm him and push him off, but it was the strange pulse of psionic energy which saved her, pouring her thoughts into his mind, and his into hers. He was Baldurian too, though she'd never seen him before. The man apologized with a roguish smile that Art recognized as an attempt to charm her.
"No worries," she said, returning with a smirk of her own. "I'd have done the same were our roles reversed."
"Ah," he said with a chuckle. "A kindred spirit, I see."
The githyanki who'd nearly sliced Art to ribbons on the nautaloid was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she'd perished liked the dozens of others strewn along the beach. Shadowheart expressed a desire for that outcome, and Art blew off the tension with a laugh. "Well, I certainly will make sure I never stray onto your bad side."
They found an illithid, half-way to its grave and whatever lay beyond for such creatures. Art wrinkled her nose at it and let Astarion sink a dagger into its slimy purple flesh. Even he seemed repulsed by it.
Artemesia asked the group as they continued on how much they knew about mind flayers.
"That's what the grotesque things are called?" Astarion said.
Well, that mostly answered her question. Art racked her brain, sifting through the masses of information she'd come across in her time as an archivist's assistant (a long story which she didn't feel like disclosing to the two strangers), for relevant data.
"They're the enemies of the gith," she explained. "The two peoples have been at war for millenia. Really, having a gith with us would be helpful, if dangerous." She angled a look at Shadowheart. "But alas. Last I heard, their lich queen was still in her thousand-years reign, and their mission statement hasn't changed. You saw the dragon on the nautiloid, yes?"
They nodded.
"That was one of their riders. If the gith followed the ship, they might have ended up on Faerun, same as us. Though, hopefully a little more intact." She kicked the wall of the ruined fleshy ship.
"You seem to know a lot about them," Shadowheart said. "Are you a scholar?"
"Of a sort." She half-smiled. "Anyway, we should continue searching around the wreckage site. Maybe there are more clues pointing to something helpful."
"Speaking of," Astarion said, his gaze straying ahead. "What in gods' names is that?"
Art looked that way and saw a beacon of purple light. They turned the corner and saw a teleportation rune. It was in every way just like the hundreds, if not thousands, of travel runes which dotted the Sword Coast, able to be used to port from one place to another provided one knew how to use said runes. Alike in every way, that is, except for the black hole sucking in the air around it.
The others kept their distance, understandably untrusting of such a phenomenon, but Art, spurred on my that cosmic flaw of curiosity, drew closer.
"That thing is going to eat you!" Said Shadowheart.
"Oh, let her investigate," drawled Astarion. "Better she risks life and limb for a swirling vortex than us."
But Art had a sneeking suspicion of what this was. It looked like a suspended version of the flash of light which accompanied someone's arrival. Almost as if--
A hand jumped out from the vortex, straining for purchase. "A hand? Anyone?"
Someone was stuck in there. Art marveled at such a thing, and pocketed the new information for risk analysis the next time she decided to use a port rune herself. It was easy to dispatch, though, and soon her counter-charms wove the captive within the vortex free, flying out to land on the hard-packed dirt with a thud. Art, who had reached out a hand to pull him the rest of the way out, also fell to the ground.
It was a man in purple robes, who groaned as he struggled to his feet.
Introductions were exchanged, the man all but grabbing Art's hand in an enthusiastic handshake. His name was Gale, of Waterdeep, and as he straightened his hair, he said, "I do apologize, I'm usually better at this."
"At what?" Art said with an amused, furrowed brow. "Introductions?"
He grinned magnanimously. "At magic. Say, I know you, don't I? In a manner of speaking? You were on the nautiloid as well, yes?"
"I was." He knew about these things as well. Useful. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you. Were you trapped as well?"
"I was, yes. Not to worry, though, I managed on my own."
"I'm assuming you tried to use the port rune?" She said, gesturing to the glowing inscription. "Mid-air?"
"Astute observation. Yes, though I imagined it going a little better than it did."
"Clearly." He seemed remarkably calm for someone who, moments before, had been stuck between teleportation locations, which was usually a good way to get one's self spliced. "Well, if you were a captive on the spelljammer ship too, I'm assuming you're in the same wriggling boat as the rest of us."
"Ah, yes, that most uncomfortable insertion in the occular region."
"Couldn't have phrased it more repelently myself."
"No use sugar-coating it, is there?" His expression turned grim. "Are you aware that after a truly excruciating gestation period, the tadpoles will turn us into mind flayers? A process known as ceremorphosis, and let me be clear, one to be avoided."
"Personally, I was debating the benefits of tentacles," Art deadpanned, "but i suppose you're right."
"Hah! The very thought..." He shivered. "You don't happen to be a cleric, by any chance, would you? A doctor? Surgeon? Uncannily adriot with a knitting needle?"
Gods of Celestia, this man loved to talk. Art felt annoyance bubble in her gut, and was about to let him know that they were wasting valuable time, but Shadowheart cut in.
"You seem to know enough to ascertain that our malady is beyond most clerics' skillset."
"Right you are. I was hoping to be in the presence of the few, but if not-- well, I happen to be an accomplished scholar, as well as an archmage, so..." He squinted ahead of them, eyes calculative. "I'm sure I'll find something to help. Assuming we can come across some helpful research opportunities."
Art angled a look at the other two in the group. Shadowheart looked cacautiously hopeful, but Astarion looked like he might strain his eyes from the force with which he was rolling them. Art had to agree with the latter, though she tried to remind herself that they couldn't get hung up on disagreements in personality. Even if that disagreement came in the form of an over-loquatious, arrogant wizard. Gods, of all things, a wizard? Art had met many in her day, and they were, the lot of them, stuffy at best and obnoxious at worst. She'd had to suffer their preferences for superiority many times back in the Archives at Baldur's Gate.
"You're welcome to join us," she said to Gale. "I saw a red dragon passing overhead, so we can't be too far from some gith. I'm thinking if anyone can help us with an illithid problem, it would be them." Assuming they wouldn't decide the best course of action would be to kill them all before they had time to worry about tentacles.
Gale blinked at her, and she didn't even bother to hide a smug little smirk. He hadn't expected her to know about ceremorphosis. Good. It always felt nice to exceed expectations, especially when it countered a wizard's ego.
But then he grinned, the effect entirely too bright and friendly for Art to really relish in her small, petty victory. "Most excellent! But before we go, let me asuage any thoughts that you might be about to embark on a journey with a most ill-mannered man. Thank you for pulling me out of that portal."
I'm starting to regret it. But if she was really honest, she didn't mean that. Artemesia had snubbed plenty of people, left others to their ruinous fate, and even killed before, but she never took much enjoyment out of death. It was why she'd never taken any hit jobs, though she'd been offered them, as she sank into the seedy underreaches of Baldur's Gate. She preferred stealing-- a morally grey but non-murderous kind of way to pocket extra coin when she needed it.
Art nodded stiffly, and they were on their way.
Artemesia wasn't always the defacto leader of a brain-worm-eaten group of weirdos. Once, she was an archivist’s assistant.
She'd often get in trouble with the Head Archivist, a gnomish man with a surprisingly effective talent for intimidation. Themble Coppertin had found Artemesia as a young girl in a corner of the restricted section (which she most certainly hadn't been escorted to) with a particularly rare tome between her hands.
"I beg your pardon, miss! This section is not for public use!"
From the moment she'd seen Themble, she'd gotten the impression that he might have a stick shoved very far up somewhere she'd rather not think about. But the gnome stopped when he saw exactly which tome the girl had pilfered. His eyes narrowed. "I-- by Tiamat's toes, where did you get that?"
She'd pointed to the very top shelf, where the archives' rare collection of novels were housed. These in particular had been confiscated and saved from a burning in a particularly harsh time a faraway city where some uppity noble had decided they were too indecent for the public eye. They were, mostly, romances.
And Themble, despite himself, despite his honor as an Archivist, sworn to protect the written word with his life, found himself impressed. The young tiefling had good taste.
Artemesia, for her part, was waiting calmly for the moment she would be kicked out. What other outcome was there? But that moment didn't come. For, instead of kicking her out, Temble looked at her place in the book, made a comment about not even being at the good part yet, and offered her a deal. "I'll let you finish it, and in exchange, you'll help me with something."
That something turned out to be sorting through donated papers, ledgers, and records with a container of bookworm repellant. It was tedious and rather smelly work, but by the end of the day, she'd had an extra hour or two to read. And when she was still not finished with the book, and complained to Themble about this, he'd shrugged and said she could always come back tomorrow and finish it after her work.
So she came back the next day. And the next. And the next.
Over time, she'd become an accomplished researcher. She had many other talents-- sneak-thief, lockpick, performer, even a writer on occaision-- but this was her foundation. It was one she secretly prided herself on, one that she refused to go into detail to people, especially strangers, because the mystery was what made it hers. She loved little else than to surprise people and make them wonder what else she might know, what else she might be able to hold over them, what else she might be capable of. Other people liked to be feared for their known talents; Artemesia liked to be feared (or better yet, admired) for her unknown ones.
So suffice it to say she didn't appreciate the prodding nature of some of her companions.
"Ceremorphosis. What does it make you think of?"
She'd caught the wizard preening before not a mirror, but a perfect illusory copy of himself, and the effect made her want to groan in annoyance. Of course he was also vain. She wasn't going to deny that looking at him had it's perks, but come on.
Art crossed her arms and said, "Well, for starters, the worms in our head."
He tapped his nose, smiling in a way that made Art grit her teeth. "Spot on. Day one, confusion and memory loss. Day two, headaches and strange cravings. Day three, burning blood and skin dulling to a purple-grey. Need I go on?"
"Days four and five: eyes turning black, followed by sharpened teeth and spontaneous hovering. Day six: liquification of innards, and finally, day seven, when you'll have ceased to exist and sprout tentacles. Yes, I'm aware of the process."
He blinked at her. "You're not one for sugarcoating either, it seems."
"Sweets are in short supply when you're on a time crunch like ours."
"You seem to know a lot on the subject of our time crunch."
She shrugged. "A bit more than the average person."
"Where did you pick up such information?"
She bristled, but tried not to let it show on her face. Art wasn't really keen on sharing personal information. In her line of work as a thief, she'd mostly found out that doing so only led to bad consequences. "I read a lot. And I'm guessing you took some elective on the geography of the Astral Sea back in school, or something?"
"No, nothing so specific," he said with a light-hearted chuckle. "Though I did love learning about the different planes of existence. We're very lucky, then, to have three people educated on the subject, counting Lae'zel."
"Indeed." She glanced over to the githyanki's tent, where she was sharpening her greatsword, leveling a look around at them all with an intensity that Art thought might mean she was thinking of killing them all in their sleep. From what Art knew of gith, that wasn't out of the question. The wizard seemed unworried about it, though. She voiced this to him.
"Well, it wouldn't hurt to be cautious," he said carefully. "But I've of the mind to give people the benefit of the doubt, so to speak. In any case, if the gith were going to kill us, I have a feeling she'd have already tried."
Fair enough. "And our other companions?"
"What about them?"
"Surely you have thoughts. Opinions."
"In the mood for a gossip session?"
This time, she blinked at him, at the smirk on his face. "I-- no. But I'm assuming something must go on in that wizard's brain of yours."
"Oh, quite. So much. Well, I will say this of our growing bunch: they're tremendous allies to have in a scrape. You're quite the asset yourself."
"Flattery. Nice."
He smiled wider. "Well, can't blame a man for trying to win a lady over."
"Win me over to what, exactly?" She didn't know how the conversation had taken this turn. Somehow, she found the annoyance slipping, and she tried to grasp it more firmly, remind herself that this was the man who had been preening over his own image just minutes ago.
"Preferably? Someone who will not kill me in my sleep. Ideally? Perhaps someone who might save my life, should it come to that."
"Careful," she said with a sharp smile. "You'll spoil all the fun of my plans."
"Oh, apologies, then."
"You truly believe we face such dire odds?"
"Alone? Yes. Together?" He gestured around the camp. "I'd say with fair confidence that we stand a shot."
"Hm. Well, at least we have one optimist within our ranks."
"You don't consider yourself an optimist?"
"I like to think of myself more of an opportunist."
"What's the difference?"
"In one lies the possibility to be wrong. In the other lies only potential."
Gale studied her for a long moment, and the effect it had on her was... uncomfortable. He was looking at her like she was a book, or like she was a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Good luck with that.
Over the next few days, the motley crew faced much, picking up new members and adding to their list of enemies steadily. Gale remained fixed on trying to ascertain what exactly made their parasites different from any other. Artemesia herself had to wonder why they had not undergone ceremorphosis yet, though she supposed she should be grateful.
"I figure that either our tadpoles are abnormal, or we are," Gale told her.
"Long live the abnormal." Art tipped her goblet of wine to him.
"I'll toast to that."
They found themselves sitting next to one another by the fire at dinner yet again, against all odds and personal opinions. Gale had observed already that Art didn't much like him.
"May I ask why?" He said.
She didn't have a good answer for him, and she hated that. So she said, "I'm not rather fond of wizards."
"Why?"
"Does there need to be a reason?"
"Tends to be. Alright then. I suppose it's up to me to fix it."
Art looked wildly at him. "Pardon?"
"You're a wonderful person to be around, Artemesia," he admitted. "I haven't the faintest idea why. But I'd rather like to be your friend, if you'd let me."
At this, she laughed so hard she almost snorted. "And how do you plan to do that, Gale of Waterdeep?"
He studied the crackle of the flames, where the others of their party were absorbed in their own conversations. Karlach was recounting a nasty scrape in the Hells with a hoard of hezrou, a race of frog-like demons which, apparently, have very tear-able limbs.
Then Gale glanced at Art with the strangest smile she'd ever seen on him. It might be something close to a smirk, though she was sure the fire was distorting his features. "I haven't the faintest idea. Though I hope you'll eventually give me a chance."
Right. Sure.