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It’s been a day.
First, more goblins than he could shank in a week have found their way along the criss-crossed path of their ragtag group. His blood-soaked armor and cloak yielded meager spoils: gold, rotten eggs, some bows and daggers. A few items Tav could resell to the halfling trader. Should they ever call it a day and return to camp.
Second, the conversation just keeps going with this group. There is not a moment of silence, between Tav mumbling to herself under her breath and breaking into little diddies (such is the nature of bards), Gale recounting the splendors of Waterdeep and how much he longs for a nice glass of Sembian wine and discourse, or Karlach and her earnest amazement at Gale’s feats of magic and Tav’s musicality. The tiefling woman breaks into a little jig as they continue down the road, nearly kicking into a goblin corpse, while Tav tries to recall the tune of ‘Salty Dick the Sailor.’
Thirdly–is there a third? Well, Astarion is tired. Gale is lamenting his sore feet and Astarion knows the wizard has little magic left in his deft hands. Green goblin giblets and goo splatter his robe, despite his attempts to maintain a respectable distance during their fights.
“Can you not just prestidigitate that away, wizard?” Astarion asks.
“Until we are back at camp, I cannot waste any small bit of magic I have left,” he replies. “Who knows what dangers we might encounter?”
Dangers. Astarion snorts. The danger is Tav herself, who is not a planner and likes to go headfirst into questionable situations, despite her soft constitution. Unfortunately, Karlach’s might and strength give their leader with a false sense of power and resilience.
They are finally nearing camp when Tav veers off their path, strewn with the blood of those wretched goblins, at the sight of a cairn of stones. She crouches to examine them.
Astarion waits impatiently, tapping his foot with his arms crossed. He feels like a child waiting for their mummy to finish looking at shawls at the market. Tav stands, but continues down into a narrow crevice, slipping on wet rocks, and gasps with delight. Karlach follows, exuding a similarly excited sound.
“A cave!”
Do these fools have a thing for caves? Astarion sighs, cleaning his nails with the edge of his dagger. Gale pinches the bridge of his nose, but smiles anyway. The three of them banter on about finding another underground cavern, full of mystery and possibility. Astarion trails behind a bit, leaning into the shadows as they enter the crumbling, stony maw.
It’s a cave. Like many other caves, it is dank and dark. Tepid puddles fill the passageways, and skeletons occasionally litter the various winding paths. Large cobwebs, long abandoned by some sort of awful spectral spider, hang from forgotten corners and crevices. Mushrooms emit a soft green and blue glow, giving dim light through the passages, though everyone save for Astarion is using a torch.
Astarion would rather hike through that wretched swamp, filled with insects, those bizarre red caps, and stagnant bog water. Though he’d sooner not deal with frogs again. Or push his way through the crumbling dust of the dark mausoleum where they found Withers. But this person, Tav, cannot resist the mouth of a cave, as if it were an invitation to a high-society soiree at the greatest noble house in Baldur’s Gate.
And so, they traipse along, he, Tav, Karlach and Gale. The upper levels hold a few small, unremarkable tools and decomposing baskets. Sometimes, he finds a dagger or a piece of gold. Other times, a bottle of water or a strangely fresh carrot, which Tav takes with glee. He can only grimace as she stuffs these questionable food wares into her pack. She has the stomach of an undead ox. Gale babbles on about some Waterdhavian dish that requires carrots that he could prepare later upon returning to camp.
After a while, Tav and Karlach wander off, torches in hand, to survey the lower depths. Astarion hears the pace of her heart pick up and sees the gleam in Karlach’s eye. Nothing but trouble, those two.
So, he is left mage-sitting.
This cave, unfortunately, particularly interests Gale. Often very dull things do. There are various old paintings on the walls, positively barbaric and simple in their detail. The wizard stands captivated, his torch held high as he traces his hand across a particular expanse of stone.
“This is absolutely fascinating,” he says. “You simply must have a look. This is history!”
Astarion looks to his left, to the stalagmite (or is it stalactite?) and an empty passage. He looks to his right, but again, Tav and Karlach are nowhere to be seen. Why did they wander off and leave him with this long-winded… windbag?
Gale isn’t the worst wizard he’s met in 200 some odd years, though his skills don’t quite meet what Astarion would expect from such a ‘renowned’ practitioner of magic. Maybe it’s the tadpole, limiting his skillful Weave-ing powers. Astarion does not care.
As long as Gale can unleash a bolt lightning or fire ball when needed. He remains apathetic about the man’s past. Astarion has his secrets, Gale must have his own. And that is how it should stay. Aside from this tadpole business, he and this little band of weirdos have very little in common.
Gale is still talking.
“ — an entire story about an ancient tribe and their conquests across this region of Faerun. It starts here, with the birth of their leader, a woman with golden hair and an equally golden heart. She is their light of creation, a disciple of Lathander,” Gale says, his voice taking on that lecturing tone Astarion is sure some poor students in Waterdeep endured as the wizard started a treatise on the practical applications of magic. Or the history of mushrooms as it relates to their magical properties. Or maybe just a whole lecture series on The Weave.
Gale holds his torch closer to the rocky surface, eyes following the trail of ink that has survived the weeping walls of the cave, continuing to lecture. It comes so naturally to the human, just as various performative behaviors are second nature to Astarion. Cocking his hip and tilting his head coyly; tracing a finger along the stem of a glass, eyes narrowed, heated as his gaze drops from someone’s eyes to their neck, to their hands and lower.
He shakes his head. Gale moves to another illustration, this one of the golden-haired woman in the sky and a few dozen bowed stick-like figures beneath her.
“She ascended in her death, to live as an eternal Chosen of Lathander, under his constant gaze,” Gale says.
Astarion snorts.
“Not a Lathander worshipper, I take it?” Gale says.
“I’m not one for gods and goddesses. Faith eludes me these days, darling,” Astarion replies.
Gale’s gaze is careful, seeming to pause on Astarion’s toothy grin, in the flickering light of his torch. He covers his canines, dropping his upper lip a bit.
“God of the rising sun, probably not the most likely god for one with certain conditions,” Gale says.
An icy weight settles in his gut and he swallows the panic. So, Gale knows, does he? It’s probably easy to surmise, though his eyes don’t glow like fiery coals anymore. The pallor, his pronounced canines.
Gale simply turns back toward the painting.
“Now here, this tribe’s creation myth continues, with a man made of water–made from the salt of the earth and the freshwater of the stream, he turns into an ocean and…”
Astarion follows the mage a few more steps down along the path, crossing his arms and looking about. Rocks conceal a desiccated rat; a plundered basket is near.
“And here–their worship extends beyond simply the Morninglord. This is the symbol of Mielikki, I believe,” Gale continues, his torch highlighting a crude approximation of a horse’s head with a single horn jutting from its forehead. “Yes, it seems that this clan had a particular fondness for horses and other beasts of burden based on these paintings. I believe this shows us the scene of a great battle, between good and evil, the glorious light of nature and the darkness.”
The line drawings look fresher to Astarion’s eye, drawn in a similarly crude but lighter hand with thinner lines to draw details like the horse manes and tails. Atop the horses are warriors with swords and staves. An adjacent panel shows a warrior with his horse, his hands gently cradling the beast’s long face, his head bowed.
“They truly had a great respect for these creatures,” Gale says with reverence. “A reverence. Like druids and the natural world. These were not merely vehicles or tools of war; these creatures were just as important to them as any other relationship.”
“Ah yes, horses. Ill-tempered and prone to biting.” Astarion drawls. “Easily bribed with an apple or carrot.”
“Well, now, Tav wouldn’t turn down an apple or a carrot,” Gale replies.
“Only if it’s at the bottom of a barrel in a dank cave.”
Gale chuckles and moves to the next illustration. This one is smaller than the battle scene, showing a large red stallion and a man prone beneath the horse. Gale pauses, tilting his head. His brow furrows as he strokes his beard, gazing at the image.
“I can’t quite ascertain what is happening here. Perhaps it is another scene of worship.“
Astarion takes a single look and sniggers. “Well, you could call it ‘worship.’ It’s a man fornicating with a horse, darling.”
“What?! No, it is most certainly not.”
Astarion points to a particular line attached to the horse. “That is the horse’s appendage.” He lowers his hand to the man painted on the wall. “And that is the man’s… orifice.”
Gale blinks and turns red. Flustered, he huffs. “I think it’s open to interpretation.”
“You said it yourself. This was a society that loved their equine companions,” he replies. “Perhaps too much.”
“We should find Karlach and Shadowheart,” Gale says.
Finally. Though it had been quite fun, flustering Gale and interpreting this cave art. Though he wonders now if it is perhaps the work of those tiefling children. Or some other prankster. The mage isn’t stupid, but the thought is amusing.
“Onward, wizard,” he says, stepping down the path to another dripping dark corridor of the cave.
Something isn’t right.
They are lost. Or, maybe they are just a tad disoriented, as Gale says. But either way, there is no sign of Tav or Karlach. They are not subtle since they leave footprints and a sulphuric aura in their wake. Karlach herself glows with the fiery inferno that is her heart. Surely, he would’ve caught Tav’s whistle echoing down one of these many passages.
Astarion’s toes are wet, a sensation that isn’t enhanced by the fact he is always cold. He glances at Gale, who is lifting the hem of his robe as he trails behind, though Astarion can see that it’s a fruitless effort. Cave scum water has already stained the hem.
“Can you locate them with one of your spells, wizard?”
Gale fumbles about for a moment, before casting a “locate” spell with a flick of his fingers, sparing them a bit of his dwindled magic.
“They’re below us,” he says.
“Can you portal us down there?”
“There is something disrupting the weave. Sussirite,” Gale mutters. His brow furrows, lining the tanned skin and pinching just between the brows.
Astarion thinks of Scratch, tilting his head and staring when a particular note is struck by Volo during a campfire story.
“And I’m afraid, even without that sussurite barrier, my magic is diminished. My tank is empty, as it were.”
“Sussirite? Are you making that up?”
“Of course not. The walls and floors are infused with the essence of Sussur blossoms. Dwarven builders and architects often used it in construction to reinforce defenses against magical attacks and disrupt the fabric of the weave. It’s quite clever, but finicky. Commonly cast from rock in Grymforge in the Underdark, where Sussur flowers are a prodigious natural resource- “
“How can you even be sure where Tav is, if the magical matrix is disrupted?”
“The technique leaves gaps. It is like a sieve. Magic can seep through the cracks, but it is slowed and dispersed. I can get a pulse in Tav’s general location. It takes more than a modicum of effort and a much more powerful spell to transport us without the Sussurite. I’m afraid we’ll have to pursue them on foot.”
“Off we go then.” Astarion strides down the corridor. “And do try to keep up.”
Astarion’s dark vision comes in handy more often than he would like, given he can now stand out in the sunlight. But because this group of merry wanderers with brain worms want to get into dark, moist and harrowing places, he is in this cave. And because this group is basically a bunch of cats, they are separated.
Gale has declined to give them a light, leaving the mage with a torch that can barely keep its flame alive in the damp conditions.
The flame snuffs out for the third time. “Elminster’s beard!” Gale throws the torch against the wall and it ricochets into a pool of water.
“Are you sure you don’t want to give us a light?” Astarion asks.
“I need to conserve my energy. If anything has happened to Tav or Karlach, we might need it,” Gale replies haughtily. “It’s just… been a rather long day.”
“Weren’t you saying you were an archmage or something along those lines? What’s a little light for such a master of magic?”
“Those days are long over for me,” Gale replies.
Astarion does not press. He knows a bit of Gale, and that is already too much. There is something strange about the man, aside from the obvious. He disappears into his tent some nights, with a dome of silence that thwarts even Astarion’s elven ears with his enhanced vampiric hearing.
They trudge along a crumbling path, where the water has thinned out beneath their feet and no longer soaks their boots as thoroughly. It will be another tenday before their shoes are dry again. A few yards ahead, Astarion finds two openings, and gives a shout that echoes in the cavern and causes Gale to wince. Fresh footprints. Tav has left her tracks in the deep mud, followed by Karlach’s larger tracks. They follow the marks, which unfortunately go down further into the maze.
There are no more cave drawings for Gale to gaze upon, so at least there is that. Though the wizard stops to point to a patch of purple embedded in the cave floor, some of that practical Sussurite application. Dwarves are clever, aren’t they?
They trudge through the mud, down the winding path. Gale follows closely. Astarion considers asking him if he would like a bit of rope like a leash, so he doesn’t get lost in the dark.
“That is wholly unnecessary,” Gale grumbles in reply. “Take the next right. We are getting closer.”
Gale remains at Astarion’s heels. A few pale green toadstools and bulbs give off a sickly light, though it is not enough for a human’s poor eyesight. Gale ignores the fungi, a sign of his rapidly deteriorating patience.
Astarion detects a bell-like, melodic voice. Tav! He swivels on his feet, bumping into the mage, and speed walks the next hundred feet of slick mud. Behind him, Gale gives an admonishment and tries to follow, but slips in the mud.
Astarion emerges from the end of the tunnel in a massive open cavern. A den of some sort? He’s insignificant compared to it. From above, thin strips of daylight stream down in a patchwork, highlighting the purple Sussurite glittering in the walls. The floors are all sodden silt and still puddles of water. A rash of those glowing mushrooms spreads across the bottom of the cavern.
And across a yawning chasm, there is Tav, leaning heavily into Karlach’s side. She waves to Astarion. Karlach worries her lower lip. The scent of blood, fresh and rusty, fills his nostrils and he sees it then on Tav’s tunic.
“Be careful, there’s-“ Karlach starts to yell.
Astarion takes a step, brushing against a glowing mushroom.
A delicate puff and suddenly the entirety of Astarion’s vision fills with glowing green spores. He hisses, the acid splashing against his skin and one particular bubble bursting in his eye. A haze of white fuzz follows, like a dandelion gone to seed blowing in the wind, and his eyes are alight with the agony of a wall of fire. He screams and claws at his eyes.
“Astarion!” cries Gale. “That’s swarming toadstool!”
“That is not helpful right now!”
The sensation is awful. Closing his eyes makes it worse as the toadstool’s poison infiltrates the delicate membrane of his eyes. He struggles for a potion in his bag, feeling for the much too familiar shape of a potion bottle. Popping the cork, he drinks it.
“Astarion, that’s not a potion!” The last thing he hears before collapsing and curling inward.
He is being carried.
His brain sputters and his body aches. He tries to open his eyelids. He first thinks it’s a horse’s canter, but it isn’t. Why is he thinking of horses, anyway? Gale with his curious glittering eyes, torch raised, flashes in his mind. Right. The cave.
One eye cooperates, fluttering for a second.
He glimpses a purple robe caked with mud and brown eyes. Further down, he finds Karlach’s red tail. She carries him like a sack of potatoes.
“He’s awake,” Gale says, prodding Karlach’s shoulder.
Astarion falls back into the darkness.
“Nevermind, Karlach.”
–
His mouth tastes like death, more so than usual. Not the rust of blood or the taint of a dying creature. Just plain nastiness, wrought by either scorning the wrong goddess, poison, or endless nights of debauchery and sin and waking up the next day.
A warm broad palm settles on his shoulder. He smells rosewater and brandy, but also muck and mud.
Gale.
Were humans always so warm?
It’s been years since he allowed anyone to touch his bare skin. Gale’s heat travels through the leather of his armor. He may as well be naked. The other man’s thumb moves in a slow circle on his shoulder.
He feels the penetration of the wizard’s gaze, the brown eyes, pupils wide in the dim light, but keeps his own closed.
His body hitches. It has never forgotten the power of breath, despite all this time.
The wounds from the acid are shallow and will heal overnight. The poison will fade. But pain flares in his body, radiating from his extremities, and he mewls . Ugh.
The sweeping thumb stops, and the hand pulls away, and he is colder in its absence. His toes are still wet.
A strange sensation winds through his limbs, prickling and relaxing, a slow tide of exhaustion.
“Are you putting me to sleep, you bastard?” he mumbles.
“Not quite. As you know, with your fay ancestry, that’s an impossibility. However, this should help, since you decided to drink that mysterious poison you pilfered from that cellar. Which was, of course, labeled as such.”
He cracks an eye open to see Gale’s face, bemused. The purple aura of the weave in the air as it bubbles and wavers.
“This will keep the worst of the symptoms at bay until Shadowheart can conjure up a cure for your condition,” he says. “Also, less projectile vomiting.”
“Coward,” he mutters before he gives into the sweet tide and slips into sleep.
Rain patters against the waxed canvas of the tent when Astarion wakes. He smells night orchid incense and lavender soap. The tingle of a poultice against his chest, something warm and moist. He opens his eyes, finding the dark gaze of Shadowheart peering down at him, her expression unreadable.
“Am I alive?” he groans.
“‘What is dead can never die’,” Shadowheart mutters to him. “Or something along those lines.”
“Pardon?” He raises an eyebrow.
“You’ll be fine,” the cleric stands, her long braid swinging behind her like a whip.
Someone clears their throat. It’s Gale peering into the tent flap, holding it open for the cleric. In his other hand is an unmarked, nearly opaque brown bottle. Something viscous churns in it. Outside, the sky is a dull gray, covered by clouds. A cool tendril of air enters, bringing the scent of wet earth and moss.
Gale and Shadowheart murmur to each other, casting glances at Astarion and to the bottle in Gale’s hand. Shadowheart shrugs and departs through the gap.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Astarion’s voice comes out as a rusty rasp, like burred metal scraping against a file.
Gale frowns and sets the bottle on a crate where someone had deposited Astarion’s pack and other items.
“Have you brought me a bottle of grease, wizard?” His eyes are fixed to the bottle and the mysterious liquid within.
“I know about your condition ,” Gale says.
Astarion springs up, sending the bottle clattering to the ground. Gale lunges for it, but it lands softly amongst the cushions and blankets on the tent floor. Astarion reaches blindly for his dagger, for a heavy object, anything, but his head pulses with bright pain. He clutches a pillow as his head swims with black dots and white streaks and pounds. The tadpole squirms, rioting in the squishy confines of his brain. Gale winces and rubs his temple and groans.
His hands, clawlike and deathly, scratching at rotting and splintered wood. Aisles of cells, dying men and women moaning and corpses. The squalid floor of a flophouse, his own hands buried in blood and viscera..
He breathes, though he doesn’t need it, and collapses against the bedroll. The wizard’s face relaxes, and he removes his hands from his temples. Gale kneels, his joints cracking, and picks up the bottle, putting it back on the crate. Popping the cork, the smell of warm blood wafts into the stifling air of the tent. Astarion’s mouth waters, his teeth ache.
“We all have our secrets,” Gale says.
Do we now? He doesn’t reply, only looks at Gale with a hint of curiosity. Only a hint, though. What could the wizard possibly be hiding beneath those unflattering robes?
“Even Tav?”
“Especially her,” Gale replies.
With that, the flap of the tent closes, leaving Astarion in the piles of his pillows, a bottle of spell-warmed blood, and a strange sensation in his sternum, like that of a fluttering bird. He gulps down the blood and collapses back into his bedroll, welcoming any darkness that will take him.