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The top of the Elder Brain is littered with corpses. Pieces of people and not people scattered over twitching, slowly greying pink flesh. Hands, arms, torsos, tentacled heads strewn across ash and blood coagulate. Dozens of illithids, half a dozen dream guardians in their decaying golden armor, black necrotic ooze crawling over the shining metal like the spread of rot over wood. A defensive line had evidently been built to keep mindflayers from entering the portal to the Elder Brain’s will or mind or whatever Omeluum had done. There is a very clear line where the furthest enemies had fallen; allowed no closer than the fifteen feet away from the portal they had gotten.
Of the dead, there are surprisingly few of the allies they had called together. Perhaps because many of them had been turned to ash or subsumed. A grim fate, to be sure.
But there are survivors, and they turn, bruised, burned, sliced and broken, to know what is next. Dame Aylin, her typically exuberant face stern; bleeding and covered in illithid gore, grimly decapitates the final mindflayer Zevlor had brought to its knees. White wings ruffle behind her, a wince as an arrow shifts in her plumage. Zevlor breathes heavily, his greatsword planted in the meat of the brain, forearms and horned head resting for a single glorious moment. The only cleric Zevlor’s people had left walks up behind Aylin, one hand on her wing, the other grasping the arrow buried within. He tears the lodged projectile from the godling, her lips sneering in pain as he does, flexing the wounded appendage. Golden magic laces under the woman’s wing and knits the wound together, the godling grunting in appreciation.
There is no time to revel. The brain quakes under everyone’s feet, the few living allies looking for confirmation of reprieve or continued struggle. Lae’zel is the one to give it; her voice commanding, not quite joyous, but proud and relieved.
“It is done! It is dead! Get yourselves to safety! The brain will not remain in the sky for long!” The gith woman shouts, preparing her own potion of flight. She turns to her prince, expression tense and demanding. The man’s lips twitch in an instinctive smile, his eyes utterly exhausted. Blood still drips steadily from his nose. He looks faint, but he stands tall regardless.
“Are you able to get to the ground safely, my prince?” Orpheus replies that he cannot, his jaw tight as he weighs that he may be condemning one of his saviors to save himself at their expense yet again. The mind of Omeluum interjects, cold and somehow wet over their minds. It is no longer projecting calm as it had been during the battle; it is agitated, nervous. Perhaps it fears that it will soon have no guarantee of its survival. Once the Prince is unbound from it, it may expect the monarch to kill it.
“I am capable of relatively short range teleportation. Enough to get to the surface. I regret that I am only capable of transporting myself and one other. My higher capabilities are spent.” Lae’zel speaks for her prince without hesitation. Astarion would feel proud if he did not feel the brain shudder under his feet. The tadpoles writhe in all of their heads; crying out in fear as they try to deny the order to die. He can hear it just as everyone else does: the sound of thousands upon thousands of mindflayer tadpoles dying in the heads of thralls. Full illithids screaming as their bond is severed and their lives cut short by the soldiers around them.
“Then you will take Orpheus. We will meet you… where will we gather?” Lae’zel looks around, the sun shining bright on the river. The gith woman still does not know where safety may exist in the city after such a battle. No one knows what buildings are too damaged to call safe.
It is Solace who replies, wheezing as they wriggle off Karlach’s shoulders. The blue tiefling nearly collapses as their feet hit the ground, leaning against the taller tiefling, their left arm clutching their still bleeding shoulder. Karlach douses the paladin's shoulder with another potion, frowning as nothing seems to change. Astarion’s stomach drops at the sight. No. That’s not fair.
“The docks will be free I think. No, Gortash’s warehouse. Where the submersible is. We can keep Omeluum and Orpheus safe from the masses. Even if it’s partially broken.” The paladin’s voice is shaking. Trembling with the effort of communicating their thoughts. The logic rings sound, the prince nodding along and only slightly flinching when Omeluum puts a hand on his shoulder. A moment later, it has teleported away with the hope for githyanki freedom. Lae’zel seems to realize that fact, her hands flexing and eyes wide. She shakes herself; taking a quick, deep breath as she masters her fear. There is nothing she can do to help her prince now, and she had witnessed the spell that bound the two people’s lives together. She must trust what she saw, trust her prince, and trust the mindflayer.
The vampire doesn’t care about the gith woman’s worries at the moment. Astarion runs to support Solace’s trembling body, the paladin looking ready to fall over and sleep for days. They blink at his touch, smiling with bloody, burned and cracked lips. His stomach sinks as he finally sees the damage his paladin sustained. Their eyelids scarred by flame, their nostrils cracked and bleeding. The veins and arteries around their eyes and nose seem to still shine with latent silver. The longer he looks, Astarion can see the veins closest to the surface are bright and almost pulsing brighter with their heartbeat. What had Selune done to them?
He can only imagine why they can see and hear, given that the flames of Selune had burned them from within. Had scoured their veins and arteries like acid. Maybe the wounds can be healed. Maybe his partner will be just as they had been. There is little they deserve more than to be whole and hale, godly boons be damned. He will drag any and all clerics to their aid if he has to. He won’t accept that their body is altered by the god that claimed to care about them. They do not deserve that. Aylin had promised her mother would protect them. Maybe Isobel can help them.
“I will get Halsin to the warehouse. He can’t change back without needing help afterwards. I have a potion of feather fall. Who needs it?” Shadowheart tosses the potion to Minsc, the man unceremoniously jumping off the brain with a gleeful shout. Shadowheart wraps her arms around Halsin’s neck and teleports in a similar manner as Omeluum, her magic much more radiant than the mindflayer’s had been. Halsin’s high whine of concern is cut off as the druid and cleric disappear, his wolf eyes on the visibly struggling paladin. The brain is quickly listing, the remaining allies stumbling and trying to jump clear, potions and spells cast.
Jaheira shifts into a massive eagle, grabbing a mildly startled Zevlor and flying off. Dame Aylin rides up on Harold, the massive Owlbear chirping happily, utterly covered in gore. His feathers are burned, one of his eyes looks damaged, but the beast coos happily all the same.
The brain tilts under their feet, a sick feeling as the mass that supports them lists to one side while gravity reasserts itself over the massive brain and those upon it. Solace groans as they are forced to shift their weight to stay upright. Astarion fears they will need help getting to the ground. He also fears that they will deny aid until it is too late. Wyll’s eyes meet his from behind the paladin, and the warlock nods, his brow concerned as he looks at Solace. The warlock pulls Gale close, murmuring something to the man as he gestures to the godling. The wizard nods, grimoire in hand.
“This beast and I can fly one other than ourselves. I cannot imagine it will be a comfortable ride with the feathered friend.” She dismounts, offering her hand to Karlach, the tiefling blushing furiously as she is carried like a bride for likely the first time since she was a child. Aylin flies up, perhaps thinking she should catch any who may fall.
Harold nuzzles Lae’zel, the gith woman looking from her potion, to the beast, shrugging, and clambering on, her hands holding tight to the heavy armor buckles. The owlbear then charges forward and off the brain; winged arms spread wide; smoke trailing off the tips of its feathers as it glides heavily through the sky. Lae’zel’s exhilarated and certainly frightened cry makes Solace chuckle. Red blood mists from their mouth.
Wyll and Gale cast their flight spells, the rest of the living allies already making their hasty retreats without bothering to check if anyone is going to be left behind.
That leaves Solace and Astarion. The paladin wrapping their only arm around his back. Their head resting on his. He steps on their feet, like a child dancing with their parent, and then they are flying away from the Netherbrain as it begins to wildly careen in the sky.
The paladin’s arm and body trembles, their breathing heavy. They are in pain. Astarion clings to his partner, murmuring encouragement as they fly him to the ground. Wyll and Gale stay close, wary of how utterly decimated Solace is. The paladin’s flight wavers, as though their mind is trying to stay awake and failing. He can hear and feel their heartbeat; irregular and struggling. Their breath comes in forced gasps and groans of pain.
“Just get to the ground, Solace. We can walk from there. Just get to the ground.” He speaks, repeating it as the paladin does just that. They are still several hundred feet up when the paladin’s injuries prove to be too much; the controlled descent now well and truly a fall. The paladin is unconscious in his arms. He feels his stomach plummet and his heart clench as Solace goes limp in his hold. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to cry for help. He is simply horrified by the paladin succumbing to their injuries.
“Gale!” Wyll cries, diving after his friends; hand outstretched as he dives after them. The wizard following behind, his fingers already weaving runes in the air. Wyll closes in above them, clinging to Solace and slowing their descent, his body maneuvered underneath the paladin and vampire. The man’s warm arms wrap around both of them, keeping Solace from slipping out of Astarion’s arms.
“It’ll be alright, Astarion. We’ve got you. Both of you.” The warlock says, warm and confident. All he can do is nod and focus his entire being on clinging to his partner. His muscles lock around them, refusing to let them drift apart. He won’t lose them. He can’t.
Gale’s familiar magic surrounds them; softening their descent. Wyll breathes easier as the wizard joins him in guiding the paladin to the ground. Astarion recognizes the buildings they fly over; half destroyed but still standing structures of the Lower City. He sees Dammon’s forge is still mostly intact. The Devil’s fee bristles with arcane refutation; illithid corpses smoldering in the evening sun.
Wyll and Gale guide the four of them to land in the park nearby The Blushing Mermaid. Solace remains unconscious as they are gently set down by Wyll and Astarion, the handsome black man pulling out a healing potion and dripping it slowly down the paladin’s throat, careful to avoid drowning them. The paladin barely stirs, the punishment they experienced finally taking its toll. But they are alive.
“Thank you.” Astarion whimpers, looking up at the two men and unable to stop the tears sliding down his cheeks. Wyll smiles and Gale simply nods, his expression somewhat distracted.
“You’re not alone in caring for them, Astarion. We’ve got you.” A shadow flicks over Wyll’s eyes and the man looks up, smiling at Dame Aylin and Karlach, the two women clearly alarmed by the paladin’s sudden plummet. The women touch the ground, Aylin kneeling beside her fellow paladin. Her hand presses to the stump of their right shoulder, a surge of immense healing finally stopping the wound from bleeding.
The aasimar sighs, her expression tight and tired.
“I am spent of my efforts. I can offer no more aid to them. I am sorry. But should there be need of it, my darling Isobel and I are at your service. Call upon us whenever you have need or want of our company.” The daughter of Selune groans as she stands, her hand gently squeezing the vampire’s shoulder. He smiles at her, showing the depths of his appreciation and affection. She bows her head to each of them in turn and flies off, intent on finding her wife in the chaos of the city.
Karlach carries the yet unconscious paladin, their single arm secured around her torso with a spare belt as their legs rest on her hips. It’s comical, really, to carry a six foot tall tiefling like a hastily repaired backpack, but the taller woman does it, and she does so with pride. The walk is quiet; almost calm, save for the bodies of illithids and their victims. A few githyanki corpses are scattered among the dead, but as far as Astarion can tell, the casualties were shockingly few. Or maybe the damage was more profound in the upper city.
Regardless, the five of them make their way to Flymm’s Cargo. The building seems entirely untouched aside from the open door and Shadowheart standing beside it. Her eyes light up and her smile is profound.
“You made it.” Her voice is exhausted. Her words layered with anxiety and fear. For a moment, no one responds. The reality of the situation finally hitting them.
Astarion smiles, the warm light of the sun on his face as he replies.
“We made it.”